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| HUGE LIVE 01/14/2009.; Yet more wrestling in a bar. | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jan 15 2009, 12:24 AM (567 Views) | |
| Mozeart | Jan 15 2009, 12:24 AM Post #1 |
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Sheik-ee, Sheik-ee, give me your answer do...
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[Black screen. Words light up white on the screen.] Text: One month ago... [Fade in on the legendary Hammerstein Ballroom, and the ovular venue is positively crammed to the rafters with a crowd that has just viewed a spectacular night of wrestling. It's New-Age Wrestling to be exact. The well-promoted upstart league, full of talented superstars, many of whom hadn't been seen by US fans in years, was just enjoying it's third very successful show, when... Lighting up bright, the big screen shows an office filled with the happy, shining face of a very rich man.] RS: Hello, fans. Ron Strickland speaking to you from right here in the Hammerstein Ballroom! [Mixed reaction from the mostly full arena. A camera panning across some fans in the row running alongside the entrance ramp shows confusion among the gathered fans as they wonder at the meaning of this interruption.] Irons: Is that who I think it is? Page: If you're thinking it's SSN chairman Ron Strickland ... uh, yeah. RS: Now, I know you probably wonder what the heck ol' “Uncle Ron”, that New Jersey media mogul is doing in the back room of a smallish league's professional wrestling event. Well, I'll tell you... [Pausing, clearing his throat, and loosening his tie, Ron focuses on the viewer at home as the camera cuts, showing him full screen, no arena. Ron's got no hair on top, and generally speaking, looks like Patrick Stewart with a smaller nose.] RS: Starting in 1996, when my nephew, Johnathan Howard started calling himself “Axis” and trying to be a wrestler, I began my association with wrestling. See, the boy didn't have a pot to piss in, and I was helping him out. Me, I live in 'Jersey, but my roots are in Ohio, and, of course, being this close to New York, I spend a lot of time here too. After a few failed ventures, I took a step back. Seemed to me that my greatest success in the business is when I bought a league called ACWA, infused it with capital, and let the people who knew wrestling do their thing. So ... earlier this year, as I'm sure you all know, I bought a good portion of Phoenix Valley Wrestling. The money pumped into that league has it burgeoning, and staged to revive a mostly dead sport. [Tapping a pencil on his desk, Ron looks only slightly uncomfortable on camera.] RS: Now that ... that was a wonderful experience. We don't own the whole thing, (PVW, that is), at the Strickland Corporation, and we have our Network reps at SSN doing most of the dealing, but with time ... well, it's really a bunch of Stock Market mumbo jumbo. Bottom line, PVW's on the way up, and now ... so is NAW. [Collectively, the audience gasps. A lot of fans boo. Ron doesn't seem to hear them. Maybe it's just a one-way transmission. They change their tone to more of a mixed pop as the Spectre appears from stage right. The dreadlocked goth quietly stalks up behind the rich guy sitting at his desk and chatting away, his face expressionless as his head tilts slightly to the side while the older man speaks...] Irons: Whoa, what the? Page: Now it's gonna get interesting! RS: That being said, Michael McCabe will still be the man in charge. More money in the system means that NAW will be able to tour. Production values can improve. Etcetera. What's more, a minor league in my home state has been acquired and tapped by Strickland Sports to compliment its other holdings. Wha-- Irons: NO! [What he had to say, we'll never know as The Spectre lunges forward, roughly grabbing the financial muscle behind SSN and locking on Destiny's Grip, arching his back and yanking him up out of his chair] Spectre: Do you feel it, little Strickland? Do you feel what happens when you and your deny us what we crave? Do you feel the life being choked out of you...slowly cutting off the blood to your brain...the breath to your lungs? Irons: Ron Strickland isn't a wrestler! He's not an athlete of any stripe! Somebody get security back there! Page: This is kinda messed up. Still ... GREAT TV! [Spectre pauses for a moment, looking into the camera] Spectre: We could end you now...your millions mean less than nothing, and neither does your security. You and your bean counters banned us from our playground...you chased us from PVW...should we return the favor by removing you from yours? RS: B... [Strickland chokes, but still manages to spit out--] RS: Billions! [Spectre sighs, locking in Destiny's grip harder.] RS: GACK! Spectre: We apologize for the oversight...see how sorry we are? YOU WILL SUFFER FOR THIS OUTRAGE! WE WILL NOT BE DENIED! [Spectre's screams draw the security guards at last, as they come piling into the room and bury both men under their mass.] Spectre: We will feast on your blood. Your bones shall crack beneath the Beast's fury! [With some effort, a dozen men manage to remove the Spectre from Strickland, but they suffer for it. He's biting arms, legs, clawing, kicking, wounding everyone that touches him. Strickland, seemingly unconscious now, is dragged rapidly away by one of the security personnel.] Irons: The Spectre's going stark raving mad! Page: Going? Irons: That's all the time we have, folks! We have to go! Good lord, I hope he's okay! [Fade to black on the rabid face of the Spectre. Cue the horns. “Hell” by the Squirrel Nut Zippers plays. Lightningfoot III is seen hitting a shining wizard knee strike.] #In the afterlife,# #you could be headed for the serious strife.# #Now you make the scene all day,# #But tomorrow there'll be hell to pay.# [Jason Dynamite flies off the top rope, crushing his opponent with a cross body. Twinkletoes Tiwilliger hits a 500+ pound legdrop.] #People listen attentively,# #I mean about future calamity.# #I used to think the idea was obsolete,# #until I heard the old man stamping his feet.# [The Spectre drops a huge, musclebound circus clown on his head. Antonio Morientes hits a vicious lariat.] #Now the D and the A and the M,# #and the N and the A,# #and the T and the I-O-N,# #Lose your face, lose your name,# #then get fitted for a suit of flaaame!# [The instrumental finish to “Hell” hits as Dylan Scott hits a double knee smash in the corner. Preston Mayfield hits a low blow. Then, filling the the viewer's web browser, HUGE's logo shines upon the screen.] .____________________________________________. | _ _ _ _ ___________ | | / / / / | | | / __ \ ____\ | | / / / /| | | || | \_\ \ | | / /_/ / | | | || | __ \ \___ | | / __ / | | | || | | | \ __\ | | / / / / | |_| || | | | \ \ | | / / / / | || |__| | \ \____ | | /_/ /_/ O \___/O \____/ O _\_____\_O | | /_ | / \ | | Hellfire's Ultimate Grappling / / | [] | | | \\Excitement Version 2.0.// |___\O \__/ | |--------------------------------------------| | Now in glorious on-line 720p, 16X9 HD! | '--------------------------------------------' [Cut to a studio setting. As with the first HUGE return show, massive computers dominate the scene, but it looks as if the studio has been expanded. The computers are pressed against the walls, curtains have been put up, and a desk with a dropcloth over it. The cloth is dominated by the HUGE logo and has the words “Strickland Sports” running around its edge. Stepping into the scene from the left and right come the always nondescript everyman HUGE boss Barney Johnson, and his partner in announcing “DJ Har-V”, Harvey Jenkins. For those who have forgotten, Harvey's a wannabe long-haired Kid Rock impersonator.] DJHV: And it's time for HUGELIVE~! OH YEAH! BJ: What the hell? Harvey, I'm supposed to open the show. You knew that. DJHV: Yeah, well ... you're kinda, y'know, boring, man. I'm the hype man in this duo, y'know? BJ: Hype man? You're a suburban white boy from Kentucky, not an urban G-money ... whatever you call those guys. DJHV: Gangsta? BJ: Sure... DJHV: Y'know, all this time you're wasting arguin' with me you could be readin' that new prompter dealy. BJ: Aw, dammit ... uh... [Fiddling with a remote control, Barney scans something just to the side of the camera. Looks like he's his own director.] BJ: Ah, fans, as you've just seen, the legendary and dangerous Spectre, a man who has terrified audiences worldwide assaulted billionaire media mogul Ron Strickland, whose Strickland Sports corporation, also the owner of HUGE and part owner of PVW, had obtained control of NAW. Long story short ... NAW is gone. It was a good start, but essentially, the organization has been liquidated, and what little there was left still owned by the founder Michael McCabe, some contracts and media rights, have been sold off as well. Spectre, his assault on Strickland blamed for the liquidation of NAW, far from being fired by Strickland Sports ... is now in HUGE. DJHV: He loves beatin' up the boss. Good luck, Barney! Ha-hah! BJ: Thanks for that, Harvey. Yeah, the Spectre was already upset at being pulled from PVW, and now he's effectively been exiled to southern Ohio. I'm sure our crack security squad can handle any situation he cooks up, though. DJHV: *Snickers*. [Barney sighs.] BJ: The Spectre had these comments... [Cue the signature static-infused HUGE rough-cut.] *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* "We will show you what pain is." [The scene opens on a dimly lit room, a traschan's flickering fire the only source of light, casting its thin illumination out into the stifling, choking darkness of the cinderblock room and falling on the broad shoulders of The Spectre. The dreadlocked goth stands with his back to both the camera and the fire, hands at his sides as he speaks.] "We will show you what it means to suffer." [A rat scurries along the far wall, rooting through the garbage strewn about the floor.] "And we will show each and every man, woman and child here what it means to face us. Clowns? Drunken townies? Masked offal? These are who Strickland would place before us? Does he think that we will change? Will this "punishment" cause us to re-think our actions? That's not a plan...it's bad comedy. Tonight yet another victim will be sent before us. Another body will be added to the pile. Another soul will be broken. And we will show you all what it means to fear the dark." [Fade to black. Cut back to the studio.] *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* DJHV: Uh ... I don't think I like this guy. I mean, OF COURSE I DO! Just ... please don't hurt me, y'know? BJ: No offense to our illustrious owner, but I'm sincerely glad that Spectre's attention is still focused on him instead of shifting to me. DJHV: I'm glad I ain't in the chain of command around here, all I gotta say. BJ: Okay, let's send it over to the arena. Spectre debuts in HUGE... *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [The opening of TNT, by ACDC begins to play....] # Oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi # [As the curtains are tossed aside, Out steps Jason Dynamite!] [FACE POP!] # See me ride out of the sunset # # On your colour TV screen # # Out for all that I can get # # If you know what I mean # # Women to the left of me # # And women to the right # # Ain't got no gun # # Ain't got no knife # # Don't you start no fight # [As ACDC is rocking on the PA system. Jason Dynamite heads down the isle way. He has on a black vest and Silver wrestling pants with blue lines. He extends his arms slapping the hands of the fans as he heads to the ring.] DJHV: Hey y'all, he's from Chi-town in that state of Illinois, right? The man's been all over, PVW, through Japan and about everyplace else. He's Jason Dynamite! *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [The arena lights suddenly cut to pitch black without warning. Over the PA system, the faint sound of a heartbeat begins after ten seconds of complete silence. Thump-thump Thump-thump Thump-thump "Do you fear the Dark?" a gravelly voice asks in a whisper. A single red spotlight cuts through the blackness, illuminating the solitary form of The Spectre as "Beautiful People" by Marilyn Manson cuts in over the PA System. Spectre, clad in a pair of cutoff jeans, a black t shirt and combat boots stands with his taped forearms held up at angles away from his pale, scarred body as the combination of his dark dreadlocks and the red lighting paints a ghastly picture over the ghoulish wrestler. As the music picks up, the lights start flashing in time with the beat, creating almost a stobe-effect as The Spectre makes his way towards the ring, ignoring the fans lining the aisles. As he reaches the apron, the pale skinned grappler speeds up to a run and slides smoothly under the bottom rope, standing and stalking towards the ropes in front of the announce table. Climbing to the second rope, he stares coldly at the announce team for a moment before stepping down and moving to his corner to await the start of the match.] DJHV: Yo, this big boy's comin' from New York, New York y'all, and you know the monsters they pump out in ol En-Why, a'ight? He's scary, he's got dreadlocks and he ain't even Jamaican ... HE'S THE SPECTRE!!! [The referee signals for the bell, and both men turn to face one another.] *DING!* *DING!* *DING!* =HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE= The Spectre -vs- Jason Dynamite =HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE= [Standing, glaring, the Spectre looks down at Dynamite. Jason, looking game, but pensive, circles the Spectre.] BJ: And we're underway! [Pause...] DJHV: Ehhh ... why ain't they fightin', Barn? BJ: Dynamite looking for an opening... You can't blame him for being cautious, Harvey. [Growing impatient, Spectre stops facing Dynamite, who senses an opportunity, and leaps on Spectre's back. Face pop!] BJ: Dynamite with a rear chinlock! DJHV: Yeah, he's got pale dude's neck, but pale dude's got him! [Gritting his teeth, Spectre grips Dynamite's wrist. Determination, pain and fear grips Jason as Spectre digs his fingers into his forearm. A brief struggle, and Spectre gives up on pulling him free, instead, he charges the corner.] *WHUMP!* BJ: Dynamite lets go right in the nick of time! DJHV: Man, Spectre's 'bout to get mad. OOP! Boot to da head! [A dropkick knocks Spectre back into the turnbuckle. A second gets swatted aside, and Spectre begins to stalk Dynamite, who rolls to the outside.] BJ: Jason's trying to stick and move. Can't blame him. If it was me, I'd be running down to the dungeon. DJHV: If it was me I'd be across the river back on Southshore. BJ: That's your answer to everything ... run back to Kentucky. *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [Staggering to his feet, bleeding from the temple, Dynamite turns to face the Spectre. Gritting his teeth, Spectre looks ready to kill.] DJHV: So Barn ... what you got against this Dynamite guy? BJ: What? Nothing. What? DJHV: I'm just sayin'. Why you feedin' him to this freaky pale dude? [Spectre pulls Dynamite up by the hair, absorbing body shots, then recoils as Dynamite hits him in the face ... before raking Dynamite's eyes and hitting a quick snap suplex.] BJ: Dynamite eats canvas again. I swear to God, as my witness even, I thought it'd be a more even match. DJHV: Yeah, well, it ain't. [Pensive, Spectre reaches down, only to be grabbed by Dynamite--] BJ: Small package! Two count! Amazing! [Jerking him up, Spectre hits an irish whip, bounces off the rope, and--] BJ: Cross body! Unbelievable! Dynamite may actually be mounting a comeback! *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [Cut to later in the match, and it looks as if Dynamite's actually maintained the advantage. He hits a low dropkick, then pops up for a legdrop bulldog.] BJ: Rocker dropper! See what I mean, Harvey? Now Dynamite's running on all cylinders. [Ascending the top turnbuckle, Dynamite leaps off--] BJ: Flying headbutt! DJHV: Man, I think maybe Spectre felt that. Or maybe he just sneezed. BJ: 2 COUNT! Jason Dynamite looks shocked, mostly because Spectre's kickout just flung him about six feet! DJHV: I'd be running now if I were you, 'splodie-boy! BJ: Spectre catches the kick, ENZIUGIRI! Spectre maintains the hold! MULE KICK BREAKS IT! What an effort! DJHV: But dude didn't fall down! [Stalking back towards Dynamite, Spectre looks downright enraged. Dynamite dives in, pressing the advantage with right hands, only to get booted in the gut.] BJ: Spectre shrugging off Jason Dynamite yet again. Front facelock ... HERE COMES THE REBIRTH! [Spectre heaves Jason up, and spins him out for his signature screwdriver finisher, but Dynamite twists out, landing on his feet, and hits a basement dropkick square to Spectre's face. Face pop!] DJHV: HOLY *BLEEP*! You kiddin' me!? And he jumps on him with his ass. What the hell is that? BJ: It's called a senton backsplash, Harvey! Holds for the pin! No, not a chance, but ... wait, he's holding the arm! [The crowd goes wild, booing lustily as everyone realizes that Spectre has pulled Jason Dynamite into a katahajime, and wrapped his legs around Dynamite's waist.] BJ: DESTINY'S GRIP! Right there on the mat! Dynamite's struggling! [Jason plants his feet and shoves, putting Spectre's shoulders on the mat and getting a 2-count before being rolled back onto his side.] DJHV: He wants it, he wants to win, but man, ain't no WAY he's gonna get out of that. Boy be gettin' choked da *BLEEP* out! [A second attempt goes nowhere as well, and Dynamite goes limp.] *DING!* *DING!* *DING!* DJHV: Ladies and gentlemen, yo' winnah on account of the other guy goin' into a coma (happens a lot around here, I know) is THE SPECTRE! Damn ... uh, hey man, can you let him go please? [The referee struggles to break Spectre's grip on Dynamite as the cruiserweight slowly turns purple.] *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [Cut back to the nerve center/studio of HUGE. Harvey's sweating bullets.] DJHV: And that, that was officially messed up. BJ: Spectre certainly looking to make a name for himself in HUGE now... Maybe he thinks that if he does enough damage here they'll let him back into the much larger PVW... DJHV: Damn, Barn. Just ... damn. BJ: I know, he's definitely an impressive figure. DJHV: No, man, why you keepin' it so hot in this room!? BJ: Oh, Harvey, I told you. The Hellfire's big, but as venues go, it's actually pretty small. We had to put the studio in the same room as the servers... DJHV: So your computer's giving off all that heat? BJ: It's ... a rackmount server. There's about 40 computers in this room. That's why it's against an outer wall and there's better ventilation in here, allowing the heat to mostly go outside. DJHV: Well ... that explains why there's a big patch of no snow out on the side of the building outside. Still, TURN ON THE A-C or somethin', man. I'm dyin'. BJ: Maybe ... open a window. I'm not sure if it's that great an idea though... DJHV: Feel like a wicked witch, man ... melting... BJ: Let's hear from Antonio Morientes. *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [Scene opens to behind Hellfire's Bar & Grille. A Caucasian man dressed in a navy blue hoodie jacket with Real Madrid logo and designs on it. He is also wearing navy blue jogging pants and has white tennis shoes on. The hood is up, his face with brown eyes, slightly bulbous "European" nose, black eyebrows and five o'clock shadow stubble on his face.] *SIGH* [The man, H.U.G.E. wrestler Antonio Morientes, looks troubled and concerned.] AM: Madre dios. [Antonio looks around nervously and then makes the sign of the cross.] AM: (whispering) In the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit, Amen. [He lowers his head.] AM: Dear God, Thank you for everything you have given me in my life. Thank you for my health and for the health and well being of my parents and family. Thank you for letting me arrive here in the United States safely and for this opportunity to begin a career in this country with my sport of choice, professional wrestling. [Antonio takes a deep breath.] AM: Thank you for my trainers, Julio y Marcel, and please, Please Lord above so Merciful.. Find it in your heart to forgive them for interning me to an organization with the word "Hellfire" in it. [Antonio's Catholic guilt spills out and his nervousness seems to increase.] AM: And please, if you can, forgive me Lord, for stepping into a wrestling ring under a banner reading "Hellfire" on it and rendering that poor lost soul, Motown Man, who saw it necessary to gouge at my eyes, unconscious with St. Amuro's lethal weapon. [Antonio looks up with a slight smile.] AM: Thank You Saint Amuro for giving me the means to find victory in my debut here in the United States! May your guidance for all grapplers from Espana continue to guide me to honor in the ring! [The smile deflates and a more reverent look appears.] AM: Dear God, I have a tough fight coming up! I will be facing a man who can kick people's heads off their shoulders with his Means To An End move! Please Lord, Forgive me, for I may very well try to take his head off with St. Amuro before I give him a chance to take mine off with his Machiavellian named maneuver. [Antonio closes his eyes.] AM: Saint Raul, please guide my feet as you guide yours to put the ball in the back of the net and advance our most Holy Real Madrid, and if need be show me the path to strike your namesake on my opponent and prevent my lights from being clocked by his Machiavellian knees! [Antonio opens his eyes and takes a deep breath.] AM: Victory or defeat, let me find honor above all God. Show me the path to honor in this place called "Hellfire" and may I shine your warm light of hope to everyone and bring hope to these cold and dark times. Thank you for everything Lord. [Antonio closes his eyes and makes the sign of the cross and walks offscreen.] *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* DJHV: Huh. That guy makes me want to attend church more often and stop cursing. BJ: Really? So listening to him speak had a positive affect on you? DJHV: Positive? That ain't positive, man! This is my persona! I gotta cuss twice as much now to get my mojo back. Y'know what? I'm just gonna cuss the entire time we watch this match now. BJ: Good thing it's pre-recorded... *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [Mario Lanza's voice singing "Ave Maria" plays over the PA. From the back comes a Caucasian man with black hair, brown eyes, a five o'clock shadow on his face, wearing white tights with a purple stripe down the side of each leg and yellow boots. Antonio Morientes is here! The crowd cheers, having grown fond of the Spaniard in these recent weeks.] DJHV: Listen up people, he's the “main from Spain”, Madrid that is, and he's comin' to the ring now. I think I'm finally sayin' his name right... This is ANTONIO MORIENTES!!! [Morientes walks to the ring, his head lowered as he prays silently to himself but moving his lips. He walks up to the ring, climbs onto the ring apron, makes the sign of the cross and then climbs through the ropes and pumps his fist into the air, getting the cheap pop from the crowd, and goes to his corner.] *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [The opening riffs to "Higher" by Creed filter into the arena much to the chagrin of the PVW fans. The groans turn into boos as "The After School Special" Dylan Scott emerges from the back, along with his right hand man "The Truth Serum" Buster Stallworth.] BJ: The HUGE fans still don't care for this young man... [Scott, with a yellow headband holding back his shaggy brown hair, is attired in his awful bright yellow tights, and green kick pads/boots, begins jawing with fans at ringside who don't show him the proper respect for trying to turn their lives around.] DJHV: Here we go again, as our second fightin' dude hits the ring! He's lean, he's mean, he's out here with some guy called “The Truth Serum” Buster stallworth ... this is “The After School Special” DYLAN SCOTT!!! [Meanwhile, "The Truth Serum" Buster Stallworth, as he is so aptly known, is wearing a tailored black suit. He is busily handing out fliers to people that have such messages as "Just say no" and "War? amongst other tired cliches. Scott rolls into the ring, making sure to air guitar the obviously wicked Creed solo, before sitting on the turnbuckle waiting for the match to begin.] *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* =HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE= Antonio Morientes -vs- “The After School Special” Dylan Scott =HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE= BJ: Here we have two real up-and-comers in the wrestling world. Dylan Scott, who by all accounts is more or less a motivational speaker, taking on Antonio Morientes, who follows in the footsteps of Amuro Balsa, a former champion in the Pacific. DJHV: All I'm seein' right now is two guys dance. [Morientes goes for a lockup, ducked by Scott, who points to his temple. Heel heat starts to rain down. Grimacing, Antonio waits patiently for his opponent to come back to the center of the ring.] DJHV: Heh, that was pretty sweet. BJ: Dylan Scott trying to say he's smarter than his opponent, but he's not smart at all if he underestimates this double-tough competitor. [Ducking a second lockup attempt, Scott rebounds off the ropes, and hits a lariat.] BJ: Dylan with the clothesline, MISSES with the elbow. Morientes does the same and misses too! DJHV: Back to the dance. [Clapping sarcastically, Dylan Scott gets to his feet, and meets Morientes in the middle of the ring. A short conversation takes place in the middle of the ring where it looks like Scott is giving Morientes his own special brand of advice. When Dylan Scott pretends to pray, however...] *SMACK!* BJ: ANTONIO MORIENTES DID NOT LIKE THAT! DJHV: Damn! What got into him! BJ: Irish whip, hiptoss! Dylan Scott goes down! It looked like he may have been mocking Morientes' faith! [Scott gets to one knee, then Morientes rushes him.] AM: GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOALLLLLLLLLLLLL!!! *CRACK!* DJHV: HOLY *BLEEP* I THINK HE JUST PUNTED DUDE'S HEAD INTO YO' BREWIN' VATS, MAN! BJ: Cover by Morientes! NO! 2-count! That was “Saint Raul”, and while it's not the first time we've seen the maneuver here, I don't think I've ever seen Antonio Morientes hit anybody so hard. DJHV: Looks like he's beggin' for his life, but Inigo Montoya's lettin' him have it! [On his knees, Dylan Scott looks pitiful as he absorbs blow after blow ... then gouges Morientes right in the eye. Heel pop!] *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [Later in the match. Scott presses the advantage, doubling Morientes over with a boot to the midsection. Scott goes for a running knee lift... Only for Morientes to side step, grab Scott and toss him into the corner!] BJ: Morientes doing his best to avoid those dangerous knees of Scott's! DJHV: Dude wants to enjoy his paella with a spoon instead of blended and through a straw! [Morientes grabs Scott and sets him up on the top turnbuckle! Morientes climbs to the 2nd turnbuckle and begins to set up for a Superplex!] BJ: Morientes going for everything apparently! [Scott fights back though, hitting Morientes with elbow smashes and punches!] DJHV: I don't think Scott's going to allow it to happen! [Morientes SMACKS a knife edge chop on Scott to quell the resistance. Scott holds his chest then rakes Morientes' eye!] BJ: OH! Scott going after that eye Motown Man tried to injure last week! [Morientes grabs his eye, Scott stands up and GOES FOR A KNEE TO THE HEAD.. But Morientes moves out of the way... BUT LOSES HIS BALANCE AND FALLS OFF THE TURNBUCKLES TO THE CANVAS!] DJHV: Guess he's as clumsy as the man from La Mancha! [Scott laughs at Morientes and sends some bad mouthing down towards him. Only for Antonio to pop up to his feet and YANK SCOTT'S LEGS FROM UNDER HIM and Scott falls into the ring!] BJ: What a brutal back and forth match. *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [Morientes holds Scott in a rear chinlock, but the slippery “After School Special” raises up and drops into a jawbreaker. Heel pop!] BJ: Oof! Morientes may have just lost a few teeth in that one. Scott hooks Morientes and... SNAP SUPLEX! DJHV: Spain may have won UEFA's European Championships but they're not going to win HUGE's Holiday Cup! BJ: This is not a contest for any sort of Holiday Cup! DJHV: Why not? I'll offer my coffee mug! [Scott begins making fun of the Spanish language and yells some angry words about tacos and burritos giving people upset stomachs.] BJ: Morientes is Spanish not Mexican! [Scott goes for a standing elbow drop.. ONLY FOR MORIENTES TO CATCH HIS ARM!] DJHV: I don't know if I would get his nationality wrong after what he did to Motown Man last week! [Morientes gets to his feet holding Scott's arm. Scott tries to struggle free, Morientes spins Scott around though and hooks him from behind and..] BJ: Morientes lifting Scott up.. DJHV: WOAH! BJ: Morientes just RELEASE GERMAN SUPLEXED SCOTT INTO THE TURNBUCKLES! *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* BJ: Morientes still ... heaping punishment on a very game Dylan Scott. Give it to the guy, he's tough. [Bending down, Antonio lifts Scott and heads for the corner. As he tries to put him on the top turnbuckle, Scott smacks a clubbing forearm over the back of Morientes' neck and Antonio grimaces in pain! Scott then grabs Morientes by his arm and whips him towards the corner--] BJ: Scott sending Morientes into the corner.. NO! Morientes reverses and goes behind Scott... GERMAN SUPLEX! [Antonio hits a German Suplex, holds on and sets up for a Tiger Suplex.] DJHV: Don Quixote is looking to BREAK Scott's neck! Some Catholic he is! BJ: But Scott struggling to get out! He gets an arm free and elbows Morientes RIGHT IN THE EYE! [Morientes grabs his eye in pain and then Scott spins around and TRIPS MORIENTES FACE FIRST INTO THE TURNBUCKLES!] DJHV: Woah! I think his eye caught most of that turnbuckle! BJ: I think you're right as Morientes is grimacing as he covers his eye in the corner! DJHV: Spanish eyes are crying! BJ: Spanish eyes are BLEEDING! Morientes to the corner, and I think he's having trouble seeing... [Shaking out the cobwebs, Scott sees his opportunity. Turning back towards the inside of the ring, Antonio sees Dylan rushing him--] AM: GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOALLLLLLLLLLLLL! *WHUDD!* BJ: DOWN GOES DYLAN SCOTT! DJHV: NASTY! Just kicked him right out the air! BJ: He was going for “Means to an End”, and St. Raul took him down. [Getting up, coughing, Scott seems unable to catch his breath when suddenly, Morientes charges right into him! Face pop!] BJ: SAINT AMURO! Burning Lariat sends Dylan Scott to the floor! He's flopping around like a fish on land! DJHV: He's getting up, and that other guy ... uh, right, Buster Stallworth, trying to help him back into the ring. BJ: Falls to the floor again, he can't get back up. THAT'S TEN! *DING!* *DING!* *DING!* [Falling onto his back, dejected, Dylan Scott can't believe he's lost the match.] DJHV: Hey folks, the winner 'cause that other fool can't find his feet and get back in ... ANTONIO MORIENTES! *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [Back in the studio.] DJHV: Tell you what, if I was a wrestler, I wouldn't let that guy hit me like that. BJ: He hardly let it happen, Harvey. Dylan Scott just came up on the short end of the stick. Antonio Morientes adds another in the “win” column. DJHV: Win column? What you talkin' 'bout, Barn? BJ: I keep track, right here, on this ledger pad. See? The column with the “W” over it is wins, “L” is losses, etcetera... DJHV: Lame, man. Can't even let a man tell a joke. Gotta bring out the paperwork. BJ: Feh. Let's hear from Preston Mayfield. *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [A man is sitting in a pile of filth. He has red hair and a cheap brown suit. His name is Preston Mayfield. Mayfield is sitting beside a dumpster and he is trying to gussy the place up.] "I think... I think it needs more tchoktes." [As he says this he puts a bottle of rubbing alcohol to his lips. The bitter, acidic taste hits him like a fist. He just wipes his mouth and audibly sighs.] "Turning tricks at the rodeo paid better than this gig." *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* DJHV: What the hell? I thought that guy was gettin' big money from Strickland Sports. Why he in the dumpster out back? BJ: I ... I don't have an answer to that. Preston Mayfield apparently is taking the whole “working in a bar” thing a little too far. DJHV: Again, this is what you get when you employ alcoholics. BJ: You're an alcoholic... DJHV: WAS, Barn! Was! Twelve steps, fool! BJ: Aaand his opponent, Tre Jordan. *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [Cue to the backstage. And a door. Yes, production values at his highest. And the door opens. I think the inspector would like to know that the fire exit makes no alarm when opened. Somebody should fix that. In walks a blonde hair man who is, according to the booker of HUGE, in action tonight against Preston Mayfield. Hey everyone, it is Tre Jordan. He comes prepared for his match, already wearing his green and black wrestling pants with "Jordan" in green on the sides. In addition, he wears a nice white dress shirt, buttoned up most of the way. He looks disappointed by his surroundings.] Jordan: "Hmmmm...so this is what the employee's only area looks like for people who work for minimum wage. Oh wells, I guess my career needs a relaunch...no matter how smelly it might be. Come, come Mack. There is much work to be done." [Following behind Jordan, and carrying his bags, is an old man with dark glasses. He is Jordan's personal assistant, Billy McWilliams, or "Mack" to Jordan. His hair is neatly kept, he is dressed in a fine suit, and really, probably would not be caught dead in such a dreadful area if not for one thing. He has no eye sight so he could care less what places look like. As he carries Jordan's bags, he also carries a cane and attempts, with great dilligence, to hold all five of Jordan's bags and use the cane to sense what is ahead.] Mack: "I am coming, sir, but I honestly still do not understand why I am struggling with these bags if you are already dressed for the match." [Jordan turns and holds up his hand to halt Mack from running into him.] Jordan: "Well, I have many options for the post match celebration period. You see, depending on the girl who catches my eye in this dump, the clothing has to be perfect. If she is a goth, a Smiths shirt will suffice. If she is a blondie who says 'that's hot' quite often, maybe we will better suited to wear my buddy Sean's First Down jacket. You see, Mack, you must always consider these things." Mack: "I suppose, sir. I must add, however, I always felt natural charm was far more important." Jordan: "Ah, you crazy old guys and your ways. Women today have Sex and the City...it's a whole different ballgame. Trust me on this. Maybe we will find you a lady with blue hair. Probably not here, but maybe down the road at Shoney's. I can't come with you in there...it smells like death...but you go have a joyous time talking about the Great Depression and the Crusades and whatever else you old people enjoy. Now...we must prepare for Preston Mayfield." [He begins to walk down the hallway, the camera and Mack following behind.] Jordan: "Now, I know nothing of this man, but I do know that Preston was the name of the guy who loved Jennifer Love Hewitt in that one movie so I believe we must hire a brunette with, as you might say Mack, nice bosoms. Now, I googled Mayfield and apparently, it's the name of a clinic right here in Ohio that specializes in neurosurgery. You know what this means, Mack?" Mack: "Well, it doesn't seem to have anything to do with Preston Mayfield's wrestling skills, sir." Jordan: "Oh, but it does. You see, he's smart and dabbles with brain stuff. But large breasticles distract him and therefore, he can't be too smart, now can he? His name is a mindgame!" Mack: "Sir, I have not one clue what that all means, but perhaps you should focus on the wrestling side." [Jordan, whose eyes sparkled as if he had come to some grand realization, now stares at Mack quite unimpressed with him.] Jordan: "You would be wise to accept my strategy as flawless. You just do not understand the complicated methods I must undertake to prepare. Now, find a place for those bags and find a large chested brunette. I'm going to announce my presence to someone of great consequence. Perhaps a shift supervisor if I can find one." [The two part as the scene fades.] *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* DJHV: So, Barn ... did he 'announce his presence' to you? BJ: Well, no... I tend to blend into the crowd. I blame it on the fact that I wear mostly jeans and T-Shirts to work. DJHV: Yeah, can't have nothin' to do with you bein' utterly forgettable. Hah! [That one cuts deep, as Barney darkens half a shade.] BJ: Y'know Harv, I could just fire you. DJHV: You could, but then, I'd just be back here in like two weeks. We go back way too far, man! We like blood, man! [Sighing, resigned to his fate, Barney nods.] BJ: That isn't something I admit in public, but you're right. I've known you for a long time. Too long, maybe... Fans, it's time to check out Tre Jordan versus Preston Mayfield! *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [RINGSIDE~!] DJHV: Yo, people, comin' out from the Hellfire's famous DUNGEON (translation: our stone-age basement) right now is the first guy in this match! He's from Syracuse in the state of New, York and GOOD GAWD he's a messed up human being. This is PRESTON MAYFIELD!!! #I'm gonna lie to the lawyer...# [Keith John Adams's "Lie" plays on the speakers as our boy Preston stumbles out, obviously sober. Mayfield is wearing some Salvation Army suit pants and a formal shirt with a tie. He has one of his glasses and his hands in his pockets. Every now and then he brings up a reddish black rag to his face but then quickly shoves it back into his pants.] DJHV: Damn, man, this boy really is a mess. The hell is wrong with him? Lookin' like a zombie. BJ: Mayfield comes highly recommended by the corporation, although ... his fascination with my trash bin out back is kinda disturbing. I caught him there at like 2am this morning, and couldn't get a straight answer why he was there. DJHV: ... *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* DJHV: And here we go! The other guy in the match! Spinnin' da tunes! [The mid-90's sounds of "Plowed" by Sponge begins to blare over the PA system and Tre Jordan begins to walk out of the back. Jordan is shirtless (and all the girls are happy) with a pair of wrestling pants that are dark green up the front and back, black on the sides with his last name written on the sides. Behind him, a well dressed old man walks a good deal from him, a walking cane making sure he doesn't run over Jordan. It is Jordan's personal assistant, blind Billy McWilliams, known as Mack. Jordan tries to milk whatever appreciation he may get from the crowd before entering the ring.] DJHV: He's comin' out with Billy “Mack” McWilliams. From “Treronto” (that ain't right), Ontario up north in Canada, his name is TRE JORDAN!!! =HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE= Preston Mayfield -vs- Tre Jordan =HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE= *DING!* *DING!* *DING!* DJHV: How come I don't get to work the bell no more, man? BJ: Because it's not a musical instrument, and when you ring it during matches people get confused. DJHV: Hey, they'd get used to it. It'd be a HUGE thing, like that dumbass static thing you put in the shows. Dude, it's on the Internet! There's no real static on the internet! BJ: Anyway ... the match has begun, and I can't help but notice that Preston Mayfield's already stepped outside the ring. DJHV: The hell? He knows the ref's counting, right? Dude's only got about twenty seconds to get back in there! BJ: For the hundredth time, you only get twenty seconds in old video games. DJHV: Oh yeah. Heh. Hey, that could be a HUGE thing too! [Preston, on the floor, wobbles a little, holding his head, and tries to mack on some top-heavy leathery middle-aged wannabe cougar. The yard-deep cleavage just mesmerizes him, and he almost drools on her, but she moves back out of drool range. On the inside of the ring, an annoyed and confused Tre Jordan decides not to take the countout victory, and leaps--] BJ: SPRINGBOARD CROSSBODY onto Mayfield! From the ring to the floor in brutal fashion! What a way to start this match! [Pulling Mayfield's stinky carcass up from the lightly padded stone floor of the Hellfire by the hair, Tre actually has to drag him, as Mayfield isn't cooperating one bit. As he gets to a vertical base, he BLATANTLY kicks Jordan in the groin. Heel pop!] DJHV: WHOOP! South of the Mason-Dixon! Ha-haaah! BJ: The referee's going to count out Jordan, but ... no! In at 9! Mayfield's not really capitalizing though. Just ... drinking liquor... Admonishing Mayfield, uh, the referee's being ignored. Not good. DJHV: It's kinda like watching the Three Stooges, really. *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [Later in the match. Jordan's limping, and Mayfield's looking downright wobbly, and quite drunk at this point. The crowd seems annoyed, as they boo and chant--] Crowd: Bo-ring! Bo-ring! DJHV: Lissen' at that! Man, you better get some strippers in here or somethin', 'cause these boys have been stinkin' up the joint. BJ: It's just Mayfield! He's not trying to win the match, I swear, but every time Jordan seems ready to put him away, he goes to the groin! I'm surprised that Jordan can even walk at this point. [Applying a weak, sissy-slap to Jordan's face, Mayfield only wakes up the cruiserweight, who hits him back. Flopping like he was shot, Mayfield comes up begging.] DJHV: This guy's unreal! Now he's pleading for his life! [Trying to pull him up to his feet, Tre fails to notice his opponent's intent until Preston's thumb is in his eye. Heel pop from the crowd, as Preston goes for an irish whip, THEN CATCHES A DROPKICK TO THE FACE!] BJ: YES! Get things moving! For the love of God, just end this already, Tre! [Staggering to his feet, Mayfield catches a series of dropkicks, then finally pulls himself up in the corner, leaning back into the turnbuckle. At precisely that moment, Tre leaps up and hits a MASSIVE hurracanrana!] BJ: Hurracanrana, PIN! I, oh no... DJHV: What? Oh ... OH! Jordan: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! DJHV: HE'S BITING HIM RIGHT ON HIS *BLEEP!* He can't do that! That ain't right! That's just messed up! [Leaping up on the apron, trying to help Tre, Mack just prolongs the pain by distracting the referee.] BJ: Groin biting, it's called “Oral Extrapolation”, and I thought it was a joke when I pulled up his file from SSN! Referee applying the 5-count! *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [Later in the match. Mayfield seems strong now, and sure of himself, if still incompetent. Jordan is still in the match, but has a pained expression that doesn't match the relaxed persona he displays when not wrestling.] BJ: I'll admit this much; when this match is over, I'm seriously considering firing that referee... DJHV: He's, uh, jammin' another thumb in dude's eye! Jerkin' him around by the hair! This is like watchin' two drunk chicks fight, man. And I know all about chicks fightin'! BJ: And just tosses Tre down by the hair. Unreal. Tre up gamely, and Mayfield just takes his eyes across the top rope. “Preston's Eye Opener”, I think he calls that one. [Raising a hand to celebrate towards the crowd, Preston gets booed for his troubles. Just then, a foot catches him just under the chin. Face pop!] BJ: Jordan with the kick! Trying to clear what looks like blood from one eye! Dropkick floors Mayfield! Back up, BUT A TILT-A-WHIRL BACKBREAKER SENDS HIM DOWN HARD! [Without pausing, Tre ascends the top rope, and leaps with a corkscrew 450 splash! THE CROWD GOES WILD!] BJ: TRE JORDAN'S JAPANESE MOVE! DJHV: What is this? Olympic gymnastics? BJ: No, it's his finisher ... AND THERE'S THE THREE!!! *DING!* *DING!* *DING!* DJHV: All-right, and there is a God 'cause this stinker's over! Yo' winner by virtue of being the only one wrestling in the ring is TRE JORDAN! *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* DJHV: His “Japanese Move”? Just. Plain. Dumb. BJ: Say what you will, Harvey, but Tre Jordan has come ready to play the game. DJHV: Game? Ain't this fightin'? BJ: You know what I mean. He pulled out an impressive win in which Preston Mayfield was only able to last for more than a minute because he ignored every rule in the book. DJHV: Yeah, but that's option A for Mayfield, not option Z. The man lives to cheat. Or ... maybe it's the only thing he knows how to do? BJ: Uh ... yeah, I think you're right. DJHV: Sure is interestin' that, even when you're not doin' yo' own talent search, the guys that come beatin' down your door still are a little crazy. BJ: Now it's time to see the final match of the night ... in which we also tested out our new closed-circuit television system! Exciting. DJHV: Only you would be excited about that. Need to get a Karaoke night in here, man. Put the people up on that stage, singin! Er ... I mean ring! Ring. *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [Cut to the arena, and, strangely enough, Barney and Harvey again, then almost immediately, another cut.] BJ: And now lets hear from the ever lovely Cindy Hewitt, who is standing by to interview Twinkletoes Tiwilliger. [Cindy is standing centered against the HUGE backdrop setup in the Dungeon Area. She has her hand clasped to her ear as she listens to the introduction of her by Barney. Standing to her right in all his cruiserweighty-ness is "The King of the Cruiserweights" Twinkletoes Tiwlliger] Cindy: Thanks Barney and yes I an the ever lovely, ever sexy and the ever dangerous "Bar Bitch" Cindy Hewitt.[small barely enthusiastic pop] With me at this time is the ...um "King of the Crusierweights" Twinkletoes Tiwilliger. So,um...Twinkletoes [stifles a giggle] what do you think of your chances in the match up against your fellow...cruiserweight Silverfoot III. Think you can match up pound for pound with the masked man there big fella? [stifles another giggle, a giggle that is not stifled by the viewers upstairs watching on the big projection screen tv] Twinkletoes: Well, well well, someone else who has decided to pick on me about my size. Last week it was Crackhead, and this week its you. Well all I have to say about it is that while I may be the smallest guy in HUGE, good things come in small packages! [Crowd responds with laughter and some scattered boos] Cindy: Small packages? Are you serious have you taken a look-- Twinkletoes: --I have taken a look at the roster, yes I have Cindy. All around me I see fat slobs who would would kill to have both the athletic build and the pure wrestling skills possessed by The King of the Cruiserweights. That fat pig Crackhead tried to use his clear size advantage against me, resorting to pure brawling and underhanded thuggery to try to win. I however took the high road and dazzled him with pure wrestling and the array of high flying moves I am known for. In the end his complete lack of wrestling skill and poor physical conditioning was no match for my unbelievable ring general-ship. [Crowd again responds with derisive laughter, grumbles of disbelief and a few more boos this time] Cindy: Well I can honestly say your wrestling skills can be called unbelievable. Now are you planning more to put more of your "pure wrestling" on display against Silverfoot III in tonight's cruiserweight match? Twinkletoes: Cruiserweight match?, its not a cruiserweight match if you only have one cruiserweight in the contest! This Silverfoot looks a little heavyset to call himself a cruiserweight at all. I find it a travesty that someone of my size should have to face a man like that. Once again HUGE has pitted me against a man with clear size advantage, a man who will try to compensate for comparatively weak wrestling skills with more heavy handed in ring thuggery! Once again I find myself the underdog in lopsided pairing when I face off against Silverslob. But hopefully my pure wrestling prowess will win over yet again, and I will be victorious over this cruiserweight wannabe as my opponent finds himself outperformed, outwitted outlasted and obviously outclassed. *pppfffffft!!!* [a mysterious noise emanates from the tights of Twinkletoes followed by a not so mysterious odor. The crowd upstairs responds with a sound of collective disgust] Cindy Oh my god you pig![holds nose and begins to gag] Twinkletoes What? That was just my tights stretching out, I had to get rid of a wedgie. Are we finished here? I have to get ready for match now. [exits camera view] Cindy[Now turning green]: Um-mph!.....back to you Barney. [Cindy runs out of camera view leaving us with sounds of rapid foot steps, choking and the sound of something wet splashing on a hard floor] Harv: So do we evacuate the building now? BJ: What for? DJHV: For the obvious gas leak set off by Mr. Cruiserweight! Damn I can smell his stank from here!!! BJ: Hahahah that's funny dont get carried away. DJHV: Who's being Funny? Fatties little blast of butt Thunder might have loosened this places foundations! BJ: Why don't we just get to the match at hand? *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* ["Pump up the Jam" by Technotronic begins to play over the speakers. Up from The Dungeon onto the entrance way emerges Twinkletoes Tiwilliger. Twinkletoes comes down to the ring in what might be described in the loosest definition of the term dancing. He is doing hip swivels and pelvic thrusts in tune to the music. He also comes to the ring with a triple patty cheeseburger in one hand, and a giant turkey leg in the other, takings bites out of both items in alternating fashion. He eventually makes his way to the ring as the camera pans the crowd who have mixed looks of disdain,puzzlement and nausea.] DJHV: Hey y'all, here's the first guy in the mix! From Paterson, New Jersey, wherever that is... Twinkletoes enters the ring and does a very slow uncoordinated form of the running man dance, that is more noticeable for the amount of flesh it causes to jiggle than for the lack of technique demonstrated in its execution. Twinkletoes concludes his dancing by holding up the remnants of the burger and turkey leg and letting out a belch , at least 15 seconds in duration, that echoes throughout the building, broken only by the sounds of the crowd jeering and the sounds of possible retching from those in attendance] DJHV: Weighin' in at “under 200” 'cause the scale looped 'round from 350, he's callin' himself the “King of the Cruiserweights”, this is TWINKLETOES TIWILLIGER! *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [The lights cut off abruptly, and when they come back up, there is a masked man in the middle of the ring. This is Lighting Foot III.] DJHV: And the guy he's fightin' is the third guy to call himself “Lightning Foot”, so this must be LIGHTNING FOOT III!!! BJ: Very unique entrance by Lightning Foot. DJHV: Dude needs to get himself a song, man. How can I let the people know who's comin' out if I ain't got a disc to spin? [Reading the riot act to both competitors, the referee lays out the rules, then calls for the bell.] *DING!* *DING!* *DING!* =HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE= Lightning Foot III -vs- “The King of the Cruiserweights” Twinkletoes Tiwilliger. =HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE=HUGE= *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [Cut to a minute or so later. Tiwilliger is already flushed with fatigue. Lightning Foot III, however, peppers him with ineffectual kicks and punches.] BJ: Look at this action! Such riveting ... maneuvers...? DJHV: Barn, I think the fat guy's dead. BJ: What? No he isn't! [Beat. Tiwilliger hauls back, swings, and falls flat on his face with a huge *CRASH!*.] DJHV: Okay, _now_ he's dead. BJ: He's already punched himself out in the opening minutes! “Twinkletoes” looks unconscious, but Lightning Foot can't seem to roll him over! It's like trying to move a buffalo! DJHV: So ... ain't the ref supposed to be counting? BJ: He can't start counting unless Lightning Foot backs away first! Otherwise people would fail to answer ten counts while being stomped! DJHV: Yeah, well, anyway, he's having a heart attack. Better call the morgue. I don't see those electric paddles getting him going again through all that flab. [Finally, Lightning Foot III backing away, and the referee starting the count.] Ref: 1! 2! 3! 4! [Twinkletoes starts to stir, lifting his head and shaking out the cobwebs.] Ref: 5! 6! 7! 8! [Getting to his hands and knees, it looks like he's going to break the count.] Ref: 9! *SMACK!* BJ: Basement dropkick by Lightning Foot III! He's on his back! Cover! Ref: 1! [Kicking out, Twinkletoes actually flings Lightning Foot III up and backwards, landing on the referee.] DJHV: DAMN! Thunder Fist Twelve has left the building! BJ: Lightning Foot III. DJHV: Rain Drop Eleven can't believe it. BJ: All he's done is wake up the sleeping ... er, morbidly obese giant. DJHV: Matchbox Twenty. BJ: KNOCK IT OFF! Series of savate-style kicks by Lightning Foot are having no effect. STEP UP ENZIUGIRI! [His many cheeks and chins jiggling with the impact of his opponent's attack, Twinkletoes glares down at his opponent, who is now celebrating.] DJHV: Does he think he knocked the fat guy out? I mean, there wasn't an earthquake. Turn around, take off that mask so you can see, kid! [Indeed, Lightning Foot III does turn around, and comes face-to-chest with the overstuffed and deluded fat man ... who then gives off a disgusting spray of flatulence and food particles, which hits Lightning Foot III square in the face.] BJ: TWINKLING MIST! DJHV: You hear that!? Was that a burp? BJ: It was! That's ... one of his moves! Looks like Lightning Foot III is gagging! DJHV: Don't barf in the mask, man! Even if you don't suffocate, you'll still look damned stupid! [Easily getting a grip on his elusive quarry, Twinkletoes tosses Lightning Foot III into the ropes and hits him with a clothesline on the rebound.] BJ: Twinkling-Cross-Body-Block! DJHV: What? Even I know that ain't right. It was a ... what ya call ... lariat? BJ: It's what Tiwilliger calls the move, so that's what I have to call it. That's the way it works, Harvey. DJHV: ... *ZZZSSSHHHHZZZSSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHHHHHTTT* [Cut to later in the match. Lightning Foot III has regained the advantage.] BJ: The smaller man in the match has gotten back in the game! DJHV: You sure? I thought that whatsisface was the smaller guy. You know. The one with all the extra syllables in his name. BJ: He thinks he is, Harvey. He thinks he is... [Repeated martial arts blows land, unanswered, and Tiwilliger staggers back into the corner.] BJ: The masked man is athletic, no question. DROP SAULT! Back-flipping drop kick finds its mark, and Tiwilliger is on dream street! DJHV: Crap. And here I had money on the fat guy. BJ: Money? Gambling is illegal, Harvey! DJHV: It's cool. The bet's with an Indian, and you know they own all the casinos. BJ: I ... irish whip countered by Tiwill--TWINKLING ELBOW! DJHV: What? That ass-first charge? BJ: There was a back elbow in there somewhere. Lightning Foot just got CREAMED in the corner! [Staggering out, Lightning Foot III falls falt on his back. Tiwilliger hops and flops down with a smothering splash. All that can be seen are four flailing limbs sprouting from the fat man's torso.] BJ: Twinkling-Triple-hand-spring-slingshot-sky-high-moonsault! Agh! I think I pulled a vocal cord! *DING!* *DING!* *DING!* DJHV: HE WON!? What the *BLEEP!?* All he did was FALL ON HIM! [Choking, barney sucks down a half a glass of water. He's hoarse when he speaks.] BJ: When you're that big, and your opponent's that much smaller, it doesn't take much! DJHV: Man, I ... uh. [Click. PA goes on.] DJHV: Ladies and gentlemen, yo' winner by way of just layin |
| And it was at this moment that the entire world realized, in unison, that tandem bicycles were AWESOME~! | |
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| texanspaniard | Jan 15 2009, 09:29 AM Post #2 |
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The Luther Burger
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Man this was the funniest show I've read in a long time! So many things had me laughing out loud! The Spectre stuff wasn't funny but was very awesome and I like this story he has going on! Tre Jordan is awesome also, I really dug his interaction with his manager. And Twinkletoes Tiwilliger is hilarious. So much good and funny stuff on this show! Very awesome! |
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| Codered | Jan 15 2009, 09:42 AM Post #3 |
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The Luther Burger
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Twinkletoes!!!!!!!!!!!! That guy is awesome! |
| PVW Website: www.pvwrestling.net | |
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| Dreamscape | Jan 15 2009, 11:54 AM Post #4 |
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Da Superiah Talent
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The Tre Jordan Era begins... This probably is not a good thing. The Spectre, time for you to job to Tre
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Dark Soul in PVW Tre Jordan in HUGE The guy with a restraining order from Elisha Cuthbert | |
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| Guest | Jul 13 2010, 10:04 PM Post #5 |
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Unregistered
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Whoever runs this webpage is doing a great job. I myself also run a forum about buy steroids south Africa and steroidsa.co.za so i know how hard it can be. Good job keep it up and this website could do even better than it already is. The inforation here is absolutely helpful and im sure alot of readers learn alot here. Regards Richard |
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| Overly_Critical_Jue | Jul 13 2010, 10:21 PM Post #6 |
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Amigo, I ain't anybody but Juan Vasquez!
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Kiss my ass, guest! You don't know shit about steroids! |
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| sychosys | Jan 7 2013, 08:54 AM Post #7 |
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This Space For Rent
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IT'S BAAAAAAAAAAACK! |
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3:38 AM Jul 11