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Billy Mitchell vs. Chad Evans
Topic Started: Aug 2 2011, 03:03 PM (128 Views)
Kassie Khane
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Admin and Second in Command of the Nation of Moderation
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SCW PRESENTS: Breakdown

Billy Mitchell vs. Chad Evans

Deadline: Noon EST Tuesday, August 9, 2011
2 RP Limit per match
3 RP Limit per singles match, 4 per team for the tag match.

Good Luck everyone!~~


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"Bad" Billy Mitchell
The Outlaw
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______________________________

Minneapolis, Minnesota
Sunday, July 31 - 11:06 PM
Humphrey Metrodome - Post-PPV

______________________________
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‘Rise To Greatness.’ ‘The Super-Bowl of Wrestling.’ ‘The Supreme Show.’ Over the past couple years, he’d heard half-a-dozen different names for SCW’s ‘premier program, and now that he’d been part of one himself, he understood just how it had earned so many. Between the grueling war between Thorn and Cruze in the scaffold match, or the tension in the air as fans rose to their feet for the final moments of the World Title match, it was almost impossible not to get sucked up in it all. Even now, long after the lights had gone down, Mitchell could still feel the adrenaline thickening his blood, causing his heart to beat just a little faster, his breath to come just a little heaver…his fists to clench just a little bit tighter. Closing his eyes, he reveled in that that lone. Curling, coiling his fingers, one after another, until they formed that solid ball of flesh and bone. He could feel, more than hear the knuckles shifting, popping, the flesh growing white over the hard bones before he finally unclenched, and rolled his digits in the open air. Glancing down at the back of his hand, he couldn’t hide the faint smile when he saw how raw the flesh was. How many times had he driven his fist through Knight’s jaw? …How many times had he buried it into the bastard’s ribs? …How many times had he closed it around the man’s throat, determined not to let one single second of his vengeance go to waste? …He knew the answers long before he’d even finished asking himself the questions.

[align=center]Not Enough…Not Near Enough.[/align]

Three months. Twelve weeks. Eighty-four days. Two-thousand sixteen minutes. That’s how long he’d been waiting. Biding his time, biting his tongue, aching, craving for the chance to explode… and Goddammit, he wasn’t even close to done! …Snapping shut, his fist flew of it’s own accord, smashing into the wall of the corridor with a traumatic impact, causing more than a few of the scattered crewmen to flinch. Some of them backed away, others just stared with wide eyes… the rest didn’t even notice. ‘Hot heads’ were nothing new to the company. David Miller. Jay Gold. Nick Harris. Damian Angel. Half the time the place could have doubled as an anger management course. Twisting his hand at the wrist, he ground his knuckles against the painted plaster, letting the fiery burn of the pain take hold of his mind, dragging it back to what passed for a center. As the burn rose up the back of his shoulders, he rolled them, letting the movement send a powerful ripple through his musculature…drawing a few aches of protest from the bruises along his back, ribs and even his throat, where the little shit had throttled him. Bringing one of his own hands to his neck, he palmed at the still-dark flesh…unable to hide the smile as he thought back to the look he’d seen in Knight’s eyes.

The rage. The frustration. The desperation. It hadn’t taken long for the realization to sink in, just like he’d said. The knuckles didn’t work. Choking him out didn’t work. He hadn’t been able to out-run him, hadn’t been able to out-wrestle him. There’d been no escape. No chance of success…no hope for survival….

[align=center]There never had been. Not after everything the son-of-a-bitch had put him through.[/align]

For a second time, he cracked his fist off the wall, uttering a guttural growl of frustration as well. Pulling a few deep breaths into his lungs, he hitched the duffel up higher on his shoulder and turned the corner, threading through a maze of audio crates and bound piping. Moving through the crowd, he noticed a few of the workers were watching him…but they weren’t the usual looks he was used to. Between his size, his look or his growing reputation in the company, he’d started to ignore the gawks and open-eyed stares that followed him through the hallways. But these…these were different. There was intimidation behind them. Shock, amazement, even a little fear. Not the kind he’d seen in Knight, but a kind of genuine horror.

Something was wrong. He could feel the chill spilling into the base of his spine, clawing its way up towards the back of his neck, causing the hairs along his nape to stand at attention. Slowing to a pause, he turned to glance back over his shoulder and found two more crewmen staring at him, lost in a private conversation. Now and then, one of them would reach up and grab his neck…causing the other man to wince and pull back. When they noticed he was watching, both men shared a look, and returned to their duties…but not without a random glance in his direction. Narrowing his eyes, Mitchell started to move towards them, but stopped when he heard the impact of approaching footsteps. After a couple seconds, he noticed Adam coming through the crates…and the look on his face could only be described as ‘grim’ …at best. Without a word, the older man signaled him and turned down a hallway, waiting for him to join him as ordered.

Brows drawn close, Mitchell followed, but at a slower pace, tucking his bag around behind his hip so he could rest his arm on it. Ducking into the side-corridor, he snapped his eyes on Sharper’s. “What?”

Silent at first, Adam reached up to pull his glasses away, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing at the sides before giving a low exhale and replacing them. “I just left Sasha’s office.” Behind the tinted lenses, his blue-gray eyes took on a mixture of concern and muted surprise as they rose to meet his. “She told me Knight never woke up after that lariat you gave him. He spent an hour in the infirmary, then they turned him over to the local medical center to see if they could pull him out of it.”

Seconds passed…followed by an awkward thump as his duffel dropped from his shoulder, sending a faint echo through the hallway. Jesus…had he really hit him that hard?! …Thinking back to the match, he tried to remember it. Most of it was fuzzed over, thanks to those damned knuckles, but he could still pick out bits and pieces…and he could feel the burn in his gut…the embers flaring to light in his soul, setting his blood ablaze as he hit the ropes. Eighty-four days of hell. Three months of humiliation. Twelve weeks of frustration and two-thousand sixteen minutes of nothing but vengeance… all coming to a head in that one instant of impact! …He could almost feel the surge of strength, the force of a fucking freight train being narrowed down to the bones of his arm as he swung for the fences…determined to tear the bastard’s head right off his fucking shoulders! …Oh, yeah…it was possible. Even now, hours later, thinking back to the impact left a tingle in his arm…prompting him to roll it out a little as he brought his eyes back to Sharper’s.

“Knocked the little fucker cold, huh? …Nice.”

“No, Billy, not ’nice.’ Not anything close.” Almost cutting him off, Adam gave a quick look over his shoulder to catch any eavesdroppers, then grabbed him by the arm and led him further down the corridor, keeping both his tone and the look in his eyes ice-cold. “They just called back. He still hasn’t come out of it.” Giving Mitchell a small push to place him in front, Adam narrowed his eyes and dropped his voice to an even colder whisper. “Sasha wants to see you in her office. Won‘t tell me why. Just sent me to fetch you.”

‘Fetch.’ One little word, but it brought his blood to the same boil he’d felt climbing into that ring against Lucas. Did he look like some mange-ridden hound sprawled on the back porch? He’d just taken one of the biggest names in the company and left him a quivering pile of pulp in the middle of the ring, and some half-pint little brat honestly thought she had the right to have him ‘fetched’ like the family pet?! …Gritting his teeth behind a thin-drawn scowl, Mitchell gave a slow roll of his head, letting the bones in his neck say it all for him, before he turned and stormed out of the tiny hallway…taking immediate notice of the looks and glares being thrown his way from the crewmen. One of them, a scrawny little prick with a face full of pockmarks damn near fell back over some cabling trying to get out of his way…a scene that pulled an immediate hitch into the corner of the ‘Outlaw’s’ mouth. Stepping over the little shit, he didn’t bother with a look back as he stalked off for the East end of the arena, where they’d set up the little ‘princess’’ office.

[align=center]______________________________[/align]

Ten minutes later, he slouched in one of the leather chairs posted in front of the ‘President’s’ desk…staring a whole through the back of the little bitch’s head as she sat with her chair turned away, and a phone held tight to her ear. The Medical Center, from what he’d been told. An update on Knight. Dragging his nails over the smooth upholstery, he enjoyed an inward smile every time he saw her shift a glare back over her shoulder…to which he simply smirked…and did it again.

The hell did she expect? …He had bigger problems in his life than worrying about whether or not some gutless piece of shit like Knight ever managed to crawl out of bed again. Lucas was just one piece of the problem…he still had Watson to pay back. Adams. Even Ebdon for slipping Knight those damned knuckles!

From there…wherever he wanted. Shilo’d fucked up against Winters, but he still had the US belt, and that’s the only one that meant a damn thing as far as he was concerned. Blowhards like Winters, Zero, Starr and Evans could squabble over the SCW belt all they wanted. He didn’t give a shit. But the United States Title was his sole reason for being here. It was the key to it all. The foundation of everything. Cody Mitchell had killed himself fighting for that belt, and failed. Choked. Like the worthless waste of flesh he’d been all his life. What better way to piss on the fucker’s grave than by doing the one thing he’d never been able to do?

[align=center]Win the SCW United States Championship.[/align]

He could already see himself standing over the worm-eaten mound where they’d dumped the body. By now, the coffin would be nothing but moldy splinters, the bones turning to power a little more every year as the bugs feasted on the skeletal remains. Dead and buried. Exactly where the son-of-a-bitch deserved to be…but he’d be watching…and he’d see it all. His son…his own flesh and blood, alive and well despite all the beatings, all the torture, all the abuse…and in his hand…was the one thing Cody Mitchell could never have.

Just the thought of it all split his jaw in a grin from ear-to-ear, causing Sasha’s brows to knit tight as she turned and finally hung up the phone. “You seem to be a little too pleased with yourself over this, Mr. Mitchell.” Keeping her voice neutral, but firm, she laid her hand atop a manila folder centered on the top of her desk. “I’m sure Adam already told you, but that was Dr. Mahler at the Center. Lucas Knight has yet to regain consciousness. The impact of the lariat literally caused his brain to recoil off the inside of his skull, swelling it almost twice the normal size. The pressure is immense, and if it doesn’t come down within the next twelve hours, they may need to relieve it surgically…a procedure upwards of fifty-thousand dollars.”

Taking a slow pleasure in easing his arms across his chest, Mitchell’s eyes blinked out of their personal daydream, before meeting the girl’s softer browns. “I’m waiting for the big issue here. Last time I looked, we had public messages running every ten minutes during the show. We go on TV and beg them not to do this. We put labels on the DVD’s, we remind the crowds before the cameras fire up…Don’t try this at home! We are trained professionals! We choose to risk ourselves for your entertainment!” Lifting his hands, he spread them out as if framing the label on a marquee with each phrase. “Knight fucked up. He stepped on my toes to start with, then he decided to make a game of it. Hell, Adam said it himself! He was poking a damned bear! You do that enough times, and eventually that bear’s gonna’ rip your damn throat out.” Giving little more than a casual shrug, he refolded his arms. “Maybe he should’ve thought things through a little better.”

Both Sharper and Sasha took a moment to trade a silent look…shock being the most evident reaction. It was the former who shook out of it first, his features growing a glower of concern as he turned to the younger man. “Billy…are…are you listening to yourself? You could have turned him into a damned vegetable with that thing, and you’re sitting here acting like that doesn’t mean a thing to you!”

“It doesn’t!” In a shock of his own at having to go through this shit at all, Mitchell turned and glared up at the ancient announcer. “It’s wrestling! We put our bodies on the line each and every night. It’s academic. We can’t even get health insurance, ‘cause no-one’s dumb enough to finance a fucking wrestler! On top of all that, shit happens…and Lucas was the one who decided to go diving headfirst into a whole pile of it!”

The prick deserved twice what he got, anyway! Out of everything he’d been through the last three months, the only downside was he hadn’t been able to land the lariat a second time…even a third, or a fourth! He would have shattered Knight’s neck like a damned toothpick given half the chance! If he was lucky, and if there really was a god in his heavens, the sorry son-of-a-bitch would pull through fine and come back for another helping! Then he could just finish the little fuck once and for all! Career. Life. Legacy…all of it!

[align=center]Over…in one split-second…with one little move.[/align]

Clearing her throat to command his attention once again, Sasha opened the folder and spun it around so it faced him. “Aside from Dr. Mahler, I also received a call from Bob Thompson, one of the Board Directors back in Toronto. They were watching tonight’s show, they saw what happened, and were quick to advise me in how best to reprimand your actions.”

Straightening just a little, Mitchell leaned forward and braced an arm over his knees, eyes narrowing a half-inch on the woman as he dropped his voice to a more challenging decibel. “…how best to what, Lady? …I don’t think I heard that right. I went out there and did what you pay me to do. I wrestled. I fought. I took the guy in front of me, and I beat the living shit out of him with everyone watching. I cracked his neck, I broke his back, I crushed his heart and I left him a bloodied heap in the middle of the ring. Maybe you missed it, but those assholes out there loved every minute of it! They were screaming my name by the time I was done!”

“I’m sure they did…between men like Glacier, Josh Hudson, David Miller, Real Speed and Asher Hayes, those fans have proven themselves quite receptive to the more brutal talent…but there’s a difference between a brutal talent…and a reckless one.” Lowering her own voice until it nearly matched his own, Sasha’s eyes hardened to solid opal pools as she held stares with the ‘Outlaw.’ “Your actions were both extensive and unnecessary. As they were against Holly Adams just this last BreakDown. Over the past few months, I’ve seen nothing but a wanton abandon for anything but your own desires…and I have no use for that kind of attitude in this company.” Almost biting off each word, she shoved the folder towards him again. “So…as I said. The Board has come to a decision. Following your match with Chad Evans on the tenth of August, you will be suspended from active competition here in Supreme Championship Wrestling.”

“I’M WHAT?!” Surging up out of the chair with enough force to send it hurtling backward, Mitchell’s palms slammed down atop the desk, causing it to quake under the impact. Sharper jumped a bit at the eruption, but Sasha simply leaned back into the cushion of her own chair, her face impassive even as Mitchell’s eyes flared with fiery violence. “Suspended?! You’re suspending me ‘cause that son-of-a-bitch got a fucking boo-boo?! You’re out of your head, bitch, I’m telling you that right now!” Lifting one hand to stab an accusing finger, he loomed over the young woman. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m one of the only pure talents you’ve got around here. I’ve wrestled for the fucking Marines. I’ve boxed for the Golden Gloves. I’ve torn the heads off bigger names this shithole will EVER see, and you honestly think you can up and kick me ‘cause one of your precious little pussies couldn’t back himself up? Fuck your suspension.”

“Billy!” All but booming in the small office, Sharper’s voice rose above it all as he stepped forward and grabbed Mitchell’s shoulder, fingers biting tight into the muscle. “The hell are you doing?!”

One fluid swing broke him free of the man’s grip…while bringing the back of his hand up flat against Sharper’s head! Caught flush, the older man staggered to the side, crashing shoulder-first into the wall, almost knocking down a few of the framed paintings as he struggled to right himself. Without a hint of hesitation, Mitchell’s dangerous stare broke from Sasha, and zeroed in on the silver-haired commentator.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me.” Low, level and lethal, his voice escaped just above a whisper. “You think I’m stupid, Adam? Half this shit is your fault!” Wheeling to face him better, he stepped in closer, causing Sharper to actually flinch, if only on instinct. Ignoring that, Mitchell continued. “Between you, this bitch,” jutting a thumb back over his shoulder, he gouged it at Sasha, “and that fucking shrink back home, I’m starting to think every last one of you is just waitin’ around to see me snap! Well, congratulations, Sharper, consider it snapped!” Seething the last bit through clenched teeth, he spun back around to face Sasha, who had risen to her feet when Sharper was hit. Now, she stood with hands braced to her desk, and a vindictive stare leveled on Mitchell, who easily returned it with one of his own. “You’ve just made one hell of an enemy, sweetheart. You wanna’ toss my ass out the door? You go right ahead. Wherever I wind up, I’ll tear the place apart. I’ll rip every last piece of trash on their roster limb, from fucking limb, and I’ll do it all with thoughts of you…” he snapped a hateful glare towards Adam as he righted himself, “you,” then wheeled back on Sasha, again. “And all of SCW in the back of my mind. ‘Cause I’m giving you my word, Lady…I’ll be back. And when I do, I’m gonna’ bring this place down around your fucking ears!”

Snatching up the folder, he skimmed through the legal jargon. For the most part, it read exactly like Sasha’d explained it. The Board, after observing his actions over the past few months…the vehicular assault in London…the chair attack on Adams in Milwaukee, and now the hospitalization of Knight…it all added up to his being a ‘liability’ to the company. Suspension was immediate, as was his transfer to Commonwealth Wrestling, where he would serve as a ‘buffer’ for the roster, and have a chance to ‘develop himself’ in both his skills as well as his mental attitude. In other words, he was being sent down to the ‘Little Leagues’ to learn how to play well with the others…closing his fist around the flimsy file, he Frisbee’d it back at Sasha’s face, causing her to duck at the last second so the folder smashed into the wall behind her chair.

“…you haven’t seen the last of me, sweetheart… believe that…”

With those final words, he turned and grabbed hold of the doorknob, hurling it open with enough force to impale the brass handle in the office wall, leaving the doorframe wide open as he stepped through and vanished down the long corridor…his voice echoing now and again as he unleashed his rage on the crewmen still struggling to pack up the gear …

[align=center]==================================================[/align]

Congratulate yourself, Chad…looks like you get to me the last notch on my belt before Little Ms. Bitch and her Big Bad Board decided to haul my ass off to the Asylum. Apparently, Ebdon, or Watson, or Adams…I don’t know who, and frankly, I don’t give a shit either way…but someone decided that I’d been playing a little too rough with the other children…so I needed a time-out. Now, in a situation like this, the smart thing would be to book me against someone with the same problem…Josh Hudson, maybe…or Dillusion, or Shorty and Davis. Someone who could beat a little respect into me…right?

Wrong. Instead, they’re sending me down to help ‘train’ all the little greenhorns coming into that new development fed. Hmm…am I the only one seeing the problem here? If you can’t keep me in SCW ‘cause I’m fucking up all your talent…what’s the point in sending me down to cripple all the rookies before they even get a chance to choke in the Big Leagues? …Oh, well. If that’s how they want to play it, that’s perfectly fine with me. Commonwealth. Pacific Coast. Majestic. Motor City. They can haul my ass off wherever they want, it won’t change a damned thing. Wherever I end up…I’m going to break every bone, in every body they put in front of me. I’m going to leave their so-called roster nothing but a desiccated desert of ruined remains…if you’ll let me wax poetic on for a minute. Main gist of what I’m getting at? That scrawny little bitch ain’t seen nothin’ yet. She thinks I’m a danger in the ring? She’s damn right, and you’ll be the last example she has of that, up close and personal. Not like I haven’t pounded your dick into the dirt before, is it? …I’ve had to see that ugly mug of yours twice before…once just like this, one-on-one, nothing to save your ass but your own dumb luck. The other was back at THoF. Oh, sure, you eliminated me. I know you’ll bring that up a couple times…but think back a few minutes before that…think back to the feel of my arm slicing through your fucking throat…think back to the sensation of your brain bouncing around in your skull after I’d knocked the damned thing loose! Think back to being flat on your back, staring up into the lights with me standing over you …and there wasn’t a single thing you could do about it, was there?

It’ll be the same thing once we get to Chicago, Chad. I’ve been keeping you in the corner of my eye ever since the Pay-Per-View. I’d been watching you play your little games with Evans, Exeter and Hodges. The way you tried to stir the pot, to get things shifted around into your favor…pushing Nichols and Buehler at them, dogging them, dodging them, hiding behind James every time one of them started getting a little too close…I guess it’s true what they say about ‘God’ lacking physical form, Chad, ‘cause I’ve yet to see anything resembling a spine or balls on you. I’m starting to wonder what happened to the ‘Almighty Chad’ who ran rampant through this place just three years ago. The one that crippled Shawn Winters…you know, the cock-sucking little shit who kicked your teeth down your throat back at the Battle Royal? …Wasn’t it you that put him in the wheelchair? …Wasn’t it you that held this place hostage for the better part of two years, sacrificing monsters like Xander Valentine, Josh Hudson and Damian Angel in your name? …I guess it’s true what they say about deities…soon as you stop believing in their power…it disappears.

Too bad you can’t say the same about ‘Outlaws,’ isn’t it? …Might have made things a little easier for you.

But, hey… you’re ‘God,’ right? …who said you needed things easy? …Me. I’m saying it, ‘cause from one blowhard to another, I’m tellin’ you right here and now, I know damn well you’re full of shit, Evans. You’re no ‘God.’ You’re just another shit-spitting little prick who thinks he’s cock of the walk…only you ain’t got no walk no more. You stumble. You stagger. You scurry from one safe place to other, hoping to the REAL gods that no-one notices just how pathetic you really are. Well, much as I hate to burst your bubble, Chad, that’s exactly what’s about to happen. August tength, you and I’ll walk into the United Center, stand face to face in the middle of that ring…and the second that bell rings…well, let’s just say the truth shall be revealed unto the unbeliever. All the secrets of the false god shall be exposed, as I strike down upon thee with great violence, and a furious anger unlike any before seen…or, to use small words that even you can understand, I’m gonna’ beat the ever-loving fuck out of you, you sorry sack of shit! …’course you’re welcome to put up a fight. Fact, I’m hoping on it. Even looking forward to it. Like I said before, Sasha doesn’t have the first damned clue what someone like me can do when he gets angry…but by the time I’ve walked away from whatever’s left of you? …she might just get the picture. But, hey, look at it this way…

You finally get to mean something again!

See, James wasn’t all that far off when he said the only one who still cares about you…is you. Remember what I said about a ‘god’ only being as powerful as his followers make him out to be? …tell me something, Chad… where are yours? …Katelyn? …the bitch has an IQ half my belt size. She couldn’t even win the fucking belt off that bleached blonde who’s been sucking her way to the top since oh-nine. Nichols? …when’s the last time she meant anything but a couple boners for the boys in the crowd? …James? …yeah, let’s talk about James. The only ‘talent’ you had in that little clique of yours…and even he could see you were sinking faster than the fucking Titanic. Lots of talk, Chad. That’s all you seem to be anymore …not all that different from the ‘real deal,’ really. A lot of screaming and hollering about eternal damnation and the loss of a paradise earth…but nothing happens. Some twelve year old gets her throat slit…guy walks away without a slap on the wrist. Some piece of trailer trash drowns her kid? …not guilty. Not even a negligence charge. Guy rapes his daughter’s best friend? …shit, two months later he’s mayor! …where’s the wrath? Where’s the vengeance? Where’s all the consequences we keep hearing about? …nothing. There’s nobody ‘watching over us.’ There’s no law in life. No rules. No commandments. Nothing. Nothing but a bunch of hot air aimed at anyone bored enough to listen …kind of like you. You got your shit pushed in by the same guy you crippled two years ago. You were fucked over by the same kid you wanted to be your ‘Second Coming’ …and now you’re going to wind up flat on your back…yet again…staring up at me.

[align=center]Because I don’t believe in your power.

I don’t believe in your superiority.

And I don’t believe your bullshit.

Amen, Mother-Fucker
.[/align]



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Chad Evans
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