it seems strange that my life should end
in such a terrible place…
(As the lights dim down, Indrid Calder emerges onto the rampway with the gleaming EWA World Tag-Team Title draped over a shoulder as fog slowly rolls over the stage. Dressed to the nines in a custom tailored dark charcoal suit, the Stranger slowly scans the crowd. Random sounds of a radio tuning through various stations floats over the arena as red lights shine upward, casting him in an eerie crimson glow.)
YOU DON’T KNOW HOW HARD IT IS
BEING A WOMAN
HOW WILL I EVER LIVE UP TO YOUR EXPECTATIONS
(As the rolling beat of In This Moment’s ‘Dirty Pretty’ begins to play, the Stranger stops toward the middle of the stage and turns ever so slightly toward the entryway. Holding out a gloved hand, he awaits the arrival of the Crimson Queen of HATE.)
MIRROR MIRROR ON THE WALL
WHO’S THE FAIREST OF THEM ALL?
TELL ME I’M THE PERFECT … QUEEN
(As the ravenous blonde steps through the curtains, the rows of platinum braids sparkle from within the shadows. Clad in black and red attire, with the EWA tag-title strapped around her perfectly shaped waist, she seductively saunters toward the Stranger and takes hold of his outstretched hand.
As Sahara and Calder make their way to the ring, they slowly climb the ring steps and step through the ropes as Sahara grabs a mic from a ringside attendant. Adjusting the EWA World Tag-Team title on her shoulder, she stares at it for a few long moments before looking out over the restless crowd. With a slight nod and a few silent words to Calder, she lifts the mic to her lips, prompting an immediate chorus of boos.)
Sahara: You people are so predictable.
(Her words merely draw out the fans hatred.)
Sahara: Ba-ah-ah-aahh. Bah-ah-ah-ah-ahhh. That’s what you people sound like. Sheep. That’s the only way Buck Dresden got voted higher than me in those bullshit “power rankings” the EWA publishes. It’s pretty obvious Stacy Vandervort is pushing for her new little flavor of the month because she can’t stand the stranglehold HATE has on the wrestling industry, so I’m republishing the rankings exactly as they should be; One … Nothing of course, right where he kinda belongs. Two … Sahara–
(The crowd boos.)
Sahara: Yeah, that’s right. ME! I’m rightfully number two. In my rightful spot beneath NOTHING where I should have been in the–
(As a dueling chant quickly spreads across the Bob Carpenter Center, an incredulous Sahara lowers the mic.)
“WE WANT DRESDEN!
YOU’RE BENEATH NOTHING!
WE WANT DRESDEN!
YOU’RE BENEATH NOTHING!”
Sahara: STOP IT!!!
(Kicking the bottom rope in exasperation, Indrid Calder calmly approaches the Crimson Queen and whispers something to her as he takes the mic–)
Indrid Calder: Your chant…is like the mewling of rodents hiding under the floorboards of the universe. It’ll do nothing but force us to sink that ramshackle houseboat Dresden calls home and sic our own kennel of HATEful hounds on that festering flea-bag Wink while we’re at it. You are in the presence of a QUEEN AND A KING….your new Tag Team Champions…so choke down the sour words in your mouths and give this resplendent soul the respect she rightfully deserves.
(Though the crowd boos, an unphased Indrid Calder places a hand on Sahara’s shoulder to calm her. He whispers something to her and hands the mic back. Sahara removes the EWA Tag-Title off her shoulder and holds it out, slowly turning so all four sides of the ring get a good long look.)
Sahara: Ya know what, forget those stupid rankings, these are the reason we came out here tonight. You all see these?! These mean we’re the best in the world. Let me repeat that for ya, a bit slower–I mean, this is Newark, Delaware we’re talkin’ about…probably the home of Po-Dunk Buck himself.
(Ignoring the boos, she continues…)
Sahara: In case it wasn’t clear … We. Are. The. Best. In. The. World.
But apparently, the EWA doesn’t see it that way. It’s matches like tonight that make these worthless. Cerebus?! Gimme a break. Nothin’ they’ve done as of late makes any combination of whatever that team even is worthy of a shot at our titles … and on Fight Night of all places … in fucking Delaware?
(Calder approaches, obviously sensing Sahara’s rising anger, but the blonde holds up an index finger and gently places it to his lips.)
Sahara: I got this one, baby, I ain’t gonna let these morons get to me again.
(Calder’s mouth opens to nibble on that finger, the teeth dragging across her flesh for a moment…and then with a slight smile and a half amused shrug, Calder makes a silent motion to the mic for his queen to continue.)
Sahara: You know that little “Special Attraction” Tag-Team Match you got goin’ on later tonight? You can stick it up yer ass, Vandervort. You got the EWA World. Tag. Team. Champions. Standing right here!
And you want us to wrestle a glorified dark match against Kaine and Moe?! For the titles?!
(The Crimson Queen’s voice rises with anger.)
Sahara: What a joke.
(With one hand holding the mic to her lips, and the other holding the EWA Tag-Title, she holds it out beneath the lights before dropping it on the mat in front of her. Staring down at the championship for a few uncomfortable moments, she points at it before lifting her angry sapphire eyes.)
Sahara: That right there is better than Cerberus. That title is better than the Erinyes. And yeah, it’s better than any other team you can assemble–
We’re the only ones worthy of having them.
So tonight, we ain’t wrestling.
(The fans immediately begin booing Sahara’s declaration but she simply raises her voice into the house mic–)
Sahara: Go ahead and boo. We ain’t wrestling, and therefore we ain’t defending these titles against another team of unworthy opponents. You roll out the same two tired ass teams week after week, and give out tag-title shots like candy, and we ain’t havin’ it. No. We’re too damn important to be wasting our time. So I’ll tell ya what. To show you all how unworthy Cerebus really is … we’re gonna have Cal Rayner step in and defend our tag-titles for us. That’s how confident we are that the rest of this place is unworthy of our time, our energy, and most of all, these titles…
(Calder smiles at the suggestion that Rayner do their jobs for them as he approaches his queen. With a laugh, she reaches down and snatches up her tag-team championship, as the duo quickly discuss things.
Calder steps in closer taking the mic away from Sahara.)
Indrid Calder: Understand what and who we are. Do you think you festering mud-licking Delawareans have earned the right to see the HATEful perform…in a championship match, no less? That’s akin to offering a piece of candy to a malformed vacant-eyed dwarf simply because the little fellow is standing there with his mouth open and a river of entitled drool dripping down his chin. I’d prefer to punch that pie-hole bloody rather than give such a low creature even a TASTE of satisfaction…and every single one of you…is BENEATH the HATEful. Don’t you see that? We compete on the grandest of stages…and there is nothing grand about Newark, Delaware…you people aren’t even fit to watch Joe Lemon sit in the ring and drink down a gallon of lemonade while paying for the privilege of a ticket.
(Calder shakes his head while chuckling. One hand lifts up to caress his Tag Team Championship belt.)
Indrid Calder: To be frank, I don’t even think the lot of you are worthy of our Titan this evening. But I suppose it would be merciful to whet your appetites just a BIT. Consider it an appetizer in terms of what the hive is capable of. Sahara and I deserve a night off for rest and … recreation.
(Calder shares a devious smile with The Crimson Queen.)
Indrid Calder: So I suppose we’ll let our beast feed on Cerberus tonight, but don’t be surprised when Rayner decapitates all three heads of that would-be devilish dog … if all of them even show.
(Dropping the mic with a brief echoing thud, Calder grabs Sahara by the small of her back and draws her in close, the Stranger and the Queen seemingly lost in each other’s gaze as In This Moment’s ‘Dirty Pretty’ kicks up.)
josh kaine & mojave vs. sahara & indrid calder
for the ewa tag team championship
so as announced, cal rayner defended the tag team titles on behalf of sahara and calder here in a handicap match. and while rayner’s sheer brute force and physical stature carried the match for him early on, the teamwork and athleticism of cerberus began to wear the big man down. josh kaine would floor rayner with a superkick, followed by mojave hitting the sandstorm for an apparent three count – however, sahara would pull her brother out of the ring, leveling him with a clothesline and causing the dq. calder would go to work on kaine inside the ring, but it wouldn’t last long, as the crowd would erupt at the sight of nikki caldwell racing to the ring. deciding against a drawn out fight against cerberus, rayner, calder & sahara hopped the guardrail, exiting through the crowd as caldwell screamed out at sahara, daring her to return to the ring.
your winners by disqualification: cerberus
still your ewa world tag team champions: sahara & indrid calder
(A huge grin on his face, Coca-Cola Rua struts through the back hallways of the arena. As he passes some of the female employees of the production crew, he flexes his pectoral muscles which push the limits of his all-red tank-top, visible underneath his vintage Coca-Cola tshirt. He’s otherwise focused, with someone in his sights. His demeanor gets increasingly jovial as he slows his approach, walking right up behind Kevin Oppenheimer.)
(Standing there, looking over some papers in his spread leather padfolio, Kevin Oppenheimer doesn’t even notice as the large developmental center trainee approaches him. As Oppenheimer puts the document away, Coca-Cola Rua clears his throat, overly loudly. Slightly startled, Kevin turns around to see Rua standing there, and after tucking the padfolio underneath his arm and adjusting the collar on his suit, Kevin begins to address him, but Rua interrupts.)
Coca-Cola Rua: Kev, finally! You’d think a big guy like me and a fashionably dressed tall guy like you, we wouldn’t have had so much trouble finding one another.
Kevin Oppenheimer: I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what you’re referencing…
(Rua puts up his hands in a display of apology.)
Coca-Cola Rua: Right, right, a busy guy like you, I know there’s probably lots on your mind. I know you and Kats were down at the development center looking for me, contract signing formalities and whatnot. Well, I’m here now, so if you’ve got the pen and the paperwork, I can put this long time goal of mine into action.
(Kevin begins to speak, but is again interrupted by Rua.)
Coca-Cola Rua: All these years, going back to the formation of the World Wide Bushido Buntai back when we were both in LEGACY, I’ve looked forward to the day where you guys would offer me that contract. I gotta say, this feels great, Kev. Even better than when the guys from Coca-Cola signed me to our first sponsorship contract during my days in power-lifting and MMA.
(A lightbulb goes off and Kevin Oppenheimer’s face changes from one of confusion over to a show of understanding and slight amusement. Realizing how muscular Rua is, Kevin quickly wipes his hand in front of his face, trying to get himself not to smile as he responds.)
Kevin Oppenheimer: See, and here’s the thing, big fella… We were at the Development Center the other week, and you very well might’ve heard something about our contract signing intentions, perhaps even that we needed a follow up… but none of that was, regrettably, targeting you.
(It takes a moment, but the elated look on Rua’s face slowly fades.)
Coca-Cola Rua: So, you were there for someone else…? Who?
Kevin Oppenheimer: I suppose the footage is going to be public sooner or later, unless it already is, so I guess it’s not a problem for me to tell you and, well, anyone watching right now, that we’ve signed Melissa McCoy.
(A look of complete befuddlement takes over Rua’s face.)
Coca-Cola Rua: You’re sayin’ you signed that Aussie model chick!? Over me?!
Kevin Oppenheimer: I certainly wouldn’t look at it that way, and I will say, that although she does clean up quite amazingly, that’s not the purpose. You see, Katsuro had a match with her a few weeks back after doing some scouting, and we’re all quite impressed. You should give her work a look. Pretend she’s just another one of the dudes and you might see just how much she brings to the table.
Coca-Cola Rua: Look, that’s fine, I get it, Hashtag Women’s Movement, focus on diversity, PRETEND not to care that she’s primed for a Playboy pictorial, have her be one of the faces associated with the brand… I get all that. It’s probably a mistake, financially, but whatever. So, when do you and Kats want to get together, catch up on old times, and do a little contract negotiating, old buddy?
(Rua puts a big friendly-but-hard pat on Kevin’s shoulder.)
Coca-Cola Rua: How’s tomorrow work for you? Maybe carbo-load at brunch? I’m sure there’s a good buffet we could hit up.
Kevin Oppenheimer: I… would have to check Katsuro’s schedule, but honestly? I think that might be a bit premature… we’re probably going to focus initial efforts on Melissa McCoy’s development work, and then look into other such project opportunities.
Coca-Cola Rua: Yeah, but I mean, we’re familiar with each other, and you’ve gotta see what I’m up to these days, but I wouldn’t be a developmental project. But you know what? I get it, the main roster type acquisitions are a bigger business opportunity with more legal mumbo-jumbo… lawyers and such, so I get it, it’ll take a little longer to iron that out.
Kevin Oppenheimer: Uh… yeah, technically all that’s quite true. I had to explain that sort of thing about a month ago… we were approached by, well, let’s just say it was a female competitor who very recently was the EWA World Champion, and she thought there might be an opportunity for the World Wide Bushido Buntai to just pay her to wear a shirt with our logo. We had a good laugh over that.
Coca-Cola Rua: That’s not what you guys are all about.
Kevin Oppenheimer: RIGHT! Exactly! So you understand why it might take a bit longer for consideration on the contract offer we want to make for our first main roster acquisition…
Coca-Cola Rua: Say no more, I had the same discussion with the muckedy mucks here in EWA not long ago, and they said there was a bunch of red tape and front office meetings that would have to take place as formalities before I move on up… so I totally get it. But don’t worry, I’ll be keeping my “signing hand” ready to put my ole Herbie Hancock on that dotted line.
Kevin Oppenheimer: Absolutely, do that! And, until then, I must be off. Loads to do and whatnot.
(Without letting the conversation get any further, Kevin slips away, Rua looking slightly satisfied. Just then, backstage interviewer Terry Bull walks by, or tries to. Recognizing him, Rua reaches out and grabs him by the shoulder.)
Terry Bull: Uh, hello Coca-Cola Rua, what can I do for you?
Coca-Cola Rua: Oh, nothing, nothing, I just wanted to give you a hot scoop for your 1-800 Dirt Sheet phone service. I’m like DAYS AWAY from not only joining the World Wide Bushido Buntai, but also to getting a main roster contract in EWA!
Terry Bull: That… IS news! I…
(Before Terry can continue, Rua gives him a huge but friendly open-handed pat (smack) on the back, with a smile on his face, and then Coca-Cola Rua struts off by himself, a huge goofy grin on his face.)
gia van zant vs. la bailarina
as impressive as la bailarina was at fight night 10, the debuting gia van zant was even more impressive tonight in newark, dispensing of la bailarina in short order with a series of aggressive, smash-mouth offensive moves, before pinning her with a sitout powerbomb. An impressive display by the renowned Youtuber in her return to the ring.
your winner by pinfall: gia van zant
(A pale blue spotlight finds a familiar figure at the top of the walkway, his sleeveless black hoodie pulled up and large-framed black sunglasses covering his eyes as he paces from left to right, simply patiently waiting to be noticed, waiting for the crowd to see him there and silence themselves as they wait to hear what he has to say.)
Sterling: Yeah, I know, you thought Battlelines was a one-off and me just appearing out here was a glitch in The Matrix, so I’m almost sorry to break it to you that nope, this is now a thing and every so fuckin’ often, I’m gong to appear and say my piece. Almost sorry… almost, but not quite.
(Smirking every so slightly, he stops his pacing and looks directly down the walkway to the empty ring, almost zoning out completely from the fans in attendance.)
Sterling: Now, I’ve spoken to you all about how I want to see things go back to the way they used to be and, I see it now – even if I didn’t see it then, how that sets me up as a breed apart, as something of an anomaly around here. If nothing else, it sort of places me at the eye of the storm because there’s a lot of shit swirling around about what I said, a lot of shit being flung ’round backstage that I’m not allowed to fill you all in on, but it seems like everything I said had already been said but in hushed tones and conspiratorial whispers but my lack of social grace meant I could just throw it out there and, well, I guess it hit a lot of exposed nerves…
(He shrugs, almost mischievously smiling as he clears his throat.)
Sterling: Then, it sort of occurred to me that as the leader of a silent movement pushing for a return to old-fashioned fighting values, I should really look into making myself at home on the show whose very name denotes commitment to that very cause… right?
(The fans begin to cheer, sensing that Sterling is wooing them and leading to something bigger, just a small chorus from the stands, but enough to build on.)
Sterling: So… at Battlelines, I’m facing Phil Donovan to advance from the first round of the Path of the Warrior but then, on April 26th, you have another Fight Night scheduled and I can tell every single person here right now that as of April the 26th 2018… Fight Night is MINE! I will be here every show and, Hell, I’ll fight every single time if I have to. Together, let’s make Fight Night great again!
(Nodding assuredly, he throws his mic out into the stands and rolls his shoulders as several of the fans begin to cheer and the prospect of a regular Fight Night alumni appeals to their sense of camaraderie. He waits a moment to soak it up before his spotlight vanishes.)
galactus vs. philip donovan
this was the ewa’s first look at the self-proclaimed “galactus”, and after this performance, it might very well be the last. philip donovan absolutely wiped the floor with galactus here, making short work of him in less than three minutes and polishing him off with the flashback.
your winner by pinfall: philip donovan
(There is a void, a vacuum, a blackness so strong that the absence of light hums. Silence reigns, but then come the hoofbeats. Horseshoes clicking, and from the dark emerges a rider. The thoroughbred he sits upon is heavily muscled, the horseflesh scrubbed in ritualistic red crackly paint with a headplate of hooked copper-colored spikes jutting up from the equine snout. The eyes of the stallion roll black and mad in its head, and the frame rises to encompass the rider.
NOTHING sits in the saddle, his gleaming World Championship secured around his waist. His upper body is bare, and the musculature is adorned in that same ritualistic paint, his entire torso scrubbed in a crackly white hue with red serpentine accents traveling from ribs to neck. His face is ghost-white with the ivory hair slicked back, piercing eyes staring out from red-rimmed hollows. He speaks, and we hear the sound of distant warm drums erupting from his throat.
The shadows of armored soldiers, gilded pikes, and heavy cavalry can be seen looming somewhere behind him.)
“We are War.”
(The frame jumps, and that same black hollow dominates. There are pallid figures crawling across the obsidian floor. Faces gaunt and skeletal, bodies emaciated to the point of starvation, and angular bones jutting out from paper-thin flesh. They moan for mercy with each shuffling forward movement, and it’s clear that several of the starved wraiths are collared and leashed, their leather leads trailing back into the dark.
A towering cannibal king lopes into view, the leashes balled up in his formidable fists. Rayner’s mouth is stretched up into a rictus grin, and bits and pieces of rotten carrion can be seen clamped between the tombstone teeth. A vest of dried meat is sewn into place across his barrel of a chest, and even though this is a visual presentation, his stench is the most exquisite putrefaction of the human form. He yanks backs on the leashes, his pets—much like the wretched lost souls of the Donner Party—all stumble and gather in a supplicating pack around his boots. The giant pulls from his pocket a massive hunk of dripping scarlet flesh, and he bites into it…the gnawing equal parts repulsive and sensual.
His grin bleeds as he addresses the camera.)
“We are Famine.”
(Another jarring movement of the camera, and we’re taken to another part of the gaping abyss. A wall is present in the gloom, and a man sits sweating in a wooden chair against it. A feminine laugh oozes from the shadows, and it seems choked with the sweetest kind of sickness. She comes sauntering out of the outer dark, her blonde mane wild and tousled, her delectable skin carrying just the slightest hint of jaundice, and beneath the flesh, we see veins full to the brim with the kind of disease that a grown man craves. The kind of lust…that damns.
She is nude except for the tattered remnants of a white hospital gown covering her breasts and her groin, and she slaps a hand against the wall, and the corruption seems to seep out of her, a malign Midas touch, and it creeps across the surface in the form of blood blisters, sweltering pus, and the watery green of the last stage of gangrene.
The princess of pestilence we’ve come to call Sahara lowers herself into the man’s lap, straddling him and stroking the back of his head with warm, wet fingertips. She thrusts her hips against him, arching her back and whipping her hair, little droplets of disease flying from her body with each movement.
The man begins to rot from within, and Sahara keeps teasing him, torturing him, and encouraging it to happen. She stares at the camera from over one of his decaying shoulders, and in her sapphire irises, botflies crawl and breed…)
“We are Pestilence.”
(The scene disintegrates into ruined meat, and in its place we discover a dimly lit morgue, each corner draped in blackened objects. The metal doors containing the cadavers begin to swing inward and outward, creating a horrid symphony, and a lone figure blinks into existence out of the ether. He is cloaked in midnight, and the silken black material seems to sprawl out all over the room, and from beneath it, baby spiders scurry out to drink in the light of failing fluorescents.
A head lifts, and from behind a mask cobbled together from cracked human skulls and bones stitched with mortician’s twine, two familiar knife-blue eyes find us and hold us. We hear the twirling of keen steel beneath the robe, and two gloved hands emerge, twisting and performing with two dual scythes in hand, the sickle blades kissing the stale air and cleaving through the morgue’s silent aura.
Whispers start to form from beneath the grinning white teeth of the sewn-together mandible bones, and from the refrigerated cold chambers corpses start to burst outward, pushing and clawing open the metal doors.
The bodies are in states of decay, their sutured flesh taut, limbs shambling with rigamortis, breastplates cracked and crudely sewn back together. They leak with embalming fluid, and as the robed figure lifts up his gloved hands in the guise of a puppeteer, the corpses start to dance for him.
They cavort, spin, and shamble in place, dancing for Death, puppet-cadavers that are so eager to please him. The sound of cold dead feet slapping the tile makes a music that is better left in Hell, and the sound of it brings a thin smile to Indrid Calder’s face.)
“We are Death.”
(A quick cut to the face of Prudence Collins, all red & white warpaint and slicked back hair.)
“We are HATE.”
(The face of Rayner dominates now, the mammoth cannibal king grinning through the gristle, allowing no one else to eat but him.)
“We are HATE.”
(We flash to the jaundiced skin of Sahara, her slippery tongue flicking out to coat plump lips in glistening saliva, each drop full of yummy corruption.)
“We are HATE.”
(The cobbled skull parts of the Death mask appear, and from beneath the hooded cowl, Indrid’s voice emerges from frigid blue corpse lips.)
“We are HATE…”
santa muerte vs. katsuro yoshida
for the ewa network championship
this was an incredibly physical match, as santa muerte is one of the few women in the ewa that physically can come close to matching the powerful “strong style” of the reigning ewa network champion. these two essentially beat the hell out of each other for about 7-8 minutes, before yoshida finally gained the advantage with a vicious release german suplex. from there, yoshida finished the erinyes member off with the way of the samurai for the victory.
your winner, and still ewa network champion: katsuro yoshida
the pope of pain vs. rick remington
this was an incredibly quick match, as remington continues to impress in the developmental center – the pope of pain attempted to rush remington from the onset, but “the natural” clearly had this scouted, as he leaped to the second rope, springing off with a disaster kick for a lightning fast pinfall.
your winner by pinfall: rick remington
(In the backstage area of the Bob Carpenter Center, a camera suddenly turned on shows a background screen with the EWA logo on it. No sound coming from the picture, but we see the camera person playing with the settings on the camera, making adjustments as they zoom the camera in and out of the logo.)
(Suddenly, the camera is violently jostled around until it is up close — too close, almost — with the Youth King, Martin Robertson)
Martin Robertson: Hey, you… what are you doing? Know what, doesn’t matter, come with me..
Camera operator: B… b… but…
Martin Robertson: No buts. Let’s go, chief. I got a match to head out to…
Camera operator: I… I can’t… I mean, I’m not supposed to lea…
Martin Robertson: UGH! Fine…
(Quickly, Martin’s arms extend out towards the camera, reaching out until it begins another quick set of violent shakes, spinning around a few times until it’s now pointed at the camera operator, who looks like a college intern — thin, spotty beard wearing a skull cap, headphones over the skull cap and a very official looking EWA badge…)
Martin Robertson: What’s your name?
Camera operator: Me?
Martin Robertson: No, the other schmuck I have the camera pointed at. Yes, you…. Nevermind…
(Martin reaches out with his free hand, grabbing the operator’s name badge…)
Martin Robertson: Simone?
Camera operator: It’s actually Simeon… they misspelled it.
Martin Robertson: And you didn’t have them fix it?
Simone (or Simeon): No. I was just happy to ha…
Martin Robertson: Oh how pathetic is that! You’d rather walk around being called the wrong name than have someone make a simple fix?
Simone (or Simeon): They said it would take a half hour to fix.
Martin Robertson: And you believed that?
Simone (or Simeon): Well…
Martin Robertson: Oh my god. Just… just stop talking. Please. Here…
(The camera jostles once again, and after a few moments, is now facing at Martin once again…)
Martin Robertson: Just stand there, hold that camera, keep it pointed right at me, and frankly, it won’t matter what your name is.
Simone (or Simeon): Yes si…
Martin Robertson: STOP. TALKING. I tried to make this about you. I tried to make you famous for a few moments, and you screwed it up, Simone. You screwed it up, just like all of the other schmucks around here. So now it’s about me. So stand there, focus on me.
(Martin shakes his head in disbelief over the last minute, before adjusting his ‘Youth King’ black t-shirt.)
Martin Robertson: Because it’s about time that this entire company focuses on me. In and out, week after week after week, I have proven that without a shadow of a doubt that I am the greatest thing that this company has going for it. Just like I’m about to head out to the ring in a moment and prove it once again! ME! Not any of the other guys in the main event tonight, not anyone from HATE, not anyone from the performance center here trying to make a name for themselves… ME!
Martin Robertson: I’m the guy that belongs on the marquee on the outside of each and every venue we perform at. I’m the guy that belongs on the posters, the programs, the television ads. I mean, seriously, you’re going to feature NOTHING as the guy people should spend their barely earned money on? That guy… the one who sets buses on fire, sure. What a great figure to have as the lead of an organization. Hot Topic sales should be through the roof with that kind of free advertisement. And for some reason, tonight, I’ve got to be a tag team partner with NOTHING. Just wonderful. Maybe afterwards, he can give me a special tour of his House of HATE. We can be all buddy buddy with each other, sip on some black tea, and he can regale to me all of the times he got his ass handed to him by someone in the Smith wrestling family.
Martin Robertson: Or maybe… maybe we’ll put Jester Smiles out there… Oh, wait. I mean the guy that was exposed as the fraud that he is last week at Battlelines by yours truly. Jester shouldn’t even be allowed to look at wrestling boots on the internet, let alone step foot into an arena that belongs to the Youth King. He’s only made it this far in his career because of alcohol and being a damn-good hanger-on. And yet, YET… the EWA brass wants to give this guy a spot in the main event. Doesn’t matter if it’s a Fight Night, Battlelines, or a local Denny’s… Jester Smiles should never be the headline of anything!
Martin Robertson: And Buck Dresden… oh, good ol’ Buck. Everyone’s out here now talking about how Buck Dresden is going to be the savior of the EWA. The white knight, riding up on his trusty steed, conquering all of the black hearts in this organization. Give me a break, Simone! Look, if he wants to claim that he IS the EWA, that’s wonderful. He’s more than welcome to claim that he is the embodiment of this large pile of crap around here running things, because in Toronto next month, I’ll be more than happy to claim that Combat Championship from him and make myself a double title holder in one night!
Martin Robertson: This whole thing makes me sick… why did you even stop me and make me do this in the first place?
Simone (or Simeon): ME?
Martin Robertson: Yeah, you. It’s a good thing I’m still around here, or else this place would be an utter disaster. Barely able to pay you the six-fifty you’ll collect in the tiny manilla envelope as you ride on a city bus home tonight to your step-grandma’s house or somewhere… I don’t even know. Doesn’t matter. Tonight…
(Martin takes a step closer to the camera, not realizing that now, the entire picture is made up of purely his face)
Martin Robertson: Tonight… just like any other night, I’m going to step in that ring… doesn’t matter that it’s a tag match… I’m going to step into that ring and once again, make this company a boat load of money because I’m going to do what I do best, and that’s put on the performance of a lifetime for the people here in Dover, Delaware…
Simone (or Simeon): It’s Newark.
Martin Robertson: No, that’s in Jersey.
Simone (or Simeon): It’s also in Delaware.
Martin Robertson: Would you stop interrupting me?!? Christ! You know what… I’m done. Thanks for not a damn thing!
(Martin turns around from the camera, storming away towards the entrance ramp out to the arena…)
jester smiles & buck dresden vs. martin robertson & nothing
special attraction tag team match
the crowd was incredibly hyped for this match, with dueling chants for jester and buck combined with an utter hatred – pun intended – for nothing and martin robertson. jester and buck started out on fire, dominating the onset of this match, but after a miscommunication that would lead to a near fall by nothing on the combat champion, tensions began to escalate between dresden and smiles. the two began issuing “hard tags” to one another, slapping each other across the back, shoulders, etc. nothing and martin would capitalize on this dissension, and for a brief period of time, really worked together like a well oiled machine. things would go off the rails toward the end though, as martin would inadvertently superkick nothing in the face. jester smiles would capitalize on this opportunity, forcibly tagging himself into the match and tossing martin over the top rope, before hitting the last laugh on nothing to get a pinfall victory over the world heavyweight champion. jester would storm to the back, with buck angrily following – and the show would then end with martin robertson glaring up at nothing in disgust from outside the ring, before leaving the ringside area to a chorus of boos from the capacity crowd.
your winners by pinfall: jester smiles & buck dresden
EWA Wrestling – a Division of EWA Entertainment
This event may not be rebroadcast without the expressed written consent of EWA Entertainment.