FRIGHT NIGHT PRE-SHOW
THE WRESTLING WATCHDOG REPORT
BY HARVEY FINCH
SKYE EVERMORE VS. JOSSLYNN SPENCER
SANCTIONED SINGLES BOUT (STANDARD FALLS)
Well, you know, going into the Fright Night pre-show stream on Friday, the word circulating out of Spencer’s camp earlier in the week was that she was dealing with rotational hip tightness following conditioning drills with Jason Cashe, or at least that was the story being floated around the regional gyms by third parties on Wednesday afternoon, though whether that was a genuine physical limitation or simply deliberate misdirection from her corner regarding her re-hydration protocol after cutting down to 125 pounds is 50/50 at best. On the other side, with Evermore fighting out of Detroit, there’s rarely any concrete operational data coming from her camp—if she even has a formal training camp to speak of—but the tape on her cardiovascular pacing suggested she wouldn’t have any trouble carrying a standard opening-frame singles allocation before the pay-per-view broadcast went live.
The bout itself… look, it’s not that it was bad, but you have to look at the center-ring mechanics, which were almost completely ignored on the broadcast because Reno Nevada was working solo on the call. Having Nevada on the desk alone is, frankly, an absolute detriment to any serious combat analysis; the man treats an athletic contest like an open-mic set in South Boston, firing off juvenile punchlines and screeching about atmospheric nonsense instead of tracking base footwork, underhook leverage, or guard transitions. Spencer came out billed at 5’7” out of Malibu, but right from the opening bell, she gave up the entire center circle, retreating toward the perimeter ropes to work a passive posture that Nevada wrote off as pure attitude, when in reality it was simply an overly defensive hesitation that immediately ceded territorial control to an athlete with superior burst acceleration.
Evermore, who gives up two inches at 5’5” but holds a distinct ten-pound mass advantage at 135, dictated the initial tie-up. Nevada kept rambling about Skye freezing in place, tilting her head, and smiling across the canvas as if it were a gag, but if you actually break down the footage from the hard camera, that “Lost Signal” dead stop is functionally an off-rhythm reset designed to disrupt an opponent’s timing on defensive feints. It’s very similar to how Jaguar Yokota used to drop her guard for a fraction of a second against Noriyo Tateno at Korakuen Hall in August of 1982 just to bait a telegraphed reach, although Yokota’s hip swivel on the lateral counter was about three inches tighter than what Skye showed here. Still, Skye’s execution of the Whisper Snap Kick out of that dead pause caught Spencer flush on the jaw because Spencer’s hands were positioned too low off the lockup.
Spencer did manage to mount a sustained offensive sequence around the six-minute mark, catching Skye off a rebound with a very clean tilt-a-whirl DDT. Technically, the rotation was sound, and Spencer immediately dropped into a snap applied armbar that demonstrated legitimate catch fundamentals. But the issue with Spencer—and you see this on all the 2024 footage from her earlier work—is that once she locks onto a localized limb, she develops immediate tunnel vision. She sat in half-guard hunting the hyperextension rather than stepping the outside leg over Skye’s head to shut down the bridge, which allowed Evermore to utilize the bottom rope for a clean leverage break while Nevada made another irrelevant crack on commentary.
From there, Evermore took complete ownership of the pace. She caught Spencer charging into the ropes with the “Soft Static” spring off the middle strand, snapped her into an Evermore Tilt Suplex that had phenomenal bridge elevation, and followed up with that awkward-angle Dollstep Lariat that caught Spencer completely out of position. Spencer attempted to scramble back to her feet to set up for a counter—she looked like she was trying to position for the Zodiac Killer off the ropes—but she failed to account for Skye’s recovery speed. Skye stepped inside the turning radius, locked in the collar tie, and snapped down into the Evermore Drop (spinning implant DDT) right in the middle of the mat for the clean three-count.
The visual flow of the finish was slightly marred by the referee’s positioning during the initial setup—he obstructed the down-camera angle on Skye’s underhook grip—which costs the bout on procedural grounds, as does the insufferable audio presentation from the desk. If this exact physical contest had been staged without the comedic patter before a disciplined, analytical crowd at Differ Ariake in 1996, the audience’s appreciation for Evermore’s transition from dead stillness to explosive technical offense would have carried it easily into four-star territory. Relegated to a pre-show slot on a domestic card, it remains an exceptionally crisp, tactically superior showing where Evermore outclassed her opponent from the lockup to the fall.
SKYE EVERMORE WINS
THREE AND A HALF STARS
JESSICA PARKER VS JUSTICE CROSS
SANCTIONED SINGLES BOUT (STANDARD FALLS)
Well, you know, going into the second pre-show bout on Friday afternoon, the talk circulating around the locker room—or at least what two different mid-card trainers were telling people close to the matchmaking desk on Thursday—was that Yelena Gorgo essentially used her executive authority as PCW owner to hand-pick Parker for this broadcast showcase, attempting to fast-track another member of her Black Rainbow stable up the rankings without the requisite qualifying rounds, although others in the back insist the match was booked strictly to evaluate Justice Cross’s competitive durability following that recent three-match skid, which is always 50/50 when you’re dealing with office politics. Gorgo’s insistence on using promotional muscle to protect her own stablemates has always been an absolute irritation to anyone who cares about merit-based combat rankings, but at the end of the day, it is what it is: once the bell rings, faction posturing means nothing and the canvas exposes what you actually have.
The broadcast presentation, again, suffered immensely from having Reno Nevada working solo on the headset. Instead of analyzing center-ring base leverage or weight distribution, Nevada spent half the ring walks trying to work through some rambling comedic monologue about Boston traffic and Halloween costumes, completely trivializing a high-stakes technical test between a twenty-year veteran and a raw physical specimen.
From an athletic standpoint, the physical disparity was immediately apparent. Parker entered billed at 5’8” and 134 pounds out of Florida, giving up nothing in physical presence and looking every bit the powerhouse athlete, while Cross stood at 5’3” and 126 pounds. For an unranked competitor who only debuted in 2025 and apparently lacks a documented scholastic or traditional camp pedigree, Parker showed several genuinely impressive athletic sequences in the opening five minutes. Her bridging German suplex has legitimate hip pop, and when she caught Cross coming off the perimeter with a high-impact spear—what the production team insists on labeling the “Shoulder of Doom”—she drove straight through the sternum with phenomenal linear velocity. If you go back and look at the tape of a young Megumi Kudo working the preliminary bouts in Japan in 1987, you rarely saw a first-year competitor generate that kind of raw forward torque on an open-mat tackle.
The thing is, raw torque only carries an athlete so far when they’re locked inside the ropes with a master tactician who has been working sanctioned singles bouts since 2005. Cross’s performance here was an absolute clinic in professional ring intelligence and composure under pressure. Having come up under Sebastian Kane and Anthony Cross, Justice understands positional leverage and referee boundary management better than almost anyone active on the domestic circuit today. When Parker attempted to press her physical advantage with heavy ground strikes in the corner, Cross didn’t panic; she ref-watched the official’s count, used subtle head movements to roll away from the heaviest contact, and systematically began softening Parker’s cervical spine with short forearms and measured snap suplexes.
The bout turned entirely on tactical discipline around the eleven-minute mark. Parker’s primary limitation right now—which is completely expected for an athlete with less than two years in the sport—is her inability to alter her trajectory or pivot strategy mid-motion once she commits to a maneuver. After securing an offensive knockdown, Parker ascended the turnbuckles looking for a split-legged moonsault. It’s an ambitious aerial choice for a powerhouse of her frame, but Cross read the setup instantly. Justice rolled clear, allowing Parker to absorb the impact of the dry canvas, and the moment Parker scrambled back to her feet in a daze, Cross stepped into the pocket and drilled her with The Verdict (Shining Wizard) flush across the jaw.
Rather than rushing the cover, Cross dragged Parker toward the ropes, draped Parker’s neck across the top strand with zero wasted motion, and snapped straight down with the Kamikaze (rope-hung DDT) for an emphatic, center-ring three-count to decisively snap her losing skid.
Gorgo and the Black Rainbow camp will undoubtedly grumble about the setback, but Parker has undeniable raw physical upside if she extracts herself from theatrical stable distractions and commits to formal technical training. As for Cross, it was a masterful reminder that generational craft, timing, and ring generalship trump raw strength every single time. The bout was docked slightly due to Nevada’s grating audio interference on the broadcast feed, but between the ropes, this was exceptionally disciplined, textbook storytelling.
JUSTICE CROSS WINS
THREE AND A HALF STARS
SEGMENT
TRAVIS LEVITT EMILIA GLAZKOV
The scene opens on the backstage corridors of the Municipal Auditorium. A door can be heard banging open, and then ‘The Dragon’ Travis Levitt appears, dressed in his jeans, winter jacket, and a ‘REAPER RISES’ t-shirt. He also has a baseball bat on his shoulder as he walks into the arena, only to step as four rather large security guards are in front of him blocking the hallway. Travis arches an eyebrow looking from one to the other, and smiles gently.
TRAVIS LEVITT: You boys know I’m a contracted wrestler now, yeah? I’m allowed to be here. You can step aside.
There’s a moment’s pause and then a familiar voice appears from behind the guards.
EMILIA GLAZKOV: He may enter.
The guards look at each other but then step aside revealing Emilia Glazkov behind them. Travis smiles and tilts his head, hand tightening on his bat, but then steps forward, idly swinging the bat off his shoulder and pointing it at Emilia.
TRAVIS LEVITT: Is she here?
EMILIA GLAZKOV: What, do I look like hallway monitor? Go look for yourself.
Travis stares at Emilia for a moment but then scowls and starts walking down the hallway, swinging the bat in his hand even as he turns a corner and out of sight. Emilia watches him go and then a cold smile grows on her face as the scene cuts away.
SEGMENT
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE
The camera finds Milisandre Crowthorne seated alone in a dim backstage corridor, her elbows resting against her knees as she stares at the concrete floor. The noise of the arena is distant here, reduced to a low, indistinct rumble behind the walls. Her expression is calm, but there is something noticeably different in her eyes tonight. The last match still lingers there—the memory of being eliminated before she ever had the opportunity to see it through.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: I have spent a great deal of time thinking about the last time I stepped into this ring. Not because I lost. Losses happen. Even the strongest among us eventually discover that there is someone standing across from them who is better on that particular night. No… what interests me is how quickly it ended.
She slowly raises her eyes toward the camera, her gaze steady and unblinking.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: Halfway through the match, and I was gone. Just… removed. And for someone who has spent years learning patience, learning control, learning how to make another person suffer one piece at a time, there is something particularly irritating about being denied the opportunity to finish what I started.
Milisandre leans back against the wall, folding her arms loosely across her chest.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: So now I have Solar Mundo.
There is the faintest hint of amusement at the corner of her mouth.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: I know who you are, Solar. I know where you came from. Monowi, Nebraska. Queens. Chicago. A little girl who followed her mother into wrestling buildings because she liked the way certain people carried themselves. The aura. The charisma. The… spunk.
She pauses, almost as though tasting the word.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: And eventually, you stopped trying to wrestle the way you thought you were supposed to wrestle. You stopped trying to be what someone else expected you to be. You simply let go… and became yourself.
Milisandre gives a quiet, humorless laugh.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: That is actually rather admirable.
She rises to her feet, smoothing the front of her attire before slowly beginning to walk down the corridor. The camera tracks alongside her.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: You have spent most of your life chasing this. Seven years old, already learning the craft. Training between school. MMA. Softball. Moving across the country and starting over. Losing your first opportunities and continuing anyway. You found your own style because the one you had wasn’t enough. Then you took that style into the ring with someone two years older, someone everybody already considered talented, and you beat her because you stopped trying to be anything other than Solar Mundo.
She stops walking.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: And then you challenged Marilyn Matthews for the True Grit Championship.
Her expression hardens slightly.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: And Marilyn beat you.
She lets the statement sit for a moment.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: That is the part I find interesting. Because I know what it is like to walk into a match believing that everything you have built is finally going to prove itself… and walk away knowing that you still have more to learn.
Milisandre turns fully toward the camera.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: The difference between you and me, Solar, is that you learned to let go.
She takes a slow breath.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: I learned to hold on.
Her voice becomes quieter, almost conversational.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: I hold on to mistakes. I hold on to pain. I hold on to every loss, every failure, every moment where somebody thought they had finally figured me out. I carry all of it with me. I let it become heavier. Sharper. More useful.
Milisandre steps closer to the camera, her eyes never leaving the lens.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: You wrestle like someone who wants to make the crowd feel something. You want them to see you moving, changing, improvising. You want them to wonder what Solar Mundo is going to do next.
Her expression becomes almost sympathetic.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: And I don’t need you to wonder.
She reaches out and lightly taps two fingers against her temple.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: I only need to know what hurts.
The faint smile returns.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: Because once I know that, Solar, I don’t need to outshine you. I don’t need to be faster than you. I don’t need to have more charisma than you. I simply need to keep you there long enough for you to realize that every movement has a cost.
She turns away from the camera and continues toward the arena entrance, the distant roar of the crowd becoming louder with every step.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: You have spent your entire life learning how to become yourself.
She stops just before disappearing around the corner.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: Now you’re going to find out what happens when yourself isn’t enough.
Milisandre disappears down the corridor, leaving the camera fixed on the empty hallway as the sound of the arena swells in the distance.
MATCH
SHEISTY SO
SOLAR MUNDO
vs
HERALD OF THE GREAT DREAMER
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE
REFEREE: NATHAN “ATREY” MACKAYE
Ding. Ding. Ding.
The opening bell echoes through the Municipal Auditorium. Twelve thousand fans immediately come unglued, the arena buzzing with heavy anticipation. Solar Mundo doesn’t waste a second. She’s instantly on her toes, bouncing in her trademark loose style. Fluid. Energetic. Turning a high-stakes fight into a block party. She waves her arms, demanding the noise, and the New Orleans crowd roars back.
Across the ring, Milisandre Crowthorne is a statue. Dead still. That unblinking, unsettling stare locked squarely on Solar. A predator sizing up a meal.
SOLAR MUNDO: Let’s go! Give me something!
Solar drops into a stance and fires off a pair of imaginary finger guns. She slides laterally across the canvas, testing the waters, refusing to let the eerie silence of her opponent dictate the pace. Crowthorne finally moves. Slow, deliberate steps out of the corner. She ignores the playful taunt entirely.
Solar darts in. A blistering Shuffle Side Kick. SMACK. The boot connects flush with Crowthorne’s shoulder. Crowthorne barely shifts her weight. She absorbs the blow, casually brushing the impact off her collarbone. A collective murmur of shock ripples through the front rows.
Solar doesn’t panic. She pivots, loading up her hips, and unleashes a high spinning wheel kick. Crowthorne sidesteps with unnatural calm. She reaches out, violently burying her gloved hand into Solar’s hair, and yanks her backward.
Solar violently slams back-first into the canvas, her skull bouncing off the mat with a sickening thud. She immediately curls into a fetal position, both hands desperately clutching the back of her head as her legs kick wildly in sudden agony.
Crowthorne looms. She slowly tilts her head to the side, coldly analyzing the writhing body below her. Dropping to a knee, she wraps Solar up. A suffocating side headlock. But it isn’t just a hold; it’s calculated torture. Crowthorne grinds the bone of her forearm directly across Solar’s jawline, trying to dislocate the mandible. Referee Nathan MacKaye drops to his stomach, getting right in Solar’s face to check her responsiveness.
Solar grimaces, her face contorting in pain. She reaches her free hand out toward the barricade, grasping at the air, feeding off the escalating energy of the crowd. Boots scraping the mat. She forces her way up to a vertical base. THUD. THUD. Sharp back elbows dig deep into Crowthorne’s ribs. The grip loosens. Solar spins out, creating an inch of space, and launches upward. CRACK. A crisp Enzugiri catches the side of Crowthorne’s temple.
Crowthorne stumbles backward, her equilibrium shattered. Her arms flail blindly for balance as her knees buckle, leaving her completely dazed in the center of the ring.
Solar pounces. She leaps up, hooking Crowthorne’s waist, and drags her down into a desperate, rushing schoolgirl roll-up. MacKaye slides into position.
ONE…
Crowthorne shifts her dead weight against the canvas.
TWO—NO!
Crowthorne powerfully kicks out. The sheer force of the kickout launches Solar like a missile. She sails across the ring and crashes bare-shoulder-first into the middle turnbuckle.
The steel ring underneath the pad rings out. Solar instantly slumps against the bottom turnbuckle, gasping for air as her left arm hangs completely dead at her side, her face flushed with pain.
Crowthorne takes her time. No rush. No urgency. She drags her heavy boots across the canvas, rising to her feet with eerie patience. She locks eyes on the cornered Mundo. Crowthorne charges. She crushes Solar against the pads with a vicious Running High Knee directly to the sternum.
The air violently leaves Solar’s lungs. She collapses flat onto her back, her eyes staring blankly at the arena lights, completely paralyzed by the concussive force.
Crowthorne steps in. She grabs Solar by the left wrist and yanks her violently away from the ropes. A sickening torque meant to rip the shoulder directly out of the socket. Then, the intensity vanishes. A sudden, terrifying shift in energy. Crowthorne slowly lowers to her knees. She casually drapes a single arm over Solar’s chest for the cover. MacKaye drops down.
ONE…
Solar weakly twitches her free arm.
TWO…
THR—NO!
Solar miraculously pops her shoulder off the canvas, surviving by a fraction of a second.
Crowthorne doesn’t argue. She doesn’t pound the mat in frustration. Instead, she simply sits straight up from the cover. She looks down at Solar’s exhausted, broken posture with a faint, chilling smile.
She rises slowly from the broken pin. Her cold, unblinking gaze shifts downward, locking onto Solar’s legs. Before Solar can scramble to safety, Crowthorne raises a heavy black boot and stomps violently downward, crushing Solar’s right ankle against the mat.
Solar gasps, immediately clutching the joint. Crowthorne coldly grabs Solar by the injured ankle, dragging her dead weight across the canvas and into the corner. Crowthorne scales the turnbuckle. She steps to the second rope and drops all of her weight, driving her leg down across Solar’s exposed kneecap with a sickening thud. Solar writhes, pulling the knee tight to her chest.
Crowthorne stands over her prey. She deliberately hooks Solar’s legs, stepping through with calculated precision. Crowthorne drops backward, crashing to the mat and firmly locking in a grueling Figure Four Leglock right in the dead center of the ring.
Solar’s back arches off the canvas in pure agony. Her screams echo throughout the packed Municipal Auditorium, piercing the heavy atmosphere. Referee Nathan MacKaye immediately drops to his stomach, getting right in Solar’s ear, loudly demanding to know if she submits. Crowthorne leans entirely backward to apply maximum torque. She stares blankly up at the ceiling, quietly whispering unsettling, dark threats to her trapped opponent.
Solar shakes her head violently. She screams her refusal to tap out as real tears of pain well in her eyes. The crowd recognizes the danger. A rhythmic, desperate clap begins to echo around the arena, twelve thousand fans trying to rally the high-flyer.
Solar extends a trembling arm outward. Pure panic sets in. The ropes are stranded miles out of reach. Trapped dead in the center with nowhere to crawl, Solar clutches her head in both hands, screaming blindly into the canvas as the torque intensifies. MacKaye hovers inches away, watching her fingers closely. Solar repeatedly hammers the canvas with a tight, clenched fist, channeling the agony without signaling a submission. She grits her teeth until her jaw aches, fighting every human instinct to keep her open palm from hitting the mat. Crowthorne leans further back, soaking in the desperation, sneering down at the absolute pain she has engineered.
The hammering stops. Solar suddenly plants both elbows flat against the mat to brace her frame. Riding a massive surge of adrenaline, Solar violently twists her hips and throws her entire upper body over. She flips the hold, instantly reversing the crippling pressure onto Crowthorne!
The crowd explodes. Crowthorne’s eyes widen in sudden, sharp shock as the tendons in her own knees are stretched to the limit. Crowthorne thrashes wildly against the mat. She grabs a desperate handful of Solar’s tights, trying to physically roll the hold back over to regain control. Solar clamps her bare hands directly onto the canvas, rooting herself in place and refusing to yield the position. Unable to reverse the pressure, Crowthorne is forced to frantically unlock her own legs, breaking her own hold to save her joints from serious structural damage.
Both women slowly push up from the mat. They are visibly compromised. Breathing heavily. Limping. The damage to their lower halves is undeniable.
Solar strikes first. A blistering sequence of desperate, open-hand chops to the upper body forces Crowthorne backward. Solar follows through with a deep armdrag, sending Crowthorne crashing to her back. Solar immediately dives on top of her into a desperate lateral press. MacKaye slides in.
ONE…
Crowthorne kicks out forcefully, violently throwing Solar off of her chest.
Solar tries to press the sudden advantage. She turns, attempting to sprint toward the ropes to build her signature speed. The moment she pushes off, the damaged right knee completely buckles beneath her weight. Solar collapses forward onto the canvas in a heap, desperately clutching the injured leg.
Crowthorne capitalizes instantly. Shaking off her own limp, she rushes in, driving a brutal running knee strike flush into the side of Solar’s head. CRACK. Solar goes completely limp, face-planting dead into the mat.
Crowthorne leans down, grabbing the lifeless Solar by the hair. She hauls her back up to a vertical base. Crowthorne immediately hooks Solar’s arm and leg into an abdominal stretch, looking to transition into the PATH OF HASTUR (Rolling Ranhei)—
Before Crowthorne can initiate the roll, Solar suddenly snaps awake. She fires a vicious back elbow deep into Crowthorne’s ribs. The grip breaks. Crowthorne stumbles forward, temporarily stunned. Solar spins around and blindly catches Crowthorne in a standing guillotine choke. Solar squeezes with all her remaining strength, her hand desperately reaching out, her fingers just brushing the red tape of the top rope for leverage. With every last ounce of energy she has left, Solar falls violently backward, spiking Crowthorne head-first into the mat with a devastating DDT!
The sickening impact echoes through the arena. Both women lie completely motionless on the canvas, staring blankly at the lights. Referee MacKaye checks on both competitors before raising his arm to begin the mandatory ten-count.
ONE…
The crowd begins to pound rhythmically on the barricades, desperately trying to will Solar back to her feet.
TWO…
Neither woman stirs as the Act comes to a close.
THREE…
The crowd begins to loudly stomp their feet against the wooden bleachers, desperate to wake Solar up. The rhythmic, thunderous noise shakes the arena.
FOUR…
Solar’s fingers twitch. She weakly smacks the canvas, her open palm slapping the mat in rhythm with the stomping fans.
FIVE…
Crowthorne groans. She rolls onto her stomach, slowly pushing herself up to her hands and knees.
SIX…
Solar throws her arm blindly over the bottom rope. She uses the heavy cables to drag her upper body off the mat, her face twisted in agony.
SEVEN…
Both women stumble to their feet at the exact same time. They stand dead in the center of the ring, staring each other down. Crowthorne glares with cold, unblinking malice. Solar’s chest heaves, and she flashes a wild, adrenaline-fueled smile.
Solar ignores the agonizing pain shooting up her right knee. She charges forward. A hyper-fast, chaotic flurry of open-hand chops and forearm strikes. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. Crowthorne is completely overwhelmed by the sudden, desperate burst of speed. She stumbles backward, her spine hitting the ropes.
Solar spins, hitting the opposite ropes. She comes flying back, launching her body into a Leaping Clothesline that takes Crowthorne completely off her feet. Crowthorne scrambles frantically back up, but Solar is already there. She hooks the head and drops her again with a lightning-fast Swinging Neckbreaker.
Solar rises to her feet. She bites through the pain in her knee as the arena erupts into a massive, deafening cheer. Crowthorne staggers blindly into the corner, clutching the back of her neck. Solar charges. She leaps up, catching Crowthorne flush in the jaw with a double kick to the face.
Crowthorne’s eyes roll back. She slumps down into a seated position against the bottom turnbuckle.
Solar steps in. She drives her good knee deep into Crowthorne’s chest to pin her in place, grabbing the top rope with her free hand. She looks out to the packed crowd.
SOLAR MUNDO: SOOOOOOO!
MacKaye steps in and starts the strict five-count. Solar only needs four. She swings her body weight back and forth, driving six consecutive, brutal knees directly into Crowthorne’s face as the New Orleans crowd counts along with every impact.
Solar bounces away on her good leg, hopping back to the center of the ring and blowing air kisses to the screaming front row. Adrenaline pushing her completely through the pain, she charges back in. She delivers one final, devastating running knee right beneath Crowthorne’s chin to complete THE LUCKY 7 (Corner Knee Strike Sequence)!
Solar collapses into a lateral press, desperately hooking both of Crowthorne’s legs. MacKaye drops down.
ONE…
The crowd roars, sensing the upset.
TWO…
THR—NO!
Crowthorne violently thrusts her shoulder up, breaking the pinfall with a sudden burst of pure aggression. Solar sits up. Her eyes are wide with shock. She violently slaps the canvas in pure frustration.
Crowthorne slowly pushes herself up. She stands on terribly weak, trembling legs, the damage from the Figure Four reversal finally showing.
Solar seizes the opening. She leaps up and blasts Crowthorne with a vicious dropkick squarely between the shoulder blades. Crowthorne falls violently forward. Her throat catches the middle rope, leaving her hung perfectly over the cables.
The crowd roars. The setup for the Solar Bang is firmly in place.
Solar darts across the ring. She throws herself into the opposite ropes to build maximum velocity. But the moment Solar’s back hits the cables, Crowthorne shoots to her feet with terrifying suddenness. Ignoring her trembling legs, Crowthorne turns and sprints directly back across the ring.
Solar rebounds off the ropes, moving entirely too fast to stop her forward momentum.
Crowthorne leaps into the air. She grabs Solar firmly by the back of the head on her way down, violently planting both of her knees directly into Solar’s jaw. The trap snaps shut. Crowthorne’s dead weight pulls them both crashing into the mat, shattering Solar’s forward momentum into a devastating BOW DOWN (Double Knee Facebreaker)!
Solar’s neck snaps back. She crashes lifelessly to the canvas.
Crowthorne immediately rolls Solar over. She aggressively hooks the leg, staring a hole directly through the referee with her cold, unblinking eyes. MacKaye slides into position.
ONE…
Solar remains completely motionless.
TWO…
The arena goes dead silent.
THREE!
Ding. Ding. Ding.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
The heavy, ominous opening notes of “Cthulhu Awakens” flood the arena. Crowthorne slowly sits up from the pinfall. She doesn’t raise her arms. She doesn’t celebrate. She simply stares down at Solar Mundo’s unconscious body as a faint, cruel smile crosses her face.
SEGMENT
TRAVIS LEVITT
THAÏS EMPRISTIKÍ
The scene cuts backstage again, and Travis Levitt is pacing the corridors. Coming across a door, he yanks on the handle, shoving it open, popping his head in, but then closing it and carrying on. Seeing a few production workers nearby, Travis steps over to them, swinging his bat up and pointing it at them.
TRAVIS LEVITT: Oi. You seen Hope Levitt around here?
The workers start blubbering, and Travis steps closer, idly spinning the bat in his hand.
TRAVIS LEVITT: I asked you guys a question. You want to answer me before or after I break your fucking kneec—
THAÏS EMPRISTIKÍ: DRAGON!
Travis turned at the yelling voice from down the corridor to see Thais herself, coming towards him. Travis turns fully away from the workers, tossing the bat back up against his shoulder as Thais approaches and shakes her head.
THAÏS EMPRISTIKÍ: What are you doing? Just going to randomly threaten people backstage until you find Hope?
TRAVIS LEVITT: For now. If I don’t see her soon, I figure I’ll go track Emilia back down and shove this bat right where it f—
THAÏS EMPRISTIKÍ: That won’t get you answers and you know it. Look, there has to be a better way to find her then this. She’s my niece, let me he—
Travis shakes his head and glares at Thais, pointing at her with his free hand.
TRAVIS LEVITT: You had your chance to help. Two weeks, and she hasn’t been answering to any of us. So now, I’m doing this my way.
Travis and Thais share a long glare but then Levitt sighs and looks away before turning back to her.
TRAVIS LEVITT: But you’re right. If I just stay back here and bang open doors, the show will be over and I won’t have gotten her back. So it’s time for Plan B.
THAÏS EMPRISTIKÍ: What’s Plan B?
TRAVIS LEVITT: Don’t you worry about it. You go focus on Bia, and kicking that bitches ass for what she did to Hope. You focus on her….I’ll go get my girl back.
Travis turns and storms away, Thais watching him leave with a concerned look on her face…
SEGMENT
“THE IT GIRL”
TAYLOR LANDRY
THE BRICKHOUSE
AMETHYST CALDWELL
Amethyst Caldwell is in her wrestling gear shadow boxing as a smug “It Girl” Taylor Landry is leaning against the back wall.
“IT GIRL” TAYLOR LANDRY: How can anyone think they have a chance against the lethal brickhouse? It just amuses me thinking how anyone can actually think that…
Taylor moves away from the wall.
“IT GIRL” TAYLOR LANDRY: Look at her. Go ahead and look at Amethyst, she checks all the boxes.She is smart, beautiful, chiseled out of granite, and is a fighting machine. So it’s laughable that some pathetic bitch like Alyssa Knight Keoka thinks she has a shot against Amethyst. But you already know that, Alyssa. Which is why you showed up at the contract signing between Marilyn and I with a steel chair. Because if you try to fight this lady right here with just your hands and your fighting knowledge she will destroy you.
Taylor and Amethyst look at each other sharing a smile.
“IT GIRL” TAYLOR LANDRY: Not that is a bad thing…
AMETHYST CALDWELL: What was it you said on X Alyssa… oh… that’s right. Taylor and her ass kissers are no challenge to you? Didn’t realize arrogance was sexually transmitted, sweetheart, you sound like a carbon copy of your husband.
Amethyst rolls her eyes.
AMETHYST CALDWELL: I know, probably heard that one before. When the shoe fits, no point trying to reinvent the wheel. I need to make one thing perfectly clear for you, and the world. My vendetta has nothing to do with Taylor adding an extra zero to the check she normally gives me. By default I want to crush most people. Brings a smile to my face. Out of everyone I have had the pleasure to put my hands on, you are the most annoying. No challenge to you huh?
Amethyst laughs it off.
AMETHYST CALDWELL: I recall the first time we stood across the ring from each other, you and Gina needed to take out Marisol’s useless helper to have a two on one advantage against me. For you to walk around like you’re the female version of the more talented member of your marriage, this is why no one takes you seriously. Tonight, Gina won’t be there to hold your hand. If Mary wants to butt her nose in my affairs. Once the protective order management put in place expires. She may have a great relationship with my girlfriend, that won’t protect her from my wrath if she gets froggy.
Alyssa, I am using you as a step stone to put the roster on notice. No amount of being Aleki Light will save you.
Amethyst Caldwell cracks her knuckles.
MATCH
FKA MYSIQUE
ALYSSA KNIGHT-KEKOA
vs
THE BRICKHOUSE
AMETHYST CALDWELL
REFEREE: STEPHANIE MARSHALL
Alyssa Knight-Kekoa walks to the center of the ring. Her hands drop to her sides. The Still Point. Total composure. Across the canvas, Amethyst Caldwell cracks her knuckles. The sound pops over the crowd hum. Caldwell violently slaps her own face. Psyching herself up. Stephanie Marshall signals for the bell. Ding.
Alyssa closes the gap. No hesitation. She shoots for the wrist, locking her hands and torqueing Caldwell’s arm. Trying to isolate the joint early. Caldwell doesn’t budge. She plants her boots. Flexes the trapped bicep. Alyssa’s leverage dies instantly. A cruel smirk spreads across Caldwell’s face. She shoves. Hard. Alyssa stumbles backward, her boots sliding across the canvas.
Alyssa catches her balance. One slow, controlled Exhale. She steps right back into the pocket. Whips a Krav Maga-style forearm across Caldwell’s jawline. Bone on bone. Caldwell barely blinks. She absorbs the impact, lunges forward, and hoists Alyssa over her shoulder into a front powerslam carry. Dead weight. Caldwell charges. She rams Alyssa’s spine into the turnbuckle pads. Once. Twice. She marches to the center and drives her into the mat with a thunderous Oklahoma Stampede.
Alyssa’s lungs empty instantly with a sharp gasp, her hands desperately clutching her ribs as her spine absorbs the jarring impact.
Caldwell drops to her knees. Drapes her chest over Alyssa. An arrogant lateral press. She doesn’t even bother hooking a leg.
ONE—NO!
Alyssa kicks out effortlessly. She rolls backward, scrambling right back to her feet.
Caldwell snarls. She charges like a freight train, aiming to crush Alyssa into the corner pads. Alyssa pivots. A sharp sidestep. Caldwell crashes chest-first into the turnbuckles. The ring frame rattles. Diagnostic precision takes over. Alyssa grabs Caldwell by the shoulders and unloads. Rapid-fire knees rip into Caldwell’s exposed kidneys. Striking the lower back. Weakening the foundation. Alyssa wraps both arms around Caldwell’s waist. Hauls her out of the corner. Pops the hips. A pristine Saito Suplex.
Caldwell hits the mat with a heavy thud, instinctively grabbing the back of her neck as her legs kick out in sudden shock.
Alyssa drops into a quick cover. Testing the waters.
ONE—NO!
Raw power. Caldwell bench-presses Alyssa straight off her chest.
Alyssa rolls through. She slips out to the apron. Grabs the top rope, prepping to springboard. Caldwell recovers fast. She charges the ropes and violently sweeps Alyssa’s left leg.
Alyssa’s feet fly out from under her, dropping her vertically so her left knee and ankle smash agonizingly against the unyielding edge of the ring apron. She cries out, instantly gripping her shin.
Caldwell doesn’t give her a second to breathe. She slides under the bottom rope to the arena floor. Grabs Alyssa by the damaged left ankle. With one vicious yank, she drags her completely off the apron. Alyssa hits the floor hard. Caldwell keeps her grip on the ankle. She swings the left leg like a baseball bat directly into the steel ring post.
A heavy metallic ringing echoes at ringside as Alyssa writhes on the mats, curling into a fetal position and issuing a single, long Exhale to mentally process the blinding surge of pain.
Stephanie Marshall leans through the ropes. She shouts a sharp warning down at Caldwell. The count begins.
ONE…
TWO…
Caldwell listens. She grabs Alyssa by the hair, hauling the hobbled competitor up and rolling her back under the bottom rope. Caldwell slides in after her. She stalks her prey. Alyssa tries to push up on her good leg. Caldwell stomps the injured left ankle. Heavy, deliberate boots. Grinding the joint. Caldwell hauls Alyssa up into a head-and-shoulder hold. She grabs the upper thigh. Raw, brutal torque. She launches her opponent across the ring with a massive CALDWELL SUPLEX (T-Bone Suplex)!
Alyssa crashes onto her shoulders and upper back, immediately reaching for her traumatized left leg as her face twists in sheer agony.
Caldwell crawls over. She heavily hooks that injured left leg, pulling it high to maximize the strain on the knee and ankle during the cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Alyssa shoots her right shoulder off the canvas. Pure survival instinct. Act I concludes with Caldwell slowly rising to her feet. She stands over her wounded opponent, staring down at Alyssa with cruel, dehumanizing intent.
Caldwell grabs the hobbled Alyssa by her injured left ankle and violently drags her into the dead center of the ring. Dropping her weight backward, Caldwell torques the joint and locks in a deep, punishing Ankle Lock.
Alyssa’s body seizes instantly. The sudden immobilization freezes her flat against the canvas. Refusing to treat her opponent as human, Caldwell sadistically wrenches the ankle backward, driving her knee hard into Alyssa’s calf to maximize the excruciating pressure.
Stephanie Marshall drops to the canvas. She loudly asks Alyssa if she wants to quit. Alyssa refuses to scream. She issues a single, slow, controlled Exhale to process the blinding pain. She locks cold, defiant eye contact with the referee. Caldwell barks cruel insults down at the technician, yanking the damaged ankle sideways and demanding she tap out. Alyssa claws desperately at the mat. Completely immobilized by the hold, she silently refuses to give Caldwell the satisfaction of a verbal reaction.
The roaring crowd rallies behind Alyssa. Their unified chants echo through the packed arena as the hold stretches on.
A-LYS-SA!
A-LYS-SA!
A-LYS-SA!
Refusing to break, Alyssa musters a desperate surge of adrenaline. She digs her fingers into the mat and slowly begins to drag both of their bodies across the ring. Millimeter by millimeter. Pure, agonizing progress. Alyssa finally lunges forward, grasping the bottom rope with a white-knuckle grip to force the break.
Stephanie Marshall immediately starts the count. ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. Caldwell releases the hold with a disdainful shove.
Alyssa slowly pulls herself to her feet using the ropes. Heavily favoring her damaged left leg. Caldwell charges in, looking to decapitate her with a heavy clothesline. Alyssa ducks the strike. Utilizing The Read, she perfectly maps Caldwell’s momentum. Alyssa snaps off a quick, targeted Krav Maga forearm to Caldwell’s jaw to create crucial space. Alyssa hooks the stunned powerhouse and executes a desperation Snap Suplex, violently throwing her weight backward so her injured left leg doesn’t have to support the heavy lift.
Alyssa floats over into a cover, hooking the far leg.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Caldwell forcefully powers her shoulder off the mat.
Both women slowly push themselves up from the canvas. Physical attrition setting in on both sides. Heavy, labored breathing. Caldwell attempts to regain control with the SNAP SHOT (Spinning Backfist)— Alyssa evades the strike, ducking under and bouncing off the near ropes. Caldwell intercepts the rebounding technician with a brutal Double Knee Facebreaker.
Caldwell hooks the leg for a cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Alyssa gets her shoulder up.
Caldwell rolls up and unleashes a primal scream toward the rafters. Completely fired up. Caldwell backs up into the corner. She charges forward to deliver a running knee. Alyssa sidesteps out of nowhere. Planting on her healthy right leg, she perfectly times HER VERDICT (Jumping Knee Strike) with her right knee! The strike cracks Caldwell across the jaw, but Alyssa winces in pure agony as her injured left ankle is forced to absorb the harsh landing.
Alyssa collapses onto Caldwell for an exhausted cover.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Caldwell violently kicks out, launching Alyssa completely off her chest.
The packed arena is on its feet. Both competitors slowly drag themselves to a vertical base. Alyssa steps forward, extends The Open Hand, and snaps on a standing HER LEGACY (Guillotine Choke)!
Caldwell’s arms flail wildly. The blood supply to her brain is instantly restricted. Alyssa leaps into the air, wrapping her legs tightly around Caldwell’s waist to drag the powerhouse to the mat.
The crowd goes absolutely nuts.
HOLY SHIT!
HOLY SHIT!
Refusing to fall, Caldwell’s tree-trunk legs hold firm. She remains standing, bent over under Alyssa’s dead weight. Caldwell reaches around and grabs Alyssa tightly by the waist. Caldwell stands fully upright, lifting Alyssa entirely into the air, and drives her spine-first at full force into the turnbuckles.
Alyssa stubbornly holds on. She keeps the choke firmly locked in despite the crushing impact. Caldwell stumbles backward, gasping to create distance, then throws her weight forward to violently ram Alyssa into the turnbuckle a second time. The second impact shatters Alyssa’s grip. She releases the hold, slumping against the pads.
Caldwell stands up straight slowly, vigorously shaking her head to clear the oxygen-deprived haze. Alyssa, desperately catching her breath, steps forward and throws a tired right punch. Caldwell easily blocks the tired strike and immediately throws a heavy right punch of her own, clocking Alyssa squarely in the jaw.
Caldwell drags the dazed Alyssa by her hair into the dead center of the ring. She whips Alyssa forcefully into the ropes. Caldwell immediately turns and runs across the ring, bouncing off the opposite cables.
Both women rebound, meeting in the center of the ring with maximum momentum.
Caldwell obliterates her opponent with the WARNING SHOT (The Pounce)!!!
Alyssa explodes into the air from the sheer impact before crashing flat on her back onto the canvas. Dead weight. Caldwell crawls over the broken technician and heavily hooks the leg for the final pin.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
AMETHYST CALDWELL WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
The final bell rings. Stephanie Marshall raises Amethyst Caldwell’s arm in victory. Caldwell stands tall, chest heaving, clutching her bruised throat with her free hand while a cruel, arrogant smirk spreads across her face. On the canvas, Alyssa Knight-Kekoa lies completely motionless, staring blankly up at the arena lights while her damaged left leg rests at an awkward angle.
SEGMENT
HELENA HANDBASKET
The lights go down.
For a moment, there is nothing but darkness. Then a voice, bright and brassy, comes crackling over the arena speakers.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: WHETHER YOU LIKE IT, OR NOT.
The lights flash back on.
And there, standing in the middle of the entranceway with her back to the ring, arms spread wide like a particularly obnoxious messiah welcoming her congregation to the end of days, is Helena Handbasket.
The VaudVillain is dressed for the occasion, in a white and black spin strip with green accents set of gear, under a large lapel pin stripped coat, all clearly Beetlejuice inspired, her blond hair muddled green with make up and slicked back. She marches down the ramp backward, before about facing, grinning at the camera’s, blowing a kiss and grabbing a mic.
HELENA HANDBASKET: Right. Right, right, right. Lovely. Absolutely fackin’ lovely. PCW Halloween! Spooky season! Ghouls, goblins, ghosts, gremlins, assorted supernatural fuckery, and me. Which, quite frankly, ought to be the main event. Now, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, cause I am grateful. I am a grateful woman. I am a humble woman. I am a woman who understands the value of hard work, perseverance, and being a thoroughly unpleasant little shit to everyone in a position of authority until they give you what you want.
She nods, as though delivering a sermon, as she’s hoping up to take a seat on a turnbuckle.
HELENA HANDBASKET: But I have to ask, and wonder, when the bookin’ was done for the Halloween show, how did I caught up in the spite? I know, I know, I ticked Yelena off, but all’s good with that now, and really I thought Emilia booked, but baby don’t take it personally. Just lemme riff abit on the state of things, I know. You work very hard to be fair and balanced and I caught a back seat. I’m proud of that, really I am. I’m not mad, I’m doin’ a bit….But here goes. What the fack am I doing on the other show?
She spreads her arms.
HELENA HANDBASKET: Look at me! Look at this! This is a Halloween attraction! This is a walking lawsuit! This is a public health concern in a nice coat! You have got a perfectly good Beetlejuice knock off standing in your ring, and you’ve put me on the undercard of my own bloody haunting! Mind you, I suppose there’s only so much evil you can fit into one evening before the insurance company starts asking questions. Still. I shall persevere. I shall endure. I shall soldier on in the face of adversity, like a brave little soldier, with my chin up, my shoulders back, and my expectations of this show’s main event firmly lodged somewhere below sea level. Because here’s the thing, isn’t it? Here’s the thing about Helena Handbasket. When there’s some shit to be won, Goddamnit, I want it. I don’t give a feck what it is. Y’know what I’m talkin’ about? I take no prisoners. I go hard doing this shit. Big dog. Big nuts. When names is on a motherfeckin’ board, I want to see my name at the top of that motherfecker, and next to it, it needs to say ‘Winner’.”
Helena just winks at the camera. Then she shrugs.
HELENA HANDBASKET: Sorry, been replayin’ GTA V and drifted just a bit there. Now, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Helena, you fackin’ lunatic, you already said you don’t care what it is. So why are you moaning about being on the other show?’ Because I am a woman of principle, mate. And because I am a woman of ambition. And because I have a very healthy sense of self importance, which is the only thing keeping me from stranglin’ half the people in this business with their own lanyards. But enough about my completely reasonable grievances with not havin a spotlight. Enough about the fact that some people in this company would struggle to put on a piss up in a brewery, let alone a Halloween show match. Mosh, Tolson, almost everyone who got on the card for the 30th show.
Helena rolls her shoulders, then slowly turns towards the hard camera.
HELENA HANDBASKET: Let’s talk about Hope Russo. Ahhh, Hope. Hope, Hope, Hope. The woman’s name has that flavor of something that been left in the fridge just a touch too long, you know? Now, Hope and I have met before, haven’t we? We’ve had a little game. A little spectacle. A little board game extravaganza, where we threw some pieces about, rolled some dice, did a little dance, and generally behaved like two women who’d been locked in a Toys R Us overnight with a bottle of gin and absolutely no adult supervision. And Hope won! Technically. Technically, officially, on paper, according to the little rules and regulations and whatever other nonsense people use to reassure themselves that life is fair, Hope Russo won that little game. Congratulations, darling. Truly. A historic achievement. Somebody fetch the commemorative plate. Somebody call the papers. Somebody ring your mother and tell her that all those years of hard work have finally paid off.
She puts her free hand over her heart.
HELENA HANDBASKET: You beat me at a game where my primary objective was to piss you off. And I did. Mission accomplished. See, that’s the funny thing about Hope. She thinks that because the scoreboard says she won, she’s somehow got the measure of me. She thinks that because she managed to cross the finish line first in a glorified board game, she knows exactly what she’s getting when she steps into the ring with me. Bless her lil plastic barbie pull apart heart. Hope, darling, sweetheart, light of absolutely nobody’s life, do you know what your problem is? No, seriously. There are several. We’re going to need a list. Possibly a spreadsheet. Definitely a flowchart.
She produces a small, folded piece of paper from her coat pocket, unfolds it, and peers at it.
HELENA HANDBASKET: Oh, look at that. It’s blank. Must’ve run out of ink.
She crumples it and stuffs it back into her pocket.
HELENA HANDBASKET: Where was I? Oh, yes. You’re boring…Not boring in the sense that you can’t do anything. Not boring in the sense that you haven’t got a pulse, or a personality, or the capacity to form a coherent sentence when somebody sticks a microphone in your face. Although, on some days, I do wonder. No, Hope. You’re boring in the sense that you’ve got yourself stuck in the same bloody rut, doing the same bloody dance, with the same bloody people, and every time somebody points out that you’re going round in circles, you start screaming about how everybody else is the problem. Round and round and round we go! Tigress this, Tigress that. Everyone’s beefin’ with Tigress and you sit there, oscillating’ wildly between ride or die and dead could care less. Someone’s booked Tigress unfairly. Someone’s said something you don’t like, and now the entire bloody neighbourhood has to stop what they’re doing so we can all gather round and discuss the emotional weather forecast.
She makes a little circular motion with her index finger beside her head.
HELENA HANDBASKET: Chance of tantrums with a high probability of passive aggressive bullshit. Bring an umbrella. Don’t get me wrong. I understand loyalty. I understand friendship. I understand standing by the people you care about, even when they’re being monumental pains in the arse. I’ve got a twin brother, for God’s sake. I’ve been professionally committed to putting up with an idiot since the day I was born. I’m here with Yelena, and Emilia and the endless cycle. But there’s a difference between being a friend and making your friend’s problems your entire bloody personality. There’s a difference between standing by somebody and spending your entire life looking for new and inventive ways to set fire to your own social circle because apparently the concept of keeping your gob shut for five minutes is beyond your capabilities.”
Helena raises her eyebrows.
HELENA HANDBASKET: Some people just cannot act right. Some people, apparently, are determined to make that everybody else’s problem. Now, I’m not going to sit here and pretend that I’m some paragon of good behaviour. I’m not. I’m a fackin’ menace. I am the reason several venues have had to rewrite their damage policies. I am the reason at least one person in management at nearly every company I’m in has a twitch in their left eye. I have done things that would make a priest drink, a lawyer retire, and a health and safety inspector spontaneously combust. But I know what I am. Do you? From where I’m standing, Hope, you seem awfully desperate to convince the world that you’re the victim of every situation you find yourself in. You want to be the good friend, the righteous fighter, the wronged woman, the one who gets to stand on the moral high ground while everybody else is down in the mud.
Helena snorts. She looks down at her boots.
HELENA HANDBASKET: Darling, the moral high ground is just a hill. And I’ve seen you trip over your own feet on flat ground. Although, to be fair, I wouldn’t mind seeing you trip over these. They’re lovely. Very practical for kicking somebody in the teeth. nd before you start making threats about what you’re going to do to me, before you start promising to beat my arse, break my bones, rearrange my face, or whatever other lovely little bedtime stories you’ve been telling yourself to get to sleep at night
She begins to tremble. Her shoulders shake. Her knees wobble. She clutches the microphone with both hands and stares at the ceiling.
HELENA HANDBASKET: Oh, God. Oh, no. Oh, please, Hope. Anything but that.
She takes a staggering step backwards.
HELENA HANDBASKET: I’m shaking. I’m absolutely shaking. Look at me. Look at me go. I’m shaking in my bunny slippers, darling. Except I’m not wearing bunny slippers, am I? I’m wearing these gorgeous wing tipped wrasslin’ boots, and you’re wearing your heart on your sleeve, and neither of those things is going to help you when the bell rings. See, the thing is, Hope, you keep talking like this is going to be easy. You keep talking like you’ve got me figured out. You keep talking like you’re about to walk into that ring, give me a good hiding, and walk out with a lovely little victory to add to your collection. And you know what? You can keep thinking that. Honestly. Please. By all means. Build yourself a lovely little fantasy. Decorate it. Put curtains up. Get a mortgage. Have a few children in it. Teach them to ride bicycles. Tell them all about the time their mother went into a wrestling ring and thought she had Helena Handbasket all figured out.
She leans forward. She looks back into the camera.
HELENA HANDBASKET: Far be it from me to wreck your cozy lil fantasy, bad habit as I have of doin’ exactly that not withstandin. Here’s the bit you don’t seem to understand, Hope. I play. I play with people. I play with the rules. I play with the audience. I play with the match. I play with the little stories people tell themselves about who they are and what they deserve. I play because it’s fun. I play because I like seeing what happens when you push something just a little bit further than it was ever supposed to go. I’m a show woman, and you’ve obviously marked out for it. I played with you before. I made a game out of you, and you played along beautifully. You got angry. You got frustrated. You got caught up in the spectacle. You won the game, and I got exactly what I wanted out of it.
Her fingers tighten around the microphone.
HELENA HANDBASKET: But a wrestling match isn’t a board game. And I can stop playing. When I do, everybody pays. Now, am I done playing? Dunno, mate. That’s the fun bit, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve got to find out. Oh! And speaking of finding things out, there’s one other little thing I’d like to address before we get to the part where I put you on the floor and make you regret your life choices. Your DMs. Oh, darling. Now, I am not one to kiss and tell. I’m a lady. I have standards. They’re very low standards, mind you, but they’re standards all the same. I am the grand Poohba of Slutdom, but oh girl, you take the cake. I’m certainly not going to stand here and read out private messages. That would be terribly uncouth. Besides, I’d need a projector. Because, Hope, for somebody who has so much to say about everybody else’s behaviour, you have been remarkably enthusiastic about making a complete and utter tit of yourself in private. Honestly, I was flattered. I was. It’s nice to know that even when I’m not in the ring, even when I’m not on television, even when I’m not busy being the most important person in the room, I’m still managing to occupy so much space in your little head. Rent free, darling, and I do think that sayin’s over used, but the clown shoe fits you this time.
She blows a kiss.
HELENA HANDBASKET: But let’s get one thing straight. Whatever little ideas you’ve got in that head of yours, whatever you’ve been imagining, whatever desperate little fantasies you’ve been entertaining yourself with, you are not my type. Develop a personality that doesn’t require a supportin’ cast to make it any bit interestin’ and well…Naw, still no. Now you all might be wonderin’ why I’m bein’ particularly uncivil tonight, I consider Thais a friend, but this is pre match banter, it’s all fair game. I’m especially tired of people who seem to think that the best way to resolve their problems is to make them my problems. I didn’t want to be in this Tigress Black Rainbow war, and yet here I am, and so Hope, you’re just goin’ to have to be the one who pays for that, cause as discussed. I want me name at the top, and next to it it needs to say WINNER. I don’t do horse shoes and hand grenades. I don’t do good enough, and I’ve been spinnin’ in bullshite for far too long. Tonight Hope, you’re not raisin’ for anything. Toodles.
She tosses the microphone out of the ring, catches it again when the stagehand throws it back, and looks momentarily offended that someone has dared to interrupt her dramatic exit.
Then she laughs, throws her arms wide, and begins walking backwards towards the ropes, conducting the crowd with both hands as the audience responds.
At the ropes, she turns, climbs through, and drops to the floor. She backs up the ramp, grinning, pointing at the camera, and mouthing something that looks suspiciously like you’re welcome.
The camera follows her all the way to the entrance. Just before she disappears behind the curtain, Helena stops. She turns around. She winks and the lights go out.
SEGMENT
PCW CRUCIBLE CHAMPION
MARISOL VILARO
The camera opens up inside the office of the CEO of VilaroGLOBAL in a pre-recorded segment, where we see the CEO herself, Marisol Vilaro, sitting front and center behind her desk; on each side is a title belt; on her left is her Billion Dollar Championship, and on the right is the Crucible Championship. She wears a green pantsuit; her hair is done up in curls; she smiles as she speaks in a direct tone.
MARISOL VILARO: Once again, it seems Marisol Vilaro has to give a business lesson to all of you watching. See, in wrestling, you only get rewarded when you fail. Look at Morgan LeChance: she didn’t get the job done, and they are rewarding her with another shot at my Crucible title?! Have you seen anything so absurd? Think about the message we are sending: if you fail, you can get a title match out of the blue. I mean, what a joke it is, and the fact I have to defend my title on the sixteenth, and then now there is clearly a bias against me, and I just don’t get it. I really don’t. I am ratings.
The CEO of VilaroFit has a disgusted look on her face as she reviews a document, then sees it says VilaroFit profits are up thirty-five percent for the third quarter; she smiles.
MARISOL VILARO: Marisol Vilaro delivers profits; she delivers on success, but instead of rewarding that, no, you reward the Morgan LeChances and the Amber Paynes of the world. You call yourself the Queen of Strong Style, and the Huntress difference is that other people call me things like boss, CEO, and, of course, the Billion Dollar Empress. Funny how that works, right? And you think you’re on some hunt that is going to turn up anything for you; no, you’ll leave empty-handed. Because I am not a doe, and this title isn’t a trophy for your wall.
Marisol smiles as she grabs the green-strapped Crucible Championship and eyes it, her look telling the whole story.
MARISOL VILARO: This belt is a corporate asset, and one that doesn’t belong to you. It represents the growth and power of VilaroGLOBAL as an entity, and one that you, nor anyone else, is taking from me anytime soon; see I started as a manager, became a force at ringside, then in the ring I have become a force. Whether you like me or not, I really don’t care what most toxic people in this business think of me; you can’t help but keep my name in your mouth. But after I put you down, I’ll discuss the stipulation with my attorneys and explain why Morgan LeChance doesn’t deserve a shot at it. After all, I could draw a picture for all of you, but I am afraid you wouldn’t get it.
Marisol laughs at her own joke, as she then continues admiring her title.
MARISOL VILARO: So, Amber, get ready; you’ll be front and center, but this won’t be about you. All that talent, all that drive, all that instinct will go the way of the dodo when you’re in the ring with LaMarvilosa. In the year of our Lord 2026, Amber Payne won’t walk out with the Crucible title; no PCW would recover from the possibility of a Morgan LeChance vs. Amber Payne match. After all, I am a responsible competitor, and I think of the sponsors and viewers. After this match, Amber, I want you to do one thing, and that is to ENTRUST IN MARI!
Marisol blows a kiss toward the camera, laughing as the scene fades to black, the VilaroGLOBAL logo and its tagline, “for a better you,” appear underneath, then cut to static.
MATCH
THE HUNTRESS
AMBER PAYNE
vs
CRUCIBLE CHAMPION
THE BILLION DOLLAR QUEEN
MARISOL VILARO
VILAROFIT
BLACK RAINBOW
15 MINUTE TIMELIMIT
PCW CRUCIBLE CHAMPIONSHIP
REFEREE: GRADE GARRETT
Ding. Ding.
The bell officially sounds to begin the fifteen-minute time limit for the PCW Crucible Championship.
Marisol Vilaro steps directly into the center of the ring. Untouchable. Arrogant. She hits a crisp, flexed double-bicep fitness pose, flashing a blinding smile at the twelve thousand hostile fans raining vitriol down on her.
Amber Payne refuses the pageantry. The challenger explodes out of her corner. Pure aggression.
Amber unloads a stiff, cracking European uppercut. Bone meets jaw. Marisol’s head snaps back violently. The champion stumbles sideways, crashing into the ropes. The arrogant smile vanishes, replaced instantly by wide-eyed shock. Amber steps in, shifting her weight to deliver a blistering knife-edge chop straight across Marisol’s chest. CRACK.
Marisol gasps. She clutches her sternum, her legs turning to jelly as she drops heavily to one knee.
No breathing room. Amber ruthlessly drags the champion up by her hair, hooking an arm and whipping her across the ring. Marisol rebounds off the far ropes. Amber meets her halfway, dropping her with a heavy, running backhand punch squarely to the jaw. Amber stays on her, pulling Marisol back to her feet. She snaps on a tight front facelock and hoists her over for a picture-perfect snap suplex.
Instead of releasing, Amber maintains the front facelock. Raw power. She rolls through, using her core strength to deadlift Marisol right back to her feet. Amber shoves the champion toward the ropes, trailing right in her slipstream. As Marisol bounces off the cables, Amber crushes her. A running dropkick, boots planted squarely into the sternum.
Marisol crashes hard to the canvas. She rolls onto her side, clutching her ribs and gasping for air. Amber scrambles over, hooking the far leg for a rapid flash pinfall. Referee Grade Garrett slides into position.
ONE!
Marisol kicks out violently at one and a half. She scrambles frantically toward the bottom rope, absolute panic washing over her face. The champion pulls herself up using the turnbuckles, shrinking back into the corner to escape the onslaught. Amber stalks toward her, breathing hard, fists balled.
Grade Garrett steps between them. He throws his arms out wide, issuing a firm verbal warning for Amber to give the champion space in the ropes. Amber argues the instruction. A brief flash of frustration. She is forced to step back just half a pace.
It is all the opening the champion needs. Using Garrett’s body as a perfect visual shield from the referee’s line of sight, Marisol lunges forward. She rakes her fingernails viciously across Amber’s eyes.
Amber shrieks. She clutches both hands over her face, stumbling blindly backward into the center of the ring. Marisol shoves Garrett aside. The cruel, smug grin returns to her face. Control reestablished.
Marisol grabs the blinded challenger, twisting and driving her to the mat with a swift headlock takedown. Amber thrashes her legs wildly against the canvas. She tries desperately to blink the burning pain out of her eyes while trapped under the grounded hold. Marisol wrenches the headlock tight. She tilts her head back, mockingly shouting at the enraged crowd to applaud her superior grappling technique.
Amber refuses to stay down. Relying on pure, unadulterated power, she muscles her way up to a seated position. She forces her forearm directly under Marisol’s chin, grinding against the jawline to break the grip. Amber shoves Marisol off, sending her stumbling into the ropes.
Marisol rebounds. Desperation. She aims a wild clothesline, but Amber ducks effortlessly underneath it. Amber pivots sharply. She drives a devastating forearm smash directly into the back of Marisol’s neck.
Marisol face-plants directly onto the canvas. Arms spread wide. Dead weight.
Realizing she cannot survive trading raw strikes, Marisol scrambles. She rolls frantically under the bottom rope, spilling out onto the arena floor. Amber steps through the ropes, marching out onto the ring apron in cold pursuit.
Scrambling to her feet on the floor, Marisol instantly clutches her lower back with both hands. Her face twists into a mask of pure, excruciating agony.
MARISOL: My back! My back!
She limps exaggeratedly around the ring post, dragging her leg and leaning heavily against the steel barricade to put distance between herself and the apron. Grade Garrett begins his count inside the ring:
ONE!
Amber isn’t buying it. She drops down from the apron, aggressively pursuing the allegedly injured champion around the corner.
TWO!
The moment Amber rounds the ring post, Marisol drops the charade entirely. The agony vanishes. Her face instantly turns cold. Marisol springs forward, driving a ruthless thrust kick straight into Amber’s midsection.
Amber doubles over. All the air leaves her lungs in a sharp wheeze.
THREE!
Marisol grabs Amber by the back of the neck, dragging her forward, and slams her forehead squarely into the unforgiving edge of the ring apron. THUD. Amber collapses to the ringside mats. She clutches her forehead, her momentum completely derailed.
FOUR!
Marisol dusts off her hands arrogantly. She casually grabs Amber by the hair, sliding her limp body back under the bottom rope. Marisol slides in right after her. She hooks the inside leg, resting her chin on her palm to strike a mocking pose for the hard-cam during the cover.
ONE!
TWO!
Amber throws a shoulder violently off the canvas, aggressively breaking the pin. Marisol sighs in exaggerated annoyance. She rolls her eyes toward the rafters, looking utterly put out, as if the challenger is simply wasting her valuable time.
Marisol seizes Amber by the hair. She violently drags the challenger back to the center of the ring, muttering venomous insults under her breath about her resilience. Marisol traps both arms. She locks her hands, pivoting her hips to execute a flawless double underhook suplex.
Amber’s upper back impacts the canvas. A sickening thud echoes off the mat. Amber immediately arches her spine, her teeth gritted in sheer agony.
No cover. Marisol drops to the mat directly beside her fallen challenger. She executes five rapid, picture-perfect push-ups, flashing a radiant, arrogant smile at the hostile crowd raining vitriol down upon her. She transitions seamlessly. Marisol shifts from the final push-up straight into a grounded rear chinlock. She wrenches Amber’s neck backward, dropping her full body weight squarely onto the challenger’s spine.
Amber’s eyes squeeze shut. Her lips pull back into a desperate snarl. The pressure mounts agonizingly on her cervical spine. Referee Grade Garrett drops to one knee. He gets inches from Amber’s face, loudly asking if she submits.
Amber violently shakes her head. She slams her open palms against the canvas. Her face flushes a deep, dangerous crimson from the restricted blood flow.
The crowd swells. Amber feeds on the noise. She plants her boots flat on the canvas and relies on pure brute strength. She sheer-powers her way up to a vertical base, hauling Marisol’s full weight up onto her back. Amber marches backward. She violently crushes Marisol between her own spine and the turnbuckles, forcefully breaking the hold.
Marisol gasps. The grip shatters. She stumbles out of the corner, desperately clutching her ribs.
Amber seizes the opening. She steps forward and wipes the champion out with a heavy, cracking backhand punch. SMACK.
Marisol spins like a top. Her eyes glaze over, completely losing her equilibrium. Amber launches herself upward. She catches the dazed champion in the side of the head with a sharp enzuigiri. Marisol’s legs give out completely. She crashes to the mat in a heap, staring blankly up at the arena lights.
Amber drags Marisol by the wrist, hauling her into the corner. She unleashes a furious flurry of stomps. Leather meets flesh. She forces the champion down into a seated position against the bottom turnbuckle. Marisol slumps heavily against the pad, gasping for oxygen and clutching her chest.
Amber turns her back. She rushes across the ring toward the opposite corner to set up a devastating charge.
Marisol looks up at Grade Garrett. She suddenly clutches her eye, her face twisting into sheer panic. She begins screaming in pure agony.
MARISOL: MY EYE! SH… SHE… SHE KNOCKED OUT MY EYEEE!
Garrett steps closer to the corner. He looks just as confused as the twelve thousand fans in the building, but the veteran official takes the potential injury seriously. He leans in near Marisol to inspect her condition.
Amber reaches the opposite turnbuckle. She pivots sharply, locking her eyes like a predator on the corner. She explodes forward. Amber sprints across the ring at absolute full speed, loading up for a violent running strike.
Marisol watches Amber close the distance. Instantly, she uncups her eye. The pain vanishes. She reaches up, snaring Garrett’s arm. Marisol violently tugs the official directly into the corner, using his body as a human shield.
Amber screeches to a desperate, skidding halt. She throws her arms out, stopping mere inches away to avoid plowing completely through the referee.
Grade Garrett rips his arm out of Marisol’s grip in pure fury. He steps right over her, aggressively getting in the champion’s face. He barks furiously at her, pointing a rigid, authoritative finger.
Amber stands flat-footed just behind the official. She is momentarily frozen, forced to wait for Garrett to clear the lane.
Marisol ignores the reprimand. Using Garrett’s large frame as a complete visual screen, she darts quickly around the referee’s side. Before Amber can even react, Marisol dives low. She drives her shoulder ruthlessly into the side of Amber’s lead leg.
Amber’s knee buckles violently. She crashes face-first into the canvas with a sharp gasp.
Marisol immediately scrambles back to her feet. She rebounds hard off the adjacent ropes and drives a brutal running knee strike straight into the back of Amber’s skull.
Amber’s body goes completely limp. She slumps flat against the mat. Unconscious weight.
Marisol drops heavily on top of her. She hooks the far leg tightly, throwing all her weight across Amber’s shoulders for the cover. Grade Garrett drops to the canvas.
ONE!
TWO—NO!
Amber jerks her right shoulder off the mat, kicking out by a mere fraction of a second. Marisol slams both fists against the canvas in absolute disbelief. She screams at Garrett, her face flushed red, demanding that it was a three-count.
FIVE MINUTES REMAINING
Marisol remains on her knees. She screams furiously at Grade Garrett, violently shoving two fingers in the veteran official’s face. Behind her, the challenger stirs. Amber rolls onto her stomach. She pushes up onto all fours, shaking her head violently to clear the fog. Marisol breaks off her tirade and spins around to re-engage.
Mistake.
Amber explodes off the canvas. She launches a ferocious leaping forearm smash straight into Marisol’s jaw. CRACK. Amber lands hard. She immediately favors her right side, her compromised left knee wincing under the sudden, heavy downward impact.
Marisol’s head snaps back. She collapses flat against the canvas. The champion clutches her jaw with both hands, rolling instinctively toward the corner turnbuckles to create space. Amber limps after her. She drags her left leg slightly, grabbing Marisol by the hair to forcefully haul her back toward the center of the ring. Amber hooks the champion’s head and arm. She hoists her up and drives her down with a sharp swinging neckbreaker.
Marisol’s neck and shoulders slam flush into the canvas. She writhes on the mat, clutching the back of her neck as her breath comes in ragged gasps. Amber hooks the far leg, leaning her upper body over Marisol’s chest. Grade Garrett slides into position.
ONE!
TWO!
Marisol thrusts her left shoulder off the mat.
FOUR MINUTES REMAINING
Amber transitions immediately into a grounded side headlock. She cinches down tight, grinding the champion into the canvas. Amber squeezes the lock. She drives the bone of her forearm directly into Marisol’s cheek. Marisol grits her teeth in sheer pain. She claws desperately at Amber’s wrists to relieve the agonizing pressure on her airway.
Grade Garrett drops to a knee, checking Marisol’s free arm to monitor her responsiveness. Marisol shakes her head defiantly at the official. Refusing to yield. She thrashes her lower body violently. Digging her boot heels into the canvas, she claws with her free hand, physically dragging their tangled bodies across the ring. Amber clamps down harder on the skull, but the continuous kicking scuffs them across the canvas until they reach the perimeter.
Marisol plants the soles of her boots against the bottom and middle ropes. She walks her boots up the cables, pushing off backward with all her weight to forcefully flip Amber over into a sudden lateral press.
ONE!
TWO!
Amber releases the headlock and kicks out hard, rolling backward onto her feet. Both women scramble up simultaneously.
Marisol charges forward. She drives a sharp European uppercut directly into Amber’s chest. Amber stumbles backward into the ropes, wincing as the blow rattles her bruised ribcage. Marisol grabs Amber by the wrist, whipping her aggressively across the ring. Amber reverses the whip. Marisol hurtles toward the opposite corner, colliding chest-first into the turnbuckle pads. She rebounds backward into the ring.
Amber steps in, catching Marisol on the rebound. She deadlifts the champion for a belly-to-back suplex. Amber’s injured left knee buckles sharply under the sudden, immense weight. She grits her teeth through the excruciating strain and sheer-powers Marisol overhead.
The champion’s back crashes onto the canvas with an agonizing thud. The wind is completely knocked out of her lungs.
THREE MINUTES REMAINING
Amber drops straight down to one knee. She clutches both her bruised ribs and her throbbing left knee, sucking in ragged air. Marisol lies sprawled on her stomach. She feebly slaps the mat, trying desperately to regain feeling in her extremities.
Amber forces herself up to a vertical base, visibly bearing all her weight on her good right leg. She grabs Marisol by the waistband to haul her upright.
Panic reflex. Marisol throws a desperate back elbow blindly over her shoulder. It catches Amber flush on the temple. Amber’s grip slips. She staggers two paces backward, entirely dazed. Marisol lunges forward. She wraps both arms around Amber’s head and drives her down with a brutal, spiking DDT.
Amber’s forehead crashes into the canvas. She flops onto her back, arms splayed wide. Her eyes stare blankly toward the arena lights. Utterly exhausted, Marisol drapes a single, heavy arm across Amber’s chest for the cover. Grade Garrett drops.
ONE!
TWO!
Amber thrusts her left shoulder off the mat just before the count of three.
Marisol rolls off Amber. She collapses flat on her back beside the challenger, completely spent. Grade Garrett immediately stands over both competitors. No double-down count. He refuses to reward mere exhaustion. Garrett shouts down at Marisol, pointing toward the fallen challenger and sternly ordering the champion to press her attack. He pivots toward Amber, clapping his hands sharply. A loud, authoritative warning for the challenger to defend herself and get back to her feet.
Amber rolls onto her stomach. She groans, crawling toward the center of the ring on hands and knees while heavily favoring her left leg. Marisol rolls toward the ropes. She uses the middle strand to slowly haul her battered torso upright. Amber pushes off the canvas. She reaches her feet, her chest heaving violently as she puts weight back on her legs.
TWO MINUTES REMAINING
They meet in the center of the ring. Exhausted, venomous glares. Amber takes two quick steps and throws her arm out for a heavy clothesline. Marisol ducks under the swinging arm. She slips directly behind Amber and secures a tight waist lock. Amber immediately shifts her hips, breaking the grip to reverse the hold and move around the champion.
The packed arena leaps to its feet. Explosive cheers.
Amber wraps her arm around Marisol’s neck and locks in a standing SOUL EATER (Modified Kata-Ha-Jime)!
Marisol flails her free arm wildly in an absolute panic. The crowd roars. The champion is caught dead center. Fighting the suffocating choke, Marisol drops hard to one knee. She throws her upper body forward, violently flipping Amber over her shoulder to break the hold.
Amber crashes back-first onto the canvas, but she maintains absolute, terrifying control of Marisol’s left arm and neck. Marisol kicks off the mat with her boots, rolling completely over Amber and onto her side. Amber keeps the submission locked in tight.
Marisol reaches her free hand out toward the ropes. Inches beyond her grasp. She digs deep. Marisol gets a knee beneath her and pushes herself up, slowly forcing her way to a standing base while Amber mercilessly wrenches her neck backward. Marisol’s face contorts in pure anguish. It turns a deep, suffocating red.
Desperation. Marisol reaches down with her free arm and grabs Amber’s leg. She flips her entire body backward, driving Amber down into the canvas with a heavy thud. Amber’s head and neck torque violently backward against the mat.
ONE MINUTE REMAINING
Marisol’s movements slow to a crawl. But the chaotic struggle has brought her closer to the perimeter. Her right toe reaches out. It touches the bottom rope.
The arena atmosphere shatters in an instant. The cheers immediately transform into a unified, furious wall of boos.
Grade Garrett drops down. He orders Amber to release the hold, beginning his count loudly. Amber’s jaw clenches. She refuses to let go, wrenching the submission until the word FOUR leaves Garrett’s lips.
Amber releases the choke, letting Marisol’s completely limp body flop to the mat. Amber shrugs her off, pushing herself up onto her feet, but she immediately drops back down to one knee. She winces, reaching down to clutch the lower thigh Marisol hit with a targeted shoulder thrust only moments prior. As Marisol lays prone, staring blankly at the ceiling and taking heavy breaths, Amber violently shakes the stiffness out of the joint.
Amber crawls on hands and knees toward the ropes. She plants her left boot to push off, but the joint gives a brief, sickening hitch. She is forced to favor the right side. Keeping her momentum going, Amber crawls the remaining few feet across the canvas. She reaches the cables and plants her hands firmly on the bottom strand to steady herself.
FORTY SECONDS REMAINING
Panic flashes across Amber’s face. The memory of Morgan LeChance losing to the expiring time limit against this exact champion hits her. She frantically abandons the ropes and lunges back toward the center of the ring. Amber grabs Marisol’s leg, desperately dragging her away from the safety of the ropes. Amber hooks the leg and presses her entire weight down for the pin.
ONE!
TWO!!
The crowd is on their feet, screaming at the top of their lungs for Payne to get the three.
THR—NO!!!
Against all odds, Marisol throws her left shoulder up off the canvas.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
THIRTY SECONDS REMAINING
Amber wastes no time. She scrambles frantically back to her feet. Hyper-quick sequence. Amber grabs Marisol and drags her up by the hair. Gritting her teeth through the shooting pain in her knee, Amber whips Marisol hard into the ropes.
The champion comes flying back on the rebound. Amber ducks low, hooks Marisol’s right arm, and slips gracefully behind her. She twists violently around, forcing Marisol to double over at the waist.
The crowd roars. The finish is imminent. Amber positions Marisol’s head against the small of her back. She reaches back to hook the arms for the PAIN KILLER (Kudo Driver)—
But before Amber can lift the champion onto her back, Marisol counters! Utilizing the hooked arms, Marisol suddenly drops her dead weight straight down. She plants Amber face-first into the mat with a devastating UNPRETTIER (Inverted Double Underhook Facebuster)!
Amber’s face bounces violently off the canvas. Her body goes instantly limp.
TWENTY SECONDS REMAINING
Utterly exhausted, Marisol pushes herself to her feet. She stumbles to the ropes, leaning heavily against the middle strand. She waves aggressively at Amber, as if willing the Huntress to sit up.
MARISOL: COME ON!
Completely dazed, Amber blindly pushes herself up onto all fours. That is all Marisol needs. She pushes off the ropes and takes off running across the ring. Marisol leaps into the air, flipping gracefully forward over Amber’s back. She locks her arms securely around Amber’s neck mid-rotation. Marisol drives Amber face-first into the canvas with CRUNCH TIME (Natural Selection)!
TEN SECONDS REMAINING
The crowd comes completely apart. They drown the ring in pure, unadulterated hatred. Marisol quickly flips Amber over onto her back. She hooks a leg and throws her remaining weight onto the cover. Grade Garrett is immediately there, sliding into position for the pin.
ONE!
TWO!!
THREE!!!
Marisol’s entrance music hits the PA system. The timekeeper’s bell rings rapidly. The crowd goes completely savage, filling the arena with deafening heat.
MARISOL VILARO WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
STILL PCW CRUCIBLE CHAMPION
Marisol rolls off the challenger. She pulls herself up to her knees as the referee retrieves and hands her the Crucible Championship. Marisol clutches the heavy belt tightly to her chest. She lets out an exhausted, guttural scream of absolute triumph.
With trembling legs, Marisol pulls herself to her feet. She hoists the gold high over her head. Her face is draped in an arrogant sneer as she violently soaks in the arena’s hatred, acting as though she has just single-handedly conquered an insurmountable titan.
Grade Garrett kneels beside Amber, gently checking on the Huntress as she slowly begins to regain her senses. Amber pushes herself into a seated position against the bottom turnbuckle. She wipes sweat from her brow. Amber locks her eyes onto the celebrating champion, glaring coldly at Marisol with a predatory gaze that promises the hunt is far from over.
Marisol, feigning tears of emotion, walks around the ring with her belt held high overhead.
MARISOL: THEY LOVE ME! THEY REALLY LOVE ME!
SEGMENT
TRAVIS LEVITT
HOPE LEVITT
VESPERA NYX
TAELER VIRELLE
DELILAH HART
The scene opens at ringside, the fans buzzing over how the show has gone so far. However the night is but young, and there is still a lot to go yet. And it only gets better as the PA system crackles to life with a familiar guitar riff.
WE FEEL THE PAIN OF A LIFETIME
LOST IN A THOUSAND DAYS
THROUGH THE FIRE AND THE FLAMES,
WE CARRY ON!
As ‘Through the Fire and the Flames’ roars, from the back out storms Travis Levitt. The Dragon skips his usual preamble and marches down the ramp, bat still on his shoulder, and a scowl on his face. Rolling into the ring under the bottom rope, he heads over to demand a microphone from a roadie and then turns back towards the stage. Barely pausing for his music to fade out before he raises the microphone.
TRAVIS LEVITT: Alright. I’ve been backstage barging through corridors and cleaning my bat off walls long enough. I do not care who needs to answer this. It can be Glazed Kunt, Frosty Eyes, or the two bitches themselves, but Fright Night is NOT going to continue, until my daughter is out here and looking me in the eyes.
Travis paces back and forth across the ring, bat resting on his shoulder even as he keeps staring at the entryway. After a few moments of non-response he gives a small shrug.
TRAVIS LEVITT: Hey. You think I’m kidding, you try and fucking play me. I got a baseball bat, a Father’s will, and a whole lot of piss and vinegar to work out. Come on down and TRY and get me from this ring, I double dog dare ALL you bitches.
There’s a few more moments of peace and quiet. Travis starts to tighten his grip on the microphone again, and after an extra few moments of pause starts to raise it again….
SO SAY GERONIMO!
SAY GERONIMO!
SAY GERONIMO!
SAY GERONIMO!
Travis’ face registers shock and the PCW crowd stare in surprise as out onto the stage steps ‘The Star Dragon’ Hope Levitt herself. Hope isn’t dressed to wrestle, instead in some black leather pants, a tight floral shirt, and she has the PCW Voodoo Pact Title on her shoulder. She slowly walks onto the stage and stops at the top of the ramp. Glancing around at the fans and then looking in the ring at Travis, who stares back. Hope turns away, skipping slightly back and forth across the stage while Travis watches her and moves towards the ring ropes, leaning on them slightly.
TRAVIS LEVITT: Pumpkin. What’s going on?
Hope just glances towards him and then out at the crowd again. After a moment she gives a small shrug, and then goes back to her skipping, crossing the stage again as Travis just watches her.
TRAVIS LEVITT: Desiree Hope Levitt, I asked you a que–
Before he can continue, The Dragon is ambushed from behind! Taelar Virille and Vespera Nyx hit him hard, and keep right on hitting and attacking him! His bat clutters to the mat, and rolls out to ringside, but Taelar and Vespera just hit him with sudden elbows and forearms, beating him down, while on the stage, Hope Levitt stands still to the side and watches, her head tilted peculiarly. Travis starts trying to swing and get free, getting a couple of shots in on Nyx, but when he turns to Taelar, she blows some pink dust right into his face, blinding The Dragon! The Dragon stumbles around….and eats a CIRSSAEGIM from Nyx! The Dragon crashes to the mat, and Taelar and Nyx grin as they stand over him. Taeler turns towards the stage, crooking a finger towards Hope….and the Star Dragon starts skipping down the ramp! Nyx is standing on The Dragon’s throat, cackling as she glares down at him, and when Hope reaches ringside, she climbs up onto the apron, and leans into an affectionate touch to her cheek from Taelar!
TAELAR VIRILLE: You did so well, Sweetie. Be a good girl and hand me your Daddy’s bat please?
Hope nods and hops down off the apron, picking up the bat, and then climbing onto the apron, holding it out for Taelar, who takes it smiling. She leans over to kiss Hope on the temple, but then turns to Nyx, waving at her to raise The Dragon. Nyx pulls the stunned and wounded Dragon up, and Taelar is grinning as she seizes the bat in both hands, winding up for a shot…
When ‘Fight Music’ by D12 hits the PA system, and from the back out sprints Jenna Jillian Walker and Delilah Hart! Taelar and Nyx see them coming and drop Travis, quickly escaping the ring and over the barricade into the audience! Taelar has Travis’ bat as a memento, and Jenna and Delilah can only lean on the ropes screaming out obscenities towards the pair. Jenna watches them escape, before dropping to check on Travis, while Delilah turns to see Hope still on the apron. Delilah steps towards her slowly, watching the Star Dragon carefully.
DELILAH HART: Hope…Come home…..Please?
Hope stares at Delilah for a long moment but then turns as Taelar yells at her from the crowd. Hope turns towards Taelar, then looks back at Delilah….and drops off the apron, moving around the ring and over the barricade to follow Taelar and Nyx through the audience! Delilah can only watch with a pained reaction while Travis tries to pull himself up, but slumps back down. Jenna turns from checking on him to glare daggers out at the Voodoo Pact Champions in the crowd and the scene cuts to black….
SEGMENT
KATE VEGA
A rather tall woman with long chestnut brown hair and a broad-shouldered, powerful frame walks through a forest. Her hands are inside the pockets of a fitted carpenter jeans, feet contained within a pair of worn Carhartt work boots, a modest chest covered by a shortsleeved black work shirt. Her brown eyes take in the beauty of the midday’s sun’s rays passing through leaves in a myriad of colors. One could see in her tapered, thick jaw, pointed chin, pronounced cheek bones, brow, and naturally tanned skin that she is of mixed descent, with a small nose with a rounded tip and modest bridge. A very slight crook gives the indication of that nose having been broken once, two small, barely visible scars on her lips additional evidence that she is not a stranger to violence, yet the youthful appearance, optimistic eyes, and serene peace in her face contradict her appearance of a working warrior. Her eyes inevitably fall upon the camera walking ahead of her, recording her every leaf crunching step.
Woman: The eternal questions we are always asking ourselves in life is, who am I? What is my purpose? Why do I exist? Let me begin with what I do know. My name is Katelyn DeLaVega and I was once destined for a different path, one that would have ultimately left me unfulfilled, a path defined by others and not my own will. If I had stayed a slave to my fears and desires to please others, I would be a dental technician, cleaning mouths and making a regular wage in a fairly safe industry but I would not have experienced the wild life that I have now.
The wind gently blows through the branches above her, rustling the leaves and causing a few to fall down. She watches them, holding a hand out to catch one particularly large, red leaf.
KDV: I chose to follow my heart rather than that of a controlling narcissistic mother. For that I was disowned and thrown out of my home. That’s ok, I should have been on my own. I did what I needed to in order to survive at first, working three jobs and barely having enough to scrape by while subsisting on minimal food and between three and four hours of sleep. I applied to different wrestling schools. Most turned me down, but one took my money and left me in dire straits. I was living from my truck at one point, eating canned spaghetti and meatballs and constantly cold. I almost came crawling back to my mom and dad, but then I got a big break. One of the schools recommended me to a wrestling company to fill in for someone that quit. They said they would train me in the basics and only asked for a ten percent cut of whatever I made.
She blows the red leaf out of her hand, watching it flutter to the ground.
KDV: I had one side of my head shaved and was told to look as big and mean as I possibly could, while not really knowing what I was doing. Essentially, I was paid to look like someone else in order to humiliate them after they had left on bad terms with the company. The pay was good and I was tired of eating rubbish. I treated it as getting my foot in the door. I had no idea what I was in for when I stepped into the shoes of Lexus Van Drachenberg for one night only.
There’s an amused little smirk on her lips as she walks along the path through the woods, leaves gently crunching beneath her feet.
KDV: My first match was just to imitate someone else, a stand in to mock. I was desperate, as I said, but the very next day, I was enjoying my first real meal at a diner when the real Lexus Van Drachenberg stepped through the door. I started to get up to leave but she was on me, her hand firmly planting my wrist to the table. She essentially had said, “How would you like to be a real wrestler and not a pale imitation of one?” I sat and listened and she became my mentor, helping me land a regular gig with Suplex Company and later with a major promotion, the Extreme Hardcore Wrestling Federation.
Her head lowers.
KDV: She was a better mother to me than the one I was born with until envy reared its ugly head and she betrayed me during the biggest competition of the year. The next year I would be betrayed again by someone that I had formed a strong bond with. I called her my best friend and sister, the War Goddess Bia. Somehow that hurt even more, but she’d been there from the moment I got involved in wrestling. We formed a trio called the Power Buff Girls and we would get together every Wrestle League with Molly Hatchet. Sure we competed against each other but it was in a fun spirit and we had always said that we would join a company together and make our super team a reality. Then season five of Wrestle League happened, tempers grew hot at the end. Bia and myself made it to the finish line only to turn on each other really, but it would be Bia that served the ultimate insult, causing me to be eliminated by someone I absolutely despised.
Kate lifts her head and looks directly into the camera.
KDV: I’ve been through much in the five years that followed that fateful encounter in a little diner in the middle of nowhere. I’ve been a champion of various titles, the face of a company, suffered injuries of heart and body, and even briefly had an identity crisis, but I have so much life left to live and I want to experience new things. Someone recommended PCW and already I’m reunited with an old friend and facing them in my debut no less. I knew them as Mattie before they started calling themselves Helen.
There’s concern in her eyes as she addresses her opponent directly.
KDV: This is for my friend and opponent. I’m going to call you Mattie as that is how I’ve known you from day one. I hope you don’t mind. I know that things have not always been ideal between you and your twin. There were times I wondered if she was using you rather than being a supportive sibling and maybe that’s why things have gone the way they have. Her affection has always been odd at times but I’m hopeful that the two of you will settle your differences and be a proper family again. I’ve always enjoyed spending time with the both of you and certainly will enjoy competing against you today.
A smile curls her lips.
KDV: I can’t wait to show you how much I’ve grown as a wrestler since our days in Philadelphia. I was so rough and unrefined, awkward and uncomfortable in front of crowds. I could barely even speak.
She chuckles a little.
KDV: I know that you can’t, but that never stopped us. I want to tell you something that I don’t feel I conveyed well enough through a language that I know you understand, because you taught it to me.
Kate then begins a multitude of hand gestures in sign language that reads, “Thank you for teaching me so much during those difficult times.” Clearly something she learned from her friend and opponent.
KDV: Without you and many others, I would not be the wrestler that I am today. I will always be grateful and whatever happens, I will always value the relationship I have with the both of you. When I get into the ring though, friend or not, I will do what I always do, my best and you will too. You’ve carried your sister to so many victories over the years and taught her a great deal as well. I get the conflict between the two of you, wanting recognition for your hard work and I know that I will be in for a much harder fight than what I remember. You want to prove yourself and get the recognition that’s been taken from you for so long. I’m not walking into this expecting victory. You’re one of the best wrestlers in the world but so am I.
There’s a little bit of pride in her expression, her chest swelling ever so slightly.
KDV: Four seasons of Wrestle League, stiff competition in EHWF, and many appearances around the world, learning as I go, have made me into something far more. I’m proud of everything I’ve accomplished and survived despite myself and now, you are the start of my journey, in Pro Championship Wrestling and in the lovely state of Nahleens, Louisiana!
She fights the urge to giggle at her horrible attempt at a southern accent.
KDV: Ladies and gentlemen, it… is…
She grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it up and off, very quickly tossing it at the camera, blotting out the viewfinder briefly before revealing the backstage area of the Municipal Arena, the crowd heard cheering through the wall. Kate is now in her black, teal blue, and magenta ring gear, her prominent Vega “V” design decorating her gloves, jacket, and boots. She shoots a manic grin.
KDV: SHOWTIME!
Kate then bursts through the curtains, “Hero” by Victorious playing through the arena speakers…
MATCH
HELEN BECK
vs
THE GODDESS OF REVOLUTION
KATE VEGA
REFEREE: NATHAN “ATREY” MACKAYE
Ding.
The opening bell rings. Helen Beck immediately begins her hunt. Complete, unnerving silence. She stalks forward, eyes deadlocked on her prey. Kate Vega bounces lightly on the balls of her feet. The powerhouse offers a respectful, good-natured nod to the smaller woman.
Helen ignores the pageantry. She shoots forward, locking Kate into a standard collar-and-elbow tie-up.
It is like hitting a brick wall. Kate does not even budge. She effortlessly absorbs the kinetic momentum of her 130-pound opponent. The physical disparity is immediate and undeniable. With a gentle but incredibly firm push, Kate cleanly shoves Helen backward across the ring.
Helen stumbles back. Her spine hits the turnbuckles with a dull thud. Her serene expression briefly flickers. Calculation. She assesses the wall of muscle in front of her. Kate smiles playfully. She motions with her hands. Try again.
Helen darts out of the corner. Kate steps up, throwing a sweeping grapple attempt to corral her. Helen ducks cleanly underneath the reach. She snaps her hips and launches a stiff, stinging shin kick directly into Kate’s lead leg. Smack.
Kate grimaces. The sheer surprise of the sting forces her stance to buckle. She drops to one knee. Capitalizing on the sudden height change, Helen twists her core and drives a heavy forearm shiver straight into the side of Kate’s skull.
Kate’s head snaps violently to the side. But the damage ends there. She absorbs the blow. She blinks away the brief wave of dizziness. Slowly, methodically, Kate rises back up to her full six-foot-four height. She looks down at Helen. Completely unfazed.
Helen freezes in place. She stares up at the giant. The stark realization sets in: her standard strikes barely dented the armor.
Kate steps forward, whipping a sweeping right hand. Helen desperately ducks under the heavy leather. She pivots sharply inward to Kate’s chest. Helen locks in a front-quarter tie, hooking the powerhouse around the neck and securing the underhook. She digs her boots into the canvas and rips upward, attempting WEIRD BETTY (Exploder Suplex)—
Nothing happens.
Helen strains with all her might. She grits her teeth, her neck muscles corded with effort. She absolutely cannot lift the 200-pound woman a single inch off the canvas. Kate simply stands there, rooted to the mat. Completely immovable.
The methodical mask slips. Helen’s frustration visibly boils over. She shakes her head in exasperation as the lift entirely fails.
Kate flexes. She effortlessly breaks the futile grip with raw strength, ripping Helen’s arms away and spinning her around. Kate shoots her hands down, grabs Helen by the waist, and smoothly hoists her straight up into the air. She extends her arms fully, holding the squirming woman high above the ring. She launches her forward with a massive Military Press Throw!
Helen is sent hurtling through the air. She crashes violently onto her back in the center of the ring. CRACK. She writhes on the canvas, clutching desperately at her lower spine in sudden agony. Her legs kick blindly.
Kate takes a deep breath. She shakes the tension out of her thick arms before moving in methodically. She reaches down, hauling Helen up by the collar of her gear. A firm, clean grip. Kate cocks her arm back and delivers a heavy, echoing European uppercut.
The jaw-cracking strike drops Helen right back down to the mat. She goes limp. Her eyes glaze over from the raw concussive force. Kate immediately drops down behind her. She wraps her massive arms around Helen’s neck, cinching in a crushing Sleeperhold.
Helen gasps. Her eyes shoot wide open with sheer panic as the oxygen is instantly cut off.
Referee Nathan MacKaye drops to the mat. He hovers right next to their faces, repeatedly asking the silent Helen if she wants to quit.
Helen physically cannot respond. Her face turns crimson. She frantically claws at Kate’s thick forearms, digging her nails in. Kate wrenches the hold tighter, squeezing the very energy out of the smaller woman’s lungs.
Pure survival instinct takes over. Helen claws blindly at the mat. She drags the dead weight of both women several agonizing feet across the canvas. Inch by inch. She blindly twists her hips outward, desperately throwing her boot over the bottom rope.
MacKaye spots the rope break. He immediately points to the boot and begins the mandatory five-count.
REFEREE MACKAYE: One! Two!
Ever the honorable competitor, Kate cleanly releases the hold right at the count of two. She backs away, raising her hands to show compliance. Helen rolls onto her stomach. She coughs violently, hacking for air while clutching her bruised throat.
Kate does not wait long. She grabs Helen’s shoulder, forcefully turning her over onto her back to establish a legal position. Kate confidently drops down, hooking the outside leg for the pinfall attempt. MacKaye slides into position and slaps the canvas.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Helen weakly kicks her shoulder off the mat, keeping herself in the fight.
Kate Vega quickly gets to her feet. She shakes her head in mild surprise. The smaller woman simply refuses to stay down. Kate reaches down, grabbing Helen Beck squarely by the waistband. She effortlessly hauls the 130-pound scrapper back to a standing position. Kate tucks Helen securely under her arm. She charges across the ring. She plants Helen into the canvas with a massive Running Powerslam!
Helen violently bounces off the mat. She rolls immediately onto her side, clutching her ribs as her face contorts in silent agony. Kate does not hesitate. She drops directly into a lateral press, hooking the leg.
Referee Nathan MacKaye slides into position and slaps the canvas.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Helen kicks out. She drives her shoulder up off the canvas in a desperate burst of scrappy survival instinct.
Kate sits up. She lets out a heavy, exhausted sigh. She looks down and nods respectfully at Helen’s pure toughness. Slowly, Kate rises. She stalks toward the struggling woman and pulls her up by the wrist. Kate aggressively whips Helen toward the corner turnbuckles. She lowers her head and charges in for a crushing body splash.
At the very last second, Helen throws herself out of the way.
Kate crashes chest-first into the unforgiving turnbuckles. The heavy impact echoes through the arena. Kate staggers backward out of the corner, clutching her sternum and gasping as the wind is violently knocked out of her lungs.
Helen seizes the singular opening. She launches a rapid-fire flurry. Stinging shin kicks. Sharp forearm shivers. The sheer volume of rapid strikes forces the giant to backpedal. Kate stumbles blindly toward the center of the ring, raising her thick arms to guard her face. Helen turns, rebounds hard off the ropes to build momentum, and leaps. She connects flush with a running knee strike straight to Kate’s jaw.
Kate groans. Her massive frame finally sways. She drops heavily to one knee.
This is it. Helen scrambles frantically up the nearest turnbuckles. She launches herself through the air. A Missile Dropkick connects flush against Kate’s chest! Kate collapses backward onto the mat. She shakes her head, desperately trying to clear the ringing in her ears.
Helen wastes no time. She steps in, throwing Kate’s heavy arm over her shoulder and gripping the waistband. Using realistic body leverage, Helen hauls the groggy powerhouse back up to her feet. Helen grabs Kate’s wrist. She viciously wrings the arm downward across Kate’s midsection, physically forcing the taller woman to hunch forward into position. The trap is set for the WITCH KICK (Inverted Stomp Facebreaker)—
Helen leaps up. She successfully plants her stiffened boot directly under Kate’s jaw. She violently drops backward to execute the devastating facebreaker.
Her downward momentum abruptly hits a brick wall.
Kate’s massive arm shoots straight forward. She hooks her heavy hand deeply around the nape of Helen’s neck from the front, abruptly arresting her fall in mid-air. Helen freezes. Her eyes go wide in silent panic. She realizes she is helplessly suspended above the canvas.
Kate casually, almost dismissively, brushes Helen’s boot away from her face.
With a terrifying display of raw power, Kate hoists Helen straight up into the air. Helen flails her arms and legs in pure desperation, but she cannot break the giant’s iron grip. Kate swiftly shifts her grip in mid-air, wrapping both massive arms deeply around Helen’s waist. She drives Helen straight down into the center of the ring with a ring-shattering SPINAL DEVASTATOR (Brutal Spinebuster)!!!
Helen’s body smacks against the mat with a sickening thud. All the air instantly evacuates her lungs. She goes entirely limp.
Kate beats her chest. She lets out a booming, triumphant “WOO!” that echoes through the venue. But she knows better than to celebrate early. Fully aware of Helen’s uncanny ability to absorb punishment, Kate doesn’t take any chances. She drops down, hooking Helen’s leg as deeply and securely as physically possible.
Referee MacKaye drops to the canvas.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
MACKAYE: Ring the bell!
Ding. Ding. Ding.
KATE VEGA WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
Kate rolls off Helen. She sits on the mat, a tired but victorious smile spreading across her painted face as her entrance theme hits the speakers. The crowd roars in approval. After taking a long moment to catch her breath, Kate climbs to her feet. She looks down at the battered, gasping Helen. True to her honorable nature, Kate extends a respectful hand down to the smaller woman to help her up.
SEGMENT
TRAVIS LEVITT
JENNA JILLAN WALKER
THAÏS EMPRISTIKÍ
DELILAH HART
The scene cuts to the backstage locker room of Tigress, where Jenna Jillian Walker, Delilah Hart, Morgan LeChance, and Thais Empristiki are standing around chatting.
JENNA JILLAN WALKER: I don’t know Thais. There was something in Hope’s eyes…..The way she was looking at Taelar? It was a weird look.
THAÏS EMPRISTIKÍ: No. I refuse to believe my niece would be that far gone. We can still save her.
Jenna gives a small shrug but then reaches up to run a hand through her hair.
JENNA JILLAN WALKER: Maybe we can. But….not before the match. And we still need a third for it. Morgan can’t. She has her Crucible shot. You’ve got Bia. Big Hope has her whole thing. Who else we got?
TRAVIS LEVITT: Me.
The voice comes from behind them, and Tigress turns as one to see Travis Levitt stepping into the room gingerly. An arm around his ribs, but a pissed off look in his eyes as he glances at each of the girls separately and then towards Thais, who is smiling softly.
THAÏS EMPRISTIKÍ: Doing things by yourself didn’t turn out so well, huh?
TRAVIS LEVITT: You want to gloat, or you want my help to kick the shit out of the bitches that have Hope’s head twisted?
Thais considers it for a moment but then shrugs slightly.
THAÏS EMPRISTIKÍ: I mean…..I like gloating a little?
Travis rolls his eyes but Thais grins and looks at Jenna, who simply shrugs. Thais then turns to Delilah who is staring at Travis, but turns to Thais and shrugs.
DELILAH HART: He’s not part of Tigress. You know Emilia will be a stickler on the rules.
TRAVIS LEVITT: So, make me a part of Tigress then. What’s the big deal?
There’s a snort of laughter from Morgan, and Jenna is biting her lip too. Travis looks at the pair, and then at the smirking Thais who just shakes her head.
THAÏS EMPRISTIKÍ: You have no idea what your asking. You really want to get your hands on Taelar and Nyx that badly?
TRAVIS LEVITT: Whatever they’ve done….they made Hope barely even look at me tonight. I may have messed up sometimes in the past, but my girl never gave up on me, and I sure as shit ain’t giving up on her. Whatever it takes……it’ll be worth it.
JENNA JILLAN WALKER: Famous Last Words.
MATCH
THE ACE OF DIAMONDS
HELENA HANDBASKET
vs
THE ITALIAN ANGEL
HOPE RUSSO
TIGRESS
REFEREE: STEPHANIE MARSHALL
The opening bell rings. Hope Russo stalks out of her corner. Her jaw is set with intense focus. Helena Handbasket refuses to engage. She initiates a rapid, theatrical boxer’s shuffle around the perimeter of the ring. Hope lunges in for a heavy right hook.
Helena drops. She casually ducks underneath the swing, pausing to strike her signature Witch Hands pose toward the camera. Hope scowls. She spins around and fires a wild lariat. Helena effortlessly evades again, sliding past Hope’s hip and mockingly patting her on the back of the head.
Hope freezes. Her chest heaves. She glares at the smirking VaudVillain. Helena continues her bouncy footwork, flashing a condescending smile.
HELENA: Too slow, darling!
Hope charges. Blinding speed. She unleashes a blistering backhand chop directly across Helena’s chest.
CRACK.
The sharp sound echoes loudly through the arena. Helena stumbles backward into the turnbuckles. Her eyes go wide in sudden shock as she clutches her stinging chest. Hope presses the advantage. She crowds Helena in the corner and drives her forearm violently into Helena’s throat. Helena gasps. Her legs thrash violently against the turnbuckle padding as she struggles for air. Referee Stephanie Marshall rushes in, demanding a break.
Marshall counts ONE.
Hope leans her weight completely into her forearm. She grinds it deeper into Helena’s windpipe.
Marshall counts TWO.
Helena’s hands desperately claw at Hope’s wrists.
Marshall counts THREE.
Hope stares a hole through Helena. Her face twists in anger. Marshall grabs Hope’s shoulder, shouting FOUR. Hope finally rips her forearm away. She steps back with a sneer.
The PCW crowd lets out a noticeable chorus of murmurs and scattered boos at the aggressive hold. Helena slumps in the corner, violently coughing as she tries to force oxygen back into her lungs. Hope stalks forward. She reaches out to drag Helena back to her feet by the hair.
Helena suddenly drops to the canvas. She snaps a sharp shin kick directly into Hope’s left knee. Hope buckles forward with a sharp hiss of breath. Helena springs up. She grabs Hope’s compromised left leg and executes a violent Dragon Screw leg whip. Hope crashes hard onto the mat. She immediately grabs at her left knee, her face contorting in pain.
Helena does not pause her momentum. She seizes both of Hope’s legs and steps through. Helena twists Hope over and sits deep on her lower back, locking in a punishing Boston Crab directly in the center of the ring.
Hope’s body violently arches upward. Her spine bows. Immense pressure shoots directly through her damaged left knee. Hope lets out an agonizing scream. Her hands instantly slap the canvas in sheer panic. Helena leans back even further. She laughs theatrically, wrenching the hold tighter.
Stephanie Marshall drops to the mat right next to Hope’s face, asking if she wants to submit. Hope squeezes her eyes shut. Her jaw locks tight in a grimace of pure physical torture. She refuses to utter a word.
Time seems to stand still. Hope lies paralyzed in the center of the ring. Her fingers dig desperately into the canvas while Helena continues to torque her spine. Relying entirely on her upper body strength, Hope begins a slow, excruciating drag toward the bottom rope. Helena screams in frustration, trying to pull Hope back to the center of the ring. Hope lunges forward. She throws her arm out and desperately hooks the bottom rope with her fingertips.
Stephanie Marshall points at the rope break. She immediately initiates her cadence.
Marshall counts ONE.
Helena stubbornly maintains her grip on Hope’s legs.
Marshall counts TWO.
Helena throws her hands up in mock innocence and releases the hold cleanly. Hope collapses flat onto her stomach. She buries her face in the mat, clutching her throbbing left knee. Helena bounces back to her feet. She resumes her rapid boxer’s shuffle while waiting for Hope to rise.
Hope drags herself up by the ropes. She turns and staggers forward into the ring, clutching her knee. Helena charges past her, leaps onto the middle rope, and rebounds back.
SUPERSONICS (Slingshot Bulldog)!
Hope’s face is driven violently into the canvas. Hope lays completely motionless. She stares blankly out at the crowd in the immediate aftermath of the impact.
Helena grabs Hope by the waistband and rolls her over onto her back. Helena hooks the far leg with a lateral press for the pinfall. Marshall slides into position and slaps the mat.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Hope forcefully kicks out, throwing her shoulder off the canvas. Hope immediately grabs at her left knee. She rolls under the bottom rope and crashes to the ringside floor to escape the ring. Helena sits up on her knees. She shakes her head with a cocky grin, watching Hope struggle on the outside.
Marshall orders Helena back toward a neutral corner. The referee leans out through the ropes toward the floor and drops her arm to begin the count.
ONE!
Helena stands in the center of the ring. She strikes her signature Witch Hands pose, openly mocking Hope. On the outside, Hope drags her left leg, limping heavily around the ringside barricade as she holds her back.
TWO!
Hope rounds the corner of the ring post. Tired of waiting, Helena drops down and rolls under the bottom rope. She steps quickly after Hope, hunting her down. Hope catches the sudden movement in the corner of her eye. She pushes up onto the apron and rolls inside the ring to create distance.
Helena is already prepared. She grabs the middle rope and pulls back. Momentum slingshots Helena onto the apron. She rockets straight through the ropes. Hope grits her teeth and stands up—right into Helena’s clutches.
Helena wraps her limbs around Hope and locks in a punishing Octopus Stretch.
Hope lets out a ragged scream. Helena wrenches her spine back. Hope’s compromised left knee violently buckles under the combined torque and dead weight. Hope desperately claws at Helena’s arms. With no solid footing beneath her, she cannot establish a base. She cannot twist her hips to slip the hold.
Stephanie Marshall crouches nearby, closely monitoring the submission.
Screaming in agony, Hope realizes she cannot escape with a ruined wheel. She reaches blindly around Helena’s head. She digs her fingernails straight into Helena’s left eye.
Helena shrieks in pain. She instantly uncouples the hold and tumbles to the arena mats, clutching her gouged eye.
A loud chorus of boos erupts from the PCW crowd at the blatant cheap shot. Hope leans against the ropes, breathing heavily. She grabs Helena by the waistband, wheels around, and violently throws her head-first through the ropes. Helena flips over, landing flat on her back on the ringside floor mats.
Russo stands by the ropes. She stares down at her victim. Helena, half-blind, slowly drags herself to her feet.
Hope ignores the shooting pain in her knee. She rushes to the far side of the ring. Her body collides with the ropes. Physics launches her back across the ring. She leaps through the ropes with a Suicide Dive, wiping Helena out onto the floor mats like a missile.
Hope scrambles up. She grabs Helena by the hair and violently drives her spine-first into the hard edge of the ring apron.
THUD.
The sickening sound of bone hitting the unyielding apron edge echoes clearly through the arena. Helena collapses to the floor. She curls into the fetal position, desperately clutching her lower back and violently gasping for air.
Hope slowly peels herself off the floor. She heavily favors her left leg. She grabs Helena by the hair and rolls her back under the bottom rope. Hope slides in, drags Helena up, and plants her with a punishing Full Nelson Slam directly onto her bruised spine.
Helena’s body bounces off the canvas. Her mouth opens in a silent scream. Both of her hands instantly grab at her lower back. Hope hooks the leg for the cover.
Marshall slaps the mat for ONE.
Marshall slaps the mat for TWO.
Helena throws her shoulder up. She groans loudly as the violent kickout jolts her bruised lower spine.
Hope refuses to let her breathe. She immediately wraps her legs tightly around Helena’s waist in a suffocating body-scissors. She compresses the damaged lower spine while locking in a tight chinlock.
Hope arches back. She squeezes Helena’s waist with her legs while grinding her forearm directly into Helena’s raked left eye.
Helena flails her arms wildly. She is completely trapped. She chokes on her own breath as the dual pain of her compressed spine and gouged eye sets in.
Hope leans down. Her voice drips with venom as she whispers directly into Helena’s ear.
HOPE: You think I’m just a pretty face? I’m going to break you in half!
Stephanie Marshall drops to her knees in front of Helena. The referee checks her eyes, repeatedly asking if she wants to submit.
Helena refuses. Her face turns crimson. She violently shakes her head, her right eye wide with panic while her left eye remains squeezed shut.
Feeding off the crowd’s rallying cheers, Helena posts her hands on the mat. She slowly drags both herself and Hope toward the ropes.
Helena blindly throws her arm out. She grabs the bottom rope with her fingertips.
Marshall immediately calls for the break.
Marshall counts ONE.
Hope maliciously tightens the body-scissors around the waist.
Marshall counts TWO.
Marshall counts THREE.
Hope grits her teeth. She refuses to let go, staring a hole straight through the referee.
Marshall shouts FOUR. She physically steps in to pry Hope’s arms apart.
Hope releases the hold with a smug smirk. She stands up, soaking in the thunderous boos from the disgusted crowd.
Helena uses the ropes to pull herself up to her knees. One hand holds her lower back. The other covers her left eye. Hope charges in for a strike.
Helena wildly fires off a desperate, rapid-fire barrage of boxing lefts and rights from her knees.
Hope stumbles backward, stunned by the sudden flurry.
Helena forces herself to her feet. She hooks Hope’s upper chest and flank from behind, arching backward overhead.
STUPARENA (Inverted Exploder Suplex)!
Both women crash hard to the mat.
Helena immediately cries out. Her damaged back spasms violently from the intense strain of the bridge. Instead of covering Hope, Helena rolls onto her side. She clutches her lower spine in pure agony, costing herself precious seconds.
Helena finally drags herself over and drapes an arm across Hope’s chest.
Marshall counts ONE.
Marshall counts TWO.
Hope violently kicks out, throwing Helena completely off of her.
Hope sits up groggily. She aggressively slaps her own cheeks to fight through the concussion of the suplex. Helena charges forward with a desperation clothesline.
Hope ducks underneath. She catches Helena from behind, but her left knee visibly twitches. The joint gives way under the sudden weight.
Gritting her teeth through the excruciating pain in her knee, Hope powers through the pivot on sheer adrenaline.
FALL FROM GRACE (Blue Thunder Bomb)!
Helena is driven violently down onto her injured back. Her eyes roll back in her head upon impact. Helena lays completely splayed out, staring blankly at the lights and offering no defense.
Hope hooks the leg tightly.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Marshall’s hand hovers a millimeter above the mat! Helena twitches, barely getting her shoulder up at 2.9!
Hope sits up. Her mouth hangs open. She glares intensely at Stephanie Marshall in sheer disbelief.
With an annoyed grunt, she forces herself up. She grabs Helena by the hair and drags her limp body into the corner. Heavily favoring her bad left knee, Hope slowly climbs the turnbuckles. She reaches the top. She blows a kiss to the hostile crowd.
HEAVEN’S GATE (Top Rope Moonsault)—
Helena rolls out of the way. She clutches her ribs as she narrowly escapes. Hope crashes face-first into the canvas. Her body bounces violently off the mat. Hope writhes on the ground. She frantically clutches her ruined left knee.
Helena forces herself up. She grabs Hope by the hair and waistband, dragging her up to her feet. Helena hooks Hope from behind in a dragon sleeper hold and snaps back.
SMOOTH CRIMINAL (Dragon Twist Cutter)!
Helena’s bruised lower back spasms violently on the landing. She cries out, clutching her spine. The agonizing pain delays her cover by precious seconds. Helena finally drapes an arm over Hope’s chest.
Marshall counts ONE.
Marshall counts TWO.
Hope kicks out at 2.9. Her shoulder barely leaves the mat.
Both women lay flat on their backs in the center of the ring. They are completely drained of energy. The crowd comes alive. Stephanie Marshall drops her arm. She immediately begins the double-down cadence.
MARSHALL: ONE! … TWO! … THREE!
At the count of FOUR, Helena and Hope slowly drag themselves up to their knees. They physically lean against one another to beat the count. They pull themselves to their feet, swaying unsteadily in the center of the ring.
Helena fires a stiff forearm directly into Hope’s jaw.
CROWD: YAY!
Hope snarls. She fires a heavy right hook back at Helena.
CROWD: BOOOOOOOO!
Helena rocks back. She answers with another stiff strike.
CROWD: YAY!
Hope retaliates. She unleashes a blistering backhand chop to the chest.
CROWD: BOOOOOOOO!
Helena breaks the pattern. She slips a punch and lands a rapid second strike to Hope’s jaw. Helena immediately follows up with a third heavy forearm. The blow snaps Hope’s head backward.
Helena grabs Hope by the wrist. She initiates a forceful Irish whip. Hope hits the far ropes and rebounds forward. Hope halts her momentum with a sharp wince. She plants her good right leg and buries a vicious kick squarely into Helena’s gut. Helena violently doubles over, gasping for breath as she clutches her stomach.
Stephanie Marshall, PCW’s least experienced referee, begins to shift left to check on Helena. Marshall inadvertently steps into a perfect straight line directly between Helena and the far ropes.
Hope limps into a sprint toward the camera-side ropes. She rebounds with a noticeable hitch. She throws a desperate Big Boot as Helena starts to stand.
Helena doesn’t stand. She instantly drops completely flat to the canvas.
Hope’s boot sails directly over Helena. It collides flush with Stephanie Marshall’s face.
CRACK.
Marshall is dropped instantly. She crumbles lifelessly to the mat.
The PCW crowd erupts. Deafening, hostile boos echo through the arena. The fans turn entirely against Hope. Hope stares down at the unconscious referee in shock. The camera cuts to a wide shot of the furious crowd actively jeering and pointing down at the ring. The camera cuts back to Hope. She looks up. Her face is a mask of panicked defense.
RUSSO: It wasn’t my fault!
Helena stands up behind Hope. She grabs her arm and aggressively wheels her around. Hope swings around blindly, hands up in defense. Hope’s thumb accidentally catches Helena directly in her previously raked left eye.
Helena shrieks. She stumbles away across the ring, both hands clamped tightly over her injured eye.
The crowd’s reaction intensifies. They shower Hope with vicious heat. Hope stares out into the sea of angry fans. Her defensive panic shifts.
RUSSO: (louder) It wasn’t my fault!
Another sweeping camera shot shows the fans screaming vitriol toward the ring. Hope’s face visibly darkens. Her panic melts into pure, unbridled rage.
RUSSO: IT WAS YOUR FAULT!
Hope stalks over to the blinded Helena. She kicks her violently in the leg repeatedly. Helena’s base completely collapses. She falls hard onto her opposite knee. Hope charges across the ring. She fights through the sharp pain in her knee. She leaps into the air.
ANGEL STOMP (Curb Stomp)!
Hope lands hard on both feet, driving Helena’s face into the canvas. Her left knee immediately buckles on the descent. Hope rolls off to the side, clutching her joint. Helena goes completely limp. Her arms splay out lifelessly beside her.
Hope drags herself back up. She stands over Helena and glares down with pure venom.
RUSSO: This was YOUR fault. And that bitch girlfriend of yours!
Hope limps backward. She viciously kicks the unconscious Helena directly in her bruised ribs. Helena offers absolutely no physical reaction. Her body absorbs the blow like a ragdoll.
Hope turns. She sees Stephanie Marshall still unconscious in the corner. Hope shrugs indifferently.
RUSSO: Fuck it. If you want to boo me, then I will give you something to really boo about.
Hope steps through the ropes. She drops down to the ringside floor. Hope stomps purposefully over to the timekeeper’s table, sending the PCW crew scattering in terror. Hope grabs a steel folding chair. She snaps it flat, hurls it under the bottom rope, and slides into the ring after it.
Hope picks up the steel chair. She begins a slow, methodical limp toward Helena’s unmoving body.
Suddenly, the chorus of boos breaks. A surge of shocked murmurs replaces the heat. From the backstage area, Thaïs Empristikí sprints down the entrance ramp toward the ring. Thaïs leaps up onto the ring apron. They are torn between allegiance to their wife and friendship with Helena. They hold their arms out pleadingly.
THAÏS: What are you doing?! This isn’t you, Hope!
Hope completely ignores the prone Helena. She walks past her to stand face-to-face with Thaïs at the ropes. Hope’s body moves in quick, erratic jerks fueled by adrenaline and emotion. Her shoulders rise and slump rapidly. Her free hand waves wildly. Her other hand treats the steel chair like a speaking prop.
RUSSO: I know this isn’t me! I didn’t do this! I didn’t mean to knock her out. I didn’t mean for any of this shit to happen. It’s her and Emilia’s fault, and here you are, worried about her!
THAÏS: No, I’m worried about you! What you’re doing to yourself. And about us!
RUSSO: Us?! What does this have to do with our marriage?
THAÏS: I meant Tigress!
Hope’s expression darkens. Something about the mention of the faction visibly doesn’t sit well with her. Her grip on the chair tightens.
Hope turns her head back toward the ring. Behind her, Helena groggily rolls toward the far ropes. She uses the bottom cables to pull her battered body up to her feet. In the opposite corner, Stephanie Marshall is finally stirring awake, weakly holding her face.
Hope turns her attention back to her spouse on the apron.
RUSSO: Get backstage. I’ll be there shortly.
Thaïs reaches entirely over the top rope. They aggressively grab the frame of the steel chair with one hand. Hope’s head shifts back in sheer indignation.
RUSSO: Let go, Thaïs!
THAÏS: No! Give me the chair and win the right way!
Thaïs pulls on the chair, dragging Hope forward. The two begin frantically jostling back and forth for control.
Helena staggers away from the cables toward mid-ring. She barely keeps her balance as she glares with glazed eyes at Hope’s back. In the center of the ring, Helena rises directly behind Hope’s turned back while Hope and Thaïs fight over the chair at the ropes.
The atmosphere in the arena goes absolutely through the roof. The crowd rallies behind Helena.
Operating on pure concussed adrenaline, Helena slaps her own right elbow to signal for the finish. She stumbles forward in a desperate charge.
At that exact second, Thaïs looks past Hope. They catch the sudden blur of Helena rushing in. Thaïs hesitates. The shock causes their grip on the steel chair to noticeably weaken.
Hope capitalizes instantly. She violently rips the chair away by its legs. The massive shift in momentum carries the top arch of the heavy metal chair clean over Hope’s shoulder.
THANG.
The solid steel violently smashes straight into the rushing Helena’s forehead.
The crowd goes absolutely rabid. They scream in sheer horror at the brutal, accidental impact.
THAÏS: No! No-no-no!!!
Thaïs stares in pure shock. They are paralyzed on the apron.
Hope whips around. Her eyes go wide as she sees Helena collapsed backward, out cold on the mat. Hope shoots a desperate look across the ring. Stephanie Marshall is still in the far corner, facing completely away from the action. Marshall didn’t see the weapon strike.
Hope scrambles. She tosses the chair blindly over the top rope to hide the evidence. Hope dives onto Helena, hooking the leg tightly for the cover.
Thaïs can only watch helplessly from the apron, their hand clamped over their mouth in horror.
Stephanie Marshall finally turns around. She sees the pin attempt and clumsily stumbles over to the center of the ring. Marshall drops heavily to the mat, raising her hand.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
The bell rings abruptly. Alyona Yarushina’s “Poison” hits the PA system.
HOPE RUSSO WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
The PCW crowd is completely enraged. They rain deafening boos and trash talk down on the ring. Hope sits up slowly on her knees. Her chest heaves as she stares blankly at her wife on the apron.
RUSSO: That wasn’t my fucking fault!
THAÏS: I know…
The camera cuts rapidly back and forth between the devastated spouses. The final shot slowly pans away from them and lands directly on Helena Handbasket. Helena’s eyes remain shut. Her battered body lies completely unmoving on the canvas, as if she had drifted off to another dimension and forgotten her physical form.
MATCH
THE MISSOURI RIVER AMAZON
SAM TOLSON
vs
PCW ASYLUM CHAMPION
THE V.I.P.
CHRIS MOSH
ASYLUM RULES
PCW ASYLUM CHAMPIONSHIP
REFEREE: GRADE GARRETT
Sam Tolson stands in one corner. Chris Mosh stands in the other. The entrance music dies and neither blinks. Sam’s glare crosses the canvas like a thrown punch. Pure hatred, no mask on it.
Mosh smirks. He drags a palm down the purple-and-gold of his tights, taking his time, playing it cool. Head referee Grade Garrett plants himself in the middle of the ring, one arm out toward each corner.
The lights die.
Total black. A thousand gasps swallowed by the dark. Then the hush, thick and heavy, twelve thousand people holding the same breath. Somewhere in the rafters, low music starts to rumble. Dark. Ominous. Felt in the chest before it’s heard.
THE VOICE: (craggy, dark purr) The theater of war demands sacrifice… and the method of that sacrifice has been chosen. Tonight’s battle for the Asylum Championship is… a casket match!
The lights snap up and the building detonates.
Every head swings toward the base of the ramp. A black hearse sits ten feet from the ring, rear doors facing the canvas, a polished casket waiting in the back. Waiting.
The smirk slides off Mosh’s face. His eyes lock on the casket. His jaw tightens. Across the ring, Sam’s cold, venomous stare finds him and stays there.
Garrett signals the timekeeper.
DING. DING. DING.
The bell rings. The main event is on.
Two weeks of fury fire Sam off her corner. The chair ambush plays behind her eyes and she crosses the canvas without a flicker of hesitation. Mosh drops into a freestyle stance, hips low, hands out, and shoots for the single leg to cut her rush off at the knees.
Sam sprawls. Her weight crashes down over his shoulders and stuffs the shot dead. She snakes both arms around Mosh’s waist and heaves. Two hundred and fifteen pounds of champion leave the mat. Locked in a tight waistlock, he is hers.
She arches. She throws.
A high-angle German suplex, and Mosh goes overhead like a sack of wet cement.
THUD.
His upper back and shoulders slam the canvas, and the impact folds him in half. He rolls onto his stomach, both hands clamped to the back of his neck, eyes wide. Shock. Real shock.
Sam is up at once. She rolls her shoulders, scowl cold and focused, while the fans roar. Mosh scrambles backward on hands and knees toward the corner, shaking his head, one hand flapping in the air for a timeout.
CHRIS MOSH: (barking at Garrett) Back her up, Grade! Give me some space!
Garrett waves his arms, shaking his head. No disqualifications. No timeouts. Asylum Rules.
Sam stalks into the corner and clamps a hand around Mosh’s wrist. She yanks him up out of the turnbuckles and the chops start. Knife-edge. Machine-gun fast. CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK across the chest, flesh slapping flesh, each one louder than the last. She finishes with a stiff European uppercut that snaps his chin skyward.
Mosh staggers backward toward the center of the ring, blind on his feet. His chest is bright red and welted. He gasps for air and cups his jaw.
Sam steps in and whips him over with a crisp Japanese arm drag. She doesn’t let go. She drops into a grounded side headlock and cinches it down.
Mosh is pinned against the mat. He kicks at the canvas, heels scraping, and can’t wriggle his head free. The Missouri River Amazon has an iron grip. Sam grinds her forearm across his temple and tightens by degrees. Slow. Wearing him down early.
Mosh gasps. His face flushes red. He tries to bridge and Sam shifts her hips, driving him flat again. Nowhere to go.
So he cheats.
His free hand slides up out of view, fingers hooked, and rakes straight across Sam’s eyes. Her grip loosens. She recoils onto one knee, blinking hard, rubbing at her stinging left eye. Frustration twists her face.
Mosh scrambles up and wipes the sweat from his brow. He doesn’t wait. A heavy closed fist blasts the kneeling challenger across the side of the jaw.
Sam slumps onto her hip, head swimming. Mosh stands over her and spreads his arms to the booing crowd, then sweeps into a theatrical bow. Boos rain down on him, raw and ugly.
He grabs a fistful of Sam’s hair and hauls her to her feet. A quick belly-to-back suplex follows and she hits the canvas flat on her spine. Her back arches off the mat. A sharp exhale tears out of her.
Mosh doesn’t rush. Calculating, precise, he drops across her back and locks in a Crossface. He wrenches back on her head and neck. Torque settles into her cervical spine. Sam’s body goes rigid. Her hands ball into fists against the canvas and she refuses to make a sound.
CHRIS MOSH: (sneering down in her ear) You never should’ve asked for a rematch, sweetheart! That casket’s got your name all over it!
He jerks backward, violently, leaning his full weight into it. The neck hyperextends. Strength drains out of her in a slow leak, and Mosh is already thinking about the ramp, about dragging her toward it. Sam clenches her jaw. Veins bulge in her neck. She takes the grinding pressure and doesn’t panic.
Her conditioning kicks in. Palms flat on the mat. Shoulders drive up. She rolls forward and peels Mosh’s hands apart.
Mosh scrambles to keep control. He snaps on a front headlock as they climb to their feet and tows Sam toward the ropes, setting her up to drape across the top strand.
Not tonight. Two sharp elbows crash into his ribs. Breath leaves him. His grip breaks.
Mosh doubles over, clutching his midsection. Sam hooks his head under her arm and spikes him into the canvas with a Snap DDT.
CRACK. The crown of his head bounces off the mat. He flops onto his back, both hands pressed to his forehead, writhing.
Sam pushes up to her feet. She is breathing steadily. She wipes her face and her eyes drift toward the black hearse at the end of the ramp.
Mosh sees it. He sees her seeing it. Rattled, he rolls frantically under the bottom rope onto the apron and hauls himself up on the top rope, putting distance between them.
Sam won’t give him another breather. She hits the far ropes at a full sprint, charges across the ring, and blasts him with a running lariat over the top rope.
Mosh is airborne. He plummets backward off the apron and crashes into a crumpled heap on the padded floor below. He groans, clutching his chest.
Sam drops off the apron and lands on the padded floor. She doesn’t hurry. She stalks toward the spot where Mosh crashed, each step slow and deliberate.
Mosh is already moving. He scrambles around the ring post to the adjacent side, panicked, and claws beneath the apron. His hands come out with a galvanized steel trash can and a wooden kendo stick.
Sam rounds the post.
Mosh drives the trash can straight into her midsection like a battering ram. CLANG. The air leaves her in a sharp gasp. She folds, clutching her ribs, and staggers backward.
Mosh drops the can. Both hands wrap the kendo stick. He swings with everything he has, a vicious two-handed shot across her spine.
CRACK.
The wood splinters. Sam goes down on her knees on the arena floor, back arched, mouth open in a silent scream. Pain white-hot and blinding.
CHRIS MOSH: (sneering at the front row) You wanted a fight? Here’s your damn fight!
He isn’t finished. Mosh rips a steel folding chair from beneath the apron, the same weapon from two weeks ago, a brutal ambush recreated. He tears the lid off the trash can and slides both under the bottom rope. Then he grabs Sam by the hair, hauls her up, and rolls her in after them.
Mosh follows. He plants the sole of his boot against the back of her neck and grinds her face into the canvas. Slow. Patient. Suffocating her momentum.
Sam claws at the boot. Her legs kick against the mat. Her fingers scrape at his ankle and find nothing to grab. She is fighting for oxygen.
Mosh steps back. He picks up the steel lid and waits, tapping it against his palm, while the exhausted Amazon pushes herself up to her hands and knees. Her arms shake. Her head hangs.
THUD.
The rigid edge of the lid cracks across her forehead.
Sam collapses flat onto her stomach, hands slapping at her face. Dark crimson wells up and pours down her forehead, running into her left eye. She can’t see.
Mosh stands over her with a smug grin. The boos rain down. He soaks in every one.
Overconfident, he kicks the lid aside. He unfolds the steel chair in the center of the ring, intent on repeating history and ending her night for good. He turns his back to do it.
Behind him, Sam pushes. Groggy, wobbling, she gets to her feet.
Mosh spins and hoists the chair high. He swings it horizontally at her skull.
Instinct. Sam ducks underneath the steel. The chair whistles over her head. She wraps both arms around his waist from behind, bridges backward, and launches him overhead with a release German suplex.
Mosh crashes shoulder-blades-first onto the unfolded chair. The metal crumples beneath his 215 pounds. CRUNCH.
He writhes on the canvas, eyes wide, mouth wide, clutching at his lower spine. He screams.
Sam wipes sweat and blood from her stinging eyes. She drags herself up slowly, one limb at a time. The pain twists her face, and then something else replaces it. Fury. Pure and unbridled.
She slides under the bottom rope and digs beneath the apron. Her hand closes around a thick steel chain. She slides back into the ring with murder in her eyes.
Mosh sees the chain. He sees her face. He backpedals on his hands and knees until the corner turnbuckles stop him.
CHRIS MOSH: (holding up a hand defensively) Wait, wait, wait! Sam, back off!
She ignores him. She pins him in the corner and unloads NIHON E NO ŌDO (Machine Gun Kicks)!
Kick after kick. Left leg, right leg, shin and instep hammering ribs and sternum, one stiff shot after another. Mosh’s body jerks with every blow.
He slides down the turnbuckles and ends up seated against the bottom one. His chest heaves. His eyes are glassy. He is dazed and defenseless.
Sam takes her time. She winds the thick steel chain around her right fist, link by link. The metal clinks. She tightens the wrap.
She climbs onto the middle turnbuckle above the slumped champion and rains punches down on his forehead with the chain-wrapped fist. Brutal. Rapid. Relentless.
Mosh’s skin splits under the unforgiving metal. Blood sheets down his face. He throws his arms up in a desperate, futile attempt to cover up, and the crimson mask spreads anyway.
Sam backs away from the corner. Her chest heaves and blood drips from her chin. She glares down at the equally bloodied champion.
The chain is the last thing Mosh wants to see. He rolls under the bottom rope and flops onto the ringside mats, blood streaming, and crawls. Hands, knees, elbows. Anything that moves him toward the hearse parked ten feet away.
Sam lets the chain fall inside the ring. The links hit the canvas with a dull clank. She steps through the ropes, stalks the length of the apron, and drops to the floor after him.
Mosh reaches the rear bumper. He hauls himself up on it, one shaking hand over the other, and wrenches the back doors open. The heavy wooden casket slides out, and he drags it onto the floor and flips the lid wide open. Velvet lining. Waiting.
Sam slows.
Her eyes lock on the interior. Something crosses her face. A flicker. Hesitation, just for a beat.
Mosh sees it. He lunges and drives a stiff kick straight into her injured ribs.
Sam doubles over, gasping, both arms clamped across her midsection. The air will not come. Mosh grabs the back of her neck and her waistband. He heaves, shoving the Amazon head-first toward the open casket, muscle and desperation behind it. End it now.
Sam plants her boots wide. Both hands slam against the rim of the casket and lock. Her frame becomes a wall, and the throw dies. His momentum stops cold. Mosh strains and can’t move her.
SAM TOLSON: (gritting her bloody teeth) Not today, you arrogant prick!
Two elbows. Sharp, heavy. One crunches into his ribs, the other into his jaw. His grip breaks and she snaps around to face him.
She grabs him by the collar and cracks a headbutt straight into his lacerated forehead.
THUD.
Mosh staggers backward away from the casket. Both hands cup his bleeding face. He stumbles blindly toward the ring, tripping over his own feet.
Sam surges after him. She hooks him around the waist in a front clinch, setting up the belly-to-belly. The open casket yawns behind her.
Mosh reaches up in sheer desperation. His fingers find the deep cut on her forehead and dig in. They rake across her bleeding eyes.
Sam shrieks. Her grip opens. She stumbles backward, clawing blood from her eyes, blind and swaying.
Mosh steadies himself against the ring apron. He measures her. One breath. Then he fires a desperation SUPERKICK (Superkick)!
It catches her flush under the jaw. CRACK. Her head snaps back violently.
Sam goes down rigid, like a felled tree, onto the ringside mats. She stares up at the rafters, eyes empty. Blood pools beside her face.
Mosh slumps against the side of the casket. His chest heaves. He leans over and spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor, trying to catch his breath.
CHRIS MOSH: (panting heavily) I told you… you’re nothing… compared to me.
He pushes off the wood. He drags her limp body across the floor by the arms and shoves her under the bottom rope into the ring. Then, a beat later, he grabs a fistful of her hair and hauls her upper body back out the same way. Her feet and shins stay hooked across the middle rope inside.
Mosh stands on the arena floor. He locks Sam’s head in a tight front headlock. He drops backward.
HANGING DDT (Hung-Rope DDT)!
Her skull drives head-first into the thinly padded concrete at ringside. THUD. Her body goes completely limp.
Her legs slide lifelessly off the bottom rope. She ends up crumpled and motionless in a heap on the floor, inches from the open casket.
Mosh stands over Sam’s motionless, bloodied body on the ringside mats, right beside the open casket. His chest heaves. A smirk stretches across his crimson face.
He grabs her by the waistband and a fistful of hair. Dead weight. He drags her off the floor and rolls her, unceremoniously, into the velvet-lined interior.
He steps back and shoves the heavy wooden lid downward. End it.
Sam’s legs shoot up.
At the last possible second, her boots slam against the descending wood and stop it short of the latch. Mosh throws his entire weight on top, grunting, teeth bared, trying to crush her resistance. Nothing. The Amazon’s legs hold like steel cable.
She extends them violently. The lid flies back up into his face. CRACK. The heavy wood smashes his forehead and sends him reeling into the side of the hearse.
Sam doesn’t wait. She scrambles over the rim of the casket onto the ringside floor and rolls under the bottom rope into the ring. She lands hard. Onto her stomach. Arms shaking, she claws weakly at the canvas, trying to push herself up.
Mosh steps onto the apron. Slowly, brazenly, he reaches into his purple-and-gold tights and slips a pair of heavy brass knuckles over his right hand. He does it in full view of Garrett and the booing crowd. Garrett says nothing. Asylum Rules.
Mosh climbs through the ropes and stalks the groggy challenger. He waits. He needs her upright for the knockout blow, and she gets there on unsteady legs, wobbling.
He winds up and swings the loaded fist.
Instinct. Sam ducks under it, snags his wrist, and snaps off a desperation arm drag. Mosh crashes to the mat. He scrambles up fast, furious that the weapon missed.
Sam bounces off the opposite ropes. She builds speed. As Mosh turns, she obliterates him with MIND YOUR HEAD (Running V-Trigger Knee Strike)!
CRACK. Knee meets skull and the sound echoes through the building. Mosh drops to his knees, eyes rolling back in his head.
Sam hauls him up by the arm. She traps him in an inverted facelock and spikes him face-first onto the crumpled steel chair with BEAUTIFUL OBLIVION RENDEZVOUS (Cross Rhodes)!
CLANG. Mosh goes limp on impact with the metal. His arms splay across the canvas, and the blood pools around him.
Sam takes no chances. She drags him into a seated position from behind, sinks her forearm across his throat, and threads the half-nelson. KATA HAJIME (Kata Hajime)!
She wrenches back on the choke and laces her legs around his waist in a tight body triangle. She squeezes. The last of the oxygen leaves his lungs.
Outside, beside the open casket, Garrett watches the ring. He is waiting for them to return to the only place this match can end.
Mosh’s fingers twitch. A weak, futile fight against the dark. Then his bloody arms drop to the mat and he is gone.
Sam releases the hold. Her chest heaves. She wipes sweat and blood from her eyes.
She hooks Mosh by the ankles and drags his unconscious body across the canvas, under the bottom rope, and pulls him off the apron onto the ringside floor.
Now the hard part. Sam strains under two hundred and fifteen pounds of dead weight. She muscles him up, her legs shaking, and tumbles him over the rim into the velvet. Then she collapses forward onto the heavy wooden lid and slams it shut.
Click. The latch locks.
Garrett signals the timekeeper at once. The bell is called for.
SAM TOLSON WINS
NEW PCW ASYLUM CHAMPION
DING. DING. DING!
The arena erupts. A thunderous, deafening ovation, and the opening strains of STARSET’s Kashmir blast over the sound system.
Sam collapses onto the closed casket, crimson streaming down her face and neck. She rests her forehead against the polished wood while catharsis washes over her.
Garrett crosses to the timekeeper’s table and retrieves the PCW Asylum Championship. He approaches the hearse and taps Sam gently on the shoulder, offering the gleaming leather-and-gold title.
She pushes herself up on trembling legs. Her gaze locks on the belt she was robbed of two weeks ago.
She takes it in her bruised hands and pulls it tight against her chest. A full-throated battle cry tears out of her toward the rafters.
YOU DESERVE IT!
YOU DESERVE IT!
YOU DESERVE IT!
Garrett raises her blood-slicked right arm into the air and presents her to the screaming fans as the new champion.
The ringside camera swings in close. Sam climbs onto the heavy metal bumper of the hearse, plants her boots wide, and hoists the championship high with both hands. Crimson drips from her jaw onto the faceplate of the title. The arena lights pulse in eerie, atmospheric hues, framing the battered Missouri River Amazon standing triumphant over the locked casket to close out PCW Fright Night.