Post by Press1269 on Feb 14, 2020 20:28:55 GMT
Back at ringside, the lights go dim as "Strangle Hold" by Ted Nugent begins to blare across the arena. Red strobelights flicker all around the building, and finally settle on the entry way. When the song settles into the breakdown, Press strides out from behind the curtain, stopping at the top of the ramp and gazes intently out at the crowd.
RHONDA ARMSTRONG: “It’s time for our Main Event! Introducing first, from Jacksonville, Florida, and repping The Bombtrax...PRESS!!!”
When the first lines bellow out, Youth appears, wearing his zebra stripes. He flashes around in front of Press, and spins a few times reaching out at the crowd who cheer in adulation. He comes to a teetering stop facing the ring, a coy grin on his face, as he looks back at his massive partner who merely nods his approval. Youth takes off into a sprint for the ring, sliding in under the bottom rope, and popping up with his hands over his head.
RHONDA ARMSTRONG: “And our special guest referee, also repping The BombTrax...FLAMING YOUTH!!!”
PHILO B. POPE: “We are back at ringside and all set for the Main Event!”
CONSTANCE CHURCH (in a huff): “Still no announce table. Cheap skates. How long do those take to set up? Like a minute? Oh… shoot. It’s THOSE guys again. I’ll be good.”
Press stalks up to the ring, rising up on the ring apron, and then stepping over the top rope with one fist pumped over his head. Youth takes a turnbuckle with a single bound, and plays up to the crowd, point at the PAW patch on his striped shirt, as Press turns and casually leans against the other corner, waiting for his opponent to appear.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Don’t you think Press and Flaming Youth look EXTRA presentable this evening, Philo? Like… I mean EXTRA, EXTRA less scumbaggy than usual-- NOT THAT THEY LOOK SCUMBAGGY… I think… Oh… cram it, Constance.”
The lights dim in the arena as Joe Walsh's 'Turn to Stone' sounds across the arena. The fans jeer and boo in disgust as they know what to expect when they hear the distinctive distorted power-chords that start the song. The lights focus on the entrance to the ramp as Cross Recoba comes through the curtain.
RHONDA ARMSTRONG: “And their...I mean HIS opponent...CROSS RECOBA!!!”
The Sicilian-American comes out from the back and in front of the crowd with a confident smirk painted across his face. The smirk is a definite departure from both the reports surrounding his meeting with Lady Munin and his promos earlier in the week. The camera zooms out from the shot of his face to show him dressed for business, not wrestling. He sports the same tailored navy suit he wore earlier on in the show and unless he’s looking to get the ‘Best Dressed’ wrestler award it looks like he has a plan.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Fancy…. you mean he looks like this all the time? Hmmmmmmmm, perhaps I misjudged Racoba after all?”
The camera zooms in on Cross who taps his head and displays a sign that he has clearly forgotten something. He turns on his heel and marches to the back.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “I knew it. Ring gear. Pheh. He looks better in a suit. You might say it… SUITS him… heh? See that, Philo? How I’m making lemonade out of the shit we got tonight? Ever the professional.”
PHILO B. POPE: “Can we please get this match started? Or does Recoba ever actually intend to wrestle?
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Well no, see. You’ve inadvertantly found yourself in… THE PEOPLE’S COURT. JUDGE JUDY… or… whatever, presiding! DA DUN DUN! Seriously… this IS wrestling in the 21st century, Philo.”
He marches back from where he came; the music continues to play while the crowd wait for him to re-emerge. They don’t have to wait too long as Recoba comes back out this time armed with a briefcase.
PHILO B. POPE: “Great, a briefcase. Now I know this is ‘all legit’..”
The fans don’t waste any time in voicing their disgust at the presence of the briefcase. The camera catches an empty beer pitcher bouncing off the leather of the case. Recoba looks to see if he can spot the perpetrator but only quickly glances in the direction – he has more important matters it seems.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Guess that guy’s gonna hear from Recoba’s lawyer later. What’s that, an Armani leather briefcase?”
He walks by ringside and shoots Constance Church a look in her direction and mock yawns before rolling into the ring with the briefcase. He grabs the microphone from the ring announcer as the music fades away.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Heh. I get more heat than the actual wrestlers.”
PHILO B. POPE: “I’ll be glad when she shoves that thing up his…”
CROSS RECOBA: “Here we are…the main event, I’ll give Munin and Sam some credit, they know where their cash cow should live!”
The crowd continue to jeer and boo as Recoba starts off with his usual level of tact.
CROSS RECOBA: “Where they lose points is in thinking that this match was EVER a good idea! That I would let them endanger my career in such a way that I’d be as much complicit in my fate as they were when deciding to ‘punish’ me for entertaining the crowd.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “I bet he’s got some brand new drug in there he plans to get the BombTrax hooked on so he can rub you off the dope game, Philo. SIC HIM!”
Recoba leans against the ropes, neither Press or Youth seem particularly interested in what he has to say, the disinterest written across their faces. Cross finds the camera and quickly opens the briefcase to show the contents – it’s stacked with cash.
CROSS RECOBA: “So, ladies and gentlemen, here is your first ever Main Event in the Xayarena…”
PHILO B. POPE: “No...fucking..way..”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Or Cash. Cash works. That was my next guess. I’m starting to like Cross Racooneyes.”
Cross tosses Press the cash, and upon catching it, he examines it by taking his thumb and running it across the end of the stack allowing it to flip through each bill. The big man looked across the ring at Cross for a minute as if he were sizing him up, and then glanced over at his partner, who stands casually in the corner. Youth shrugs in his response, and Press nods, tossing the stack of cash over to him. He then turns back to Cross, and silently closes the gap between the two men, coming to a stop right in front of Recoba. He looms there for a moment, a menacing expression on his face, and Cross fidgets anxiously, uncertain of whether he has pushed his luck.
PHILO B. POPE: “No...fucking..way! Kill him Press!”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Oh come on!!!! You broke announce tables for less than what Cross Recoba’s done, you big dumb ape!”
Just then, Press brings his finger up into Cross' face, who flinches, but then turns the finger around so that he is now point at himself. He grins wickedly, before burying the finger into his chest, resulting in a massive bump that appears to knock the big man unconscious.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Wow. That’s some finger…”
Boo's erupt throughout the arena as Youth calls for the bell and drops into position beside him, his hand poised and ready to make the three count. Cross stares at the two men in disbelief, but gets a hold of himself quickly, a condescending smile beaming from his face. He bends down to one knee, then the other, and throws one arm non-chalantly over Press' chest. 4Loco watches on in shock, and his fury seems to have him coming apart at the seams, while the fans shout jeers and boo's, chucking popcorn, paper cups, and half eaten hot dogs into the ring at the three men.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Damn right. The BombTrax just got BOUGHT?! How much money was that anyway… any chance you can pinch some of those bills so I can see ‘um?”
PHILO B. POPE: “I don’t have shit to say about this fuckery!”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Then don’t say anything. You grab money, I’ll do the counting for both of us.”
Youth, just for good measure, uses the palm of his hand on the surface of the ring to ensure that Press' shoulders are indeed down, and then nods to Cross with a grin before counting...
1...
2....
3!!
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “HA! So the BombTrax ARE something to fuck with!”
The bell sounds, and Just like that, Cross is up on his feet, his hands held high over his head in victory. Youth even hops up and takes Cross by the wrist, indicating with his other hand that he is indeed the winner. Press rolls towards the ropes, and uses them to pull himself up, and falls back into the far corner in mock fatigue. He wipes his brow, flashing a grin at the crowd, who answers with more thrown debris. Youth joins him, and the two men begin counting their spoils while Cross takes up his mic once more.
CROSS RECOBA: “What did you think to that? Hell of a main event, huh?”
The crowd loudly boo.
CROSS RECOBA: “See, we could have done the match, but what would you have really learned? That two wrongs make a right? No-one needs to know that lesson, right?!? Instead, the lesson for today is that EVERYONE CAN BE BOUGHT! You people out there, your friends, your family. Even this Sasquatch and his handler!”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “He means Yeti.”
PHILO B. POPE: “If I had a table, I’d pay The BombTrax to put Recoba through it right now!”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “But… but… I just want my damn announce table back.”
Constance sulks. In the ring, The BombTrax suddenly stop counting their money, and stare over at Cross Recoba, who continues berating the crowd and the locker room with abandon. The two men stuff their tainted money into their pockets, and Press whispered something in Youth's ear while the fans continue their jeers.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “How much you wanna bet they ask for more money?”
Youth steps forward, turning to the side, just waiting for Cross to turn around. A few of the boo's began to transform into cheers, confusing Cross, as he looks back towards the Ramp to ensure that no one was coming out to interrupt his fun. As soon as his head turns back, Youth snaps forward, throwing his foot out, and catching Cross right in the jaw with a super kick.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Or a superkick to the face. That works too.”
Cross slams down to the mat in surprise, but is quick to try to get to his feet when Youth cuts him off with stiff forearms and knees to the side of the head. The barrage forces Recoba over into the opposite corner from Press, who watches all of this in a casual manner.
PHILO B. POPE: “You have got to be kidding me!”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Guess he just bought a victory over Press… not Youth?”
Youth pulls Recoba up to his full height in the corner, and then fires in a wicked chop that lights the playboy's chest on fire. Then another. Youth then looks over his shoulder to ensure his partner is ready, and then whips Cross across the ring towards Press, who comes rushing out of his own corner, and at the last possible second, throws his boot forward to crash into Recoba's face. The impact of the maneuver snaps Cross' head back with such force that his upper half lands before his lower half even has the chance to leave his feet, resulting in his body crashing to the mat in an awkward position. The anouncers, fans, 4Loco, Rhonda Armstrong, and anyone watching from the locker room all gasp in unison as Cross clutches at his head and neck in pain. Press surveys the silenced crowd for a minute with a grin, before pointing down at Cross, and then throwing his thumb into the air to indicate further punishment. The crowd is unanimous in their cheers as they explode from their seats, and the Xayarena damn near implodes from the noise.
PHILO B. POPE: “Recoba sees what his money bought now!”
Youth jerks Cross up to his feet by a fistful of hair, and then runs him head first right over the top rope and out to the cement floor below. Recoba lands with a thud, but immediately starts clawing at the floor to get away, as Youth hops out beside him. Youth taunts him with a grin, playing it up to the crowd who feeds upon it gladly, before he pulls Cross up, and whips him hard into the steel steps. The staircase explodes upon impact, Recoba knocking the top section loose from the bottom with his upper body. Cross calls out in pain as he uses the steps to push up onto his feet, and he feebly makes an attempt to reach the rampway, but Press is there to catch him before he can escape. Cross begs for the big man to just let him pass, but Press has other ideas, as he grabs hold of Recoba, hoists him high into the air, and sends him over the top rope to crash down back in the ring.
PHILO B. POPE: “Now this...is a main event!”
Meanwhile, Youth kicks the top section of the steel stairs out of the way, and reaches down to grab the larger bottom section. He hoists the steps up to his chest, and then balances it on the apron, before sliding the section beneath the bottom rope and into the ring. Cross crawls towards a corner, clutching at turnbuckles to try and get back to his feet, giving Press and Youth enough time slide back in.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: "This is gruesome... I love it. LOOKS GOOD ON YA' CROSS!"
Youth drags the bottom section of steps to the center of the ring, as Press stalks over and takes hold of Recoba by the neck. The big man leads their wobbly legged victim back out to the center of the ring where he spins him around, and tucks his head between his legs. Youth bounds over to the correct corner, and with a single leap comes to rest atop the turnbuckles. The crowd is electric as Press nods out at the five thousand strong, and then hoists Recoba up onto his chest in a seated position. Youth points at his target, and the last thing Cross sees is the back of Youth's boot before being driven down onto the unforgiving steel steps in a vicious powerbomb!.
PHILO B. POPE: “Was it worth it Recoba?”
The crowd erupts as The BombTrax come to stand over Cross Recoba's broken body, a look of amusement on their faces. Youth could be seen mouthing, 'Nice doing business with you.', before the two men turn, and make their way towards the ramp way. Just before making their way towards the exit, they stop, turning towards 4Loco, nod, and then disappear behind the curtain.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Wow…. they didn’t even PAY 4Loco shit for setting that up for them?!”
PHILO B. POPE: “What a night! I have lost track of most of the statistics outside of losing two broadcast tables!”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “I think I have P.T.S.D. Philo. Did Stevie Harris win, or did Genesis?”
PHILO B. POPE: “No spoilers for the folks who were fashionably late. They’re gonna have to buy the DVD.”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Ahh, true, true. But… what I wanna know is… what ever happened to that whole BOMB thing? Did we ever resolve that??”
PHILO B. POPE: “Oh. Yeah... That.”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Yeaaahhhh... Uh… say… PHilo… what time you got…?”
She’s already getting her headset off to scurry away hoping there’s enough time left!!
RHONDA ARMSTRONG: “It’s time for our Main Event! Introducing first, from Jacksonville, Florida, and repping The Bombtrax...PRESS!!!”
When the first lines bellow out, Youth appears, wearing his zebra stripes. He flashes around in front of Press, and spins a few times reaching out at the crowd who cheer in adulation. He comes to a teetering stop facing the ring, a coy grin on his face, as he looks back at his massive partner who merely nods his approval. Youth takes off into a sprint for the ring, sliding in under the bottom rope, and popping up with his hands over his head.
RHONDA ARMSTRONG: “And our special guest referee, also repping The BombTrax...FLAMING YOUTH!!!”
PHILO B. POPE: “We are back at ringside and all set for the Main Event!”
CONSTANCE CHURCH (in a huff): “Still no announce table. Cheap skates. How long do those take to set up? Like a minute? Oh… shoot. It’s THOSE guys again. I’ll be good.”
Press stalks up to the ring, rising up on the ring apron, and then stepping over the top rope with one fist pumped over his head. Youth takes a turnbuckle with a single bound, and plays up to the crowd, point at the PAW patch on his striped shirt, as Press turns and casually leans against the other corner, waiting for his opponent to appear.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Don’t you think Press and Flaming Youth look EXTRA presentable this evening, Philo? Like… I mean EXTRA, EXTRA less scumbaggy than usual-- NOT THAT THEY LOOK SCUMBAGGY… I think… Oh… cram it, Constance.”
The lights dim in the arena as Joe Walsh's 'Turn to Stone' sounds across the arena. The fans jeer and boo in disgust as they know what to expect when they hear the distinctive distorted power-chords that start the song. The lights focus on the entrance to the ramp as Cross Recoba comes through the curtain.
RHONDA ARMSTRONG: “And their...I mean HIS opponent...CROSS RECOBA!!!”
The Sicilian-American comes out from the back and in front of the crowd with a confident smirk painted across his face. The smirk is a definite departure from both the reports surrounding his meeting with Lady Munin and his promos earlier in the week. The camera zooms out from the shot of his face to show him dressed for business, not wrestling. He sports the same tailored navy suit he wore earlier on in the show and unless he’s looking to get the ‘Best Dressed’ wrestler award it looks like he has a plan.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Fancy…. you mean he looks like this all the time? Hmmmmmmmm, perhaps I misjudged Racoba after all?”
The camera zooms in on Cross who taps his head and displays a sign that he has clearly forgotten something. He turns on his heel and marches to the back.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “I knew it. Ring gear. Pheh. He looks better in a suit. You might say it… SUITS him… heh? See that, Philo? How I’m making lemonade out of the shit we got tonight? Ever the professional.”
PHILO B. POPE: “Can we please get this match started? Or does Recoba ever actually intend to wrestle?
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Well no, see. You’ve inadvertantly found yourself in… THE PEOPLE’S COURT. JUDGE JUDY… or… whatever, presiding! DA DUN DUN! Seriously… this IS wrestling in the 21st century, Philo.”
He marches back from where he came; the music continues to play while the crowd wait for him to re-emerge. They don’t have to wait too long as Recoba comes back out this time armed with a briefcase.
PHILO B. POPE: “Great, a briefcase. Now I know this is ‘all legit’..”
The fans don’t waste any time in voicing their disgust at the presence of the briefcase. The camera catches an empty beer pitcher bouncing off the leather of the case. Recoba looks to see if he can spot the perpetrator but only quickly glances in the direction – he has more important matters it seems.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Guess that guy’s gonna hear from Recoba’s lawyer later. What’s that, an Armani leather briefcase?”
He walks by ringside and shoots Constance Church a look in her direction and mock yawns before rolling into the ring with the briefcase. He grabs the microphone from the ring announcer as the music fades away.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Heh. I get more heat than the actual wrestlers.”
PHILO B. POPE: “I’ll be glad when she shoves that thing up his…”
CROSS RECOBA: “Here we are…the main event, I’ll give Munin and Sam some credit, they know where their cash cow should live!”
The crowd continue to jeer and boo as Recoba starts off with his usual level of tact.
CROSS RECOBA: “Where they lose points is in thinking that this match was EVER a good idea! That I would let them endanger my career in such a way that I’d be as much complicit in my fate as they were when deciding to ‘punish’ me for entertaining the crowd.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “I bet he’s got some brand new drug in there he plans to get the BombTrax hooked on so he can rub you off the dope game, Philo. SIC HIM!”
Recoba leans against the ropes, neither Press or Youth seem particularly interested in what he has to say, the disinterest written across their faces. Cross finds the camera and quickly opens the briefcase to show the contents – it’s stacked with cash.
CROSS RECOBA: “So, ladies and gentlemen, here is your first ever Main Event in the Xayarena…”
PHILO B. POPE: “No...fucking..way..”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Or Cash. Cash works. That was my next guess. I’m starting to like Cross Racooneyes.”
Cross tosses Press the cash, and upon catching it, he examines it by taking his thumb and running it across the end of the stack allowing it to flip through each bill. The big man looked across the ring at Cross for a minute as if he were sizing him up, and then glanced over at his partner, who stands casually in the corner. Youth shrugs in his response, and Press nods, tossing the stack of cash over to him. He then turns back to Cross, and silently closes the gap between the two men, coming to a stop right in front of Recoba. He looms there for a moment, a menacing expression on his face, and Cross fidgets anxiously, uncertain of whether he has pushed his luck.
PHILO B. POPE: “No...fucking..way! Kill him Press!”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Oh come on!!!! You broke announce tables for less than what Cross Recoba’s done, you big dumb ape!”
Just then, Press brings his finger up into Cross' face, who flinches, but then turns the finger around so that he is now point at himself. He grins wickedly, before burying the finger into his chest, resulting in a massive bump that appears to knock the big man unconscious.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Wow. That’s some finger…”
Boo's erupt throughout the arena as Youth calls for the bell and drops into position beside him, his hand poised and ready to make the three count. Cross stares at the two men in disbelief, but gets a hold of himself quickly, a condescending smile beaming from his face. He bends down to one knee, then the other, and throws one arm non-chalantly over Press' chest. 4Loco watches on in shock, and his fury seems to have him coming apart at the seams, while the fans shout jeers and boo's, chucking popcorn, paper cups, and half eaten hot dogs into the ring at the three men.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Damn right. The BombTrax just got BOUGHT?! How much money was that anyway… any chance you can pinch some of those bills so I can see ‘um?”
PHILO B. POPE: “I don’t have shit to say about this fuckery!”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Then don’t say anything. You grab money, I’ll do the counting for both of us.”
Youth, just for good measure, uses the palm of his hand on the surface of the ring to ensure that Press' shoulders are indeed down, and then nods to Cross with a grin before counting...
1...
2....
3!!
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “HA! So the BombTrax ARE something to fuck with!”
The bell sounds, and Just like that, Cross is up on his feet, his hands held high over his head in victory. Youth even hops up and takes Cross by the wrist, indicating with his other hand that he is indeed the winner. Press rolls towards the ropes, and uses them to pull himself up, and falls back into the far corner in mock fatigue. He wipes his brow, flashing a grin at the crowd, who answers with more thrown debris. Youth joins him, and the two men begin counting their spoils while Cross takes up his mic once more.
CROSS RECOBA: “What did you think to that? Hell of a main event, huh?”
The crowd loudly boo.
CROSS RECOBA: “See, we could have done the match, but what would you have really learned? That two wrongs make a right? No-one needs to know that lesson, right?!? Instead, the lesson for today is that EVERYONE CAN BE BOUGHT! You people out there, your friends, your family. Even this Sasquatch and his handler!”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “He means Yeti.”
PHILO B. POPE: “If I had a table, I’d pay The BombTrax to put Recoba through it right now!”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “But… but… I just want my damn announce table back.”
Constance sulks. In the ring, The BombTrax suddenly stop counting their money, and stare over at Cross Recoba, who continues berating the crowd and the locker room with abandon. The two men stuff their tainted money into their pockets, and Press whispered something in Youth's ear while the fans continue their jeers.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “How much you wanna bet they ask for more money?”
Youth steps forward, turning to the side, just waiting for Cross to turn around. A few of the boo's began to transform into cheers, confusing Cross, as he looks back towards the Ramp to ensure that no one was coming out to interrupt his fun. As soon as his head turns back, Youth snaps forward, throwing his foot out, and catching Cross right in the jaw with a super kick.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Or a superkick to the face. That works too.”
Cross slams down to the mat in surprise, but is quick to try to get to his feet when Youth cuts him off with stiff forearms and knees to the side of the head. The barrage forces Recoba over into the opposite corner from Press, who watches all of this in a casual manner.
PHILO B. POPE: “You have got to be kidding me!”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Guess he just bought a victory over Press… not Youth?”
Youth pulls Recoba up to his full height in the corner, and then fires in a wicked chop that lights the playboy's chest on fire. Then another. Youth then looks over his shoulder to ensure his partner is ready, and then whips Cross across the ring towards Press, who comes rushing out of his own corner, and at the last possible second, throws his boot forward to crash into Recoba's face. The impact of the maneuver snaps Cross' head back with such force that his upper half lands before his lower half even has the chance to leave his feet, resulting in his body crashing to the mat in an awkward position. The anouncers, fans, 4Loco, Rhonda Armstrong, and anyone watching from the locker room all gasp in unison as Cross clutches at his head and neck in pain. Press surveys the silenced crowd for a minute with a grin, before pointing down at Cross, and then throwing his thumb into the air to indicate further punishment. The crowd is unanimous in their cheers as they explode from their seats, and the Xayarena damn near implodes from the noise.
PHILO B. POPE: “Recoba sees what his money bought now!”
Youth jerks Cross up to his feet by a fistful of hair, and then runs him head first right over the top rope and out to the cement floor below. Recoba lands with a thud, but immediately starts clawing at the floor to get away, as Youth hops out beside him. Youth taunts him with a grin, playing it up to the crowd who feeds upon it gladly, before he pulls Cross up, and whips him hard into the steel steps. The staircase explodes upon impact, Recoba knocking the top section loose from the bottom with his upper body. Cross calls out in pain as he uses the steps to push up onto his feet, and he feebly makes an attempt to reach the rampway, but Press is there to catch him before he can escape. Cross begs for the big man to just let him pass, but Press has other ideas, as he grabs hold of Recoba, hoists him high into the air, and sends him over the top rope to crash down back in the ring.
PHILO B. POPE: “Now this...is a main event!”
Meanwhile, Youth kicks the top section of the steel stairs out of the way, and reaches down to grab the larger bottom section. He hoists the steps up to his chest, and then balances it on the apron, before sliding the section beneath the bottom rope and into the ring. Cross crawls towards a corner, clutching at turnbuckles to try and get back to his feet, giving Press and Youth enough time slide back in.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: "This is gruesome... I love it. LOOKS GOOD ON YA' CROSS!"
Youth drags the bottom section of steps to the center of the ring, as Press stalks over and takes hold of Recoba by the neck. The big man leads their wobbly legged victim back out to the center of the ring where he spins him around, and tucks his head between his legs. Youth bounds over to the correct corner, and with a single leap comes to rest atop the turnbuckles. The crowd is electric as Press nods out at the five thousand strong, and then hoists Recoba up onto his chest in a seated position. Youth points at his target, and the last thing Cross sees is the back of Youth's boot before being driven down onto the unforgiving steel steps in a vicious powerbomb!.
PHILO B. POPE: “Was it worth it Recoba?”
The crowd erupts as The BombTrax come to stand over Cross Recoba's broken body, a look of amusement on their faces. Youth could be seen mouthing, 'Nice doing business with you.', before the two men turn, and make their way towards the ramp way. Just before making their way towards the exit, they stop, turning towards 4Loco, nod, and then disappear behind the curtain.
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Wow…. they didn’t even PAY 4Loco shit for setting that up for them?!”
PHILO B. POPE: “What a night! I have lost track of most of the statistics outside of losing two broadcast tables!”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “I think I have P.T.S.D. Philo. Did Stevie Harris win, or did Genesis?”
PHILO B. POPE: “No spoilers for the folks who were fashionably late. They’re gonna have to buy the DVD.”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Ahh, true, true. But… what I wanna know is… what ever happened to that whole BOMB thing? Did we ever resolve that??”
PHILO B. POPE: “Oh. Yeah... That.”
CONSTANCE CHURCH: “Yeaaahhhh... Uh… say… PHilo… what time you got…?”
She’s already getting her headset off to scurry away hoping there’s enough time left!!