MD 91: Rush & Sam Smith vs. Strikeforce

[Kermit]

You know what they say about professional wrestling - never say never, and it seems like that statement comes true for Meltdown 91 as the team of Mikey Stormrage and James Howard will continue to fight another day as they compete against another recently inseparably team of Rush and Sam Smith. There is nothing that Rush & Smith would want more than showcasing their worth as a tag team by defeating the 2-time tag team champions and hopefully earning themselves another shot at the tag team champions whilst Strikeforce will just be looking to survive another week with things reaching boiling point with the Sacrificial Altar.

Deadline is Wednesday, June 26th 2013, at 11:59 P.M. (Central Time Zone) Soft Extensions Only.​

 

[Richard Blonoff]

I wasn't myself lately and I knew it. For as long as Grand Mystique and his lackeys had been a thorn in my side, I could feel myself changing. Maybe that is what they wanted, maybe their goal all along was to throw me so far off my game that I didn't recognize the man in the mirror. Maybe they wanted me to feel more like a stranger each time I went home. I couldn't allow them to win though, I wouldn't allow them to change who I was. I and I alone had the power to control who I would become. I also had the power to atone for my mistakes, so I knew what I had to do. I had a phone call to make.

"Hey man, sorry I bailed last week. I've just not been in my right head lately. I wanted to make it up to you. I know you are in town, so why don't you stop by my place, we can have a bro day. Like we used to do before life got crazy."

I awaited a response.

"Okay man, sounds great. Just stop by whenever. Hit me up when you get here and I'll buzz you in."

I hung up and threw my phone onto the couch. I walked around, doing my best to straighten up what little I cared to clean up. I put a few empty alcohol bottles in the trash, put dirty dishes in the sink, and kicked whatever DVDs were in the floor against the wall. I checked the time, it was barely one in the afternoon, so I assumed my company wouldn't be here for a few hours. I decided to lie on the couch and turn on the TV. I flipped through the channels, picking up various bits of news. DOMA declared unconstitutional, Aaron Hernandez arrested and charged with murder, Texas' five hundredth execution to be a woman, another tropical storm upgraded to hurricane in the Gulf, and before long I was drifting to sleep.

A vibration in my lower back jolted me awake. I had forgotten I had thrown my phone onto the couch before I passed out. I had a text that simply read "I'm here" so I walked to my door and buzzed my visitor in.

I could heer the sound of someone running up the stairs. A few moments later I heard knocking, but it was further down the hall. Every twenty seconds or so I would hear knocking, followed by a faint "Mikey" then a pause, followed by "damn." I shook my head and rolled my eyes. Finally I heard a knocking at my door.

"Mikey, Mikey let me in dude!"

I opened the door to see a man wearing tight jeans, a bedazzled t-shirt with crosses and skulls, and sunglasses. He immediately hugged me.

"Hey Ricky, how are you?"

"I'm Ricky Runn, I'm fantastic! I've got more swag than anyone in this building. I'm great!"

I stepped aside to let him in. He immediately flopped onto my couch and grabbed my remote.

"We should call up some bitches and party."

I shook my head at him.

"I invited you over so we could chill. I need to clear my head. Plus I feel bad over leaving you hanging last week."

By the time I finished, he was in my fridge. He pulled out a soda and grabbed a bag of Cheetos from my cabinet. He poured them into a large salad bowl.

"Dude, do you even eat salad?"

"Not really, I usually use that bowl for cereal."

"I can tell. You straight looking like Santa Clause ninja."

I opened my mouth to talk, but no words came out. I was awestruck.

"Did...did you just call me ninja?"

"Oh hells yeah. See I'm white, so I can't say the actual n-word, so I use ninja."

"You never cease to amaze me."

"I'm like white Kanye, I think I might start calling myself Reezuz or Reezy. That's straight swag."

I again shook my head. I wondered if this is how James sometimes felt about me. As Ricky began walking back to my living room he tripped over a stray cord, crashing into my table, sending soda and Cheetos all over the room. The soda landed next to my Xbox, so I quickly picked it up, ignoring Ricky.

"Dude, watch it."

Ricky was picking himself up as I spoke. He was scooping what Cheetos he could into the bowl.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine. You got any more Cheetos?"

I walked back into my kitchen and grabbed a bag of Doritos and poured them into the bowl.

"Close enough."

Ricky began to mix the bowl around as I walked over to the Xbox and turned it on. It took it a few moments, but it did eventually start up. I tossed Ricky his controller and asked what he wanted to play.

"Man I feel like ballin' so hard that mother fuckas wanna fine me. Lets play NBA."

I found my copy of NBA 2K13 and popped it in. As I sat down I noticed Ricky had been stuffing his face with the cheesy mixture, and his fingers reflected it. I grimaced and felt myself clenching as he grabbed my controller with Cheeto fingers.

"Come on fatty, my Heat will crush your wimpy Pacers. Game seven all over again."

We played a tightly contested game, trading the lead back and forth the entire time. We were tied with less than ten seconds to go when Ricky fouled me as I hit a layup. I had a chance to hit a free throw to clinch the game, when Ricky knocked the controller from my hand. He secured the rebound and called timeout, eventually inbounding the ball to LeBron James. As time expired he threw up a three point shot to win the game. He immediately jumped onto my table and began to taunt me.

"I told you, I done told you! Eat these nuts fatty!"

As Ricky jumped to the couch, the table collapsed under him. I was able to catch him before he fell, but the damage was done. I dropped him onto the couch and surveyed the damage.

"Damn it Ricky! I invite you over to have a relaxing day and you break my table. I was trying to clear my mind so I could focus on Rush and Smith this week. I'm not you, I don't get to toil away taking on random jobbers every week. I take on the cream of the crop. I've already lost to Smith once, and Rush is a beast of a man. I need to put all my focus on them, but I can't because I have to look over my shoulder for The Altar every five seconds. Do you have any idea what that is like? Now I have to worry about you wrecking my apartment."

I threw my hands into the air and flopped on the couch. Ricky stood and removed his sunglasses.

"Dude."

"You have no idea what I'm going through. You were nothing before you rode up on Austin Reynold's jock.

"Dude. You don't even have to say that kind of shit."

"I have no one because of what this company has put me through. I lost a girlfriend, I alienated my family, and I'm so stressed I snap at friends. I've gone off on X, and now you. I'm sorry man.

"Its all good boss." Ricky put his sunglasses back on. "You need to treat yo self. I've got an idea, we should go to James' house. Dude lives in a mansion right?"

I sort of shrugged.

"I wouldn't call it a mansion, but he does well for himself.

"How did he get all that money to buy that place?"

I took a minute before answering. Nearly a year ago James had come clean with me about how he acquired his impressive wealth. I wasn't exactly happy that he had been betting on his fights and eventually our matches, but he had confided his secret with me, so I decided to keep it.

"He just made some smart investments I guess."

"Sweet, I need to have Rob talk to James' agent about that stuff."

I walked to my kitchen counter and grabbed my keys and wallet.

"You ready to head out?"

"Fo' sho, just give me one of your bananas. I'm still hungry."

I grabbed Ricky a banana and slipped on my sandals as we headed out the door.

We got to the my car and headed across town to James' house. As Ricky was finishing his banana he rolled down my window to throw the peel out the window.

"Dude! Don't do that!"

"Dude I don't see any cops, its cool."

"No, haven't you ever played Mario Kart? Banana peels will spin you right the hell out."

Ricky laughed and threw the peel out the window.

"What's the worst that could happen?"

A few seconds later I could hear the squeal of tires and the crash of metal on metal. Ricky looked in the side view mirror to survey the damage.

"Oh hamburgers."

 

[Shotaro]

The sound of leather smacking leather filled the room as the first beads of orange light from the sunrise hit my face. I stopped to look at the clock, it was almost 5am. I’d been awake for almost two days. Everyone’s sleep schedule was so jacked I’d gotten away with it. In fact I’d barely slept since the Lethal Lottery. I was starting to slow down, I haven’t had to grab the bag mid-session for months but I was doing it all the time now. I heard footsteps in the kitchen, quickly followed by bouncing plastic immediately before Oliver began crying, not just crying, screaming.

“Son of a bitch”

I muttered to myself as I made my way towards the staircase. The baby only cries like that when one of us isn’t around. I was pretty sure that it was Mikey in my kitchen. You can imagine my surprise then, as I opened the kitchen door to find the mirrored sunglasses of Ricky Runn staring back at me.

“Morning brother” he said nonchalantly “Your baby is crying.”

There was a momentary pause as I observed the scene before me; breast milk has been spilt all over the floor. Oliver sat in his rocker on the counter; I quickly shoved a dummy in his mouth. The room wasn’t filled with the smell of Satan’s smegma so I presumed he hadn’t pooped. Runn had clearly just scared him.

“What the hell were you doing anyway?”

Runn looked at the floor sheepishly.

“I was uh... He was alone in his crib; I was going to feed him.”

“I could hear him on the monitor. Was he hungry?”

“I didn’t know, but he was awake and smiling and thought I’d do something nice.”

“Okay well for future reference if he isn’t crying just leave him be.”

I turned to go back downstairs.

“Oh and Ricky, it’s five in the morning. If I see you wearing sunglasses indoors at dawn again you’ll eat them.”

As I started back towards the training room I stopped dead on the stairs, I turned on my heels and returned to the kitchen.

“Wait, what in the hell are you doing here anyway?”

Ricky had gone to the sofa, with my baby on the coffee table in front of him. He had turned on the TV and was watching a repeat of some crappy extreme sports show.

“Mikey gave me the key, told me to stay here.”

I heard the rustling of a bag of crisps, followed by an enormous crunching sound.

“Why exactly did he give you the key?”

“Nowhere for me to sleep.”

“I’m fairly sure he has a guest room”

“Well if he did I didn’t see it.” Ricky turned around on the sofa to look at me. His feet swung wildly around barely missing my son. “I don’t know how you lived with him though, that place is a dump. Hell you can’t even sit on his sofa without falling through it.”

Suddenly the reason he was in my living room was obvious. I muttered a curse to Mikey under my breath before showing Runn to the guest room. I just had to hope that he didn’t burn the house down between now and when Dinah woke up.

Oliver sat in his rocker on the ring as I went back to training. Mikey was due in about two hours and Dinah would be down not that long before. I rolled up my sweater and went to lie down in the ring, determined to get a short nap before we started prepping for our match against Smith and Rush.

My eardrums felt as though they were piercing when I woke with a start, accidentally ripping the canvas on the ring. Dinah was shrieking, along with that was the sound of someone almost crying. Dinah had found Ricky. I ran upstairs just in time to see Ricky lying at the bottom of the stairs clutching his stomach and nursing an impressive head wound.

“Holy hell man what happened?”

The response was more of a whimper than anything most humans can hear. Mercifully it was decipherable.

“Why do my kidneys hurt?”

“They always hurt when you get kicked in the balls.”

Just then the door slammed and Dinah came down the stairs with the first aid kit. She looked up at me like I’d just kicked her mother.

“Why is Ricky Runn in our spare room? Actually you know what, scrap that. Why the hell was Ricky Runn in OUR shower?”

Damn it. I’d forgotten to tell Runn where the bathroom was. Although thinking about it he either walked through the bedroom or through the wall. Sure enough I could see a hole in the drywall.

“How did he?”

The stricken man spoke.

“I turned on the tap in the main bathroom, there was a bang then your bathroom had a hole in the wall. I think something burst.”

Dinah pressed the alcohol disinfectant into his head wound.

“Something else will in a minute.”

“You got this honey?”

Dinah looked up at me before replying.

“It’s just a scratch, damn head wounds.” She shoved Ricky as he laid prone. “You’re buying us a new carpet.”

“Anyway, I’m going to go train and look after our child before Mikey arrives. Could you take care of our baby when you’ve done with the other one?”

A little while later Mikey came into the room, Dinah had long since collected Oliver and Ricky was sat on a bench with his head bandaged like an over-zealous extra from Saving Private Ryan. I flopped over the rope and sat on the apron with a sports bottle. Mikey stood still for a second, silently surveying the scene before him.

“What the hell happened here? Where are the ropes?

“They need resetting. Runn broke them, you should’ve seen the air he got when he tried to do a moonsault.”

“Is that why he has a bandage?”

Ricky wiped the sweat from his brow causing his bathe sweat from his brow causing his bandage to slip over his eyes. He let out a yelp whilst I spoke.

“Nope. That was Dinah.”

Ricky grunted in acknowledgement.

“Okay. Anything else I should know about?”

“He burst a pipe upstairs and spilt milk all over the kitchen.”

“Yeah, you should see my place.”

“If he’s done less damage I’m going to be pissed."

The silence in the room was so thick you could almost touch it.

"Anyway Smith and Rush, we got a game plan?”

Ricky recalled the beating he’d taken from Smith earlier in the year.

“Aside from curl up into a ball and hoping they don’t hit anything vital?”

“Thanks very much man; super helpful.”

Mikey closed his fist.

“They’re tough opponents man, I don’t think we’ve had a rougher fight ahead of us since Constantine and Holmes.”

“Wasn’t that two shows before Kingdom Come too?”

“Yeah, and these guys are not scrub league. We’re not going to get caught out by how good they are.”

“No, we’re not going to be blindsided by the Elite X Champion and the guy who was the Eurasian Champion for most of last year. We have to rely on teamwork. We’ve been a team for so long and there is no goddamn way I’m letting them take away our momentum on the home stretch. We can beat them but we need to use how well we know each other to our advantage.”

Runn got off the bench and made his way to the centre of the room.

“What about doing a trust exercise? Here I’ll stand on the ring-post and you guys catch me.”

“Ricky, I’m not so sure that’s a good I...”

Ricky was already on the ring post about to hit a moonsault. Fortunately for him one of the florescent lights exploded after a gigantic power surge, rather than watching a half blind man flip onto his head and ruin my ring we got to hear an almighty crash as a half blind man fall onto the floor and ripped my punching bag out of the ceiling.

When the lights came back on the clumsy oaf was laid on his back using my punching bag as a bed, plaster surrounded him, somehow he’d managed to bring down half of the building on top of him without so much as a speck of dust actually hitting him. Rather than training we ended up spending the rest of the day cleaning up the room, several trips to hardware stores ensued as we rebuilt the ring, the ceiling, the punch bag, my bathroom wall and the step he cracked bouncing his head off it. Runn said his goodbyes before we started working, he managed to almost kill us without sharp objects, we all agreed giving him a plaster blade would be begging for a fatal accident.

As the day wound down Mikey and I continued our discussion about our opponents.

“So Smith and Rush. No questions, no hesitations. We’re a team and that’s our secret weapon. Strikeforce may be moving away from the tag titles but that doesn’t mean these two can slow us down.”

“No way in hell buddy.”

Mikey and I each slapped our chest with one hand as we clapped our other hands together, teamwork was what mattered now. Rush and Smith might be good, but they’ve not been working together almost every day for the best part of a year and a half.

 

[The Crock]

The scene opens in a crowded office at WZCW headquarters. The GMs of the three shows -- Big Dave, Vance Bateman, and Chuck Myles -- are all huddled in the corner of the office, with Big Dave barking at someone on the phone.

Big Dave: What do you mean by an ad campaign? How the hell did they manage to do that?

Big Dave listens to the muffled voice on the other end of the line, with frustration slowly crossing his face.

Big Dave: I don't care that they paid for the commercial slots with their own money -- I don't want those two slandering our tag team division during our damn shows.

The muffled voice retorts, but Dave quickly loses patience and ends the conversation. Dave shakes his head with exasperation and looks to his fellow general managers.

Myles: It's not so bad...

Bateman: Not so bad? It's great! Free publicity is the best kind of publicity!

Big Dave: I don't know how enthused I am with the idea of Sam Smith and Rush representing our company, much less allowing them to air commercials on national television that are solely meant to deride our tag team division.

Myles: It's out of our hands, Dave. Besides, maybe Vance has a point; we've basically gotten a free WZCW ad campaign out of this.

Bateman smirks and sarcastically shrugs his shoulders.

Big Dave: I don't like it. Smith and Rush are getting too big-headed -- we'd be better off if they focused half as much on winning matches as they do with running their mouths.

Dave storms out of the room, leaving Bateman and Myles standing with a few other WZCW employees sheepishly standing around. Bateman examines the employees for a moment, before screaming out.

Bateman: BOB?!

Bob gingerly taps Bateman on the shoulder.

Bob: Yes, sir?

Bateman: Where the hell have you been all day?

Bob: Following you around with a notepad and writing down all the interesting details for your memoirs, just like you asked. I'll finish revising chapter three -- about your antique figurine collection -- later tonight, sir.

Bateman's face turns bright red, but he quickly recovers.

Bateman: You're delusional, Bob. Here's what I need you to do: go get me a latte. Actually, make it two -- I'm feeling tired. You want one, Chuck?

Myles opens his mouth to speak, but Bateman ignores him.

Bateman: I'll take that as a no, then. Have a nice day, Myles.

Bateman quickly shuffles out of the room, with Bob in tow like a loyal lap dog.

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As a commercial hyping this week's Ascension/Meltdown/Aftershock ends, another begins rolling. We are met with the sight of Sam Smith dressed in a suit, standing in front of what is obviously a green screen. Smith stares into the camera and begins speaking.

Smith: Hi, I'm Sam Smith. You may know me from such hit television shows such as Ascension 55, where I defeated Justin Cooper for my second Elite X Championship, or Unscripted '12, where I defended my Elite X Championship against Triple X, or even any of the countless other Ascensions or Meltdowns where I defeated people like Celeste Crimson an ungodly amount of times.

Smith motions with his hands.

Smith: Forget all of that, though. I'm here to talk to all of you about a serious problem: if you -- or anyone you know -- are suffering through the terrible WZCW tag team division, you need to take a stand.

Smith takes a deep breath and feigns an upset look on his face.

Smith: This is rather personal, but I cannot stress how big of an issue this is. Do not feel like you have to keep your displeasure to yourself -- feel free to call the WZCW hotline and let your voice be heard.

The WZCW hotline number flashes across the green screen, and Smith points back at it with his thumb.

Smith: Are you unsure if you're suffering because of the WZCW tag team division? Well, ask yourself these questions: Have you found yourself changing the channel when Saxoteur, Strikeforce, and/or any of the other crappy tag teams come on screen? Have you fallen asleep during tag team action? Are you upset with the lack of real wrestling on WZCW programming? Lastly, have you had to sit through a match involving Saxoteur or Strikeforce, in general? If you answered yes to any of those questions, then you -- yes, you -- have a problem. You need to be treated for symptoms of suffering through the awful WZCW tag team division.

Smith tries to solemnly nod.

Smith: It's time we stop turning a blind eye to the WZCW tag team division and face this problem head-on. The tag team division should not be a joke. Used car salesman should not be in the tag team title match at Kingdom Come, like last year. An out of shape gamer and a former, mediocre MMA "star" should never have been the champions. Nor do those very same wrestlers -- Strikeforce -- deserve to step in the ring with real wrestlers, like Sam Smith and Rush. And, we can't forget the d-list actor and his mascot -- should they be the champions? Of course not.

Smith clears his throat.

Smith: You're not in this alone. There is an answer. You won't have to deal with the crappy WZCW tag team division much longer. The tag team champions, Saxoteur, will meet their match at Kingdom Come, while the former champions, Strikeforce, will fall at Meltdown 91. Stay strong.

Smith cracks a cheesy, sarcastic smile and flashes a thumbs up. The commercial slowly fades to black.

The preceding was brought to you by Rush and Sam Smith.

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Chelsea Shaw approached her gate at the airport. She presented her ticket to a flight attendant who glanced at the ticket and began punching random keys on the computer. The flight attendant handed back the ticket and smiled.

Flight Attendant: Welcome aboard, Ms. Shaw.

Chelsea flashed a smile back, equally as empty and meaningless, and found her way to her seat on the plane. She needed to get away from whatever this was that she had been calling a life lately -- and she deserved it, too. She hadn't packed much -- she'd left most of her things in her house -- but she had all her essentials. She'd gotten a few job offers across the country in Chicago, LA, Denver, Houston, and so on. It was the perfect time to try to start over.

She stared down at her cell phone and read a new text message, from Scott Smith:

"Have a nice flight out. Try to enjoy yourself. Feel free to give me a call when you land -- and remember: stay strong."

She powered off her phone and slid it into her pocket; she needed to keep her mind off of home for a while.