December 11, 2010 5PM EST
“I don’t see him. Shit, I don’t even know what the fuck I’m looking for.”
Underneath his black sunglasses, Tank Adams’ eyes nervously scoured International Drive in the heart of Orlando, Florida. Tank’s clenched hands nearly stripped and squeezed the steering wheel of the navy Ford Aerostar, theorizing if he’d been sent on a Suicide mission. Adams’ new employer provided little to no information that only detailed an unnerving short timeframe to earn a substantial bonus in the form of crisp, green hundred dollar bills. Regardless of those facts or the years of genetically enhanced serums and skull-crushing blows administered during his normal job duties, Tank’s harried and harrowed mind was running over his first target.
“Where is this fool?” Ali Khadafi placed his boot on the dashboard from the shotgun chair, leaning back in a relaxed manner that only made Adams grind his teeth.
“I don’t know, I don’t get it,” Adams growled deeply yet quietly, “Johnson said he’d meet us here ten minutes ago and that it’s only the three of us.”
“Shit…you look like you’re gonna drop a nasty deuce, bro.” Khadafi shook his head and smiled at Adams, “Get your ass in check, this ain’t gonna be nothin’.”
Adams’ glare turned to Khadafi, who’s snake-smile slipped sequentially from the look in Tank’s eyes. “Last I checked, ain’t neither of us a globally recognized athlete that’s got an unchecked and legendary aggression streak.” Adams spoke, while his eyes slowly drifted back to the intersection as Ali mentally gulped and put back in one ear bud of his iPod.
“Johnson said this guy doesn’t care about himself, didn’t want a damn dollar and...” Khadafi’s eyebrow rose, while Tank shook his head, “…looks like he’s so far off the reservation he ain’t never gonna be found.”
Khadafi chuckled in disbelief, “Johnson found himself a fuckin’ crazy man for this? I don’t get it.”
Tank cocked his head and cricked his neck, “That’s what I asked…Johnson’s never acted this desperate before. And then…something hit me when I saw ol’ JJ’s eyes and I didn’t even listen to a word his white collared, windsor necktie-knotted ass had to say.”
Ali looked at Tank with a puzzled look.
“He’s going big and digging deep, so now he got spooked.”
“By the crazy ass motherfucker we’re about to let in this van?” Ali’s brow furrowed.
“Or why Johnson thinks he needs him…”
On cue, the side door of the Aerostar slid open and Tank swerved witnessing an unknown man hopping into the backseat, while he quickly slammed the door. Ali slowly turned with a crumpled brow and observed the stranger gently place a black duffel bag behind his seat without saying anything. Tank’s eyebrows piqued as he turned towards meeting eyes with Ali and then both looked back at the newly acquired unvoiced passenger.
A loose black hooded sweatshirt drawn over the stranger’s head concealed most of his face, while a pair of metallic sunglasses refracted the tinted windshield’s light. Faded jeans and worn down, dirt-covered white tennis shoes completed the rest of the look that seemed unassuming enough. Tank and Khadafi’s tumultuous silence reflected off the serene stranger’s sunglasses, his six o’clock shadowed face betrayed nothing to their deadpanned stare.
“You better be Johnson’s man,” Tank said gruffly, but the stranger remained maddeningly quiet. He merely tilted his head a tick as Adams and Ali’s eyes acutely focused on his own.
“Yo…does this guy even got a name?” Ali crookedly smiled and threw his arms up at Adams, “Or did Johnson hire a motherfuckin’ mute?”
“Shut up,” Tank rumbled with an incensed, irritated face that intensely bore down on the stranger. “I don’t know who you are,” Adams motioned towards his watch, “but you’re fucking late.”
“A rooster crows before the dawn,” the jagged, rustic voice of the stranger cut through the air as the hooded man’s face slowly metamorphosed. Tank’s head inched back a few with a tweaked nose of disgust.
“What the fuck…” Ali mumbled with a slight heightened pitch, so the words were very audible to those in the van.
Bloodstained yellow teeth peeked out from the not-so-subtle shark’s smile, the stranger’s motionless behavior diametrically and irreparably disarming the trust of his fellow passengers.
“You think you’re strong… heh heh...” The stranger paused and laughed, “Johnson’s promised a fuckload of money, but you need him to sign. You need me to make him sign.” A graveled laughter slowly emanated from the man’s throat.
Ali shook his head and turned to Tank, “Off the reservation or off the planet?”
“Ringrats around a Legacy, a pocketful of cutlery, slash away the Legacy and the Rage pours out… ASHES! ASHES!” the stranger started belly-laughing hysterically, “They all fall down…”The laughter stopped, the smile faded and a deep and gurgling exhalation exhumed the stranger’s words, “We all fall down…”
Tank Adams took a deep breath and turned around, starting the van’s ignition.
“You ain’t takin’ this motha—“ Ali was cut off by Tank grumbling back, “The sooner we do this, the quicker we’re done with him.” Ali gritted his teeth, sat back and mumbled to himself as the van pulled out onto International Drive and drove towards the former stomping grounds of Legacy of Champions.
December 11, 2010 8:35PM EST
The aches weren’t swelling as much, the pain wasn’t dwelling in the dulled shadows of faith. Time formed the essence of excitement and anticipation.
“Six months,” Scott Riktor smirked as he adjusted the gym bag slung over his shoulder. A beaming face of Rage markedly confident as he strolled alongside the shadowed fairgrounds and gravel dusted flea market, where the Arena of Champions once stood.
This time would be different, this time he had a metropolis populace where a market for what he believed in would shine bright under their lights. “We take New York, we take on the WORLD!” Riktor enforced the mantra in his personal dojo more than ten hours a day, six days a week – even RAGE has to rest.
RingRats Academy faded from the back of Scott Riktor as he took the mile-long walk to let him know that this time would have to be different. That the ghostly shadows of the Arena of Champions were on his shoulders and the very legacy he’s always held beholden to the blood beating in his heart.
A black Cadillac limousine was parked next to his Steve McQueen Mustang Bullitt, Riktor shook his head and muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me, Jim.” A chauffer exited the driver’s seat and quickly opened the passenger door. Black wingtips, a charcoal silk suit and one hell of a moustache stepped out from the limousine.
Jim Johnson smirked, “Good to see you, Scott.”
Riktor slowed his pace, nodding slightly towards Johnson while trying to scan the peripheral exits. “You coming out here to business alone, Jim?” Riktor’s stare returned to Jim, “Cause I don’t think we may have much to talk about until I’m closer to a calling a board meeting.”
“Well, Scott…” Jim smiled, “I thought about whether we would be able to business as to what I see is best for our mutual interests, but you’re not like Brandon. Are you?”
Riktor laughed, “You’re alone and complimenting me for not being retarded? Where are the cameras? Next, you’re going to talk about how what’s best for the company ISN’T just some twisted attempt at buying you another Bentley.”
“Thomas and I made a deal, Scott. You’re standing in the way of what’s best for this company because your ego doesn’t want to accept it failed with you leading it. This is my time to lead, Scott and there’s nothing…” Jim paused and removed a stapled document from his jacket’s breast pocket, “I won’t do to see that through.”
Riktor’s head turned as he heard a low grumbling motor, a white van stopping fifteen feet away. “Yeah, you’re not alone are you…” Riktor smiled as he winked at Johnson, “Please tell me you didn’t buy off Tank, Jim…”
Tank Adams kicked open the driver’s door of the white van, while shouting “YOU FUCKING PUSSY! When I get back in here, I’m…” Tank literally growled thunder and screamed, “FUCK!” Tank slammed his door shot, while Ali Khadafi silently got out the shotgun’s door…
“You hired Tyler Perry’s A-Team for coercion tactics!?” Riktor laughed as Jim Johnson’s face nervously watched Khadafi and Adams storm over, mumbling and muttering amongst themselves over what was left behind in the van. Riktor cocked his head, looking past the duo as what seemed like a quick flicker ignited from within the van.
“Could you guys be ANY less covert?” Johnson’s whisper sliced through the evening air as Adams and Khadafi approached. Riktor’s eyebrow arched as he caught Jim looking back towards the van himself. Johnson then shrugged his shoulders at Tank who was grinding down his teeth.
“You lose who you were supposed to pick up?” Johnson blurted out.
“He’s not fuckin’ coming out,” Adams nodded at Riktor, “Doesn’t want Blondie to see his face. Guess he’s chickenshit…”
Riktor shook his head, while dropping his gym bag. “And the woman always wonders why I’m late for dinner,” Riktor mockingly rolled his eyes and kept shaking his head. “Honestly, if it’s not traffic it’s a badly designed ploy that has a lot more risk than anticipated.” Riktor shrugged as he walked towards the four men, the driver immediately retreating and entering his vehicle. “
Khadafi and Tank charged at Scott, barreling into him and Bullitt.
“OH – THAT’S A BAD MOVE.” Riktor boomed out.
“You should just sign, Scott.”
Riktor elbowed Tank in the side of the head knocking him off, and quickly grabbed Khadafi in a front facelock. Scott dragged Ali away from the car, delivering a Muay-Thai kneestrike into his chest cavity. Khadafi staggered away as Tank wrapped up Riktor in his grizzly arms, taking a back headbutt to slightly crack his nose.
“You should get the hell out of here, Jim…I am going to take you over my knee, I am literally!" Riktor started to shout as he cracked Tank in the gut with a kick, Adams growling and charging in response. Riktor flipped over Tank, but Khadafi bashed him behind with a forearm. Scott responded with a spinning right hand to the jaw that swayed Khadafi’s bowlegged body, Riktor grabbing him and pushing him towards now a retreating Jim Johnson.
Scott rammed Ali’s head into the limo’s passenger door and that’s when with a loud screech of burning rubber, a white Aerostar sped towards EVERYONE.
CRACK!
The white van plowed into the Bullitt Mustang, as everyone else lay strewn out on the ground. Johnson had dived onto the trunk of his limo avoiding the collision as Riktor scrambled up from his dive with a crazed look on his face.
“GOD DAMNIT, MY CAR!” Riktor ran up to the driver’s side door, lunging inside as the backdoors swung open with the unknown assailant picked up earlier by Johnson’s men. The hooded sweatshirt-clad figure crept out laughing, but holding something very ominous. Riktor raced towards the back of the van, running flush into a vicious swinging crowbar to his body.
“NO! NOOOOOO!” Johnson jumped up to his feet.
The shadowed assailant swung again, this time with an overhead blow to the back of Riktor. Riktor fell to the ground as Tank Adams charged up with an anguished scream and lunge towards the hooded man.
Jim Johnson’s heart dropped out of his intestines as he watched Tank Adams take a crunching blow to the head and crumpling to the ground, the impact so severe Ali Khadafi nearly fell down just watching it.
The shadowed figure twirled the crowbar around, chuckling as he paced around the wreckage.
“To what depths must a man fall to understand the price of sacrifice?” The graveled voice of the hooded man twisted the core pit of Jim Johnson’s stomach that wretched at the blood pouring out from Tank’s mouth.
Riktor choked on the ground, “Tank called you chicken shit…bat shit, definitely bat shit.”
“Wha—WHAT JUST HAPPENEND?!” Johnson screamed out with immediate regret as the hooded man sharply turned towards him. The crowbar spun through the man’s right hand as he slowly walked over to Johnson.
“I—I thought we…” Johnson nervously whispered as his driver fell out from his door, the airbag apparently deployed. “I—WE had a deal.” Johnson’s hands clammed up as the hooded man stood mere inches from him, his lips chapping as the shadowed figure slowly reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the papers brought for Riktor to sign.
“This what I told you to bring?” The graveled voice calmly asked as Johnson quickly nodded in approval. Khadafi’s jaw dropped slightly, “What…the FUCK?” Ali fell to a knee, not knowing what to do or think anymore. Riktor rolled onto this back, groaning…
The hooded man nodded at Khadafi, “Search his pockets. Wallet and cell phone.”
“FUCK NO!” Khadafi yelled back. “I AIN’T TOUCHIN’ SHIT ANYMORE!”
“DO IT ALI!” Johnson shouted back immediately, “JUST DO IT!” Johnson stuffed the papers into the stranger’s hand. “This is NOT what I signed up for. This is on you, if it works or not…this is now on you.”
The stranger nodded and walked towards Riktor coughing violently, Khadafi leaned over and reached into Scott’s pocket, Riktor pulling out his cell phone and bashing it over Ali’s head. “FUCK!” Ali shouted, but that was drowned out and irreparably scarring his and Johnson’s ears.
The shuddering crunch and subsequent screams of Scott Riktor tore through their own consciences, the stranger standing on the surgically repaired knee he possibly just shattered with the crowbar. Riktor’s face turned bright red as he mentally clenched to the last string of pain his body could endure, his torso shaking spastically as he leaned upwards.
“WHO…Wh—“ Riktor squealed inside while the stranger forcefully applied more pressure with a deep chuckle. “You may as well finish the job, you better never let me know who you are… If you don’t, I am going to hunt down every person here, every last one!” Riktor nearly passed out, the searing pain from his leg overriding the neural and primal desire to fight.
“The joke is, Scott… within the sacrifice itself.”
The hooded man’s smile grew as Scott Riktor’s eyes squinted in a bewildered confusion that felt bone chillingly familiar. “The price is infinite, its depth is bottomless.”
The man bent down to one knee next to Scott, calmly whispering in his gravel toned voice, “And tonight, you lie on the axis. You can make the sacrifice and sign the papers, or I make the sacrifice with an unspeakable fate."
Scott Riktor heard his choices but before he could decide his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and it came crashing down onto the pavement with a sickening thud. Jim Johnson and Ali Khadafi simply stared slack-jawed at each other, each of them waiting for the other to tell him what the next move is. The hooded man hovered over Scott Riktor's limp body, still awaiting his answer.
"Is he...dead?"
"Unconscious. But he's a fighter. He'll come to in a few moments and by that time we'll have an answer, one way or another."
"NO! No ... no. I'll take care of it from here. You've done more than enough already." Jim Johnson pulled a gold plated fountain pen out of his breast pocket along with a few stapled papers he had folded, which he thumbed to the last page of. Leaning over Scott Riktor, he took the man's hand in his own. He waved the hand, with pen clutched firmly inside, along the bottom of the paper. "There," he said, "we got what we came for. Ali, load Tank into the car and take our associate back to the drop-off location. I don't want to see any of you until we get to New York." Jim Johnson gave a final nod and began jogging towards his car but doubled back for a split second. "And one last thing ... don't talk to anyone about what happened tonight."
After shoving Tank Adams into the back of his own van, Ali Khadafi returned for his mysterious cohort. "Look, man," he desperately yelled after closing the doors, "we gotta get outta here now, man! We can't be here when he comes to!"
"Start the car." The hooded man kneeled down on the pavement next to Scott Riktor and whispered into his ear. Scott's eyes opened only for a short and fading moment, and he stared his assailant dead in his eyes. A single word escaped his lips...
"Revenge."
January 21, 2011
New York City, New York.
"Brandon, thank you for actually showing up this time to meet with me. My collegue will be very pleased."
Seated across from Jim Johnson at a corner table in the upscale Daniel NYC restaurant was Brandon Thomas, once known as the Owner, CEO, and Ruler of all things Legacy. In other words, he was the majority stock holder in the Legacy of Champions and that was exactly what Jim Johnson has set up this meeting to discuss. But Brandon Thomas, essentric and prone to distraction as he was, had another topic on his mind.
"I hear this place has great ribs ... is that J-Lo? She's the hottest piece of ass in the world. Seriously. It's been ranked and, judging from the size of it, I'm guessing they were voting based on sheer spectrum of ass. Her cheeks could swallow ... heh." Brandon paused and really took in that mental picture. "Marc Anthony's a toolbag, I could hit that if I wanted to. And I do, so I'll be right back."
"Brandon," Jim said while grabbing Brandon Thomas' left forearm, "We do have business to discuss here. I would appreciate it if you didn't get yourself thrown out of the restaurant before we even began to do that."
Brandon jerked his arm back, "What are you? O ... right. Listen, I've only done that, like, half a dozen times. It's pretty rare when you consider how much I actually get away with."
"Sit ... please?"
After shrugging his shoulders and letting out a larger than life sigh, Brandon Thomas finally sat down. Jim Johnson was warned about just how to deal with the owner of LoC. In fact, the exact words were something along the lines of "treat him like a giant toddler" and, so far, that had been working out.
"So, listen," Brandon began, "I've been meaning to ask you something since we got here."
"Yes?"
"Dude, you ran the Pinnacle of Insane Wrestling! What were you thinking not hiring the future of wrestling in yours truly? That place would still be open today if I was there, man!"
"And while that may be true, Brandon, if that was the case you would have never been the Owner, CEO, and Ruler of All Things Legacy."
"You make a valid point ... but where has that gotten me, anyway?"
The opening. A crooked smirk appeared on Jim's face. "Exactly. And that, Brandon, is what we're here to talk about tonight."
"I know," Brandon replied, "I knew that all along ... and I know it's Black Tom Williams behind this whole deal.
"How could you possibly?"
"I'm rich, I have connections. Look, here's what I want: A lifetime contract, I know you've bought a building in Times Square and I want my own personal private VIP locker room upstairs, I want you to remove that ridiculous "No Challenge" clause that moron Scott Riktor put into my old contract, and I want this..." Brandon slid a ripped napkin across the table and left it right in front of Jim Johnson's face. Johnson, after looking carefully at the paper, appeared to be confused.
"First off, we're in a five star restaurant ... where did you get the paper napkin?"
"Dunkin' Donuts."
"Okay ... and the second thing is ... that's it?"
"What are you ...," Brandon leaned across the table and closely examined his hastily scribbled note. "OH! See, there's supposed to be another zero on the end there ... and a comma right ... there."
"That is a enormous sum of money, Brandon."
"Yeah. I know."
"I'll have to get back to you on that after speaking with my employer."
"Yup, whatever. Listen, I'm gonna go hit on J-Lo hardcore. You talk to your boss and give me a call later." Brandon stepped over to a couple seated one table over, who appeared to be quietly celebrating some important event. They stared longingly into each other's eyes and held hands across the table, both smiling . That had a glow about them that lit up the room. They were clearly in love, that much was certain.
"Would you look at this crap?" Brandon lifted up the young woman's plate and revealed three clams and some kind of green sauce underlining them in a swirling design. "I'm not eating this garbage. Now, if you'll excuse me, the ass of the year award is calling."
Five minutes later in the parking garage outside of the restaurant.
"Get your hands offa me!" Brandon screamed while being manhandled by two rather large gentlemen in black suits, each sporting a clear earpiece.
Believe it or not, I'm walking on air!
"I need to take this, gentlemen!"
"Just escorting you away from Miss Lopez, sir." One of the large men said as both released Brandon Thomas to answer his cell phone.
"It's a business call. Tell Jenny from the block that I'm a very important man! I've met Snoop Dogg!" Brandon brought the phone up to his ear, "Jimmy, how's it going? Long time no speak." He looked back at the two men, "It's Jim Carey *cough*Johnson*cough*!"
"Jim Carey Johnson?"
"I didn't say that."
"Yes, sir, you did."
"Time is money, boys, I need to talk to my friend Jim Carey ... Johnson."
"You did it again."
"PLEASE! BUSINESS! Miss Lopez would be embarassed if she was here to witness such unprofessional behavior! EXCUSE ME!"
Back to the phone. "So, did you find the ridiculous sum of money from your financiers that you're offering me to co-star in your latest feature?
Uh-huh, well then ... we have a deal. Have your people draw up the paper work and meet with my people."
*Boop*
"It's been a pleasure doing business with you, too, Jim Carey. I can't wait to meet you for dinner tomorrow night either. AND DRINKS AND DANCING?! Jimmy, I'd be honored to accompany you in a night filled with VIP rooms and celebrity tail! As a matter of fact, I was just speaking with Miss Jennifer Lopez. Of course, I'll ask he if she wants to join us immediately! Same to you, Jimmy, enjoy your day best friend!"
Back to the large men. "Jimmy wants me to ask Jennifer to come club-hopping with us tomorrow night."
"We heard you hang up your phone, sir. You're not going anywhere near Miss Lopez."
"Your asses will be fired come morning, you better believe it! Wait until Jennifer hears the way you're treating me!"
"Have a good day, sir."
"Don't walk away from me!" The two men headed around the corner and back towards the restaurant, leaving Brandon Thomas alone in a parking garage. He looked around for his car but something hit him. "GOD DAMNIT! Johnson was my ride!"
June 8, 2011
"Everything is in motion. In a few months I'll have the financial backing I need to make the purchase and then it's smooth sailing to the finish line."
Jim Johnson sat in the Commissioner's Office of the Arena of Champions. A seat that was once occupied by Scott Riktor during the Legacy of Champions boom from 2005 through 2007. It was now half a decade later and the former Pinnacle of Insane Wrestling owner was the man running the LoC show.
"I wouldn't worry about that. Riktor signed his shares over with his own hand. There's nothing he can do about it now."
The LoC Commissioner kicked his feet up on his desk and smiled.
"What can I say? I can be very persuasive."
Jim lifted a black and gold pen from his desk. Twirling in it his fingers he fondly remembered the beating his goons had given Scott Riktor just a few short months earlier. He recalled Scott's bloody hand as he was forced to sign over his portion of the Legacy of Champions, the key and most elusive piece to this entire plan. As he listened to whomever his business partner was on the other end of the line Jim shook his head is dismissal.
"No, not at all. Nothing can be traced back. We're perfectly in the clear. Trust me, he's not going to be a liability."
Who was he? Scott Riktor? Brandon Thomas? Maybe it was Black Tom Williams, the man that allowed this entire plan to begin to take shape. Or was it someone else entirely?
"You worry too much. The old man has dementia, he thinks he's still the WWWL World Champion. He's harmless. They've got him living out the rest of his days on his ranch in Texas elbow dropping bails of hay. And his kids are fine with the whole thing, so long as we pay the bills for however long he keeps kicking. Old bastard will probably live to be a hundred. Here, let me put your mind at ease ...
"I've covered all our tracks and those that may still leave footprints will belong to other people's shoes. This is a done deal. It's foolproof. Nobody suspects a thing."
December 25, 2011 9:42PM EST
Violence 50: Inside the Skybox
"I'll be damned, it looks like Christmas is right on schedule. What is Vince's decision, Natalia?"
"Vincent has decided to take you up your offer but he has some terms..."
"I'm sure he does. What does the champ want?"
"He will agree to align himself with Jim Johnson and his stable but he will not be joining it's ranks. Vincent does not wish to be subservient to any man. He will side with Team Johnson and, in turn, they will help him remain Legacy Champion. Should Vincent feel this partnership has become a hindrance at any moment, he can and will terminate it without warning. I think you of all people can understand that mindset."
"I most certainly do, Natalia. And now, my terms. I only have one: Vince must never know who I am. He can't know who he's working for and the moment he does ... I can and will terminate his contract ... without warning. You obviously know I have the means to keep track of this situation, correct?"
"Correct. Vincent will never know."
"Good, then we have a deal. Here, this is for you and give this envelope to Vince. Open them later. Oh, and Natalia?
... Merry Christmas."
December 25, 2011 11:15PM EST
S-V-J!!!
S-V-J!!!
S-V-J!!!
S-V-J!!!
S-V-J!!!
Jacobs started to move a little to the corner as Chavez started to move as well. The fans erupted in jeers as they noticed that Team Johnson started to make their way to the ring. Nashvillain and Derecho stood on the stage as AJ, Broken, BK, Tank Adams, Gabriel Gold, and Bryan Williams all came down the ramp.
KANE: Here comes trouble.
STONE: This doesn't look to good for our Legacy Champion.
KANE: And Jimmy Hunt is powerless in that ring because Mr. Johnson made the match a NO DQ match.
STONE: I don't like the looks of this.
All seven men made their way into the ring as both Jacobs and Chavez looked on. Chavez smiled as he stood up and moved closer to Team Johnson. The Icon was finally on his feet in the corner looking at the eight men across from him. He had nowhere to go he was cornered. Broken and Gabriel Gold rushed in and nailed Vince. He was exhausted as the two men nailed him in the back while Vince tried to cover up. Ray started to direct traffic. Suddenly Ray was nailed from behind by a big double axe-handle by Alexander Jerusalem.
KANE: What the hell is going on?
STONE: I have no idea.
The Tag Team champions grabbed Chavez and whipped him into the ropes.
BLITZKRIEG
The arena went silent as Team Johnson members were dismantling Ray Chavez in the middle of a Legacy Title match.
KANE: Mr. Johnson is not going to be happy about this.
STONE: You're right. I wonder if Nashvillain and Derecho had something to do with this since they are still on the stage.
The challenger lay In the middle of the ring as Tank Adams picked him up from the mat. Adams quickly drove Chavez into the mat with the A-Bomb. Broken and Gabriel Gold picked Jacobs up out of the corner and pointed to Chavez. Vince crawled over to Ray and hooked his leg for the cover. Jimmy Hunt looked around and dropped down for the count.
ONE'
TWO'
THREE'
KANE: I don't know what to say about what just happened.
STONE: Vince Jacobs is still the Legacy Champion after Team Johnson destroyed Ray Chavez.
Vince stood to his feet and looked around at the men still in the ring. He smiled and hugged Tank Adams. The crowd went ballistic with jeers. Chants started to erupt throughout the arena.
BULL-SHIT!!
BULL-SHIT!!
BULL-SHIT!!
BULL-SHIT!!
S-V-J SUCKS!!
S-V-J SUCKS!!
S-V-J SUCKS!!
S-V-J SUCKS!!
Jim Johnson was seen walking out to the stage clapping his hands. He and the other two members of Team Johnson made their way down to the ramp into the ring. Broken rolled to the floor and grabbed the Legacy Title and made his way back into the ring. He handed the title to the champion as Jim Johnson came into the ring and shook Vince's hand. Team Johnson stood united in the middle of the ring with what seems to be their newest member.
Jim Johnson asked for a microphone. He stood in the ring gloating. 'I told you fools that I was going to eventually have the Legacy Championship within Team Johnson. I know you didn't think that the piece of shit Ray Chavez was going to bring the gold home. No I needed a sure bet, an insurance policy if you will. I needed the Icon in Team Johnson. Now Team Johnson is complete and it's only a matter of time before we take over Legacy of Champions.'
KANE: Wow. Vince Jacobs is a member of Team Johnson. This is great.
STONE: No this is terrible. Jacobs has been playing us for weeks. How long has he been a member of Johnson's stable? Vince just spit in the fans' and the boys in the back faces.
Natalia finally made her way into the ring as she kissed Vince on the cheek. Suddenly the fans erupted in cheers as Scott Riktor stood on the stage looking on. He was battered and bruised from his match with AJ but he stood on the stage disgusted as he pointed to Jacobs. Vince put the title on his shoulder and motioned for Scott to come to the ring.
KANE: I don't think Scott is that stupid to come to the ring.
STONE: Scott is pissed. His friend just stabbed him and the company in the back.
Scott Riktor eyed the Legacy Champion with a Rage not seen from him in years.
Violence faded out.
June 3, 2012 8:20PM EST
“Cut to camera three, NOW!” a voice could be heard shouting. It completely cut out the announcers mid-sentence. The shot changed and opened up in the back, near the entrance from the parking garage, where one pissed off Superbeast had Rune Winters pinned by the throat.
“You slam me in the head with a shovel for weeks, you attack me from behind like a coward, and you have the balls to say i’ve been ducking YOU for years? Fuck the referees, fuck the ring, and fuck a signed contract! I’m going to do what I should have done years ago and finally fucking END YOU” Sylo roared at Rune.
At this point Winters had started turning a shade of blue from lack of oxygen but Rune wouldn’t go down that easy. One cheap shot to the balls would loosen Sylo’s hand from around Rune’s throat and turn the table for Rune as he began throwing well placed punches to send Sylo flying back toward the other wall.
“Listen Cookie...it was just business...well not all of it was. I’ve waited a long time to finally put down the SuperBITCH. Now, be a good dog and hold still. I won’t make you suffer...much,” Rune smirked as he grabbed Sylo’s head and slammed it against the concrete wall.
He turned and threw Sylo through the two double doors leading into the parking garage. Sylo went tumbling until he landed against a car. Most men would have been almost out but Rune wasn’t fighting a man, he wasn’t fighting a monster, no - Rune Winters was fighting THE Monster. Sylo spat, roared, and flew to his feet and at Rune Winters.
Rune went to throw a punch but Sylo moved just enough to the left to avoid a hard right and made Rune pay.
POP!
It’s a sickening noise when flesh and bone collide together.
Rune flew back, his head ringing and his jaw possibly fractured after a well placed uppercut Sylo used to counter Rune. The theory that Sylo wouldn’t stay down because he was THE Monster was accurate but Rune Winters wasn’t just any slob either. He’d been in battles, he had won wars, and he had fought Sylo enough to know what to expect. Simply put: Rune Winters was one of the toughest sons of bitches to ever step into the ring.
As Sylo came forward Rune pushed past the pain and caught Sylo in the knee with a well placed boot. Sylo’s knee buckled and Rune followed it up with three stiff shots that damn well could have knocked someone out. Sylo spit to the side, a large wad of blood landed on the concrete slab the two men were fighting on. Rune took the opening to grab a nearby metal pipe (seriously, who keeps all these weapons around? It’s like every time you see a wrestling arena there are weapons literally EVERYWHERE.)
Rune smirked, twirled the pipe in his hand, and swung for the fences. Well, he tried to swing for the fences but came up with a bunt because Sylo caught the pipe mid-swing. Sylo snarled at Rune, threw a sharp elbow with his right arm, and possibly broke Rune’s nose.
Sylo wasn’t done.
Not even close.
He wrapped two massive arms around Rune’s torso and sent him flying with a belly to belly suplex. Rune slammed into the same car Sylo had earlier and then landed neck first on the concrete. Sylo took in a deep breath as he eyed Rune, measuring him, because The Superbeast was about to kick 3 points from the 50 yard line.
Rune moved just in time and Sylo came up with air. Growling, Sylo turned back to Rune, but Rune had managed to get to one foot. He grabbed Sylo and with all the strength he could muster up he sent him flying head first toward the car.
CRASH!
Sylo’s skull went through the passenger side window and someone's insurance rates just went through the roof. Sylo pulled himself free as bits of glass stuck in his flesh, blood ran down his face, and...he was smiling. It was enough to catch Rune off guard and Sylo made him pay. He kneed him in the gut, sent him flying into the side of the car, and began throwing punches that even the greatest strikers in the world could admire.
Sylo stopped long enough to pick Rune up and send him crashing down on the hood with a beautiful spinebuster that dented the cars hood. Rune’s face resembled raw hamburger meat as Sylo sent one more shot in to put Rune down for a bit. Sylo seemed satisfied as he jumped off the hood and crouched near the car waiting for Rune to get up.
It was obvious what he wanted to do.
It was obvious what he was going to do.
He was going to slaughter Rune through the windshield.
He was going to do that until out of nowhere an all-too-familiar black hummer came speeding forward. Sylo would catch it out of the side of his eyes...
... but it would be a second too late.
And just like that Sylo was swallowed by the demon of his past mistakes.
June 3, 2012 10:17PM EST
“Black Hearts and Dollar Signs” by FADE
Derecho stood at the entraceway with a microphone. His music died down to silence and the booing ensued. Derecho brought the mic up to his lips.
“You know…” Derecho said as he winced in pain and tried to catch his breath.
“When I first came here, I was promised a spot in a match on PPV where I had the opportunity to once again become Legacy Champion.” Derecho once again caught his breath
“I lost that match, and Superstar Vince Jacobs has been running around here with what should have been my championship around his waist ever since.” The people boo SVJ’s name and Derecho.
“When I joined Team Johnson, I did it because I was promised by Jim Johnson himself, that I could have a shot at one of the richest prizes in LoC… THE top tier title in this promotion and it doesn’t matter if SVJ joined the team or not… I was still going to challenge for that prestigious championship.”
Derecho, through all the pain cracked a grin.
“And now that I have won Or Die Trying… now that I am the LoC Relentless Champion.. and now that I am the #1 Contender to that prestigious title….” Derecho stated then paused.
“…then let be known.. that the very first chance that I get… I am going to take that championship… I AM GOING TO TAKE WHAT SHOULD BE MINE…”
…. Suicide”
Derecho dropped the mic and grinned. In the ring laid both the challenger to the Underground Championship and the champion himself. Both men were bloodied, both beaten, both exhausted. And Derecho knew this all too well as he slowly entered the ring. Putting the boots to One Eye, the Relentless Champion and ODT winner rolled him out of the ring. With the referee still in the ring this was his chance...
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
That was all it took for Derecho to become one of the few men to win both the Legacy and Underground titles, and the only man to also win the Relentless Championship. In one night Derecho had become the single most decorated Grappler in LoC history.
He stood triumphantly in the ring, grasping both the Relentless and Underground titles in his hands. He raised them to the sky and let out a victorious yell, which was answered by a wave of debris filling the ring around him. The fans hated Derecho, but Derecho loved to be hated. It was a match made in Heaven.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, your winner and the NEW UNDERGROUND CHAMPION ...
... DERECHO!
June 3, 2012 10:25PM EST
But Derecho barely had time to hoist his newly won Underground title into the air as all of a sudden the guitar-twang of “God’s Gonna Cut You Down” by Johnny Cash started to play over the loudspeakers for the second time that night.
Derecho immediately readied himself for what would be his fourth battle of the evening. But surprisingly the man he had already beaten once tonight, the Nashvillain, casually strolled out from behind the curtains, mic tucked securely in the crook of his arm as he clapped his hands together heartily and stopped at the top of the ramp.
“Bravo, Derecho. Bravo.” The masked Tennessee native started, over the unsure rumbling of the crowd. These were two men the LoC faithful didn’t care for, but were undecided on which one they’d rather boo more. “I gotta hand it to ya, son. I didn’ think ya had it in ya, but you done it. Ya not only pulled a fast one on me an’ then went on to take care’a Wippit Guud to become the Relentless champion. . .but ya had the smarts to come out here while Suicide was damn near dead on his feet an’ cash in that title shot right away to ALSO become the goddamn Underground champion. An’ ya know what? I’m proud’a ya, son. Under different circumstances I might’a taken ya under my wing. Hell, ya kinda remind me of myself back in the day.”
The Nashvillain had a big smile on his face but inside the ring, Derecho couldn’t have looked any more annoyed as he stood in the middle of the ring with the Underground championship draped over one shoulder and the Relentless title resting on the other. The newly crowned King of the Underground rolled his eyes and made a “Can we get this over with, now?” motion with his finger.
“Well would ya look at that? Been a champion for forty-five whole minutes an’ already got the inflated ego to match. Alrigh’ son, alrigh’. I hear ya. Let me get to the reason I done come out here an’ interrupted yer celebration.” Nash paused briefly to pull a small stack of papers from the back pocket of his blue jeans and thumbed through them until he found what he was looking for.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news but I been readin’ up on the rules an’ regulations while I been sittin’ in the back, ‘cause let’s face it, who’s a bigger stickler for the rules than I am, right? Right? Anyway, I just happened to stumble across this lil clause in this here handbook that says, an’ I quote. . .that once the current Relentless champion has challenged successfully for the LoC World or Underground championship he or she must relinquish the Relentless championship immediately.
“So it seems to me, Derecho, that ya have one of two options in this here situation. Ya can either keep your Relentless championship an’ hand that lovely Underground title BACK to Suicide,” Option number one caused the arena to fill with cheers and even break out in small chants of SU-I-CIDE. “OR, you can keep that Underground belt and forfeit the Relentless title right here an’ right now. What’s it gonna be Derecho?”
A sneer spread over the face of Derecho as he took both title belts in his hands. He chuckled as he looked from the Underground championship to the Relentless championship and back again before looking into the Nashvillain’s eyes and chucking the Relentless title belt to the canvas before swiftly kicking it to the floor where it lay in a heap. Derecho raised the Underground championship above his head and let out a roar as a thunderous, cascade of boos descended upon him from the rafters to floor.
No one noticed the grin that stretched over the face of the Nashvillain as he sauntered slowly down to ringside, plucked the Relentless title from the floor and tossed it over his shoulder. He walked slowly back up the ramp, never once glancing back at Derecho. . .he only had eyes for his shiny new toy. He had suffered a setback earlier but it had all worked out in the end. As far as he was concerned he was the new Relentless titles holder and he had a plan securely in place for keeping it that way for a good, long time.
June 3, 2012 11:10PM EST
"This is unbelievable, folks! Scott Riktor is about to win the Legacy Championship!"
After a match that saw both men taken to their limits and beyond there, in the middle of the ring, stood Scott Riktor. He had Superstar Vince Jacobs hooked and all that was left to give Riktor his second Legacy Championship was the Finishing Touch. He knew it, the fans knew it, and everyone in the back knew it. The reign of Team Johnson was finally coming to an end. Then it happened...
The Arena of Champions went black and the fans collectively gasped.
"What's going on here?" Tony Stone questioned. If he had only waited a few seconds longer he would find out.
Blue washed over the Arena of Champions. In the ring, Scott Riktor was dumbfounded. He had no more of an idea what he was witnessing than the fans did.
BOOM!
The explosion shook the foundation of the Arena but the shock did not stop there. Banners fell from the ceiling, covering anything with an LoC logo on it. Banners all with the same logo...
The fans erupted in a certain four letter chant that had died a decade ago but was now returned from the grave. Scott Riktor's eyes widened as the realization of what exactly was happening to his beolved Legacy of Champions set in. His head swiveled around the Arena, taking everything in. What he failed to notice was Superstar Vince Jacobs shaking the cobwebs out of his head. He sprung free from Riktor's clutch.
SUPERSTAR KICK!
SVJ wasted no time going for the cover on the First Legacy Champion.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
Scott Riktor had fallen ... and with him fell a Legacy.
A victorious Superstar Vince Jacobs stood tall in the ring, knowing full well the truth of what beating Scott Riktor meant. He had taken on the Legacy of Champions itself and he had won.
Natalia brought her champion his Legacy title belt, so he could hold it triumphantly over his head. SVJ had given no notice to the redecoration of the Arena he ruled over but now, standing atop the turnbuckle, he saw the change and it took him by total surprise. He instinctively turned to the entrance ramp for answers, expecting whoever was behind this to emerge.
But that did not happen.
Instead, the Arena of Champions went black one last time...
Click to Enter
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