Fatal Fourway Match
Ria Escárcega vs. Patience vs. Wayne Williams vs. Jack Wilde
The match started at a hectic pace as Wayne Williams and Jack Wilde squared off. The two high flyers did their best to entertain the crowd; Wilde hit the tilt-a-whirl headscissors, while Williams managed to connect with a springboard crossbody before the action spilled outside. Once there, Williams leapt off the apron with a senton bomb to Wilde.
But Ria was never one to let others have the spotlight. She connected with a suicide somersault senton, taking out Williams – before Patience snuck up behind her with a clubbing blow. The action returned to the ring as the two women squared off. Patience slowed the pace, using her strikes to wear Ria down before eventually scoring a near fall off a kneeling piledriver. But Escárcega got some shots in of her own; an Irish whip counter led to "En El Fuego" (Pop-Up Flip Piledriver), which scored Ria a two count straight off the bat.
She soon followed up with repeated leg drops, before Wilde returned to the fray. Ria found herself on the receiving end of a springboard forearm smash, before a tornado DDT scored him a two count. That was when Williams got back up and nailed Wilde with a pumphandle half-nelson driver, but Patience interrupted the count! She quickly scored with a Northern lights suplex into a double foot stomp on Williams, before a groggy Wilde got back to his feet. Another kneeling piledriver connected, and Patience was able to get the three count before Ria could make the save.
Winner: Patience (9:59)
After the match, Patience stood tall in the center of the ring as Ria pounded her fists on the ring apron. The angry young woman obviously annoyed by not winning. Ria made her way backstage, kicking the guard rail as she went.
Backstage…
The now former SCCW tag champions, GBH can be seen talking to one another. Harper vows not to let The Swole Mates get away with this, saying that GBH will get the belts back soon enough. Miss Fortune pipes up saying that Pattie got lucky tonight, but it won’t happen again. She continues, saying GBH are the best tag team in SCCW, and they’ll be back on top soon enough.
Singles Match
Maurice Robinson vs. Noah Ortega
The two squared off in a grudge match of sorts in what proved to be a hard hitting contest. Maurice started off with the advantage, hitting a series of hiptosses and arm drags to catch Noah off guard, before hitting a belly to belly suplex.
But with the help of The Lost on the outside, Noah managed to turn the tide. With the referee distracted, Noah was able to rake the eyes to escape a powerslam attempt and push Maurice into the corner. From there he connected with a running double knee strike, and went from there. Ortega scored big a minute later, hitting a corner step up kick, before a front missile dropkick sent Robinson across the ring and all the way to the outside. Ortega distracted the referee momentarily, allowing The Lost members to stomp at Maurice, before Noah attempted a triangle asai moonsault…
…and took out his followers! Maurice managed to escape their grasp in time to save himself, and took a couple of The Lost down with forearm strikes, before dropping Noah across the apron with an x-plex!
The action returned to the ring as Maurice pushed on, scoring a couple of nearfalls after a running powerslam and the wrestling II knee lift. But each time a member of The Lost interrupted the count. So the referee expelled them from ringside! The crowd cheered as The Lost were sent backstage, but Noah proved capable of cheating on his own. A low blow behind the referee’s back brought him back into the thick of it, before Noah scored some near falls off a springboard reverse DDT and the "Trifecta" (Superkick, Spinning back kick, Pele kick performed one after the other).
In the end, however, Noah got caught in midair; a crossbody attempt countered with a powerslam took the wind out of his sails, before Maurice finished him off with a fireman carry facebuster for the three count.
Winner: Maurice Robinson (11:42)
After the match, Maurice celebrated by dancing in the ring, even inviting a couple of female fans in to share the moment with him. As he started spanking them, however, the show cut to a segment.
Recorded Earlier…
On the parking lot of the Sussex County Championship Wrestling (SCCW) Arena, from the cab of his satin-black ‘58 Ford, the vagabond Matthews cousins exit; one Harley Davidson Badlands after the other, Johnny Matthews stepped down onto the blacktop from the driver's seat and, from the passenger's side, his little cousin Rebi dropped down to the pavement.
His boots were tucked under his Timberlands, his jeans held up by a leather belt and he had a SCCW Official “Vindication” T-shirt under his patch-covered, leather vest. His eyes hidden behind dark-tinted shades, his face shadowed by the brim of the leather, Aussie-style fedora on his head; the left side of the brim, rolled tighter than the right. He has a hand-rolled cigarette dangling in his lips.
She is all dolled up in western-style Corral boots, Wallflower jeans, with a black T-shirt under a form-fitting, pink flannel. Angel Wings dangled from her ears, dog tags from her neck and she clutched to a pink purse with a western belt buckle clasp. Everything, even her dark brown waves, covered in glitter. The rhinestones on her clothes shimmered.
Matthews retrieves ‘Justice’, the fatter, handle-end of a billiard stick with a giant steel nut cinched down on it, from under the driver's seat and a worn poster, folded in half. He slams the door and starts around the front of his truck, passing by her as she shut the passenger door.
“Hey,” Rebi calls out, spinning him around. She points toward the front of the building, “Shouldn't we be goin’ that’a way?”
“No,” Matthews shakes his head, slightly, “that is where the heathens enter,” he uses Justice to point in the direction that she is, “the entertainment,” he flips ashes about as he speaks, “we enter back here.”
Rebi rolls her eyes; not that Matthews noticed, he waved for her to follow and turned, about-face. Reluctantly, she follows him. Around the building, past the service entrance and to the rear entrance. Sure enough, they violated the clearly posted “DO NOT ENTER” advisement. She watched him saunter down the corridor, as if he owned the place, oblivious to the fact that he had never been in this building in his life. He took her under his right arm, pulled her to his tempo and dropped his arm. Walking beside her he shared bits of wisdom.
“Always say, hello,” he instructs, the cigarette bouncing in his lips as he speaks, “even if you don't know them, doesn't matter. And,” he puffs a cloud of smoke in their wake, “if you want to know something,” he opens the poster as they approach a ring grip, “just ask.”
Rebi trails off as her cousin presents a faded event poster, then date was in 2012, the show featured the final of the GFC Invitational Tournament.
“Hey, hello, yeah,” Matthews exhales a billow of smoke into the grip’s face, “how you doing? Where is this,” he uses Justice to point to one of the finalists, “fucker?”
Coughing and pointing, the ring grip directed them down the corridor. He waved the smoke away as Matthews continued down the hall, Rebi in tow. Midway down the hall, as the referee was exiting the restroom, Matthews bangs right into Harry Bush. Hard.
“This fucker,” Matthews points to the same competitor on the poster, “where's he at?”
After Bush collects himself, he points down the corridor. Again, Matthews, with the information he was after, had no interest in sticking around. They continued down the hallway, Rebi bopping and bobbing along in the cloud of smoke behind him.
“Hey, Man,” Matthews shakes the hand of a geared-up wrestler, “tough break on Wednesday, but who wants their Jr. Heavyweight Championship anyway?”
“Do they know you are smoking back here?”
“Is this fucker here,” Matthews points out the Invitational finalist once more, “is he a part of ‘they’? If so,” he releases a huge cloud in the face of his fellow W×W talent, “I am looking to tell him all about my smoking back here. Where is he?”
“Dude,” the wrestler answered, pointing to the door he had just exited, “he's in there. Good luck.”
“See,” Matthews tells Rebi, “in the good old days, we knocked and politely asked. Today though,” Matthews shakes his head, disgusted, “with all of the manufactured vomit passing over a promoter’s desk,” he had her undivided attention, along with everyone else in the corridor, “sometimes you just have to…”
Suddenly, without hesitation, Matthews front kicks the door open. The man inside, the winner of the match depicted on the poster, threw his hands up. Papers flew everywhere as Matthews rushed the desk and then stepped up on top of it, pinning Ben Hanson against the wall behind him.
“Hey there,” Matthews’ expression half-demented, but absolutely serious, “I am Johnny Matthews; I'm kind of,” he considers the words on the fly, “fucking everywhere.”
“I would enjoy very much,” Hanson, no longer startled, but direct, “if I could say, I have no clue who you are.”
“A’ight, then,” Matthews shrugs, lowering Justice from Hanson’s chest, “this is my cousin Rebi. We have wrestling in our blood,” he explains, as he steps down off of the desk, “we are third-generation Matthews, from Texas.”
“Okay,” Hanson nods.
“I want you to teach her the right way,” Matthews somewhat requests, “and, out there, I will teach her the smart way. Then, maybe,” he glances at Rebi and then locks back on Hanson, “she won't make the same mistakes as everyone before her;” he noticeably bites the left corner of his mouth, gesturing, “even me.”
“I’d really ‘preciate an op’tunity, Sir,” she blurts, without thinking.
“Here's my deal,” Matthews continues, taking a seat, “she will complete your entire program. Out there,” he raises his right brow over the frames of his shades, “she won't compete in any matches until she has. She might,” his cigarette glows bright cherry-red, “join me at ringside or what-not,” he shrugs, “but no matches.”
“Would you mind putting that out?”
“It would bother the fuck out of me. Anyway,” Matthews continued, completely disregarding the request, “I may watch her from back here;” it really wasn't a question, but he went with Hanson's nod. “Some nights, I may watch out there,” he pointed aimlessly, “with the Heathens,” Hanson corrects him, pointing in the opposite direction, “and some nights, I may go to ringside with her.” Matthews offers a handshake, “I'm paying her fees today. In cash.”
With that, the feed cut back to ringside, leaving everyone to wonder, if and when they might be seeing the little rebel from Tennessee.
Singles Match
Ash Fi vs. Sarah Campbell
A match built on respect, especially after all the times they’ve teamed together. Campbell started off strong, peppering Ash Fi with forearms and elbows, before switching to suplexes. A stalling vertical suplex scored her a two count, as did a German suplex.
But Ash Fi got back into the match in the fifth minute, countering an Irish whip attempt into a hiptoss backbreaker. She focused on the back of her opponent, hitting some snap suplexes and an inverted headlock backbreaker. But she couldn’t secure a three count.
The momentum shifted a few minutes later, when Ash missed the Ionsaí (Cornered Running Double Knee Strike). Sarah was able to take her down with another German suplex, bridging it for a two count. The Scotswoman reached for her Irn Bru to empower herself before continuing, hitting some lariats and DDTs before eventually going for the tombstone piledriver…
…but Ash Fi kicked her legs and was able to reverse into one of her own! Both women were down for a moment, but Ash took the advantage when they recovered; a Warp Spasm (Over Shoulder Back Kick) sent Sarah throat first across the middle rope, the perfect position for a tiger feint kick. The Welshwoman posed for the fans, wooing and earning herself a decent pop, before Ash Fi connected with the Gáe Bulg (Nomisugi Knee). And that was all she wrote.
Winner: Ash Fi (11:39)
After the match, Ash helped her friend back to her feet for another handshake, before Sarah raised the victor’s arm.
Backstage…
The show cuts to an unknown location backstage, and the camera is trying to focus on two figures in the distance, while seemingly trying not to get spotted themselves. The figures seem to be talking as the feed picks up their voices.
“I’ll be cheering for you, Mommy.” came the voice of from the young girl, her long hair braided into adorable pigtails.
“I know yer will sweetie, and I know yer will be watchin’, right.” Came the unexpected softer tones from the usually cruel and callous Caintigern Magnum, knelt down in front of her adopted daughter, the child of her husband Jackson Magnum. “We been through a lot of shite recently…”
Pip, the image of sweetness and light, slaps Caintigern on the hand. “No swearing.”
“Ow… sorry.” Caintigern grins, seemingly in full maternal mode, a sight never before captured on camera. “But yer know what I mean. Through all that with yer Da, and everyting else on us, we stuck together. An’ tonight is our night, right?”
“Right!” Pippy said, gripping her mother in a tight hug. “You go and win.”
“I will,” Caintigern smiled before pulling back. “And hey. Once I do, we’ll be co-champs, aye? You’re me tag partner. I’ll do the fightin’, ye carry my belt, yeah?” Pip smiled at this, hugging her mother once more with the cheesiest of toothy grins upon her face. “It’s all for ye, me little mermaid.”
It was at this point that her manager, Bobby B. Barabbas stepped into view, not saying a word as Caintigern rose back to her feet. He whispered something into her ear, slipping her infamous pair of brass knuckles, ensuring her child could not see them. Caintigern nodded her head, looking nervous for the very first time, but then gripped Barabbas in a warm embrace before thanking him. She then turned back to her daughter. “I’ll be back with the title, Pip. I promise.” Caintigern then turned as she paced towards the ringside area, asking her manager to keep an eye on her child as she exited for her match.