Vote For Us

Top Sites
Vote For UWE
at Wrestling R Us Top 100 EFeds

Top Site
Ultimate Wrestling Entertainment
March 28, 2024, 05:37:18 pm
Welcome, Guest. Please login or register.
Did you miss your activation email?

Login with username, password and session length
News: Finally, congratulations to Efinn Rox for becoming UWE Champion
 
  Home Help Arcade Gallery Links UWE.com Staff List Login Register  

Fight Night 5 Results!

Pages: [1]   Go Down
  Print  
Author Topic: Fight Night 5 Results!  (Read 848 times)
0 Members and 1 Guest are viewing this topic.
Greenbean
The Kingpin
Administrator
UWE Great
****

Karma: 27
Offline Offline

Gender: Male
Posts: 7570



« on: July 28, 2009, 06:47:19 pm »

Last Man Standing Match
Match 5: Adam Deming vs Ace Borger


Match Writer: Deming


All right, it's mega-late, but I think it's pretty **** epic, and worthy of both my retirement, and in putting Ace over as the guy that actually brought that about.  I hope you like it... a couple of almost sleepless nights and the total ignoring of anyone online had to come about to make it all possible.  Enjoy.



Hugh: “And here we are, ladies and gentlemen… this next match may be just as highly anticipated as the main event: the Last Man Standing match between former best friends turned bitter enemies Ace Borger and Adam Deming!”

Bobby: “Ooooo, I just can’t wait to see that self-righteous Borger get what’s finally coming to him!”

Hugh: “Wait, Borger self-righteous?  Deming’s been the one who came to UWE with the intent on totally changing the way the sport is presented, and cutting down anyone who didn’t believe in his ideals.  Borger was brought in to keep him in check.”

Bobby: “Well sure, that’s the ‘official’ story, the one everyone has been fed.  What nobody seems to get, though, is that without Deming’s presence here, Borger would be out of a job and his kid would be eating tuna and rice every night, if that, because Daddy didn’t have the desire to get off his ass and get a job!  Borger should be thanking Deming for reawakening his desire to wrestle, not tie him to the walls of a steel cage crucifix-style and bash his head in with a steel chair!”

Hugh: “Yes, if you remember last week’s edition of Showdown, folks, you’ll remember that transpiring as a result of Deming taping Borger’s son Corbin at play in a successful attempt to lure Borger into an ambush completely off-guard.  And while Deming claims he did it only to assess whether Borger’s priorities truly were in the right place, his former best friend didn’t take that as comforting at all.”

Bobby: “Yeah, like I said, he tied him up all defenseless-like and broke – that’s right, I said ‘broke’ – a steel chair over Deming’s head!”

Hugh: “You don’t mess with a man’s family, Bobby.  You just don’t.”

Bobby: “What about Deming, then, huh?  He revealed the only reason that he wanted to check on Borger’s priorities is because he felt he was taking his son for granted… something Deming couldn’t abide seeing after his own son was taken away from him unjustly after being spied upon by a neighbor who didn’t know what he really saw.”

Hugh: “Yes, well he also claimed that it was the UWE fans who essentially allowed for that to happen, regardless of their total innocence, not to mention ignorance of the events in question.”

Bobby: “Well, Huey, I can’t expect you to understand the pressures of celebrity.  People don’t hound you everywhere you go, wanting to know all the little sordid details of your life for their own amusement since they have nothing more interesting to consume their time in their own lives.  I, on the other hand—”

Hugh: “You?  A celebrity?”

Bobby: “Damn straight.  It’s a blessing and a curse being this sexy, Huey… consider yourself lucky.”

Hugh: “Yeah… right… I’ll be sure to include that the next time I say grace with my family before dinner.  In any case, let’s go to the ring for the official ring announcements.

Schumacher: “Ladies and gentlemen, this next bout is set for one fall, and is a Last Man Standing match!  The winner of this match is the man whose opponent cannot get to his feet by the referee’s count of ten.  Introducing first…”

The lights go dark, and the giant screen shows a crawling shot of “Deadeye” Adam Deming’s body (viewed from the back), panning from his feet all the way up to head as the opening chord of his theme music fades in.  The shot shows Deming turning his head – a serious look on his sun-spectacled face – quickly on the guitar chord that breaks through the fade-in, serving as the launching pad for the major riff of Broken Glow’s “Dogs and Demons.”  As said riff kicks in, the man’s name (nickname and all) flashes across the screen in dark blue lettering in front of a red target symbol as the background strobes between black and white quickly. The first verse starts up and pyros placed in a target formation in front of the screen explode as the man himself, “Deadeye” Adam Deming, steps out onto the stage, wearing a towel around his neck.

Schumacher: “Hailing from Buffalo, New York… standing six-foot-two and weighing in at two hundred forty-five pounds… he is the ‘Preeminence of Precision’… he is the self-proclaimed ‘Most Valuable Playa of Professional Wrestling’… he is the man who always hits his mark… he is a seven-time former World Heavyweight Champion… this is ‘Deadeye’ Adam Deming!”

The screen shows shots of Deming hitting opponents with his finishing moves, as the crowd boos mightily for the “Deadeye.” He takes a moment on the stage to look out into the throngs of people assembled here tonight, sneering in contempt, before marching down the ramp to the beat of his music. He slides underneath the bottom rope and heads to the nearest set of turnbuckles, timing it so that he raises his interlocked hands into the air right as the chorus of the song sounds in the ears of everyone in the arena. He jumps off and runs to the opposite corner, raising his hands again to the insistent displeasure of the crowd before jumping out of the corner to get in some last-minute stretching.

Hugh: “Deming released a video to the Internet addressing his opponent tonight, and to say that he was not looking well might be the understatement of the year.  Unshaven, hair going every which way, huge circles under his eyes, apparently reeking by his own admission…”

Bobby: “Yeah, but that was a few days ago, though.  Look at him now, he’s all polished up and ready to go… it looks like someone’s about to go down tonight!”

Hugh: “The appearance wasn’t what concerned me, though… I don’t know if it was because of whoever edited that video or whatever, but he just seemed… I don’t know, I guess ‘lost’ is the right word for it.  Like he was drifting in and out of his thoughts.”

Bobby: “That was his stupid editor’s fault.  He’s not a tech-savvy guy, ya know… he was probably taken advantage of by some poor techie with a personal bias against him.  Maybe that’s why he looks extra pissed right now.”

Schumacher: “And his opponent…”

The opening lines of “Like Light To Flies” by Trivium sound over the PA and the crowd immediately begins to whip up a huge hometown hero’s welcome for the man the song heralds.  As the drums hit and the song goes into full swing, a blast hits the stage and leaves a wall of smoke so think you can’t see through it.  As the smoke clears, we see Ace Borger standing atop the rampway in his ring attire; his black shorts and black boots shine and reflect the light across his back, and his sleeveless hoodie hangs loosely on his large frame, the hood hanging down over the upper half of his face.

Schumacher: “Standing six-foot-three and weighing in at two hundred fifty pounds… himself a multiple-time World Heavyweight Champion… this is Ace ‘The Sniper’ Borger!”

Borger moves toward the ramp amidst the crowd reaction, now more raucous than ever, and hops up onto the ring apron.  He whips the hood off of his head and smiles, soaking in the adoration of his hometown crowd.  He excitedly points to his own chest and then to the fans in attendance, assuring them that they won’t be disappointed by his performance tonight.

Hugh: “He looks intense out there.”

Bobby: “Well I don’t blame him.  Knowing you’re going to have your ass handed to you by the best in the business to finally put to rest the rivalry you’ve been clinging to in order to validate your existence for the past four years has got to weigh heavy on your mind.”

Hugh: “Oh come on, Bobby… he came out earlier today and assured everyone that he was going to end this thing tonight; confidence isn’t something you often see drained away from Ace Borger.  Hell, he even brought his closest friends, his girlfriend and his son to the arena tonight to cheer him on.  They’re in that box right up there in the back of the arena, far away from the… let’s say ‘more dangerous’ elements UWE has to offer.”

Bobby: “The only thing that proves is how unbelievably naïve Ace Borger is.  The fact that those people are up there puts them in more danger than if they were to watch the show at home via pay-per-view.  I don’t care if those guys are United States servicemen – God bless ’em – they’re only fooling themselves if they think they’re helping keep Cassandra and Corbin safe from Adam Deming, especially since the ‘Deadeye’ said that he would never harm a child, despite anyone’s opinion to the contrary.”

Deming and Borger stare at each other from opposite corners of the ring as Borger’s music dies down.  The fans inch towards their seats’ edges in anticipation as Borger stretches his neck and Deming cracks his knuckles.  The referee admonishes them to come to the center of the ring, and they oblige, walking towards each other slowly, going nose-to-nose as they ignore the man in the striped shirt re-explaining the rules to them.  Snorting like rival bulls, everything has been leading up to this, and both men seem to block out everything but each other’s faces, a shared leer that continues even after the bell sounds.  The frantic, bloodthirsty, escalating cheers of the crowd have no effect on these two, the hatred they feel for each other fueling them plenty on its own.

Bobby: “Well, are they just going to stare at each other all night, or are they gonna mix it up?  Do they need a room or something?”

Hugh: “This match is so important to both of them… I think neither one of them wants to make a mistake; they want the other to make the first move.”

After several intense seconds that seem to take hours, Deming takes one step backward… only for it to be a fake-out, as it serves only as a wind-up for a wicked open-handed slap across the face of “The Sniper!”  Borger’s body rolls with the blow, remaining in the spot the blow’s momentum carried him to, smiling.  Turning back to face the defiant, condescending “Deadeye,” he chuckles and nods before unleashing a slap of his own… one that forces Deming into a 360o spin that forces Deming to seek support from the top rope.  Seething as he rubs his reddened cheek, Deming reaches back and swings for the fences, but Borger had prepared for this, ducks under it and nails the “Deadeye” with a right hand of his own.  Several more rapid-fire shots, and Deming is once again backed up into the ropes.  Whipped off of them, he’s hit with a dropkick right in the mouth on the rebound.  Not waiting for his hated rival to get to his feet on his own, he grabs Deming by the hair and throws him violently into the nearest corner.  Deming covers up, trying to block the hailstorm of forearm shots pelting him.  Eventually, the referee tries to separate the two, but Borger simply throws him aside.

Bobby: “Hey, he can’t do that to the referee!”

Hugh: “Well, he shouldn’t, but technically, he can without repercussions… this is a no-disqualification affair; anything goes until someone can no longer stand.”

That slight distraction with the zebra, though, gives Deming enough room to pull the re-advancing Borger by the tights, sending his face crashing into the second turnbuckle.  Borger’s body goes concave as Deming follows that up with a seated senton onto his back, nearly breaking him in half.  Borger screams in agony as Deming takes a short breather, wiping his lip to make sure it’s not bleeding – it’s not – before following up.  This time it’s Borger’s turn to be thrown by his hair, as Deming biels him out of the corner, showing surprising strength for a man his size.  Borger rolls over to the ropes, but Deming doesn’t allow him to escape the confines of the ring, stepping on his face with both feet as he holds onto the top rope for balance.

Bobby: “That’s it, Adam!  Crush that pretty-boy face of his!”

Borger manages to escape the torture of 245 pounds of force pushing down on his face and rolls to the center of the ring.  Deming drops an elbow on his former tag team partner, who again attempt to take an outside respite, only for Deming to again grab him by his hair and drag him back in the ring.  “Oh no!” he taunts loudly.  “I’m going to beat you in this ring, where everyone can see it!”  He drops a leg across Borger’s throat before… curiously enough, going to the outside.

Hugh: “Didn’t he just say he wanted to keep it in the ring?”

Bobby: “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to take advantage of the lack of rules in this match, Huey!  Look at what he’s got with him!”

Hugh: “Wait… what is that?  Is that the cane that he used the week after Borger broke his nose?”

Bobby: “Yeah, that’s the same handle, all right!  Poetic justice, Huey!  Get into it!”

Deming slinks back into the ring just as Borger starts to get to his knees, sneaking up behind him and choking him with the cane.  Borger struggles as his face quickly starts changing more colors than Violet Beauregarde leading up to her blueberry obesity issue.  It’s not easy with Deming on his back pulling with all his might, but Borger manages to make it to the ropes after several agonizing moments, expecting the referee to break it up.  He tries to, but Deming completely brushes him off.  “I’d like to see you do something about it,” is his challenge to the official, who recognizes it as valid, albeit reluctantly.  Realizing that the official can’t help him out, Borger desperately hurls himself through the ropes; he takes another hard shot to the throat with the cane as a result, but at least Deming catches his own throat on the top rope as a result, freeing Borger from the choke that could ultimately have cost him the match.

“The Sniper,” very cognizant of the importance of his bipedal position, makes sure to get to his feet quickly, using the barricade to do so.  Deming, however, stunned by the shot to his throat, writhes on the mat, prompting the referee to start his ten-count.  He gets up to “four” before Borger slides into the ring and begins furiously stomping on any part of Deming’s anatomy available to him, breaking up the count.  When asked what he was doing by the referee, Borger snaps back, “I’m nowhere near done with him yet!”

Hugh: “Looks like Deming is in for a long night, Bobby!”

Bobby: “Yeah, well the longer this match goes, the more it favors the ‘Deadeye,’ Huey.  I don’t see that as a problem at all.”

Hugh: “At what point did you all of a sudden become such an avid fan of Adam Deming?”

Bobby: “At the same point this redneck bozo Borger showed up here.  It’s like that T-shirt, you know?  ‘I have two favorite teams: the [home team] and whoever’s playing the [home team’s main rival].’”

Borger picks up the cane from the edge of the apron and looks at it, the silver eagle’s head on the handle shining under the bright production lights.  He sets up like a Major League designated hitter as Deming manages to crawl to his feet, and as he turns around to face him, Borger swings, cracking him square in the face with the metal handle, much to the delight of the crowd!  Deming is now bleeding from his brow, right above the bridge of his nose as he rolls over to the nearest corner.  He’s afforded little rest from Borger, though, who dropkicks him square in his face, further opening up the fresh wound.  Deming goes half-limp, and Borger smiles at his vulnerability.  Taking the cane, he holds it up, making it hover over his shoulder.  Smiling at the crowd, he backs up to the opposite corner before charging, stopping mid-ring to hurl the cane like a javelin right where he was aiming: Deming’s genitals.  Deming’s eyes bug wide as he crumples in an emasculated heap in the corner amidst a tsunami of cheers.

Bobby: “That’s just inhumane!  First the chair that for all we know may have given Deming a serious concussion, and now the total annihilation of the ‘Deadeye’s’ family jewels?!  This man has to be stopped!”

Hugh: “Well I can’t say I don’t feel for Deming right now… who wants to get speared in the testicles?”

Bobby: “… Come to think of it, I think I know a guy who actually might enjoy—”

Hugh: “I’m cutting you off right now.  There’s no reason to entertain the rest of that thought.”

Deming is dragged off the ground, though still curled up in a standing fetal position from the shot to the balls.  This is perfect for Borger, who uses his opponent’s bent position to easily transition him into a piledriver, spiking Deming’s bleeding head into the canvas.  Deming lays there motionless, and Borger nods to the referee, wiping the sweat from his brow.

One!

Two!

Bobby: “Look at him, though, he’s starting to get up already.  You’re not going to keep this man down for long… not with so much pride on the line!”

Three!

Four!

Hugh: “That may be true, but I don’t know if Deming can withstand this kind of continued assault for too long, though.  He’s not exactly got a lot of momentum on his side at the moment.”

Five!

Six!

That’s as far as he gets, but Borger doesn’t seem to mind.  A chance to further punish the man who stalked his son in order to get under your skin?  Yes, please.  Borger picks Deming up from behind, drilling him into the canvas with a high-angle belly-to-back suplex.  The force of the slam sends Deming hurtling out of the ring, where his progress is only stopped when his back hits the barricade.  The referee starts counting again, but doesn’t even get to “three” before Deming – with the aid of the barricade – gets to his feet.  What he doesn’t see coming, though, is Ace Borger, perched on the top turnbuckle, and is once again surprised to turn around into “The Sniper,” this time executing one of the highest cross-body blocks ever seen, flattening him against the concrete floor.  As with any high-risk move, though, the user accepts some punishment; Borger knocks the wind out of himself while executing the move, and is just as motionless as the recipient of the maneuver.

One!

Two!

Three!

Hugh: “Borger is stirring, but he’s breathing heavily.”

Bobby: “You see?  I told you, the longer this match goes, the longer it favors Deming and his superior stamina.”

Four!

Five!

Hugh: “Deming still isn’t in any position to brag about dominating the match, Bobby.  This one could be over soon at this rate.”

Borger is once again in a standing position, and grabs Deming by the arm.  He looks to whip him into the ring post, but the desperate Deming reverses the momentum.  Borger manages to stop himself just short of the post, but a spinning heel kick to the back of his head sends him careening into the steel anyway.  Borger goes down, holding his left arm and grimacing in pain as Deming steadies himself against the ring apron.  Borger sits back, propping himself up against the steel ring steps, but that only acts as a target for the “Deadeye,” who hauls back and nails Borger with a swift kick, crushing the hurt arm against the steps.

Bobby: “You see, Huey?  I told you… the ‘Deadeye’ thrives on these long matches.  He waits for his opponent to tire himself out, then goes to work.”

Borger jumps to his feet in an attempt to walk off the pain or escape Deming’s wrath – it’s unsure which one it is; possibly both? – but Deming is relentless, sneaking up behind him and nailing him with a forearm to the back of the head to set him up, before grabbing his arm, placing his foot underneath his armpit, and falling backwards, stunning the shoulder joint and sending shockwaves up and down the injured arm.

Hugh: “Innovative offense there by Deming.”

Bobby: “He knows better than anyone that when you’re in there with a crazy bastard like Ace Borger, you have to get a little creative.  You have to throw stuff at him he hasn’t seen before.  It’s one of the only ways to rattle him.”

Hugh: “Are you… actually giving props to Ace Borger?”

Bobby: “Absolutely not.  Let’s just put this into perspective, though… the first time he’d ever used the Vapor Trail was against Ace Borger, and he picked up the win with it.  And at that point, they were still friends.”

Deming smirks evilly as the crowd rains down the boos.  As with both of them previously all throughout the match, these catcalls go largely ignored, his total focus remaining on his opponent.  Throwing Borger back into the ring, Borger manages to get to his knees, cringing as he clutches his throbbing appendage.  Deming slithers back into the ring, setting up the perfect moment to strike.  As Borger pushes himself to his feet, Deming spins him around, kicks him in the gut, and sends him plummeting to the mat with an armbar takedown.  Borger spasms in pain and Deming smiles once more.

Hugh: “Deming looks like he’s enjoying himself now more than he has the entire time he’s been here in UWE.  Funny that this elitist prick who’s done nothing but preach the values of ‘pure wrestling’ for months is getting his kicks from this **** environment.”

Bobby: “You heard him a several weeks ago, Huey… he’s all about the equity and justice in the ring in normal competition… but when it gets personal like this, he has no reason to hold back.  Once he loses that kind of respect for you, all bets are off.”

Hugh: “I don’t know, I think he’s trying to fool himself of his true nature… remember, he also said last week to E.E. Faulk that he used to break people who crossed him in half… ‘literally.’”

Bobby: “It’s true, too.  Just ask Manny Sanchez.”

Hugh: “Who?”

Bobby: “I don’t know… I think he’s a friend of Kenji Moori’s…”

The referee looks like he’s going to count again, but Deming waves a finger at him.  Creeping up behind the cringing Borger, he waits for him to roll onto his stomach before pouncing on him, grabbing his bad arm and twisting it backwards into a painful reverse ude-garami hold.  Borger screams in anguish as Deming bends his arm around and behind him, all while bridging his own back to push Borger’s face into the canvas, grinding up his face and prohibiting him from moving laterally.

Hugh: “A kimura?  Where the Hell did he pick that up?”

Bobby: “I told you, when you’re facing a guy like Borger – especially when he knows you so well – you gotta get creative.  He’s probably been expanding his repertoire for just this occasion, I love it!”

Hugh: “There are no submissions in this match, so even if Borger taps, it won’t garner Deming a win, but it may just wear him down to the point where he’s in too much pain to continue.”

Whether it’s the fact that he recognizes Hugh’s sentiments as truth or the fact that he’s got too much pride to do so, the fact remains that Borger doesn’t tap out.  After several long moments in the hold, however, he manages to grab a hold of the bottom rope, using it to get enough leverage to roll himself forward, throwing Deming off in the process.  Deming, furious, starts to go after Borger, but stops his kick mid-swing.  Smirking as he sees the supine “Sniper,” he walks away, choosing to recline against the top rope and let the referee do his job.

One!

Two!

Three!

Bobby: “The damage is done!  There’s no way that Borger can withstand this much pain and have the strength to make it to his feet!”

Four!

Five!

Hugh: “I don’t know if I can disagree with you, as much as I hate to admit it, Bobby.  He was in that excruciating hold for a full minute.  And I know that doesn’t seem like a long time, loyal viewers, but when you’re actually in] the hold, it’s a totally different story.  Point being: I think this might be the end for Ace Borger in this match.”

Six!

Seven!

Being near the ropes has its advantages, though.  Deming may not have thought it would make a difference, but it does.  Borger grabs a hold of the bottom rope with his still-healthy right arm…

Eight!

… and with great effort hoists himself up one more rung, grabbing the center rope with the same arm, as he cradles his hurt left one.  He cuts it close…

Nine!

… but makes it to his feet before the referee can get to “ten.”  Surprisingly, Deming claps – albeit condescendingly – at his opponent’s moral victory.  His mocking quickly gives way to more offense, however, as he comes rushing with running forearm shot that makes Borger spill out to the floor.  Deming follows him outside and waits for him to get up before delivering a vicious double-knee strike to the back that sends him face-first into the guardrail.  This time, it’s Borger who’s busted open, and apparently a little punch-drunk as well, as he manages to make it to his feet, but swings wildly into the air.  Deming points and laughs mockingly, following him casually as he circles around the ring, chasing phantom enemies.  Eventually, he rolls back into the ring, almost taking the referee’s head off with a clothesline.  Deming, having enough of this fun, calls for the end, and grabs Borger’s shoulder.  Borger, however, spins on contact, nailing Deming in the face with a brutal spinning elbow strike that completely flattens Deming.  Borger, suddenly lucid, reaches into his elbow pad and pulls out a metal plate, much to the crowd’s collective delight.

Bobby: “HOLY… what happened?!”

Hugh: “Look at that grin!  He was playing possum that whole time!  He set Deming up for that shot with his loaded elbow pad!”

Bobby: “That sneaky little… he cheated, Huey!”

Hugh: “No disqualifications, Bobby.”

Bobby: “But… but… it’s still not fair…”

Deming’s wound had all but completely closed up, but the strike with the metal plate re-opens the cut above the bridge of his nose, wider than before.  Blood flows freely from the laceration, creating small puddles next to Deming’s face as it lays in stillness on the canvas.  He’s not unconscious yet, but it’s clear that while Borger’s hazy state was a red herring, Deming’s is the real thing.  His eyes glass over as he tries to roll onto his stomach, but as soon as he gets on his hands and knees, Borger mounts his back and digs his fingernails into the wound.  Deming’s certainly awake now, and screams in agony as his opponent’s fingers dig into his flesh.

Bobby: “That’s absolutely disgusting!  How can you root for this man, Huey?  He’s a damn animal!”

Hugh: “Well I honestly can’t say I approve of the savage nature of the attack… but these fans sure seem to love what they must see as Deming getting his just desserts.”

Bobby: “Yeah, well I just hope that our fans watching at home are smarter, more compassionate and have a higher moral character than these idiots in attendance tonight.”

Borger follows up the gruesome flesh-digging with brutal crossface shots before letting him drop to the mat.  Deming grabs the nearby bottom rope and hauls himself up clumsily, only to get clotheslined over the top rope to the floor by his nemesis, yelling after him, “Get the **** outta here!” before motioning to the referee to start his count again.

One!

Two!

Three!

Hugh: “Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the salty language by Ace Borger.  Sometimes, when extreme emotions get involved, things tend to—”

Four!

Bobby: “Don’t apologize to the people, Huey!  This is pay-per-view!  We don’t have to follow the restrictions of basic cable here.  You should embrace the freedom.”

Five!

Hugh: “It may be pay-per-view, but I’d rather this show be conducted with a little more dignity and class than our Friday Night counterpart.  The sleaze on that show, the stuff that goes unchecked there is totally unprofessional and absolutely revolting.”

Six!

Bobby: “Coming from the man who’s calling a match where some guy just dug his fingers into an open wound on the other guy’s head, I think we’re way past being ‘dignified’ and ‘classy,’ don’t you think?”

Seven!

Hugh: “…”

Bobby: “What?  Nothing to say to that?”

Eight!

Hugh: “… No comment…”

Bobby: “Figures.  Oh, thank God in Heaven!  Deming’s on his feet!”

Deming makes it up just before “nine,” which seems to suit Borger just fine.  Sliding out to the floor, Borger hits Deming with a Yakuza kick that sends him over the railing into the crowd.  As fans move out of the way – whether under their own power or from Deming’s… let’s say, “physical persuasion” – “The Sniper” stands on the barricade, balancing himself carefully as he waits for Deming to make it to his feet.  He does soon enough, and Borger launches himself off the rail, nailing a beautiful somersault senton onto the “Deadeye” with nothing but a sea of chairs to cushion the impact.  The crowd starts up a fecal chant as the official hops over the guardrail to check on the condition of the two athletes.  Seeing them both suffering from the high-impact effects of the maneuver on the ground, he shrugs and does his job.

One!

Two!

Three!

Four!

Hugh: “Borger may have unwittingly signed his own death warrant there… it looks like his senton injured him as much as it did Deming.”

Bobby: “That’s why Deming is going to win this match.  Ace is just a big, dumb, stupid hillbilly jock, and that’s all he’ll ever be.  Deming was always the brains of the two of them, and it’s going to serve him well tonight.”

Five!

Six!

Seven!

Eight!

Both men start to stir, and – using the surrounding furniture for support – manage to make it to their feet before the count of “nine.”  Borger holds his arm, having apparently re-aggravated his earlier injury, but shakes it off, ducking a Deming clothesline before delivering a right-handed lariat of his own.  Not letting him get a chance to recover, he tosses Deming back over the barricade and kicks him mercilessly in the stomach.  Deming gasps for air, and Borger picks him up, twists his body around and hurls him backwards with a pumphandle suplex onto the arena floor.

Hugh: “Wow, I bet that hurt!”

Bobby: “Great contribution, Captain Obvious.”

Rolling Deming inside the ring, Borger signals for the finish.  “It’s over!” he shouts as he encourages his adversary to stand.  He raises his hands as the “Deadeye” rises, grabbing him as he turns around.  He hoists him onto his shoulders… but can’t hold him there!

Bobby: “Did you see that?!”

Hugh: “He can’t get him up for the Dying Tired!  His arm and shoulder are too hurt; he can’t support Deming’s weight!”

Bobby: “That must be why he targeted it in the first place; it was an insurance policy!”

Borger’s body goes limp as he drops Deming backwards.  Neither one land terribly hard, but the pain buzzing in Borger’s left arm and shoulder prevent him from getting up too quickly.  Too bad for him; it gives Deming just enough time to recover and hit Borger with a dropkick to the back of his head.  “The Sniper” cradles his neck as Deming shakes off the cobwebs.  Sensing the tide turning in his favor, Deming grabs Borger’s arms across his throat, drags him to his feet, and turns him upside-down before dropping the back of his neck across his shoulder with his infamous, patented Crosshairs neckbreaker.

Hugh: “The dangerous thing about the Crosshairs is that not only is the back of your neck getting jacked against Deming’s shoulder, but your own arms squash your throat in the process.”

Bobby: “And only a genius like the ‘Deadeye’ would have thought to create such a powerful move!”

Hugh: “Well, you know what they say, there’s nothing new under the moon…”

Bobby: “Are you calling Adam Deming a thief and a liar?”

Hugh: “In this instance, not necessarily.  In general, though…”

Bobby: “Whatever.  You’re just jealous that he’s way more awesome than you are.”

The referee starts to count, but Deming clearly has further plans for his opponent.  Sliding to the floor, he reaches underneath the ring once more, this time pulling out a folding table.  The crowd pops for further furniture use as Deming slides the table into the squared circle.  Borger rouses himself at “six” and heads for the ropes for leverage, all while Deming sets up the table in the center of the ring.  As soon as Borger makes it to his feet at “eight,” Deming is there to greet him with an enzuigiri that sees him land on top of the table.  Deming hurries to lay him fully across the table before scuttling up to the top rope.  The fans rise to their feet; most don’t know exactly what Deming is going for, but those who do anticipate a beautiful sight.

Bobby: “Here it comes, Huey!  TOTAL!  NONSTOP!  ALTITUDE!”

Hugh: “Good Lord!  Did you see the hangtime on that frog splash?!”

All of Deming’s 245 pounds come crashing down on top of Borger’s prone form, easily shattering the table beneath into thousands of pieces.  Like the senton from before, though, the move takes its toll on both competitors, and Deming clutches his ribs, writhing in pain as Borger lies perfectly still in a quagmire of table shards.

One!

Two!

Three!

Four!

Bobby: “Come on, Deming, get up!  Don’t let it all be for nothing!”

Five!

Hugh: “If he can get to his feet, he may very well have this thing won.  I’ve never seen a frog splash with that kind of height or impact.”

Six!

Bobby: “That’s why he’s the best, baby!  Now if only he can just… get… up…”

Seven!

Deming manages to stand, leaning back on the top rope for support.  He smiles, but it doesn’t last.  Borger had been stirring at “six,” and before Deming knows it, Borger’s shakily on his feet just before the count of “ten.”  An irate Deming charges, but Borger ducks it, hoisting the “Deadeye” up and over with a back-body drop, hoping to send him to the floor once more.  Deming does fly over the top, but manages to hang on to the top rope on his way over and lands safely on the ring apron.  Once righting himself, he takes a swing at Borger, but Borger blocks it, grabs Deming by the hair and thrusts his face into the ring post.

Bobby: “What?!  What happened?!”

Hugh: “Deming just got his bell rung!”

Deming is dazed and slightly out of it, but not enough to prevent him from hanging on to the top rope for dear life.  That serves Borger’s purposes just fine, though; he hooks Deming’s head and throws his arm over his own head.  Lifting him up, the crowd expects a vertical suplex from the outside back in, but Borger has other plans in mind.  Instead, he uses the suplex position to mount Deming on the top turnbuckle.  The crowd’s anticipation rises as Borger follows Deming up the turnbuckles and stands him up.

Hugh: “Sniper’s Eye, coming up!”

Bobby: “No, no, no, no!  This isn’t supposed to end this way!”

The fans pop as Borger hooks the leg for his trademark top rope cradle suplex… but Borger pauses.  Looking down at the floor, then back at his helpless opponent, Borger grins.  He repositions himself and his opponent; instead of his back being towards the center of the ring, it’s now facing the outside.  And that’s not good news.

Bobby: “Oh, my God… you don’t think…”

Hugh: “Our Spanish announcers, Julio and Fe had better get out of the way!”

Bobby: “Holy ****, here they come!  Hit the deck!”

Julio and Fe just manage to scuttle away before Borger and Deming totally obliterate the Spanish announce table.  Everyone – regardless of the “PG” rating Showdown normally has – chants, “HO-LY ****!  HO-LY ****!” as the Spanish language announcers look on horrified at the carnage lain out before them.  The referee needs a moment to take it in as well, but ultimately, he’s a professional, and he’s going to do what he has to do.

One!

Two!

Three!

Hugh: “Bobby, neither one of these men is moving at all.  They’re barely breathing…”

Four!

Five!

Bobby: “I’m not surprised; I can’t believe they’re even still alive after that!”

Six!

Seven!

Hugh: “Still nothing.  I think they’re both knocked out here.”

Eight!

Nine!

Bobby: “Oh no, no!  It can’t end like this!”

TEN!

And yet it does; both men are finally showing signs of life, but neither one has answered the ten-count in time.  That being said, the man who administered the count hesitates to ring the bell; his hand is raised, but he hasn’t pointed to the timekeeper to signify the end of the match.  Instead, he calls over the ring announcer, whispering into his ear.

Bobby: “What’s going on here, Huey?  Why hasn’t the match ended yet?”

Hugh: “I don’t know.  I’m sure we’re about to find out, though…”

Schumacher: “I’ve been informed by the referee that although neither Adam Deming nor Ace Borger was able to answer the count of ten… that due to the nature of the personal rivalry between these two men… this match must have a winner!”

Hugh: “This is unprecedented!  We’re witnessing history, Bobby!”

Schumacher: “The official’s count will continue until one man is able to make it to his feet.  That man will then be declared the undisputed winner.  There will be a last man standing!”

Hugh: “You heard him, folks!  Welcome to UWE, where Last Man Standing matches actually live up to their billing!”

Bobby: “And you know what?  Good!  It’ll give Deming another chance to truly cement his well-deserved victory!”

With that announcement, both Deming and Borger – incredibly fatigued and weakened, but now fully conscious – look at each other with the same emotion readily evident in their eyes as the referee resumes his count: panic.

Eleven!

Deming, with great effort, starts throwing out his hands, clinging to debris and whatever else he can to get some kind of hold for pulling himself up.  Borger heads for the barricade, remembering how effective it was for his opponent regaining his balance earlier in the contest.

Twelve!

Borger still has a ways to go to get to the guardrail, and has to maneuver his way around the errant Spanish language announcers’ feet to navigate his way there.  For Deming’s part, pieces of table poke and prod him, impeding his progress, not to mention the fact that their combined sweat and blood on the table has made the pieces slippery; he can’t get a foothold.

Thirteen!

Hugh: “Whoever makes it to his feet first will win the match; that’s the referee’s edict, and both these men are desperate to be the winner.”

Bobby: “Man, these guys are beat up!  If this thing wasn’t so personal, I’d just say stay down, take the loss and live to fight another day.”

Fourteen!

Hugh: “Borger’s got a grip of the barricade!  He’s going to make it!”

Bobby: “Not before Deming, though!  He’s finally free of the wreckage of the table and almost on his feet!”

Fifteen!

And at that moment, both men get to a bipedal position and swing their eyes over to check on their opponent.  With confusion and hope in their eyes, each looks at the referee, wanting to know who managed to make it up first.  The zebra just shakes his head, though… and motions his arms together.  “Let’s go, boys!” he says.  “You both got up at the same time; the match continues!”

Hugh: “Did you hear that?  This match still isn’t finished!”

Bobby: “It’s gotta be soon, though, Huey… both of these men have used up a lot of gas…”

Both competitors hang their respective heads in disbelief, but Deming is the first to shrug it off.  His sneer makes it obvious that he’s tired of playing games; he’s going in for the kill.  He throws a haymaker, but Borger catches it and answers with a flurry of rights and lefts, each one backing him up a little bit until he’s back up against the ring apron.  A final shot sends him sprawling into the ring, and Borger is quick to follow him inside.  Deming gets up, but gets knocked back down again with a shoulder block.  He’s up again quickly, only to get dropped with another shoulder block, this time of the flying variety.  Once again Deming wills himself back up, only to be caught with a swinging neckbreaker.

Hugh: “What an offensive flurry by ‘The Sniper!’”

Bobby: “Come on, Deming!  Get your second wind, already!  I’ve got money riding on you tonight!”

Deming is wobbly as he gets up, and Borger once again signals for the finish.  He waits for the “Deadeye” to turn around before hoisting him on his shoulders – adrenaline numbing the pain in his arm and shoulder, surely – and dropping him down with the—

Hugh: “Dying Tired!”

Bobby: “Ha ha!  Not today!”

Hugh: “How did he do that?”

Deming flips out of the Dying Tired on the way down from the fireman’s carry, landing on his feet in front of Borger.  Furious, Borger goes for a lariat, but Deming ducks it, wraps his arm around Borger’s head and shoulder, pushes him forward and swings him back and around, drilling his face into the mat with the Vapor Trail!

Hugh: “Out of nowhere, he hits the Vapor Trail!”

Bobby: “This is delicious!  Ace Borger was the first one to taste Deming’s Vapor Trail, and now it’s going to be the thing that puts him out of Deming’s misery for good!  I love it!”

Deming smiles, as much in relief as in satisfaction as the referee begins his count.

One!

Two!

Three!

Bobby: “This is sure to put him away.  Nobody survives the Vapor Trail, Huey!”

Four!

Hugh: “I’ve yet to see anyone kick out of it… but that’s only a three-count.  This is ten.  And a slower count, at that.”

Five!

Bobby: “Oh, like it matters.  Did you see the way his head spiked the canvas?  How his body contorted from that torque?  It’s a done deal, my friend… a done deal.”

Six!

The crowd starts to get louder in encouragement for Ace Borger, clapping their hands and stomping their feet along with their chants of, “LET’S GO, BOR-GER, LET’S GO!”  Deming seems rather annoyed at their support for him, but considering his recently-revealed feelings for the fans, this should come as no surprise.

Seven!

What does surprise, though, is the movement of Borger’s hand, reaching out into the sky as if to hold onto some invisible, heavenly handle that would give him the leverage he needs.  As soon as Deming sees this, he nods his head in sarcastic appreciation.  “That’s the way you wanna play it?” he asks, heading to the outside once more.  “Fine.”

Eight!

Borger is on his hands and knees, feeding off the crowd’s support and the memory of his family’s invaded privacy.  Meanwhile, Deming is looking underneath the ring for something.  Finally finding the steel char he was looking for, he slides back into the ring.

Nine!

Borger is on one knee now… almost there.  But before he can get there, Deming cracks him across the back with the chair!

Hugh: “Good LORD, what a chair shot!”

Bobby: “He saw Borger moving, and he immediately went for that chair, Huey.”

Hugh: “If he’d just held on a little longer, he might not have needed to attack him again, though… he was on his way, but I’m not sure he was going to get up in time, Bobby.”

Bobby: “Deming’s never been one to hedge his bets.  He wanted to make sure this win was unarguable.  He doesn’t want any controversy whatsoever.  So he did what he felt he needed to do, and I can’t argue against it.”

“You wanna show me what you’re made of, huh?!” Deming screams at the ground-bound Borger.  “You wanna show me what you’re made of?  You wanna prove to me what kind of man you are?  Then just… end it!” he shouts, cracking the chair across his back once more before demanding the referee to count.

One!

Two!

Three!

Hugh: “This is just nasty.  He is brutally picking apart a defenseless human being.  I can barely watch.”

Four!

Bobby: “Oh, come on, you’ve seen worse than this.”

Five!

Hugh: “Not with so much manic hatred behind the eyes of the attacker, though.  Deming looks absolutely crazed…”

Six!

Hugh: “My God, I don’t believe it… Borger’s getting up!”

Bobby: “What?  No way!”

Unbelievable as it may seem, that’s exactly what Borger is doing.  His muscles shaking and his breathing heavy, Borger wills himself once again to his hands and knees.  And once again not taking any chances is Deming.  “Just make it end, Ace!” Deming shrilly wails, nailing him with another shot, this time to that hurt left arm, causing Borger to roll on the mat in agony.  “END IT!”

One!

Hugh: “You know what I’ve noticed, Bobby?”

Two!

Bobby: “What’s that?”

Hugh: “Deming’s choice of words… he keeps saying, ‘end it’… ‘make it end.’”

Three!

Bobby: “Yeah, so what?  He wants the match to be over with so he can finally be rid of his ungrateful little shadow there.  Makes sense to me.”

Four!

Hugh: “Yeah, but in that video he released, he said it too.  He said, ‘Only you can end it.  Step up.  Be a man.  End it.’”

Five!

Bobby: “I still don’t get what point you’re trying to make, man.”

Six!

Hugh: “Well, does that sound like the type of thing someone says to someone who wants their opponent to just lay down?”

Seven!

Borger fights for all he’s worth to make it to his feet, and Deming grits his teeth.  Breaking the referee’s count, he nails Borger with a knee right to the face before picking him up and putting him in the tree of woe position in the nearest corner.  “You’re weak,” he says as he crouches down, getting right in Borger’s face.  “You forced me to do this.”  Going back to the center of the ring, he picks up the chair he’d dropped and opens it up, placing it around Borger’s neck as he hangs upside-down in the corner.

Hugh: “Oh, sweet Mary… I’ve seen this before.”

Bobby: “Huh?

Hugh: “I’ve seen this ‘high’-light before, Bobby… in old tapes.”

Bobby: “What?  What’s going on?”

Hugh: “… He’s going to break his neck…”

Deming mounts the top rope amidst men’s taunts, women’s gasps and children’s tears.  He now stands high above Borger, looking down on him ominously.  Bowing his head, he whispers, “I’m sorry,” and reaches out his foot, ready to drop down across the chair.  Before he can, though, Borger manages to free himself from his furniture necklace and one last-ditch effort to avoid certain doom, frantically hurls the chair upwards.  The leg of the chair hits Deming square in the eye, and the “Deadeye” loses his balance, plummeting all the way down, hitting the guardrail right before crumpling to the floor in a bruised, broken, bloody heap.

Hugh: “I can’t believe what I’ve just seen!”

Bobby: “He just killed Adam Deming!  He just killed Adam Deming!”

Borger manages to pull himself up to sit on the top turnbuckle, panting in fatigue and relief as the referee somberly begins his count once more.

One!

Two!

Three!

Bobby: “I can’t believe what a despicable act was rendered here tonight on the part of Ace Borger!  We might have just been part of a snuff film!”

Four!

Hugh: “Is it any worse than what Deming was clearly planning to do to Borger?  He broke the neck of a guy by the name of Randal Williams with that deadly maneuver and nearly killed him.  Is Borger’s frantic defensive move really all that unjustified?”

Five!

Bobby: “Did you hear me cheering for Deming when he was going to break Borger’s neck?  No, you didn’t.  I didn’t condone that, nor do I condone what actually happened.”

Six!

Hugh: “Are you kidding me?  You were rubbing your hands like a giant arsonist insect just now… all you needed was a, ‘goooood… goooooooooood’ to top it off!”

Seven!

Bobby: “A man’s life might be in danger, and you’re quibbling with me over me rubbing my hands?  They were cold, and I wanted to warm them up.  What’s so wrong with that?”

Eight![/color]

Hugh: “You’re so full of crap, Bobby.  It’s a sweatbox in here.  There’s no way your hands were cold.  At all.”

Nine!

Bobby: “I don’t have to justify myself to you, Hugh.  I’ll have you know I have it on good authority that your mother—”

Hugh: “Sweet Christmas!  Somehow, some way, Adam Deming made it back to his feet!”

The play-by-play man’s shock is shared with everyone else in the arena, whether wrestler, tech crew member or fan.  Deming is up.  He’s quivering like a balsa wood tower trying to hold up a fifty-pound free weight and his left eye is swollen shut tighter than White House security, but he’s up.  “Son of a ****!” a shocked, but furious Borger exclaims as he goes outside and grabs the fallen chair.  He raises it high above his head… but suddenly stops.

Hugh: “Huh?  What’s going on?”

Bobby: “Maybe he’s had a change of heart and realizes Adam Deming is just better than him in every way and should just lay down for him.”

Hugh: “… Yeah, that’s not it.”

Bobby: “You don’t know that.”

Hugh: “Trust me.  That’s not it.”

What stops Borger in his tracks is Deming’s stance.  He’s just standing there.  He’s not making any effort to escape, or cover up… no attempt to stop it whatsoever.  He just stands there, eyes closed… shaking, but tranquil.  Borger looks at the referee and questions him on the matter, but he simply shrugs in ignorance.

“Just end it, Ace.”  Borger spins back around to see Deming, eyes (well… eye, anyway, singular) opened, peering at Borger pensively.  “Please… just let it end.”  He drops to his knees, closes his eye again and holds his arms out.  His chin protruding, his lip quivers as a tear rolls down his cheek.

Bobby: “I don’t… I don’t understand, Huey.  What the Hell is going on?”

Hugh: “I don’t know, Bobby.  I’m with you and all these people here… I don’t know what to think.”

Borger stares at Deming’s waiting, submissive form for a second, then at the chair.  Then, as if a light bulb turns on in his head, his eyes bug open.  Heaving an understanding sigh, he somberly raises the chair back over his head.  His face scrunched in what looks like regret, he slams the chair on the top of Deming’s head as hard as he can, severely denting the seat of the chair and popping loose the screws that hold the seat to the frame.  For what seems like an eternity (but for what really only lasts about two seconds), Deming’s form remains unchanged… before totally collapsing in dead weight.

Hugh: “Good GOD!”

Bobby: “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone swing a chair with that much force before in my entire career!  And I’ve been doing this for a while, now!”

Borger dejectedly chucks the chair to the side before breathing a heavy sigh.  He runs his fingers through his hair as he sits on the ring steps, never taking his eyes off his opponent as the referee counts…

One!

Two!

Three!

Four!

Five!

Six!

Seven!

Eight!

Nine!

Hugh: “And as if there was any doubt…”

TEN!

Hugh: “… it’s over.”

Schumacher: “Here is your winner… Ace ‘The Sniper’ Borger!”

The crowd roars in approval as Borger’s hand is raised, but the Texan seems to take no delight in his victory.  He just sits and watches as the EMTs hurry from the back to tend to the fallen “Deadeye.”

Hugh: “What you have just witnessed, loyal viewers, is history.  Not just for UWE, but for professional wrestling in general.”

Bobby: “What do you mean, Huey?  I mean, I know it was a great match, but—”

Hugh: “I think we’ve seen the last of ‘Deadeye’ Adam Deming… forever.”

Bobby: “Wait a minute.  You really think he’s… that he’s—”

Hugh: “I don’t think there’s really a question, Bobby.  We just saw Ace Borger put Adam Deming down… at his own request.”

Neck stabilization, stretcher, IV, the whole nine yards for Adam Deming.  And as the crowd gives Borger (and maybe Deming, too… you never know) a standing ovation, Borger stands and walks over to the medical personnel as they raise up the gurney and start to wheel him to the ambulance waiting backstage.  As he’s wheeled away, though, the “Deadeye” obviously fading in and out of consciousness, looks directly at Ace Borger… and smiles.  “Thank you,” he mouths before slipping back into unconsciousness, disappearing backstage.

Borger smirks and nods.  “No problem, man,” he says before finally acknowledging the crowd’s growing-ever-louder appreciation for his efforts tonight.  He raises up his arms and points at the private box his son, girlfriend and military friends are sheltered in before taking a bow and walking to the back.
« Last Edit: July 30, 2009, 03:22:37 pm by Greenbean » Report Spam   Logged

Pages: [1]   Go Up
  Print  
 
Jump to:  

Powered by EzPortal

(Administrator)
(Global Moderator)
(Forum Moderator)
(Showdown Superstar)
(Hall Of Fame)

The names of all Ultimate Wrestling Entertainment events, talent names,
likenesses, slogans and wrestling moves and all are trademarks
which are the exclusive property of Ultimate Wrestling Entertainment, Inc.
All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
© 2010 Ultimate Wrestling Entertainment, Inc. All Rights Reserved.


Affliates
YouPosted.com
TWEntertainment