Trey Vincent vs. Jonathan Conspiracy
International Championship Contest

Unwanted

A blank screen faces you.

"AMERICA!" comes a familiar white rapper's voice, roaring through the speakers. "WE LOVE YOU!"

The black becomes a multitude of colors -- Jonathan Conspiracy's body, face, in the midst of it all, the camera's shots blurred and cut together as if it were the work of a psychotic in the editing room. We can see grey in his hands -- a steel chair, if you were to clear the blur and the cuts. The chair skips up to him bringing it down. And again, and again. The colors blind you. You feel nothing. Do you understand?

Black again. "1: Wippit Guud" appears. As Eminem raps "White America", a jOlt-exclusive track for the PPV, the scene changes from Wippit's degragation to that of the next in line for an attack on J-Con... Sepiroth Du Luc. The scene above appears again, only the colors being slightly different. The pain and the agony is cloaked behind everything, but the end effect is still the same. And with him -- the line, "2: Sephiroth Du Luc" is on screen.

Black. Verse 2 is beginning, with no chorus -- a remix of the song, slightly. The next week, yes... this time, it's clear. Very clear. Down goes Pearson -- the Magi follows next, and then the severe, sick whacks of steel on flesh and bone as J-Con attacks Clamentia, and leaves all three lying. Between every lick of the chair -- the flashback of Clamentia being locked in The Attention Getter flashes again and again. The pain is evident no matter the time or place. The constant barrage of pain... deafening, blinding. "3, 4, 5: Mark Pearson, The Magi, Lawrence Clamentia".

As the chorus kicks in -- one shot of J-Con's face following an attack, still as stone.

"WHITE AMERICA! I COULD BE ONE OF YOUR KIDS! WHITE AMERICA! YOU KNOW ERIC LOOKS JUST LIKE THIS! WHITE AMERICA! ERIKA LOVES MY SHIT!"

Cut to white, the sound of a projector reel rolling, the film broken. In tiny, insignifigant letters: one letter better. one chair shot harder. j-con

And we faded back to the arena -- where "Guilty Until Proven Innocent" suddenly hit, the crowd booing the raps of Jay-Z, the sing-song voice of R. Kelly -- and most importantly, the man with the chair, the man with the glare, the guilty one himself -- the J-Con, Jonathan Conspiracy. He walked out with a weapon of destruction, a steel chair. He raised it up in the air at the top of the ramp, to which the crowd jeered. He kept it in the air, giving a memory of the Olympic Torch being run towards the actual lighting ceremony. J-Con slid his "tool" into the ring and kneeled over it. The camera could catch a slight expression on his face. A smile of which only a few demonic people could perform.

Could his opponent do the same? There were bets on Vegas going on at that very moment over the PPV -- over the entire card, from the match now, and even some small, pointless bets. One of which was "who could match the demonic smile of J-Con?"

"All Hail The New Young Flesh" by Strapping Young Lads introduced the front-runner: Trey Vincent. The "sports-entertainer", the cocky, arrogant man who did not ever want to look bad. Period.

He headed to the ring without much more than the jeers that the crowd would (likely) always give him. Instead, he waited until getting in the ring before he did his pre-match ritual -- a mind game... or just plain ego? Who knew.

Trey got off the top rope. The two walked towards each other -- and only a couple of feet beside them, a black-and-white vertical stripe-shirt clad referee raised the jOlt International title into the air, spinning it around to the audience, insuring that yes, jOlt did have a belt for this; and yes, it was indeed on the line.

They stared each other down. J-Con's steel chair thumped off his leg -- bap bap bap, bap bap bap -- constant and even.

The referee, dropping the belt off to an official, came back and took the chair from him. J-Con turned to grab it back -- it was his chair -- and Trey Vincent attacked, sending an elbow into the base of J-Con's neck. Down went J-Con, and Vincent knelt down to the mat next to him, grabbed his hair, and picked him up again. He looked at J-Con for a moment, studied his face.

He spat in it, and drove the man into the corner, shoveling both of them against the turnbuckles, Vincent's shoulder driving into J-Con's spine. He grabbed J-Con's hair again, and slammed into the middle turnbuckle. He repeated it again, and tossed J-Con to the ground. Vincent walked around him, backed into the ropes, and came in with a fistdrop. Not the Big Time -- just a normal fist drop.

The crowd began to get into it, however, as J-Con's boot came flying into the jaw of Trey Vincent, sending the man to the ground. J-Con rolled to his feet, walked over, and dropped an elbow into the forehead of Vincent, causing a wriggle of muscle spasm to run through his body. J-Con proceeded to take Vincent by the head, and throw him into the ropes. Following no more than a step behind, J-Con didn't even bother to have Vincent bounce off the ropes -- he snapped his elbow against the back end of Vincent's head, sending the "sports-entertainer" of jOlt flying over the top and to the outside. J-Con stepped through the ropes, onto the apron, and raised a hand in the air.

He let out a little smile... and jumped from the apron, legdropping Trey Vincent. The smack of his buttocks and tailbone against the cement floor echoed through the arena, causing many a man and woman to wince and turn away. J-Con's impulse had caused a major problem.

Rising to his feet, clutching the small of his back, Conspiracy got himself onto the apron -- down on the floor, Vincent was being jeered by fans.

"LOSER! IDIOT! JACKASS!" came several cries. Vincent put his hands on the guardrail, and felt the warmth of a man's loogie stain his knuckles.

And that sent him raving. "WHO THE FUCK DID THAT?!" he screamed. A child six feet away looked at this man with wide, innocent eyes. His mother shooed him away as more profanities poured from Vincent's mouth. Boos came in return.

And Jonathan Conspiracy sat back as the referee got past the five count. Talk about an easy title win. He'd probably maim Vincent after the match anyway, though. He felt it was just... needed.

Vincent turned around and saw the situation as clear as day when he heard the crowd yell out "eight!" in unision.

Vincent got back into the ring. J-Con, letting out a sigh of disgust, stepped forward and dropped a boot on Vincent's head. He picked Vincent up by the hair, and Vincent gave him a backhand slap as he got to his feet.

With a loogie on his knuckles. Conspiracy bent over slightly, and bits of the yellow mucus dripped onto the mat.

"Did you just slap me with a loogied hand?"

Vincent stared at him... and ran the back of his loogied-on hand down J-Con's chest, spreading the remains on J-Con's pecs.

J-Con swung at Vincent.

Vincent ducked.

Coming from behind, Vincent threw J-Con against the ropes, help his throat against the top one, and proceeded to drag a confused, red-eyed Conspiracy across the length of it. Once again, people in the crowd winced. Rope burn... on a man's neck? Sweet lord, the pain would be unbearable.

But J-Con barely noticed, and swung his elbow back at Vincent, catching the man in the eye. When Conspiracy raised his neck from the rope, however, a string of blood dripped onto his chest.

"My god!" someone yelled. "he's bleeding from the neck! Gross!" This observer of the obvious turned and left, unable to watch it.

Vincent raised his head up, taking his hand from his eye. It was already beginning to swell, and a trickle of blood ran down his face, around the crook of his nose.

Conspiracy and Vincent walked towards each other, slammed against each other with their chests, and jawwed at each other.

The referee put himself between them, yelling to break it up and to go to neutral corners.

And at once, Vincent and Conspiracy brought a fist into the face of this official, sending the poor, featherweight man down to the mat in a crumpled mess.

Turning back to each other, the two exchanged a stare.

And the fists began to fly. Vincent scored one first, and Conspiracy retorted with a fist of his own as easily as some comedians deliver one-liners. Vincent shot back with his own closed fist. And the war of fists began. Vincent's fists were as well-aimed as a boxer's; Conspiracy's were as hard as a shoot fighter's. It was precision vs. power -- and right now, precision managed to take a point over power as Vincent gave one glass-breaking shot at J-Con's jaw, sending "One Letter Better" back into the corner, where Vincent moved in and began to throw his fists into the abdomen and the kidneys of Conspiracy.

Was this man a former boxer? Nah... he couldn't be. He just knew how to throw punches.

Conspiracy was suffering the effects of these shots. Badly. The kidney shots were being the worst.

So finally, he inserted his foot into the crotch of Vincent. Vincent groaned, and stopped punching, taking a step back.

Conspiracy took a step forward -- and Vincent jumped out, swinging his foot into J-Con's testicles. Two cheaters trying to out-do the other in a form of crotch-shots. J-Con stumbled back into the corner, and crawled to the outside between the top and middle ropes.

No more Mr. Nice Guy, of course. Not that J-Con was ever a "nice guy" to jOlt wrestlers. Why open a door when you can slam it on a man's head? Conspiracy chuckled at the thought as he grabbed his steel chair from where the referee had thrown it.

Time, baby, time. That was all it took before he would be reunited with his... instrument. Clang, clang -- that's music. Crack is an ever better sound, in the world of Jonathan Conspiracy. Sliding into the ring, J-Con levelled the chair as he waited for Vincent to come at him. Vincent stayed back, thought -- a smarter man than most. J-Con finally decided to step forward and take him down himself, but he almost had the piece of furniture taken from him as he made that step.

Turning, he saw the referee, barely awake, trying to pull the chair from him. J-Con tugged it out of the man's hands, raised it up, and broke something (most likely the official's head) with a chairshot. He turned around, and headed towards Vincent, a sick type of enjoyment filling his face. Vincent just stood his ground.

And then Conspiracy felt another tug, a stronger one, behind him. He turned. Two referees were pulling at the chair, and they were very earnest about having the damn thing.

Conspiracy was stronger, of course, and it took little to pull the chair from them. However, there was a tug as he raised the chair into the air. He asked himself how many zebras would it take to bring down a lion and spun away. But the referee wasn't letting go as easily as the others. This guy really wanted the chair. Conspiracy pulled away, and the other referees joined this one. All the while, Vincent was behind them.

No, wait, no he wasn't.

Where was he?

*CRACK!*

Conspiracy fell into the group of referees, and Vincent tossed the steel chair out of his hands. The crowd was roaring, and Vincent signalled for it. A louder roar ensued.

And Vincent thought about it... and gave a thumbs down. Negative on the Big Time Fist Drop. The crowd booed. Instead, Vincent grabbed the chair once more, and walked towards Conspiracy. He raised the chair up... and hit one referee in the head! He quickly swung it to the side, swiping another in the temple. He pointed at the third one, and pointed to the chair.

"No DQ," he yelled.

The referee looked at him.

"NO DQ!" he yelled again.

The referee raised a hand to call for the bell.

And Vincent clocked him right out of existence for the next thirty minutes. He tossed the chair down, picked Conspiracy up, and kicked him in the stomach -- only to have J-Con catch him, spin him around, grab him, and lift him up, German suplexing Vincent right onto his own chair. The crowd popped it's approval. If these two injured themselves enough, they might not have to see either again. It was a dim hope, though, for the two men showed their toughness, rising not too long after the manuever was executed. Stumbling around, Vincent went for a DDT on J-Con, and connected cleanly. He rolled the man over... and covered him.

There was no count. Duh! There was no referee. J-Con had removed the first two from the equation... and Vincent had cut out the other three.

Vincent had to resort to a ridiculous thing. He crawled over to a referee, and began to drag the referee towards Conspiracy.

And that's when Conspiracy got the jump on the man. Coming from behind, J-Con locked the Attention Getter on Vincent! He tore at Vincent with the move, and Vincent began to tap! Vincent was tapping!

But the referee wasn't even sure how old he was, let alone where he was or what he was doing.

Conspiracy let out an F-bomb and removed The Attention Getter. He walked to the referee, picked the man up by his shirt, and threw him into a corner. He slapped the man, reprimanded him. He pointed to a hurting Vincent, and told him to do his job.

Conspiracy turned to go after Vincent... and the referee went for a crotch-shot. It didn't do much at all, to tell the truth. Conspiracy just looked past Vincent, past the ropes, the guardrails, the crowd, the nosebleed seats, clear around Canada, over England, Europe, Russia, Japan... over Alaska, and back into Canada again. Right behind him, he could see his back. He could see a black-and-white striped shirt. And he saw a leg of a man's black slacks inserted between his legs.

Conspiracy took one step forward, and the ref's leg fell to the mat. He turned around, looking the man straight in the eyes.

And then it all went to black. Last thing he heard was... clang.

Vincent dropped the steel chair again, turned Conspiracy over. Now it was time. Vincent yelled, and bounced off one side of the ring, and ran over Conspiracy's body to the other side. He turned, and hit the other part of the ring -- and the other. When he finished all four sides, he went, stopped -- after all, this was Pay-Per-View -- took one look around, and spat on Conspiracy's body. He went and slammed his fist into the head of J-Con, and covered him.

The referee dropped down, and counted.

One.

Two.

And the original referee pulled him off! The original referee pushed the new referee out of the ring!

Vincent stared at the original referee. There was nothing but anger in his eyes. He got up.

But Conspiracy grabbed his ankle, and forced Vincent to trip. Jonathan jumped on top of him, and proceeded to move him into position. He applied The Attention Getter again, and Vincent was trapped.

Vincent tapped. The original referee, he rang the bell.

And jOlt had an International Champion. Jonathan Conspiracy let go of the hold, rolled to his knees, and demanded his belt be given to him.

He raised the title into the air, to the (mis)delight of the crowd. He was champion, he was champion.

NEXT CHAPTER: 30 Man Battle Royal >>

©2002 John Leary