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 M3. Big Jim vs. Xtreme Icon | No-Disqualifications

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Riley Williamson
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M3. Big Jim vs. Xtreme Icon | No-Disqualifications Empty
PostSubject: M3. Big Jim vs. Xtreme Icon | No-Disqualifications   M3. Big Jim vs. Xtreme Icon | No-Disqualifications EmptySun Nov 16, 2014 10:01 am

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M3. Big Jim vs. Xtreme Icon | No-Disqualifications Empty
PostSubject: Re: M3. Big Jim vs. Xtreme Icon | No-Disqualifications   M3. Big Jim vs. Xtreme Icon | No-Disqualifications EmptySat Nov 22, 2014 10:04 pm

The bell rings and Big Jim is charging in. The One Man Montana Militia ducks a feral clothesline from Big Jim and responds with a kick to the gut and a solid DDT, much to the delight of the assembled masses. He makes the cover, but the man from the Black Rapids finds the backdoor at the count of two. The Icon bends Jim over the taut strands and lays in a forearm, but the logger fires back with a flurry of punches that put the Great Falls native on the back foot. After pummeling his opposition into the corner, the perverse pulp peeler stomps the Xtreme Icon into a seated position, his back braced against the buckle. Jim drags him to his feet and unceremoniously dumps him to the outside, before giving chase.

You knew it had to end up on the floor eventually.

I’m surprised it took this long, to tell the truth.

Armed with a steel chair, Jim dims the lights of the Toughest SOB in XWA with a heinous blow. A second blow wobbles the American, a third forces him to brace himself on the ring, a fourth busts his head open and sends him staggering away. Big Jim gives chase, armed with a table which he German suplexes onto his gobsmacked foe, resulting in the requisite groan of psychic pain from the crowd. Grabbing a garbage pail, he beans the 240-pounder, but still can’t keep him down. In desperation, he sets a table against the post, intent on running his opponent into and through the wood to meet the steel below. With a head of steam and the Icon’s head in his hands, Jim feels two hands jam into his back and thrust him forward; now he is the one who meets the wood. Xtreme Icon stumbles away, searching for his trademark Singapore cane. When he finds it, he holds it aloft, bathed in cheers.

Is Jim ever in trouble now…

You got that right partner, how many guys has the Icon put away with the Singapore Cane?

Looks like it could be one more.

Big Jim’s eyes are glassy as he turns to meet the first blow of the cane and then lurches backward and away from the stinging stick. He rolls into the ring, but his opposite is on his heels. Three concussive blows and now Jim is sitting in the corner wondering how it all went wrong. Icon drags him out and, having carefully positioned his cane, inverts Jim’s body and piledrives him on top of it. While he pre-emptively lights up a victory smoke, Jim hauls himself to the nearest corner and crawls up the ropes into a slumped standing position. Retrieving his cane, Xtreme Icon charges across the ring, only to be met by Big Jim’s size 13 boot. Jim fires off three punches of his own before snatching up the discarded cane and using it to usher the Icon to the floor with extreme prejudice.

Jim brings things to the outside once more, he’s been on a role as of late.

Yeah, but he can’t afford to get cocky. Jim fights dirty and dirty and hard-core ain’t the same thing.

Once on the floor again, the fans are quick to offer their chairs to the marauding grapplers. Icon's lips part as a grin shows over his tobacco bleached choppers, from the sea of offered paraphernalia, he finds something capable of evening the score. The fans in the arena cheer and gasped in anticipation after the selection had been made. All Big Jim could hear was the revving of a small engine as Icon lifts up his selection at full throttle. Icon stalks the Lumberjack, revving the throttle on the weedwhacker as Jim turns in and catches a flesh-peeling shot across his belly, the sound of twelve thousand RPM's screaming behind him. Big Jim howls like a wounded animal and rolls away, his body now a road map of pain connected by a bloody interstate system. Icon drops the lawn care equipment and it coughs and sputters before going silent, re-filling the arena with its own noise in a way that almost seems artificial absent the motorized din. Heading off Jim, Icon gives the blood-soaked birler a stiff kick in the chops before forcibly introducing his head to a florescent light tube, amidst a shower of shards and dust. With a spool of athletic tape, drawn from nearby, he tapes sticky-side out and creates his newest weapon. Collecting the broken glass from about the ring, the taped fist becomes a punishing gauntlet of the worst kind. Sizing up Jim for a truly heinous variant of the famed Straight Outta the 406, the Toughest SOB in XWA 's eyes take on a baleful stare.

Dear sweet Jesus, this is way beyond hardcore…

Xtreme Icon, showing you why he is the Toughest King in XWA; Big Jim might be able to intimidate the moose and the backwoods boys, but this is XWA and we don’t scare easy.

Big Jim barely ducks a swing, which, had it connected, would have surely ended the bout. Thinking quickly, he plants an elbow to the base of Icon's skull and hooks a Russian legsweep. Both men's backs now colliding with the concrete lead Jim to immediately curse his ingenuity, as the fresh wounds on his back now radiate pain through his whole body. He is slow to rise and the Montana juggernaut is hot on his heels. With sinister glee Icon scrapes his glass-encrusted hand across Jim's raw shoulder blades, causing another roar of animalistic anguish to resonate throughout the arena. From there, the hard rocking hedonist jettisons the implement, lest he injure himself, and applies a cobra clutch, before sweeping the legs himself and once again driving both men to the floor. Once more Icon is the first to rise and he now grabs a weapon of a different sort. From under the ring he produces a guitar and satisfies himself by braining the perverse pulp peeler with the instrument. Jim's knees buckle and he crumples slightly, before receiving another blow to the cranium that sends him to his back once again. Icon heaves his foe back into the ring and proceeds to collect a staple gun from his assortment of armaments. Before the fiendish fastener firearm can be deployed, Jim turns over and huge flash flies from his hand. Icon stumbles backward, blinded by the fireball and cursing in agony. The man from Black Rapids staggers to his feet and delivers a sloppy DDT, which leaves both men on the mat.

Jim throws a Hail Mary fireball, he needed that Joe.

Positively Teddy, I’m just not sure that this match hasn’t taken the best out of him already.

We’ve seen him and his partner hurt before.

Not like this we haven’t; the guy looks two bullet holes short of a drive-by.

Struggling to his feet, Jim tries to set up for a piledriver, but Icon bucks like a rampaging bull moose and throws Jim in a back body drop. He then clamours up to the high rent district and plunges a diving elbow into Jim’s sternum. Sitting up, with a self-satisfied sneer on his face, the Xtreme Icon is caught totally unaware by the roar of a chain saw beneath him. He clamours away, mere seconds before the blade rips through the mat and slashes a jagged gash in the squared circle. Through the hole, like some bearded, plaid-attired lumber baby, comes Cletus, wide-eyed and wild. The One Man Montana Militia looks in amazement, while Jim is only just now beginning to move, totally unaware of his partner’s return. Cletus turns his eye-popping gaze toward Icon and points an accusing finger. The Xtreme one has a finger for Cletus too and soon the two bruisers are slinging lefts and rights to the roar of the crowd. The impromptu brawl screeches to a halt when the ravenous Cletus decides to bite Icon’s face, shaking like an attack dog. The former three-time State Champion gives as good as he gets and makes to chew on the lumberman’s neck. The Pine Island Powerhouse doesn’t much care for that and releases his grip long enough to headbutt Icon; a Clear Cut Clothesline later and the oughest Hall of Famer in XWA History is on his back. However, Cletus has seen enough and wants to retreat to the relative safety of the locker room and the comforts of Hermit’s wine. He exits the ring, grabs the discarded moose skin and drapes his over his partner. Before he rushes toward the back, franticly looking over his shoulder, he tosses the pulp hook back into the ring.

Cletus ain’t stickin’ around, and after what we saw earlier I can’t blame him.

Well, he’s levelled the playing field for the moment; both guys are on their backs.

But Jim is still hurt worse. I’m not sure what putting that moose fur on him was supposed to accomplish.

Jim isn’t under the moose hide for five seconds before he’s back on his feet. He still looks like 245lbs of roadkill, but the fire in his eyes is undeniable. He drags Icon to his feet, reels backward, but his animal instincts are perked and as Icon advances, Jim delivers a field goal kick to the junk that lifts the Montana-native three inches off the mat and ensures that Kahlan and Wolverina won’t have anything to worry about for a long time. Picking his opponent up in a fireman’s carry, Jim smashes the marauding metal-head into the mat with the Hermit’s Hangover. Brazenly scorning the opportunity to pin, Big Jim grabs the abandoned staple gun and proceeds to attach the moose skin to Icon’s head and face. The pain of the metal piercing his skin is enough to rouse him from his hangover but, blinded, he can do little to prevent the attack of the Pulp Hook Punisher who, failing to get the weed whacker started, grabs the business end and takes to beating his opponent with about the stomach and chest with the engine.

Big Jim is a man possessed, where is he getting this energy?

He’s got to be running on adrenaline and the sheer thrill of having stayed alive this long. Whatever it is, he isn’t wasting a second of it. Icon’s gonna be wearing Jim’s frustration all over him tomorrow.

When the Xtremist stops moving, Big Jim closes in on his supine form and begins to rub the moose skin once more. A poor move, as Icon manages to feel his way into applying the testicular claw to his deviant opposition. Jim rolls clear, clutching his groin, while the man from Montana tears the hide from his own flesh, with a gut-besting bellow. Incensed, the Toughest SOB in XWA rains kicks upon the fetal-positioned woodsman, but Jim has a surprise; having recovered the pulp hook, he now buries it deep into Icon’s leg. Hobbled, the One Man Montana Militia falls forward, into the waiting arms of the twisted timber slayer; with neither man powerful enough to maintain his footing, after this bloodletting, both tumble into the hole in the ring…down into the dark abyss.

Whoa! They’re literally wrestling through the ring, that’s a new one on me.

To quote Tony Schiavone, “It’s a wonder they’re not dead.”

You’ve sunk to a new low.

The two men emerge from below at nearly the same moment and struggle to their feet, climbing back into the ring. The Xtreme Icon isn’t weakening yet and the stiff shots he lays into the wild woodsman rock him backward and make him wish for the soft stained sheets of the Black Horse. He retreats into the corner and then up the turnbuckle, but Icon is only a few steps behind him. A stunning right cross jacks Jim’s chin a bit too far and he slackens. The 26 year-old grabs the seated logger from behind. Both men, in the high rent district launch off and land on their shoulders as Icon executes a German suplex from the top. He bridges, but it’s sloppy, and as the referee’s hand counts the final three, Jim’s shoulder lifts from the canvas. Xtreme Icon has essentially pinned himself.
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