sVo Showdown 250
📺 Live on the Sanctioned Violence Network
📍 Goodfellas Casino Arena, Las Vegas, Nevada
📆 7th December 2025
The screen explodes into a kaleidoscope of neon and gold, a high-octane video package kicking off the broadcast. Fast-paced cuts cycle through two hundred and forty-nine episodes of history—bodies crashing through tables, championship belts raised in triumph, and the roar of the Las Vegas faithful—before the graphic slams shut on a metallic logo: sVo SHOWDOWN 250.
The feed cuts live to the interior of the Goodfellas Casino Arena, where the atmosphere is electric. The venue, a masterpiece of opulence and grandeur, is bathed in deep reds and shimmering gold lights that bounce off the plush seating and the high-definition LED screens surrounding the ring. The crowd is on their feet, the noise deafening as pyrotechnics blast from the stage, illuminating the architectural marvel that stands in the heart of the Las Vegas Strip.
The camera sweeps down to the commentary table, where Jeremiah Sloan and Julian Fiasco are seated, headsets on, ready for a historic night.
“Welcome everyone to a milestone night in the history of the Sanctioned Violence Organization!” Jeremiah Sloan shouts over the roar of the crowd, his voice cutting through the smooth jazz undertones of the casino’s ambiance. “We are live from the legendary Goodfellas Casino Arena for the 250th episode of Showdown! I’m Jeremiah Sloan, joined as always by the former Hostility Wrestling Champion, Julian Fiasco. Julian, two hundred and fifty episodes, and we are just two weeks away from the chaos of Seasons Beatings!”
Julian Fiasco leans back in his chair, adjusting the lapel of his suit with a smirk. “Two hundred and fifty episodes, Sloan, and I’ve been the best part of the last few dozen. But you’re right, the energy in here is different tonight. You can feel the tension. Everyone knows that momentum tonight translates to pay-per-view checks in two weeks. And looking at this card? Someone is leaving Las Vegas in an ambulance.”
“It is a stacked card worthy of the occasion,” Sloan continues, glancing at the monitors. “Tonight, we have a massive six-man tag team match featuring the notorious Blood Money faction. We know Anthony Moretti and his crew are always looking to expand their influence, and tonight they go to war against The SEC. But Julian, we have to talk about our championships. The stakes couldn’t be higher.”
“The gold is on the line, baby,” Fiasco adds, his eyes lighting up. “We’ve got Masafumi Satake defending his International Championship against the grizzled veteran himself, CJ Dreamer. Satake brings that Japanese strong style, but Dreamer? That man is a survivor. He’s got the ring smarts and the grit that you only get from decades in this business. That is going to be a collision.”
“And speaking of collisions,” Sloan interjects, “The Malones are in the house! ‘Money’ Malone and ‘The Big Apple Brawler’ Frankie Malone defend their International Tag Team Championships against Project Violence’s The Starr Brothers. The Malones have become absolute fan favorites since reuniting, bringing that gritty New York toughness to the desert.”
“They’re loyal, I’ll give them that,” Fiasco says with a shrug. “But loyalty doesn’t always stop a chair shot. We’ll see if they can hold onto the straps.”
“We also have action from the ‘Human Highlight Reel’ Kenneth D. Williams taking on Victor Holland, and ‘Platinum’ Emily Shaw is in the building,” Sloan notes, breathless. “But Julian, the main event. It doesn’t get bigger than this. The sVo Championship is on the line.”
The lights in the arena dim slightly as the graphic for the main event flashes on the giant screen: Carlos Vasquez vs. Angelo Anderson.
“Carlos Vasquez, ‘The Miami Maverick,’ has been electrifying crowds with his high-flying style and that magnetic South Beach charm. But tonight?” Sloan’s voice drops an octave. “Tonight he faces a monster. Angelo Anderson. They call him ‘Unbreakable,’ and he is the embodiment of dominance. He doesn’t care about the 250th episode celebration; he cares about taking that title by force.”
“Anderson is terrifying, Sloan. I’m a former champion, I know tough, but Anderson?” Fiasco shakes his head. “He’s cold. He’s focused. He’s a ‘Dynasty Destroyer’ for a reason. Vasquez better hope his agility can keep him away from that elevated sit-out powerbomb, or this celebration is going to end in a funeral for his title reign.”
“The sVo Championship. The International Championship. The Tag Team titles. It is a night of champions here at Goodfellas Casino Arena!” Sloan yells as the opening bell for the first match rings in the background. “Stay tuned, because sVo Showdown 250 starts right now!”
Backstage
The camera cuts to the bustling VIP entrance of the Goodfellas Casino Arena, where the ambient sounds of smooth jazz and the distant clinking of slot machines permeate the air. A sleek, black luxury car pulls up to the curb, and the door opens to reveal the sVo Champion, Carlos “The Miami Maverick” Vasquez.
Dressed in a sharp, pastel-colored suit that screams Miami nightlife, Vasquez steps out, adjusting his sunglasses with the suave confidence of a man who thrives in the spotlight. He barely has a moment to flash his signature smile at a group of fans behind the velvet rope before sVo Lead Interviewer Katie Smith steps into the frame, microphone in hand.
“Carlos! Carlos, can I get a moment?” Smith asks, living up to her reputation for chasing the big scoops. “We are moments away from the 250th episode of Showdown, and you have been booked in a massive main event against Angelo Anderson. Anderson calls himself ‘Unbreakable’ and previously teared through Dynasty Wrestling. How do you prepare for a monster like that on a night this important?”.
Vasquez lowers his sunglasses, his charisma radiating as he looks into the camera. “Katie, Katie, relax. Look around you. The lights, the cameras, the energy… this is what ‘The South Beach Sensation’ lives for,” Vasquez says smoothly. “Angelo Anderson? Yeah, he’s big, he’s scary, he’s dominant. I know he wants to break me. But you can’t break what you can’t catch. Tonight, I’m going to dazzle him with a little bit of that Miami flair, and when I hit the Miami Vice Kick, he’s going to realize that here in Vegas, the house doesn’t always win—the Maverick does.”.
Vasquez turns to walk away, but his path is blocked by a figure in a white and gold jacket resembling red carpet attire. It’s Alex Sterling.
The crowd reaction audibly shifts to a groan as “Hollywood’s Favorite Villain” slowly removes his designer sunglasses, looking at the sVo Champion with a smug, theatrical expression.
“Cut! Cut!” Sterling shouts dramatically, making a scissoring motion with his hands. “Carlos, darling, that was a spirited little monologue. A solid B-minus performance. But let’s be real for a second.”
Vasquez steps closer, his jaw tightening, but Sterling holds up a hand, checking his nails.
“You’re worried about the ‘Unbreakable’ brute tonight?” Sterling sneers, his arrogance on full display. “You should be. But let’s say, hypothetically, you survive the monster. Let’s say you actually walk out of here with that gold still around your waist. That just means you’re keeping it warm for a true box office attraction.”.
Sterling leans in close, invading the Champion’s personal space. “Because at Seasons Beatings, the script has already been written. And spoiler alert, Carlos… the final scene involves me standing over you, holding that title. Tonight is just a trailer. Two weeks from now? That’s the Blockbuster.”.
Sterling smirks, patting the sVo title on Vasquez’s shoulder disrespectfully, before turning and strutting away as if walking a red carpet. Vasquez watches him go, shaking his head with a mix of annoyance and focus as the scene fades.
“Big words from the ‘LA Luminary,’” Jeremiah Sloan says from the commentary desk. “But Sterling has a point. Even if Vasquez survives Angelo Anderson tonight, he has a date with destiny—and Alex Sterling—at Seasons Beatings.”.
“Sterling is a jerk, Sloan, but he’s right,” Julian Fiasco adds. “He’s box office gold. Vasquez better keep his eyes open, or he’s going to lose that belt before he even gets to the Pay-Per-View.”.
Single Match
Kenneth D Williams vs. Victor Holland
The arena lights pulse in rhythm to the beat of “Family Ties” by Baby Keen & Kendrick Lamar as Kenneth D. Williams emerges from the curtain. The crowd erupts for “The Human Highlight Reel,” who bounds down the ramp with a loose, relaxed energy, high-fiving fans along the barricade.
“Listen to that reception, Julian!” Jeremiah Sloan calls out. “Kenneth D. Williams is back and looking better than ever. He’s a risk-taker, an elite high-flyer, and tonight he’s looking to remind everyone why he’s one of the most exciting athletes in sVo history.”.
“Williams is talented, sure,” Julian Fiasco replies, leaning forward. “But he’s stepping in there with a man who is hungry. Victor Holland isn’t just happy to be here; he wants to be the guy.”
The music shifts to the uplifting anthem “Glory” by The Score, and Victor Holland steps out, slapping hands with the fans and nodding to the crowd. The “Rising Star” looks focused, his black and orange tights shimmering under the arena lights as he slides into the ring with a burst of youthful energy.
“Holland is a dynamic hybrid, Sloan,” Fiasco notes. “He can fly, he can grapple, and at 20 years old, he has recovered from setbacks that would crush lesser men. This kid is the future.”.
The bell rings, and the two fan favorites circle each other. There is no animosity here, only mutual respect. They lock up, but it’s a stalemate, neither man able to overpower the other. They break cleanly, and the pace immediately quickens. Holland shoots for a leg, but Williams leapfrogs over him. Holland rebounds off the ropes, Williams drops down, and as Holland goes for a running knee, Williams kips up instantly, causing Holland to skid to a halt.
The crowd cheers the display of agility.
“Mirror images in there right now!” Sloan shouts. “Both men looking for an opening, neither willing to give an inch!”
Holland takes the initiative, catching Williams with a sharp arm drag followed immediately by a dropkick that sends Williams into the corner. Capitalizing on the moment, Holland rushes in, executing a Rolling Snap Suplex combo—one, two, and a third with a bridge!.
“One! Two! And a kickout by Williams!” Sloan calls the count. “Holland showing that technical prowess early.”
Williams rolls to his feet, shaking off the impact. As Holland charges for a clothesline, Williams ducks and springs onto the middle rope, backflipping over Holland and landing on his feet. As Holland turns, Williams connects with a lightning-fast enzuigiri. With Holland staggered, Williams hits the ropes, leaps to the apron, and springs back in with the HiiPower—a stunning springboard moonsault that crushes Holland!.
“HiiPower connects!” Fiasco admits grudgingly. “That’s the risk-taking I was talking about. Williams throws his body around like he doesn’t care if he lands on his feet or his head.”.
Williams hooks the leg. One! Two! Holland gets a shoulder up.
The match intensifies as both men trade heavy shots in the center of the ring. Holland gains the upper hand with a sudden Tornado Kick that rocks Williams. Seeing his opportunity, Holland signals for the end. He scales the turnbuckles, looking out to the crowd who rise to their feet in anticipation.
“Holland going to the high rent district! Is he looking for Skyfall?” Sloan yells.
Holland launches himself into the air, twisting for the Corkscrew 450 splash—the Skyfall. But Williams rolls out of the way at the very last second! Holland lands on his feet, showcasing incredible balance, but the impact jars his knees. He stumbles forward, turning right into Williams.
Williams grabs Holland, looking for a suplex, but Holland counters into a waist lock. Williams breaks the grip with a back elbow, spins around, and they stand face-to-face. In a blink, Williams hooks both hands around Holland’s head and leaps up, driving both knees into Holland’s face!
“Lights Out! Lights Out!” Sloan screams as Holland collapses forward onto Williams’ exposed knees.
Williams falls backward, dragging Holland down with him. He hooks the leg deep.
“One! Two! Three!”
The bell rings as “Family Ties” blares through the speakers once again.
“What a match! Kenneth D. Williams picks up the victory in a contest that could have gone either way!” Sloan says breathlessly.
Inside the ring, Williams stands up, chest heaving. He looks down at Holland, who is slowly recovering. Williams extends a hand. The crowd holds its breath until Holland looks up, nods, and accepts the handshake, pulling himself up. The two embrace briefly, a show of respect between two of the most exciting high-flyers in the game.
“Williams gets the win tonight,” Fiasco says, “but don’t sleep on Victor Holland. He hung in there with a veteran. But tonight? The highlight reel keeps rolling.”.
Backstage
The feed cuts to the backstage interview area, where the sVo logo is plastered across the metal grating behind them. Katie Smith stands with a microphone, her expression professional but guarded as she turns to the camera.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight is a celebration of 250 episodes of Showdown, and sVo management has pulled out all the stops,” Katie begins, her voice steady. “My guests at this time are former sVo Tag Team Champions, returning for one night only from Project Violence in Atlantic City… The Starr Brothers, Simon and Darren.”
The camera pans out to reveal the brothers. Simon, the older and larger of the two, stands with his arms crossed, his biceps bulging against a black sleeveless shirt that reads ‘AC > LV’. Beside him, the younger, leaner Darren Starr is stretching his neck, a smug grin plastered across his face. They radiate an aura of unwelcome superiority.
“Welcome back to Las Vegas,” Katie says, offering the microphone to Simon. “Tonight, you face the current International Tag Team Champions, The Malones. Given that you’ve been competing in Project Violence recently, how do you think you match up against a team like Frankie and ‘Money’ Malone?”
Simon Starr lets out a dry, condescending chuckle, leaning in close to Katie.
“Katie, let’s get one thing straight. We aren’t here because we missed the buffet,” Simon growls, his voice deep and gravelly. “We are here because sVo Showdown reached 250 episodes, and you cannot have a highlight reel of this company without The Starr Brothers. We built this tag team division before we took our talents to the boardwalk of Atlantic City. And as for matching up? We don’t match up with The Malones. We look down on them.”
Darren steps forward, interrupting his brother with frantic, high-energy arrogance.
“Exactly, Si! Look at them!” Darren shouts, gesturing wildly at the camera. “You’ve got Frankie Malone, the ‘Big Apple Brawler.’ Ooh, scary. He’s just a glorified street thug from New York. And his cousin? ‘Money’ Malone? Please. The guy spent years being a stooge for Blood Money, carrying bags for Anthony Moretti, and now we’re supposed to believe he’s championship material because he found his conscience?”.
“The Malones are a feel-good story for the newsletter, Katie,” Simon cuts back in, his eyes narrowing. “But inside that ring? They are brawlers. We are championship-caliber athletes. We dominated sVo before, and we dominate Project Violence now.”
“But The Malones have incredible momentum right now,” Katie interjects, trying to maintain control of the interview. “Since reuniting, the fans have rallied behind their family bond. Do you think you might be underestimating their chemistry?”.
“Chemistry?” Darren scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Chemistry is what you have when you’re blood brothers who have held gold in two different companies. Momentum is what happens when you’re the Starr Brothers and you decide to crash a party.”
Simon steps right up to the lens, blocking Katie out of the shot entirely.
“Frankie, Money… enjoy your little 250th-anniversary parade. Enjoy the balloons and the confetti,” Simon says menacingly. “Because when that bell rings, we aren’t just going to beat you. We’re going to embarrass you. We’re going to take those International Tag Team titles, bring them back to Atlantic City, and throw them in the ocean. Happy anniversary, sVo. You’re welcome for the ratings.”
Simon shoves the microphone back into Katie’s chest, and the brothers storm off frame, leaving Katie shaking her head as the scene fades to black.
International Tag Team Championship Match
The Malones (c) vs. The Starr Brothers
The atmosphere in the Goodfellas Casino Arena shifts from anticipation to hostility as the lights cut to a sickly green. The Starr Brothers, Simon and Darren, march onto the stage, the Project Violence representatives soaking in the boos. Simon, the powerhouse of the duo, sneers at the Las Vegas crowd, while the younger, high-flying Darren mocks the fans in the front row.
“Here come the outsiders,” Jeremiah Sloan says, his voice tinged with disdain. “The Starr Brothers made it clear earlier tonight: they are here to embarrass the sVo and take the International Tag Team titles back to Atlantic City.”
“They’re arrogant, Sloan, but they’re dangerous,” Julian Fiasco replies. “Simon is a tank, and Darren is as quick as they come. The Malones have their work cut out for them.”
The arena explodes with energy as “Concrete Jungle Rumble” hits the speakers. The crowd leaps to their feet as Frankie “The Big Apple Brawler” Malone and “Money” Malone burst through the curtain. The cousins bump fists, their chemistry palpable as they slide into the ring, raising their championships high. Since reuniting in 2024, they have become the heartbeat of the tag division, their bond of family and loyalty driving them.
“Listen to that ovation for The Malones!” Sloan shouts. “Frankie and Money represent the grit of the streets, and they aren’t going to let anyone disrespect their home turf!”
The referee calls for the bell. Frankie Malone starts for the champions, squaring off against the massive Simon Starr. They lock up, and Simon uses his brute strength to shove Frankie into the corner, delivering a stiff chop that echoes through the arena. Frankie, tough as nails and unapologetically raw, shakes it off and fires back with a rapid-fire combination of punches, backing the big man up.
“Frankie Malone is not afraid to trade leather!” Sloan calls out. “He’s bringing that New York toughness right to Simon Starr!”
Frankie tags in his cousin, and the two execute a double hip toss on Simon. “Money” Malone, ever the showman, does a little strut before dropping a knee across Simon’s forehead. But the momentum turns when Darren Starr gets the blind tag. As Money hits the ropes, Simon drives a knee into his back from the apron. Money stumbles, and Darren flies in with a springboard dropkick, sending Money crashing to the mat.
For the next several minutes, the Starr Brothers cut the ring in half. They display the ruthless aggression typical of Project Violence, using quick tags and dirty tactics. At one point, Simon distracts the referee while Darren chokes Money against the bottom rope, breaking the count only at four.
“This is what I was worried about,” Fiasco notes. “The Starr Brothers know every trick in the book. They’re isolating Money Malone, keeping him away from his cousin.”
Money fights back, ducking a clothesline and hitting a desperate Running Lariat that turns Darren inside out. Both men crawl toward their corners. The crowd begins to stomp and clap, willing the tag. Darren leaps for Simon, but Money dives and makes the hot tag to Frankie!
“Here comes the Brawler!” Sloan screams.
Frankie Malone explodes into the ring, ducking a clothesline from Simon and unloading with the Brooklyn Beatdown—a powerful combination of punches and elbows that staggers the big man. Darren tries to interfere, but Frankie catches him with a back body drop. Simon charges, but Frankie scoops him up and plants him with a devastating Subway Slam!
“Subway Slam! That could be it!” Sloan yells.
Frankie goes for the cover, but Darren breaks it up at the last second with a stomp to the back of the head. The match breaks down into chaos. The referee tries to usher Money back to his corner, and in the confusion, Simon Starr rolls out of the ring and grabs one of the International Tag Team title belts.
“He’s got the belt, Julian! The referee doesn’t see it!” Sloan cries out.
Simon slides back in, winding up to blast Frankie in the face while Darren holds Frankie’s arms from behind. Simon swings the gold—but Frankie drops to his knees! The belt cracks Darren square in the face!
The crowd erupts as Simon freezes, realizing what he’s done. He turns around right into a superkick from Money Malone, who has re-entered the fray! Simon stumbles backward, dazed, right into the clutches of Frankie.
“The plan backfired!” Fiasco laughs.
Money Malone waits for Frankie to feed Darren to him. Frankie Irish whips the groggy Darren toward Money, who catches him in position for the Cash Out. With a burst of flair, Money executes the sit-out powerbomb, planting Darren into the canvas.
“Cash Out! Hook the leg!” Sloan shouts.
Money covers Darren with a cocky grin. One! Two! Three!
The bell rings, and “Concrete Jungle Rumble” plays once again. The referee hands the belts to the exhausted but triumphant cousins.
“They tried to steal it, but you can’t hustle a hustler!” Sloan declares. “The Malones retain the International Tag Team Championships on this historic 250th episode!”
Inside the ring, Frankie and Money embrace, raising their titles as the defeated Starr Brothers retreat up the ramp, arguing with each other. The Malones stand tall, their redemption story continuing as the undisputed kings of the tag division
Backstage
The camera cuts to a dimly lit, private locker room backstage, where the air is thick with tension and the faint sound of a trap beat thumping from a portable speaker. This is the inner sanctum of Blood Money.
Junior Gambino, the “Young Gun” of the faction, stands in front of a mirror, adjusting the collar of his leather jacket and admiring his own reflection. “Sharp,” he mutters to himself, a cocky smirk playing on his lips. “Untouchable.”
Sitting on a bench in the corner is the towering figure of Nicky Columbo. The “Sicilian Enforcer” stares blankly at the floor, his massive frame hunched forward, radiating a cold, silent menace. He doesn’t speak; he doesn’t need to. His presence alone is a threat.
In the center of the room sits Joe Barone. “The Problem Solver” is methodically taping his wrists, his expression stone-cold. There is no wasted motion, no nervous energy—just the calm focus of a man preparing to go to work.
The door swings open, and the music is abruptly cut. Standing in the doorway is the owner of Sanctioned Violence, Jon Page.
Gambino spins around, his brash attitude instantly replaced by a look of alert respect as he nudges Columbo. The giant slowly lifts his head, his piercing stare locking onto Page.
“Gentlemen,” Page says, his voice low but commanding. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. “Tonight is a celebration for the fans, but for me, it’s business. And right now, my business has a problem.”
Page looks from Columbo to Gambino, before resting his eyes on Barone.
“Brice Brantley and The SEC,” Page spits the name out with disdain. “They think they can walk around my company, disrupting my show, thinking they run the place. I want that delusion ended tonight. I don’t just want you to beat them in that six-man tag match. I want you to destroy them.”
Junior Gambino steps forward, a sneer curling his lip. “Brantley? The guy’s a joke, Boss. A civilian playing soldier. We’re gonna embarrass ‘em. We’re gonna make sure they regret ever signing a contract with sVo.”
Page ignores the “Young Gun,” keeping his eyes fixed on the veteran. “Joe. Can I count on you to clean up this mess?”
Joe Barone finishes taping his wrist. He stands up slowly, his 6’4″ frame casting a shadow over the room. He smooths down his black slacks and adjusts his suspenders. He looks Page dead in the eye, his face void of emotion.
“You know the code, Jon,” Barone says, his voice a low rumble. “We don’t do this for the applause. We do it because we’re the ones who make problems disappear.”
Barone cracks his knuckles, the sound echoing in the small room.
“Tonight, The SEC… they sleep with the fishes.”
Page nods, satisfied. “Good. Take care of business.”
As Page exits, Columbo stands up, cracking his neck, and the three members of Blood Money share a look of ruthless determination. The camera fades as Barone signals for them to move out.
Single Match
Marty Murdoch vs. Alex Sterling
The upbeat synth intro of Van Halen’s “Jump” hits the PA system, and the crowd offers a warm, cheering reception as Marty Murdoch sprints onto the stage. The “Miracle” of sVo looks absolutely ecstatic to be here, slapping hands with fans on his way to the ring, his face beaming with the optimism of a perennial underdog.
“Marty Murdoch might not be the biggest dog in the fight, Julian, but you cannot deny the size of the heart in this young man,” Jeremiah Sloan comments warmly. “He is scrappy, he is determined, and he believes every match is a chance for a miracle.”
“Heart doesn’t pay the bills, Sloan. Box office receipts do,” Julian Fiasco retorts as the music shifts.
“Lights, Camera, Action” by Royal Deluxe blares, and the mood changes instantly. Alex Sterling emerges, draped in his white and gold ‘red carpet’ jacket, designer sunglasses shielding his eyes from the ‘paparazzi’. “The LA Luminary” walks with a smug, theatrical swagger, pausing to check his reflection in a camera lens before sliding into the ring.
The bell rings, and Sterling immediately calls for a “time out,” instructing the referee to back Murdoch up so he can remove his jacket and sunglasses with agonizing slowness. He folds his glasses, handing them to the ref like a precious prop.
“Look at the presence,” Fiasco gushes. “He treats every moment like an award-winning performance.”
Murdoch, eager to get things moving, charges in. Sterling, looking bored, attempts a lazy clothesline, but Murdoch ducks underneath! The underdog hits the ropes and connects with a snappy Flying Forearm that sends Sterling stumbling back. The crowd pops as Murdoch follows up immediately with a Victory Roll—one, two—Sterling kicks out aggressively!.
Sterling scrambles to his feet, looking insulted that an “extra” would dare upstage him. “Do you know who I am?!” Sterling screams, breaking the fourth wall to yell at the camera.
He lunges at Murdoch, but the smaller man uses his speed, looking for a Frankensteiner. However, Sterling catches him mid-air. The “Hollywood Villain” powerbombs Murdoch into the turnbuckle, the impact echoing through the ring. Sterling smirks, dusting off his hands.
“And scene,” Sterling mocks, before delivering a brutal Slingshot DDT that plants Murdoch face-first.
Sterling takes control, slowing the pace down. He executes a Tilt-a-whirl backbreaker, adding a theatrical bow to the crowd as Murdoch writhes in pain—the “Hollywood Backbreaker”. He pulls Murdoch up, slapping him across the face disrespectfully.
“This is your problem, Murdoch! You’re B-list! I am the star!” Sterling shouts.
But the slap wakes Murdoch up. The “Miracle” fires back with a scrappy series of punches to the gut. Sterling tries to cut him off, but Murdoch ducks a lariat and connects with a Missile Front Dropkick that sends Sterling crashing into the corner.
“Murdoch is firing up! Is he going to pull off another miracle tonight?” Sloan calls out.
Murdoch plays to the crowd, feeding off their energy. He measures Sterling, waiting for him to stumble out of the corner. Murdoch takes off, running up the ropes, looking for his signature Underdog corner run bulldog.
He leaps—but Sterling has it scouted! Sterling shoves Murdoch off mid-move, sending him crashing throat-first across the top rope. Murdoch stumbles backward, clutching his neck, dazed.
Sterling spins Murdoch around, kicking him in the gut. He looks at the hard cam and yells, “CUT!”.
Sterling leaps, grabbing Murdoch’s head and driving him down into the mat with the Box Office Smash. It’s executed with picture-perfect precision. Sterling hooks the leg, staring arrogantly at the lights.
One! Two! Three!
The bell rings, and “Lights, Camera, Action” plays again.
“It was a valiant effort by Marty Murdoch, but Alex Sterling is on another level right now,” Sloan admits.
“He’s box office gold, Sloan,” Fiasco adds as Sterling stands up, smoothing his hair. “Murdoch was just a prop in Sterling’s scene. And if I were Carlos Vasquez or Angelo Anderson, I’d be very worried about the sequel at Seasons Beatings.”
Sterling forces the referee to raise his hand, soaking in the boos with a smug grin, believing the fans should be thanking him for his performance.
Backstage
The camera cuts backstage to the interview area, where Katie Smith is standing by. Next to her are the still-sweating International Tag Team Champions, The Malones. Frankie “The Big Apple Brawler” Malone is icing his shoulder, while “Money” Malone wipes his forehead with a towel, the gold belts resting on their shoulders.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am here with the International Tag Team Champions, The Malones,” Katie begins, maintaining her professional composure. “Frankie, Money—tonight you went to war with The Starr Brothers, a team that came here specifically to embarrass the sVo. You fought them off and you retained your titles. That has to be a satisfying moment.”
“Money” Malone steps in, his usual swagger replaced by a look of serious frustration. He adjusts the title on his shoulder, looking directly into the lens.
“Satisfying? Yeah, Katie, winning is always satisfying. Beating a couple of punks from Atlantic City who think they’re better than us? That’s satisfying,” Money says, his voice tight. “But you know what isn’t satisfying? The feeling I get when I walk through that curtain to the back.”
Frankie Malone steps forward, his grizzled face scowling. “Let’s cut the crap, alright? We know what’s going on. We know Jon Page is watching this right now in his office,” Frankie growls, his New York accent thick. “Ever since we didn’t get the job done against The SEC a few weeks ago, the vibe around here has changed. The Boss… he looks at us like we’re a liability.”
“He promised us revenge, remember?” Money adds, shaking his head bitterly. “He said there’d be hell to pay because we didn’t crush Brantley and his boys when we had the chance. Well, look at us, Page! We just defended your company’s gold against outsiders! We just put our bodies on the line for your brand!”
Frankie leans into the microphone, his eyes intense. “But it’s never enough for the brass, is it? You want to hold a grudge because we didn’t win one match the way you wanted? You want to make us feel unwanted in our own house?”
Money puts a hand on Frankie’s chest to calm him, but his own expression is just as defiant.
“If we aren’t appreciated here in Las Vegas… if the sVo doesn’t want The Malones representing this division… then maybe we take these championships somewhere that will,” Money says, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “There’s a lot of companies out there looking for top-tier talent.”
Frankie nods, a dark smirk forming on his face. “Somewhere that knows how to treat fighters.”
Money and Frankie look at each other, then simultaneously raise their hands. In a shocking breach of contract, they cross their forearms in front of their chests and form an ‘X’—the signature hand sign of rival promotion XPRO.
Katie Smith’s eyes go wide, and she pulls the microphone back as if burned.
“We’re out,” Frankie mutters.
The Malones storm off camera, taking the sVo International Tag Team titles with them.
The feed cuts back to the commentary table, where Jeremiah Sloan and Julian Fiasco look genuinely stunned.
“Did you see that?!” Sloan yells, ripping off his headset. “That was the symbol for XPRO! You can’t do that on live television! That is a rival organization!”
“Jon Page is going to lose his mind,” Fiasco laughs in disbelief. “The Malones just threatened to take our belts to the competition! This 250th episode is going off the rails!”
Six Man Tag Team Match
The SEC vs. Blood Money
The arena is filled with a palpable tension as the lights shift to a deep, collegiate crimson. The titantron flashes “THE SEC,” and out walks the smug trio of Brice Brantley, alongside the reigning sVo Tag Team Champions, Gator Bates and The Alabama Kid. They strut down the ramp with an air of unearned superiority, mocking the fans and polishing their belts.
“Here they are, the men who have been a thorn in the side of Jon Page for months,” Jeremiah Sloan says with evident distaste. “The SEC, undefeated since arriving from XPRO, and they act like they own the place.”
“They’ve been winning, Sloan,” Julian Fiasco points out. “You don’t have to like them, but Gator Bates and The Alabama Kid have run through everyone. They are dangerous.”
The music cuts abruptly to the ominous, orchestral intro of “Mob Ties.” The mood darkens as Blood Money—Joe Barone, Junior Gambino, and Nicky Columbo—emerge from the curtain. They don’t pose; they march. Dressed in their street-mafia gear, they look like a hit squad sent to collect a debt.
“Jon Page gave the order,” Sloan whispers. “He wants The SEC destroyed. And he sent the perfect executioners.”
The bell rings, and the match begins with a clash of styles. Junior Gambino starts off against The Alabama Kid. It’s a showcase of technical arrogance; Gambino, the “Young Gun,” trades slick reversals with the Kid. Gambino hits a sharp arm drag followed by a dropkick to the knee, but the Kid rakes Gambino’s eyes behind the referee’s back and tags in the massive Gator Bates.
Bates storms in, leveling Gambino with a clothesline. The SEC begins to pick Gambino apart, cutting the ring in half. Brice Brantley tags in, delivering cheap shots while taunting the Blood Money corner.
“The SEC is doing what they do best,” Fiasco notes. “Isolating the smallest man, frustrating the opponents. Smart strategy.”
Gambino finally finds an opening, ducking a clothesline from Brantley and hitting a desperate Snap Dragon Suplex. Both men are down. Gambino crawls, diving to tag in the “Sicilian Enforcer,” Nicky Columbo!
Columbo steps over the top rope, staring down Gator Bates who has also tagged in. The two behemoths collide in the center of the ring. Bates throws a punch; Columbo doesn’t flinch. Columbo fires back with a massive right hand, then whips Bates into the corner, crushing him with a body avalanche. As The Alabama Kid tries to interfere, Columbo catches him by the throat and hurls him across the ring with a Fallaway Slam.
“Columbo is cleaning house! The muscle of Blood Money is unstoppable tonight!” Sloan shouts.
The match breaks down into a six-man brawl. The Alabama Kid flies out of the ring onto Junior Gambino. Inside, Gator Bates and Nicky Columbo tumble over the top rope, brawling on the floor. This leaves Brice Brantley alone in the ring with the legal man, Joe Barone.
Brantley realizes his mistake instantly. He backs up, begging off, but “The Problem Solver” is closing in. Barone’s face is stone cold. Brantley tries a desperate eye poke, but Barone blocks it and delivers a stiff Mafia Kick that nearly takes Brantley’s head off.
However, Gator Bates slides a steel chair into the ring behind the referee’s back! Brantley grabs it, waiting for Barone to turn around.
“Watch out, Joe!” Sloan yells.
As Brantley swings the chair, Junior Gambino slides in out of nowhere, tripping Brantley face-first into the canvas! The chair skitters away. The referee is busy yelling at Gator Bates on the outside.
Seizing the moment, Joe Barone grabs the dazed Brantley. He lifts him up, stalling for a moment to look at the hard cam, before driving him down with Sleeping With the Fishes—the lifting inverted DDT.
But Barone doesn’t cover. He drags Brantley’s limp body over to the corner and tags in Junior Gambino. Gambino climbs the turnbuckle, looking down at the fallen SEC leader.
“This is it!” Fiasco says.
Gambino leaps, but instead of a splash, he lands and immediately locks in Omertà—the guillotine choke with body scissors. Brantley is out cold from the DDT; the submission is just insult to injury. He verbally submits within seconds!
The bell rings!
“It’s over! The streak is broken!” Sloan screams. “Blood Money has handed The SEC their first loss in sVo!”
“They did exactly what Jon Page paid them to do,” Fiasco adds. “They cheated, they brawled, and they solved the problem.”
Joe Barone stands over the fallen Brantley, adjusting his suspenders, while Nicky Columbo and Junior Gambino raise their hands in victory. The SEC retreats, clutching their tag titles, looking furious and humiliated for the first time.
Backstage
The camera cuts to the interview staging area, where the stark lighting reflects off the gold plating of the International Championship belt resting on the broad shoulder of Masafumi Satake. The champion stands with a calm, stoic intensity, his jet-black hair slicked back, a distinct scar visible on his left orbital.
Katie Smith steps into the frame, microphone raised.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my guest at this time is the reigning International Champion, Masafumi Satake,” Katie introduces professionally. “Masafumi, tonight you defend your title against a man with decades of experience, CJ Dreamer. Dreamer is known for his grit and his willingness to break the rules. How do you prepare for a veteran who has turned his back on the fans and will do anything to win?”
Satake adjusts the title, his expression serious. He speaks with the measured tone of a dedicated professional who lives and breathes the sport.
“CJ Dreamer… he is a survivor,” Satake says, his voice deep and respectful but firm. “He has been in this business a long time. He knows every hold, every trick. But I am in the twilight of my career, Katie. Every time I step through those ropes, I fight to leave an everlasting impression. Dreamer can bring his tricks. He can bring his hate. But he cannot stop the Strong Style. When I hit the Matsuzaka Cutter, experience does not matter. The only thing that matters is—”
Satake is cut off by the heavy sound of bootsteps. The camera pans slightly to reveal Colt Thompson walking into the frame. “The Lone Star” towers over the interviewer, dressed in his long leather coat and cowboy hat, looking every bit the outlaw.
Thompson sneers, looking down his nose at the champion with a mix of southern charm and cutting arrogance.
“Hold your horses there, Masafumi,” Thompson drawls, his voice dripping with condescension. “That’s a real nice speech. ‘Honor,’ ‘Strong Style’… it’s real touching. But let’s be real. You ain’t fighting for honor tonight. You’re fighting to keep that belt warm for me.”
Satake turns his body, squaring up to the 6’4″ Texan. The champion doesn’t flinch, his eyes narrowing.
Thompson steps closer, invading Satake’s personal space, employing his signature psychological warfare.
“You see, I’ve been watching you,” Thompson continues, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “And I decided I don’t want to take that gold from a washed-up has-been like CJ Dreamer. I want to take it from you. So you better not lose tonight, Satake. You go out there, you beat the old man, and you make sure you bring that title to Seasons Beatings.”
Thompson taps the International Championship plate with a gloved finger.
“Because in two weeks? The Lone Star is going to dim your lights for good,” Thompson threatens.
Without waiting for a response, Thompson turns on his heel and saunters off, his coat swishing behind him. Satake watches him go, his jaw set in stone, clutching his championship tighter as the scene fades.
“Colt Thompson calling his shot for the Pay-Per-View!” Jeremiah Sloan calls out from the desk. “But Satake can’t afford to look past tonight. CJ Dreamer is waiting in the ring!”
“Thompson is playing mind games, Sloan,” Julian Fiasco adds. “He wants Satake thinking about two weeks from now, not the danger standing right in front of him. That’s a calculated move by the Texas Tyrant.”
International Championship Match
Masafumi Satake (c) vs. CJ Dreamer
A gritty, anthemic rock track fills the arena, and the mood instantly sours. CJ Dreamer walks onto the stage, ignoring the jeers from the crowd. The “Veteran” wears a leather jacket with “Dreamer” stitched across the back, his face weathered and determined.
“CJ Dreamer might be one of the most hated men in the locker room after what he did to Ricky Johnson, but you cannot deny his resume,” Jeremiah Sloan says. “He is an old-school technician with a brawler’s edge, and he believes this International Championship belongs to him.”
“Dreamer isn’t here to make friends, Sloan. He’s here to survive and win,” Julian Fiasco adds. “He’s got more ring smarts in his pinky than most of the roster has in their whole bodies.”
The music shifts to the fast-paced punk energy of “Down the Drain” by the Zero Boys. The crowd cheers as Masafumi Satake emerges. The International Champion looks like a bull of a human being, his jet-black hair slicked back, walking with the calm dedication of a man in the twilight of his career who refuses to fade away.
“Here comes the champion!” Sloan calls out. “Satake brings that Japanese Strong Style to Las Vegas. He was just threatened by Colt Thompson backstage, but right now, his eyes are locked on CJ Dreamer.”
The bell rings, and the two veterans circle each other cautiously. They lock up, and Satake’s power is immediately evident as he shoves Dreamer into the corner. Dreamer, however, uses his experience to spin out, delivering a sharp chop to Satake’s chest. Satake doesn’t blink. He fires back with a stiff forearm that rocks Dreamer back on his heels.
“Satake hitting hard early!” Fiasco notes. “He’s not letting Dreamer dictate the pace.”
Dreamer realizes he can’t win a striking contest and shifts tactics. He ducks a lariat and clips Satake’s knee, bringing the big man down. Dreamer goes to work, applying a grinding headlock, using the ropes for leverage behind the referee’s back. He slows the match down, showcasing the measured pacing that earned him his reputation.
Dreamer whips Satake into the ropes and catches him with a textbook Spinebuster, planting the champion in the center of the ring.
“Textbook spinebuster by Dreamer! Cover!” Sloan yells.
One! Two! Satake powers out.
Dreamer argues with the referee, buying time. He pulls Satake up, looking for the Dream Breaker, his double underhook DDT finisher. He hooks the arms, but Satake fights it! The champion’s strength is too much. Satake back-body drops Dreamer to break the hold.
Dreamer stumbles up, turning right into a vicious Roaring Elbow from Satake that echoes through the arena. Dreamer collapses, dazed.
“The Roaring Elbow connects! That might have knocked Dreamer out cold!” Fiasco shouts.
Satake shakes the cobwebs loose, feeling the adrenaline. He waits for Dreamer to get to his feet. As Dreamer turns, Satake hoists him up onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.
“He’s got him up! This is it!” Sloan screams.
Satake spins Dreamer around, driving him down into the Matsuzaka Cutter—the running reverse neckbreaker. The impact is decisive. Satake hooks the leg.
One! Two! Three!
The bell rings, and “Down the Drain” blasts through the speakers. The referee hands the International Championship to Satake, who clutches it to his chest, nodding respectfully to the crowd.
“Masafumi Satake retains!” Sloan declares. “The veteran Dreamer threw everything he had at him, but the Matsuzaka Cutter was too much!”
“Satake survives the veteran tonight,” Fiasco says ominously. “But he has a much bigger problem waiting for him at Seasons Beatings. Colt Thompson is watching, and I guarantee he liked what he saw.”
Satake stands tall in the ring, raising his title, aware that his defense tonight is just the prelude to a war with the “Lone Star” in two weeks.
Backstage
The feed transitions to the backstage interview set, where Katie Smith stands ready with a microphone. The sVo logo backdrop is illuminated by harsh production lighting. Standing next to her is Adam García, looking sharp but intense. The “Spanish Ace” adjusts his wrist tape, his demeanor radiating a mix of cocky intelligence and simmering aggression.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome ‘The Mad Bull,’ Adam García,” Katie begins. “Adam, in two weeks at Seasons Beatings, you are scheduled to face Danny Domino. Domino calls himself ‘The Bully’ and has made a career out of intimidation. How do you mentally prepare for an opponent who thrives on fear?”.
García scoffs, a smirk playing on his lips as he looks down at the microphone, then directly into the camera.
“Fear? Katie, look at me. I analyze my opponents,” García says, his voice calm but laced with arrogance. “I have studied the tapes. I see a man who is loud, crude, and slow. Danny Domino relies on being the biggest dog in the yard, but I am not a dog. I am the Bull from Málaga.”.
García steps closer to the lens. “Domino thinks he can intimidate me with his trash talk and his cheap tricks? I have a background in Judo. I have fought in cages. I possess the Panther style,” he says, referencing his hybrid fighting background. “While he is chewing his gum and looking for applause, I will be dissecting his weaknesses. He is a blunt instrument. I am a surgical blade. At Seasons Beatings, the ‘Bully’ is going to learn that—”.
Suddenly, a massive forearm club smashes into the back of García’s head!
The camera shakes as García crumples forward, colliding with Katie Smith, who screams and scrambles out of the way. Standing over him is Danny Domino, wearing his leather vest with “BULLY” scrawled across the back, a sick sneer on his face.
“Analyze that, you nerd!” Domino shouts, grabbing García by the back of his hair.
Domino drags the dazed García up and slams him face-first into the metal grating of the interview backdrop. “You think you’re smart? You think you’re tough? You ain’t nothing but a target!”.
García, showing his short temper and “Mad Bull” resilience, roars and spins around, tackling Domino into a stack of production crates!. García starts firing off stiff strikes, his MMA training taking over, but Domino rakes his eyes, fighting dirty to regain control.
“Get off him!” a voice yells.
A swarm of black-shirted sVo security guards rushes into the frame, pulling the two men apart. It takes four guards to hold back the enraged García, who is shouting insults in Spanish, while three others struggle to push the laughing Danny Domino back down the hallway.
“You see that?!” Domino yells, popping his gum and pointing a taped fist at García. “I own you! I’m in your head! You’re nothing!”.
“I will kill you!” García screams back, straining against the security team. “Destino Final, Domino! Destino Final!”.
The feed cuts back to the commentary table as the chaos continues.
“Disgusting!” Jeremiah Sloan yells. “Danny Domino couldn’t wait two weeks! He had to blindside Adam García right here tonight!”.
“It’s called psychological warfare, Sloan,” Julian Fiasco chuckles. “Domino just proved his point. He got under the ‘Mad Bull’s’ skin. If García fights with that much anger at Seasons Beatings, he’s going to make a mistake, and Domino will capitalize. That was brilliant.”.
Backstage
The camera cuts to a stark, concrete hallway backstage, zooming in on a door simply labeled “UNBREAKABLE.”
Inside, the room is silent except for the rhythmic sound of heavy breathing and the thud of impact. Angelo Andersonstands in the center of the room, shirtless, sweat glistening on his shaved head and thick, muscular frame. He is driving his taped fists into a heavy pad propped against the wall, each strike landing with terrifying power. He stops, rolling his neck with a crack, and turns to the camera. His eyes are intense and calculating, devoid of fear or doubt. He grabs his black trench coat with the metal-plated chest piece, swinging it over his shoulders like armor. He stares into the lens, his expression cold and dominant, ready to dismantle the champion.
The scene wipes rapidly to a contrasting environment—a locker room bathed in warmer light, with a fast-paced Latin beat humming in the background. Carlos “The Miami Maverick” Vasquez is bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, keeping his muscles loose. He adjusts the sVo Championship belt that sits on a velvet table, running his hand over the gold plates. He checks his reflection in the mirror, flashing a confident grin and smoothing back his hair. He isn’t intimidated; he exudes the suave confidence of a man who thrives in the spotlight. He grabs his sunglasses, putting them on with a flourish, and claps his hands together, shouting, “Showtime!”
The feed cuts live to the commentary table, where the energy is at a fever pitch.
“The preparation is done, the strategies are set!” Jeremiah Sloan shouts, his voice echoing over the arena PA. “You just saw the challenger, Angelo Anderson, looking absolutely terrifying. He is cold, he is focused, and he looks ready to break the champion in half!”
“Anderson looks like a machine, Sloan,” Julian Fiasco agrees, leaning forward. “He’s not in there listening to music or checking his hair. He is visualizing destruction. But don’t count out Vasquez. You saw him—he’s loose, he’s confident. That Miami swagger isn’t just an act; it’s armor. He believes he can’t be touched.”
“It is Power versus Speed! The Dynasty Destroyer versus The South Beach Sensation!” Sloan yells as the house lights dim for the final time tonight. “The sVo Championship is on the line, and the Main Event of Showdown 250 starts right now!”
sVo Championship Match
Carlos Vasquez (c) vs. Angelo Anderson
The heavy industrial riffs of “God of the Underground” by Fever 333 shake the foundations of the Goodfellas Casino Arena. The crowd falls into a hush of awe and fear as Angelo Anderson emerges. Wearing a long, sleeveless trench coat with a metal-plated chest piece, “Unbreakable” walks with a terrifyingly slow, deliberate pace.
“Look at the eyes of the challenger,” Jeremiah Sloan whispers. “Angelo Anderson believes dominance is his birthright. He isn’t here to wrestle; he is here to dismantle the champion.”
“He’s a Dynasty Destroyer, Sloan,” Julian Fiasco adds. “He took the title in Dynasty Wrestling by force, and he plans to do the exact same thing to the sVo Championship tonight.”
The mood shifts instantly as “Welcome to Miami” by Will Smith hits the speakers. The crowd erupts as Carlos “The Miami Maverick” Vasquez dances onto the stage. Dressed in his vibrant gear, he exudes the confidence of a Miami playboy, flashing a smile that says he hasn’t a worry in the world. He slides into the ring, mounting the turnbuckle to raise the sVo Championship high.
“This is the 250th episode of Showdown, and it all comes down to this!” Sloan yells. “Speed versus Power! Charisma versus Cold-Blooded Aggression!”
The referee raises the belt, signaling the start. The bell rings, and the Main Event is underway.
Vasquez immediately uses his agility, darting around the massive challenger. He lands a quick leg kick, then another, trying to chop the tree down. Anderson doesn’t even flinch. He simply stares at Vasquez, absorbing the strikes. Vasquez attempts a running crossbody, but Anderson catches him in mid-air with frightening ease.
” caught him!” Fiasco shouts. “The power of Anderson is off the charts!”
Anderson shifts his grip and tosses Vasquez across the ring like a ragdoll with a fallaway slam. The champion crashes hard, clutching his ribs. Anderson stalks him, pulling him up for a spine-rattling lariat that turns Vasquez inside out. He goes for the cover—One! Two! Vasquez gets a shoulder up.
For the next ten minutes, Anderson systematically dissects the champion. He locks in a Bear Trap submission, kneeling on Vasquez while grinding elbows into his collarbone. Vasquez screams in agony, the life being squeezed out of him.
“This is hard to watch,” Sloan admits. “Anderson is methodically breaking the champion down.”
Vasquez refuses to quit. He fights to his feet, feeding off the crowd’s energy. He ducks a clothesline, slides between Anderson’s legs, and connects with a desperate Ocean Drive DDT that spikes the big man! Both men are down.
The crowd rallies behind “The South Beach Sensation”. Vasquez kips up, adrenaline masking the pain. He hits a Beach Body Drop, sending Anderson staggering into the corner. Vasquez charges, hitting a running knee, then climbs the top rope. He dives—connecting with a crossbody!
“He took the big man down! Cover him, Carlos!” Sloan screams.
One! Two! Thr—NO! Anderson powers out with such force that Vasquez flies off him.
The match descends into chaos. Anderson catches a kick and delivers a Deadlift Vertical Suplex, holding Vasquez in the air for a solid ten seconds before crashing him down. He signals for the end. He drags Vasquez up, setting him up for the Unbroken.
Suddenly, Alex Sterling hops the barricade! The “LA Luminary” is still in his ring gear. He slides a chair into the ring, distracting the referee. While the official is busy throwing the chair out, Sterling leaps onto the apron and rakes Vasquez’s eyes!
“Sterling! What is he doing?!” Sloan yells. “He said he wanted to take the title at the Pay-Per-View, but he’s trying to screw Vasquez right now!”
Blinded, Vasquez stumbles backward—right into a massive Big Boot from Anderson. Anderson scoops him up. Unbroken—the elevated sit-out powerbomb! The impact shakes the ring. Anderson hooks the leg.
One! Two! Thr—Vasquez gets his foot on the rope!
“How did he survive that?!” Fiasco gasps. “The resilience of the Miami Maverick is unreal!”
Anderson is furious. He grabs the referee by the collar, shoving him into the corner. Sterling, realizing his plan failed, hops off the apron, looking to retreat, but security chases him to the back.
Anderson turns his attention back to Vasquez. “Stay down!” he roars. He lifts Vasquez up for a second Unbroken, looking to end his career.
Suddenly, a figure springboards off the top rope out of nowhere! It’s Kenneth D. Williams!
“The Human Highlight Reel!” Sloan screams.
Williams, seeking revenge for the unprovoked attack by Anderson weeks ago, connects with a Lights Out knee strike right to the side of Anderson’s head while the referee is still recovering from the shove! The giant staggers, dropping Vasquez, clutching his temple.
Williams rolls out of the ring instantly, disappearing into the crowd as quickly as he arrived.
Anderson stumbles, dazed and confused. He turns around, groggy—and walks straight into a lightning-fast Miami Vice Kick from Vasquez! The spinning heel kick connects flush with the jaw!
Vasquez falls on top of him. The referee crawls over.
One! Two! Three!
“He did it! He did it!” Sloan yells as the bell rings. “Carlos Vasquez has survived the monster!”
“He had a little help from an old rival Kenneth D. Williams,” Fiasco points out, “but in the history books, it says the Maverick is still the champion!”
Vasquez clutches the sVo Championship, rolling onto his back, exhausted and battered. “Welcome to Miami” plays as the 250th episode of Showdown goes off the air with the image of a defiant champion and a furious, defeated giant.
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