sVo Showdown 258
📺 Live on the Sanctioned Violence Network
📍 Goodfellas Casino Arena, Las Vegas, Nevada
📆 22nd February 2026
intro
The shimmering neon of the Las Vegas Strip reflects off the polished glass of the Goodfellas Casino as the camera pans downward, sweeping past the iconic marquee of the Goodfellas Casino Arena. The air is thick with the scent of high-stakes gambling and the electric hum of a sold-out crowd. Inside, the arena is a masterpiece of opulence, bathed in the glow of high-definition LED screens that pulse with the sVo logo. Shimmering lights cut through the haze of the arena as the iconic sounds of smooth jazz give way to a driving, cinematic orchestral theme.
“Welcome everyone to the glitz, the glamour, and the absolute carnage of sVo Showdown!” Jeremiah Sloan exclaims over the roar of the crowd, his voice steady and professional. “We are live from the Goodfellas Casino Arena in the heart of Las Vegas, and tonight, the stakes have never been higher. We are just six days away from Vendetta on March 1st, and every person in that locker room is looking to punch their ticket to immortality!”
“And I love it, Jeremiah!” Julian Fiasco interjects with a sharp, knowing cackle. “The desperation is in the air. You can smell it. These athletes are ready to do anything—and I mean anything—to get an edge before we hit that PPV. If you aren’t willing to cheat to win tonight, you aren’t trying hard enough!”
The camera cuts to the ring, where the sophisticated lighting system casts long, dramatic shadows across the canvas.
“We have a blockbuster card for you tonight,” Sloan continues. “A clash of British excellence as Vespera Vane takes on ‘Platinum’ Emily Shaw. Plus, the ‘Python’ Noah Rogan looks to squeeze the life out of the veteran CJ Dreamer. And in our main event, it’s a collision of egos and icons as Adam Garcia teams with Carlos Vasquez to face the ‘Unbreakable’ Angelo Anderson and Alex Sterling!”
“Talk about a powder keg,” Fiasco says, leaning into his microphone. “You’ve got Sterling thinking he’s an Oscar winner and Anderson just looking to break bones. Good luck to the referee trying to keep a lid on that one!”
The fans are already on their feet, chanting and waving signs as the first notes of entrance music begin to echo through the rafters. The energy is palpable, a uniquely Sin City vibration that promises a night where legends are made and spirits are broken.
“The house is full, the deck is shuffled, and it is time to deal the cards,” Sloan shouts as the pyro explodes from the entrance ramp. “sVo Showdown starts right now!”
Ringside
The house lights dim to a rhythmic, pulsing bassline as “King’s Ransom” blares through the Goodfellas Casino Arena. The gold and purple LED boards flash the name KENNETH D WILLIAMS in bold lettering. Out from the curtain steps the “King of the Strip,” looking every bit the superstar in a designer tracksuit, bouncing on his toes with a confidence that radiates to the back rows.
“Listen to this ovation!” Jeremiah Sloan shouts over the roar. “The Vegas faithful are firmly behind Kenneth D Williams tonight. Ever since he laid out that challenge last week, the buzz in this city has been deafening!”
“He’s charismatic, I’ll give him that, Sloan,” Julian Fiasco counters, leaning back in his chair. “But charisma doesn’t win championships, especially not against the caliber of competition he’s calling out. He’s poking a sleeping giant from the Land of the Rising Sun.”
Williams slides into the ring, grabbing a microphone from the technician. He waits, soaking in the “K-D-W!” chants that echo off the rafters. He paces the canvas, a determined smirk on his face, before raising the mic.
“Last week, I stood right here in this arena and I made a statement,” Williams says, his voice crisp and echoing. “I said that it was time to bring some gold back to the sVo, and more importantly, back to the people of Las Vegas! I issued a challenge to the International Junior Heavyweight Champion. I told Katsuhiro Kaneda that if he wanted to prove he was the best in the world, he had to come through the ‘King of the Strip’ at Vendetta!”
The crowd erupts in cheers, but Williams holds up a hand, his expression turning serious.
“Kaneda, you’ve been silent. You’ve been hiding behind that title across the Pacific in Rising Sun Pro Wrestling. But March 1st is right around the corner. The world is watching, the sVo is waiting, and I’m standing right here—”
Suddenly, the arena lights flicker and die. The lively atmosphere is replaced by a chilling, traditional Japanese flute melody that distortedly transitions into a heavy metal riff. The giant screen above the entrance ramp flickers to life, revealing a dimly lit dojo.
In the center of the frame sits Katsuhiro Kaneda. The International Junior Heavyweight Championship is draped over his shoulder, the gold shimmering against his black taped fists. He looks into the camera with a cold, predatory stare that immediately silences the arena.
“Williams-san…” Kaneda begins, his voice a low, guttural rasp. He continues in sharp, rapid-fire Japanese: “Anata wa kōun na otoko da. Anata wa chūmon shimashita ga, nani o motome te iru no ka wakatte imasen.”
“What’s he saying, Julian? Translate that!” Sloan demands.
“He’s telling him he’s a lucky man who doesn’t realize what he’s asking for,” Fiasco sneers.
On the screen, Kaneda stands up, leaning close to the lens, his eyes narrowing. “Vendetta… watashi wa soko ni imasu. Watashi wa anata o taushi, kono beruto wa watashi to issho ni nihon ni kaerimasu. Anata wa katsu koto wa dekimasen!”
Kaneda holds the title high above his head, letting out a sharp, defiant shout before the screen cuts to black.
“There is your answer!” Sloan yells. “Kaneda says he will be at Vendetta! He’s coming to Las Vegas next Sunday, but he says he isn’t leaving without that gold!”
“He didn’t just accept the challenge, Sloan, he issued a death warrant!” Fiasco adds. “Williams wanted the champion, and now he’s got the most dangerous man in RSPW coming right for his throat. Be careful what you wish for, Kenneth!”
In the ring, Kenneth D Williams isn’t backing down. He stares at the darkened screen, nodding slowly as he mouthes the words, “See you there.” The Vegas crowd roars in anticipation as the graphic for the International Junior Heavyweight Championship match flashes on the screen: March 1st – Vendetta.
Backstage
The camera cuts backstage to the gritty, industrial corridors of the Goodfellas Casino Arena, where the air is thick with the scent of liniment and the low hum of the arena’s cooling system. Southern Discomfort—the imposing duo of William Tecumseh Sherman V and Nathaniel Albright Forrest—are leaning against a stack of steel production crates, looking entirely too pleased with themselves as they recount their recent path of destruction.
“Did you see the look on their faces, Nate?” Sherman guffaws, adjusted his rugged gear. “The so-called ‘high-flyers’ found out exactly what happens when gravity meets a pair of Georgia boys who don’t like being looked down on!”
Forrest lets out a sharp, gravelly chuckle, nodding as he leans back. “They flew high, Will, but they landed hard. I think I still have some of that kid’s boot print on my chest, but he’s the one who woke up with a headache.”
The laughter is abruptly cut short as The Heights—Dante ‘D-Tail’ King and Marcus ‘M-Pact’ Jordan—step into the frame. The young duo looks bruised, with athletic tape visible under their warm-ups, but their eyes are locked on the veterans with unwavering intensity.
“Laugh it up while you can,” Dante ‘D-Tail’ King says, crossing his arms and stepping into the veterans’ space. “We heard the jokes. We heard the talk. But we also know that we were one split-second away from taking those three counts last week.”
“It was a hell of a fight, we’ll give you that,” Marcus ‘M-Pact’ Jordan adds, his voice steady. “But ‘close’ doesn’t pay the bills in this town. You got the win, sure. But we know we’re faster, we know we’re hungrier, and we know we can beat you. So, how about we stop the talking and get back to the fighting? A rematch. Tonight.”
Sherman V looks at Forrest, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. He stands up to his full, intimidating height, towering over the younger men.
“You boys got more guts than sense. I’ll give ya that,” Sherman says, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “You want to go back to the hospital so soon? Fine by us. We’ve got plenty of room on the ledger for another beating.”
“We’ll see you in the ring later tonight,” Forrest says, stepping forward until he’s nose-to-nose with Jordan. “Just don’t complain when the landing is even harder this time. We’re going to clip those wings for good.”
“The rematch is on!” Jeremiah Sloan’s voice cuts in as the scene fades back to the arena. “The Heights are looking for redemption, but they might be walking straight into a buzzsaw tonight!”
“They’re gluttons for punishment, Sloan!” Julian Fiasco adds with a sneer. “Southern Discomfort is going to turn the Goodfellas Arena into a demolition derby, and I’ve got a front-row seat!”
Single Match
Vespera Vane vs. Emily Shaw
The atmosphere in the Goodfellas Casino Arena shifts as the flamboyant, high-energy pop-remix of “Viva Las Victory” is abruptly cut off by a haunting, melodic chime. The lights bleed into a deep, bruised purple as Vespera Vane glides onto the stage, her Victorian-inspired black and silver lace spinning as she stares coldly at the ring.
“The ‘Queen of Shadows’ has arrived, Sloan,” Julian Fiasco says, his voice lowering. “Vane doesn’t just want a win tonight; she wants to dismantle the very foundation of the women’s division before Vendetta.”
“She’s got a tall task tonight, Julian,” Jeremiah Sloan responds as the upbeat, sleek theme of “Platinum” Emily Shawhits. Shaw struts out, the epitome of polished arrogance, checking her reflection in the shiny surface of her own wrist tape. “Emily Shaw is as technically sound as they come, and she’s been on a tear lately.”
The bell rings, and the two circle each other like predators. Shaw immediately looks to use her amateur background, shooting for a double-leg takedown, but Vane sprawls expertly, catching Shaw in a front chancery. Vane transitions smoothly into a vertical suplex, holding Shaw aloft for a grueling five seconds before crashing her down to the canvas.
“The strength of Vane on display early!” Sloan calls out.
Vane maintains control, grinding her forearm into Shaw’s bridge of the nose, but the referee pulls her back. This gives Shaw the opening she needs; she reaches up, raking the eyes of Vane before dropping her with a crisp Saito suplex. Shaw doesn’t follow up for the pin, instead standing over Vane, mocking the crowd’s boos with a theatrical bow.
“That’s veteran instinct right there,” Fiasco cheers. “You do what you have to do to win. Shaw is playing chess while Vane is playing checkers!”
The match intensifies as Shaw focuses her attack on Vane’s left arm, snapping it across the top rope and following up with a series of stiff European uppercuts. Shaw sends Vane into the ropes and looks for a big boot, but Vane ducks, catches Shaw on the rebound, and plants her with a spinning side slam that shakes the ring.
Both women are down, the referee beginning a standing ten-count. As they struggle to their feet, Shaw rolls to the outside to catch her breath, leaning against the barricade. She turns to the crowd, shouting insults, completely unaware of the blur of pink and white sprinting down the entrance ramp.
“Wait a minute! Is that—it is!” Sloan screams. “Skylar High is here!”
Skylar High, sporting a bandage over her ribs from Shaw’s brutal attack last week, slides under the bottom rope on the opposite side, unnoticed by the referee who is distracted by Vane. As Shaw climbs back onto the apron, Skylar reaches out, grabbing Shaw’s ankle and yanking it out from under her. Shaw’s face bounces off the hard edge of the ring apron with a sickening thud.
“Payback! Payback for last week!” Sloan yells.
Shaw staggers back into the ring, dazed and clutching her jaw. Skylar vanishes back into the crowd before the referee turns around. Vane, seeing the opening, doesn’t hesitate. She kicks Shaw in the gut, tucks her head between her legs, and lifts her high for the Aethelgard’s Fall (Double Underhook Powerbomb).
CRUNCH.
Vane stacks Shaw up, hooking both legs as the referee counts:
One!
Two!
Three!
“Here is your winner, Vespera Vane!” the announcer declares as Vane stands over the fallen Shaw, her arms outstretched in a dark silhouette.
“She had help, Sloan! That’s a conspiracy!” Fiasco protests, slamming his headset onto the table. “Skylar High had no business being out here!”
“Tell that to Emily Shaw’s ribs from last week, Julian,” Sloan retorts. “Skylar High just balanced the scales, and Vespera Vane walked away with a massive victory heading into the PPV!”
Ringside
The bell has barely stopped echoing, but the “Platinum” one is already back on her feet, her face a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. Emily Shaw isn’t waiting for the trainer or the referee; she’s scrambling toward the timekeeper’s table, snatching a microphone with such force the poor official nearly topples over.
In the aisle, Skylar High has stopped her retreat. She stands on the ramp, bathed in the neon glow of the stage lights, a wide, mocking smirk on her face as she adjusts the bandage around her ribs—a vivid reminder of why she just cost Shaw the match.
“You think that’s funny, Skylar?!” Shaw screams into the mic, her voice cracking with fury. “You think coming out here and sticking your nose in my business makes us even? You think a cheap trip-up is enough to pay me back for what I did to you last week?”
“I’d say it’s a pretty good down payment, Emily!” Jeremiah Sloan shouts over the noise.
“Shut up, Sloan!” Fiasco snaps. “This is a miscarriage of justice!”
Shaw paces the ring like a caged animal, pointing a trembling finger at Skylar. “Look at you, standing there playing the hero for these losers in the stands! You’re a fluke, Skylar! You’re a local Vegas ‘hustler’ who doesn’t belong in the same stratosphere as a world-class athlete like me! I didn’t just hurt you last week; I exposed you!”
Skylar stops laughing, her expression hardening as she steps forward on the ramp, nodding for Shaw to keep talking.
“You want a piece of me so bad? You want to play eye-for-an-eye?” Shaw’s eyes are wide, practically bulging. “Then let’s do it where there’s nowhere for you to hide! No distractions, no excuses! March 1st! Vendetta! You and me, one-on-one, and I will finish the job I started! I won’t just beat you, Skylar—I’m going to break you in front of your hometown!”
The Goodfellas Casino Arena erupts as the challenge hangs in the air. Skylar High doesn’t need a microphone. She looks directly into the hard camera, mouths the words “You’re on,” and gives a sharp, defiant thumbs-up to the fans.
“It’s official!” Sloan yells. “The challenge has been issued and accepted! A grudge match for the ages—’Platinum’ Emily Shaw versus the ‘Hometown Hero’ Skylar High at Vendetta!”
“Shaw is going to regret this,” Fiasco mutters, shaking his head. “She’s let her temper get the better of her. You don’t give a wounded animal a second chance to bite!”
Skylar’s music, “Viva Las Victory,” blares back over the PA system as she plays to the crowd, while in the ring, Emily Shaw stares her down, looking like she’s ready to jump out of her skin. The road to Vendetta just got a whole lot more personal.
Backstage
The camera cuts to the backstage interview area, where the sVo logo pulses on the LED wall behind lead interviewer Katie Smith. Standing beside her, looming with an aggressive, muscular build and a perpetual sneer, is “The Bully” Danny Domino. He’s already chewing gum vigorously, his taped fists clenched as if he’s ready to swing at the camera lens.
“Danny, thank you for joining me,” Katie begins, her tone professional despite Domino’s intimidating presence. “We have just received breaking news regarding next week’s Vendetta PPV. sVo management has officially sanctioned a Six-Pack Number One Contenders Match for the sVo World Heavyweight Championship! It will be you, Mark Hendry, Victor Holland, Dylan MacLeod, Masafumi Satake, and Bernard Wolfe all vying for a shot at the top prize!”
Domino lets out a harsh, mocking laugh, leaning in close to Katie’s face until she visibly recoils.
“A Six-Pack match? Is that supposed to scare me, Katie?” Domino barks, his Staten Island accent thick and grating. “You look at that list of names and you see ‘contenders.’ I look at that list and I see five speed bumps. You’ve got a kid like Victor Holland who thinks he’s a ‘Natural,’ and a ‘Wayward Traveller’ like Bernard Wolfe who’s going to wish he stayed lost!”
“But Danny, these are some of the most elite athletes in sVo—” Katie tries to interject.
“Elite? Please!” Domino scoffs, cutting her off. “Satake is a dinosaur, and MacLeod is just a stoic Canadian with a target on his back. I’m ‘The Bully’ for a reason, Smith. I thrive on intimidation, and come Vendetta, I’m going to end that match early. I’m going to drop someone with the Domino Effect so hard the rest of those losers will be too terrified to even get back in the ring!”
He paces a small circle, his intensity boiling over. “I was the sVo Champion once, and I’m the most hated man in this company because I’m the hardest-hitting man in this company. I don’t care who walks out of the main event tonight with that title—whether it’s Carlos Vasquez or Angelo Anderson—because their days are numbered!”
Domino grabs the microphone from Katie’s hand, staring directly into the camera. “Vasquez, Anderson… it doesn’t matter. I’m winning that match next week, and then I’m taking my title back by force. Respect isn’t given in the sVo, it’s taken—and I’m taking everything!”
He shoves the microphone back into Katie’s chest and storms off-set, leaving her shaken as the broadcast heads back to ringside.
Single Match
Noah Rogan vs. CJ Dreamer
The atmosphere in the Goodfellas Casino Arena turns icy as the lights dim and a low, rhythmic thumping fills the room. Out from the curtain walks Noah Rogan, “The Python.” He moves with a slow, methodical pace, his eyes cold and devoid of emotion as he stares at the ring.
“This is a fascinating matchup, Jeremiah,” Julian Fiasco says, leaning forward. “You’ve got two men who don’t care about the fans, don’t care about the rules, and frankly, don’t care about each other’s well-being. Noah Rogan is a technician of the highest order—if by ‘technician’ you mean someone who enjoys snapping limbs.”
“He’s dangerous, Julian, but look at who he’s facing,” Sloan responds as a heavy, distorted rock track begins to play. CJ Dreamer emerges, looking disgusted by the very sight of the audience. He’s a veteran who has seen it all and survived it all, sporting a look that says he’s here to punch the clock and punch a face. “CJ Dreamer is a man who thrives in the grit. He’s not looking for a wrestling clinic; he’s looking for a fight.”
The bell rings, and the two heels refuse to lock up. Instead, they stand mid-ring, trading verbal barbs until Rogan spits at Dreamer’s feet. Dreamer responds with a blistering right hand that rocks Rogan back into the turnbuckle. Dreamer follows up with a barrage of shoulder thrusts, burying his head into Rogan’s midsection.
“Dreamer isn’t giving him an inch! He knows if Rogan gets those hands on him, it’s over,” Sloan calls out.
Rogan eventually finds his opening, catching Dreamer with a thumb to the eye as the referee tries to separate them in the corner. With Dreamer blinded, Rogan takes him down with a clinical dragon screw leg whip, immediately transitioning into a grounded toe-hold. Rogan’s face remains a mask of calm as he systematically pulls at the tendons in Dreamer’s ankle.
“Look at the focus of the Python,” Fiasco admires. “He’s dismantling the foundation. You can’t hit a big move if you can’t stand!”
Rogan controls the middle portion of the match, using the ring ropes to choke Dreamer and delivering stiff, calculated kicks to the spine. He sends Dreamer into the ropes and looks for a sleeper hold, but the veteran Dreamer showcases his ring awareness, backing Rogan hard into the corner turnbuckle to break the grip.
Dreamer, hobbling on one leg, catches Rogan with a desperation back-elbow and follows up with a thunderous DDT that spikes Rogan into the canvas. Both men are down, the referee beginning a count as the crowd watches with a mix of respect and disdain.
“Both these men are spent, but look at the resilience of CJ Dreamer!” Sloan shouts.
Rogan is the first to his feet, looking to finish it. He signals for the end, grabbing Dreamer by the waist for a German Suplex. However, as he heaves Dreamer upward, Dreamer shifts his weight mid-air, landing on his feet. As Rogan turns around, Dreamer catches him with a low blow while the referee’s vision is obscured by their positioning.
“Hey! That was low! Did the ref see that?” Sloan protests.
“He saw nothing but a great counter, Sloan! Be quiet!” Fiasco retorts.
With Rogan doubled over in pain, CJ Dreamer doesn’t hesitate. He hooks both of Rogan’s arms and drives him face-first into the mat with the Dreamer Driver.
One!
Two!
Three!
“Here is your winner, CJ Dreamer!” the announcer crows.
Dreamer doesn’t celebrate. He rolls out of the ring, clutching his injured ankle, and heads straight for the back without a second glance at the fallen Rogan.
“A huge win for CJ Dreamer,” Sloan says. “He out-snaked the Python tonight, Julian. He used every trick in the book to get that three-count.”
“In this business, the only thing that matters is the ‘W’, and Dreamer just banked one,” Fiasco adds. “Rogan learned a hard lesson tonight: never trust a man who has nothing to lose!”
Backstage
The camera cuts to a tense scene inside the sVo locker room, where the air is thick with unspoken animosity. Angelo Anderson, the “Unbreakable” force of the sVo, is methodically wrapping his wrists with athletic tape, his jaw set in a hard line. Standing a few feet away, admiring his own reflection in a locker-room mirror and adjusting his pristine trunks, is Alex Sterling.
“Look at this,” Julian Fiasco scoffs over the broadcast. “Two of the biggest egos in the history of this business forced to share a locker room. It’s like putting two lions in a shoebox and telling them to play nice!”
“They have to play nice, Julian,” Jeremiah Sloan counters. “If they want to make it to Vendetta in one piece, they have to survive Carlos Vasquez and Adam Garcia tonight.”
Anderson finishes his tape with a sharp snap and stands up, looming over Sterling. He points a heavy finger toward the door leading to the arena.
“Listen to me, Hollywood,” Anderson growls, his voice a low, threatening rumble. “I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. And frankly, I don’t care about your latest film credits or your skincare routine. But tonight, those two out there want to put us in the hospital before we ever get to the PPV.”
Sterling turns away from the mirror, a smug, dismissive smirk playing on his lips. He slowly brushes an invisible speck of dust off his shoulder. “Angelo, darling, your intensity is just so… tiring. It’s very ‘direct-to-video.’ You worry about the heavy lifting, and I’ll handle the star power.”
Anderson steps into Sterling’s personal space, his eyes narrowing. “You’ll handle what I tell you to handle. When we get out there, you stay in your corner and you wait for the tag. You follow my lead, you don’t get cute, and you don’t try to steal the spotlight. We win, we get out, and then I deal with you on March 1st. Do you understand?”
Sterling stares back, his smirk fading into a look of bored indifference. He reaches out, patting Anderson’s massive shoulder with a condescending lightness that makes the big man’s pulse visible in his neck.
“I’ll follow the script, Angelo,” Sterling says smoothly, “but remember—every great lead needs a supporting actor who knows when to take over the scene. Don’t trip over your own feet out there.”
Sterling grabs his jacket and breezes past Anderson toward the curtain. Anderson stares after him, his fists clenching so hard the fresh tape begins to strain.
“The tension is at a breaking point!” Sloan exclaims. “Anderson wants a partner, but Sterling only wants a mirror!”
“I give it three minutes before one of them punches the other, Sloan! This main event is going to be a train wreck, and I can’t wait to see the fire!” Fiasco adds with a delighted cackle.
Tag Team Match
Southern Discomfort vs. The Heights
The atmosphere in the Goodfellas Casino Arena is electric as the heavy, southern rock riffs of “Dixie’s Revenge” blare through the speakers. Southern Discomfort—William Tecumseh Sherman V and Nathaniel Albright Forrest—swagger down the ramp, looking every bit the dominant bullies who dismantled their opponents just seven days ago.
“They look like they’ve already counted the win, Sloan!” Julian Fiasco shouts over the music. “And why wouldn’t they? Last week was a clinic in how to break young prospects in half.”
“Confidence is one thing, Julian, but overconfidence is a dangerous game in Las Vegas,” Jeremiah Sloan responds as the high-octane, synth-heavy track for The Heights hits. Dante ‘D-Tail’ King and Marcus ‘M-Pact’ Jordan sprint to the ring, bypassing the theatrics and sliding under the bottom rope, immediately taking the fight to the veterans before the bell even rings.
The referee manages to restore order, and the match officially begins with Sherman V and D-Tail in the ring. Sherman tries to use his massive power, tossing King across the ring with a hip toss, but D-Tail rolls through, landing on his feet and snapping off a beautiful dropkick that staggers the big man.
“The speed of The Heights is the story early on!” Sloan yells.
King tags in M-Pact, and the duo performs a tandem crossbody onto Sherman, but the veteran strength of Southern Discomfort soon takes over. Forrest gets a blind tag and catches M-Pact mid-air with a brutal gutbuster. From there, the veterans begin a systematic dismantling. Forrest and Sherman cut the ring in half, utilizing quick tags and heavy-handed strikes to keep Marcus Jordan grounded.
“This is where Southern Discomfort excels,” Fiasco says with a smirk. “They’re not flashy; they’re just effective. They’re grinding the life out of M-Pact right now.”
Sherman V locks in a grueling bearhug, shaking Jordan like a ragdoll. The crowd rallies behind The Heights, clapping in rhythm as Jordan desperately reaches for his partner. He manages to escape the hold with a series of headbutts and dives for the corner, making the hot tag to D-Tail!
D-Tail enters like a house on fire, taking out Forrest with a springboard clothesline and hitting Sherman with a lightning-fast spinning heel kick. The arena is on its feet as King ascends the turnbuckle. He looks for the finish, but Forrest distracts the referee, allowing Sherman to shove King off the top rope!
“Here we go! The veterans are taking control back through any means necessary!” Fiasco cheers.
Sherman V signals for the end, lifting D-Tail up for a powerbomb. He looks at Forrest, gesturing for a double-team maneuver to put the match away. However, as Forrest charges in, Marcus ‘M-Pact’ Jordan intercepts him with a desperation spear that sends both men tumbling through the ropes to the floor!
Inside the ring, Sherman V is momentarily distracted by the carnage on the outside. He turns back to D-Tail, but the young star counters the powerbomb attempt, shifting his weight into a sunset flip. Sherman fights it, trying to stay upright, but M-Pact reaches in from the apron, unnoticed by the referee, and gives his partner the extra leverage needed to pull the big man down!
One!
Two!
Three!
“They did it! The Heights have shocked Southern Discomfort!” Sloan screams.
The bell rings and The Heights quickly scramble out of the ring, celebrating their hard-fought redemption as they head up the ramp. Inside the ring, Sherman V and Forrest are losing their minds, screaming at the referee and kicking the ropes in a fit of rage.
“That was a robbery! A total fluke!” Fiasco bellows, standing up at the announcer’s table. “Sherman had him! The Heights just stole a win from the best tag team in this building!”
“Call it what you want, Julian, but the record books will show a victory for King and Jordan,” Sloan retorts. “The Heights have officially arrived, and Southern Discomfort is going to have a very long night in the casino after that one!”
Ringside
The celebration is deafening as Dante ‘D-Tail’ King and Marcus ‘M-Pact’ Jordan lean against the ropes, chests heaving, as they soak in the “Heights! Heights!” chants from the Vegas crowd. The referee raises their hands, the neon lights of the arena catching the sweat and the sheer relief on their faces.
“They did it, Julian! They evened the score!” Jeremiah Sloan yells over the music. “A massive momentum shift heading into the biggest night of the year!”
The music is suddenly cut by the sharp, feedback-heavy click of a microphone. On the outside of the ring, William Tecumseh Sherman V and Nathaniel Albright Forrest aren’t heading for the back. Sherman is clutching a mic, his face beet-red with a mix of exhaustion and fury, while Forrest stands beside him, kicking at the steel steps in frustration.
“Hold on, hold on! Cut the music!” Sherman bellows, his gravelly voice echoing through the Goodfellas Casino Arena. “You think you’re real clever, don’t ya? You think a little luck and a fast count makes you the better team?”
The Heights stop their celebration, leaning over the ropes to stare down the veterans.
“Look at ’em, Nate,” Sherman sneers, gesturing toward the ring. “Last week, we put you in the dirt. This week, you caught us sleepin’. That makes it one for us, and one for you. In my book, that don’t settle a damn thing.”
Forrest grabs the mic from his partner’s hand, stepping up onto the ring apron. “We don’t do ‘ties’ in the South, and we sure as hell don’t leave things unfinished in the sVo. You want to prove those wings of yours can actually carry you somewhere? Then let’s settle the score where it belongs.”
“March 1st,” Sherman adds, stepping up beside Forrest. “Vendetta. One last time. No excuses, no fluke finishes. Southern Discomfort versus The Heights. The rubber match to see who stays at the top of the mountain and who gets kicked off the cliff!”
D-Tail and M-Pact look at each other for a brief second before Dante ‘D-Tail’ King reaches out, nodding firmly. He grabs the microphone from the referee.
“We wouldn’t have it any other way,” King says, his voice steady. “You want the match? You’ve got it. We’ll see you at Vendetta!”
In a rare show of begrudging respect—or perhaps just a desire to seal the contract for a beating—Sherman and Forrest reach out their massive hands. The Heights meet them across the ropes, and the two teams lock hands in a firm, tense shake.
“It’s official!” Sloan screams. “The rubber match is set for the PPV! These two teams are going to tear the house down in six days!”
“A handshake before the heartbreak, Sloan!” Fiasco adds. “Southern Discomfort just lured those boys into a trap. At Vendetta, the fun and games end and the suffering begins!”
Single Match
Victor Holland vs. Mark Hendry
The lights in the Goodfellas Casino Arena dim as a sleek, corporate-style anthem begins to blare. Out from the curtain steps Mark Hendry, looking every bit the elite, entitled athlete. He isn’t alone; he is flanked by the full might of The SEC. Brice Brantley leads the way, followed by the towering, gold-clad Alabama Kid and Gator Bates, who proudly hoist their sVo Tag Team Championships over their shoulders.
“Look at the sheer presence of the SEC!” Julian Fiasco exclaims. “Mark Hendry is a former XPRO World Champion, a blue-chip athlete, and he’s got the best backup money can buy.”
“Backup or an insurance policy, Julian?” Jeremiah Sloan counters as the upbeat, driving rock of Victor Holland hits. The “Natural” sprints to the ring, his face a mask of focus despite the four-to-one odds standing at ringside. “Holland has been on a meteoric rise, but he’s walking into a lion’s den tonight.”
The bell rings, and the match begins with a display of pure technical wrestling. Hendry and Holland trade holds in the center of the ring, with Holland surprisingly gaining the upper hand. He uses his speed to snap off a beautiful arm-drag, following it up with a standing dropkick that sends Hendry stumbling back into the corner.
“Holland is out-wrestling the veteran!” Sloan shouts.
Hendry, frustrated, rolls out of the ring to consult with Brantley. As Holland tries to follow, the Alabama Kid and Gator Bates step in his path, forcing the referee to intervene. The distraction works perfectly; as Holland leans over the ropes, Hendry reaches up and snaps Holland’s neck across the top strand.
“That’s the championship experience right there,” Fiasco chuckles. “Work smarter, not harder.”
Hendry takes control, grounding Holland with a series of methodical knee drops to the spine. He locks in a seated abdominal stretch, using the nearby Brice Brantley for extra leverage behind the referee’s back. Every time Holland tries to build momentum, a member of the SEC is there to trip him up or provide a timely distraction.
Despite the odds, Holland finds his second wind. He catches Hendry with a desperation swinging neckbreaker and begins his comeback. He hits a series of clotheslines, a textbook belly-to-belly suplex, and scales the turnbuckle for a high-flying finish.
“He’s going for it! The Natural is taking flight!” Sloan bellows.
Holland leaps for a 450 Splash, but Gator Bates jumps onto the apron, distracting the referee. Simultaneously, the Alabama Kid shoves Holland off the top rope! Holland crashes hard into the canvas, clutching his ribs.
The referee is still busy trying to eject Bates from the apron when Brice Brantley slides a brass knuckle to Hendry. Hendry doesn’t hesitate—he clocks Holland squarely in the temple as the young man tries to stand.
Hendry quickly tosses the weapon to the outside, hides the evidence, and covers Holland just as the referee turns back around.
One!
Two!
Three!
“Here is your winner, Mark Hendry!” the announcer declares as the SEC floods the ring to celebrate.
“A total travesty!” Sloan yells. “Victor Holland had this match won, but the SEC just bought themselves another victory!”
“Oh, cry me a river, Sloan,” Fiasco retorts. “In Las Vegas, the house always wins, and tonight, Mark Hendry is the house! That’s how you build momentum for a Six-Pack match at Vendetta!”
Backstage
The camera cuts to a sleek, private locker room area where the air is thick with tension and the glisten of gold. On one side, Adam Garcia, the sVo International Heavyweight Champion, is methodically tightening the laces on his boots, his focused gaze never wavering. Across from him, “The Miami Maverick” Carlos Vasquez is draped in his sVo World Heavyweight Championship, leaning back against a leather sofa with a look of supreme, almost bored confidence.
“You realize the world is watching this, right?” Jeremiah Sloan asks from the broadcast booth. “The two most powerful men in the sVo, sharing the same air before they headline Vendetta.”
“It’s an ego-driven powder keg, Sloan!” Julian Fiasco adds. “One spark and this locker room becomes a crater.”
Garcia stands up, his International title resting on a nearby equipment trunk. He walks into the center of the room, stopping just a few feet from Vasquez. “I know how you operate, Carlos. I’ve watched you play the angles, I’ve watched you manipulate the deck to make sure the Maverick always comes out on top. But tonight, I don’t care about your games.”
Vasquez slowly stands, the World Heavyweight title catching the overhead lights. He offers a thin, sharp smile. “Relax, Adam. You’re wound tighter than a Vegas clock. You think I don’t know what’s at stake? I’ve got Sterling and Anderson trying to leapfrog me for this belt. I’m not about to let them get a head start tonight because you can’t keep your ‘intensity’ in check.”
“I’m not the one you have to worry about,” Garcia growls, stepping closer. “But don’t mistake cooperation for friendship. We are the two champions of this company. That means tonight, we represent the sVo. I’ll hold up my end of the bargain. I’ll take the fight to them. But if you try to use me as a human shield, or if you think you’re going to let me do all the heavy lifting while you pose for the hard cam… we’re going to have a problem before we ever get to the PPV.”
Vasquez chuckles, adjusting the collar of his gear. “Spoken like a man who knows he’s still second-best. Tell you what, Adam. You play the hero. You be the ‘Iron Man.’ I’ll be the closer. We go out there, we dismantle those two ego-maniacs, and we show everyone why we hold the gold.”
Vasquez holds out a hand, his eyes hidden behind a veil of calculated ambition. Garcia stares at the hand for a long beat, the silence in the room deafening. Finally, Garcia grips it—a firm, bone-crushing handshake that looks more like a struggle for dominance than a pact.
“Tonight, we win,” Garcia says through gritted teeth. “And in the future, the gloves come off.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Vasquez replies, his smirk returning.
“There you have it!” Sloan exclaims as the camera fades. “A fragile alliance has been forged. But can it survive the pressure of the main event?”
Single Match
Jay Adder vs. Colt Thompson
The lights in the Goodfellas Casino Arena dim as the opening chords of a gritty, outlaw country track rumble through the sound system. “The Lone Star” Colt Thompson saunters out, a toothpick clamped between his teeth and a look of pure disdain for the flashy Las Vegas lights. He stops at the top of the ramp, adjusting his blackened cowboy hat, before stalking toward the ring.
“Colt Thompson doesn’t care about the glitz, Jeremiah,” Julian Fiasco says admiringly. “He’s a man who believes in two things: his own boots and the damage they can do to a man’s skull.”
“He’s as dangerous as they come, Julian,” Jeremiah Sloan responds as the high-energy, tempo-shifting theme of Jay Adder hits. Adder sprints out, slapping hands with the fans along the barricade, his energy a sharp contrast to Thompson’s brooding presence. “Jay Adder has the speed and the heart, but he’s facing a grizzly bear in denim tonight.”
The bell rings, and Adder immediately uses his agility, circling Thompson and peppering him with lightning-fast leg kicks. Thompson tries to grab him, but Adder slips away, landing a springboard arm-drag that sends the Texan into the corner. Adder follows up with a corner clothesline and a basement dropkick, looking to end things early.
“Adder is a house on fire! He’s moving too fast for Thompson to track!” Sloan shouts.
Adder goes for a second-rope crossbody, but Thompson catches him out of mid-air with a staggering display of strength. Thompson doesn’t just catch him; he transitions the momentum into a rib-shattering backbreaker across his knee. The sound of the impact echoes through the front rows.
“And just like that, the fire is out,” Fiasco chuckles. “Thompson just broke that kid’s momentum—and maybe a couple of ribs while he was at it.”
The pace slows to a crawl as Thompson takes over. He methodically breaks Adder down, using a grinding chinlock and delivering heavy, clubbing blows to the chest. Every time Adder tries to fight back, Thompson shuts him down with a simple, brutal strike. He tosses Adder to the outside and drives him back-first into the steel ring post.
“This is getting hard to watch,” Sloan mutters. “Thompson is just dismantling him.”
Inside the ring, Adder finds a miraculous burst of energy. He ducks a lariat, hits a beautiful step-up enzuigiri, and then plants Thompson with a tornado DDT from the second turnbuckle! Adder hooks the leg—One! Two!—but Thompson kicks out with authority.
Adder climbs the turnbuckle one more time, smelling blood. He leaps for his finishing splash, but Thompson rolls out of the way at the last possible second. As Adder staggers to his feet, clutching his midsection, he walks right into the path of a charging Texan.
Thompson leaps into the air, connecting flush with the Texas Toecap (Running Big Boot) that nearly turns Adder inside out. Adder hits the mat limp, and Thompson doesn’t even bother to hook the leg properly; he simply drapes an arm over the fallen youngster.
One!
Two!
Three!
“Here is your winner, ‘The Lone Star’ Colt Thompson!” the announcer declares.
“Dominance, pure and simple,” Fiasco says. “Thompson didn’t just win; he sent a message to the entire locker room. If you step in the ring with the Lone Star, you’re leaving in an ambulance.”
“A tough loss for Jay Adder,” Sloan sighs. “He had the heart, but he ran into a brick wall tonight in the form of Colt Thompson.”
Backstage
The camera returns backstage to the interview area, where Katie Smith is standing with the sVo Las Vegas Champion, “The Wild West Warrior” Jake Blackwood. The champion has his title draped over his shoulder, his eyes still fixed on a nearby monitor that just showed the closing moments of Colt Thompson’s brutal victory.
“Jake, thanks for the time,” Katie begins. “You just saw ‘The Lone Star’ Colt Thompson pick up a very physical win over Jay Adder. Next Sunday at Vendetta, you have to defend that Las Vegas Championship against not only Thompson but also the calculating Jason Martel in a Triple Threat match. After seeing what Thompson is capable of tonight, how are you feeling about your chances?”
Blackwood turns to the camera, a gritty, determined smile crossing his weathered face. He adjusts the gold on his shoulder, his knuckles white against the leather.
“Colt Thompson is a tough man, Katie. I’ve never denied that,” Blackwood says, his voice a steady, low rasp. “He’s got a heavy hand and a mean streak longer than a Texas highway. But he’s not the only one who knows how to fight dirty to survive. This Las Vegas Championship represents the heart of this city—the hustle, the grit, and the will to never back down. I’ve shed blood for this belt, and I’m not about to let a man like Thompson take it back to the ranch.”
He leans in closer to the mic, his intensity ramping up. “At Vendetta, the odds are against me. I know how a Triple Threat works. But Thompson can kick as hard as he wants; he’s going to find out that the Wild West Warrior doesn’t break.”
“A very confident champion,” Katie remarks, “but—”
“Confidence is a dangerous thing, Jake,” a cold, refined voice interrupts.
Blackwood spins around to find Jason Martel standing just inches away. Martel is dressed in a sharp, expensive suit, looking entirely unbothered by the chaos of the evening. He stares at the Las Vegas Championship with a predatory glint in his eye.
“You’re so focused on the loud, brawling Texan that you’ve forgotten the most important rule of the gamble,” Martel says, his voice smooth as silk and twice as sharp. “It’s not the man yelling the loudest you have to fear—it’s the one holding the best hand in silence. Colt Thompson wants to break your ribs, Jake. I? I want to take your legacy. Don’t forget that next week, I don’t even have to pin you to walk out with that title.”
Martel offers a patronizing pat to Blackwood’s shoulder, which the champion quickly brushes off.
“See you at the PPV, Champion,” Martel sneers before strolling out of the frame.
Blackwood stares after him, his grip tightening on the title.
“The plot thickens!” Jeremiah Sloan shouts from the booth. “Three men, one title, and absolutely no love lost heading into Vendetta!”
Main Event Tag Team Match
Adam Garcia & Carlos Vasquez vs. Angelo Anderson & Alex Sterling
The atmosphere inside the Goodfellas Casino Arena reaches a fever pitch as the house lights transition into a strobe-heavy spectacle. “The Miami Maverick” Carlos Vasquez makes his way to the ring, the sVo World Heavyweight Championship draped over his shoulder with an air of untouchable arrogance. Following him is the International Heavyweight Champion, Adam Garcia, who looks like he’s ready to sprint through a brick wall.
“This is it, Sloan! The titans of the sVo sharing a side of the ring!” Julian Fiasco yells. “But look at the body language—they aren’t even standing on the same turnbuckle!”
“A fragile alliance at best,” Jeremiah Sloan adds as the mood shifts. The “Unbreakable” Angelo Anderson marches out with grim determination, followed by the theatrical Alex Sterling, who is busy blowing kisses to a crowd that is firmly against him.
The bell rings, and the match begins with Anderson and Garcia locking up in a titanic struggle for leverage. Anderson’s raw power is on full display as he shoves the International Champion back into the corner, following up with a series of thunderous knife-edge chops that echo like gunshots.
“Anderson is a one-man demolition crew tonight!” Sloan exclaims.
Sterling, meanwhile, stands on the apron, adjusting his hair and checking his reflection in the shiny turnbuckle pad. Every time Anderson reaches for a tag, Sterling seems to be preoccupied with his “fans” or his own gear.
The match settles into a grueling pace. Vasquez and Garcia, despite their mutual dislike, demonstrate why they are the champions. They utilize quick tags and a devastating double-team vertical suplex on Anderson that leaves the big man gasping for air. For nearly ten minutes, Anderson is the proverbial “trunk of the tree,” absorbing a terrifying amount of punishment from the two champions.
“Where is Sterling? Why isn’t he helping his partner?” Sloan shouts in frustration.
“He’s waiting for the perfect moment, Sloan! An artist doesn’t rush his masterpiece!” Fiasco defends.
Finally, Anderson catches Vasquez with a desperation spinebuster that shakes the entire ring. He crawls toward his corner, his hand outstretched. Sterling finally deigns to tag in, but only after Anderson has done the heavy lifting. Sterling enters with a series of flashy dropkicks, but Garcia catches him mid-air and plants him with a powerslam.
The match breaks down into chaos. Anderson charges back in, clotheslining Garcia over the top rope to the floor. Inside the ring, it’s Anderson and the World Champion, Vasquez. Anderson ducks a big boot and connects with a massive Unbreakable Slam (Running Powerslam) that leaves Vasquez laid out in the center of the ring.
“This is it! Anderson has the World Champion down for the three-count!” Sloan bellows.
Anderson slowly rolls Vasquez over and hooks the leg. But just as the referee’s hand hits the mat for the count of two, a blur of movement intercepts the moment. Alex Sterling, who had been lingering on the apron, sprints into the ring. Instead of attacking the champions, he grabs his own partner, Angelo Anderson, by the tights and the collar and hurls him through the middle ropes to the outside!
“What in the world?! Sterling just threw his own partner out of the ring!” Sloan screams.
The arena erupts in boos as Sterling quickly drops onto the prone Carlos Vasquez, hooking both legs and flashing a million-dollar smile toward the hard camera.
One!
Two!
Three!
“Here are your winners, Angelo Anderson and Alex Sterling!” the announcer declares.
“He stole it! That absolute snake stole the win from his own partner!” Sloan is standing up, pointing at the ring.
Sterling’s music blares as he leaps to his feet, celebrating as if he just won the title. On the outside, a stunned Angelo Anderson is slowly climbing to his feet, staring at Sterling with a look of pure, murderous intent. In the ring, Vasquez and Garcia are recovering, both looking bewildered that they just lost to a team that can’t even stand each other.
“It’s a win on the record books, Sloan!” Fiasco cackles. “Sterling just outsmarted the World Champion and the strongest man in the company in one move! That is how a star closes a show!”
“If Anderson doesn’t kill him before the PPV, it’ll be a miracle,” Sloan retorts. “The champions have been pinned, the challengers are at each other’s throats, and Vendetta is only six days away! Goodnight from Las Vegas!”
Leave a Reply Cancel reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.