EWE: Equestria Wrestling Entertainmentby Bateman66ChaptersPiper's Pit with Pinkie PiePre-Show Promo with Rainbow DashAfter-Show Promo With "Macho Man" Randy SavageSgt. Slaughter vs. SpitfirePiper's Pit with Pinkie Pie“Rowdy” Roddy Piper sat confidently atop his padded metal folding chair. The blue wooden backdrop behind him proudly displayed the insignia of the EWE in shiny metallic paint, as several hanging photos displayed the ace wrestler in some of his finest moments. A sly grin was smeared across his face as the heels of his crimson wrestling boots bit into the cheap carpeted floor like symmetrical leather teeth. His legs were spread in the showmanship of his own masculinity, furthered by the glistening red plaid quilt that was wrapped around his waist. Atop his chest, was his signature ‘Rowdy’ Roddy Piper t-shirt, with its crisp white cotton fabric contrasted by the word “Hot Rod” in a red and yellow border. The crowd in front of him roared wrestlessly in anticipation, the reputation of the famous Piper’s Pit show preceding it amazingly. Smiling at the crowd’s enthusiasm, Piper slowly raised the EWE labeled microphone to his mouth, which was followed by a rushing blast of excited energy from the stands. “Now,” boomed his voice from the stadium loudspeaker, his nasally Canadian accent biting the ears like a Diamond Dog with rabies. “If any of you guys remember, I mentioned that I’d be trying my best to get a certain somebody to be on the show tonight. A certain somebody who may or may not have what it takes to take down Mr. Blunderful next month at Wrestlemania.” The crowd drummed in approval, clearly just as hopeful to see Piper’s mortal enemy lose in the squared circle as he was. Grinning and shaking his, Piper continued. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves now. The future is a tricky thing to predict and I think we all know who’s really gonna do Mr. Blunderful in, and I can guarantee, it ain’t gonna be anyone else but this guy right here!” He pointed the mic at himself and waited a moment as the crowd let out another burst. “But enough about myself, we can focus on that later. For now, I’d like to present--” he made a sweeping gesture towards the blue curtained entrance to the small stage. “--the Pink Fury herself, Pink-ie Piiie!” The crowd clamored at the drop of the golden name and voiced this reaction properly. In response, the blue flap was promptly pushed open by the mare herself, and she gleefully hopped out onto the stage with the energy of a coiled up spring. A sunny beam was about her face as she bounced up and down without much care towards the folding chair adjacent to Piper, in no such hurry to get the ball rolling. Gesturing towards the seat, he smiled and said something blocked out by the still ecstatic crowd’s volume. Nodding her head in approval, Pinkie Pie reached down under the chair and pulled out another EWE microphone, this one matching Piper’s in appearance, save for it being painted a splashy hot pink. Not skipping a beat, Pinkie raised the microphone to her lips and spoke into it. “It’s great to finally be here Piper,” she said with her lively and cheery attitude. “I just looooove being here! It’s probably my second biggest wish come true.” Piper smirked. “Oh really? Uh, what’s the first?” “Doing a Cotton Candy Clutch on Hulk Hogan.” The crowd split on this statement, some thundered in sporadic approval, happy that the stoic champ had gotten what was coming to him just two weeks earlier, while the Hulkamaniacs in the crowd howled in scorn, enraged that their god and savior had been humiliated by the pink pony. Ignoring this, Piper pressed on. “Oh yeah, I heard about that.” He looked out to the crowd and smiled once more. “For those who aren’t aware, word on the street is that the blonde-haired chump was picking pink sugar out of that mop he calls hair for weeks.” He pointed towards Pinkie. “I respect that.” Pinkie giggled but quickly shifted into a state of utmost determination and rage. “I just hope I’ll get another chance this Wrestlemania, to finally teach that greasy bully a lesson. Hulk Hogan is going to regret saying my parties are lame, the nerve!” Pinkie’s hooves were clenched tightly as she recalled the drama filled evening when Hulk Hogan declared that he’s thrown parties ten times more epic than Pinkie Pie’s at his Manehattan mansion, and that she was just a lame-o pretender for the title “Party Animal of the EWE”. “Now hold on a minute,” interrupted Piper in exaggerated disbelief. “Are you tellin’ me that the champ of the EWE, the World Heavyweight Champion Hulk Hogan said that to you?” “Darn tootin’!” Piper shook his head solemnly but still grinned slyly. “Well there you have it folks, your hero, Hulk Hogan, nothing better than a name calling bully. It’s sad when wrestlers stoup to such low levels. I’ve seen it before, and it’s horrible.” Piper touched this off without even a hint of irony, considering that he himself was one of the lowest of the low wrestlers most could call to mind. Whether it was racial slurs or smacking Jimmy Snuka over the head with a coconut, he never was above anything that would demoralize and humiliate his opponents. A few in the crowd caught onto this and began to jeer him, but the scope of the crowd’s cheering (all clear Roddy Piper fans) blocked out most of this negative reception. “I agree!” agreed Pinkie Pie. “His tyrannical tyrant tyranny has gone on quite enough. I say that we get a new Heavyweight Champion, one that’s kind and understanding...like you!” Pinkie gestured both her hooves toward Piper, who sheepishly nodded with a cocked grin. “I can understand your mindset Pinkie, nominating me for the position. But the thing is, the title of World Heavyweight Championship is not just for those of the best talent, or the best class, or the best looks. It has to deal with a little something else.” Pinkie’s eye’s lit up. “What is it Piper?” Piper smiled and reached his hand out toward Pinkie Pie dramatically, building up suspense once again. “I’ll tell ya’ clear and straight, right here, for this entire stadium to learn the truth of what it really takes to be World Heavyweight Champion.” “It’s got nothing to do with skill, lemme’ tell ya, but with what kind of wrestler can be bossed around and told what they gotta’ do!” The crowd boomed in agreement, finally able to reach a consensus among itself. “And that’s something both of us aren’t good at!” added Pinkie. The stadium was nearly falling apart at this moment, the explosion of approval from nearly all in attendance shook the walls with it’s mass energy. Realizing that the peak had been reached, Piper nodded to Pinkie, who in turn, nodded back to him an agreement. “Well folks--”, announced Piper, most of what he said muffled by the insane crowd. “I thinks thats we all we have time for tonight. I wish I could explain more regarding what Mr. Blunderful will be gettin’ in the next few weeks, but I think I’ll leave that as a secret to the guy. So for now, I bid you farewell.” Piper and Pinkie both bowed to the crowd in unison under another hail of cheers. The lights focused on the small stage quickly cut off as Piper and Pinkie made their way off stage shrouded in darkness. The crowd continued to holler for more, the lack of lighting not even mildly putting a curb on their fantastic enthusiasm. Pre-Show Promo with Rainbow Dash“Mean” Gene Okerlund stared awkwardly towards the large and archaic looking television camera, as he waited for the operator to give him the thumbs up signal to begin. His eyes, in there passively dull appearance, stared directly into the large metal lense with a tight lipped poker face that he always kept in preparation for a promo video. His shiny bald head reflected the stage lights’ beams partially to the right, creating a slight white flash spot on atop him. His neatly pressed black suit displayed the EWE insignia in yellow across his left breast pocket, as he in turn, held a black microphone with the same logo emblemed in the blocky center. The camera operator gave a quick whirling motion with his finger, signaling that they would be live in a few seconds. Taking a breath of air, he stiffly waited as the operator counted down on his fingers to zero. Reaching the point, a red light above the camera lens flicked on, notifying the two men that they were now live to the entirety of two entire planets. Smiling with a sudden rush of excited energy, “Mean” Gene began. “Things are certainly heating up tonight here in United Center,” he announced in his rapid transatlantic-esque tone, “with an amazing match scheduled just minutes away, one can only guess how this spectacular event will unfold.” “For those unaware, the exciting match between former Heavyweight Champion “Macho Man” Randy Savage, and esteemed newcomer Rainbow “The Rage” Dash has been boiling over for what seems like ages, as the two superstars have butted heads regularly since their original appearances.” “But all that changes tonight, as the two finally face each other in the ring for what is predicted as a match for the ages. And with us here tonight, as one of these esteemed contenders who has quite an opinion on the matter. One that--” Suddenly, with an absolute disregard for timing or subtlety, Rainbow Dash herself blasted out onto the soundstage. Her energy and pomp were grand, as was usual, and so large in fact that her aerial entry and quick skidding landing sent “Mean” Gene stumbling backwards clumsily, nearly toppling over the large blue cardboard backdrop behind them. “Livin’ the dream!” she exalted loudly, a catchphrase she’d coined from her several theatrical in-ring declarations. “Mean Gene, I don’t think I even need to explain myself, cause’ all the fans out there know what’s gonna go down tonight!” “Mean” Gene was eyeing Rainbow Dash with cloaked contempt, her egotistical attitude aggravating him more than any other wrestler he could think of, and that included the infamous Hulk Hogan himself. “Really?” he said with best scripted surprise he could manage. “And why do you think that?” Dash smirked, Gene’s response just the words she wanted to hear. “Cause’ without all that drummin’ up you did before, I think we all know how this match is gonna end.” “Really?” he repeated. “And how do you believe it will turn out?” “Lemme’ explain something then, Mean Gene,” Rainbow stepped a few paces closer to the camera, wishing for the effect of speaking directly to the fans through the videoscope. “The Macho Man doesn’t have a chance against my rage. The second he steps into the ring, I’m gonna be all over him." "He’s gonna punch one way, I’ll be the other, he’s gonna grab me, I’ll be right behind him. And before he knows it, I’ll be picking him up by the shoulders and smashing him right back down, from a hundred feet, straight in the air!” Rainbow made a brutal smashing motion of one hoof against the other just to further emphasize her point. “The Macho Man is big man,” reminded “Mean” Gene cautiously. “You may have some difficulty just getting him off the ground.” Rainbow chuckled and shook her head slowly. “Mean Gene, I don’t think you realize what pony you're talkin’ to. This pony,” she pointed her hoof against her torso, “pile drived Sgt. Slaughter without breakin’ a sweat. This pony, mule-kicked CM Punk and set him flying fifty feet across the ring. And this pony, will give the Macho Man an airborne tour of the United Center, free of charge, within the next hour. Need I say more?” “Mean” Gene shook his head in reply. “No, I don’t believe you do. But I still am curious, and I’m sure the fans are curious as well, about your tactics in the ring. Care to explain?” Dash beamed. “Of course. The simple fact of the matter is, you gotta’ be smart, ya’ know? Ya’ gotta’ think on your hooves. If you sit around even for a second without any idea of what you’re gonna do next, things are gonna turn real ugly real fast. You gotta’ out think your opponent, get inside their mind. You gotta’ show them that you’ve got this and they don’t. You have to be as sly as a snake, yet as strong as a bear.” She paused. “Does that explain your question?” “Well…” said Gene hesitantly, “I suppose. We’ve certainly got an idea of things. But I’m not--” “Great!” interrupted Dash. “Cause’ I still get some stuff to do, important stuff, and I can only waste so much time before a match.” Rainbow looked towards the camera and grinned. “Livin’ the dream!” she whooped once more, then zipping off the soundstage as quickly as she entered. “Mean” Gene was once again pushed back from the wind force and as he recovered, couldn’t help but glare in her general direction. Suddenly realizing he was still on the air, Okerlund centered himself instantly. “Well there you have it folks, an ecstatic perception from one of the most ecstatic contenders in wrestling today.” “But before we cut to the pre-show entertainment, I’d like to state, for the first time here in the EWE, a new kind of frozen treat has been adopted for all to enjoy. I’m talking about, of course, the official EWE ice cream bars. The fastest selling--” Suddenly, to further interrupt Okerlund’s broadcast, the large white EWE logo, hanging precariously atop the blue backdrop, snapped off from it’s weak wire lining, and crashed to the concrete floor with a large slam. “F*ck it!” yelled Gene as he jolted in surprise by the sudden falling object. Turning around to inspect what had fallen, he said something to the camera operator, who quickly muted the audio output from the device. The sound-stage shot dissolved abruptly, the central studio controls taking over the broadcast, and cut to the interior of the United Center. No color commentator was ready at this moment, so the static shot was held for several minutes with nothing but the low rustle of the crowd to fill in the awkward limbo. From then on the EWE would be weary of such an event, always prepared for the emergency scenario, when a “Mean” Gene Malfunction would take place on live TV. After-Show Promo With "Macho Man" Randy SavageA camera shot of the rushing and excited center of the United Center slowly panned out, as the cataclysmic match between “Macho Man” Randy Savage and Rainbow “The Fury” Dash had come to a close with Savage’s humiliating defeat. The scene shifted to the promo soundstage of the EWE, with the simplistic blue cardboard backdrop and hanging EWE insignia being the only decorations in the bare chamber that was conveniently placed by the stadium locker room. “Mean” Gene Okerlund stood placidly next to the “Macho Man” himself, his gleaming bald head only matching the massive wrestler up to his neck, who towered over the much smaller and much older announcer/interviewer. Quickly being given a thumbs up signal by the camera operator, Okerlund began the after show promo. “Quite some excitement tonight in the United Center here in the beautiful city of Chicago,” announced Gene in his transatlantic-esque tone to the camera. “As the former Intercontinental Champion Randy Savage was defeated just a few minutes ago by the up-and-comer herself, Rainbow ‘The Fury’ Dash.” Randy grimaced in disgust as Okerlund summarized the night’s events, and quickly leaned into the range of the EWE microphone the older gentlemen held. “Nothing means nothing!” interjected Randy loudly, as he looked Gene directly in the eyes behind his white wrap-around sun glasses of his own trademark. “Nothing means nothing ‘Mean’ Gene Okerlund, and I would sooner DIE than see tonight’s shenanigans considered a legitimate match in professional wrestling, yeah!” Okerlund’s eyes rose in disbelief, another one of Savage’s statements taking him off guard. “Macho Man, are you saying that esteemed rookie, Rainbow ‘The Fury’ Dash, did not win tonight’s match as honestly as it appears?” “Oh yeah,” confirmed Savage with a jittery nod followed by a loud snuff of air. “That’s exactly what I’m making it out to be ‘Mean’ Gene. Outside interference, that’s what I’m talkin’ about ‘Mean’ Gene. Breakin’ the space and laws President Jack Tunney established, yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about ‘Mean’ Gene.” Okerlund slowly nodded. “I see...but what about her aerials? How could’ve you hoped to counter a wrestler who actually has the ability to fly?” “Not a problem! I’ve dealt with things that would make that pony chump’s head pop right of her shoulders. I’ve wrestled guys three times her size and three times as fast. Andre the Giant can put up a better fight than her and he can barely get his feet off the floor. Flight don’t mean nothing to the Macho Madness, yeah!” “But it must have been a problem for you tonight,” pressed ‘Mean’ Gene. “It’s what got in the way of your victory, especially her whirlwind strikes and inverted gorilla presses.” A low growl came from the Macho Man’s throat as his body loomed over Gene threateningly. One could tell that, behind the thick sunglasses lenses, the legendary wrestler was staring daggers into the feeble Gene Okerlund. “Wow, Mr. Sarcasm is it?” responded Savage with an increase in his own verbal intensity. “I don’t care if you’ve got twenty wrestlers behind these doors, because I am ready and I will not let this chance slip through my fingers.” “The EWE is the need of a proper wrestler to hold the Intercontinental Title, and I’ll be darned if Rainbow ‘The Fury’ Dash even gets the chance to lay eyes upon that belt, yeah! It is my property, and I’m gonna take it back.” Savage took another savage snuff of the air around him, then quickly stormed off the stage without much direction of where he wanted to go. Okerlund called over to Savage, he was nearly halfway out the door. “Macho Man, could I get another question--” “No more questions!” shouted Savage with a closing slam from the door behind him. Grinning back towards the camera, ‘Mean’ Gene concluded. “We’ll there you have it folks, a firsthand account of one of the most exciting matches in wrestling history. We still have some great matches still scheduled for tonight, including the long awaited duel between Sgt. Slaughter and his close rival, Spitfire. So don’t go away, we’ll be back after these messages.” As the screen faded out into an infomercial concerning a shouty black haired man in a blue polo advertising an oxygen based cleaning supplement, one could not ignore the short hint Okerlund had dropped about things to come. A titanic rivalry was about to be settled, with two of the EWE’s most patriotic contenders squaring off to settle an age old dispute. Things were only just heating up in the Windy City. Sgt. Slaughter vs. SpitfireSgt. Slaughter and Spitfire glared stoically toward one another, with fists/hooves clenched tightly from the opposite corners they stood at. The normal clamor of the crowd seemed to come from a great distance away as the two locked eyes in a unmoveable death stare. To say that Spitfire and Sgt. Slaughter were ‘rivals’ was a definite understatement. The two wrestlers had been butting heads ever since their original appearances’ on the EWE, both in close time proximity with each other, and both claiming the other was a mere copy of their established motif. In truth, the hardened army character was practiced by the two very quite similarly, granted with different spins on the idea, but patriotism and guttural growling of the word ‘maggot’ every few seconds playing a key role in their performances. But unlike the typical feuds that had been presented in the EWE before, the one between Spitfire and Sgt. Slaughter led many to believe that it as well took place backstage as well as in the ring. Reports had been swimming around that the two had gotten in several backstage arguments with one another, with threats and harsh words being tossed around more than Eric Bischoff into garbage truck loading bays. Needless to say, it seemed that an adequate scenario had been built up, with both rivals facing one another for the coveted Intercontinental Title Belt. Of course the two had fought before over much smaller pickings but this was the first time that a legitimate prize would be given to whoever was victorious, adding to the intensity of the two. The introductions were over, with both champions formerly parading into the stadium waving their respective countries’ flags, Slaughter with the red, white, and blue stripes, and Spitfire with the blue and silver stars. And now, they stood just yards away, their nerves tensed in anticipation as the tell-tale bell was soon to ring signalling the beginning of their royale. *DING* With the bell’s screeching shatter and the even louder booming roar from the attending crowd, the two champions stepped out of their tight niches and slowly began towards the other. Slaughter, with outstretched arms, prepped for an initial grapple stepped a few paces towards Spitfire and suddenly broke into a heavy charge. Stampeding towards her in a flash, he gruffly wrapped his arms around the pony’s upper torso and threw the mare down with a militaristic slam. With Spitfire now already on the canvas floor, he immediately attempted a pinfall. The referee, with lightening paced speed that was questionable for a man of such feeble build, slid across the white ring top and slapped his palm down upon it’s surface for the count out. *1*--*2*-- With a flying blast upwards from Slaughter’s pin, Spitfire flew out from under his grab and followed with an aerial elbow drop right onto the upper center of his head. Stumbling backwards from the force, he swung blindly with a dazed left hook that smacked into the mare’s wing and sent her hurtling to the left. Spinning along the tips of her hooves, Spitfire repositioned herself back into a stance and swung with her hoof towards Slaughter. The blow impacted against his chest, but barely fazed the grizzled veteran who countered with another strike that slammed into her like a cart of bricks. This time actually tumbling to the floor, Spitfire felt her eye’s focus to be shifting in and out of perspective as a loud ringing went through her ears. She attempted to roll back to her hooves, but was suddenly met with a stomping boot from Slaughter, which shoved her back to the ground. The sarge followed by placing both hands atop the ring center, thrusting himself upwards as if he was about to do a handstand, then promptly swung his body back down to the ring with a driving knee right into her chest. He positioned himself back into the handstand and was about to follow with another knee, when Spitfire swatted his supporting left arm with her foreleg and sent him collapsing to the floor. The crowd drummed in approval as she slowly brought herself back to her hooves and contemplated what to do with fallen sergeant. She knew all too well that he wouldn’t be down long, prompting her to think of something fast. Dashing over to one of the corner turnbuckles, she climbed atop it and steadied herself into a straightened position. Standing evenly, she hopped into the air with a slight boost from her wings, sending both of her back legs crushing down into Slaughter’s ribs and face. Slaughter clutched at his face in agony as Spitfire stepped off him slowly, starting to feel fatigued from her own exertion. Tiredly reaching forward, she grabbed at the ends of the vet’s combat boots and twisted them into a pretzel shaped knot, placing the majority of her body onto his fallen frame. *1*--*2*-- Sarge pushed her off with a jolt from his shoulders but continued to lay there, still gripeing and rolling in pain, trying his hardest to get back to his feet. Spitfire took notice of his preoccupation and trotted back over to one of the turnbuckles. Climbing back onto it, she prepared herself for another high risk maneuver. But as she readied herself to fly forwards, the sarge was slowly getting from his knees to his feet. Spitfire rocketed in the air towards him with her wings fully outstretched in a legitimate glide. In that instance, Slaughter hopped back to his feet and wrapped both his hands around her golden wings, stopping her mid flight. Thrusting downwards with all his weight, Spitfire collided to the canvas with such force that her able body actually bounced against it’s surface. Slaughter attempted another boot stomp to her chest, but she briskly rolled out of the way while swatting his legs with her right wing. Buckling from the pain, Slaughter stumbled to the side as Spitfire spun back to her hooves and readied herself for more. Running towards him now, Spitfire hopped into the air and sent two well placed drop kicks right into Slaughter’s stomach. Pushed back, Slaughter bounced smacked against the ring ropes and collapsed upon them, now using the stationary lines as his only method of staying on his feet. Grinning, Spitfire casually made her way over to the exhausted sarge and struck him with the end of her hoof across his face. Buckling back, his body further slumped against the rings, his feet barely doing anything to keep him anchored to the ground. Taking a few steps back, she charged forward with a wild fluttering of her wings to enhance her momentum, and hopped into the air with both back legs outstretched into another drop kick. Slamming against him with both hoofs, his weight pushed against bounced forward by the returning energy. Knocking him with clothesline to the neck, she inched back into his line of defense to follow up with several more hails of strikes. But, as she leaned back for another round of carnage, an unexpected boot clobbered into her midsection. Buckling to her knees, she felt nearly all air sucked right out of her lungs. Without hesitation, Slaughter grabbed her by the shoulders and lifted her back to her hooves forcibly. Standing shakily while her head wobbled back and forth, Slaughter placed his palm atop her shoulder for support and began his final vengeful attack. Her struck her once with a balled fist, followed by another, and another, until he let his right hook swing around along his side in a full rotation several times, gathering speed as it went. Spinning one last time, his fist collided with her face in final display of strength, and the mare was sent hurtling backwards to the mat. Diving atop her with an aggressive tenacity, the grizzled human vet moved himself back into a pinfall as the ref slid over once again. *1*--*2*--*3* The ring bell rung thrice as the crowd exploded in applause whopping. Slaughter struggled back to his feet with several short breaths and raised his balled fists to the crowd in triumph. The EWE had a new Intercontinental Champion.
Piper's Pit with Pinkie Pie“Rowdy” Roddy Piper sat confidently atop his padded metal folding chair. The blue wooden backdrop behind him proudly displayed the insignia of the EWE in shiny metallic paint, as several hanging photos displayed the ace wrestler in some of his finest moments. A sly grin was smeared across his face as the heels of his crimson wrestling boots bit into the cheap carpeted floor like symmetrical leather teeth. His legs were spread in the showmanship of his own masculinity, furthered by the glistening red plaid quilt that was wrapped around his waist. Atop his chest, was his signature ‘Rowdy’ Roddy Piper t-shirt, with its crisp white cotton fabric contrasted by the word “Hot Rod” in a red and yellow border. The crowd in front of him roared wrestlessly in anticipation, the reputation of the famous Piper’s Pit show preceding it amazingly. Smiling at the crowd’s enthusiasm, Piper slowly raised the EWE labeled microphone to his mouth, which was followed by a rushing blast of excited energy from the stands. “Now,” boomed his voice from the stadium loudspeaker, his nasally Canadian accent biting the ears like a Diamond Dog with rabies. “If any of you guys remember, I mentioned that I’d be trying my best to get a certain somebody to be on the show tonight. A certain somebody who may or may not have what it takes to take down Mr. Blunderful next month at Wrestlemania.” The crowd drummed in approval, clearly just as hopeful to see Piper’s mortal enemy lose in the squared circle as he was. Grinning and shaking his, Piper continued. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves now. The future is a tricky thing to predict and I think we all know who’s really gonna do Mr. Blunderful in, and I can guarantee, it ain’t gonna be anyone else but this guy right here!” He pointed the mic at himself and waited a moment as the crowd let out another burst. “But enough about myself, we can focus on that later. For now, I’d like to present--” he made a sweeping gesture towards the blue curtained entrance to the small stage. “--the Pink Fury herself, Pink-ie Piiie!” The crowd clamored at the drop of the golden name and voiced this reaction properly. In response, the blue flap was promptly pushed open by the mare herself, and she gleefully hopped out onto the stage with the energy of a coiled up spring. A sunny beam was about her face as she bounced up and down without much care towards the folding chair adjacent to Piper, in no such hurry to get the ball rolling. Gesturing towards the seat, he smiled and said something blocked out by the still ecstatic crowd’s volume. Nodding her head in approval, Pinkie Pie reached down under the chair and pulled out another EWE microphone, this one matching Piper’s in appearance, save for it being painted a splashy hot pink. Not skipping a beat, Pinkie raised the microphone to her lips and spoke into it. “It’s great to finally be here Piper,” she said with her lively and cheery attitude. “I just looooove being here! It’s probably my second biggest wish come true.” Piper smirked. “Oh really? Uh, what’s the first?” “Doing a Cotton Candy Clutch on Hulk Hogan.” The crowd split on this statement, some thundered in sporadic approval, happy that the stoic champ had gotten what was coming to him just two weeks earlier, while the Hulkamaniacs in the crowd howled in scorn, enraged that their god and savior had been humiliated by the pink pony. Ignoring this, Piper pressed on. “Oh yeah, I heard about that.” He looked out to the crowd and smiled once more. “For those who aren’t aware, word on the street is that the blonde-haired chump was picking pink sugar out of that mop he calls hair for weeks.” He pointed towards Pinkie. “I respect that.” Pinkie giggled but quickly shifted into a state of utmost determination and rage. “I just hope I’ll get another chance this Wrestlemania, to finally teach that greasy bully a lesson. Hulk Hogan is going to regret saying my parties are lame, the nerve!” Pinkie’s hooves were clenched tightly as she recalled the drama filled evening when Hulk Hogan declared that he’s thrown parties ten times more epic than Pinkie Pie’s at his Manehattan mansion, and that she was just a lame-o pretender for the title “Party Animal of the EWE”. “Now hold on a minute,” interrupted Piper in exaggerated disbelief. “Are you tellin’ me that the champ of the EWE, the World Heavyweight Champion Hulk Hogan said that to you?” “Darn tootin’!” Piper shook his head solemnly but still grinned slyly. “Well there you have it folks, your hero, Hulk Hogan, nothing better than a name calling bully. It’s sad when wrestlers stoup to such low levels. I’ve seen it before, and it’s horrible.” Piper touched this off without even a hint of irony, considering that he himself was one of the lowest of the low wrestlers most could call to mind. Whether it was racial slurs or smacking Jimmy Snuka over the head with a coconut, he never was above anything that would demoralize and humiliate his opponents. A few in the crowd caught onto this and began to jeer him, but the scope of the crowd’s cheering (all clear Roddy Piper fans) blocked out most of this negative reception. “I agree!” agreed Pinkie Pie. “His tyrannical tyrant tyranny has gone on quite enough. I say that we get a new Heavyweight Champion, one that’s kind and understanding...like you!” Pinkie gestured both her hooves toward Piper, who sheepishly nodded with a cocked grin. “I can understand your mindset Pinkie, nominating me for the position. But the thing is, the title of World Heavyweight Championship is not just for those of the best talent, or the best class, or the best looks. It has to deal with a little something else.” Pinkie’s eye’s lit up. “What is it Piper?” Piper smiled and reached his hand out toward Pinkie Pie dramatically, building up suspense once again. “I’ll tell ya’ clear and straight, right here, for this entire stadium to learn the truth of what it really takes to be World Heavyweight Champion.” “It’s got nothing to do with skill, lemme’ tell ya, but with what kind of wrestler can be bossed around and told what they gotta’ do!” The crowd boomed in agreement, finally able to reach a consensus among itself. “And that’s something both of us aren’t good at!” added Pinkie. The stadium was nearly falling apart at this moment, the explosion of approval from nearly all in attendance shook the walls with it’s mass energy. Realizing that the peak had been reached, Piper nodded to Pinkie, who in turn, nodded back to him an agreement. “Well folks--”, announced Piper, most of what he said muffled by the insane crowd. “I thinks thats we all we have time for tonight. I wish I could explain more regarding what Mr. Blunderful will be gettin’ in the next few weeks, but I think I’ll leave that as a secret to the guy. So for now, I bid you farewell.” Piper and Pinkie both bowed to the crowd in unison under another hail of cheers. The lights focused on the small stage quickly cut off as Piper and Pinkie made their way off stage shrouded in darkness. The crowd continued to holler for more, the lack of lighting not even mildly putting a curb on their fantastic enthusiasm.
Pre-Show Promo with Rainbow Dash“Mean” Gene Okerlund stared awkwardly towards the large and archaic looking television camera, as he waited for the operator to give him the thumbs up signal to begin. His eyes, in there passively dull appearance, stared directly into the large metal lense with a tight lipped poker face that he always kept in preparation for a promo video. His shiny bald head reflected the stage lights’ beams partially to the right, creating a slight white flash spot on atop him. His neatly pressed black suit displayed the EWE insignia in yellow across his left breast pocket, as he in turn, held a black microphone with the same logo emblemed in the blocky center. The camera operator gave a quick whirling motion with his finger, signaling that they would be live in a few seconds. Taking a breath of air, he stiffly waited as the operator counted down on his fingers to zero. Reaching the point, a red light above the camera lens flicked on, notifying the two men that they were now live to the entirety of two entire planets. Smiling with a sudden rush of excited energy, “Mean” Gene began. “Things are certainly heating up tonight here in United Center,” he announced in his rapid transatlantic-esque tone, “with an amazing match scheduled just minutes away, one can only guess how this spectacular event will unfold.” “For those unaware, the exciting match between former Heavyweight Champion “Macho Man” Randy Savage, and esteemed newcomer Rainbow “The Rage” Dash has been boiling over for what seems like ages, as the two superstars have butted heads regularly since their original appearances.” “But all that changes tonight, as the two finally face each other in the ring for what is predicted as a match for the ages. And with us here tonight, as one of these esteemed contenders who has quite an opinion on the matter. One that--” Suddenly, with an absolute disregard for timing or subtlety, Rainbow Dash herself blasted out onto the soundstage. Her energy and pomp were grand, as was usual, and so large in fact that her aerial entry and quick skidding landing sent “Mean” Gene stumbling backwards clumsily, nearly toppling over the large blue cardboard backdrop behind them. “Livin’ the dream!” she exalted loudly, a catchphrase she’d coined from her several theatrical in-ring declarations. “Mean Gene, I don’t think I even need to explain myself, cause’ all the fans out there know what’s gonna go down tonight!” “Mean” Gene was eyeing Rainbow Dash with cloaked contempt, her egotistical attitude aggravating him more than any other wrestler he could think of, and that included the infamous Hulk Hogan himself. “Really?” he said with best scripted surprise he could manage. “And why do you think that?” Dash smirked, Gene’s response just the words she wanted to hear. “Cause’ without all that drummin’ up you did before, I think we all know how this match is gonna end.” “Really?” he repeated. “And how do you believe it will turn out?” “Lemme’ explain something then, Mean Gene,” Rainbow stepped a few paces closer to the camera, wishing for the effect of speaking directly to the fans through the videoscope. “The Macho Man doesn’t have a chance against my rage. The second he steps into the ring, I’m gonna be all over him." "He’s gonna punch one way, I’ll be the other, he’s gonna grab me, I’ll be right behind him. And before he knows it, I’ll be picking him up by the shoulders and smashing him right back down, from a hundred feet, straight in the air!” Rainbow made a brutal smashing motion of one hoof against the other just to further emphasize her point. “The Macho Man is big man,” reminded “Mean” Gene cautiously. “You may have some difficulty just getting him off the ground.” Rainbow chuckled and shook her head slowly. “Mean Gene, I don’t think you realize what pony you're talkin’ to. This pony,” she pointed her hoof against her torso, “pile drived Sgt. Slaughter without breakin’ a sweat. This pony, mule-kicked CM Punk and set him flying fifty feet across the ring. And this pony, will give the Macho Man an airborne tour of the United Center, free of charge, within the next hour. Need I say more?” “Mean” Gene shook his head in reply. “No, I don’t believe you do. But I still am curious, and I’m sure the fans are curious as well, about your tactics in the ring. Care to explain?” Dash beamed. “Of course. The simple fact of the matter is, you gotta’ be smart, ya’ know? Ya’ gotta’ think on your hooves. If you sit around even for a second without any idea of what you’re gonna do next, things are gonna turn real ugly real fast. You gotta’ out think your opponent, get inside their mind. You gotta’ show them that you’ve got this and they don’t. You have to be as sly as a snake, yet as strong as a bear.” She paused. “Does that explain your question?” “Well…” said Gene hesitantly, “I suppose. We’ve certainly got an idea of things. But I’m not--” “Great!” interrupted Dash. “Cause’ I still get some stuff to do, important stuff, and I can only waste so much time before a match.” Rainbow looked towards the camera and grinned. “Livin’ the dream!” she whooped once more, then zipping off the soundstage as quickly as she entered. “Mean” Gene was once again pushed back from the wind force and as he recovered, couldn’t help but glare in her general direction. Suddenly realizing he was still on the air, Okerlund centered himself instantly. “Well there you have it folks, an ecstatic perception from one of the most ecstatic contenders in wrestling today.” “But before we cut to the pre-show entertainment, I’d like to state, for the first time here in the EWE, a new kind of frozen treat has been adopted for all to enjoy. I’m talking about, of course, the official EWE ice cream bars. The fastest selling--” Suddenly, to further interrupt Okerlund’s broadcast, the large white EWE logo, hanging precariously atop the blue backdrop, snapped off from it’s weak wire lining, and crashed to the concrete floor with a large slam. “F*ck it!” yelled Gene as he jolted in surprise by the sudden falling object. Turning around to inspect what had fallen, he said something to the camera operator, who quickly muted the audio output from the device. The sound-stage shot dissolved abruptly, the central studio controls taking over the broadcast, and cut to the interior of the United Center. No color commentator was ready at this moment, so the static shot was held for several minutes with nothing but the low rustle of the crowd to fill in the awkward limbo. From then on the EWE would be weary of such an event, always prepared for the emergency scenario, when a “Mean” Gene Malfunction would take place on live TV.
After-Show Promo With "Macho Man" Randy SavageA camera shot of the rushing and excited center of the United Center slowly panned out, as the cataclysmic match between “Macho Man” Randy Savage and Rainbow “The Fury” Dash had come to a close with Savage’s humiliating defeat. The scene shifted to the promo soundstage of the EWE, with the simplistic blue cardboard backdrop and hanging EWE insignia being the only decorations in the bare chamber that was conveniently placed by the stadium locker room. “Mean” Gene Okerlund stood placidly next to the “Macho Man” himself, his gleaming bald head only matching the massive wrestler up to his neck, who towered over the much smaller and much older announcer/interviewer. Quickly being given a thumbs up signal by the camera operator, Okerlund began the after show promo. “Quite some excitement tonight in the United Center here in the beautiful city of Chicago,” announced Gene in his transatlantic-esque tone to the camera. “As the former Intercontinental Champion Randy Savage was defeated just a few minutes ago by the up-and-comer herself, Rainbow ‘The Fury’ Dash.” Randy grimaced in disgust as Okerlund summarized the night’s events, and quickly leaned into the range of the EWE microphone the older gentlemen held. “Nothing means nothing!” interjected Randy loudly, as he looked Gene directly in the eyes behind his white wrap-around sun glasses of his own trademark. “Nothing means nothing ‘Mean’ Gene Okerlund, and I would sooner DIE than see tonight’s shenanigans considered a legitimate match in professional wrestling, yeah!” Okerlund’s eyes rose in disbelief, another one of Savage’s statements taking him off guard. “Macho Man, are you saying that esteemed rookie, Rainbow ‘The Fury’ Dash, did not win tonight’s match as honestly as it appears?” “Oh yeah,” confirmed Savage with a jittery nod followed by a loud snuff of air. “That’s exactly what I’m making it out to be ‘Mean’ Gene. Outside interference, that’s what I’m talkin’ about ‘Mean’ Gene. Breakin’ the space and laws President Jack Tunney established, yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about ‘Mean’ Gene.” Okerlund slowly nodded. “I see...but what about her aerials? How could’ve you hoped to counter a wrestler who actually has the ability to fly?” “Not a problem! I’ve dealt with things that would make that pony chump’s head pop right of her shoulders. I’ve wrestled guys three times her size and three times as fast. Andre the Giant can put up a better fight than her and he can barely get his feet off the floor. Flight don’t mean nothing to the Macho Madness, yeah!” “But it must have been a problem for you tonight,” pressed ‘Mean’ Gene. “It’s what got in the way of your victory, especially her whirlwind strikes and inverted gorilla presses.” A low growl came from the Macho Man’s throat as his body loomed over Gene threateningly. One could tell that, behind the thick sunglasses lenses, the legendary wrestler was staring daggers into the feeble Gene Okerlund. “Wow, Mr. Sarcasm is it?” responded Savage with an increase in his own verbal intensity. “I don’t care if you’ve got twenty wrestlers behind these doors, because I am ready and I will not let this chance slip through my fingers.” “The EWE is the need of a proper wrestler to hold the Intercontinental Title, and I’ll be darned if Rainbow ‘The Fury’ Dash even gets the chance to lay eyes upon that belt, yeah! It is my property, and I’m gonna take it back.” Savage took another savage snuff of the air around him, then quickly stormed off the stage without much direction of where he wanted to go. Okerlund called over to Savage, he was nearly halfway out the door. “Macho Man, could I get another question--” “No more questions!” shouted Savage with a closing slam from the door behind him. Grinning back towards the camera, ‘Mean’ Gene concluded. “We’ll there you have it folks, a firsthand account of one of the most exciting matches in wrestling history. We still have some great matches still scheduled for tonight, including the long awaited duel between Sgt. Slaughter and his close rival, Spitfire. So don’t go away, we’ll be back after these messages.” As the screen faded out into an infomercial concerning a shouty black haired man in a blue polo advertising an oxygen based cleaning supplement, one could not ignore the short hint Okerlund had dropped about things to come. A titanic rivalry was about to be settled, with two of the EWE’s most patriotic contenders squaring off to settle an age old dispute. Things were only just heating up in the Windy City.
Sgt. Slaughter vs. SpitfireSgt. Slaughter and Spitfire glared stoically toward one another, with fists/hooves clenched tightly from the opposite corners they stood at. The normal clamor of the crowd seemed to come from a great distance away as the two locked eyes in a unmoveable death stare. To say that Spitfire and Sgt. Slaughter were ‘rivals’ was a definite understatement. The two wrestlers had been butting heads ever since their original appearances’ on the EWE, both in close time proximity with each other, and both claiming the other was a mere copy of their established motif. In truth, the hardened army character was practiced by the two very quite similarly, granted with different spins on the idea, but patriotism and guttural growling of the word ‘maggot’ every few seconds playing a key role in their performances. But unlike the typical feuds that had been presented in the EWE before, the one between Spitfire and Sgt. Slaughter led many to believe that it as well took place backstage as well as in the ring. Reports had been swimming around that the two had gotten in several backstage arguments with one another, with threats and harsh words being tossed around more than Eric Bischoff into garbage truck loading bays. Needless to say, it seemed that an adequate scenario had been built up, with both rivals facing one another for the coveted Intercontinental Title Belt. Of course the two had fought before over much smaller pickings but this was the first time that a legitimate prize would be given to whoever was victorious, adding to the intensity of the two. The introductions were over, with both champions formerly parading into the stadium waving their respective countries’ flags, Slaughter with the red, white, and blue stripes, and Spitfire with the blue and silver stars. And now, they stood just yards away, their nerves tensed in anticipation as the tell-tale bell was soon to ring signalling the beginning of their royale. *DING* With the bell’s screeching shatter and the even louder booming roar from the attending crowd, the two champions stepped out of their tight niches and slowly began towards the other. Slaughter, with outstretched arms, prepped for an initial grapple stepped a few paces towards Spitfire and suddenly broke into a heavy charge. Stampeding towards her in a flash, he gruffly wrapped his arms around the pony’s upper torso and threw the mare down with a militaristic slam. With Spitfire now already on the canvas floor, he immediately attempted a pinfall. The referee, with lightening paced speed that was questionable for a man of such feeble build, slid across the white ring top and slapped his palm down upon it’s surface for the count out. *1*--*2*-- With a flying blast upwards from Slaughter’s pin, Spitfire flew out from under his grab and followed with an aerial elbow drop right onto the upper center of his head. Stumbling backwards from the force, he swung blindly with a dazed left hook that smacked into the mare’s wing and sent her hurtling to the left. Spinning along the tips of her hooves, Spitfire repositioned herself back into a stance and swung with her hoof towards Slaughter. The blow impacted against his chest, but barely fazed the grizzled veteran who countered with another strike that slammed into her like a cart of bricks. This time actually tumbling to the floor, Spitfire felt her eye’s focus to be shifting in and out of perspective as a loud ringing went through her ears. She attempted to roll back to her hooves, but was suddenly met with a stomping boot from Slaughter, which shoved her back to the ground. The sarge followed by placing both hands atop the ring center, thrusting himself upwards as if he was about to do a handstand, then promptly swung his body back down to the ring with a driving knee right into her chest. He positioned himself back into the handstand and was about to follow with another knee, when Spitfire swatted his supporting left arm with her foreleg and sent him collapsing to the floor. The crowd drummed in approval as she slowly brought herself back to her hooves and contemplated what to do with fallen sergeant. She knew all too well that he wouldn’t be down long, prompting her to think of something fast. Dashing over to one of the corner turnbuckles, she climbed atop it and steadied herself into a straightened position. Standing evenly, she hopped into the air with a slight boost from her wings, sending both of her back legs crushing down into Slaughter’s ribs and face. Slaughter clutched at his face in agony as Spitfire stepped off him slowly, starting to feel fatigued from her own exertion. Tiredly reaching forward, she grabbed at the ends of the vet’s combat boots and twisted them into a pretzel shaped knot, placing the majority of her body onto his fallen frame. *1*--*2*-- Sarge pushed her off with a jolt from his shoulders but continued to lay there, still gripeing and rolling in pain, trying his hardest to get back to his feet. Spitfire took notice of his preoccupation and trotted back over to one of the turnbuckles. Climbing back onto it, she prepared herself for another high risk maneuver. But as she readied herself to fly forwards, the sarge was slowly getting from his knees to his feet. Spitfire rocketed in the air towards him with her wings fully outstretched in a legitimate glide. In that instance, Slaughter hopped back to his feet and wrapped both his hands around her golden wings, stopping her mid flight. Thrusting downwards with all his weight, Spitfire collided to the canvas with such force that her able body actually bounced against it’s surface. Slaughter attempted another boot stomp to her chest, but she briskly rolled out of the way while swatting his legs with her right wing. Buckling from the pain, Slaughter stumbled to the side as Spitfire spun back to her hooves and readied herself for more. Running towards him now, Spitfire hopped into the air and sent two well placed drop kicks right into Slaughter’s stomach. Pushed back, Slaughter bounced smacked against the ring ropes and collapsed upon them, now using the stationary lines as his only method of staying on his feet. Grinning, Spitfire casually made her way over to the exhausted sarge and struck him with the end of her hoof across his face. Buckling back, his body further slumped against the rings, his feet barely doing anything to keep him anchored to the ground. Taking a few steps back, she charged forward with a wild fluttering of her wings to enhance her momentum, and hopped into the air with both back legs outstretched into another drop kick. Slamming against him with both hoofs, his weight pushed against bounced forward by the returning energy. Knocking him with clothesline to the neck, she inched back into his line of defense to follow up with several more hails of strikes. But, as she leaned back for another round of carnage, an unexpected boot clobbered into her midsection. Buckling to her knees, she felt nearly all air sucked right out of her lungs. Without hesitation, Slaughter grabbed her by the shoulders and lifted her back to her hooves forcibly. Standing shakily while her head wobbled back and forth, Slaughter placed his palm atop her shoulder for support and began his final vengeful attack. Her struck her once with a balled fist, followed by another, and another, until he let his right hook swing around along his side in a full rotation several times, gathering speed as it went. Spinning one last time, his fist collided with her face in final display of strength, and the mare was sent hurtling backwards to the mat. Diving atop her with an aggressive tenacity, the grizzled human vet moved himself back into a pinfall as the ref slid over once again. *1*--*2*--*3* The ring bell rung thrice as the crowd exploded in applause whopping. Slaughter struggled back to his feet with several short breaths and raised his balled fists to the crowd in triumph. The EWE had a new Intercontinental Champion.
