2/3 Falls Glass Tables - Chris Dolmeth vs. Kasabian Stalker

[Vladimir Strife]

Due: February 24th, 9:00PM Pacific/12:00AM Eastern

[Kasabian Stalker]

The sounding of the bell turns the attention to the ring, where The Reverend Dolmeth stands toe-to-toe and nose-to-nose with everybody's favourite bastard, Kasabian Stalker. The bald headed, unorthodox Pervert is busy licking his lips when the ringing brings the match to action. Cheekily, the Perverted One leans forward, aiming a stolen kiss to Meth's cheek, but receives a fully fledged punch to the nose for his troubles. Kasabian reels back from the punch, bringing his hands up to his face in shock and offense. When he pulls his hands away, his face bears no noticeable marking but he looks hurt nonetheless... emotionally. The punch was a clear message, an out and out rejection of friendly banter.



Across the ring from where the Pervert reversed himself to, Dolmeth cracks into a smile. He waves a nagging finger at his opponent, letting the Pervert know to behave himself or he will suffer the same fate again. In turn, Kasabian charges across the ring at the Brash Brit and aims a Discus Clothesline in his direction. The smile is wiped from Meth's face when he sees the baby-oil locomotion charging across the ring at a rate of knotts. He doesn't have sufficient time to react and takes the collision head on, the Clothesline flipping him around and causing him to land on his stomach.



Jimmy Pate: "Kasabian got more than a kiss for his troubles, bloody hell... I felt that in my teeth!"

Ray White: "Poor Kassy. Not the first time he has tried to steal a kiss."

Jimmy Pate: "And it won't be the last, I am sure."

Pouncing on Kasabian, Chris Dolmeth contorts the Pervert into an inhumane position by locking in a Camel Clutch. Kasabian's eyes shoot open in pain, his tongue sticking out like a vipers, licking his lips as the move sends shock-waves through his back. The mixture of grunts that escape from Stalker's lips are enough to make Ray White sit up and take notice, but before long, the Perverted One makes a wild lunge for the ropes to break the hold.

The big man breaks the Camel Clutch just before the referee reaches 'four' in his standing five-count, holding his hands up as if to prove that he is no longer applying pressure. Leaving Kasabian for a moment, Dolmeth steps away and paces around the ring before setting at his man again. When he comes within range of the Butcher once more, however, Stalker leaps up and drives a shoulder into the Reverend's guts. It is the small opening that Kasabian needs, the Perverted One following up by pulling Dolmeth's arm between his legs into a Pumphandle position. Before executing any move, the playful Pervert pumps the handle a few times before hoisting his opponent into the air. He lifts him, turns him and drops him squarely back to the mat with a Pumphandle Slam.

Ray White: "There you go Kassy... This is where he get's so dangerous."

Jimmy Pate: "What, when his hand is in between his opponent's legs?" 

Ray White: "Well, quite frankly, yes... It would be dangerous if he had his hands between my legs. He would be likely to get poked in the eye."

Jimmy Pate: "One more visual image like that Pate, and I am pulling your mike out of the socket."

This time, it is Kasabian's turn to pounce on his opponent... in his own special way. With both hands extended, the Perverted One makes a beeline for Dolmeth's nipples. Grabbing each one in between his thumb and forefinger, Kasabian twists with all his might. The referee, powerless to reel in Kasabian's unorthodox offense, allows the Purple Nurple to continue.

Chris Dolmeth's eyes shoot open, the name Azazel forming on his lips as he cries out in agony. The crack in his voice only serves Stalker to up the ante, twisting the nipples almost to breaking point. The Pervert, ignoring the barrage of glass tables placed outside the ring for now, seems content on softening up Dolmeth's torso.

TBC Meth

[Ciles Gorey]

OOC: Sorry for the delay. Time for similes galore.
Also, hope I lived up to Stalker well enough.


A manly tear forms in the corner of Chris’ eye as Stalker viciously twists his nipples. Kasabian’s like a strangely-oily milkmaid going twenty to the dozen on the teets of a dried up old milk cow. Seriously, his fingers are making more moves than a virgin trying to remove his first bra. The bearded brawler grits his pearly whites and crunches his face up tight as the pain of the Purple Nurple shoots through his pecks. He leans his head back and thrusts it forward, the foreheads of the two competitors colliding causing both men to reel. The Pervert rubs his head with the palm of his hand whereas Dolmeth covers his chest with his hands as a woman fresh out the shower in a room full of horny teenagers would, his nipples as sore as a breast-feeding mother’s during the teething period. The Butcher charges in but the British-born wrestler hooks his arm under Stalker’s armpit and flips him up and over. Kasabian doesn’t hit the canvas however, as he is caught by the six foot sixer being held much like a bride being carried over the threshold. The Pervert leans in close and sensually licks up the side of Dolmeth’s face, lapping up every drop of the Strapping Young Lad’s sweet, sweet sweat (disclaimer: sweat is actually salty not sweet. You get the point though) his body shuddering with delight. The Reverend is less pleased and throws the American down onto the canvas (though due to the baby oil acting like a lubricant he gently slides on the mat slightly) and frantically wipes at the side of his face acting as if the saliva of The Pervert is an acid (and in reality, it’s probably not much better).

Jimmy Pate: “There’s the rather… unorthodox methods Kasabian Stalker likes to use in order to get inside the heads of his opponents.”
Ray White: “There’s somewhere on both these men I’d like to get inside, but it surely isn’t their heads Jimmy. You know I’m sayin’?”
Jimmy Pate: “Unfortunately I do. I really wish I didn’t though. I really wish I didn’t Ray.”

The mind games of the Butcher only appear to be partially affective. Rather than completely throwing the Reverend off of his game, they succeed in pissing him off. With a newfound fire burning in his belly the Unorthodonist moves on his opponent, intent on teaching him how he earned the nickname. The slippery slaphead takes the sole of Rev. Dolmeth’s Doc Marten to the side of the skull, flooring the poor sod. The tattooed Tynesider mounts the chest of the lubed-up molestor and repeatedly hammers the side of his fist down into the Pervert’s face. The Butcher smiles after each and every hit, seemingly enjoying the punishment being placed upon his person. Dolmeth ultimately decides to bring both fists together above his head and bring them both down upon the Butcher’s brow with all of his might. A blow so powerful it seemingly knocks the Chicago native flat out. His body lies limp, the full two hundred and seventy eight pound frame of Chris sat atop it. The Inglorious Bastard rolls of his fallen foe and out under the bottom rope of the ring leading to the referee to begin a ten count. A count that ‘Meth promptly ignores knowing full well the rules don’t allow for a count out to occur. Instead he travels straight for one of the many glass tables surrounding the ring. He lifts the delicate furniture up and is cautious in his approach as he slides it into the ring, himself following closely behind it. Again he lifts it up and carefully leans it against the corner of the ring. He looks over his shoulder to Stalker - who is still yet to flinch – and smiles. He once again exits the ring, this time hightailing it between the top and middle ropes and throws the apron curtain up and begins to rummage around underneath the arsenal of weapons the ring of the Jared Nathan Memorial Gymnasium (a collection that would make even the most paranoid of apocalypse hoarders a little ashamed) for an item to inflict pain and suffering upon his adversary. He returns from the ultra-violent Narnia that is under the ring wielding a black baseball bat. He holds it on both hands, wielding it in front of his face and staring at it with such intensity it’s almost like he caught it fucking his daughter. He rolls into the ring and returns to a standing position. Chris stands there, looking like he’s about to nail a homerun as The Pervert begins to rise. Stalker groggily turns round after stumbling a few steps back, right into range of the weapon Dolmeth brandishes so menacingly. He turns around just in time to see the Brash Brit take a swing and promptly dodges to his side, his arms up to try and protect his head. The shot misses by such a margin that it almost seems as if Chris wasn’t trying to hit him. With the sound of glass shattering filling the arena it becomes clear he wasn’t, the glass table that Dolmeth had set up in the corner of the ring has been completely smashed by the baseball bat and razor sharp shards of crystal now cover the canvas of a good eighth of the ring. Azazel’s First casts the black bat aside and it clunks on the thin pads outside the ring. He beckons the masochist and both lock horns in a test of strength. Dolmeth seems to get the better of the smaller wrestler, but the oil that smothers and softens the skin of the sicko, Stalker, causes him to slip and allows Kasabian the chance to swing in behind and wrap his muscular arms around the waist of the big man. The Pervert stays true to his name and squats whilst pressing his body up against that of his opponent, dry humping like a dog that misses its owner’s leg. He stands himself up and throws himself back, flinging the English gentleman up and over his own head in a beautifully executed German Suplex right into the glass covered corner of the squared circle. The Unorthodontist writhes in pain as glass fragments slice his skin and dig into his flesh, the movements unfortunately forcing more of his body to be inflicted by the pain of glass. Stalker refuses to relent and takes hold of the ankle of his opposition and turns him over onto his stomach, right into another patch of broken shards, cutting his chest and stomach. The Butcher slithers atop the back of his nemesis, making a point to push down on the now bloodied back of the bearded brawler as he mounts him. Sensually stroking his hand through his opponent’s hair and down the face he grabs a hold of the (rather impressive) facial hair that adorns Chris’ face and pulls up compelling the head back. Using his free arm, Stalker hooks under the chin and into the next with his forearm, almost as if delivering repeated European Uppercuts. He allows the head of Dolmeth to drop before leaning back, rubbing his hands all over his body making sure to smear the blood of his opposition on his own face and indulging in the smell, his face a perfect picture of orgasmic ecstasy.

TBH: Stalker

[Kasabian Stalker]

The crowd had fallen somewhat quiet as they watch the Perverted One smearing himself with blood like some satanic ritual. The smile on Stalker's face and glimmer in his eye speaks to exactly how much pleasure he is gaining from the feeling of the warm, sticky paste covering his own flesh. In stark contrast, as the one doing the bleeding, Chris Dolmeth shows a level of discomfort beyond the usual week-in-week-out matches. The big man tries to pull himself to his feet, using the ring ropes in the corner to help him while Kasabian is otherwise concerned with working himself into some strange sort of blood-lust.

As Meth stands, fragments of glass cascade down his large frame like a waterfall, gravity dropping from their hiding places where they had dug themselves into his flesh. With a wince of pain that he tries to push to the back of his mind, Dolmeth reaches out to turn Kasabian Stalker around to face him. Stalker had all but forgotten his opponent in his ecstasy but is given a rude reminder when the Reverend's fist comes barrelling towards his fist. The right hook knocks Kasabian backwards into the ring ropes. Chris Dolmeth follows up by charging at Stalker, spinning as he advances and clobbering the blood-soaked Pervert with an elbow strike so brutal that it knocks him clean up and over the ropes. Kasabian falls hard, landing first with his shoulder hitting the frame of the ring before Stalker falls to the lightly padded concrete outside the ring. Landing on the small of his neck, Stalker comes to rest just outside the ring and the capacity crowd rise to their feet to cheer on the brutality of Chris Dolmeth's KTMFG.

Jimmy Pate: "Kiss that Motherfucker Goodnight! Good lord, what a shot!"

Ray White: "Kas... He may have broken his neck. I can't bear it!"

Jimmy Pate: "If he is out cold, it is going to be damned hard to put him through two tables."

The big brawler, Chris Dolmeth, took his time to exit the ring after Stalker. With blood still flowing from his variety of gashes and glass-shard cuts, he broke into a small smile at seeing his perverted opponent's fall from grace. From the ring apron, Reverend Dolmeth was able to spit a mouthful of blood and spit from his mouth. The blood-spit landed directly on Kasabian's chest, but the Pervert did not wake. Dolmeth smiled at the sight, marking the Pervert seemed to take away some of his frustration a little.

Having added the insult to injury, Dolmeth steps down to the ringside area, adorned with a variety of different sized glass tables. He lifts Kasabian up by the scruff of his neck. The weary Pervert was easy to manoeuvre, being able to support his own weight on his rubbery legs. Dolmeth leads him along the ringside area, to where a set of three tables has been laid out decoratively by the stage hands pre-match. The three tables meet in a U-shape, with a longer table leaning up against the crowd barricade and two shorter tables set up on either side of it.

Jimmy Pate: "Dolmeth seemed to take offense to Kasabian Stalker stealing his blood and smearing it all over his body."

Ray White: "I don't see why, I would be honoured if Kas chose to spread my blood all over him. It would be sensual."

Jimmy Pate: "Nevertheless Ray, Dolmeth is not like you... thank God. You don't see him spitting on his opponents very often. Kasabian is especially irksome."

The gleam of anger is still clear in the Unorthodontist's eyes as he lines Kasabian up for the kill. Picking him up by the neck with both, readying Stalker for a Choke Bomb, Dolmeth walks Stalker into the center of the U-shape and lines him up with the larger of the three tables. He lifts him above his head and looks set to drill him home when Kasabian lashes out with his foot. The kick catches the big man right in the 'mummy-daddy button', the added height perfect for Stalker to give as much power to the kick as possible. Dolmeth drops Stalker, falling sideways and colliding with the side of his head into the glass surface of one of the smaller tables. The impact was enough to crack the surface of the table, but not shatter it. Dolmeth finally crumples to the floor, lying on his side in a foetal position with his hands in between his legs for good measure.

Stalker, still recovering from the earlier Discus Elbow Strike, lies beside his opponent and the pair grunt and groan their pain in synchronised harmony.

Jimmy Pate: "Dolmeth was going for the kill, a Choke Bomb through the glass table, but Kasabian had other ideas. What a kick to the family jewels, all legal tonight... there's nothing the referee can do about it."

Ray White: "Chris Dolmeth went down faster than a two dollar hooker, I think he may have popped one."

Jimmy Pate: "You have been waiting years for a wrestler to bust a nut in the ring... Not exactly what you were imagining I am guessing?"

Ray White: "Not exactly..."

Kasabian is first to his feet, pulling himself up with the aid of the same table Dolmeth had already cracked with his head. In the process, he knocks the table over and the surface shatters upon impact with the ground. Kasabian's eyes twinkle at the sight as it gives him other ideas. Picking up the third table, the same size as the one he had already shattered, he turns it upside down and holds it by the legs. With a smile on his face, the Perverted Butcher drives the glass surface of the upturned table into Dolmeth's body. The table shatters on impact with Dolmeth's shoulder, showering him with an entirely fresh waterfall of glass shards. Kasabian tosses aside the now empty frame of the glass table and turns towards the ring where the referee is standing. The Pervert has a grin on his face from ear to ear, believing himself to just have secured the deciding second fall, but is met with resistance from the match official.

Frustrated at the referee's ruling that Dolmeth must be 'put through the table' to secure a fall, Kasabian takes his frustration out on the nearest person, Dolmeth himself. He hurls Chris to his feet before pulling him into an Irish Whip by the wrist. He stops the momentum of his opponent dead with a Swinging Short-Armed Clothesline that sees the massive frame of Dolmeth turn upside down and land back first on the bed of glass shards, cutting a fresh array of ribbons into the soft flesh of his back. With Dolmeth writhing in agony from the brutal Clothesline, Kasabian readies the remaining table from the trio, the longer of the three. He places it near the bottom of the turnbuckle ready for whatever his twisted mind had come up with.

Once more, he reaches out to pick Dolmeth up, but the Unorthodontist has other ideas. Readying himself with a particularly large glass shard, he drives it like a blade into the outstretched hand of Kasabian Stalker. The shard of glass pierces Stalker in the flesh of his palm, pushed with enough force to puncture the entire hand and come out the back of his hand. Stalker's eyes shoot open in a mixture of surprise and agony, holding his hand up to his face, complete with glass shard protruding from it. Dolmeth is on his feet before long, wrenching the glass shard out of Kasabian's hand to leave a puncture wound in its place. Kasabian howls in agony, the howl mixed with an edge of pleasure, and holds his now holy hand out in front of him. Dolmeth siezes the hand and looks set to further the damage, when Stalker instinctively grabs the big man by the neck, protecting his wounded hand with a Swinging Neckbreaker that drops him back to the floor once more

Jimmy Pate: "Oh my God! Dolmeth just put a shard of glass clean through Kasabian's hand!"

Ray White: "I can't watch this JP... I am feeling sick."

Jimmy Pate: "You weak-stomached pansy. Grow a pair Ray. You are missing your mighty Kasabian's retaliation."

Ray White cannot hear his co-commentator, as he is busy dry retching into a bucket beside his desk. Kasabian busies himself in hoisting Dolmeth up to his feet once more and lying his opponent on his back onto the large glass table that lies underneath the turnbuckle. Eagerly, the Perverted One climbs the turnbuckle and faces outwards. With blood flowing from his wounded hand, he begins to gyrate his hips seductively, his tight pink and purple polka dotted trunks doing very little to hide the shape of his man-meat. He begins to rub his hands over his body, mixing the drying blood of Dolmeth with a fresh brew of his own from his wounded hand. When the crowd is seemingly disgusted enough, Kasabian blows a kiss with his bloody hand and leaps into the air.

Lining Chris Dolmeth up for the People's Penis, Kasabian looks set to plunge himself and his opponent clean through the waiting table. Dolmeth stirs once Kasabian is in the air, rolling off the table just in time to see Kasabian near his target. For good measure, Chris Dolmeth assists Kasabian to land squarely in the center of the table, catching Stalker across the neck with both hands to drive him home with a modified Choke Bomb.

Kasabian lands, the table shattering upon impact and sending the Pervert to the ground on a fresh bed of razor sharp glass shards. As one, the crowd rise, cheering for more blood. The brutal plunge of Kasabian Stalker going wrong in the most impressive of fashions evens the scores to one a piece.

Jimmy Pate: "People's Penis! NO! Dolmeth moved out of the way. Kasabian just put himself through a damned table."

Ray White: "Is it over yet, I'm not watching."

Jimmy Pate: "The referee counts Dolmeth's fall, as he assisted Kasabian in breaking the surface of the table. We are tied at one-one! This thing is going down to the final fall!"


TBC CD

[Vladimir Strife]

I'll give you guys an extra day. Match ends tomorrow at 10pm or whenever Meth gets in a reply post, whichever comes first.

[Ciles Gorey]

I always come first.
#prematureisaproblem

=============================

Both men lie in a mangled heap, the metal frame work of the glass table they’ve just gone through is twisted around their beaten and bloodied bodies. The Reverend is the first to stir, pushing up off of the wounded Kasabian Stalker, his eyes glazed over and stare distant. The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth and he swallows before gagging as his own blood slides down his throat. Either ignoring the glass or completely oblivious to it, Dolmeth crawls on his hands and knees over his opponent to the nearest security barricade through the tiny crystalline blades. He leans over the barricade, his heavy breaths sending specks of blood infused spittle flying out his mouth at the ring side fans, some of whom try to dart out of the way. He pushes himself up off of the metal railings, almost tipping them over in the process and wearily stumbles back to turn toward the still unmoved Butcher. The Terror of Tyneside takes a hold of the wrist of Kasabian and pulls him up to a standing base. Tucking his own head down, Dolmeth pulls Stalker’s arm up and over his shoulder and tucks his free arm between the legs of the bloodied American. Squatting before hoisting Stalker up onto his shoulders the Rev. gives out an almighty war-cry and turns to face the ring. The big man, Dolmeth, twists his torso away from the ring post and momentarily pauses. This before he spins himself round, throwing the Pervert’s legs out in front of him, wrapping Stalker’s knee round the metal post with a sickening “thud”.

Jimmy Pate: “APOPTOSIS! We all know how much power Chris Dolmeth can get behind that move, and he just swung Stalker’s legs straight into the ring post!”
Ray White: “KAS! Let us hope he hasn’t hurt the middle leg! It’s almost too much for us to handle!”

The Inglorious Bastard collapses backwards onto the railings after the move, perhaps out of exhaustion, whilst the wounded Kasabian Stalker rolls around on the floor holding his knee with both hands the blood from the hole in his hand staining the thin padding. Being the sadistic cunt that he is, Azazel’s first follower turns and plants his boot on the wounded hand – indirectly attacking the damaged knee. The Pervert winces in pain, this going much further than what he deems enjoyable. Dolemeth leans down and grapples with the leg of his supposed victim. Out-powering his prey he raises the leg of Kasabian up off the floor with a groan, before driving it down with all his might, the damaged knee striking off of the gymnasium’s flooring. The dominant competitor smirks as he takes a hold of the blood-soaked polka dot trunks of the opposition and drags him to his feet. He signals with his hands for a section of the crowd to move themselves before he attempts to throw Stalker into the barricade. However, at the last possible moment, the Butcher manages to turn the momentum around and Irish Whip the bearded brawler into the railings. He collides gut first and flips over the top, crashing into a pile of the steel chairs that were numbing the arses of all the paying EVPW fans; a testament to the surprising strength Kasabian Stalker possesses. Down on a knee and breathing heavily, the Chicago native realises he’s going to have to try and finish this quickly. The match is taking its toll on both men, but with that hand wound, Kasabian is losing a lot of blood. Thinking fast (or perhaps out of his rather naughty nature) he grabs an unsuspecting female fan at ring side and pulls his in close over the bannister. He takes a crimson drenched hand and tears the top of her dress off, revealing her ample cleavage to all in attendance. She is quick to push him off and try and protect her modesty but Stalker doesn’t care. He got what he wanted. He takes the length of fabric and begins to wrap his hand, making a do-it-yourself bandage out of the torn garment.

Ray White: “That lucky bitch!”
Jimmy Pate: “Lucky? Kasabian Stalker just assaulted her and you’re calling her lucking?!”
Ray White: “Yeah? What’s the problem?”

Dolmeth begins to move, though the pile of bent steel under his mass makes it tricky to gain any sort of leverage or firm base. Stalker looks around him and spies the lone glass table situated nearby. Realising that his opponent could make it to his feet at any moment he quickly makes the judgement to capitalise on this situation. He lifts the table up and marches to the section of the crowd where Dolmeth lays. Using the rest of his might, he hoists the glass furniture up over his head and throws it at the Englishman, who manages to roll to his side out of the way of the oncoming glassware. The table shatters creating another patch of dangerous glass, this time among a pile of twisted metal in the form of the buckled steel chairs. Kasabian drops to his knees and swears to himself, disheartened that his little trick didn’t secure him the victory for the match. In order to recuperate Stalker slithers and slides into the ring underneath the bottom rope, but not before gabbing himself a steel chair from underneath the ring. In an act of defiance, or humour, he sets the chair up in the centre of the squared circle and sits himself down. Bodily fluid seeps from the cuts and gashes on his back and work their way onto the cold metal of the chair. He raises a hand and beckons his opponent into the ring with a single finger. He smiles as he brings his index finger closer to his face and licks it almost sensually, pulling his bottom lip slightly down as he does so.

Jimmy Pate: “Stalker’s just playing with Chris now. He should be going on the offensive, not taking a seat in the middle of the ring.”
Ray White: “One: I’d love for Kassy to play with me. Two: it’s smart. Why waste energy trying to get the two hundred and seventy eight body of Dolmeth into the ring when you can sit down, take a breather and let him exert himself coming to you?”

The Strapping young Lad collapses over the top of the security barrier, landing on his back outside of the ring. He’s exhausted and his entire body aches. He slowly makes his own way into the ring and to a standing base. He holds onto the top rope, signs of fatigue clearly visible. He shoots Stalker a dark look from the corner of his eye and yells out as he takes a step toward his rival from the ring corner, his fist pulled back. The Pervert drops a shoulder and slips behind the chair, flicking it up in almost the same motion and throwing it to the oncoming Brit. Dolmeth manages to catch the chair, but Stalker plants both of his feet into the shin of the big man with a low dropkick causing him to fall face first onto the chair. The ladykiller stays true to his name and stalks his foe, sensing the end. As he dances around Chris as the latter attempts to regain a standing base, Kasabian begins to rub himself, the baby oil and blood now smothering his body merging into one incredibly slippery mess. He takes a handful of Dolmeth’s slicked-back hair and grabs onto the back of his jeans before he throws him between the middle ropes, making sure to keep tight hold of him so he doesn’t fall off of the apron. He is quick to join the bearded chap on the ring apron and kisses the scar on his cheek before delivering a kick to the family jewels for the second time in the night, doubling him over. Kasabian thrusts the Strapping Young Lad’s head between his legs and begins to gyrate his hips. He leans over and slaps the buttocks of the vulnerable superstar before reaching between his legs to take hold of Dolmeth’s hands. He looks to his side and tries to measure the distance between them and the glass table that sits at ringside.

Jimmy Pate: “No! No! OH GOD NO!”
Ray White: “What is it Jimmy?”
Jimmy Pate: “Kasabian’s going for the Pervert’s Plunge! He’s going to try and get that combination into the powerbomb and use it to put Chris through the last of the tables!”
Ray White: “You mean more blood? Hold on a minute while I try and get the rest of this week’s diet plan up…”

Before Kasabian is able to follow through with his plan, Dolmeth manages to break his hands free from the bloody, slippery grip of the perverted Butcher. Locking his hands behind the knees of Stalker, Dolmeth lifts the entire mass of the American up on his shoulder and neck so that Stalker is hanging upside down on his back. The Reverend takes a step off of the apron, turning his body and bringing his arms straight down as he does so. His shoulders act as a pivot point for Kasabian Stalker’s body and as the Pervert’s legs are pulled down, the rest of his body is propelled up and over the head of the Englishman resulting in the top of Kasabian’s back and neck hitting the metal support that runs along the length of the ring apron. Both men lie at ring side, unmoving.

Ray White: “KASSY!”
Jimmy Pate: “Alabama Slam! Dolmeth managed to turn that into an Alabama Slam onto the ring apron Ray! And both men are down!”