EVPW Purity Championship: Singles - TNT vs. Chris Dolmeth

[Vladimir Strife]

Due March 3rd by 6PM Pacific/9PM Eastern

[Ciles Gorey]

The music begins to play out through the simplistic sound system of the Jared Nathan Memorial Gymnasium, much to the confusion of the crowd and ring side staff.

Ray White: “Wait, isn’t this next match supposed to be Chris Dolmeth versus TNT?”
Jimmy Pate: “Yup.”
Ray White: “Then the fuck is this music? It seems familiar but I can’t quite put my finger on it…”

Just as the campest commentator this side of San Francisco Bay gets those words out of his mouth, the vocals for this strange yet familiar song begin to play.

“I'm going to fuck your life up
I'm going to crush your soul
Two demons stand beside me
And now I'm takin' control”

Ray White: “Oh hell no! Jimmy, it’s Jakob Azazel! The Shining Superstar! He’s making an appearance!”
Jimmy Pate: “Yup.”
Ray White: “You’re awfully talkative tonight, whatsamaddur? Cat got your tongue?”
Jimmy Pate: “Yup.”
Ray White: “FINE. Be that way.”

“I never sleep
I got a sinister plan
Your world is weak
And I'm overtakin' command”

The amount of time for Lord Azazel to actually make an appearance is beginning to get a little awkward, so much so that a lot of the punters are actually going to the small bar in the corner of the room to top up their refreshments.

“BECAUSE I AM THE WARLOCK!
I AM THE WARLOCK!”

The timing for the curtains leading to the back being flung open and Jack Black singing these words coincide perfectly as Lord Azazel walks out from the back with Reverend Dolmeth holding the curtains up out of the way. Dolmeth lets go of the curtains and lets them flop back into position once Jakob has passed. They both make their way to the ring without acknowledging any of the fans at ring side. Both men wear the mask of Azazel, with the Warlock carrying his signature ‘Warlock Scepter’.

“I'm going to fuck your mind up
And you'll be writhing in pain
Stare deep into my scepter
Now you're goin' insane”

Lizzie Morna: “Ladies and Gentlemen this next match is scheduled for one fall, and is for the EVPW Purity Championship! Introducing first, hailing from Gateshead, England. He weighs in at two hundred and seventy eight pounds! Being accompanied to the ring by Lord Azazel, he is the Reverend… Chris Dolmeth!”

The two men split and circle either side of the ring with Dolmeth hopping up onto the apron and Lord Azazel making his way down to the commentary table, placing himself down next to Ray White and getting himself a headset, not removing his mask as he does so.

Lord Azazel: “Evening Gents.”
Jimmy Pate: “I’ll take it you’re joining us here for this match Jako-“
Lord Azazel: “FOOL! It’s Lord Azazel to you, and the rest of these scum-sucking, mother-fucking, wrong-god-fearing fuckwits.
Jimmy Pate: “Riiight… As I was saying – Lord Azazel – am I to take it that you’ll be joining us at ringside?”
Lord Azazel: “No, I got this headset just because I think it really brings out the evil in my eyes…”
Ray White: “Oh no, I certainly think red would be far more befitting of a man with yo-“
Lord Azazel: “FOOL! Be silent!”
Ray White: "And how come you're talking to him Jimmy? How long have we been partners? I mean, work partners. Not partners in the other way. I love you and all, but you're just not my type. I mean-"
Lord Azazel: "I SAID BE SILENT! Er... Fool."

“You try to run and hide
I'm gonna slice you in half
You try to gather up your army
Now you're making me laugh”

Chris places both hands on his chin and slowly peels back the mask, revealing his beard and scar. He places it on the ring post and begins his stretches, getting himself prepared as TNT is the latest superstar to try Chris Dolmeth.

“I whisper the ancient scriptures
I drink the blood of the lamb
And as I begin to levitate
This is the day of the damned

I am the warlock
I am the warlock”
================================


You’re welcome to start the action off, I just wanted to do a quick introduction to Jakob and to a lesser extent Chris.

[Vladimir Strife]

Match extended 24 hours

[TNT]

The hellacious match ups that had proceeded this anticipated title contest had done little to sate the baying crowd's thirst for blood. Tayler methodically makes his way to the ring, no flash or showmanship, tonight is about getting business done. The fact that a title was on the line didn't matter to the Irish Infidel, he was solely focused on inflicting as much pain as humanly possible on his unfortunate opponent. The familiar lyrics of DKM finish playing as Tayler stands toe to toe with his new foe. The Belfast Brute refuses to acknowledge the presence of the Brash Brit's colleague at ringside, his eyes firmly locked on the man in front of him. The tension filling the arena is palpable as the two gladiators size each other up, TNT extends his hand as a sign of respect. The two warriors shake for a moment before taking a step back as the zebra stripped official signals for the bell to start the contest.




"On paper the two of these athletes are very similar, not to mention stature..."


"On fucking paper, you are lucky this drunk Irish fuck showed up tonight, I mean considering his record and all."


"He came through a vicious battle with Chris Pyro last week..."


"Let me tell you something, he could have defeated a whole army of Pyro's last week and it still would not have prepared him for his first taste of Chris Dolmeth!"


"I wouldn't mind getting a hit of Dolmeth myself! yummy!"




Without any further hesitation the ginger bastard lunges forward catching the Brit by the neck synching in a vicious head lock. Tayler uses his vice like grip to bring the English man down to one knee, a position that the Irish have often found themselves at the hands of their British oppressor. The Belfast brute attempts to create as much torque on his opponents neck as physically possible hoping to wear down the terror of Tyneside. The harbinger of pain attempts to exploit his weight advantage by leaning his full mass onto his opponents frame. Tayler grits his teeth and exudes as much force as humanly possible before Chris can attempt to show any resistance. Dolmeth attempts to break the hold but when that proves fruitless he wraps one arm around his opponents waist and hooks his other arm under the Irish man's leg. Tayler fails to react to his opponents new position as the inglorious bastard hoists his aggressor into the air. The Irish man's legs flail in the air as he realises the precarious position he finds himself in. A mixture of fear and surprise painted across his face as the strapping young lad hurls the two of them towards the canvas. The thunderous impact causes their bodies to causes both men to violently contort and sends the crowd into a state of rapturous applauds.




"That's my boy, fucking slam that Irish prick!"



"What an impressive counter from the Terror of Tyneside."


"Well all I can say is that both of these guys are terribly attractive!"




The two goliaths lie on the sweat soaked canvas attempting to recover from the early collisions that opened the contest. These two men represented more than just title contenders or evpw wrestlers, this was Ireland Vs England. Ireland had found itself pitted against England for generations and this violent contest was the latest chapter in an age old battle. Dolmeth showed the first signs of recovery as he rolls towards the ropes away from the ginger bastard. His fingers clasp the middle rope allowing him to gain a vertical basis and gather his bearings. Tayler still rattled by the earlier impact and as a result is more sluggish than his English counterpart. However he managed to push himself to his feet after struggling against his battered physical state. Chris launches forward foot first and drives the sole of his work boot into TNT's face, the collision causes his face to ripple and unleash a disgusting glob of saliva towards the canvas. His fractured frame follows suit, deep down inside Tayler always knew this was going to be a battle now he realised he was in a war. Before he can react to the latest attack from the brash Brit, Dolmeth is on top of him grasping the back of his head. The 6 foot 8 inch behemoth drags his Irish foe to his feet, Tayler’s almost lifeless carcass providing next to no resistance.




"And the title is coming home to the cult! Bring that bastard home Dolmeth!"


"He is certainly pressing home his advantage."


"I like a man who knows how to take charge and Chrissy baby is certainly doing that tonight!"




Chris allows himself a moment to play to the crowd, showing them how easily he is dominating the ginger bastard conveying a sense of disdain at the mere idea of having to face him tonight. His eyes filled with rage as a darkness seems to fall over him, sending him into an infuriated state. He throws his fist forward into Tayler’s face seemingly hitting him with the force of a freight train as his head recoils violently. The Irish man would surely have collapsed to his knees had Dolmeth’s second hand not been wrapped around the locks at the back of his skull. Tayler manages to throw his knee forward almost taking the English behemoth off his feet for a second, momentarily silencing the crowd. The few seconds between the knee colliding with the sternum and Tayler wrapping his arm around his opponents neck seems to take forever as the crowd wait with baited breath. Tayler throws himself backwards with all the force he can muster, in the process driving Dolmeth’s head into the canvas. The devastating ddt once again leaves both men motionless on the mat, their battered frames entangled in a lifeless heap.




"That was a cheap shot and that drunken Irish asshole is going to pay for it!"


"He can pay me any time!"


"Please for once, can we focus on how good the matchup is without talking about how attractive the stars are?"




The two would be champions find themselves clambering to their feet, struggling against both gravity and the pain surging through their battered carcasses. This time Taylor makes it to his feet first, gaining a slight advantage in this topsy turvey battle. The Irish infidel motions to seize the day by moving forward only to find himself stumbling down to one knee. He finds himself unable to capitalise on the advantage as he us betrayed by his equilibrium. The cult member manages to regain a vertical basis aided by the ring ropes as he shoots a vicious glare towards his opponent. Any thoughts of an easy win had long since left his mind as he contemplated his next move and how he could destroy the Belfast brawler. The two men simultaneously close down the space between them meeting at the centre of the squared circle, right back where they started. Without a second’s hesitation the two stars unleash a torrent of blows on each other, battling back and forth fist for fist toe to toe. Each blow hits its mark, neither man flinches as they attempt to outdo the other and assert their dominance.



"As I told you earlier, my man Chris Dolmeth is dominating this contest. This Irish fuck didn't stand a chance!"


" I have to admit Dolmeth has been really impressive tonight, although TNT is matching him blow for blow."




Tayler understood that although the brutal exchange of blows allows both men to vent their frustrations neither man was gaining a clear advantage. By the time TNT ducked out of the way, Dolmeth's cascading blows had already caused a cut to open above the Belfast natives eye. Crimson liquid was seeping from the horrible gash effectively blinding him in that eye. The sight of his own blood sends the ginger bastard spiralling into a fit of rage, rather than lashing out aimlessly he focuses his anger and uses it productively. The Irish man throws his shoulder into Dolmeth's sternum catching the Brit by his legs. The Belfast Brute lifts his opponent off the canvas and spins 180 degrees attempting to disorientate the terror of Tyneside. The big man from the emerald isle slams all 260 pounds of his opponent onto the blood soaked canvas in a furious burst of rage. A hallowing scream escapes his lips accompanied by an earth shattering impact that reverberates throughout the arena. The ferocity of the animalistic scream is more than matched by the intensity of the fury that filled his eyes.


tbc

[Ciles Gorey]

Dolmeth lies starfished on the mat, he stares up at the ceiling of the gym. The back of his head bounced off of the canvas after that spinebuster from the Irish wrestler. The fiery redhead rolls atop his downed opponent, hooking a jean-clad leg as he does so. The zebra adorned official acknowledges the pin attempt and drops to the canvas, being ever so careful to avoid the spots of spit and blood that freshly stain the ring.
One!
…
Two!
NO! The man from the north manages to roll his shoulder up! The crimson covered face of Tayler shows frustration that he wasn’t able to seal the deal, though in his mind he’s delighted. Delighted that he gets to continue the long and noble tradition of his countrymen: fighting with and pissing off the English. Knowing that he gets to beat on an Englishman in the ring pisses off another Englishman at ring side fills him with a national pride and giddy joy; the joy a child running free in a sweet shop feels (at least during the initial sugar rush. He hopes to avoid the sugar crash). Taking two handfuls of the groomed, dark brown locks of the fallen fighter, TNT barely drags Dolmeth to a standing base before he doubles him over with a heavy knee to the midsection resulting in a glob of spit splattering on the stretched sheet of the ring. The Harbinger of Pain tries to stay true to the nickname and hooks his arm over his opposition’s head, applying a front facelock. He cranks on the head and neck of Chris, as is trying to sever the spinal cord and rip it out of the torso like a Predator collecting a new trophy. The Belfast Brawler twists his own body around forcing the bearded brawler to spin around himself or risk having his neck snap. The Irishman drops to the canvas, pulling the Inglorious Bastard down and drilling the back of his head into the ring.

Jimmy Pate: “The luck of the Irish certainly seems to ring true here tonight with TNT building momentum in this match.”
Ray White: “You mean the good look of the Irish? Daa-yum.”
Jimmy Pate: “No Ray, I meant the luck of the Irish. It’s a common phrase.”
Lord Azazel: “QUIET! The Reverend is down and I am not pleased!”

The Master of Majik is correct; the good Reverend is indeed down courtesy of that spinning neck breaker from Tayler. Speaking of; the ginger sits adjacent to the bearded competitor who’s entered the feeble position, wrapping both hands round the back of his head. The Irish Infidel grins like Jack Nicholson (basically; it’s creepy as fuck seeing a ginger smile). He wipes some of the blood from his brow and flicks his wrist, the blood spattering the corner of the ring. TNT nonchalantly leans into the turnbuckles in the corner of the ring, resting on his heel and crossing his legs at the ankles. He looks around the ring side at all the wrestling fans who came to this special Old School edition of EVPW. It dawns on him that this newcomer has no place inside this ring with him. He should be reliving the glory days of EVPW and taking on a more well-known competitor, such as Rhaps, TPK, Vladimir Strife or even Envy. But no, instead he’s be given the duty to beat this insubordinate cultist into a pulp for the sake of a newly introduced EVPW championship. Fuck that noise. Tayler’s here to do what he always does; bring the motherfucking pain. And fuck it, this is going old school! There’s not many rivalries that are older than that between the English and the Irish! (Hell, half of the world are on the side of the Irish! Yeah, fuck those English cunts. With their bad teeth and stupid ways of pronouncing things. Not to mention lager. The fuck is lager? How dare they ruin beer! The rednecks are up in arms! BEER?! NO ONE MESSES WITH BEER! GET MY MOTHERFUCKING REMINGTON!)

During this brief zone out into the mind of millions, Chris has begun to make his way to his feet, now up to a single knee and resting on the other his heart going a mile a minute and his lungs working overtime to suck in the oxygen needed for him to continue on. It’s fucking hot in the gym with that beard. The Ginger Bastard hurtles in, swinging his arm wildly trying to decapitate the Strapping Young Lad with a feral clothesline but misses, the young man able to move out of the way just in the nick of time. Both men spin on their heels to turn around, the difference between the two is that Rev. Dolmeth raises an elbow while doing it. He turns and nails the jaw of his opponent with the hard joint. TNT’s head whips to the side and Dolmeth drops to the floor, having thrown himself off balance. Tayler’s body goes limp and he seems to stand only through some sort of higher power keeping him suspended. However, this doesn’t last long as his legs buckle and he slumps down onto the canvas, a pale sack of flesh laid out on the mat after Chris kissed the motherfucker goodnight.

Ray White: “Oh God! It’s that vicious elbow from Chris! The whatchamacallit?”
Jimmy Pate: “Kiss That Motherfucker Goodnight.”
Ray White: “JIMMY! Now’s not the time for that, but later on if he still wants someone to kiss him goodnight I’m more than happy to oblige…”
Lord Azazel: “Right. That does it. YOU TWO SWAP PLACES NOW!”
Jimmy Pate: “Erm… excuse me?”
Lord Azazel: “Did I fucking stutter? SWAP PLACES!
Jimmy + Ray: “…”
Lord Azazel: “DO IT NOW!”

With the ferocity in Jakob’s speech perfectly clear, the two commentator’s scramble to change seats with one another, the flamboyant voice now no longer sat next to the part-time performer.

Lord Azazel: “Good. Now watch and enjoy as my Reverend takes this match home.”

The Terror of Tyneside laughs while sat in the corner, leaning against the bottom turnbuckle. He stretches up and wraps his hands round the top two ring ropes, pulling himself up to a squat as he waits and measures Tayler, trying to pick the perfect moment to strike. The Belfast native pushes up off the ring floor and shakes his head, blood flickering to the sides each time he turns his head. He doesn’t quite get all of the cobwebs out, but enough to continue on with the match. He begins to crawl on his hands and knees, dragging his hulking mass to the nearest set of ropes, fully intent on using them to regain his standing position. He slowly climbs up the ropes, having to have both hands on a single length of cable before moving onto the next to support himself. Dolmeth bounds forward, jumping up and landing on a single foot, keeping the other leg tucked in so his turn is quicker and so the kick has more momentum behind it. He unleashes his boot, trying to finish the match with the Miner’s Strike and it looks like he absolutely blasts the Irishman with the lethal move as he drops to the mat and Dolmeth drops onto his face. It becomes clear, however, that this is not the case. TNT managed to catch the foot of his opponent and has it pressed hard against his chest. He brings himself up to his feet, his locked onto the foot of his opponent and twists it with all his might.

Jimmy Pate: “IRISH EYES! TNT WITH THE IRISH EYES!”
Lord Azazel: “SHUT UP! STOP CALLING TAYLER THAT!”
Jimmy Pate: “What? TNT? But it’s his name…”
Lord Azazel: “It’s stupid! He’s Irish! If you’ve got to call him by the name of an explosive, call him Car Bomb or something…”

The two other commentators look at Jakob with shock and disgust that he’d come out with such a controversial statement. The fans at ringside within ear shot begin a chorus of “Oooooooooooooooooooooooooh” as if a harsh diss had just been thrown down. The Irish superstar in the ring hears the comment and drops to the canvas, wrapping his legs around the limb of his opponent. He loosens a hand and flips the bird to the guest commentator exciting a loud cheer from the audience. Rev. Dolmeth screams out in agony. He pulls at his hair but it does nothing to alleviate the pain. TNT screams himself, a blood curdling cry that only seems to amplify his strength and the pressure of the hold. Dolmeth reaches out in front of him, his hand nowhere near the bottom rope. He’s stranded in the middle of the ring with nowhere to go. In essence: he’s fucked.

Ray White: “Could this be it for Chris?!”
Lord Azazel: “No.”
Jimmy Pate: “It certainly looks like it Ray.”
Lord Azazel: “No.”
Ray White: “But… there’s nowhere for Chris to go.”
Jimmy Pate: “And it looks like that hold is locked in deep.”
Ray White: “Yeah, he’s got no choice but to submit.”
Lord Azazel: “He’s got no choice but to fight through and win, otherwise he’s got to answer the call!”
Ray White: “I wouldn’t pick up the phone…”
Lord Azazel: “What was that?!”
Ray White: “Erm… er… nothing?”

The Adjudicator bites down on the side of his fist in anguish. His entire face is scrunched up in a twisted frame of pain. He digs his nails into the canvas of the ring and crawls, scurries and drags not only his own mass behind him, but the mass of his aggressor too. He reaches out again, it isn’t clear whether or not he’s going to tap out of actually be able to reach the rope. It seems he’s a fingertip away before he somehow manages to lurch forward and get a hold of the rope, forcing the ref to begin the count and force the break in the submission attempt.
One!
…
Two!
…
Three!
…
Four!
…
The monochromatic arbiter is about to signal the disqualification when Tayler breaks the hold and – quick as a flash – is up to his feet, his the crimson mask that is his face getting into that of the referee arguing that he didn’t hear the full five count. The referee concedes that he isn’t disqualified and allows the match to continue. At this point, Chris has wormed his way out of the ring, and stolen the seat of a fan, using it as a rest place and somewhere to nurse his ankle. TNT sees this and immediately goes on the chase after him. Dolmeth shoots up out of his seat and begins to limp away from the pissed off ginger. This limp soon turns into an unburdened jog and then into a full of sprint as the Tayler goes full ginger mental and follows suit. Chris detours round the back of the fans in attendance as the ref’s count reaches “Four”. This chase continues on until the count of “Seven” when Dolmeth slides into the ring and rolls up to his feet, with Tayler sliding in soon after. However, as Thomas gets to his feet, he is met with the sole of Chris’ boot in the side of his head, flooring him.

Jimmy Pate: “Chris goes on the defensive, goading TNT into a game of cat and mouse then turns on the offensive.”
Ray White: “Bit of a bitch move if you ask me.”
Lord Azazel: “Fatherfucker, it’s a smart move. The means doesn’t matter, only the victory.”

The Reverend of the Cult of Azazel stares down at the floored Tayler Nathan Thomas. He lifts his hand to the side of his face, extending his thumb and little finger out from the balled fist and holds it to his ear mimicking that of a phone. He then holds this hand-phone out to his rival.

Lord Azazel: “Do you hear the call Tayler?! ARE YOU GOING TO ANSWER THE CALL?!”
Ray White: “Really? You’re meant to be an almighty cult and that’s the best hand signal you could come up with?”
Lord Azazel: “Fuck you Ray, it’s recognisable!”

Chris stalks his prey like a hungry wolf waiting for the perfect moment to present itself for him to strike. When the moment does arise, he buries his shoulder in the gut of his opponent and hoists him up onto his shoulders. He marches into the middle of the ring and bends slightly at the knees, ready to drive the full weight of TNT into the air and then down into the canvas.

Jimmy Pate: “Could this be the Apoptosis?! We’ve seen this spell the end of many a man!”

It seems this isn’t Chris’ finishing move as when he attempts to go for it the Irish Bastard slips down the back of Dolmeth. He grabs onto the shoulder of the bearded brawler and turns him around. Tayler takes a step back and leaps forward, flicking both legs up in front of him, trying to blast the face off of Chris with his devastating Last Call. The Reverend has the wherewithal to duck underneath the attempted bicycle kick and continues on into the ring ropes. He ricochets off of the cables and comes charging at the Irish Infidel. The Inglorious Bastard raises his left hand in front of him to aim his strike. He pulls his right arm as far back as he can as he continues running toward the Irishman. His aiming hand touches the shoulder of his opponent and he uses this hand to guide Tayler into the right place. He thrusts his arm forward, putting all of his bulk and strength behind his shoulder and arm and smashes it into the face of the ginger wrestler. He hits him with the force of a big rig and both men go down to the canvas, TNT almost flipping inside of himself as he does so. Chris slides across the canvas, smirking as he does so knowing full well he might just have won himself the match. He crawls toward his opponent and rolls the lifeless carcass over onto its back. He hooks a leg and lies back first across the chest of the opposition as the referee drops down into position.

Jimmy Pate: “MY GOD THAT LARIAT! Did you hear the flesh collide on that move!”
Ray White: “I really did Jimmy! I don’t think EVPW has ever seen a lariat as vicious and as harsh as Chris Dolmeth’s. It’s enough to put anyone on their ass for a week, never mind a match!”

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