Wreck the Halls Live Broadcast
“Well, Damian Drake is not wasting any time getting this match going,” Jude Paul says when the bell rings and Drake runs toward his opponent with a sharp right hook.
Brooks Taylor ducks under the swing when he charges again, swinging his bicep into Drake’s neck.
“Clothesline by Brooks, quickly taking control of this match.”
Brooks grasps Drake’s legs, creating a figure-four hold, and lifts Drake onto his shoulders before turning Drake onto his stomach.
“Texas Cloverleaf,” Scott Harrington practically yells into his headset.
“When’s the last time you saw Brooks Taylor do something like that? He didn’t come to play tonight.”
“Well, this is a Last Man Standing match for the title, Scott. It’s going to take a lot to keep both of these men down for a ten count, and I think Brooks Taylor knows that. He’s going to pull all the tricks out tonight.”
“We see Drake clawing his way to that bottom rope to break the hold, but…No! Brooks drags him back to the center of the ring.”
Drake swings his leg up and kicks Taylor in the face when he attempts to reapply the Cloverleaf.
The impact stuns Brooks, and it gives Drake time to scramble up to his feet.
He nails his opponent with a running lariat—using his forearm, he delivers a power strike to his opponent’s neck that sends him over the top rope.
“That’s all you got, Brooks?” Drake taunts from inside the ring. “I thought you were going to put up a fight tonight, Taylor!”
Drake climbs out of the ring, jumping down to the ground where Brooks has come to his knees.
Gripping the ends of his opponent’s hair, Drake slams his opponent face-first into the barricade repeatedly.
It’s brutal and relentless. Satisfied with the attack, he sends Brooks headfirst into the steel steps.
“Brooks goes headfirst into the steel steps!” Jude says. “And the referee begins the count.”
1…2…3…
The referee stops once Brooks makes it back to his feet, much to his opponent’s dismay.
Drake doesn’t waste time. He immediately throws rapid-fire punches, but Brooks counters, blocking each one.
A hard kick to the chest sends Drake sailing into the barricade, and with a running forearm, Brooks sends them both sailing over the barricade into the front row.
The impact knocks the wind out of both men, but Brooks Taylor manages to pull himself back up first. He grabs one of the folding chairs from the cleared seating area and swings, striking his opponent’s back.
Drake screams, falling back to the ground.
Another blow to the shoulder, but the next swing lands on the concrete floor when he rolls out of the way, echoing through the air.
The men trade punches, fighting through the crowd and up the stairs of the arena between sections.
Fans on either side are spurring on the insanity with thunderous cheers that surge with each strike.
Reaching the top of the steps, Drake hits a stiff European uppercut, throwing his forearm upwards into Brooks Taylor’s chin.
It sends the champ stumbling backward. One wrong move and he’ll go tumbling back down the stairs.
Drake whips Brooks away from the stairs, slingshotting him into the concrete wall instead.
“Taylor goes headfirst into the wall, and I don’t know if he’ll be able to recoup from that, Scott,” Jude Paul says as the referee begins another count.
1…2…3…
Scott agrees. “I’m not seeing any movement right now. The referee is already at the five count.”
Finally, Brooks stirs, but before he can fully come to his feet, Drake drags him into the hallway by the hair.
“Stay,” Drake commands when he props Brooks against the wall. He swipes his arms, clearing a table full of merchandise, but when he turns to retrieve his opponent, Drake is met with a boot to the face.
The crowd around them cheers, egging on Brooks as he climbs on the table. Leaping from the table, he drives his elbow into Drake’s chest, and it sends them both to the ground. Fans gasp upon impact with the solid ground, and both men lie sprawled out on the concrete floor.
Again, Brooks stirs first, and he leans back against the wall as the referee counts, already at four.
He makes it to eight before Drake finally stumbles to his feet, but Brooks is there, waiting with a flurry of punches.
The assault continues through a different hallway than the one they entered and down the stairs.
Reaching the lower level once again, Drake grabs one of the large trash cans and tosses it at his opponent, who catches it.
A deadpan expression crosses Brooks Taylor’s face as he throws it off to the side. Drake takes off, sprinting through the crowd, but Brooks catches up to him when he reaches a set of steel barriers that block off backstage.
“Oh! Brooks Taylor with a barrier to the face,” Scott Harrington says, when Brooks grabs Drake by the back of the head and smashes his face into the top of the barrier.
Drake stumbles backward, trying to regain his composure as the champion sets up another devastating attack. “Now, what is he doing?”
“It looks like Taylor is setting the barrier up against the side of the stage to create a ramp, of sorts,” Jude says. “These men are using anything as a weapon to wear down their opponent.”
Satisfied with the setup, Brooks kicks Drake in the midsection and forces him into a standing headlock. Bending at the knees, he lifts the challenger off his feet and tosses him backward.
“Suplex by Taylor!” Jude Paul yells. “He just suplexed Damian Drake into the steel.”
“No give whatsoever,” Scott adds, as both men lie on the ground, trying to recoup.
It takes until the count of six for Brooks to climb to his feet, granted a little unsteady, and he forces Drake to do the same. They trade blows to the head as they make their way through the crowd once more and finally back inside the ring.
“Wait, what’s this?” Scott Harrington asks when someone walks out from backstage. There’s no music, no backdrop, nothing. “What is Savvy Skye doing out here?”
The three-time women’s champion doesn’t pay much attention to the crowd, not even stopping to offer a quick smile or high-five like usual.
Her focus is solely on the two men who are finally back in the ring.
She stands at the bottom of the ramp, arms crossed, watching Brooks Taylor dominate his opponent.
After a few moments, she slowly begins to make her way around the side of the ring.
“What are you doing out here?” Jude Paul yells outside of his headset when she gets close enough. Savvy looks over her shoulder, and a smile slowly spreads across her red-painted lips before she turns back. “You know something, Scott? I don’t like the look of that.”
“Me either.”
“This is a Last Man Standing match, so anything goes. No disqualifications, no pinfalls, and the only way to win is by beating your opponent so bad they won’t get back up. That means she can be out here and interfere without costing Brooks Taylor the match.”
“You assume she’s here to help Brooks,” Scott says. “But they haven’t been together in a long time, Jude. She might be out here to join forces with his archrival, Damian Drake.”
Brooks whips Drake into the ropes and hits him with a hard clothesline, sending him down to the mat.
The champ wastes no time, putting his opponent into a figure-four leg lock, but this time, instead of twisting Drake onto his stomach for the cloverleaf, Brooks drops to the mat upon rebound, falling backwards to apply pressure to Drake’s legs.
“Brooks can’t win via submission, but he can win if Drake passes out from the pain, or if he does enough damage that Damian Drake cannot get back to his feet,” Jude explains.
“I hate this hold. It’s the most painful one to be put in,” Scott says.
Drake attempts to lift the foot of his opponent and escape, but Brooks pounds his fist down onto Drake’s ankle.
“If Drake can counter the attack, somehow rolling onto his belly, that would take the pressure off his leg and apply it all on Brooks.”
“That looks to be what he’s trying to do,” Jude says.
Slowly, Drake twists his upper body, and his lower body soon follows until both men are face down on the mat.
Brooks screams out in pain as the pressure Drake had been feeling is now applied to his own leg.
Drake can only maintain the hold for a moment before his legs give out.
Both men lie in a tangled mess of limbs as the referee begins the count.
Rousing first, Damian Drake slides out of the ring, trying to regain his bearings. That’s when he finally notices the new person standing outside the ring.
She watches him, but doesn’t attack. Instead, she slinks into the ring and watches Brooks slowly climb to his feet.
Without warning, Savvy sweeps his leg, sending him back down to the mat with a sickening thud.
She stands over him, staring out at the crowd, and their cheers only egg her on.
She snakes her arm around his neck, forcing him up into a bridged position.
The soles of his shoes dig into the canvas, and she drives her knee into his exposed spine.
She does it three more times, and while normally she’d drop to her knees, she stands tall, slamming her forearm down hard on his chest. She does it two more times, knocking him back onto the mat with the third blow.
“Heartbreaker! Savvy Skye just performed her finishing move on Brooks Taylor,” Jude says as a chorus of “Holy shit” rings out from the crowd. “The champ is down, and I’m not sure he’s getting back up.”
“That was one of the most brutal Heartbreaks I’ve ever seen!” Scott’s excitement and confusion blend in with the crowd.
Savvy looks around the arena, meeting the eyes of every fan seated along the barricade. She bites down on her lower lip with a grin before she meets the bulging eyes of the other man in this match as he watches the scene unfold.
“What in the hell just happened?” Jude asks when she steps through the middle ropes and walks down the steel stairs without a word.
The referee has already reached the count of five as she begins her ascent up the ramp, walking backwards so she can continue to watch the aftermath of her interference. Brooks never gets back up, and the referee finally reaches ten.
“That’s it, that’s ten! Damian Drake has won the title.”
“Yeah, thanks to Savvy Skye,” Scott says with a soft chuckle. “Something tells me this was meant to send a message, Jude. One question remains—why Brooks Taylor?”