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They locked up. Collar and elbow tie up in the center of the ring. Booker T, the veteran, took the advantage first, sliding into a headlock. Storm tried to power out, but Booker transitioned smoothly into a hammerlock, then rolled him down with a snapmare, floating into a chin lock.
Storm managed to get back to his feet, elbowed his way out, and pushed Booker into the ropes. On the rebound, Storm leapfrogged, ducked a clothesline, then came back with a deep arm drag. The fans applauded the exchange. Respect.
They reset.
Tag to Roode. Tag to Steiner.
Now the crowd amped up. Roode vs. Steiner. Power vs. power.
Steiner snarled, then charged. Roode sidestepped, caught Steiner with a drop toe hold, and transitioned into a front headlock. Steiner muscled up, lifted Roode like a sack of potatoes, and drove him back first into the turnbuckle.
Steiner landed a few stiff shoulder thrusts, then whipped Roode to the opposite corner, following up with a Steinerline that rattled the ring.
Tag to Booker. Double team. Booker and Steiner hit Roode with a double suplex. Cover.
One.
Kickout.
Booker locked in a side chinlock. Roode struggled but fought back to his feet, elbowing free and delivering a stiff forearm to Booker's jaw. He stumbled back, and Roode capitalized with a big spinebuster.
Roode dove for the tag—
Hot tag to James Storm!
Storm exploded into the ring, ducked a clothesline from Booker, and laid him out with a flying forearm. He hit the ropes and delivered a running neckbreaker. The crowd was on their feet.
Scott Steiner tried to interfere, Storm knocked him off the apron with a precision superkick.
Storm pointed to the sky, then lifted Booker for the Eye of the Storm. He spun once, twice—
Booker raked the eyes mid spin and slipped out, tagging in Steiner.
Steiner bulldozed into Storm with a clothesline that flipped him inside out. Then he hit a belly to belly suplex with thunderous impact.
One.
Two.
Roode broke it up!
The referee forced Roode back to the apron as Steiner shouted profanities, pacing like a caged animal. He tagged in Booker, and they started laying into Storm with hard stomps in the corner.
Booker lifted Storm and hit a big Book End.
One… Two—
Kickout!
The crowd was living and dying with every near fall.
Storm was crawling, desperate. Booker tried to grab his leg, but Storm twisted out and leapt—
Tag!
Roode flew in like a rocket, unleashing a flurry of offense, clotheslines, a Russian leg sweep on Booker, then a spinebuster on Steiner who had just re entered. He was on fire.
Booker tried to slow the momentum, but Roode ducked his spinning heel kick and hoisted him up.
Storm, back on his feet, climbed the top rope.
"BEER!"
"MONEY!"
Doomsday Device!
Booker was laid out. Roode covered.
One.
Two.
Steiner yanked the referee out of the ring.
BOOOOO!
The ref waved his arms, threatening a disqualification. The crowd screamed for him to eject Steiner. But before he could decide—
Steiner grabbed a steel chair and entered into the ring. The referee also slid back into the ring just as Roode caught Steiner's movement. He ducked the swing and kicked Steiner in the gut, forcing him to drop the chair.
Chaos erupted.
All four men were now inside the ring, fists flying, bodies clashing in a frenzy of adrenaline and vengeance.
The fans were on their feet, roaring louder with each swing, each slam, each breath. The referee, completely overwhelmed, threw his arms up, shouting warnings that no one listened to. This wasn't just a match anymore. It was a war.
James Storm exchanged blows with Booker T near the ropes, each punch landing with sickening thuds. Booker, with the instincts of a seasoned veteran, caught Storm with a quick knee to the gut, doubling him over. He saw the moment, the window, and spun around with that signature shuffle in his step. The crowd knew what was coming.
Scissors Kick.
Booker leaped into the air, his dreadlocks whipping behind him as his leg swung downward like a guillotine. But Storm saw it coming. At the last split second, he stepped aside and ducked under, just narrowly avoiding devastation. Booker's leg struck the mat, and the slight stumble gave Storm the opening.
CRACK!
Storm unleashed a Last Call superkick, right to Booker's jaw. The crack echoed through the arena, and the crowd gasped. Booker's head snapped back violently, and he spun around, dazed but still upright.
Storm wasn't done.
Another Last Call. This time, to the back of the head.
Booker T collapsed face-first, lifeless on the canvas.
On the other side of the ring, Scott Steiner had Roode in his clutches. With a scream that could rattle windows, he lifted Roode high into the air—a brutal powerbomb that shook the mat. Roode's body folded awkwardly on impact. Steiner snarled, chest heaving, turning now to see Storm standing tall over Booker's fallen body.
With fire in his eyes, Steiner charged.
He swung a wild clothesline, aiming to decapitate James Storm. But Storm ducked under, spun behind Steiner, and kicked him square in the gut. Without wasting a beat, Storm grabbed hold of Steiner's massive frame, spun once, twice—
Eye of the Storm!
The ring thundered as Steiner crashed hard. Storm let out a yell, adrenaline surging, and shoved Steiner under the bottom rope, sending him tumbling to the outside like a sack of bricks.
James turned back to the center and found Roode already getting to his feet, groggy but moving. The two locked eyes. No words. They didn't need any. They knew what came next.
Together, they walked to Booker T's motionless body. Roode lifted him with effort, hauling him up and dragging him toward their corner. Storm stepped out to the apron, slapped Roode's hand, and the tag was made.
Roode hoisted Booker high for a powerbomb, while Storm climbed to the top rope. The crowd's energy hit a fever pitch.
DWI, Drinking While Investing!
BOOM!
Roode slammed Booker down with the powerbomb as Storm came crashing in with a neckbreaker from the top rope. It was seamless. Violent. Beautiful.
Booker T wasn't moving.
Storm crawled over and hooked the leg, yelling at the referee to get down and count. The ref, still slightly shaken from being pulled out earlier, slid into position.
ONE!
The crowd shouted.
TWO!
Fans screamed louder, eyes wide.
THREE!
The roof exploded. The bell rang as the announcer declared the result, but the fans were already chanting before the words finished leaving his mouth:
"BEER MONEY!"
"BEER MONEY!"
Beer Money Inc. had done it. They had defeated two legends—Booker T and Scott Steiner—members of the Main Event Mafia. They had reclaimed the TNA World Tag Team Championships. And now, they stood as double champions, FCW and TNA Tag Team Champions, living up to every promise they had made.
The referee handed Storm and Roode their belts. Four gleaming titles in total. Storm clutched the TNA tag belt in one hand and the FCW gold in the other. Roode held his high overhead, sweat dripping from his beard, chest heaving with the weight of the war they had just won.
James Storm leaned against the ropes, his chest rising and falling as he looked out at the sea of fans. Some were waving signs. Others were losing their minds. The chants of "BEER MONEY" were unrelenting.
Roode walked over to Storm, the two meeting in the middle of the ring. They bumped fists, then hugged tightly. Brothers in arms. Champions.
Booker T was still laid out, barely stirring. Scott Steiner was on the outside, trying to drag himself up by the guardrail, cursing under his breath, dazed and furious. The Main Event Mafia had been humbled.
Storm, grinning now, grabbed a mic from ringside. The crowd's noise dimmed just enough to hear him.
"I told y'all! We told every single one of you! Whether it's in FCW, in TNA, across the street, or across the damn world, Beer Money always cashes in!"
Roode took the mic next.
"Steiner. Booker. We respect what you've done in this business. You helped build the foundations. But tonight? We proved that we're the future. The now. The standard. The best damn tag team on the planet."
The crowd erupted again.
Roode and Storm stood in the center, holding up their belts to all four sides of the arena. Pyro exploded on the ramp, a shower of sparks cascading behind them as the announcers screamed on commentary.
"Beer Money Inc. has done it! They've shocked the wrestling world and unified the TNA and FCW Tag Team Championships! History has been made tonight!"
As they exited the ring, Storm and Roode slapped hands with fans on either side of the ramp. Kids, teens, grown adults reaching out just to touch the new double champions.
After the shocking end of the opening match, the crowd was still buzzing. The chants of "BEER MONEY" had barely begun to die down when the ring crew rushed out to sweep away the shattered pieces of what had just happened. The energy was electric, and the fans didn't get much time to breathe before the arena lights dimmed.
Jon Moxley's music hit.
The crowd roared. Wild, gritty, and unpredictable, Moxley emerged from the tunnel like a storm on two legs. He wore a sleeveless hoodie and jeans, fists taped, eyes wild with the kind of fire that didn't burn out easily. In his right hand, a steel chair. Just walking with it. No words. No showboating. Just intensity. Just Mox.
He slid into the ring, tossed the chair to the side, and paced like a caged animal. Then came the sound of a car crash, Mick Foley's music. The audience popped again.
Mick Foley walked out slowly, wearing his signature flannel, a T shirt with his own face on it, and carrying a black duffel bag in one hand. The limp in his step wasn't just for show, it was real, it was history, and it was pain. But pain was his language. And tonight, he was fluent.
Foley made it to the ring, rolled inside carefully, and gave Moxley a long look. A knowing look. Two men who didn't need words to understand the violence they were about to endure. The referee, brave or foolish, stepped between them, checked their boots, checked for foreign objects, though in this match, none of that mattered. There were no rules.
He called for the bell.
DING DING DING.
Right out the gate, Moxley and Foley rushed each other like bulls. No collar and elbow tie up here. Just fists. Lefts and rights flying, fists colliding with jaws. Moxley staggered back with a stiff forearm from Foley. Foley followed it up with a short arm clothesline that dropped Mox.
Moxley popped back up. Foley went for another, but Mox ducked and countered with a headbutt. Crack! The sound echoed. Blood already trickled from Foley's forehead. Moxley grinned. This was his domain.
Moxley slid out of the ring and pulled out the first weapon of the night, a sledgehammer.
The crowd gasped. He held it up like Thor's hammer and slid back into the ring. He charged at Foley—
But Foley caught him with a boot to the gut! Moxley dropped the hammer. Foley grabbed it. Big pop. Foley lifted the sledgehammer high and brought it down, narrowly missing Mox's ribs as he rolled out of the way.
Moxley scrambled outside again, lifted the apron skirt, and pulled out a barbed wire wrapped baseball bat. Now the fans were fully on their feet.
Foley, ever the lunatic, smiled. He rolled out after Mox, who swung the bat—
CRACK! Barbed wire to Foley's back. He screamed. Mox hit him again. Blood bloomed on the flannel. He grabbed Foley by the hair and dragged him toward the steel steps.
With a guttural growl, Moxley smashed Foley's face into the steps. Once. Twice. Three times. Moxley then reached under the ring and pulled out a sack. The crowd knew. Thumbtacks. He dumped them in the ring like candy from a pinata. He rolled Foley back in and stalked after him. Foley stumbled to his feet. Mox grabbed him for a suplex onto the tacks—
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 19 (2009)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida USA
Brand: FCW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Style
Faction: Dragon Boom (Tag Team)
Championship History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions & 1 FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion