Sgt. 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.