Meltdown XXXIII & Fallout 033 (Sep '23).

Originally posted by SupineSnake.

The F1 Climaxxx will be returning for its second edition to kick off FWA action in 2024. This announcement is to give you all the important information about the selection process for the participants.

Qualification.

This year, there will be eight competitors (with eight different handlers) in the F1 Climaxxx. They will be divided into two pools of four for the competition (more on format later).

Like last year, grade averages will be used to determine the entrants. We are going to use a grading period from Lights Out (the next show, hence this announcement) to Winter Wasteland, including those two pay-per-views and the three television cycles between. A character needs at least two promos to be eligible to qualify for the F1. Unlike last year, there is no automatic spot for champions in this year’s tournament. Only mod grades will be counted towards the average (we will discount any non-mod tiebreakers used for this purpose).

After Winter Wasteland, we will contact the eight handlers with highest grade averages to invite them to the tournament. They will have forty eight hours to reply. If they decline the invitation, the next highest grade average will be invited, and so on until the eight spots are filled.

If a handler has two characters in qualifying spots, they can choose which one they want to enter (if any).

Any champions that chooses to enter would be double-booked at the Untitled PPV and the Grand March only (if they make the final).

Format.

As mentioned, there will be two pools in the tournament: Pool A and Pool B. Both pools will feature four competitors. The pools will be randomly drawn from the eight qualifiers, as they were last year.

Each pool will be a round robin where each character faces all the other characters in singles matches. Two points will be awarded for a win, one for a draw, and zero for a loss. Ties at the end of the pool stage will be decided first by head-to-head record (or mini-league system in the case of a three-way tie) and then, if still unbroken, by grade average. In kayfabe, if the grade average tie breaker is used, this will be explained by a bonus match on Night 3 of the tournament.

The winner of each pool qualifies automatically for the semi-final stage. 2nd and 3rd from each stage will qualify for the ‘wildcard round’. This means that it is highly likely that every match will still matter on Night 3, the final round of matches in the pool stage, which takes place on the Untitled PPV. In the wildcard round, 2nd of Pool A faces 3rd of Pool B (and vice versa), with the winners of these matches progressing to the semi-finals alongside the pool winners. From there, it’s a straight forward knockout tournament.

Dates.

Lights Out 3 (8th Oct 2023) until Winter Wasteland (17th Dec 2023) - grade averages qualification period (see above).

A Very Crossfire Christmas (7th Jan 2024, Beijing): Press Conference.

Meltdown XXXVII (18th Jan 2024, Hanoi): Night One (Pool Stage).
Meltdown XXXVIII (1st Feb 2024, Seoul): Night Two (Pool Stage).
Untitled PPV (25th Feb 2024, Tokyo): Night Three (Pool Stage).

Meltdown XXXIX (7th Mar 2024, Osaka): Night Four (Wildcard Round).
Meltdown XL (21st Mar 2024, Anchorage): Night Five (Semi-Finals).
Meltdown XLI (4th April 2024, Seattle): hype segments hype.

The Grand March (28th April 2024, San Francisco): Night Six (Final).

Prize.

The reward for winning this year’s war of attrition is a shot at any championship of the winner’s choosing at the Carnal Contendership event.

Naming.

The F1 will be named for the year that the final match took place. Therefore, the first edition was the F1 Climaxxx 2023 (despite some of the tournament taking place in 2022). This one will be the F1 Climaxxx 2024.

Good luck!

Originally posted by AON.

Originally posted by Cap.

*** We see the dilapidated streets of East Cleveland, Ohio before panning to the most kempt building on the block. Beside the road, a sign reads “East Cleveland Probation and Parole.” ***



The potential of a second chance is like a sunrise after a long, unforgiving night, casting golden rays upon a fractured soul, promising the warmth of a new beginning. It's the whisper of hope in the darkest of moments, the chance to rewrite the script of one's life, and to rise from the ashes of past mistakes, stronger and wiser. It's the spark of resilience that ignites the human spirit, reminding us that even in our darkest hours, the possibility of transformation and renewal remains ever-present, beckoning us to seize it with unwavering determination. An opportunity to enter a villain and leave with the prospect of becoming a hero.

Part 1: The Office

A sweltering September sun bears down on the East Cleveland Office of Probation and Parole, turning it into an oppressive crucible of stifling heat and oppressive tension. Nestled inconspicuously on the ground floor of a dilapidated government building in the rambunctious east side of the city, the office seemed a world apart from the rabid streets outside. The office is one of the busiest places around, and ironically, safest. A place that represents despair and redemption, a haven for misguided souls attempting to navigate the treacherous currents of life after incarceration.

The ECPP office was a study in bleakness, its decor seemingly designed to discourage any lingering sense of hope and thwart redemption arcs before they could muster their beginnings. Faded beige paint peeled away from the walls in thin jagged strips, revealing the ghosts of past layers. The only adornments, if they could be called that, were a scattering of crookedly hung motivational posters, their glossy veneers dulled by time and neglect. These hollow platitudes preached about second chances and the power of positive thinking; their messages lost on all who enter.

A solitary window, obscured by layers of grime and dust, allowed the relentless sun to filter through in an anemic attempt to illuminate the room. A solitary oscillating fan groaned in the corner, its lethargic rotations moving air that was little more than warm breath. The furniture was a mismatched collection of worn-out chairs, their vinyl upholstery cracked and peeling, revealing foam padding that had long lost its resilience. Behind a glass counter sat a receptionist. She was dressed in grey slacks and a black polo t-shirt with the office logo on the left side of the chest. Cinched securely around her waist, a utilitarian belt bore the weight of various tools of her enigmatic trade, serving as both a functional necessity and a veiled testament to the unspoken dangers lurking within the mundane facade of her day-to-day duties.

The air in the office was thick with tension, a palpable presence that seemed to hang in the stifling heat like a suffocating shroud.

Outside, the city's cacophonous symphony of car horns and sirens seemed muted, as if the world beyond those who regularly inhabit it had forgotten this forsaken place. Within its dimly lit confines, parolees waited with bated breath, their futures hanging in the balance. For them, this office was a place of judgment, of scrutiny, and perhaps, just perhaps, a glimmer of redemption. But as the merciless sun blazed through that dirt-encrusted window, it cast long shadows across the room, a constant reminder that, in this unforgiving world, second chances were as elusive as a cool breeze on this strangely hot day.

As Xavien Marshall disembarked from the bus provided by the Department of Corrections that had transported him across the vast expanse of Northern Ohio, he stepped onto the unforgiving pavement of East Cleveland with a mix of trepidation and hope. The weight of eight plus years spent behind bars hung heavily on his shoulders, and the world before him, bathed in the unforgiving glare of the summer sun, felt both foreign and surreal.

His first destination was the parole office, a place he had accepted he would never see again after filling out paperwork here before he was sentenced when he was just 17, barely clinging to the frayed edges of youth when he had first entered the labyrinthine world of incarceration. The memory of those cold, unforgiving walls and the harsh orders from correctional officers still ran freshly through his mind. His last outside experience with officers resulted in him being set up and sent to prison. He was just a child, he thought, lost in the streets. No one gave him a chance.

As he climbed down the bus steps, Xavien felt the weight of uncertainty, his eyes scanning the dilapidated buildings that lined the street, graffiti-scarred remnants of a neighborhood that had seen better days, but they were a lot longer than 8 years ago. The grimy sidewalk beneath his worn-out sneakers seemed like a path into the unknown, a journey fraught with the shadows of his past and the uncertain promises of the future. He was wearing the same clothes he wore to court on the day he was sent to the Ohio State Prison, and they hugged his chest and arms uncomfortably.

Pushing open the weathered glass door of the parole office, Xavien was greeted by the oppressive aura of the waiting room. The air hung heavy with anxiety, as if every parolee who had come before him had left behind a lingering trace of their own despair. The receptionist, her gaze unwavering and shrouded in professional detachment, acknowledged his presence with a nod before returning her attention to a stack of paperwork.

Xavien swallowed hard, his throat dry as he approached the reception desk, his movements hesitant. He knew that the coming moments would decide the trajectory of his life outside those prison walls. His heart pounded in his chest as he prepared to face the parole officer, to lay bare his past mistakes, and to hope beyond hope that this time, the world would afford him the second chance he so desperately sought. He signed his name on the sign in sheet and sat down on the worn furniture to wait.

As Xavien nervously settled into one of the worn-out chairs, his eyes flickering between the aging motivational posters on the wall and the receptionist's unimpressive demeanor, the office door swung open with a low creak. A large officer emerged. He was dressed in a blue button-down shirt with the buttons opened at the top revealing curly black chest hairs and a thin black jacket unnecessarily thrown on top of it. His hair was buzzed low on the sides with the top of it flattened, paired with a goatee in a combination that was as black as the baton on his belt.

Officer Martin stood there, an imposing presence that filled the room with his sheer bulk. Like a living embodiment of authority, His sweaty forehead gleamed under the unforgiving glare of the office's fluorescent lights. Officer Martin radiated an aura of unwavering resolve. His boots, gleaming with a militaristic shine, echoed with each deliberate step he took towards Xavien. The heavy-duty belt secured around his waist bristled with an array of tools and restraints, each item a testament to his role as both protector and enforcer of the law.

As he approached Xavien, Officer Martin's deep-set eyes bore into the young man's soul, a piercing gaze that seemed to sift through layers of pretense and fear. The room seemed to shrink in the presence of this imposing figure, the tension rising palpably and anxiety building in the young man’s heart.

"Xavien Marshall," Officer Martin's voice rumbled with a commanding authority, resonating with the unmistakable timbre of a man who had spent years in the pursuit of justice.

Xavien’s fixated eyes had been on the imposing man since he emerged from the door. He spoke.

“Yes, sir.” He said. He had a long first year in prison because he often forgot to call the officers sir. Officer Martin looked back for just a moment, and then smiled. He smiled a big, ugly grim that showed a wad of chewing tobacco in his bottom lip.

“Come with me, son.” He said, and walked towards the door.

Part 2: The Opportunity

Within Officer Martin's office, there existed a delicate balance between the oppressive atmosphere of dread and a few subtle, personal touches that dared to defy it. On the otherwise barren desk, a framed photograph of an ancient car occupied a prime spot. Positioned before the vintage automobile stood a police officer, his stern countenance softened by a beaming young boy. Closer inspection revealed that the child was none other than Officer Martin himself. It was a poignant reminder that even a man of unwavering authority had once been an innocent youth. Just like Xavien.

Officer Martin descended upon his chair with a force that seemed destined to one day shatter the spindle of wheels that bore its weight. His mere presence exuded a stern and uncompromising demeanor.

"Have a seat, Xavien. Is that what you go by?" he intoned with a deep, authoritative voice that filled the room.

"Xavien or X, whichever works for you, sir," Marshall replied, a hint of defiance simmering beneath his words. He reluctantly pulled a steel folding chair from the desk, settling into it with a measured slowness. Xavien loathed the use of the word "sir," but this was not the time to rebel against authority. The scent of newfound freedom lingered in his nostrils, a scent he was determined to preserve at all costs.

Officer Martin continued, "I've got you lined up to live with your brother. I talked to him today. He said you'd know the place. I also know that isn't a great neighborhood, so I called Coach Jacobs at Euclid. He is staying down in Glenville now. If you have any problems staying out of trouble staying with Zander, call me, and go to Coach Jacobs' house. It's already approved, okay?" Xavien furrowed his brow, perplexed by this unexpected revelation.

"H-h… how do you know all those people already and everything?" Xavien inquired, his unique accent giving his voice a distinct cadence. Officer Martin leaned back in his creaking chair, his hands clasped in his lap.

"Xavien, I went to Euclid High School. I played football at Euclid High School. Every Friday night, I take my family to Euclid High School to watch the team play. I have done so for 20 years now. I have watched you play since you were in junior high. I still remember the first time I ever saw you play," he explained, his gaze unwavering, as if seeking a connection with the young man.

"That ain't me no more, sir. I blew that chance. I'm not an athlete anymore. I'm 26 years old. I don't need Coach Jacobs to help me out," Xavien retorted, his face reddening with frustration. He resented the notion that he could have been saved, and resented that his mother had blamed herself for his choices.

Officer Martin remained unperturbed, his hands bridged on his lap. A prolonged silence hung between them, and Xavien finally averted his gaze, seemingly defeated in an unspoken staring contest.

"Got any ideas for work?" Officer Martin interjected, seeking to break the oppressive silence.

"Ain't thought about it," Xavien replied tersely.

"I can tell you have a few sensitive subjects, so don't let me frustrate you here. Your days as an athlete aren't necessarily over," the officer continued, attempting to navigate the perilous waters of Xavien's emotions.

"Man, I'm 26. I ain't touched a football in 9 years. I'm not going to the NFL," Xavien snapped, his irritation evident. The implication that he could still pursue a football career after all this time felt like an insult. He had that chance. He blew it.

"I didn't say anything about football, son. Will you keep an open mind if I give you an opportunity?" Officer Martin pressed on. Xavien nodded begrudgingly.

"You ever watch wrestling?" the officer asked abruptly, leaving Xavien baffled. Officer Martin didn't wait for a response, sliding an envelope across the desk bearing Xavien's name in black ink.

"I've got all your information in the computer. I'm sure you want to get out and be in the world again. Your brother knows you're coming. In there, there's enough money to catch a cab to his house. There's also a phone number and an address for FWA. It's the Fantasy Wrestling Alliance. You're a big dude, Xavien. An incredible athlete, and that clearly hasn't changed much. You look like you're carved out of stone. You've had a big personality your whole life. This could be your chance at redemption. Give it a try. The information is in the envelope, and I've got you a match lined up with them. It's up to you," Officer Martin explained, his words hanging in the air like an unspoken challenge.

Xavien stared at the envelope, contemplating the whirlwind of change that had thrust him from a prison cell to this pivotal moment in his life. Less than 24 hours ago, he had been confined, and now, he stood on the precipice of a decision that could redefine his future.

"You've got a chance to be a hero, Xavien. The hero you've always had the potential to be," Officer Martin added. Xavien met his gaze, the slightest glimpse of a smile forming on his lips as he extended his hand for a handshake, finally realizing that, in this unlikely setting, a path to redemption may have been laid out before him.

Part 3: The Hero

Night began to fall upon the far east side of Cleveland, Xavien embarked on the challenge to secure a ride to his brother's house. It took a grueling twenty minutes of flagging down a bright yellow cab, a vehicle that most would hesitate to enter. However, Xavien, having endured the daily company of violent offenders and murderers in prison, considered it no more perilous than his previous surroundings. The Ford Crown Victoria cab bore the battle scars of countless urban adventures, sporting a conspicuous dent on its front left fender. The moment Xavien clambered inside, the driver promptly locked the doors, revealing there was no mechanism for unlocking them from the back. In a world where Uber had nearly eradicated traditional taxis, the driver left nothing to chance in this unforgiving part of town.

As he handed the cab driver the $5 bill given to him by Officer Martin, Xavien couldn't help but smile. The scenario felt akin to the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, a show he had watched every morning on BET during his prison days.

Approaching his brother's front door, he discovered a note awaiting him.

"X, Gone to work. Be home at 6. Can’t wait to see you. – Z"

With his brother at work, Xavien's immediate need was sustenance, and he needed to enter the house to get food. Making his way to the back of the run-down house, he pushed open a window cautiously, acutely aware of the need to avoid suspicion. But, in reality, who would care? In this forsaken neighborhood, breaking in was hardly a cause for concern; it might even be seen as an act of camaraderie.

Climbing through the window, he found himself in a bedroom, a space that had often served as "his" room during past visits to his brother's house. Memories of days gone by flooded his mind, memories that stood in stark contrast to the choices that had led him astray, causing pain not only to himself but to his late mother and his entire family.

Ravenous and fueled by the anticipation of freedom, Xavien wasted no time and headed straight for the kitchen. Yet, his excitement waned as he discovered an empty refrigerator, offering nothing but a few beers and a carton of Coca-Cola. He had eaten nothing but a donut on the bus ride back to Cleveland, and the prospect of finding food became an urgent need.

Surveying the gas station at the end of the street, headlights pierced the night air, Xavien was thrilled to see it open. He exited the house and headed toward the station, paying little heed to crosswalks or passing cars. Arriving at the store, he perused the array of snacks, craving even something as simple as a honey bun to quell his hunger.

Outside, an older man pumped gas into his gray Toyota Camry. Xavien, feeling more at ease speaking with someone who resembled him, approached the man with caution, his massive frame intimidating by nature.

"Hey man, I just got home from Columbus, and my brother ain't home. I'm hungry as hell, man. You got a couple of bucks for maybe a honey bun or something?" Xavien inquired, his gaze steady and arms brimming with strength. His biceps appeared primed to bust out of his tight t-shirt.

"Nah, man. Times are tough out here... nobody's working, it seems like," the man replied, shaking his head.

"I've been gone 8 years, man, and ain't nobody ever been working here," Xavien retorted, his frustration mounting.

"8 years? Well, it's only gotten worse. You're a big guy... but be careful out here, son," the man cautioned. Xavien nodded, his frustration simmering as he walked away empty-handed.

Inside the gas station, another man caught Xavien's eye. Although he appeared white, Xavien's desperation knew no bounds. He approached the man, a plea in his eyes.

"Aye bro, I'm hungry as hell out here, man. Can I get a couple bucks for maybe a honey bun or something?" Xavien implored once more.

"Fuck outta here, man. I got my own shit to worry about," the man snapped, his response stinging like a fresh wound. Xavien's cheeks burned red with anger, his head throbbing in frustration in an instant.

The customer proceeded to the counter to check out, and Xavien walked back near the honey buns, and he felt the cashier's suspicious gaze upon him. As the man exited the store and headed to his black Toyota Tacoma, parked in the lot, Xavien's anger bubbled over. He ran out the convenience store doors.

"Aye, motherfucker. Who you talking to?" Xavien confronted him, rushing toward the man.

"You mothe—" The man's words were cut short by a powerful right hook to his jaw. He crumpled to the asphalt, his leg no longer bearing his weight. Xavien seized his shirt, leaning him against the truck as he contemplated his next move.

"Bitch, I've been in prison for 8 years. I've got nothing to lose. Give me some goddamn money to eat for talking to me like that, or I'm going to leave your body in this parking lot, and you'll be just another statistic in East Cleveland... I ain’t playing with you!" Xavien threatened. Years of rage had flooded back. The rage of losing football, the frustration of losing his mom, the pain of not being home for so long, and the reminders of everything he had lost. The man, semi-conscious, pleaded for mercy.

"What... do you want?" he stammered.

"I just want enough to eat. I could take your fucking truck, I could end your life. I just wanna fucking eat, dawg. You disrespected me. Now you gon’ pay me for it," Xavien declared, his right arm drawn to strike once more.

"No, no, no! Please! I'll give you $50, man. Just let me go. Please. Let me go," the man begged. Xavien released his grip, allowing the man to reach into his wallet and hand him $50. Xavien examined the money but remained stoic, offering no words of gratitude and no agreement of release. Instead, he handed back the $50.

"Give me $20," he demanded. “I only need $20.” The man complied, handing over two tens. Xavien pocketed the money and helped the man to his feet, leaning him against the truck before walking back into the gas station. There, he grabbed a honey bun from the shelf and approached the counter to make his purchase.

"You didn't see shit," he told the cashier, handing her a $10 bill.

“As long as you pay, that’s the only thing that concerns me. I don’t give a damn how you got the money.” She said in response, providing him with $7 and some change in return. He smiled faintly, took his bag, and exited the store. The Tacoma was gone.

With the honey bun in hand, he began devouring it as he strolled along the dimly lit street. Yet, the sweetness failed to meaningfully satiate his persistent hunger.

His gaze shifted to the distant horizon, where the faint silhouette of Golden Arches shined. Thoughts of the money he had recently acquired spurred him to turn on his heel, retracing his steps toward the welcoming glow of McDonald's.

Amidst the rhythmic sound of his footfalls, Xavien's thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Officer Martin. Wrestling, something he hadn’t watched since his childhood, played across his mind. The allure of athleticism, the roar of the crowd, the electric atmosphere.

The day weighed on him. He felt the heaviness of the world. The real world. The free world. All on his shoulders just 12 hours after being constrained to an eight by eight block surrounded by bars.

As he neared McDonald's, a rock drew his attention, and he grabbed it and began absent mindedly tossed it into the air. Officer Martin's words echoed in his mind.

You could be a hero.
The hero you could’ve been…

He turned and launched the rock through the window of a car on the street.

In the solitude of the night, he voiced his disheartened thoughts for only himself to hear, "I ain't no fuckin’ hero... I'm just trying to survive."

Originally posted by Blaine.

Originally posted by TDH.

Originally posted by Man.

Originally posted by Nostradamus.