Main Event

TKW Global Championship

Daron Smythe Vs Eric Herrera

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TKW - Eric Herrera versus Daron Smythe RP 1

Outkast Productions Presents What Does It Take To Be Number One? By Eric Herrera Scene One This match was nearly a month in the making. There were a lot of jobs, legacies were on the line. But Er...

"If there is no struggle, there is no progress". - Frederick Douglass

UWL Parade of Champions - 9/30/23
Chicago, IL, - Credit Union 1 Arena

The arena is electric, the air thick with the echoes of war. The canvas, stained with sweat and blood, is a battlefield where only one man will stand victorious.

Daron Smythe stirs, his body aching, his breath ragged as he pushes himself off the mat. His vision swims, but he fights against the fog, rising slowly, defiantly. He doesn’t see Cory Chevelle behind him, a predator stalking his wounded prey. The crowd’s roar swells as Chevelle pounces—his arms coil around Smythe’s waist, and in a flash, Smythe is airborne. The ring rattles violently as Chevelle hurls him with a thunderous release German suplex.

Smythe gasps, the impact rattling through his bones, but there’s no reprieve. Chevelle is relentless. He surges forward, drilling his knee into Smythe’s ribs—once, twice, a third time—each strike driving the wind from his lungs. The agony is suffocating, but Smythe won’t fold. He shoves at Chevelle, staggering back, breaking free.

With a burst of desperation, he sprints at Chevelle. But the veteran warrior sees it coming. He sidesteps. Smythe stumbles, whirling around to recover—too late. Chevelle’s knee blasts into his gut, folding him in half. The grip tightens, his head is trapped—he knows what’s coming.

Smythe struggles, but Chevelle has him. With raw power, he hoists him up, suspending him for a moment before driving him down, skull-first, into the mat. The Silverback Brainbuster. The ring shudders. The crowd erupts. Smythe lies motionless.

Chevelle covers.

The referee drops beside them.

ONE…

Smythe’s fingers twitch.

TWO…

His breath is barely there.

THREE!

The bell tolls.

Emily Lyle: “The winner of this match… and NEW UWL World Champion… Cory Chevelle!!”

The referee hands Chevelle the title. He rises, sweat dripping, exhaustion carved into every fiber of his body, but his grip on the championship is firm. He stares down at it, a predator victorious, before raising it high above his head. The spotlight catches the gold, and the weight of his triumph crashes over the entire arena.

Smythe barely moves. The noise around him is deafening, yet distant, like a world he no longer belongs to. With slow, deliberate effort, he rolls to his side and pushes himself up, his body screaming in protest. He stumbles toward the ropes, his chest heaving, a metallic taste in his mouth. He spits, a crimson splatter staining the mat.

His eyes lock onto Chevelle, the UWL World Title gleaming in his hands. His title. His moment.

Smythe watches in silence, his jaw clenched, his breath ragged. He turns, stepping out of the ring, a storm brewing in his eyes. This wasn’t the end.

Not by a long shot.

DARON: (voiceover) The memories of that day are burned into my brain. The pain I felt being tossed around that ring like a rag doll. The defeated feeling I felt afterwards. That fleeting thought of thinking I had no chance of ever beating Chevelle - of ever getting the UWL World Title back. At that point, after a near decade long absence from professional wrestling, I threw my all - my literal blood, sweat, and tears into one place, the UWL. Winning that UWL World Championship was - in a sport where it's become a cliche - part of finishing my story. To have that all taken away from me in an instant was rough. I picked myself up off the mat, went back to the locker room, and gave myself a minute to feel sorry for myself. Sixty seconds. I may not have known how I was going to beat Cory Chevelle in that moment, but I sure as hell was going to figure out a way to do it...

UWL Eruption - 6/15/24
Chattanooga, TN, - McKenzie Arena

The battle had reached its breaking point. Sweat glistened on both warriors, their bodies battered, their lungs burning. Cory Chevelle, ever the brute force, clawed at Smythe’s eyes, drawing a roar of disapproval from the crowd. He took off toward the ropes, looking to capitalize, but Smythe struck first—his boot slammed into Chevelle’s stomach, doubling him over.

With a sudden burst of energy, Smythe twisted into a vicious clothesline, nearly taking Chevelle’s head off. The impact sent the larger man to the mat, dazed. But Smythe wasn’t finished. He dragged Chevelle up, his grip tightening into a half nelson, but Chevelle refused to be caged. He twisted free, spinning Smythe around and dropping him with a hammering right hand that sent Smythe staggering.

Chevelle seized control, whipping Smythe into the ropes. As he rebounded, Chevelle caught him in midair and drove him into the mat with a crushing powerslam. The sheer force of it echoed through the arena.

Cliff Morris: "Cory Chevelle with a powerslam!"
Logan Acker: "He just planted Daron Smythe into the mat with tremendous force!"

Chevelle sat on one knee, breathing heavily, eyes filled with an animalistic hunger. He pulled Smythe up, wrapping his arms around his waist. With a mighty heave, he sent him soaring with an overhead belly-to-belly suplex. Smythe crashed hard, his body contorting on impact. Chevelle quickly covered, hooking the leg.

1…

2…

…Kick out!

Smythe refused to stay down.

Chevelle wasted no time, yanking him to his feet, but Smythe’s ally, Katie, leapt onto the apron, shouting at the referee. The official turned, trying to restore order. Smythe glanced toward her, just for a second. But a second was all Chevelle needed.

A knee drilled into Smythe’s back. He staggered forward, his spine arching in pain. Chevelle wrapped his arms around him in a rear waistlock and launched him backward with a high-angle release German suplex. Smythe’s body folded as he landed, and Chevelle rushed to cover.

1…

2…

…Kick out!

The frustration was beginning to mount, but Chevelle wasn’t done. He hauled Smythe up and whipped him into the ropes. As Smythe rebounded, Chevelle swung his arm for a decapitating lariat, but Smythe ducked under, using his speed to his advantage. He pivoted back, catching Chevelle by surprise, and planted him with a reverse swinging neckbreaker!

Smythe flipped him over, his weight pressing down.

1…

2…

…Kick out!

The energy in the arena was electric. This was a war, and neither man was ready to surrender.

Smythe pulled Chevelle up once more, but the big man fought back, driving a knee into Smythe’s stomach. He hoisted him up into a fireman’s carry, looking to end it. But Smythe fought, twisting and slipping free!

Chevelle turned—Smythe threw a Superkick!

Chevelle ducked!

Smythe turned—Chevelle swung with a lariat!

Smythe ducked again!

Chevelle spun back around—CRACK! Smythe’s boot smashed into his jaw. The champion staggered.

CRACK! Another Superkick struck true.

Chevelle’s body wobbled, his legs betraying him. And then—he collapsed.

Smythe dove onto him, pressing him to the mat, hooking the leg with everything he had left.

1…

2…

3!!!

The bell rang, and Smythe threw his arms in the air, exhaustion and triumph crashing over him at once. The crowd erupted in a wave of cheers as the referee handed him the UWL World Championship.

Daron Smythe had done it.

He sat on his knees, gripping the gold, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His lip was split, his body sore, but in this moment, none of it mattered. He rose to his feet, the title high above his head, his title once again.

DARON: (voiceover) I've never been afraid to lose. Sometimes I like to taste my own blood to know I'm finally in a real fight. So, Eric... what lessons have I learned?

The scene fades in from black. The room is dimly lit, the only source of light a single overhead bulb, casting deep shadows along the concrete walls. The atmosphere is thick, almost suffocating, the silence broken only by the faint hum of the electricity in the air.

Footsteps echo in the darkness. Heavy. Measured. Deliberate.

A figure emerges from the shadows—Daron Smythe. His face is bruised, his knuckles raw, but there’s no mistaking the fire burning in his eyes. He reaches a steel chair positioned in the center of the room, grips the backrest, and in one smooth motion, spins it around. The screech of metal against concrete pierces the silence as he drops into the seat, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees. His expression? Unflinching. Cold. Dangerous. His eyes lock onto the camera, piercing through the lens like a blade through flesh.

DARON: Eric Herrera...

A slow smirk creeps onto his face, but there’s no humor behind it—just a wolf baring its teeth before the kill.

DARON: You should’ve left well enough alone....

We hear the words of Devil Town by Tony Lucca in the background...

"I was living in a devil town
Didn't know it was a devil town
Oh Lord, it really brings me down
About the devil town

All my friends were vampires
Didn't know they were vampires
Turns out I was a vampire myself
In the devil town"

DARON: I did, indeed, grow up in that devil town. A town with very few opportunities unless you were born into money or you knew the right people. A person like me? The child of a single mother - growing up in the trailer park next to the Section 8 housing? I was supposed to be another statistic. I didn't have family money or a family business to set me up for the future. I had to go out and make every opportunity for myself. I didn't have a father - or even a step-father, to run to in order to get my way...

Daron chuckles to himself at the thought...

DARON: So, you went to Daddy Charlie to ask for this match, huh? I already beat you to the punch, Eric. Yeah, you came out on top in our first encounter - but the absolute fucking hypocrisy of acting like it was your "loud and clear statement"?! Fuck that. You already admitted that you had to cheat in order to win. You've already admitted to yourself and everyone around that you can't do it straight up, and that revealed everything I need to know about who you are as a man. I didn't underestimate you at all, Eric, I've met people like you at every stage of my life. People that take shortcuts even though they don't need to. People that are born on third base thinking they hit a triple. Your just the latest in a long line of assholes I've met along the way.

Daron takes a swig of water and continues...

DARON: One thing I will say though, Eric. You just did something no one in AWS or IWE or whatever the fuck it is now has been able to do since I signed on the dotted line on October 22nd - you pinned my shoulders to the mat for a count of three. I guess you could say you've earned this opportunity. I use the term "earned" loosely, of course. A real shame about your championship drought, Eric. If you think your drought ends at the TKW show, you're dead FUCKING wrong. I see your family is around - real cheerleaders, eh? I've got something for them....

Daron reaches down to the floor near the chair, rifling around in a nearby duffle bag before pulling out three tickets. Daron shows them to the camera...

DARON: What do I have here? Three front row tickets for the TKW event - one each for Vero, Roger, and Hector. I want them to have the best seats in the house. I want them to get a perfect view of me dragging your ass around that ring. You just know deep down you're better than me? Then, why did you have to stoop to such cowardly lows, huh? I'll tell you why. You know you aren't good enough. I'm going to prove it to you. Furthermore, your family isn't taking all the titles - because I am. In four months time I've been Internet, Asylum, Elite, and now UltraViolent Champion.

Daron takes a deep breathe and sighs before looking at the camera again...

DARON: That's the thing, Eric. I've been here for four months and I've already carved out a Hall of Fame career. You think I haven't beaten the best of the best to get to this spot? It's been nothing but a murderers row - Summer Rayne, Drake Nygma, Ethan Murphy, Vin Halsted - your step dad has thrown down the gauntlet time after time and yet, here we are - me holding the top championship in the company.

It makes me laugh when you talk about me underestimating you when it's clear you don't know shit about me, man. In the past 12 months, four separate companies, four different world titles - hell, a grand slam in the ECWF and already a triple crown here.

And furthermore, if you think I crowned myself - ask your step dad how much he hounded me to sign here. Ask him how I've performed since being under AWS/IWE contract, every match, every show - week in and week out.

Being Number One isn't simply "crowning myself" - I'm willing to go out there, to explore new companies, to sign new contracts, just to prove it - my legacy? Brother, I've already crafted a legacy here holding this title with whatever name we are calling it this week and I'm going to keep holding it as long as I want to.

You? I know you're not an ordinary guy. You're a helluva wrestler. You might even be #2 around here. But...what you aren't?

Is #1.

Daron gets up from the chair and walks away, leaving the screen in total darkness as the scene fades...