CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
June 22nd, 2005
The Tribal Chief had arrived.
As the BWF lights flashed and tribal drums echoed, Malik "M.K. Jr." Smith stood on the ramp, championship glinting on his shoulder. The crowd exploded.
He raised one finger to the sky. They followed. Then came the chant.
"ACK-NOWL-EDGE HIM! ACK-NOWL-EDGE HIM!"
Inside the ring, he soaked it in. The belt hung on his shoulder like a king's crown.
"This ring… this company… this industry… it all belongs to me now. I am the face of BWF. The sun rises when I say so. And it sets when I'm done talking."
The crowd cheered.
"At Clash Kingdom, I'm gonna smash Duran Cortez back to the era where he mattered. This is the island of relevancy—and he ain't invited."
Suddenly— CRACK!
The crowd gasped.
DURAN CORTEZ—hood up, steel chair in hand—snuck in through the crowd and blasted Malik from behind.
The champ dropped to his knees.
WHACK! — A second chair shot.
WHACK! — A third.
The lights went chaotic. Officials ran out, but Duran wasn't done.
He grabbed Malik by the hair, screamed in his face—
"You forgot who BUILT this company, kid!"
Then Duran hit his finisher — The Regal Cutter — and laid Malik out cold.
The audience was in stunned silence.
Some booed. Others screamed. Many chanted, "YOU SUCK!" at Duran as he stood over the fallen Tribal Chief.
Security finally dragged Duran away—but the damage was done.
BWF cameras caught the image as the show went off the air:
Malik Smith, the Tribal Chief, broken on the mat—his title barely hanging on the edge of the ring apron.
The war for the crown had begun.
[End of Chapter 34 – "Clash Coming"]