Sting vs. Jobber Kid

[Assaf1981]

In the grand arena, the lights are bright,
As WCW's Saturday night
Begins its show, and the crowd’s cheers ignite.
The stage is set, the ring stands firm and right.

A young lad enters, scrawny, dark-haired, thin,
Fifteen-year-old Asher Assaf, with
White boots and navy blue trunks, he steps in,
His nerves and courage showing in a breath.

The crowd’s excitement peaks as Sting arrives,
The hero clad in black and white, his face
A mask of war, his presence strong, alive,
He enters with the crowd’s unbridled praise.

The bell rings, and the match is now begun.
Asher, though slight, has courage in his heart.
He sheds his ring jacket, hoping to stun,
And moves to strike, to play his daring part.

A flurry of quick moves he tries to land,
His fists and kicks fly fast, but Sting stands tall,
Unfazed, unyielding, blocking every hand,
Each strike a ripple, making no mark at all.

Asher steps back, considering his plight,
And panic strikes; he turns, he tries to flee.
But Sting, with swift precision and his might,
Grabs hold of Asher’s trunks, yanks back with glee.

Thrown to the mat, young Asher gasps for air,
Sting’s forceful hand still clutches at his spine.
He’s pulled up, tossed with strength beyond compare,
And feels the pain course through his bones and mind.

Sting lifts him high and slams him to the ground,
The ring shakes with the impact of his fall.
The crowd roars loud, the echoes all around,
As Asher’s moans are drowned by cheers’ enthrall.

Then lifted to his feet, whipped to the ropes,
He’s Irish whipped into the corner hard,
His body slams, and all his fleeting hopes Are dashed
as Sting’s next move comes like a bard.

A Stinger Splash, so fierce, it crushes down,
Young Asher’s breath escapes in painful gasp.
His body slumped, defeated, eyes cast down,
No strength remains within his tired grasp.

Sting grabs his legs and flips him to his face,
The Scorpion Deathlock now locks him tight.
The pain, a fire that he cannot brace,
Shoots through his spine, igniting nerves with fright.

His back is bent, his legs are stretched, they ache,
The hold is tight, like iron, unrelieved.
He feels each muscle strain, each tendon quake,
The agony, unbearable, perceived.

“I submit! Let go!” he pleads with tearful cry,
His voice a desperate whisper in the fray.
Sting holds the lock a moment longer, sly,
Then drops his prey, as victory’s display.

The match is over, Sting’s music now plays,
The crowd erupts in cheers, the victor stands.
While Asher moans in pain, in dazed dismay,
His body trembling from Sting’s mighty hands.

The lesson harsh, but in his heart a flame,
A spark of hope that someday he’ll return,
To face his fears, to build a stronger name,
And in the ring, his victory to earn.