The lights in The Van Buren pulsed with the raw energy of a city on the edge, the air thick with the scent of sweat, cheap beer, and unbridled anticipation. Phoenix, Arizona, was alive tonight, its 1,200-plus rabid GCW faithful packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the intimate venue, their chants already rumbling like distant thunder. This wasn't just another indie show; it was a powder keg waiting for a spark, and everyone knew the hometown hero moment was brewing. The crowd had come for blood, for glory, for that electric thrill of seeing a local kid step into the spotlight against one of the circuit's biggest names.
Matt Cardona's music hit first, a slick, overproduced beat that cut through the haze like a knife. The boos erupted immediately, a wall of sound that could rattle the desert sands outside. Cardona strutted out with the confidence of a man who owned the room or at least believed he did his Internet Championship belt gleaming under the spotlights, slung casually over one shoulder. He wore designer sunglasses indoors, a deliberate affront to the gritty vibe of the place, and a custom leather jacket emblazoned with "INDIE GOD" in bold, mocking letters across the back. His shit-eating grin was weaponized, daring the crowd to hate him more.
"Phoenix, Arizona!" he bellowed into the mic, pausing for the thunderous boos to wash over him like a tidal wave. "Oh, come on! Show some respect! You're looking at the real face of independent wrestling! The man who saved the indies! The Internet Champion! The... INDIE... GOD!"
The "YOU SOLD OUT" chants started almost instantly, rippling through the venue like a chant from the old days. Cardona laughed it off, pacing the ring with exaggerated swagger. "Sold out? I bought in, baby! Unlike all these other schlubs in your little Phoenix scene, grinding it out in high school gyms for hot dogs and handshakes. I'm out here making real money, getting real recognition! So here's my challenge, Phoenix send me your best! Send me whatever local nobody you've got, and I'll show you the difference between a star... and a mark playing wrestler!"
He struck a pose in the center of the ring, arms outstretched, soaking in the hatred like it was applause. The crowd's venom only fueled him, their jeers growing louder, more personal. Cardona reveled in it, the perfect heel, untouchable in his own mind.
But then, everything changed. A sharp, unmistakable sound echoed through the speakers BANG. BANG. The shotgun cocking noises sliced through the tension, and the lights shifted to a warm glow of red and orange, evoking the fiery hues of an Arizona sunset. An amateurish but undeniably endearing pop-rock theme kicked in, raw and unpolished, and the crowd erupted. It wasn't just cheers; it was a seismic shift, a collective roar that shook the rafters.
"That's Billy Brooks!" someone shouted from the front row.
"That's the Red Gun!" another voice echoed.
"Holy shit, they got Billy!"
The announcers' voices cut in over the din, their excitement palpable even through the broadcast. "Wait a minute! That's 'Shotgun' Billy Brooks! The Phoenix native has been tearing up the Southwest indie scene!" one exclaimed. "Cardona wanted Phoenix's best? He's about to get it! This kid is special!"
Billy emerged from the gorilla position, his lean frame cutting a determined silhouette against the backdrop of flashing lights. At just 19, he was green visible nerves flickering in his eyes, his steps a touch hesitant—but there was a fire there, a pure, unfiltered determination that the crowd sensed immediately. He raised his hands, firing off finger guns in sync with the music BANG BANG and the response was instantaneous, a massive pop that made the venue feel twice its size. Fans in the front row waved homemade "SHOTGUN" shirts, some adorned with crudely printed gun emojis, their faces alight with pride. This was their kid, the local boy who'd clawed his way up from backyard matches and dusty armories, now stepping into the big leagues.
Billy hit the ring without breaking stride, his gaze locked on Cardona like a gunslinger sizing up his opponent at high noon. The veteran, ever the showman, played it up with an exaggerated double-take, mouthing "Who is this kid?" while laughing and pointing dismissively. The contrast was stark: Cardona's polished arrogance against Billy's raw, heartfelt intensity. The air crackled with possibility.
Billy snatched a mic from the timekeeper, his hand trembling just slightly. This was it, the moment he'd dreamed of since he was a wide-eyed kid watching tapes in his bedroom. But when he spoke, his voice came through clear and steady, laced with that velvety tone undercut by the gritty edge of Phoenix streets. "Matt... Matt Cardona, right? The 'Indie God'?"
The crowd popped hard, sensing the shift. Billy pressed on, his words gaining momentum. "See, I grew up watching wrestling. I studied it. I lived it. And one thing I learned? A true god doesn't have to tell everyone he's a god. He just... is."
The "YOU TELL HIM" chants started, building like a wave. Billy's confidence swelled with them. "You're not a god, Matt. You're just a guy who got really good at social media. You're all ego, no substance. And tonight, in my city, in front of my people... I'm gonna show you what real wrestling looks like."
He dropped the mic with a thud that echoed his resolve, the crowd molten in response. Cardona's amused smirk twisted into genuine annoyance, his eyes narrowing. He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it aside like a gauntlet. "You just made the biggest mistake of your short, pathetic career, kid," he snarled.
The bell rang DING DING DING and the match was on.
From the opening seconds, Cardona set the tone with blatant disrespect. He pie-faced Billy right at the bell, the open-handed shove sending the younger man staggering back. "This is GCW, kid! This ain't your high school gym!" Cardona taunted, following up with another shove that carried the weight of his experience and those extra 30 pounds. They locked up collar-and-elbow, Cardona muscling Billy into the corner with raw power. The referee called for a clean break, but Cardona delivered a sharp slap across Billy's face instead. The crowd gasped, then exploded into boos that drowned out everything else. Billy's eyes widened shock mingling with a spark of anger. This was the big leagues, alright, and the welcome was brutal.
Cardona sauntered around the ring, playing to the jeering fans, his cockiness on full display. Billy, shaking off the sting, charged forward in a burst of adrenaline. Cardona sidestepped, cinching in a waistlock and taking Billy down to the mat with an amateur-style takedown. He rode the position, grinding his forearm into Billy's neck while trash-talking nonstop. "Is this your hero, Phoenix? This?!"
But Billy wasn't done. His technical foundation, honed in countless local matches, kicked in. He bridged his hips, working a switch to reverse the hold, scrambling for escape. Cardona transitioned to a headlock, wrenching it tight, but Billy powered through, shooting him off the ropes. Cardona rebounded with a shoulder block that floored Billy, and he posed triumphantly over his fallen opponent, drawing more heat. The veteran was establishing dominance, methodically breaking down the kid's spirit.
Yet Billy kipped up to his feet, the crowd roaring in approval. Cardona charged again, overconfident only to eat an arm drag that sent him tumbling. He popped up, swinging wildly, but Billy ducked and hit another arm drag. Cardona rose once more, frustration creeping in, and Billy chained it into a Japanese arm drag, fluid and precise, locking in an armbar that had the announcers buzzing. "Beautiful chain wrestling from Brooks! This kid can go!" one shouted over the din.
Cardona scrambled to the ropes, breaking the hold and waving Billy off while complaining to the referee. He stalled, pacing outside the ring, clearly rethinking his dismissive approach. The crowd chanted for Billy, urging him on, and when they re-engaged, the dynamic had shifted. Cardona lunged for a lockup, but Billy slipped under, exploding with a dropkick that snapped Cardona's head back and sent him stumbling into the corner.
Billy didn't let up. He charged in with a forearm smash, then another, the crowd counting along in unison: "One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!" Each strike landed with the precision of someone who'd waited his whole life for this. He backed up, mouthing "Watch this" to the fans, then unleashed his signature a shotgun corner dropkick that crumpled Cardona to the mat. Billy dragged him out, hooking the leg for the cover: One! Two! Cardona kicked out, but the damage was done. He looked shaken, his bravado cracking.
Emboldened, Billy played to the crowd, firing off finger guns BANG BANG! and they ate it up, their claps syncing like a heartbeat. He hit the ropes for a springboard lariat, but Cardona ducked at the last second. Billy landed on his feet, pivoting into a superkick only for Cardona to catch the foot, spin him around, and plant him with a vicious backstabber. The first true veteran counter, and both men hit the canvas, the referee started his count as the crowd held its breath.
Cardona recovered first, pulling himself up with the aid of the ropes. He turned on Billy with a stiff kick to the ribs, then another, the cockiness returning as he mocked the fans' nickname. "You're out of your league, Red Gun!" He methodically dismantled Billy's boots to the midsection, clubbing forearms, and a grinding headlock to sap the kid's energy. A snapmare into a rear chinlock followed, Cardona wrenching back with malicious intent, slowing the pace to wear down his opponent. Billy fought to his feet, firing elbows into Cardona's gut, breaking free and hitting the ropes only to get caught mid-stride with a thunderous powerslam. Cover: One! Two! Billy kicked out at two, drawing a huge pop.
Cardona dragged him up for a suplex, but Billy blocked it once, twice, then countered with a small package roll-up: One! Two! Cardona escaped just in time. Both men rose, trading blows in the centre of the ring. Billy ducked a wild haymaker and connected with an enzuigiri that dazed the veteran. Sensing blood in the water, Billy springboarded into a senton perfectly executed, crashing down for another near-fall: One! Two! Thre Cardona kicked out again, the ring shaking from the impact.
By now, Billy was in full flight, the adrenaline and crowd support turning him into something unstoppable. He chained together a northern lights suplex, bridging beautifully for a pin attempt that Cardona powered out of. In the corner, Billy unleashed a handspring back elbow that echoed through the venue. He spilled to the outside with a tope suicida, sending Cardona crashing into the front row, chairs scattering as fans parted like the Red Sea. The chants swelled: "Billy Brooks!" It was rhythmic, infectious, a mantra for the underdog.
Back in the ring, Billy climbed the ropes, measuring Cardona below then launched into a frog splash. But Cardona rolled away at the last instant, and Billy crashed hard, the miss taking the wind out of his sails. Both men lay there, chests heaving, the ref counting again. Cardona stirred first, using the ropes to haul himself up. He saw Billy rising, vulnerable, and charged with his signature Reboot, a running knee that connected flush with the jaw. Billy crumpled, and Cardona hooked the leg: One! Two! Thr!-Billy's foot found the ropes at the last second. The crowd exploded, a mix of relief and fury washing over the arena.
Cardona's face twisted in rage. He argued with the referee, slamming his fist on the mat, screaming about the count. "That was three! Open your eyes!" But the official stood firm, and Cardona's frustration boiled over. He dragged Billy to the corner, backing up to set up his finisher, Radio Silence. The charge came, Billy sidestepped at the perfect moment, the ring posts rattling from the impact.
Billy retreated to the opposite corner, the crowd on their feet, sensing the turnaround. He pointed his finger gun, locking eyes with Cardona. "BANG!" he shouted. "BANG!" the fans echoed, their voices a thunderous chorus. Billy sprinted across the ring, only for Cardona to shove the referee right into his path. Momentum betrayed Billy; he collided with the official in a tangle of limbs, all three hitting the mat in a heap. Billy clutched his shoulder, pain etching his features, while the ref lay motionless. Cardona slipped outside, a sick grin spreading across his face as he rummaged under the ring.
"Oh, come on! That's classic Cardona!" the announcer protested. "He can't beat Billy clean, so he resorts to this!"
Cardona slid back in with a steel chair, the crowd's boos reaching a fever pitch. He stalked Billy, who was pulling himself up using the ropes, back turned in his daze. The chair raised high CRACK but Billy spun at the last second, instinct taking over. Vandaminator! His boot connected with the chair, driving it straight into Cardona's face with a metallic clang that reverberated through the venue.
The crowd went nuclear, a deafening roar that drowned out everything. "Vandaminator! Billy just Van Dammed Matt Cardona!" the announcer screamed, barely containing his awe.
Cardona staggered back into the corner, blood trickling from his nose, the chair clattering to the mat. Billy, fueled by the moment, backed up once more. The finger gun came out again. "BANG!" "BANG!" from the fans. He sprinted BANG-ON corner clothesline leveling Cardona and sending him stumbling forward. Without missing a beat, Billy hooked him into a fireman's carry, muscles straining under the weight, and dropped him with the Deadsight, a brutal hybrid of a facebreaker and flatliner right onto the open chair. The impact was sickening, a dull thud that echoed like a gunshot.
Billy collapsed into the cover, hooking the leg with desperate fervor. The referee stirred, crawling over just in time to slap the mat: One! The crowd counted along: "One!" Two! "Two!" Three! "Three!"
DING DING DING!
"He did it! Billy Brooks defeats Matt Cardona! In Phoenix! On his first televised indie match!" the announcer bellowed, the words barely capturing the magnitude.
Billy rolled off, disbelief washing over him. He lay there for a moment, hands covering his face, shaking as the reality sank in. The referee raised his arm, and the roar from the Phoenix crowd was deafening, a wall of sound that seemed to lift the roof. "Billy Brooks! Clap clap clap-clap-clap!" The chants morphed into "Shotgun! Shotgun! Shotgun!" as fans leapt to their feet, some pumping fists, others wiping away tears.
He climbed the turnbuckle slowly, firing off finger guns to the sea of faces, his own eyes glistening. This was real. This was happening. The childhood dream, the endless training, the doubts, all crystallised in this moment. Cardona rolled out of the ring, clutching his face, pointing back at Billy with venomous fury, his screams lost in the chaos.
Billy called for a mic, his breath coming in ragged bursts. He brought it to his lips, voice raw but genuine. "Phoenix... thank you. Thank you for believing in me. This... this is just the start. I love this business, I love this art, and I promise you..I'm gonna make you proud."
He dropped the mic, the words hanging in the air like a vow. Climbing another turnbuckle, he soaked it all in one last time. His music hit again, BANG BANG and he fired the finger guns skyward, the crowd mirroring him in perfect sync. "Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer said, his voice thick with emotion, "you just witnessed a star being born. Remember the name: 'Shotgun' Billy Brooks."
As the show faded to a commercial, Billy dropped down to celebrate with the front row, high-fiving fans whose faces mirrored his own awe and joy. Some hugged him tightly, tears streaming, whispering words of pride that meant more than any title ever could.
The moment rippled far beyond The Van Buren. Social media ignited almost immediately.
GCW's official account tweeted: "HOLY. SHIT. @ShotgunBilly just defeated @TheMattCardona in PHOENIX! What a moment! 🔫🔫 #GCW."
Wrestling outlets piled on
@SpotlightWrestling marveled, "Billy Brooks is 19 years old. NINETEEN. And just had a 19-minute classic with Matt Cardona. This kid is the FUTURE."
@IndieWrestlingNews captured the vibe: "The Van Buren is still shaking. Billy Brooks just announced himself to the wrestling world."
Clips went viral within hours: the Vandaminator's sickening impact, the Deadsight onto the chair, Billy's emotional post-match promo. Twitter buzzed with reactions, fans dissecting every near-fall, every counter, hailing the match as an instant classic. Even Cardona chimed in later, his tweet laced with bitterness: "Fluke. Lucky shot. Phoenix, I'll be back. And Red Gun? You just made an ENEMY. #IndieGod."
For Billy, this was more than a win—it was legitimacy etched in steel. He'd beaten a name on a televised stage, his viral clips spreading like wildfire across the wrestling world. Phoenix had validated him, claiming him as their own in a way no training session ever could. GCW would bring him back, no doubt; the promoters were already whispering about regular bookings. His confidence, once fragile, now burned bright—he'd proved he belonged. But with that came a target on his back, Cardona's promise of revenge hanging like a storm cloud.
The metamorphosis was complete. The wrestling nerd who'd pored over tapes and dreamed in the shadows had emerged as a wrestler, a force. The "Red Gun" had fired his first real shot into the heart of the indie scene.
And everyone heard it.
BANG. BANG.