[Fade in on Dirt Dog Unique Allah waiting outside the arena. He looks dirtier and crazier than ever, his eyes red and wild, his mouth drooling:] DDUA: Quigley, the clock's ticking, muhfuh. Didja bring your Trojans? Cause you's about to get fuhed up in the ring, muhfuh. You hear me? I'm coming for you like some masturbatin' peepin' Tom! Yeah, it's gonna feel so good! It's gonna feel so good, Quigley! Time for me to get over on yeah! And everybody knows I like to be on top! Top doggy! Yeah! Quigley, man, get your blood work done. Get in training. Get to physio or something. 'Cause you're gonna be one messed up brah, muhfuh!!! I say yeahhhh!! [The title music kicks in as the shot fades through to the opening graphics:] ##### ###### ### ########## ########## ########## #### ## ########## ########## ########## #### # #### ######## ##### ##### #### ## ##### #### #### #### #### ### #### #### #### #### ############# ######### #### #### ########### ######### #### #### #### #### #### ######### ######### ### #### #### ######### ######### ### ## #### ######## ######## ## # #### =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- ## =-=-=-= INTERNATIONAL INTERNET WRESTLING FEDERATION =============================================== S + A + T + U + R + D + A + Y N + I + G + H + T ----------------------------------------------- + LiVE! + 12 April 1997 + IIWF Coliseum + [The opening graphics fade through to interior shots of the jam-packed IIWF Coliseum. Fireworks explode high in the rafters as the capacity twenty-thousand strong crowd cheer in their excitement. The shot pans down past row upon row of sign-waving, merchandise-wearing fans, swinging wildly over the sea of faces illuminated by the kaleidoscopic colours cast by the beams of the powerful spotlights in the rigging above the squared circle. The shot eventually pans down past the ringside fans to the ring enclosure and the broadcast table, at which stand Tim Dross, dressed in his customary IIWF suit, and "Soundbite" Steve Roberts, who wears his IIWF leather jacket and a "Joe Petrow. Period." t-shirt.] TD: Welcome to the jam-packed IIWF Coliseum! Welcome to another live and loud edition of IIWF Saturday Night! We are coming at you _live_ and _loud_ from the home of the world's greatest professional wrestling organisation, here in Portland, Oregon, with two hours of action that'll have you on the edge of your seat! I'm Tim Dross, and beside me, as always, is my broadcast colleague, "Soundbite" Steve Roberts. SR: The "L'il Soundbiters" are in fine voice tonight, Dross. It's going to be a great evening. TD: That would certainly be suggested by the lineup we have in store over the next one hundred and twenty minutes. Last week, Joe Petrow triumphed over nineteen other men in controversial fashion to win the "Go For The Gold" battle royal, which means that tonight, he'll be facing the White Phoenix in non-title action as the first step along the road in the Gauntlet Challenge. How do you rate his chances, Steve? SR: Well, Dross, Petrow's on top of his game, no question about it. Nobody's quite sure what game it is that Petrow's on top of, exactly, but he's sure on top of it. TD: What are you talking about? SR: Petrow's gonna kick the Phoney's fiery ass all over the arena. TD: That's a bit more like it. We're also going to see the new United States Tag Team Champions, the Harlequins, in non-title action as they face former World tag champs, the High Plains Drifters, who have made clear in no uncertain terms their disdain for the US belts, which they consider to be worthless. SR: I'd be interested to hear what the Harlequins think about that, Dross. And apparently they have their father, the Puppet Master, in attendance tonight. There's another guy whose ass I whipped in my heyday. TD: Of course you did, Steve. The three men who dominated last week's battle royal are all in action right here tonight: Mad Dog Watkins faces the impressive Highwayman; Steve "the Fury" Kowalski battles the struggling "Badboy" Randy Acorn; and Brody Thunder goes up against former Intercontinental Champion, Marty Warnett. That last match could headline a card anywhere in the world, Steve Roberts. SR: It sure could. I know I'd pay good money to see that Welsh idiot have his skull caved in by a Cattle Buster DDT. Reminds me of the good old days with J.W. Hardin, Dross. TD: The young Native American, Nightwing, will also be here tonight as he goes up against the enigmatic Requiem. Nightwing really seems to have developed self-destructive tendencies since he was abandoned by the rest of his Cherokee tribe back at Ring Wars III -- and he seems to think that Requiem is the one to take his life away from him. Who knows what's going to happen when those two men get in the ring together later tonight? SR: Best of all, Dross, we're going to see Chris Kick-Me get another right royal tailkicking tonight when he faces the wily Dirt Dog Unique Allah. TD: Quigley's determined to get back on track following his recent disappointment at narrowly losing out in last week's battle royal. His title match with Casey James at Birthday Bash is looming ever closer, and he's got to recapture the form he showed against Dan Kauffman at Ring Wars III if he's going to beat the Syndicate's biggest threat. SR: Quigley can dream of wearing that belt all he wants, Dross. It's staying with the Syndicate, I guarantee it. TD: That remains to be seen. And tonight's main event is a special Towel Match between "Real Deal" Luke Steele and Ronnie Paris. These two men have been at each other's throats for what seems like an eternity -- largely thanks to the carefully orchestrated interference of the mysterious Spur -- and tonight, we may finally see the end of this rivalry. However, the wild card in the equation is once again Spur, who Steele has asked to be his corner man. SR: Steele made a big mistake there, Dross. Spur just can't be trusted -- and I should know. TD: Well, folks, all that incredible action is coming your way here tonight, live from the IIWF Coliseum. Right now, let's get up to the ring for our opening encounter, pitting two newcomers against one another. Ike Sampson, the highly-touted newcomer from the Carolina independents, battles the brawny Scot, Duncan Macbeth. Both men are undefeated thus far in the IIWF -- but after tonight, one of them is going to have a mark in his "loss" column. Let's get up to the ring for the introductions. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Ike Sampson vs. Duncan Macbeth -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: JdW TD: Uh, Sparkplug Lee seems to be a bit held up at the moment... [Sparkplug is busy propositioning an attractive young lady sitting in the front row. Much to everyone, including Sparkplug's surprise, the woman quickly scribbles something on a sheet of paper and hands it to Lee. Pop! Smiling, he walks into the ring.] SR: Did Sparky just get that woman's phone number?! I guess that proves the old axiom, "Anything's possible in the IIWF!" TD: Axiom? SR: Yeah, that's the official "Lil' Soundbiter" word of the week. SL: [in his best professional voice] Ladies and gentlemen, tonight's opening contest is scheduled for one fall, with a fifteen minute time limit! Introducing first, at a weight of 270 pounds, hailing from Glenfinnan, Scotland, he is Duncan Macbeth! ["Scotland the Brave" draws a somewhat mixed reaction, as does Macbeth himself when he appears in the aisle. Those fans that do support him are acknowledged, but Macbeth wastes no more time than is needed in giving out high-fives. His face seems a snapshot of focused determination.] TD: As Macbeth makes his way to the ring, let's hear some comments from him, recorded a little earlier tonight. SR: Do we have to? I can't understand a word this Scottish idiot says. [Cut to a split screen: on the right, Macbeth continues on his way to the ring; on the left, pre-recorded footage of Macbeth in his locker room:] DM: Sampson, I watched yuir press conference an' I heard yuir comments, an' all ye've proven thus far is tha' ye can talk a mean match, but now ye're IN a mean match, lad! So, ye want t' step out o' yuir brother's shadow? I suggest ye ferget about him, an' worry about ME! As long as ye try t' live up t' another's career, th' shadows of others'll ALWAYS darken yuir own -- as ye're about t' find out! As fer MY career, me path t' th' top o' th' IIWF begins right 'ere - more's th' pity fer ye! [Cut back to a normal shot as Macbeth climbs into the ring and removes his kilt.] TD: For a big man, Macbeth has quite a bit of agility. It's especially evident with his Claymore frankensteiner, which is amazing to see from a man of 270 pounds. Macbeth definately adds a Highland Fling to the IIWF. SR: I had a Highland fling once. Best weekend of my life. SL: And his opponent, at a weight of 304 pounds, he is Ike Sampson! [Sampson is in a hurry to get to the ring, running right in and challenging Macbeth before TAFKA Prince's "Kiss" can get going at all. Macbeth wisely rolls to the outside and allows the fan favourite to posture. Macbeth paces around the ring for a few seconds, in a contemplative mood, before rolling back in to face his larger foe.] TD: That might have been the game plan of Macbeth... he wants to take the fight to Ike on his own terms. The Scotsman is giving up 34 pounds, so he looks as if he'll be using his brains and agility to frustrate the power game of Sampson. SR: One question: this guy's parents name him Ike, and his brother Jack. Did they dislike him from birth or something? [Sampson offers a knucklelock to start things off, but Macbeth thinks better of it and just walks around the ring, stalling as much as he can. Finally the two lock up, but Macbeth quickly goes behind with a waistlock. Before Sampson could compensate, Macbeth grabbed a side headlock. He then took an elbow to the sternum and released the hold, giving Sampson the chance to whip him off the far ropes. Macbeth sees a lariat coming a mile away, and ducks under it for a quick crucifix that is only enough for a one count. He follows up with a standing dropkick that wobbles Sampson, but can't quite knock him down. When Sampson tries to retaliate, he finds that Macbeth has already backed off into a corner to break up the proceedings.] TD: Macbeth is just picking his spots here in the early going, and so far it's kept Sampson baffled. SR: He'd better start getting aggressive soon. You can't win a wrestling match with all this dancing around. You've gotta get in there and hurt somebody, unless you have an Asai moonsault in the arsenal like I did. TD: [sarcastically] Such a shame about that injured back... [Sampson goes to the offensive, forcing Macbeth back into the corner and into a lockup. Macbeth again spins quickly behind him for a waistlock, but this time Sampson spins behind as well to take an adavantage -- a short-lived advantage, as Macbeth grabs him by the neck and quickly hits a bulldog to a mild heel pop. Duncan then starts heading skyward, moving over to the turnbuckles and climbing to the second, as he sets up for a double axhandle. Sampson starts to get up, and sees 270 pounds of Scotsman flying at him, so he does the only thing he can think of. Grabbing Macbeth's tights, and using his momentum to pull forward, Sampson hits a devastating powerslam that bounces Macbeth's head off the canvas. Instead of going for an immediate cover, he picks up his opponent and clamps on a bearhug, which has Macbeth squirming as he tries to draw in air. Some fans, particularly those of Scottish heritage, start a chant to get Macbeth going, but it isn't helping much... What does help is a swift knee into Sampson's "lower abdomen". Ike falls to the mat in obvious pain, while Macbeth also falls back, trying to recover from the bearhug.] SR: Now that's what I was talking about! What a tactic! TD: What an _illegal_ tactic. The officials really have to start calling that, right here it cost Ike Sampson a lot of momentum in this matchup. He was finally mounting some offence, clean offence, and Macbeth had to resort to illegal blows. SR: It's in his nature... he killed his mother and uncle, after all. TD: I believe that was Hamlet, actually. We could always ask Billy Shakespeare about that. [Macbeth, with the fans not quite as supportive anymore, goes back to the attack with an elbowdrop, and then he quickly grabs Sampson's left leg and starts trying to turn him over onto his stomach. Sampson's fighting it pretty well, and after a moment's struggle he brings his free leg over to kick Macbeth away. With time to get to his feet, he's able to fight on equal terms, drawing Macbeth into a fistfight. Sampson's rights and lefts are having a lot more effect, and Macbeth gets knocked down to the mat, from where he rolls outside yet again. Sampson stays in the ring, drumming up fan support, and Macbeth pounds the mat in frustration before re-entering the ring. The two try to lock up again, but Macbeth strikes first, whipping Sampson to the ropes. Upon return, he grabs hold of the onrushing mass and hoists it up for a tilt-a-whirl suplex. The crowd is collectively holding its breath at the display, until finally Sampson is brought to the mat. Macbeth hooks his left leg in the second pin attempt of the night, and this time the count reaches a quick two.] TD: An interesting pattern has been developping in this match. Every time the two men stay in close-quarters for an extended period of time, Sampson comes out on top. However, when Macbeth is able to keep the pace changing, using a hit-and-run type style, he's much more successful. What do you think, Steve? SR: Huh? Oh sorry, I was looking at that girl up in the fifth row. TD: Her? She's barely sixteen, if my guess isn't off. SR: I know. Walnut asked me to keep an eye out for his date. The guy's so stupid, he can't even keep a woman in check for ten minutes. I think that might be her. She looks trampy enough... TD: Steve, please! [Another time Sampson gets Irish-whipped to the ropes, but this time he smartly holds onto the ropes when Macbeth tries for a dropkick. Macbeth lands hard on his side, and isn't getting up, which gives Sampson the opportunity to hit a big leg drop. He covers quickly with a lateral press, but the fans are lucky in that a leg drop isn't enough for a cover on this occasion. The count is close, however, and this seems to strengthen Sampson's resolve. He picks up the 270 pounder as if he were a rag doll, and drops him with a very impressive press slam. Another lateral press means another chance to pin: 1 - 2 - but that's all. Sampson, the fans solidly behind him, coninues the punishment with a snap suplex, and then he heads up to the second turnbuckle. He sets up much like Macbeth did earlier in the match, waits for him to get up, and leaps off with an impressive shoulderblock that hits the mark, dropping Macbeth like a stone.] TD: Methinks Duncan is in a lot of trouble. SR: Methinks? TD: That's the good ol' TD word of the week. [Sampson slowly picks up Macbeth, who doesn't seem to have a whole lot of fight left in him, and sets him up for a double underhook piledriver that he calls the Deep Freeze. He waits a while to apply it, and Macbeth musters all his strength to somehow backdrop Sampson over his head before he collapses to the mat, spent. Both men are down as the official counts them out. His count, at five, is interrupted by the appearanace in the aisle of one Derek Mota.] SR: Now here's someone I can respect. This guy may be a runtweight, but I like the way he gets things done. TD: What on earth is he out here for? This match doesn't involve him! SR: Let it be, I want to see this... [Mota, wearing a leather jacket, starts making his way to the ring. The two men are still slow getting up, so Mota has ample time to ask for a house mic as he is warily watched by the crowd. He speaks:] DM: You guys are wasting your time in the ring right now! You want to know the future of the IIWF? Well, it's not in the ring! The future is right here, right now! [Macbeth and Sampson are by now both standing, albeit groggily, as Mota rolls into the ring. The referee signals for the bell. Ding! Ding! Ding! Heel pop! The three jaw with eah other briefly, as neither of the two official participants seem pleased with the intrusion. Suddenly, Mota, in a single motion, whips off his jacket and throws it into the face of Sampson, and then shocks the crowd even more by nailing a leg lariat on Macbeth. Mota pushes Sampson, jacket and all, onto the Scot, and then stands ready to take both men on.] TD: Derek Mota is either very brave or very careless... I'm pretty sure this match has been thrown out due to his actions. SR: Who cares about the match? Here come the fireworks! [The crowd is expecting the two opponents to unify, but instead a three-way battle begins. Sampson finally takes the jacket off his head, but not before Mota lands a cheap shot or two. Macbeth breaks that up with a right hand of his own, and the three descend into a chaotic donnybrook of fists and feet. The Jobber Justice Squad pour out towards the ring in almost record time, but they decide to let this one go on for a moment as the fighting is too intense to intervene yet. Macbeth chokes the daylights out of Mota until Sampson hits a clothesline from behind. Mota thanks his saviour with a kneelift to the face, but is caught with a heel kick to that knocks him thorugh the ropes to the outside, where members of the Jobber Justice Squad grab him. With only two men left, the squad swarm into the ring, and although Ned Norton takes a nasty shot to the face, they subdue the two tired wrestlers with relative ease.] TD: That kind of brawling signifies just what's going on with the rookies in the IIWF. Everyone wants to make a name fast, lest they be left behind. I personally think the competition may be just as fierce with these youngsters as it is with the top contenders. SR: I don't care about that, I just enjoyed seeing those three beat the snot out of each other. Mota's appearance surprised me, but it was a pleasant surprise. TD: The biggest surprise so far tonight has been Sparkplug Lee. It's really been his night so far. A date, and no screwups on the first match. SR: It's a long show... TD: Quite. Well, for those of you keeping score, that was a no-contest. Let's hope for a more decisive finish in our next encounter. [Sampson and Macbeth try to escape from the clutches of the Jobber Justice Squad and security staff as they are shepherded back up the aisle to the mixed cheers and jeers of the crowd. Mota follows behind, having picked up his leather jacket, and jaws with fans at ringside as he heads out to the locker room area. Cut back to the announcers' table at ringside.] TD: And our next contest will be our first chance to see the Harlequins since they captured the United States Tag Team Championships from Night Patrol last weekend. But before that, it's time for this week's LaRue's Lair. Becky's guest this week is a man who's been making a few headlines after a fairly quiet spell -- the athlete known as the Highwayman. Over to you, Becky. [Cut to the LaRue's Lair set, a podium erected some way back from the aisle to one side. A garish ensemble of pink and orange pillars, co-ordinated so that they clash jarringly, between which are draped lengths of red chiffon, lit from below by an array of red and orange spotlights. Two chair lounges are placed centrally in the set, and the spotlights dim their bright beams slightly as Becky enters to a huge cheer from her fans.] BL: Today I continue my series of interviews dealing with wrestlers that no one cares about. Last week was Dan "I thought he was retired" Kauffman. Today is that enigmatic Robin Hood from the swinging 1600s, Adam Smith... the Economist! [The crowd is confused] Just kidding. Once again Becky's literacy is too much for the standard IIWF fans. I love you anyways. [Pop!] My real guest is... The Highwayman. [Respectable pop from the crowd] [Adam Ant begins to play, and the vagabond enters. He takes the rose from his teeth, and Becky prepares to accept it. He hands it to a nearby fan who swoons. Becky is not amused.] BL: Can I call you "Highway"? Or would you prefer "man"? HWM: Actually my given name is Adam Smith, I was, by profession, a Highwayman and for a time I was reluctant to use my real name for fear that my friends would suffer retribution for my actions, so I have grown accustomed to being called The Highwayman. You may call me Adam or Highwayman if you wish, either will suffice. BL: All kidding aside. I've seen some odd things in my life... and I'm not discounting that what you claim is true... but we are to believe that you are actually reborn after three hundred years dead? HWM: [smile] I heard you are really blonde but you were afraid of being type-cast and compared to someone called Sunny so you dyed your hair red, is _that_ true? BL: Ummm... Was the beer better in 1696? HWM: You changed the subject pretty quickly there, Becky, but if you must know, English beer was always warm, and I've been told that not much has changed. I must profess to a liking for a drink called Guinness, though; it reminds me of mead! BL: Any chance that I'm the resurrected soul of someone from three hundred years ago? HWM: [laugh] Stop me if I am wrong, but you can't cook; you won't clean; you're not high born; WORK is a four-letter swear word, and your only hobby cannot be mentioned on family television, so your options three hundred years ago would have been rather limited! But on the positive side, you are intelligent, beautiful and have a hobby that cannot be mentioned on family television! I'm sure you could have found gainful employment in any French Bordello and since I never frequented such places, I wouldn't like to say whether you were around back then. BL: I would have thought that after 300 years, you would have a heck of an interest in making a woman's acquaintance. I guess I'm wrong. Now then, despite the fact that I don't, the fans seem to like you. How do you explain that? HWM: The fans of the IIWF are _the_ most discerning fans of any federation, of any sport, anywhere in the world! I do not know why they like me, all I have done since my arrival is mourn my past life. I have gained my fair share wins though thanks to my "Daylight Robbery" and I fight fairly and within the rules... for the most part! Perhaps they just like winners and consider me to be one! And who am I to disagree!? BL: Just another dead degenerate. This whole "Steal-from-the-rich... give-to-the-poor" thing, a bit overworked, no? HWM: Being one of the rich, you would say that, wouldn't you? I am not particularly interested in "the gold" here in the IIWF, I truly believe there are far more deserving people without any "gold", and far less deserving currently with it! Let me just issue a warning to the "rich": "The path of a champion is a road _I_ patrol, I am the Highwayman, the Justice-Bringer 'Brigand Doom', and whether you like it or not, you _will_ 'Stand and Deliver'!" BL: So, if you ever win a title, can we assume you will give it to "Nifty" Ned Norton? HWM: I wouldn't class him as the most deserving of the gold, there are quite a few wrestlers ahead of him such as Quigley, Shakespeare and Paris to name but a few! I do not intend to win a belt and give it away, but I will make sure that rule-breakers pay a heavy toll when they travel the road to the belts! BL: [Becky is busy mimicking sticking her finger down her throat.] Speaking of which, you couldn't have been that successful a thief in your youth as you haven't even been _near_ the chance to grab a belt. HWM: I have been a little... distracted, since my arrival here in January, but I still managed to score wins over three-time Intercontinental champion Tiger Claw in my debut match, Venusian Death Cell, Sandman, Serge Annis and Dirt Dog with the aid of Nightwing. My time will come Becky, it is just a matter of time, and I have plenty of that. BL: Let's talk about your new kinship with Chickenwing... what's up with that? HWM: There is nothing "up" with our friendship. I know what Nightwing is going through, he helped me defeat the same demons he is fighting with. I hope he will recover and I will give him as much support as he feels he needs, but it is a road he must travel alone, and I hope it is enough that he knows a friend awaits him when he arrives! BL: You honestly feel that a three hundred year old guy from Merrie ol' England has some insight into the plight of a pouting Native American? HWM: Our histories may well be 300 years removed and 3000 miles apart, but our problems are universal. Oppression of both our people occurred many years ago, the law of the land persecuted them both, and today I can see uncomfortable comparisons with the actions of the Syndicate. BL: Speaking of which... are you stupid or something? Why do you want to mess with the Syndicate? HWM: Maybe because I have seen too much oppression in my life, or because I pledged my life to the eradication of injustice. Possibly because they think they have safety in numbers, or because the only stable I knew of was a sleeping place for horses! But if you want a simple, truthful answer, it is BECAUSE I CAN! BL: I've used that one a few times myself. What is your opinion on the evolution of the British aristocracy as personified by the exquisite Lord Byron? HWM: I have never liked the aristocracy. Byron's attitude is typical of their complete disdain towards the common people. Their arrogance and conceit has changed little in my absence. BL: Sounds like jealousy to me. HWM: Jealousy? Of what? It isn't his money, as that doesn't impress me. It isn't his belt because he won't have that for much longer. It DEFINITELY isn't his wrestling talents, as he will discover when I get him in the ring. About the only thing he has that gains my jealousy is the love of the beautiful lady Dewinter, and he abuses even that! BL: Lady DeWithered? You have been dead for 300 years if you find HER attractive. Though the way she worked over Marty Warnett is worthy of even Becky LaRue. Maybe she read my book: "Becky LaRue's guide to everlasting power". But back to you. Apparently you've heard _THIS_ line before, but: Any last words? HWM: I came to this federation for a reason and now Nightwing has helped me come to terms with my loss and I have learned how to channel my fury I can continue my quest to bring a measure of justice to the IIWF. So if I was to have three last words they would be; WATCH THIS SPACE! [Highwayman exits, slightly showboating and drawing some heat. A crumbled popcorn box flies his way and he deftly picks it out of the air.] BL: Watch. This. Space. Please tell me he didn't ACTUALLY say that. Sheesh, there goes my Emmy. Oh well. Next week, to continue my theme of incohesive interviewees spouting illogical slogans, I hope to have the Harlequins. 'Til then... WATCH THIS SPACE. [Becky begins to chuckle uncontrollably at her own wit. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: And we'll be seeing the Highwayman in action later on here tonight as he does battle with Mad Dog Watkins. What a match that's going to be. Right now, though, let's get back up to the ring for more action, as the High Plains Drifters challenge the Harlequins in a non-title match. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= NON-TITLE MATCH: =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= The Harlequins vs. High Plains Drifters --------------------------------------- WRITER: JB [Sparkplug Lee enters the ring, apparently the victim of a recent wedgie as his pink boxers are spilling out of the back.] SR: Petrow's Sychopaths must be on the warpath already. I'll bet Sparky feels like he's back in junior high! SL: [in soprano] this next match... [clears throat, and resumes regular voice] this next match is a non-title match scheduled for one fall... Introducing first, [Theme from "The Good, The Bad and the Ugly" hits, to a big heel pop!] seconded by their manager, the "Outlaw" Josey Wales, at a total combined weight of 502 pounds, here are Pale Rider and Easy Rider... the HIGH PLAINS DRIFTERS! [The three walk the aisle with a swagger in their gait. Pale stops to tear an "Armed Forces Rule!" poster from a khaki-clad fan and shred it in front him before throwing the pieces back in the fan's face. Wales pats Pale Rider on the shoulder approvingly, takes a puff on his cigar, and the Drifters enter the ring, with Wales talking them through their pre-match strategy.] TD: The Drifters, ladies and gentlemen, are not fighting for the titles tonight, but are hurtling towards the magical twenty-win mark. Right now, the Drifters hold 18 victories, while the Armed Forces have 19 wins. SR: Yeah, yeah, everyone knows that HPD will get there first... Those Armed Farces are about to get passed. TD: Meanwhile, it is worth noting that six singles wrestlers -- IIWF Champion Casey James, Subway Psycho, Marty Warnett, Deathbringer, Tiger Claw and the Enigma -- all have over 20 wins. SR: What are you, some kind of encyclopedia? Your problem, Dross, is that you spend too much time at home, when you should be out getting in barroom brawls with me. TD: I don't go to those kinds of clubs, Steve. SR: What do you mean by that, Dross? TD: You know... biker bars, gang rooms, knife clubs... fightin' bars. SR: Dross, I'm talking about the IIWF Cafeteria. TD: That figures. SL: And their opponents... ["Vow" by Garbage kicks in, to a big mixed pop] From Sleepy Hollow, Illinois... at a total combined weight of 545 pounds, led to the ring by Comedy and Melody, here are your IIWF UNITED STATES TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS... THE HARLEQUINS! [slight pause] TD: The Harlequins seem to be a little delayed coming out, but the new US Champs bring a lot of baggage into this match. First off... wait, that song! It's the one Harlequin Chaos used in his days as a rulebreaker in another organization! SR: Yeah, and that's why I like the new attitude the Harlequins have been taking lately... first off, knocking off those Cop Rock rejects Night Patrol to get the straps... TD: Night Patrol has to be considered a top contending team for both sets of belts, Steve, and their recent change of heart has won them a lot of respect from the fans of the IIWF. Then you also have the advances of one Icehawk, spurned in a most heated manner by the lovely Harlequin Comedy... SR: Another reason to like 'em... [The Harlequins finally appear to a pop, as the two wreslers, accompanied by their father, the Puppet Master, his visage hidden behind a mask as usual, walk down the aisle carrying duffle bags, with Harlequin Melody hauling an electric guitar and a boom box.] TD: The Harlequins seem to be taking an awful lot of equipment to the ring for a wrestling match. SR: Hey, Melody's got a guitar! Maybe she'll hook up with Requiem and cut a duet... [Camera cuts to Mr. Friday's new team, The Last Resort, watching the match at ringside.] TD: Larry and Becky talked about them in Friday's show... and now the new faces in the IIWF, The Last Resort, are here to check out the two-time former champs, the Drifters. SR: Those new kids are asking for it if they go picking on the Drifters... [Finally, Chaos enters the ring to start things off for his team. The referee signals for the opening bell. Ding! Ding! Ding! Immediately, Chaos and Pale Rider lock up in the ring.] TD: Big size advantage early for the Harlequins and Chaos holds a round hundred pounds on the smaller Pale Rider. [...and Chaos' attempt at a buttefly suplex is met with a low blow by Pale Rider! The brawl begins as Tragedy and Easy Rider rush into the ring to start a four-way fight.] TD: Here we go again... SR: Yeah Yeah! This is great! Absolutely no regard for the rules by either team! I love it! TD: At least no one has tried to interfere in the match, although if they hadn't have had that change in attitude, Night Patrol might have made their presence felt. SR: Hey! I just got an idea... let's make every tag match in the IIWF a Texas Tornado match! [As the ref turns to try to separate Easy Rider from Tragedy... SMACK! Melody clocks Pale Rider with the guitar in Clash fashion, causing the lightweight to slump to the canvas. The ref comes over and attempts the count... 1 -- 2 - Easy Rider stomps Chaos to save!] TD: Don't tell me that these tactics are those of the "real Harlequins" mentioned in the Friday show! Melody just committed a serious breach in the rules. SR: All we need now is Comdey to "fire" it up again. [Not to be outdone, the Outlaw Josey Wales sneaks up on Tragedy in the corner and drag-tosses him to the floor as Chaos whips Pale Rider into the ropes! Heel pop!] SR: It's about time! I was wondering what was keeping Wales! [As Chaos slaps a spinebuster on Pale Rider, Tragedy chases the Drifters' manager around the ring, stopping when Easy Rider delivers a flying closeline as Tragedy passes!] TD: Wait a minute... we have something brewing in the arena... [Icehawk of Cold Spell comes down the aisle, hesitantly, with a long white gift box in tow. Meanwhile, in the ring, Tragedy gets rammed into the ringpost while Pale Rider attempts a small package, tugging on the tights of Chaos! 1 -- 2 -- kickout!] SR: It's Icechick! I'll bet he's got the inflatable doll he bought that looks like Comedy in that box. TD: Steve! [Pale Rider Tags in Easy, who begins brawling with Chaos while Tragedy staggers around the ring to his corner and Pale rider catches his breath. Icehawk, looking like a lost puppy in his White Sox hat, takes another few steps.] TD: The Finnish Flyer is still wearing that Sox cap. SR: Yeah, I thought he was a hockey fan...he must've been one of those seven hundred people who watched that game in Comiskey the other day. That reminds me... after that fireball incident Wednesday, Icechick just signed an endorsement deal. TD: [suspiciously] go on... SR: His only line is: "I'm not just the Hair Club President; I'm also a client." TD: Will you stop? [Chaos hits a scoop slam on Easy Rider as Edmund Fitzgerald grabs Icehawk by the arm. after a few words, Fitz swipes the gift box, rips it, and throws it in a nearby trash can, dragging Icehawk into the back.] TD: Apparently, Edmund Fitzgerald isn't too keen on his parter's romantic interests... SR: You know, Icehawk needs a woman he has a chance with... I understand that Maggie Collins broad isn't exactly satisfied with Widdle Wonnie, if you catch my drift. [Chaos tags in Tragedy, who lays in a chop on Easy Rider. Rider shakes it off and attemps to pick up Tragedy for a suplex. But in mid air Tragedy kicks, causing the set-up manuever to crumble, taking the referee with it!] TD: Oh, boy... SR: Ref down! Ref down! Call in the cavalry! [And almost on cue, the Prophets of Rage storm out of the locker room and launch into the ring while Medusa and Pizzazz set upon the Harlequin Ladies. HPD jump out of the ring back while the brawl heightens, talking amongst themselves to try to figure this out.] TD: Well, we almost had a tag match without interference... SR: You know, I'm still a fan of the Prophets of Rage and all, but they helped the Harlequins win last week! I hate to say it, but they're really sore losers in some aspects. TD: It's really obvious that the Prophets of Rage are after the US belts! they jumped the Night Patrol, who defeated them for the titles, and now they're attacking the Harlequins, who also helped cost them the titles at Ring Wars. [Pizzazz smashes the boom box over the head of Tragedy, who flops to the canvas. The Prophets bail, while Easy and Pale Rider toss Chaos over the top and Easy covers as Pale wakes up the ref, who counts...1 -- 2 -- 3! Ding! Ding! Ding!] SL: Your winners, for the nineteenth time in the IIWF, the High Plains Drifters! [Music kicks in as the Drifters head back to the locker room. Josey Wales barks, "Forces, get ready to become victim number twenty!" into the camera.] TD: A huge win for the Drifters over the U.S. Champs, albeit in a manner that is becoming all too frequent in the IIWF, with the aid of outside interference. SR: Only thing the Drifters need to do now is beat the Armed Farces to win number twenty. TD: Before we go to our next match, Larry Morton is backstage with Night Patrol. Take it away, Larry. LM: Thanks, Tim. Here with me, as you said, are the former U.S. Champions, the Night Patrol. First off, Ms. Hawkings, what's been the feedback from your actions Wednesday night? BH: Larry, the response has been without equal. The fans of the IIWF are thrilled to see someone stand up for law and order in this federation. There are several excellent teams -- Cold Spell, the Zodiac Connection, Armed Forces, Rising Sun Revolution -- that give the fans a good, clean exhibition with maximum effort. The only problem is, there are too many teams out there who can't win a fair fight or throw a tatrum at a loss, like the Prophets of Rage. DK: Prophets, you crybabies... what's wrong, gotta have everything handed to ya? We taught a lesson to the W & W Express -- mind you, we don't care for their ways, but they've learned to take a loss and try again -- and now they're back on track. Apparently we didn't teach that lesson to you well enough. How about another semester in the Lt. Keene school of hard knocks? We could've jumped the Harlequins ourselves, but we know we'll get our shot in time. LM: Your former stablemates, Pain Inc., just won the world tag team titles. Didn't you pick a strange time to break up with them, at their highest point? BH: Keep in mind, they were a losing team before we came along. now they're beating teams they couldn't have lasted five minutes with three months ago. They're on a roll now, but we know this, Mr. Mic... We're why you're the champions, and we're also why you'll be the ex-champions. HPD and the Forces can chase twenty wins, but Night Patrol will be the first team to hold both tag titles. LM: Pain Inc.'s manager says that he doesn't have to fight you for a title defense. BH: [Tittering] Mr. Mic, I appeal to what little reasoning you have and ask that you look at the rankings. You see teams like ourselves and Cold Spell near the top. Those are the teams that President Spreadbury awards shots to. I know you like to fight the Rotundos, but we're coming... without a coin toss, this time. LM: Sgt. Blazer, your team has received a mixed reaction from some of the other pairings you speak so highly of. Your comments? JB: [grinning] Well, Larry, I can't say we exactly blame the Zodiacs for not trusting us... after all, the first thing we did here was jump them from behind. Saying sorry won't help, And I'm not the type to send flowers, so I just have this to say; Taurus, Scorpio and Cancer, If you want to keep an eye on us, go right ahead... You'll see we're straight up on this one. BH: And I say this to the rest of the teams that want to take a stand... We've been with the animals, we know how they think and work, we know how to beat them. Cold Spell, we appreciate your trust in us. Fitzgerald, I'm here... Let's talk. [All three leave the frame. Larry turns to the camera.] LM: Brenda Hawkings, Sgt. Blazer and Lt. Keene, with a call to arms to the tag teams of the IIWF... back to Tim and Steve at ringside. [Cut back to the announcers' table at ringside.] TD: I'm not quite sure what to expect in this next match, Steve. Ordinarily, it would be an aerialist against more of a power wrestler, but this matchup seems to have transcended the squared circle. SR: Hey, like AC/DC used to sing: Don't go off on that Injun mumbo-jumbo, just go off and get my biscuits! TD: Nightwing is clearly a disturbed young man right now. He's been rejected by his tribe and the spirits no longer speak to him. SR: He ought to try some Jack Black. _That_ spirit will talk to him. Mmmmmm... Jack Black and biscuits. TD: It's clear Nightwing will get no sympathy from Steve Roberts. Let's go up to Sparkplug Lee for our introductions. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Requiem vs. Nightwing =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: SO [Cut to Sparkplug, who is casually checking his watch and tapping it as if the battery is dead.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, this match is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, from parts unknown, weighing in at 306 pounds and accompanied to the ring by the woman known only as Gabrielle, he is... RRRRRRRequiem! [Good pop as Gabrielle leads Requiem into the IIWF Coliseum. Requiem, his piercing blue eyes looking around the arena, pulls his trusted night black electric guitar from his shoulder and begins playing "The Music of the Unknowingly Damned", which sends pockets of fans screaming.] TD: Requiem's fans, now known as The Choir, love their hero! SR: Don't be ridiculous, Dross. Those are music lovers and they're screaming for him to stop that noise! [Gabrielle, a bitter look on her beautiful face, ignores the fans as the two walk to the ring. Requiem only casually glances at a "REQUIEM DA MAN" poster being waved by a young fan. The pop dies down as they enter the ring and move to one corner.] TD: The IIWF fans have really warmed to Requiem, much as they did to Deathbringer last year. It's probably no coincidence that those two will meet at Birthday Bash. SR: The problem is that you can't tell if those guys like each other or not. They're both mysterious guys and seem to be in the same line of work. TD: You mean wrestling? SR: Huh? Okay, if you say so. I just don't get all this darkness and "taking souls" stuff. Lighten up, people. Life is a sport... drink it up! TD: Steve Roberts' words to live by, fans. [The pop dies down as Sparkplug again raises the microphone.] SL: And his opponent, hailing from Cherokee, North Carolina, weighing in at 235 pounds, he is a member of the Cherokee Nation, he is Niiiiiightwing!] [Nightwing's music "Native Son" does not play, but instead the IIWF Coliseum is filled with the beating of drums and the lights drop. Chiquoit the eagle flies from the back and circles over the crowd before landing the top turnbuckle in Nightwing's corner. A spotlight hits the entrance and Nightwing emerges. He is dressed not in his normal wrestling attire, but deerskin pants and moccasins. His war paint has been replaced by ceremonial markings on his face and chest.] TD: I don't like the looks of this one bit. SR: Me either. Doesn't that idiot know white ceremonial paint doesn't go with those moccasins? What a fashion faux pas. TD: You know what I'm talking about! Nightwing as much as said last night that he expects Requiem to take his life here tonight. I should think the IIWF would find some counseling for this young man. SR: Yeah, send him off to share a room with the Man of Steel. Maybe they could share some firewater and nose candy. [Nightwing leaps the ring apron and pauses, taking a long look at Chiquoit perched on the turnbuckle. With a despondent look, he nods at the eagle, which takes flight and lands in the rafters. As Requiem watches him carefully, Nightwing steps through the ropes and stands in his corner. He lifts his head toward the roof and says something in Cherokee that the ring mic barely picks up.] SR: Hey, can he say that on television? TD: Do you know _what_ he said? SR: I thought he said something about the Lil' Soundbiters ruling the universe. It's true, you know. TD: You're impossible. SR: You're jealous. [As the referee calls for the bell, the two wrestlers meet in the middle of the ring. Nightwing looks at Requiem with a look mixed with both awe and understanding as he extends his arms horizontally away from his body and lowers his head. Requiem, appearing somewhat confused, looks at the referee, who only shrugs his shoulders.] TD: The spirits may have told Nightwing that Requiem was the "chosen one", but apparently no one told the "Dark Angel" himself. SR: Hey, can you imagine what a ritual sacrifice would do for our ratings? If this works out, we could sacrifice Quigley, Kauffman, Warnett, Paris.... TD: We are NOT going to... whoa, we've got action! [With Gabrielle yelling at him from outside the ring, Requiem bounces off the ropes and hits Nightwing, who doesn't even flinch, with a forearm blow. The young Native American rises and again assumes his stance, arms outstretched and head down. Requiem moves in and lifts Nightwing for a suplex, slamming him to the mat. Again, both men get to their feet, and again Nightwing assumes his pose.] TD: The young man is making absolutely no attempt to defend himself here and it seems to be baffling Requiem. SR: For all Requiem knows, Nightwing is faking this whole thing. This is a great time to beat the snot out of the kid and gain the advantage. TD: From what we've seen of Requiem, that's not the type of competitor he is. He'll stand toe-to-toe and slug it out with anyone, but this defenseless posture is hard to figure out. Don't forget, he's used to dealing with those who have succumbed to darkness. [Requiem takes a few steps back. Gabrielle pounds the ring apron, obviously wanting her brother to attack and finish off Nightwing. He suddenly charges and levels the young man with a clothesline, then steps back again as Nightwing very slowly gets back to his feet, extends his arms, and lowers his head. Requiem stares at Nightwing, then pulls the referee close to him and says something. The referee shakes his head and again shrugs his shoulders, but Requiem, towering over the referee, repeats himself.] TD: What is going on here? I don't think I've ever seen anything like this before. SR: Maybe Requiem wants to find out if manslaughter is binding in Oregon. C'mon, kick his ass! TD: I don't know what he... wait, referee Chuck Sanders is calling for the bell. What's going on? Sparkplug Lee is going to get the story. [As Sparkplug climbs into the ring, the referee whispers something to him. A hush falls over the crowd as Lee shakes his head and raises the microphone.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, referee Chuck Sanders has declared this match a no contest! [Boos rain down on the ring, but Requiem grabs the microphone from Lee and turns to face Nightwing in the middle of the ring. The crowd falls silent as Nightwing finally looks up to the "chosen one".] REQUIEM: You see before you one who has taken the souls of many a damned creature. It is my task in life, though it brings me no joy and no comfort. Were you so truly damned that your destruction was my only recourse, I would rip out your soul and send it to oblivion without a moment's hesitation. But you are not damned, Nightwing. The souls of the damned are mine, and mine alone, but your soul is yet untainted. I cannot grant you the release you seek, for you lie outside my purview. Nightwing, I have long possessed the ability to stare into the soul of a man and judge it. That is my curse, for I see the good and the evil in all men. In you I see no great evil. You are not yet blind to the Light, the celestial spirit that dwells throughout all creation. I see only the pain - and though I am a stranger to the ways of your people, perhaps the dishonour - of rejection, and I well know that pain, for I too am an outcast. When I was but a young man I saw my people turn their backs upon me, and it brought about a pain so unbearable that I thought myself consumed in eternal flame. But this will come to pass. The flames will weaken and die, fading only to embers. Eventually even the embers shall lie cold, perhaps surfacing briefly only as a distant memory from time to time. Though it took me many years I learned again the joys of life, the simple delight of knowing yourself to be a part of creation's infinite tapestry. I saw again the opportunities to do good. I saw ways to bring joy to others, ways to aid the sick and needy, ways to serve justice. I saw ways within ways, for in doing all these things I found again the honour I had thought taken from me. Were I able, I would teach you all that I once knew. But now I am Requiem, the Angel Of Destruction, the Herald of Damnation. The joys that I once knew before I came to assume my office are but a distant memory, a bittersweet fragment of a life that once was, fragile and brittle. The joys I once knew I see now only as if from a great distance, or as if through a dark and strange mirror. Nightwing, you require a teacher greater than I. You are fortunate, for there is a man that I think will serve you better than I ever could, if he is willing. He knows the joys of life, for he is but recently returned to it, and so savors it. I have faced him once before, and know him to be without evil. He is a man with a great sense of honour, despite the blackening of his name. [A pop begins to grow as a spotlight hits a figure standing in the aisle. The pop gets louder as everyone begins to realize who it is. Requiem points to the man and continues.] Nightwing. See if the Highwayman will give meaning back to your life. TD: Requiem won't take Nightwing's life, but he may have found a way to end his suffering. That's what the spirits told Nightwing: One will come to end your pain. SR: I need some Jack Black and biscuits to end my pain right now. [Nightwing turns to see his friend in the aisle, but he gives no indication of leaving the ring. Suddenly, Chiquoit lands on the turnbuckle and cries out. Nightwing nods and steps from the ring, looking back at Requiem and giving a nod of understanding. He joins Adam Smith, the Highwayman, and they walk slowly to the back and Chiquoit flies overhead. A pop begins as members of The Choir begin a "Req - uiem! Req - uiem!" chant.] TD: Requiem not only helped Nightwing here tonight, he's endeared himself even more to these great fans. SR: Oh yeah, throw away a sure win and these morons love it. Peoples is so stupid! [The pop continues ass Requiem drops the microphone and turns back to his corner. Suddenly, the lights flicker several times in the Coliseum. Requiem stops and turns back toward the middle of the ring.] TD: Uh-oh, we've seen this happen before. SR: Deathbringer is in the house! Get out here and kick some butt, corpse boy! Give us Birthday Bash a few weeks early! [Requiem stands in the ring for several seconds, but the lights return to normal and Deathbringer does not appear. He casually leaves the ring. Gabrielle appears furious, yelling at her brother in her strange language. Requiem ignores Gabrielle, takes up his night black guitar and plays "The Music Of The Unknowingly Damned" as he makes his way back up the aisle accepting cheers from The Choir.] TD: Apparently, Nightwing is not among the unknowingly damned and the battle between Requiem and Deathbringer will have to... hey, on the video wall! [As Requiem and Gabrielle approach the top of the aisle, a shot of Deathbringer flashes onto the video wall. Requiem ceases his playing and merely stares at the figure, with Deathbringer meeting his stare. No words are spoken, but they seem to be exchanging volumes with their glares. Then the video wall goes black and Requiem merely nods at Gabrielle as they continue to the back.] SR: What was that all about? TD: Only Deathbringer and Requiem seem to know for sure. Is Deathbringer unhappy that Requiem spared a mortal's life here tonight, or does it go even deeper between these two? Maybe we'll find out in the coming week. Right now, it's time for us to get back to more action -- and we're about to see a big one here. SR: If I had a nickel for every time... TD: Will you stop? SR: Ain't be likely. I'm hot -- haven't you heard? So hot, I'm sticky sweet. From my head-head-head... to my feet, yeah. TD: You just get stranger and stranger, Steve Roberts. SR: Do you take sugar, Dross? TD: No one understands what you're talking about, Steve. [Roberts starts wildly waving one arm around the broadcast table, as if playing the drums.] SR: One lump or two?! TD: Let's get to ringside. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= NON-TITLE GAUNTLET MATCH: =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= "Sychosys" Joe Petrow vs. The White Phoenix ------------------------------------------- WRITER: JJ [Sparkplug Lee gives a thumbs up to two young ringside fans who are holding a rather dynamic looking sign reading: "Brother... Brother... Brother... Leapin' Larry Morton is... Toooooo sweeeeeet!", and then takes the mic:] SL: The following non-title contest is a very special "Go For The Gold" Gauntlet match! [Big crowd pop.] SL: Introducing first, at a weight of 227 lbs... currently residing in Tokyo, Japan... the man who is about to Run the Gauntlet... "Sychosys" Joe Petrow! ["Dance on a Volcano" by Genesis is supplemented by a lonely bottle rocket firecracker which tepidly goes off in the ring, leading to a sarcastic, "Ooooooohhhh", by the Sycopaths. Petrow walks the aisle in an old Minnesota North Stars hockey jersey and green trunks, still affixed to his right hand is the golden IIWF gauntlet.] TD: This is the type of situation a reasonable man would look to avoid, Steve Roberts, being stuck in a contained space with Crazy Joe Petrow when he has a metal hand... the man is liable to snap. SR: Don't worry, buddy. I'm here to protect you. If Petrow wants to cause trouble, he's gonna have to... hell, I don't know, probably what, give me twenty bucks. But unitl that happens -- he won't lay a hand on you. TD: How comforting. [Petrow is reluctantly giving up his right-gloved gauntlet to be placed on the timekeeper's table as Sparkplug Lee retakes the mic:] SL: And his opponent... [Big pop as the gong and the cry of the war eagle is heard.] SL ...weighing 220lbs, and currently residing in San Francisco, California... the IIWF Cruiserweight Champion... "The White Phoenix" Shinja Chow! [Chow briskly walks to the ring, slapping the hands of ringside fans before he enters. The Phoenix hops to the midbuckle, and points up to the ceiling of the IIWF Coliseum... which is immediately set ablaze, a ring of fire quickly forming and then disappearing at the top of the arena. Big frightened pop!] TD: Well, I certainly hope we've filled our fireworks quota for this match. SR: Hey, Dross! The roof -- the roof is on fire... we don't need no water let the moth... TD: [interrupting] Steve Roberts, enough of that. SR: Dammit, Dross, when are you gonna let me be hardcore? I've got shirts to sell! You're keepin' me down, buddy. [The referee signals for the opening bell: Ding! Ding! Ding! Petrow and Chow lock up, Petrow quickly sending the Phoenix into the ropes. Petrow drops to the mat and Chow passes; Petrow is up and leapfrogs the Phoenix -- who springboards and strikes Petrow with an elbowsmash that staggers Sychosys. Pop! The Phoenix quickly Irish whips Petrow... and tries a hiplock takeover -- blocked -- Petrow whips Chow farside and greets him with a sharp armdrag takeover... and another armdrag takeover... Petrow bars the arm... Phoenix breaks with a series of flipping rolls into an armbar of his own. Chow then hops to the top rope, still holding on to Petrow's arm and takes Sychosys to the mat with a head scissors takeover that snaps Petrow's neck! Big pop!] TD: Lightning fast start to the match, Steve Roberts. That's the big question here: can Joe Petrow really match up with the aerial expertise of a man like the White Phoenix? SR: Now, the White Phoenix is which one again? [The Phoenix allows Petrow to rise... but hits him with snap/reverse snap kicks to the right knee. Pop! Petrow stumbles... and is then whipped farside -- reverse -- Chow drops his head... catching Petrow with a high backdrop that sends Sychosys... to his feet! Pop! Petrow flew high from the backdrop but was able to gather himself in the air and then snaps Chow's head back with a reverse crescent kick when the Phoenix turns around! Pop! Chow is up quickly and each man bounces off his near ropes, then off the far ropes, then to the middle of the ring where Petrow catches Chow in a giant swing that sends the Phoenix flying into the corner with frightening velocity! Pop! Chow hops to his feet, unbowed, and races to Petrow who leapfrogs... waistlocks... and brings Chow down hard for an atomic... asspump. Huge Sychotic Pop!] SR: Now, that is a fine technical maneuver, Dross, Petrow's patented side Russian asspump. Forget widdle Wonnie Paris... and believe me, Dross, after her "close encounter" with the "L'il Soundbiter", Maggie May already has... he ain't got nothin' on me or Petrow. The crowd loves it, Dross. TD: I guess that would be an ass-pop, Soundbite. [Petrow dives for a cover... 1 -- 2 -- kickout by Chow. Petrow pulls the Phoenix up and Irish whips him... the Phoenix comes back with an armdrag takeover and then a thrust kick. With Petrow momentarily, just momentarily, off balance, Chow is able to unleash a volley of kicks all seemingly directed at Petrow's legs. Chow lands two snap kicks to the knee... a thrust/reverse/thrust to the same knee... and then, with Petrow wobbling, seemingly moving not so much out of a strategic need as simply to escape the onslaught -- The Phoenix nails him with consecutive low drop kicks... and then a drop toe hold into a cover... 1 -- 2 -- NO! Petrow is barely able to lift a shoulder!] TD: Oh, the Cruiserweight Champion is so tough. If you can match his quickness, he still has the martial arts ability to drive you down... and look what he's doing now, Steve Roberts. Look at Chow with the single leg grapevine on Petrow! Shinja Chow is really working over that knee of Joe Petrow! SR: Get up, Petrow! Ya got more ass to pump! [Chow is wrenching the right knee of Petrow, really thrusting back now in a half crab that has Sychosys biting down on his lower lip. The Sychopaths are on their feet, asking Petrow for a little more... asking that the Gauntlet not defeat him just yet... and Petrow reaches the ropes.] TD: Petrow stays alive... you know, Steve Roberts -- we've all been assuming that Joe Petrow would make it deep within this gauntlet challenge, perhaps all the way to that elimination match... but the way it looks right now, Shinja Chow could spoil everybody's plans. SR: Shinja Chow... that name sounds vaguely familiar... does he clean my shirts, Dross? Calgon... take me away! [The official asks for a clean break, which the Phoenix gives, and Petrow is up and hobbling around the ring. Chow bounces off the backrope... into a baseball slide of the leg that drives Petrow underneath the bottom rope and onto the apron. The Phoenix leaps to the top rope -- and then to the outside, snapping Petrow's head against the apron as he falls to the floor! Big Pop!] TD: Petrow is in trouble... Petrow is in deep trouble. Chow's gonna set up for a Phoenix Strike on the outside! [Chow whips Petrow into the Spanish announce table, then sets up a chair between the apron and the prone Petrow. The Phoenix is like a cat, darting so quickly up to the apron, using it as a launching pad... then bounds off the chair with his mid-air flip... he lets out a scream as he whirls around with his spinning Phoenix Strike... but Petrow is remarkably able to grab the spinning leg with a Dragon Screw and whirl the Phoenix 360 degrees in mid-air and send him flying... whipping... clean into the base of the apron! Big Pop! Petrow then moves rapidly, pushing his way past the pain of his obviously damaged leg. He reaches Chow, who is laid out, applies a front facelock... and bulldogs him off that chair, leaving the Phoenix knocked out on the floor! Big big Sycho-pop!] TD: Remarkable! Remarkable! That's the kind of fighting spirit we've seen out of Joe Petrow over the last several weeks. We saw him defeat Dan Kauffman in tremendous technical matchup... SR: Hooray! [Petrow pauses for a moment... and then, as if realizing what he has to do, begins to climb the ropes...] TD: We saw him break himself in half in that historic Seven Tables of Fear match at Ring Wars III... SR: Well, he broke Bulldog Brown in half, at least. Rest in peace, big man. You still owe me fifty bucks. [Petrow hits the top rope, gathers himself, and turns his back to the outside...] TD: And we saw him in one of the great moments ever on IIWF Saturday Night survive not only nineteen men, but one man in particular, who many believe, is one of the great wrestlers in this sport, Chris Quigley, to earn this shot at running the Gauntlet. SR: The only guy who thinks Quigley is one of the great wrestlers in this sport is the guy Quigley sees in his bedroom mirror every morning -- I think his name is Troy. [Petrow makes the "triple M" sign... and leaps...] TD: Oh no! Not again... SR: It hurts so good, I can't understand. [Petrow comes crashing down with a Starsault Press -- hitting the Phoenix with a glancing blow... but Sychosys is unable to finish off the revolution -- and poleaxes his already damaged right knee right into the floor. Big pop! The Phoenix is just able to stagger upward... and fling Petrow up into the ring.] TD: We saw it at Ring Wars 3, Steve Roberts... Joe Petrow had this match won, but there is something about this man, something deep inside this man that makes him take... well, foolhardy chances. SR: Inside him? Yeah, they call it schizophrenia, Dross. This guy's nuttier than a sperm bank on double deposit day. [The Phoenix is spent, his head seeming to be _dented_ almost, from that blow to the apron. He kneels down... but does not cover -- instead grabbing Petrow up by his hair and Irish whipping him into a driving shin kick to Petrow's inner upper thigh that sends Sychosys screaming like an animal to the mat.] TD: Oh, that's bad. That is bad... Chow caught him with a kick right on that nerve. Oh, that is bad... Petrow looks like he has been shot, Steve Roberts. Petrow is in a bad way... [The Phoenix now seems to be gaining just a bit of energy... enough to pick up Petrow again and drive him to the mat with a waistlock suplex, leaving him flat out in the middle of the ring. Chow then begins to make his way to the top rope... the Phoenix is going to the top rope...] TD: He's going for the moonsault, Steve Roberts! If he hits this, you can put it in the record books -- this Gauntlet challenge is over... [Chow collects himself as Petrow begins to stir... Chow turns around and leaps...] TD: He hit it! Stick a fork in Petrow -- he's done! [Chow covers as the official moves into position... 1 -- 2 -- ] TD: NO! NO! Petrow kicks out! He kicked out! [The Phoenix looks completely shocked as he stares down at the upturned shoulder of Petrow... Chow shakes his head and picks up Petrow again -- Irish whip, they meet in the center of the ring... Petrow grabs a facelock...] TD: He's got him locked up! Joe Petrow's gonna try his Bullet Train From... No... NO! [Chow counters with a rollover and a swinging neckbreaker that leaves Petrow out again! Chow leaps up, Petrow somehow finding the strength to stand, Chow springboards off the top... leaping to Petrow's shoulders for a hurricarana... and Petrow catches him! Petrow catches him and sets him up...] TD: For the Knightmare! He's got Chow up for the Knightmare! SR: His leg's buckling, Dross! Petrow can't keep him up! [Petrow careens across the ring, Chow high above... trying to set himself to drive the Phoenix into the mat... Petrow backs up near the ropes... Petrow's back is to the ropes... Petrow is set! Petrow is set to send...] TD: OH MY! [The fans behind Petrow scream "Look out!", but too late to prevent Petrow from falling as if his spine were surgically ripped clean from his body, doing a header in the middle of the ring and being covered by the White Phoenix...] TD: I DON'T... IT'S STEVE KOWALSKI! SR: And -- he brought a toy. [The official moves into position, trying to avoid the blood which is now spurting from Petrow's shoulder and counts... 1 -- 2 -- 3! Ding! Ding! Ding!] SL: Your winner... as a result of a pinfall... "THE WHITE PHOENIX" SHINJA CHOW! TD: Do you see that, Steve Roberts? Steve Kowalski has that gauntlet! He just hit Joe petrow in the back with that IIWF gauntlet... oh, that is just wrong. SR: Looks like somebody else is about to get asspumped, Dross. [The Phoenix staggers to his feet, not seeing Kowalski and the gauntlet until it's too late... and catches the blow to the forehead as he turns around -- slicing the Cruiserweight Champion open wide and deep on the canvas! Slightly nauseated Pop! Kowalski dumps the gauntlet, and the official, outside.] TD: Fans, on behalf of the IIWF, I apologise for the graphic nature of this scene. We need some help out here... SR: Wow, look at all that blood! Somebody get a sponge! [Kowalski stands above the two stunned, bleeding wrestlers and signals for the microphone, which is thrown into the ring by the ring announcer. The Fury catches it, and nudges each downed athlete with his boot before speaking.] SK: I was so caught up in this fine match, I had to jump in! "Crazy" Joe, yer gauntlet is over! [Kowalski proceeds to kick the dazed Petrow in the head. Huge heel pop. The Sychopaths, in particular, are going crazy, and security are forced to blockade some over-zealous fans from leaping over the crowd barrier into the ring.] TD: [over the headset] I can't believe it! This fine athletic contest marred by a totally uncalled-for attack from Kowalski. SR: [over the headset] Yeah... ain't it great? [Kowalski turns back to the Cruiserweight Champion.] SK: And you... I guess my message wasn't clear 'nuff. Let me _drive_ it home fer ya! [The crowd goes wild because they know what is coming next. Kowalski hooks both of the White Phoenix's arms, hoists him up and catches his head between his knees, before dropping Chow, head first, to the chants of "SKULLPUMP!", leaving blood spattered all over the canvas. Kowalski wipes the blood from his own tights. Huge heel pop!] SK: Sign the match, ya litte chan, or this'll be the usual on Saturday night fer ya. [The New Jersey Nightmare strolls over to Petrow and grabs the man by the hair. Petrow is still bleeding from the shoulder, his back dripping with blood.] SK: Don't worry, Joe. I'm doin' ya a favor. Once I'm the Streamline champ, ya'll get a title shot at the IIWF's Birthday party! [Kowalski drops Petrow back to the mat. Kowalski waves to the fans, who are booing him unmercifully -- except the Furies, who are going ballistic.] SK: Later, kids. I'm outta here! [Kowalski steps through the ropes and jumps to the floor from the apron, deliberately walking as close as he can to the flailing arms of the restrained Sychopaths without getting dragged into their heaving mass. He laughs at them before heading up the aisle.] TD: What a disgusting display from Kowalski! SR: I kinda liked it, Dross. Look at the mess out here! [As Kowalski departs, a security team and a number of officials make their way down to ringside to assist the Phoenix and Petrow from the ring. Arriving at the ring with towels, two officials help the Phoenix to his feet, and blot his wound with the towel before assisting him back up the aisle. Petrow, however, does not appreciate the assistance, and after being helped to his feet, limps out of the ring under his own steam, dripping blood from the deep laceration on his shoulder. The crowd applaud him as he drags himself up the aisle, favouring his right leg and clearly in great pain.] TD: Both of these men are going to need medical assistance backstage to patch them up -- and Kowalski could well need medical assistance when these two athletes get their hands on him. SR: You think the Fury's scared of Crazy Joe or the Phoney, Dross? Then you've got another thing coming. [The ring is cleared, and ring staff begin trying to mop up the blood that has stained the canvas. Cut back to the announcers' table at ringside.] TD: So Joe Petrow's Gauntlet challenge ends right here tonight, thanks to Steve Kowalski. Petrow had a chance to become the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, and that was snatched away from him by the Fury. You've got to... hang on! [Suddenly the arena lights drop and a buzz runs through the crowd as a red spotlight focuses on the enormous video wall. The crimson letters then explode out of the darkness: "ANYONE... ANYWHERE... ANYTIME..." Mammoth mixed pop as the powerful rookie Creed then appears on the video wall, his red glove dangling at his side...] CREED: Got a few things to say. Takin' a few minutes to say 'em. Figure if it's okay for Quigley, it's okay for me. Heard from my man "The CEO" that 'cause of the way I smacked Casey James' tired ass all over the ring last week, that I've been named number one contender for the Intercontinental Title. [Big pop!] And I'm gonna get that title shot... on May 10th at Birthday Bash, when I will beat up Lord Byron just like I did the last time. [Again, the fans, both of Creed and Byron, Pop.] But 'fore that, I got a proposition for every single man in the IIWF. Y'all know that I got some kind of record unbeaten streak -- that I ain't lost to nobody in twelve straight matches, that the wrestler with the number one record in the whole IIWF ain't the Deathbringer no more... It's Creed. It's all about Creed. I could protect it. I could sit back like some guys 'round here, fight some has-been, go nowhere punks and just wait for Birthday Bash. But I ain't built like that. It ain't a slogan -- I have fought, and I will fight... Anyone... Anywhere... Anytime. [Big pop as the crowd begins to grab the gist of the rookie's comments.] So, here's the way it's gonna be. Between next week and Birthday Bash, I am putting up my title shot. If anyone in this whole fed thinks he can beat me, thinks he can end my twelve match streak, then come get some. Beat me -- you get the shot. Any damn one of you. Simple. That includes you, Psycho. You want to call me a coward, a man who looked you straight in the eye and dropped your ass on the mat? I accept your challenge for next Saturday Night... you want Creed? You got Creed. Don't care who it is... Verhoeven, Starks, Thunder... Anyone... I got nothin' for or against any damn one of you. Some guys here can go, some guys can't. I'll beat any of them. It ain't personal... it's just business. My business. You want a shot? Anyone of you want a shot? All you gotta do is go through me. You want some, IIWF? Come get some. [Creed returns the black mouthguard to his mouth, cockily waving the red glove as the shot fades. Huge pop! Cut back to the announcers' table at ringside.] TD: Well, what a challenge issued by Creed to the whole of the IIWF right there! The red-gloved rookie is certainly the hottest talent in the federation at this moment in time, and people are going to be queuing up to knock him off his pedestal -- particularly with the added incentive of a shot at Intercontinental Champion Lord Byron. SR: You'd better believe it, Dross. I just hope somebody a little more worthy than the Subway Stinker steps up to the plate. TD: That promises to be a tremendous match right here on IIWF Saturday Night next week: Creed takes on his one-time tag team partner, the man he powerbombed and left to the vultures of the Syndicate last week, the Subway Psycho! Anyway, folks, enough about the future -- let's get straight back to tonight's action. Mad Dog Watkins, still sporting the cast on his right arm after that match with Creed at Ring Wars III, battles the impressive newcomer Highwayman. Let's get back up to the ring. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Mad Dog Watkins vs. Highwayman -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: SG [Sparkplug Lee steps into the ring and buffs his scuffed shoes on his trousers nervously.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first... ["Stand and Deliver" kicks in over the PA to a big pop from the crowd] ...hailing from Leeds, England, and weighing in at 304lbs, here is Adam Smith... the Highwayman! [Highwayman walks down the aisle to a huge pop with a single red rose in his left hand, and his canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He looks in the direction of Dross.] SR: Looks like you're going to get a little something from the Highwayman, Dross. [Dross moves uncomfortably in his chair. As the Highwayman moves closer, a smile appears on the Highwayman’s face as he sees Dross adjust his tie and looking nervous. The Highwayman reaches the broadcast desk and extends the rose towards Dross, but just keeps going and hands a rose to a beautiful brunette woman sitting directly behind the announcers' table. She smiles and blows a kiss to the Highwayman, who pretends to catch it. Dross carefully grabs a towel and wipes his brow. The Highwayman looks at Dross and shakes his head.] SR: [laughing] Dross thought he was getting a rose from the Highwayman! TD: I thought I was going to get one so I could pass it on to my wife! SR: Sure you were. Heh. [Highwayman climbs into the ring and raises his canvas bag to the crowd, who immediately begin to clamour for its contents. Highwayman tosses a few cap pistols and foam three-cornered hats into the crowd, where they are eagerly swallowed up. Highwayman places the sack in his corner, and begins to limber up as Sparkplug Lee raises the microphone once more:] RA: And introducing his opponent... ["Paint It Black" kicks in over the PA to a heel pop] ...hailing from Detroit, Michigan, and weighing in at 289lbs, here is... Mad Dog Watkins! [Mad Dog comes through the curtains to a big heel pop and looks straight at the ring. He ignores the jeers of the crowd as he makes his way down the aisle, patting his right arm, still encased in a plaster cast, his gaze fixed on the Highwayman in the ring.] SR: Looks like someone is here to create some havoc tonight. TD: Watkins certainly looks focused for this match. I have to say, Steve Roberts, both of these men have tremendous records. On paper, this one looks like it'll be close. [Mad Dog makes it to the ring and the Highwayman allows him through the ring ropes.] TD: Always the good sportsman is the Highwayman. [Collar and elbow tie-up, both men are jockeying for position with the Highwayman pushing Mad Dog toward the corner, Mad Dog breaks it and takes it back to the centre of the ring. Collar and elbow tie-up again; Highwayman sidesteps and brings up a knee. Watkins crouches over as the Highwayman hits him with two double axehandles in the lower lumbar region.] SR: The Highwayman looks to have a bit of a game plan here. TD: Watkins must be still be sporting some injuries after the Ring Wars match against Creed. He still has a cast on that right arm. SR: Gee, I wonder whether Watkins will use it as a weapon, Dross? TD: That wouldn't surprise me in the slightest, Steve. [The Highwayman pulls Watkins up and puts him in a headlock. Highwayman takes him to a corner and then executes a bulldog. Big pop!] TD: This match could be over very quickly if the Highwayman keeps with this gameplan. SR: Watkins is one strong son of a gun. I wouldn’t count him out just yet. [Highwayman locks on a sleeper hold right in the centre of the ring. Watkins struggles, his arms flailing and his legs kicking, but he begins to slump to the mat.] TD: It could be bedtime for Watkins right now. This match is as good as over! [Watkins drops to his knees, and Highwayman’s chin crashes hard into the skull of Mad Dog Watkins. Highwayman grabs his mouth and flails in pain after the stun gun. He hits the mat, and looks at his hand, which is stained with crimson.] TD: It looks like the Highwayman has bitten his tongue! Is that blood coming out of his mouth? SR: It sure is, and about time too. It looks as if Mad Dog will have the last say in this one! [Watkins finally gets up and sees the Highwayman writhing. The wily veteran goes straight to work, slapping an armbar on the Highwayman. Watkins picks him up and slings him into the ropes. Clothesline by Watkins, he picks him up, shoulderbreaker. Watkins quickly follows it up with an armwringer. Highwayman reaches the ropes with his leg, and the referee breaks it just as Watkins drops a knee on the Highwayman;s shoulder. Watkins get a warning from the referee. Highwayman slowly gets up and spits some blood onto the canvas. The official checks the Highwayman to see if he wants to continue. The Highwayman, obviously in pain, slowly nods.] TD: Watkins is really working on that right arm of the Highwayman. SR: You know something, Dross? You should give more credit to Mad Dog Watkins -- he's a great wrestler. He's obviously working over that arm and shoulder so the Highwayman can’t do the Daylight Robbery neckbreaker. TD: Perhaps it's _you_ I should be giving more credit to, Steve. For once, you actually seem to know what you're talking about. SR: Damned right I do, Dross. That's why I earn more than you do! TD: You do not! We get the same wage! SR: Have you heard of fringe benefits? How do you think I got that new Condo in Florida? TD: Yeah, right. [Watkins hits the Highwayman with a big European uppercut, but the Highwayman doesn’t go down. Watkins Irish whips his oppponent into the corner and follows it up with a big forearm, using the cast. The Highwayman is laid out. The referee again warns Watkins. The crowd gives a buzz as Watkins points to the aisle.] TD: It's Brody Thunder! What's he doing here? SR: Just browsing the concessions stand. TD: I don't see a concessions stand in the aisle. SR: Guess he must have lost it, huh? [The official turns around and sees Thunder. Watkins immediately drops an elbow to the back of the neck of the Highwayman, before turning him over and trying to pin him -- 1 - 2 - kickout! BIG POP!] TD: Where did he find the strength for that? SR: When you're a few centuries old, as the Highwayman claims, you'd have to have some strength somewhere. [Watkins remonstrates with the referee, claiming a slow count. Watkins then picks up the Highwayman and whips him into the ropes, Highwayman ducks a clothesline attempt and tries one of his own on the return. Double clothesline!] TD: Both men are down! Watkins may have got the worst of that -- he landed right on the back of his head. This could be the break that the Highwayman needs. [The referee counts both men down on the mat - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - Highwayman is awakening, Watkins hasn’t moved - 6 - 7 - Highwayman rises to one knee, breaking the count. Thunder moves cautiously toward the ring. Highwayman picks up Watkins as the referee moves towards Thunder to send him from the ring area, thus turning his back on the ring. Watkins deliberately hits the Highwayman with a low blow behind the official's back, and then clobbers the Highwayman over the head with his plaster cast. The Highwayman slumps to the mat like a sack of potatoes. Big heel pop!] TD: Oh, did you see that? SR: Quick, someone call the Vienna Boys Choir -- you have a new recruit! TD: Will you stop?! The Highwayman could be out cold! Something ought to be done about that cast! [The referee turns and sees the Highwayman laid out, nauseous from the blow to his "midsection" and stunned by the blow to the head. Despite his suspicions about what happened, he is powerless to do anything as Watkins drops the elbow once again on the helpless Highwayman. Watkins drags him into a corner and climbs to the second rope.] SR: He’s setting him up for the Samoan drop. Every Dog Has His Day, Dross, and the Highwayman's had his! This match is over. TD: No! Don't let it end this way -- Watkins nailed the Highwayman with that cast! SR: That cast is legal, Dross! It's legal! This is great! [Watkins executes the fallaway slam and and attempts to pin the Highwayman. The Mad Dog hooks the leg nonchalantly as the referee makes the count - 1 - 2 - 3! Ding! Ding! Ding! Huge heel pop! Watkins stands and snatches his arm away from the official as he tries to raise it in victory. Watkins immediately looks down at Thunder, who is still at ringside.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner: Mad Dog Watkins! [Brody Thunder gives a very sarcastic fairy clap as Watkins slides out under the ring ropes. Both men stare at each other, face to face, each jawing at the other, but the microphones fail to pick up their words.] TD: This situation could quickly degenerate into something ugly. SR: I bet that's what your wife said on your wedding night! TD: That's a lie! Will you be serious? [Both men continue to stare at each other as IIWF officials and the Jobber Justice Squad try to force the two men apart. Thunder is jockeyed away but doesn’t take his eyes off Watkins. Watkins raises his arms in victory before heading up the aisle himself, leaving the stunned and bloody Highwayman in the ring. The official helps the Highwayman to his feet, and the Englishman groggily wipes the blood from his mouth.] TD: It looks like the Highwayman has escaped without serious injuries here, but that nasty bitten tongue is going to need some medical attention, and they'd better check him for concussion while they're at it. What a disgusting display by Mad Dog Watkins. SR: Will you get over yourself, Dross?! Watkins knows what he has to do to get a victory in the cut and thrust world of the IIWF, and he does just that. Clobber a guy in the cahoonas, and then knock him over the noggin. Easy as that. Always worked for me. TD: Something tells me that the Highwayman is going to want another shot at Mad Dog Watkins. SR: Well, he's going to have to get in line, Dross. Watkins has a date with Brody Thunder at Birthday Bash, and he's also been challenged by "Meals on Wheels" Luke Steele to a match right here next Saturday Night. [The Highwayman is assisted up the aisle by the official to a big ovation from the crowd. Cut back to the announcers' table at ringside.] TD: Well, folks, what tremendous action we've seen here tonight already, and there's plenty more to come. Without further ado, let's get straight back up to the ring, as we see the third of those three men who dominated last week's battle royal. We've just seen Mad Dog Watkins and Brody Thunder, and now it's time for former Intercontinental Champion, Steve "the Fury" Kowalski, to showcase his talents as he goes up against a fellow New Jersey native, "Badboy" Randy Acorn. SR: Something tells me we're not going to see a great deal of cameraderie between these two guys, Dross. TD: You could very well be right, Steve. Let's get back up to Sparkplug for the introductions. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Steve "the Fury" Kowalski vs. Randy Acorn =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: RD [Sparkplug Lee stands in centre ring, dreamily staring off into space. A scrumpled-up piece of paper comes flying out of the crowd and hits him on the head, breaking his reverie of long-gone IIWF ring girl Lisa.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, hailing from Newark, New Jersey and weighing in at 227 lbs, here is the "Badboy" Randy Acorn! [Moderate mixed pop for Acorn as he jogs down the aisle, some of the crowd cheering his change of attitude, others remaining unconvinced.] SR: What's with Acorn soaking up the crowd cheers? Hasn't his killer instinct been depleted enough already? TD: Randy is making a concerted effort to stay within the rulebook these days, Steve. He should be commended. SR: What's the point in being a goody-goody when you can't win the big bouts? Hey, if you're out of form, just up the cheating level; that's the Soundbite way. RA: And his opponent! Also hailing from Newark, New Jersey, weighing in at 268 lbs; here is Steve "the Fury" Kowalski! [Tremendous heel pop as Kowalski heads down the aisle. Some of the more hardcore fans, however, yell encouragement to the "New Jersey Nightmare".] TD: And here's the man who brutalised both the White Phoenix and Joe Petrow less than an hour ago. Here's the man who ended the Gauntlet challenge of Joe Petrow, and tried to end his career. Hang on... who's that?! [Suddenly the crowd gasps as Joe Petrow rushes down the aisle, limping as fast as his strapped and braced right knee will carry him. His right shoulder bears a bandage covering the wound inflicted on him earlier in the evening, now closed by stitches; the "Sycopaths" in the crowd go crazy! Before Kowalski realises what is going on, Petrow grabs hold of him from behind, lifts him up and delivers a spine-jarring "asspump" atomic drop! Big pop! Kowalski howls in pain and drops to the arena floor. Petrow turns and walks back up the aisle as his avid "Sycopaths" attempt to shower him with Mooselips beer and chant "Ass - pump! Ass - Pump!". Petrow retreats backstage gingerly, his gait showing the strains on his injured knee of his dash down to meet Kowalski.] TD: Whoah! Petrow obviously seeking a measure of retribution for Kowalski's dastardly attack earlier in the evening. SR: Hey, will you stop putting down sneak attacks and mindless violence? I don't want you messing around with all the "L'il Soundbiters"' heads. [Randy Acorn immediately vaults to the outside and goes to work over Kowalski, who is writhing in pain at the foot of the aisle. The "Badboy" demonstrates that despite his attitude change he has lost none of his rulebreakers pluck, and stomps viciously on Kowalski's head. Acorn drags the "Fury" to his feet and smashes him into the crowd railings, before rolling him underneath the ring ropes. Ding! Ding! Ding! The bell finally sounds. Acorn enters the ring as Kowalski is staggering to his feet. Kowalski swings a wild roundhouse at Acorn, which whistles past the "Badboy's" nose. Acorn reponds by gouging Kowalski's eyes, temporarily blinding him. The "Badboy" grabs Kowalski by the back of the neck and does further damage by raking his eyes along the top rope. Kowalski grimaces and staggers around the ring clutching at his face, only to be dumped straight into the canvas by an Acorn German suplex.] SR: I don't know what to make of Acorn these days Timmy. One moment he flaunts the rules and gouges dudes in the eyes, the next he executes fine scientific moves like that German suplex. What's going on in the mind of the "Badboy"? TD: Well, Steve, Randy is taking it to the IIWF's rulebreakers the only way he knows how; by fighting fire with fire. [Acorn goes for the cover. 1 - 2 - easy kickout by Kowalski, who is merely stunned but not particularly worn down. Acorn gets up and drops an elbow on the "Fury's" sternum, then goes over to the turnbuckles. He climbs up, onto the second, then the third buckle; ands turns and faces centre ring, where Kowalski is getting to his feet. Acorn launches himself off the top rope with a flying bodypress "Superfly" style, but Kowalski extends his arm well in advance and Acorn leaps straight into the clothesline. Acorn drops like he took a bullet. Suddenly the "Sycopaths" at ringside start up an "Ass - pump! Ass - pump!" chant. Kowalski, clearly riled up leans over the ropes and yells at the fans to "Shut the hell up!"] SR: Heh, heh, that chant has a certain ring to it don't you think? TD: Joe Petrow's loyal fans may well be one of the finest weapons in his arsenal. They'll do anything for their man. The psychological warfare on Kowalski has only just begun. [Acorn crawls over to Kowalski, who is still berating the Sycopaths" to no avail. Acorn rolls up the "New Jersey Nightmare" in a surprise small package! The ref's hand slaps the mat: 1 - 2 - Kowalski kicks out within a hair's breadth of getting pinned! The "Fury" is indeed furious at this turn of events. He approaches the "Badboy", who, perturbed by Kowalski's furious gaze takes a step backwards. Kowalski unloads with a series of pummeling blows to Acorn's head and mid-section, staggering him up against the ropes.] SR: One thing Acorn's gotta' learn is, you don't get the "Fury" mad, 'cause when he gets mad he always gets even! TD: You may be right for once, Steve. SR: What are you talking about, Toupee Tim? The Soundbite is always right! [Kowalski grabs hold of Acorn and blasts him with a belly to belly suplex. Kowalski gets up and begins to rain elbowdrops on Acorn's body... one... two... three... four... Acorn rolls out of the way on the fourth and Kowalski jars his elbow on the canvas! Both men leap to their feet but Acorn has quicker reflexes and strikes Kowalski in the throat with a savate kick. Once again, Acorn rakes Kowalski's eyes and then whips him to the ropes. Kowalski comes bounding back and Acorn levels him with a dropkick. Kowalski is back on his feet and Acorn puts him back down with a hiptoss! The audience gives a surprisingly resounding cheer for this series of maneuvers.] TD: For a guy entrenched at the bottom of the rankings, Acorn is doing remarkably well against Steve Kowalski, who has been ranked among the top five for months. SR: That doesn't mean anything. Kowalski will get bored of playing around and beat Acorn's ass sooner or later. Trust me, the Soundbite is never wrong. [A heel pop rumbles through the crowd as Derek Mota appears at the head of the aisle. He wears a look of supreme arrogance and ignores the fan's reaction, seating himself at ringside where he can observe the match. Acorn shoots his rival a black look, but nonetheless concentrates his attention on Kowalski. He grabs the "Fury" by his hair and drags him to his feet, but Kowalski butts him on the bridge of the nose with his forehead! Heel pop as Acorn totters backwards clutching his face.] SR: That's the difference between these two men Timmy boy. While Acorn was stealing little kid's lunch money at Newark High, Kowalski was on the Jersey mean streets, banging heads with entire gangs. He demonstrated his street fighting savvy right there. You wouldn't know about that sort of thing, Drossy. TD: Whatever. But either way, Derek Mota appearing at ringside can only mean further trouble for the "Badboy". [Kowalski grabs hold of Acorn's hair and deposits him to the canvas with another crippling headbutt. Smirking, Kowalski drapes Acorn's neck over the bottom rope, and steps on the back of his neck. Acorn gags and flails his arms but Kowalski just digs the boot in harder. The ref puts on the count and Kowalski breaks before the DQ limit. He drags Acorn into position, and then executes a crushing powerbomb. Randy's limp carcass lies motionless on the canvas, but the "Fury" has not exacted enough punishment for one day. He drags Acorn to his feet once again and clobbers him with a tremendous uppercut to the jaw. Acorn is sent flying by the force of the blow and tumbles over the top rope.] TD: Kowalski should have pinned Randy right then and there. The longer he keeps Acorn in the match the more risk he is at of falling prey to something sneaky. Acorn is a master of pulling treacherous stunts, no matter what his current attitude is. SR: Aw, come on, Dross! Acorn is as helpless as a little puppy right now. Kowalski just wants to have some more fun. [Seeing his chance, Mota stands and folds up his steel chair. He advances on Acorn, who is staggering to his feet. Kowalski, cottoning on to what is going on outside the ring, immediately gets in the ref's face, putting on a good act of feigning some feeling of injustice. Mota smirks, waiting for the ref to become sufficiently distracted by Kowalski's antics, then blasts Acorn across the head with the steel chair! The crack resounds around ringside and the crowd gives a steady heel pop. Acorn drops to the floor completely comatose. Mota points up at the "Fury" and yells "Here's a step closer to the Cruiserweight title Kowalski!" before turning and heading back up the aisle. The crowd pelts him with paper cups and rubbish as he goes.] TD: What a heinous act of rulebreaking that was! I'm amazed that sort of thing can be gotten away with. SR: Drossy; Acorn was already finished, the chair shot doesn't matter. It was just a little extra something for the "Badboy" to think about. [Kowalski nods in salute to Mota and then leisurely steps through the ropes to approach Acorn. The "Badboy" is laid out at his feet and the "Fury" pauses to raise his fists to the air and drink in the heel heat. Kowalski makes a chopping motion across his neck, signifying that he is about to...] TD: Good grief, no! Kowalski can't Skullpump Acorn on the outside; that could put Randy out of action permanently! SR: [overjoyed] Go Kowalski, go! [Kowalski drags Acorn up, and hooks one elbow, then the other. The jeers of the crowd reach a crescendo as Kowalski skullpumps Acron right onto the arena floor, driving his skull into the ground with ferocious impact. Kowalski takes his time as he rolls the motionless Acorn under the ropes, climbs into the ring, and steps nonchalantly on the "Badboy's" chest for the cover. 1 - 2 - 3! Ding! Ding! Ding! Kowalski raises his fists to the air as the bell rings.] RA: Here is your winner, as the result of a pinfall; Steve "the Fury" Kowalski! TD: What a punishing victory over Acorn that was for the "Fury". SR: Heh, heh. Acorn has some serious soul-searching to do if he wants to revive his fortunes in the IIWF. [Kowalski heads triumphantly back up the aisle, but his victory taste is soured as the "Sycopaths" begin another "Ass - pump!" chant. Kowalski furiously takes a swing at one of the "Sycopaths" who ducks and flips him the bird! The chant continues unabated and Kowalski yells at the fans to shut up all the way backstage. Cut to the broadcasters' table at ringside.] TD: Okay, folks, let's get straight back to the action. Marty Warnett hasn't been in singles action since his controversial defeat at the hands of Lord Byron at Ring Wars III, and he couldn't have asked for a tougher opponent to get back into the swing of things than the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder. Let's get up to the ring for the introductions: =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Brody Thunder vs. Marty Warnett =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: MG [Cut to Sparkplug Lee, who grins nervously and clears his throat noisily before lifting the microphone to his face.] SL: Wrestling fans, this match is scheduled for one fall, with a time limit of twenty minutes. Soon to be making his way to the ring, weighing in at 245lbs and hailing from Cardiff, Wales, here is Marty "Party Maniac" Warnett! [The crowd pops as "Cold Gin" reverbates throughout the IIWF Coliseum's sound system. A grinning Marty Warnett confidently makes his way down to ringside, slapping hands with the fans as he does so. He hits the ring and vaults over the top rope to stand ready in the centre of the ring.] SR: I'm looking forward to this match, Dross. TD: [surprised] Really? SR: Yeah. I never miss an opportunity to see Warnett get his butt handed to him on a silver platter. SL: And his opponent, weighing in at 267 lbs and hailing from "The Town Too Tough To Die" Tombstone, Arizona, here is "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder! [The crowd boos loudly as the theme from High Plains Drifter blasts out. Brody Thunder slowly makes his way to ring side, his eyes fixed on Marty Warnett. A fan holds up a sign reading "Thunder 3:16" but the Lone Wolf ignores it. He reaches the ring, handing his vest and hat to the ring attendant before climbing to the ring apron. Entering the ring he moves to the centre of the ring. Both men commence a stare down. The crowd goes quiet, wondering what the Lone Wolf will do.] TD: This should be a great match, Steve. Both these men are fantastic technical wrestlers. We should see a great range of moves. SR: Whatever. Wake me when Warnett starts getting the hurt put on him, okay? TD: Excuse me? Planning on a quick nap in the middle of a match? SR: No, but Marty's a great answer to insomnia, if you know what I mean. [The bell rings. Thunder smiles evilly and raises an arm, challenging Warnett to a test of strength.] TD: Looks like Marty's going for it. This could be a mistake, Steve. Brody Thunder's no lightweight. [Marty starts to reach up to grasp the arm, but suddenly lashes out with a swift kick to Thunder's knee, followed by a forearm to the face.] SR: That was a surprise. Maybe Warnett isn't as dumb as I thought he was. Oh, wait -- looks like I was wrong ... look's like all he's done is make Thunder angry! TD: Wrong? The great Steve Roberts? SR: You know exactly what I mean, Dross. [Thunder was caught by surprise, but quickly recovers. He looks angry. Grabbing Warnett he lashes out with a flurry of swift rights of such intensity that Warnett is quickly thrown to the floor. Thunder moves in for the pin] TD: This soon into the match? I don't think so, Lone Wolf. SR: Hey, it's worth a try. Warnett could be too busy crying for his mommy to kick out. TD: I don't think so. Marty kicks out with authority, and quickly gets to his feet. Looks like that was Marty's wake up call. [Thunder gets to his feet only to be met with a standing dropkick to the face from Warnett that sends him crashing up against the ring ropes. Warnett moves in with a flying crossbody block that hurls both men over the ropes and to the floor.] TD: Thunder's down, and so is Marty. Looks like that move took a lot out of the Party Maniac. To be honest, Steve, I'm not quite sure of Marty's game plan. Personally, I wouldn't want to be outside the ring with Brody Thunder. SR: Well, you could always rip that rug off and fend Brody off with it. God knows it looks like a rabid ferret. [As the referee starts to lay a ten count on both men Brody Thunder and Warnett stirs. Brody is first to his feet, and scoops Warnett up. Limping slightly, Thunder lurches towards the ring post...] TD: Oh my! Brody Thunder slams Marty Warnett into the ringpost, spine first! SR: Ha! I love it! Does our medical team have a chiropractor, Dross? [Brody Thunder slides into the ring as Warnett writhes in agony outside the ring. The official's count reaches five.] TD: Well, Steve, looks like Brody Thunder is willing to accept a cheap countout victory. SR: Who cares? Far as I'm concerned the Lone Wolf has already done his good deed for the day. [Still writhing, Warnett makes a desperate grab for the ring ropes and pulls himself up. The count has now reached eight. Warnett manages to slide under the bottom rope just as the referee counts nine, only to be met by a big boot to the small of the back from Brody Thunder.] TD: And Brody Thunder moves straight back to the lower back... SR: That's good wrestling, Dross. Thunder's like a shark. He can smell blood and now he's moving in for the kill. Aw, looks like little Marty's hurt. Poor diddums. TD: Wait a minute! Who's that coming to ringside? What the? What do Casey James and Brian Lau want? SR: Probably coming to congratulate Brody. After all, the match is already over 'cept for the fat lady singing, Dross. And I hear your wife can't be here tonight! Ha! I kill me! TD: Well, somebody has to. Wait, Tiger Claw's with them as well. SR: You're a riot, aren't you? Wait a second! That's something you don't see the Lone Wolf do everyday, Dross. [Thunder now has Warnett in a scorpion deathlock, practically sitting on Warnett's lower back. The referee leans in close to Warnett to see if he's willing to submit, but Warnett says nothing. Thunder leans back and Warnett cries out in pain.] TD: With the damage done to his back already Warnett must be in tremendous pain, but he's still not willing to give up. Marty is really showing me something, Steve. SR: He is? What the?! Hey, referee, tell Warnett to put that back in! TD: The old ones are the best, aren't they, Steve? [Crying out in pain, Warnett tries to reverse the scorpion deathlock. There is almost total silence as the crowd looks on with bated breath, waiting to see what will happen...] SR: You must be joking! There's no way he can reverse the scorpion with his back in that condition. [A massive crowd pop! Warnett has reversed the scorpion deathlock!] TD: I cannot believe what I'm seeing, Steve Roberts! He was in that scorpion for close to a minute, and then manages to reverse it? SR: _You_ can't believe it?! _I_ can't believe it! I can't believe that little pipsqueak just did that! Never mind, Brody is too near the ropes anyway. [Brody simply grabs the ropes and the referee orders Warnett to break the hold. Warnett gets to his feet just in time to be knocked down again with a clothesline from Thunder. The crowd boos as Thunder moves in for the pin, but Warnett extends a leg onto the rope. Thunder starts to pick up Warnett, but Warnett suddenly catches Thunder in a schoolboy rollup! Pop from the crowd as the referee dives to the mat.] SR: NO! Come on Brody! [Count - 1 - 2 - kickout!] TD: Narrow escape there by the Lone Wolf, Steve! That should teach Thunder to never underestimate Marty Warnett. SR: Can it, Dross. So Warnett almost gets lucky? So what? [Thunder is back on his feet first as Warnett slowly gets up, still clutching his lower back. Thunder drives an elbow into the back of Warnett's head. Brian Lau, Casey James and Tiger Claw look on from ringside, shouting encouragement.] TD: Oh, this ought to be good! Look who's coming to ringside, Steve! SR: Oh, great! This I needed? [The crowd suddenly pops wildly as the Subway Psycho comes running down the aisle. He is blocked momentarily by security staff, but plunges through them, launching himself like a missile at Tiger Claw. The two begin wildly brawling, with the Subway Psycho seemingly getting the upper hand. Until, that is, Casey James rushes in to assist Tiger Claw] TD: Suddenly it's mayhem here at the IIWF Coliseum, folks! The Subway Psycho is getting doubleteamed by Tiger Claw and Casey James whilst Brody Thunder are Marty Warnett are conducting a full-scale war in the ring! SR: Don't make the Subway Stinker out to be the victim here, Dross! He attacked Tiger Claw! Casey James is just helping to defend his pal! [Thunder & Warnett are now both on a vertical base. Thunder swings a big fist that Warnett blocks, then another that Warnett ducks under. Warnett moves in and around and then...] TD: Belly to back suplex from Marty! That must have taken a lot out of Warnett, but it may have evened the match! Thunder lands badly, on the back of his head. Thunder is out! SR: WHAT?! Wake up Brody, wake up! TD: This is it! Warnett just has to move in for the pin and... [Thunder lies defenceless in the ring, but Warnett is out on the mat also. The referee slowly begins a ten count..] SR: He can't do it, Dross. Warnett is hurt too badly! Brody, wake up! [The count reaches eight...] TD: Well, it's a shame, folks, but it looks like this is going to be a double countout. [The count reaches nine...] TD: No! Warnett sits up almost on the ten count! SR: What? Where's he getting the energy? [Warnett lurches over to Thunder, and drops a big leg across the big man's throat. As Thunder begins to stir Warnett slowly gets back up and drops the leg again, then again.] TD: Three legdrops right across the throat of Brody Thunder, Steve! That could be all she wrote for the Lone Wolf. SR: This is horrible, Tim Dross, just horrible! Brody Thunder is unconscious, defenceless, and Marty Warnett doesn't wait for him to wake up, oh no, he keeps inflicting the punishment. What kind of message does this send all Warnett's fans? TD: How about, "Yeah, I'm a nice guy but don't mess with me or you'll regret it?" SR: Shut up. TD: Well, whatever, that last blow must have woken up the Lone Wolf because now he's getting groggily to his feet. Warnett is waiting, like some kind of bird of prey reading to swoop... SR: Oh, very poetic. [As Thunder finally gets up Warnett moves in.] TD: Stomachbreaker from Marty Warnett! We know what that's a setup for, don't we Steve? SR: Yeah, yeah. The "Hangover". Big deal. There's no way Brody Thunder will fall to a move with a dumb name like that. [Warnett signals for the Hangover as the crowd pops big time. With a surprising turn of speed he climbs the top ropes and is about to come plunging off when ...] TD: What the? Hey, what does Brian Lau think he's doing? [Breaking through the chaotic melee of the Subway Psycho, Tiger Claw and Casey James, Brian Lau jumps up on the ring apron. He begins to point and yell at Warnett. Warnett lightly jumps off the top rope and advances toward Lau. Unbeknownst to Warnett, Thunder shakily climbs to one knee. As Warnett continues to remonstrate with Lau, Thunder is slowly adjusting an elbowpad whilst climbing to his feet. Thunder runs toward Warnett..] SR: The man's a genius! Brian Lau is a genius, Dross! TD: Warnett has just been hit by a HUGE clothesline from a still groggy "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder! Marty is out! SR: Look at the power behind that clothesline! TD: Putting aside the heinous actions of Brian Lau, there's something suspicious about that clothesline, Steve Roberts. If I were IIWF President Daniel Spreadbury I'd want to look closely at that elbow pad. SR: Yeah, right. Liddle Marty gets hit hard and you think big bad Brody Thunder isn't playing fair. Typical. [Thunder drapes himself across the unconscious form of Marty Warnett. The referee makes the three count. Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: Hit hard? Steve, the man just knocked Marty Warnett unconscious with that clothesline! He didn't even have to go for his "Thunderbolt"! SL: Here is your winner, "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder! [The theme from "High Plains Drifter" plays throughout the auditorium as the referee raises Brody Thunder's hand. Snatching it down again, Brody leaps out of the ring and into the melee.] TD: This is a disgrace, Steve! Marty Warnett has obviously been cheated out of a victory, and now there are three men on the outside fighting the Subway Psycho. SR: You call it a disgrace, Dross, I call it prime-time entertainment. I love it! [In the ring Marty Warnett slowly staggers back up, shaking his head. A look of anger crosses his face as he remembers what happened. Crossing over to the ropes he slingshots himself over them into the middle of the melee outside.] SR: Great, now it's two against three. That even up the odds enough for ya, Dross? TD: No, Steve. This fight shouldn't be happening at all. Where's security? Where are the referees? SR: Back in the dressing area taking bets on who'll win, I expect. Dumb move on Marty's part, though. He shouldn't get involved in this. [The Jobber Justice Squad, headed by "Nifty" Ned Norton, swarm down to ringside. They are only partly successful in breaking it up. The combatants fight all the way back to the dressing room area. Cut back to the announcers' table at ringside.] TD: What a war that was. But we must move on: let's go back to last week and take a look at the finish of that tremendous battle royal... [Cut to tape of last week's IIWF Saturday Night: Petrow and Quigley battling to the top rope, each man blocking... the superplex to the outside...] TD: Time and time again we watch this tape, Steve Roberts... and yet we still cannot determine which man won that big battle royal. SR: I wish it was Quigley. TD: Am I hearing this correctly, Steve Roberts? Are you finally coming around on "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley? SR: Heh, Chris Quigley is an overrated punk. It's just that if he had beaten Petrow, he would have gotten his back waxed by Kowalski tonight. TD: Let's get to ringside. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Chris Quigley vs. Dirt Dog Unique Allah =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: JJ [Sparkplug Lee gulps down a Barnacle Brothers' Fat-Free Crabcake, wipes the oily something from his fingers, and takes the mic:] SL: The following contest is set for one fall. Introducing first, being led down the aisle by Medusa Rage... he weighs 238lbs and hails from Brooklyn, New York... Dirt Dog Unique Allah! ["Snakes" gears up as the Unique one begins his ringside walk. He is looking his bedraggled best, his denim coat sporting numerous red stains of undetermined origin. Dirt Dog is holding what appears to be a flaming cocktail, and as he climbs into the ring and hops to a mid-buckle, he takes out a small flask, marked "Unleaded"... and swigs long from both containers. He raises his arms to the air as the lights in the arena drop, and then just lets the liquid dribble from his mouth, running down his chest to the floor below. "I'm on fire real good, 'Dusa... Yah!" yells Unique as he climbs down from the buckle.] SR: He's nuts, Dross. He's just flat wrong. TD: Fortunately, we had no further pyrotechnics. I think the corporate suits who mandated the additional fireworks may have been misguided. The ceiling above us frankly still looks a little shaky from the Phoenix entrance earlier in the evening. SR: Hey, Dross, what do you s'pose the possibility is that it will fall down and crush Quigley flat in the ring? Hah! Now that's a bump, Dross. [Unique is soundlessly shadowboxing in the ring... until "For Those About To Rock" kicks in over the PA; then he covers his ears with his hands and starts gently rocking back and forth.] SL: His opponent... from Corner Brook, Newfoundland in Canada... he weighs 238 lbs...[Big crowd pop] "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley! [The lasers flash and a boom sounds while the Quickstrike symbol richochets around the arena... leading to Chris Quigley beginning his walk down the aisle. The lean Quigley is in his customary garb and is adjusting a black elbow pad as he reaches the ring. Quickstrike stands upon a midbuckle and salutes the fans -- many of whom stand and applaud; however, many jeer his arrival.] TD: Now, that is an interesting reaction for Chris Quigley. This is a man, Steve Roberts, who has accomplished a tremendous amount in this sport -- but right now there is a cloud which has formed over him... and I think that cloud is his failure to ever have won an IIWF Championship. SR: Loser. Overrated loser. Quigley had his shot, fair and square in the Go For The Gold battle royal -- and just couldn't get it done. He'll never get it done. Not ever. [Quigley approaches Unique, motioning to him for a collar and elbow. Dirt Dog accepts, but as Quigley applies a standing side headlock, Unique begins to loudly whimper, "That headlock is na - sty... na - sty ole' headlock." Quigley is undeterred, and runs Allah to the ropes, which Unique then grabs, and slingshots himself... to the outside. "Quickstrike is a baad man, 'Dusa. He goin' put this doggie in the armbar and it's goin' hurt. Yah!" Quigley stands in the ring, hands now on hips, growing a little more impatient as he waits for Dirt Dog to re-engage.] TD: We have seen this approach from Dirt Dog before, Steve Roberts. His antics often have the effect of frustrating his opponent into making a mistake. SR: Chrissie Kick-Me doesn't need a reason to make a mistake. You just ask Troy. Quigley's sloppy wherever he goes. [Unique climbs back into the ring - and is given plenty of room to so do by Quigley... the two men lock up again... Dirt Dog trying to wiggle free as Quigley moves to an armbar... stepover... and then to a hammerlock takedown that has Unique writhing on the mat. Pop! Quigley jabs an elbow into the back of Unique's neck... applies a sharp facelock... and snaps the neck forward in a modified surfboard that Unique begins to roll with... and Quigley pops out... landing to his feet and then taking a slowly rising Unique back to the mat with a Northern Lights suplex that brings a big pop from his fans. Quigley bridges for a cover... 1 -- 2 -- No. Unique is up... or rather... down on his hands and knees and crawling right out of the ring and then scampering back up the aisle!] SR: Bring me back some biscuits, Dirt Dog. And bring some to Quigley too. He's a little short in that department, from what I understand. TD: Steve Roberts! [Quigley waits again, growing a little more exasperated as Dirt Dog does what appears to be the electric slide in the aisle. Quigley goes outside, breaking the official's count, and yells at Unique to get himself back in the ring. Unique stops his dance and points at his chest in a "are you talkin' to me?" gesture, and then makes a fast dash to the ring. Quigley hops inside and readies himself... Unique leaps inside, without obstruction by Quigley, and then runs right by him into another leap over the top rope and to the apron.] TD: Now, this is going to get on Chris Quigley's nerves. We all know that this man has a temper -- and he has been awfully patient with Dirt Dog thus far. SR: Is that ceiling steady? Can we get the Phoenix back out here to finish the job? No, I guess we can't. How 'bout Serge, is Serge still with the promotion? [Quigley continues to stay calm, slowly moving to the ropes, Unique steps through again. Again Quigley allows him entry, and this time Dirt Dog meets him with a boot to the midsection, doubling Quigley up... and then a swinging neckbreaker takes Quickstrike to the mat! Pop! Unique picks up Quigley and scoop slams him to the mat, then knocks a rising Quickstrike backward with a back thrust kick that staggers Quigley, Unique bounces off the back ropes... and runs at Quigley, who leapfrogs... and sends a superkick at the whirling Dog... caught by Unique! Enzuigiri by Quigley! Big Pop! Quigley drops to cover... and Unique rolls him into a small package for a... 1 -- 2 -- Kickout by Quigley!] TD: How many times have we seen it, Steve Roberts... SR: [interrupting] I've seen it lots of times. TD: Will you stop? How many times have we seen Dirt Dog Unique Allah turn precarious predicaments... SR: [interrupting] Lots of times. All night long. TD: ...into pinfall possbilities? SR: Are you goofy from the bus fumes, Dross? [Dirt Dog and Quigley each rise, Unique giving a smack to Quigley's face on the break... then smacking himself across the face and yelling, "Bad Doggie... Bad Doggie... hitting Mr. Quigley like that." Dirt Dog then extends his hand, offering a handshake to Quigley. Quigley takes a step back, as if coming to a decision... and accepts the handshake. Dirt Dog shakes Quigley's hand heartily, turns to the crowd again, and is nailed with a Quigley lariat between the shoulders! Pop! Quigley quickly lands a series of stomps to Unique's head and then is pushed away by the official. Big mixed pop!] TD: Did you see that, Steve Roberts? Chris Quigley has finally been pushed too far -- he is going right after this Unique Allah now! SR: We're just seeing the real Chris Quigley, Dross -- a guy who is a gutter snake -- a guy who wants to win that IIWF Championship so badly, he'll stoop to anything. A guy I'd almost like, if it wasn't Quigley, that irredeemable punk. [Quigley now moves back, to give Unique another clean break, but he does not -- instead catching him with a roundkick as he rises and then bringing him back to the mat with a gutwrench suplex. Pop! Quigley now bars the arm, locking Dirt Dog in... pressing tight with the Japanese armbar now as he drives Unique's shoulder to the mat. Quigley is in control as he grabs the ropes for leverage! Quigley grabs the ropes, and has his arm knocked away by Medusa! Pop! Quigley stands to confront her... and takes an upward forearm to the groin! Pop!] SR: I took an upward forearm to the groin once. TD: I have no doubt. SR: Best weekend of my life, Dross. [Unique now capitalizes, showing little sign of the trouble in which he has seemingly been, as he drives his head two, three times in the direction of Quigley's midsection... then whips him farside... hitting Quigley with a titl-a-whirl suplex that drives the Canadian hard into the mat! Pop! Dirt Dog picks up Quigley again, sending him for the big ride and then charging... and Chris Quigley backdrops him over the top rope and out to the floor! Pop!] TD: That was big, Steve Roberts... Quigley's gonna bounce off those backropes... into a suicide dive! [Quigley's dive catches Dirt Dog high and the two of them fall near the retaining barrier. Quigley is up first, and thrusts Unique's head... blocked... Unique sends Quigley's head hard into the retaining barrier! Pop! Unique gathers Quigley, whipping him hard into the steel steps. Quigley crashes down and Unique charges... catching a Quigley elbowsmash as he does. It's Quigley with a series of reverse knife edges, Quigley smacking hard at Unique and backing him away. Unique begins to stumble wildly, crazily, his legs seeming to go into some sort of spasm. Quigley hesitates -- and is kicked in the midsection by Unique, who then picks him up into a double underhook piledriver right there on the floor! Big, big pop! "You just been... Doggie Pumped... Whooooooo!,"] TD: Oh my, Dirt Dog is showing us that roughhouse side of his game which was so demonstrably brought out in that brilliant series of matches against Joe Petrow -- remember that strap match, Steve Roberts. Remember how this man can come from such trouble into such command. Dirt Dog Unique Allah is a dangerous individual. SR: So am I if you don't stop this prattling! This match is gettin' good! [Unique tosses Quigley back in the ring, and moves to work on the legs.] TD: Here's where, again, Unique is showing his versatility. Notice how he works the hamstring... look at that textbook half-crab. SR: I'd rather look at the inside of Quigley's cerebellum, Dross. Come on, Dirt Dog -- slice the punk open! TD: Somehow, I don't think that's the first time you've said that, Steve Roberts. [Unique spends what seems like minutes working over the legs of Quigley, even strapping on a figure four that brings two rapid nearfalls and a pounding of the mat by Quigley. But Quigley will not submit, and when Unique moves to a reverse chinlock, Quickstrike is able to power up, get to his feet, and following three battering ram elbows, break the hold. Quigley whips Unique farside, Unique springboarding off for an attempt at a sunset flip takeover... 1 -- 2 -- Quigley kicks out again... and Quigley charges with a clothesline. Unique blocks and gets leverage with a crucifix to the mat... 1 -- 2 -- Kickout! Another nearfall for Unique. Unique with the Irish whip... Quigley reverse... Unique springboards again off the ropes, catching Quigley on the butt of the jaw with a springboard dropkick and covering again... 1 -- 2 -- Quigley kicks out again!] TD: Amazing! We have seen maybe six, maybe seven rapid fire nearfalls for Dirt Dog Unique Allah. Once he was able to get Quigley away from his game, he has really taken it to the Quickstrike! SR: He's gotta finish him off, Dross... he needs to use the finishing move. TD: The Fatal Flying Guillotine? SR: No -- the ringbell to the back of the head. [Dirt Dog, as if hearing Roberts' command... leaps from the ring and runs to the outside, ripping the bell from the timekeeper's table. He attempts to take it to the ring, but has it grabbed away by Medusa, who is trying to explain the meaning of "disqualification" to an obviously confused Dirt Dog, when he is taken down by a split leg moonsault from Quigley who now rocks Allah on the outside with a furious series of rapid right hands! Pop! It is now Quigley who dumps Unique back into the ring, leaping to the top rope, and coming down hard on the then rising Allah with a Lightning Strike and a cover... 1 -- 2 -- No! Quigley picks up and whips Unique into a side suplex and... an inside cradle by Allah! 1 -- 2 -- No! Quigley is out and lands a quick boot, refusing to break clean, and then snap suplexes Unique back to the mat... bridging for a 1 -- 2 -- No! Kickout by Unique. Unique now rises, and is whipped to the buckle, which Unique hits -- but then leaps over to the apron, and then up to the neck of Quigley... who drops straight down to the mat with a jacknife and a cover of Dirt Dog for a 1 -- 2 -- No!] TD: Back and forth and forth and back... These two men are really putting on a show for this IIWF Coliseum crowd. SR: You know what's a show? Cinemax After Dark. This is more like "A Drunk and a Punk at the Ballet." [Dirt Dog staggers upward, whipping Quigley hard nearside into a shoulderblock... Quigley goes down. Dirt Dog whips Quigley again... again Quigley falls with a shoulderblock, Unique moves to snap the neck... and does. Quigley now on the mat as Unique winds up for a big legdrop... and misses! Quigley rolling out of the way! Now it's Quigley with a whip... and a Russian leg sweep which takes Unique hard to the mat! Pop! Now it's Quigley moving to the midrope and dropping an elbow to...] TD: To Dirt Dog's boot! Dirt Dog lifted his leg! SR: You like that line, don't you Dross? [Now it's Unique, with the Irish whip of Quigley into a single leg pickup by Unique as he drops Quigley's neck over the top rope...] TD: NO! Quigley grabs the rope with both hands! Quigley to the apron... Unique to the top. Both men are heading for opposite top buckles! [Quigley and Unique gather themselves on the top buckles on opposite corners of the ring... each man not takin the time to collect himself, each man moving furiously to the rope... and then each man leaps... with a missle dropkick -- each catching his opponent -- and each dropping the other headfirst to the mat! Pop!] TD: These two men are down, these two men are down! SR: There's a count! There's the official's count! [Neither man shows any signs of moving as the official begins to count each man out... 1 -- 2 -- 3 -- 4 -- 5 -- ] TD: Who will get up? Who will be the man who can put this one into the win column? SR: Get in there with the ringbell, Medusa! [Each man's fans are exhorting their respective favorite... the Quigley fans almost desperate in their fervor. Neither man has shown even an inkling to move... 6 -- 7 -- 8 -- ] TD: It's... QUIGLEY'S UP! QUIGLEY'S UP! THERE'S THE COVER! [Quigley slumps over the prone Unique for a - 1 -- 2 -- Ding! Ding! Ding! The crowd pops as Quigley raises his hand in weary victory.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen... the time limit has EXPIRED! This match has been ruled a DRAW! A DRAW! [The crowd is clearly unhappy, and some debris begins to rain down on the ring. Security moves quickly to stop the miscreant behavior. Medusa has taken Dirt Dog from the ring -- leaving only the shocked Chris Quigley, muttering to himself, stirring in his own juice... Quigley clearly burning as he walks over to the timekeeper's table... Quigley grabbing the mic and walking into the ring. Chris Quigley -- the frustration and anger of the past two weeks clearly evident on his face stands alone in the ring, takes a deep breath... and then throws the mic to the mat. Quigley shakes his head -- and exits the ring.] TD: Well, I don't know what Chris Quigley was planning on saying... or why he decided not to say it... SR: Maybe he needs another leave of absence. Maybe he wants to quit like Kauffman so they can spend their days playing skee ball with Troy. TD: Be that as it may... Chris Quigley has nothing about which to be upset here tonight. He and Dirt Dog Unique Allah gave it their all, but after that long battle royal last week, we are on very tight time constrictions here tonight. SR: I think the clock might be a little fast, Dross. Maybe Quigley actually won this match... maybe there _is_ a crazy conspiracy in the front office to keep him from getting that IIWF Championship belt! Maybe he'll never be Champion! I love it! TD: Will you stop? Folks, we've barely got time to catch our breath after that incredible match, because we're heading on to tonight's main event. SR: Hey, Dross, since when did Luke Steele and widdle Wonnie Pawis become main event wrestlers? TD: That's unfair, Steve. These two individuals have been wrestling some very impressive matches since their debuts last December, and tonight, they get their chance to shine in the spotlight. SR: But you just know Paris is gonna bring that horse of a girlfriend. TD: Steve, don't be so rude. Maggie Collins is a lovely young lady. SR: Yeah, right, and Steve Summer can count to ten. TD: [sighs] Let's get back up to Sparkplug Lee for the announcements. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- TOWEL MATCH: -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Ronnie Paris (w/Maggie Collins) vs. "Real Deal" Luke Steele (w/Spur) -------------------------------------------------------------------- WRITER: DS [Sparkplug Lee steps into the ring and raises the microphone to his mouth.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, it's time for tonight's main event! [Big pop!] The following contest is a special towel match. The rules are as follows: there will be no disqualifications, countouts or pinfalls. The match will continue until the appointed cornerman for one of the two athletes throws his or her towel into the ring to signal a submission. [Pop!] Introducing the combatants: first, accompanied to the ring by his fiancee and appointed cornerman, Maggie Collins, hailing from El Paso, Texas, weighing in at 210lbs, here is... Ronnie Paris! [Moderate pop as the rousing chorus of "We Are The Champions" kicks in over the PA system. Paris steps out into the aisle with Collins by his side. They hold hands, and Maggie whispers nervously in Ronnie's ear as they make their way down the aisle, Paris extending his free hand to the fans on his left side, who reach out to touch the Texan.] SR: Would you just look at those two, Dross? Just look at them! They make me sick. TD: I think young love is a wonderful thing, Steve. SR: What would you know about it, Dross? TD: I'm happily married, Steve. SR: Exactly. [Paris holds the ropes open for Collins, who gingerly steps into the ring, clutching the pivotal white towel which will assume great importance in the match to come. Collins holds the towel aloft for the fans to see. They respond with a chorus of cheers. Eventually, Paris whispers a few instructions in Collins' ear, kisses her on the cheek, and helps her from the ring. She takes up position in Paris' corner as Sparkplug raises his microphone again:] RA: And introducing his opponent... ["Black Cat" kicks in over the PA to a mixed pop] Accompanied to the ring by his appointed cornerman, Spur, hailing from Cleveland, Ohio, and weighing in at 275lbs, here is the "Real Deal" Luke Steele! [A corridor of flame erupts in the aisle as Steele enters with the mysterious marked Spur, his cockerel-adorned tights as gaudily coloured as ever, in tow, clutching a colourful towel. The crowd cheers as Steele jogs down the aisle between the walls of sparks thrown up by the pyrotechnics on either side. Spur, however, slinks behind, jawing with the fans at ringside.] TD: You want to talk about odd couples, Steve Roberts -- well, here's the couple that could write the book on it. Luke Steele and Spur, the man who has cost him matches in the past, and who, in fact, first planted the seeds of dissent between the "Real Deal" and Paris some time ago when he first appeared some months ago. SR: Odd couple, Dross? I may not like Steele, but he's got good taste in cornermen. Hey, what's the print on that towel? [Spur enters the ring behind Steele, who removes his red vest and limbers up in the opposite corner of the ring to Paris, not even saying a word to his masked cornerman, who holds the towel aloft, allowing the fans to see the design. Big pop!] SR: Whoa! It's a Becky LaRue bath wrap! TD: Good grief. Is that decent? That's a remarkable likeness. SR: And how would you know about that, Dross? TD: I meant her face, Steve. What a magnificent pair of... of... SR: Hey, Dross, keep your toupee on. TD: ...of athletes, Steve Roberts. Luke Steele and Ronnie Paris are a magnificent pair of athletes. [Spur gathers up the towel, resplendent in its indecency, and ducks out of the ring, but not before taking a few steps towards Paris and giving him a single-finger salute. Paris makes a move to strike Spur, but Collins grabs his ankle from the outside, keeping him in his corner.] TD: Paris needs to be focused on Luke Steele in this match, not Spur. SR: But you see why Steele picked Spur to be his corner man, Dross? He knows that widdle Wonnie might just hate Spur even more than he hates "Oatmeal" Luke Steele. [IIWF head referee Earl Alfonso calls both men into the centre of the ring, gives them a few words of warning, and then signals for the opening bell. Ding! Ding! Ding! Immediately, the two men lock up collar and elbow, and Paris quickly slips Steele into an armwringer, and ducks behind the flailing free arm of his opponent, yanking a little more pressure on the shoulder. Steele slips free of the hold, and reverses into an armwringer of his own, before yanking Paris towards him and felling him with a short-arm clothesline. Pop!] TD: Ouch! That could tear your shoulder right out of its socket right there! SR: Not a bad move from "Squeaky Wheel" Luke Steele. TD: Steele needs to keep his attention focused on one bodypart, and that arm seems the ideal candidate at this early stage... "Squeaky Wheel"?! SR: You got a problem, Dross? You want to face the wrath of the "L'il Soundbiters"? [Steele stomps on Paris' shoulder, and then drops to the canvas, applying a leg scissors on Paris' arm. Paris beats the mat in frustration at having been trapped so early, and Collins looks on anxiously. Meanwhile, in Steele's corner, Spur continues to jaw with fans at ringside. Paris manages to hook one of his legs on the ropes, and the referee calls for the break, which Steele gives. Both men get to their feet, and Paris tries to shake the kinks out of his arm as the two men circle one another again. Simultaneously, the two men lock up once more. This time, Paris ducks out and behind with a waistlock, and then slips him into a half nelson crossface, straining away at Steele's right shoulder and neck. Paris keeps the hold cinched in, despite Steele's attempts to break out with his powerful left arm. The referee checks on Steele, and Paris then slips to one side of Steele and fells him with a front face slam, before sliding over his back and grapevining Steele's leg. Pop!] TD: A nice combination of moves from Paris there! He's the smaller, more agile man in the ring here, no question. [Paris releases the hold after half a minute or so, and allows Steele up to his feet.] SR: Now why did he do that, Dross? Is this guy stupid, or what? TD: No, Steve. I believe Paris is merely demonstrating his skills to Steele at this stage. Both men are testing the other out, so to speak. [Both men lock up in centre ring once more, and this time it is Steele who gets the upper hand, pushing Paris into the ropes. Paris ducks a clothesline on his return, and then leapfrogs a ducked Steele on the next pass, but on the third pass is caught by a belly-to-belly suplex which sends him hard to the mat! Pop! Steele drags Paris straight back to his feet and sets him up for another suplex -- this time it is a slingshot suplex, and Paris is bounced off the ropes and into the centre of the ring with great force! Pop! Paris rolls to the outside, where Collins comes to his aid, wiping his brow with the towel. On the inside, Steele goes to the ropes, but is held from leaving the ring by Alfonso. Paris has time to recover and climbs to the ring apron. Steele makes to suplex him in, but Paris ducks underneath and drives a shoulder into Steele's midsection. Steele backs away from the ropes, stunned, and is then floored by a slingshot flying clothesline from Paris, who launches himself over the top rope and finds the mark! Big pop! Paris rolls to his feet, and helps Steele up to a vertical base, and sends him crashing back to the mat with a kneelift. Paris bounces off the ropes, and drops an elbow across Steele's throat.] TD: Neither man seems able to secure a decisive advantage in this match as of yet. SR: You know what, Dross? I'm bored. I think I'll go find myself a beer. TD: You'll stay right there, Steve Roberts. [Paris grabs Steele's arms and legs, and flips him over into a surfboard submission hold. Big pop from the crowd! Steele's face twists in pain, but Spur simply sits disinterestedly on the bottom step of the steel stairs in Steele's corner, admiring the handiwork on his Becky LaRue bath wrap. Paris arches Steele's back as much as he can with his own arms and legs, trying to make the hold as effective as possible. The crowd cheers both men on, chants of "Real Deal! Real Deal!" clashing with "Ron - nie! Ron - nie!". Paris eventually lets Steele out of the hold, and drags him to his feet, applying a waistlock and compacting his spine with an inverted atomic drop. Pop! Steele staggers backwards, and is then floored by a big clothesline from Paris, who flips his opponent over and applies a cobra clutch, further yanking on Steele's sore lower back. Maggie applauds Paris excitedly from her corner as Steele struggles to reach the ropes -- he is tantalisingly only two or three inches away from freedom. The crowd cheers its encouragement.] SR: "Piecemeal" Luke Steele's in trouble now, Dross. Get ready with that towel, Spur. Throw it into the ring! Even better -- strangle widdle Wonnie with it. [Big pop as Steele finally reaches the ropes. The referee calls for the break, but Paris delays releasing Steele until the official's count has reached four. Paris finally steps away from Steele, but only for a moment, ignoring Alfonso's warning and stomping away at Steele's exposed lower back. Steele drags himself upwards using the ropes, and a well-timed kick from Paris hotshots Steele on the second rope. Steele lies prone, his throat across the rope. Paris runs across the ring, and then jumps on Steele's back, choking him on the ropes and compounding the damage to his back. Mixed pop! Paris goes to perform the move a second time, but this time, Steele ducks out of the way, and Paris flies out of the ring between the bottom and middle ropes. Mixed pop! The referee tends to Steele on the inside, and suddenly, Spur springs into life. Sensing an opportunity, he stalks over to where Paris is lying prone on the floor, and begins putting the boots in viciously. Collins immediately jumps to the apron to attract the attention of the official, but she only serves to invoke exhortations from the referee to leave the apron. Big heel pop as Spur grabs a steel chair and blasts Paris in the small of the back with the hard metal. Spur drags Paris to his feet, shouts something in his face, and then rolls him under the bottom rope back into the ring.] TD: What a disgusting display from Spur! SR: That's a little harsh, Dross. Spur was just wearing in his new boots. TD: Oh, please. Give me a break! [Steele has begun to recover, and drags himself to his feet as Paris is rolled back into the ring. Steele immediately goes to work on Paris' back, nailing him with a series of hard right and left hands. Paris buckles to the mat, and Steele capitalises by applying a Boston crab on the fallen Texan. Paris' face is contorted with the exertion of the hold on his lower back, and he tries to force himself up using his arms and drag himself towards the ropes, a good two feet away. Paris inches forwards, but crumples back to the mat, his head turned towards the nervy Collins, and screwed up in pain. Maggie goes to the side of the ring and begins speaking anxiously to Paris, apparently asking him if he wants to submit. Paris grimaces, but doesn't seem to give a reply. Maggie regards the towel, and looks to be considering throwing it into the ring.] TD: Maggie looks very concerned for her man here, Steve. I think she's going to throw in the towel! SR: I hope so, Dross. The sooner she does, the sooner I can get a beer. [Spur once again stalks around the ring away from his designated corner, approaching Maggie as the referee checks on the pained Paris. Collins backs away from Spur, who makes a threatening gesture towards her. The referee turns and sees Spur advancing on the young lady, and steps out of the ring to order him back to his corner. Spur retreats, while in the ring, Paris drags himself another inch or two closer to the ropes. Collins again looks anxiously at her fiance, contemplating throwing in the towel. She raises the towel above her head, but pauses as the crowd begin to chant, "Ron - nie! Ron - nie!" She turns and looks at the fans, her eyes opening wide as she looks up at the sea of faces, all united in chanting for her fiance. She lowers the towel once more, and turns her attention back to her man. In time with the chant, she beats her hands on the ring apron, encouraging Paris to inch ever closer to the ropes. He is now some ten inches away from being able to break the hold. Steele, however, sensing that Ronnie is nearing freedom, stands and drags Paris right into the centre of the ring. The chants die down, and Maggie begins to look more and more concerned as Steele cranks up the hold once more.] TD: Paris is in the middle of nowhere, Steve. He's stranded in that Boston crab in the middle of the ring, and after the beating his back took from Spur and that chair, he's in no shape to power out of the hold. SR: Throw the towel in, woman! It's over! [Collins, in her anxiety, jumps to the apron, shouting down at Paris, attracting the referee's attention once more. Alfonso turns and orders her down from the apron, giving Spur the opportunity to get involved once more. Grabbing his discarded chair, Spur rolls into the ring, and prepares to drive the chair into the back of Paris once more. The crowd gives a huge heel pop as Steele appears to egg Spur on -- but then the masked wrestler turns and blasts Steele in the left knee with the chair, knocking him to the mat and breaking the hold! Huge confused pop! The referee turns to see Spur sliding out of the ring, and both men lying flat out on the canvas, Steele clutching his knee.] TD: What on earth is Spur doing, Steve Roberts?! Earlier, he attacked Paris outside the ring with a chair, and now he's attacked the man whose corner he's in! I can't believe this! SR: I guess Spur doesn't like either of these guys very much, and I can't say I blame him. I don't like them either. [Spur takes up his position on the bottom step of the ringsteps once more, and mockingly mops his masked brow with the Becky LaRue towel. He continues to jaw with the fans, and pay absolutely no attention to the action in the ring. Steele, gradually recovering, rolls to the outside, and approaches his corner, favouring his left leg. He shoves Spur, who leaps to his feet to confront the "Real Deal". Steele yells, "What the hell do you think you're doing?!", and Spur responds by simply throwing the towel at Steele's face, before launching himself at Steele with a clothesline which knocks him to the mat. Heel pop! Meanwhile, Paris has also rolled to the ropes and dragged himself to his feet using the ropes. He steps out onto the apron, and sizes Spur up. However, as he launches himself with a double axe-handle, Spur nails Paris in the midsection, and Paris crashes to the floor. The referee immediately goes to the outside to force Spur away, who is once again showboating for the fans, a few of whom seem to be warming to him.] TD: What a renegade character this Spur is. I can't believe some of these fans are actually cheering this man. SR: They're the "L'il Soundbiters", Dross, and Spur's received the official Soundbite seal of approval. [Spur stalks around the ring while the referee tends to the fallen Steele and Paris, and approaches Maggie Collins once more. She backs away, her eyes wide, while Spur continues to advance. Paris, meanwhile, has dragged himself to his feet on the other side of the ring, and, alerted to the predicament of his fiancee, dives into the ring, leaps to his feet, and baseball slides out under the bottom rope, hitting Spur hard and knocking him into the steel railings. Big pop! Collins hugs Paris, who is still a little wobbly, and Paris assures her that he's okay, before rolling back into the ring. Steele has also rolled into the ring, and is groggily getting back to his feet.] TD: Spur has been causing absolute chaos in this match, Steve Roberts! SR: Yeah, until Paris knocked him into those railings. Get up, Spur! [The two men meet in the centre of the ring, and Paris attempts to Irish whip Steele into the ropes, but finds the hold reversed, and he is sent for the ride himself. Paris ducks under a clothesline, and then hits Steele with a dropkick, sending the "Real Deal" down to the canvas. Paris grabs Steele's legs, and the crowd cheers as Paris locks on a figure four leglock, and drops to the canvas, putting as much leverage on the hold as he is able. Steele beats the mat with both arms, apparently in a great deal of pain.] TD: Out of nowhere, Paris locks on a figure four! Steele could be out of it here! That's the knee Spur hit with a chair just a few minutes ago -- this could be the end for Steele! SR: But Spur is still out on the floor over there -- he's only just dragging himself to his feet now, and the towel's on the other side of the ring. TD: Steele could be seriously injured here! This is dreadful! [The crowd chants, "Real Deal! Real Deal" as Steele tries to survive the pain of the hold. He puts his hands to his face and yells out as Paris continues to apply as much pressure as possible. Spur, recovering on the outside, slowly, agonisingly makes his way around the ring to where he discarded the Becky LaRue bath wrap earlier on. He picks it up, and waves it to the crowd, who jeer him.] TD: Throw it in, Spur! Throw it in! What kind of a man is this?! Steele could be injured here! SR: Maybe that's precisely what Spur wants, Dross! Maybe that's exactly what he wants! [Spur continues to tease with the towel as Earl Alfonso checks on Steele in the ring. Steele grabs the official's leg, and somehow manages to turn himself over, reversing the leverage of the hold! Big pop! Paris yells out and begins to beat the mat with his fists! Collins again seems to contemplate throwing in her man's towel, but before she can, Spur, with his back to the ring, and without even looking behind him, throws the Becky LaRue towel over the top rope and into the ring! Alfonso sees it as it hits the canvas. He hesitates.] TD: Hang on! Spur just threw Steele's towel in the ring -- but Steele now has the upper hand, he's got the figure four on Paris! What's the official going to do? [The referee hesitates a moment longer, and then calls for the bell. Ding! Ding! Ding! Huge confused pop from the crowd.] TD: What's the decision? RA: Ladies and gentlemen, Luke Steele's appointed cornerman has thrown in the towel. Therefore, the winner of this match: Ronnie Paris! [Huge mixed pop as the referee attempts to unentwine the legs of the two athletes on the mat. Steele limps to his feet, and shoves the official, asking him what on earth happened. The official picks up Spur's towel and waves it in Steele's face, and the expression on Steele's face turns from one of confusion to one of anger. He looks to the outside, where Spur is still jawing with fans, and hobbles over to the ropes. He reaches down over the top rope, and grabs Spur by the top of his mask. Spur immediately struggles, fearful of being unmasked, and puts both hands to his face, trying to keep his mask on. Steele hauls him up onto the apron and then suplexes him into the ring! Huge pop!] TD: I have a feeling Steele's going to exact a little revenge on Spur right here, right now! SR: Get out of there, Spur! Run for it! [The official has now helped Paris to his feet and raised his arm in victory, but as Ronnie turns to see Steele manhandling Spur, he snatches his arm away from Alfonso, and approaches his opponent. Paris waits a moment -- and then joins with Steele in pummelling away at Spur! Huge pop!] TD: These two men have been antagonised by Spur for months. It's because of him that they've been at each other's throats, and now they're unified in exorcising their mutual demon! SR: This is barbaric! Alfonso, you geriatric fool, get in there and do something! [Steele drags the stunned Spur to his feet and holds his arms. Spur's head lolls groggily as Paris looks to the crowd and signals that he is about to unmask the mystery man! Huge pop!] SR: No! They can't do that! He could be Mexican! TD: What's that got to do with anything? SR: If you unmask a Mexican wrestler, the poor guy has to go and work for a two-bit promotion running out of Atlanta! TD: Are you sure about that? SR: Who cares?! Somebody stop this! [Paris grabs Spur's mask, and tears it from the stunned wrestler's head. There is a shocked silence from the crowd. Paris takes a few steps backwards, and Steele releases his captive, his jaw hanging.] TD: WHAT?! SR: That... that can't be! TD: It's Billy Shakespeare! SR: _Spur_ was _Billy Shakespeare_?! TD: I can't believe this! [Huge mixed pop from the crowd as Shakespeare, realising that he has been unmasked, tries to cover his face with his arms, and runs from the ring. Without stopping to look back, he dashes up the aisle and out into the locker room area. Paris and Steele watch him go, aghast.] TD: Spur was Billy Shakespeare all along? I have absolutely no idea what this could mean, fans. I'm flabberghasted. SR: I can't believe I ever said that Spur was a great wrestler, Dross! What a con! TD: Spur has been a thorn in the side of the IIWF for more than two months now -- and it's been Billy Shakespeare all this time? Shakespeare is going to have a _lot_ of explaining to do. SR: Damned right he is! How could I ever have supported Pukespeare?! ["We Are The Champions" kicks in over the PA as Paris begins celebrating his victory, and Paris holds open the ropes for Collins to enter the ring. However, Steele, still feeling that he has been wronged, drags Paris into the centre of the ring and begins shouting at him, shoving him. The ring mics fail to pick up what is said.] TD: It looks like things aren't over between Paris and Steele, even after they unmasked Spur -- er, Shakespeare. SR: I just can't believe it, Dross. [Steele shoves Paris to the mat to a big mixed pop and limps from the ring, heading up the aisle. Collins enters the ring and helps her fiance to his feet as Steele swats away the hands of fans on either side of the aisle.] TD: What incredible scenes here at the Coliseum tonight... Hang on, I understand Larry Morton is in the parking lot. [Cut to a split screen: on the right, Collins raises Paris' arm in victory to a big crowd pop; on the left, Larry Morton stands in the darkened parking lot.] LM: Tim, I followed Spur -- uh, Shakespeare -- out here as he made a very hasty exit indeed. He refused to answer any questions, pushed past me, and came out here to his car... [The sound of tyres screeching on tarmac is heard. The camera spins around to see the rear lights of a saloon car disappearing out of the parking lot.] LM: I guess we'll have to wait for an explanation from Billy Shakespeare. Back to you, Tim. [Cut back to a normal shot of the announcers' table at ringside. Steve Roberts shakes his head in shocked silence.] TD: Fans, we're right out of time here tonight... I really don't know what to say about the actions of former Intercontinental and Cruiserweight Champion, "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare. Dial the IIWF Hotline tomorrow night for any further news on this strange situation. What a night of action it's been -- and there's more to come over the coming week. Don't miss a moment of IIWF programming in the next seven days! For now, though, for "Soundbite" Steve Roberts, this is Tim Dross, saying: so long everybody! [Cut to Ronnie Paris and Maggie Collins waving to the fans in the squared circle. The shot pulls back to a wide angle showing the sea of fans around the ringside area. Fade.] +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I * I * W * F =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+ | President: Daniel Spreadbury | Vice-President: Steve Owens | | univ0322@sable.ox.ac.uk | sowens@admin.presby.edu | | iiwf@sisko.demon.co.uk | IIWFadmin@aol.com | +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- http://www.sisko.demon.co.uk -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+