[Fade up on footage subtitled, "Moments Ago." A black Lincoln Continental pulls into what looks to be a parking garage. In fact, the footage is from the parking garage adjacent to the IIWF Coliseum, Portland, Oregon, mere minutes before the start of another night of hot IIWF action. The camera follows the Lincoln as it comes to rest, parking amongst a row of cars and limousines. After a few seconds, the door opens and out steps Mad Dog Watkins, dressed in blue jeans and his black leather coat over a black Detroit Tigers t-shirt. He apparently in something of a rush as he is late to the Colisem tonight, and almost closes the car door upon the duffel bag that he pulls out behind him. As he begins to walk toward the corridor leading to the Coliseum, he is stopped dead in his tracks by a voice he knows only too well...] VOICE: Well, if it ain't the old dog. I figured ya' might be too yeller to show that ugly mug of yers tonight. [Watkins spins on his heels to face this voice and slowly the camera pulls back to reveal the figure of "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder walking into the shot, stopping mere feet from Watkins. Thunder is already dressed in his ring attire of black tights emblazened with the red thunderbolt logo, black boots, trunks, elbow and kneepads. Watkins stands firm, his stare drilling a hole in Thunder until he decides to speak.] MDW: I should have known that it'd be a second-rate cowpoker like yourself. What the hell do you want? BT: What do I want? Yer ass, Watkins... and the "Lone Wolf" usually gets what he wants. MDW: Is that so? Well, I'm not a hard man to find. If you're feeling froggy enough, then jump. I'm more than willing to whoop yo' punk ass right here and now. [Thunder slowly smiles an evil grin, and begins to chuckle to himself. He runs his hand across the rough stubble that covers his face, calmly takes a long drag of the cigar he is smoking, and blows the smoke directly in the face of Watkins. Watkins simply stands there as the smoke billows around his head, the only movement noticeable on his part is the balling of his fists.] BT: You might be willin', but the question is -- are you able? [With that Thunder slaps Watkins across his chiseled mug, an action that is enough to set the Mad Dog off. Watkins replies in spades, landing two hard right hands to the mug of Thunder. Thunder coils from the blows only slightly and offers several haymakers of his own. The situation quickly degenerates into an all out brawl, with neither of the two wrestlers gving an inch. The momentum of the brawl takes Watkins back first into the hood of a parked limo. He grabs Thunder and both men go tumbling over the hood of the auto and land on the floor of the garage, brawling like two caged animals. In the melee, the cameraman is struck and slumps to the ground, with the camera crashing to the ground and coming to rest on a sideways shot of the entangled mass of Thunder and Watkins nearby. After a few seconds, shouts are heard off camera and are quickly followed by the sound of footsteps. Like lightning, IIWF security, accompanied by Portland police officers and led by Dennis "Griff" Griffing and Poutine Janois, are on the two, attempting to pull them apart. Their efforts are in vain at first as the anger of both men allow them to escape their restraints and continue brawling, but eventually Watkins and Thunder are pulled apart and seperated. During the commotion, the camera man recovers and focuses in on the scene. Watkins, who is panting heavily and bleeding slightly from a cut above his left temple, screams at Thunder...] MDW: Don't think this is over, Thunder! Yo' ass is mine at Birthday Bash! BT: Maybe I ain't gonna wait that long, old man! We ain't gotta have any permission from these IIWF fellas to settle this. I'll be seeing you a lot sooner than anyone thinks! [Thunder's threats echo throughout the parking garage as he is forcefully pushed down the corridor leading to the Colliseum and away from Watkins. Thunder's words linger in the air momentarily and then are replaced by by the familar theme song of IIWF Saturday Night. As the last note of the theme is played the shot fades through to an explosion of 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 Deathbringer t-shirt.] TD: Welcome to the IIWF Coliseum here in Portland, Oregon! Welcome to another _live_ and _loud_ edition of IIWF Saturday Night! I'm Tim Dross, and beside me, as always, is my broadcast colleague, "Soundbite" Steve Roberts. What a brawl between Brody Thunder and Mad Dog Watkins we just saw at the top of the show, Steve! SR: Yeah, Dross, that's what we like. That's the way to kick off a Saturday night! TD: It seems that nothing will keep those two athletes from trying to beat each other's brains out whenever they're even in the same arena as one another. As a result of tonight's brawl, I understand that Poutine Janois, head of the IIWF Special Concerns Committee, has made an unprecedented decision to bring forward the match between Thunder and Watkins sanctioned for Birthday Bash -- to next Saturday Night! That's right, fans, right here, next Saturday Night, you'll see the Mad Dog and the Lone Wolf lock up one on one! What a huge match that's going to be! SR: Security had better be trebled for next Saturday's event, Dross. Nobody's safe when those two men are in the same arena, let alone the same ring. TD: Back to tonight, we've got ten incredible matches coming your way this week, fans. The repercussions of that controversial ruling made just two days ago concerning the number of ringside non-wrestling personnel permitted in tag team matches -- which has already triggered legal challenges from two teams -- continue to be felt, and we'll get our first chance to see the effect the ruling has on competition in the tag ranks here tonight. IIWF World Tag Team Champions, Pain Inc., one of the teams who have filed for litigation concerning the ruling, defend their belts against former champions, the Armed Forces. What do you make of this one, Steve? SR: To be honest, I couldn't care less. But the IIWF President and the other suits have gotten themselves into some big trouble with this ruling. If he, or any of those other goons in the front office, really thought that teams like Pain Inc. and the Prophets of Rage would put up with this blatant bias and discrimation, he must be really stupid. TD: The ruling has certainly proved controversial -- but will it prove effective? We'll see later on tonight. Two other championships will be on the line right here this week in the Coliseum. IIWF Intercontinental Champion Lord Byron makes his first defence since winning the ESWP European Championship a couple of weeks ago, and faces one of his toughest challenges in Steve "the Fury" Kowalski, a man who has held the Intercontinental strap before. SR: Kowalski was robbed of that title back in January, Dross, and never received a rematch. He's gonna take the IC belt tonight, and then he's gonna take the Cruiserweight title from the White Phoney. Wouldn't that be something? TD: Indeed it would. But I know that an investigation into Kowalski's claims to weigh only 239 and one half pounds is ongoing. I simply can't believe it, Steve Roberts. SR: You saw it for yourself, Dross. You saw it with your own eyes. Live with it. TD: And the third of tonight's title matches pits IIWF World Heavyweight Champion Casey James against a resurgent Tony Starks, a man who has stated that the only reason he fought back from his career-threatening injuries has been his desire to wear IIWF gold. You have to know that he's going to do everything in his power to beat James tonight. SR: ...and he'll still come up short, Dross. With the Syndicate behind him, Casey James is unbeatable. TD: Well, indeed. Certainly just two weeks ago, it was the timely interference of Brody Thunder which kept the World title around the waist of Casey James. If you ask me, James has looked eminently beatable in recent weeks. SR: I don't recall asking you anything, Dross. Except whether French toast is correctly eaten hot or cold. TD: Oh, it has to be hot, Steve Roberts. Hot, with melted butter, and syrup. Where would be the point in eating it cold? SR: Don't ask me. Some limey idiot had some stupid idea that French toast should be eaten cold. Guess those Brits will do anything to try and look sophisticated, huh, Dross? TD: But to get back to tonight's action. As well as those title matches, we have no less than five encounters which could be main events on any card anywhere in the world: Mad Dog Watkins will take on "Real Deal" Luke Steele; Deathbringer battles Mr. Damage, who remains unbeaten in 1997; Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven faces the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi; Ronnie Paris faces the man at the centre of a good deal of speculation and confusion, "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare; and tonight's headliner is just an incredible match, Steve Roberts. Creed, twelve matches unbeaten, goes up against IIWF veteran, the "people's champion", the Subway Psycho. SR: Like, whoopee. TD: Come on, Steve. This encounter has "match of the year candidate" written all over it. Will the Subway Psycho end Creed's unbeaten streak, or will the super rookie just keep rolling ever onwards towards his Intercontinental Championship match against Lord Byron at Birthday Bash? SR: Don't know, don't care. TD: Well, before all that action, we've got a tremendous opening encounter coming your way. New tag team, the Last Resort, go up against the team they sent up in such amusing fashion on their debut in midweek, the High Plains Drifters. There is just something about an opening match on IIWF Saturday Night that gets this ol' boy's blood flowing, Steve Roberts. SR: Why should I have to do this match, Dross? TD: Good match, Steve. The Drifters are taking aim at twenty wins. That could be a nice moment here in the Coliseum. SR: No, you're not following me, Dross. Go figure, I got nothing against the Drifters -- hell, better they get to twenty wins than those has-been Armed Forces -- I'm just saying that I shouldn't have to do these opening matches anymore. TD: Well, that's just silly, Steve Roberts. The opening match is just as important as a match anywhere else on the show. This is IIWF Saturday Night -- two hours of main events. SR: Yeah, that's just special, Dross. Look, I'm a busy man, got my own show on Thursday, I'm damn near co-hosting that lame-ass "Inside the IIWF" fraud you have on Tuesdays, and I have shirts to sell, Dross. The people need me. I'm huge. I'm like freakin' Gandhi. TD: Well, Steve Roberts, if you're looking to give up your duties here on IIWF Saturday Night, I know that Larry Morton is looking for some increased responsibilities... maybe you could work something out. SR: No can do. Larry's busy on Saturdays. "Walker: Texas Ranger" is on. Larry loves Chuck Norris. You've seen the photo album, Dross; Chuck Norris as a high-school basketball player, Chuck Norris taking out the trash, Chuck Norris smothered in raspberry sauce -- what the hell is that all about, Dross? TD: You're making this up, Steve Roberts. SR: I'm worried about Larry. I'm really, really worried about him. Hey, maybe we can sign a new guy to work the first couple of matches with you, and then I'll come in when I get around to it. TD: I'll bring it up to the Vice-President. SR: Yeah, you do that, moron. TD: Let's get to ringside. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- The Last Resort vs. High Plains Drifters -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: JJ [Sparkplug Lee waits in the ring as a life-size cardboard cut-out of the American Patriot is taken from a ringside fan.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, this is your opening contest. Introducing first, being led down the aisle by their manager, Mr. Friday, at a combined weight of 515lbs... El Diablo and the Masked Avenger... The Last Resort! [With the theme from "Bonanza" playing, the two masked newcomers begin walk to the ring. Mr. Friday is a massive figure, his bulk made all the more obvious by the less-than-imposing physiques of his crew. The Last Resort wear the cowboy hats and neckerchiefs in which they were most recently seen, facetiously firing off cap pistols as they await the arrival of the Drifters.] TD: Well, these men certainly make an entrance, Steve Roberts. I can't imagine the Drifters will be pleased about this. SR: What is it with these guys and their masks, Dross? I mean, how ugly can two guys possibly be? Hey, Dross -- you've never thought about buying one of those masks, have ya? [Last Resort continues to frolic outside the ring, the Masked Avenger yelling, "Yee-Haw, Diablo!" as he fires off another round.] SL: And their opponents... [Pop as the theme from "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly" begins.] SL: ...being led to the aisle by Josey Wales... at a combined weight... [Sparkplug's intro is sharply cut off as the Drifters race down the aisle, waylaying the still-cavorting Resort. The Masked Avenger is a quick victim of an Easy boot to the face... and then Pale and Easy doubleteam Diablo, attempting to quickly hog tie the masked luchador!] TD: Not pleased at all, Steve Roberts! These are the former tag team champions -- and they are gonna prove something right now! SR: You ever seen Chuck Norris smothered in fruit extract, Dross? It ain't a pretty sight, I promise you that. [Mr. Friday has managed to garner sufficient referee attention, such that his men are now free from their bonds - and the Masked Avenger has climbed into the ring with Pale Rider as the bell sounds. Ding! Ding! Ding! The two men quickly lock up, the Masked Avenger grabbing onto a standing side headlock... and then losing it in a Pale counter to a waistlock, which turns into a waistlock takedown as Pale sends the Avenger to the mat. The masked man is up, looking to establish his size advantage over Pale with a hiptoss -- blocked -- and it is Pale who sends the Avenger to the mat again, this time with a hiplock takeover. Pale moves in, and the Avenger sends him down with a kickout to the chest. The Avenger then quickly moves for an armdrag takedown -- and then another -- and the Avenger is fired up! The Masked Avenger leaps to his feet... and heads for the top rope, pumping a fist excitedly as he hits the top buckle.] TD: I don't think Mr. Friday likes this at all, I don't think he's happy about this choice at all. [The Avenger sets himself... and comes down with a shooting star press... right onto the canvas as Pale Rider is easily able to escape to blow. Pop!] TD: There you see the problem that this young man is having, Steve Roberts. He simply gets overly excited -- and then makes a mistake. SR: Who do you suppose it is, Dross? My money's on Billy Shakespeare -- that would make three no-talent wrestlers that guy's got in his stable. If one of them was an ex-Chicago Bear they could move to a promotion down South. [Pale rolls to his corner and tags in Easy, who really goes to work on the Masked Avenger, driving the young man back with a flurry of thrust kicks, a reverse round, and a spin kick that knocks the Avenger down hard into the mat! Pop!] TD: We have company, Steve Roberts. SR: Interference... in a tag match? The world's gone to hell, Dross. TD: Oh my! It's Brody Thunder! SR: Hey, the Syndicate is in the house! Things might pick up around here. [Thunder takes up shop outside the ring, keeping a wide berth of both managers on the outside. Pale sees Thunder to the outside and gives a broad smile as he picks up the prone Avenger... and is rolled into a small package! The Masked Avenger has Pale rolled up... but the official is not there! The official is being distracted by Brody Thunder who hops up to the apron!] TD: The official should be making this count, that's four, five... six seconds, Steve Roberts. The Masked Avenger has Pale beat! SR: Beat, schmeat, Dross. Do you see any counting... do you see any counting? I don't think so. TD: Schmeat? [The official finally disengages from Thunder, but not until Easy drops an enormous elbow onto the Avenger, and taken Pale's place in the ring. Pop! Thunder gives a smirk and then, ignoring the outstretched hand of Josey Wales, turns and walks back up the aisle.] TD: Well, Brody Thunder clearly has done what he came here to do. You will remember that tremendous battle royal when the High Plains Drifters made a surprising save for Thunder -- I think the "Lone Wolf" is returning the favor. SR: I don't know, Dross. I think these guys are all pretty good friends. I wouldn't be surprised to see the Drifters join up with the Syndicate fairly soon. Wouldn't that be great, Dross? The Syndicate picks up the Drifters... and then Kowalski... and then the "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin! Almost be enough to keep me doing these prelim matches. [The shock of the quick Avenger cover and then the Thunder save subsides as Easy once again powers down the masked man. Easy lands a belly-to-belly suplex and covers... 1 -- 2 -- kickout by Avenger. Easy now whips nearside... and hoists the masked man high in the air, bringing him down with a brainbuster that brings a big heel pop and the beginning of a chant "Twen - ty! Twen - ty! Twen - ty!" from the fans of the Drifters.] TD: Well, this man here has to get to the corner, Steve Roberts. This Masked Avenger really has got to make a tag or his body is just going to give out. SR: I know! It's Maggie Collins! Maggie Collins is the Masked Avenger! She can give her body out as well as anybody. Ever seen her covered in raspberry sauce, Dross? [Easy is now methodically working on the smaller Avenger... putting boots to him again... Irish whipping the Avenger into a big clothesline that drops him hard to the mat! Pop! Easy now slowly picks up the Avenger, maneuvering him into position for a powerbomb, and the Avenger slips out the back! Pop! And the Avenger now dropkicks Easy to the mat! Pop! He dives to the corner...] TD: There's the tag! There's the tag! El Diablo is the fresh man! SR: Now, there's something you won't hear often. [The bulky Diablo lumbers into the ring, flinging over the top rope into a stumble that he is able to turn into a knife edge chop that strikes at Easy... then a reverse edge that drops the arriving Pale. Diablo then bounces off the backropes... and gets a big pop as he takes down both Drifters with a flying cross-body into a cover of both men! 1 -- NO! Diablo goes flying off. Diablo attempts to kip up, but falls back to the ground and takes a series of doubleteamed boots from the Drifters as the Avenger occupies the official.] TD: Well, they had a moment there, Steve Roberts. The Last Resort had a moment to shine, but Diablo may have tried to reach too far back into his past with that double cover off the cross-body. SR: I wonder who's under his mask, Dross? Maybe it's Bobby Lincoln. He had some things pulled out of his past, if you know what I'm talking about. TD: You need to check the demographics, Steve Roberts. Maybe half a dozen people know what you're talking about. SR: Yeah, but they're laughing their asses off now, Dross. [As Easy now sends a series of measured european uppercuts to the head of the luchador Diablo, a pop is heard from the aisle.] TD: It's Nav and Def! Here come the Armed Forces! SR: Aw, that's sweet, Dross. They're here for the victory celebration. [Easy pulls up as he sees the onrushing Forces, and waves them to come into the ring. Def and Nav stop... realizing that a disqualification victory would still put the Drifters at twenty wins. The Forces pound the apron as the Diablo is picked up into a mat-shattering press slam that damn near breaks the luchador's back. Easy now kicks at El Diablo, prodding at the masked man with his boot. Josey Wales claps on the outside for his men to finish the Resort off. Easy scoops El Diablo up again, gesturing to the crowd as he picks up the masked man, and sends him down with a piledriver that puts the luchador down.] TD: Well, it is over. And none too soon for the Last Resort, but you have to hand it... Easy is not going for the cover! Oh, this is unnecessary. Pale is coming back in for the cover. The Drifters don't need to do it like this, Steve Roberts. SR: I think they're Syndicate, Dross. The Syndicate like to take their time, if you know what I mean. [Pale smirks broadly to the Forces, who now seem resigned to their fate, as the Diablo is scooped up and whipped farside... Pale drops his head and the Diablo sunset flips...] TD: El Diablo with the flip... SR: No way he gets him over... TD: He got him over! There's the cover.. [The official hits the mat and counts Pale's shoulders down... 1 -- 2 -- Pale is able to reach for the tag! Yes! Save by Easy, who clotheslines the Diablo hard to the mat! Big Pop! Pale rolls out of the ring as Easy poses for the Forces -- and is rolled up into a small package... 1 -- 2 -- 3! Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: Last Resort wins! Last Resort wins! SR: No! No! He wasn't the legal man, no way! TD: The official said there was a tag, Steve Roberts! It's over. [The Armed Forces slap hands and return up the aisle to a big crowd pop as the official raises the hands of the Last Resort.] SL: Your winners... as a result of a pinfall... THE LAST RESORT! [Diablo and the Avenger celebrate, until receiving double clotheslines from the Drifters, who then leap from the ring as Mr. Friday jumps in to protect his charges. The Drifters exit to a storm of jeers, closely followed by the victorious Resort which receives a nice hand.] TD: Well, you know what they say: anything can happen here in the IIWF. SR: No one ever says that, Dross. What they say is, "Larry Morton's a damn freak with the Chuck Norris pictures." TD: I'm not sure that's the case at all, Steve. In any case, it's time for tonight's LaRue's Lair, featuring none other than the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, Casey "Blackheart" James, who will be facing Tony Starks here later tonight. SR: At last, a guest with real class. TD: Over to you, Becky. [Becky uncustomarily enters the ring as opposed to her regular interview area. She takes her time stepping through the ring ropes in one of her usual tasteless gowns. And older gentleman close to the ring has a heart attack.] BL: Why am I in the ring tonight? Because that's where you go to interview a champion. Last week I promised you the Harlequins... [growingpop] ...well, you ain't gonna get 'em. Maybe next week. This week I have for you the one and only IIWF Heavyweight champion of the world: Casey "Blackheart" James! ["Foul Taste of Freedom" begins to play, and a predominantly heel pop comes forth from the crowd. Casey James waltzes out into the aisle, wearing his wrestling tights and a T-shirt with a green coloured automatic handgun and the words "Green Piece" on it. He's wearing the IIWF Heavyweight Championship belt around his waist, and flaunts it proudly to the booing fans. Amused, Casey makes his way into the ring. Becky stands in front of him.] BL: The champion... can I touch your belt? CJ: Baby, you can touch whatever you like. Knock yourself out. [Casey holds his arms out, and Becky obscenely fondles the Heavyweight title around Casey's waist, which brings some hearty cheers from some of the male members of the audience. Casey looks to the crowd with a twisted smile on his face, obviously enjoying the attention. Abruptly, he steps back.] CJ: Whoa... Much more of that and we might have some trouble with the network affiliates... BL: Hehe... Snort. Okay... Let us go back to the days of your confused youth. What changed "Whitebread" to "Blackheart"? CJ: You know, it's funny you should ask. I've recently been hearing some guy in another wrestling promotion using almost the exact same speech I made when I became "Blackheart." Come to think of it, the guy is a lot like Chris Quigley. Even uses the same finisher. They also both use the same interview over and over. That "I'm the best!" type of thing... Anyway, the speech... You all know it as the "turning your back on the American fans" speech. See, I used to really believe that this country was worth standing up for. I tried to be a hero to these morons. I even wore the American flag on my ass. Then I realized that the fans weren't behind me, but behind people like the Man of Steel, a pathetic drug addict, Don Antonio, an organized crime lord, and the Subway Stinker, a known vandal and thief. I tried to give them a hero, but they didn't want that, so now they have the most ruthless villain the IIWF has ever seen. Don't be fooled, I said it first back at Midsummer Madness, and as always, someone jumped on the "Blackheart" bandwagon. As you can see, I have been more successful being a Blackheart than the Whitebread. My proof is this belt. BL: Do you think you could have won the belt without Brian Lau's guidance? CJ: As much as I like to talk about how good I am, I don't think I would be champ if it weren't for Brian Lau. He helped me utilize my full potential. He opened my eyes to the futility of trying to please the zombies out in TV land. With Brian, I got the best training that this sport can offer. I trained with Tiger Claw and Hakiro Matsuoko, both former Intercontinental champs. Without Brian, those doors would have been closed, and I'd still be the midcarder I was when I was the American Hero. BL: Right now your stablemate Tiger Claw is once again being pestered by Subway Stinko. Any thoughts for the celler dweller? CJ: We all know that Subway Stinker should never be mentioned in any sentence with the word "thought" in it. The guy's a nitwit. The Syndicate took the World title from him, they took his woman, and they took his pride. Again and again he's been embarassed by the premier stable in the IIWF. Tiger Claw is a genius when it comes to fighting, and the Stinker is just an idiot who goes in with all guns blazing, not thinking about what will happen when he runs out of ammo. I know Claw's going to put the Stinker away for good. Just you wait. BL: Brody Thunder seems to have joined the Syndicate. Did you go looking for him, or the other way around? CJ: Brian approached him, actually. That's the way the Syndicate works. You don't call Brian. He calls you. Thunder is a great athlete. One of the few I really respect here in the IIWF. Brian saw the talent and wasted no time in signing him on. Sure, we've had our differences, but I always respected the man. I even like him. BL: Tonight you're to face Tony Starks. Aren't you a little afraid that you will break his fragile back in the ring? CJ: Nah... I'm looking forward to it. You know, there's no room in this sport for a cripple. None. With his bum knee and his broken back, Starks isn't the Ironman he may think he is. Now, I ain't no superhero, and I ain't no Marvel comic, but I will dominate Starks. I don't want to give too much away, but I'm going to take all things into consideration when facing Starks, and that includes his past injuries. I've seen his career here, and I know what he's about. BL: You've been around this fed for a long time. Any thoughts on some of the new blood? CJ: There's some promising guys coming in, that's for sure. Creed is one tough kid, I'll give him that. I said once that I wouldn't even mind losing the title to him. But more recently, Derek Mota catches my eye. Now I'm not really into that flippy aerial stuff, but he does it well, and he's got the right attitude. And I'm not talking about an ego like, say, Quigley's. BL: They, well, not "they", but Tim Dross, says it's only a matter of time before Chris Quigley takes that belt. How much does this make you laugh? CJ: I find myself almost barfing, I laugh so hard. Quigley knows some holds, sure, but he's so busy selling his T-shirts and coming up with new catchphrases that he'll never have the focus to have this belt. He's got to learn to accept defeat instead of whining like a little girl every time he runs into someone better than him. It just shows you how little people like Dross know. Look at this body... The raw power. My arms are stronger than his legs. My legs are stronger than his back, and my back is stronger than that steel ringpost. Anyone who thinks that Quigley can slap some Fumi-Wumi armbar on me and keep me from powering out of it has got to be suffering from an overdose of toupee glue. BL: Heehee... Roadkill... Ahem... You've fought every champion this federation has known... how does Chris stack up against them? CJ: Well, he's smarter than the Psycho, and warmer than Deathbringer, but there's two ex-champs he could never hold a candle to. First, Otto Verhoeven proved that Quigley isn't fit to wash his jockstrap, and second, nobody can come close to the man... BL: _The_ man? CJ: That's right... the "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin. [Becky applauds, and there is a mixed pop from the crowd bordering on the cheering side.] CJ: Hardin is the toughest man I have ever fought. He actually inspires me, you know that, Becky? BL: I'd have to say he "stimulates" me, but go on. CJ: The man is a badass, and one of the best tacticians in the sport to boot. He taught me a lot. He helped me decide to accept the offer of Brian Lau. I saw the strength in numbers that he held, and wanted to have that strength too. Quigley can never in his entire life come close to acomplishing what the Outlaw does in his spare time. I am glad to be on his good side, and that might have something to do with why I like Thunder. BL: Will you and Brody Thunder be doing any more tag action? CJ: Hey, you never know... At the moment, though, I've got to concentrate on this belt. Lots of guys whine if I don't defend it regularly. Any match with me as champion and Brody Thunder in the ring would be a title shot for him, and since he's a member of the Syndicate, well, we don't want to cause problems. BL: Billy Shakespeare... er... Spur slammed your hand in a locker at Ring Wars III. No hard feelings? CJ: You know, I've been so friggin' busy I forgot about that... But it wouldn't be proper to go after a guy as sick as ShakeSpur is, would it? But when have you ever known me to be proper? BL: Speaking of improper, Steve Kowalski lost weight so he could compete for the Cruiserweight belt. Would you ever consider such a tactic? CJ: Me? No. I couldn't. It would be impossible. To go from 340 to 98 pounds? I could never do that... Besides, why would I go for that tiny little belt when I've got the beef? BL: Prime cut, baby... Any thoughts about a man who would do such a thing? CJ: I don't know... I think it's kind of funny, actually. Kowalski is that type of guy to do something like that to piss off all the little insects in that division. I got a good laugh when I saw that report where he weighed in. He's going to mow those losers down like dead lawn. BL: Hey... Tiger Claw is a cruiserweight. CJ: Sure, technically. But he's got a heavyweight outlook. He can kick any heavyweight's ass... He won't settle for a little title either. BL: You've never been linked romantically to anyone. What is Casey James' relationship status? CJ: You know as well as I do, Becky, when you're in the spotlight, relationships hold you down. Why should I settle down with one woman when I've got women lined up around the block to take a ride on the Blackheart Express? Of course, I've never been adverse to a serial fling... [wiggles his eyebrows at Becky.] 'Cause all those groupies are, well... A bit fragile... I'd need a championship calibre woman to stand up to my assault... Hey, Becky... Weren't you a champ once? BL: Whoa, there... Let's slow down a bit... you know the type of woman I am. CJ: Locker room B, 10pm. Don't be late. BL: Got it. A little philosophy. Is it all about belts? Fear? Victories? Pain? Control? Money? CJ: The honour and pride of a job well done. No, really. I love to hurt the losers. That night I put Joe Latta in the hospital was one of my happiest nights. The belts are nice, sure, but that's not the whole picture. The most satisfaction I get from this belt is that I have it and Quigley doesn't, and he never will. Quigley can go on and on about how much better he is than me, but the fact remains that _I'm_ the champ, and he's the contender. I also like the fact that it makes me top dog, and that gets the guys coming to _me_ to get hurt, instead of the other way around, like it was before. The money... Well, I'm taken care of, so that's nice. And control? I have a feeling you know a bit more about that than I do... [Wiggles eyebrows again.] BL: Ahh... You like the four poster Ironman submission matches, huh? Well, Casey, I hate to say goodbye, but I must. Any question you'd like to answer that I didn't ask? CJ: Sure. I don't wear any. BL: Huh? CJ: Think about it. Locker room B. Don't be late. [Casey leaves the ring to a sizeable heel pop, and Becky seems confused. Suddenly it dawns on her, and she watches Casey's butt as he walks up the aisle, nodding to herself, finally understanding. Casey turns and grins, then flexes his arms. Becky applauds.] BL: Take a long look, Dross. _That_ is what a _real_ man looks like. [Becky stands in the ring for a long time until she notices that Sparkplug it attempting to enter for the next bout. She sends a glance which withers him where he stands. She exits, showing more thigh than is necessary to get through the ring ropes. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Well, an, uh, illuminating interview from the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, Casey James. We must move on. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Derek Mota vs. "Badboy" Randy Acorn =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: MG [Sparkplug Lee is sitting at ringside reading the latest Tom Clancy novel. He looks around in surprise as the timekeeper nudges him, and quickly makes his way to the centre of the ring. Sheepishly he raises the microphone to his mouth:] SL: Wrestling fans, this match is scheduled for one fall with no time limit. Making his way to ringside, hailing from Newark, New Jersey, and weighing in at 227lbs, here is "Badboy" Randy Acorn! [The crowd pops loudly as Randy Acorn's theme music blares over the sound system. However, that pop quickly dies down as Randy Acorn does not show up and the music fades to an end. Sparkplug Lee looks at the referee, and some words are exchanged.] SL: Making his way to ringside, weighing in at 227lbs, "BADBOY" RANDY ACORN! [Acorn's music begins again, but there is still no sign of Randy Acorn.] TD: That's strange. It's not like the "Bad Boy" to arrive late... SR: Late, my ass. He's scared of Mota, that's what it is. He's running scared, Dross, running scared. He's probably on a plane to Tazmania, or maybe the South Pole. Anywhere Mota can't find him. TD: I don't think that's very likely, Steve. [The referee shrugs, and leans over to whisper something to Lee. The crowd starts to boo as "The Great Southern Trendkill" starts.] SL: And his opponent... hailing from Toronto, Canada, and weighing in at 224lbs, here is Derek Mota! SR: Seems this'll be an easy win for Mota tonight. Look at the smile on his face as he makes his way to ringside. TD: Smile? I'd call that a smug grin, Steve. He may be in a good mood, but I notice that doesn't stop him insulting the fans on his way down the aisle... SR: Why should it? Best part of any match, if you ask me, Dross. [Derek Mota has made his way to ringside, and is now standing arrogantly in the centre of the ring, his arms crossed across his chest. Sparkplug Lee, who has been frantically talking with the referee now raises the microphone once again.] SL: Wrestling fans, the referee has ruled that Randy Acorn must appear within 30 seconds, or he will forfeit the match to Derek Mota! [Crowd boos wildly as Derek laughs and the official begins his count] TD: Well, that's a great shame, Steve. Randy Acorn and Derek Mota would have put on a great match. I wonder what's happened to Randy Aco... what the heck?! [Behind Derek Mota's back the timekeeper has been quietly entering the ring. He sneaks up behind Mota and...] SR: The timekeeper has dropkicked Derek Mota! What the hell is going on here?! TD: Fans, the timekeeper here appears to have gone mad as he grabs a disorientated Derek Mota and begins to wade in with a series of stiff blows to the abdomen! I guess the timekeeper's a Randy Acorn fan, Steve.. SR: My Aunt Petunia he is! He's in league with Acorn somehow, Dross! Ooh, a stiff short clothesline from this "timekeeper" levels Mota by the ropes, and now the timekeeper is... he's using the ropes to tie Derek Mota up! How much has Acorn paid this man?! [Derek Mota is now defenceless, tightly bound by the ring ropes. The timekeeper backs off, and begins to rip off his clothes.] SR: Hey, what is this? Is this gonna get kinky? TD: Steve! [The timekeeper is now pawing at his face, and rips off a beard and a set of bushy eyebrows to reveal...] TD: The timekeeper is Randy Acorn?! SR: It seems like Randy Acorn is back to his old ways, Dross. About time, if you ask me. Watching Acorn suck up to the fans was turning my stomach. [Randy Acorn removes a wig before grabbing the microphone from a bewildered Sparkplug Lee.] SR: Hey, Dross, I'd check your dressing room. Looks like Acorn has been in there! Ha! ACORN: Mota, you've been running your mouth for a long time about the "Badboy". Sayin' how you ran me out of the NLWP, and you're gonna run me out of the IIWF. Well, you don't look so tough now, do ya, Mota? [Acorn drives a kick into the midsection of the trapped and defenceless Mota. Big mixed pop from the crowd. The referee tries to get to Mota to release him from the ropes, but Acorn pushes him back.] TD: Acorn knows better than to lay hands on an official in the IIWF, Steve. ACORN: I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you a fair chance, Mota. Let's get it on, right here, right now, and let's make it a "Loser Leaves Town" match. [Big pop from the crowd.] ACORN: That's right. If you beat me, I'll leave the IIWF for good. But if I beat you -- and I _will_ beat you -- your IIWF career will be over before it even starts. Whaddya say, Mota? You ready to put your money where your mouth is? TD: What? A "Loser Leaves Town" match tonight, here on Saturday Night? SR: You don't hear too good, do ya Dross? Gotta give Acorn some credit, he's got guts. He's dumb, mind you, but he's got guts. Mota'll clean his clock. [A dazed Derek Mota yells something at Acorn, who just laughs. A confused Sparkplug Lee looks at the referee, who simply shrugs] SL: Wrestling fans, at the request of both Randy Acorn and Derek Mota, this match is now a "Loser Leaves IIWF" match! [BIG crowd pop] [The referee finally releases Derek Mota, and the bell rings. Acorn and Mota eye each other warily, before locking up. Both men struggle for dominance, before Acorn brings a big knee up into Mota's midsection. Mota doubles over, but grabs the leg and rolls Acorn into a pinning predicament. Acorn kicks out immediately.] TD: Nice momentum move from Mota. This ought to be a great match! [Both men are on their feet again as a brawl begins in the centre of the ring. The official can be heard warning them about the clenched fists] SR: Like they care. Come on, guys, put the hurtin' on each other! [After a while Mota appears to be getting the better of Acorn, but Acorn ducks under a fist, grabs Mota and...] TD: DDT! Tremendous speed from the "Badboy", Steve! SR: That was a DDT? I missed it, Dross. I must have blinked. [Acorn goes for the cover. The referee is out of position, but recovers swiftly. The official counts... 1 - 2 - ] TD: Mota kicks out! Too bad for Randy Acorn, Steve. SR: He almost had him, but that referee was out of position! [Mota gets unsteadily to his feet, just in time for a snap suplex from Acorn. Acorn brings Mota up to a vertical base and goes for a short clothesline, which Mota ducks. A swift neckbreaker from Mota downs an out-of-position Acorn and evens the score again.] TD: They're really going at it, Steve. SR: Yeah, well, that's a surprise, isn't it Dross? No need for them to knock it up a gear, just 'cos the loser has to pack their bags, right? TD: Sarcasm ill becomes you, Steve. [Mota launches himself into the air for a big elbow drop, but finds nobody home. Acorn rolls out of the way, and springs to his feet. Mota also is back up, and both men start toward each other...] SR: Mota coming off the ropes at Acorn, and ducks just under a clothesline... off the ropes again and ... flying crossbody block from Mota! TD: Acorn rolls with it! Mota's momentum takes him too far over, and now Acorn is pinning Mota. [The official reaches two before Mota raises a shoulder. Acorn slams the mat in frustration before reaching for Mota, only to receive a thumb to the eye.] SR: Yeah, that's more like it. Come on, Mota. Show this bum what you can do. Get up, Acorn! Be a man! TD: Steve! [As Acorn gets slowly to his feet Mota comes off the ropes with a big kneelift, which sends Acorn reeling. Mota moves in swiftly with a enzuigiri, which sends Acorn to the mat. A groggy Acorn shakes his head and begins to slowly climb to his feet. He can't do it, and slumps back to the mat. Mota points at Acorn and laughs. Big heel pop!] SR: [whining] "Help me, I've fallen and I can't get up." TD: Stop it. [Mota moves in with a legdrop, then goes for the pin. Acorn kicks out just in time. Mota backs off, and allows Acorn to get to his feet slowly.] SR: He's signalling for the Body Plex! Don't! It's too early, Derek! [Mota moves in for the suplex, but Acorn blocks it. Using all his strength, Acorn launches Mota over the top rope before dropping to his knees, exhausted. Crowd pop!] TD: A clear desperation move from Randy Acorn may have evened up the match, as Mota looks hurt. [The official begins the ten count, which Acorn breaks when it hits 9. Mota eventually manages to slide back in, favouring his right leg] TD: Well, it looks like we won't be seeing too many high-flying moves from Mota tonight, Steve. SR: Launching Mota over the top rope like that was nasty, Dross. I'm beginning to warm to Acorn. I still like Derek better, though. [Acorn moves in on Mota, quickly pulling him down to the mat and applying a Wakigatame armbar. Big pop from the crowd] TD: A Wakigatame armbar from Randy Acorn, and just like that the match might be over. SR: "Wakigatame"? How do you spell that? TD: The official is checking with Mota, who's clearly in pain. [The armbar drags on. Mota is going crazy, but won't submit. Eventually Acorn breaks the hold, but can't resist a quick elbow to the shoulder. Mota starts rolling around on the canvas, holding his shoulder] TD: It seems Mota isn't in much of a condition to continue, Steve! Randy Acorn may have dislocated that shoulder for him. SR: We'll see, Dross, we'll see. [Mota makes it back to his feet, still favouring his right leg and now his left arm hangs by his side. He gestures defiantly towards Acorn to bring it on.] TD: I guess you were right, Steve. Derek still wants the match to continue. SR: I'm always right, Dross. Derek still wants to play, and I for one don't blame him. Beat the crap out of Acorn, Mota! [Acorn shakes his head in disbelief, and moves in. Mota retreats into a corner, and as Acorn comes towards him lashes out with a big kick that doubles Acorn over. A right undercut followed by a kneelift sends Acorn reeling. Steinerline from Mota sends both men to men to the mat. The official begins a ten count] SR: Mota sure knows how to fight like a rat in a corner, Dross. It's an admirable quality. TD: This match is taking its toll on both men, Steve. SR: Well, duh. [The official breaks the count at eight as Mota & Acorn manage to struggle to their knees. Kneeling virtually nose to nose with each other they begin punching it out. Once again the referee warns both men. A thumb to the eye from Mota stops the brawling.] SR: I like it. Do it again. TD: Both men are now vertical again, but Mota's arm and leg are still hurt. Acorn is in better shape, but looks to be exhausted. This is still anybody's match, fans. Mota looks to be distancing himself from Acorn, maybe he's hoping to give that shoulder some recovery time, hoping it'll snap back into place. SR: I bet Acorn would snap it for him. [Acorn lunges at Mota, who sidesteps and brings a knee up. Acorn doubles over, and Mota hits a text-book perfect rocker dropper. Acorn drops like a stone, Mota moving swiftly in for the pin] SR: Yes! Go, Mota m'man! [Acorn kicks out as the official's count hits two. He is up before Mota, seemingly reinvigorated. As Mota gets up he drives his head into Acorn's midsection, doubling Acorn. Mota then drives his head up sharply, impacting Acorn's chin and sending the "Bad Boy" reeling] TD: Well, it looked like Acorn had his second wind, but it seems Mota put paid to that. Tremendous match from both men! SR: Yeah, Mota's really impressing me, and Acorn's fighting better than he has for mont... Wow! Atomic drop from Acorn has Mota's eyes waterin' and cancellin' his date for tonight! [Mota is on the canvas, his legs crossed and tears streaming. Acorn grins and moves in for a few choice kicks to the abdomen. Mota rolls to the outside, where he lies whimpering. Acorn moves to follow him but the official restrains him.] SR: That's good wrestlin', Dross. Mota's hurt bad, and Acorn's starting to get some momentum. Nip to the outside, take a break and slow things down. TD: It's not often we agree, Steve, but I agree that was the best thing for Mota to do. SR: Man, what nightmare have I woken into? Dross agreeing with me? [The official has reached an eight count, and Mota slides back in, grimacing as he does so. Acorn moves straight in, applying a big boot to choke Mota's throat. The official begins to count, but Acorn breaks the count by releasing Mota. Then he drops to the mat and starts choking Mota out with his bare hands. Big heel pop from the crowd!] TD: Randy Acorn must really dislike Mota, Steve. SR: Really "dislike", Dross? I'd say he "dislikes" Mota about as much as I "mildly dislike" Chris Kick-me! [Mota breaks the chokefest by bringing a knee up. Low blow! BIG heel pop from the crowd.] SR: Well, now they're even. If any ladies with dates with either of these gentlemen are watching, I wouldn't bother to turn up tonight, if I were you. TD: Steve! SR: What? What'd I say? What? [Mota is back on his feet, as is Acorn. Big Belly-to-Belly suplex from Acorn, moving straight into a pin, hooking the leg. Official dives to the mat. Big crowd pop!] TD: So close! Acorn almost had him, Steve. SR: Yeah, and what a travesty that would have been, Dross. Mota deserves the win. Look at him, the man's the dictionary definition of "walking wounded" and he's still holding his own. TD: There's no disputing the fact that Derek Mota has a promising future in the IIWF, Steve. But then, so has Randy Acorn. SR: Not if Mota has anything to do with it, Dross. [Acorn irishwhips Mota into the turnbuckle, and chases after him for a big Avalanche Splash. Big crowd pop! Acorn follows this by whipping Mota into the opposite turnbuckle, and breaking into a run...] SR: Ouch! First Mota impacts a steel post, now Acorn with a running dropkick right into Mota's chest! That is so devastating! TD: A valiant effort from Derek Mota, but Randy Acorn is too experienced! NO! Mota kicks out! Mota kicks out! SR: Unbe-freakin'-lievable, Dross! I would've sworn Acorn could have put away a baby elephant with that drop kick! TD: Both men are really going to the wire for us here on IIWF Saturday Night, fans! [Acorn picks Mota up like a limp rag and deposits him in the centre of the ring. Another enzuigiri drops Mota like a stone. Big crowd pop! Acorn covers again, but only gets a two count.] TD: What will it take to keep either of these men down? SR: High explosives. [Acorn picks up Mota, and sets him up for...] SR: Tiger driver from Acorn PLANTS Mota! That's it! Acorn wins, dammit! [Acorn drapes himself over Mota and raises one finger as the official counts one, two fingers as the official counts two, three fingers as...] TD: Mota kicks out! That is truly unbelievable, Steve! SR: Serves Acorn right. He shouldn't have tried to get cute, showboating instead of hooking the leg properly! Acorn has only himself to blame, Dross! [Acorn pounds the mat in frustration and complains of a slow count. Mota is slowly getting up behind him, waiting for Acorn to stand. Small package from Mota, but Acorn kicks out easily. BIG crowd pop!] TD: Mota's shoulder seems better, Steve. SR: Nah, he was probably playing possum all the time. Lulling Acorn into a false sense of security. [Acorn irishwhips Mota into the ropes, and goes for the dropkick as Mota comes off the rebound. But Mota ducks! Acorn lands on his back, followed swiftly by a high impact elbow from Mota. Mota drags Acorn up and irishwhips him to the turnbuckle, but Acorn reverses, sending Mota flying to the turnbuckle.] SR: That could hurt... [At the last minute Mota jumps ONTO the middle rope, flips up onto the top rope, and executes a perfect moonsault! Acorn is stunned! The official is out of position, but launches himself into place! 1 - 2 - 3! BIG crowd pop as Derek's music thunders throughout the stadium] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner, as the result of a pinfall: Derek Mota! [Big mixed pop!] TD: Derek Mota wins! Unbelievably, Derek Mota pulls a win seemingly out of thin air! [In the ring Derek Mota tries to stand, but his leg gives way underneath him. Randy Acorn stirs, and gets up, his face like thunder.] SR: Uh-oh. Acorn looks pissed. TD: Steve! [For a long tense moment the entire arena pauses, wondering what Acorn will do. Then, Acorn stretches out his hand. Derek Mota looks at it suspiciously for a moment, then grasps it. Acorn pulls him up to a MASSIVE crowd pop!] SR: I think I'm going to be sick. TD: Randy Acorn may dislike, even hate, Derek Mota, but tonight he acknowledges that right here, right now, he respects a great competitor. SR: Quick, pass me that bucket, I think I'm gonna -- oooh, too late. TD: Steve! [In the ring Randy Acorn again stretches a hand out to Derek Mota, who looks at it. Disdainfully he turns away and leaves the ring. Big heel pop!] TD: I guess the same can't be said for Derek Mota. [Randy Acorn is left in the ring alone. Looking around the Coliseum, as if soaking in memories, he stands for a long moment and then starts to leave.] TD: It was right here that Randy Acorn pinned Billy Shakespeare to capture the IIWF Cruiserweight Championship... It was here that he was pinned by Hakiro Matsuoko to lose that very title some weeks later... The ups and downs of the career of the "Badboy" have been documented right here in the IIWF Coliseum -- and tonight, it comes to an end. SR: Oh, I think I'm gonna cry, Dross. TD: It's not like you to be moved by such things, Steve. SR: What are you talking about?! There's a hell of a lot of chilli on this chilli dog... Yowch! [A big crowd pop begins as the chant begins: "Randy! Randy!" Smiling sadly, Randy Acorn leaves the ring.] TD: Well, Steve, that may be the last we'll see of Randy Acorn, but he certainly went out in style. What a great match that was! Derek Mota may not be able to appreciate a fine competitor, but the fans in the IIWF surely can! The "Badboy" Randy Acorn will certainly be missed! SR: Not by me. TD: [sighs] No, Steve, I don't suppose he will be. Next up one of the IIWF's up-and-coming journeymen will have the chance to make a name for himself. If Luke Steele can beat Mad Dog Watkins his future in the IIWF will be assured. SR: Hah! Journeyman is just a polite term for "jobber bum", Timmy boy. Watkins will wipe the mat with the "Squeal Deal". TD: That remains to be seen. But the outcome of the match could be drastically altered if Brody Thunder sticks his nose in. After the vicious brawl he had with Watkins earlier in the evening, I doubt the IIWF security will be able to keep him away from the ring. SR: That's nothing new. The IIWF security would have trouble keeping the Barnacle Brothers from interfering. TD: Steve, the Barnacle Brothers were injured in a car accident earlier this week in questionable circumstances. SR: Well, exactly. Security would still have trouble dealing with a couple of guys in full body casts. TD: Let's get up to ringside. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Luke Steele vs. Mad Dog Watkins =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: RD [The camera cuts to centre ring where Sparkplug Lee seems to be carrying on a conversation with himself. He jumps as the spotlight falls upon him and adjusts his bow tie sheepishly.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, hailing from... [Suddenly Sparkplug is interrupted as a loud "Hiiisssssss" reverbrates around the arena. The video moniter above the aisle springs into life and the image of El Super Gecko apears.] ESG: Watkinssssss.... The Gecko is coming for youuuu! You made me look fooolissssh, Watkinsssss... Nobody can hurt the lizard! Hiissssssss! [El Super Gecko makes some ridiculous looking martial arts sweeps with his hands. The video screen fades as his limbs get tangled up and he bops himself painfully on the nose. There are a few titters from the crowd.] RA: Ahem... As I was saying. Introducing first, hailing from Detroit, Michigan, and weighing in at 269 lbs; here is Mad Dog Watkins! ["Pain it Black" by the Rolling Stones thunders over the loudspeakers and Mad Dog Watkins appears at the head of the aisle. He looks up at the video screen, shakes his head and smiles a little. The veteran recieves a tremendous response from the crowd as he heads down the aisle, some fans cheering him loudly, some jeering and throwing insults.] RA: And his opponent for this evening! Hailing from Cleveland, Ohio, and weighing in at 275 lbs; here is the "Real Deal" Luke Steele! ["Black Cat" by Janet Jackson blasts from the loudspeakers and Luke Steele makes his way down the aisle. He wears a look of determination on his face and foregoes his usual interaction with the fans. The crowd gives Steele a fairly receptive face pop, although some of the them, perhaps resenting the "Real Deal's" "goody-goody" image can be heard jeering him loudly.] SR: This man represents everything that's wrong with the world these days: honour, fair-play, respect for the fans; Luke Steele makes me sick! TD: If more people followed Steele's example, the world would be a place of joy, compassion and peace. SR: Can it, Dross! You don't have enough hair to be a hippie! [Luke Steele begins climbing through the ring ropes, but Watkins immediately charges him, hitting Steele with a kneelift! The "Real Deal" tumbles back through the ropes and hits the arena floor hard. Ding! Ding! Ding! Steele winces but gets to his feet soon enough. Watkins rolls to the outside and clobbers Steele with an overhand right. Steele responds with a snaking left jab, but he cannot match Watkins in brawling, and the veteran batters him back with a series of blows. Watkins grabs Steele by the head and cracks it across the steel ring steps! Heel pop from the crowd! Watkins rolls Steele back into the ring.] SR: Way to go Mad Dog! Take no prisoners! TD: Perhaps Luke Steele was letting his youthful enthusiasm get the better of him, in attempting to brawl toe-to-toe with Watkins. There are few men who can match blows with the Mad Dog. [Watkins adjusts his tights and steps back into the ring. Steele is getting to his feet once again but Watkins cuts him down with a lariat. The veteran methodically works over Steele's body with a series of fistdrops, elbowdrops and stomps. Watkins grabs Steele's legs and goes for a figure four. Steele struggles a little but Watkins manages to place his legs in position and locks on the hold! Immediately the strain is visible on Luke Steele's face and he raises his fists to the air, attempting to draw on all his reserves of endurance.] SR: Rulebreakers with solid scientific skills are among the most dangerous men in the sport. Mad Dog Watkins knows when to bust heads and when to crack legs. TD: I think you're underestimating the reserves of Luke Steele's stamina, Steve. He doesn't look like he's gonna submit. [The ref asks Steele if he is ready to give in and the rookie shakes his head furiously, though the pain is clearly evident on his face. Mad Dog locks the hold even tighter, willing his foe to submit. Some of the younger fans at ringside start up a "Real - Deal! Real - Deal!" chant. Watkins, seeing that his young opponent has more endurance than he suspected, grabs hold of the bottom rope to add more leverage to the hold. Steele lets out a gasp of pain, but the referee turns around and notices the illegality. He slaps Watkins' hands away from the ropes and yells at him to release the hold! Watkins is not too happy, but complies. He leaps up and gets in the referee's face. Meanwhile Luke Steele staggers to his feet, limping noticably.] SR: What an injustice! The referee is clearly babysitting Luke Steele. I demand the hold be locked on again! TD: Don't be ridiculous, Steve! Watkins tried to cheat and for once justice was served. [The ref tells Watkins to "let me take care of the officiating while you take care of the wrestling!" Watkins curses loudly and turns back to Luke Steele, who is now standing right in front of him! Watkins makes a clumsy grapple, but Steele slips behind, locks his arms around Watkins' head and...] TD: Oh! He bulldogged Watkins right into the canvas! SR: This is disgraceful, the ref is clearly against Mad Dog! Get Putty Jamberry down here to stop the match! TD: That is Poutine Janois Steve. SR: That's what I said, you moron! [The crowd gives Luke a solid face pop. Steele takes his time to get up again, still wincing from his strained leg. But he needn't hurry, since Watkins is rolling around on the canvas clutching his head. Steele hauls Watkins up, sets him in position, and executes a crunching piledriver! Another face pop from the crowd. Steele rolls over Watkins and hooks the leg. The ref puts on the count: 1 - 2 - kickout by Watkins! Steele gets up, runs to the ropes, bounds off and goes for a big splash. Watkins rolls out of the way at the last moment and Steele winds himself on the mat! Both men are slow getting to their feet, feeling the pace. Steele has the faster reflexes and stuns Watkins with a kick to the midsection. Steele grabs Watkins and whips him to the ropes. Watkins comes bounding back and Steele hits him with a spinning knee-lift! Watkins staggers back against the ropes and Steele doesn't give him a chance to recover, hitting him with a mighty clothesline and sending him toppling outside the ring! Loud face pop from the crowd! Steele goes running to the opposite ropes, bounds off, runs back across and sails over the top rope, hitting Mad Dog Watkins with a plancha dive just as the veteran is getting to his feet! Both men smash into the steel crowd railings, with Watkins taking the brunt of the bump. Awed pop from the crowd!] TD: What a turn-around for the books! Luke Steele is something of a pioneering stylist in the IIWF; he's a big guy but he prefers a fast-paced, high-flying match. SR: But does he have the killer instinct, Dross? When it comes down to it, that is the most important thing for a fighter to possess. Mad Dog Watkins has that dangerous ingredient, and that is why he'll triumph. TD: Well, right now Mad Dog is not displaying much of his famed killer instinct at all. He's getting shown up by the skills of this young lion, Luke Steele! [Luke Steele gets up and climbs up onto the apron, intent on taking the fight back into the ring where it belongs. Watkins staggers up behind him, giddy from the succession of blows he's taken. Luke Steele attempts to climb over the ropes, but Watkins grabs hold of his legs! The crowd gives a mixed pop as the veteran attempts to yank Steele back down to the outside! Steele scrambles and loses his grip, and as he comes down his throat catches on the top rope, snapping his head back brutally! Shocked gasp from the crowd! Steele slumps onto the arena floor, clutching at his throat and gagging. Watkins immediately grabs hold of Steele's head, and uses his other hand to pummel the "Real Deal" repeatedly on the bridge of his nose and forehead! The ref's count is getting close, so once again Watkins shoves his opponent back into the ring and quickly follows.] SR: See, Timmy boy? There's no way a young whelp like Luke Steele can hold an advantage on Mad Dog Watkins for long. Watkins is too experienced, too ringwise and too wiley for that. TD: Well, I don't question Watkins' resilience, but I do quesiton some of the tactics he used to turn the match around. SR: What are you talking about, Dross? That's Watkins' famed killer instinct you were babbling on about before! TD: You were the one who started on about that, Steve! SR: I was not! TD: [sighs] Let's just concentrate on the match shall we? [Watkins drags up Luke Steele, who's nose is swelling up slightly from being bludgeoned repeatedly. Watkins hooks one arm, then the other and executes a powerful double-underhook suplex! Watkins maintains the hooked arm position, gets to his feet, hauling up Steele with him, and executes a second double-underhook suplex! Awed pop from the crowd! Once again, Watkins gets to his feet, dragging up Steele with him, but this time he shifts his arm position and executes a crunching belly-to-belly suplex! The "Real Deal" is motionless after the three suplex variations.] TD: Very impressive work from Mad Dog! Watkins may very well be the master of the suplex in the IIWF. SR: That's it for Luke Skywalk... I mean Luke Steele! His brief fling with stardom is over! [Watkins goes for the cover: 1 - 2 - Steele kicks out at the last moment! Rousing face pop from the crowd! Mad Dog slaps the mat in frustration and gets to his feet. A mixed pop begins through the crowd as a well-known figure makes his way down the aisle.] SR: It's Brody Thunder! Yes! Watkins and Thunder are gonna team up and trash the "Real Deal"! TD: Get realistic, Steve; Thunder obviously feels he has something to settle with Watkins and he's not gonna wait for their official match next Saturday Night. [Brody Thunder halts at the foot of the aisle and puts the hard stare on Mad Dog Watkins. He clamps a big cigar in his mouth, lights it up and takes a puff, all the while his steely grey eyes never leaving Watkins. Watkins, meanwhile, notices Thunder's presence at ringside and forgets about Luke Steele for the moment. He takes a few steps towards the ropes, places his hands on his hips and returns the stare, his eyes two fiery coals burning through Brody's own.] TD: Oh my goodness! Niether man seems willing to make the first move, but it's a safe bet bodies will start flying at any moment. SR: Go on, hit 'im one then! Go on, hit 'im! What are you waiting for? TD: Who are you talking to, Steve? SR: Both of them. I wouldn't be talking to Luke Steele now, would I? TD: That figures. [Moments pass as the two hardcases stare at each other, both content to wait for the other's move. Meanwhile, Luke Steele stirs on the canvas and gets to his feet. He looks around dazedly and notices Brody Thunder standing at ringside. Steele looks annoyed at this disturbance in the match and firmly tells Brody Thunder to "Get backstage where you belong!" Both Mad Dog and Thunder yell at Steele to "Shut the hell up and mind yer' own business!" before going back to their staredown. Steele shakes his head in disbelief and slides out of the ring, apparently intent on manhandling Brody out of the arena himself. Neither Thunder or Watkins appear to notice Steele's actions however, for Brody chooses that very moment to enter the ring. Watkins beckons with his hand and yells at Brody to "Bring it on!" As soon as Thunder steps between the ropes however, the referee, who has been following this turn of events closely, calls for the bell. Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: That's it! It's all over! Apparently it's a DQ for Mad Dog Watkins, who certainly encouraged Brody to enter the ring. SR: Encouraged? Come off it, Dross, since when does staring hard at a guy and beckoning him to "bring it on" provoke a fight? But who cares, the real fun is only just beginning! [Brody and Watkins immediately lunge at each other, exchanging wild bolo punches, glancing elbowsmashes and winding knees to the midsection. Neither man seems able to gain a definate advantage, and the two ruffians seem content to trade shots without any regard for defence.] RA: Ladies and Gentlemen! Mad Dog Watkins has been disqualified for provoking a fight with an outside man! Therefore, your winner is "Real Deal" Luke Steele! [The crowd gives a mild face pop, a little disgruntled at this somewhat dubious call. The camera shows Luke Steele outside the ring, who is clearly disgusted with the decision and not at all pleased with a mere DQ victory. He commands a ringside suit to get out of his chair, and then siezes up the foreign object.] SR: Oooh scary, scary! The "Real Squeal" wants to play the tough guy! TD: Well, Luke is quite justified in his annoyance, having his chance for the big time blown by the shenanigans of Watkins and Brody Thunder. Those guys look like they might pay the price for overlooking the "Real Deal". [Luke Steele scampers through the ropes holding onto his chair, as the brawl between Thunder and Watkins continues unabated. Watkins has just crunched Thunder's nose with a particularly nasty headbutt. Luke Steele advances on Brody Thunder's back, sweeps the chair over his shoulder and then brings it swinging forward, clouting Brody a mighty blow across the back of his bald pate! Brody staggers and drops, without even knowing what hit him. Mad Dog Watkins takes a little too long in figuring out what's going on, and Luke Steele deals him a terrific shot across the forehead! Watkins drops comatose from the force of the steel chair. The crowd gives Luke Steele a huge pop!] SR: This is ridiculous! This gimp is spoiling my enjoyment of seeing Brody Thunder brawl with the Mad Dog. If my back was feeling a little better I'd go up there and deal with Skywalker myself! TD: That's Luke Steele, not Luke Skywalker, Steve. And besides, you've already shown your utter cowardliness about stepping back in the ring. SR: Why you bald-pated, chilli dog chewing hick! You've never been in the ring, you don't know nothin'! [Luke Steele climbs back to the outside, and begins rummaging around under the ring. A confused muttering sweeps over the crowd, wondering what Steele is up to. It soon becomes apparent however as he produces two leather straps and holds them up in the air for the crowd's benefit.] SR: What are those? Becky Larue's discarded underwear? TD: Oh my goodness... No, Steve, those are dog muzzles! What else do you use to restrain a mad dog? SR: Oh, the humiliation! [The crowd laughs as Luke Steele climbs back into the ring and fastens a muzzle first on the motionless Brody Thunder, and second on the comatose Mad Dog Watkins. He signals to Sparklug Lee for the microphone. The "Real Deal" addresses the fans:] LS: That is how you deal with man's best friend! [The crowd gives Steele a big face pop, and feeling a little more uplifted about the match, Steele climbs out of the ring and heads up the aisle. He slaps the fan's hands all the way backstage and grins to himself.] TD: What an end to the match-up by Luke Steele! SR: Hurrumph. You can bet your life Brody Thunder and Mad Dog Watkins will remember this! They'll make that little whelp pay for humiliating them! [Security pour down the aisle and enter the ring, helping Watkins and Thunder to their feet and dragging them up the aisle to the locker room area. Cut to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: We've seen some incredibly competitive action here already tonight, and there's a whole lot more to come, fans! Up next, we have tremendous tag team action, as World Champs, Pain Inc., whose manager, Mr. Mic, has been one of the most vociferous dissenters since the new ruling concerning the presence of non-wrestling personnel at ringside, face former champs, the Armed Forces, who, along with other respectable teams like Cold Spell, stand to benefit most from the new limitation. SR: If you ask me, Dross, this new ruling smells of favouritism. Those goofs in the front office have the notion that doing things the fair way involves playing golf. TD: I don't know about that, Steve, but the Forces' fortunes have been on something of a downturn since golf club-wielding manager Aaron the Caddie disappeared behind the scenes. SR: Have the Farces even won a match since he left? TD: Of course they have, Steve. Seeing as the High Plains Drifters lost earlier tonight, NavCom and DefCon have a huge opportunity to not only reach twenty wins first, but also win the IIWF Tag Team titles for the second time. How do you rate their chances? SR: The Farces aren't even close to Pain Inc.'s level... more on a par with the Chicago Cubs. TD: I wouldn't rate them that badly at all... wait, here comes Mr. Mic! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= IIWF WORLD TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Pain Inc. vs. Armed Forces --------------------------------------- WRITER: JdW [A loud heel pop breaks out among the fans as Mr. Mic walks down the aisle, smiling about something. He heads straight to the timekeeper's table, and takes a seat for himself.] TD: What could Mr. Mic be trying to do here? SR: It must be something important. A brilliant manager like Mr. Mic doesn't do anything by mistake. Maybe he wants to ask me for some advice on the upcoming match... TD: [sarcastically] Oh, does Morningstar want to learn the Asai moonsault? SR: Hey, you never know. [Sparkplug Lee gets up in a hurry, some unknown thought breaking his reverie. He deftly avoids tripping as he enters the ring, but somehow doesn't notice that his fly is down.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the following tag team contest, scheduled for one fall, is for the IIWF World Tag Team championship! [Pop] Introducing first, the challengers, from Nebraska, Omaha... erm, Omaha, Nebraska, at a combined weight of 602 pounds, the Armed Forces! [A medley of machine gun and ambulance sirens marks the arrival of the Forces, who aren't alone. The two members of the Zodiac Connection are with them, and both Scorpio and Taurus are carrying the customary steel pipes. Mr. Mic seems a bit perturbed about this development, but he doesn't make a move to get up yet. The Forces' entourage hits the ring, and Sparkplug is about to continue the introductions when Poutine Janois appears from behind the curtains, and begins to walk up the aisle.] TD: We have the head of the Special Concerns Committee out here, and I'm not quite sure why. SR: Don't you pay attention to our other broadcasts, Drossy? Yesterday they announced that only one "non-wrestling" member of a team can be at ringside, or something like that. I don't see how it applies here, 'cause neither of the Zodiacs can wrestle. [This indeed what Janois is explaining -- laudable indeed given that two men wielding pipes might not be interested in the finer points of the rules. None of the foursome are happy about it, but being the fair men they are, Scorpio decides to leave and Taurus stays behind to watch Nav's and Def's backs. The fans murmur restlessly, waiting for the arrival of the tag champs. Sparkplug Lee raises the microphone, but is interrupted by Mr. Mic entering the ring alone and commandeering the mic.] TD: Hold on. Somebody had better tell Mr. Mic that you do actually have to have wrestlers here to defend the titles. SR: Dross, you moron, show the World Tag Team Champions the respect they deserve. The manager extraordinaire is about to speak. [Mr. Mic laughs at the Armed Forces as they try to intimidate Mr. Mic. He turns to face NavCom and DefCon as he speaks.] MM: Oh yeah, you two think you'll have twenty wins after tonight, huh? You backstab Pain Inc., and you actually think you have the upper hand to defeat us? My boys are so choked at you two has-beens that they can't wait to tear your heads off [substantial heel pop!] but first... some guests. Ladies and gentlemen, live and in living colour... look up high -- it's WHITE ZOMBIE. [Mr.Mic points to a scaffold set back from the aisle near the ring entrance as three spotlights snap on, casting their brilliant beams up to the top of the scaffold, where, sure enough, all the members of White Zombie stand, dressed in chainmail masks and wearing Pain Inc. t-shirts. Fireworks light up the arena as "More Human than Human" starts to play. Tremendous heel pop.] MM: Ladies and gentlemen, stand up and give your respect to the beasts from the Far East, hailing from Jakarta, Indonesia, at a total combined weight of 585lbs, the tag team champions of the world, Morningstar and Hellraiser... Pain Inc.! [Pain Inc., dressed as per usual with their belts strapped around their waist, emerge from the entranceway and head down the aisle, staring at the Forces all the way to the ring. Big heel pop!] SR: Look at these two, Dross. Have you ever seen such intensity? TD: These two men look ready for a fight, that's for sure! [Earl Alphonso starts getting on Mr. Mic's case, warning him about outside interference. As usual, Mr. Mic plays innocent, and he says "I'm just here for moral support." Meanwhile, Hellraiser and Morningstar run into the ring and double clothesline DefCon over the top rope! Heel pop! They grab one arm each of NavCom, and whip him off the ropes, hitting him with a huge double shoulderblock. DefCon runs back in, and hits Morningstar from behind with a clothesline. Alphonso finally turns around, and sees both of the Forces in the ring, so he threatens DefCon with a disqualification! He pushes him back towards his corner, as Morningstar chokes out Nav with the tag rope in the Pain Inc. corner. Hellraiser then slaps his own hand, which Alphonso with his back turned takes as a tag. The ref finally turns around, while Hellraiser is landing kicks in Nav's ribs.] SR: You have to admire the way Pain Inc. can manipulate a referee, even a veteran like Earl "White Cane" Alphonso. TD: It's despicable to me... wrestling is supposed to be about finding out in a fair contest who the better athlete is. SR: Gee golly, Uncle Timmy, sounds like a lot of fun. When do we get to see blood? TD: Sigh. I seriously hope this match doesn't end as cheaply as it started. [Hellraiser picks up the nautical grappler, and whips him off the ropes, hitting a spinning heel kick on his return. The fans let out a sympathetic pop, to which Hellraiser replies with an obscenity. He picks up Nav and slams him, then he makes an arrogant cover without hooking the leg. 1 - Nav kicks out easily. Hellraiser isn't discouraged, as he sets up Nav for a snap suplex, takes a split second extra to give him time to think, and then drives him back, hooking the leg for another pin. 1 - 2 - Nav kicks out again. NavCom kicks Hellraiser in the stomach, but he just fires back with a kick of his own into the face, and then snapmares Nav. Mr. Mic is grinning from ear to ear on the outside at his team's success, and he instructs Hellraiser to make a tag. On the other side of the ring, Taurus looks nervous to say the least.] TD: So far, the Armed Forces haven't put up any offense to speak off, I think that the early cheating of Pain Inc. may have thrown them off base. SR: I think the fact that they suck has thrown them off base. By the way, good little pun there... Armed Forces, base. Ha! [Morningstar enters the ring, and the two co-champions advance on NavCom. Wisely, he grabs both their heads in a desperation move, and slams them together! As the two stumble about, he dropkicks Hellraiser back into his corner, and then whips Morningstar off the ropes to hit a back body drop. DefCon calls for the tag, and Nav wisely starts his way to the corner, although Morningstar is crawling over to intercept. He arrives just a split second too late, but at the same time Mr. Mic jumps onto the ring apron, drawing Alphonso's attention. Def steps in and takes control with a right hand that topples Morningstar, and then he catches a charging Hellraiser in a vicous chokeslam! Mr. Mic gives up and drops off the apron, so Alphonso turns to see DefCon, and not having heard the tag, once again orders him out of the ring! The fans, the Forces, and Taurus all loudly object, but to no avail.] TD: Not again! Mr. Mic and his team have been bending the rules all night, and they're playing Earl Alphonso like a string! SR: It's so beautiful... [Roberts begins mock weeping] Brings a tear to my eye! TD: Pain Inc. don't deserve to represent the tag team ranks as champions, we've seen countless fine teams who can win without such shenanigans. SR: If I knew what the hell a shenanigan was, I might agree with you. [The two "legal" men at this time are Morningstar and NavCom, so that's who Alphonso allows to stay in the ring. Nav reacts quickly, hitting a chop to the neck that doubles Morningstar over. He sets him up for a DDT, holds one finger in the air for crowd support, and then smashes the co-champion's head off the canvas! Nav tries for the firstpin attempt by the challengers, and gets: 1 - 2 - Morningstar kicks out strongly. Nav twists his arm back in an armwringer, and follows by grabbing a waistlock. With lightning quickness, he hits a back suplex, but neglects to cover, instead struggling to get to his corner. He takes a few steps, while Taurus encourages him on, and DefCon stretches out as far as he can. Morningstar, battered himself, walks slowly to his corner, and dives, making the tag to the bigger Hellraiser. He then runs towards the opposite corner, but just a second before he gets there, DefCon is finally tagged in. He elbows Hellraiser in the face, knocking him to the mat, and the crowd pops madly for the tag.] TD: Wow! That was an important tag if ever I saw one, and I think this might be the beginning of the end for Pain Inc's tag team title reign. SR: I'm not worried, and I'll tell you why. This is a tag team match. That means in about two minutes, we'll have half a dozen guys running around trying to interfere, and in circumstances like that Pain Inc. will always come out on top. TD: I hope the recent trends in tag wrestling don't continue here, because the Armed Forces are very close to a win, a title reign, and immortality. SR: Immorality? I thought you were against cheating. Raises the, um, "hairs" on your head. TD: Leave my hair out of this. SR: I wish you'd had that sentiment this morning. [Def puts Hellraiser in position for a piledriver, and he delivers with devastating impact. He then runs off the ropes, and connects a leg drop that echoed throughtout the entire Coliseum. Morningstar had seen enough, so he runs into the ring right at Def. The general puts a leg up, and drops Morningstar with a big boot that makes Mr. Mic wince. Morningstar slowly drags himself up, but is knocked back down when Def powerslams him almost into the mat. He hauls Hellraiser to his feet, and snaps him quickly into a slingshot suplex, but he decides not to cover right away. Mr. Mic has seen enough, so he reaches into his pockets and pulls out a handful of salt. Taurus sees this coming, and he runs over to put himself in between the action and Mr. Mic, all the while patting that lead pipe! Mic backs off a bit, noticeably afraid, while in the ring DefCon hits his patented ICBM power bomb.] TD: This one is over! Not even Mr. Mic can save his men now! SR: Yeah, but Alphonso has turned to face the action on the outside, and he's not looking in the ring. That gives Hellraiser time to recover! TD: He'll need a lot of time after the ICBM... Whoa, wait a minute, what's this? [A group of fans part like the Red Sea in the front row, and the High Plains Drifters step out from the crowd! No one in the ring has seen them yet, so they head to the Forces' corner, and catch NavCom completely by surprise with a double back suplex! Huge heel pop that alerts DefCon. He turns, only in time to catch some sort of liquid in the eyes, which Pale Rider spits at him. The Drifters turn, and take off back into the crowd just as Alphonso turns around to see DefCon clutching his eyes.] SR: I'd know that smell anywhere! That was Kessler's! TD: What a travesty of justice, DefCon's eyes must be burning! [Def stumbles blindly in the ring, and Hellraiser is able to slowly pull himself to his feet. He grabs the disoriented DefCon, and rolls him up, making sure to grab an illegal hold of the tights as he does. NavCom is in no position to make the save, so the count is made: 1 - 2 - 3! Ding! Ding! Ding! Huge heel pop!] TD: Pain Inc. take a highly tainted victory here tonight... SR: Are they still the champions, Dross? TD: Well, yes, but... SR: [interrupting] But nothing. They did what they had to do, and that's what seperates the champs from the also-rans. [Morningstar and Hellraiser quickly leave the ring, noticing that Mr. Mic is in some distress. They heed his call, and the three exit to a loud heel pop. In the ring, NavCom attends to his partner, who's starting to recover, and Taurus also returns to the ring to help out. The three exit together, and as they pass the aisleside fans, Taurus hands his pipe to one of them in a show of appreciation for their support.] SR: Awww, isn't that cute! A little kiddie has a steel pipe, so now he can brain all his little friends! TD: Now please, Steve, Taurus is just trying to be a role model in his own way. I'm sure the Armed Forces will be screaming for revenge once DefCon's eyes are okay, and hopefully they aren't seriously damaged. Alcohol can really burn at the retina. SR: Aren't we "Mr. Wizard" tonight? The important things are: firstly, Pain Inc. are still the tag team champions, and secondly, the Armed Forces only have nineteen wins. How that came to pass is really not important. [A quick shot of Taurus and the Armed Forces exiting is shown, with the fans still popping in sympathy for DefCon. Cut back to the announcer's table.] TD: Fans, we have another tremendous match coming your way in just a few moments, as Deathbringer, the man with the best win/loss record in the entire IIWF, takes on Mr. Damage, who is unbeaten in 1997. One of these guys is going to be sporting a dent in his record after this match, Steve. SR: Hopefully we'll see a few dented heads, ring posts, steel chairs and tables, too. TD: You have a one track mind, Steve Roberts. SR: I do not. Beer, biscuits, blood -- that's three already. Then there's... TD: [interrupting] Okay, Steve. I think we get to the picture. Let's get up to Sparkplug Lee for the introductions in this one. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Deathbringer vs. Mr. Damage =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: NN [Sparkplug Lee steps into the ring and raises the microphone to his mouth.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, this matchup is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, at 245 pounds... from Melbourne, Australia... Mr. Damage! [Mr. Damage appears in the aisle as "I Hate People" starts up over the PA. Damage, dressed in his black tights, slowly strolls down to ringside to a moderate heel pop. He enters the ring and awaits his opponent's arrival.] SR: This man has been great in 1997, Dross. Did you know that he hasn't lost a match this calendar year? TD: Yes, as a matter of fact. It's tough to describe what Damage has done this year. He was the lone survivor of that wild card match at Ring Wars III, and, well... SR: He's like a farmer Dross. TD: How so? SR: He's outstanding in his field. TD: Sheesh... Sparkplug? RA: And his opponent... [Pop!] is from the dark side! [The lights go out as "The Reaper" starts. Deathbringer makes his way through the curtain, clad in his cowl and mask. Only a red set of eyes can be seen.] RA: At 324 pounds, the Dark Destroyer himself, Deathbringer! [The crowd watches in awe as Deathbringer steps into the ring and removes his cowl. The lights come back on, and the bell sounds.] TD: Alright, the nearly unbeatable Deathbringer in the ring against the nearly unbeatable Mr. Damage. This ought to be an outstanding match, Steve. [The two men lock up, and Mr. Damage slips under for a hammerlock. Deathbringer swings an elbow back at Damage, nailing him in the mouth. Deathbringer is quick to follow up with several right hands to the face of Mr. Damage, who takes it and fires right back with an assault of his own. The two combatants slug it out, but a Deathbringer haymaker misses, and Mr. Damage counters with a quick backside suplex!] SR: A good brawl to start things off, but a wrestling move bails Mr. Damage out of the predicament. Good job by Damage! TD: Well, we rarely see Deathbringer on the mat, but I'm sure he'll be back in operation soon. [Deathbringer gets back to a knee, but is quickly kicked in the stomach by Mr. Damage. 'Bringer fights it off, however, and gets to his feet. He rocks Damage with an elbow strike to the face and then swings him to the ropes. Damage comes off and is felled by a back body drop. Deathbringer covers - 1 - kickout. Damage gets back up and charges in, but Deathbringer steps to the side with a hiptoss. Damage rolls out of the ring.] TD: Deathbringer makes a charge of his own, see, Steve? SR: Whatever. TD: As long as we've got some time, I should tell you that -- [Deathbringer slides underneath the bottom rope to the floor, and blindsides Mr. Damage. Damage goes to the mat hard, and Deathbringer steps away.] TD: Nice move there by 'Bringer, but as I was saying, Deathbringer will face Requiem on May 10 at Birthday Bash in a "Master of Darkness" match... and that's going to be an incredible encounter. SR: Well, Requiem has quickly risen to the top of the IIWF, and Deathbringer has always been there himself... it will be quite a match. The only thing is, I don't understand it... are they friends or not? TD: I can't tell either, Steve. SR: Hell, why should I care whether they're friends or not, Dross? As long as they beat each other's brains in, I'm happy. [Mr. Damage gets back up, and Deathbringer charges him again, trying to slam him into the guardrail. Mr. Damage blocks, and slams Deathbringer's head into the steel. Big heel pop!] SR: You know, they call that the "safety rail", but it seems as if it provides more of a peril than a safety out there. TD: Well, it provides safety for the fans of the IIWF, but does very little for the wrestlers, I must admit. [Mr. Damage gets back into the ring and waits for Deathbringer. The Angel of Death gets back to his feet and hops up onto the apron. Mr. Damage takes a swing, but Deathbringer hops back to the floor, whipping Damage's head across the top rope. Pop!] SR: Come on, ref... that ain't legal! TD: Don't you know that referees hate poor grammar? [Damage falls back into the ring, and Deathbringer is quick to capitalize. He grabs Damage by the leg and drags him to the corner. As Deathbringer holds him near the ringpost, Damage begs for mercy, but there is none in the Destroyer, who slams his knee into the pole. Deathbringer gets back into the ring and drops an elbow - 1 - 2 - kickout.] SR: Well, it appears that the Aussie has some fight left in him still. [Mr. Damage is dragged up by a headlock, but is quick to reverse it into a hammerlock. Deathbringer spins to face his adversary, but Mr. Damage snaps him up and drops him into a backbreaker! Cover - 1 - 2 - kickout. Mr. Damage keeps the fire going, by grabbing Deathbringer's hair. He pulls him up and swings him to the rope... Deathbringer comes off and runs right into a powerslam!] TD: This has come from nowhere, and though behind on points for much of the match, Mr. Damage has now taken control with a couple of moves! Let's see if he can finish the job! [Mr. Damage walks slowly to the turnbuckle and points to the sky. The crowd gives out a heel pop again.] TD: Sure is taking a lot of time... this is a mistake! SR: He's got it under control, don't panic. [Suddenly, a gigantic crowd pop erupts. Mr. Damage nods in approval of the noise, and makes his way up. Requiem makes his way down the aisle, to the pop. As Deathbringer lies in the ring, Requiem's crystal blue eyes watch with interest. Damage raises his arms and launches himself with his Thunderstruck legdrop. Cameras flash and the crowd pops as Damage comes down hard -- on nothing but canvas. Deathbringer, having sat up, cackles diabolically. Pop!] TD: Requiem has arrived, Damage has crashed and burned, and this match is breaking down here! ['Bringer stands up and points at Requiem. Requiem looks on as Deathbringer snaps up the Australian and delivers a massive chokeslam! Pop! Deathbringer stands over his fallen opponent, but does not cover. He sends a comment Requiem's way, who just nods right back. Deathbringer snaps Damage up again!] TD: Deathbringer has taken Damage out of the match... but he's not going for the cover! SR: What is this? TD: He's sending a message directly to Requiem... that he is the Master of Darkness! [Deathbringer performs another chokeslam, to the delight of the crowd!] TD: Deathbringer has snapped here... and it's all due to the presence of Requiem! SR: There's no doubt he has a very ruthless side, and we're seeing it here. ['Bringer covers - 1 - 2 - Bringer snaps him back up off the canvas.] TD: What is he doing... he's gone stark raving mad! [Deathbringer stands the rubber-legged Mr. Damage up in the center of the ring. The referee warns Deathbringer to stop his antics, but he pays no heed. 'Bringer sprints to one rope, then to the other, building up a head of steam. He leaps and lands his Scythe, a flying clothesline. As Damage hits the mat, unconscious, the referee steps in front of Deathbringer and scolds him.] TD: I may not like Mr. Damage, but he does not deserve this! [Deathbringer drops his head from the referee's verbal barrage, and steps back. He then proceeds to grab Mr. Damage again! Big pop!] SR: Not again... [The referee immediately signals for the bell as Deathbringer moves his opponent to the turnbuckle.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, Deathbringer has been disqualified... your winner is Mr. Damage! [Upon the announcement, Deathbringer delivers his Burial piledriver from the top rope. Requiem leaps into the ring.] SR: Here we go! [Deathbringer takes a step toward Requiem, who does the same. Soon, the two men are eye to eye in the ring.] SR: Who'll make the first move? TD: It's as if they're boring into each other's souls... eerie almost. [Both men continue to glare at each other, as the referees help Mr. Damage to his feet, to a hardcore pop from a small faction of appreciative fans. Mr. Damage raises his hand in victory.] TD: A costly win for Mr. Damage, but he got some fan support there. SR: Well, after that beating, they've got to admire his endurance. [Damage is helped from the ring as the crowd falls silent, all eyes in the arena locked on Requiem and Deathbringer, each man staring at the other with the same intensity.] SR: Come on, what are you two big goofs waiting for? Let's have a fight! TD: I think the connection between these two athletes -- whatever it is -- runs a lot deeper than that, Steve Roberts. [Security pour down the aisle and surround the ring. As the first blue-shirted security guard rolls into the squared circle under the bottom rope, both Deathbringer and Requiem break their gaze simultaneously. The two huge athletes are surrounded by security, but their height enables them to stare literally head and shoulders above the frantic staff, like the calm above stormclouds in a clear sky. Eventually, Requiem is forced to leave the ring, and he backs slowly up the aisle, keeping his eyes on Deathbringer as he goes.] TD: It looks like this situation has finally been defused. I really don't know what to make of the relationship between these two, Steve. When Requiem came out here, 'Bringer seemed to just snap -- but when Requiem gets into the ring, neither man takes a swing at the other. SR: It's a damned shame, Dross. If these two keep this passive resistance thing up much longer, I'm gonna have to go in there myself and start something. TD: What about your back injury? SR: I'm quick on my feet, Dross. One well-timed swing of a steel chair or a ring bell, and I'd be out of there, kicking back with some biscuits. [At that moment, the lights in the arena drop to total darkness, and flicker back into life a few seconds later. A faction of security staff are left bewildered in the ring -- but Deathbringer is nowhere to be seen. Big mixed pop!] SR: The dead guy has left the building! TD: Deathbringer's up to his old tricks again -- but I'm not sure it'll have any effect on Requiem. [Requiem is ushered back to the locker room area. Cut to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Our next match features the return to action of one "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare, the man who last week shocked the world with the revelation that the mischievous masked wrestler known as Spur was none other than the former Intercontinental and Cruiserweight champion. SR: I don't buy this multiple personality stuff, Dross. I really don't. TD: Well, neither, it would seem, does Shakespeare's opponent tonight, Ronnie Paris. He's been in a mean mood for the past week, and he's determined to extract some revenge on Billy for the thorn in his side that has been "Spur" for the past three months. Let's get up to ringside. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Ronnie Paris vs. "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: DS [Sparkplug Lee steps into the glare of the spotlight and raises the microphone to his mouth:] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, accompanied to the ring by Maggie Collins, hailing from El Paso, Texas, and weighing in at 210lbs, here is... Ronnie Paris! [Big pop as "We Are The Champions" kicks in over the PA, and the lights in the rigging above the ring flash in time to the music, casting different colours over the aisle and ringside fans. Paris emerges from the entrance curtain, a steely look of determination on his face. He adjusts his elbow pads as he walks to the ring, ignoring the outstretched hands of the fans. Maggie Collins follows a few paces behind, her face set in a look of concern.] TD: Just look at the intensity on the face of Ronnie Paris, Steve. SR: Aw, is widdle Wonnie upset with the nasty man? TD: Ronnie Paris proved in that Towel Match last Saturday Night that he has found new determination and focus -- but will that be clouded by his anger here tonight? SR: Just take a look at the face of the "lovely" Maggie there, Dross. I've run over more attractive animals than that in my new Boxster. TD: Ah yes, your new Porsche. I meant to ask you about that -- I heard that you've already crashed it. SR: Just a little dent in the parking lot, Dross. Get off my back. TD: That's terribly bad luck, Steve. SR: Shut up. [Paris climbs straight up the ringsteps without turning back to receive any words of advice from Collins, who takes up position in her man's corner, looking up into the squared circle, where Paris tests the ropes and limbers up for the match. His music fades as Sparkplug Lee raises his microphone again, and the opening bars of "Little Willie" by the Sweet kicks in over the PA to a big mixed pop.] RA: And introducing his opponent... hailing from Ashland, Oregon, and weighing in at 230lbs, here is... "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare! [The arena lights drop, a single white spotlight falling on the head of the aisle. After a few seconds, out steps Billy Shakespeare, his gold and white tights sparkling in the brilliant white light. He clenches his fists, his white fingerless gloves wrinkling. However, his flamboyant clothing is at odds with the dark paint applied to his face, drawn in the shape of a "tragedy" mask. The crowd's pop drops to a buzz as Shakespeare simply stands in the spotlight, bolt upright, allowing the fans to get a good look at his face.] TD: That makeup is certainly a departure for Billy Shakespeare, Steve. I can only assume that this "tragedy" design is some form of acknowledgement of the dastardly actions he has perpetrated over the past several months under the guise of "Spur". SR: I ain't buying it, Dross. None of the "L'il Soundbiters" are gonna buy it. TD: No, I suppose they're all going to buy your shirts, right? SR: Damned right. [After a few more seconds, Shakespeare begins to walk down the aisle, eschewing his traditional bow to the fans, and he ignores the clamouring fans to both sides, simply looking ahead at the challenge that awaits him in the ring. As he approaches the foot of the aisle, suddenly the figure of Ronnie Paris bursts into the brilliant white beam cast by the single spotlight, as he attacks Shakespeare outside the ring. The arena lights are hurriedly brought back up as the two men go at it. Huge pop!] TD: Whoa! It looks like Ronnie Paris is in no mood to cut Shakespeare any slack whatsoever! [Official Chuck Sanders is forced to leap from the ring and try to separate the two brawling wrestlers, but he is knocked to the floor by a flailing arm from Paris. Paris whips Shakespeare into the steel crowd barriers in the aisle, forcing front row fans to scatter as the barriers topple. Paris puts the boots to Shakespeare, and then scoops him up and slams him onto the metal barriers. Paris steps back from Shakespeare as the referee again steps between the two wrestlers. Big heel pop! Billy starts to pick himself up, at which point Paris shoves the official out of the way once more and throws Shakespeare towards the ring. Billy careens into the ring apron, hitting his back hard. Heel pop!] TD: I've never seen Ronnie Paris this fired up about anything before, Steve Roberts! SR: If only widdle Wonnie would wrestle like this every week, Dross. I could start to like him. TD: "Wrestle"?! This match isn't even officially underway yet, Steve. SR: I know. Great, ain't it? [Paris stalks up to Shakespeare, who is once again picking himself up off the floor, and attempts to whip him into the steel ringsteps at the corner of the squared circle. Billy, however, reverses, and it is Paris who flies headlong into the steps, ramming his shoulder into the steel. Big pop! Billy rolls into the ring as Maggie Collins dashes over to the steps to tend to her man.] TD: Paris may have reinjured his shoulder right there, Steve Roberts! That's the shoulder that took such a beating during that Towel Match last week. [Collins helps Paris to his feet and checks on his condition. Shakespeare drags himself back to a vertical base with the assistance of the ropes as Paris rolls into the ring under the bottom rope. The referee signals for the bell and the match is finally underway! Ding! Ding! Ding! Both wrestlers circle one another, each showing the effects of the preceding brawl, and then lock up collar and elbow. Shakespeare slips Paris into an armwringer, and yanks as hard as he can on Paris' shoulder, causing the wiry Texan to yelp with pain. Shakespeare takes Paris down to the mat with a single-leg takedown, and then applies an armbar on the right arm, again twisting the shoulder as hard as he is able. Sanders checks on Paris, but the Texan refuses to submit, instead reaching out behind him with his left arm, and grabbing a handful of Shakespeare's hair. The official warns Paris, who remains trapped in the hold.] TD: Textbook stuff here from Billy Shakespeare. He's concentrating on one body part, isolating that injured shoulder. SR: I preferred it when they were beating each other's brains out on the arena floor, Dross. [Paris beats his free hand on the mat, and Maggie Collins shouts encouragement to her fiance from the outside. Shakespeare yanks harded on the armbar, but it becomes apparent that Paris isn't about to submit. Shakespeare releases the armbar, and then attempts to hyper-extend the right arm by yanking it hard, trying to pull the joint out of its socket. Again, Paris yells as Shakespeare twists his arm, leaps to his feet, and drops a leg across the Texan's shoulder. Shakespeare again yanks on Paris' arm, and places his leg across the back of his opponent's neck, holding him down to the canvas. Collins continues to shout words of encouragement to Paris, who is now fairly immobilised. Paris reaches out with his left arm, but the tips of his fingers are only able to brush the ropes, and he can't grab hold of them to break the hold. Collins pushes the bottom rope into her fiance's hand, and the referee turns to see Paris with a handful of rope. Mixed pop! Sanders calls for the break, and Shakespeare obliges, dragging Paris to his feet.] TD: Paris has got to try and get back into his rhythm here. SR: I got rhythm, Dross. Hey, I got music. I got my "L'il Soundbiters" -- who could ask for anything more? [Shakespeare sends Paris for the ride, but the Texan ducks under a clothesline, and then fires back with a flying dropkick as Shakespeare turns. Billy goes down. Pop! Shakespeare rises, and is flipped back to the mat by a hiplock takedown. Again, Shakespeare rises and approaches Paris, and again, he is hiptossed to the mat. He rises a third time, and now blocks Paris' attempt, countering with a hiptoss of his own! Pop! Paris rises, and is met by a hard clothesline from Shakespeare which nearly takes his head off! Big pop! Shakespeare drops on Paris for the cover and hooks the leg - 1 - 2 - kickout! Shakespeare drags Paris to his feet, and is met by a hard punch to the midsection from the Texan. Shakespeare is staggered, and Paris bounces off the ropes, launching himself with a flying clothesline which sends Shakespeare hard to the mat. Big pop! Billy rolls out of the ring to the outside, near where Maggie Collins stands, and when Paris catapults himself over the ropes with a dropkick, Shakespeare grabs Collins and moves her into Paris' path!] TD: Oh my! No! Paris just felled his own fiancee with that dropkick! SR: Smart move by Pukespeare, Dross! TD: Oh, the official _must_ disqualify Billy Shakespeare for that offence, Steve Roberts! SR: I guess there's still a little bit of Spur left in Shakespeare, huh? [Huge heel pop as Collins goes down hard. Paris picks himself up and immediately bends over his winded woman. It appears that she hit her head on the steel crowd barrier as she was toppled, and she is almost unconscious on the outside. Meanwhile, Shakespeare kneels with his arms and face on the ring apron, apparently getting his breath back. The crowd is hushed as Paris scoops Collins up in his arms, wincing with pain at the strain on his tender shoulder, and yells up at the referee. Paris begins to make his way up the aisle with Collins in his arms as a team of medics makes its way down to ringside.] TD: Oh, this is bad, Steve Roberts. It appears that poor Maggie Collins has unwittingly become a casualty of --this war between Paris and Shakespeare. SR: Unwittingly, Dross? You know the three things I hate about wrestling: midgets, celebrities... and women. If they can't take the heat at ringside, they should stay in the kitchen. TD: You're disgusting, Steve Roberts. Maggie Collins could be seriously injured here... Paris is carrying her up to that stretcher in the aisle... but the referee is counting both men out... hang on! Shakespeare's got a chair! Shakespeare's got a chair! [Billy has grabbed an unoccupied chair from ringside, and is approaching Paris from behind. The crowd noise begins to rise as the fans become aware of the threat to Paris, and then erupts with a huge heel pop as Shakespeare slams the hard steel chair into Paris' back, causing him to drop Maggie Collins! The medics rush to her side as Shakespeare drags Paris to his feet and whips him into the steel crowd barriers! The crowd are going nuts!] TD: Billy Shakespeare has snapped, Steve Roberts! He has _snapped_! SR: I guess that proves it. "Spur" may have been unmasked, but he lives on! TD: This is dreadful... the medics are stretchering Collins out of the arena here, but look at Shakespeare and Paris in the aisle... this is madness. [Referee Chuck Sanders has left the ring and is trying to break up the brawl in the aisle. Shakespeare throws Paris back towards the ring and picks up his discarded steel chair before stalking back to ringside. The referee grabs the chair and attempts to yank it away from Shakespeare. A tug of war erupts between Shakespeare and the official, and behind Billy, Paris picks himself up and charges. Huge pop as he clips Billy's knee from behind. Shakespeare goes down hard on his knee, and the official flies backwards as his grip on the chair is relinquished. Paris drags Shakespeare to his feet and yells in his face before beginning to pummel him with hard rights and lefts, backing him towards the ring.] TD: Look at Paris flail away with those fists, Steve Roberts! I've never seen this side of his temper before! SR: Hell hath no fury like a widdle Wonnie scorned, Dross. [Paris rolls Shakespeare back into the ring, and then climbs in himself. The referee, having picked himself up from the aisle, dashes back to ringside to rejoin the athletes in the ring. Paris drops an elbow on Shakespeare's neck, and then makes the cover. The referee gets into position - 1 - 2 - kickout! Pop! Paris drags Shakespeare back to his feet, and then whips him into the ropes, trapping him in a sleeperhold as he comes back across the ring. Big pop! Billy staggers, apparently succumbing to the effect of the sleeper, and then suddenly sits down, hitting Paris with a jawbreaker. Paris rolls away clutching his throat, and both men are down on the canvas. Big pop as the official begins counting both men out - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - Shakespeare rolls to his knees as Paris begins to stir. Shakespeare drags Paris to his feet, and whips him into one corner before limping in after him. Shakespeare climbs to the second buckle, and begins hitting Paris with forearm blows and European uppercuts. Paris, however, grabs Shakespeare around the waist, takes a few steps forward, and then slams his opponent to the mat with a kind of spinebuster! Huge pop! Again, Paris makes the cover - 1 - 2 - kickout!] TD: Wow! That was close. These two men have each taken and dished out some incredible punishment here tonight -- this can't go on much longer. [Paris drags Shakespeare to his feet, and attempts to whip him across the ring into the opposite corner, but Shakespeare reverses, and sends Paris in for the ride. Paris appears to lose control halfway across the ring, tripping and sending himself flying, shoulder-first, into the steel ring post. His shoulder hits the steel with a sickening clang. Huge shocked pop! Paris staggers backwards, his face screwed up in agony.] TD: Oh my! Paris may have separated his shoulder right there, Steve Roberts! [Shakespeare runs across the ring as fast as his sore knee will allow, leaps to the second turnbuckle in front of Paris, and then launches himself back at the Texan with a flying body press. Somehow, though, the momentum carries Shakespeare over Paris, and he ends up slammed to the mat by the Texan! Huge pop! Paris hooks the leg -- the referee drops into position -- he makes the count -- 1 - 2 - Billy tries to escape, but... 3! Ding! Ding! Ding! Huge pop from the crowd!] TD: What?! If you blinked, you just missed the end of a truly unbelievable match! SR: What the hell happened?! [Paris rolls off the winded Shakespeare, his face still contorted by the pain of his shoulder. Shakespeare lies on the mat, his chest heaving, as if unable to believe what has just happened. The referee raises Paris' left arm as he lies on the canvas. Big pop!] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner: Ronnie Paris! TD: It was a spinebuster attempt that backfired on Shakespeare in his last match, costing him a victory over the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi in the ESWP Junior Heavyweight Championship tournament, and here tonight, it was a flying body press that cost him this match against Ronnie Paris. [Shakespeare drags himself to his feet, favouring his right leg slightly, and runs his hands through his hair, pushing it away from his face. The makeup on his face has become smudged by the sweat that drips from his brow, and has been smacked off by blows from his opponent. His face looks a grisly sight, sinister in its displeasure. Shakespeare stands, hands on his hips, and looks out into the sea of faces before him. He looks down on the injured Paris, clutching his shoulder on the mat while the referee tends to him. He pauses a little longer, and then climbs out of the ring and walks down the steel ring steps.] TD: What is going through the mind of Billy Shakespeare right now, Steve Roberts? SR: He's probably got about eight different guys in there telling him what we already knew, Dross -- he's a loser! And even worse, he lost to widdle Wonnie! [Shakespeare makes his way up the aisle to the locker room area, looking up at the video wall as he approaches the exit. He pauses to see a slow-motion replay of the end of the match: he launches himself at Paris, but his momentum carries him over, and he is pinned to the mat for the three count. Billy shakes his head, and then disappears back to the locker room area. In the ring, the referee helps Paris to his feet. The Texan receives a big pop from the crowd.] TD: What a fighter this Ronnie Paris is, Steve. He suffers several blows to his already weak shoulder, he takes it to Shakespeare even before the bell, he sees his fiancee stretchered out of the arena... SR: [interrupting] ...after _he_ hit her with a devastating blow, I might add. And then he dropped her! I mean, I know she's ugly, but cosmetic surgery is at least a more dignified way of rearranging somebody's face. TD: Stop it, Steve! Despite all the obstacles placed in his way in this match, Paris had the presence of mind to pull the rabbit out of the hat when it counted the most. For that, you've got to applaud him. SR: [clapping sarcastically] Yeah, whoo! Go, widdle Wonnie! TD: I give up. SR: I wish you would. You're cramping my style, Dross. [Paris heads up the aisle, still grimacing and clutching his right shoulder. As he passes a camera, its microphone picks up words of concern about Maggie Collins. Paris doesn't stop to acknowledge the support of the fans, and disappears behind the curtain into the locker room area. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Up next we have the classic power verus speed confrontation: "The Butcher" Otto Verhoeven takes on "The Enigma" Tazeko Musashi, who has been showing an uncharacteristically vicious streak of late. SR: So the little Enigma thinks he's capable of roughing it up, does he? Well, he's gonna find out the true meaning of violence, right here. TD: Well, no-one can take away the fact that Herr Verhoeven is one of the most dangerous competitors in the sport, but Tazeko has proved time and time again that he's more than capable of taking it to anyone. SR: Tazeko? Tazeko? Take a tip straight from the Soundbite's mouth, Dross, Verhoeven is riled up right now, and Musushi is gonna find himself on the recieving end. TD: Let's go to ringside and find out. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven vs. "Enigma" Takezo Musashi -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: MP RA: The following contest is scheduled for one fall, with a thirty minute time limit. Introducing first, weighing in at 340lbs and hailing from Essen, Germany... accompanied to the ring by his beautiful valet, Nurse Heidi... here is the Teutonic Terror... Otto 'The Butcher' Veeerhoooeeeeven!! [The crowd erupts into a huge heel pop as John Carpenter's "Halloween" starts up over the PA system, and the Butcher appears at the head of the aisle with Nurse Heidi, who is wearing a luxurious white fur coat. Verhoeven makes his wy to ringside, angily slapping away the fans' outstretched arms...] TD: I have to admit, Verhoeven does look furious at the moment. SR: Heh. The man is hot, Dross. And this ain't going to do much for his temper either... [Verhoeven stops at the head of the aisle, staring at a fan who is holding up a 'The Alliance fears Starks' poster. Verhoeven's face turns an ugly red, and he points at the fan, yelling a stream of insults in German. The fan jeers back, and Verhoeven snatches the poster off him, tearing it into shreds.] SR: What did I say, Dross? What did I say? Now Musushi's gonna find himself on the recieving end for that little stunt as well. TD: Whatever the case, the Butcher had better not get too overheated, or the Enigma could well catch him off guard... SR: Yeah, right. One punch and blam! Musushi will be lookin' at a different face in the mirror. TD: Closed fists are illegal, Steve... SR: So? Do you think Chuck Sanders' gonna tell Verhoeven off? I don't think so somehow... [Verhoeven leaps onto the second turnbuckle, holding his arms up to the crowd, who respond with jeers. Verhoeven snarls at them and yells insults back, before dropping back down to the ring to confer with Nurse Heidi as John Carpenter's Halloween slowly fades out...] RA: And his opponent... [Big crowd pop!] weighing in at 211lbs and hailing from Tokyo, Japan... here is "The Enigma" Tazeko Musaaaaaaassshi!! [Huge crowd pop as the mystical Oriental music plays out over the PA, and the Enigma steps into the aisle, arms raised. The Enigma turns around to look at the cheering crowd, before running down to ringside, slapping the fans hands. He leaps onto the ring apron, then the top turnbuckle, and somersaults into the ring, raising his arms again to another big pop. Verhoeven stares coldly across at him...] TD: Ever since he lost his title at Ring Wars III, the Enigma has been showing us a lot mor... look out! SR: See Dross, this is what I was talking about earlier! [As The Enigma turned away, Nurse Heidi threw the fur coat over the Enigma, and Verhoeven charged and caught him hard with a clothesline to the back of the head that sent him spinning to the canvas. Sparkplug Lee and Nurse Heidi quickly vacate the ring as Chuck Sanders calls for the bell to get the match underway. Sanders throws the coat out of the ring as Verhoeven continues to kick away at the floored Enigma, who rolls towards the corner...] TD: That was a cardinal mistake there by the Enigma, turning his back on Verhoe... WOW! What a kick by Verhoeven! SR: If the Enigma was a football, that would have been a fifty yard field goal. [The Enigma falls back into the base of the turnbuckles, and Verhoeven plants his foot under the Enigma's chin and grabs the ropes, choking him against the turnbuckle... the referee counts... - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - Verhoeven breaks for a second, and then goes straight back to the choke... - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - Verhoeven refuses to break, and Chuck Sanders pulls him away, warning him...] SR: What, does Sanders want a beating as well? You do not lay your hands on the Teutonic Terror! TD: And you do not lay your hands on an IIWF offical, unless you want to be disqualified and fined. Verhoeven knows this. So does Sanders. [Verhoeven glares at Sanders for a second, and then turns back to the Enigma, who is struggling back to his feet. Verhoeven nails him with an axehandle and then a forearm to the jaw, before Irish whipping him into the opposite corner and following through...] TD: The Enigma leaps to the second turnbuckle... turning cross body block! The referee counts... 1.. easy kickout by Verhoeven. [Verhoven rolls to his feet as the Enigma runs to the ropes... the Enigma hits Verhoevn with a shoulderblock, and bounces off the much bigger man. Verhoeven yells at him to try it again, and the Enigma runs to the ropes again... he ducks a last second clothesline attempt by Verhoeven, comes back off the opposite ropes, leapfrogs a backdrop attempt, turns and nails Verhoeven hard with a spinwheel kick! Huge crowd pop! Verhoeven staggers backwards, and the Enigma charges to the ropes again, hitting another clothesline. The Butcher staggers backwards and slumps against the ropes, his arms becoming entangled in the top two. Big pop! Musashi nails the Butcher's torso with a volley of kicks and martial arts thrusts.] TD: Verhoeven's trapped! SR: Come on, ref! Get the Butcher out of there! TD: Yes, and I'm sure you'd be saying the same thing if it was the Enigma who was tied up... SR: Well, that'd be different. Everybody knows that the best time to hit these bouncing geeks is when they get themselves in a spot... [The Enigma sidesteps a kick attempt from the furious Verhoeven, and responds with a kick of his own! Pop! The Enigma shakes off the protestations of the referee, and nails the trapped Butcher with a hard knife-edge chop, and a second, and then a hard elbow to the jaw! He pulls Verhoeven's head down, and lashes upwards with a knee strike that sends Verhoeven's head snapping back! The official tugs at the ropes, freeing Verhoeven, and the Enigma Irish whips him cross-ring, before nailing him with a dropkick which takes the big man off his feet! The Enigma nails Verhoeven with a knee lift as he rises to his feet, and Verhoeven staggers backwards... the Enigma runs to the ropes again, and leaps... Verhoeven wraps both hands around the Enigma's throat, holding him high in the air... the official counts for the choke... - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - Verhoeven turns around and throws the Enigma into the turnbuckles.] TD: What a display of power there by the Butcher, here comes a shouldertackle... The Enigma ducked out of the way! And a legsweep sends Verhoeven crashing back to the canvas! [The Enigma springs to the ropes again, dropping a kneedrop across the Butcher's forehead... another cover... - 1 - 2 - Verhoeven throws the Enigma off. Both men roll back to their feet, and the Enigma charges, catching Verhoeven with a savate kick to the stomach, and then a double chop to the collarbones... Verhoeven covers up and takes a step backwards... and the Enigma springs at him, catching him with a high cross body that sends both men flying over the ropes and down to the outside! Huge crowd pop!] TD: That was an incredibly high risk move there by the Enigma, and it seems Verhoeven just wasn't expecting... oh my!! [The Enigma sends the Butcher crashing hard headfirst into the steel barricades, drawing a pop from the crowd, and he pulls the Butcher back to his feet, sending him crashing into the barricades again! Verhoeven staggers backwards, and a dropkick by the Enigma sends him crashing down onto the ring announcer's table...] TD: The Enigma now, quickly climbing back onto the ring apron and springing onto the top turnbuckle... SR: This guy is insane. I'm liking him more all the time! [Verhoeven rolls off the table, and the Enigma pauses, before leaping off with a double axehandle that catches the Butcher in the small of the back...] TD: That was lucky for Verhoeven there. If the Enigma had hit that, it may well have been all over right there. [The Enigma pulls Verhoeven back to his feet, and rolls him back into the ring, before leaping onto the ring apron and to the top turnbuckle again. The Butcher staggers up, looking around dazedly, and the Enigma leaps off with a flying clothesline... and Verhoeven ducks at the last second! The Enigma rolls with the fall, and Verhoeven quickly turns, charging forward, catching the Enigma with a huge clothesline that sends him spinning to the canvas! Big heel pop!] SR: And just like that, the Butcher can turn a match around. The Enigma's been steamrollered. TD: Otto Verhoeven is capable of pulling something out of nothing, and the Enigma's feeling the effects of that right now. SR: Yeah, 'cause Herr Verhoeven almost took his head clean off. [The Butcher shakes his head to clear it, and pulls the dazed Enigma to his feet, locking him into a waistlock, before hoisting him high into the air and bringing him crashing down hard onto the back of his neck with a backdrop driver! Huge heel pop! Verhoeven covers... - 1 - 2 - kickout by the Enigma! Verhoeven pulls the Enigma back up to his feet, and nails him with a clubbing forearm shot to the back of the neck, and then another, sending the Enigma crashing back down onto his knees. The Butcher quickly wraps him up in a camel clutch.] SR: Hey, Dross, I've heard some rumours, and I think that the Butcher c could be using this match as a means to an end. TD: Okay, I'll bite. What are you talking about this time? SR: That's for me to know, and you to find out. TD: Oh, brother... SR: Hoss can't help you now, Dross. Let's just say that the Butcher's been learning a few things from hanging around with Byron. [The referee asks for the submission again, and the Enigma shakes his head, struggling valiantly to push himself back to a vertical base. Verhoeven snarls, and releases the hold, clubbing the Enigma to the canvas with an axehandle blow to the back of the neck. The Enigma rolls in pain, and Verhoeven capitalises with a big leg drop, and a cover... - 1 - 2 - kickout by the Enigma. Verhoeven starts to pull the Enigma back to his feet as the crowd at the entrance to the aisle pop loudly...] SR: Aw, here's trouble. If it ain't the IIWF's own injury merchant... [Tony Starks slowly makes his way down to ringside, pausing to chat and shake hands with the fans. He pauses to share a joke with a group of fans who are holding a "Tony's Tamed the Butcher" poster.] SR: Is this guy full of himself or what? If Verhoeven sees him, this is going to turn into a serious brawl. [In the ring, Verhoeven repeatedly nails the Enigma with a series of body and head shots against the ropes, sneering away the referee's warning. He sends the Enigma to the ropes...] TD: Clothesline by Verhoeven... no! Ducked! The Enigma comes back with a lariat... Verhoeven ducks... and pulls the Enigma into a full nelson? SR: There it is, Dross, what did I tell ya? That, Dross, is the Meat Grinder. Seems like the Butcher's training with Byron is starting to pay off! [The Butcher pulls the Enigma back to the canvas in the full nelson, locking in bodyscissors as well and using the immense strength in his arms to force the Enigma's head forward until his chin is buried in his chest. The Enigma cries out in pain, but refuses to submit. On the outside, Starks takes the poster off the fans and walks down to ringside, leaping up onto the ring apron, distracting the referee. Verhoeven looks up, and releases the hold, moving across to jaw with Starks... Meanwhile, the Enigma groggily drags himself to his feet.] TD: Verhoeven has allowed himself to get distracted here, and the Enigma's getting back up... [Starks pushes Verhoeven back, and Verhoeven responds in kind. Chuck Sanders quickly steps between them, trying to force the two men apart... The Enigma looks around at the two men and turns to start to climb up the turnbuckles...] TD: Starks is giving a few choice words to Verhoeven here, and the Enigma's taking advantage of the distraction... SR: Not for long, here comes Nurse Heidi... [Heidi leaps onto the ring apron near the Enigma, brandishing one of her high heeled shoes, and clocks him over the head with it, sending him crashing back down to the canvas! Big heel pop! Starks, who saw the attack, begins to protest to the referee, and Verhoeven steps away, quickly pulling the almost unconcious Enigma back up to his feet and setting him up for the Slaughterslam...] SR: And he nails it! Get over there, referee! [The referee waves away Starks protestations, and turns around to see the Butcher pinning Musashi... - 1 - 2 - 3! Ding! Ding! Ding! Starks quickly climbs into the ring, as Verhoeven walks across to the ropes, asking Nurse Heidi for something...] TD: Stark's interference here has inadvertantly cost the Enigma the match here, and we could well be about to have a confrontation... SR: Damn right. Go get the punk, Otto! [The Enigma slowly rolls out of the ring as Heidi passes the Butcher a microphone...] OV: [speaking with a suprisingly calm voice] Starks, you pathetic piece of trash! No need to run away. I do not intend to grind your face into the mat tonight, as I have done so often before with so many other opponents. But you...[he shakes his head]...you deserve a punishment far worse. You dared to hit my fiancee, Starks, threw her out of the ring. Are you proud of that, you rotten American pig? Did you celebrate your heroic act with your fellow slum dwelling friends on Staten Island, around a burning barrel? I will make an example out of you for every stinking inbred who even thinks about touching Heidi or any other German woman again. You think of yourself as a tough guy, right? Let's see if you are tough enough for this. [Verhoeven pulls a sheet of paper out of a pocket and throws it at Starks's feet. The Staten Island New Yorker eyes the Butcher suspiciously.] OV: This is a contract for Birthday Bash. You versus me, one on one, in a German Death match, one of the most demanding and possibly gruesome challenges in the world of wrestling. Show your fellow imbeciles how tough and brave you really are, American bastard. Sign that contract and face your doom. [Otto spits in on the floor, then leaves the ring and the arena under the boos of the crowd. In the ring, Starks looks at the contract for a moment, then as the fans begin a "Starks! Starks!" chant, picks the contract up, to a big crowd pop!] TD: Wow! We may have just seen another big match signed here for Birthday Bash... a German Death match? If Starks does accept this, you've got to think that he may just be playing into the Butcher's hands... SR: I bet you don't even know what the rules are. TD: Well, I can't say I'm familiar with the title... SR: You'll just have to ask the Butcher then, won't you? But either way, I can tell you that should Starks have the guts to accept this match, which I seriously doubt, he's gonna find himself in a whole world of pain come Birthday Bash. [Starks, contract in hand, makes his way silently up the aisle after Verhoeven, absently slapping the hands of fans with one arm as he walks. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: It looks like the upcoming match has brought out a ringside guest. SR: The American Patriot came back out here? TD: Steve Roberts, I believe that was a cardboard cut-out of the American Patriot. SR: How could you tell the difference? TD: Will you stop? SR: No seriously, Dross... wooden, one-dimensional... that's our guy! [Soundbite gives a big thumbs up, leading a number of his "L'il Soundbiters" in the arena to yell out, "Hoooooooo!"] SR: Beat that, tough guy! TD: Actually, it appears that Stoneheart, a well-known wrestler from the ESWP promotion, which currently has a working agreement with the IIWF, is at ringside. I'd presume it has something to do with Lord Byron. SR: Are you sure he isn't just looking to steal my moonsault? TD: I believe the competition in the ESWP, for whom Lord Byron holds the European Championship, is a little stiffer than that. SR: I was a little stiffer than that once. TD: Let's get to ringside. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= IIWF INTERCONTINENTAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Lord Byron vs. Steve Kowalski ----------------------------------------- WRITER: JJ [Sparkplug Lee gives a wave to two oddly dressed fans holding a "Morton 3:16" sign, and then takes the mic:] SL: The following contest is set for one fall, and is for the IIWF Intercontinental Championship! [Big Pop as the "Furies" begin their "Skull - pump!" chant.] SL: Introducing first, the challenger... at a weight of... [Sparkplug shuffles his cards] ...239 and one half pounds...[big POP!]... he hails from Newark, New Jersey and is a former Intercontinental Champion... Steve "The Fury" Kowalski! ["Don't fear the Reaper" is almost washed away in the sea of the "Skull - pump!" chant which eminates from the "Furies". Kowalski looks not an ounce lighter than his previously listed 268lbs as the enters the aisle in his customary green trunks and Harley Davidson jacket. Kowalski spies a ringside sign held up by one of his Furies on which is a crude drawing of a bloody gauntlet and the words: "Hey, Petrow... he's baa-aack!" The Fury grabs it and waves the poster in front of the face of the seated Stoneheart at ringside. Big pop!] TD: That's a man that Steve Kowalski best avoid. Death Enterprises is not an entity to rile up. SR: Are they IIWF, Dross? Do they live the life like me and Kowalski? I don't think so. Any of those punks want some... they know where to find you, Dross. [Kowalski slumps in the corner of the ring, giving a mock yawn as Sparkplug retakes the mic:] SL: His opponent... accompanied down the aisle by Lady DeWinter, he weighs in at 265lbs and currently resides in New Orleans, Louisiana, he is the IIWF Intercontinental Champion of the World... Lord Byron! [Heel Pop as "Intermezzo from Karelia Suite" leads the champ down the aisle. The winsome DeWinter appears first, holding both the IIWF and ESWP belts aloft. Then comes the champ, Byron's blond hair contrasting sharply with the black dress worn by his ward. The Englishman is milking his walk for all it is worth, sneering at the crowd as he deliberately moves to the ring. Byron halts DeWinter as she hits the apron, moving up to hold open the ropes for the good Lady to allow her entry into the ring. Byron takes a long, lugubrious bow to the crowd as DeWinter hands over the belts to the official, Kowalski's impatience showing as he mimes looking at a "wristwatch" while Byron preens.] TD: You know, we really are about to see a classic matchup, Steve Roberts. The Fury can brawl with anyone on the planet... and Byron just might be the top technician in the world today. SR: Yeah, this is the kind of match we need to see more of around here, Dross. I want all you "L'il Soundbiters" to pay attention to this match... you have a great opportunity to watch two guys who do this the right way -- the Soundbite way. TD: Nice to see you taking such an interest in your fans, Steve. SR: Or, you can do what I'll do and just watch DeWinter from the back as she hops up on that apron. Gotta get me some of that, Dross! [The two men go nose to nose as the crowd buzzes, Byron pointing a finger in Kowalski's chest, clearly informing the Fury that today is not to be his. Kowalski grabs Byron's hand... and bites it! Bringing a huge pop from his fans.] TD: I don't think that was called for, Steve Roberts. SR: First good meal Kowalski's had in weeks, the boy's just wasting away out there. TD: Well, we'll get him some steaming hot french toast... straight from the oven and covered in syrup and butter. He doesn't need to eat the Intercontinental Champion. [Kowalski takes advantage of Byron's shock at the near loss of a fingertip, doubling the champ up with a boot to the midsection and then chopping at his neck with an uppercut. Kowalski then bounds off the backrope and drops a surprising scissor kick over Byron which sends the Englishman hard to the mat! Pop! Byron is up and Kowalski whips him farside, getting him in the middle of the ring with a lariat attempt -- ducked -- but Kowalski is able to meet the champ on the second pass with a swinging neckbreaker that sends him hard into the mat! Cover - 1 -- 2 -- Kickout by Byron.] TD: Very fast start by the challenger, Steve Roberts... he's showing a little speed here, trying to stay away from a mat matchup with Byron. SR: He's lighter, Dross. Kowalski is really moving around that ring like a good cruiser should. Hey, Kowalski, show him the Starsault Press. [Both men are now on their feet, Kowalski driving at Byron with a series of European uppercuts. Kowalski Irish whips into a hiptoss attempt -- blocked -- Byron makes the same try -- same result -- and Kowalski drops Byron to the mat with a hard clothesline! Pop! Kowalski moves to the mat... and Byron quickly rolls him up. Kowalski reverse cradles: 1 -- 2 -- NO! Byron kicks out. Kowalski corner-whips Byron, who gathers himself at the buckle, springboarding back into a waistlock of the charging Kowalski. Kowalski misses a back elbow -- and another back elbow... and is driven hard into the mat with a German suplex by Byron! Pop!] TD: Oh, not where the Fury wanted to be, that's his problem with this match, Steve Roberts. He can not compete on the mat with a man like Byron. SR: He can if he bites him again. Come on, Kowalski! It's supper time! [Byron has maneuvered for a facelock, which he keeps despite desperate attempts by Kowalski to escape. Byron moves to a Japanese armbar, then combines it with a painful wristlock, Byron driving his knee into the back of Kowalski's shoulder as he maintains hold of the wrist... the official asks for a submission -- but none is forthcoming. Byron continues his assault on the Kowalski upper body, now thrusting the knee into the small of Kowalski's back... grabbing a double wristlock... and wrenching his way back into a bow and arrow submission maneuver that gains support as Byron moves his free leg to hook the bottom rope, giving him the leverage he needs as the official asks again for the Kowalski submission. No response. Byron arches backward again. No response... but now his leg is firmly intertwined in that rope...] TD: Kowalski is really in trouble here, Byron has locked on that bow and arrow. This is really wearing on that lumbar region of Kowalski. SR: It almost brings tears to my eyes, Dross. Look a the beautiful way Byron uses that rope, that's just like I taught him. [Kowalski is clearly beginning to fade, until the "Furies" in a voice that rings out clearly through the Coliseum, shout out, "Check - the - rope! Check - the - rope!" The official does -- and forces Byron to break the hold! "Thanks -- Jerk!" is the measured response from the Furies, Byron clearly irritated with their involvement.] TD: Steve Kowalski has a good deal of growing fan support here in the IIWF, Steve Roberts -- and never will that be more important than when he faces Joe Petrow in that bizarre Birthday Bash matchup. SR: Will that be for the Intercontinental title, Dross? TD: If Kowalski is able to take the belt here, he will in, fact, have to wrestle twice that evening, both against Joe Petrow and then against Creed -- if the rookie can keep his shot -- for the IC belt. No word yet on whether the first match will be for the title, but Byron is not going away easily, Steve Roberts. [Each man is up now, Kowalski landing two haymaker right hands, and Kowalski countering with a boot to the weakened back to causes the Fury to slump. Byron applies a standing side headlock... and then whips Kowalski into the corner... the Fury slips the charge, goes behind into a waistlock, and sends Byron to this knee with an atomic drop! Pop! Byron staggers backward... Kowalski attempts a running lariat -- misses -- but Kowalski springboards off the backrope and drives Byron's head to the mat with a flying bulldog into a cover... 1 -- 2 -- kickout by Byron!] SR: Hey, Stonehead... they teach you that one in the minor leagues, buddy? TD: That's Stoneheart, Steve Roberts. SR: Oh, that's right, his head is probably soft and pliable... like a little baby chick's. [Kowalski stays on the mat, ripping away at Byron with fast right hands. Byron lifts his legs, hooking Kowalski, and the Fury goes to the mat, Byron slapping him across the face in time with each count of the official... 1 -- 2 -- No! Kowalski gets a shoulder up. Both men are on their feet. Byron quickly establishes a standing side headlock, then bars the arm and steps over -- Kowalski reverses, applying his own armbar, and whips Byron to the corner... and charges... and hits Byron with a high knee that rams into his chest! Pop! Kowalski rams the crumpling Byron again, and again, into that buckle, his Furies shouting their loyal support. Kowalski now sends Byron for the big cross-corner ride... and he smashes hard into the buckle as the Fury charges again -- and gets backdropped by Byron over the top rope and all the way out to the floor! Huge pop!] TD: Oh my! That was a huge fall that the big Kowalski took -- he had just begun to establish a little bit of control here... and took that big back body drop out to that hard floor! Mercy. SR: There is no mercy, Dross! This is the IIWF, where even the broadcasters will kick your ass if your look at them sideways. I love it! [Byron rolls underneath the bottom rope, kicking Kowalski's head with disdain as he mocks the ringside fans. Byron grabs Kowalski up by the hair, and lands three sharp European uppercuts and then a hard whip that sends Kowalski falling back to the guardrail. Byron advances slowly, bathing not only in the hostility of the Kowalski fans, but in the increasingly eerie silence of the Sychopaths, who have risen one-by-one throughout the match -- and soundlessly turned their backs on the action.] TD: Oh, Byron is really laying into Kowalski now, he's got the Fury draped over that retaining barrier -- and is choking him out with a boot to the back of the neck. SR: What's going on with these Sychopaths? I'm started to get creeped out with all these guys turning away from the ring. Least they could do is look at DeWinter, see sometimes, the slit in her dress will move to just the right spot... [Byron continues choking Kowalski out, smirking all the while... and is then HAMMERED on the forehead with...] TD: Kowalski hits Byron... with a hammer! He hit him with a hammer that one of those "Furies" of his passed to him! We can't have this. We just can't have this. SR: Aw yeah... finally some fans who aren't complete morons. I mean, they're morons -- just not complete morons. [Kowalski tosses the hammer back into the crowd and rips into Byron with right hands, then a short armed clothesline, then drops him on his head with a vertical suplex that has Lord Byron laid out on the floor! Pop! Kowalski picks Byron slowly off the floor, hooking the champ's arms, and getting set for the Skullpump... and is grabbed from behind by DeWinter! Lady DeWinter grabs Steve Kowalski from behind!] SR: This is all I ever wanted to see. [Kowalski pauses a moment... lifts his head into the air... and releases the hold! Kowalski turns around to face DeWinter and rubs his belly, a huge smile breaking out over his face as he advances -- not seeing that Byron is right behind...] TD: No! Kowalski turns around and floors Byron with a right hand! SR: Yeah! Get the belt -- and then the broad! Kowalski means business, Dross. [Kowalski dumps Byron back into the ring, and climbs up to the mid-rope before dropping a leg hard onto Byron's neck. Pop! The Fury picks Byron up again, the raised welt from the hammer shot clearly visible on the Englishman's forehead. Kowalski spits in the champion's face... and drives him to the mat with a DDT! Big Fury Pop! Kowalski covers... 1 -- 2 -- NO! Byron is able to lift a foot to the rope... and Kowalski smirks as he grabs Byron's hair and lifts him again to his feet... hooking an arm... and...] TD: We're gonna see... NO! [Byron turns rapidly turns Kowalski's arm away, and attempts a crescent kick -- caught by Kowalski -- and Byron drives him to the mat with an enzuigiri! Mammoth pop!] TD: That's Huge! The enzuigiri by Lord Byron had floored Steve Kowalski... and now each man is on the mat... each man is down on the mat! [The official begins a count as both men lie prone on the mat: 1 -- 2 -- 3 -- 4 -- ] TD: Both men are starting to stir... it's going to be Byron first to his feet... [ -- 5 -- 6 -- Byron is up... and there's a huge pop as a figure darts to ringside... Kowalski is starting to sit up... and Byron covers... 1 -- 2 -- ] TD: It's The White Phoenix! He's got a hold of Kowalski's head! He's crouched on the apron and has gotten a hold of Kowalski's head! [ -- 3! Ding! Ding! Ding! Big Pop!] SL: Your winner... as a result of a pinfall... and _STILL_ IIWF Intercontinental Champion...LORD BYRON! [Big pop as the Furies begin to fill the ring with debris, Chow quickly leaving ringside, soon followed by Byron and DeWinter, who tote the champion's two belts.] TD: Another victory for Lord Byron. We could not tell from here if Kowalski would have been able to kick out, but the White Phoenix made that a moot point, Steve Roberts. SR: He ain't happy, I'll tell you that, Dross. He's exiting the ring, and he is not happy with Shinja Chow -- it's only a matter of time before these two get it on, Dross. [Kowalski bitterly shakes his head as he returns up the aisle... and is then waylaid by Joe Petrow! POP! The gang of Sychopaths now turn around as one and all begin screaming at the top of their lungs for Petrow. Sychosys is all over the unsuspecting Kowalski, pummeling him with crazy right hands in the aisle as security begins to come out in force. Petrow is thrown a large plastic bag from one of his aisleside fans, and begins... begins choking Kowalski out with it... choking Kowalski out as he viciously scratches at the Fury, screaming... literally screaming in his ear, "YOU COCKSUCKING SON OF A BITCH! I WILL RIP YOUR GODDAMN HEAD OFF AND SHIT DOWN YOUR NECK, YOU PUSSY BASTARD!"] TD: Oh my. Fans, I apologise on behalf of the IIWF for that outburst from Joe Petrow.. That's... That's... SR: [interrupting] That's hardcore, Dross! Yeah! [Kowalski desperately flails away as security yanks Petrow away, continuing to scream vile obscenities at Kowalski as the entire security force carries him to the dressing room. The "Furies" are flying over the retaining barrier in an effort to get to their fallen leader, who is now being helped into the back... numerous mini-brawls have broken out throughout the stands as the Sychopaths and Furies cannot contain their rage -- a squad of auxillary security, as well as members of the Portland police force are in the stands, trying to maintain some order. Several minutes pass as a few hundred fans are ejected from the building, and ringside debris is cleaned away.] TD: Mercy. SR: That kind of language is givin' me the vapors, I do declare. TD: Well, we certainly all apologize for the uncensored comments of Joe Petrow. He is obviously in, well, in near-psychotic rage over losing his Gauntlet Challenge match due to the interference of Steve Kowalski -- and the Fury paid for it tonight. SR: I can't wait for Birthday Bash, Dross. I am actually gonna show up sober for that Petrow/Kowalski match on May 10. TD: Okay, fans, up next is that huge IIWF World Heavyweight Championship match between Casey James and Tony Starks. There's a lot of history between these two athletes, and you can bet that Starks is going to be more than a little determined to finally get his hands on the gold which has been the driving force behind his career. Let's go backstage to Steve Summer, who is with Tony Starks now: [Cut to Steve Summer standing in the backstage area, in front of a closed locker room door.] SS: Thanks, Tim. I'm waiting to get a word with Tony Starks about his championship match against Casey James... [Starks walks out of his dressing room in his ring attire. His walk is purposeful, his head wrapped in a white towel but his eyes nonetheless boring ahead of him with that icy intensity. Anybody who stands in his path simply steps aside as he approaches. Summer, however, positions himself directly in Starks' path.] SS: Tony! What do you think about wrestling Casey James, a man who just months ago attacked you a chair and almost cost you your career? [Starks stops when Summer puts the mic in his face. He slowly turns his head and gives Summer a glare that would make the dead blink. Summer backs off and Tony towards the entrance curtain.] SS: Uh, well, one thing's for sure: Tony Starks is in no mood for games. Back to you guys. [Summer lets out a sigh of relief as the camera turns to look after Starks, who continues towards the entrance curtain, watched in silence by the backstage staff. Cut back to ringside.] TD: Clearly Tony Starks doesn't feel like talking, Steve. SR: Heh, the guy's so monosyllabic he would have only managed to say "Me get ass kicked now" or something. TD: Will you stop?! Tony Starks is one of this sport's greatest technicians. SR: But he's no brain surgeon, Dross. TD: Let's get up to the ring. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- IIWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Casey James vs. Tony Starks ------------------------------------------ WRITER: JH [Sparkplug Lee, after dabbing some of his world famous cologne on behind each ear, climbs into the ring with microphone in hand.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is for the IIWF Heavyweight Championship! First the challenger...hailing from Staten Island, New York, weighing in at 269 pounds...this _is_ Tooooooony Starks! ["C.R.E.A.M." by the Wu Tang Clan begins to play over the PA system. Massive face pop as Starks bursts down the aisle into the arena. He intensely focused peering out from under the white towel wrapped around his head, trading high-fives with the fans in that area. Starks sees the aisle camera and flexes, saying "Get ready to give it up, James!"] SR: Starks must be on some heavy medication if thinks he's going to take the belt from Casey James. The Syndicate wouldn't allow it. TD: That is the problem President Spreadbury is concerned with, outside interference. James hasn't wrestled a singles match in quite some time. Not with the Syndicate in his corner. SR: They're there just for support. James is the more than able to squash Starks. RA: And introducing his opponent: accompanied to the ring by Brian Lau, hailing from Washington, DC, and weighing in at 340lbs, here is the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... Casey "Blackheart" James! [Huge heel pop as the lights rise and a bank of lights spin to cast their beams at the head of the aisle as the opening riff of Pro-Pain's "Foul Taste Of Freedom" kicks in over the PA system. The Syndicate are not in attendence as they usually are. Brian Lau, who steps out into the aisle in his customary suit, beaming with confidence. The IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, his face stubbled and set in a smug, self-assured grin. He pats the gleaming gold belt around his waist, and then raises his arms to the skies, eliciting another wave of "boo"s from the capacity crowd. Laughing and shaking his head, Casey makes his way down the aisle, badmouthing the fans as he goes.] TD: Where is the rest of the Syndicate? James rarely travels alone. SR: James: is probably out to prove the nay sayers wrong. He doesn't need any help to keep the title. Still, its not bad to have Thunder and Tiger Claw around for laughs. [Starks is in the ring waiting for the champ to meet him in the middle. James is in no rush as he tells the referee to back Starks up. No sooner than that, James is hammering Starks with over hand rights. Ding - Ding - Ding! 'Blackheart' forces Starks' against the turnbuckles and follows with a double axehandle. Quick as a cat, Starks dodges and counters with a backslide. James kicks out after a one count, obviously flustered after the pin attempt. The two men lock up and fight for position, neither giving ground. In an amazing display of strength, James wrenches starks to the far corner. The champion razes his arms to the crowd who, in return give a chorus of booes and start up the "To - ny! To - ny!" chant.] SR: For a guy that is supposed to be intelligent mat wrestler, Toni-Toni-Toni looks outclassed to me. TD: This is going to be a war, Steve, one battle will not decide it. [True to Dross' words Starks explodes out of the corner hitting with his awesome dragon screw legwhip, dropping James to the mat. Quickly applying a half nelson/front face lock combination, Starks lets his weight keep James down. It at the time the crowd begins rumbling at the entrance of Tiger Claw and "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder. Starks takes notice of the rest of the Syndicate, rolling James over and points down. Legdrop across the chest and a spinning have Starks in control of the situation. Tiger Claw hops on the ring apron and taunts Starks, who breaks the hold and takes a swing at the former three time intercontinental champion. The wily Claw avoids the blow, allowing James to get up and put a hard knee into the back of Starks. After a few well-placed kidney shots, James irish whips the challenger to the ropes. Starks ducks the clothesline and hits the ropes for a return...] TD: Brody Thunder just tripped Starks and he fell into Casey James... SR: Spinebuster! James cradled Starks like a baby and dropped him like a bomb! James is putting that idiot back in his place. [James sizes his opponent up and drops the elbow. The big man picks starks up and hefts him up for a devastating powerslam, only to be rolled over for a two count by Starks. Furious at this turn of events, the champ locks on an armbar... which is quickly reversed by Starks, only to be broken up by a face rake by James. As if there wasn't enough spectators at ringside, the crowd gives off a huge pop as Chris Quigley makes his way down to ringside, opposite of the Syndicate.] SR: What the hell is he doing here? Nobody asking for autographs up here, Quigley. TD: I didn't here you complaining when Thunder and Tiger Claw came out. SR: They are here to make sure Lau is safe from Starks devious urban friends. He runs with a bad crowd you know. TD: Spare me, Steve. [Upset by Quigley's entrance, Brody Thunder and Tiger Claw warn him not to interfere. Quigley just waves them off and yells at James. The champ doesn't take too kindly to his appearance either. After booting Starks in the gut a few times, James makes his way over to Quigley. "Your in the wrong place, at the wrong time!", Casey screams. The referee gets between James and Quigley, while Thunder pulls Starks from the ring. The "Lone Wolf" holds Starks as Tiger Claw savate kicks him, clipping him precisely on the chin. Thunder rolls the staggered Starks in again, the referee none the wiser. James gets back to beating on Starks with clubbing forearms. A crushing headbutt drops Starks to his knees. "Blackheart" raises his arms, signaling to the crowd its time for a jack knife powerbomb. He sets his dazed opponent's head between his legs and latches onto his waist. With a jerk he lifts Starks up...only to lose control of him, allowing the challenger to land on his feet behind James. The champ turn and swings wildly, missing badly. Starks avoids the blow and locks on a cobra clutch. The crowd is going wild as James can't seem to find his way to the ropes. Thunder climbs up on the apron, but the referee tries to stop him. While still holding James, Starks kicks the distracted Thunder to the floor. Seeing his chance, Starks execute his cobra suplex. Starks is on the cover - 1 - 2 -...] SR: He does have a brain! Did you see that?! TD: Quigley just put Casey James' leg on the rope, breaking the count and robbing Starks of the victory! This is unbelievable! [Starks is livid and wants to go after Quigley, but sees his opportunity and goes to work on James again. A snap suplex has the champ reeling. Starks rolls James over and begins to lock on the Texas Cloverleaf, but Thunder climbs the ropes again as Brian Lau is complaining to the referee about Quigley. Starks rushes Thunder, only to have the big cowboy snap his neck across the top rope, bouncing backwards. This time James waits for Starks to get up, striking him with the Blackheart Punch! James pulls his thumb across his throat and sets Starks on the top rope setting him up for the Black Death. Starks send a right to James jaw that has him stunned. He rocks the champ with another, then another. Casey James is dazed standing on the second rope. Starks grabs James by the waist and execute an atomic drop from the second rope. The crowd is going bezerk. Starks rolls up James in a small package... reversed by James 1 - 2 - once again Quigley interferes, this time putting Starks foot on the rope.] SR: Whose side is he on?! TD: He's out for himself, as far as I can tell. The Syndicate are coming over to confront him. Even James is going outside! [Quigley picks up a chair holding the Syndicate back, until Starks comes off the apron with a huge elbow on James. Caught by surprise Tiger Claw gets clocked with the chair from Quigley. Thunder tackles Quigley as they brawl on the floor. Starks rolls back into the ring to beat the count! Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: The Jobber Justice Squad seperates Quigley from the Syndicate, forcing them back to the locker room! SL: Your winner by count out... Tooony Starks! [Huge crowd pop for Tony Starks, but he seems not to notice as he rolls out of the ring and approaches Chris Quigley.] SR: This is garbage! Why aren't they taking Quigley away. Oh yeah! [Starks, obviously angered by all the outside influence of his match, pushes Quigley. Quigley quickly pushed back. Words are exchange and so are fists. The two men brawl across the guard rail, as the JTTS rush back to stop some more violence. The two men are yelling at each other as they are dragged, seperately, to the back. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Okay, fans, it's time for tonight's main event. What a match this promises to be, Steve Roberts -- the red-gloved rookie with the longest unbeaten streak in IIWF history going up against a the man known as the "people's champion". It's a generational battle here tonight! SR: And I'm supposed to care? TD: Both men have had their problems with the Syndicate recently -- I wouldn't be surprised to see Brian Lau's men make their presence felt in this one. SR: Now _that_ might just get me interested, Dross. TD: Who knows _what's_ going to happen in this one? Let's go up to Sparkplug Lee for the introductions. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Subway Psycho vs. Creed =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: DS [The crowd is still unsettled following the chaotic scenes at the climax of the previous match, but is silenced as Sparkplug Lee raises the microphone to his lips:] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, it's time for tonight's main event! [Big pop!] The following contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, hailing from Oakland, California, and weighing in at 275lbs, here is... Creed! [Huge pop as the lights in the Coliseum drop, and a bank of intense red spotlights illuminate the ring and aisle. The image of a gloved left fist spins on the ring canvas, cast by a special filter on an overhead light, and all eyes in the arena turn to the video wall. In time with the low, resonant tones of Creed's voice over the PA, the words, "Anyone... Anywhere... Anytime." zoom out of the blackness of the video wall in large red letters, like the heartbeat of a recumbent monster. As the rumbling build-up to the rousing chorus of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" seems to shake the very floor of the Coliseum, dry ice begins to seep from the entranceway, swirling in a red mass through which nothing can be seen. As the first climactic choral chord crashes out over the PA, the imposing figure of Creed is seen stepping out through the mist into the aisle. Almost immediately, the "Creed! Creed! Creed!" chants begin.] TD: Wow... Can you feel the intensity of this young man, Steve Roberts? SR: What I can feel is my pay raise slipping away. Do the production people really have to spend so much on these damned entrances? [Creed walks down the aisle, wisps of mist curling around his boots as he strides purposefully towards the ring, apparently oblivious to the clamouring fans on either side who reach out to touch him. He climbs the ringsteps and enters the ring, immediately climbing to the second buckle and raising his gloved fist to the crowd, who respond with even more cheers. Cut to an overhead shot of the ring as Creed steps down onto the canvas, where the image of a gloved fist still spins. The fist spins off into the crowd as the lights return to normal again. Cut back to Sparkplug Lee.] RA: And introducing his opponent... ["Crazy Train" kicks in over the PA and the lights in the arena drop once more] ...hailing from the subways of New York City, weighing in at 255lbs, here is the "people's champion"... the Subway Psycho! [Huge pop as all eyes again turn to the head of the aisle. A glass screen has been lowered in front of the entranceway, and on it is projected a white dot which grows steadily, like the single headlight of a speeding subway train. The white dot grows until it engulfs the entire screen, which then shatters! Huge pop! Behind the screen stands the Subway Psycho, cast in silhouette by powerful back lighting from another brilliant white spotlight. The mist still in the air refracts the beam in strange patterns as the Psycho steps out into the aisle, raising his arms to the crowd, who chant, "Psy - cho! Psy - cho! Psy - cho!"] TD: We have two firm favourites here, Steve Roberts. This crowd doesn't know who to cheer for. SR: Well, damn it, Dross, they should be cheering for me! [The Psycho makes his way down to the ring, and stops at the foot of the ringsteps. He looks up at Creed, nods, and then makes a circuit of the ring, stopping to greet one dirty urchin in the front row.] TD: Hey, that's Mench! Mench is here at ringside! SR: I thought I smelled something, Dross. Bleurgh. [The Psycho slaps the hands of a few more fans, and then jumps to the ring apron. He points at Creed and says something that the microphones don't pick up. Creed doesn't flinch, and continues to stare at the Psycho with his unblinking, intense gaze. The Psycho ducks under the top rope and into the ring as his music fades and the lights in the arena rise once more. The crowd begin to settle as the referee signals for the bell. Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: Okay, we're underway! What a match this promises to -- whoa! [The three chimes of the bell seem to awaken Creed as if they were the shot of a starter's pistol in a one hundred metre dash, and the red-gloved rookie launches himself at the Psycho. Immediately, the two men become embroiled in a slugfest, each trying to back the other against the ropes. Creed sends the Psycho for the ride with an Irish whip across the ring, and attempts to fell him with a clothesline. The Psycho bounces off the ropes and leaps with an attempted cross-body block, but Creed catches the flying subway dweller and executes a rollover fallaway slam on the Psycho, who crashes to the mat. Big pop! The Psycho gets to his feet as quickly as he can, and is met by a hard charging clothesline from Creed, the momentum of which is sufficient to carry both men over the top rope to the outside! Huge pop!] TD: Oh my! An explosive start to this match from young Creed. Creed's going into this match to prove not only to the Subway Psycho, but also to the whole IIWF, that he is now the top high-impact performer in the sport today. SR: The Stinker's had his day, Dross. It's time for the old dogs to move on out. [Creed gets to his feet and drags the winded Psycho up to a vertical base. He executes a scoop slam on his opponent, dropping him hard to the arena floor, and then climbs to the apron before launching himself with an elbow drop to the floor -- which he connects! Big pop! The referee's count has reached five, and Creed drags the Psycho to his feet, rolling him back into the ring under the bottom rope, before climbing to the apron himself. Creed steps through the ropes into the ring and performs a waistlock on the staggering Psycho, hauling him up in the air and hitting a hard German suplex into a bridge -- the referee counts -- 1 - 2 - the Psycho escapes! Pop!] TD: Creed's battering the Psycho with his high-impact offense here, Steve Roberts. SR: The Stinker can't be fully focused on this match, Dross. He's gotta be worried that at any time Tiger Claw could come running out here and kick his ass. [Creed drags the Psycho to his feet, and is surprised by a hard right hand shot to the gut. Pop! Creed takes a step backwards, and is hit with another hard shot to the gut. The crowd begins to get behind the Psycho as he fights to his feet. The Psycho pulls Creed's legs out from under him, and then wishbones his legs, pulling the rookie's hamstrings. The Psycho wraps up Creed's leg in a grapevine, but is forced to break the hold after only about twenty seconds when Creed manages to reach the ropes. The Psycho, however, stays on the leg, springing to his feet and immediately laying kicks into the knee of his opponent. The Psycho drags Creed to his feet, hoists him in the air, and hits a vicious kneebreaker on the rookie. Creed grimaces in pain and clutches his knee, enabling the Psycho to take a few seconds to shake out the cobwebs of the earlier assault. Creed again rises, and this time the Psycho whips him into the ropes and leaps into the air, hitting Creed with an impressive hurricarana takeover! Big pop! The Psycho again springs back to his feet and once more attacks Creed's right knee. He scissors Creed's right leg, and then falls back onto the mat, yanking as hard as he can the tendons in the knee, hamstring and groin areas.] TD: An interesting mix of high-impact and methodical offence from the Psycho here, Steve Roberts. I think he's trying to send a message of his own to Creed -- that while the rookie may think he's got the edge in this match, there's more than a little life left in the old dog yet. [The Psycho releases the hold after half a minute or so, stands, and beckons for Creed to do the same, yelling insults at the rookie. The Psycho looks out into the crowd, and a "Psy - cho! Psy - cho!" chant begins. However, as if in competition, a "Creed! Creed!" chant also gains momentum as the rookie drags himself to his feet, slightly favouring his right leg. The Psycho stands toe-to-toe with Creed, and says something to the red-gloved athlete which the microphones don't pick up, and then labels him with a hard slap across the face. Creed flies into a rage, striking the Psycho with a volley of hard rights and lefts. Huge pop from the crowd! Creed whips the Psycho into the ropes and hits him with a devastating powerslam on the return. Without even considering making the cover, Creed drags the Psycho back to his feet, slams a hard fist into his gut, and then sets him up for a powerbomb, placing the Psycho's head between his legs. The crowd gives a huge pop as Creed looks out into the sea of faces, nodding slowly in acknowledgement. However, as he applies the gutwrench, the Psycho powers out of the hold, backdropping his large opponent. Both men are down on the mat as the referee counts them out - 1 - 2 - ] TD: Neither man seems able to establish a sustained offensive here, Steve Roberts. SR: Neither of them knows how to hit an Asai moonsault, Dross. That's a career ending move, right there. [Creed is first to stir, rising on the count of four, and drags the Psycho to his feet. He hits the Psycho with a series of hard left-hand body shots, working on the lower rib and kidney area of his opponent, and then locks the Psycho into a bear hug, his huge upper arms squeezing the breath out of the subway dweller. The Psycho fights to break the hold, but within twenty seconds or so, he begins to flag, and his arms drop to his sides. The referee raises the Psycho's arm for the first time -- it drops. He raises it for the second time -- it drops again.] TD: That tremendous upper body strength of Creed is simply crushing the life out of the Subway Psycho. If his arm drops for a third time, it's all over here. [The referee raises the Psycho's arm for the final time -- and it stays raised! The Psycho clenches his fist as the crowd gives a huge pop! The Psycho jams a thumb in Creed's eye, and the rookie releases the hold, clutching at his face. The Psycho bounces off the ropes and hits Creed with an impressive flying clothesline that knocks him off his feet! Big pop! Creed rolls out of the ring under the bottom rope, and the Psycho sizes him up before slingshotting himself over the top rope to the outside with a tope dive! The Psycho lands hard on Creed, and immediately begins pounding away at his opponent's head with a flurry of left and right hands. Big pop! The Psycho grabs some nearby cabling, and wraps it around Creed's throat, drawing Earl Alfonso out of the ring to disentangle the rookie. The Psycho, meanwhile, grabs a folding chair from the timekeeper's table, and folds it up as he approaches his fallen opponent.] TD: The Psycho is pulling out all the stops here, Steve Roberts! [The referee turns and sees the Psycho brandishing a chair, and attempts to block the path of the "people's champion", buying Creed valuable seconds to get to his feet. The Psycho shoves Alfonso out of the way, and at that moment, Creed dives at him, hitting him in the stomach like a sixteen-wheeler and knocking him to the mat. The Psycho drops the chair as he goes down, and while the referee picks himself up, Creed drags the Psycho to his feet, and again puts his head between his legs. Walking the Psycho over to where the steel chair lies on the floor, Creed gutwrenches the Psycho into the air for a piledriver.] TD: No! He's going to piledrive the Psycho right onto that steel chair! SR: Oh yeah! Make him bleed, baby! [Huge pop as Creed executes the piledriver on the Psycho, ramming the crown of his skull into the hard steel of the discarded chair. Huge mixed pop! The referee yells at Creed, forcing him away from the Psycho, who rolls over -- and is busted open from the blow! A gash on the Psycho's forehead is bleeding profusely. The crowd lets out a shocked gasp.] TD: Oh, this is bad, Steve Roberts. SR: No, Dross, this is great. "Walker: Texas Ranger" is bad. [Creed pushes past the official and drags the Subway Psycho to his feet, rolling him back into the ring. Creed follows his opponent in and immediately locks him in a reverse chinlock. The Psycho's face is a macabre sight: contorted with pain, and with blood running down from the deep gash on his forehead, obscuring his vision and matting his stringy black hair. The referee checks on the Psycho, but the "people's champion" refuses to submit. Creed uses his free arm to punch the Psycho's forehead with closed fists. The referee warns Creed, but is then forced to break the hold himself when the rookie continues in his attempts to open up the cut even more. Creed's right fist is now crimson, matching his gloved left hand in grisly fashion. The rookie stands as the referee continues to berate him. The Psycho, meanwhile, pulls himself to his feet using the ropes. A "Psy - cho! Psy - cho! Psy - cho!" chant gathers momentum in the arena. Creed pushes Alfonso out of the way and approaches the Psycho from behind -- but the Psycho lashes out behind him, bringing his boot up sharply in between Creed's legs. Big gasp from every male member of the audience! Creed staggers backwards, and the Psycho turns, charging and drilling Creed to the mat with a hard running clothesline. Huge pop! The Psycho gets back to his feet and looks out into the crowd, his eyes wide, their whiteness standing out against the crimson mask covering his face.] TD: Would you look at that, Steve Roberts? Even now, the Subway Psycho simply will not be denied! [The Psycho drops an elbow on Creed and then points to the top rope. Huge pop!] TD: He's going for the De-Railer! He's going for it! [The Psycho steps out of the ring and wipes the blood out of his eyes, running his hands through his hair and pushing it away from his face. He begins the climb to the top turnbuckle. Creed still lies on the mat, clutching at his lower abdomen. The Psycho reaches the top buckle and raises his arms to the crowd. He is illuminated by hundreds of camera flashes going off all over the arena as he leaps -- and flips -- and crashes down with his flying legdrop -- onto the mat! Creed moves out of the way! The Psycho hits nothing but mat! Huge pop!] TD: Unbelievable! Creed just rolled out of the way, and the Psycho is in a whole new world of hurt right here, Steve Roberts! SR: Cover him, Creed! All you have to do is cover him! [Creed slowly rolls over to the Psycho and covers the winded athlete. He hooks the leg - 1 - 2 -- kickout! The Psycho kicks out! Huge pop! Creed gets to his feet, dragging the Subway Psycho with him, and backs him into the nearby corner, nailing him a few times in the forehead, again trying to open the nasty gash ever wider. He whips him across the ring, the Psycho slamming into the opposite buckles with tremendous force. He staggers backwards into the ring, and is caught by a devastating back suplex from Creed. Huge pop! Creed immediately picks up the stunned Psycoh and whips him into the ropes. As the Psycho runs back at him, Creed extends his powerful left arm, and grabs the Psycho firmly by the throat. Big pop!] TD: Oh no... here comes that vicious chokeslam! SR: Yeah, plant him, Creed! Plant him! [As if in a single movement, hoists the Psycho in the air, and whirls him through 180 degrees, driving him into the mat with incredible power.] TD: It's over! All that Creed needs to do is cover the Psycho and... hang on! SR: It's the Syndicate! [Huge heel pop as Casey James, Brody Thunder and Tiger Claw run down the aisle, each apparently having just showered. Thunder and James both wear jeans and shirts, James discarding his shirt as he dashes down the aisle to reveal his well-muscled, huge upper body. Creed stands and readies himself as the Syndicate pour into the ring, surrounding him on three sides. The referee immediately signals for the bell. Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: No! Not another match ended by Syndicate interference! SR: Creed's done for in there, Dross. There's no way he can hold off three guys at once... [Creed whirls around and nails Tiger Claw with a huge left hand that floors the wiry Thai boxer, but is hit from behind by a vicious boot to the lower back by Casey James. Thunder grabs Creed and plants him with a swinging neckbreaker. Huge heel pop! James and Thunder continue to put the boots to Creed as the Subway Psycho groggily rolls from the ring. Suddenly, the Psycho's unkempt right hand man, Mench, leaps over the crowd barrier and goes to the aid of his friend. Mench pulls a reel of tape out of a pocket in his dirty overcoat, and begins quickly taping the Psycho's fist as the "people's champion" leans against him for support.] TD: What's going on here...? Creed's at the mercy of the Syndicate in the ring, and Tiger Claw is on the outside here, coming after the Psycho... This is chaos! [Tiger Claw runs at the Psycho from behind, but Mench pushes the Psycho out of the way, and takes the full brunt of a kick to the head himself. Huge heel pop! Mench crumples to the floor, while the Psycho secures the tape around his wrist and gets to his feet. Flying into a rage, the bloody Psycho nails Claw in the head repeatedly with the taped fist, yelling, "Is this what you want?! Huh?! You bastard!" Claw is felled by the ferocious assault of the Psycho, who has to be pulled away by Earl Alfonso. Security dash down the aisle as the Psycho rolls into the ring, where Brody Thunder is holding the groggy Creed in position for a Blackheart punch from Casey James. The Psycho nails Casey with a blow from his taped fist, and at that moment, Creed lashes out behind him with his boot, hitting Thunder with a hard kick. The cowboy releases the rookie, and Creed wheels around, grabbing the doubled over Thunder and hitting him with a vicious powerbomb! Huge pop!] TD: Oh my! The Psycho and Creed are cleaning house out here! [The Psycho clotheslines Casey James out of the ring over the top rope, and Thunder rolls out of the squared circle on the opposite side. The Psycho and Creed turn towards the centre of the ring, their eyes meeting once more. The Psycho again pushes his matted hair out of his eyes and wipes the blood from his forehead. Creed, without any further acknowledgement, turns his back on the Psycho and climbs out of the ring, heading up the aisle.] TD: And so the uneasy relationship between Creed and the Subway Psycho continues. I don't know what the official word on this match is -- I would guess the referee had no choice but to rule it a no contest... Fans, we're right out of time here tonight. What scenes in the IIWF Coliseum this week. As Creed makes his way up the aisle, the Syndicate are regrouping outside the ring. [Security surround the Syndicate members on the arena floor and attempt to restrain them from entering the ring. The Subway Psycho holds his taped fist aloft, and beckons them on. Creed, meanwhile, continues his silent, deliberate walk up the aisle towards the locker room area. The nearby fans give a pop as a figure steps out into the aisle to confront Creed.] TD: It's Requiem! What does he want out here? [Creed and Requiem meet in the aisle and stand toe to toe. Creed looks up into the eyes of the taller Requiem, who appears to be probing Creed with his gaze, as if trying to look into Creed's very soul. The red-gloved athlete returns an intense, icy stare of his own, not intimidated by the huge angel of darkness. No words are spoken, and neither man appears willing to back down.] TD: Is this a challenge? Is Requiem challenging Creed here? Fans, we're right out of time. Let's hope security are able to get some control out here... What a night of action it's been. Don't forget to call the IIWF Hotline tomorrow night for updates on the events we've seen here this week, and there'll be more action from the IIWF in the next seven days. For "Soundbite" Steve Roberts, this is Tim Dross, saying: so long, everybody! [Cut to wide-angle shot depicting the staredown between Requiem and Creed in the aisle, and the Psycho in the ring challenging the Syndicate members, still restrained by security officials, to attack him once more. 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 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+