[Fade up on a wide-angle shot of the interior of the IIWF Coliseum, with
the word "LIVE!" flashing in the top left corner. Special "Birthday
Bash" banners adorn the tiered seating and hang from the rafters. Twenty
thousand fans line the seating, a veritable cornucopia of coloured
shirts, signs and waving merchandise. Cameras flash all over the arena
as the brightly coloured spotlights rigged above the ring swing their
beams over the throng. A huge cheer goes up as fireworks erupt high in
the rafters, a cacophony of pyrotechnic explosions resounding around the
Coliseum as Sparkplug Lee steps into the ring:]

RA: Ladies and gentlemen... the "Party Maniac"... Marty Warnett!

[Huge pop! The noise fades as the lights dim, and suddenly, a spotlight
illuminates the interview podium set back from the aisle halfway towards
the ring. Stepping into the glare are Marty Warnett and his band. Marty
wears jeans, trainers and an open denim shirt.]

MW: Well, all rightee... how the hell are you all?

[Big pop! Marty pauses, fidgeting with the microphone stand whilst
milking the moment.]

MW: Folks, the only thing you can be true to is yourself and your roots.
    Rock has its roots in the blues, so here's my homage to the best
    music has to offer, and also my feelings about an IIWF so-called
    star...

[The band start playing a simplistic twelve-bar blues progression and
Marty begins to sing:]

MW: Well, I woke up in the morning,
    I was feeling rather sad,
    Went up to the mirror,
    Then I saw the face I had.

    Then, I looked up real close,
    Saw the bruises on my skin,
    Remembered yet again
    Having had my face kicked in.

    So, I came here as the star,
    I knew I was the man,
    I've held titles everywhere,
    Now I'm carried out in a van.

    I got those Chris Quiggerly blues,
    I got those 'ole Chris Quigley bluuues,
    I'm a jobber in the ring now,
    And I just don't know what to do...

    I realised my image,
    Wasn't all that smart,
    Changed things about a bit,
    But I'm still a piss-poor Hart.

    I got those Chris Quiggerly blues,
    I got those 'ole Chris Quigley blooes,
    I'm lousy when I talk some,
    And stink just like Pepe LePew.

    "As always I got screwed,"
    Is my usual refrain,
    Now I'll copy Raven,
    and I guess I feel your pain.

    I got those Chris Quiggerly blues,
    I got those 'ole Chris Quigley bloooes,
    Since I'm always horizontal,
    I really have a terrible view.

[Marty steps from behind the mic stand and wiggles his hips to a large
teenage female pop.]

MW: [aside to his band] Okay, boys, take it down a bit... that's right.

    Well, I walked up to the mike, <bass drum>
    And I knew I sounded cross, <bass drum>
    As the words all tumbled out, <bass drum>
    I sounded like Timmy Dross ...

    I got those Chris Quiggerly blues,
    I got those 'ole Chris Quigley bluuues,
    If I realised how poor I was,
    Then I guess I'd just hit the booze.

    Chris Quiggerly blues,
    Chris Quiggerly blues,
    I got those 'ole, now I said 'ole,
    Chris Quiggerly-wiggerly-squiggerly,
    Bllllllllluuuuuuuuueeeeeeesssss,
    I said I got those 'ole Chris Quiggerly blues.

[The band finish to a great pop, lay their instruments down and wave to
the crowd.]

MW: [shouting] Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the planet!

[The spotlight fades and the crowd noise eventually subsides as the
lights rise once more. The opening graphics explode onto the screen,
accompanied by regal music:]


                 #####     ######   ###            ##########
             ########## ########## ####       ##  ##########
             ########## ########## ####  #   #### ########
               #####      #####    #### ##  ##### ####
                ####       ####    #### ### ####  ####
                ####       ####    ############# #########
                ####       ####     ########### #########
                ####       ####     ####  ####   ####
             #########  #########   ###   ####   ####
             #########  #########   ###    ##    ####
              ########   ########   ##      #    ####
                                                  ##
      _____  ___ _____  _______ ___  ___ _____         __   ____
      \ __ \ \ / \ __ \ |     | \ /  \ / \ __ \    /\  \ \  \  /
      | | \ \| | | | \ \|/| |\| | |  | | | | \ \  /  \  \ \ / /
      | |_/ /| | | |_/ /  | |   | |__| | | | | | / /\ \  \ v /
      | __ < | | |  __/   | |   | ____ | | | | |/ /__\ \  \ /
      | | \ \| | |  \     | |   | |  | | | | | | _____/ \/ /
      | | | || | | \ \    | |   | |  | | | | | |/      \/ /
      | | | || | | |\ \   | |   | |  | | | | | |       / /\
      | |_/ /| | | | \ \  | |   | |  | | | |_/ /      / /\ \
      /____/ /_\ /_\ /__\ /_\   /_\  /_\ /____/      /_/ /__\

                  _____            _____  ___  ___
                  \ __ \    /\    / ___ \ \ /  \ /
                  | | \ \  /  \  / /   \_\| |  | |
                  | |_/ / / /\ \ \ \_____ | |__| |
                  | __ < / /__\ \ \_____ \| ____ |
                  | | \ \ _____/ \      \ \ |  | |
                  | | | |/__    \ \     / / |  | |
                  | | | | \ \____\ \___/ /| |  | |
                  | |_/ /  \______\ \___/ | |  | |
                  /____/          /__\    /_\  /_\

.----------------------------------------------------------------------.
| LiVE + IIWF Coliseum, Portland, Oregon + Saturday 10 May 1997 + LiVE |
`----------------------------------------------------------------------'


[Mix through to the IIWF broadcast table at ringside. Tim Dross, dressed
in a tuxedo with an IIWF bow-tie, stands beside Becky LaRue, the colour
of her incendiary hair brought out by the scarlet gown she is wearing.
Behind them, fans wave all manner of signs -- "Otto fears Starks!",
"Happy Birthday IIWF!", "Bring Back Kauffman!" -- and wave frantically,
trying to get into the shot.]

TD: What a way to kick things off here tonight at this very special IIWF
    event! Welcome to Portland, Oregon! Welcome to the IIWF Coliseum!
    Welcome, everybody, to IIWF Birthday Bash! I'm Tim Dross, and beside
    me is my broadcast colleague, the beautiful Becky LaRue.

BL: And no sign of poor little Stevie anywhere, Timmy.

TD: Indeed not. As you know, folks, "Soundbite" Steve Roberts was
    suspended indefinitely by IIWF President Daniel Spreadbury earlier
    this week for repeatedly over-stepping the mark in his commentary,
    particularly that directed towards one Chris Quigley, the man who
    may finally fulfil his destiny and capture the IIWF World
    Heavyweight Championship from Casey James later on tonight. Quigley
    must have butterflies in his stomach right now, Becky, and that
    little ditty from Marty Warnett won't have improved his temper any.

BL: Little Chrissy Quigley has to run with the big men tonight, Timmy.
    Over the past few months, Casey James has proven that he is twice
    the man that Quigley will ever be... and with the Syndicate behind
    him, I believe he will walk out of here tonight just as he walks in
    -- with a cute little swagger and the IIWF World Heavyweight
    Championship strapped firmly around his waist. In fact, when Casey
    kicks his butt, it will not only be the fall of Quigley... but also
    the fall of Troy.  Hehehe... snort.

TD: Well, you mention the Syndicate, Becky, and I believe they could
    well be a determining factor in that match between Casey and Quigley
    later on here tonight -- Brody Thunder, for one, has consistently
    saved James' bacon in championship matches for some time now.
    Thunder, however, may have other things to worry about here tonight.
    In just a few minutes, we'll kick off our show with what could prove
    to be the final meeting between the "Lone Wolf" and Mad Dog Watkins.

BL: Every championship in the IIWF will be defended here tonight at
    Birthday Bash -- right from the not-so-runtweight champ, Steve
    Kowalski, via both the tag titles and Lord Byron's Intercontinental
    Championship, to the big belt in one half of the main event.

TD: Yes indeed. The two most in-form athletes in the IIWF, Creed -- with
    that historic fifteen-match unbeaten streak -- and Lord Byron --
    with a string of ten victories -- clash right here tonight for the
    Intercontinental title. But there are some question marks over
    Creed's ability to wrestle the match, after the vicious assault
    inflicted on his knee by the European Alliance last Saturday night.

BL: Maybe Creed will have red crutches to match that glove of his. 
    Hehe... anyone... anyhow... any port in a storm... I never _could_
    get that right.

TD: And the other half of the double main event promises to be a unique
    and memorable encounter, too: the so-called "Master of Darkness"
    match between Deathbringer, and Requiem, a prominent member of the
    new "Alliance" of new blood here in the IIWF. I'm told that we can
    expect to see a very different Requiem here tonight.

BL: Perhaps he'll have gotten rid of those awful roots. And that tramp
    who steals scythes.

TD: Try to be nice, Becky. I understand that Gabrielle isn't in the
    arena tonight -- apparently, she has headed temporarily to the
    Orient. It's going to be a dangerous, precarious battle in that
    "Master of Darkness" match -- but danger seems to be the order of
    the day here at Birthday Bash. We have no fewer than three matches
    taking place inside a steel cage tonight: the Subway Psycho will
    strive to finally overcome his age-old nemesis Tiger Claw in a
    "Bangkok Death Pit Match", the object of which is to knock out your
    opponent; walking miracle Tony Starks will do battle with the brutal
    Butcher, Otto Verhoeven, in a three falls German Death Match; and
    that "Master of Darkness", possibly the most precarious of them all.

BL: If Steve were here, he'd be eulogising about blood right about now.

TD: Indeed he would. Cruiserweight Champion Steve "the Fury" Kowalski
    will be defending his newly-won -- under questionable circumstances
    -- Cruiserweight Championship from enemy "Sychosys" Joe Petrow. It
    has truly been a blood feud between these two men, with their
    respective factions of the audience getting almost as involved as
    Petrow and Kowalski themselves... and in tonight's match, any object
    handed to the wrestlers by the fans becomes legal, and may be used
    as a weapon! It's going to be a crazy, crazy match.

BL: Hey, what does the geek want? It's not time for our first match yet.

TD: Sparkplug Lee is in the ring, folks -- let's get up to him and hear
    what he has to say.

[Sparkplug Lee steps into the glare of the spotlight in centre ring, to
the rapturous reception of the Coliseum fans.]

RA: Ladies and gentlemen, at this time, I ask you to welcome... El Super
    Gecko!

[A hissing sound is heard over the PA, and a recorded chant of "You
Can't Hurt The Lizard!" drifts over the crowd before a generic rock
track kicks in, accompanying the lizard-like athlete, who emerges from a
fog of green mist at the head of the aisle. He waddles down towards the
ring, slapping the hands of the delighted fans.]

BL: What's this loser doing out here, Timmy?

TD: I understand that El Super Gecko has a special birthday message for
    the fans of the IIWF, Becky.

[The Gecko leaps onto the apron, and flips into the ring. He takes the
microphone from Sparkplug Lee, who smiles and leaves the ring. The crowd
chant "Gec - ko! Gec - ko!", finally quitening down as the lizard raises
the microphone to his lips:]

ESG: Helloooo, fansssssssss of the IIWF! [Pop!] Me, El Sssssuper Gecko,
     am here tonight with a very sssssssssspecial messsssssage for you
     all...

[The Gecko is cut off by the strains of some strangely familiar
majestic-sounding music kicking in over the PA. Big confused pop as the
Gecko turns to look at the aisle.]

BL: Hey, Dross -- coming down the aisle... It's the "Showstopper"! Simon
    Lebec is in the house!

TD: What's he doing here?! The last man I'd expect to see!

[Lebec enters the ring and offers his hand to the Gecko. After the
lizard shakes it, he turns around to acknowledge the fans. Lebec shakes
his head and hits the Gecko with a vicious enzuigiri, laying the lizard
out on the mat. Huge heel pop!]

TD: Oh my! Lebec just laid out a legend in our sport with his Blackball
    enzuigiri! How sickening!

BL: A legend?! Please! He's coming over here, Timmy! Shove over.

[Lebec leaves the ring and walks over to the broadcast booth with a
smile on his face and sits, donning the headset. Meanwhile, the Gecko is
helped from the ring.]

SL: Hey, Dross, Becks, long time no see. In Dross' case, we could
    probably add "Long time, never laid!"  HA!  How the hell are ya,
    Drossy?  You look shocked!

TD: Simon Lebec, what business do you have being here?  Furthermore, you
    just clobbered El Super Gecko! What do you have to say for yourself?

SL: Well, everyone else is doing it, and who am I to deviate from the
    trend?  HA!  I'm feeling good tonight, Dross!  The "Showstopper" is
    in the house here for the big birthday celebration!

TD: [aside] Security.  Security, if you're listening...

SL: The security around this joint is about as useless as a razor to a
    lesbian, Dross!  Besides, I'm your new colleague.

TD: What?!

SL: That's right!  They say that money can't buy happiness?  Well,
    maybe not.  But it can buy a slot on Wednesday War Room! The
    "Showstopper" is where it's at!  I got two turntables and a
    microphone, baby, and I'm not afraid to use 'em!

TD: You're nuts!

SL: No, Dross, I got money -- so I'm eccentric.

TD: Mr. Lebec, with all due respect to your wrestling abilities, you are
    no journalist.  A wrestler, yes.  A model, yes.  A marketer, yes. 
    An actor... somewhat. But a broadcast journalist? Never.

SL: Now you're talking nuts, Dross.  You obviously missed my special
    report on "Inside Edition" about teenage prostitution, "Getting Them
    Wet When They're Wet Behind The Ears."  I received many awards for
    the piece, plus I got quite a few phone numbers.  I can do the job. 
    And even if I can't... I'M CUTE!

BL: Amen to that, honey! Like it or not, Timmy, Simon is here to stay. 
    Welcome, Simon.

SL: Thanks, Becks. Now, let's get down to the action.  I'll show you
    jokers how to do commentary.

BL: Why so happy, Simon?

SL: Why?  Because it's spring, the sun has come out and so have the
    short skirts.  On top of that, it's Birthday Bash right here in the
    best fed going today.  I'm here, you're here, even Dross is here...
    and that makes me happy.  Let's get down to the action, Dross.
    What's on tap first?

TD: To start things off, we have a real grudge match involving Mad Dog
    Watkins and "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder. No DQ, no countout -- there
    will be a winner to finish it off here tonight.

BL: As you'll recall, each man has a win in this feud, with another
    match being ruled a no contest due to the brawl that ensued between
    the two of them.

SL: And I hear that the winner here tonight not only gets bragging
    rights, but a free can of chewing tobacco that comes out of the
    loser's purse money.  Am I right on this one?

TD: Uh, I don't think so. Let's get up to Sparkplug to kick things off
    with a bang here tonight!

                =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                       No Countout, No Disqualification:
                =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                Mad Dog Watkins vs. "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder
                ---------------------------------------------
                                 WRITER: RD

[A spotlight illuminates the ring, where Sparkplug Lee is trying to warm
the crowd up with his impressions of various farm animals. The crowd
give him no response whatsoever. Sparkplug gives an embarresed cough and
rasies the mic to his mouth.]

RA: Ladies and gentlemen! The following contest is scheduled for one
    fall. The stipulations are as follows: no count-outs and no
    diqualifications will be recognised! [crowd pop] The winner must
    force his opponent to submit, or pin him for the three count, in the
    centre of the ring! Introducing first, hailing from Tombstone,
    Arizona, and weighing in at 267 lbs; here is the "Lone Wolf"...
    Brody Thunder!

[The theme from "High Plains Drifter" blasts out over the loudspeakers
and Brody Thunder appears in the entranceway, pausing to light up a
stogie. At the sight of him, the fans explode into a massive pop; some
cheering and some jeering. Brody walks down the aisle nonchalantly,
puffing on his stogie and ignoring the fans who reach out to touch him.]

BL: Brody looks intense.  What do you think, Simon?

SL: Here's my pick to win it.  You know, Brody Thunder reminds me
    of me back when I first broke into the world of wrestling.  Granted,
    I'm cuter, I'm sexier, and I'm definitely more refined... but the
    boy's got drive!  You're looking at a future champion right here.

RA: And his opponent! Hailing from Detroit, Michigan; wieghing in at
    268lbs; here is Mad Dog Watkins!

["Paint it Black" by the Rolling Stones blasts out over the arena, and
Mad Dog Watkins heads down the aisle to a tremendous crowd response.
Some fans cheer Watkins rabidly, others throw paper cups. Watkins wears
a nasty scowl on his face and points up at Thunder in the ring, "I'm
gonna kick yo' sorry ass up, down and sideways cowpoke!" Brody Thunder
merely scowls in return and ejects a stream of saliva.]

SL: My god! Isn't this guy like, what, a hundred years old or
    something?  For a second there, I thought I was watching Monday
    night wrestling shows.

TD: Watkins is a veteran, make no mistake.

[Watkins climbs between the ropes and straight away goes chest to chest
with Thunder. The two men stare hard at each other, nose to nose; each
man waiting for the other to make a move. Ding! Ding! Ding! The bell
sounds and Watkins gives Thunder a hard shove. Enraged, the cowboy
reverses his momentum and slams his forehead right into the bridge of
Watkin's nose! The crowd explodes into cheers as Watkins grunts and
staggers back. Brody wades in flailing his fists, and soon the two are
embroiled in a furious brawl. Brody whales Mad Dog with an overhand
right, a left uppercut and a swinging right cross. Watkins shakes his
head, digs his heels in and reponds with a series of short, compact
blows to Brody's bald noggin. Thunder is forced back a little after each
blow. Watkins clenches his fists togethor and swings at the cowboy with
a double axehandle, which cracks him solidly on the jaw! Crowd pop!
Thunder staggers back against the ropes.]

SL: It's the war of the baldy-slapheads here in the IIWF! Hell, with
    toupee Tim down here, this place looks more like the waiting room at
    Hair Club for Men than a wrestling arena!

TD: [defensively] I wouldn't know, I've never set foot in that place.

BL: Bwahahaha! Snort!

[Mad Dog Watkins takes a few paces back, then charges at Thunder with a
clothesline, yelling like a madman. Brody propels himself off the ropes
with his arm extended and both men collide into each other's
clotheslines! Brody staggers back against the ropes and almost goes
over, but manages to restrain himself. Watkins totters backwards and
winces, but amazingly neither man drops from the incredibly stiff shot!
The crowd pops wildly. Brody is the first to recover from the daze and
snaps a left jab into Watkin's throat. He adds insult to injury by
driving a knee into Mad Dog's groin, and the veteran doubles up
painfully. Thunder grabs him round the neck and Bang! hits a swinging
neckbreaker, snapping Watkin's head off the canvas! Thunder is up and
drops an elbow to Watkin's sternum; he goes for the cover: 1 - 2 -
kickout by Mad Dog!]

TD: I think I can see a trickle of blood coming from Watkin's nose
    already. It must be from that headbutt he took at the very start of
    the match.

SL: That's probably the first clean-out Watkin's nose has had in years!

TD: Will you stop!

[Brody gets up and tries to drag Watkins to his feet, but as the veteran
is halfway up he drives his shoulder hard into Thunder's midsection.
Winded, Brody lets go of his grip and Mad Dog repeatedly rams the
shoulder in, forcing the cowboy into the corner. Watkins straightens up
and goes ballistic on Thunder's midsection, pounding it with uppercuts
and kneesmashes. Brody's face registers the aching blows and he gasps to
catch his breath. Watkins grabs Brody's arm and whips him around,
hurling the cowboy hard into the opposite turnbuckles. Shocked pop from
the crowd as the impact resounds throughout the arena! Watkins charges
in and launches himself at Thunder with a Stinger splash, sandwiching
him up against the turnbuckles! Big crowd pop! Watkins steps aside and
Thunder drops to the canvas like dead weight. Mad Dog hooks the leg for
the pin: 1 - 2 - kickout!]

TD: Look at the intensity of these two bruisers! Neither man's pride
    will allow him to call it a night!

BL: The same could be said of J.W. Hardin the other night when we drank
    so much Kessler's whiskey he couldn't get it...

TD: [interrupting] ...Becky!

[Watkins drags Thunder to his feet and drapes the cowboy's arm over his
shoulder. He tries to go for a suplex but can't quite get Brody up.
Watkins grunts under the effort and gives it another try. Brody refuses
to let Watkins execute the move, and the crowd pops as he shifts his arm
position, grabs Watkins by the trunks and instead hauls _him_ into the
air for the vertical suplex! Brody holds the veteran aloft for a full
five seconds before bringing him crashing down to the canvas. Big pop
from the crowd! Both men get slowly to their feet: Brody immediately
hooks Watkin's arms and dumps him into the mat with a double-underhook
suplex. The crowd pop grows louder! Brody hauls Mad Dog to his feet once
again and goes to execute a belly-to-belly. Watkins digs his heels in,
and this time it is he who prevents the move being executed. Watkins
holds on tightly, then blasts Thunder with the belly-to-belly himself!
The crowd is going crazy! Watkins hauls Brody up, sets him into position
and: German suplex into a pin attempt! The crowd is breathless: One -
Two - Thr... kickout with barely a moment to spare! The crowd gasps with
a mixture of dissapointment and relief.]

TD: What a breathtaking series of suplex variations that was!

SL: Very impressive indeed, these two guys are the suplex masters of the
    IIWF; I mean, besides me of course.

BL: Yeah, your suplexes _would_ be good, it's just a shame you're too
    weedy to execute them on a guy over 200 lbs.

SL: Don't hate me just because I'm beautiful, Becky.

[The two brawlers are straight back on their feet and tear into each
other once again. Watkins jabs Brody with a left-right combination, but
the cowboy absorbs the blows without ill-effect. Brody taps his head and
yells "It'll take more n' that to put a dent in this noggin son!" before
kicking Watkins hard in the midsection. Brody bounds off the ropes and
slams a clothesline into Watkin's chest, and the veteran goes toppling
over the ropes! Big pop from the crowd as Brody pumps his fists in the
air!]

TD: Brody Thunder is looking to take advantage of that no count-out, no
    DQ stipulation. He'll be right in his element outside the ring, but
    then again, so will Mad Dog Watkins.

BL: Great! That's what I like to see, two strapping, sweating hunks of
    manhood beating the snot out of each other, preferably over me.

SL: Come on now Becky, these guys might be big, but they don't have size
    where it really counts. They'll never measure up to the
    "Showstopper" in that department.

BL: Judging from your appearance in the movie: "Simon Lebec and the
    Nympho Chicks from Lustotron," I beg to differ.

SL: Ahh, one of my finest performances. Almost as good as my starring
    role in: "Simon Lebec Meets Mistress Whipmaster and her Five
    Daughters." How I missed out on a grammy nomination for that movie
    I'll never know.

TD: Good grief!

[Brody Thunder climbs out onto the ring apron as Mad Dog Watkins is
getting to his feet, his face wearing an ugly snarl. Brody jumps off the
apron and plants a flying headbutt square in the centre of Watkin's
face. The veteran slumps back against the crowd barriers. Brody does not
give him a moment of respite, and kicks the fallen Mad Dog in the ribs
and throat until he is rolling around on the floor in pain. Brody goes
over to the timekeepers table.]

TD: What's he doing...?! Oh my goodness, he's got the ring bell!

SL: He's going to ring Watkin's bell with the ring bell!

BL: The final bell has tolled for the Mad Dog!

[Brody Thunder stands over the fallen Mad Dog, holding the ring bell,
laughing at Watkin's attempts to get to his feet. Brody holds the bell
aloft, and then brings it crashing down on Watkin's head. Clang! Watkins
sprawls motionless on the arena floor as the crowd gives vent to
deafening jeers.]

SL: Hell's Bells! That shot just had to hurt.

[Brody grabs hold of Watkin's head and starts to drag him towards the
ring steps...]

TD: What's this madman doing now?!

[Brody drags Watkin's up so that his head is resting on the steel ring
steps. Once again, the cowboy holds the bell above his head, only to
bring it crashing down on Watkin's skull, sandwiching his head between
the bell and the ring step! The jeers of the crowd grow louder and blood
flows freely from Watkin's forehead; who slides off the steps and rolls
around the floor clutching his wounded skull.]

TD: That was despicable! Blank out the picture, there are young children
    watching this show!

SL: Chill down, Timmy boy. This is a no DQ match, so hitting a guy with
    a bell is a perfectly legitimate wrestling hold.

BL: Besides, those little brats out there are probably lapping this up.

[Brody stands over Mad Dog Watkins, screaming at him to get to his feet.
Watkins, however, is in no condition to do so, and Brody drops the bell
to drag the veteran up himself. He goes to slam Watkin's head into the
crowd railings, but amazingly Mad Dog has sufficient wits to put his
hand out and block the attempt! Pop from the crowd! Brody goes to slam
Watkin's head again, and once again the attempt is blocked. The cheers
of the crowd grow louder! This time, Watkins grabs Thunder by the back
of the neck, and succeeds in smashing his face into the steel crowd
barriers. A sickening crunch is heard by the fans at ringside as
Thunder's nose breaks under the impact. Big crowd pop! Brody staggers
back against the apron, his nose a bloody mess. Mad Dog Watkins leans
against the barriers, breathing hard; his face coated with blood.]

TD: Unbelievable! Watkins and Thunder have hit each other with the
    hardest shots they can muster and they're still concious! What
    stamina and determination they must possess!

SL: Almost as much stamina as I required for the shooting of the movie:
    "Adam and Eve: The Fig Leaves Are Off!" Of course I played the part
    of Adam, and...

BL: [interrupting] ...Marty Warnett played the part of Eve?

SL: Y'know something, Becky? You look really cute when you're insulting.

BL: Hey, I look _great_ all of the time!

[Both men are still struggling to get their breath back. Suddenly
Watkins lurches off the crowd railing, and staggers over to the ringside
officials. He signals to one of the suits to get out of his chair. The
official complies and Mad Dog grabs the foreign object. Growing mixed
response from the crowd! Watkins staggers back over to Brody Thunder,
who is in the process of snapping his nose back into place. The "Lone
Wolf" looks up, only to see the steel chair crashing down on his
forehead! Big mixed pop from the crowd as Brody stumbles back, then
lurches away from the chair wielding Mad Dog. Watkins comes up from
behind and cracks the chair across Thunder's back, causing the cowboy to
flip over the crowd barriers! The fans at ringside scatter as the rest
of the arena pops wildly!]

TD: They've taken the fight into the stands! This is our opening match
    and already things are out of control!

BL: Good thing they added in that no count-out stipulation, otherwise
    this match would be long over by now.

SL: Y'know the real reason they put that in?

TD: Why?

SL: 'Cause Mad Dog Watkins can't even count to ten!

TD: Will you stop!

[One of Brody's legs is still hanging over the crowd railing. Watkins
lifts up his chair and slams it edgeways into the vulnerable limb!
Thunder howls in pain and clutches at his leg as the crowd begins to
jeer again. Watkins drops the chair and vaults over the barriers. He
drops atop of Brody Thunder and begins to pummel him in the head
furiously! The veteran manages to get in ten or twelve hard shots before
Thunder gives a yell of fury and hauls him off. This time Brody gets on
top and starts raining in the blows, drawing more blood from Watkin's
forehead with each shot. Watkins shoves the cowboy off of him and the
two lie prone amidst the crowd, punching and kicking like wild animals.
The nearby fans scatter away, hoping not to get caught in the flurry of
blows.]

SL: These bums have got no class to 'em. Look at them there in the
    audience, fighting like animals!

TD: You have to understand the history between these two men Simon,
    they're obsessed with proving which one of them is tougher, and
    whenever they find themselves in close proximity the sparks begin to
    fly!

BL: Give them both to me for a night, and I'll decide who's made of
    sterner stuff.

SL: Have some mercy Becky! Havn't they been through enough of an ordeal
    already?

[The two brawlers claw their way to their feet, still locked in combat.
Brody gouges Watkins in the eyes savagely, buying him enough time to set
up a back suplex. He executes the move so that Watkins comes crashing
down on the crowd railings with his back! Shocked gasp from the fans!
Watkins writhes around on the arena floor, clutching at his spine.
Wearilly, Brody clambers over the crowd barriers. He hauls up Watkins
with visible effort and rolls him into the ring. He pauses for a moment,
resting against the apron and mustering up his strength, then climbs
into the ring himself. He drops across Watkins for the cover, his face
registering the toll of the fight. The crowd gives an anxious pop as the
ref begins to count: One - Two - Thr... kickout with the barest moment
to spare! Pops of both disappointment and relief from the crowd.]

TD: What does it take! What in this world does it take to put Mad Dog
    Watkins away!

SL: If I was in that ring I would have put his old ass in the sling and
    been on my way to Vegas by now.

BL: Why? They having a march for "Gay Pride" down there tonight?

SL: Becky baby, your wit cuts like a knife. Come on over here and sit on
    my lap.

BL: How about I come over there and break your kneecap with my pointy
    stilleto?

[Brody slaps the mat in frustration. He hauls Watkins up and tucks his
head under-arm. The crowd pops as they realise Thunder is going for the
Cattlebuster DDT!]

BL: It's all over! Nobody gets up from the Cattlebuster!

TD: He hit it! Absolutely incredible! Mad Dog is motionless on the
    canvas. He is finished folks!

[Absolutely exhausted, Thunder slowly rolls over Watkins for the pin.
All eyes watch the ref's hand as it strikes the mat: One - Two - Three!]

TD: He got it!

SL: No he didn't! Look! Watkins has his foot on the ropes, the match
    isn't over!

BL: He's right you know.

[The crowd explodes into a wild pop, but it quickly dies down as the
referee shakes his head. Watkins had indeed, placed his foot on the
ropes just before the ref counted to three. Brody Thunder stares in
disbelief. He looks at Watkin's leg on the ropes in amazement; he can't
believe that he hasn't scored the pinfall. He rolls off Watkins and lies
on the mat for the moment, clutching his head; absolutely exhausted.]

TD: Incredible! I don't think I've ever seen a man survive the
    Cattlebuster DDT.

SL: I have to admit, even I'm impressed. These guys have taken an
    absolutely tremendous amount of punishment and they're still going!

[Suddenly the crowd gives a wild pop as Mad Dog Watkins sits up! Brody
Thunder, staring in amazement, summons up all his effort and tries to
get to his feet. Watkins lunges over and belts Thunder in the mouth with
a wild haymaker! Thunder drops back to the canvas, out cold. Watkins
remains in a sitting position for a few moments longer, catching his
breath, then shakily gets to his feet. Clearly straining under the
effort, he drags Thunder up and sits him on the second buckle. The crowd
pops in anticipation. Watkins climbs on the second turnbuckle and sets
up the positioning for...]

TD: Now Watkins is going for his finisher! He's going for the "Every Dog
    Has Its Day"! Does he have the strength left to pull it off?

BL: "Every Dog Has Its Day", that's actually a top rope samoan drop, for
    all you wrestling laymen out there.

[Slowly, and with herculean effort, Watkins is able to execute the move
and smashes Thunder down to the canvas! Massive pop from the crowd!
Wearilly, and seemingly in slow motion, Watkins rolls across his foe for
the pin. The crowd is breathless as the ref makes the count: One -
Two...]

TD: Three! No, he kicked out!

SL: How could this be? How the hell did Thunder kick out!?

BL: Both men have escaped each other's finishers! It seems impossible to
    consider either of them winning this match now!

[Both men lie prone on the canvas, their eyes closed and their chests
heaving. Blood and sweat drips down from their faces and stains the
canvas. After several long moments, the two men begin to rise again.
They get to their feet and stare at one another, searching desperately
for a sign of weakness in the other man's eyes. They find none, and it
seems there is only one thing for it. Once againe, they lunge at one
another exhaustedly and begin to trade shots. Each punch seems to take
minutes to arrive, and the two warriors just stand there, each giving a
shot, then taking one in return. The ref signals for the bell: Ding!
Ding! Ding! The crowd murmurs confusedly, wondering why the match has
come to an end.]

SL: What's going on? Has the time limit expired?

TD: I'm not sure, the ref is conferring with Sparkplug Lee right now.

[Brody Thunder and Mad Dog Watkins don't even seem to have heard the
bell and continue to trade shots. The ref finishes conferring with
Sparkplug and the ring announcer nods his head before raising the mic to
his lips.]

RA: Ladies and gentlemen, out of concern for the participants' health
    and careers; the referee has stopped the bout! The result therefore,
    is a draw!

[Huge mixed pop from the crowd. The audience begin to pelt the referee
with balled-up paper-cups and screwed-up paper. Thunder and Watkins,
however, continue to beat each other with their feet and fists, Watkins
reaching out and yanking at Thunder's nose. Thunder staggers backwards,
and Watkins fells him with a clothesline, dropping onto the Lone Wolf
and once again pelting him with hard rights and lefts.]

TD: It seems nothing is going to stop these two going at each other! The
    crowd wanted to see a conclusive ending to this match...

SL: It looks like the only way this match will be over is when one of
    these guys kicks the bucket.

TD: Here come the Jobber Justice Squad... and IIWF President Dan
    Spreadbury and VP Steve Owens are coming down here, too!

BL: Well, this isn't exactly the best advertisement for the IIWF at its
    birthday celebrations, is it? Dictator Danny and Steve "Ice-cream"
    Owens don't want the joint wrecked in the first match.

[Thunder rolls from the ring and groggily grabs a steel chair from the
timekeeper's table. Watkins follows Thunder to the outside, and is met
by a shot to the gut from the chair. The JJS pour down the aisle and
descend on Thunder, who swings at them wildly with the chair -- Jumpin'
Jack goes down, Ned Norton goes down, both Barnacle Brothers are felled
with a pair of blows from the chair -- and Thunder again turns his
attention to Watkins, who is staggering back to his feet. IIWF President
Dan Spreadbury yells at Thunder to desist as he approaches the warring
athletes outside the ring. Thunder swings the chair back over his head
in preparation to hit Watkins -- and hits Spreadbury right on the head!
The IIWF President goes down, hitting his head on the hard steel
ringsteps as he falls! Huge heel pop!]

TD: Oh my goodness! The IIWF President is down -- oh my, he's busted
    open! Cut to a commercial! Cut away from this!

[Cut to a wide-angle shot as Owens drops over the prostrate form of the
IIWF President. Thunder drops the chair and brushes the hair out of his
eyes. He wipes the blood away from his nose as he looks down at the IIWF
President, who is unconscious on the floor, bleeding from the back of
his head. Watkins rises to his feet, checking his mouth for cuts. He too
wipes the blood away from his gashed forehead, and stands, regarding the
scene as officials crowd around the unconscious President, trying to
shield the audience from view. An EMT crew rushes down the aisle,
bringing a stretcher with them. A hush falls over the crowd as the crew
goes to work on the President.]

TD: This is terrible, fans. The IIWF's birthday, and the President
    himself the victim of an unfortunate accident...

[The EMT crew act fast to curb the bleeding from the wound on the back
of his head, and carefully brace the President's neck before lifting him
onto a stretcher and strapping him down. A gang of officials surround
the EMT crew as they hurriedly wheel the unconscious President up the
aisle to a waiting ambulance backstage. Owens remains behind, and gets
in the faces of both Thunder and Watkins, jabbing his finger at each man
in turn to drive his points home. Thunder simply turns with a look of
disgust and walks away up the aisle. Huge heel pop! Watkins follows
suit, leaving Owens at ringside. The VP looks down at the blood staining
the ringsteps and the surrounding mats, and summons a ring crew to clean
it up before leaving the ringside area himself. Cut to the broadcast
table. Dross, LaRue and Lebec look visibly shaken.]

TD: Fans, obviously we have no idea at this stage how badly hurt the
    IIWF President has been in that incident, but rest assured that he
    will be taken immediately to the ER of Portland General Hospital,
    where he will be in the care of some of the best doctors in our fine
    nation. I'm sure the Vice-President will have an update on his
    condition later in the show. For now, we must simply put the
    incident out of our minds, and continue with the show. One of the
    most eagerly-awaited matches here tonight at the Bash will be the
    battle for the Cruiserweight Championship between Steve "the Fury"
    Kowalski and "Sychosys" Joe Petrow. I understand that our broadcast
    colleague, Larry Morton, is backstage with the challenger at this
    moment. Larry?

[Cut to "Sychosys" standing with Larry Morton backstage, by a "Birthday
Bash" backdrop.]

LM: Thanks guys, I'm here with the ever unpredictable "Sychosys" Joe
    Petrow, just minutes before his first ever IIWF title match...

[Petrow cuts Morton off]

JP: Enough with the belt talk Morton!  There'll time enough for getting
    the Murphy's Oil Soap to clean off the crust left behind by the Fury
    when the night is over!   Yeah, this started about titles, and it's
    gonna end with titles, but until that match is over, it's about
    vengeance! It's about Kowalski sticking his ass in my business
    without asking! I've wasted a month already on that loser, and
    tonight, he's gonna find out that payback is that bitch he's always
    talkin' about!  But it's not just my payback!  It's payback for each
    and every one of my fans who I broke a promise to.  And my new
    promise, is that you're gonna get beat with something from each and
    every one of them!  But still... there's something more.

[Petrow reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper.]

JP: Tonight, Kowalski, you not only have to deal with me and my maniacs,
    you've gotta deal with this!

LM: A ringside ticket?  What are you going to do, watch your own match?

JP: Damned if you could stop me!  But no, my mental midget friend, this
    ticket is for somebody else.  Somebody who, believe it or not, has
    suffered more at the hands of Steve Kowalski than me or anybody
    else. And for him, tonight... the bitch is in the house.  C'MON OUT!

[Out from the back comes... Poutine Janois!  Janois is in street
clothes, carrying with him an ominous black bag.]

LM: POUTINE JANOIS?!  I can't believe this, you're an IIWF official! You
    can't involve yourself in a match!

JP: Morton, which of the words "off duty" do you not understand? 
    Poutine the suit is NOT a man that's on my Christmas list!  But
    Poutine the man, the man who got put on the shelf for two months for
    doing his job, worried his wife and family sick, all for a two-bit
    scum out for a cheap laugh, he's cool by me.  Poutine, any requests?

[Poutine looks stoney-eyed into the camera]

PJ: Paump 'is galldamn skull.

JP: Works for me!

[Petrow hands Janois the ticket, after which Janois quietly stalks off
the stage, firmly gripping his bag.]

JP: One last thing Kowalski... the bitch is in heat! 

[Petrow walks off]

LM: Sychopaths in full force... an official at the breaking point...
    Petrow as usual... Steve Kowalski better be ready for anything. 
    Back to you!

[Cut back to ringside. The shot pans around the ringside collection of
partisan fans, some cheering wildly and wearing "Joe Petrow. Period."
t-shirts, others jeering, wearing "Kowalski: Heat Machine" t-shirts. Cut
back to the announcers' table at ringside.]

BL: We've got "Furies" on one side and "Sychopaths" on the other.  It's
    starting to look like a Morton family reunion in here.

TD: Please, Becky, that's not nice. Okay, folks, up next we have that
    wild triangle match between the trio of newcomers, Duncan Macbeth,
    Ike Sampson and Derek Mota. These three have been battling right
    from the very first day they stepped into the IIWF, and tonight,
    they'll fight to discover once and for all just who is the best of
    the new breed. Let's get some comments from Duncan Macbeth ahead of
    this huge match.

BL: Do we have to? All Duncan Macbeth has to do is start yakking about '
    'dis 'dat' an 'da 'otter 'an yuir bloody 'frekn blancmange and the
    other two will probably run from the ring.  I'm telling you, dogs
    gather outside the Coliseum when that guy has an interview.

[Cut to a pitch-blackened room, where after a moment, a spotlight slowly
begins to fade up on a tall figure holding a long thin object in one
hand. As the light intensifies, the object begins to gleam in the spot's
glow, and the red-haired figure becomes recognisable.  Duncan Macbeth
stares menacingly into the camera, wearing his kilt and a black
motorcycle jacket, and holding before him the famous claymore sword
which caused so much controversy weeks back.  The overhead spot casts
his face in ghoulish shadow, but the light still catches his piercing
green eyes, which glitter with a strange intensity as he begins to
speak.]

DM: Derek Mota, Ike Sampson, welcome t' th' Bash. Welcome t' th' moment
    th' twa o' yis have been dreadin' th' moment yis set foot in th'
    IIWF.  Th' moment where yis can nae longer hide behind publicity
    stunts, or someone else's name.  Th' moment where yis can nae longer
    wait in hidin' t' blindside yuir enemy, or stand safely at ringside
    while 'e's fightin' someone else.  Th' moment when both o' yis have
    t' finally step in th' ring wi' th' one man who can debunk all yuir
    claims to bein' "th' future o' th' IIWF."  Th' moment when, after
    all th' useless struttin' an' posturin' an' talkin' an' more
    talkin', yis FINALLY have t' face Duncan Macbeth.  Th' man who gave
    Derek Mota a lesson in "public relations events", an' th' man who
    gave a former World champion a lesson in WRESTLIN'!

    Mota, ye asked fer this match, givin' nae thought t' just how
    difficult this kind o' match is, thinkin' only how yuir name would
    look up on th' marquee.  Sampson, ye had a chance t' get out o'
    this, but ye chose not t' take it.  Bad mistake, Wee Dog.  Tonigh',
    all th' nonsense comes t' an end at last.  Tonigh', th' IIWF will
    recognise Duncan Macbeth as a legitimate contender for th' singles
    titles, an' Derek Mota an' Ike Sampson as th' victims o' their own
    folly, 'cause I've been clearin' out Scottish pubs since I was auld
    enough t' see o'er th' bar, an' this is my kind o' match!!!  Yis
    really have nae idea what yis've gotten yuirselves into 'ere, 'ave
    yis?  Well, yis've been talkin' th' talk pretty fierce - now,
    tossers, 'tis time t' walk th' walk!

    Welcome t' th' Bash, rookies - ye'd best pray it'll nae be yuir
    LAST!

[Macbeth storms out of the frame. Cut back to ringside.]

TD: These three have had problems with each other in the past, and
    hopefully tonight the scores will be settled in a triangle match.

SL: Yeah, this'll be acute little match. Get it? A _cute_ match? HA!

TD: We get it.

SL: Geez, Dross, you're so obtuse sometimes! HA! Where do I come up with
    them, huh? Obtuse!

                =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                               Triangle Match:
                =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                Derek Mota vs. Duncan Macbeth vs. Ike Sampson
                ---------------------------------------------
                                 WRITER: MB

[As Sparkplug reads over his notes one last time before introducing the
three competitors, Lebec calls out from ringside to him that his shoes
were undone.  Sparkplug Lee, ever the gullible ring announcer, looks
down and scrutinizes them for a few seconds before realizing they are
loafers. Lebec and LaRue meanwhile are thoroughly amused by this and
Simon even pounds on the announcer's table in glee.  Sparkplug's face
now ressembles the colour of strawberry red in embarrassment, but like a
trouper he carries on.]

RA: The following contest is set for one fall, and features triangle
    match rules.  About to make his way to the ring, from Toronto,
    Ontario, Canada, weighing in at 210lbs, here comes... DEREK MOTA!

[As the crowd jumps into action with a defeaning heel pop, "The Great
Southern Trendkill" by Pantera comes on in the background.  The camera
focuses on the entrance, and Derek Mota comes out with a smirk on his
face. His shoulder-length dark hair falls into his face, and he takes a
moment to brush it back with his hands before continuing down the
aisle.  His last name is written down the side of his tights, and he
points to it before slipping through the ring ropes.]
                                         
SL: This kid has got some spunk in him.  Look for him to clean up
    against the other two buffoons.  If he wasn't from Canada, I
    might consider taking him under my wing and teaching him what
    the real spotlight is all about.

["Kiss" by Prince fades in over top of Pantera, and the heel pop dies
down.]

RA: And now, the second entry into this match.  About to make his way
    out, weighing in at 304lbs... ladies and gentlemen, IKE SAMPSON!

[Sampson arrives, and a large pop comes out of the crowd.  Most seem to
appreciate him, but as always there is a small faction who support Mota.
Nevertheless Ike stops to shake a couple of fans' hands before walking
up the ringsteps, and points right at Mota.  Mota and he almost get into
a shoving match before the third man even arrived, but the referee
managed somehow to seperate the two.]

TD: Ike Sampson making his way to the ring to the cheers of the adoring
    crowd!

SL: I remember his older brother Jack.  I guess "Jobberitis" is a
    disease that runs deeply in their family.  But hey, at least he
    washes... unlike Macbeth.

RA: And the final competitor in this match, from Glenfinnan, Scotland,
    weighing in at 270lbs, here is... DUNCAN MACBETH!

[The beginning strains of "Scotland The Brave" are heard as the camera
switches quickly to the entrance, but something is different about this
particular entrance by Duncan Macbeth.  Instead of the usual taped
version, a forty-piece Highland pipe and drum band enters and begins to
march toward the ring.  St. Andrew's Pipes And Drums of Portland, Oregon
play out Duncan's music while the lights in the Coliseum dim, much the
same as they do for Deathbringer.  A single spotlight over the ring
projects a blue-and-white image of St. Andrew's Cross, the flag of
Scotland, onto the mat and Sparkplug makes sure not to anger the
Scottish fans by stepping out of the way of the design.  As the entire
band parades down the aisle and around the ring, Duncan Macbeth made his
entrance  wearing his kilt and a black motorcycle jacket with the red
Lion Rampant of Scotland painted on the back.  He is smiling as the
crowd gives him a somewhat appreciative, yet still mixed pop, and
acknowledges the crowd's cheers.  Duncan seems to have a fair amount of
confidence going into the match, perhaps thanks in part to the long
claymore that made it's appearance in Derek Mota's match a few weeks
ago.  Macbeth hoists the claymore high over his head as he makes his way
to ringside and keeps it with him as he enters the ring.  The crowd
gives him an even bigger pop after levelling it at both Sampson and Mota
as a form of taunt, fixing both wrestlers with his trademark cold stare
as he points the sword at them.  Finally he hands it off to the referee,
who unfortunately seemed to have a little more trouble picking it up
than Duncan did carrying it out.]

SL: Who let the Newfie in the ring?

TD: Duncan Macbeth is a proud Scotsman.

SL: Dross, in all honesty, "Proud" and "Scotsman" go together about as
    well as a rubber dinghy and a bag of nails.  I talked to this guy in
    the back before we came on the air.  Didn't understand a damn thing
    he said!  I just nodded and smiled, and tried to keep next to the
    open window for a breath of fresh air.

TD: How can you be so disgusting?  Your comments are more than enough to
    alienate all of our Scottish viewers.

BL: I seriously doubt that, Timmy.

TD: Why not?

BL: Nobody in their right mind would turn the channel when I'm on the
    air.

[The referee signals for the bell to start the match, with Derek Mota
and Ike Sampson as the first two wrestlers in the match.  At least,
they're supposed to be. Derek Mota, upon hearing the bell sound, jumps
both opponents, targeting Macbeth first.  He knocks into Duncan and
sends him through the ropes to the floor before going after Ike Sampson,
who's just as unaware as Macbeth was previously. Mota slams him into the
corner and wails away on him with a flurry of fists to the head and
chest area, drawing much disapproval from the crowd, but completely at
the other end of the spectrum is Simon Lebec.]

SL: That's right, get him!  This kid has even more spunk than I thought.
    What a prime-timer!

BL: He handled Macbeth real well, that's for sure.

[Duncan, having been knocked to the floor and thus starting the match as
the odd man out, picks himself up off the floor and climbs up onto the
apron, then heads for the corner where the other two are.  Duncan is
able to blast Mota with a right cross between the eyes before the ref
herds him to the proper corner, and now Ike can begin to punish the
cocky Canadian. He delivers a kneelift into the side of Mota's ribs,
sending him to the mat where he can now greet him with a series of
stomps.  Mota tries to stand three times, but each time Ike thumps him
in the back with a sledgehammer blow to the back.  Finally Ike brings
Mota to his feet by pulling him by the neck, and drops him even faster
again with a side suplex.  Ike rolls Mota's leg up and tries a pin, as
the ref counts...1 - Kickout by Mota. Derek grabs Ike's face and rakes
his eyes, then tries to set him up in a piledriver.  Ike backdrops him
easily, and much to Mota's horror tags in Macbeth.]

TD: Now it gets interesting!

BL: What happened?  Sampson get a haircut?  Hehehe... snort!

[Macbeth and Sampson corner Mota on the middle turnbuckle, and each
grabs one of his legs.  The crowd bellows for them to "Do it!", and they
yank Mota's legs out. Unable to brace himself, Mota gets pulled off the
ropes feet first and lands headfirst on the mat.  Ike grabs Mota and
picks him up in a gorilla press, then drops him onto Macbeth's
outstretched knee.  The referee makes Sampson leave the ring, and Duncan
uses the distracted referee to knee Mota in the groin, something he
wouldn't normally do.  He takes Mota's legs and flips him into a small
cradle, and the referee flies across the ring to count... 1 - 2 - Big
kickout by Mota.  Mota crawls over to the ropes and slides out to the
floor, then as he steps back up onto the apron and Duncan tries to pull
him back in by the hair, he snaps Duncan's neck across the top rope.]

SL: Attaboy!  This kid's learning quick how to get the most out
    of the ring.

TD: Of course you'd condone that.

BL: You know, you just said...

TD: [interrupting] Drop it, Becky.

[Mota lands on the floor after the hotshot on Duncan, and steps towards
the fans in a show of arrogance.  Before any of the fans can reach their
hand out to him, he jumps back and grins at them.  Ike Sampson meanwhile
comes up behind him and throws him right at the fans, not to mention the
guardrail.  Mota hits his head on the steel before getting tossed back
at Macbeth, who tries to pin him... 1 - 2 - Kickout by Mota.  Derek
crawls around on his hands and knees trying to get away from Duncan, and
ends up looking up at him from down around his knees.  Mota, like any
typical 'bad guy', begs for a little mercy, yet gets none.  He takes
matters into his own hands and catches Duncan with a low blow, and then
tags out to safety. Ike Sampson and Duncan Macbeth face off in the
middle of the ring, each trying to stare the other down.  When it
becomes clear that neither will look away, they lock up.  Ike easily
powers Duncan down to his knees, and the Showstopper offers a little
advice.]

SL: Come on, either one of you kick the other one!  Dammit, just
    do it!  Agh, that's why neither of them are going to beat Derek
    Mota, they don't have the killer instinct.

TD: Some would call that honour.

BL: And some would call that being a total idiot.

[Duncan knows he won't win the battle of strength, and monkey flips Ike
over onto his back.  Duncan then tries dropping a knee onto his
opponent's face, and Ike rolls away to avoid it.  Ike trips Duncan and
hits him in the face with a swinging punch, then covers him without
hooking the leg... 1 - Kickout!  Macbeth gets back up to his knees and
then grabs a hold of Sampson's leg and trips him down.  As Ike rolls
over onto his stomach Duncan drops an elbow on him, then grabs him in a
chinlock.  Mota watches from the sidelines and gloats as the other two
try to eliminate each other. Ike is finally able to break the hold after
a long minute and a half, only to get snared into a camel clutch
directly after. This time it's Derek Mota who breaks the hold, entering
the ring long enough to stop the camel clutch, yet not long enough to be
disqualified.]

SL: I told you the guy knows what he's doing, Dross.

TD: That so?  Look at this.

[At this moment Mota is being chased out of the ring, and Sampson is
regaining his strength while Duncan is preoccupied with the other
opponent. As Macbeth spins around, he is caught in a bearhug by Ike and
quickly loses much of his own strength.  He struggles in the hold but
Ike keeps the pressure on, until finally he rams Macbeth into the corner
backfirst. Macbeth collapses trying to catch his breath, and Ike pulls
him right back up into position for a powerslam.  He drives Macbeth into
the mat with it, and then points at Mota before attempting to lock
Macbeth into position for the Deep Freeze.  Somehow, before Ike executes
the Deep Freeze Duncan is able to jump up and execute a frankensteiner
out of it.]

TD: The Claymore!  Holy cow!

BL: Where'd the Newfie get that move?

TD: Pay attention to the matches, Becks.  His finisher is a
    frankensteiner.

[Duncan covers Sampson to try and get the pin... 1 - 2 - No!  At the
last possible moment Ike got his feet on the ropes, and the crowd, who
thought he was done for, roars with respect at him taking the move and
surviving it.  Duncan can't believe that Ike kicked out, and lays into
him with repeated short jabs to the head.  He turns his focus to the
back of Sampson and elbows him repeatedly there, then whips him off the
ropes.  Ike grabs the rope and stops himself from bouncing off, then
goes to tag out to Mota.  Derek jumps off the apron first to the floor,
and Ike is unable to go anywhere except back to the match.  Duncan
greets him with a kick to the knee, causing Ike to go to the mat and
then locks in a Scorpion Deathlock. Ike struggles on his stomach, but
reaches the ropes only after Derek graciously pushes them inward to
him.  The referee makes Duncan release the hold, and Derek climbs back
up onto the ring apron while Macbeth bounces off the opposite ropes.  He
leapfrogs over Ike and nails Mota with a running forearm, which the
referee accepts as a tag.  Derek is forced to get up off the floor and
enter the ring, and he does so to clip Ike's knee out.  He drags Ike to
the corner and climbs the ropes, then signals for the Main Attraction. 
During the somersault splash though, Ike pulls his knees up and Mota
crashes into them, injuring Lebec's main man.  Ike crawls to the corner
and tags out to Macbeth while Mota lies motionless.]

SL: Get up! Get up!

[Duncan charges in and immediately goes for the cover, but Mota kicks
out before even the one count.  Macbeth climbs to the top rope and tries
a flying elbowdrop onto Mota, but Mota rolls away to even the score and
both remain on the mat.  The referee starts a ten count, and
surprisingly it is Mota who answers it.  He picks Macbeth up and grabs
him in a headlock, then runs towards the corner for the Turnbuckle Run. 
However it was Duncan who got his feet up on the ropes first, and used a
backwards push to take both men down hard to the mat.  Mota takes the
brunt of the fall, and Duncan's head was partially shielded from the
impact by Mota's arm. Thinking quick, Duncan rolls on top of Mota and
covers... 1 - 2 - 3! Ding! Ding! Ding!]

TD: Hey, Mota just got eliminated!  He was the favorite, but he's out
    first!

SL: Fire the referee, he didn't do his job.

[Mota goes ballistic when he's told about his exit.  He slides under the
ropes but continues to argue with the referee, while behind the official
Macbeth and Sampson lock up once more.  Mota gives up the argument but
hangs around ringside instead of going back to the locker room.  Sampson
hiptosses Macbeth over, and Macbeth responds with headscissors.  He
keeps the submission hold on, until Ike gets to the ropes.  As Macbeth
releases the hold, Ike kicks him in the head and covers... 1 - 2 -
kickout by Duncan Macbeth.  Ike grabs Duncan by the hair and delivers a
headbutt that floors Macbeth, and as Ike bent down to pick Duncan up for
a bodyslam Macbeth rolled him up into a small package.  As the official
tries to get across the ring to call the pin, Derek Mota trips him,
causing him to be knocked out temporarily.  Mota then slips into the
ring with a chair and smashes Macbeth in the back of the head with it,
making it two out of three men in the ring unconscious.  For good
measure he smacks Ike Sampson with it too, then lays Ike over Duncan and
revives the referee with a trusty bucket of water from ringside.  The
referee counts... 1 - 2 - 3!  Ike, somewhat groggy, doesn't realize how
he won, just that he did.  He stands after a moment, and raises his arms
in victory to a loud face pop.  Mota doesn't want to be around, and
walks back to the dressing room before Duncan awakens while Ike Sampson
celebrates his victory.]

RA: Ladies and gentlemen, your winner, as a result of pinfall, Ike
    Sampson!

SL: Leave it to good old Derek to end the match, whether he was
    in it or not!

TD: Well, I like the winner, but I can't say I like how the win came
    about.

BL: And we wish you couldn't say anything.

TD: Next up, we've got a big US tag title match between the champions,
    the Prophets of Rage, and the number one contenders, Cold Spell.
    Let's take a special look at the United States tag team champions
    ahead of this incredible match:

["The Death March" begins to play, its majestic tune swelling.] 

VOICEOVER: They are agile...

[Shadoe Rage sticks a moonsault elbow drop on NavCom.]

VOICEOVER: They are powerful...

[Derek Rage legdrops Harlequin Comedy.]

VOICEOVER: They are beautiful...

[The dark-skinned, dreadlocked Medusa drops her dress before the
cameras.  The shot cuts to Pizzazz french inhaling smoke and blowing it
through her nostrils and winking coquettishly at the camera.]

VOICEOVER: They are the newest IIWF United States Tag Team Champions.

[The Prophets of Rage hold up the IIWF title belts.]

SHADOE: No one stops the Prophets!

DEREK: It's time for you all to feel the Hammer of God!

VOICEOVER: They are always ready.  They are always hungry. 

[Derek bench presses a heavy rack of weight.  Shadoe leaps about the
ring. The Prophets spar with Pizzazz and Medusa.  Medusa analyses
videotape. Pizzazz scouts a match live.]

VOICEOVER: And tonight they defend those belts against the hot new team,
           Cold Spell.

[Shots of Cold Spell winning other matches.]

Shadoe: You got a little game, but it ain't gonna be enough.  Cold
        Spell, you're in for the deep freeze.

Derek: You will DIE IN DARKNESS!

VOICEOVER: They are the most dangerous team in the IIWF.  Can Cold Spell
           stop them?

Medusa: It'll be a cold day in hell before we let that happen.

[Cut back to ringside.]

TD: This certainly promises to be an incredible encounter, Mr. Lebec.

SL: I'm going to the shitter.

TD: What?! You can't leave just like that!  You're a broadcast
    journalist. You've got a match to work!

SL: I've also got a log to drop, Dross -- unless, of course, you'd like
    me to drop it right here?  Besides, tag matches aren't my cup of
    tea.  I'll tell you what a tag team is.  A tag team is a formation
    of two jobbers who can't make it on their own.

[Lebec stands to leave.]

BL: I've never thought of it that way before.

SL: You two want anything while I'm up?  My treat. Want some popcorn,
    Becks?

BL: Sure thing, baby.

SL: Great.  I can't eat a large myself anyways.  Dross, anything for
    you?

TD: No, thanks.

[Lebec puts down his headset and leaves the broadcast table as Sparkplug
Lee enters the ring to make the introductions.]

               =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
               IIWF United States Tag Team Championship Match:
               =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                       Prophets of Rage vs. Cold Spell
               -----------------------------------------------
                                 WRITER: MF

RA: Ladies and gentlemen, this next contest is for the United States Tag
    Team Championship, and is scheduled for one intense,
    _heartwrenching_ fall!

[The crowd pops!]

BL: Sounds like those public speaking lessons are doing Sparkplug
    absolutely no good whatsoever.

TD: Easy on Sparky, Becky. He's, well, you know... unique.

RA: Introducing first, at a total combined weight of 500 pounds, here
    are Icehawk, Edmund Fitzgerald... Colllllld Spellllll!

BL: Cold Spell pretty much sums up the way these guys wrestle.

TD: Becky, please.

[Cold Spell's intro music plays, and the crowd gives a large pop.
Icehawk and Fitzgerald come out to the head of the aisle with their arms
raised, Fitzgerald's face seemingly carved from stone. Icehawk,
meanwhile, seems to be trying to set the record for the most number of
hands slapped in the shortest period of time, even leaping up so he can
reach some fans who didn't make it right to the front. The challengers
make their way to the ring and enter, at which point they stand on
opposite corners and raise their arms again. An ice blue light shines on
the ring, and blue flares erupt from the apron, bringing another huge
pop from the crowd.]

TD: What an entrance! Nothing is spared for the first birthday of the
    IIWF!

BL: Then you haven't been to the staff party room yet, I assume?

TD: No, why?

BL: Never mind. I'll just say two words... "Cash" and "Bar." Make of it
    what you will.

RA: Their opponents are the United States tag team champions! [Pop]
    Weighing in at a total combined weight of 573 pounds and hailing
    from Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, here are Derek and Shadoe Rage,
    The Prophets of Raaaaaaaaaage!

[There is a mixed pop, mostly on the heel side, and the Death March
pounds over the PA. The US champs walk out from behind the backstage
curtain sporting their title belts, and appear to have left their intro
attire in the locker room. No special lights, no fireworks, just the two
men walking down the aisle, Shadoe throws some punches into the air like
a boxer, and Derek stares at the challengers in the ring icily.]

TD: Almost a direct opposite from Cold Spell's entrance, the Prophets
    seem to have opted for the "no nonsense" approach.

BL: They can get the job done, Dross. They don't need the flash.

[The Prophets enter the ring, and the referee immediately checks the
competitors for illegal objects, then motions for Sparkplug's
microphone.]

REF: I just want to remind you guys that if anyone comes down and
     interferes in this match, I'm disqualifying the team that benefits
     from the attack. So if you guys have any funny business planned,
     better call it off right now.

[Both teams stand facing each other the whole time, and after the advice
given by the ref, continue to just stand there, staring at each other.]

REF: Good. Let's have a clean match here, guys.

[The ref calls for the bell, and the two big men of each team leave the
ring, leaving Shadoe and Icehawk to face each other. Shadoe forgoes any
formalities and walks up and stands toe to toe with Icehawk, who refuses
to back off an inch. Shadoe can be seen running off a line of curses a
mile long, but Icehawk maintains his cool. Shadoe, apparently annoyed
that he's unable to provoke the Fin, throws a right hand, which is
blocked, and recieves a right hand from Icehawk, which finds it's mark.
Shadoe recoils, and Icehawk follows up with a perfectly executed rolling
dropkick, which also finds it's mark. Shadoe is knocked down to the
canvas, and Icehawk rushes to the top rope. Shadoe gets to his feet, and
Icehawk leaps toward him feet first. Shadoe has the presence of mind to
sidestep, and pushes Icehawk down as he flies past. Icehawk hits the mat
with a bang, and the crowd seems to empathize with the high flier.]

TD: Early mistake by Icehawk there. I think he might have been a little
    overzealous going into this match.

BL: Serves him right. There's a reason that people think these fly-boys
    are crazy, you know.

[Shadoe looks to the crowd and points a finger to his head, then reaches
down and drags Icehawk to a vertical base. He lifts up one of Icehawk's
legs, and performs a Dragon Screw leg whip. Icehawk hits the mat again,
and holds a hand to his knee. Shadoe grabs the leg and yanks on it,
causing Icehawk to yowl in pain. Shadoe laughs a bit, then drags Icehawk
up again, and throws him into the ropes. With a bit of a limp, Icehawk
rebouds off the ropes, as does Shadoe. Icehawk attempts to gain the
advantage with a clothesline, but it is ducked by Shadoe, who stops
behind Icehawk, turns, and chop blocks the knee right out from under
Icehawk. Icehawk falls to the mat once more, holding the injured knee.]

TD: The pace of this match has been set erly on here, folks. It's
    obvious that Shadoe is targeting the right knee of Icehawk.

BL: Excellent strategy. You can't jump as high on one leg, and that's
    what Icehawk's style is based on.

[Fitz yells to his partner from the apron, calling for the tag. Shadoe
sees this and strides right up to the big man, getting into his face.
Fitz just looks at him, and Shadoe slaps him across the face. Fitz tries
to enter the ring but is cut off by the ref. Shadoe uses the opportunity
to drag Icehawk to his corner where both he and Derek pound on the Finn
relentlessly. Fitz exits the ring after a few moments of arguing with
the ref, and the ref turns back around. By this time, however, the
doubleteam has ended, and Shadoe tags in Derek Rage. Derek enters the
ring and immediately locks on a half crab on the injured knee of
Icehawk. Icehawk tries to scramble towards the ropes, but Derek holds
him firmly. The crowd rallies behind Icehawk and he inches toward the
ropes, using every bit of strength he has. After a few minutes, Icehawk
reaches the ropes, and the ref calls for the break. Derek holds the lock
for a four count, then releases and drags Icehawk up. Derek tries to
thrw Icehawk into the ropes, but Icehawk's knee gives out in the center
of the ring and he falls to the mat. Derek claps his cands together as
if he were wiping dust off of them, and picks Icehawk up in a slam
position. He turns while still holding the smaller man, and goes to
throw him out of the ring between the second and top rope. Icehawk
manages to grab a hold of the two ropes and swings both legs around,
kicking Derek and getting closer to his own corner. The moment gained
from the kick enables Icehawk to leap over and make the much anticipated
tag to Fitzgerald, bringing a huge pop from the crowd. Derek backs up
slightly.]

TD: Now we're down to business! Edmund Fitzgerald is fresh and ready for
    a fight!

BL: Finally... Some big men...

[Fitz points at Derek and makes a breaking motion with his hands, then
closes in. Derek, with a longer reach, pops Fitz in the jaw before
Fitzgerald can get in range. Fitz doesn't seem affected by the blow, and
returns with a big right hand of his own, which knocks Derek down to the
mat. Fitzgerald follows up with an elbow drop, and another, and another,
bringing cheers from the crowd Fitz drags Derek to his feet and puts him
in position for a powerbomb. Fitz is slow brining Derek up, but somehow
manages to do it, and drives Derek into the canvas. Derek hold his back,
and Fitzgerald locks on a reverse chin lock. Lebec returns to the
broadcast booth, munching on popcorn.]

SL: Here ya go, Becks. Dig in. They're real buttery today.

BL: [through a mouthful of popcorn] Excellent!  Want some, Timmy?

TD: No, thanks.  I'm trying to concentrate on the match.

[Lebec gets up to leave again.]

TD: _Now_ where are you going?

SL: I'll be back.  I forgot to wash my hands earlier on in the bathroom.

[Lebec puts down his headset again as Becky spews a mouthful of popcorn.
Fitzgerald turns up the pressure a bit, trying to wear down the big
Derek Rage. Derek manages to power out, however, and gets to his feet.
He drives two elbows into the midsection of Fitzgerald, and scrambles to
his corner to make the tag. Shadoe leaps in and does some fancy
footwork, then begins hopping and skipping about the ring in a boxer's
stance. Every so often, Shadoe ducks in and lands a shot on Fitzgerald,
who intently watches the smaller Rage, trying to get the pattern down.
Fitz takes many more jab shots from Shadoe, until at one point, when
Shadoe ducks in, Fitz slams him with a huge haymaker of a right,
flooring Shadoe. The crowd pops, and Fitz lands a leg drop. Fitz drags
Shadoe up and whips him into the corner, then follows him in with a huge
lariat. Fitz holds Shadoe up in the corner, and then drives his shoulder
repeatedly into his midsection. Icehawk seems to have worked his knee
out a bit, since he is standing now on the apron. There is a buzz from
the crowd as Violence Unlimited come down the aisle.]

TD: What do they want? Isn't it bad enough that they stuck their noses
    in someone else's business last Saturday night?

BL: That... disgusting... little... man...

[Fitzgerald lifts Shadoe up in a huge press slam and sends him down to
the canvas, then turns to the crowd and draws a thumb across his throat,
signalling the Shipwreck. He sends Shadoe into the ropes, and hoists him
up on the return, driving him down in the spinebuster slam. Fitz makes
the cover, but the referee is pre-occupied with Violence Unlimited.
Jaguar has lept to the apron and begins laying shots into the head of
Derek Rage. The ref calls for the bell immediately.]

TD: This was a wonderful match until Violence Unlimited came down and
    ruined it!

BL: Dirty... dirty... dirty...

[By this time, Jaguar has brought Derek down to the floor.]

RA: Ladies and gentlemen, the referee has awarded this match to the
    Prophets of Rage as a result of a disqualification due to the
    interference of Violence Unlimited!

[Fitzgerald gets up off of Shadoe, looking quite angry. Icehawk enters
the ring, looking angrier than his partner. He walks over to the ref and
yells in his face for a while, saying, "We had nothing to _DO_ with
that!" The ref is hearing nothing of it, so Icehawk turns away. e goes
into one corner, measures up where Violence Unlimited are standing, and
runs across the ring. He runs up the ropes like a stepladder and
launches himself into the air spreadeagled, knees bent. Flash bulbs go
off as people take pictures of Icehawk flying almost twenty feet in the
air right down onto both Jaguar and Mutilator. The crowd pops huge, and
Fitzgerald just kind of stands there, wide-eyed. Icehawk appears to have
taken as much of a bump as the members of Violence Unlimited, only he
doesn't have two bodies to divide the pain. Mutilator drags himself to
his feet and picks up Icehawk, slinging him over his shoulder, and
Jaguar stumbles to his feet as well. Both men get into the ring as
Shadoe Rage rolls out. Fitz breaks out of his surprise and motions for
the two members of VU to "bring it on".]

TD: No... Oh, no... Violence Unlimited are relentless!

[Mutilator hoists Icehawk in a press slam and throws him at Fitzgerald.
Fitz is ready for the attack, but the force with which Icehawk hits him
throws him off balance, and sends him crashing down to the mat. Jaguar
and Mutilator are on the members of Cold Spell like white on rice in a
second, pounding them into the canvas. Even though Fitzgerald valiantly
fights back, he is no match for the onslaught, and eventually succumbs
to the vicious blows raining down on his body. With one last ditch
effort, he rolls over so that he is shielding Icehawk's body with his
own, then he falls unconscious. Lebec saunters back over to the
broadcast table, dons his headset once more, and sits down again.]

SL: I'm back. You okay, Becks? You look a little green. Ooh! A beating!

[VU turns to the crowd, which gives them a massive heel pop. They pull
out two T-shirts from the pockets of the pants they are wearing and
unfold them. The Violence Unlimited logo is boldly drawn on each
T-shirt. Jaguar and Mutilator turn back to Cold Spell and begin working
on getting the shirts onto the two men. By this time, the Prophets of
Rage have collected themselves enough to get to their feet and head back
up the aisle, waving off the events in the ring. Violence Unlimited get
the shirts onto Cold Spell, laugh for a while, and then leave the ring,
following Derek and Shadoe.]

SL: Well it looks like that tag team match had something to offer after
    all.

TD: That was a disgusting display by Violence Unlimited. Something will
    have to be done about those two, and I'm sure that Cold Spell will
    want something to do with that something that gets done.

SL: What the hell are you talking about? You want to do something? Why
    don't you do that ringpost, or... Hey, Becky, not on the shoes,
    okay?

BL: Excuse me.

TD: Hang on... I'm told Otto Verhoeven has been trying to break into
    Tony Starks' locker room backstage. We have a camera back there. Can
    we go to that shot?

[Cut to a corridor backstage; there has clearly been a brawl -- a number
of lockers lining the wall have been dented, and the door to Starks'
locker room, stil locked shut, has been battered with a fire
extinguisher. Members of the Jobber Justice Squad lie apparently out
cold on the floor. In the midst of this carnage stands a furious Otto
Verhoeven, being restrained by a number of security personnel and
arguing loudly with Dennis "Griff" Griffing, head of Coliseum security.]

TD: [over the headset] It looks as if Verhoeven doesn't want to wait
    until the German Death Match to get his hands on Tony Starks --
    thank heavens for Griff and his security team.

[Cut back to ringside as Verhoeven is shepherded away from the scene.]

BL: Looks like Starks fears Verhoeven, Timmy!

SL: They're all cowards, Becks. When is that little puke Quigley going
    to show his face tonight?  I've got a surprise for that nimrod when
    I see him.

TD: Chris Quigley has a match later on tonight against IIWF World
    Champion Casey James.

SL: Really? _Still_ going after the gold?  I guess that's why he hasn't
    been man enough to face me in the TAEWF.  He's been spending all of
    his time here trying to win the title.  Is he still going with that
    chick Stephanie?  If so, I'm going to have to quit banging her.

TD: That's uncalled for.  Absolutely disgusting!

SL: You've seen her too, huh?  Let's get to the next match.

TD: We've got a Bangkok Death Pit Match between Tiger Claw and the
    "People's Champion", the Subway Psycho.

SL: Bang Cock Match?  And they say that IIWF superstars don't give it
    their all!

                        =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                          Bangkok Death Pit Match:
                        -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                        Tiger Claw vs. Subway Psycho
                        ----------------------------
                                WRITER: MP

RA: The following contest is scheduled for one fall, and is a special
    Bangkok Death Pit Match! [Huge crowd pop!] The rules are simple: 
    No disqualification. [Pop!]  No pinfalls. [Pop!] The match will take
    place inside a cage, and will continue until one of the two
    competitors fails to meet the ten-count, at which point he will be
    deemed to have been knocked out, and will lose the match. [Pop!] 
    Introducing first, weighing in at 220lbs and hailing from Thailand,
    accompanied to the ring by his manager, Brian Lau [Heel pop!] here
    is... Tiggggeeeer Claaaaaaaaaaaaaww!!

[Huge heel pop as the chaotic Thai boxing music starts over the PA
system, and Brian Lau backs out through the curtains at the head of the
aisle, quickly followed by Tiger Claw himself.  Claw walks quickly down
towards the cage, nodding slightly at Lau's comments and instructions,
eyes completely focused on the ring.]

SL: Look at the guy.  Greatest Intercontinental Champion of them all
    right there.  He's confident and ready for that street degenerate!

BL: That damned drum music is giving me a headache.

TD: Forget about the music, concentrate on the match.

SL: Fantastic.  The match hasn't even started but the "Kickboxer" quotes
    are already flying in.

[Tiger Claw steps through the cage door and into the ring, before
raising his taped fists to the crowd, who respond with a huge heel pop. 
Brian Lau starts to talk to the referee as Tiger Claw performs a
traditional Thai boxing routine...]

BL: Looks tough.  And mean too.

SL: Stop it!  Stop it now!

[The music slowly dies down as Tiger Claw moves to lean against a
corner, Brain Lau yelling last-minute advice... Sparkplug Lee once again
takes up position in the centre of the ring]

RA: And his opponent... [Huge crowd pop!  Sparkplug waits for the noise
    to die down before continuing] weighing in at 255lbs and hailing
    from the subways of New York City... [Another huge crowd pop!] here
    is... The Subwwaaaaaaay Psyyycccchhooooooo!!

[Incredible pop from the crowd as the Subway Psycho appears at the top
of the aisle to the sounds of Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train", and quickly
makes his way down the aisle, staring intently at the ring, slapping the
fans' hands...]

BL: Peeee-Yeeeew!  What is that smell?  Either the Subway Stinker is in
    the Coliseum or your hair just died again, Timmy.

SL: Gimme a break!  These morons are cheering for a low life... a piece
    of street trash!

TD: He's got a strong following, make no mistake about it!

SL: PLEASE! This jerk wants to talk about being tough?  My asshole has
    more firepower behind it!

BL: Whatever the case, these two are going to get it on tonight in a war
    that's as old as the IIWF itself!

SL: Seems pretty one-sided to me. Subway's pissed because Tiger Claw is
    the better man, pure and simple.  Even his chick Mistress Sasha left
    him because she knew he was a loser.  Not that that's a bad thing. 
    She was uglier that a hat full of smashed assholes.  Mistress? 
    Mistress of what? The World of Putrid?  I've seen better heads in a
    field of lettuce.

TD: Both men are in the ring now, and both men are staring each other
    down.

SL: Correction. Subway's scoping out Tiger Claw, wondering where he
    keeps his wallet. Ha!

TD: This is interesting, while the Psycho told Claw to tape his fists,
    he doesn't seem to have taken his own advice...

SL: Oh.  How very noble.  All that means is that Claw's going to find it
    even easier to kick his ass.

[Tiger Claw and the Subway Psycho stand toe to toe, staring straight at
each other unblinkingly as the referee gives them final instructions. 
Both men acknowledge him with a curt nod, and he steps out of the cage
door, locking it behind him.  The bell rings, to a huge crowd pop!  The
Psycho and Claw continue to stare at each other for a second longer, and
then Tiger Claw lashes out with a kick that the Psycho just manages to
avoid!  big pop!  Tiger Claw follows up furiously, and the Psycho falls
back against the ropes, covering most of his head and body with his
arms, before catching Tiger Claw off guard with a big uppercut that
sends him reeling backwards!  Pop!  The Psycho comes off the ropes, and
catches Tiger Claw with a clothesline that levels him!  Claw springs
straight back up to his feet, only to be caught in a lock up with the
Psycho, who snaps him hard down to the canvas before laying into him
with a series of rapid right hands!]

TD: Wow!  What a start by both men, and Claw is finding himself under a
    furious assault from the Psycho already.

SL: Claw will pay him back tenfold.  Take my word for it.

[Claw manages to block off some of the Psycho's blows, but finds himself
caught around the throat in a stranglehold!  Pop!  Claw reaches up...
and pushes his thumb straight into the Psycho's eye!  The Psycho falls
back off him, and Claw pulls himself to his feet, rubbing his throat and
waiting for the Psycho to turn... the crowd pops in warning... High side
kick by Claw!]

TD: Ducked by the Psycho!  And a clothesline sends Claw straight back
    down, and he's rolling for the corner!  And just take a look at the
    expression on his face!  Tiger Claw is not happy with this start at
    all!

BL: It may have been a scrappy start, but you can bet that Tiger Claw
    will come up with something.  He always does.

SL: Becks, are we speaking from experience here or something?

BL: Hehehe... snort!

[Claw nods mockingly at the Psycho as he rises back to his feet, and the
Psycho grins back, reaching into his trunks...]

SL: Hey! What the...?!  The Psycho's got a chain!  He can't do that!

TD: This definitely isn't like the Psycho, but the referee can't do
    anything about it until the match is over!

SL: Oh, come on, the man's armed for God's sake!  This isn't fair at
    all!

[Claw looks stunned as the Psycho starts to wrap the chain around his
fist... and then, as if spurred into action, charges him, throwing him
back against the turnbuckles and striking him repeatedly with his knee
fury!  Heel pop!  Claw attacks the Psycho like a man possessed, raining
blows into the Psycho's ribs and head.  The Psycho tries to cover up,
but Claw catches him with a hard elbowstrike to the jaw and then twists
his neck, sending him out of the corner with a snap mare!  Heel pop! 
The Psycho sits up immediately, shaking his head before the referee even
starts to count...]

TD: And Claw yanks his head back down by the hair, rolling across him
    with a fast elbow to the sternum!

SL: Love it.  Claw isn't going to let anything get to him tonight.  Let
    the Psycho have his little toy.  It's not going to help him.

[The Psycho starts to roll up again as Claw raises his arms, looking to
Brian Lau for approval.  Behind his back, the Psycho starts to wrap the
chain around his fist again... Brian Lau shouts a warning, and Claw
quickly turns, sending the Psycho reeling back to the canvas with a kick
to the ribs!  Claw follows up quickly...]

TD: Punch to the gut by the Psycho... and Claw slams an elbow into the
    back of his head in return!  The Psycho desperately need to get some
    sort of offence going here...

SL: Out-thought.  Out-manoeuvred.  Out-classed.  What else is there to
    say?

BL: Out-dated?

SL: Becks, you're a mind reader.

BL: I know.

SL: So what am I thinking now?

BL: I'm not sure that it would be suitable for a family show.  Hehe.

[Claw starts to pull the Psycho up again, and this time the Psycho
lashes out with the loaded fist, catching Tiger Claw hard with a blow to
the jaw!  Pop!  Claw staggers backwards, and the Psycho doubles him over
with a kick to the midsection, and then sends him crashing to the canvas
face fist!  Huge pop!  now it's the Psycho's turn to go berserk,
dropping elbowdrop after elbowdrop across Tiger Claw's back...]

TD: Five.. six.. seven... the Psycho runs to the ropes... huge flying
    elbowsmash!  He picks Claw back to his feet... Irish whip into the
    turnbuckles... and he follows through with a clothesline that knocks
    the wind right out of Claw!

[Claw reels backwards into the turnbuckles, and the Psycho catches him
with a big uppercut that almost knocks him through the cage!  And a
second!  The Psycho pulls Claw out of the corner again, and he hits the
turnbuckles with tremendous impact, sending him flying back out!  The
Psycho charges at him with a clothesline...]

TD: Duck by Tiger Claw, the Psycho turns... spinning side kick by Tiger
    Claw sends him reeling backwards!  And Claw presses the advantage...

[Claw lashes out again with a spinning kick that sends the Psycho
sprawling across the top rope.. Claw moves after him..]

TD: Axe kick by Tiger Claw... and he nails the Psycho right across the
    back of the neck!

SL: Game over.  Stay on him Claw.

[The force of the blow slingshots the Psycho back into the ring, where
he lies clutching his neck in pain... the referee starts to count... 1 -
2 - 3 - 4 - Claw moves away from the ropes, and drags the Psycho up by
the hair, pulling him to his feet...]

TD: And a thrust kick by claw!  Double chop to the throat... jab..
    hook... another hook... the Psycho stumbles back into the
    turnbuckles, and Claw is straight on him.. hook.. hook...
    uppercut... Claw launches into his punching fury, and he's got the
    Psycho busted wide open!

SL: He's got him, Dross, admit it.  He's got him right where he wants
    him.

BL: The Psycho is up excrement creek, as Steve would say.

SL: With an alligator.

[Claw continues relentlessly, each blow sending the Subway Psycho
slipping further down the turnbuckles... Claw kneels over his man,
snapping punches into his body and forehead... the Psycho raises his arm
weakly, and Claw snarls, yanking him back to his feet...]

TD: This is brutal, surely the Psycho can't take much more of this
    punishment... roundhouse kick by Claw sends the Psycho down top his
    knees...

BL: And a knee to the jaw flattens the toad completely!

[The Psycho drops to the canvas, the blood starting to seep through his
hair, and Claw turns away, arms again raised in victory... the referee
counts... 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 -]

SL: There's no way the Sewer Rat's going to get up from that little
    barrage.  Game over.

TD: The Psycho is a tough character, but he's taken a serious beating
    here...

[The referee continues to count.. 6 - 7 - the Psycho raises his head
weakly, and shakes it, shouting at the referee and slowly pushing up to
his knees...]

TD: He's got guts, and he wants this match badly.

SL: He wants this beating badly, you mean, because that's all he's going
    to get here tonight.  C'mon Claw, more of the same!

[Claw turns as the Psycho rolls to his knees, and lays a series of kicks
into his back, before pulling him up once again and backing him against
the ropes...]

TD: What's Claw going to do here?

SL: Something painful, I expect..

[The Psycho weakly punches out at Claw's stomach, and Claw stuns him
with a series of knees to the stomach, before...]

TD: Oh no... he's going to...

SL: Irish whip him into the cage wall.  Brilliant.

TD: Claw now, continuing this ruthless barra... no!  Reversal by the
    Psycho!

[Huge pop as the Psycho reverses the Irish whip attempt, sending Tiger
claw crashing into the cage wall with incredible force... both men
stagger back towards the centre of the ring... big pop!]

TD: The Psycho has Claw lifted up!  What's he going... Incredible! He
    just dropped Claw straight back into the cage wall with a hotshot! 
    Claw is out!

[The Psycho rolls to his knees as the referee starts to count Claw
down... - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - and this time it's the Psycho's turn to pull
Claw up to his feet!  Pop!  The Psycho holds Claw in place... and a
haymaker staggers him!  And a second!  The Psycho winds up the chained
fist... and connects with an incredible blow that sends Tiger Claw
spinning through three hundred and sixty degrees!  Huge pop!]

SL: No... no, no, no, Claw get up!!

TD: That's it.  That's got to do it, right there...

[The referee starts to count Claw down again... - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - ]

SL: Look, referee, he's moving, he's getting up!  Stop that count!

[Claw slowly starts to push himself up as the referee continues to
count... - 5 - 6 -  Claw pushes his knee underneath him, and raises his
head...]

SL: That's it!  He broke the count!

TD: Unbelievable.  But the Psycho's ready....!

[Claw pulls himself up with the ropes, only to be knocked back down by
an axehandle from the Subway Psycho!  The Psycho pulls Claw up...
another two blows to the head from the chained fist, and he sets Claw
into position for a suplex...]

TD: The Psycho, powering Claw up into a vertical position...
    brainbuster!

SL: Oh... no...

BL: And the Psycho's turning towards the turnbuckles...

TD: Surely not... if he hits this, it could be all over...

[The Psycho starts to climb towards the top rope as Tiger Claw starts to
roll over in the ring... He reaches the top turnbuckle, and starts to
turn around...]

TD: Claw... he's practically out on his feet here... he doesn't know
    where he's at...

SL: Claw!  Behind you!  Look out!

TD: The Psycho... he's giving the signal for the Train Wreck!  If he
    hits that flying bulldog, Claw will be out!

[Claw staggers backwards in the ring, and the Psycho leaps off the
turnbuckles..]

TD: Claw!  Spinning back kick knocked the Psycho right out of mid-air,
    and both men are down!  Incredible!

SL: He was playing possum!  He suckered the Psycho right in, and boom!

TD: That looked more like a desperation move to me...

SL: Trust me, Dross, Claw was waiting for the opportunity to strike.

[Both men are down, and the referee starts to count... - 1 - Claw pushes
himself up to one knee, gasping for breath... - 2 - 3 - 4 - Claw makes
it to his feet, and walks across to the turnbuckles, before tugging at
the top turnbuckle pad... - 5 - 6 -  the Psycho starts to make a move,
pushing himself up to his knees - 7 - 8 - the Psycho makes it to one
knee, and the referee stops the count.. Claw looks around at the Psycho,
and continues to work on the turnbuckle..]

TD: Claw... he's removing that protective covering, trying to expose the
    steel buckle...

BL: Well, the Psycho's got his fist chained up, so why not?

[Claw moves across to the rising Subway Psycho, and drops a hard elbow
across his neck, knocking him flat down to the floor... Claw pulls at
the tape on his left fist, half unwrapping it and wrapping it around the
Psycho's neck... the Psycho struggles furiously, clutching at the
tightening tape around his throat...]

TD: Oh come on, now he's trying to choke the Psycho out!

BL: Hey, all's fair in love and... damn.  This has got to stop.

[Claw pulls the tape tighter as the crowd starts to pop for the Psycho,
who makes it to his knees... Claw pushes his knee into the Psycho's
back, in some sort of illegal variation on a bow-and-arrow submission..
the Psycho struggles, and lashes backwards with an elbow that stuns
Tiger Claw!  Pop!  He reaches backwards, and lifts Claw up, hoisting him
into the air and charging backwards, straight into the exposed steel
turnbuckle!  Pop!  Claw slumps back, releasing the hold...]

TD: Claw's plan backfired! He got caught on the steel!

[The Psycho drops to his knees, pulling the tape from around his throat
and gasping for air... he shakes his head and pushes up to his feet,
turning back to...]

TD: A front kick from Claw staggers the Psycho!  And he ram's the
    Psycho's head straight into the steel buckle!

SL: You were saying, Dross?

TD: How far can this go?  How far can these two take it?

BL: How much do they hate each other?

SL: If it's going to go that far, we could be here all night..

[The Psycho takes a few steps backwards away from the turnbuckles, and
crumples to the canvas.  Claw falls against the turnbuckles himself, one
arm raised in victory... the referee counts.. - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 -]

TD: Oh no. Claw's going to the top rope himself now... the Psycho still
    hasn't moved... this could be very bad, right here...

[Tiger Claw slowly starts to climb the buckles, as the referee continues
to count the Psycho out... - 5 - 6 - the Psycho starts to move, rolling
over onto his back... - 7 - Tiger Claw reaches the tope, and signals for
the Golden Tiger Strike... he leaps... ]

TD: And the Psycho lifts his leg at the last second!  Claw took the boot
    straight on the jaw!

SL: I don't believe it...

BL: Both men... both men have tried their finishers and failed... both
    men... they just can't put each other away!

TD: This is insane.. the referee is starting to count both men out...

[Neither man moves as the count starts up... - 1 - 2 - 3 - ]

TD: The Psycho's starting to move!  He's going to beat the count!

[The Psycho raises his arm and rolls over onto all fours.. - 4 - 5 -
Claw starts to roll towards the ropes.. - 6 - 7 - the Psycho makes it to
one knee, and Tiger Claw starts to pull himself up to his feet.. - 8 - 9
- both men make it to their feet just in time to break the count!  Huge
pop!]

TD: This is it.  This is what it comes down to.  Which man wants it the
    most?

[Claw staggers back out into the ring, as does the Subway Psycho... they
turn... ]

TD: Right hook by Claw!   Blocked!  And a haymaker from the Psycho sends
    him reeling back into the ropes!  The Psycho follows... kick to the
    ribs!  And an axehandle sends Claw crashing to the canvas!  And the
    Psycho picks him right back up!  And he whips him into the exposed
    steel!  Claw is stunned!

SL: No, come on Claw, do something...

[The Psycho picks Claw up, and hoists him onto the turnbuckles.. the
crowd pops madly as he starts to climb up after Claw.. Claw hits him
with a thumb to the eye.. the Psycho lashes out blindly, and catches
Claw with a blow to the stomach... Claw hits the Psycho repeatedly as he
continues to climb... the Psycho stuns him again with a headbutt..]

TD: Both men are fighting for position on the top turnbuckle.. neither
    one can get the advantage...

[The Psycho locks Claw up, trying for a superplex, but Claw hangs on to
the cage, blocking the attempt... the Psycho breaks off, and hits Tiger
Claw repeatedly with the chained fist... claw hits him with an elbow to
the head, and the Psycho sways precariously above the ring...]

TD: This has to be it now. Neither man is willing to give this up...
    Which way is it going to go..?

BL: They're going to end up killing each other.

[Claw hits the Psycho with a knee strike, and he sways backwards
again... Claw leaps up on the turnbuckle, blasting both feet into his
stunned opponent's chest...]

TD: Claw knocks the Psycho -- oh no!

SL: No!  No!  Claw, get up!  I've got two hundred bucks riding on this
    match!

TD: Claw sent the Psycho flying with a dropkick from the top, but caught
    his head on the steel turnbuckle as he fell!  This is incredible...
    the referee is counting both men down again...

[The count starts, with Tiger Claw slumped in a corner and the Psycho
sprawled face down in the middle of the ring... the crowd pops nervously
as neither man shows any sign of life... - 1 - 2 - ]

SL: They are not moving, Dross, they are not moving.

[ - 3 - ]

TD: The Psycho got hit hard, and Tiger Claw couldn't have landed any
    worse... they could both be out.

[ - 4 - ]

BL: I think you're right, Timmy...

[ - 5 - Huge pop as the Psycho starts moving slightly, pushing himself
up...]

SL: No... I can't believe it, how?  How?

[ - 6 - The Psycho slumps down again, and in the corner, Tiger Claw
rolls over, reaching out for the ropes...]

SL: Yes!  Get down, you tick infested piece of garbage!

TD: Mr. Lebec.

SL: Well, sorry, but two hundred bucks is two hundred bucks...

[ - 7 - huge pop as the Psycho rolls pushes up on one elbow. Claw starts
to get to one knee..]

TD: What a match.  What a brutal, violent, bloody..

SR: Ratings-pulling...

BL: "Lassie"-beating...

TD: Sadistic match.  "Lassie"-beating?

BL: Hey, last night, a kid fell down a well.  How to compete?

[ - the Psycho gets his knees underneath him, and starts to push up... -
8 - Claw reaches for the second rope... and slumps back to the mat! 
Pop!]

BL: Claw's down!

SL: No!

TD: So's the Psycho!

[ - the crowd pops desperately.. - 9 - and the Psycho slaps the mat,
pushing up onto his knees!  Huge crowd pop!  - 10! Ding! Ding! Ding!]

TD: He won it!  Against all odds, the Subway Psycho defeated Tiger Claw
    and beat the ten count!

SL: Two hundred bucks.  I can't believe it.

[The referee opens the door to the cage, as the Subway Psycho raises his
arms in victory. Tiger Claw lies face down in the corner, unmoving...]

RA: Here is your winner, the Subwwaaaaaay Psyyccccchooooooo!

[Huge crowd pop as the Psycho stumbles up to his feet, the referee
holding his arm in the air. Brian Lau rushes into the cage to try to
revive his man..]

TD: The Subway Psycho, bloodied and bruised, has finally got his revenge
    on Tiger Claw here tonight.  But he'll be feeling the effects for a
    long time.

SL: Two hundred bucks.

BL: Hey, for that much, you could have bought my new adult board game. 
    Hours of night-time fun guaranteed, only for $199.99.  Batteries not
    included.

TD: Becky...

BL: Yes?

TD: You really are incredible. This next match is the climax of a feud
    that's been going on for some time. Both men are looking to put each
    other away in this German Death Match.

SL: You said it right there. This is Verhoeven's match. The European
    Alliance is going home victorious tonight!

TD: Well, that could very well be possible. The rules are as follows:
    two out of three falls, the first fall is judged by first blood, and
    the winner of that fall choses the next fall, and so on. This gives
    Verhoeven the advantage, as his style is more brutal than Starks'
    submission style.

BL: Verhoeven'll break that cripple into pieces. Inside that cage,
    there's no doubt that Verhoeven will be able to cut Starks open.
    After that, he can pick whatever stipulations he wants.

TD: Let's get up to the ring.

               =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                            German Death Match:
               -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
               Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven vs. Tony Starks
               --------------------------------------------
                                WRITER: MF

[Sparkplug Lee steps into the spotlight.]

RA: Ladies and gentlemen, this next match is a German Death Match
    scheduled for two out of three falls. Introducing first, weighing in
    at 269lbs and hailing from Staten Island, New York... Tony Starks!

["C.R.E.A.M." blasts over the PA as Starks comes out to a huge pop.
Several fans along the aisle hold up signs reading "Otto _Fears_
Starks!" Starks stops to admire one sign, looks to the fan holding it,
and nods his head in approval. He then walks to the ring through the
door in the cage and leans in the corner with his arms crossed.]

SL: What the hell?  Who let the cripple in the building?  Goddamn "equal
    access for everybody" advocates!

TD: Folks, I apologise for Mr. Lebec's comments.  As you'll recall, Tony
    Starks nearly lost his life in a serious plane accident.  He was out
    for some time, and the IIWF is glad to have him back in the ring
    where he belongs.

SL: Don't apologise for me, Dross.  If I had a dime for every time
    somebody apologised for me, I'd be a millionaire.  Hold on... I _am_
    a millionaire!  It just pisses me off.  I had to park out in second
    B this afternoon.  Why?  Because the damn cripple advocates got all
    of A to themselves.

TD: Sim...

SL: [interrupting] Shut up!  I'm not done.  People with their damn
    causes.  "Help me, I'm crippled," they say.  Yeah, yeah.  Wheel me
    over a Kleenex to wipe my tears.  "Save the baby seals," they
    squeal.  Fine!  Save one for me.  I'll bring my own baseball bat!

BL: Wow, Simon, I didn't know you felt so strongly.

SL: Strongly?  Don't get me started.  They won't send me out a
    "Victoria's Secret" catalogue because I'm a single male.  But sure,
    every time the rainforest needs to be preserved, they find their way
    to my mailbox!  Too many undersexed people in the world, that's
    what!  You want a cause, assholes?  Paint my freakin' kitchen.
    There's your cause!

TD: Starks is in the ring now, and we're ready to get this one underway.

SL: Wow, he actually made it in the ring.  But now Otto's gonna send him
    back to physio!  Starks is up against hard steel, and I'm not
    talking about the rods that are holding his spine in place! HA!

TD: Alright, alright, come on...

RA: His opponent, weighing in at 340lbs and hailing from Essen,
    Germany, one half of the European Alliance, Otto "The Butcher"
    Verhoeven!

[There is a massive heel pop as Heidi, dressed in a gold evening gown
with a leather belt, and Otto storm down the aisle. Both are obviously
upset, and Otto stops in the aisle long enough to grab an "Otto Fears
Starks" banner from a fan and rip it to pieces. He then stomps to the
ring and enters the cage, then charges across the ring to take Starks by
surprise. Starks is ready, however, and downs the big man with a double
leg trip.]

TD: Verhoeven wanting to set the pace early, but Starks immediately let
    it be known that he's not here to play.

SR: With a move like that? That's a bitch move, Dross!

BL: Huh? I never used a puss move like that!

[Starks follows up with a quick hammer lock, but Verhoeven easily powers
up to his feet and drives an elbow into Starks' face. Starks staggers
backwards, holding his nose. He pulls his hands away and looks to his
hands for blood, and seems relieved to see none. Verhoeven takes the
opportunity to rush Starks with a huge clothelsine that floors the
technician. Verhoeven straddles Starks and begins repeatedly landing
punches to the Staten Island sensation's face, and all Starks can do is
try and cover up.]

TD: Oh my! Verhoeven is an animal!

SR: Come on, cripple, bleed! I don't have all night!

[Starks manages to roll Verhoeven off of him, but is still groggy from
the repeated blows to the head, giving Verhoeven the chance to grab him
by the head and drag him towards the cage. The crowd gives a hardcore
pop as Verhoeven rakes Starks' face across the cage. The ref watches
closely, and a cut opens on Starks' forehead. He calls for the bell, but
Verhoeven keeps ramming Starks into the cage.]

SL: That's it! The man!

TD: He's got the fall! Why doesn't he stop?

BL: That's what we atheletes like to call driving a point home.

[Verhoeven opens the cut on Starks' forhead even wider as time goes on,
and the technician's face becomes slick with blood. Finally, Verhoeven
lays off, and raises his arms to the crowd, getting a massive heel pop
in return. The ref converses with Verhoeven for a moment.]

TD: Now Verhoeven gets to choose the next stipulation for the second
    fall. I wonder what he'll chose?

SL: I'll tell you what he should choose... A "pinfalls on crippled
    losers only" match!

BL: Heehee!

TD: Now come on... There are no losers in the IIWF, just winners.

SL: That's not very nice, Dross... That leaves Quigley out!

{Sparkplug's voice booms out over the PA system:]

RA: Ladies and gentlemen, Otto Verhoeven has cosen the stipulation "No
    DQ, Pinfalls only" for the next fall!

[Verhoeven nods his head enthusiastically.]

TD: Smart move by the Butcher. Starks is a submission wrestler, and
    that's how he usually finishes off his matches. How will he fare in
    yet another match where Verhoeven has the advantage?

SL: He'll lose. Man, you ask dumb questions.

[The bell rings again, and immediately, Vehoeven runs over to Starks and
tackles him to the mat. Once down, Verhoeven begins driving hard right
hands into the forehead of Starks. Suddelny, in an impressive display,
Starks rolls the big man over and begins laying in some punches of his
own. Verhoeven tries to cover up, but is obviously affected by the
shots. Starks drags Verhoeven up and executes a vertical suplex, then
makes the cover quickly... 1 - Kickout by Verhoeven. Starks gets up on
one knee and drives punches into the Butcher's head, then slips in a few
elbows. Verhoeven falls back onto the mat, and Starks gets to his feet,
which brings a pop from the crowd. Starks wipes at his forehead and eyes
to clear the blood, and then picks up both legs of Verhoeven. Looking to
the crowd, he drops a knee into the groin of Verhoeven, making the big
man howl in pain. Starks nods to the crowd a bit while Verhoeven rolls
to the corner. He pulls himself up with the turnbuckles, and Heidi moves
in behind him outside the ring, handing something to him.]

TD: What was that? The ref should get in there and check that!

SL: So he can do what, disqualify him?

BL: Don't worry, Simon... Timmy's a bit slow sometimes.

[Starks walks in to attack Verhoeven, but catches a loaded fist to the
jaw. Starks crumples to the mat, and Verhoeven hands the set of brass
knuckles back to Heidi. There is a huge heel pop as Verhoeven arrogantly
pins Starks with his foot. The ref counts... 1 - 2 - Starks leaps up
from the mat, looking straight into Verhoeven's face! Verhoeven takes a
step back, holding his hands up. The intensity in Starks' eyes almost
burns a hole in the Butcher. Starks closes in, and executes a chop
across Verhoeven's chest, then another, and another. Verhoeven is backed
up to the ropes, and Starks lunges forward with a clothesline, sending
Verhoeven up over the ropes, hitting the back of his head on the cage.
Verhoeven bounces back forward, holding his head, and crashes to the
mat. Starks drops a knee onto the back of Otto's head, then drags him
up. Verhoeven stands on rubbery legs as Starks measures him up, then
leaps into the air with an enzugiri kick. Verhoeven is driven forward by
the impact, and seems to be knocked unconscious. Starks rolls Verhoeven
over, and the ref counts... 1 - 2 - 3! Ding! Ding! Ding!]

TD: And the second fall goes to Starks!

SL: Bah... Verhoeven's just pacing himself...

TD: Lying on the mat is pacing yourself? I'd be pleased to see some
    other tactics from your playbook, Simon.

RA: Ladies and gentlemen, Tony Starks has requested the stipulation "I
    quit" for the third fall! Submission wins are the only valid winning
    condition!

[The crowd pops at the announcement, but soon begin booing as Lord Byron
makes his way down the aisle. Verhoeven seems to be recovering, and
fights to get to one knee. The bell rings, and Starks immediately closes
in and locks on an on-the-mat octopus hold. Verhoeven shouts out in pain
as Byron yells advice from the outside. Verhoeven seems to use every
ounce of strength he has left to power out of the hold, and finally
does, but is drained from the effort. Starks gets up from the mat and
begins to drag Verhoeven up, but as Verhoeven is brought up to his
knees, he drives a forearm into the groin of Starks. Starks doubles up
and turns away, giving Verhoeven time to collect himself. Verhoeven gets
to his feet, and hits Starks with a hard Lariat, forcing him into the
corner. Verhoeven closes in, and begins hitting Starks with several
hooks to the midsection.]

SR: Beat him! Beat him!

TD: But that won't win him the match. He has to make Starks quit.

BL: But if Starks falls unconscious, the ref might end the match, and
    that's just as good.

[Verhoeven brings Starks out of the corner, and raises him into a
vertical suplex, holding him up for several seconds, letting the blood
rush to Starks' head, and out of the nasty gash in Starks' head.
Finally, Verhoeven lets Starks fall, then gets to his feet again. He
rolls Starks over, and stomps a few times on him back. Verhoeven locks
on a camel clutch, which gets a hoot of approval from Byron and Heidi.
Starks is obviously in pain, but fights to get to the ropes. Verhoeven
tries his best to use his leverage advantage, but Starks' determination
prevails, and he reaches the ropes, and the ref calls for the break.
Verhoeven keeps the hold on, bringing a count, and he breaks at 4.
Starks holds his back a bit, and uses the ropes to get to his feet.
Verhoeven spins Starks around and kicks him in the midsection, doubling
the technician over, thn hits a DDT, driving the bloody head of Starks
into the mat. Starks rolls over so that he is laying on his back, and
Verhoeven grabs one of Starks' legs. He drops an elbow on the knee of
Starks, which brings a heel pop, but Starks quickly takes advantage of
the positioning and locks on an elbow joint lock. The crowd pops, and
Verhoeven looks for an out. Verhoeven's arm hasn't quite been
overextended, so he is still able to use his power to prevent the hold
from taking full effect. The effort still shows on his face, though, as
he gets to his feet, relieving some of the pressure. Verhoeven drags
Starks to the corner with one arm, and the ref calls for the break.]

TD: Starks is running on instinct here. The blood coming from that cut
    is desperately needed by his brain.

SL: Starks himself is in desperate need of a brain as it is.

BL: I'm in desperate need of a soda...

SL: I can get that for you... I've got to go take a leak anyway...

BL: Forget it...

[Starks breaks the hold, and Verhoeven shakes off his arm. Starks gets
to his feet, a bit wobbly. Verhoeven leans in the corner, and measures
up Starks. He leaps forward and shoulder tackles him to the mat, then
drags him up and attempts a piledriver. Starks blocks, and lifts
Verhoeven up in a backdrop. Verhoeven drops to the mat, and Starks
quickly turns and grabs Verhoeven's leg -- and locks on the
Aristoclutch! The fans pop madly, and Byron looks very insulted on the
outside. Verhoeven screams out in pain, and Byron looks to be debating
something with Heidi. They argue for a moment while Verhoeven tries to
find an out, but can't. Finally, Heidi and Byron come to an agreement,
and Byron whispers something to her. Heidi then shouts something in
German to Otto, and Verhoeven is overcome with a sense of calm. Somehow,
Verhoeven wriggles out of the Aristoclutch, much to the surprise of the
fans!]

TD: He got out! I don't believe it! Byron must have told Heidi the
    escape from that move, and she relayed it to Otto! Someone get a
    translator out here!

SL: Oh, I bet you'd love to put that tidbit of info on your hotline,
    huh?

[Starks seems just as surprised as everyone else at Verhoeven's escape,
and as Verhoeven gets up, runs with a dropkick to the knee, which
Verhoeven dodges. Verhoeven quickly executes a senton splash onto
Starks' back, then drags him up to a vertical base. Verhoeven hauls
Starks over his head into a gorilla press, then throws him headfirst
into the cage! Starks falls across the top rope, then bounces off and
onto the mat, affected deeply by the impact. Verhoeven drags the
technician into the center of the ring and locks on his specialty full
nelson body scissors.]

TD: The Meat Grinder!

SL: That's it, baby...

BL: Starks is out.

[Starks does appear to be only half conscious at this point, and with
the blood flowing from the cut in his head, and the lack of air from the
body scissors, he seems to be fading fast. Starks fights as best he can,
and continuously shakes off the referee. The ref continues to check,
however, and after the hold is on for about a minute, Starks' body
slumps. The ref checks his arm once, and it falls. Again he checks, and
again the arm falls. The ref raises the arm a third time, and the crowd
rallies behind Starks. His arm falls, however, and the ref calls for the
bell, ending the match.]

RA: Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner: Otto "The Butcher"
    Verhoeven!

SL: Yes! The man!

TD: Verhoeven did what many thought impossible. He beat Starks in his
    own specialty match. However, I have to think that if it weren't for
    those two previous taxing rounds, the decision might have been
    different.

SL: Whatever. Admit it... Starks got beat like a cheap hooker.

TD: [sighs] Come on, Simon... Wait a minute... Here come Heidi and Byron
    into the cage... What is this?

[Heidi takes the belt off from her outfit, bringing wolf howls from some
of the male members of the audience, and hands it to Otto. Verhoeven
grabs the microphone:]

OV: I told you that you would be punished for harming my one true love
    and ridiculing the both of us in the aftermath. [He holds the
    leather belt up in the camera.] Someone you know very well gave you
    a beating like this a long time ago, and it shall show you your
    limits again.

[With that, Verhoeven drops the microphone and begins to whip Starks
with it. Byron and Heidi cheer him on.]

TD: There's no call for this!

SL: Ah, but it's great, isn't it?

BL: I'd have to say there was a call for it. That belt did _not_ go with
    that dress Heidi is wearing.

TD: Thank goodness! Here comes security!

[Security comes down to the ring, and try to restrain Verhoeven.
Surprisingly, Verhoeven stops his assault and he leaves the ring with
the rest of his cohorts. They all walk up the aisle triumphantly.]

TD: I just hope that Starks is okay.

SL: That depends... I mean, he wasn't all that great to begin with...

[The official attempts to revive Starks as the heel pop dies down. With
the help of the referee, Starks is able to stand, and he receives a huge
ovation as he staggers from the ring and a technical crew get to work on
dismantling the steel cage. Cut to the broadcast table at ringside.

SL: What a match that was.  A classic for the ages!  What's next,
    Dross?  Is "Dickstrike" Chris Quigley fighting yet?  Or is he too
    afraid to show his face around yours truly?

BL: Patience is a virtue, Simon.  I want to see you clobber that Newfie
    reject too.  But the night is young and we've got all the time in
    the world.

SL: Now you're talking, baby.

[Cut to a police officer, who is walking down to the ringside broadcast
table with a young lad wearing a vendor's uniform.]

TD: It appears that we have a situation here.  How can we help, officer?

VENDOR: [looking at officer and pointing at Lebec] That's the man,
        officer. Right there!

OFFICER: Sir, this boy tells me that you stole popcorn from him earlier
         on this evening without paying for it.

SL: What?! You pimply-faced little punk!  I gave you a "Showstopper"
    trading card -- worth more than any bag of popcorn!

OFFICER: Sir, you'll have to come down to the station and answer some
         questions.

[The Officer begins to handcuff Lebec, who is shocked momentarily.]

SL: This is ridiculous! Dross, I want you to get Spreadbury on the phone
    right away!

TD: Er, that might prove difficult, Mr. Lebec.

SL: Then get Owens! Dammit, get Clinton!

OFFICER: Come on, let's go.

[The officer begins dragging Lebec toward the backstage area, with the
crowd cheering wildly.]

SL: THIS IS INJUSTICE!  I'M A STAR!  I AM NOT TO BE TREATED THIS WAY!
    LEMME GO, JERKOFF!  I'LL HAVE YOUR BADGE FOR THIS!

[Lebec is dragged, kicking and screaming, out of view. The shot cuts
back to the broadcast table at ringside.]

BL: And the sad thing is... we didn't even eat the popcorn.

TD: Simon Lebec knows how to make and entrance, as well as an exit.
    Hang on -- I'm told we have a camera out in the parking lot.

[Camera cuts to Lebec being thrown into the back of a squad car in the
dimly-lit parking lot of the IIWF Coliseum. His shouts can still be
heard as the car screeches away, its rear lights diminishing into the
distance.]

SL: LEMME GO!  I want my laywer!  I'll own this city by the end of the
    night!  Popcorn, my ass!  I'm a celebrity!  I CAN KILL PEOPLE IF I
    WANT TO!

[Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.]

TD: Well, I don't think we'll be seeing any more of Mr. Lebec tonight.

BL: More's the pity, Timmy.  He doesn't really have much to say, but he
    looks good sitting there with the headset. We need a trophy
    broadcaster around here.

TD: I think that job is already taken, Becky.

BL: That's not a very nice thing to say about your friend Larry.

TD: Please, Becky. Okay, folks, up next we have a match for the IIWF
    World Tag Team Championship. Pain Inc. defend against their former
    stablemates, Night Patrol.

BL: Night Patrol can't lose tonight.  I drove my Porsche to the Donut
    Shoppe on the way over for luck.  Care for a jelly-filled one,
    Timmy? [patting his belly]  Whoops, looks you better lay off the
    treats.  Hehe... snort!

TD: Very funny, Becky. This is a match about which Larry Morton spoke so
    well on last night's show, Becky.

BL: I'm sorry, I didn't watch "Countdown" last night... I was watching
    "Lassie".

TD: Becky... you are the co-host of "Countdown". You must have been
    watching the show.

BL: I only pay attention when I'm talking... and even then I'm thinking
    about poor Timmy falling down that well.  Run, Lassie, Run!  Have
    you ever fallen down a well, Timmy?

TD: I may just be about to.

BL: Hey, it's Sparkplug... let's get to ringside!

                  =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                  IIWF World Tag Team Championship Match:
                  =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                         Pain Inc. vs. Night Patrol
                  ---------------------------------------
                                WRITER: JJ

[A bearded IIWF "suit" leaves his special ringside seat in a mad rush,
muttering, "How come I can't ever just watch the damn events?", as he
folds up his laptop computer and runs into the back, Sparkplug shaking
his head in sympathy as he takes the mic:]

SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is set for one fall...
    and is for the IIWF WORLD TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP!

    Introducing first, at a combined weight of 530lbs, from Houston,
    Texas, they are former IIWF United States Tag Team Champions... Sgt.
    Keene and Lt. Blazer... Night Patrol!

[Pop as the Texas policemen enter the aisle to the familiar theme from
"Dragnet". Conspicuous by her absence is, of course, Brenda Hawkings,
who is still barred from ringside under the "no tag managers" ruling
from the IIWF President.]

BL: Well, I don't think much of their change of attitude, Timmy... but
    that doesn't mean that I don't still support Brenda Hawkings.
    Principles are fine but a nice German-engineered sports car -- well,
    that's something special.

TD: Unfortunately for Night Patrol, Becky, I don't think we'll be seeing
    any of Ms. Hawkings during this match.  A ruling of President
    Spreadbury's that I strongly support, incidentally.  Also, folks, we
    are expecting an update on the Presdent's condition some time very
    soon -- so be sure to pay attention for that.

[Keene and Blazer quickly go through some late strategy as Sparkplug
retakes the mic...]

SL: And their opponents...

["More Human Than Human" kicks in and a heel pop goes up as Morningstar
and Hellraiser abandon much of their gear in the aisle and race into the
ring.]

SL: ...at a combined weight of 585lbs, from Jakharta, Indonesia... the
    IIWF World Tag Team Champions... Morningstar and Hellraiser... Pain,
    Inc...

[Ding! Ding! Ding!  Lee hurredly climbs outside as Morningstar and
Hellraiser hit the ring and kick off a furious brawl between the two
teams. Blazer and Keene, despite their size disadvantage, are able to
land consecutive double dropkicks on their former stablemates, and then
each Patrolmen clotheslines one of the champions over the top rope and
out onto the floor for a big pop for the challengers!]

TD: Fast start here -- and listen to this crowd, Becky!

BL: Anything's better than listening to you for the rest of the night.
    Timmy, why is it that we are always stuck doing these pay-per-views
    together?

TD: Well, Becky, I wasn't aware this was such a hardship for you.  I
    believe we might be able to come to some sort of accommodation later
    on in the evening.

BL: Just don't bring Summer out here to replace you, Timmy.  That boy's
    always trying to look down my dress. I feel so... used.

TD: God forbid.

[Keene and Morningstar take their places in the ring as the legal men,
locking up, and Keene quickly establishes a wristlock that he converts
into an armwringer and then into a hammerlock. Morningstar misses a wild
back elbow... and Keene drops him with a hammerlock takedown -- and then
a quick side suplex as Morningstar attempts to rise.  Pop!

Keene attempts to take advantage with a sharply dropped elbow -- missed
-- Morningstar moves out of the way, popping to his feet for a back
thrust kick and then consecutive armdrag takeovers that leave the
Syndicate fans cheering their new favorite tag team.

Mornigstar applies an armbar, out of which Keene stands, whipping the
champ to the nearside... Morningstar leapfrogs and springboards into a
crucifix of Keene, taking the Patrolmen down with a - 1 -- 2 -- save by
Blazer!]

TD: What you're seeing early on is how well these teams know each other,
    Becky. For each move a counter, for each counter a response... very
    impressive.

BL: Timmy, if you want to see impressive, just give me a cherry stem, a
    jar of marmalade and a slightly deflated volleyball.

TD: Damn, I miss Soundbite.  What did I just say?

[Keene is up quickly, taking Morningstar to the mat with a tilt-a-whirl
suplex, and then tags in Blazer who he slingshots over the top rope and
onto Morningstar for a... 1 - kickout... Blazer locks on a reverse
chinlock, but is unable to contain the quicker Morningstar who slithers
out into a head scissors takeover and applies a reverse chinlock of his
own.  Blazer gives a back double palm strike that breaks the hold and he
flips to his feet and applies a spinning toe hold that shocks the
Champion! Pop!

Morningstar applies a front facelock, escaping the hold -- reverse by
Blazer -- into an attempted hiptoss... that Morningstar blocks and
converts into a wristlock and an armwringer.

Blazer uses his size advantage to reverse the ring, stepping over, and
over again to increase the pressure.  Morningstar attempts a forward
roll -- but is unable to break the hold, getting back to his feet just
in time to... in time to slip a thrustkick from Blazer and attempt a
legsweep -- leapfrog by Blazer, who then ducks a wild roundkick attempt
by Morningstar... and drops the champion with a short armed clothesline!
Pop! 

Blazer looks to cover, and takes a boot to the midesection by
Morningstar who scrambles wildly to the corner -- and is just able to
make the tag!  Heel Pop!]

TD: It's about to pick up right now... yessir, here comes Hellraiser!

[The big man quickly makes his way over the top rope, heading toward
Blazer, grabbing him around the throat...]

TD: Chokeslam!  Oh my!

[Keene rushes in to make a save on his partner, and is then met with a
similar fate...]

TD: Chokeslam!  Hellraiser is cleaning house!

[Huge heel pop as Hellraiser leaves both Patrolmen in his wake...
Morningstar then climbs to the top rope -- and is picked off clean by
his partner, who press slams him onto Blazer for a cover... 1 -- 2 --
Keene is just able to save him.

It is now Pain Inc. which doubleteams, whipping Keene into a double
clothesline that takes him clear out to the floor... and then connecting
with Blazer's chin with a double big boot.  Heel Pop!  Hellraiser moves
to the outside, brutally stomping out Keene, driving the Patrolman into
the steel steps and then whipping him hard into the guardrail and
choking him out with a big boot.

Blazer and Morningstar resume their roles as the legal men, Morningstar
forcing Blazer back to the corner with a series of clubbing forearms,
then whipping him nearside into an attempt at a clothesline -- miss --
and it is Blazer with a dropkick that brings a big pop from the crowd.
Now Blazer again, with another dropkick... and the Patrolman looks to
make a tag...]

TD: Not there! Keene isn't there! He has really been laid out by
    Hellraiser on the outside... and the big Indonesian is now at his
    corner... but Keene is still out on the floor -- and can't make this
    tag!

[Blazer turns around and takes a double underhook suplex from
Morningstar... cover -- 1 -- 2 -- Kickout by Blazer! Morningstar makes
the tag in to Hellraiser who wastes little time in pressing his
considerable size advantage, scoop-slamming Blazer, and then lifting him
in what seems to be an interminable vertical suplex and another cover...
1 -- 2 -- NO!  Another kickout by Blazer!

Keene drags himself to his feet, and to the apron, but can barely stand
on his own power as the assault continues on Blazer... Morningstar
now the legal man and he blisters Blazer with consecutive northern
lights suplexes that snap, crackle and heel pop the spinal column of the
challenger.]

TD: Blazer's in real trouble here! Not only is he getting beaten to
    every punch, not only is his partner virtually unconscious on the
    apron, but here comes Tiger Claw!

[The three-time IC champion begins his way to the ring, a steel chair
tucked under his arm. The official stares hard, but allows Claw leave to
quietly sit at ringside, not speaking to anyone.]

BL: Why aren't they disqualified?  Shouldn't they be disqualified?

TD: Actually, Becky, the President's ruling was that coming to ringside
    was a "punishable" offense... it is within the official's discretion
    to disqualify Pain Inc... and given Tiger Claw's condition after his
    brutal defeat at the hands of Subway Psycho, he isn't in much shape
    to interfere.

[Claw does, in fact, not seem to be making any type of move to the
ring, the bandage over his forehead making reference to the ugly gash
he suffered in tha Bangkok Death Pit Match. Blazer, however, is in no
mood to be debating Claw's merits, having been beaten repeatedly with
literally a half dozen variations of neckbreakers by the champions, each
one more devastating to the last, each one leading to another nearfall
as they grow closer and closer to finishing off the Patrol.

Hellraiser is the legal man now, simply dropping a big leg, over and
over onto the head of Blazer... the crowd eventually not cheering for
the Patrol as much as pity Jack Blazer, such is the brutality of the
onslaught.

Hellraiser lands a lariat that spins the Patrolman 360 degrees to his
head and then scoops him to his feet, whipping Blazer into his own
corner...]

TD: He tagged out! He tagged Keene... and I don't think either Keene or
    Hellraiser knows about it!

[Blazer's hand does smack his partner's as he reaches the corner, Blazer
taking a repeated series of upward knee lifts, high knees to the
midsection... as Keene climbs, scrambles up to the top rope -- leaps,
falls onto the shoulders of Hellraiser, who looks sort of bemused at the
injured, smaller man on his shoulders...]

TD: Blazer drops down... Blazer's got Hellraiser around the legs... got
    him around the... hurricarana!

[Keene was able to use the distraction of his partner into a snapping
hurricarana that shocks the crowd and takes Hellraiser hard to the
mat. Tiger Claw leaps to the apron, drawing the attention of the
official as Keene has Hellraiser covered...]

TD: Hellraiser's down!  Hellraiser's down!!

BL: Who's this... who's...?! It's Kane! It's Kane of the Dark Disciples!

[Kane leaps in, having emerged from the stands, looking to break up the
pinfall attempt -- Morningstar prevents Blazer from interfering as Kane
leaps with an elbow to break the cover...]

TD: And he misses! He hit Hellraiser! Kane just dropped an elbow onto
    Hellraiser!

BL: Keene has the cover... Over... over... over!

[Shocked pop as Kane leaps from the ring, shaking his head slowly as the
official has disengaged from Claw in time to count... to count for the
Champions, Morningstar having leaped from the top rope with an elbow to
the back of Keene's neck and re-rolled Hellraiser atop the Patrolman...
the official diving down for the count... 1 -- 2 -- ]

TD: Three! He got him! Incredible!

SL: Your winners... and _STILL_ IIWF TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD...
    PAIN, INCORPORATED!

["More Human than Human" starts to a huge pop as Tiger claw and a now
entering Mr. Mic celebrate with the champions. Wulf comes down to the
ring, passing the Night Patrol along the way who make a quick exit, and
he and Kane profusely apologize to Morningstar and Hellraiser, taking
the Championship belts and presenting them to Pain, Inc... then
thrusting the champions' arms into the air. Heel Pop!]

TD: Well, the champs retain their belts. An impressive performance from
    Pain, Inc... and again you see some signs of turmoil within the
    Syndicate. Kane almost caused Night Patrol to take the titles.

BL: Aw, forget it, Timmy. You're always trying to stir up trouble.
    That's why I like to work with Larry -- his place is directly behind
    me. He knows it and he likes it!

[The Syndicate forces depart to a heel pop, and the crowd suddenly turns
to face the aisle as "Hail to the Chief" begins over the P.A. Walking
quickly down to the ring is IIWF Vice-President Steve Owens.  Virtually
no pop for the VP as he makes his way into the ring, giving the ring
girl a furtive wink as he steps through the ropes.]

BL: Wow, Stevie has really let himself go, Dross.  I got two words for
    you, Owens: Free Willy!

TD: You're familiar with those words, aren't you, Becky?

[Owens has a look of grave importance on his face as he grabs the
microphone, adjusting his recently required spectacles as he begins...]

SO: My name is Steve Owens.  I am the Vice-President of the IIWF.  I
    have just been informed by the crack medical staff at Portland
    General, that as of ten minutes ago, President Daniel Spreadbury was
    placed under an anaesthetic, and will be undergoing some type of
    medical procedure. 

[Mixed pop as the President's injury is mentioned.]

    Our thoughts and prayers go out to President Spreadbury.  He is a
    gentleman, a scholar, and I am proud to call him... my friend.

[A noticeably sarcastic "Awwwwwww" is heard from the crowd.]

SO: However, under the official IIWF bylaws: Chapter 11, Code 13,
    Subsection B-17, Part 2... and I am paraphrasing here... should the
    IIWF President become incapacitated or otherwise unable to carry out
    the duties of the office, an immediate transfer of power will take
    place.

[The crowd begins to murmur.]

BL: How badly was ol' Dictator Danny hurt?

SO: Therefore, as of this moment... I am in control here! 

[Pop now from the crowd, many of whom appreciating the inherent
corporate dynamic -- many of whom are just drunk off their ass.]

SO: I am assuming the role immediately as acting IIWF President, and my
    second in command will be none other than Poutine Janois, who you
    will see seated at ringside.

[Janois makes no acknowledgement of his name being spoken, instead
absentmindedly stroking a black IIWF gym bag.]

TD: It appears that Mr. Owens has been reading that Alexander Haig
    autobiography again.

BL: You are getting more and more obscure, Timmy.

[Cut back to the ring.]

SO: As the acting IIWF President, I will be the final word on all
    official matters in the IIWF.  I will have the final say, me, Steve
    Owens.  As such, I have a few pronouncements that I am going to
    make.

BL: [over the headset] Doesn't he mean, "announcements"?

SO: First of all, due to their actions earlier this evening... Brody
    Thunder and Mad Dog Watkins will never again be allowed to wrestle
    each other in an officially sanctioned IIWF event!

[The crowd begins to jeer, some yelling, "We want Dan! We want Dan!"]

SO: Secondly, I am officially, at this time, lifting the suspension of
    another of your favorite IIWF personalities.  Ladies and gentlemen,
    please welcome back to the IIWF... Steve "Soundbite" Roberts!

[Big crowd pop as Van Halen's "Running with the Devil" begins, and Steve
Roberts enters the arena!  He and Acting-President Owens shake hands and
share a private word as Owens exits the arena, many of the aisle side
fans standing and applauding as he leaves.

The "Shoot, Soundbite! Shoot!" chant begins through a good portion of
the arena, although particularly fervent are the collection of "L'il
Soundbiters" behind the broadcast table who bow down in a gesture of
deference as Roberts grabs a headset and returns to his rightful place
next to Dross.]

SR: Did ya miss me?

TD: Well, I wish it could have been under different circumstances, but
    I can't say that I am not glad to have you back, Soundbite. 

SR: See, that's what I want to hear.  Complete and utter sucking up to
    the man, the myth, the Soundbite.

BL: Okay, Steve, what did you have to do to get reinstated?

SR: Nothing like what you had to do to get this job, Becks.

TD: Good to have you back, Steve.

SR: Good to be back, moron.

TD: Let's get to ringside.

           =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
           IIWF Cruiserweight Championship Birthday Bash Match:
           -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
           "Sychosys" Joe Petrow  vs. Steve "the Fury" Kowalski
           ----------------------------------------------------
                                WRITER: JJ

[Sparkplug Lee is clearly a little frightened as he surveys the current
scene on the floor of the IIWF Coliseum.  The rabid collectives of fans,
known as the Sychopaths and the Furies, have been separated and moved to
two centralized locations on opposite sides of the ring.  Each group is
cordoned off, via yellow police tape, from the fans in the rest of the
Arena, many of whom, even the more "hardcore" of the regulars, seeming
clearly unsettled by the increasing fervor of the scene.]

SL: Ladies and... gentlemen, the following contest is set for one fall
    and is for the IIWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP!

    The following stipulation is in effect, any object...

[Sparkplug pauses, looking around the arena at the various duffle bags,
pocket books, trash containers, and all manner of receptacles in which
virtually anything might be situated, and gulps hard.]

    ...any object which is passed forward by the IIWF fans can be used
    by the two competitors!

[Big -- scarily big -- pop by the crowd, the Furies and the Sychopaths
literally frothing at the mouths with excitement.]

TD: I'm beginning to question the wisdom of this matchup.

SR: Dross, I've been gone the whole night. This is the only damn match
    I've wanted to see... maybe ever.  All I ask is that you let me
    enjoy it without your customary whining about fair play and
    sportsmanship.

BL: I agree with Steve.

SR: Hey, Becks, how 'bout agreein' me up some biscuits.

[A "Biscuits, Becky! Biscuits!" chant goes up from the L'il
Soundbiters.]

SL: Introducing first, the challenger... he weighs 227lbs and is
    currently residing in Tokyo, Japan... here is "Sychosys" Joe Petrow!

[The stomp-stomp-clap familiar to sports fans world wide begins as
Queen's "We will Rock You" kicks in over the P.A.  A huge Sycho-pop goes
up as Petrow appears in the aisle.  He is decked in all black, from his
boots to his gloves, his hair pulled back in a ponytail and his face
cleanly shaven as he slowly walks down to the ring.

Petrow stops at the section in which his Sychopaths are located.  To a
man, the group is dressed very similarly to Petrow, all devoid of facial
hair, most with their hair, even those with closely cropped locks, in a
ponytail.  All the Sychopaths are wearing black "Joe Petrow. Period."
t-shirts.  Petrow give a couple of quick forearm bashes to a few of his
faithful then his the ring, going to a midbuckle facing away from the
aisle and thrusting a Triple M sign as black smoke billows from the
fireworks which go off all around him. Big POP!]

SR: See, this is what it's all about, Dross.  A bunch of morons who
    can't make it on any level on the outside world, gather together to
    watch men beat the hell out of each other... with foreign objects. 
    I'm getting a little misty.

[Roberts turns and faces his L'il Soundbiters.}

SR: Isn't that right, morons?

[The "Shoot, Soundbite! Shoot" chant begins anew.]

SL: And his opponent...

[Big Fury Pop as "Don't Fear the Reaper" begins.]

SL: ...he weighs 239 and one half pounds and hails from Newark, New
    Jersey... he is the IIWF Cruiserweight Champion of the World...
    Steve "The Fury" Kowalski!

[Kowalski strides into the aisle, quickly dumping his Harley Davison
jacket to reveal a t-shirt on which the Sandman is pictured under which
are scrawled the words... "Fury Kicked Your Ass!" As Kowalski moves to
join his fans, the entire group of Furies stand and loudly sing along
with his still playing theme...

"# Come On Baby / Don't Fear The Reaper! #"

Kowalski is almost buried under an avalanche of backslapping, able
eventually to step at and give a smile to a seated Harlequin Melody, who
is just outside the yellow police tape separating the Furies from
civilized society.

"# Baby I'm your Man... #"]

TD: Wow.  What you have to be impressed with, Steve Roberts, is the
    intensity of these fans... the way that they have flocked behind
    these two superstars is... well, it's incredible, they're like rock
    stars.

BL: No, Timmy.  I've known lots of rock stars, these guys are all too
    sober to be rock stars.  Even Kowalski.

[Kowalski is now in the ring, having his Championship belt placed on
the timekeeper's table.  Petrow has yet to budge from his mid-buckle
perch, still facing away from Kowalski.  The Fury pauses for only the
briefest of seconds... then charges. Petrow slips with a back leapfrog,
then quickly applies a shocking claw hold!  Pop! 

Joe Petrow has a claw hold on Steve Kowalski and is driving him back...
back and out of the ring!  Pop!  Kowalski dives out of the ring and is
clutching his neck while Petrow quickly hops to the top buckle... and
points to Steve Roberts! Petrow yelling, "This is for the L'il
Soundbiters!" as he turns around into an Asai moonsault...]

TD: Missed it! Petrow missed it!

SR: Hey, gotta appreciate the thought.  Ain't that right, morons?

[The L'il Soundbiters cheer loudly for Petrow as Kowalski drags Sychosys
to his feet, and he points to the announce table!  Dross and Roberts
simultaneously lift their respective beverages off the table...]

BL: Oh, noooo.  Nooooo!

[Kowalski brings Petrow down crashing onto the announce table with a
gutwrench suplex... and then throws Petrow into the group of Sycopaths
congregated on this side of the ring. Pop!]

TD: All clear, Steve?

SR: Hey, good shot, Fury.

[Becky LaRue speaks... but is unheard... her microphone apparently
having been damaged as a result of the Kowalski gutwrench suplex.  Becky
frantically calls for a replacement, but none appears forthcoming.
Kowalski stands at the announce table, as Petrow has yet to re-emerge.]

SK: Hey, Roberts -- good to see ya beat the rap!

SR: Thanks, Fury... hey, Becky's gonna have some free time until the IC
    match... want her to fetch you some biscuits?

SK: Heh... gotta watch the girlish figure, Roberts.  Dross'll tell you
    all about it.

[Kowalski's kibbutzing comes to a quick end as he takes a high cross
body block from Petrow, who is hurled by the Sychopaths back over the
retaining barrier in a pair of spiked shoulder pads, Petrow quickly
removes the shoulder pads, scooping Kowalski up into a very impressive
brainbuster suplex that culminates in the Fury's forehead being driven
into those spikes!  Pop!  Pop!  Pop!]

TD: Oh... that's bad. This match has just started -- and already
    Kowalski is busted open.

SR: We got juice!  We got juice!  Hey, Becks -- how 'bout you get me
    some juice?

[LaRue's reply is unheard as Petrow dumps Kowalski back into the ring,
Sychosys then grabbing some eyeblack and a Subway Psycho sockpuppet...
and climbing to the top buckle.  Petrow smears the black over his
face... and hurls down with the somersault legdrop!]

TD: De-Rail... Oh my!

SR: The Psycho's finisher failing... gee, there's an upset.

[Big Pop as Petrow's descent was abruptly halted by a bottle of Old
Grandad whiskey to the midsection.  Kowalski then smashes the bottle
over the head of Sychosys, filling the ring with broken glass and the
arena with the singular odor of mediocre booze.  Kowalski drops to all
fours over the fallen Petrow, yelling "I ain't no doggie... Petrow...
I'm your worst nightmare!" before proceeding to pummel Sychosys with a
flurry of rapid right hands.  Big Pop!]

SR: Hey, Furies... the man needs a chaser!

[The Furies respond, throwing Kowalski a six pack of Mooselips beer.
Kowalski takes each can, ramming it into Petrow's head until it is
crushed -- one can, two, three, four, five -- all the way up to the
final beer, leading him to pause, survey the now cut open Petrow -- and
drink the beer himself!  Kowalski spits the final swig straight into
Petrow's face!  Big Pop!]

TD: This place smells like a brewery, Steve Roberts.

SR: Sort of like where I grew up, Dross.  Remeinds me of home... broken
    glass... whiskey all over the floor... two bloody men beating the
    crap out of each other.  I miss my daddy, Dross.  Hey, Becks... can
    I be your daddy?

[Kowalski scoops Petrow up and executes a running powerslam that sends
Sychosys hard to the middle of the ring...his back crunching down over
the shards of broken glass.  Kowalski then drags Petrow into the
corner, carrying the man who seems a good forty or fifty pounds lighter
than he is up to the top rope, where he is thrown a red glove.  Kowalski
setting up... setting up for a...]

TD: He's gonna try a super flying powerbomb... that's a "Goodnight...
    Farewell... Amen!", Steve Roberts.  Kowalski's gonna GFA Petrow!

SR: Only time you're gonna see that move tonight... "Oh, my knee hurts
    so bad... oh, Mr. byron please don't kick me again, I'm just an
    orphan, after all."

[Kowalski gets Petrow high into the air -- but is head-scissored by
Sychosys all the way out to the floor!  Big Pop!]

TD: Oh my! Oh my!  A head scissors from the top rope to the floor! Both
    men are out, Steve Roberts!  Both men are out!

SR: Yeah, but they're right near the Furies, Dross.  Kowalski's boys
    won't let him down. 

[A number of hands push Kowalski back to his feet, and various objects
are placed in his hands -- including a big foam Nightwing tomahawk and a
hugely oversized plastic Highwayman flintlock pistol.  Kowalski is
prepared to attack the prone Petrow, then yells, "What the hell do I do
with this crap?  Who are these guys anyway?"

Kowalski drops the paraphenalia as Petrow slowly rises, the Fury
reaching into the seats, and receiving Harlequin Melody's electric
guitar!  Big Pop!  Kowalski swings the axe -- and misses -- and is
dropped with a Petrow superkick! Big Sycho-Pop!] 

TD: Oh my!  Petrow knocked him out!  Petrow knocked him out!

[Sychosys reaches over to Harlequin Melody, grabbing the large metallic
boom box that sits on her lap.  Petrow gets set to smash it over the
head of Kowalski, then pauses, pressing the play button and laughing
uproariously as "Don't Fear The Reaper" begins. Petrow holds the box
high in the air, the Blue Oyster Cult ringing through the arena....]

TD: He smashed Melody with the boom box!  Joe Petrow just hit Harlequin
    Melody with the boom box!

SR: Play that funky music, white boy!

[Petrow leaves Melody knocked out and then begins to ram Kowalski's head
repeatedly with the boom box, the tune becoming more and more warbled
with each successive shot, the Sychopaths' huge cheering then turning to
a loudly derisive singing:

"# Come on Baby / Don't Fear the Reaper! #"

Petrow throws Kowalski into the ring, then leaps to a midbuckle and
joins the singing...

"# Baby I'm Your Man! #"]

TD: Unbelievable.  Unbelievable.  I never thought we'd ever see anything
    like that Seven Tables of Fear Match between Petrow and Dirt Dog
    again... but here we are.

SR: Yeah!  I'm getting revved up now, Dross.  You know, I should get
    suspended more often if this is the welcome I'm gonna get each time.

[Petrow leaps down, moving to the Fury and applying a reverse chinlock,
the Sychopaths begin to "boo" and Petrow stands up, yelling, "No
restholds.  I'm Joe Petrow!", and then begins to put the boots to
Kowalski's ribs, over and over and over again.  Petrow is thrown a roll
of duct tape...and an enormous pink High Planes Drifters cowboy hat.
Petrow quickly doing his own version of a "hog-tie" on Kowalski, and
then begins to stomp him out slowly, Petrow moving to each portion of
Kowalski's anatomy and... well, and stomping atop it.  Big Stomping
Pop!]

TD: Petrow is showing his ruggedness now, Steve Roberts... he's still
    bleeding like a stuck pig -- but he has gained control of this
    matchup.

SR: You want to talk blood, Dross?  No, seriously... do you want to talk
    about blood? Because I really like talking about blood.  Blood,
    cigarettes, and a good lapdance.  Aw man, I really do miss my dad.

[Petrow pauses a moment, putting his hands on his hips as if considering
the next maneuver. Into the ring is then thrown...]

TD: Oh, no... it's the gauntlet!  It's the IIWF gauntlet!

[Petrow grabs the gauntlet as Kowalski lies prone in the ring. Petrow
holds it, slips it on, moves to the Fury and then stops, uttering those
infamous words, "Who wants to see a Starsault Press?"

"Nooooooooo!", is the immediate response -- and that's from Petrow's own
Sychopaths, barely believing their eyes as their man begins his way to
the top rope, gauntlet poised.]

TD: Is he really going to try this again, Steve Roberts?  How could Joe
    Petrow try this Starsault Press again, after he has repeatedly
    failed to execute even a passable variation of it?

SR: Because he's freakin' nuts, Dross?  Petrow's a damn Almond Joy
    bar... the guy's nuttier than the backseat of LaRue's car on a
    Friday Night.  Hey, Becks... how's that microphone coming along?

[LaRue's expletive-laden tirade is unheard as the Sychopath last seen
taking a Dirt Dog Unique Allah missle dropkick is racing to the ring,
tryring to stop Petrow from attempting another Starsault Press. Kowalski
has just about freed himself from the tape as Petrow shakes away the fan
and leaps...]

TD: That's the worst one yet!  Petrow made... what... maybe one full
    revolution and fell flat onto his face... and Kowalski is all over
    him again!

SR: See, everyone should know that the only guy who ever gets hit with
    that gauntlet is the Phoenix.  Where is that guy anyway?

[Kowalski has taken the gauntlet from Petrow and tossed it aside,
hitting the fallen Sychosys with a canned ham, a Nintendo pro wrestling
cartridge...]

SR: Press the lower right button to kick out, Petrow!  You need more
    energy points!

[...and then Kowalski smacks at Petrow's head with a copy of the recent
Celebrity Playboy magazine, pausing a moment to gaze at the centerfold,
and the continues smacking at Petrow, finally pulling Petrow to his
feet... into an Irish whip... picking him up for an atomic drop..]

TD: Oh my! 

SR: The ass giveth... the ass taketh away...

[Huge Fury Pop as Kowalski brings Petrow down with a tailbone jarring
asspump -- the blow only mildly muted by the enormous bowl of guacamole
covered nachos onto which the maneuver was executed.  Kowalski now takes
a step back, and finds the IIWF gauntlet: "Here's what you were looking
for," yells the Fury as he swings -- ducked -- and is hit by a cutting
jawbreaker by the cat-like quick Petrow, snapping Kowalski's head out
onto that Celebrity Playboy.]

SR: I know I'm gonna get fined for this, but... BANG!

[Petrow breathes in deeply and dives atop Kowalski for the cover... 1 -
2 - ]

TD: NO! 

SR: What the hell piece of tin did Kowalski just hit Petrow with?

[A mere second from losing his title, Steve Kowalski was able to strike
Joe Petrow over the head with a small, rusted out old championship belt
on which the words "FWLI Heavyweight Champion" are written.  The belt
cracks clean in half as Kowalski sends it crashing into Petrow's skull a
second time.  Big Pop as the Fury now stands over Petrow, the blood now
matting down the hair in front of his face, as he considers his next
move... and then, in the ring... is tossed a tricycle.]

SR: What the hell is Kowalski gonna do with that?

["What the hell am I gonna do with that?" yells the Fury.  The crowd
responds with assurance... "Moon - sault! Moon - sault! Moon - sault!"]

TD: I don't believe Steve Kowalski does a moonsault.

["I don't do a goddamn moonsault!", the Fury responds, but as the chants
continue, and as Petrow shows no signs of movement, Kowalski throws up
his hands, muttering, "The things I do for you people," and makes his
way to the top rope, placing the tricycle against his stomach and
turning around...]

TD: He's gonna do it... the Fury is gonna leap...

SR: Yes! Hell, yeah! 

[Huge Fury Pop as Kowalski lands a sloppy but powerfully effective
moonsault, the tricycle wheels landing square on the chest of Sychosys.
Kowalski then "pedals" his way in the single strangest victory lap ever
taken in the IIWF.  Big Furious Pop!  Kowalski tosses the trike out over
the top rope, dives atop Petrow for the cover... 1 -- 2 -- Petrow gets
his shoulder up!

Kowalski grabs a giant bowl of steamed clams, shoving them into Petrow's
face, then making another cover -- pausing -- tapping a forefinger on
his temple, and hooking a leg... 1 -- 2 -- ]

TD: NO! Petrow kicks out again!

SR: Dammit, this is fun.  Not as fun as getting kicked out of the Hall
    of Fame banquet... but fun anyway. 

[Kowalski stands, yelling that he needs his "mystery partner", when into
the ring is sent a medium sized plastic blow-up doll familiar to regular
viewers of "Inside the IIWF."]

SR: It's Troy! It's Troy!

TD: Good grief.

[Kowalski takes the blond wigged blow-up doll, still wearing the "I'm
with Quickstrike" t-shirt and holds it mockingly up in the air.  "Troy"
has clearly had a tough week -- obscenities are scrawled on his arms and
legs, and his face is covered in makeup -- of particular note is the
smeared lipstick which surrounds his widely opened mouth.]

SR: Has Troy been spending the week at your house, Becks?  Now, I told
    you not to leave him alone with the New Generation guys.  Damn
    animals.

TD: Good grief.

[Kowalski begins to slap Petrow around a bit with "Troy", to no
particular effect.  Kowalski then stops, looks with disgust at Troy, and
puts the blow up doll in a torture rack! The Furies go ape wild as
Kowalski puts Troy in a torture rack!  The maneuver applies exactly the
level of pain as to a human opponent, so Kowalski drops Troy atop Petrow
-- who is still down -- and motions for the official to count... 1 -- ]

SR: Oh, so close...

TD: It's a blow-up doll!

SR ...and yet so far.

[Petrow, er, kicks out, sufficiently to knock Troy from the ring, and
then catches an overly lackadaisical Kowalski with an upward thrusting
Alex Rio action figure that seems to disappear on impact.  Kowalski
doubles over, however, and Petrow hits him with a scissor kick that
permits Scychosys to whip Kowalski extremely hard into a buckle. Big
pop as Petrow charges... and is backdropped over the top rope and out
onto the floor by Kowalski!

Kowalski climbs out to the apron, and leaps down with a double axe to
the back of the rising Petrow... Sychosys stumbles into the retaining
barrier separating ringside from his very own Sychopaths, his arms
draped over into the crowd. 

One particularly riled up fan seemingly cannot contain his concern,
literally weeping over Petrow's fate, and so he does the only thing he
can... ripping the "Joe Petrow. Period."  t-shirt from his own body and
handing it to Sychosys.]

TD: He gave Petrow the shirt off his back, Steve Roberts.

SR: You know what I always say... a friend in need is a pest.

TD: You never say that, Steve Roberts.

SR: I could. 

[Kowalski charges the barrier, but Petrow slips the rush... and begins
choking Kowalski out with the t-shirt! Big POP!  Petrow is really
wrapping the shirt tightly around the neck of Kowalski, dragging him
around the perimeter of the ring, moving close to the announce table.]

TD: He's choking him out, Steve Roberts! Joe Petrow's putting pressure
    on that carotid artery!  This is bad!  This is bad!

SR: Wow, that's a well made t-shirt.  Look how the cotton stretches to
    fit the curvature of Kowalski's neck.  You know, all the IIWF
    products are very well made... and if I might direct you to this
    number...

[Roberts stands, holding a new forest green t-shirt, which pictures
Roberts holding a gun to the head of a masked wrestler under which the
caption reads, "Shoot, Soundbite! Shoot!", maneuvering to get the best
camera shot for himself.]

TD: Will you stop?

SR: Hey Petrow, can you kill him a few inches to the left?

[Petrow does not appear to notice Roberts, a look of fury having taken
over his face. He continues to choke Kowalski out, continues to put the
pressure on Kowalski... the official hops to the outside, looking for
signs that Kowalski is unable to continue... Steve Kowalski is not
moving! The official grabs Kowalski's arm... and it drops to his side!

"One!", yell the Sychopaths.

The official grabs Kowalski's arm again, letting it linger a little
while... and then it falls again!]

TD: That's two. That's two!

[The official takes a deep breath, pulling Kowalski's arm with seemingly
little resistance up in the air, and letting go...]

TD: Good grief.

[Huge Fury Pop as Kowalski brings down his arm by his own power -- and
with it brings down a prosthetic leg!  One of the L'il Soundbiters has
given Kowalski a prosthetic leg... and he now jabs it repeatedly into
Petrow's face, battering Sychosys, now clubbing Petrow over the head
with this prosthetic leg!  Ugly pop!]

TD: Steve Roberts, one of your so-called _fans_ just gave a prosthetic
    leg to Steve Kowalski!  That's outrageous!

SR: Aw, see that's sweet.  The L'il Soundbiters are always the first to
    lend their fellow man a hand.  Or a leg.  Or a pancreas.  Hell,
    whatever you need.  Morons.  Isn't that right, morons?

[Big pop from the L'il Soundbiters, except for the man with one
leg, as apparently the giving of his prosthesis was not exactly
"voluntary". Kowalski continues to pound away at Petrow, now choking out
Sychosys with the fake leg, looking for all the world that now he is in
control... nothing can stop Steve Kowalski, he is on his way to...

Thud.

Big... Sycho-Pop!]

TD: What the hell was that?

SR: Something just flew out of the crowd and waylaid Steve Kowalski.
    Something big. 

TD: Good grief.

SR: What the... It's Majestic Maurice McArthur!

[A bound, gagged, and very, very frightened "Triple M" is hurled by the
Sycopaths into a crossbody block at Kowalski.  Petrow stands very slowly
and really gets a good look at his former tag partner, stripped
virtually naked, his arms and legs strapped down, his head constrained
with a ball gag which keeps him from communicating in any fashion save
the abject fear shooting through his eyes.

Petrow stops dead for a moment, then looks at his fans... a moment of
reflection seems to pass through his eyes, his features softening
clearly... he then looks at McArthur...

...and shoots him a big Triple M sign! Big creepy pop!]

TD: This is wrong.  I know I've said that before, but this... this is
    the product of a truly, truly warped mind. 

SR: As the Outlaw would say:  "Ain't... Life... Grand!"

[Petrow picks up McArthur and props him on the apron, saying, "You stay
right here," and then dumping Kowalski back into the ring.  Petrow gives
a couple of reverse knife edge chops to Kowalski, neither man moving
very quickly, each man covered in blood.  The Fury responds with a few
slowly formed right hands of his own, neither man seeming as if he can
stand for much longer.  Each man now landing big, slow, heavy blows on
the other.]

SR: Make the tag, Petrow! Make the tag!

TD: The man is bound and gagged, Steve Roberts!  Look at poor Maurice!

SR: Yeah but he's fresh, Dross.  He's the fresh man.  Hot tag, Petrow.
    Hot tag!

[Petrow is able to muster a corner whip on the Fury, who just can hop up
to a midbuckle... Petrow charges... but is able to halt his momentum,
and lifts Kowalski from his now seated position on the buckle and
carries him out into the ring!  Kowalski is precariously propped up on
Petrow's shoulders, Sychosys wobbling as he walks over to the corner in
which the bound McArthur is propped on the apron, leaning against the
turnbuckles.]

SR: Sychosynthesis!  Sychosynthesis!

[Petrow yells, "Do it, Maurice buddy!" and then falls backward to the
mat, Kowalski's head striking the canvas as they each hit.  Big pop
from the Sychopaths as Petrow gamely reaches his feet again, and flashes
one more Triple M sign at McArthur... who would almost appear to be
smiling... if indeed he will ever smile again.]

TD: I can't... I just can't do this, Steve Roberts.

SR: I know, Dross, the IIWF tag teams have always been pretty boring...
    but try to keep an open mind.  Big tent, buddy.  All the colors in
    the rainbow.  Up with hope -- down with dope.

[The JJS now frantically carries McArthur away from the ring, the
haunting look in his eyes piercing the camera as it follows him into the
aisle.  Petrow rests for a moment on the top buckle, the screams of his
fans letting him know that...]

TD: Here comes Kowalski! Kowalski is not done yet!

[Kowalski is able to muster enough energy, push beyond the pain in his
neck and make on last bull rush on Petrow, who whirls around... grabbing
a facelock, hooks Kowalski up...]

TD: Bullet Train To Hell! Petrow laid him out with the Bullet Train To
    Hell!

SR: Toot, toot, baby dolls.

[Petrow sends Kowalski's neck again snapping to the mat with his
modified DDT, before covering Kowalski for a 1 -- 2 -- NO! The Fury is
just able to get a shoulder up.  Petrow then slowly rises, and draws a
thumb across his throat, leading his Sychopaths to begin a raucous, wild
cheer...

"Skull - pump! Skull - pump! Skull - pump!"

Petrow picks up Kowalski, hooking his right arm...]

TD: Joe Petrow used his finisher as a set-up, Steve Roberts!  He's going
    to try to put Kowalski away with the man's own move!

SR: Hell, you gotta admire a man with this much style.  Hey, Becks...
    are you still out here?  Climb out from underneath that table! Or
    better yet... don't.

[Petrow hooks Kowalski's other arm, letting out a primal scream, and
lifts...]

TD: Backdrop!  Kowalski's taking him over... NO!

[Kowalski backdrops Petrow over... but Sychosys is able to roll with it
and now has Kowalski hooked... he's got Kowalski cradled and a handful
of tights... 1 -- 2 -- ]

TD: Reverse!  Kowalski reverses!  He's got ahold of the rope! The
    official doesn't see it!

[Kowalski has Petrow rolled up for the quick count... 1 -- 2 -- ]

TD: NO! PETROW HIT HIM WITH A CHAIR!

SR: It's a highchair, Dross!  It's a baby's highchair with Steve
    Summer's picture on it!

[Petrow is able to whack Kowalski over the back of the head with the
highchair, and now, with what for all the world seems like his very last
gasp of breath, grabs at Kowalski's legs... and thrusts one of the
Fury's arms through the chair...]

TD: That's a figure five leglock!  Petrow's got that leglock through the
    highchair! Kowalski's done!  He's gone!

[Kowalski is almost too tired to writhe in pain, the toll of the match
clearly evident on a man who is starting to...]

TD: He's gonna fade, Steve Roberts!  He's going unconscious!  The loss
    of blood, the blows to the head... poor Maurice... it's just... he's
    gone!  He's gone!  Ring the bell!  Ring the bell!

[The official makes a check of Kowalski, Petrow almost disbelieving that
it is finally over, moves to a seated position as the official makes one
last check of the Fury...]

TD: OH MY! 

[Kowalski smashes a large round object into Petrow's head as he sits up.
An enormous pop as Petrow drops like the stock market in 1929!]

TD: What the hell is that?!  Is that a bowling ball?  It's got finger
    holes!  Is it a...? Good grief.

SR: HAH!  That's a head, Dross!  That's an honest to goodness human
    head!

[Kowalski frees himself from the highchair and begins to batter Petrow
senseless with the long-since decayed remains of what was once a human
being's head.  Kowalski gives it everything he has left, putting every
ounce of energy in these blows, wailing away at Petrow, beating down
this man who wants to take his Cruiserweight title. The Furies begin
their familiar chant: "Skull - pump! Skull - pump! Skull - pump!"]

TD: It is a Skullpump, Steve Roberts!  Steve Kowalski is Skullpumping
    Joe Petrow... a Skullpump for real!

SR: Hey, I wonder whose it is... you don't suppose President Dan took a
    turn for the worse, do you? 

[Kowalski is on his feet, yelling at Petrow, "Yer just another, bitch,
Sychosys." He then tosses the skull to the side and drags Petrow to his
feet.

"Skull - pump! Skull - pump! Skull - pump!"]

TD: He's got him hooked up...

["Skull - pump! Skull - pump! Skull - pump!"]

TD: Petrow is hooked up... Steve Kowalski is about to finish...

["Skull - pump! Skull - pump! Skull - pump!"]

TD: OH MY!

[As the Fury sets for the Skullpump, he is dropped to his knees from a
blow to the back of the neck!  Big Sycho POP!]

TD: What the heck was that?! It's some sort of bag, some type of black
    IIWF bag!

[Petrow drags his bloody, beaten carcass off the mat, now drenched with
whiskey, broken glass, and the blood of these two warriors.  Petrow
grabs the bag, opening it up... and finds a metal-bound, 1100-page copy
of the IIWF Rulebook!]

TD: I've seen that bag before... I have seen that bag before... Oh my!

[The Sychopaths begin a loud chant of "Pou - tine! Pou - tine! Pou -
tine!", many mispronouncing the name of the current second in command,
but that hardly matters to Janois... as his seat is now empty.]

SR: Hah!  I love it, Dross!  Frenchy hit Kowalski with the IIWF
    rulebook!  Revenge of Janois!  Everybody wants to be in the game,
    Dross!

[Petrow thwacks Kowalski across the face with the IIWF rulebook, and
then stops, obviously looking for a way to finish off the Fury,
searching his brain, needing the moment to be complete, to be right --
one final finish that would forever cement his place in the IIWF
pantheon...]

TD: Good grief.

SR: Unbelievable!

[And there it was, majestically plopped down by the Sychopaths in the
corner of the ring... taped up... glued together... but still quite
recongizable as...]

TD: IT'S THE BULLDOG BROWN TABLE!

[Straight from Ring Wars 3, the folding table on which the scowling
visage of the late Bulldog Brown is displayed, destroyed with the double
flying plancha bulldog at Ring Wars 3, but somehow... someway... here in
the IIWF Coliseum.  Here for Joe Petrow.

Sychosys deliberately moves, placing the huge IIWF rulebook right next
to the picture of Bulldog, just off the center of the table... Petrow
then picks up Kowalski... lifting him above his shoulders... and into
the air, readying the Fury for the inverted crucifix slam...]

TD: Take a look at this, Steve Roberts... Petrow's got the Fury in the
    Knightmare!

SR: Yeah, but he's wobbling, Dross!  He's setting up by the table... but
    he's wobbling!

[Petrow staggers, trying to support the weight of Kowalski so high in
the air, and then he sets himself... and then he tips... and then he
tips some more and then he...]

TD: He drives Steve Kowalski through the table! OH MY!

[A huge crowd pop as Kowalski crashes through Bulldog Brown's table...
Petrow dropping to his knees and covering... 1 -- 2 -- 3! Ding! Ding! 
Ding!]

SL: Your winner, as the result of a pinfall... and _NEW_ IIWF
    CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD... "SYCHOSYS" JOE PETROW!

[Huge crowd pop for Joe Petrow!  The Furies begin to quickly file out of
the building, Kowalski picking himself up, shrugging away all attempts
to help him from the ring, and disappears into the back.  The official
hands the IIWF Cruiserweight Championship belt to a kneeling Petrow, who
cradles it to his breast as were it a lost child.  The Sychopaths are
now barely contained, security out in force keeping them from crashing
the ring and carrying Petrow away.  Petrow requests, and Sparkplug Lee
delivers, a microphone.]

JP: Hey... let me tell you people something.  I've spent my whole career
    kicking ass on my own, my way, no help from no one.  But tonight...
    each and every one of my fans in this building, was a part of this
    victory.  So that makes this moment JUST A LITTLE MORE SPECIAL THAN
    ANY OTHER MOMENT IN MY CAREER!

[Pauses to let the pop die down.]

JP: I'm kinda tired right now, so I only have one more thing to say...

[Petrow drops the belt into his hand, and looks at it for a few seconds,
before looking at the crowd again.]

JP: GIVE IT BACK WHEN YOU'RE DONE!

[At those words, Petrow tosses the belt to a section of his Sychopaths!
"We Are The Champions" by Queen plays, as the fans pass the belt around
like the Stanley Cup.  Petrow stands in the ring watching the spectacle
for a while, then goes out and climbs into the stands to celebrate with
the people.  Eventually, Petrow gets his belt back and climbs back into
the aisle.  He gives one more "Triple M" sign to the crowd, before
disappearing into the back.]

TD: Well, that was a truly remarkable... an impossible dream of a match.

BL: Is this... Hello?  Am I back on?

SR: Becks, welcome back.  Didn't miss much.

TD: A new Cruiserweight Champion... amazing.  Folks, we're gonna need a
    few minutes before the big Intercontinental Championship Match
    between Lord Byron and Creed so we can get this debris cleared away.

["Hail to the Chief" begins again... and a moderate pop now leads acting
IIWF President Steve Owens to the ring once more.]

SO: Hello again, eveyone.  I hope you are enjoying Birthday Bash.  I
    have been happy to present it to you.  I have just a couple of
    additional things to add to my previous pronouncements.

[A phalanx of security officials now enter the ringside area, many of
whom are armed.  Two men in dark suits, sunglasses and who are each
sport hand-held communications devices enter the ring, standing behind
Owens.  One man holds a briefcase in his hands.]

SO: First of all, after careful consultation with IIWF attorneys, it has
    been ruled that Steve "The Fury" Kowalski is, due to his duplicitous
    actions in manipulating the weight requirements of the IIWF
    Cruiserweight division... immediately _suspended_ from all action in
    the IIWF!

[A moderately favorable pop by the Sychopaths, as most of the Furies
have previously left the building.]

TD: What?  What the heck is this?

BL: This is ridiculous!  What is Owens doing?

SR: Hey, hey, everybody... I have to assume that our new Prez knows what
    he's doing... I mean, I'm here, aren't I?

[The celebration over Petrow's win continues as many of the fans are now
returning to their seats, readying themselves for the IC match.]

SO: Now, as a result of this, Steve "the Fury" Kowalski was never
    officially eligible to be an IIWF Cruiserweight Champion.
    Therefore...

TD: Oh, no. Get under the table.

BL: Now Timmy, we've talked about this before...

TD: Dammit, woman... get under the table!

[Cut back to the ring, as the man behind Owens begins to open the
briefcase.]

SO: Therefore... the IIWF Cruiserweight Championship is hereby STRIPPED
    from Joe Petrow and is, as of this moment, VACANT!

[Owens takes the IIWF Cruiserweight belt from the briefcase -- obviously
it has been commandeered in the back from Petrow.]

SO: Enjoy the rest of the show!  Official IIWF souvenirs are available
    in the lobby! 

[There is a brief pause... and then the place explodes! The Sychopaths
begin to wail like animals going to the slaughter, trying to rip their
ways to Owens, but security is prepared, shuttling massive groups of
Sychopaths completely out of the building, and away from the arena.]

TD: Okay, everybody up.

[Dross, Soundbite and LaRue make return to the announce position, while
ring crews work to remove all the debris. Cut to the broadcast table.]

TD: What? I've just gotten word that we've got a live hook-up set down
    at the police station, where Simon Lebec is apparently being
    released.  Mr. Lebec, can you hear us?

[Cut to split screen: on the left, Dross is seen at the broadcast table;
on the right, a disgruntled Lebec is seen standing beside a police
officer at a downtown Portland station.]

SL: Yeah, I'm here.  Now shut up and let me do the talking. I... I...
    have _never_, _ever_ been so embarrassed in my entire life as I was
    tonight.  You people want to take me, put me in shackles like a
    criminal, throw me in a cell with hoodlums... and expect me to
    simply leave?! No, that shit doesn't fly with "The Showstopper". 
    Wanna know why?  Because I'm better than that.  And I know, yeah, I
    _know_, that the IIWF was behind it.  But let me tell you something
    Commies -- I'm still here.  And I'm still walkin'.  And, people, I'M
    STILL TALKIN'! And whether you like it or not, I'm here to stay...
    and stay I will!

[Lebec walks out of the frame with a mean look on his face. Cut back to
a normal shot of the ringside broadcast table. The IIWF Coliseum is now,
remarkably, as it is normally.  Seemingly all traces of the previous
encounter are gone -- debris cleared, the fans of the two Cruiserweight
contenders shuttled cleanly out of the arena -- and a palpable buzz is
evident in the Coliseum.]

TD: Okay, folks, we're down to the big three final matches here tonight.
    We're just one match away from that huge double main event, and
    before we get there, we're going to see an incredible battle for the
    Intercontinental Championship, a match between the two most in-form
    athletes in the IIWF right now.

[Cut to a video package showing Lord Byron at various triumphant moments
in his career: raising the IIWF Intercontinental Championship in victory
after defeating Marty Warnett; having his arm raised after beating "The
Spartan" Troy Walters to take home the ESWP European Heavyweight
Championship. Voice over:]

VO: Lord Byron... the double champion. He has won his last ten singles
    matches. He has been unwavering in his victory.

[Cut to footage of Creed executing the "Goodnight... Farewell... Amen"
on a number of hapless opponents. Creed standing on the mid-buckle while
in the glow of the red spotlights as his fans chant, "Creed! Creed!
Creed!"]

VO: Creed... the hottest rookie in all of sports. Fifteen matches
    unbeaten. He has dominated every opponent he has faced.

[Cut to the match between Creed and Lord Byron, several months ago.
Creed executes his whirling "Crimson Tide" chokeslam on Byron. Cut to
Creed making the cover for the pinfall victory. Creed stands and has his
arm raised in victory as the shot freezes, and slowly turns blood red.]

VO: It is no coincidence that Byron's string of ten wins came after the
    only clean pinfall defeat of his IIWF career -- a defeat enacted at
    the hands of Creed.

[The crowd's chant of "Creed! Creed! Creed!" can be heard faintly in the
background as the shot cuts to footage of the vicious assault on Creed's
knee issued by the European Alliance on May 3: Nurse Heidi has folded up
the wheelchair brought to ringside by Verhoeven and pushed it under the
bottom rope as Byron continues to inflict punishment on Creed's knee
with the cane. Climbing into the ring, she unfolds the wheelchair and
calmly pushes it towards Byron, who brings it crashing down on Creed's
knee. Byron has the Aristoclutch locked on tightly, and Creed thrashes
about in pain as he tries, futilely, to free himself. Again, the shot
freezes on a close-up of the wild-eyed Byron, and slowly turns blood
red. Creed's voice is heard over the top of this scene:]

CREED: Not a match of yours I haven't seen, Byron.  Went through all of
       them.  You win -- you lose -- you still Byron.  Byron the
       technician... Byron the machine. But I never saw what I was
       looking for.  Never once.  I never saw the thing I saw when I
       looked in your eyes last Saturday Night... Fear.

       I think you scared, Byron.  I think you scared. You not scared
       I'm gonna hurt you.  Getting hurt's part of the game. You scared
       'cause you think I'm better than you. You scared 'cause you think
       you gonna lose.

       You want some, Byron?  You gonna get some.

[Creed's voice fades under the growing "Creed! Creed!" chant. Byron's
voice cuts in, clear and supercilious as ever:]

LB: For four months, I have been forced to sit back and listen to that
    man brag about his fluke victory over me.  For four months I have
    had to watch him replay the event over and over again.  For four
    months, I had to dwell on the fact that one moment of stupidity my
    part, had sent this... this rookie streaking to fame and fortune.

    Everyone can be got to, Creed.  Everyone has a weakness.  And last
    Saturday night, I gave you one more to worry about.  The first time
    we met, Creed, you saw a man with other things on his mind.  With
    other people on his mind.  The second time, you met a man looking to
    show the world that you're not quite as indestructible as you seem
    to think.

    History will not repeat itself this time, my friend. I won't allow
    it to.  You can count on that.

[Byron's voice echoes away as the "Creed! Creed!" chant rises in volume
once more. The shot fades to black, and the "Creed!" chant dies away
with it. Cut back to ringside.]

TD: Fans, I can hardly wait for this match. Will the damage to Creed's
    medial collateral ligament be so severe that the red-gloved rookie
    be unable to cope with the focused onslaught of a very determined
    Lord Byron?

SR: Creed's a moron, Dross. He's wrestling with a career-threatening
    injury, just to prove a point. How stupid can the man be?

TD: Creed is determined, Steve Roberts. He is a determined individual.
    Even with an injured knee, his upper body strength remains
    incredible, and he's able to mix it up in a variety of styles. Don't
    count him out this early, Steve. Creed has a lot to prove tonight.
    Let's get up to the ring.

                   =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                   IIWF Intercontinental Championship Match:
                   =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                             Lord Byron vs. Creed
                   -----------------------------------------
                                  WRITER: DS

[Sparkplug Lee steps into the ring once more and raises his microphone:]

RA: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one
    fall, and it is for the IIWF Intercontinental Championship! [Big
    pop!] Introducing first, the challenger...

[The arena is plunged into darkness. Huge pop! The words: "Anyone...
Anywhere... Anytime..." resonate around the Coliseum, as the huge red
letters of the words illuminate the video wall above the entranceway. As
the tempestuous opening chords of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" blare out of
the sound system, the anticipation is almost tangible. As the first
choral chord comes crashing in, an intense red spotlight suddenly casts
a beam of crimson light down on the head of the aisle, in which stand,
ankle-deep in dry ice emanating from the entrance curtain, Creed and the
"CEO" Jack Montgomery. The "Creed! Creed!" chant starts immediately.]

RA: ...accompanied to the ring by the "CEO" Jack Montgomery, hailing
    from Oakland, California, and weighing in at 275lbs, here is...
    Creed!

[A number of red rocket flares shoot up from either side of the
entranceway to the roof of the arena. They explode in a shower of
crimson sparks, raining down on the ring, and at the same time, a bank
of red spotlights above the squared circle fade up, the silhouette of
the gloved left fist spinning on the canvas. At the same time, a trail
of red spotlights fade one by one onto the aisle, forming a path of
light for Creed to walk down. It is Montgomery who walks down the aisle
first. He is the picture of business-like efficience: Versace suit, hair
slicked back, cellular phone in hand. He nods at the fans as he walks
down the aisle, but doesn't speak to them. Creed follows behind, his
right knee in a heavy red brace, his left hand, as always, gloved, his
face, as always, a picture of focus and determination. "Creed! Creed!
Creed!"]

TD: Just listen to the reception that this man is receiving, Steve
    Roberts! I understand that he had an injection in his right knee
    earlier tonight in an attempt to make the pain of wrestling what
    could possibly be the most fiercely-contested match of his career to
    date more bearable.

[The strains of the Beethoven symphony continue to blaze away over the
sound system as Creed makes his way to the ring. He climbs up the
ringsteps and steps between the ropes, taking up a central position in
the ring, standing amidst the spinning image of the clenched fist. He
thrusts his gloved fist into the air, and simultaneously, crimson flames
shoot up from pots on each of the four ringposts. "Creed! Creed!
Creed!"]

TD: What an entrance! You can just feel the support of these people
    behind Creed!

BL: I hope they're ready to support him as he limps out of the ring at
    the end of this match too.

[The lights in the arena rise once more as Sparkplug Lee steps out of
the corner and speaks again:]

RA: And introducing his opponent... [The Intermezzo from Sibelius'
    "Karelia" Suite fades in over the PA. Huge heel pop!] ...accompanied
    to the ring by the lovely Lady DeWinter, currently residing in New
    Orleans, weighing in at 265lbs... he is the ESWP European
    Heavyweight Champion, and he is the IIWF Intercontinental
    Champion... He is... Lord Byron!

[The red rose, the emblem of Lancashire, is cast onto the mat of the
ring as the lights drop once more. Byron steps out into the aisle, his
face fixed in his characteristic sneer. His blond hair is tied back away
from his face, and he walks ahead of the Lady DeWinter, carrying his
ever-present brass-topped cane. DeWinter herself, on the other hand, is
wearing a stunning sparkly white evening gown, long and clinging. Her
long brown hair is artfully piled on top of her head, with tendrils
hanging down, framing her delicate face. She pays no attention to the
whoops and wolf-whistles of the rednecked males in the audience, instead
concentrating on following her Lord to the ring. Byron climbs the
ringsteps and then looks down at DeWinter, handing her the cane, which
she keeps hold of.]

TD: You'll remember, folks, that Byron's cane was a decisive factor in
    his last pay-per-view title defense at Ring Wars III, when Lady
    DeWinter cracked Marty Warnett with it no fewer than three times.

[DeWinter takes up station in one corner, as Byron looks across the ring
at Creed, and points at the heavy brace on the challenger's right knee
with a smirk before stepping between the ropes into the squared circle.
The referee signals for the bell. Ding! Ding! Ding!]

TD: Okay, we're underway here!

[Byron saunters over to Creed, each man fixing the other with a steady
gaze. The two men stand toe-to-toe, neither one giving any ground to the
other. Byron gives a smirk -- a smirk which is then wiped off his face
by a huge left hand shot from Creed! Huge pop as the two men begin
brawling in the centre of the ring! Byron immediately lashes out with
his boots, kicking away at Creed's right knee. Creed takes a step
backwards, but isn't staggered for long, as he comes right back at the
IC champ, taking up his aggressive stance once more, and firing out with
hard rights and lefts whenever Byron comes within reach. Byron bounces
against the ropes and attempts to shoulderblock Creed, but finds the
black man to be an immovable object.]

SR: If you say a damned thing about irresistable forces, Dross, I'll
    show you an irresistable force connected to the end of my leg.

TD: I wasn't going to say a word, Steve -- oh my, Byron charges Creed
    again, and he's flattened by a clothesline!

[Big pop as Byron picks himself up and pushes his slightly-tousled hair
back out of his face. On the outside, the Lady DeWinter shouts words of
encouragement to her man, while the "CEO" eyes her suspiciously. Byron
bounces against the ropes once more, and this time ducks under Creed's
attempted clothesline, bouncing off the opposite side of the ring. Creed
wheels around, a little slower perhaps than he normally would, and Byron
hits him hard with a dropkick to the knee, felling Creed! Big heel pop!
Byron immediately goes to work on the braced right knee, stomping away
at it and trying to wrench the ligaments further. Huge heel pop!]

BL: I think we're seeing Byron's gameplan come into action here, boys.
    Creed's advantage in upper body strength is completely eliminated
    when he's down on the mat.

SR: A fact you've doubtless used to your advantage in the past, Becky.

BL: Watch it, buster.

[Byron attempts to drag Creed over towards the ropes, but Creed lashes
out with his free leg and knocks Byron onto his backside. Both men get
to their feet, and Creed steps up to Byron once more, striking him with
a furious left thrust kick that catches Byron squarely and sends the
blue-blood to the mat once more! Big pop! However, putting his weight on
his right knee seems to cause Creed a great deal of pain, and the
rookie's leg buckles slightly, his face showing the strain. Byron moves
in once more, and ducks out of the way of a swinging left fist, stepping
in close and snapmaring Creed to the mat. Byron goes straight back to
the knee, placing it over the bottom rope and then dropping his full
weight on it. Byron sits down on Creed's bad knee and attempts to put as
much weight as possible on it. Meanwhile, the "CEO" walks around the
ring, and pops Byron in the head with his cellphone while referee Chuck
Sanders checks on Creed. Byron is more frustrated than hurt, and rolls
out of the ring in pursuit of the businessman. Creed follows Byron to
the outside, and stalks behind him, slightly favouring his right leg.
DeWinter yells out for Byron to look behind him, and Byron wheels
around, only to be taken down to the mat with a vicious lariat. Creed
drops onto Byron, and beats on the IC champ, grabbing a nearby cable and
wrapping it around Byron's neck in an effort to choke him out. Big pop!]

SR: Heh, that's the tactic of a desperate man right there, Dross.

TD: Creed knows that he has to try and slow down Byron any way he can,
    Steve. If that means choking him out, he's going to do it.

[Sanders jumps to the outside and immediately tries to extricate Byron
from the cables, pushing Creed away. The rookie rolls back into the ring
as the referee allows Byron to get back to his feet. The Champion shakes
off the cobwebs, DeWinter rushing to his side, and then looks up at
Creed, who stands above him, waiting for him to get into the ring. Byron
climbs to the apron, but jumps back to the floor as Creed makes a grab
for him. Byron walks around the ring to another side and climbs to the
apron again. However, before he can enter the ring, Creed makes another
grab, and Byron drops to the floor once more. Byron walks around to a
third side of the ring, and again climbs to the apron, but this time
catapults himself over Creed with a sunset flip, and manages to pull the
red-gloved rookie over after him... Byron with the cover - 1 - 2 -
kickout!]

TD: The first near-fall of the match.

SR: Hey, Dross, did you know that Creed hasn't scored a pinfall since he
    beat Mad Dog Watkins at Ring Wars III?

TD: No, Steve, I didn't know that.

SR: It's right here in my "L'il Soundbiters' Book Of Facts", Dross. Only
    $79.95 plus handling for all the information you need to sound like
    a total dumbass quoting statistics the whole time.

TD: Fancy that.

[Creed kicks out with some force, tossing Byron off him. Both men get to
their feet, and Byron attempts to whip Creed across the ring. Creed
bounces against the ropes, and launches himself with his left leg,
spinning in mid-air, and hitting Byron with a flying right elbow. Big
pop as the IC champ goes down. Creed eschews the cover, instead dragging
Byron to his feet again and peppering him with chops and European
uppercuts, backing him into a corner. The crowd begin to rally behind
Creed as he whips Byron across the ring into the other corner. Byron
connects with the turnbuckles at great speed, the noise of the impact
resonating throughout the Coliseum. Pop!]

TD: Wow! I could swear the ring just moved about three inches towards
    us, Steve Roberts!

[Byron staggers back into the centre of the ring, and is caught by a
high-velocity lariat from a charging Creed that sends the champion
through a complete revolution in midair before he crashes to the mat.
Huge pop! Creed adjusts his left glove, and a flicker of pain crosses
his face as he lifts his right leg, before dropping on the IC champ and
hooking both legs for the cover - 1 - 2 - Byron kicks out!]

SR: It's going to take more than that to put Byron down.

BL: You're not kidding.

TD: What's that supposed to mean, Becky?

BL: Nothing.

TD: I have to wonder how much pain Creed is in right now. He's been
    using that knee almost as if it weren't injured, but it does seem to
    be troubling him from time to time.

SR: No, Dross, you've got it all wrong. We've seen very little of the
    weight-bearing moves that make Creed's offense so effective. Where
    have the suplexes been? Where's that flying powerbomb of his?

BL: Steve's right -- for once. Creed's not able to make use of all those
    torque-based moves that he favours under normal circumstances.

TD: It's a trade-off between motion and power, here with Creed. He's
    keeping out of Byron's way, but at what expense to his knee?

[Creed drags Byron to his feet, and applies an arm-wringer on Byron's
right arm, yanking it and trying to wrench it out of its socket. Byron
tries to grab hold of Creed with his free left arm, but Creed steps out
of his way and twists the arm a little more. Byron flips out of the
arm-wringer, applying a hammerlock on Creed's own left arm, but Creed
ducks out of the hold and uses an armdrag to throw Byron to the mat. Big
pop! Byron is quickly back to his feet and charges at Creed, who is
ready, and fells Byron with a drop toe-hold. Creed immediately drops on
Byron and slaps him across the back of the head repeatedly. Big pop!]

TD: Creed's trying to infuriate Byron! He's trying to rile up the
    champion!

[Byron roars with displeasure as Creed continues to slap his head from
side to side. Creed steps back from Byron, who gets to his feet and
complains to Sanders. Byron shakes the kinks out of his neck, and then
approaches Creed once more. Creed manages to slip behind Byron and apply
a standing armbar, again prompting Byron to lash out with his free left
arm, but Creed releases the armbar, and grabs Byron's pony-tail, quickly
sitting down, snapping Byron to the mat by his hair. Big pop! The
referee warns Creed for pulling Byron's hair, but the rookie appears to
be taking no notice of the official as he now slaps Byron in the face
two or three times. Huge pop!]

TD: Oh, is this wise? Creed's clearly trying to taunt Byron into losing
    his temper and making a mistake -- but he's got that injured knee.
    If Byron takes out all his frustrations on that knee, we could see
    that MCL injury become exascerbated.

BL: The danger with an injury to the medial collateral ligament is that
    you can quite easily also tear the anterior cruciate ligament --
    which is a potentially career-ending injury.

[Creed again takes a step back, allowing Byron to get back to his feet.
Byron charges Creed, and once more, Creed is quicker, this time able to
lock on a sleeper hold. Byron, ever the technician, slips out and behind
Creed, applying a half-nelson. Now Creed slips out and traps Byron into
a full nelson -- which he then uses to hit a devastating dragon suplex!
Huge pop! Creed makes the cover - 1 - 2 - kickout!]

TD: What a move from Creed!

[Creed seems to take a little longer than usual to get to his feet, his
face contorted slightly by the discomfort of executing the power move.
Byron also drags himself to his feet using the ropes, and then
approaches Creed, taking him down to the mat with a single-leg take
down. Byron twists Creed's knee backwards, trying to strain the injury
as much as possible. Creed yells out in pain. Big heel pop! Byron
repeatedly wrenches on the knee, until the "CEO" hops up onto the apron,
drawing the champion's attention away from Creed for a moment. Sanders
orders the "CEO" back to the arena floor, and Byron turns back to Creed,
going for the figure four leglock. Creed, however, lashes out and
attempts to gouge Byron's eye with his thumb. Byron clutches at his
face, but has the presence of mind to land a heavy boot to Creed's
"lower abdomen". Big heel pop! The referee warns Byron, who yells, "You
bloody idiot! He poked me in the eye!" Byron goes back to Creed, and
grabs both of his legs again. He drags Creed further towards the centre
of the ring, and then applies a figure four leglock. The referee drops
to the canvas and checks on Creed as Byron reaches out behind him and
grabs the ropes for extra leverage. Huge heel pop!]

TD: Byron's trying to maim Creed here... Perhaps it was a mistake to get
    the IC champ riled up.

SR: Of course it was a mistake, Dross. The smartest thing Creed could do
    right now is get out of that ring and take an early shower. He's
    putting his career on the line in this match.

[The "CEO" leaps to the apron and yells at the official that Byron has a
hold of the ropes, but Sanders seems more intent on removing Montgomery
from the apron than turning around to see Byron, who quickly releases
his grip on the ropes as the official turns. However, as he does so,
Creed summons up his strength and manages to turn Byron over, reversing
the hold. Huge pop!]

TD: Creed's got it reversed! He's reversed that figure four! His knee
    must be absolutely burning with the pain of that hold!

[Byron reaches out with his hands, reaching for the ropes -- and manages
to grab the bottom rope. The referee calls for the break, but Creed
refuses to break the hold. Sanders lays the count on Creed -- and the
rookie releases the leglock on the count of four. Byron drags himself to
his feet as Creed clutches his sore knee. Byron grabs Creed's leg,
extends it, and drops an elbow hard across the knee. Big heel pop! Creed
beats the mat in pain as Byron continues the onslaught with blows of all
kinds. Finally, however, Creed is able to take a swing at Byron with his
free left fist, catching the blue-blood flush on the jaw, and knocking
him to the mat. Big pop! Creed rolls to the outside of the ring under
the bottom rope and struggles to stand on the arena floor. Fans at
ringside shout encouragement to Creed, who grimly shakes his head and
begins limping slowly towards the aisle. Big jeers of disapproval from
Creed's fans.]

TD: I think Creed's decided that he's had enough, Steve Roberts! I think
    he's walking out on this match.

[The referee begins to count Creed out of the ring as Byron pulls
himself to his feet. The crowd chants, "Creed! Creed!", but still the
rookie heads up the aisle, tortuously, obviously in pain as he struggles
to put his weight on his right leg. Byron stops the referee's count
before slipping out of the ring through the ropes and heading up the
aisle after Creed.]

TD: Byron could have stayed in the ring and taken the countout victory
    right there. What's he doing?

SR: He's a proud man, Dross. Creed scored the only clean pinfall over
    Byron in his whole career. He could never be happy with a countout
    victory.

BL: He's started the job -- now he's got to finish it.

SR: I bet that's a phrase you've heard a lot in your time, huh, Becks?
    Ouch!

TD: Please, you two... Byron now, stalking up behind Creed...

[Byron cagily approaches Creed from behind. The crowd shouts its warning
to Creed -- who whirls around and tackles Byron with a shoulder to the
midsection, driving Byron hard into the steel crowd barriers! Huge pop!
Creed flails away at the IC champ with hard rights and lefts as the
referee's count reaches three. Creed stands, and wrenches a section of
retaining barrier from its orientation, slamming it down on Byron. Big
pop! Creed then proceeds to drop an elbow on Byron, driving the barrier
into his torso further. Huge pop! Byron tries to throw the barrier off,
but Creed continues to grind it into the champ with his boot. The
referee's count reaches seven, and the "CEO" leaps to the apron to
distract Sanders, thus breaking the count.]

SR: Yeah! If Creed pushes any harder, we're gonna have diced Byron!

TD: This is bad! Creed was playing possum there on the outside! He's got
    Byron right where he wants him now -- stranded in the aisle, with
    the referee distracted. Hang on -- here comes Otto Verhoeven!

[Huge heel pop as Verhoeven, who looks as if he has just stepped out of
the shower, charges down the aisle, water droplets flying off his
muscled torso as he runs. Before Creed realises what has happened,
Verhoeven is all over him -- nailing him with a boot to the back of the
head from behind. Creed goes down like a sack of potatoes, and Verhoeven
tosses the barrier off the winded Byron before going back to work on
Creed, dragging him to his feet and throwing him towards the ring, via
as many hard surfaces as possible -- the floor, the steel retaining
barriers and so on. The "CEO" leaps down from the apron and charges up
the aisle to tackle Verhoeven, but is nailed from behind by a shot from
Byron's brass-topped cane, wielded by the Lady DeWinter. Huge heel pop
as Montgomery goes down!]

TD: Oh no! Montgomery was just laid out by that cane! This is carnage!

[DeWinter tosses the cane to Verhoeven, who proceeds to drive it into
Creed's injured knee. Byron has picked himself up, and joins with
Verhoeven in pummelling Creed's weakened knee. The referee, meanwhile,
dashes up into the aisle and attempts to keep Verhoeven and Byron at
bay. However, Sanders finds himself tossed to one side, landing on his
backside. He picks himself up and heads back to the ring, where he
confers with Sparkplug Lee, while Verhoeven and Byron continue to work
Creed over.]

TD: It looks like Sanders is going to make some kind of announcement
    here...

[Sparkplug's voice booms out over the PA, temporarily distracting the
European Alliance from their attack.]

RA: Ladies and gentlemen, referee Chuck Sanders has ruled that unless
    Otto Verhoeven and the Lady DeWinter leave ringside _immediately_,
    Lord Byron will be _stripped_ of the Intercontinental Championship,
    which will be awarded to Creed!

[Huge pop from the crowd!]

SR: What?! That's a preposterous decision, Dross!

TD: The referees have ultimate jurisdiction in these matters, Steve
    Roberts. Verhoeven and DeWinter are history!

[The Butcher and DeWinter reluctantly back away up the aisle, the
Butcher yelling expletives in his native tongue at the referee. Byron
refuses to be swayed from his gameplan. He drops the cane, and hauls
Creed up to his feet. Creed now seems unable to put any weight on his
right leg, and he crumples to the floor as Byron throws him towards the
ring.]

BL: The referee may have taken a stand, but it could well be too late,
    Timmy. It looks like the damage has been done to Creed's knee.

[The referee climbs back into the ring and begins counting both men out
once more as Byron continues to throw Creed towards the ring. On the
count of five, Byron throws Creed into the steel ringsteps before
rolling back into the ring himself and breaking the count. Byron rolls
back to the outside and grabs the top half of the ringsteps before
slamming them down onto Creed's knee. Huge heel pop! In the aisle, a
number of security staff come down to the ring to help the "CEO" to his
feet and escort him away from ringside. Byron finally rolls Creed back
into the ring and pulls his hair back into the usual pony-tail, while
looking around at the jeering crowd. Creed rolls on the canvas,
clutching his knee in agony, as Byron climbs to the second turnbuckle,
and comes down hard with an elbow on Creed's knee. Big heel pop! Byron
makes the cover - 1 - 2 - kickout!]

TD: Unbelievable! Creed just will not quit!

SR: We could be seeing the end of Creed's career right here tonight,
    Dross!

[Byron drags Creed to his feet, and sets him up for a suplex, hooking
Creed's arm over his shoulders. He pauses to catch his breath -- and is
caught in a small package by Creed! The referee is out of position, but
quickly drops to the mat - 1 - 2 -- Byron kicks out by the narrowest of
margins! Huge outlet of breath from the crowd.]

TD: Oh my! We nearly had a new Intercontinental Champion right there!

[Byron is furious, and stomps away at Creed's knee, before dropping to
the mat and attempting to remove the heavy brace. Sanders warns Byron,
but the IC champ simply ignores the referee as he continues to work on
removing the brace. Creed, sensing the danger, lashes out with his left
fist, and manages to knock Byron off his feet. With the crowd on its
feet, chanting his name louder than ever, Creed drags himself to his
feet using the ropes. He seems unable to put much weight on his right
leg as Byron picks himself up. Creed limps into the centre of the ring,
and drags Byron to his feet. The rookie whips the champion into the
ropes, and grabs him by the throat. He uses Byron's momentum against
him, whipping him up into the air and rotating himself through 180
degrees, before driving Byron down into the mat -- but something goes
wrong! Byron manages to swing one of his legs up behind Creed's head and
catch him with what is essentially a mid-air enzuigiri! Creed hits the
mat hard, and Byron is also winded as both men are laid out on the mat,
Creed face down, Byron on his back, his chest heaving. Huge heel pop!]

TD: Incredible! Byron somehow managed to counter that chokeslam with an
    enzuigiri! Both men are down!

SR: Come on, Byron! Cover that red-gloved freak! Pin him!

[Byron slowly crawls over to his opponent, rolls him over, and covers
Creed... The referee drops into position: 1 -- 2 -- kickout! The
Coliseum explodes as Creed's fans pop for their hero!]

SR: What?!

TD: Incredible! Incredible! Simply...

[Byron cannot believe Creed's resilience as he kneels in the ring,
pushing the hair out of his face once more. He looks around at the fans
at ringside, all bellowing at the tops of their lungs for Creed to get
up. Creed simply lies, motionless save for his heaving chest, on the
canvas. Byron seems entranced, but after a few moments, he snaps out of
it and again goes to work on Creed's knee brace. This time, he is able
to rip it off, and he spits in Creed's face before rolling Creed over
once more, taking hold of his right foot, and twisting it around his own
leg before throwing himself down to the canvas backwards in a very
painful legbreaker.]

TD: Oh no... here it comes! That brace is off, and Byron's... oh, this
    is bad. Look at the pressure on that leg!

[Maintaining this hold, Byron reaches back and pulls up Creed's head
before locking on a modified sleeperhold. Byron then bridges his back to
exert the pressure, steadying his balance with his other leg. Byron has
the hold cinched in! He has applied the Aristoclutch on Creed! Huge heel
pop!]

SR: It's over! Ring the bell! Ring the bell!

TD: Oh my...

BL: Creed's not giving up. He's not giving up!

TD: This is incredible... The referee's checking on Creed, but he just
    won't give up. Can you imagine the pain Creed is in right now? Can
    you imagine the burning that must be consuming that right knee?
    Unbelievable.

[Byron keeps the hold locked on firmly. A close-up of Creed's face
reveals a visage twisted in agony. However, he refuses to give up, his
teeth clenched and his eyes screwed up in determination to survive the
hold.]

TD: This could damage that knee irreparably! The referee should stop
    this match!

[Suddenly, there is a huge mixed pop as Mad Dog Watkins, his head
bandaged from the wound he sustained earlier in the evening, dashes down
the aisle. He rolls straight into the ring and stomps on Byron's head,
forcing the Intercontinental Champion to break the hold. Huge pop! The
referee signals for the bell: Ding! Ding! Ding!]

TD: Oh my! It's Mad Dog Watkins! Watkins has come to the aid of Creed,
    the man who pinned him at Ring Wars III... I can't believe it!

SR: What the hell's Watkins thinking about, Dross?! Attacking Byron?!

[Lord Byron, exhausted, struggles to his feet, but finds himself
clotheslined out of the ring by Watkins! Huge pop! Watkins drops to the
side of Creed, who rolls over onto his back, his face still etched with
pain. The referee hands the Intercontinental Championship belt back to
Byron as Sparkplug Lee makes the announcement:]

RA: Ladies and gentlemen, your winner, as the result of a
    disqualification: Lord Byron!

[Huge heel pop as the exhausted Byron raises the IC belt in victory. He
points up at Watkins, who now looks down on the champion from the ring,
and gestures that he will pay dearly for his intrusion. Watkins simply
nods grimly as Byron backs away up the aisle, picking up his
brass-topped cane as he goes, and waving it menacingly at the fans who
jeer his exit.]

TD: Mad Dog Watkins may have cost Creed the match here tonight, but I
    think he has probably saved the young athlete's career. If he'd
    stayed much longer in that Aristoclutch, who knows what kind of
    damage could have been done.

BL: As it is, Creed's gonna need a trip to the hospital to check out
    that knee. If he needed surgery before this match, he's certainly
    going to need it all the more now.

SR: It's Watkins who could use the surgery if you ask me -- a mind
    transplant! Has he gone mad?

TD: I guess Watkins couldn't just stand by and watch Byron end the
    career of an athlete for whom he has developed a great deal of
    respect -- ironically, it might be true to say that Watkins may see
    himself as something of a father figure to Creed.

SR: Aw, don't you get started on that sentimental crap, Dross. The L'il
    Soundbiters don't want that crap.

[Watkins helps Creed to his feet, the younger athlete not resisting the
Mad Dog's assistance as he might have done previously. Gingerly, Creed
is able to walk from the ring, thanks to the help of the veteran
Watkins. The fans in the Coliseum are on their feet in support for Creed
and the Mad Dog as they slowly make their way up the aisle to the
strains of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy".]

TD: What a match that was... Creed's unbeaten streak comes to an
    untimely end. But the European Alliance have proved beyond all doubt
    that they truly are a real force here in the IIWF. First, Verhoeven
    defeats Tony Starks, and now Lord Byron has kept his
    Intercontinental Championship at the expense of Creed.

[The technical crew swarms around the ring, erecting the walls of the
large steel cage around its perimeter, while a platform, from which hang
four chain ladders, is lowered from the ceiling of the arena. Techies
climb the ropes in the ring and affix the loose end of the chain
walkways to each side of the cage in turn. Finally, one clambers onto
the platform suspended above the ring and removes the winch which
lowered it into position -- and then has to cling on for dear life as
the platform swings wildly. He is eventually able to climb back into the
ring, to a big pop from the crowd. Cut to the broadcast table at
ringside.]

TD: Well, this has already been an amazing night of action, and we've
    already seen plenty of events to look back on, but right now, the
    action's not about to let up as we move on to the first match in our
    double main event:  the awesome Deathbringer takes up the challenge
    of Requiem in a first for the IIWF -- a Master of Darkness match.

SR: Oh, this is going to be a big one alright, Dross.  These two have
    been psyching each other out for weeks now, and in a match like
    this, something's got to give.

TD: Deathbringer has proved in the past that he is capable of going toe
    to toe with anyone here in the IIWF, but Requiem isn't to be taken
    lightly himself.

SR: Hey, Dross, one thing, just one thing.

TD: Go on then...

SR: Did ya miss the Soundbite?  Huh? Did ya miss the sparkling sense of
    humour, the intelligent conversation... didja miss the company,
    Dross... I mean, Summer's okay, but he's hardly the type who'll
    light up all those L'il Soundbiters' faces, who'll keep this show
    rolling on like noone else can...

BL: You really ought to see a specialist, Steve...

SR: Oh, it's you again, is it?

BL: One more word about biscuits, honey-glazed or otherwise, and I'll
    introduce you to a whole new world of pain.

SR: Really?  For free?

TD: Steve...

SR: Damn, it's good to be young, gifted and back.

TD: Quickly moving on, it looks as though all the necessary adjustments
    to the ring have been made, so lets go to ringside and join
    Sparkplug Lee for the introductions...

                 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                 [DOUBLE MAIN EVENT] Master of Darkness Match:
                 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
                           Deathbringer vs. Requiem
                 ---------------------------------------------
                                  WRITER: MP

[Sparkplug Lee stands outside the forboding steel walls of the cage
which now surrounds the ring. Graphics slide onto the video wall at the
head of the aisle which clarify the way the ring and its accoutrements
have been set up:

VIEWED FROM ABOVE:

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC                     C = cage
C        |        C                     d = door
C        |        C                     - = gangway
C       ppp       C                     p = platform
C-------ppp-------C
C       ppp       C
d        |        C
C        |        C
CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

VIEWED FROM THE SIDE:

C---------ppp---------C                 C = cage
C                     C                 = = floor
C     r         r     C                 p = platform
C  X  r         r  X  C                 X = creature/jobber
C  X  RRRRRRRRRRR  X  C                 R = ring
=======================

Sparkplug Lee regards the diagrams with confusion before looking
nervously down at his cue-cards.]

RA: The following contest, the first match in tonight's double main
    event, is scheduled for one fall with no time limit, and is the
    Master of Darkness match! [Huge crowd pop!] The rules are as
    follows:  There will be no count outs, no pinfalls, no submission. 
    A steel cage has been erected around the ring, from the top of which
    are suspended four chain ladder gangways, each leading to the
    platform which you see suspended above the ring.  Placed upon this
    platform will be the two most treasured possessions of the two
    athletes:  Deathbringer's scythe, and Requiem's guitar.  The first
    athlete to successfully retrieve both objects and escape over the
    top of the cage will be declared the winner.

SR: Good job, Sparky.  I'm impressed.

[Sparkplug Lee looks on nervously as eight cowled figures emerge from
the entrance, walking down the aisle to take up station at various
points around the ring.]

BL: Hey, look -- it's the creatures! Yeah!

TD: What is it with you and these creatures, Becky?

BL: I've seen my fair share of creatures in my time, Timmy.

RA: [nervously] And now, introducing the participants... Introducing
    first, weighing in at 324lbs and hailing from the Dark Side... [Huge
    heel pop!] here is....  Deaaaaaaathbrinnnnggeer!

[The heel pop increases tenfold as the lights inside the arena flicker
then dim, and smoke begins to pour from the entrance to the aisle as
"The Reaper" by Gravedigger starts up over the PA system.  The pop
increases again as the cowled figure of Deathbringer emerges from the
mist, the scythe resting across his shoulder.  Deathbringer purposefully
walks down the aisle towards the ring, his presence quietening the fans
as he passes...]

TD: Deathbringer.  This guy is menacing.

BL: Has it got rather chilly in here all of a sudden?

SR: I thou..

BL: [interrupting] Don't... even bother. That is, if you want to keep
    your "L'il Soundbiter" in working order.

[Deathbringer slowly steps through the cage, and up the steps into the
ring.  He slowly hands his scythe to the referee who carefully hands it
to a technician who hoists it onto the platform.  Deathbringer removes
his cowl and stands in the centre of the ring, waiting silently...]

RA: And his opponent... [Huge crowd pop!]  weighing in at 306lbs and
    hailing from parts unknown... here... is ... Requiieeeeeeeem!!

[The crowd quietens as no sign of Requiem is seen at the entrance. 
Deathbringer stands inside the ring, waiting...  suddenly, the lights
cut completely.  Several people in the crowd start screaming as
Requiem's voice is heard over the PA system...]

REQUIEM: From this day forth, until the end of time, there shall be no
         mercy for the damned...

[A flash of lightning lights up the arena, and Requiem can be seen stood
on top of the platform, looking down at Deathbringer with an expression
of pure hatred on his face... but this is not the same Requiem. 
Requiem's hair, formerly kept in a ponytail, is now in a white crew cut,
combined with a van dyke beard.  He is wearing black leggings with blood
red boots, and a leather biker's jacket, upon the back of which the
words Angel of Destruction are blazing in a deep red flame.  In short,
Requiem looks to be completely transformed.  He slowly raises his guitar
in the air, then places it on the platform, before leaping off in a
splash dive from a height of fifteen feet straight down onto
Deathbringer in the ring below!  Huge shocked pop!  The referee quickly
scrambles out of the ring, calling for the bell...]

TD: My word, what an entrance by Requiem!  And what a start to the
    match!

SR: That was fifteen feet he just fell onto Deathbringer!  This match
    could have been over before it even began!

[As the referee quickly exits the ring, locking the cage door behind
him, Requiem attacks the prone Deathbringer with a flurry of hard blows
to the head, before stepping back off him and tearing off his blazing
jacket, throwing it into one corner.  He turns back to Deathbringer, and
lays a series of stomping kicks into the back of his head as he starts
to sit up...]

TD: This is a very aggressive start here by Requiem, he's giving
    Deathbringer no room to recover from that initial attack...

[Requiem continues the onslaught, pulling Deathbringer's head back down
to the canvas and blatantly choking him... the referee forces him to
break at the five count... Deathbringer rolls to his knees, gripping
Requiem's arm, and Requiem responds with a fast series of clubbing
forearm blows to the back, knocking Deathbringer back down to one knee.]

TD: Requiem showing no sign of let up on Deathbringer here... big
    kneelift sends the Reaper crashing back into the turnbuckles! 

[Deathbringer staggers back out of the corner, only to receive a
crushing elbow to the face from Requiem, knocking him straight back in! 
Requiem grabs hold of the ropes, and starts another fast series of kicks
to the Reaper's midsection.  Deathbringer falls under the relentless
barrage, slumping back down against the turnbuckles.  Requiem takes
advantage by putting his boot under Deathbringer's chin, and choking him
against the turnbuckles... the crowd gives a big shocked pop!]

TD: This really is very uncharacteristic of Requiem here, I've never
    seen him act this aggressively.

SR: Hey, maybe that Gabrielle girl's finally knocked some sense into the
    big man.  He's realised that cheaters always prosper.  I mean, come
    on, give him some credit, it only took him a couple of months.

[Requiem continues to choke Deathbringer against the ropes, then pulls
him out of the corner by the head.  Deathbringer lashes out with a boot
to the midsection, but Requiem quickly regains control with a facerake,
and then by raking his forehead on the top rope... big mixed pop!]

TD: You may be right, Steve. Requiem is using every trick in the book
    to keep Deathbringer under control.

SR: Like I said, only took him a couple of months.

TD: Requiem now, with an Irish whip... big belly-to-belly suplex!  He
    nailed him!

[Requiem runs to the ropes himself, coming back of with a big flying
elbowdrop... and Deathbringer moves out of the way at the last second! 
Both men start to move to their feet, and Requiem swings a haymaker..
blocked by Deathbringer!  Pop!  And Deathbringer scoops Requiem up.. big
bodyslam!  Requiem leaps straight back to his feet.]

TD: And now it's Deathbringer with a kick to the midsection... and
    another slam, no Requiem caught his arm, and turned it into an
    armdrag!  And requiem now, another rake of the face, and he locks in
    a tight armbar on Deathbringer!

[Requiem pulls Deathbringer's head down to the canvas, stretches his arm
out, and brings a huge legdrop crashing down across the shoulder joint! 
Requiem continues to work on the arm, pulling it back and stretching the
shoulder joint as Deathbringer fights his way back to a vertical base,
stretching the arm out and dropping a series of elbows across the
stretched muscle... Deathbringer pushes his free arm across Requiem's
face, forcing him to back into the ropes...]

TD: Deathbringer now, with an Irish whip... reversal by Requiem...
    Requiem catches him on the rebound... oh my!

[Huge heel pop from the crowd as Requiem hoists Deathbringer up into the
air and drops him in a hotshot, not onto the top rope, but over the top
rope, and out onto the arena floor!  Requiem quickly rolls out after
him...]

TD: Requiem now, pulling Deathbringer to his feet...

SR: He's setting him up for an Irish whip towards the ringsteps, Dross,
    I'm really starting to take a shine to this guy...

[Requiem attempt the Irish whip, and sends Deathbringer crashing
straight through the ringsteps, almost knocking aside the cowled figure
that was standing near the ringpost.  Requiem follows up quickly,
pulling Deathbringer up and pulling his arm behind him, before sending
him crashing shoulder first into the cornerpost!  Heel pop! 
Deathbringer slumps over the ringsteps, and Requiem picks him up
again...]

TD: Requiem now, he's going to send Deathbringer crashing into the steps
    again.. blocked by Deathbringer!  And he returns the favour! 
    Requiem staggers around the ring... and Deathbringer from behind
    with a shoulderblock that sends Requiem into the cage wall!  Requiem
    staggers back.. uh oh!

SR: Deathbringer scoops Requiem up, and he's got him over his shoulder..
    he's trying to get him in position for a Tombstone piledriver...

TD: And Requiem somehow manages to slide off... and a shoulderbuster on
    the concrete!

BL: That arm of Deathbringer's has to be shot from that.

[Requiem slowly gets to his feet, pulling Deathbringer up with him, and
rolls him back into the ring. Requiem climbs onto the ring apron and
reaches over the top rope, pulling Deathbringer to his feet...]

TD: Surely he's not going to superplex him to the outside... no, he
    grabs Deathbringer's arm -- and drops back to the floor! That almost
    dislocated Deathbringer's arm right there!

SR: He's hurt, Dross, Requiem's got the Reaper hurt.  Who would've
    thought it?

[Requiem climbs back onto the ring apron as Deathbringer rolls to his
knees, and climbs into the ring. He quickly moves over to Deathbringer,
stomping on the fingers of each hand before pulling him up again, and
setting him up for another Irish whip... he sends Deathbringer cross
ring, and measures him for a clothesline...]

TD: Deathbringer ducks, back on the rebound... and he hits Requiem hard
    with the Scythe flying clothesline!  Requiem is down!

SR: But Deathbringer hurt his arm again!  What a dumb move...

[Deathbringer slowly gets back to his feet, and moves across to Requiem,
pulling him back up to his feet.  Requiem lashes out with a thumb to the
eye, but Deathbringer cuts him short with a headbutt...]

SR: The thumb to the eye.  May stop an elephant, but probably not a dead
    man.

[Deathbringer hits Requiem hard with an uppercut, then another
headbutt.  Deathbringer sets him up for an Irish whip...]

TD: Reversal by Requiem!  Requiem with a clothesline... Deathbringer
    ducks!  Requiem turns... and Deathbringer catches him around the
    throat!  Chokeslam!

[Requiem rolls in agony on the canvas, and Deathbringer pulls him back
to his feet by the hair, running him towards the ropes... and throwing
him clean out of the ring!  Huge pop!  Deathbringer turns towards the
corner, and starts to climb the turnbuckles...]

TD: This could be risky. Deathbringer now, climbing to the top rope...
    Requiem's staggering to his feet on the outside...

SR: Oh... my...

[Huge crowd pop!]

BL: Deathbringer with another Scythe clothesline -- from the top rope to
    the outside!  Just like that he turns the entire match around!

SR: What a move!  Both men are down... wait... Deathbringer's... he just
    sat up! What's with that, huh, Dross?!

[Deathbringer slowly climbs to his feet, and picks up Requiem once more,
rolling him back into the ring.  Deathbringer turns, and walks towards
the cage wall... huge crowd pop as Deathbringer starts climbing!]

SR: That injured arm is slowing him down, Dross, he's gotta be hurting. 
    He just has to be.

[Deathbringer slowly starts to climb up the cage wall as Requiem rolls
over in the ring, shaking his head.  Requiem slowly pushes himself up to
his feet and staggers towards the ropes, climbing out of the ring...]

TD: Deathbringer's almost reached the gangway!  All he has to do is pull
    himself up!

BL: Not if Requiem has anything to do with it...

[Requiem charges the cage wall, hitting it with a crash!  Pop! 
Deathbringer loses his grip on the gangway, and hangs above the arena
floor for a second, before regaining his footing.  Requiem quickly
starts to climb up after him... Deathbringer reaches up, trying to pull
himself up onto the gangway... Requiem catches hold of his foot, and
pulls at him, trying to pull him back down.]

TD: Deathbringer kicks at Requiem's head, but he can't shake him loose.
    Requiem starts to climb up behind him. What's he going to...?! Oh
    no, surely not... they're ten feet above the arena floor!

[Requiem waistlocks Deathbringer from behind as he tries to climb to the
top of the cage... Requiem braces himself, and drops back, pulling
Deathbringer with him... the crowd at ringside scream...]

TD: Requiem with a back superplex all the way to the arena floor! 
    Unbelievable!

SR: That hurt both of them, Dross! Deathbringer may have fallen further,
    but Requiem got caught underneath him.

BL: What I want to know is: why have a referee at all?  Just let these
    two kill themselves...

[Both men lie sprawled on the arena floor, the crowd urging them on...
and both men start to move at the same time!  Pop!  Requiem and
Deathbringer start to push themselves to their feet... Requiem pulls
himself up with the cage wall, and Deathbringer rolls to his knees...
Requiem staggers across to Deathbringer, and receives a fist to the
midsection.. he responds with an axehandle smash, and a second, then
pulls Deathbringer back to his feet, and sends him crashing straight
back down with a hard bodyslam!  Requiem turns away from the prone man,
and starts to rip the protective mats up from the floor. Heel pop!]

TD: Surely not... Requiem has torn away the protective mats, and he's
    picking Deathbringer back up... he's setting him up for the rocker
    dropper straight onto the concrete floor...

[Requiem drops his leg across Deathbringer's neck... and Deathbringer
throws him off!  Pop!  Requiem steps back, and Deathbringer scoops him
up over his shoulder...]

SR: Tombstone piledriver!  He's going to knock him out!

[Deathbringer lowers Requiem into position for the Tombstone, and
Requiem kicks up, rolling over Deathbringer's shoulder and hoisting him
up, sending him crashing to the floor with a big belly-to-back suplex! 
Pop!  Requiem stumbles to his feet, and picks Deathbringer up again...]

TD: Back and forth, back and forth... how much more can these two take?

[Requiem sets Deathbringer up for another Irish whip -- and Deathbringer
reverses, sending Requiem crashing headfirst into the ringpost!  Huge
crowd pop!  Deathbringer quickly turns, and starts to climb the cage
wall again. Requiem starts to roll to his knees, and heads towards the
cage wall himself...]

TD: Deathbringer's halfway up the wall, and he's close to the gangway.
    Requiem's climbing up a few feet away from him... this one's going
    to be close...

[Deathbringer reaches the gangway, and starts to haul himself onto it.
Requiem catches up to him a few seconds later, and starts to pull him
back down -- and the pair become involved on a brawl fifteen feet above
the arena floor!  Huge crowd pop!]

SR: Look at this!  Loot at it!  Deathbringer and Requiem are trading
    blows up there!  Are these guys nuts?

BL: Oh, they're nuts all right...

SR: Speaking of nuts, Becks... pecan nut cookies sound good about now.

BL: Okay, buddy -- I warned you.

[Deathbringer and Requiem continue to trade blows high above the arena
floor, and Requiem gets the advantage with a thumb to the eye!  He
practically tears at Deathbringer, kicking away at him as he tries to
haul himself onto the gangway... Deathbringer loses his footing, and
clutches at the cage... and Requiem kicks at his hands, and Deathbringer
falls!  Huge mixed pop!]

TD: He caught the cage, I don't believe it, he caught the cage a couple
    of feet down...

SR: Argh!

TD: Are you okay, Steve?

SR: Did you... Did you see what she did?

BL: Oh, quit whining, Steve. Think yourself lucky.  I know people who
    would pay $30 a time for that sort of treatment from me...

TD: Becky, please, we don't want to know...

[Requiem hauls himself up onto the gangway, which sways precariously as
he tries to get his balance, and starts to walk along it... below him,
still fighting for a foothold on the cage wall, Deathbringer starts to
pull himself up...]

TD: Requiem is a matter of moments away from reaching the platform
    here... but Deathbringer's not all that far behind...

[Requiem cautiously walks along the swaying chain gangway -- and is sent
tumbling to his knees as Deathbringer reaches the top of the cage and
rocks it!  Requiem starts to carefully turn around to face him on the
gangway as Deathbringer hauls himself up... the gangway sways under the
weight of both men and Deathbringer starts to move purposefully towards
Requiem...]

TD: This is more than dangerous, this is lethal!  If one of those two
    fell to the concrete now...

BL: Hey, Timmy, don't jinx them like that! They're having a rough enough
    time as it is.

[The crowd pops wildly as Deathbringer reaches Requiem, who is having
some difficulty turning around, and hits him hard with a forearm shot! 
The gangway sways from side to side, and Requiem loses his balance...
only to be caught around the throat before he falls by Deathbringer! 
Huge awed crowd pop!]

TD: Surely no... he.. he won't...

SR: It's chokeslam time! Plant him, big guy!

BL: The elevator to hell, going straight down, with no stops.

[Requiem frantically crawls backwards along the gangway as Deathbringer
starts to pull him up... and catches Deathbringer with a low blow!  huge
heel pop!  Deathbringer release his hold and falls backwards, and
Requiem pulls him up, hooking him into position...]

TD: Oh no... Requiem cannot be thinking of... he's setting Deathbringer
    up for the Final Lament!

SR: Someone drop, please...

[Requiem braces himself, and lifts Deathbringer... and loses his
balance!  Deathbringer reverses it, and both men go flying off the
gangplank as Deathbringer backdrops Requiem fifteen feet down and into
the ring!  Deathbringer falls backwards himself, falling onto the
ropes... huge mixed pop!]

SR: Referee down!  Deathbringer caught him as he landed on the rope, and
    knocked him clean out of the ring! 

TD: Requiem... the referee... Deathbringer... none of them are moving...
    hold on, what's going on outside the ring?

[Around the ring, fights have started to break out among the eight
cowled figures...]

TD: This is wrong. Something's wrong.

BL: Full marks for observation, Timmy.  One of them has got a chair.

SR: Seems like they're having some sort of philosophical disagreement.

[The fight outside the ring continues, and it quickly becomes apparent
that two of them, armed with chairs, are fighting off the other six.
Without weapons of their own, the other six stand no chance, and are
battered into submission... the two tear off their cowled robes,
revealing...]

TD: The Highwayman?! And Nightwing?! What on earth is going on here?

[Nightwing moves across to the cage door, fixing a large padlock to it,
as the Highwayman rolls into the ring, nailing Deathbringer from behind
just as he staggers to his feet...]

SR: [New York waitress voice] Yeah, hon, you want anything with that
    setup?

TD: This is terrible!  What do... what do the Highwayman and Nightwing
    think they're doing in there?

SR: Giving Deathbringer a good old fashioned pounding, I believe...

TD: This match does not deserve to end like this. The referee is still
    down, he doesn't know what's happening...

[The Highwayman nails Deathbringer with the chair again and again as
Requiem staggers to his feet on the other side of the ring, and rolls to
the outside himself, pulling a fire extinguisher from under the ring...
the heel pop is deafening as Requiem and the Highwayman begin to rain
blow after blow down on the prone Deathbringer... Nightwing rolls into
the ring as well, after checking that the cage door is thoroughly
secured...]

TD: This is terrible... Deathbringer doesn't stand a chance in there
    against those three...

[Requiem lays a few final kicks into the prone Deathbringer, and
satisfied that he's not going anywhere, rolls out of the ring and starts
to climb the cage. The Highwayman and Nightwing turn to watch him climb
up...]

TD: And Deathbringer sits up!

SR: What?!

BL: I don't believe it!

[Deathbringer slowly, painfully rises to his feet as Requiem continues
to climb the cage... the crowd pops madly as the Highwayman and
Nightwing turn around...]

TD: And get caught by the throat!  Double chokeslam!  Incredible!

SR: What does it take, Dross, what does it take?  Chairs, fire
    extinguishers... what does it take?!

[Deathbringer rolls out of the ring and starts climbing the cage below
Requiem, who is already starting to pull himself up onto the gangway...
the Highwayman and Nightwing roll out of the ring, and start to climb
after him... Requiem pulls himself to his feet on the gangway.. and
looks down in surprise as Deathbringer grabs hold of his ankle and trips
him up!  Huge crowd pop!  Requiem starts to back along the gangway,
shaking his head as Deathbringer starts to pull himself up after him...]

TD: This is unbelievable. Truly unbelievable... Look at the look on
    Requiem's face!

BL: Look at the look on Steve Robert's face!

SR: What the...?! It's.. it's...

BL: See what I mean?

[Deathbringer's arm snaps out, catching Requiem around the throat!  Huge
pop!  Requiem struggles and kicks furiously as Deathbringer starts
crawling along the rocking gangway... and is stopped, as the Highwayman
grabs hold of his ankle!  Heel pop!  Deathbringer looks back for a
second, and Requiem kicks him in the face, sending him tumbling off the
gangway and down to the concrete below!  Huge disappointed pop!  The
Highwayman and Nightwing jump off after him, and the three start
brawling on the floor...]

TD: Requiem... I'm stunned... Requiem has reached the platform, and he's
    got the guitar and the scythe... he's making his way back towards
    the cage wall...

SR: Look at it!  Look at it on the floor!

[On the floor, Deathbringer is holding his own against the other two
superstars, and sends the Highwayman staggering backwards with a kick to
the midsection... Nightwing nails him with an axehandle from behind, and
Deathbringer turns, his hand snapping around Nightwing's throat...]

SR: And Highwayman with a chair!  Someone take that big oaf down! 

TD: This is a truly disgusting display by the Alliance. Deathbringer is
    trying to fight off two men who shouldn't even be involved.

[The Highwayman and Nightwing continue to work over Deathbringer with
everything that comes to hand as Requiem reaches the cage wall and
swings his legs over... they roll Deathbringer back into the ring, and
the Highwayman steps over to the still prone referee and picks him up,
rolling him back into the ring as well... shaking him to try and rouse
him... the referee starts to stir, and the Highwayman and Nightwing roll
under the ring...

TD: This is despicable.  I don't even want to talk about it any more.

[The referee looks around dazedly and sees Deathbringer lying face down
in the ring, and looks up... to see Requiem descending the cage, and d
opping to the arena floor, clutching both the scythe and the guitar.. he
weakly raises his hand and signals for the bell. Ding! Ding! Ding!]

TD: Unbelievable.

SR: What a display of outstanding teamwork by the alliance.  I got these
    guys wrong, Dross, I really did.  It brings a tear to my eye...

TD: You people make me sick.

BL: What have _I_ done?

TD: Sorry, Becky.

RA: Here is your winner... Reeqqquiiieeeeeeeemm!

[Intense heel pop as Requiem raises his arms to the crowd, and drops the
scythe and guitar, climbing back over the cage again... the Highwayman
and Nightwing roll back out from under the ring...]

TD: Oh no..  Haven't they done enough damage already?

SR: Apparently not.

[The Highwayman and Nightwing retrieve a chair each and storm the ring,
clubbing Deathbringer back to the canvas as he tries to rise.  Requiem
drops inside the ring area again, and picks up the discarded fire
extinguisher, and rolls in after them... the bell rings again.. and the
Jobber Justice Squad come flying down the aisle... Nightwing looks at
Requiem, who nods, and he leaves the ring to guard the door...]

TD: Requiem and the Highwayman now, kicking and hitting away repeatedly
    at Deathbringer... he's motionless... we've got to get someone in
    there to stop this...

[The JJS try to take the padlock off with bolt cutters, but Nightwing
holds them back with the fire extinguisher... the heel pop continues
unabated as Requiem and the Highwayman continue their assault... Outside
the ring, Nightwing looks at the screaming crowd and pauses, then looks
back at the pair in the ring, who are ruthlessly beating Deathbringer
into unconsciousness Nightwing looks at the fire extinguisher in his
hands, and throws it away...]

TD: Go on, Nightwing, this isn't for you...

[Nightwing quickly pulls out the key for the padlock, and unlocks the
cage door!  Big crowd pop!  Nightwing runs across and rolls into the
ring, pulling Requiem away from Deathbringer as the JJS come storming
through the door... Nightwing, Requiem and the Highwayman roll out of
the other side of the ring and quickly make their exit over the cage
wall... Requiem steps across to the announcer's table, and picks up the
microphone.]

REQUIEM: Deathbringer, who is the Master of Darkness _now_?

[Huge heel pop from the crowd!  Requiem and the Highwayman soak it up,
arms raised in victory as they walk back down the aisle.  Nightwing
follows them more slowly, head bowed...]

TD: Finally, we've got some order around here. That was one of the most
    despicable acts I've ever seen here in the IIWF...

SR: Can it, Dross! The Alliance got the job done, and they showed tha...

[Huge, literally huge crowd pop!  Soundbite's words trail off as he
looks into the ring, and stares on in disbelief as Deathbringer slowly,
but very deliberately, sits up!]

SR: Tha... a... at... no...

[The crowd pops deafeningly as Deathbringer, his face and body plastered
with blood slowly rises to his feet, shrugging off the offered help of
the JJS and stepping out of the ring and to the arena floor...]

SR: I... don't... believe it....

BL: Neither do I...  How?  How is that possible?!

[The crowd continues to cheer as Deathbringer slowly, deliberately,
limps his way down the aisle, his eyes fixed firmly on the arena
entrance.]

TD: Incredible.  Absolutely incredible... after all their efforts, the
    Alliance still hasn't defeated the Reaper!  Deathbringer walks, and
    you can guess who he'll be looking for backstage.

SR: No.. I'm.. no...

TD: What a night of action, and it's still not over yet!  Incredible!

[The IIWF crew hurredly clears away the debris from the match, the arena
still buzzing about Requiem's actions, a young man in a "Joe Petrow.
Period." t-shirt, his face still stained with tears, quietly picks up a
sliver of wood remaining from the Bulldog Brown table, and quickly runs
out of the arena.]

TD: Well, this is what it is all about, folks.  The time for talk is
    through... and Casey James and Chris Quigley are finally about to
    get it on!

BL: Timmy, are we still on the air?  This event has been, well, even
    I've never been to anything that was this wild.

TD: I think you're being a little modest, Becky.

SR: Aw, I don't know... it's been okay.  Maurice McArthur looks like
    he's got some potential as a future US tag champ... or at least the
    bouncer at a leather bar. And that Bulldog Brown is tougher to get
    rid of then a bad penny or a certain overrated ex-champion. 

TD: You just won't be happy, will you, Steve Roberts? You just won't be
    happy until the IIWF has a pay-per-view where they burn down the
    entire building, where a tropical storm collapses the IIWF Coliseum
    down on all of us, killing twenty thousand fans, all of the
    commentators and wrestlers dead.  Think of the carnage, Steve
    Roberts.  All those dead and broken bodies, strewn across downtown
    Portland.  It would be the biggest catastrophe in the history of
    professional sports.  Mothers losing their sons.  Wives their
    husbands.  Me never able to see my brother Hoss again... Is that
    what you want, Steve Roberts?  Is that what you want?

BL: You've been watching too many Joe Petrow matches, Timmy.

SR: Gosh, Dross, I never thought of it that way.  You know, if the
    Coliseum did collapse tonight, killing virtually every wrestler in
    the IIWF, that would make Billy Shakespeare Heavyweight Champion of
    the World.  And that just wouldn't be good for anybody. 

BL: Of course, even then Serge wouldn't get pushed.

SR: But think of all the great tag matches we'd see!

[LaRue and Roberts shudder simultaneously.]

TD: Let's get to ringside.

      =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
      [DOUBLE MAIN EVENT] IIWF World Heavyweight Championship Match:
      -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
         Casey "Blackheart" James vs. "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley
      --------------------------------------------------------------
                               WRITER: JJ

[Sparkplug Lee waits a moment as a man is ejected from ringside, audibly
yelling at the top of his lungs, "Where's Scorpion?! Spreadbury fears
Scorpion!"  Lee then takes the mic...]

SL: Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you...
    making his return to the IIWF Coliseum... the former IIWF
    Heavyweight Champion of the World... Dan "Flash" Kauffman!

[Big Pop as "Black Cat" kicks in and Dan Kauffman enters the aisle,
slapping hands and waving to the crowd.]

SR: What the hell is this?  I damn well know that Steve Owens didn't
    invite this bozo here!  What, is he here to watch James kick his
    buddy Quigley back to Canada?  Hey, Dan -- Troy's already left! He's
    probably waiting for you at the motel.

TD: Actually, Dan is here to join the broadcast team for the title
    match, Steve Roberts.  Remember, you were suspended until an hour
    ago. 

BL: We only have three headsets, Timmy.  We have four people and three
    headsets!

[Kauffman continues to wave to the fans, a warm "Kauff - man! Kauff -
man!" chant beginning from the crowd.]

TD: Well, now that you mention it, Becky...

BL: You must be kidding!  I have to give up my seat for the Championship
    Match to... to... him?!

SR: Better you than me, Becks.

[LaRue stands to leave, slamming her headset to the table and muttering
about "anticipatory breach", "phoning her agent" and "going to visit the
Masked Avenger."]

TD: Hey, Soundbite, I heard you visited the Masked Avenger once.

SR: Really?  How'd it go?

TD: Best weekend of your life.

[Kauffman finally leaves the ring, smiling broadly as the cheers begin
to subside. As he reaches the floor, a man in a Dan Kauffman t-shirt
leaps from the stands and approaches the Flash.]

TD: Hey... isn't that...? It's Danny Dynamite!

SR: Oh, how sweet.  A touching reunion of the Losers' Club. 

[Dynamite reaches Kauffman and extends a hearty handshake, grabbing the
ex-champ's arm and thrusting it high into the air... and Kauffman is
attacked from behind by Tiger Claw!  Claw levels Kauffman with a high
knee and then begins pummeling him mercilessly with palm strikes to the
throat.  Brian Lau now charges from the back, leading Pain Inc. down the
aisle. He points Morningstar and Hellrasier to Kauffman, and they join
the beating, picking the ex-champion up into the air...]

TD: What is this?!  What's Danny Dynamite doing?

[Dynamite climbs to the apron... and he joins Pain Inc. in a spike
piledriver on Kauffman! Big heel pop! The JJS is quick to arrive, with
Triple M noticeably absent, moving in to help Kauffman away from the
ring and to the dressing room.  Dynamite stands with the four other men,
ripping away his t-shirt and replacing it with one that reads "The
Syndicate -- So Many Belts... So Little Time."]

TD: This is awful, Steve Roberts!  Danny Dynamite has joined the
    Syndicate!  "Desirable" Danny Dynamite has joined the Syndicate!

SR: Forget that "Desirable" crap, Dross.  He's "Dangerous" Danny
    Dynamite now.  He's finally seen the light!  I love it!

[Security comes to the ring in force, as well as acting IIWF President
Steve Owens. Owens immediately gets in the face of Brian Lau, pointing a
finger at the manager, explaining something, and then security leads the
Syndicate away from the ring! Pop!]

TD: I'm not sure what's going on... Wait, I've just been informed that
    acting President Steve Owens is banning the Syndicate from ringside!
    Steve Owens is banning Lau, Dynamite and Pain Inc. from ringside
    during this championship match!

SR: What the hell is Owens doing?! Okay, I'm back... that makes sense...
    but Kowalski's suspended... he took Petrow's belt... and now these
    guys can't watch the title fight?! Dammit, it's unfair... We Want
    Dan! We Want Dan!

TD: Well, this certainly changes the complexion of things, Steve
    Roberts. We are about to see Chris Quigley take on Casey James...
    one on one!

[The massive security force has led the Syndicate to the back, and Owens
receives a huge face reaction as he exits the arena.  Sparkplug Lee once
again takes the mic...]

SL: Ladies and gentlemen... the following contest is the second half of
    your Birthday Bash Double Main Event and is for the IIWF HEAVYWEIGHT
    CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WORLD!

[Big pop as the crowd seems to have put the attack on Kauffman -- in
fact, put all nine previous matches out of its mind -- and readies
itself for this much anticipated main event.]

SL: Introducing first... the challenger... weighing 243 pounds... from
    Corner Brook, Newfoundland, Canada... the one and only...
    "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley!

[Big mixed pop as a volley of fireworks shoot throughout the arena as
the Canadian begins a very purposeful walk down the aisle.  Quigley is
dressed only in jean shorts, in a manner as plainly as he could possibly
be, with only those expesive silver-rimmed sunglasses providing any
ornamentation whatsoever.  "For Those About To Rock" rings through the
Coliseum and is really the only solid reminder of the storied past of
Quigley, his music guiding him to the ring to the cheers of his many
fans.]

TD: It cannot be overstated, Steve Roberts.  This is a different man
    than we are used to seeing. The Chris Quigley that we see here, the
    Chris Quigley that we saw at the Hall of Fame banquet, virtually
    challenging the entire IIWF, daring the entire Federation to take
    him on... that is not the man who we are familiar with.

SR: Yes it is, Dross.  Chris Quigley is, was... and always will be...
    the biggest punk ever to walk the face of the earth. And I'll tell
    you what, I'm gonna be calm here... I'm a professional broadcast
    journalist and I'm not gonna let my personal opinions get in the
    way... but if this guy becomes IIWF Champion -- I might just
    challenge him to a match myself!

[Quigley has his sunglasses placed on the timekeeper's table, and stares
straight down the aisle as  "Foul Taste of Freedom" kicks in.]

SL: His opponent... at a weight of 340 lbs... from Washington D.C... the
    IIWF Heavyweight Champion of the World... Casey "Blackheart" James!

[Huge heel pop as the huge Champion appears in the aisle... alone.  The
blond-haired James walks halfway down the aisle and stops, taking the
IIWF Championship belt from his shoulder and thrusting it high in the
air, nodding his head confidently as the crowd coninues to pop.  James
now resumes his walk to the ring, pointing a big index finger at
Quigley, mouthing the words, "Just you... and me." at Quickstrike who
nods back and mouths his own response, "Bring it on... Bring it on.".]

TD: This place is set to go off, Steve Roberts.  We have been building
    to this match since Ring Wars III, since Chris Quigley made that big
    leap into the number one contender's position with his victory over
    Dan Kauffman. He and Casey James have been going back and forth,
    forth and back for all these weeks, these months, and now the day is
    here. Now it is time: Chris Quigley and Casey James are getting set
    and ready to go!

[James yields his Championship belt to the official, who is stopped
briefly by Quigley, allowing Quickstrike the chance to gaze at the
belt... and then gaze a little longer... and then a little longer...
James looks at Quigley with less irritation than disgust, and demands a
ring mic as the official finally takes the belt to the timekeeper's
table.]

CJ: Alright... So here we are.

[Quigley takes a step forward.]

CJ: Nah... Nah... You just sit your scrawny little ass in that corner
    over there and you listen to what I've got to say. I'm the champ, so
    when I talk people, especially people like you, shut the hell up.
    Got that?

[Quigley stares at James angrily.]

CJ: Good. [To the crowd.] You all got that out there? [Mixed pop]
    Alright then. I got some things to say, and since I can't be crapped
    on like Steve Roberts, I can say what I want. You, Quigley, _are_ a
    bitch.

[Loud mixed pop.]

SR: [over the headset] Damned right!

TD: [over the headset] Please, Steve.

CJ: What's a bitch? One who bitches. You, Quigley, do your share of
    bitching, and you're really starting to piss some folks off. See,
    I'm really getting tired of hearing you put down other people here
    just to make yourself look cool. First of all, you racist pig, you
    call Verhoeven a Nazi every chance you get just because he happened
    to be born in Germany. Well, by that same logic, you must be a
    dimwitted, inbred lobster herder. Has anyone called you that? I
    can't seem to recall anyone calling you that. Verhoeven is a fine
    upstanding guy who is more than enough man to stand up for himself
    and his history. Are you? I don't think so.

    You have no respect, Quigley, you have no humility, and you have
    _NO_ honour. You are the worst kind of trash there is, and that's
    the kind of trash that thinks he's a treasure. I'm going to kick
    your loudmouthed little ass from pillar to post tonight, and I'm
    dedicating it to Otto "The Butcher" Verhoeven and "Outlaw" J.W.
    Hardin. [Mixed pop] Two men that have many things over you, but one
    that I'll address right now... _This_ [Points to the IIWF
    heavyweight title] They've held it, and you haven't. You never will.
    Not until you learn respect, and I'm going to teach you something of
    that tonight.

[Quigley's fans begin a chant of "Bo - ring! Bo - ring! Bo - ring!",
leading to a sly smile from Quickstrike.  James suddenly throws the
microphone to the ground... and is all over Quigley! Pop! Ding! Ding! 
Ding!]

TD: We're finally underway!

[James tackles Quigley and takes out his frustration via right hands to
the face of the challenger.  James then holds Quigley's head against the
canvas with his left hand and roundly slaps the face of Quickstrike over
and over and over again with an open right palm.  Huge pop!] 

SR: He's bitch slapping him, Dross.  Slap that face, Blackheart... slap
    that face all night long!

[James continues smacking away, and then Quigley rolls over atop the
Champion, and now it is Chris Quigley, ferociously ripping away with
monstrous right hands at Casey James! Chris Quigley is tearing at the
head of the champion with lightning fast lefts and rights!]

TD: Oh my! We're gonna see a war, Steve Roberts! We are gonna see a war!

[James is up now and the two men each rock the other with rapid fire
right hands, the stronger James seizing the advantage, powering Quigley
back into the corner.  James rams Quickstrike with a series of high
right knee lifts to the challenger's sternum, then whips Quigley
cross-corner hard into the opposite buckle.  Pop!  James charges the
corner... going in high with a knee...]

TD: Misses!  Quigley slipped the charge and Casey James took that left
    knee right off the top buckle!

SR: Oh... no no no... we need some help out here! Where the hell is
    Thunder?

[James limps out to the middle of the ring, and Quigley smells the early
blood, sweeping at the champion's left leg with a lariat, then taking
him to the mat with a single leg takedown.  Pop!  Quigley drops two
quick elbows on the leg, and then drags James to the ropes, draping the
left lef over the bottom rope -- and delivering a rapid series of boots!
Quigley kicking away, faster and faster at James' weakened left leg.]

TD: Chris Quigley has found an early weakness, Steve Roberts. He has
    taken one of the pins out from under Casey James, and he is really
    going to work on him... reminiscent of the way that Lord Byron was
    able to disable the powerful Creed.

SR: Casey James ain't no rookie, Dross.  He's the Heavyweight Champion
    of the World -- and he'll beat Chris Quigley with no legs if he has
    to!

[Quigley drags James back into the ring, putting more boots to the left
knee, and taking the Champion's leg and snapping it over his head!
Quigley drops jackrabbit quick legs onto James' exposed knee... and then
picks up the Champion.  Quigley looks to whip James into the corner --
reverse -- and James sends Quigley into the corner. Quigley is able to
gather his momentum as he reaches the buckle, leaping over to the apron,
and greeting the Casey James charge with a head scissors takeover that
sends the Champion over the top rope and clear out onto
the floor! Huge pop for the challenger!]

TD: Oh my!  What a maneuver, Steve Roberts! Chris Quigley showing his
    superior quickness there... and now he's going to the top rope! 
    Chris Quigley is going for a Lightning Strike to the outside!

[As James begins to rise, Quigley leaps from the top buckle... and is
caught by James! Big pop! James catches Quigley... and rams his back
into the steel ringpost! Pop!  James maintains his hold on Quigley,
driving him over his knee with a backbreaker, and doing it
again... and again... AND AGAIN!]

TD: Four consecutive backbreakers by the Champion! Casey James lays
    Chris Quigley out with back-to-back backbreakers!

SR: Yeah! Talk all you want about quickness, say all you want about
    technical skill, but it all goes away when the big man wants it to
    -- Casey James outweighs Quigley by one hundred pounds, Dross, and
    you can bet that Quigley's about to feel all one hundred of them!

[James carries Quigley back into the ring, driving the challenger hard
to the mat with a powerslam, and then delivering a series of boots to
the small of the back... it is James now focusing on a body part, it is
James who is softening up the lower back of Chris Quigley, James who is
ruthlessly dominating the matchup by driving elbow after elbow into the
back of "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley.

James Irish whips Quigley, who comes off the ropes in a crossbody, but
is too weak to get any velocity -- and is easily caught... into a
fallaway slam by the powerful champion! Big pop!  James covers for the
first fall attempt of the match... 1 -- 2 -- Kickout by Quigley!]

TD: Casey James is as intent, is as focused as I have ever seen him,
    Steve Roberts -- I think that being alone out here is causing him to
    work all that much more diligently.

SR: He's kicking Quigley all over the ring, Dross.  I told you it would
    happen!  I told you it would happen!

[James picks up Quigley, and hurls him into the corner... Quigley
bouncing hard off the buckle and into the middle of the ring for another
cover... 1 -- No!  Another Quigley kickout.  James then stands Quigley
up into an abdominal stretch, the Champion increasing the pressure,
tightening his grip on that weakened lower back of Quigley's... and then
it's reversed! Chris Quigley reverses the abdominal stretch and puts one
of his own on the Champion!

But James is too strong, far too strong, and is easily able to hiptoss
Quigley high in the air and to the mat. James winds up and drops a big
elbow on... NOTHING! Quigley rolls just a hair's breath away from the
falling Champion.  Quigley now pops to his feet as his fans pop for him,
the Champion missing with a wild lariat attempt that Quigley turns into
an atomic drop that again sends James hard into the corner!

Quigley charges, and James hits him with an elbowsmash that knocks the
Quickstrike over the top rope, but he remains on the apron and
slingshots his way into the ring... and over the Champion's head into a
sunset flip and a cover... 1 -- 2 -- NO!]

TD: Chris Quigley is so resourceful, Steve Roberts! You can take your
    shots... the Syndicate can take their shots... even Marty Warnett --
    but this Chris Quigley finds a way to beat you.

SR: Wrong, Dross.  Myabe he'd beat you or Martina Kauffman... but in a
    fight for the IIWF title, he doesn't have what it takes. He's just
    not good enough, Dross.

[Both men are up, now moving a little more slowly than at the beginning
of the contest. The crowd is hot, on its feet nearly the entire match
and is now rocking and rolling for their respective favorite with each
hint of a momentum swing.

It is James who is able to strike the next heavy blow, popping the
challenger under the chin with three successive European uppercuts.
Quigley then moves in and butts the Champion with his head! Pop! Quigley
wailing away with stiff knife edges to the chest that drive the Champion
back...

But now it is James, spitting in Quigley's face in an act of ultimate
scorn toward the challenger's abilites, James now taking the
challenger's shots, taking them and not giving an inch as now the
Syndicate fans roar their approval! Quigley's shots slow as James begins
to yell at him, James telling Quigley that he's a "wannabe", then
pummeling Quickstrike with huge over hand rights... James telling
Quigley that it will never be him, and now landing a series of heavy
boots to the challenger's midsection, James Irish-whipping Chris Quigley
hard into the ropes and charging...]

TD: Quigley pulled the top rope! Quigley pulled down the top rope! Casey
    James just flew over the top rope and clear out to the floor! Oh my!

[Quigley wastes not a second, bounding off the backropes, leaping to the
top, and over onto Casey James with a somersault plancha that would make
even a winged luchador with a jet pack and a four leaf clover jealous.

Quigley crashes down atop James, slapping the champion's face and then
picking him to his feet and whipping James into the steel steps. Quigley
charges -- James slips -- and it's Quickstrike who comes crashing into
the steps, his head cracking against the corner of those steps with a
sickening crack that even brings a fleeting moment's pause to the most
ardent of his detractors.]

TD: Oh... Quigley is cut open, Steve Roberts! Quigley is cut open good! 

SR: Good?  Hell, it's great, Dross! Nothing's better in the world than
    seeing Chris Quigley cut open... and look at that eye, Dross! Look
    at how close it is to that eye!  Chris Quigley's doing the job the
    hard way tonight!

[James moves in on Quigley, applying a facelock for a suplex -- blocked
-- James tries again for a suplex -- blocked -- and this time it is
Quigley who sends the 340lbs Casey James to the floor with a hook cradle
suplex that brings a roar from the Quickstrike supporters! Big POP!

Quigley staggers into the ring, his back nearly giving out, his eye an
absolute mess and swelling quckly.  James gets to the apron and Quigley
drags him in under the bottom rope, Quigley wasting no time in putting
the boots to James as the crowd roars its approval... James is up to his
feet -- and back down with a snap suplex from Quigley into a cover... 1
-- 2 -- James kicks out and Quigley is relentless, the Quickstrike
hitting a swinging neckbreaker that rattles the Champion and leads to
another cover... 1 -- 2 -- NO!

Quigley is up again, grabbing a standing side headlock, punching the
Champion in the forehead... but James escapes with a thumb to, and then
a gouge of the pulp that used to be the right eye of Chris Quigley! Big
pop as James now grabs ahold... and lifts... and DROPS Quigley on his
head with a brainbuster suplex into a cover... 1 -- 2 -- Kickout!]

TD: Unbelievable! Unbelievable!

SR: How do they do it, Dross?  How do they continue to give this punk
    Quigley chances at this title?

[James is very slowly moving now, the toll of the match evident on his
big body, the toll of Chris Quigley starting to wear at him... but still
he pushes on, stomping away repeatedly with his heel at that closed eye
of Quigley's, now picking Quickstrike up and Irish-whipping him, Quigley
leapfrogs and bounces off the sideropes while James goes nearside...]

TD: BULLDOG! Chris Quigley just bulldogged the champion hard into the
    canvas!

SR: No!

[Quigley quickly hooks a leg... 1 -- 2 -- NO!  Casey James is just able
to lift a shoulder into the air.  Big crowd pop!  Quigley lifts James to
his feet, and executes a textbook side Russian leg sweep that bullets
the champ into the canvas!  Cover... 1 -- 2 -- NO! Kickout by James!

Quigley moves to a midrope, dropping a sharp elbow onto Casey's throat,
and then goes for the legs! Quigley goes for the legs as the Quickstrike
fans begin to grab each other by the arm, squeezing tightly, yelling for
their man to do it... Quigley drives a knee and then two into James'
exposed "lower abdomen", then pulls the legs apart even further...

James grabs the ropes! Casey James frantically grabs at the ropes!]

TD: Quigley pulls him back into the middle of the ring! Quigley pulls
    James back into the middle of the ring! He crosses James' feet...
    he's trying to step over...

[James musters up a yeoman's effort to sit up, popping Quigley in that
right eye, and then grabbing him around the neck... and bringing him to
the mat with a cradle and a cover... 1 -- 2 -- REVERSE! Chris Quigley
has an inside cradle... 1 -- ]

SR: Foot on the ropes! James has his foot on the ropes!

[...the official brings his hand down again -- 2!]

TD: Alfonso doesn't see it!!  The referee doesn't see it!!

[ -- Kickout by Casey James! And the crowd explodes in a roar for the
Champion.]

TD: James is picking up some fan support here, Steve Roberts! These men
    are putting on one hell of a show!!!

[Each men rise at approximately the same time, the crowd noise telling
the tale of a match that is living up to eveyone's expectations. Quigley
swings a right hand -- blocked! -- and James responds with a lariat that
nearly separates Quigley's boots from his feet and his head from his
shoulders, the challenger whirling hard into the canvas to a huge pop!

James eschews a cover and quickly picks Quigley to his feet, whipping
him hard into the buckle and then charging, and this time LEVELING the
challenger witch a bone-breaking splash that would have sent Quigley
crumpling to the canvas had James not picked him immediately to the top
buckle, and begun a climb up the ropes...

Quigley, however, allows James only to get to the midbuckle before
leaping over the champion's head, turning and grabbing a waistlock from
James who is still perched confusedly on that mid-buckle, and Quigley
brings the champion thumping to the mat with a mid-buckle German suplex
that brings a cataclysmic roar from his supporters as he bridges... 1 --
2 -- Kickout!

All the air seems to leave Quigley's body as he pulls the Champion to
his feet, and then all the air really does leave his body as James...]

TD: He hit him with the Blackheart Punch! That devastating heart punch!

SR: Cover him! For the love of J.W. Hardin... cover that son of a bitch!

[James, however, refuses a cover, gathering Quigley up and carrying him
to the top rope!]

TD: Why didn't James cover? He's going for the Black Death, Steve
    Roberts! He's going for that spinebuster slam, he's trying to prove
    a point to Chris Quigley!  Blackheart is trying to prove a point to
    Chris Quigley!

SR: It's over! It is over! Put another dime in the jukebox, baby! It is
    over!

[James sets himself on the top rope, positions Quigley, and leaps...
HUGE POP!]

TD: Reverse! Quigley reversed into a crossbody! Quigley's got a leg
    hooked!

[Alfonso makes the count... 1 -- 2 --]

SR: Three! Goddammit!

TD: NO! He got a shoulder up! Oh... that was a tough call... Quigley
    can't believe it... he can't believe that Casey James beat that
    three-count... and Quigley is... OH MY!

SR: Yes! Yes! Here comes the Jacknife!

[As Quigley argues, James lifts him high in the air, getting him as high
as the pain which must be screaming out of every muscle in his body will
allow, James setting to deliver Quigley to the mat...]

TD: Backslide! Backslide!

[Quigley slides out of the powerbomb and begins to lower James to the
mat, lowering the champion to the mat with a backslide, but James is TOO
STRONG! James is backsliding Quigley to the mat... James has Quigley
down for a... 1 -- 2 -- NO! Quigley musters a massive kickout to the
side, hopping so lightly to his feet, his right arm still extricated
with James' left, and Quigley leaps clear over James' back...]

TD: ...inot a jawbreaker! A jumping, stunning jawbreaker! What a move!

[Quigley dives down, now going for the legs, quickly crossing James'
feet, stepping though with a toe hold, and turning James... turning
James.... the crowd roaring at "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley... turns
Casey James over!]

TD: Quickstriker! Quickstriker! It's over, Steve Roberts!

SR: Here comes Brody Thunder!  Get your ass down there, Thunder!

[Quigley leans back on his deathlock, putting a hand on the mat for
leverage as the official looks for a submission. Thunder, his broken
nose encased in a bandage, races to ringside as if he is on fire and
grabs the Championship belt! Thunder grabs the Championship belt... and
moves to the apron! Quigley leans back hard on James, the official looks
for a submission, and James yells something... he yells, "NO WAY,
BITCH!" and begins to power... James is lifting up... James is trying to
break free!

The roar is phenomenal for both men: Quigley straining, James so close,
but can't quite seem to break the hold, Thunder on the apron, looking at
both men, waving the Championship belt, the official on the mat, looking
at James, asking for a submission... Quigley now screaming! James now
screaming! Thunder with the belt, on the apron, stepping to the ropes
and swinging down on...]

TD: Blocked! Chris Quigley just stood up and blocked that belt!

[Huge pop as Quigley and Thunder each have a piece of the belt, the
official now moving to stand as Quigley sets to punch Thunder, and
Quigley accidentally hits the official with a back elbow! Alfonso goes
down!]

TD: Referee down! Referee down! Oh, this is bad!

[Thunder and Quigley are each in the ring, each fighting over possession
of the IIWF Heavyweight Championship belt, each man tugging, each man
straining... and James stands and grabs a piece of the belt, while
simultaneously Thunder and Quigley each swing...]

TD: And they hit Casey James! They hit Casey "Blackheart" James! James
    is knocked stiff!

[The belt drops to the mat. Quigley sees James down and also sees the
official beginning to stir and moves to drop over the prone Champion...

...and his drilled into the canvas with a Cattle Buster DDT from Brody
Thunder! Big, damn scary big pop!]

SR: Yes! Yes! Thunder hits Quigley with the Cattle Buster! Ain't life
    grand, Dross? Wait... what's Thunder doing... he's leaving? He's
    just leaving?! He's not gonna wake up Casey James?!

TD: But he is going to wake up the official, Steve Roberts!

[Thunder gives Alfonso a nudge as he walks back up the aisle, both
Quigley and James laid out in the ring... both men in the middle of the
ring as Alfonso moves to the center and begins to count them out: 1 -- 2
-- 3 -- ]

TD: Each man is down... Why didn't Thunder wake James? Neither man is
    moving... this place is gonna explode!

[ -- 4 -- 5 -- 6 -- 7 -- ]

TD: Neither man has moved a muscle... which man can get to his...?
    There's a cover! There's a cover!

[Huge pop as Alfonso counts... 1 -- 2 -- 3! Ding! Ding! Ding!]

SL: Your winner... as a result of a pinfall and... _STILL_ IIWF
    HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD... CASEY _"BLACKHEART"_ JAMES!

[The IIWF Coliseum roof threatens to come completely off as "Foul Taste
of Freedom" begins and Earl Alfonso raise the hand of James. The
Champion grabs his belt and buries his head in his hands, clearly
overwhelmed, clearly emotionally spent as many of the capacity crowd
chant: "Black - heart! Black - heart! Black - heart!"

The members of the Syndicate pour out of the dressing room: Lau, Claw,
Morningstar, Hellraiser, Danny Dynamite, Mr. Mic, even Don McQueen and
the Dark Disciples make their way to the ring... each man out save
one -- save Brody Thunder, who is nowhere to be seen -- each man mobbing
Casey James, swarming over the man who is still champion of the world...

Chris Quigley, his eye completely swollen shut, does not say a word to
anyone, simply rolling out of the ring, retrieving his sunglasses from
the timekeeper's table, and walks back up the aisle, his fans, many of
them too stunned to make any sort of noise at all, the pain more evident
on their faces than on that of the stoic Quickstriker... his fans
offering a respectful ovation as Quigley exits, leaving the celebratory
tumult of the ring in his wake.]

TD: And it is over... an incredible... breathtaking night of action is
    over here at Birthday Bash.  Casey "Blackheart" James is still IIWF
    Heavyweight Champion of the World.

SR: Absolutely! As if there were any doubt! I told you once, I told you
    a million times, Dross.  Chris Quigley will never be IIWF Champ --
    he just _ain't_ good enough! Hoo-Yeah!  I'm gonna party tonight,
    Dross! French toast on me, buddy!

TD: So, be sure to join us all one week from this Tuesday, on May 20,
    for all the latest IIWF news on "Inside the IIWF". Until then, I am
    Tim Dross for Steve Roberts, Becky LaRue and everyone here in the
    IIWF, saying: so long, everybody!

[The Syndicate carries James around the ring, fireworks going off all
around them; what appears to be a blow-up doll is tossed by the
Syndicate fans like a beach ball as the shot fades.]

+=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 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 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+