##### ###### ### ########## ########## ########## #### ## ########## ########## ########## #### # #### ######## ##### ##### #### ## ##### #### #### #### #### ### #### #### #### #### ############# ######### #### #### ########### ######### #### #### #### #### #### ######### ######### ### #### #### ######### ######### ### ## #### ######## ######## ## # #### =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- ## =-=-=-= INTERNATIONAL INTERNET WRESTLING FEDERATION =============================================== S + A + T + U + R + D + A + Y N + I + G + H + T ----------------------------------------------- + LiVE! + 24 May 1997 + IIWF Coliseum + [The opening graphics fade through to interior shots of the jam-packed IIWF Coliseum. Fireworks explode high in the rafters as the capacity twenty thousand strong crowd cheer in their excitement. The shot pans down past row upon row of sign-waving, merchandise-wearing fans, swinging wildly over the sea of faces illuminated by the kaleidoscopic colours cast by the beams of the powerful spotlights in the rigging above the squared circle. The shot eventually pans down past the ringside fans to the ring enclosure and the broadcast table, at which stand Tim Dross, dressed in his customary IIWF suit, and "Soundbite" Steve Roberts, who wears his IIWF leather jacket and a "Shoot, Soundbite! Shoot!" t-shirt.] TD: Welcome everybody to the IIWF Coliseum! Welcome to lovely Portland, Oregon for the last time in a couple of months, as the IIWF prepares to go on the road and tour the length and breadth of the country on the "Coronation Clash Crusade Tour"! I'm Tim Dross, and beside me, as always, is "Soundbite" Steve Roberts. Nice t-shirt, Steve. SR: Don't give me that, Dross. This isn't a "nice t-shirt". This is _the_ t-shirt. The National Museum of American History has already been ringing me, asking me to send them a t-shirt to make sure that this unique piece of clothing is given its rightful place in the history of our great nation... TD: Steve Roberts, the patriot? Surely not. SR: ...nation of morons, as I was about to say before I was so rudely interrupted. Of course, I told that dusty old curator to go back to studying the revolution. TD: Funny you should mention the revolution, Steve, since that seems to be a word on the lips of a lot of IIWF superstars these days. SR: You don't say, Dross. To be honest, I'm not buying into this whole "New Generation" thing. Particularly the oh-so-great Requiem. That guy's so anal, I'm beginning to think we should call him Rectum. TD: There's no need for that, Steve. But Requiem's comrades in "Genesis", as their alliance now seems to be known, Nightwing and Highwayman, will be in action here tonight. Nightwing will feature in the first of tonight's two Four Corners matches, the winners of which will meet next week in San Francisco for the vacant IIWF Cruiserweight Championship, and a little later on, Highwayman will go up against the "Real Deal" Luke Steele. SR: "Squeaky Wheel" Luke Steele may well get the grease tonight, Dross. TD: I'm not sure I want to know what you're talking about, Steve. In any case, Requiem is sure to be on hand tonight -- and I really don't know what to expect from him after that shocking attack on Deathbringer at Birthday Bash just two weeks ago. The shockwaves from that epoch-making event continue to be felt here in the IIWF, and a number of the movers and shakers are present here tonight. [The camera cuts to the stands at ringside. In the fourth row, surrounded by his Sychopaths, who wave signs and bottles of Mooselips beer, is seated "Sychosys" Joe Petrow, already dressed for action, wearing a black robe with studs on the back reading "Symply Sychotic".] SR: His spelling hasn't improved, huh, Dross? TD: "Sychosys" Joe Petrow isn't scheduled to be in action until our main event later tonight, the second of those huge Four Corners matches to decide who will be the next to wear the IIWF Cruiserweight Championship, the belt which Petrow won at Birthday Bash and was then immediately stripped by Acting IIWF President Steve Owens. In the wake of that decision, Petrow has deigned that he will no longer associate with any IIWF officials or its other athletes, except when it suits him. SR: I can understand that, Dross. These are the morons who had the gall to suspend yours truly, the only reason this show has topped the ratings every week it's been on air. TD: Personally, I find Petrow's arrogance deplorable. Who knows what kind of trouble he and his Sychopaths will get up to here tonight. [Cut back to Dross and Roberts, now seated at the ringside broadcast table.] TD: In that main event, Petrow will be going up against two other former Cruiserweight Champions, including the very first holder of the title, Billy Shakespeare, and the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi, as well as long-time enemy, Dirt Dog Unique Allah. That's quite a collection of names right there, Steve Roberts. And there's plenty of other historic action coming your way, too. SR: I like it, Dross. History can be our motif tonight, huh? Like the relics, the Armed Farces -- shadows of their former selves if ever I saw them -- going up against the High Plains Drifters to finally settle the issue of who will be the first to reach twenty wins in the IIWF's tag team division. TD: Indeed. And we'll also see the decommissioning of the United States Tag Team Championship here tonight. Due to behind the scenes wrangles, the IIWF's newest title -- the first holders of which were only crowned at Ring Wars III this past March -- will be the first to be removed from competition. It's going to be an "All Or Nothing" Tag Team Championship Unification Match between the current World strap holders, Pain Inc., and the current US champs, the Prophets of Rage. SR: Normally, Dross, I'd be with the Syndicate all the way, but Pain Inc. were lucky to get out of Birthday Bash with those titles intact, and I have a feeling that the Dark Disciples may not be able to stay away from this match. We could see the Prophets swap new titles for old here tonight. TD: Another historic match pits current Intercontinental Champion Lord Byron against the man who claims, with good reason, to be the greatest IC champ of all time, three-time former champion, Tiger Claw. Could we see Claw regain the title for an unprecedented fourth time here tonight, Steve? SR: Again, Dross, normally I'd say, "Yeah, sure, it's the Syndicate, right?" But there are chinks in their armour right now -- whereas the European Alliance is looking simply unbeatable at the moment. TD: The other half of the European Alliance, Otto Verhoeven, will attempt to finish the job started at Birthday Bash by his partner in crime, Lord Byron, in taking out the red-gloved rookie, Creed, whose right knee is recovering from surgery, which, according to his physician, Dr. Andrews, may never be the same again. SR: Creed's got balls, Dross, I'll give him that -- but what kind of an idiot is he if he's going to come out here tonight and get his ass kicked by the Alliance some more? TD: Well, I have no confirmation either way as to whether or not Creed will indeed wrestle tonight, but it should be noted that a few of the other folks with whom the European Alliance aren't too popular -- namely Tony Starks, who hasn't been seen since Verhoeven whipped him like a dog with a leather belt at the Bash, and Mad Dog Watkins, who shockingly came to Creed's rescue -- are sure to be watching Byron and the Butcher very closely. SR: Starks ran home to Staten Island with his tail between his legs, Dross. We won't be seeing him again. TD: I wouldn't be so sure. Folks, there's all kinds of action coming your way over the next two hours, including the debut of a brand new interview segment. The "Showstopper" Simon Lebec will be sharing "The Final Cut" with none other than IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, Casey "Blackheart" James, right here tonight, so be sure to stay tuned for that. SR: I can't wait, Dross. Finally, a member of the broadcast team who we can all look up to and respect. TD: I don't know about that, Steve. In any case, it's time for tonight's opening encounter... ["For Those About to Rock" starts to play as "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley, wearing just his jean shorts and expensive shades walks down the aisle.  His face has the beard growth of at least a week, but is emotionless.  All in all, Quigley looks like hell.  He ignores the fans' clamouring hands as he slides into the ring and motions for a microphone.] SR: What the hell is this?  That loser isn't supposed to be out here! TD: I have no idea... I guess we'd better see what Quigley has to get off his chest. [Sparkplug Lee tosses Quigley the microphone, and quickly backs away. Petrow and his Sychopaths, seated in the fourth row, try to get a "We Want Troy!" chant started, drawing a hard glare from Quigley, as the Canadian starts pacing around the ring while he speaks:] CQ: Well, it's nice to know I can count on my fans to support me when the chips are down.  And if you can't tell I'm being sarcastic, you're stupider than I thought.  [heel pop!] TD: [over the headset] Oh no.  Has he lost it? SR: [over the headset] I'm sure I've heard this before, Dross. CQ: Y'know, I thought that I could go in there against Casey James and win that World Title, and finally give the IIWF a champion it could be proud of. Finally let them see what a _wrestler_ could do with that belt!  I absolutely _needed_ that belt so bad I could taste it.  But you people don't want a real champion!  You want a "Blackheart" with an entire Syndicate behind him!  Outside interference is a perfectly fine way to defend a title in your little world!  I've tried and I've tried to do whatever I could do to win that World Title... but it hasn't been good enough. [Quigley seems to fight back a little emotion as he takes a deep breath.] I've done a lot of thinking since Birthday Bash.  That main event was my entire life on the line.  My whole career all of a sudden means nothing, because I lost the one I wanted the most.  I'm a veteran of the sport at 26 years old.  Wrestling since I was 17.  The knees are sore.  The back aches. I've been through more hell than any other wrestler in the world!  I've been called the toughest, tenacious, a master technician, but nobody besides myself has ever called me the best.  That's what I wanted, but it's escaped me time and time again. [He closes his eyes shut as he speaks these next words...] The match at Birthday Bash against Casey James... was my last. [Mixed, but SHOCKED pop!] SR: [over the headset] Yeah, Dross! See, I told you he'd see sense. He's a loser, and he's finally realised it! TD: [over the headset] This is horrible, Steve Roberts!  Chris Quigley should _not_ be retiring!  He's done so much, but he still can do so much more!  He's scheduled to face Mr. Damage here tonight!  I can't believe this! [With his hands on his hips, he seems to look for what to say next] CQ: I retired Dan Kauffman.  But in a way, he retired me as well.  That is the match I'd like people to remember me for.  My better days have passed. I'm just not what I used to be... [As Quigley continues to wallow in self pity, the majority of his fans slowly start to turn against him, instead of for him!  Some yell insults and tell him to pack it up, while one older man hops the guardrail and slides into the ring!] CQ: There's nothing left that I want to wrestle for because I... [The old man taps Quigley on the shoulder and as the shadow of the former Chris Quigley turns around, he is met with a thunderous slap.  A slap so hard it can be heard from the highest seat.  A slap so hard it sends Quigley spinning around and down to the mat on his knees, while the old man stares at him, almost in shock.  Quigley clutches his face, and then realizes his sunglasses, the sentimental sunglasses are on the mat, slightly cracked.  A look of rage crosses Quigley's face as he clenches his fist and springs to his feet, and is about to take a wild swing at the old man when his face freezes in absolute disbelief at the stern face staring him down.  The face of his mentor, Steve Manning Sr.] SR: [over the headset] Whoever this old coot is, I like him! TD: [over the headset] That's Steve Manning! SR: [over the headset] He's sure aged since he was an announcer here... TD: [over the headset] No!  That was _Kurt_ Manning!  His son!  Steve Manning is a legendary wrestling teacher.  Absolutely legendary!  That basement in Phoenix, Arizona is known as the "Living Hell".  He's taught everything he knows to such wrestlers as Chris Quigley, Zack Malone, Trey Porter, Mark Bagwell, Kurt Manning, even Dan Kauffman was a student there for a brief period! [Quigley, meanwhile, is still shocked, as Steve Manning picks up the microphone which was laying on the mat.] SM: Look at yourself!  Go on!  Look! [Quigley looks down] SM: There was a time when your eyes would light up at the mere mention of a wrestling ring, kid!  Lately though, everytime I watch you wrestle, it makes me sick!  [BIG crowd pop!]  You've given up!  You've let others control your actions!  You've been everybody but yourself ever since you got involved in this little rivalry with Dan Kauffman!  Kauffman was a great wrestler, and you cannot fill his shoes!  [Another BIG pop!]  I'm not saying you're not as good as he was, but you are _not_ the same man!  You may be better, but you aren't looking like it right now!  When you defeated Kauffman, that should have been the victory that set you on fire, and made you "The Best"! Instead, it's rotted you from the inside like some kind of virus! [Quigley stands with his hands on his hips, staring at his boots, listening to the man who was like a father to him, dress him down in front of thousands of cheering people.] SM: You were the prize of my teaching career, Chris!  You beat my boy Kurt just a few months ago, and then saved my life after the match!  I'll never forget you for that, but unless you do something about you career fast, a lot of other people are going to forget you!  You are _not_ washed up!  You are _not_ ready to retire!  What you have to do is take off that crap you're wearing!  Shave your God damn face!  Show some respect!  Show some pride for the sport you've always loved!  The black and silver tights are still in your locker room.  They've got to be.  Just like the fighting heart of a champion is still in your chest.  You didn't throw either one away, you just hid them, for one reason or another.  Casey James beat you last week! He did!  But you gave him a fight!  You gave him one of the hardest fights of his life!  It could have been him down for the count just as easily as it was you!  Then what would you be saying out here tonight?  You'd be praising the event and the fans and yourself!  Wrestling isn't all highs, Chris!  You know that.  But you've forgotten it.  The fans loved you.  You were the icon for hard work and brilliance in the ring.  You finished second in nearly every category you were eligible for in the RSPWF 1996 Awards... [Quigley grabs the microphone] CQ: SECOND!  SECOND ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH, GOD DAMMIT! [Quigley throws the microphone back at Manning and walks to the corner, burying his face in his hands on the turnbuckle, his back turned away from his mentor.] SM: You go on and whine about it some more!  You're looking pathetic!  You listen to me right now!  You're going to fight Mr. Damage tonight, whether I have to drag you out on your ass!  If you quit now, you'll regret it forever, and I'll regret it forever!  Everyone has a career crisis, especially the great ones.  You needed a boost, and I'm here to give it to you.  The fans want you back the way you once were!  This grungy look just isn't you.  Think of the Chris Taylors, the Dave Desmonds, or even the Trey Porters!  All the _great_ wrestlers!  Would they appreciate what you're doing right now?  What you're making yourself and the IIWF look like?  I don't think so!  Turn around and look at me!  Turn around! [Quigley raises his head and slowly turns around, a look of total confusion mixed with frustration on his face.] SM: Come here and shake my hand!  I think you owe the fans, me, the IIWF, and especially _yourself_ an apology! [The fans start a "QUIG-LEY!"  "QUIG-LEY!" chant as "Quickstrike" looks around at the fans, and then at his mentor.  He takes a step forward, goes to extend his hand, but then lowers it again.  He stares hard into Manning's eyes and then drops to the mat, and rolls under the ropes, as the fans let him have it with a chorus of extremly loud booes and insults.  Quigley walks down the aisle, letting the fans hurl souvenirs at him as he stares straight ahead and exits through the curtain.  Steve Manning sadly shakes his head in the ring, and then climbs through the ropes himself, as security helps him regain his front row seat.] TD: I can't believe what we just saw here!  Quigley has turned against the fans, his mentor, and even himself!  Is he retiring or isn't he?! SR: I hope to God I never see that punk around here again.  He's done too much as it is, the fans will never accept him again!  Even they're not that stupid. TD: Well, folks, we'll try to keep you updated on this situation as we approach Quigley's match with Mr. Damage later on here tonight. But now I understand Larry Morton is backstage with Nightwing, who is scheduled to compete in the first of tonight's two Four Corners elimination matches in just a few moments. Larry? [Cut to Larry Morton standing inside a locker room.  Behind him, staring at a burning candle on a table, is Nightwing.] LM: Tim, I'm here with the young Native American Nightwing, who seems     entirely too relaxed going into tonight's four corners match which     could earn him a shot at the.... [Nightwing suddenly interrupts Morton] NW: Do not confuse relaxation with being unprepared, Mr. Morton.  I     realize what is at stake in tonight's match and I am prepared to test my skills against Ronnie Paris, Chris Herforth and Derek Mota. LM: And will those men find out the extent to which this Genesis will go     to win a match?  Where are those guys, anyway? NW: One part of the circle is never far from the other parts, Mr. Morton. LM: Yes, you proved that against Deathbringer at Birthday Bash. NW: As I told Shinja Chow before he left the IIWF, I had one debt to     repay.  My word was my bond.  It is Requiem who must live with the     consequences of those actions.  I will meet Paris, Herforth and Mota     tonight as a member of Genesis... but it is Nightwing whom they must     wrestle. LM: You must admit that the fans aren't happy with what you... NW: I have told you that I am a man of my word, Mr. Morton.  I promised     Shinja Chow that I would honor the Great Phoenix Spirit... and I     shall.  Do you see that candle?  When the light is extinguished, it is enveloped by the darkness, never to burn again.  But the fire of the Great Phoenix Spirit cannot be extinguished. LM: That's good news.  I glad that you... NW: But the flame has the potential to burn like none other, Mr. Morton.     Make no mistake about that.  It is the fire of the gods. LM: Ummm, yeah... okay.  Make of those comments what you will, Tim Dross     and Steve Roberts... because I'm not entirely sure what they mean. [Cut back to Dross and Roberts at the broadcast table.] TD: What do you make of that, Steve Roberts? SR: Meaningless mumbo-jumbo. Next question. TD: Shall we get up to the ring? SR: Congratulations! You've won tonight's star prize: getting to watch these four losers put on a sorry excuse for a wrestling match. TD: There's just no pleasing some people. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- IIWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP FOUR CORNERS MATCH: -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Ronnie Paris vs. Chris Herforth vs. Derek Mota vs. Nightwing ------------------------------------------------------------ WRITER: MG [Sparkplug Lee enters the ring and frantically rifles through some crib notes before raising the microphone to his lips.] SL: Ladies and Gentlemen, the following is an IIWF Cruiserweight Championship Four Corners Match! Two men may be in the ring at any one time, and may freely tag out to another at any time. Elimination is by pinfall, submission or being thrown over the top rope. The last man in the ring is the winner, and will go on to face the winner of the other Four Corners match on May 31 to determine the next IIWF Cruiserweight Champion! [Excited crowd pop] TD: Nicely explained, Sparkplug. As always. SR: [sarcastically] Yeah, the man's a total professional. SL: Weighing in at 210lbs, he's from the great state of Texas... Ronnie Paris! [Loud face pop for "We are the Champions" by Queen as Ronnie Paris walks down the aisle, slapping hands with the fans before entering the ring and limbering up in the centre of the ring] SL: Weighing in at 220lbs, and hailing from Germany... Chris Herforth! [A moderate pop from the crowd as "The Trick" by The Prodigy plays and Chris Herforth walks to ringside. His gaze never wavers from Ronnie Paris as he enters the ring and strides to a corner.] SL: Weighing in at 235lbs, and hailing from Cherokee, here is... Nightwing! [A loud Eagle screech is heard over the sound system, quickly seguing into Bryan Adams' "Native Son". A puzzled pop from the crowd as Nightwing walks to ringside, Requiem and The Highwayman by his side. All three men enter the ring and gaze at Herforth and Paris as they confer amongst themselves.] TD: What are the they doing here? Requiem and The Highwayman have no business being at ringside, Steve. SR: My guess is moral support. And maybe a quick beat of cheating when the referee isn't looking, who knows? SL: And the final entrant... Hailing from Toronto, Canada, and weighing in at 224lbs, here is... Derek Mota! [A moderate heel pop as Derek Mota saunters down to ringside, a devious grin on his face. In the ring all the men gaze suspiciously at each other, except for Mota. Mota gives a big thumbs up and a knowing wink to Requiem and the Highwayman whilst Herford and Paris argue with the referee.] TD: Interesting. Did you just see the wink from Mota? Could something be going on here, Steve? Could Genesis and Mota have struck a deal? SR: Who cares? Ah, I see that Requiem and The Highwayman have finished their little pep talk. Looks like we're finally gonna see some action. Nightwing strides confidently out to the centre of the ring, so I guess he's happy to start off first. Who's going to start the match off against him? [Herforth, Mota and Paris appear to be arguing amongst themselves over who will start the match. This goes on for a few moments as the crowd starts to get restless. Suddenly a jockstrap comes flying through the air to land in the centre of the ring. The camera whips around to reveal a grinning Joe Petrow.] JP: Hey! Will one of you clowns try to carry that? SR: Ha! I love it! [In the ring Chris Herforth picks up the strap and hurls it into the crowd before gesturing towards Nightwing.] TD: And finally it appears that Chris Herforth is starting the match off against Nightwing. Nice collar and elbow there... [The bell rings as Nightwing and Herforth jostle in the centre of the ring for control. After a few moments Herforth quickly executes a perfect arm drag which sends Nightwing to the mat. Nightwing is up quickly, just in time to execute an arm drag of his own as he sees Herforth rebounding off the ropes toward him. Nightwing capitalises with a lightning fast legdrop, followed by a pin. Herforth kicks out before the official can begin the count. Pop from the crowd! Nightwing pulls Herforth to his feet and sets up for a vertical suplex, which Herforth blocks.] TD: Quick thinking there by Chris Herforth. [A loud heel pop is suddenly heard as Simon Lebec appears at the head of the walkway, sauntering down toward ringside. Back in the ring Herforth has reversed the vertical suplex, and now has Nightwing up in the air] SR: Impressive hang time on that suplex, Dross. TD: Yes, indeed, and we appear to have a special guest as Simon Lebec joins us here at the broadcast table. SL: And what an honour it is for you that a man of my stature has joined you, Dross. Hey, Stevey, missed you at the Bash. SR: And I missed you too. So, how was the popcorn? SL: Don't even get me started on that. The nerve of that little punk! I should've cracked his head for what he did to me! Imagine... being placed in a cell... ME! A man of my integrity! I have one word for you boys: LAWSUIT! [Back in the ring, seemingly forgotten by all three men at the broadcast table, Nightwing comes crashing down to the mat as Herforth drops him from the suplex. Herforth moves in for the pin. Nightwing kicks out at the two count] TD: And I have three words for you... El Super Gecko! He wasn't too pleased with what you did to him at Birthday Bash. [In the ring Herforth applies a nerve hold to Nightwing's trapezius muscles, and for good measure forces a knee into the small of Nightwing's back.] SL: [mimicking Dross] "He wasn't too..." Oh, can it, Dross! Gecko isn't too pleased with me? I'm kinda pissed off with him myself, since he's going around claiming to be a wrestler... tarnishing the image of this fine sport. It's jerks like him that this sport doesn't need. A wrestler he is not. If he wants a crack at the ol' "Showstopper" then he can have one, right here next week. And I promise, the lizard will be squirming his way to the hospital! [Loud uncertain pop as, back in the ring, Nightwing struggles to escape the hold. Finally he manages to get to his feet, with Herforth hanging on, having converted the hold into a sleeper.] TD: There's the challenge. Now let's get back to the ring. SL: Yeah, I was gonna comment on that. Why, oh _why_, am I not in this tournament? I'm a Cruiserweight, and I don't have to go to Jenny Craig like Steve Kowalski in order to get there. [Back in the ring Nightwing is edging towards the ropes. Finally making it, the referee orders Herforth to break. Herforth backs off and tags in a surprised Ronnie Paris, who looks cautiously at Requiem and Highwayman before entering the ring.] SL: And these guys are? That ring reeks of jobber! Look at widdle Wonnie Pawis in there. He spends too much time counting the lights on the ceiling of the Coliseum, I'm surprised he still remembers what the ring looks like. TD: Now, Mr. Lebec, please. Ronnie Paris is a tremendous talent and... SL: [cutting him off] Anyway, boys, I better motor. Many things to do, and in all honesty, this match is getting more stale than a condom in Chris Quigley's wallet! HA! SR: Simon, even stale things can be used! HA! [In the ring Nightwing and Paris tie up, with Nightwing gaining the upper hand by quickly ducking and sweeping Paris' legs away from him. Nightwing quickly runs to the ropes and rebounds off, executing a perfect handspring into a splash onto Ronnie Paris. Big pop! A camera closeup shows a surprised look on Nightwing's face.] SL: Good one, Stevey! I'll have to remember to add that one to my latest book, "Simon's Sarcastic Insults and Other Ways to Make People Cry. Vol III." I'm outta here. But remember, I'll be interviewing the IIWF Heavyweight Champion, Casey James, later tonight... so stay tuned! Even if the interview is lame, you can still look at me, ladies! Later, fellas. And Dross, quit stealing my parking spot! [Lebec stands and leaves the broadcast table.] TD: Well, perhaps now we can get back to the match, Steve? SR: My attention never left the match, Dross... Hey, when did widdle Wonnie tag in? [Back in the ring, Nightwing moves in for a pin, but Paris kicks out at the one count. Paris is up before Nightwing, and rebounds off the rope. Nightwing misses with the clothesline as Paris ducks under, to rebound off the other rope into a flying crossbody block! Big pop as Nightwing goes down and Paris hooks the leg. The referee is slightly out of position, but quickly drops to begin the count. Nightwing kicks out with authority at the two count. Both men are soon up, and Paris irishwhips Nightwing into the ropes.] TD: Well, we're certainly seeing a fast paced match tonight, Steve. SR: Stealing Simon's car parking space? Have you no shame? TD: I do _not_ take Lebec's parking space. SR: Whatever you say, Dross. Whatever you say. Hey! Good move by Nightwing! Widdle Wonnie wasn't expecting that flying shoulderblock, and hits the mat like a brick! You know, Dross, when this match is over you'd better get Wonnie's mommy to take him for a check-up, that had to hurt. [Nightwing pulls a dazed Paris off the mat, just in time to plant him again with a snap suplex. Suddenly Requiem beckons Nightwing over, and Nightwing returns to his own corner to confer with the rest of Genesis] TD: Hmm. What's all this about? SR: Dunno, Dross. But Nightwing appears to be disagreeing with something. [Back in the ring Nightwing is shaking his head vehemently as Requiem and The Highwayman confer with him. The camera crew just make out a "NO!" before Nightwing returns to the match and Ronnie Paris, who is still out on the mat. Reaching down to grab Paris, Nightwing is suddenly rolled up by Paris! Big Pop as the referee drops and makes the count.] TD: So close! Nightwing escapes the three count by a mere fraction of an inch, Steve Roberts! That referee's hand was practically on the mat! SR: Practically don't cut it, Dross. Nightwing kicked out in time, and a good job too. Losing to Wonnie Paris? How humiliating that would be! [Paris is back on his feet, as is Nightwing. Paris swings a punch, which Nightwing blocks. Another punch is blocked. Suddenly, as Paris swings a punch he also kicks the midsection of Nightwing. Nightwing is too busy blocking punches to see it coming, and doubles over in pain! Big crowd pop! Paris quickly grabs hold of Nightwing and ...] TD: Piledriver! What a move by Ronnie Paris! SR: It was okay, I guess. [Ronnie Paris quickly moves in to pin Nightwing, but Requiem is suddenly on the ring apron, remonstrating with the referee!] TD: The referee hasn't seen it, he's too busy trying to clear Requiem from the ring! That's a five, no a six count, as Ronnie Paris pounds the mat angrily! SR: Genesis is making its presence felt in the match, Dross. You may not like 'em, and God knows I don't, but you've got to admit they've got style! [Back in the ring the referee has finally cleared Requiem from the ring apron, and turns to see Nightwing pinned by Paris. Dropping to the mat, he makes the count, but Nightwing raises a shoulder at two. Big disappointed pop from the crowd!] TD: Only a two count? By my estimation that was a twelve count, Steve. [Ronnie Paris remonstrates with the referee, who can only shrug. A fuming Paris tags in Derek Mota, who gives a big 'thumbs up' To Requiem and Highwayman as he enters the ring. Advancing towards Nightwing, he extends a hand. A suspicious Nightwing looks at the hand, then slowly, almost reluctantly, shakes it] SR: Good sportsmanship from Derek Mota? Looks like the real Mota has been abducted and replaced by one of the pod people, Dross. TD: What's going on between Derek Mota and Genesis? Are they aligned or aren't they? [A collar and elbow tie up between Mota and Nightwing, both men vying for position. Eventually Mota releases the hold and backs away, grinning. Nightwing quickly moves in, however, and flattens Mota with a clothesline! Big mixed pop! Mota quickly regains his feet, his everpresent grin still on his face. Nightwing quickly grabs him and irishwhips him into the ropes. Nightwing attempts a frankensteiner, but there's nobody home! Derek Mota grabs the ropes and halts the rebound, leaving a surprised Nightwing to land hard!] SR: Big mistake from Nightwing, and that leaves Mota a great opportunity. Pin 'im, Mota, pin 'im! [Big surprised pop as, instead of moving in for an easy pin, Derek Mota quickly tags Chris Herforth.] TD: What in the world? Derek Mota tags in Chris Herforth and then levels him with a DDT? SR: Brilliant strategy on Mota's part, Dross. At a guess I'd say he's playing one off against the other. Instead of eliminating one weakened opponent he's hoping two weakened opponents will eliminate each other. TD: That's a guess, is it? SR: Well, it's what I would do. Of course, I'm a tactical genius... [Back in the ring a dazed Nightwing is slowly making his way over to the stunned Chris Herforth, and drapes an arm over him. The referee drops to the mat and starts the count, only to have Herforth raise a shoulder at the two and a half mark. Big relieved pop from the crowd! Both men stagger to their feet virtually simultaneously, but Herforth just manages to lift Nightwing up before he can react.] TD: Herforth has Nightwing up on the turnbuckle, Steve. All he has to do is give Nightwing a push, and it's all over for the Native American! [Herforth climbs the top turnbuckle and then executes a perfect top-rope frankensteiner, the impact knocking Nightwing half way across the ring. Big pop from the crowd!] SR: What a move by Chris Herford! 'Course, if he'd just dropkicked him off the turnbuckle Nightwing would already be eliminated, but I'm sure Herford has some insidious plan. Or something. On the other hand, maybe he's just dumb. [Herforth, up on the top turnbuckle, stands high and extends his arms. The crowd hushes, awaiting whatever Herforth will do in tense anticipation. Suddenly he leaps off the turnbuckle, landing in a big splash across Nightwing. Massive Pop! Moving in for the pin, Herford hooks the leg. The referee drops to the mat and begins the count, but Nightwing just manages to feebly raise a shoulder at two and three quarters. Disappointed pop!] TD: Nightwing kicks out - just! Nightwing's been in the match for a long time, Steve. What, in your opinion as a... *ahem* ...tactical genius, is his strategy? SR: Watch with the cracks, Dross, unless maybe you'd like to be on the receiving end of an asai moonsault? But, since you asked, I think that this "Genesis" mob are sending a signal. TD: And that signal would be? SR: "We don't need anybody else to get the job done," maybe? TD: Hmm. Not sure about that, Steve. [In the ring Herforth has Nightwing ready for the vertical suplex. Nightwing blocks, but Herforth tries again. Nightwing blocks again, but Herforth finally gets him up in the air on the third attempt. After a short pause, Herforth brings Nightwing down but...] TD: Incredible! In mid-flight, Nightwing twists his body around and lands on _top_ of Chris Herforth! I've never seen Nightwing do that before! SR: Nightwing looks pretty surprised himself, Dross! That's the sort of move you'd expect someone like Shinja Chow to be able to pull off, but I've never seen Nightwing do that! [A surprised Chris Herforth kicks out, both men quickly regaining their footing. Herforth irish whips Nightwing, but Nightwing reverses it to send Herforth towards the ropes. However, the Highwayman is on that side of the ring and pulls the ropes down..] TD: Chris Herforth has been eliminated! Herforth impacts the ropes, but The Highwayman has hold of them, unbalancing Herforth and sending him flying over the top rope. SR: I just about love it to death, Dross! Chris Herforth is the first to go, eliminated by Nightwing. TD: You mean eliminated by The Highwayman, Steve. SR: Hey, whatever works. Nice job, by the way, Dick Turpin. [Outside the ring things become a bit tense as Chris Herforth realises what's happened and starts arguing with The Highwayman. Things start to look ugly, but the 6'10" Requiem next to The Highwayman helps to calm things down. Chris Herforth mutters several german phrases under his breath as he walks back to the dressing room area.] TD: One down, two more to go, Steve. [Ronnie Paris enters the ring, quickly levelling Nightwing with a clothesline. Big surprised pop! Grabbing Nightwing from the mat, Paris with a perfect Northern Lights suplex surprises the referee, who is out of position. Dropping down to the mat, the referee counts to two before Nightwing kicks out. Nightwing gets to his feet, and is about to make a move when Paris nails him with a kick to the midsection, followed by a DDT! Surprised Pop! Paris moves off to the ropes, waiting for Nightwing to make his groggy way back to his feet] TD: Nightwing is certainly showing us an impressive display of endurance, Steve. SR: Takes a lickin', but keeps on kickin'. [Nightwing makes it back to his feet, only to have Paris move in with a bulldog, but Nightwing sees it coming and counters by catching Paris and executing a sideslam! Surprised Pop! Nightwing grabs Paris and pulls him to his feet, moving to set him up for a...] TD: Standing Moonsault?! Nightwing has _never_ used that move before tonight, Steve, never! Where is he getting these maneuvers from? [The referee almost reaches three before Paris raises a shoulder. Nightwing remonstrates with the referee...] SR: That count did seem a little slow... [Nightwing pulls Paris up, and irish whips him into the ropes. However, Paris reverses it, sending Nightwing flying toward the ropes] TD: Nightwing reverses, sending Paris flying toward the ropes! NO! The Highwayman suddenly pulls the ropes again! [At the last possible moment, Paris reverses the irish whip yet again, sending Nightwing hurtling toward the ropes. The Highwayman sees what is happening, and a look of horror crosses his face, but before he can react Nightwing tumbles over the top rope, to land at the Highwayman's feet!] SR: Nightwing has been eliminated! By widdle Wonnie! Oh, the shame of it! HA! I love it! TD: No, Steve Roberts! Nightwing was eliminated by GENESIS! Their interference backfired! And now we're down to just two men, Derek Mota and Wonnie... I mean Ronnie... Paris! [On the outside The Highwayman is explaining what just happened to a puzzled and angry Nightwing, as Requiem looks on passively. Nightwing looks at Requiem, then at The Highwayman, and walks down the aisle without saying a word. Requiem and Highwayman exchange glances, then follow shortly behind him. Meanwhile, Derek Mota quickly enters the ring and dropkicks Paris in the back, sending him flying toward the top rope! Paris is able to stop just in time, leading to a big relieved pop. Derek Mota sprints toward Paris, intent on clotheslining him over the top, but Paris ducks, sending Mota flying with a body press, over the top rope!] TD: Amazing! I felt sure that Mota would go over the top rope with that back bodydrop, but somehow he managed to swing around and land next to Paris, followed by a DDT! SR: Yeah, and Mota's the fresh man in there, Dross. Paris has maybe fought his way to exhaustion with Nightwing and Herforth! In fact, if Mota and Genesis _were_ working together, maybe this was all planned. Get Mota in the ring while Nightwing does all the hard work, get Mota in there nice and rested while the other suckers tire out. TD: I bet you know who was on the grassy knoll, right? [Mota has the pin, but Paris kicks out at the last instant. Mota seems to argue with the referee over the count] SR: See, Dross? Another guy who thinks that referee counts slow. [Mota drags Paris out into the centre of the ring before applying a boston crab. Paris cries out in pain, but does not submit. Grimly he starts looking for ways out of the hold, then begins trying to rock from side to side] SR: What the heck is Wonnie doing? [Paris begins to rock from side to side, building up momentum, until he is able to catapult Mota away!] TD: What a brilliant momentum move from Wonnie... darn it, I mean Ronnie Paris! SR: He got lucky, Dross. I doubt if Paris can even spell "momentum"! [Paris and Mota are now back on their feet, although Paris is favouring his lower back somewhat. Mota moves in with a rake to the face which leaves Paris reeling, followed quickly by a knee lift which sends Paris to the mat. Mota follows with a dropped elbow to the midsection, then moves around for a figure four leglock! Big heel pop from the crowd! Paris is hurting, but tries to reverse it. Mota blocks the attempt once, but then Paris is able to reverse it, to a big face pop from the crowd! Mota reaches the ropes and the referee orders the break. Both men reach their feet, though both seem to have hurt knees. A brawl ensues in the middle of the ring, both men swinging and blocking, until Ronnie Paris is able to grab hold of Derek Mota and execute a perfect belly-to-belly suplex before going for the pin! Mota kicks out before the referee even starts to count.] SR: Come on, Mota! TD: You're supposed to be impartial, Steve. SR: I am. I don't care who wins, Dross. As long as it isn't Ronnie Paris. [Paris moves in with a legdrop, but Mota rolls out of the way. Both men reach their feet, only to have Mota nail Paris with a spinning heel kick. Paris drops like a stone, but kicks out the moment Mota covers him. Mota rolls Paris over onto his front, and begins to apply an STF, but Paris extends an arm to grab the ropes. The referee orders the break, and Mota obliges] SR: Yup, for sure. He's totally one of the pod people. Clean break? Give _me_ a break! [Paris sends Mota flying with a standing frankensteiner, though again Mota proves to be unwilling to be covered. Mota gets to his feet as Paris rebounds off the ropes, launching himself into the air as a cross-body block. However, Mota seems to catch Paris and, using his own momentum, catapults him over the top rope! Paris flies just over the top rope...] TD: NO! SR: YES! [And catches the top rope! The top rope bends outwards but holds, as Ronnie Paris grabs hold and slides around and under the top rope, being deposited back into the ring] SR: Uh? What happened? TD: What an amazing stroke of luck for Ronnie Paris! Catapulted over the top rope, but managing to grab on and slide under back into the ring! That must surely be a one in a million chance event, Steve Roberts! [Derek Mota stands there, looking amazed, for a moment, but quickly snaps out of it to deliver a series of kicks to Ronnie Paris, who seems amazed to still be in the ring himself.] SR: I coulda swore I just saw Wonnie lose. Didn't Wonnie just go flying over the top rope, Dross? Strange that, because I didn't hear any bell... [Paris seems to be suffering under the brunt of the series of kicks from Mota, but still manages to valiantly struggle to a vertical base. Mota moves in with a kneelift, followed by a DDT, which Paris blocks! Surprised pop! Paris quickly lifts Mota and delivers a face first slam! Big face pop as Mota's nose slams into the mat.] TD: Ouch! That could have broken the nose, Steve. SR: So what? Resetting it will probably improve matters. [Paris rolls over Mota and goes for the pin, but Mota kicks out at the two count. An amazed Ronnie Paris shakes his head as he gets to his feet, pulling Derek Mota up with him. Mota lashes out with a fist to the midsection doubling Paris over, which Mota quickly capitalises on with a rocker dropper!] TD: That's one of Requiem's moves, Steve Roberts! Is that another sign that Derek Mota and the Alliance are hooked up in some way? SR: Nah, it's just a move that's damn painful, Dross. To say nothing of a possible career ender. [Mota moves in for a pin, but it is his turn to be thwarted as Paris raises a shoulder just before the three count. Pulling Paris up by the hair, ignoring the referee warning, Mota places Paris between his legs in readiness for a powerbomb.] SR: It's all over for Wonnie if Mota hits this, Dross. Not that I'm looking forward to it or anything, me being impartial. [Mota lifts Paris up, but at the highest point Paris is a blur of action as his body twists, taking Mota with it] TD: Goodness! Ronnie Paris turns the powerbomb into a frankensteiner. What a move from Paris, Steve. SR: Dross, you know I will never, _ever_, say a good thing about Ronnie Paris, so quit trying to make me. [Paris moves in to pin Mota, but yet again Mota raises a shoulder before the three count. Paris pulls Mota up, and irishwhips Mota into the ropes, which Mota reverses. Paris rebounds off the ropes and runs full tilt toward Mota, who launches himself for a frankensteiner...] TD: Ronnie Paris stops just short! I'm not sure if Ronnie Paris was able to hit the brakes or Derek Mota miscalculated, but Mota misses and lands badly. SR: That was a mistake for Mota, Dross. Looks like all the air's been knocked out of Mota, and that's certainly left him stunned. [Paris pulls Mota closer to the ropes, then firmly grabs both legs before flashing a rare grin at the audience and dropping backwards...] TD: Ronnie Paris slingshots Derek Mota over the top rope and onto the floor outside! Paris wins! Paris wins! Paris wins! SR: Marvellous. Just freakin' marvellous. Well, that's about made _my_ evening. SL: Here is your winner, Ronnie Paris! [A jubilant Ronnie Paris climbs the turnbuckles, saluting the fans. Meanwhile, on the outside, Derek Mota groggily shakes his head and climbs to his feet. A few moments later he realises that he has lost, and a look of fury crosses his face. He grabs a chair and is about to storm the ring when he observes Requiem at the head of the walkway, calmly observing the match. Dropping the chair, he starts to angrily walk away from ringside. A cameraman is in his way as Mota storms past. The microphone picks up the words "We gotta look out for own" as Mota pushes the cameraman away.] TD: What was that all about? SR: Who cares? Widdle Wonnie Paris as a potential IIWF cruiserweight champion? What a nightmare scenario that would be. [Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Well, fans, what a match that was. And we have another tremendous encounter coming straight up, pitting the brawny Scotsman, Duncan Macbeth, against the Welsh wonder, Marty Warnett. SR: A real Battle of Britain, huh, Dross? TD: Indeed. Both men are intent on reaching the goals they have set themselves: Macbeth is gunning for an Intercontinental Championship match against fellow Brit, Lord Byron, while Warnett has made his disdain for one Chris Quigley more than evident over the past few weeks, particularly with his, uh, song at Birthday Bash. SR: Warnett may be about as musically talented as my breakfast, but he hit the nail right on the head with his comments about Chrissy Quigley. TD: Both Macbeth and Warnett need a victory here tonight, but only one man will have his arm raised at the end of this match. Let's get up to ringside. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Duncan Macbeth vs. Marty Warnett -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: DS [Sparkplug Lee steps into the centre of the ring and raises his microphone as "Scotland the Brave" kicks in over the PA. Big pop!] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, hailing from Glenfinnan, Scotland, and weighing in at 270lbs, here is... Duncan Macbeth! [The lights in the arena dim, and the white cross of St. Patrick is cast onto the canvas of the ring as Sparkplug darts into one corner. To the skirl of the pipes, Macbeth, ever the imposing figure, his wild strawberry-blond hair tied back away from his face, his green eyes showing his determination, steps out into the aisle. He wears his usual kilt and black leather motorcycle jacket, with the Lion Rampant of Scotland painted on the back. He shrugs off the hands of the fans as he makes his way down to the ring, climbing the ringsteps and entering the ring, removing his jacket and performing a few stretches as he awaits his opponent.] TD: Macbeth is the picture of determination here tonight, Steve Roberts. He's already defeated one former champion -- the dangerous Otto Verhoeven -- and he's looking to put away Warnett, a former Intercontinental Champion, here tonight. SR: Well, Dross, Macbeth's victory over Verhoeven was a fluke, pure and simple. But I wouldn't be surprised to see him pound Walnut into the mat here tonight. Farty's bound to be looking past Macbeth to Quigley, and that could cost him here. TD: You certainly don't want to look past this 270lbs fighting machine. Warnett will be giving up five inches and twenty-five pounds to Macbeth in this match, and that's sure to play a part here. Macbeth is a dangerous athlete -- he can mix it up on the mat and in the air, and Warnett had better be prepared for an all-out assault. [Sparkplug Lee retakes centre stage as the lights fade back up, and "Cold Gin" by Kiss kicks in over the PA, bringing the crowd in the Coliseum to their feet. Huge pop!] RA: And his opponent... hailing from Cardiff, Wales, and weighing in at 245lbs, he is a former Intercontinental Champion... he is the "Party Maniac"... he is Marty Warnett! [Showers of sparks shoot up either side of the entranceway as Warnett steps out into the aisle. He immediately begins slapping the hands of fans on either side of the aisle, as rockets shoot over his head towards the roof of the arena, streaking across the Coliseum, emitting their high-pitched scream. Warnett makes his way down to the ring, watched by a determined Macbeth all the way. Further explosions erupt above the ring as Warnett leaps to the apron, and vaults over the top rope into the squared circle. He immediately climbs to the turnbuckles and raises his arms to the crowd, who respond with a huge ovation.] TD: Marty Warnett bringing this Coliseum crowd alive, Steve Roberts! Warnett has brought these fans to their feet! SR: Why these peons would cheer for a witless Welsh wa... TD: [interrupting] Don't you practice your alliteration on me, Steve. Okay, Warnett handing his jacket to a ringside attendant, and looking across the ring at Macbeth for the first time now... Looking into those piercing green eyes of Macbeth must be a very unnerving experience, Steve Roberts. SR: Not as unnerving as seeing Maurice McArthur at Birthday Bash, Dross. TD: Poor Maurice. Okay, the referee signalling for the bell... [Ding! Ding! Ding! Warnett and Macbeth circle one another, each man looking to get the upper hand in the collar and elbow tie-up straight from the get-go... and Warnett lunges in. Macbeth meets him, and the two men grapple for supremacy. Almost immediately, Macbeth twists Warnett out of the tie-up and applies a hammerlock on Warnett's arm, before hooking one of Warnett's legs and taking him down to the mat. Pop! Macbeth keeps the hammerlock applied as Warnett's face is rubbed in the mat.] TD: Macbeth asserting himself early on here. He's sending a clear message to Warnett here in the early going. [Macbeth releases the hold, and steps back as Warnett gets back to his feet. He shakes the kink out of his right arm, and then approaches Macbeth once more, looking to lock up again. Warnett lunges in, but Macbeth feints, and Warnett is taken down to the mat by a drop toe hold. Macbeth quickly applies a reverse chinlock on the felled Welshman, and locks it in tight. Warnett, clearly frustrated, reaches behind his head and grabs a handful of Macbeth's hair -- in full view of the referee, who orders a break. Warnett obliges, and Macbeth also releases the chinlock, stepping away and once more allowing Marty to get to his feet.] SR: What's with Macbeth, Dross? Why'd he release the hold? TD: I believe he's trying to frustrate Marty Warnett, Steve... trying to get him to lose his temper. Somebody like Warnett is easily riled up. [Warnett stands and looks out into the crowd, who give him a supportive cheer. Refocusing himself, Warnett charges in to grapple Macbeth once more -- but finds himself hiptossed to the mat! Pop! Warnett springs up and charges in again -- hiptoss to the corner. Warnett stands up, and Macbeth charges in, leaping to the second buckle and pounding Warnett's head and upper torso with fierce forearms! Pop! Warnett grabs Macbeth by the legs and walks out into the ring, attempting to drop Macbeth onto his back, but as he steps forward, Macbeth wriggles free, leans back and vaults off the mat with his hands, his feet caught under Warnett's arms, and flips Warnett across the ring! Big pop!] TD: Wow! A modified monkey flip from Macbeth there! This man may be around the 270lbs mark, but he's an agile competitor. SR: Yeah, yeah. But who can understand a word he says? [Warnett picks himself up again, and approaches Macbeth more cautiously. Warnett looks out into the crowd, and then raises his hands, as if he wants to test his strength against Macbeth. The fans cheer Warnett, and Macbeth is keen to prove his superior power, linking first one hand with Warnett, and then the other... and immediately Macbeth begins to force Marty down to the mat. The fans cheer Warnett on, encouraging him -- and suddenly, the Welshman launches a hard kick into Macbeth's midsection, before, quick as a flash, executing a vicious swinging neckbreaker that sends the Scotsman to the mat. Confused pop!] TD: Marty Warnett just... How very uncharacteristic, Steve! SR: I guess Warnett's temper just ran out, Dross. He's tired of this skirt-wearing goofball keeping him at arm's length -- he wants to get this match over with so he can get on with fighting Chrissy Quigley. [Warnett drops an elbow on the back of Macbeth's neck, and then turns him over, going for the cover - 1 - Macbeth kicks out with authority. Warnett drags Macbeth to his feet and whips him into the ropes, putting his head down for a backdrop -- but a little too early, and Macbeth sees the move telegraphed, bringing his boot up sharply under Warnett and snapping him over to the canvas. Macbeth stomps on Warnett -- heel pop -- and then drags the Welshman to his feet. Macbeth slings Warnett's arm over his shoulder and attempts a suplex -- blocked -- Warnett attempts a suplex of his own -- blocked -- and it's Macbeth's turn to try again... this time he hauls Warnett over his head, and performs a slingshot suplex, bouncing Warnett off the ropes and dropping him hard on the mat. Big mixed pop!] TD: Well-executed slingshot suplex right there, Steve Roberts. I think Warnett may well be underestimating his opponent here. Macbeth can hurt you in a lot of ways -- in the air, on the mat, or in a knock-down, drag-out brawl, he's got a lot of strings to his bow. SR: [in a dreadful brogue] Och, a lot of bags fer 'is pipes, ye wee sassenach. TD: There's no need to stereotype so brutally, Steve. SR: Aw, come on, Dross, it's Sartre. Society forcing man into particular roles... you know the stuff. TD: Sartre?! What on earth would you know about Sartre, Steve Roberts? SR: Give me some credit, Dross. I'm not one of these morons out here. I'm an educated man. Your mind is a muscle, Dross, and you have to exercise it like you exercise any other muscle. TD: Well... SR: [interrupting] And it's as plain as the rat on your head that some of your muscles don't get exercised a whole lot, so perhaps you should read some more. That is, assuming you can, of course. TD: Health and fitness for the mind and body, with Steve Roberts, ladies and gentlemen. Warnett now, sent for the ride by Macbeth... and he nailed him! Big dropkick from the Scotsman, and Marty rolls out of the ring to the outside! [Big pop! While Warnett attempts to collect himself on the outside, Macbeth measures his opponent, bounces against the ropes, and then launches himself between the top and middle ropes with a flying cross-body block, hitting Warnett hard and sending him crashing into the steel guardrail. Huge pop! Neither man gets to his feet immediately, and the referee begins counting both athletes out. Macbeth is first to stir, Warnett having taken the brunt of the collision, and drags Marty to his feet, scoop-slamming him back to the concrete floor before rolling under the bottom rope to break the count. The burly Scotsman immediately rolls back out of the ring, and helps the recovering Warnett back to his feet -- only to receive a hard right hand to the midsection for his trouble. Macbeth staggers back, and Warnett lunges at his opponent with a clothesline, managing to take the Scotsman off his feet. Big pop from the Marty maniacs!] TD: Wow... this one could turn ugly out here on the floor, Steve Roberts. SR: I hope they both get busted wide open. TD: How charitable of you. [Warnett goes to the apron and prepares to drop an elbow on Macbeth, launching himself -- but Macbeth rolls out of the way, and Marty's elbow hits the arena floor hard! Big shocked pop! Warnett clutches his right arm, his face contorted in pain. Macbeth pulls himself to his feet using the apron, and drags Warnett back up, rolling him into the ring before climbing the ringsteps himself. Warnett pulls himself to his feet using the ropes, still holding his injured right arm, as Macbeth approaches from behind.] TD: Marty's rhythm really seems off tonight. He just can't buy a break in this match, Steve Roberts. SR: Well, whether he bought it or not, he may well have a broken arm right there, Dross. He landed pretty hard on that right elbow. TD: It may indeed be dislocated or even broken, placing Warnett at even more of a disadvantage here. Macbeth has been able to completely dictate the pace of this match right from the getgo. [Macbeth grabs Warnett around the waist, and executes a powerful belly-to-back suplex, dumping Warnett on his head -- and Macbeth bridges, making the cover - 1 - 2 - Warnett just manages to slip out a shoulder! Big pop! Warnett rolls away from Macbeth, who stands and drags his opponent to his feet. Macbeth grabs Warnett's hurt arm and yanks on it, causing Marty to yell out in pain. The Scotsman twists on the arm, putting ever more pressure on the hurt elbow. The referee checks Warnett for a submission, but the Welshman is having nothing of it, and as a last resort, jams a thumb in Macbeth's eye, forcing the Scotsman to back off. Macbeth staggers backwards, and Warnett, desperate to buy some time to nurse his arm, charges at the Scotsman with a left-armed clothesline, knocking the Scotsman over the ropes to the floor -- but his momentum also carries him over, and he crashes to the floor on top of Macbeth! Huge pop!] TD: A move of desperation there on the part of Marty Warnett. Not only is his elbow hurt, but Macbeth could have easily separated his shoulder with those hard yanks and armwringers. SR: Warnett took another nasty fall right there, Dross -- he didn't put out his hands to cushion the blow, and I think he landed pretty hard on his knees. He could be going out of the frying pan and into the fire... TD: Well, he's getting back to his feet -- if his knee is hurt, he's not showing it at the moment -- and Warnett stomps away at Macbeth! Marty appears to be boiling over with anger and frustration. At every point in this match, Macbeth seems to be one step ahead of him. [Warnett drags Macbeth to his feet and rolls him into the ring under the bottom rope before climbing to the apron and stepping back into the squared circle himself. Macbeth drags himself to his feet, and Warnett moves in, kicking the Scotsman in the midsection and doubling him over. Warnett goes for a DDT -- but Macbeth powers out, backdropping Warnett hard to the canvas! The Scotsman goes down to his knees, but pulls himself back to his feet, turning and grabbing Warnett's arm before grapevining it with his legs, and falling back to the mat, yanking it out of its socket and twisting the sore elbow. Warnett yells out in pain and beats his hands on the mat in frustration. The referee is right there, and as Warnett tries to relax his shoulders, allowing them to fall to the mat, the official makes a count - 1 - 2 - Warnett lifts his left shoulder... but lets it drop again! The official counts again - 1 - 2 - Warnett lifts his shoulder again.] TD: Come on, this isn't a pinning combination, Steve Roberts! This is a submission manoeuvre. The official's only making this situation more painful for Warnett -- if he can't relax those shoulders, the pain on his right arm will be far worse. SR: Ah well, them's the breaks, kids. TD: We're seeing a side to Duncan Macbeth that we've not fully seen before here, folks. He's a powerful brawler, sure, and he's able to mix it up in the air, but here we're seeing just how effective a man of his size can be on the mat. All that training in Europe and Japan has really paid off. [The crowd begins chanting: "Mar - ty! Mar - ty! Mar - ty!" Macbeth applies as much pressure on the hold as Warnett tries to inch towards the ropes with his left arm... the rope is less than an inch away from his fingertips... he inches further... and Warnett grabs the ropes! Big pop! The referee immediately signals for Macbeth to break the hold, and the Scotsman obliges, getting to his feet -- and stomping on Warnett's injured arm! Big mixed pop! Warnett rolls out of the way, but Macbeth follows him, and grabs hold of Warnett's arm, pulling him to his feet. Warnett has the presence of mind to trap Macbeth in an inside cradle out of nowhere! The referee is out of position, and takes precious moments to make the count - 1 - 2 - Macbeth kicks out! Big disappointed pop!] TD: Warnett's fighting for his life here, Steve Roberts. He's in trouble in that ring, and he's got to do something quickly. He's failed to make any real dents in the big Scotsman -- Macbeth straight back to his feet -- and look at those eyes! Macbeth's green eyes burning with rage at that nearfall! SR: I don't blame him, Dross. He's dictated this match right from the beginning, and that punk Warnett still pulls off a stunt like that. [Macbeth drags Marty to his feet and whips him into the ropes, grabbing him on the return and felling him with a big spinebuster! Huge pop! Macbeth goes for the cover - 1 - 2 - Warnett kicks out! Big pop! The Scotsman drags Warnett to his feet again and whips him into the ropes, bouncing off the ropes himself and launching himself at the Welshman -- who ducks under the flying clothesline attempt! Macbeth hits the mat hard and rolls out of the ring, to the floor and some way into the aisle. Warnett, meanwhile, runs across the ring once more -- and launches himself with a plancha clear over the top rope and towards the staggering Macbeth -- who steps out of the way! Warnett crashes to the floor in the aisle! Huge pop!] TD: Oh no... That's it for Warnett. It's over, Steve Roberts. SR: Stick a fork in him -- he's done! TD: Warnett doesn't often take to the air, and the risk proved disasterous right there. All Macbeth has to do is get him back into the ring and cover him... [Macbeth drags the winded Warnett to his feet and pulls him back towards the ring, rolling him in under the bottom rope before climbing back into the squared circle himself. Macbeth makes the cover on Warnett -- 1 - 2 - Warnett gets his foot on the ropes! Big pop! Macbeth stands and argues with the referee, but the official points out the fact that Warnett's foot was clearly on the ropes. Warnett lies on the canvas, chest heaving, dripping with sweat, close to exhausted. Macbeth drags him to his feet and rushes him into the ropes, attempting to pull him over backwards with him for the roll-up, but Warnett grabs the ropes, and Macbeth rolls into the centre of the ring alone. Macbeth picks himself up and approaches Warnett from behind, as Marty appears to reach into his tights... the fans on that side of the ring begin to buzz...] TD: What's going on here? What's Warnett doing? Macbeth approaches from behind, he spins Marty around -- and Warnett clocks him! Warnett absolutely blasts Macbeth with a vicious right hand to the jaw -- and the Scotsman goes down like a sack of potatoes! [Warnett drops to the mat to cover Macbeth, and with his back to the official, throws something out of the ring under the bottom rope. The crowd roars with confusion as Warnett makes the cover on the stunned Scotsman, hooking both legs -- 1 -- 2 -- 3! Ding! Ding! Ding! Huge mixed pop! Warnett immediately rolls from the ring and begins to back away, pushing his hair out of his eyes and nursing his right arm. "Cold Gin" kicks in over the PA once more as Sparkplug Lee's voice booms out across the Coliseum:] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner, as the result of a pinfall: Marty Warnett! [Warnett raises his left arm in victory to the crowd, most of whom give him a huge ovation -- but some jeer his actions as he backs away up the aisle.] TD: Fans, I can hardly believe this, but it appears that Marty Warnett was carrying some kind of foreign object in his tights, which he then used to knock Macbeth out cold to get the pinfall... I never thought I'd say this of a Warnett victory, but what a miscarriage of justice! SR: Aw, can it, Dross. You're always harping on about justice, but a win's a win. Warnett's going to have to become more ruthless if he's going to beat ol' Chrissy Quigley, and this is a step in the right direction. Y'know, he must have been reading the "L'il Soundbiters' Manual"... TD: Please, Steve. Macbeth dominated this match from bell to bell, and he would surely have put Warnett away had it not been for that illegal tactic. Warnett was clearly looking past Macbeth, and had to resort to desperate tactics to get out of there in one piece. SR: Any port in a storm, Dross. [Macbeth stirs in the ring, and pulls himself to his feet, rubbing his jaw. He quickly realises what has happened, and grabs the referee by his shirt, getting in the official's face. The referee, a look of terror on his face as he is confronted by the gleaming, furious eyes of Macbeth, orders the wrestler to unhand him, and eventually Macbeth does indeed relinquish his grip on the referee, shoving him away in disgust. Duncan places his hands on his hips and stares around at the crowd, a look of anger etched onto his face. Eventually, he climbs out of the ring and heads up the aisle, refusing to slap the hands of the fans as he goes. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Well, I think Macbeth has every right to be upset here tonight, Steve Roberts. Warnett just put a dent not only in the Scotsman's jaw, but also in his hopes for catapulting himself into immediate title contention with a victory over the former Intercontinental Champion. SR: No sense whining about it, Dross. Macbeth just has to pick himself up and get back into the squared circle to kick some more butt. TD: Indeed. A valuable victory for Marty Warnett here, albeit under questionable circumstances. Coming up next, one member of "Genesis", the Highwayman, faces the "Real Deal" Luke Steele! SR: You mean "Cop a Feel" Luke Steele? TD: Steve Roberts, the censors have warned us. If you mention a blow-up doll again, you'll be in trouble. SR: What? No, Troy is on maternity leave... Seems like Chrissy... TD: [interrupting] Watch your step, Steve. Do you want to get suspended again? SR: Oooh, tough guy Tim Dross. New gimmick? Finally going to put that styled rat to rest, huh? TD: [weakly] Steve... SR: You need a big ol' helpin' o' biscuits, kid, with a side order of whuppin'! TD: [sighs] Let's get to ringside... =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Highwayman vs. "Real Deal" Luke Steele -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: MF [Sparkplug Lee fiddles with his glittery bow-tie as he steps into the glare of the spotlight. He reads his cue-cards:] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, this next contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, weighing in at 275 pounds and hailing from Cleveland, Ohio, here is "The Real Deal" Luuuuuuuke Steeeeeeelllle! [The crowd erupts into a large pop as Luke Steel comes out to the head of the aisle while Black Cat plays. Luke nods his head at the fans, and begins to jog down the aisle, slapping hands along the way. He enters the ring and bounces off the ropes a few times, then raises his arms to the crowd, who return the gesture and pop louder for the man. Petrow can be seen in the stands seemingly asleep.] TD: This guy really knows how to play the crowd. SR: But he can't play poker... That's why they call him "Spare some change for my next meal?" Luke Steele. TD: Stop. Just stop. SR: He should be called "Roberts would like me if I'd just turn heel" Luke Steele. TD: You're not funny, you know. SR: What do you know about funny? RA: His opponent, accompanied down the aisle by Requiem and Nightwing, weighing in at 285 pounds and hailing from Leeds, England, here is the Hiiiiiighwaaaaayyyyyymaaaaaannnnn! ["Stand and" Deliver begins to play, and the crowd pops as the three Genesis members come out to the aisle. Highwayman takes the lead as Requiem follows, and some distance behind them, Nightwing brings up the rear, still looking a little disappointed by the outcome of the Cruiserweight title four corners match. Highwayman enters the ring, while Requiem and Nightwing take positions outside the ring. Nightwing seems to keep his distance from Requiem.] TD: These guys appear to be the standard-bearers of the New Generation in the IIWF, Steve. SR: New Generation? What's that mean? Oh, I know... Guys that haven't been here long enough to reach main event status. The Outlaw could kick the crap outta all three of those guys _plus_ "Shut up and Kneel" Luke Steel in under five minutes! TD: I thought you were supposed to be reserved on the Saturday Night shows... SR: I am. TD: Oh, brother... SR: Don't go calling for Hoss right now, Dross... Hehe... Hoss Dross... [The ref calls for the bell once everyone discards of their intro attire, and the Highwayman extends a hand to Luke Steele. Steele is wary at first, but Highwayman looks to be assuring him everything is okay. Then Highwayman starts pointing at Steele and the rest of Genesis on the outside, asking Steele to join with them. Steele appears to sigh a bit, and shakes his head. Highwayman shrugs his shoulders and offers a collar and elbow tie-up, and Steele accepts. The two men battle for the upper hand, and it is the Highwayman that comes out on top. Highwayman forces Steele down a notch, then locks on a front face lock. Steele is thrown off by the Highwayman's weight, and falls to his knees. Highwayman puts on the pressure and doubles Steele over, trying to hinder his breathing. Steele is affected slightly, but fights to his feet, and throws Highwayman into the ropes. Highwayman comes back, and tries for a clothesline, but it is ducked by Steele. Steele follows Highwayman to the opposite ropes and right after the rebound hits a reverse waistlock takedown, landing on HWM on the mat. The crowd pops, and Steele locks on a half-nelson/hammerlock.] TD: What a takedown by Steele! SR: Just wait... They don't call him "Clubbed like a baby seal" Luke Steele for nothing... [Steele tries to roll HWM over for the pin, but HWM fights it. Finally, Steele gets the pin... The ref counts... 1 - HWM powers back, but Steele works him back down for the pin again... 1 - 2 - HWM again fights back, this time getting a foot on the rope, so the ref calls for the break. Steele pins HWM's foot on the rope with his own foot and stomps on the knee of HWM. The crowd pops, and HWM howls in pain. The ref forces Steele away from HWM, admonishing him for attacking a man on the ropes. Steel holds his hands up and allows HWM to get to his feet, then rushes forward with a clothesline. HWM, thinking fast, ducks and sends Steele over the top rope with a back body drop, and Steele lands on the floor, twisting his ankle slightly in the fall. Steele grasps his leg and winces.] TD: Oh, no... SR: "Broken Wheel" on Luke Steele! TD: Thank you for making that mercifully short... [Steele struggles up to his feet as the ref lays a count on him... 1 - 2 - 3 - Steele is up, and realizes that Requiem is standing right there, arms crossed, a grim expression on his face. Steele backs off a bit, expecting an attack, but Requiem refuses to move an inch. Steele eyes Requiem carefully as he climbs back onto the apron, which gives HWM the opportunity to run in with a boot to the gut. Steele holds the ropes, and manages to stay on the apron, but is stunned by the shot. HWM grabs Steele over the ropes and lifts him into a powerbomb. The hardcore fans begin going feral at the potential, and Joe Petrow wakes up, but the hardcore fans quickly quiet down when HWM turns around, runs across the ring, and leaps, driving Steele into the mat. Steele is quite winded, and HWM makes the cover... 1 - 2 - Kickout by Steele! The crowd pops. Highwayman drags Steele up to a vertical base again and locks on a waistlock, then executes a gutwrench suplex. Suddenly, Steele reverses the maneuver and hits a leg-scissors takedown as he's being hauled up! HWM's head hits the mat, but both men seem winded, laying on the canvas. Steele is the first up, limping a little from his earlier fall, and makes the cover... 1 - 2 - Kickout by Highwayman!] TD: A close fall on each man, there. This match is so even it's hard to call! SR: Why don't we just forget about it then? [Steele gets up to his feet, dragging HWM up, and bodyslams him into the canvas. He then goes to the nearest corner and begins to climb the ropes. HWM doesn't move on the mat as Steele gets to the top rope and signals for the Real Deal Press. The crowd pops, and Steele launches himself into the inverted flip of his finisher, but the Highwayman swiftly rolls out of the way, and Steele hits only canvas! The crowd pops as Highwayman rushes over, drags the stunned Steele up, and hits a quick Daylight Robbery neckbreaker, then goes for the pin... 1 - 2 - 3! Ding Ding!] TD: Highwayman just pulled a rabbit out of his hat! SR: What, that stupid triangle looking thing? I didn't see that... [The crowd pops for the Highwayman as he celebrates in the ring. Steele gets up from the mat, rubbing his neck, and kicks at the bottom rope in disappointment. HWM walks over to Steele and holds a hand out, which Steele eventually accepts. HWM holds Steele's arm high in the air, and the crowd pops for both men. Highwayman whispers something to Steele, then exits the ring and walks up the aisle, again with Requiem close behind, and Nightwing holding back a little at the rear. Steele, in the ring, smiles and shakes his head, then exits the ring himself.] TD: What a match that was! I wonder what was said there at the end? SR: Probably, "Hey, Banana Peel, I've got some smut from way back... Wanna see?" TD: Is that all you ever think? You know, not everyone's a pervert like you! SR: Oh no? [Steele walks up the aisle, accepting the comiseratory pats of the fans on the other side of the barriers. He shakes his head, trying to loosen up his hurt neck, and finally disappears into the locker room. Cut to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Okay, fans, up next we've got some tremendous tag team action. The rivalry between the High Plains Drifters and the Armed Forces dates back to last August, when the Forces, still relative newcomers to the IIWF, defeated Josey Wales' men for the World Tag Team Championships. SR: And they've never stopped rubbing our noses in it ever since, Dross. But the sad truth of it is that the Farces can't forever live on past glories. They've got to beat the Drifters again tonight if they want to secure their IIWF immortality. TD: Indeed they have. Both teams are looking for that elusive twentieth win here tonight, and whoever is victorious will be the first team in IIWF history to secure such prestige. However, there's a little added gravitas for this match, folks, since I have just been informed that this will in fact be the Armed Forces' last IIWF match! SR: Oh, wait... I'm being told by _my_ crew in the back that the Armed Forces suck, and I don't care! Fancy that! TD: Steve, the Armed Forces hold a heralded place in IIWF history, and their rivalry with the High Plains Drifters is memorable to say the least. SR: Bah... They got soft... Where's Aaron? TD: You're not happy without someone getting clubbed, are you? SR: Like a baby seal, kid. TD: [sighs] Let's go up to ringside... =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= FOR 20 WINS: =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Armed Forces vs. High Plains Drifters ------------------------------------- WRITER: MF [Sparkplug Lee is hit on the back of the head by a balled-up piece of paper hurled by one of the ringside Sychopaths. He smooths his hair down in annoyance and then raises his microphone:] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, this tag team contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, weighing in at a total combined weight of 502 pounds, here are Pale and Easy Rider, the High Plains Drifters! [The theme from "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly" begins to play, and the crowd gives a healthy heel pop. Pale and Easy come out to the head of the aisle, both holding up ten fingers, and Josey Wales follows up, yelling, "This'll be twenty, folks!"] TD: You know, with the Hangmen being accompanied to the ring by Sasha recently, one has to wonder. As some may know, Sasha was once the valet of the High Plains Drifters. Could we be seeing a reformation of the Posse in the works? SR: Duh... Yeah, Dross, and the Subway StinkFace will be in there as well. A reformation of the Posse would be cool, but let's try and base our rumors on facts, okay? TD: Well, it _could_ happen... SR: And you _could_ stop wearing that rat on your head... But will that happen? [The HPD enter the ring and occupy themselves with their pre-match stretches.] RA: Their opponents, hailing from Omaha, Nebraska and weighing in at a total combined weight of 643 pounds, here are NavCom and DefCon, the Armed Forces! [The crowd pops for the Forces a bit louder than ever before following the announcement of their last match. Both men seem quite emotional as they appear at the head of the aisle, and make sure to shake hands with as many fans as they can as they walk to ringside. The Drifters, standing in the ring, mockingly wipe at their eyes. NavCom and DefCon enter the ring and stand on opposite corners, holding their arms up for the crowd.] TD: Former IIWF Tag Team champs, the Armed Forces! SR: Former _good_ tag team. TD: Stop it, Steve. SR: What? Come on, admit it... They should have stayed rule-breakers. [The ref checks both teams for foreign objects, them waits for them to choose a starting man each. Pale Rider and NavCom start off the match, and the ref rings the bell. Pale strides right up to NavCom, and even though the military man stands looming over him, Pale starts laying in with the verbal abuse. Unfortunately, the ring mics don't pic any of the tirade, but the effect of the words can be plainly seen. NavCom gets ngrier and angrier, and finally snaps, swinging a right hand that connects solidly to Pale Rider's head. Pale staggers back, and NavCom follows up with several more punches. Pale is backed into a neutral corner, and NavCom hooks his arm and executes a _huge_ hiptoss into the center of the ring. The crowd pops, and DefCon rallies behind his partner. Pale gets to his feet, only to be downed by a clothesline by NavCom. Again, Pale tries to get up, and again, NavCom clotheslines him to the mat again. The crowd pops, and NavCom gives them a salute, then tags in DefCon. DefCon rushes over to Pale and grabs him in a side headlock, which Pale uses to throw the bigger man into the ropes. Pale sticks out a boot, but DefCon sidesteps it and grabs him by the throat, then lifts him into a nicely executed choke slam, where he holds the cowboy for a moment, then drives him to the mat.] TD: What a move! SR: I hear that DefCon learned that in a hazing ritual... TD: Will you stop? SR: Okay, monkey-man. [Pale Rider is thrown into his own corner by DefCon, and he tags in his partner. Easy Rider strides into the ring and right up to DefCon, asking "You gunna do the same thing ta me?" before jabbing a thumb into the military man's eye. DefCon holds his face, and Easy boots him repeatedly. DefCon is backed into a corner, and Easy climbs to the second buckle, standing over him. Easy begins laying punches into DefCon's head, and the crowd gives a heel pop the whole time. Easy's punches are interrupted when DefCon grabs him about the legs and executes an inverted atomic drop. Easy doubles up, holding his groin.] SR: Watch the package, there, ref! TD: The package?! Please, Steve. [DefCon waits for Easy to turn around, then runs in with a huge bulldog! He goes for the cover, but the ref is out of position, and Pale runs in with a kick, breaking the count. DefCon gets to his feet and into Pale's face, and Easy clips his knee from behind. DefCon goes down to the mat, holding his leg, and Easy follows up with an elbowdrop. Easy locks on a front face lock and drags DefCon up, then drops him back down with a quick DDT that almost plants DefCon into the canvas. The crowd gives a heel pop, but Easy Rider just sneers. He drags DefCon up and over to the HPD corner, and tags in Pale Rider. Pale jumps to the top rope as Easy holds DefCon's arm up. ale then jumps off with a dropkick to the soldier's ribs. DefCon falls to the mat, and Pale capitalizes with a few stomps to the same area. Easy leaves the ring, and Pale locks on an abdominal stretch near the corner. Easy rushes into the ring towards NavCom, which gets NavCom to enter the ring. The ref cuts MavCom off, and Easy Rider grabs Pale's arm to add more pressure to the stretch.] TD: Come on, ref, you're concentrating on the wrong man! SR: The oldest tricks are usually the best ones, Dross. [NavCom points to the double teaming, but the ref is having none of it, DefCon's face is a mask of pain as Pale and Easy make the abdominal stretch more and more intense. Finally, the ref turns around and sees the double team effort, and calls for the break. Pale and Easy continue the dual effort right up until the 4 count, showing a blatant disregard for the rules. The crowd gives a loud heel pop, and Easy Rider basks in it. Pale, on the other hand, drops a few knees into the side of DefCon, and the big soldier looks to be hurt. Pale drags DefCon to his feet, and throws him into the ropes, almost telegraphing a back body drop on the return. DefCon executes a big knee lift, but falls to the mat from the effort. The crowd rallies behind DefCon as both men need to make a tag. NavCom stretches his arm out, but DefCon just doesn't have the strength to make it. Easy Rider calls to Pale, watching the Armed Forces at the same time. DefCon inches towards his corner, and the ref looks to watch for the tag. Easy claps his hands and storms into the ring, grabbing DefCon and dragging him to the opposite corner. The ref rushes over and asks if there was a tag, a question that Easy obviously answers with a 'yes.' The crowd boos, and Josey Wales chuckles on the outside.] TD: A blatant disregard for the rules! SR: Yeah... Great, isn't it? [Easy Rider picks DefCon up and stands him on his feet, then goes behind and executes a belly to back suplex with a surprisingly good bridge, going for the cover... 1 - 2 - Kickout by DefCon! The crowd pops as DefCon seems to wake up a little, and gets to his feet about the same time as Easy. Easy goes for a kick, but DefCon catches it, spins Easy around, and executes a BIG atomic drop. The fans cheer madly, and DefCon dives to his corner and tags in NavCom. Huge pop! NavCom storms the ring at the same time as Pale Rider, and drop kicks the smaller cowbow, then gets back up and dropkicks Easy. NavCom bounces off the ropes and executes a big flying double clothesline that knocks both Drifters out of the ring! NavCom gets back to his feet and roars to the crowd. On the outside, both Drifters get to their feet, but in the ring, NavCom once again comes off the ropes, and leaps over the top rope into a _HUGE_ plancha onto both men!. The crowd goes wild!] TD: Amazing! SR: I remember when Aaron used to just hit guys in the head with golf clubs... Those were the days... [NavCom gets to his feet on the outside as DefCom runs around to make sure his partner doesn't get ganged up on. Josey Wales looks like he's about to get involved, but noticing that both soldiers are ready to fight and his men are down on the floor, he backs up a bit. NavCom throws Easy Rider into the ring, then rolls in himself, as does DefCon. DefCon lifts Easy into the ICBM powerbomb, and drives him into the canvas and NavCom leaps to the top rope and launches himself into the AK47 splash, making the cover. 1 - Josey and Pale get onto the apron... 2 - They enter the ring, but DefCon goes to cut them off... 3!! Ding! Ding! The Coliseum erupts into a huge pop!] TD: The Armed Forces did it! The first tag team in the IIWF to attain 20 wins! SR: No, no, no! [The crowd cheers solidly for the Forces, and the Drifters regroup in the corner, looking like they're scheming... DefCon and NavCom celebrate in a corner each, and the Drifters suddenly advance on both of them. The crowd quiets a bit as Pale and Easy spin the two soldiers around. Both teams look each other straight in the eye. Josey Wales look to the crowd, and suddenly, unexpectedly, the Drifters shake the hands of the Forces and they can be seen saying "Good luck." Just like that, the Drifters exit the ring, allowing the Forces to enjoy the moment.] TD: Even the Drifters respect the Forces right now, Steve! Why can't you? SR: Alright... [muttering] Good match, guys... [DefCon and NavCom hop out of the ring and make a few circuits around the ring, hugging fans and shaking hands. Eventually, they walk up the aisle, and a certain camera shot shows that NavCom actually has tears in his eyes. The two men head up the aisle, the fans behind them all the way, but before they reach the curtain, as if on cue, they both turn around and salute the fans. The fans pop and many of them return the salute. One camera shot shows a little girl standing proudly and saluting the Armed Forces...] SR: Someone teach that brat how to use a face cloth... TD: Stop it, Steve. [The Forces give one last wave, then exit through the curtain to the locker room area.] TD: What a contest! The Forces, on the night of their last match, became the first team to attain twenty wins in the IIWF. SR: But they're gone now, so who cares? [Josey Wales pats his men on the shoulder, and the Drifters leave the ring, Pale muttering to himself about the loss. Cut to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: What a match that was, and there's plenty more to come in just a few moments, after this quick message from our sponsors. [Fade to commercials. Fade up on a split screen of three very sad-looking young men.] MAN#1: She told me she was on the pill! Now my life is ruined! SHE DEMANDS THAT WE GET MARRIED, FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE! I'M GONNA HAVING TO MARRY A DRAG-OFF! Argh! [Man#1 begins weeping openly.] MAN#2: Jesus! I tell ya! That chick must've had razor blades hidden up her crotch!!  Damn man, I doubled-up as she's still pregnant! [Man#2 begins weeping openly] MAN#3: My wife wasn't always the fat and ugly slob you see before you [holds up a picture].  Ten years after I signed my life away when we got hitched, I have no desire whatsoever to have intercourse with her... much less have a child with her! What am I to do? [MAN#3 begins weeping openly. Camera cut to a tube of spermicidal jelly with the word "Showstopper" written across it.  Booming voice begins:] VO: Have you been burned before, whether it be by a crazy female trapping you into commitment, or or you afraid that you will be burned?  Well, fear no more.  You're protected with the aid of...     "SHOWSTOPPER SAFEGUARD"! That's right! Now you... yes, you... can live that care-free lifestyle that you've been wanting your whole life! Combined with the "Showstopper Stealth", the world's most effective condom to date, "Showstopper Safeguard" will make it virtually impossible to ever impregnate a woman... we guarantee it! But don't ask us, ask the creator of "Showstopper Safeguard"... the one and only "Showstopper" Simon Lebec! [Camera cuts to Simon Lebec holding a tube of "Showstopper Safeguard".] SL: We've all been there... you've got some tramp who wants to carry your seed for nine months, only to sue you for child support.  Hell! I personally have eighty-seven bastard children that I know of! With bastard children come a reduction of personal income! If I had to calculate the amount of money I've spent on lawyers, child support payments, hitmen, and the like, it would make your head spin! But that's when I wised up, and found the product that every fella out there is looking for... a good, quality spermicidal jelly.  This stuff is quality, and American-made, guys! I mean, who wants a product produced my some greasy Mexican working for $11 a month?? I wouldn't put my name on it if I didn't believe in it.  For this reason, I personally GUARANTEE that you'll never have to change a diaper in your life!  If you have to, I'll flip the kid's dental costs till it's a year old! I GUARANTEE it! Free dental for a year if it fails! That's how confident I am! How is it so great, you ask? How is it better than the rest?  Well, sulphuric acid is the key here! Unlike the other lesser spermicides, my chemists have formulated a product containing concentrated sulphuric acid... the same chemical serial killers use to decompose human bodies!  All you do is lather the unrolled "SHOWSTOPPER STEALTH" condom in "SHOWSTOPPER SAFEGUARD", and away you go! We figure you'll have a good ten minutes before the condom breaks down, so pump hard and you'll do fine.  Now, your lady friend may feel a little bit of discomfort afterwords, so keep that TV tuned into ESPN! Buy it, try it, love it!! [Camera fades, cut back to three original men, all with a tube of "Showstopper Safeguard" in hand and a smile on their faces.  Voice comes back:] VO: Why are these men smiling? Because they'll never have another bastard, unwanted child again... THAT'S WHY! "SHOWSTOPPER SAFEGUARD"... #1 spermicide with teen runaway councillors! [Fade. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside. Dross has his head in his hands. Roberts is leaning back, laughing. Behind the commentators, numerous "L'il Soundbiters" wave and yell loudly, glad to be in the shot. One or two fans reach down and pat Roberts on the back.] TD: Good grief. SR: You gotta love it, Dross. Simon Lebec has style, and there's no denying it. TD: I can't believe that the IIWF sells its advertising time to Lebec for products like that. Anyway, folks, we must move on. A little later on tonight, we'll be hearing from Lebec himself once more, as he interviews the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, Casey "Blackheart" James. We've also got the second of our huge Cruiserweight four corners matches, and both members of the European Alliance in action as Creed battles the Butcher and Tiger Claw faces Lord Byron in Intercontinental Championship action. SR: Whoo-hoo! What a night, Dross! TD: Indeed. But before all that, it's time to find out whether or not Chris Quigley plans to wrestle Mr. Damage here tonight. Let's remind ourselves of what went down at the top of hour one: [Cut to footage subtitled, "Earlier Tonight." In the ring, Steve Manning slaps Chris Quigley around the face. Big shocked pop! The screen flashes. Manning yells into the microphone:] SM: Come here and shake my hand!  I think you owe the fans, me, the IIWF, and especially _yourself_ an apology! [The fans start a "QUIG-LEY!"  "QUIG-LEY!" chant as "Quickstrike" looks around at the fans, and then at his mentor.  He takes a step forward, goes to extend his hand, but then lowers it again.  He stares hard into Manning's eyes and then drops to the mat, and rolls under the ropes, as the fans let him have it with a chorus of extremly loud booes and insults.  Quigley walks down the aisle, letting the fans hurl souvenirs at him as he stares straight ahead and exits through the curtain. Cut back to the live shot of the broadcast table at ringside.] SR: Did we have to show that, Dross? TD: We may have seen the last of a major star here in the IIWF, Steve Roberts, although I sincerely hope not. Will Mr. Damage be able to sustain his remarkable winning streak? Assuming Quigley wrestles, Damage will surely have a tough time of it tonight. After his match with Casey James, Chris got knocked right off the ladder of contention... SR: [interrupting] Yadda, yadda, yadda. Quigley this, Quigley that, who really gives a... TD: [interrupting] Ahem! Watch your language, Steve. [There is a commotion at the head of the aisle as Marty Warnett makes his way down into the arena. He hops over the crowd barriers and takes a ringside seat, and is immediately mobbed by adoring fans. Marty looks jubilant and exchanges high fives all round, before scribbling his autograph on the programmes of several young female fans.] SR: Look at that punk! What kind of jerk would fraternize with the fans like that? Who knows what kind of diseases you could catch from 'em! TD: I thought Marty would be your latest favourite, Steve, considering that he shares your outlook on Chris Quigley. SR: Well, maybe Warnett isn't too bad a guy... for an untalented, pretty-boy, dimwitted little punk, that is! TD: There you have it folks, the "Soundbite" has spoken. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley vs. Mr. Damage -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: RD [The spotlight falls on centre ring, where Sparkplug Lee is busy spraying jets of breath freshener into his mouth. He quickly jumps to attention and raises the mic to his lips.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen! The following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first; hailing from Melbourne, Australia, and weighing in at 245lbs: here is Mr. Damage! [The driving, raw tones of the Beasts of Bourbon's "Straight, Hard and Long" blasts out over the loudspeakers, and the crowd begins to jeer. Mr. Damage heads down the aisle, ignoring the jibes of the crowd. He holds a cellular phone to his ear, and appears deep in conversation.] SR: There he is, the next man who is gonna give Quigley's ass a solid kicking. Mr. Damage is one mean S.O.B., Timmy boy. TD: I don't doubt that, Steve. Damage is perhaps the most underrated wrestler in the world, and Quigley should beware of taking him lightly. [Mr. Damage climbs into the ring and rudely snatches the microphone away from Sparkplug Lee.] MD: [As Damage talks, spittle flies from his mouth onto the mic] Cut the music, and shut the hell up -- because when I talk to you morons I want to be heard. [Heel pop] I have got two things to say to you tonight. Firstly, I want to say that everything "Soundbite" Steve Roberts said about Chris Quigley is absolutely _TRUE_. And secondly, I hope all you people here went to the bathroom prior to coming here tonight because you are going to wet yourselves when you see what I am going to do to Chris Quigley in this ring. Quigley, you my friend are going to be the first person put to sleep courtesy of the Rubberneck. [Damage throws the microphone back to Sparkplug, who looks at the saliva covered instrument disgustedly and signals for a new one.] RA: And his opponent! Hailing from Corner Brook, Newfoundland, Canada, and weighing in at 238lbs; here is "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley! [The fans start to drown out "For Those About to Rock" with boos as they anticipate the arrival of the now pathetic Chris Quigley. Quigley comes from behind the curtain as the fans boos get even louder, then... they seem to stop abruptly, replaced by almost a shocked silence for one or two seconds, as they see Quigley dressed in his familiar black silver lighting enrobed tights, covered slightly by a black Quickstrike leather jacket and his usual silver wire-rimmed shades. The fans all of a sudden burst into a sudden simultaneous cheer, celebrating the "return" of the man they once knew. One fan on camera rips in half a "Quigley Sucks!" sign so it just reads "Quigley" as the rest of the legions of born-again Quickstrike fans scream at the top of their lungs as Quigley stops by every fan possible, hugging them along the way down the aisle. He goes past the broadcast table, shaking Tim Dross' hand, but ignoring Steve Roberts, as he grabs the microphone from the table and enters the ring, staring at Mr. Damage.] CQ: I owe a lot of people an apology right now! I owe apologies to my family, the IIWF, Dan Kauffman, Steve Manning, even Casey James! I especially apologize to my fans, and to myself! But there's one person who I don't need to apologize to for anything, and that's you, Marty Warnett! [Quigley turns and points to Warnett, seated at ringside. Fans give a mixed pop] I don't like you, I never have, and I never will! You had a lot to do with my little crisis, and I think you're going to find yourself in a crisis. Consider yourself lucky if I don't break your legs! [The crowd delivers a surprising favourable pop at that comment, besides a few teenage girls who don't like the prospect, as Quigley exits the ring and puts the microphone back down on the table, as Marty Warnett wiggles his fingers sarcastically at him. Quigley walks over to where Steve Manning is sitting, and with a smile on his face hugs the man who had to guide him just one more time. With that done, Quigley's face turns back to its usual business-like expression, as he enters the ring and prepares to unleash a little frustration, but he is stomped by Damage as he rolls into the ring under the bottom rope. The referee signals for the bell: Ding! Ding! Ding!] SR: I've never seen such a sickening display of sentiment in my entire life! Stomp on him, Mr. Damage! TD: Well, I for one am glad to see Quigley back to his old self, and I'm sure most of the fans feel likewise. [Mr. Damage continues to stomp away on Chris Quigley, a vicious snarl on his face. Quigley attempts to roll out of the way but Damage follows him around the ring, stomping all the while. Damage snickers and plants his foot on Quigley's throat, digging the point of his boot in deep. Quigley winces and kicks his legs, struggling frantically to relieve the pressure on his throat. Down at ringside, Joe Petrow begins to lead his fellow Sycopaths in a "We want Troy!" chant. The ref yells at Damage to break the illegality, and the man from down under turns around and tells the ref to "mind yer own bloody business, mate!" As Damage jaws with the official, Quigley gets up onto his knees and drives a knuckle into the back of Damage's knee, hamstringing him! Damage buckles and topples to the mat. Quigley immediately leaps atop of him and starts pummeling away with shots to the temple. Quigley switches positions and locks on a headlock, applying the pressure. His grip is a little awkward however, and Mr. Damage quickly powers up, following up by driving a couple of elbows into Quigley's gut. Winded, Quigley drops his grip and Damage bounds off the opposite ropes; charges in, and rocks "Quickstrike" with a clothesline! Quigley topples over the top strand and Damage turns around to pump his fists to the air and soak in the crowd heat. Unseen by Damage, however, Quigley has managed to catch himself on the ropes, and, demonstrating his athleticism, uses the leverage to flip overhead right back into the ring! The crowd begins to cheer! Mr. Damage is still stirring up the fans as Quigley charges in from behind, grabs Damage around the head, and bulldogs him right into the canvas! Massive pop from the crowd!] TD: That is the kind of ring savvy which has made Quigley a champion the world over, folks! SR: Yeah, but has he won the marbles in the IIWF, Timmy? Has he ever won the real World's heavyweight championship? I don't think so, buddy boy! [Quigley rolls his opponent over, hooks the leg and goes for the pin: 1 - 2 - kickout by Mr. Damage! Disappointed pop from the crowd. Quigley hauls Damage up, knees him in the midsection, and delivers a right cross to the jaw. Damage sags and Quigley grabs him by the trunks, lifts him up into the air, and slams a well executed vertical suplex. Damage jolts his back hard as he comes down. Quigley is straight back to his feet and grabs one of Damage's legs, only to smash it back into the mat with a legdrop. Quigley pulls up Damage again, hooks his leg with his own, and drops back to the mat, crashing Damage down in a neckbreaker. Quigley with the cover once again: 1 - 2 - Damage kicks out easily.] TD: Quigley might be underestimating Mr. Damage's reserves here, going for those quick pins. SR: He can't wait to get out of there, Dross! Quigley's had enough already! [Quigley and Damage both claw their way to their feet. Quigley slips his arm around and fastens an armlock on Mr. Damage. The Australian tries to twist out of it, and Quigley flips him down to the mat with an armdrag. Maintaining the hold, Quigley applies on the pressure and Damage begins to grimace with pain. The ref asks him he wants to submit, but Damage just stares at him incredulously. Damage powers back up to his feet, so Quigley whips him to the ropes. Damage bounds off, comes charging in like a bull, and Quigley agilely leapfrogs over him. `Quickstrike' spins around, and meets Damage on the rebound with an exceptionally stiff superkick! Big cheer from the crowd as Damage drops like he took a gunshot.] TD: Quigley knows where he is in the ring at all times, and that is what makes him such a dangerous opponent. To be a successful wrestler, you must be ringwise, and you must know a maneuver for all situations. SR: What a crock, Timmy-boy! All you need to be a successful wrestler is a killer instinct and a hard head. Mr. Damage makes Quigley look like a ballerina on those two counts! TD: Well, Damage is having trouble gaining any kind of momentum right now. [Damage is still laid out on the canvas. Quigley adjusts his kneepad, and begins to climb up onto the turnbuckles. He stands on the top rope, his back to the ring. The crowd pops anxiously. Quigley leaps off the buckle, flips through the air, and comes careening down towards Mr. Damage with a moonsault! Mr. Damage, however, is not quite as hurt as seemed apparent, and he rolls out of the way just in time. Quigley crashes into the mat like a shot down fighter plane, and the crowd gives a massive shocked pop.] SR: Ha! Who's the ringwise one now, Dross? Mr. Damage knew what he was doing all along! TD: It would seem that Quigley overstretched himself a little. [Damage gets to his feet, limping ever so slightly. He looks down at the fallen Quigley and runs his hand through his hair, giving a nasty sneer. He backs up a little, runs forward and kicks Quigley savagely in the head like a football! The crowd jeers loudly and Quigley's head snaps back. He rolls around on the canvas and clutches at his wounded skull. Damage backs up again, charges forward, and this time jumps right onto Quigley's ribcage! "Quickstrike" writhes in pain and holds his bruised ribs. Damage offers no respite, and immediately sets to work in a frenzy; kicking, stomping and trampling on Quigley like a crazed elephant. He lands elbows to the throat, knees to the mid-section, and drops atop Quigley to rain in the fists. Finally, he begins to smash Quigley's head into the canvas repeatedly! The ref puts on the count...] SR: [laughing] Go for it, Mr. Damage! Rattle that punk's empty skull! TD: Damage had better watch himself. Earl Alphonso looks like his patience is on a very short tether at the moment, and Mr. Damage might earn himself a disqualification if he's not careful. [There is another commotion at the head of the aisle, as the massive figure of Requiem appears framed in the entranceway. His cold gaze lingers over the ring for a moment, and then he disappears backstage as quick as he came.] TD: Hold on... what was that about? SR: Perhaps Requiem is looking for a new girlfriend. I hear Quigley is available. [Damage gets up off Quigley just before the DQ count expires. "Quickstrike" looks in a sorry state, all bruised and battered, and Mr. Damage points down at him and laughs. The crowd responds with a hearty jeer, and Damage yells at them to "Shut the hell up!" Damage runs to the ropes, bounds off, charges toward the fallen Quigley, and delivers a thunderous leg drop, pasting Quigley to the mat! Damage rolls atop Quigley for the pin, an arrogant smirk on his face. The ref begins the count: 1 - Damage pulls Quigley up! The Sycopaths in the audience start up a "One Count - One Count!" chant. The man from down under grabs his opponents legs, drags him directly in centre ring, and then sits on his back, locking a boston crab on tight! Immediately, the pain registers on Quigley's face and the crowd rallies behind him, spurring him on to resist the hold.] SR: Great stuff! Damage doesn't just want to beat Quigley, he wants to humiliate him! TD: That might be a big mistake, Steve. Quigley is the kind of man who never, ever submits. It simply isn't in his nature to quit. I believe Quigley would sooner have his spine snapped than give Mr. Damage the satisfaction. SR: Getting to see Quigley's spine snap is quite fine by me. [Mr. Damage wrenches Quigley's legs back, applying his strength in an all out war on "Quickstrike"'s back. Quigley's face contorts in pain, clearly showing the almost unbearable pressure of the hold. The ref asks for the submission, but Quigley shakes his head furiously. Damage sits up a little and rams his rump into Quigley's back a couple of times, hoping to cause further punishment to the already strained spine. Still, Quigley will not give in. The crowd begins to chant his name: "Quig - ley! Quig - ley!" He begins to stretch his arm out forward, struggling to inch towards those ropes. However, Mr. Damage is simply too strong, and manages to keep the hold locked dead in the centre of the ring. The camera closes in on Quigley's face, and his eyes begin to glaze over; he seems on the point of passing out from the pain. The ref asks for the submission once again, and suddenly Quigley's eyes blaze with fury, willing himself to stay in the fight!] TD: Unbelievable! Can you doubt any longer the resilience of this man, Steve? Can you doubt the reserves of iron will and stamina coursing through Chris Quigley's veins? SR: What?... This is... It's impossible! He's been in that Boston Crab for minute upon minute! [Sweat drips down Quigley's face and stains the mat, his expression nothing but a contorted grimace of pain. Mr. Damage's face too, is showing the strain, applying the pressure with all of his strength in a last ditch effort to make Quigley submit. Chris claws at the canvas. Slowly, but perceptibly, with an almost impossible surge of effort, Quigley manages to drag himself forward. Inch by inch, moment by torturous moment, Quigley strives towards the ropes. The crowd pop reaches fever pitch, willing their man to save the match for them. Suddenly, barely audible over the crowd noise, can be heard: a bleeping "Riiinng Riiiing! Riiiing Riiiing!"] TD: What the heck... is that the bell? Did Quigley submit? SR: No, I believe... It's a cellular phone! Mr. Damage's cellular phone is going off at ringside! Unbelievable! [The sound of the cellular catches Damage's ear, and suddenly he releases the hold. Quigley collapses, spread-eagled on the canvas; completely exhausted, his hand only centimeters from the ropes. Damage casually climbs through the ropes, goes over to a ringside table, and answers the phone. The referee reluctantly puts on the count, not quite able to believe what he is saying. Damage quickly gets embroiled deep in conversation, as if he had completely forgotten the match. The fans seem undecided whether to laugh or jeer. Quigley gets up onto his knees and arches his back, clutching his strained spinal column and wincing. The ref's count approaches ten, and Damage ever so casually rolls under the bottom ropes, breaking the count, and then rolls back out again, all the while talking and laughing on the phone.] TD: I'm having trouble coming to terms with what I'm seeing right now, Steve. Is Mr. Damage completely out of his mind?! SR: It must be that "Silent Partner" Damage was talking about, calling up to discuss a little strategy. TD: But during an actual match? This is unheard of! SR: Well, you can't keep your callers waiting, not when you've got important business to conduct. TD: Good grief! [Quigley unsteadilly makes it to his feet, and notices Mr. Damage at ringside. He takes a few paces forward, puts his hands on his hips, and stares at his opponent incredulously. Mr. Damage keeps talking away on the phone, seemingly quite unconcerned. Quigley shakes his head and allows an "I can't believe what I'm seeing here" smile. He points at Damage and mouths to the fans "Shall I go down there and get him?" The crowd responds with a deafening cheer. Damage simply sticks a finger in his ear to block out the noise and continues his conversation. Quigley runs to the ropes, bounds off, charges to the other side of the ring and goes flying over the top rope to the outside, smashing into Mr. Damage with a flying cross-bodyblock! Damage drops his cellular and comes crashing down to the arena floor as the crowd explodes in a wild face pop! Quigley is all fired up and straight back to his feet. He grabs Damage up by the scruff of the neck and nails him with a few roundhouse blows, before rolling him back under the bottom rope.] TD: I'm glad to see this match back underway after that absurd interruption. Mr. Damage made the fatal error of ignoring his opponent. SR: Perhaps this "Silent Partner" guy is not the sort of man it is wise to keep waiting. ["Quickstrike" pauses to adjust his kneepad once again, and suddenly Marty Warnett stands up at ringside and dumps his offical IIWF popcorn over Quigley's head! Outraged, Quigley turns to take a slug at Warnett, but realising the count is getting close, instead chooses to dive back into the ring under the bottom rope. Mr. Damage and Quigley both lunge at each other, and begin exchanging shots. At first, Damage is able to gain the advantage by thumbing Quigley in the eye, and backs him up with a series of uppercuts. Quigley, however, takes the fight right back to him, and bludgeons Damage with some stiff blows to the gut and head.] SR: Quigley is making a stupid mistake in trying to match blows with Mr. Damage, who is a veteran brawler if ever I've seen one. TD: Well, Steve, Quigley is the kind of guy that prefers to beat his opponents in a sound scientific match, but when they get nasty, he's capable of getting just as nasty right back. [Quigley blocks an attempted left hook by Mr. Damage, grapples his arm, and whips the Australian hard into the turnbuckles. Pop from the crowd! Quigley immediately charges the corner, launching himself at Damage with an avalanche splash! The cheers of the fans grow louder! Damage slumps down in the corner. Quigley hauls him up, and sets him in position on the top turnbuckle. The fan favourite drapes Damage's arm over his shoulder and the crowd pops anxiously. With considerable effort, Quigley lifts Damage up into the air, and brings him crashing down to the mat with a devestating superplex! The crowd goes wild! Quigley goes for the cover, but stops himself. He shakes his head, smiles at the crowd, and signals for the "Quickstriker" leglock! The cheers of the fans reach fever pitch once again!] SR: No, no, no, no! Get up Mr. Damage! Get up! TD: Now it's Quigley's turn to go for the submission, but these games of one-upmanship are risky to play. [Quigley steps over Damage's fallen body, rolls him over, and locks on his patented deathlock submission hold as the crowd pop grows even louder! Damage immediately lets out a gasp of pain and wrinkles his face in agony. The ref asks for the submission but Mr. Damage shakes his head furiously. Quigley wrenches on the legs, putting unbearble pressure on Mr. Damage to submit. Damage manages to scamble forward just a little, and stretches out his arm. Under agonising pressure, he reaches forward, pushing so hard to reach the ropes it seems as if his arm will come free of its socket. The ref gets down on the mat and stares closely at Damage's hand, only millimeters from the ropes. Barely noticable from the fan's point of view at ringside, Damage's fingertips brush lightly against the ropes. The ref immediately leaps to his feet and tells Quigley to release the hold. Quigley stares at him in disbelief, but complies.] TD: What...? I can't be sure; did Damage manage to reach the ropes? SR: Are you blind, man?! He was practically pulling that bottom rope from the turnbuckle! [The crowd begins to boo loudly, quite dissatisfied with the referee's call. Quigley gets to his feet and gets right in the ref's face, not sure whether to believe if Mr. Damage really did reach the ropes. Damage, scrambles under the bottom rope, away from Quigley, and tumbles to the arena floor. He wears a black look of rage on his face as he struggles to stand on his aching legs. Quigley continues to jaw with the referee. Damage grabs his cellular phone, which was still lying on the arena floor, and limps to his feet. He climbs back through the ropes, just as Quigley is turning back to the action, and overcome with rage, lambasts "Quickstrike" with the phone! Quigley drops and clutches at his head. The misdeed was done in full view of the ref however, who immediately signals for the bell: Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: Now, that was a stupid thing to do. You need to keep a cool head in that ring at all times if you want to be a winner. SR: Who cares? It was fun to watch anyways. [Mr. Damage goes to crack Quigley with the phone a second time, but the ref bravely interjects himself. Mr. Damage cocks back the phone and looks set to blast the ref with it, but, perhaps realising the hefty fine such an act would incur, thinks better of it. He throws his arms up in the air and climbs out of the ring. He heads up the ailse with a black look on his face, occasionally yelling at the jeering fans to "Shut the hell up!"] RA: Here is your winner, as the result of a disqualification; "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley! [The fans explode with cheers as the ref helps Quigley to his feet. Chris looks jubilant to have the support of the fans back, and climbs up onto the second buckle, raising his fists to the air and soaking up the cheers. Cameras flash all around the areana.] TD: There you have it, folks! The old Chris Quigley is back, and he proved himself as competitive as ever with that hard fought victory over Mr. Damage! SR: Doesn't it make you sick? [Quigley eventually dismounts the turnbuckles, and heads out of the ring, slapping the hands of the fans as he makes his way back up the aisle to the locker room. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: What a match that was, Steve Roberts. Okay, folks, it's time for the debut of a new interview segment here on IIWF Saturday Night. The "Showstopper" Simon Lebec, who returned to the IIWF at Birthday Bash, will each Saturday be welcoming a guest to appear on his segment, "The Final Cut". We get things kicked off this week with none other than the IIWF Champion himself, Casey "Blackheart" James. SR: This is gonna be great, Dross. Let's get to it. [The shot cuts to an interview area set back from the aisle, constructed in the appearance of a film set. Film cameras surround the stage, with various set props decorating the background. Two director's chairs center the stage. The words "THE FINAL CUT" flash overhead in hot, neon pink. Mr. Perfect's WWF music begins to blare in the arena as "The Showstopper" Simon Lebec enters via the left curtain. Silver glitter falls from the ceiling, covering the set. Lebec does not look pleased as he sits in one of the director's chairs. Lebec takes out a cellular phone from an inside pocket and begins to dial.] SL: Dave... yeah... Simon here. Dave, what the hell is going on here? Did I not specifically call for dancing whores? ... What law? ... Uh huh ... Yeah, the glitter worked ... But Dave, I wanted dancing whores ... Oh yeah, the glitter was great Dave.... Well, Dave, silver glitter's not going to bring me my whores, now will it? ... No excuses... Listen, Dave... you're fired... NO! The glitter is mine now... Dave, get your own damn glitter! [Lebec hangs up and grabs a mic.] SL: Welcome, one and all, to MY domain! I bring you... THE FINAL CUT... with yours truly, the "Showstopper" Simon Lebec! You know, upon wondering who I'd bring on the show as my very first guest, I really had no hesitation whatsoever. Subway Psycho was off stealing wallets. Mad Dog Watkins was busy changing his undergarment. And Chris Quigley... well he was just plain yellow! But, I've got a man. A real man. In fact, he's THE MAN right now in the IIWF. Ladies and gentlemen, put your lower-class hands together for the IIWF Heavyweight Champion... Casey "Blackheart" James! [Foul Taste of Freedom begins to play, bringing a mixed pop from the crowd. Casey makes his way to the set, wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt reading "I kicked Quigley's ass and all I got was this lousy T-shirt." He sports the IIWF World Heavyweight title around his waist and displays it to the audience. After a bit of flexing, Casey sits opposite Lebec.] SL: Well, big guy... Can I call you "big guy"? CJ: Sure... Big Guy, Head Honcho, Top Dog... The Big Cheese... Anything that makes me sound like I'm number one. SL: First off, let me congratulate you on your victory at Birthday Bash. For everyone who witnessed, it was a classic... a CLASSIC Chrissy Quigley ass-kicking! Welcome to the club, my friend... the "Chris Quigley Ass-Kickers Association!" So tell me, how did it feel, knocking that punk down a few pegs? CJ: I have to be honest here... [Casey looks down a little.] It was the best! I mean, months of listening to him going on about how he's better than me, and I beat him with a pinfall in the middle of the ring. The little punk even hit me with my own belt, and I still came out on top. Quigley has some talent for knowing holds that I've never even heard of, but I have a talent for getting the job done. Tell, me, Simon... Did he wet himself after you beat him too? SL: I think he wet himself before he even got into the ring with me. At least, I hope he wet himself. I'd hate to think that Quigley normally smells that bad [they both chuckle]. But enough about Quigley. He's not worth air time on my show [James nods in agreement]. Let's talk about you. Ya know something Casey, here we are... one year after it all began. I'll be honest, when we started out in the IIWF, I didn't like you. You, or that alcoholic dependent Man of Steel. But, you've changed, man! And changed for the better. Hell! The gold around your waist proves it. Now, you can talk about the fans or whatever, but tell me... the money was the driving factor. Wasn't it? Brian Lau offers the best bucks in the business. CJ: Money was part of it, I'll admit it. But it went a little deeper than that. Simon, I was no big fan of you a year ago either. It was part of my image. See, a year ago, I cared too much for what the fans wanted. I wanted everyone to look up to me. Now, I don't have to restrain myself and do only "good" things. Now I can do whatever I want. Those months when I was carrying a flag around and being held back by that degenerate, Man of Steel, well, it's almost like waking up from a bad dream. I was so wrapped up in what was "right" that my potential went untapped. I started to realize that, and after a little talk with Brian, I decided to turn a new leaf. Hell, I've still got fans... Not as many, but the ones I have are the ones that matter. They're the ones that appreciate what good wrestling is all about. It's damn hard to figure out what those mutants in the stands like these days, and to be honest, I don't even try to impress them any more. Those that like what I do can come along for the ride. Those who don't can go to hell. I'm the champ, and that's what it all comes down to. SL: I couldn't have said it better myself. Now, let's get to some real questions. Brody Thunder. To be honest, I like the guy. I praised him at Birthday Bash, and I'll continue to do so. I called him a future champion. However, I didn't expect him to be after your title. I don't know what the future holds, but is there dissention in the Syndicate? I noticed that Thunder didn't celebrate with you after your victory over Quigley. CJ: You know, Simon, I can't ever think of a time when there wasn't anyone saying that there was dissention in the Syndicate. When it comes down to it, we're all happy working with each other. The problem is that some people try to use underhanded tactics to overthrow us, because let's face it, we can't be beat. Dross doesn't like how we do business, so he starts up a rumor about Brody Thunder wanting my title. He's hoping that he'll put ideas in Brody's head, but Brody's a smart guy, and any ideas in his head are his own. Sure, Brody wants some gold, maybe even this belt, but who doesn't? For him to come after me is redundant. The Syndicate already has this title, so why have another member go after it? The IC belt is still out there, and I'm going to help him get it. That way we'll both be happy. If anyone deserves to hold a title in the IIWF, it's Brody. He's pulled me out of the fire once or twice... SL: Yeah, like at Birthday Bash, for example. Still, the fact remains, he clobbered Quigley. Given. But, why didn't he revive you before he left? That would have been the logical thing to do. On top of that, like I said before, he wasn't at that little post-match celebration. Now, I'd hate to be compared to Dross, but I suggest that you watch your back, friend. From the inside and out. CJ: Hey, man... Brody only had time to hit him. He knew how I wanted to beat Quigley by pinfall, and he didn't want the ref to see him and assume he did something wrong. He knew I'd be okay, and I was. I still am. I appreciate the advice, Simon, and it's sound advice no matter what, but I know how the Syndicate is right now because I'm right in there. We're at our strongest, and if all the folks would stop worrying, then we'd all be better off. For instance, Both Thunder and I are participating in the NLWP Longest Road event. Ten weeks of serious competition for the NLWP Heavyweight championship. Brian saw the opportunity and got us both in. No matter what, we're still a team. In an inter-fed event, it's a bit hard, since you're surrounded by guys you don't know. I've got Thunder at my side, and even Otto Verhoeven is there if I need any more help. SL: All right, chico! It's your ass in the fire. And if you don't fear getting cooked, who am I to question? You mentioned Otto. As I recall, you had some comments to make about not only him, but the "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin as well. Give us the skinny! CJ: It's not that complicated, really. Those two guys are the greatest IIWF heavyweight champions of all time, excluding me, of course. Hardin was the first, and he did a damn good job of showing us all how the darker side of pro-wrestling is supposed to act. Later on, he chose Verhoeven as his champion, and all of us in the alliance at that time agreed that he made a good choice. Verhoeven is strong, vicious, and I'm proud to say that I've gotten a tactic or two out of watching his matches. Verhoeven and Hardin are two men that have really helped me figure out what it is that I want to do. That's not to say that I want to be like them, but I just want to say that I respect them almost like family. Verhoeven being like a brother, and Hardin being that big mean uncle that you were always afraid to visit because he likes to kick puppies for fun. SL: And what is Brody Thunder, huh? The jealous next door neighbor who wants everything that you have? CJ: [Getting uncomfortable] Listen... Drop it. I don't want to talk about that, okay? I told you, everything is fine. SL: Okay, okay. Everything's fine... and I'm a dyslexic cheese vendor! [looks into the camera] Time will tell of what will become of Casey James. Many challenges await him. Some say that it's lonely at the top. However, should the Syndicate be as tight as "Blackheart" claims, then life should be grand (looks back at James). By jove! I think that was a Jerry Springer momment if I ever saw one! Casey, thank you for coming on the show. It's always an honor to have a man of your stature around. CJ: Thanks, Simon. It's been a hoot. And by the way... If you see Becky LaRue around... Ummm, hide. She's not too pleased about the whole situation here. [Casey walks off the set to a large mixed pop, flaunting his title belt again to the crowd.] SL: What can I say? Spreadbury recognizes talent, and Becks, sorry honey. Talent... you ain't got. That's all for now, folks! Hope you enjoyed it! What am I saying? OF COURSE YOU ENJOYED IT! [Mr. perfect's WWF music begins to play.] HEY! They're playing my song! Time to get my freek on, boys and girls! Tune in next week when "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare is on "The Final Cut." Shakespeare... or one of his other personalities. You can never tell with this ying yang that is... the IIWF! [The music continues to play as Lebec rushes over to the fans. He grabs one of the more attractive young girls and begins to boogie. He then put his arms around her waist, slowly moving down to the buttocks as the camera cuts back to the broadcast booth.] TD: The inimitable Simon Lebec, ladies and gentlemen. SR: Whoo yeah, Dross, that guy rocks and rolls. Lebec, have a biscuit on me, pal! TD: Up next we have what could possibly be one of the most controversial matches of the evening: the Teutonic Terror Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven takes on the young powerhouse known as Creed. And frankly, Steve, you have to have your doubts as to whether Creed is really fit enough to be participating in what could be a brutal encounter. SR: If you ask me, the guy's nuts. TD: Thank you for that in-depth analysis, Steve, but maybe you're not too far off. Creed certainly has a burning desire for revenge after his injury at the hands of the European Alliance, and that may be the reason he's taking such a risky step here tonight. SR: I'm telling you, Dross, if he even thinks about stepping out here tonight, he's asking for his career to be cut short! Best think he can do is go back home, put his feet up if it's not too pain ul, with a nice cup of Java and some honey-glazed biscuits... mmm... TD: Otto Verhoeven is certainly not the type of individual you would want to come back from an injury against: the man is as brutal as they come, and you can bet that he will target that injured knee. SR: You want to talk brutal, Dross? Ask Tony Cripple... I mean Starks. He took a full measure of the Juggernaut at Birthday Bash and ended up being whipped like a dog. You gotta love this guy's tyle. Brutal. TD: Well, the Sparkplug's in the ring, so lets go over for the introductions... =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Creed vs. Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: MP RA: The following contest is scheduled for one fall, with a fifteen minute time limit. Introducing first, weighing in at 340lbs and hailing from Essen, Germany... accompanied to the ring by his beautiful valet, Nurse Heidi, he is one half of the European Alliance... the Teutonic Terror... Otto "the Butcher" Veeerhooooooeeevvveen! [Huge heel pop from the crowd as John Carpenter's "Halloween" starts up over the PA system and first Nurse Heidi appears, quickly followed by the German Juggernaut himself, arms raised to the jeering crowd. Walking in the wake of both follows Lord Byron, sporting an elegant pale grey suit and both of his championship titles.] SR: Look at Verhoeven, Dross, is this man hot or what? He is going to tear the rookie limb from limb... "No, please, have mercy Master Verhoeven, crack, arggh..." TD: You have a really sick mind, Steve, you know that? I find it admirable that Creed would even consider fighting with an injury. SR: Admirable? I tell you, Dross, he ain't gonna show. Take it straight from the Soundbite's mouth, Dross, if the guys got a single brain cell in his head, he ain't gonna show. [Verhoeven steps into the centre of the ring, arms raised to the booing crowd. Heidi takes up position in his corner, and Byron steps up onto the ring apron, in discussion with the match official.] TD: And of course there's the distraction of having that man present as well. If you ask me, Byron should be concentrating on his opponent here tonight. SR: Hey, he just wants to see the rookie pulped one more time. Ain't nothing wrong with that... "Please, Mister Verhoeven, don't pull it that way, snap, arrgh..." You know, Dross, with all that shattered cartilage about, Creed's kneecap could end up spinning around like nobody's business. Can you say jelly-legged? [Byron continues to jaw with the official, and Verhoeven steps back into his corner to receive some final advice from Nurse Heidi as John Carpenter's "Halloween" slowly fades out...] RA: And his opponent... [Sparkplug's voice is instantly drowned out by a huge crowd pop...] TD: Will you listen to that? These fans have really taken this young man to their hearts! SR: Well, as long as they don't mind having them broken. Like Creed's leg. Hey Dross, that's kinda ironic, ain't it? RA: ...weighing in at 276 lbs and hailing from Oakland, California... accompanied to the ring by his manager, the CEO Jack Montgomery, here is... Creeeeeeeeeeed!! [The crowd pops wildly as Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" starts up over the PA system... but there's no sign of Creed.] SR: Hey, what did I tell you, Dross? What did I tell you? Can you say "yellow-bellied"? TD: You should know by now that Creed is one of the most tenacious athletes in the federation, Steve, if he is having second thoughts, I wouldn't blame him with the extent of his injury. SR: Hey, Dross, come on! It was a joke! Loosen up a little. [Suddenly, there's a pop from the head of the aisle Creed appears, slowly making his way down the aisle in a wheelchair, dressed in his black street clothes and a San Francisco Giants baseball cap. His injured right knee is propped up and heavily bandaged. The crowd pops in disappointment. A few fans begin the "Creed! Creed! Creed!" chant nonetheless. Byron and Verhoeven move over to the ropes for a closer look, and slowly begin to laugh as Creed reaches ringside and takes a microphone...] CREED: Hey, Byron. I'm back. [Huge crowd pop] I know you thought you had buried my ass at Birthday Bash. I know you thought after you and your buddy here ripped my knee apart, tore my ligaments, shredded my cartilage and did everything but take a hacksaw to my leg that you'd never see me again. Here I am, Byron. And I got something for you. [The enormous chants of "Creed! Creed! Creed!" begin as the European Alliance snickers at the words of the wheelchair bound Creed.] I got something for you real good, Byron... I got something for you and [Creed raises his voice and waves his red glove out to the fans] all of these people here... all of these people know what it is, Byron. All you people know what it is! PAYBACK! [The crowd's chant now turns into an enormous "PAY - BACK! PAY - BACK! PAY - BACK!" which is only ceased by Creed again taking the mic:] And don't think I forgot about you, Butcher -- I can't go tonight... but that don't mean I got nothin' for you tonight, Butcher. I know these people want to see you get what's comin' to you, Byron... and I know these people want to see you get what's comin' to you, Butcher. [Huge cheers from the fans and the "Pay - back!" chant begins again.] Byron -- you gonna wait 'til I'm ready. But Butcher -- I know you're itchin' for a fight and I'm gonna give you one... I'm got a man here, in the back, ready to go right now, who is gonna give you hat you want, Butcher, who is gonna give you what you got comin' to you... I got a man here who is gonna give you what he got... and ain't nobody know what he got better than Creed. Ain't nobody know better than Creed! [The crowd buzz is palpable, all eyes diverting to the aisle way as the familiar strains of the Rolling Stones kick in over the PA and a huge pop is heard as "Paint It Black" begins...] TD: It's Mad Dog Watkins! [Watkins confidently walks the aisle as the European Alliance explodes in protest at the official, who explains that the legal man for the bout was changed to Watkins just minutes ago. The fans now roar wildly their support with the chant: "PAY - BACK! PAY - BACK! PAY - BACK!" Watkins reaches ringside, Creed wheeling around to face him, the two men stare hard at each other, before Creed extends his hand... which Watkins accepts! Byron steps between the ring ropes and drops to the floor, angrily walking up to Watkins and jabbing his finger into his chest... Watkins takes a sideways glance at Creed, before levelling Byron with a big right hand! Huge pop! Byron fights back to his feet, angrily brushing his hair out of his eyes as Watkins climbs into the ring. Creed wheels his way halfway back up the aisle and turns to watch the matchup.] SR: Now... this... just... ain't... right... TD: What a night, we've got Verhoeven versus Mad Dog Watkins! What a shock for the European Alliance -- and look at Verhoeven, he isn't happy at all! SR: Are you really surprised, Dross? He's spent the week in preparation to face Creed, only to be told he's up against someone else? This is a real cheap shot, Dross, real cheap. TD: I myself find it just a little bit just considering the stunts the E.A. have been pulling recently... [Verhoeven protests once again to the official as Watkins grins, raising his arms in the air. The official shrugs, and shakes his head, and Verhoeven storms back to his corner. Byron and Heidi qui kly leap up to the ring apron, and start to calm him down. Verhoeven listens as Byron talks, slowly starting to nod his head..] TD: And Watkins with a charge and a clothesline! He crushed Otto right into the turnbuckles, and sent Byron and Heidi flying! SR: Cheap shot... TD: Watkins pulls Verhoeven right back out, and a thumb to the eye helps him catch Otto straight away with a fast snapping suplex! SR: Cheap shot... [Verhoeven quickly pulls himself back to his feet, only to be caught by a knee lift, and an uppercut that sends him staggering back.. Watkins takes to the ropes... and connects with a huge flying la iat that sends the Teutonic Terror crashing to the mat! Huge pop from the crowd as they start to really get behind Watkins! Verhoeven scrambles back to his feet, and Watkins scoops the bigger man p, sending him crashing straight back down to the mat! Hug pop! Heidi slams her hands on the canvas in frustration, and Byron throws down his cane with a sour look on his face.] TD: It looks like this turn of events has completely thrown the Alliance off their game plan... SR: Yeah? Well just what did you expect? How can the crowd actually cheer for these cheap shot artists? Come on Otto, wipe that damn grin right off his face! You wanna chant payback? Well I've got another one for ya! Meat - hook! [Verhoeven angrily gets to his feet again, to be caught in a quick small package by Watkins - 1 - 2 - Verhoeven just barely manages to kick out in time! Both men rise, and again Otto is sent down, this time with a dropkick! Heidi slaps the canvas again, but Byron quietens, a crafty smirk appearing on his face, before shouting further advice out, this time in German! Heel pop!] TD: What's he saying? SR: Well, if doesn't want you to know, then I ain't going to tell you. [A look of suspicion crosses Watkin's face as Byron continues to shout instructions, and he quickly slips Verhoeven into a restraining headlock. Byron smirks again, and Verhoeven pushes up to his f et, wrapping his huge arms around Watkin's waist and pulling him one way, then another, before using all his strength to hurl Watkins hard into the ropes! The referee gets caught on the wrong side, and just manages to scramble out of the way as...] TD: [above the heel pop] Byron nails Watkins in the back with the IC belt! And that cut his momentum short! SR: Hah! And look at Byron smirking! You simply cannot outsmart these two guys! TD: And you were talking about cheap shots... SR: Hey, when it's a low life, no class yellow bellied stunt, it's a cheap shot. When Byron does it, it's sheer class. [Creed looks on in frustration as Watkins slowly rises to his feet, clutching his back... and instantly receives a vicious clothesline from Verhoeven that sends him flying over the top rope and crashing down to the mats outside! Huge heel pop! Verhoeven soaks it up, raising his arms in the air, and then turns to start jawing with the referee...] TD: And Byron puts the boots to Watkins! SR: You wanna talk about payback, Dross? I guess this is payback for that cheap shot Watkins took earlier! [The heel pop continues as Watkins starts to rise and Byron cuffs him across the face! Watkins glares up at him, and Byron starts backing off... Watkins follows... and gets nailed from behind by Verhoeven, who flies off the ring apron with a flying axehandle!] SR: You wanna talk about smarts? Look at these two. The total package. And look at Byron laughing at Creed! He's loving every second of this! [Byron continues to taunt Creed as Verhoeven drags Watkins to his feet by the hair, and sends him crashing headfirst into the ringsteps! Byron cringes in sympathy, before laughing again, brushing his suit down and walking back to Verhoeven's corner. Verhoeven drags Watkins back to his feet, and rolls him back into the ring...] TD: Watkins is still dazed from those blows on the outside.. Verhoeven climbs back through the ropes... and a legdrop across Watkin's neck as he tries to rise! The cover - 1 - 2 - kickout by Watkins! [Verhoeven drags Watkins back to his feet again, easily scooping the smaller man up, and sending him straight back down with a backbreaker! The cover.. - 1 - 2 - kickout by Watkins again! Verhoeven picks him up again, this time sending him cross ring with an Irish whip...] TD: Clothesline attempt by Verhoeven... Watkins ducks... he comes back off the ropes.. and Verhoeven catches him around the throat! [Verhoeven hoists Watkins into the air in a double handed choke hold, and the referee starts to count. As he reaches five, Verhoeven turns towards the corner, throwing the smaller man backwards into the turnbuckles... he follows up quickly, and starts to fire home a series of kicks to Watkins midsection, before sending him flying halfway across the ring with a huge hiptoss!] SR: Look at Verhoeven, Dross. Total control. He's throwing Watkins around like a rag doll. TD: The man is probably one of the strongest in the sport, and I'll have to agree, right now he's got Watkins right where he wants him... [Verhoeven pulls Watkins up again, and starts to set him up for a suplex... blocked! The crowd pops as Verhoeven tries again, with the same result! Watkins braces himself, and hoists the bigger man up, dropping him down across the top rope and then catapulting him back into the ring with a slingshot suplex!] TD: What a move by Watkins! He knew he couldn't get Verhoeven up on his own, so he used the ropes for the assist! [Watkins pulls himself up to his feet, as does Verhoeven, and Verhoeven steps forwards.. into a single leg takedown from Watkins! Watkins quickly rolls over, pulling Verhoeven's leg with him and lo king him tight into a leg grapevine! Verhoeven's face contorts in pain as the pressure increases on his knee! Watkins breaks, and stands up, before dropping a hard elbow down across the knee joint and locking the hold in again!] TD: Alright! Payback! And you can bet that Creed will be feeling some sort of justice here! [Verhoeven twists his body, painfully rolling Watkins shoulders to the canvas... - 1 - 2 - Watkins kicks out, and grimly cinches the hold in even tighter...Verhoeven reaches down, locking his hands nder Watkins chin and pulling back... and Watkins breaks the hold! Verhoeven starts to pull himself up, only to have his leg swept out once again! Watkins pulls up both of Verhoeven's legs... huge crowd pop!] SR: ...ouch. TD: And Watkins with another kick to the lower abdomen, and he's got Verhoeven in trouble now! SR: Lower abdomen? Lower abdomen? You couldn't get much damn lower. Another cheap shot. [Watkins quickly twists Verhoeven's leg, starting to lock on a step over toe hold... Verhoeven reaches up as he does so, pulling him down into an inside cradle! The referee counts - 1 - 2 - kickout by Watkins! Watkins rolls with it, keeping hold of Verhoeven's leg, and spinning around into a spinning toehold... the referee checks with Verhoeven, but quickly decides that the snarl he receives means no. Heidi begins to pace the floor outside again, as Watkins spins again, locking the hold in even tighter..] TD: Watkins is really pouring the pressure on that knee here.. another spin.. and he pulls Verhoeven's leg up, dropping into a figure four! Creed applauds from the aisle, and Byron does not look happy at all! SR: That's one of his favourite moves, Dross. Watkins is sending out a message right here! [The referee asks Verhoeven again, but Verhoeven just grimly hangs on, trying to sit up and take a swipe at Watkins! Watkins ducks back, the fist barely missing his face... Verhoeven falls back, and the referee counts his shoulders down - 1 - Verhoeven lifts his shoulders, glaring at the referee angrily, before taking another swipe at Watkins.] TD: Verhoeven has a huge reach with those arms of his, but Watkins is staying out of harm's way. Verhoeven's too far from the ropes, he needs to get out of this quickly... [The referee asks Verhoeven again, and again he bellows out his response, before starting to twist...] TD: Verhoeven's trying to reverse it! He's trying to roll over! SR: He's going to get it, Dross, he's too big... Watkins can't hold him... [Watkins pulls back with all his strength, trying to keep the big man down, but Verhoeven's size helps him, and he bellows again... before flipping the hold completely over! Heel pop!] TD: Verhoeven's got it! He's reversed the hold on Watkins! And look at him lean back! SR: Watkins must be hurting now... the figure four affects both legs when it's reversed, he must be in serious pain. TD: But he's not giving up! He's fighting Verhoeven! [On the outside, Byron, who was watching intently, shouts out in German again! Verhoeven, the strain of the hold clearly showing on his face, nods his head and pushes up, leaning back even further... Watkins grits his teeth and slaps the canvas, shaking his head as the referee asks him again... and he reaches out for the ropes...] TD: Too far. He's just out of reach. SR: That hold must be killing both of them in there. TD: I know, but both are refusing to relent! Neither man wants to let the other loose! [Verhoeven shouts out an oath in German as he fights the pain, and Watkins reaches out for the ropes again... his fingertips grazing the ropes...] TD: He's got it! He's got the ropes! The referee breaks the hold, and both men fall away from one another! SR: Now this is the test: who's got the guts to finish it? [Verhoeven and Watkins slowly get to their knees, and then their feet.. Verhoeven walks across to Watkins, limping slightly, and swings a clubbing forearm blow to his back. Watkins replies with a hard elbow to Verhoeven's midsection, and then another...] TD: A punch by Verhoeven... blocked by Watkins! And he replies with one of his own! And another! [Verhoeven and Watkins tear into each other, falling back into the corner. Verhoeven switches their positions, then slams a hard knee into Watkins stomach, before staggering back for a second.. giving time for Watkins to lash out with a kick to the midsection! Watkins grabs Verhoeven's arm..] TD: Irish whip by Watkins... and a reversal by Verhoeven, and Watkins hit with force! And just what is Verhoeven complaining to the official about? [Verhoeven turns to the official and starts complaining, and Heidi leaps up to the ring apron to join him. Watkins starts to stir in the corner, and starts to get to his feet... huge heel pop!] TD: Byron tripped him! Byron tripped Watkins up! What's he...? Oh no. [Byron pulls Watkins back towards the corner, pulling him out half out of the ring. Byron sneers at him, and cuffs him across the face again before dropping to one knee, dropping his elbow across Wa kins throat in the process! Heel pop! He grabs Watkins' legs, snapping his leg back and sending it crashing into the ringpost with incredible force! Huge heel pop!] SR: Bwahahahah! Hey, Watkins, can you say "setup"? TD: This is terrible. Watkins is practically fighting two men in there! SR: Byron warned him. Verhoeven warned him. You don't cross these two athletes. [Verhoeven and Heidi continue to distract the official as Byron repeatedly rams Watkins leg into the steel. Creed starts to make his way towards the ring, and shouts something out at Byron, who turns with a sneer...] TD: Oh, surely Byron wouldn't attack a man in a wheelchair... SR: Why not? He attacked the same man _with_ a wheelchair... [Byron turns to face Creed as Verhoeven pushes the referee away and advances on Watkins... Byron starts to walk down the aisle, pointing at Creed and smirking.. Creed starts to wheel backwards... Huge crowd pop!] TD: It's Tony Starks! He's caught Byron from behind! [Starks leaps out of the stand and falls on Byron like a shot, flailing away at him in a fury! Byron falls backwards, trying to defend himself. In the ring, Verhoeven pulls Watkins up to his feet, and receives a quick thumb to the eye! Verhoeven turns around, rubbing his eyes, and Watkins comes out of the corner, catching him with a flying bulldog that leaves both men down! Back in the aisle, Creed looks on as Starks grabs Byron's tie, and Byron starts to back off... Creed half-smiles, and turns his wheechair around, leaving ringside.] TD: Oh, we've got all hell breaking loose down here now. SR: I know, ain't life grand? [Watkins pulls Verhoeven back up, and this time it's Verhoeven who cuts him short with a blow to the guts. He hooks Watkins up and slams him hard down to the canvas with a powerbomb before turning to look around. He sees Starks brawling with Byron, and his face contorts with rage, and he drops out of the ring. Heidi throws him Byron's discarded cane, and he runs down the aisle...] TD: Oh no... this isn't good... Starks could be in trouble here... [Byron and Starks continue to flail away at each other, Starks still with a hold on Byron's tie as Verhoeven comes charging down and nails Starks from behind! Heel pop! Verhoeven nails his hated rival with the cane, and Byron backs, glaring at the Staten Islander before ripping his jacket and tie off and wrapping it around Stark's throat, choking him out as Verhoeven continues to kick away at him. Mad Dog Watkins rolls out of the ring and charges down the aisle to help Starks out... he clips Verhoeven from behind, sending the cane flying...] TD: We've got complete chaos out here, the referee is making the count, but neither men is paying any attention... [All four men continue to brawl in the aisle as the referee counts, Starks with Verhoeven, Byron with Watkins. Chuck Sanders waves his hand for the bell...] RA: As the result of a double countout, this match has been ruled... a draw! [The four men continue to brawl in the aisle, oblivious to the referee's decision, and finally the Jobber Justice Squad appear on the scene, hauling the warring parties apart. Byron and Verhoeven angrily shake off the hands of the JJS, before making their way back towards the dressing rooms, still shouting threats at the other pair. Byron snatches up his cane off the floor, and points it at the pair one last time, before brushing his shirt down and disappearing through the curtains. Verhoeven issues a few threats of his own, before shrugging off the JJS again and leaving Tony Starks and Mad Dog Watkins with their arms raised in the aisle.] TD: Starks, Watkins, Creed... it looks as though the European Alliance will have their work cut out for them in the upcoming weeks. SR: You're kidding me, right, Dross? A crippled kid in a wheelchair, and an ex-cripple with some nasty welts on his back from being whipped like the dog he is? The only one of the three who can do a damned thing is Watkins. [Watkins and Starks nod at one another in a sign of mutual respect, but leave the aisle separately, Watkins lingering behind Starks, who shakes off the cobwebs of the Alliance's attack and heads back to the locker room area. Watkins follows, receiving a big mixed pop from the crowd. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: And now, here's a great event that's been a long time overdue. About to take place is the tag team championship unification match... the IIWF World Tag Team Champions, Pain, Inc., will meet the Prophets of Rage in a no disqualification match. The winners will be the World Tag Team Champs. SR: Yeah, and I've got to admit... Pain, Inc.'s being screwed here. TD: What? SR: Well think about this -- Pain, Inc. cannot win the Prophets' tin title belts. After tonight, we'll never see those US Tag Championships again. And besides, even if the US Titles _were_ on the line, why would they care? If you're already champs of the World, it should be understood that you're the champs of the United States as well. And furthermore -- TD: Yes, Steve, that's quite enough raving about this. I believe what you're trying to say is that it does little good to proclaim, "I'm the governor of Montana... and Helena too." SR: What the hell does she have to do with anything? Does she live in Montana now? TD: Who? SR: Helena. You were talking about the Bulgarian... uh, never mind. TD: For cryin' out loud... save me from this Sparky! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= "ALL OR NOTHING" TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP UNIFICATION MATCH: =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Pain Inc. [World Champs] vs. Prophets of Rage [US Champs] --------------------------------------------------------- WRITER: NN RA: Ladies and gentlemen, our next match on IIWF Saturday Night is a special event -- a Unification Match for the IIWF World Tag Team Championships! Introducing first, your IIWF United States Heavyweight Tag Team Champions... Derek, Shadoe... the Prophets of Rage! [The lights go out, and a spotlight hits the duo in the aisle. The "Death March" starts. Derek, at 7'2", and Shadoe, at 6'3", make their way to the ring in their usual garb. They hold their belts over the shoulders. Suddenly, as the Prophets show off their United States titles, an IIWF official hops into the ring and whispers something to Sparkplug Lee...] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, the IIWF has ruled the Prophets of Rage surrender their IIWF United States Tag Team Championships immediately! TD: I thought that was understood long ago. [The crowd's reaction is minimal, as the Prophets hand their now worthless belts to an IIWF suit. The suit immediately walks back to the locker room with the titles.] SR: Well, that's taken care of. [The look of intensity is apparent in the eyes of Shadoe and the seven-foot Derek as they focus upon the curtain, awaiting their opponents. Suddenly, "More Human than Human" starts over the PA. As they hear the music, Derek and Shadoe nod at each other in agreement.] RA: And here are your IIWF World Tag Team Champions! From Jakarta, Indonesia, at a total combined weight of 585 pounds, and being accompanied to the ring by Mr. Mic... here are Morningstar, Hellraiser, Pain Incorporated! [A large heel pop greets the champs in the aisle. Mr. Mic leads the trio, arms raised toward the crowd. He stops after a bit, and lets the two Indonesian monsters go to the ring first.] TD: Gee, what a guy that Mr. Mic. Let the wrestlers go first. SR: What? I'm sorry, Dross... I was over here tending the sarcasmometer and the reading jumped off the scale! [Pain, Inc. takes its time entering the ring, but the Rages aren't patient. As Morningstar steps through the ropes, Derek boots him in the face. His gold belt flops out to the floor, as does Morningstar. The bell sounds. Hellraiser goes to snap him ba ck up off the floor, but Shadoe performs a suicide dive, hitting him in the back and into the rail!] TD: A quick start for the Prophets! [As the Prophets reenter the ring and raise their arms, Petrow starts up a chant from his Sychopaths of "Bor - ing, bor - ing!" The two just ignore the crowd, and hold the ropes open for the champs to step back into the ring. Mr. Mic is obviously infuri ated, and he orders for his men to get back in there and take control, which is depicted by numerous flailing motions toward the ring by his arms.] SR: I wouldn't get back in there 'til I was darn well good and ready. What's the rush? TD: Well, as the champions stall to wits' end, I'll give you a little bit of background on these two teams. Mr. Mic's bunch arrived on the scene and were immediately embraced by the Armed Forces. SR: I'll bet that the champions were glad to see the Forces walk. TD: Well, anyway, like I was saying -- [Morningstar gets into the ring, apparently going to start the match against the 7'2" Derek. The two men lock up, and Morningstar gets a side headlock. As he cinches up on it, he yells in arrogance to the crowd. The arrogant yell quickly becomes one of shock as Derek lifts him up and executes a devastating backside suplex. Derek mocks Morningstar with a little scream of his own. Morningstar gets up on one knee and studies the situation. He elects to rush attack, but Derek counters with a drop toe ho ld. Derek slides up his back and applies a chinlock which looks suspiciously close to a choke. The referee checks him, but cannot see anything. Derek reaches up and tags to Shadoe. Shadoe leaps over the top rope and plants a boot to Morningstar's face . He rolls him over and covers - 1 - 2 - Morningstar simply tosses Shadoe off, sending him flying across the ring. Shadoe nods in respect of the strength of the 280 pounder.] TD: Well, we've found out that all of these men are determined to be the IIWF's first ever World Unified Tag Team Champs. SR: This match has started off fairly slowly, and I'd have to say that that is to the advantage of the champions. When you've held the World Titles as long as Pain, Inc. has, you learn to wrestle slow to get to the time limit... and that's what Morningst ar and Hellraiser will look for. TD: Speaking of Hellraiser, he has yet to enter the ring in any capacitation -- legal man or not. [Shadoe carefully moves in, attempting a collar-and-elbow lock up. However, Morningstar kicks Shadoe in the stomach, then whips him back to the canvas by the hair. Morningstar proceeds to kick away at Shadoe, but the Rage rolls out of the way and out to the floor. Morningstar gives chase, and Shadoe hops up onto the apron. Morningstar reaches but misses as Shadoe drops a shoulder into his midsection. Shadoe slingshots himself into the ring with a sunset flip, but Morningstar regains his balance via t he top rope. He sits down, using the rope as leverage, pinning Shadoe's shoulders - 1 - Derek steps through the ropes - 2 - Derek leaps and hits Morningstar's arms, sending him to his back, and completing the sunset flip - 1 - 2 - Hellraiser makes the save. Derek is quick to jump Hellraiser from behind, and a four way brawl ensues.] SR: It's breakin' down in the early going, Dross. TD: Now, this is what happens in _every_ tag team match around here. One thing gets a little bit wild, and the whole match goes crazy. I'll tell you what, if we'd have more wrestling and less brawling around here, perhaps we'd have some higher quality action! SR: We've got gore... what more do we need? [As the Sychopaths follow their fearless leader in "We Want Blood! We Want Blood!", Derek drives repeated elbows into the back of the doubled over Hellraiser. Morningstar and Shadoe brawl their way to the floor. The Sychopaths seem to be some what plea sed, but far from satisfied, as Morningstar's slams Shadoe into the steel rail. In the meantime, Derek takes Hellraiser off his feet with a body slam and covers - no count.] TD: It appears that the Prophets are trying to make the referee believe that Hellraiser is the legal man, but it apparently didn't work here, Steve. SR: Well it was certainly worth a shot, but the officiating crew here in the IIWF is just too good. Ha! [Derek is still in control in the ring, as he applies a reverse chinlock on Hellraiser. He screams in pain, but couldn't submit even if he wanted to. Shadoe and Morningstar continue to brawl on the floor, and Shadoe lands a fist to the midsection, follo wed by a DDT. Derek beckons for Shadoe to go for a pin, so the smaller Rage hurls the dazed Morningstar back into the ring. He covers - 1 - 2 - kickout! Derek drops an elbow into the chest area of Morningstar, and he covers - 1 - 2 - kickout again!] SR: Can they do this? TD: I think that with the referee having no clue whatsoever they can do just about whatever they want to do. SR: And it is a no disqualification match, after all. [Hellraiser stands up and looks for his corner. Derek and Shadoe snap Morningstar back up and send him to the ropes. Morningstar, somehow, comes off the rope with a spinning heel kick, dropping Derek! However, in his celebration, he's floored from behi nd by a Shadoe Rage flying forearm and a quick cover - 1 - 2 - Hellraiser makes the save, then exits the ring. Derek gets back, slowly, to the apron. Suddenly, a chant of "Tri - ple M! Tri - ple M!" echoes throughout the arena.] TD: It appears that we've got something resembling a tag match again, but now... are they chanting for Triple M? SR: Apparently so... I guess the fans of the IIWF want to see Maurice McArthur in action... if that's what you can call it. TD: Well, he did a great job holding the tag rope for Joe Petrow during the United States Title tournament, but I must admit that he's not an IIWF superstar -- though he has been a solid member of the Jobber Justice Squad since the IIWF's beginning. SR: Well if he shows up tonight, then "Team Sychosys" will be complete -- and trouble will go down! [Morningstar gets swung into the ropes. He makes a quick tag to Hellraiser, who slingshots himself over the top rope. Shadoe comes off and leapfrogs Morningstar, right into the arms of Hellraiser's power slam! A cover - 1 - Derek comes through the rope s - 2 - Morningstar cuts him off - kickout. A huge heel pop erupts!] SR: See, that's why you can never count the champs out. They've been beaten up all match, but then with one move they almost stole the match. TD: Pain, Inc. is certainly a dangerous team that can win a match at anytime... in fact, there's a saying, "On your bad days, be good. On your good days, be great." SR: What does that mean? TD: It means that you've got to win matches that you shouldn't to be a good team here. SR: Oh, okay. [Majestic Maurice McArthur, looking confused and scared, steps into the aisle, much to the amusement of the Sychopaths. The action in the ring continues, with Hellraiser dragging Shadoe up to his knees. However, Shadoe strikes Hellraiser in the groin, doubling him over! S hadoe kicks Hellraiser's left knee three times, before tagging to the big man, Derek. In the meantime, Triple M gets closer to the ring, cautiously planning his steps. Derek taunts Morningstar, coaxing him into the ring. The referee goes to cut him off, and the fun begins. Shadoe quickly comes into the ring, and the duo executes a double faceslam. Derek executes a side backbreaker, and watches as Shadoe goes to the top...] TD: This could be it... the Angel of Death Drop -- perhaps the most exciting move in all of tag team wrestling! SR: Look! [Joe Petrow springs over the railing, disrobing himself to reveal a pair of pant-length trunks bearing a "Team Sychosys" logo. Petrow grabs his chair and slides under the top rope, swinging it everywhere. Derek grabs Shadoe off the top rope and the duo gets out to the floor. Mr. Mic jumps on to the apron and pulls Morningstar to the floor, and "Sychosys" kicks Hellraiser's carcass out to the floor. Petrow drops his chair and mounts the top turnbuckle to a massive heel pop! He looks toward McArthur on the outside and flashes him a "Triple M" sign with his fingers. 3M, shell-shocked, dashes back to the locker room in terror.] SR: What the hell? TD: I guess Petrow wants a shot at the tag team gold? SR: Who knows. He's just plain crazy... but by jingo he's fun! TD: While I have a chance I'll point out that Petrow will be in a wild four corners match later tonight in the Cruiser tournament... against two former holders of that title, and one complete lush. SR: I say it'll come down to Petrow and the Dirt Dog. Shakespeare and the Enema were good at one time, but that time has come and gone. Period. [Petrow triumphantly struts out of the ring, chair in hand, and returns to the crowd. Upon his arrival there, he peels off his pair of "Team Sychosys" trunks to reveal a plain black pair. The referee orders that the match continues. Morningstar, obviou sly in better shape than Hellraiser, hops up and into the ring, and Derek steps in for the Prophets.] TD: This match has been more of a circus than anything. How about a wrestling hold? SR: Wrestling holds suck. I just like to see the blood bounce on the canvas. [Derek clotheslines Morningstar, who is caught off guard. He is quick to bounce to the ropes and fell him with a jumping axe handle just as quickly as he got up. He covers - 1 - 2 - kickout. Derek drags Morningstar over the bottom rope, and chokes him over it. Derek heads to the other side, bounces off, and leaps at Morningstar off the rebound. However, Morningstar moves, and Derek hits the rope hard. Morningstar is quick to attack with a clothesline of his own, knocking Derek to the floor! More noise is heard from the crowd!] TD: Now what? [Kane and Wulf sprint down to ringside. Each of them grab a chair, and Mr. Mic beckons Hellraiser to join the party. The referee is quick to get out on the floor and break things up however, so the Dark Disciples back off.] SR: We've got the three top tag teams in the IIWF right here! [Don McQueen makes a stroll to ringside. Morningstar snaps Derek up and suplexes him! The crowd pops in amazement. Shadoe shows up on the scene, but is ambushed by Wulf, who knocks him down with a chair shot from behind. Hellraiser looks at Wulf and n ods in appreciation. McQueen whispers something in the ear of Wulf, and the duo backs away from the action. The trio continues conversing, as Derek helps Shadoe back up. Hellraiser and Morningstar step back and plan an attack. As Pain, Inc. draws closer, Kane and Wulf, nudged in the back by Don McQueen, spring to action. They attack with chairs, and bore in on Shadoe. However, Derek grabs Shadoe and moves him out of the way. The chairs nail Morningstar and Hellraiser! Big heel pop!] SR: Oh no! That's not going to help relations any! TD: Mr. Mic is enraged! [The brothers need not contemplate the situation. Instinctively, the duo grabs Morningstar and pitches back into the ring. Shadoe climbs up to the top rope, and Derek snaps Morningstar up. As the Dark Disciples apologize to the wounded Hellraiser, Dere k performs a tilt-a-whirl piledriver in the ring. He steps back, and Shadoe performs a moonsault elbow drop! Big pop!] TD: The Angel of Death Drop! That's gotta be it! [Hellraiser, face first on the floor, tries to shrug off the apologies. He, groggily but frantically, points at the action in the ring. Kane and Wulf, however, gesture in confusion. Shadoe hooks a leg - 1 - Hellraiser tries to get up, but runs into Kane - 2 - Mr. Mic screams at Wulf who pays no attention - 3! Ding! Ding!] SR: Oh my goodness... I can't believe it... we've got new World Champs! RA: The winners... and new IIWF World Tag Team Champions... the Prophets of Rage! [Derek and Shadoe grab the gleaming gold belts, hoisting them high. Hellraiser, perturbed, gets up and verbally berates the Disciples. Morningstar is attended to Mr. Mic in the ring, while Don McQueen looks on in apathy. Hellraiser begins poking Wulf in the chest, who retalliates by swatting his hand away and pointing in the face of Hellraiser.] TD: We've got trouble amongst these two teams again! Does anything ever work out for these guys? SR: I don't know. The relationships with the Armed Forces, Night Patrol, and now apparently the Disciples have all resulted in disaster! [Brian Lau begins jogging down to the ringside area. He steps in between Hellraiser and the Dark Disciples. None of them even notice, or seem to care, as the Prophets leave with the belts. Lau beckons for Mr. Mic to come over, and he obliges. Mic talk s to Hellraiser, while Lau calms the Dark Disciples. It ends in a half-hearted handshake, and all men, including a woozy Morningstar leave down the aisle... in three factions: Pain, Inc. in one group, Lau and the Disciples in another, and McQueen all by himself in the back, who doesn't seem to care really. All are jeered on their way out. As they disappear into the back, the Prophets' two female managers, the striking Medusa Rage, and the sexy Pizzazz, make their way down to ringside. Big mixed pop as they step into the ring and drape themselves over the new World Tag Team Champions.] TD: What scenes here in the Coliseum, folks! We have new World Tag Team Champions in the Prophets of Rage. Their meteoric rise to the top of the IIWF's tag tree has been unstoppable, and now they sit above every other team in the Federation! SR: And deservedly so, Dross. Any pair of guys who can score a couple of hot women like Medusa and Pizzazz deserve a little gold... and a lot of respect. [Shadoe slings his belt over his shoulder and takes Medusa's arm, while Pizzazz hungrily caresses the other golden belt strapped around Derek's waist. The Prophets eventually leave the ring and head up the aisle, ignoring the clamouring fans as they go. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Well, that takes us to our next match -- an Intercontinental Championship defense that certainly should be a spirited encounter. SR: Hey Dross, speaking of spirited encounters, what about Marv Albert in that Virginia hotel? That was weird, wild stuff. And I thought Morton was the kinkiest broadcaster going with his Chuck Norris pictures. Unbelievable. TD: Now, Steve Roberts, I've had the occasion to speak with Marv Albert a time or two at the odd broadcasters' convention -- and I found him to be a fine gentleman. I think it would be prudent to withhold judgment and let the judical process run its course. SR: Aw, come on, Dross, play with me. Look, we all know what happened in that hotel room -- Marv wanted to "drive down the lane" and the broad was playing an illegal defense. So Marv set a moving pick and now he's getting T'd up. It ain't tough to figure out. TD: Perhaps we should do away with the court system and simply let you determine innocence or guilt. SR: Nah. My plate's pretty full, Dross. I gotta do these cards... I have to save your lame show every week... I have to book these damn tag matches. TD: Steve Roberts, will you stop? You have no administrative responsibilities with the IIWF tag teams. SR: Obviously. TD: Let's get to ringside. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= IIWF INTERCONTINENTAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Lord Byron [c] vs. Tiger Claw ----------------------------------------- WRITER: JJ [Sparkplug Lee seems enrapt with the video wall display of the BBC's documentary "Grain - Our Mysterious Friend", necessitating his delivering the ring introduction from his seat at the timekeepers' table...] SL: The following contest is set for one fall -- and is for the IIWF Intercontinental Championship! Introducing first, accompanied down the aisle by his manager Brian Lau, and the IIWF Heavyweight Champion, Casey "Blackheart" James... he weighs 220lbs and hails from Thailand... he is a former three-time IIWF Intercontinental Champion... Tiger Claw! [The familiar Thai boxing music, signifying the entrance of the veteran Claw, begins. The veteran members of the Syndicate make their way down the aisle. Claw is clearly locked in, twitching, jumping with nervous evergy as he walks the aisle. James points to the three-time IC champ, yelling, "That's the man... four times... four time champ!" All three men reach the ring to a loud Syndicate pop. Claw climbs to a mid-buckle and thrusts his hands around his waist in the international symbol for "I'm a gettin' that there belt!" and hears the big pop turn into an even bigger one... as someone begins a very purposeful walk to the ring.] TD: Well, we have some company. Here comes Brody Thunder! SR: Looks like he's here to wish his buddy Claw some luck. That's what I like about this Syndicate -- what a tightly knit bunch of guys. Good men. Ain't that America? You and me. Damn, Dross. Little pink houses for all of us. TD: Well, your pop culture references aside, it looks to me that Brody Thunder is having some very pointed comments for Lau and the Champ. [Claw is slowly going through a ritualistic warm up as Thunder has stepped into the ring and appears to be angrily confronting Brian Lau. The crowd has now risen to its feet as Thunder stalks closer and closer to his manager, the Syndicate leader now backed into the ropes, backing away from Thunder who is growing more and more demonstrative. The words, "damn liar," and "my turn!" are heard from Brody as his face is now contorting with anger sufficient that James stops posing and heads to the conflict.] TD: Well, it is heating up here, Steve Roberts! You cannot deny what you see with your own eyes! These people know it -- these people here all know that something is going down with Brody Thunder and the Syndicate! SR: There you go again, Dross. Look... I know what it looks like... but I'm sure the Champ can smooth things over. [Claw remains oblivious to the scene, firmly locked into a near trance-like state has he readies himself for battle. James has now stepped in between Lau and Thunder, obviously trying to calm Brody down, James puts his hand on Thunder's shoulder -- and Thunder knocks it away! Big POP!] TD: Oh Mmy! SR: What's Thunder doing? That ungrateful son of a --- [The crowd is now really hot as James takes a step back, looking around, sizing up the situation -- and then "Blackheart" lays the IIWF Championship belt on the canvas... lays it at the feet of Thunder! James is now pointing a big finger at Thunder's face, the overhead mic easily able to discern his saying "you don't want the IC strap... admit it, Thunder... you want the big belt. Admit it, Thunder... you want my gold!" Thunder looks down at the IIWF Heavyweight Championship belt, then up at James, saying, "if I wanted yer strap, big man... I'd take yer strap!" Big Pop! James now flashes hot, the veins bulging from his neck -- and he gets in Thunder's face, yelling at the "Lone Wolf", "You think so? You think you can take this from me, _bodyguard_? Then bring it!"] TD: Oh my! We're gonna see it! We're gonna see it right now! [Brian Lau and now Tiger Claw leap in between James and Thunder, each man grabbing the Champ and pushing him away from Thunder. The crowd pops wildly as a parade of officials now leap into the ring and grab Thunder. James is pushed from the ring by Lau and Claw, the Champion quickly regaining his customary composure... pushing his hair from his eyes... and takes a mic:] CJ: You know, Thunder, you could have been somebody in this business. You had a chance to be one of the greats -- but you just couldn't wait your turn. So I'm gonna teach you a lesson, cowboy. Next week. Next week, right here... you and me, Thunder. You and me... for the belt! [Enormous pop from the crowd! Many begin chanting "Thun - der! Thun - der!" Lau races back into the ring, and nabs the Championship belt, cradling it to his breast as he returns to the aisle and Brody takes the mic.] BT: That a deal, James? I got yer word on that, James? 'Cuz I ain't lacin' my good boots unless your fat ass is goin' ta be here ta kick! [James makes another run at the ring as Thunder leaps in his direction... the two men are swarmed under by security and the entire pack is led up the aisle, leaving only Claw, who is able to navigate his way back to the ring to await his match.] TD: A shocking turn of events, Steve Roberts. I have got to say... I have got to say... that if indeed that match does go down here next week -- if next week we will see Casey James vs. Brody Thunder for the IIWF Heavyweight Championshipm, it might be the biggest IIWF Saturday Night of all time! SR: Well, this is ridiculous, Dross. I don't know what got into Thunder -- I don't know what he thinks he's trying to prove. But if he thinks he's gonna come in here and beat Casey James... then, well, I just don't know what. [Sparkplug Lee strains, above the din of the IIWF Coliseum, to resume his introductions...] SL: His opponent... accompanied to the ring by Lady DeWinter... weighs 265lbs. and is currently residing in New Orleans... he is the IIWF Intercontinental Champion... Lord Byron! [Big heel pop as "Intermezzo" from "Karelia" Suite begins, and Byron appears in the aisle. The winsome DeWinter is at his side, proudly carrying the IIWF and ESWP gold of Lord Byron. The champ is as regally attired as ever, his custom black leggings and blond hair bob augmented by that brass topped walking cane -- so instrumental in many of Byron's victories. Byron is limping slightly but noticeably as he reaches the ring... holding the ropes open for DeWinter before smugly entering the ring himself. The heel pop now turning into a boisterous chant of "Pay - Back! Pay - Back! Pay - Back!" leading the sneering Byron to begin yelling at many of the ringside fans.] SR: You know what, Dross... Byron might be at a disadvantage here. He had to wait a long time in the back while Thunder was out here whining to Lau. TD: Although, after that beating he took from Tony Starks earlier in the evening, I think the champ probably appreciated a few additional minutes to recover before this match. SR: A beating orchestrated by that punk Creed, Dross. Who the hell does that guy think he is -- too scared to get in the ring with Otto, but he'll let all of his _homeboys_ do the work for him? TD: I don't think that's necessarily the best way to put that, Steve Roberts. But these fans here certainly are solidly behind young Creed in his apparent quest for a rubber match with Lord Byron. SR: Rubber match. I thought you didn't want to talk about Marv Albert, Dross. [Ding! Ding! Ding! The preliminary distractions cast aside, Byron and Claw are able to lock up, something Byron does with vigor as he quickly applies a standing side headlock on the smaller Claw, looking to wrench away. Claw, flits out into a go-behind where he momentarily teases a hammerlock -- standing switch -- and the bigger Byron not only applies the hammerlock... but takes Claw down with it. Pop! Byron's target quickly becomes apparent: the legs. The IC champ snapping a Claw pin backward... then quickly punching in two kneedrops to an exposed hamstring... before applying a knee scissors that has Claw thoroughly befuddled -- and as the official checks Claw for an early submission, Byron attempts to maneuver into poistion for a chinclock.] TD: Byron is really looking for the early knockout here, Steve Roberts. He has popped this cross-knee scissors right on Claw. SR: The Champ's a little gimpy after that Starks cheap shot, Dross. He doesn't want to be out here with someone like Claw who can go all night. You know who else who can go all night, Dross, is that Marv Albert. The man's a beast. A sexual dynamo. TD: You aren't going to get off this, are you, Steve Roberts? SR: You know who else wouldn't get off it? [Byron's attempt at a chinlock was rebuffed with a jab to his throat by the resourceful Claw, who snaps to his feet to deliver a rapid series of sidekicks... a moderately successful back thrust... and then a snapping round/reverse round combination that has Byron staggering back and looking to bail out of the ring! Pop! But as Byron looks for escape, he is met with a springboard kneedrop by Claw that thumps the champ down to the canvas... from which he is pulled out to the floor by DeWinter! Pop!] TD: Just as Tiger Claw begins an offensive attack, DeWinter is there to save Lord Byron. She is invaluable, Steve Roberts. SR: Oh, I don't know, Dross. I've found that most women have a price... a fist full of singles usually does the trick. TD: I don't think Lord Byron would particularly care for your characterization of Lady DeWinter, Steve Roberts. SR: Oh, you were talking about DeWinter? I thought you meant Nightwing. Helluva little dancer that guy is. Shake it for me, baby dolls. Shake it for the Soundbite! [Claw hops to the apron, and comes down with a double chop to the chest of the rising Byron. Pop! Claw now swarms all over Byron, peppering him with a flurry of kicks to the Champion's shins. The already weakened Byron simply cannot withstand the assault of the quicker Claw and slumps to the floor... Claw returns to the ring, leaving Byron broken down on the outside as DeWinter looks on with obvious concern... Huge aisle pop!] TD: We have company... here comes Creed! SR: Just like that punk -- coming down when Byron can't defend himself. What a joke. [The red-gloved rookie returns in his red wheelchair, his San Francisco Giants cap remaining perched atop his newly shaved head. Creed does not acknowledge the fans, many of whom are now roaring "Pay - Back! Pay - Back! Pay - Back!" as the rookie approaches the ringside area. Tiger Claw seems irritated with Creed's unobstructed appearance, and gives a quick look to the outside, apparently hoping that any member of the Syndicate might have returned from the previous Thunder/James tumult to deal with the unwanted intrusion. Satisfied that Creed will not interfere, in his current state, Claw leaps from the backrope into a springboard plancha...] TD: Oh my! Byron catches Tiger Claw's dive... into a hotshot over the guardrail! Wow! SR: Claw got distracted by the freak with the glove on out there... what the hell does he want -- Byron to kick his overrated ass again? [Byron's counter was brutal, the sound of Claw's neck snapping over the retaining barrier echoing throughout the Coliseum. Byron does not waste any time, picking Claw from the floor and driving four sharply-placed European uppercuts to the challenger's chin before picking him up, into a gutwrench suplex that lays the smaller man out on the floor. Big pop for the Champion! Byron now sees the wheelchaired Creed, takes a step to him and then shakes his head and smiles. Byron picks up the prone Claw and tosses him back in the ring. Byron stopping at the apron himself to give a rather ungentlemanly gesture toward the red-gloved rookie.] SR: Byron's gonna show the punk who the Intercontinental Champion is! Byron's gonna deliver some payback of his own on... Ouch! [Byron's momentary occupation with Creed was costly, as he took an upward thrust to the groin as he entered the ring. The veteran Claw takes advantage, not deliberating a moment as he drives two additional palm strikes into the same region of Byron's anatomy. Empathetic pop!] TD: I'm not sure if "pop" is the best choice of words right now. [Claw leaps to the top rope, not the buckle, the middle of the rope... and comes down to the back of Byron's neck with an inverted elbowsmash! Claw follows up, attempting to fell Byron with a drop toe hold -- mistake -- the Champ maneuvers into a hammerlock and looks for a takedown... but Claw slides out the back door...] SR: Just like Marv Albert! [...into a crescent kick that serves just to throw off Byron's equilibrium enough that he neglects to see that Claw has gone farside -- and is leaping into a spinning backfist that knocks a revolving Byron clean off his feet into a cover... 1 -- 2 -- Kickout by Byron.] TD: First nearfall of the match, Steve Roberts. We have seen Lord Byron perhaps a hair off his game tonight, whether from the attack by Tony Starks earlier or the current distraction of the rookie Creed sitting in that wheelchair... but right now, you'd have to say that Tiger Claw is in control of this match. SR: Tiger Claw doesn't need anybody's help, Dross. This guy's maybe the greatest Intercontinental Champion of all time -- no protege necessary. But don't think for a minute that anything that punk Creed does bothers Lord Byron. One man's a professional... a champion. The other guy's just some little boy wearing a glove. [Claw stays on the mat, grabbing an armbar and attempting to couple it with a chinlock. Byron is clearly dazed, having taken a bit of a beating, but Claw soon abandons his attempt to stay on the mat with the technically brilliant Champion, realizing that his best bet is to remain on his feet. Claw brings Byron along, both men now on their feet, Claw snapping off quick kicks to the shins before corner-whipping Byron hard into the buckle... Byron takes the jarring shot -- and misses a clothesline as Claw charges -- ducks under -- and then hurtles to the top rope from where he is set to come down onto the unsuspecting Byron with a hurricarana...] TD: NO! Byron caught him! Byron caught him! [Byron stops the takeover attempt, grabbing ahold of the smaller Claw who frantically attempts to escape the fate that is about to befall...] TD: Pildriver! Byron just executed piledriver on Claw -- and he is out! He is... there's the cover... [The official dives down for a 1 -- 2 -- NO! Claw is just able to get a shoulder up to the approval of the Syndicate loyalists. DeWinter slaps her hands together in obvious frustration while the red-gloved Creed noticeably wheels himself in for a closer look. Byron drags Claw more closely to the middle of the ring, positioning him in such a fashion that he is readily able to drop a series of measured elbows to the inside of Claw's leg. Byron continues to weaken the affected leg, continues to try and ground the martial arts expert Claw. Byron locks one leg... snapping back in a scissors of the knee that brings obvious pain again to the face of the former Champ. Claw attempts to break the hold as Byron tantalizingly holds his throat inches from Claw's readied palm... but the strike draws only air -- as Byron leans backward, shearing the pain through the entire body of Tiger Claw.] TD: That's what you get with Lord Byron. It's similar to a man like a Casey James or a Deathbringer, those men are always big -- no matter what you do to them, size is a great equalizer. For Byron, it is his intelligence. Maybe he is not on top of his game tonight, as he certainly was at Birthday Bash some two weeks ago... but look at Byron apply this cross scissors... look at how he stopped that hurricarana. Lord Byron always finds a way to counter, Steve Roberts. SR: What the hell's gotten into you, Dross? When did you become such a Byron fan? TD: Steve, do you even watch the broadcasts? SR: Well, what else is on? [Claw continues to resist the official's suggestion of submission, forcing Byron into frustration and finally into abandoning the hold. Byron stands, puts a well-placed boot to Claw's ribs, and then points to the rookie Creed, yelling "stay in your highchair, the Intercontinental Champion has business to attend," before spitting in the direction of Creed. The rookie has remained throughly impassive... rarely so much as lifting an eyebrow in response to a maneuver of either competitor. But as Byron applies a chinlock bending down deep to force the maximum amount of pressure onto the smaller Claw, Creed wheels himself closer to the action, now taking a place very much near the base of the apron.] TD: Lord Byron, I would suggest, is making a mistake now. He has turned the tide in this match, but yet is obviously distracted by Creed... and listen to these fans! [As Byron continues to wear away at Tiger Claw, the fans now taunt the IC Champion, renewing their chants of "Pay - Back! Pay - Back! Pay - Back!" to the consternation of Lord Byron, who impatiently smacks at Tiger Claw's head and then yanks him to his feet. Byron sticks a finger in Claw's face, then turns his head to again focus on Creed...] TD: Oh my! Tiger Claw leapt from a standing position into a head scissors takeover of Byron! And look at Claw go! SR: My man Tiger Claw! New Intercontinental Champion! [Claw sits atop Byron's chest as the crowd pops in apprciation of the startling maneuver, Claw letting loose with a ripping series of rights and lefts that pound the IC champ into the canvas. Pop! Claw attempts to press Byron's shoulders to the mat, drawing a 1 -- but Byron rotates the opposite direction, rolling Claw into a cradle for a quick 1 -- 2 -- ] SR: Yes! Byron wins! TD: No! The official stops the count! The official breaks the count! Byron had his foot atop the ropes - and the official stops the count! SR: Can he do that, Dross? [Byron is hot with the decision, jumping into the official's face, failing to see that Claw is up and pulling him down, down to the mat for a... 1 -- ] TD: Claw's got the package! Claw's got a handful of trunks, too! SR: My man Tiger Claw! [The official's hand hits the mat a second time... 2... but that is all as Byron kicks out vigorously. Byron faces Claw, grabbing his arms quickly... and bringing him smashing to the mat with a butterfly suplex and a cover... 1 -- 2 -- NO! Claw kicks out! Byron pulls Claw to his feet, Irish whipping the former IC Champ, and catching him on the return with a feint and a side Russian leg sweeep that takes Claw hard to the canvas. Byron stands, dropping a big elbow... to nothing! Claw is just able to roll free from the blow, greeting a standing Byron with a spinning back kick and a cover... 1 -- 2 -- NO! It's Byron who gets a shoulder up, and then has to bury his head into his hands as Claw begins a barrage of chops to the prone champion's head and neck! Big Syndicate Pop!] TD: Tiger Claw is really putting on the offensive, Steve Roberts... Tiger Claw is letting loose with these furious karate chops. I don't know how much more Byron can withstand! SR: And NEW Intercontinental Champion! I like the sound of that, Dross! [Claw leaps from Byron, and begins making his way up to the top rope, Claw scurrying to the top... but followed by Byron! Tiger Claw is making his way to that top rope, looking to strike down on Byron and take the Intercontinental Championship for the fourth time... But Byron is behind him! And now both men are climbing the ropes. They reach the top buckle and stand face-to face, Byron's back to the ring as the two men grapple for position. Claw looks for a facelock... Byron buries his head into Claw's shoulder -- and grabs the front waist... and ... leaps...] TD: Oh my! That's a Northern Lights Superplex! A Northern Lights Superplex! SR: Yeah! And STILL Intercontinental Champion! [Huge pop as the two valiant superstars thunderously slam into the canvas. Byron attempting to bridge... but the wear and tear of the evening has gotten to him -- he can't seem to get the cover, he can't seem to get Claw's shoulders to the mat...] TD: Yes! Yes! Byron's got the bridge! Byron's got the bridge! SR: Foot on the ropes, Dross! Claw's got his foot on the ropes! Does the official see it? [The official is slow in making the count, Byron straining with all that he has to keep the bridge, Tiger Claw definitely has his foot on the ropes as the official gets set to dive down... Simultaneously, DeWinter is to the apron, wielding the brass-topped cane as she readies herself to instrumentally remove the offending Claw foot from the obtrusive rope. The official counts... 1 -- ] TD: Look at DeWinter... She's going to... It's Creed! It's Creed! [As DeWinter swings the cane, Creed hops to his good leg -- and grabs it from DeWinter! Big Pop! DeWinter turns -- and sees Creed holding the cane... 2...] TD: Claw's foot -- the official's looking! [The official jerks his head upward, but a fraction of a second too late, as to a big SHOCKED pop... Creed has yanked the rope away from Claw! Creed yanked the rope from Claw! The count reaches -- 3! Ding! Ding! Ding!] SL: Your winner, as a result of a pinfall, and _STILL_ IIWF Intercontinental Champion... LORD _BYRON_! [Big Pop as DeWinter grabs the Chamnpionship belts from the timekeeper's table, and makes a move to the ring, pausing as Creed returns to his wheelchair... with Byron's brass-topped cane still in hand! DeWinter makes a move to grab for the cane, but Creed just slowly shakes his head, and wheels away! Creed wheels away with Lord Byron's cane up the aisle and back to the dressing room, his fans screaming along the way: "Pay - Back! Pay - Back! Pay - Back!"] TD: Wow. A Northern Lights superplex from Byron. He maintains the title -- but what about Creed, knocking Tiger Claw's foot off the ropes, and helping Lord Byron to keep his IC belt! Amazing! SR: I knew it all along, Dross. Lord Byron is your Intercontinental Champion! And look at he and DeWinter leaving the ring... what great champions! [Byron staggers from the ring, DeWinter clearly trying to avoid telling him of the fashion in which he retained the belt, and of the location of his brass-topped cane. Claw now rises, fuming. Claw yells at the official that his foot was on the ropes... and then realizes that it was Creed! Claw realizes that it was Creed who pulled his foot -- and charges up the aisle!] TD: Tiger Claw is a madman, Steve Roberts! Tiger Claw is going after Creed! We have... we have cameras in the back... [Claw is shown tearing through the backstage area, yelling for Creed, when he turns a corner -- and runs hard into Derek Mota, who was watching the match on a dressing room monitor. Mota falls to his back, Claw yeling, "Where's the rookie?! Where the hell is Creed?!" Mota hops to his feet responding, "Hey, old timer, leave the big man alone... you stay with the guys your own speed." Claw stares incredulously at Mota, and then leaps atop him, ripping off a furious round of right hands! Mota is surprised -- but is quickly able to respond, working his way to his feet and grabbing a large steel light structure -- and jabbing it to Claw's midsection! Mota throws down the light and then swarms over the veteran Claw, pummeling at him with a series of punches and kicks as security and the Jobber Justice Squad, minus poor Maurice, swarm over the two men pulling them apart as Mota continues to taunt Claw...] TD: An unbelievable scene backstage, an unbelievable scene out here. What a night for the Syndicate, Steve Roberts. Maybe their worst in history. Pain Inc. loses the IIWF tag titles to the Prophets of Rage... Brody Thunder and Casey James nearly come to blows... and fans, we hope to have confirmation of that title match on the Hotline -- so be sure to call in -- and now Tiger Claw is not only defeated by Lord Byron, but he and Derek Mota really went at it back there. Unbelievable. SR: Yeah, well, here's what I think is unbelievable, Dross. One, that any woman would let Marv Albert anywhere near her back to begin with; two, that Brody Thunder is really gonna go through with this plan to fight Casey James; and, three, that Creed's really gonna buy more trouble with Lord Byron. Doesn't that punk remember how he got in that wheelchair in thae first place? These NewGen guys aren't only not very good -- they aren't very bright either. [Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Okay, folks, it's time for tonight's main event -- the second of our four corners matches to decide who will meet Ronnie Paris next Saturday Night for the Cruiserweight Championship. SR: And if it's anything like the first, we're in for one hell of a ride. TD: Quite. The line up certainly looks daunting enough -- Shakespeare, Petrow, the Enigma and Unique Allah. Any of these four have the ability to go all the way in this one. Who's the smart money on, Steve? SR: Why should I tell you? TD: Fair enough point, I guess. Let's go to ringside for the introductions. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= IIWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP FOUR CORNERS MATCH: =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= "Sychosys" Joe Petrow vs. "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare vs. "Enigma" Takezo Musashi vs. Dirt Dog Unique Allah ----------------------------------------------------------- WRITER: MP RA: The following contest is for the IIWF Cruiserweight Championship, and a special Four Corners match! [Huge crowd pop!] The rules are simple: Two men will be in the ring at any one time. Any man may tag to any other at any time, and elimination take place through pinfall, submission, or being thrown out of the ring over the top rope. The last man standing is the winner. [Huge crowd pop!] And now, the competitors... Introducing first, weighing in at 230lbs, and hailing from Ashland, Oregon... here is... "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare! [Mixed pop as "Little Willie" by the Sweet starts up over the PA system, and Billy Shakespeare appears in the aisle, his face still painted in the ghoulish black and white tragedy mask. He makes his way to the ring, without his trademark bow, and enters the ring, turning to face the aisle as he waits for his opponents.] Weighing in at 227lbs, currently residing in Tokyo, Japan... here is... "Sychosys" Joe Petrow! [Petrow, still seated in the fourth row of the stands, yawns, stretches, makes as if to stand up... then folds his arms.] TD: What's Petrow playing at? RA: Here is... "Sychosys" Joe Petrow! SR: Give it a rest, Sparky, please. [Petrow starts talking to the Sychopath sat next to him, making no move from his seat.. The match official, Chuck Sanders, walks across to Sparkplug Lee, who shrugs and shakes his head. Sanders climbs out of the ring and walks up the aisle towards Petrow, who is currently eating a hot-dog..] TD: This is ridiculous. The man is holding up the match. What does he think he's playing at? [As Sanders reaches the fourth row, he shouts out to Petrow. Petrow ignores him. Sanders shouts out a second time, and Petrow looks up, counting: "1! 2! 3!" Simultaneously, Petrow, and every single Sychopath sat around him, casually flip Chuck Sanders the bird. Sanders turns a deep shade of crimson, and storms back towards the ring, muttering to himself...] TD: My word. SR: I guess that gives Chuck his answer, eh? [Sanders climbs back into the ring, and Sparkplug asks him a question. Sanders shrugs, and tells him to "get on with the damn introductions."] RA: *ahem* Weighing in at 238lbs and hailing from Brooklyn, New York.. accompanied to the ring by his manager, Medusa Rage... here is the "Dirt Dog" Unique Allah! [Heel pop as "Snakes" by the Ol' Dirty Bastard starts up over the PA. The Dirt Dog stumbles out of the entranceway into the aisle and turns around, grinning dazedly at the crowd. Medusa Rage follows him out and pushes him towards the ring.] RA: And finally, weighing in at 211lbs and hailing from Tokyo, Japan, here is "The Enigma" Tazeko Musashi! [Mixed pop as the Enigma's mystical oriental music starts up over the PA system and the Enigma himself appears at the head of the aisle, quickly jogging towards the ring. He stops midway down, and turns to look at Petrow. Petrow looks back and counts out: "1! 2! 3!" The Enigma scowls at Petrow and the Sychopath's irreverent gestures, and turns back towards the ring.] SR: Well. Barring the obvious one, it looks like everybody's ready to start the match. Just what is Petrow's problem? TD: I guess he's just being expressionist. TD: He's supposed to be a wrestler, not a damned painter. [The official gives up waiting for Petrow to join the others in the ring, and signals for the match to start. The Enigma steps to the ring apron, leaving Billy Shakespeare and the Dirt Dog to start things off. The Dirt Dog takes a look at Shakespeare, and both men move into a lock up, which Shakespeare quickly takes advantage of through a knee lift, and then a hip toss. The Dirt Dog stumbles back up to his feet, and Shakespeare follows up with a dropkick that knocks the Dirt Dog to the canvas. Unique slowly sits up, rubbing the back of his head. Shakespeare moves across to pull him up to his feet.. and Unique hits him with a low blow!] SR: Beautiful. The sort of move that can bring a tear to the eye. TD: You're not kidding. [The Dirt Dog stumbles to his feet and falls back, whipping his foot up into the doubled up Shakespeare's face! Shakespeare rolls in pain on the canvas, and Unique pulls him to his feet, setting him up for an Irish whip into the corner... reversed! The Dirt Dog hits the turnbuckles chest first and stumbles back out straight into a waistlock by Shakespeare...] TD: And a German Suplex by Shakespeare! He's going for a quick pin... One! Two! SR: He got out! TD: Both men roll up to their feet, and another dropkick by Shakespeare sends the Dirt Dog reeling back into the Enigma's corner! And the Enigma nails him with a chop to the head! [The Dirt Dog staggers out of the corner, looking around wildly at the Enigma, and is caught from behind in a roll up from Shakespeare! The referee counts... - 1 - 2 - Unique somehow manages to scramble out of the pin attempt! Shakespeare pulls Unique up and winds his arm up, tagging in the Enigma...] TD: The Enigma climbing to the top now... axehandle to Unique's head! SR: Unbelievable. TD: It's no DQ, Steve, double teaming's perfectly legal for once. SR: No, I mean unbelievable that Pukespeare didn't think to knock him off the top. Easy elimination. [The Enigma pulls unique back to his feet, and hits him with a double knife edge that sends the Dirt Dog somewhat exaggeratedly spinning to the canvas... Unique rolls away from him, and springs awkwardly to his feet, dropping into a martial arts fighting stance.. well, sort of anyway.] UA: Hah! You cannot defeat my Shaolin style! SR: Oh please, no... [The Enigma looks at the Dirt Dog with rage as he performs a series of highly exaggerated kung-fu chops and thrusts, complete with badly dubbed chop-socky noises.. and levels him with a thrust kick. Unique quickly rolls out of the ring, and stumbles around towards Medusa, who passes him something..] TD: The Enigma now, following Unique outside... Medusa backs off... and Unique nails him with that Deadly Venom spray! And he sends him crashing into the steel barricades! SR: Great. So now the place stinks of semi-digested Kessler's. And it's only just been cleaned as well. [Unique drops into another fighting stance and starts stalking the Enigma as he struggles back to his feet, wiping frantically at his face...] UA: Hah! Tiger style! [Unique launches at the Enigma with a clumsy, but effective, rendition of a flying thrust kick, and both men land on the mats. Unique stumbles to his feet and looks around at Petrow, flipping him a Triple M sign. Petrow flips the bird in return.] TD: He's starting to enjoy doing that, isn't he? SR: Heh. He's just trying to teach all those little Sycho kiddies out there a new trick: Remember kids, don't show your momma, okay? [Unique slams the Enigma's head into the steps once more for good measure, and then rolls back into the ring. The Enigma staggers to his feet and climbs onto the ring apron, to be met by a right hand from the Dirt Dog. Unique hooks him up, and sends him flying back into the ring with a snap suplex, before rolling across to Shakespeare and tagging out... Shakespeare runs along the ring apron, before slingshotting himself over into a flying bodysplash on the prone Enigma... he covers.. - 1 - 2 - kickout! Shakespeare pulls the Enigma back to his feet again, and whips him into the ropes... and connects with a flying forearm smash on the rebound! Crowd pop! He makes the cover.. - 1 - 2 - kickout again! Shakespeare starts to pull him back to his feet again... only to receive a chop to the midsection from the Enigma, and a second, and then a double thrust to the throat! Shakespeare backs off, and the Enigma pushes up to his feet, knocking Shakespeare back into the ropes with a thrust kick! The Enigma whips him cross-ring, Shakespeare ducks under his crescent kick attempt... and both men level each other with a double clothesline! Pop!] TD: Both men took a heavy shot there! SR: Hot tag! Hot tag! The Dirt Dog's fresh! Hold on, what the hell am I talking about? TD: That's something I've been wondering about for the last year. [Both men start to move at the same time, and Shakespeare rolls towards the corner, offering the tag to Unique, who reaches down to tag him... and slips off the ring apron! Unique sits on the canvas, grinning, and the Enigma hits Shakespeare from behind, crushing him into the turnbuckles! He grabs the Shakespeare's legs and tries to lift him over the top... and Unique leaps up onto the ring apron, grabbing the Shakespeare's head and pulling!] TD: Shakespeare's in a very dangerous position here, and he's hanging on for dear life! SR: He's gone. Forget about it. [Shakespeare twists his arms in the ropes, and kicks backwards, knocking the Enigma away, and then lashes out with a punch that knocks the Dirt Dog off the ring apron again! Pop! Shakespeare turns, and catches the Enigma with a right hand as he steps back in! Shakespeare sends the Enigma across the ring with an Irish whip, and takes to the ropes himself...] TD: And a big flying axehandle from Shakespeare knocks the Enigma flat to the canvas! The cover! - 1 - and the Dirt Dog comes off the top with a body splash onto both of them!! SR: No DQ, Dross, no DQ! That has to be the Enigma done! [Shakespeare covers the prone Enigma as Chuck Sanders ushers the Dirt Dog back outside the ring... in the stands, there's a commotion as Joe Petrow stands up, slaps a few of the Sychopaths' hands and then, slowly, pointedly, folds the chair he was sat on up... the Dirt Dog continues to try and get past the referee, and Shakespeare finally abandons his pin attempt to pick the Enigma up...] TD: Shakespeare charges the Enigma across the ring... and throws him over the top! SR: No! He's got hold of the ropes! TD: The Enigma uses the ropes to pull himself back into the ring, and Shakespeare turns around... straight into a dropkick by the Enigma! The crowd pops wildly as Petrow rolls into the ring behind him, brandishing the chair... the Enigma turns...] TD: Oh my! Petrow just waffled the Enigma with that steel chair! SR: No DQ, Dross... hold on a minute.. waffled? TD: Petrow is going wild on the Enigma here, Chuck Sanders is trying to pull him away, but he's having none of it... SR: Waffled? You're just obsessed with potato-based food products, aren't you? Obsessed, I say! [The referee finally tears Petrow away, and an intense argument develops between the two! Heel pop! In the meantime, Shakespeare picks up the stunned Enigma, sending him to the canvas with a snap DDT... the official finally comes to a decision, and orders Petrow to his corner. Petrow leaves the ring with a smirk, and shouts Shakespeare over, asking for the tag. Shakespeare walks across... and knocks Petrow clean off the ring apron with a clothesline! Huge pop! Petrow springs to his feet on the outside furiously, and tries to climb in the ring, but is again blocked by the referee! Shakespeare picks the Enigma up, and pulls him across to the Dirt Dog, slamming him onto the canvas before tagging out...] TD: In comes the Dirt Dog, elbow across the Enigma's throat, before making the cover... - 1 - 2 - kickout by the Enigma! [Unique grins distractedly, and pulls him back to his feet, and burns the Enigma's forehead across the top rope before tagging in Petrow... Petrow and Unique whip the Enigma to the ropes together, before hitting him with a double dropkick on the return! Huge pop from the Sychos in the crowd! Petrow instantly falls on the Enigma, hammering away with a rapid series of right hands before rolling back out of the ring and retrieving the fallen steel chair..] TD: This is bad now, this is bad for the Enigma... SR: Damn right it is. Go Petrow! [Petrow rolls back into the ring, pushing Chuck Sanders aside as the Enigma struggles up to his feet... and nails him hard with the chair! The Enigma staggers forward, slumping against the ropes, and Petrow falls on him, choking him over the top rope.. Petrow grins, and pulls the Enigma back off the ropes, hooking him into a facelock and pulling the leg up...] SR: Petrow's gonna hit him on the steel chair! He's out, Dross, finished! TD: Petrow with the Bullet Train To Hell.... he nails it! Cover that man! [Petrow falls onto the Enigma, covering him... Sanders counts... 1 - 2 - and Petrow pulls the Enigma's head up! Heel pop! Petrow pulls the Enigma up by his braid, and tags Unique back in. Petrow looks around at the crowd, and the two grab the Enigma by the throat, running him across the ring...] SR: That's it! The Enigma's gone! TD: No, caught hold of the ropes again! He's trying to lever himself back over! [The Enigma starts to pull himself back into the ring, and Petrow turns at the warnings from the Sychopaths, walking back across to the Enigma...] TD: And Petrow got caught in headscissors! The Enigma's caught Petrow in headscissors! SR: He's gonna flip him out of the ring, Dross... [Petrow desperately tries to back away, and the Dirt Dog grabs his chance, running to the opposite ropes and diving at the pair, hitting Petrow square in the back with a flying dropkick that sends the pair crashing to the outside!] TD: Unbelievable! The Dirt Dog has just helped to eliminate both Petrow and the Enigma! SR: Aw, he's a bad doggie, Dross. He's a baad doggie! RA: "Sychosys" Joe Petrow and the "Enigma" Tazeko Musashi have been eliminated! TD: And Petrow is livid on the outside! Look at him, he is furious! [The Sychotic One slams his hands down on the ring apron in pure frustration, and turns around.. straight into a superkick from the Enigma! Pop! The Enigma grabs his head, and executes a fast DDT on the outside, before pulling Petrow back to his feet and setting him up against one of the ringside tables...] TD: The Dirt Dog and Billy Shakespeare are brawling away inside the ring, and the Enigma's climbing back up to the top rope... what's he going to... oh no. [The Enigma signals to the crowd, his face completely expressionless, and leaps...] SR: _That's_ how to do a Starsault Press!! TD: The Enigma just hit Joe Petrow with a Starsault Press through that table, and both men are lying sprawled out on the mats, reeling in pain... [Inside the ring, Shakespeare has takes the advantage over the Dirt Dog through a swift, kneelift, and sets on him with series of clubbing forearm blows and European uppercuts, slowly backing him into the ropes. Shakespeare sends him cross ring with an Irish whip, hitting a cross body on the rebound. The referee counts... 1 - 2 - kickout by Unique! Shakespeare starts to pull him to his feet again, only to receive a hard headbutt to the midsection, doubling him over. Unique grabs Shakespeare by the hair, and drives him hard into the canvas with a faceslam! Heel pop! Unique stands up again, shaking his head and muttering to himself, before taking to the ropes, coming back with a big elbowdrop down across the back of Shakespeare's neck! Heel pop! Unique covers... 1 - 2 - kickout by Shakespeare!] TD: Security has finally helped Petrow and Musashi to the back... I still cannot believe the risk the Enigma took there on Petrow -- it was almost suicidal. [Unique pulls Shakespeare up to his feet again, and clips him with a standing enzuigiri kick that knocks Shakespeare flat! The Dirt Dog covers again, hooking the leg... 1 - 2 - kickout again! The Dirt Dog snarls, picking Musashi up for a third time, and backs him into the ropes...] TD: Unique with an Irish whip, into the ropes... he catches Shakespeare and drops him onto the ropes with a hotshot! SR: And Medusa pulled the ropes down! Shakespeare's almost out of the ring! [Unique starts kicking at Shakespeare, who is desperately trying to hang on to the ring apron...] TD: Medusa's got his feet! She's trying to pull him off the apron! SR: No DQ, Dross. Let's face it, Shakespeare's outmatched here. He's gone. [Shakespeare desperately ties his arms up in the ropes, and manages to get one foot in the ring as well. Unique gives up his attempt to force Shakespeare out, and pulls him up by the hair...] TD: And a headbutt from the Dirt Dog stuns Billy again! And Billy's tenacity has just about kept him in the match! SR: Maybe for a moment, but he's took a hell of a beating in the last few minutes... [Unique pushes Shakespeare back against the ropes and, after nailing another headbutt, whips Shakespeare cross ring, dropping his head on the rebound..] TD: Unique's going to backdrop Shakespeare over the top... no! Shakespeare pulls up short! And a dropkick sends Unique flying over the top! SR: And this time it's Unique that hangs on for dear life! Incredible, Dross... [Unique hangs from one hand on the top rope, and swings madly for a second, before sliding back in under the bottom rope. Shakespeare pulls Unique up, waistlocks him and flips him over, bridging into a textbook Northern Light's suplex! The referee counts... - 1 - 2 - somehow, Unique slips out! Shakespeare climbs to his feet, pulling Unique up with him... Shakespeare whips him cross ring...] TD: And a big flying lariat by Shakespeare lands Unique deep in trouble! And Shakespeare's going to the top! [Unique stumbles up to his feet as Shakespeare climbs, looking around wildly... Shakespeare leaps off the top with a missile dropkick, and Unique dives out of the way at the last second, straight into the referee! Heel pop! All three people in the ring slowly start to rise...] TD: Medusa! Medusa rage is climbing to the top! Shakespeare hasn't seen her! [Shakespeare reaches his feet, and Medusa leaps, flying off the top turnbuckles and catching Shakespeare in the Headwrecker! Huge heel pop! Unique rolls over him, and the referee slowly makes the count... - 1 - 2 - 3!] SR: Now why the hell didn't she do that before... TD: Unique wins it! Unique wins it through Medusa's Rage's Headwrecker! Unbelievable! And Billy Shakespeare must be bitterly disappointed... SR: Hey, Dross, easy come, easy go. Unique had what it takes on the night, and now he's got his shot at Cruiserweight gold. [Unique rolls out of the ring with his manager, arms raised in the air, quickly heading away from the ring, leaving Shakespeare laid out on the canvas, chest heaving. "Snakes" kicks in over the PA once more.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner: Dirt Dog Unique Allah! [Big heel pop as Allah and Rage back away up the aisle, the Dirt Dog's hands raised in victory. The Sychopaths along the aisle try to take shots at Allah, but he dodges out of their grasp and heads back to the locker room. Cut to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Unique looks like he's had all the luck -- and all the help -- but you're right, he's come through it. I'm sure Shakespeare will have something to say about the matter, but for tonight, Unique is the winner, and he'll meet Ronnie Paris for the IIWF Cruiserweight Championship right here next week on IIWF Saturday Night. SR: And Casey "Blackheart" James will finally put that turncoat Brody Thunder out of action, too. TD: That huge IIWF World Championship match is indeed coming your way next week, folks, as the "Coronation Clash Crusade Tour" kicks off with a show from the Fillimore in San Francisco, California. What a night it's going to be -- and what a night it's been here in the Coliseum. Well, folks, we're right out of time here tonight. Don't forget to call the IIWF Hotline for the inside scoop on everything that's gone down here tonight, and all the usual IIWF programming will be coming your way over the next seven days. Until then, for Steve "Soundbite" Roberts, this is Tim Dross, saying: so long, everybody! [Cut to a wide-angle aerial shot of the ring as Shakespeare pulls himself to his feet and stands in the corner, looking out into the crowd. Fade.] +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I * I * W * F =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+ | President: Daniel Spreadbury | Vice-President: Jim Jividen | | univ0322@sable.ox.ac.uk | brokeback@webtv.net | | iiwf@sisko.demon.co.uk | | +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- http://www.sisko.demon.co.uk -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+