["Monkey Wrench" by the Foo Fighters kicks in as a montage of IIWF
wrestlers in action flashes across the screen.  Dave Grohl's familiar
screams reach a fevored pitch as Scott Rogers powerbombs "Dashing" Derek
Lollygag practically through the mat. The screen errupts in an
explosion and familiar graphics come flying through the smoke...]


                 #####     ######   ###            ##########
             ########## ########## ####       ##  ##########
             ########## ########## ####  #   #### ########
               #####      #####    #### ##  ##### ####
                ####       ####    #### ### ####  ####
                ####       ####    ############# #########
                ####       ####     ########### #########
                ####       ####     ####  ####   ####
             #########  #########   ###   ####   ####
             #########  #########   ###    ##    ####
              ########   ########   ##      #    ####
             =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- ## =-=-=-=
               INTERNATIONAL INTERNET WRESTLING FEDERATION
            =================================================
              "COUNTDOWN TO SATURDAY NIGHT" - June 6, 1997
            =================================================

[The scene cuts to the "Dos Diablos" bar in the tourist section of Juarez,
Mexico.  The camera swings around the room, first lighting on a group of
newbile co-eds who are blowing off their first weekend of summer school at
El Paso Community College by bar hopping across the border.  One of the
the beautiful girls wears a shirt that reads "I'd Shag Summers, Baby!" 
The next thing the camera highlights is the bar, which - while normally
crowded - is packed full tonight due to the arrival of Steve Kowalski's
"Furies" who are downing shots off Bushmill Whiskey and Montezuma Tequila.
Finally, the camera zooms up to the makeshift announcing desk in a corner
of the establishment near the bar where Larry Morton and Jackson Witt are
seated.]

LM:  Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to "Countdown to
     Saturday Night".

[Among the noise and din of the bar, a healthy round of applause can be
heard, but is quickly drowned out as "Firestarter" by Prodigy begins to
blare and the dance floor quickly fills.]

LM:  I hope you can hear me folks...It seems that we will be competing
     tonight with the party atmosphere here at "Dos Diablos" -- perhaps 
     the most popular establishment in Juarez.

JW:  This place is really hot tonight, Larry, as you folks at home can
     discern by the noise in the background.  We were originally scheduled
     to originate from this small local bar that VP Owens picked out
     personally for us, but it seems that the place was quarantined
     earlier in the week following a bust from the local policia.  Seems
     that the owner was into some...underhanded activities.  Makes me
     wonder how Owens made the acquiantance of such a fellow.

LM:  But it was Mr. Owens who managed to get our good friends Tim Dross
     and Steve Summer out of their incarceration, as well as Steve
     Roberts.  In fact, it was "Soundbite" who convinced the management of
     "Dos Diablos" to let us broadcast "Countdown" here, live tonight!

[With the mention of Roberts' name, a group of loverly Mexican ladies
stand up in front of Morton and Witt and pull up their shirts with their
backs to the camera, revelaing their "welcome" to the IIWF crew.  On
their chest is written a sentence in Spanish...]

JW:  [muttering a translation under his breath]  Shoot.....Soundbite
     ....Shoot???

LM:  It seems that Steve has a certain type of appeal that knows no
     borders of either nationality or ethnicity...

JW:  Or taste...

LM:  Be that as it may, I'm sure that he would have appreciated that
     tittle...uhm...I mean little...welcome from our great Mexican fans
     here south of the broder in Juarez.

JW:  Well, I enjoyed it enough for all three of us.  Remind me to tell
     Roberts - that is if someone can awaken him in time for the show
     tommorrow.  Seems that Steve's "Lil Soundbiters" chapter here in
     Juarez was quick to welcome him with a case of Dos Equis, a cabana
     girl, and a marachi band.  Needless to say, Steve is spent and is
     taking an extended siesta right now, but hopefully he'll be along in
     time tommorrow to help Tim Dross bring you "IIWF Saturday Night" from
     the Olympic Stadium.

LM:  We've got a great night of action scheduled to come your way
     tommorrow night in a special witching hour version of Saturday Night.
     But before we talk about the hot card, let's recap the events that
     took place at the Four Corners National Monument last Wednesday night
     as the IIWF invaded four states at once...

[As Morton's words trail off, the screen is filled up with footage from
Wednesday's War Room which is transposed behind a screen full of
graphics.]

************************************************************************
---------------------- WEDNESDAY WAR ROOM REWIND -----------------------
************************************************************************

RESULTS FROM THE WAR ROOM -- WEDNESDAY, JUNE 4, 1997:

  -- Dunacn Macbeth def. Barnacle Brother Bluto (via pinfall)
  -- Mad Dog Watkins def. Casey C. (via pinfall)
  -- Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven def. "Nifty" Ned Norton  (via pinfall)
  -- Derek Mota def. El Super Gecko (via pinfall)
  -- Highwayman def. Jumpin' Jack (via pinfall)
  -- Tony Starks def. Mr. Damage (via submission)
  -- Nightwing def. Scott Rogers (via pinfall)
  -- "Real Deal" Luke Steele def. "The Enigma" Takezo Musashi (via DQ)

IIWF RETIREMENT MATCH
  -- High Plains Drifters def. The Hangmen (via pinfall)

FOUR CORNERS MONUMENT MATCH (to determine #1 Contender for tag titles)
  -- The Harlequins def. Violence Unlimited, W & W Express, and Cold Spell

=========================================================================

LM:  Last Wednesday saw a great night of action, especially in the four
     corners tag match that saw the Harlequins emerge victorious and
     become the nuber one contenders for the World Tag Team Titles,
     currently held by the Prophets of Rage.

JW:  Great win for the Harlequins, who - in my opinion - had been slumping
     a bit recently, what with Tragedy's lack of focus solely on tag team
     wrestling.  I hear thathe still is not happy about his inability to
     convince the IIWF front office to book him in more singles matches,
     but this win should go along way towards convincing him that his
     future success may indeed lie with teaming with his brother, the
     young Chaos.

LM:  And I would be discouraged if I didn't take this opportunity to bid a
     fond farewell to the Hangmen who are leaving the IIWF after loosing
     their retirement match with the High Plains Drifters -- a victory
     that also earned the Drifters their coveted twentieth win.

JW:  An impressive feat, and one that keeps the Drifters in the running
     as one of the top contenders in the IIWF.

LM:  Speaking of top contenders, our Saturday lineup looks like a
     veritable who's who of the top contenders in the singles ranks.
     Let's take a quick look at the whole lineup in store for you tommorow
     on our "Midnight in Mexico" edition of Saturday Night.

**************************************************************************
---------------------- IIWF SATURDAY NIGHT PREVIEW------------------------
**************************************************************************

[Slowly the graphics fill up on the screen, one by one until the entire
card is laid out.]

IIWF SATURDAY NIGHT -- SATURDAY JUNE 7  -- "Midnight in Mexico"
Olympic Stadium in Juarez, Mexico
===============================================================

= Dark Disciples vs. The Last Resort
= Ronnie Paris vs. Derek Mota
= Mad Dog Watkins vs. Ike Sampson
= Requiem vs. Subway Psycho
= Deathbringer vs. Serge Annis
= Prophets of Rage vs. Team Sychosys
= Chris Quigley vs. Billy Shakespeare
= Duncan Macbeth vs. Creed

MAIN EVENT
= "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder vs. Tiger Claw

=======================================================================

[The shot cuts back to the bar where the Furies are starting to cause
quite a commotion.  One particularly heavy set Fury shots a double shot of
Bushmills, stands, and screams..."Jersey Jack needs his Nightmare!!!
Where the [bleep] is the FURY!!!"]

LM:  Uhm....it seems that Steve Kowalski's fans have joined us here
     tonight.

JW:  Kowalski's fans in a bar?  Nah...never....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* Dark Disciples vs. The Last Resort

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

LM:  Let's get right into our Saturday Night preview with a look at our
     opening match.  The former champions the Dark Disciples will square
     off against the rising tag team of The Masked Avenger and El Diablo.

JW:  And even though Diablo is returning to his native soil, you've got to
     think that the Last Resort come into this one as the decided
     underdogs.  Their style is...unusual at best, and the Disciples are
     hot.  Real hot.  And the source of their anger?  Pain Inc.
[SCENE: Don McQueen and the Dark Disciples stand in the backstage area.
McQueen looks so angry he is on the verge of the bursting point, while
Kane and Wulf stare into the camera with a dangerous, crazy glint in their
eyes.]

DM: Mr. Mic you little worm! Who the hell do ya' think you are, trying to
    disrupt my boys during their match? You think we're gonna believe   
    that stunt you pulled was 'sposed to be an accident? You've     
    overstepped the mark way too far this time, punk!

    I can understand ya' getting a little vexed over your goons losing  
    those tag team belts, but lets face facts buddy boy, it was
    inevitable that would happen! You blame us for dropping those
    titles? Well, those big idiots o' yours shouldna' walked in the
    way of Kane and Wulf's fists when we were trying to lend you a hand.
    God knows you needed one!

    I'm tellin' ya' buddy boy, my patience is on a very short leash right
    now! I'm starting to wonder if the Syndicate is big enough for
    the two of us; hell, mark me convinced that there is no room
    for two tag teams in this stable! What's going on with the
    Syndicate anyway?  Brian Lau's cellular has been engaged all week and
    I don't even know what we're 'sposed to have planned for the big card
    tomorrow night! There's gonna' have to be some shakin' up going on
    around here in the near future, mark my words!

KANE: Morningstar, Hellraiser, we promised that as long as you wore       
      those tag team belts we would stand by your sides; I gave you          
      my word on that. The Dark Disciples were team players, and we          
      sacrificed our ambition for the greater good of the Syndicate...
      temporarily. But know this: You have our seal of safety no          
      longer! You fell to the Prophets of Rage last Saturday night, and 
      now we shall step into your place and reclaim those belts for
      ourselves. As fighting men, you can expect no less of us; for in
      the IIWF only the strongest survive.

      No longer will Brian Lau hold us in restraint. No longer shall we
      sit idle as the weak plunder the gold in the IIWF. Once
      again, it is time for the Dark Disciples to take their rightful
      place as the kings of this federation. Pain Inc, if you
      try to stand in our way once again, you will be
      squashed like little bugs.

WULF: A couple of Wednesday's ago, the Dark Disciples proved in          
      front of the world, beyond a doubt, that we are still THE tag team
      force to be reckoned with in the IIWF. That's me and Kane; not          
      the Prophets of Rage, not the Harlequins, and not a certain pair of
      former tag team champions. We are the team before which all          
      others quail in fear. We are the ones whom the championship          
      committee has seen fit to hold back from the World titles-          
      because they fear us! We are the ones whom no other tag team          
      will sign a contract against- because they fear us! I'll let you all
      in on a little secret: before our match, Rising Sun Revolution        
      went up to the match-making committee backstage; they          
      backpeddled and whined and made all the excuses in the world in
      order to avoid facing us, and it availed them nothing. Sooner or
      later, every tag team must recognise that their fate lies in the
      hands of the Dark Disciples.

      Are you listening, Last Resort? I could barely contain my glee 
      when I heard that you had been designated as our next victims.   
      It shall be a task of the utmost ease to pummel you into
      submission, and cart you off to our lair. What could the IIWF   
      suits be thinking? To throw an old man and an innocent little      
      whelp into the ring with us is sheer folly on their part! They must   
      not hold your safety in a very high regard, Last Resort...         

[Demented cackle]

KANE: Know this now: The Dark Disciples stepped in the ring against       
      the two time former World champions, supposedly the most          
      technically skilled tag team in the world, and we decimated them.     
      Rising Sun Revolution went to their slaughter like a pair of lambs;      
      so it will be with all the other tag teams in the IIWF.

DM: It looks like you have a lot to think about now, Mr. Mic! You're      
    gonna have to think long and hard about the position you hold in
    the Syndicate. Are you prepared to buckle under the knuckle and
    take a backseat to the Dark Disciples as you ought to? Or are you
    gonna be real stupid and try to screw us over again? I'd give some
    careful consideration to the consequences of any future actions you
    have planned, buddy boy! Consider yourself on notice!

[Fade back to the bar.]

LM:  The Dark Disciples with a message to Pain Inc., their apparent FORMER
     Syndicate brethren.  It seems that Brian Lau's gamble did not pay
     off.

JW:  I think that Lau knew this was going to happen, Larry.  Bringing in
     your hated rival is a sure sign that your on the way out, and I think
     Mr. Mic and the Disciples read the handwritting on the wall.  That's
     going to be some match when they finally get Pain Inc. in the ring.

LM:  Indeed, but Last Resort is not a team that should be overlooked.
     Let's hear what this tag team had to say earlier in the week.

[SCENE: El Diablo and the Masked Avenger of the Last Resort can be seen
coming out of a dingy looking gym in downtown Juarez, Mexico. Both men
are dressed in street clothes apart from their masks.]

MA: You mean you actually used to train in there. That equipment must
    have been at least 100 years old and those toilets, I thought I was
    going to heave.

ED: Is much better than the first place I train at least in there they
    have some equipment. Anyways, you still don't seem to understand
    is not just equipment, is desire, commitment and good
    teaching. Do you's realise that several Mexican wrestling greats
    started out here ?

[A group of children walk past and a couple of them recognize El
Diablo.]

Kids: Look, look is El Diablo!

[The Kids run over to where El Diablo and the Masked Avenger are
standing. ]

Kids: Mr Diablo, Mr Diablo can we please have your autograph!

ED: Is a pleasure.

MA: Do you want mine too?

Kids: Why, who are you?

[The Masked Avenger looks crestfallen as El Diablo signs his name for
the children.  Eventually the two men are left on there own again.]

MA: You know what I'm really looking forward to the match that we have
    this Saturday against the Dark Disciples, they're former champions
    you know. It looks like they have fallen out with their Syndicate
    buddies so they should be ripe for a good kicking!

ED: You are too rash, Masked Avenger and foolish.  What have I told you
    about underestimating your opponents ?

MA: Oh yeah!

ED: Dark Disciples will prove to be very tough opponents. They are very
    unconventional and they mya be trying to trick us into believing they
    have fallen out with the rest of the Syndicate. This time
    we will be ready for them, I have not spent over 20 years in
    professional wrestling without learning a trick or two of my own.

MA: I didn't realise you were THAT old.

ED: I'm not I started young. Anyway, I feel the tide has turned, my
    luck has changed a lot since I's grasped the opportunity to come to
    IIWF and I feel that this time I will truly be able to show
    my Mexican fans what I am capable of. No longer shall I be known as
    "Unluckiest" wrestler in all of Mexico. Saturday night, Dark
    Disciples, you's better come prepared because with the backing
    of the fans we shall be more than ready for you !

[El Diablo looks at his watch...]

ED: We best hurry or will be late for the interview for Mexican
    Television.

MA: But I don't speak Mexican.

ED: Is good, I expect you to keep quiet then and not "put your foot in
    it" as usual.

MA: Er...OK.

[El Diablo flags down a passing Taxi, the driver instantly recognises
El Diablo and asks him for his autograph, a group of passersby overhear
the excited Taxi driver and soon the duo are overwhelmed by eager
autograph seekers. Fade.]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* Ronnie Paris vs. Derek Mota

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

LM:  Our second match tommorrow night pits two of the finest
     cruiserweights in the IIWF today.

JW:  Yeah and the roots of this feud have been building for a while now.
     But the question I have going into this one is what role Genesis will
     play in this matchup.  Both Paris and Mota were heavily recruited to
     join this New Generation stable, but both eventually turned the offer
     down.  Will Genesis allow this match to go down with making their
     presence known?

[SCENE: A small produce market in what appears to be a Mexican town.
Ronnie Paris is standing in front of one of the many makeshift carts and
tables, haggling over the price of an artichoke. After much debate, he
settles with the rotund man operating the cart at 75 pesos. Turning to
face the camera, Paris smiles at his bargain before polishing it on the
side of his shirt. Finally, he begins to speak.]

RP:  A lot of people in the IIWF, around the locker rooms and such, have
     been talking about "fitting in with the locals" while we take this
     time in Mexico. I see it kind of differently... after all the time
     I've spent wrestling in Mexico, and especially since my home is just
     a few miles from here, I feel like a local. The people here sure as
     heck treat me like one, and I'm proud to say I can represent the
     people of Juarez. No offense to Portland's fans, but there is no
     better wrestling crowd than a Mexican wrestling crowd. Enthusiasm,
     knowledge of the sport, you name it and they have it. I may have
     been born on the other side of a river and a border, but these people
     [Paris points back towards the marketplace] are my kind of people.

     But even the hometown boys have some other things to worry about.
     Like Derek Mota. Mota, when you wrestle clean, and I've seen you do it
     once or twice, you're pretty damn impressive. It's a sight to see,
     and I honestly think our match could be the best of the night.
     However, I've got an "X" factor to think about with the dead men,
     the gymnast, the shipwreck, and the one man in Genesis who I do
     understand. Nightwing, an honourable man I think, at least at some
     level, hasn't had the same luck I've had. My people still support me,
     his have abandoned him. My friends haven't lead me into any wrong
     paths, but his are doing just that. But, Nightwing, although I've heard
     some excuses out of you and all the rest of your little group
     seance, it's about time that excuses aren't enough. The battle
     lines are being drawn, and we all have to choose a side.

[Paris drops to his knees, and picks up a small stick that had been lying
by the side of the dirt road. Using it's pointed tip, he draws a line,
deliberately and slowly extending it until it's nearly all the way across
the street. He then stands again, squinting into the bright sun of early
afternoon.]

     Here in Mexico, it's about time for what we like to call a siesta.
     But in the IIWF, the sleeping and inactivity is done, and the war is
     about to begin. On one side, we have Genesis, who want to take
     everything they can, who want to make a sideshow out of a great
     sport. On the other side, my side, we have people who can be trusted,
     people with respect for the fans, the officials, and those who've been
     here before and conquered. Nightwing, I know your spirit belongs on
     our side, the right side. I know that Requiem, Highwayman, and all
     the other jokes in Genesis who pretend to be dead and hide behind
     gimmicks, the ones that degrade professional wrestling with their
     stupid parlour tricks and five variations of the bearhug, that they
     don't have anything to offer you. I know I probably
     got ripped off for this artichoke too, but that's beside the point.
     Genesis, you all have the opportunity to drop the bull and just
     wrestle, show some respect and make that right choice. As for me, I
     have to go explain to Maggie why the hell I'm carrying an artichoke
     around... married life is going to be interesting!

[Fade from Paris walking down the street towards a distant woman who's
tapping her foot impatiently. One can only guess that Mr. Paris will not
be having a pleasant trip back home.]

[SCENE:  Cut to an empty Olympic Stadium in Juares, New Mexico.  The IIWF
ring has been set up for IIWF Saturday Night.  A few technicians are
working on the sound levels while a janitor sweeps around the ring.  As
the camera pans by a few technicians, it slows down and finally stops with
Derek Mota.  Mota is wearing street clothes, a red Violence Unlimited
shirt with blue jeans and Nike shoes.  He is looking rather pensive,
staring at the chairs at ringside.]

DM: It was right there that everything started for me. 

[Mota points at the third row of seats.]

    It was when Fireman 2000 jumped over the top rope into the third row
    at me and nailed me good with that Plancha that wrestling became a
    part of me, not just a way of paying the bills.

    I got up.  I always do.  But the way the crowd reacted, the sound
    they made as he dove over the top rope ...

    It was somethin' else.  At that point, it wasn't about winnin' or
    losin'. It wasn't about provin' who was the best wrestler.  It was
    about givin' everythin' you had, and then doubling it again.  At that
    point I decided that I didn't want to be like everybody else.  I ain't
    about savin' my ass until the next week.  Derek Mota is all about
    layin' it out on the line tonight.

    And you know what?  It's the reason why I'm still here.  Fireman 2000?
    Well, actually he broke his leg with that move and was never the same.
    But that's the risk you gotta take. 

[Derek moves to one of the chairs that he was pointing at and sits in it.]

    A couple of weeks ago I came damn close to beatin' Ronnie Paris and
    gettin' the chance to fight for the IIWF Cruiserweight Title.  A title
    that's gonna have my name imbedded in it forever.  But I lost.
    Tonight's my chance to prove myself... to myself.  I know exactly
    what Paris is gonna be sayin' here.  How he already beat me two weeks
    ago, and that he doesn't know why he's gotta face me again.  Hey
    Paris, ya threw me over the top rope.  Ya never beat me.  You'll never
    beat me.  Tomorrow night I'm gonna show you just how
    watered down your third generation blood is.  And if you Genesis
    losers show up?  Well, I got somethin' for you guys as well.

[Mota walks back over to the ring, where he picks up two items.  Both seem
like  small statues of wrestlers, but they are of too poor quality to
discern just who they are.]

    One more thing for a few of you "Old Gen" guys.  You know who you
    are. I got a present for you guys.  An award.  This one's for your
    contribution to the IIWF for the first year of it's existence.
    It's called the Fossil Award, and Tiger Claw, you're the first one to
    earn one.  You know how you get one of these babies?  You do nothing.
    Stick to the safe path.  Don't try to change things.  And TC, you're
    pretty deserving of the reward.  Sure, you fooled the Subway Psycho a
    few months back, but then again, that didn't take much, did it?  He's
    the kinda guy that gives his credit card number to all these phone
    scams, and then wonders why he's so broke.  Well Tiger Claw,
    I'd like to congratulate you for this award, and personally present it
    to you at a later date ... oh hey!  You're wrestling tomorrow night as
    well!  I guess it's a special night for you then, Claw.  Main event
    status for you against Brody Thunder, and then you get your first
    award of your career.  Maybe you're not so bad after all?

[Mota chuckles.]
   
    But I guess we'll see tomorrow, won't we?

[Fade back to Dos Diablos where Larry Morton has been caught munching on
what appears to be a brownie while the last interviews were rolling.  He
smiles sheepishly, brushes the crumbs from his jacket, and regains his
form as Jackson Witt just shakes his head.]

LM:  It seems that Mota remains intent on being the thorn in the side  
     of Tiger Claw.  Out with the old, in with the new so to speak.

JW:  Mota had better watch out for Paris.  Even though Ronnie is a rookie
     in this league, he is definitely one of the finest technical
     wrestlers ever to grace an IIWF ring.  Plus, he's going to have the
     home crowd advantage seeing how El Paso is just across the border.

[With the mention of El Paso, the group of coeds begin to hoot and holler,
only to be drowned out by the Furies.  "Hick Town" and "Paris got his ass
kicked by Kowalski" are among the taunts which rain down.]

LM:  Ahem...well.  Our next matchup form Olympic Stadium is defintely a
     clash of generations as the young Ike Sampson takes on the cagey
     veteran Mad Dog Watkins. 

[The Furies offer a mixed reaction at the mention of the old timer, but
the noise quickly dies down as liquor and women divert their attention
away from anything Morton and Witt might have to say.]

JW:  And this matchup will pit two of what Steve Roberts has labeled as
     "The Black Pack" together. 

LM:  You seem disgusted with the notion, Jackson.

JW:  Well, I am.  And I think Mad Dog might be even more so.  Check out
     what he had to say in this segment taped yesterday.

[SCENE:  The shot opens up with a view of a lonely highway in the desert,
the sun a slowly descending orange orb in the background.  "Ascension" by
Maxwell slowly rises in volume as a black '65 Ford Mustang rolls into the
shot from the horizon, growing larger as it approaches the camera.  As the
car approaches, the engine revs and the Mustang goes shooting by, offering
a glimpse of the two riders inside.  As the camera follows the car, the
shot changes to a view inside the car from the backseat of the convertible
and the rider's identities are revealed to be Mad Dog Watkins and Jackson
Witt.  Witt is dressed in a white polo shirt and khaki shorts and sports a
black pair of Raybans.  Mad Dog wears a faded pair of blue jean shorts, a
red Detroit Red Wings shirt, and a pair of silver Full Metal Jacket
sunglasses from Oakley.  The oh-so-smooth sounds of Maxwell fill the air,
and slowly receed as Witt begins to talk...]

JW:  Thanks, MD, for inviting me to join you on this drive down.

MDW:  No problem, Jacks...my pleasure.  Figured I'd treat the new brother
      right.  Besides, a bus trip with Larry Morton is one worth missing.

[Both men chuckle and Witt nods his head in definite agreement.]

JW:  So I see you're scheduled to take on Ike on Saturday.  He's a far cry
     from Casey C, your opponent last night on the War Room.  How are
     approaching this matchup?

MDW:  Same way as I approached the match last night.  Casey may be a part
      of the JJS, but he's still more than capable of handing me my lunch
      on any given night.  It's just my job to see that he doesn't.  Same
      thing with Ike.  The kid may not have that much big league
      experience, but as big and strong as he is, it wouldn't take much
      for him to knock the hell out of me and put my shoulders to the mat.

JW:  You don't have any fear going into this match, do you?

MDW:  Why should I? 

JW:  So you think you're going to win?

MDW:  No...I KNOW I'm going to win.

JW:  How can you be so confident?  You said yourself that Ike might just
     put you down for the 1-2-3.

MDW:  I said he was capable of it...never said he was going to do it.  You
      see, the kid's good.  One day he might even be great...but I'm
      better.  I've forgotten more in my years than he's even had a chance
      to learn. 

JW:  Which brings me to the question that I'm sure a lot of people want
     answered:  what's up with this association between you Ike, Creed,
     and Starks.

MDW:  You mean the vaunted "Black Pack"?

JW:  Uhm...yeah...I guess.

MDW:  You know as well as I do that there ain't no damn thing as a Black
      Pack forming.  Creed gave me a call, we talked, and we're taking
      care of business.

JW:  What kind of business is that?

MDW:  The only thing that matters in this business - getting better and
      becoming the best.  The pup's come a long way since he debuted.
      Hell, he even beat the crap outta me.  But he ain't all that...not
      yet...not now.  Byron and Otto helped show him that.  Came down from
      that cloud he was riding and realized that maybe he didn't know
      everything he thought he did.  So we've got business to take care
      of...

JW:  So where do Ike and Starks fit in to all of this?

MDW:  Wherever they want to.  I ain't forcing the issue.   Starks -- he's
      a man.  He's been through more hell in his years than any brother
      should have.  He knows what he's got to do.  Ike?  He's just a smart
      boy....hell of a lot smarter than his older brother Jack.

JW:  Who you had a memorable feud with back in the days of the Independent
     Supercards.  That was one of the roughest feuds I've ever witnessed.

MDW:  Jack was tenacious - didn't know the meaning of the word quit and
      hated to lose almost as much as me.  Ike's the same way.  What
      seperates Jack from the little doggie is that Ike ain't as dumb as a
      lightpole like his brother.  He knows the situation.

JW:  Does that mean that the rumors of Ike joining Creed and you in
     training are true?

MDW:  I dunno....does it?  You're the bigshot journalist - you tell me.

JW:  You gonna take it light on him Saturday?

MDW:  Hell no.  It may be Saturday, but school will definitely be in
      session.  Life's greatest teacher is a good ass whoopin'.  Creed
      found it out.  If Ike don't know that by know, he damn sures gonna
      when he can barely get out of bed sunday morning.

JW:  Like you told Creed?  It's not personal...it's just business.

MDW:  Exactly.

[The Black Mustang roars out of the shot and onto the horizon and slowly
fades away into the fading light of the desert's twilight.  Fade back to
witt and Morton at the bar.]

JW:  Watkins went on to say that color meant nothing to him...it's what's
     inside that counts.  I also asked him about the rumors that the Age
     of Rage were recruiting this "Black Pack", trying to make it a
     reality.  While he didn't deny the rumors, he wouldn't confirm them
     either.  I think it's a situation that might be worth watching over
     the next few weeks to see what materializes.

LM:  You also had the opportunity to conduct the interview with Ike
     Sampson before coming down for the War Room on Wednesday.

JW:  Yes, I did.  And Ike knows that his match tommorrow night with
     Watkins will be a war.  One that I think you'll agree he's more than
     ready for...

[SCENE:  Ike Sampson is seated in a booth at Ronnie's Wings and Pizza on
Stratford Road in lovely Winston-Salem, NC.  He is wearing a
Winston-Salem Warthogs baseball hat, and his sunglasses, while devouring
the $7.99 Wings and Pizza Special.  Seated in the booth across from him is
the newest member of the IIWF, Jackson Witt.  Witt is wearing a nice suit,
and is casually sipping a tall brew..]

Witt:  So, Ike, thanks for inviting me down.  A little vacation for you,
       before you head down to Mexico?!?

Ike:   Yeah, I had a little time off after last Wednesday, so I decided
       I'd head down and visit the old stompin' grounds.  And let me tell
       ya, Jack, I stomped a lotta ass down here.

Witt:  Some of our fans may not be aware, but you got your wrestling boots
       wet, so to speak, down here in the Carolinas.

Ike:   That's right, this is where I first learned I ain't as tough as I
       thought I was.  Of course, I'm still learning.  Last Wednesday,
       for one.

Witt:  You're referring to the loss to Scott Rogers.

Ike:   Yeah.  I looked past him.  I knew I had the big match coming up
       against the Mad Dog, and I didn't prepare enough for Scott.  I just
       went on what I had heard--nice guy, plays by the rules.  So what
       does he do?!?  Goes and uses some shady tactics to beat me.  Go
       figure.  Taught me a lesson, though.  Don't underestimate anybody.
       Not even people you can trust.

Witt:  You mentioned the big match Saturday night with the legendary Mad
       Dog Watkins.  Now, as a young black wrestler, Mad Dog had to be
       someone that you admired growing up.

Ike:   Well, sure, everybody did.  My brother Jack didn't care too much
       for the way Mad Dog bent the rules, but I didn't have no problem
       with that.  He was one of my idols, for sure.

Witt:  Of course, longtime fans will recall that Mad Dog tried to end your
       brother's career--if not his life--in a brutal feud back in the old
       Independent Supercard days.

Ike:   Hey, Jack's his own man--just like I am.  I ain't holding nothing
       against Mad Dog for something he did to somebody else--

Witt:  Even if that somebody was your own flesh and blood??!?

Ike:   Even then.  Mad Dog ain't never done nothing to me, so I've got
       nothing but respect for the man.  He's a legend.  I look forward to
       testing myself against him.

Witt:  Now, everyone knows about the budding mentor-student relationship
       Watkins is developing with the youngster Creed.  What are your
       thoughts on that?!?

Ike:   I think Creed's a smart man.  If I had to pick somebody to show me
       the ropes, I'd probably pick the Mad Dog.  Like I said, nothing but
       respect for the man. 

Witt:  A lotta reverence in your tone as you speak about Watkins.  Perhaps
       you're forgetting that he is one of the most ruthless, bloodthirsty
       competitors to ever set foot in the ring.  A lot of your fans may
       be shocked, or even disappointed to hear you talk this way about a
       man many of them hate. 

Ike:   Hey, don't underestimate my fans, Jackson.  They're a smart bunch. 
       I never said necessarily that I _like_ Watkins--I just said I
       _respect_ him.  And that's a big distinction.  And I'm confident  
       that my fans are smart enough to make it.

Witt:  You're not gonna go easy on Mad Dog Saturday night, are ya?!?!

Ike:   Hell, no!!!  Witt, you're forgettin' who you're talking to. 
       I ain't gonna go soft on the old man.  Come Saturday night,
       I'm gonna blister him from one end of Mexico to the other. 
       And I know he's gonna do the same to me.  I expect nothing less
       from him.  In fact, I'd be kinda disappointed if he didn't. 
       The only way to become the best is to test yourself against the
       guys who are already there.  Mad Dog's there.  I'm on my way.

Witt:  All right, Ike, I won't take up any more of your time, I know
       you've got a plane to catch.

Ike:   Thanks for coming down, Jackson.  The wings are on me.  You can
       pick up the tab Saturday night in Me-hee-co.

Witt:  Fair enough.  How's this sound, for all your fans south of the
       border.  NOS GUSTA IKE!!

Ike:   Si, senor, me gusta.  Vamos a Mexico!!!!  Vamos a Perro Enojado!!!

[Fade back to the Witt and Morton at "Dos Diablos".  Once again, Morton
is caught with a mouth full of brownines, and this time he is slower to
react to be caught eating on camera.]

JW:  Hey, Lar...you mind?  We're doing a show here.

LM:  [giggling]  Hehehe...Yeah, sure.  What's up next?

JW:  How many of those brownines have you eaten?  It looks like your
     jacket is getting a little light there, pal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* Requiem vs. The Subway Psycho

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

LM:  Let's take a look at the next matchup if you don't mind.  It'll be a
     battle of the big men as Requiem battles "The Peoples Champion", The
     Subway Psycho.

JW:  While the Psycho has been a little quiet in recent weeks, Requiem is
     never at a loss of words.  Our camera crew trailed him on his journey
     down to Juarez and managed to catch this footage on tape. 

[SCENE: A truckstop somewhere in middle America, late at night. The
place is only moderately busy as a truckers arrive to refuel, grab
something to eat, and to generally just hang out before they continue
their long, lonely journey. The waitress serves coffee, whilst five or
six truckers pour over papers, watch TV, or just stare fixedly at a
point in space whilst waiting for the caffeine to kick in. "Wednesday
War Room" is playing on the TV as a couple of the truckers cheer and
jeer their favourites...]

WAITRESS: More coffee, Zeke? Zeke? Hello? Earth to Zeke, come in,
          Zeke!

ZEKE: Hush up, Darla! Can't you see I'm watching that scottish
      guy kick butt?

DAVE: He ain't so hot. Casey James'd beat 'im in a minute!

DARLA: Boys, you don't know anything. Brody Thunder's the man to
       watch.

DAVE: Brody Thunder? The man ain't fit to spit clean Casey's
      boots!

ZEEK: Oh yeah? Well, Casey's looking kinda nervous these days. I'm
      tellin' ya, Dave, Casey's days as champ are numbered!

DAVE: No way, Zeke. The Syndicate looks after their own, pal. It's
      Casey's belt for as long as he wants it!

ZEKE: Dave, the thing you gotta remember is, the IIWF's just
      chock fulla talent these days. You got your Deathbringer,
      you got your Ronnie Paris, your Billy Shakespeare, your Dirt
      Dog Unique Allah, all those guys. They've _all_ got their
      sights on one man, my friend: Casey James. Only takes one of
      them to get lucky on one night. Anything can happen in the
      IIWF.

DARLA: You boys didn't mention this "New Generation" stuff.

DAVE: Give me a break! I am sick of getting this "New Gen" rammed
      down my throat! None of them hold a flame to guys like Mad
      Dog Watkins, or Lord Byron, or the entire damn Syndicate,
      for that matter!

VOICE: Not even, say... GENESIS?

ZEKE: Haw! They're the worst of the lot, sayin' they're the future
      of the IIWF and such stuff. Buncha losers who couldn't make
      it on their own, you ask me!

VOICE: Indeed? And what do you think of... Requiem?

DAVE: The guys a freak! Sure he's big, but what's all this mumbo-
      jumbo crap about taking souls? What's with that spooky
      music? The guy's a complete loser. He's always needing the
      help of those goons of his in that damn Genesis! I could
      probably beat him with one hand tied behind my back in a
      fair fight!

VOICE: Hmmm. Dave, is it? I believe you are in luck.

[Dave turns around to find Requiem sitting at a table, his hot coffee
and paper put to one side, a baseball cap covering his distinctive
hair, black shirt and jeans completing the ensemble]

REQUIEM: Even one such as I needs nourishment on a long journey, and
         when I stop for a rest what do I hear? I'm a freak, Dave?

[Requiem rises and walks over to Dave, towering over him by a good
nine inches, and staring down into Dave's apprehensive face. The bar
has gone deathly quiet.]

DAVE: I... Well, that is... I didn't...

REQUIEM: I could hurt you very badly, Dave. Very badly indeed. And
         you as well, for that matter... Zeke, isn't it?

ZEKE: Me? But I didn't... say... anything...

REQUIEM: I could hurt the two of you very badly indeed. And I
         wouldn't need the help of my 'goons' to do it, gentlemen.

DARLA: Uh, Mister... Requiem? Listen, this is a respectable
       establishment, we don't want any fighting...

REQUIEM: (ignoring her) Can it be that you doubt me, gentlemen?
         Perhaps you don't believe that I am, in fact, the Angel of
         Destruction?

DAVE: Er, yes... I mean... No! You're the man alright... uh...

REQUIEM: Would it matter?

ZEKE: Huh?

REQUIEM: I could hospitalise you both for a very long time, whether
         or not I am what I say I am, could I not?

[Dave slowly, fearfully, nods]

REQUIEM: Indeed. So in the long run, whether or not I am who I say I
         am, I am still a very dangerous man for you to know, aren't
         I? And the same goes for my friends, Dave. You might not
         believe Adam Smith's claim to be a resurrected highwayman,
         but that doesn't matter. He could still break every bone in
         your body in any number of highly amusing and painful ways,
         and he could take his time about it, if he were so inclined.
         We're dangerous, Dave. You might not believe anything else
         we say, but believe this: We are dangerous. Very very
         dangerous.

ZEKE: Uh... you're the man alright.

REQUIEM: It's kind of you to say so, Zeke. Insincere, but kind. And
         wrong. I'm not 'the man' - Casey James is. For now.

DAVE: For now?

REQUIEM: Do you know how I got here tonight?

ZEKE: Excuse me?

REQUIEM: I rode my Harley here.

[The few other truckers in the stop, who have been looking awfully...
concerned, react with puzzlement. They all saw the footage before
Birthday Bash.]

TRUCKER: Uh... Mr Requiem? Sir? I thought you.. y'know.. smashed it.

REQUIEM: Yes. I did. I put it back together again, piece by tiny
          piece.

DAVE: Um, that was... (Dave gives up, nonplussed)

REQUIEM: You see Dave, Zeke, you others... I've got patience. A
         job like that takes a lot of patience. A _lot_ of patience.
         I'm not an impatient man, and neither are the others in
         Genesis. Sooner or later, that gold currently around Casey
         James' waist will be ours... The gold around Byron's waist
         will be ours... The gold around Dirt Dog Unique Allah's
         waist will be ours... The gold around the Prophets Of Rages
         waists will be ours... All the gold, Dave, ALL the gold...

ZEKE: All the gold. Got it. Um...

REQUIEM: You see, Dave, we're _very_ serious about this. We are the
         future of the IIWF. Do you believe me?

DAVE: Um... yes?

REQUIEM: I don't think you do. But that doesn't matter, because it's
         true. We're dangerous. We're well organised. We're, well, I
         guess you could say ruthless. We _will_ win through, Zeke.
         We are the future of the IIWF. Gentlemen, whether you like
         it or not, whether you like _us_ or not, whether you
         _believe it_ or not, the future of the IIWF is in our hands.
         Do you believe me?

ZEKE: Uh... yes?

REQUIEM: Do you believe me?

ZEKE: Yes?

REQUIEM: I said, DO YOU BELIEVE ME?!

ZEKE: Yes.

REQUIEM: I CAN'T HEAR YOU! DO YOU BELIEVE ME!?

ZEKE: YES!

REQUIEM: Good. Very good. We'll make you one of the "Genesis
         Generation" yet, Zeke.

[Requiem turns his head, his white eyes staring directly at you
through the camera.]

REQUIEM: And you? Do you believe me?

[FADE OUT. White letters appear on the screen: GENESIS. A moment later
The screen fade and more words appear, slowly fading in, pausing
momentarily before vanishing to be replaced by more words:

ORGANISED...

RUTHLESS...

PERSISTENT...

PATIENT...

DANGEROUS...

UNITED...

THE FUTURE

BELIEVE IT

[A moment later the you hear the sound of a door opening and closing
and, with the screen still black, the following is heard...]

ZEKE: Is he gone?

DARLA: Yup. Paid the bill and went off mumblin' something about
       giving the Subway Psycho a wrestlin' lesson.

DAVE: I coulda beat him, Zeke. I just didn't want to bust up the
      furniture and get anyone hurt.

ZEKE: Whatever you say, Dave, whatever you say... 

[Fade]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* Deathbringer vs. Serge Annis

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Cut back to Witt and Morton at the makeshift announcers table in Dos
Diablos.]

LM:  Serge Annis returns to action tommorrow night in the Olympic
     Colliseum and faces quite a challenge in the imposing form of
     Deathbringer.

JW:  Should be an interesting matchup.  Annis wasn't nicknamed the
     "Epitome of Evil" just for his dealing with girl scouts, you know.
     And Deathbrigner has been one of the most feared men since the day he
     first stepped into an IIWF ring.  Considering his mood since that
     attack he suffered at Birthday Bash, Annis might think twice before
     getting in the ring with him tommorrow.

LM:  Wouldn't he have to think first before thinking twice?

JW:  Touche.

LM:  [giggling softly]  Hehehehehehe...I made a funny

JW:  [under his breath as the shot fades to the recorded interview]  What
     has gotten into you, Larry?

[The camera fades in to see Serge Annis sitting on a bench in a locker
room, after a recent IIWF house show. The lights are out in the locker
room, except for a bucket which sits next to Annis, which contains a fire
which creates an eerie, orange glow on Serge's face. Annis stares into
the fire for a few moments before noticing the camera, and looking to
it.]

SA: Ah, yes I suppose you'd like words pertaining to my match-up against
    Deathbringer this upcoming Saturday night? Or perhaps you want to   
    know why I have been so quiet... or perhaps even you want to know
    why I am sitting here with a bucket of fire.

    First off, Deathbringer. You and I have met in the past, with myself
    getting my hand raised in victory. But that was only because of the 
    unfortunate cheating of The White Phoenix. But now, Dead man, you and
    I will grapple once more. You thought you won the mind games before
    Dead Man. You honostly think that I am afraid of you. Tsk tsk, you
    could never be so wrong. Dead Man, I did not get the nick name, The
    Epitome of Evil by being good... or bad. I've seen death Mr. Bringer.
    I've seen it's cold, claspy hands take the lives of loved ones. I
    also saw the grim reaper... walk right through me. As if I did not
    exist to death... you probably do not know what I am talking about.
    And for now... that is the way it shall stay. I am full aware of your
    problem with Genesis Deathbringer... but quite frankly Mr. Dead Man,
    concern yourself with me, because if you overlook me once again, I
    will once again defeat you, but this time, on my own... I do not
    fear the grim reaper Deathbringer. So why should I fear you?

    I have been exceptionaly quiet for a few reasons. But a good
    strategy is not to be revealed. Let me just say this... I took time
    to sit back and observe things in IIWF. And many, I do not like.
    Mainly, Genesis. As much as I am for them pounding in the Dead Man's
    hide, their mob mentality lacks something to be desired. Well, I am
    the infamous street car... he he he... Genesis, you have not messed
    with me, so I respect that. But let us leave it at that, and we will
    get along just fine, because I will chop down the dead man, to mere
    mortal status.

    And finally... what is with this fire that burns? Well... look at
    it now for a moment.

[The camera pans in to the flame, which is about 1/3 of the bucket.]

    This fire could possibly reflect my own inner anger and fire.

[Annis pulls out some Zippo lighter fluid and pours it all into the metal
bucket. The flames rise high above the bucket, and almost singe Serge
Annis.]

    This however, represents my hatred for Deathbringer. Whether you
    be dead, undead, alive or anything else, on Saturday night
    Deathbringer, I shall make you finally respect me... and I shall beat
    you to prove my point...

[Fade]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* Prophets of Rage vs. Team Sychosys   (Non-title)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[Fade back into a shot of Morton who has his mouth full of brownies, and
clearly does not care any longer about getting caught.  He sways slowly in
his chair to the rhythm of the techno beat that fills the air in Dos
Diablos.  Witt sits in astonishment and stares at Morton.]

JW:  [whispering sternly]  Larry...we're on!

LM:  [giggling]   Hehehehehehe..."I am the firestarter"...."Serge is the
     firestarter..." hehehehehehehe...

[Morton slowly gets a childish smile across his face, sits back in his
chair, and slowly munches on another brownie.]

JW:  Stop eating Larry.  What in the world has gotten into you?  I
     apologize for my colleague ladies and gentlemen.  I don't know if
     it's the atmosphere of the club or the pressures of live
     television...

[All of a sudden "Mary Jane" by Cypress Hill and Pearl Jam begins to blare
over the club's speaker system, which brings a smile to the face of many
in the crowd.  Morton's head starts bobbing to the sound of the beat, and
Witt grows more confused.  The apparent head Fury looks up from his double
shot of Cuervo at the bar and screams "It's the brownies...jackass!"]

JW:  [slowly lifting a brownie to his nose and smelling]  Oh no...let's go
     to the video...

[SCENE: Earlier in the week, in Tijuana, Mexico.  "Sychosys" Joe Petrow
and "Majestic" Maurice McArthur are sitting in "The Wetback Sprocket",
Tijuana's only Mexican/German bar.  Petrow and McArthur sit with
half-full glasses of a mysterious liquid, whose identity is gleaned
from the nearby gallon-sized bottle of "Juan Valdez Premium Quantity
Mescal."  McArthur looks glum, and Petrow looks slightly annoyed.]

JP: Yo, squash, what it is with you?  You been like this all week now!
    We got a big match against the world's tag team champions next week,
    and you gotta get focused!

3M: To do what?  Stand on the apron and watch until we lose and I get
    my ass kicked?  What do you want from me Petrow!  I suck, alright!
    You've embarassed me, humilated me, and now I'm turning into an
    alcoholic!  What the hell did I ever do to you!?

[Petrow turns swiftly, and nails Triple M with a backhanded slap that
sends him off his chair!]

JP: What did *I* do to you!?  I gave you a second chance, that's what!
    Everyone gave up on you!  Your fans stopped giving a damn, your
    wife ran out on you, your damn cat committed suicide!  But you
    know what?  YOU DON'T SUCK!

[McArthur slowly makes his way to his feet]

JP: You know why I wanted you back as my partner?  Because before, you
    did everything I asked for.  And you did it well!  NOBODY else can
    do that for me!  Together man, we can go so far as to revolutionize
    the way tag team wrestling is done!  But I don't need this kind of
    attitude!  You wanna go back to Gecko and the gang, you wanna spend
    the rest of your life as a loser, you can walk out right now!  I
    won't stop you, I'll just wave good-bye and wish for you to be put
    out of your misery as soon as possible!  But decide now.  Are you
    MAJESTIC or not?

[McArthur stands, and looks at the ground for the longest time,
deciding whether or not to step back from the brink of insanity.
Finally, he grabs his glass, chugs the rest of its contents, and sits
back down.  Petrow smiles.]

JP: Welcome back, for real!  Now, you know why we stopped here in
    Tijuana?

3M: To spring the IIWF broadcast crew?

JP: Aw, damn!  I forgot all about that!  I smuggled that scythe over
    for nothing!  Well, besides that, if we're gonna be on our game
    this Saturday Night, I need you loose and relaxed!  And I know
    just the person here who can help!

[Petrow snaps his fingers, and in walks a 350 pound woman, of Mexican
and German ancestry.  Her smile shows precious few teeth, and every
bounding step moves her large tracks of land every which way but loose]

JP: Maurice, this is Juanita Richsteiner, known locally as "La
    Der Berg"  I've used her before;  there's not a man on earth
    she can't make as loose as rubber!

JR: Come 'ere sugar, we give you reel goud, ya?

[A pale, yet resigned, Majestic Maurice McArthur stands, and follows
the beckoning Juanita, to be taken to "the other side".  Back to
Petrow, who pours himself another glass, this time getting the lucky
worm to fall in his drink.  Petrow looks back to the camera]

JP: Prostates of Rage.  You guys hang out with that other drunk guy,
    and we all know what he's capable of.  So I know you're gonna take
    us seriously.  But don't take us lightly.  This may be non-title,
    but we got a statement to make.  And I still owe you guys payback
    for Ring Wars III.  In ten, twelve minutes tops, my partner's gonna
    be a hundred percent.  And Saturday night, we're gonna show you
    and the rest of the world what the future of tag team wrestling
    looks like!

[Petrow grabs his glass and gulps the whole thing, worm and all.
Fade out.]

[SCENE: The Prophets of Rage are lit by a single light throwing their
faces in darkness.  Derek Rage shifts from foot to foot in a black robe.
The cowl is thrown over his face.  He grinds a black gloved fist into the
palm of his bare left hand.  Behind him, Shadoe turns in slow circles,
looking at the camera, sucking his teeth and turning away in disgust.  He,
too, is dressed all in black, except for a lavender chiffon scarf at his
neck.  Derek Rage draws back his hood, glaring into the camera.]

DR: Joe Petrow, come out from whatever rock you're hiding under today.  I
gotta talk to you, man to monkey, monkey boy.  What?  You done lost that
last little bit of your mind?  Who do you think you're messing around
with?  Petrow, you done got us confused with Unique Allah.  If you think
the Prophets of Rage are going to descend into your silly little games and
gimmick matches you've lost what's left of that miniscule cerebrum and
cerebellum of yours.  For real, you've just become a joke.

SR: (leaping to the forefront.  He practically slams into the camera.) We
ain't jokes like you, Petrow.  We ain't gonna be part of the assinine
Petrow show.  You can forget that.  You ain't about nuthin' but
self-promotion.  You think we're going to buy into some nonsense?  You
think the Prophets of Rage are going to lose all their dignity by getting
down in the mud with your crew of Sychopaths, your bag of gimmick matches,
your little stunts and your idea that you're not part of the IIWF?  Boy,
it's time you learned the hard way.  We're gonna make you tuck your tail
between your legs and run home cryin' to your mama.  There's no way, no
how you're going to be able to beat us.  Don't even think about trying
your double countout stunt, either.  Listen, you're in with the Prophets
now.  And all over the wrestling rings of the world that means something.
A hell of a lot more than being a Sychopath.  See, cause we've built a
legacy of hard assed fighting. Of orchestrated chaos.  Of broken bodies
and broken dreams.  We ain't even started to try in the IIWF and already
we runnin' things.  You want to come test us, with Triple M?  You done
lost right muhfuh'in' now!

DR: You believed the hype, didn't you?  You saw all the chaos and all the
gimmickery and said 'Yeah, there's a kindred spirit!'  You're wrong
Petrow,
because when it's all said and done, we're first and foremost about
winning and winning with style.  There isn't a team out there that's been
able to figure us out.  Big teams get outbrawled.  Small teams gets
outwrestled.  The mismatched Rage brothers handle their business.  That's
what we do.  You think you're going to blemish a .920 winning percentage?
madness.  Pure madness.  What you're going to see is the Hammer of God.
What you're going to feel is the Angel of Death drop.

SR: What you won't see is a Headwrecker coming right at you.  Yeah, dream
up ways to escape it.  But you'll never see it coming.  Nobody ever does.
Everybody thinks they can get away from it.  But we're too many damn
people for you to try to keep an eye out on.  No, we're saving the A
material for real warriors, Violence Unlimited.  Petrow, if your stupid
Team Sychosys ever wants to learn a thing or two about violence about hard
competition then watch those two.  They got all our respect.  You, you
might as well wear a pink jockstrap.  If you don't already.

DR: Hey, Petrow, just because we flow with the Dirt Dog don't mean we're
just like him.  We're warriors.  Understand?  Warriors.  This isn't just a
game to us.  It's our avocation.  It's the essence of us.  And we're going
to show you what a war is all about.  Think you been in a fight cause
somebody tried to burn the ugly of yer face?

SR: Petrow, we're coming to kill you.  For real. 

DR: Protect your neck, Petrow.

SR: Because we coming to headwreck!

[Shadoe slams into the camera with a hard slap as it fades to black.]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley vs. "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[The shot returns from the video and the screen is filled with the image
of Witt shaking Morton and asking "Where in the world did you get these
brownies????"  Over Morton's headset the voice of the producer can be
heard yelling...]

LM:  Poor Triple M...hehehehehehe...Me thinks he needs a brownie to ease
     the pain.

[Like a lightbulb coming on instantly, it all makes since to Jackson Witt
and the realization can be read on his face.  Last week...San
Francisco...The Fillmore...free donuts for the road...SPECIAL DONUTS left
over from the Tom Petty shows.  Witt sits back in his chair in distress,
but, like the valiant trooper he is, he carries on with the show.]

JW:  What a tag team match that will be.  Just like...uhm....that matchup
     we have scheduled between Chris Quigley and Billy Shakespeare.  A
     rivalry that dates back to the initial IIWF Cruiserweight tournament
     where Shakespeare won after outside interference from Otto Verhoeven.
     A match that Chris Quigley clearly remembers even today...

[SCENE: The locker room of Chris Quigley.  At Quigley's request, it only has
the bare essentials like a table, a bench, lockers, a small cooler, and a
monitor.  Quigley's street clothes are slung over the bench, as he has his
wrestling attire half on, with the straps dangling down around his waist.
He's watching the monitor intently, as footage of the Cruiserweight
Championship Tournament rolls.  Quigley vs. Shakespeare, the much hyped
match of the second round is in progress.  One second Quigley looks firmly
in command, the next, Otto Verhoeven has him by the throat outside the ring,
and brings him down on the concrete with a vicious chokeslam.  Amazingly,
Quigley kicks out.  The match is then fast forwarded to the point of no
return, when Shakespeare German suplexes Quigley to score the three count.
The monitor goes black as Quigley turns to the camera.]

CQ: There was really no need to watch that match on tape.  I've played it
    over in my head time and time again.  Sometimes I play it without Otto
    Verhoeven interfering, and sometimes I play it _with_ Otto Verhoeven
    interfering, and I find it amazing.  Without the "German Juggernaut"
    acting not on your behalf Shakespeare, but out of hatred for me, I
    always win.

[Quigley gets up and walks around the locker room]

CQ: I've lost nine matches in the IIWF.  You know how many of those have had
    controversial endings?  _All_ of them.  I'm not complaining, I mean,
    this is pro wrestling, and things don't always go your way.  I'm more
    aware of that now than ever.  It doesn't bother me greatly when I lose
    by outside interference or by some other form of treachery, because
    I've realized that it just means my opponent wasn't good enough to
    take me down by himself, and had to use other means to beat me.  But
    as I look back, I survived the _direct_ attack from Verhoeven, and
    then a few minutes later, Shakespeare pinned me.  It could be argued
    that he did it by himself, that Verhoeven didn't play a big part in
    it, but I believe I never would have lost control of the match without
    that piece of garbage interfering.

    But, what I'm trying to say is, out of all the matches I've lost,
    and out of all the controversy, that loss to Shakespeare was the
    _least_ controversial in my mind.  It's been a long time coming, but
    I've wanted a re-match dearly for sometime.  Billy Shakespeare is one
    of the IIWF greats, there is no doubt about that.  But so am I.  We
    can be compared pretty favourably actually.  We're both pretty hated
    by most everyone in the IIWF.  We both hold victories over Dan
    Kauffman.  We both have a thirst for gold and a desire to perform like
    no one else.  That's why this match is going to be such a classic.  We
    both want this match like it is our last.  Shakespeare was my first
    major opponent in the IIWF, and I lost.  Since that time, I've gone
    through a lot, and done a lot, some good, some bad.  I look at this as
    a new beginning.  It wasn't too long ago that I was considering
    hanging up the tights for good.  Now I've never felt more competitive
    in my life, and as time goes by, each and every man that steps in my
    way, will go down, as I reach for that IIWF World Title that is
    _destined_ to go around this waist.  Shakespeare, you escaped the path
    of the Quickstriker once, but contrary to what you might think,
    lightning doesn't _miss_ twice!

[Scene fades...]

[SCENE:  Billy Shakespeare sits on the lip of a blackened stage.  He flips
abscentmindedly through a script.  He looks up...]

BS:  The play is the thing, the plots woven, each line painstakingly
     rendered.  But your roll, Dirt Dog Unique Allah, has already been
     plated.  You quote the bard well.  The perhaps you are familiar
     with the character of Sir John Falstaff, Shakespeares drunk and
     powerful knight.  Are you drunk and powerful...or just powerfully
     drunk.  "Oh what webs we weave when first we practice to deceive."
     You are no mystery to me...I ascoff at your uniqueness.  It's already
     been done sir, and done better.

     But before that drama is to be played out, another character enters
     the scene.  One "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley.  The first time we
     met..the only time...I took the victory.   At that time I christened
     you the future of the IIWF...but you forsook that geas, muddling
     about in petty feuds.  To beat me, to perform under the lights before
     the crowds would start your rise again.  I have another mind to that.
     Quigley, thou are still a fine wrestler, and fate has ordained that
     we must meet again.  But I don't like doing sequals...I'm still
     playing the original story...and we all know how that one ended.
   
[He slams the book for emphasis.  Fade out.]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* Duncan Macbeth vs. Creed

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Witt sits, nervously shuffling his notes in search of the next matchup
while Larry Morton has left the makeshift announcing table and headed to
the bar in search of something to cure his cottonmouth.]

JW:  Injuries are definitely the great equalizer in the world of sports,
     especially in the high impact world of professional wrestling.  Weeks
     ago, the red-gloved rookie Creed sat atop the sport with a record
     unbeaten streak and the future in front of him.  Now, thanks to the
     attack of the European Alliance, Creed's future is now uncertain.  Is
     he healed?  Will he ever be the same?  Tommorrow's matchup with
     promising newcomer Duncan Macbeth will be quite a first step
     back...one that could prove tricky on Creed's road to regaining
     glory.

[SCENE:  A darkened gymnasium.  At least, one's sense is that it is a
gymnasium - but there are no ecoutrements that would identify it as
such.  No people.  No bleachers.  No basketball nets.  No wrestling
ring.  Amidst the shadows which make up nearly the totality if the
shot...is Creed.

The red gloved rookie is stripped to the waist, heavy perspiration
beading down his ebony torso, drenching his black workout shorts, small
red kneebrace and trademark blood red left glove.

Creed is skipping rope with a machine-like precision, the
beat----beat----beat against the hardwood floor the only noise to be
heard.

The interspersed highlights that follow are all in slow motion black and
white.  The accompanying voice-over is by legendary character actor
James Earl Jones...]

VO:  They said he'd never make it...

[Slo-mo b&w of Chris Quigley hitting Creed over the back of the head
with a chair at Creed's debut match on IIWF Saturday Night in December,
1996.

Back to Creed...picking up his pace slightly as he continues to skip
rope.  Beat---Beat---Beat.]

VO:  Then they said he'd never survive...

[Slo-mo b&w of Creed acting as the "sheriff" on IIWF Sat.
Night...battling 13 separate IIWF superstars up and down the card.  Then
of Creed's G.F.A. powerbomb of Mad Dog Watkins from the top of the
Skydome's right-center field fence at Ring Wars 3.]

Back to Creed.  Skipping a little faster still...

Beat--Beat--Beat.]

VO:  Now they say that he'll never return...

[Slo-mo b&w of Creed's beating at the hands of the European
Alliance...of Lord Byron's placing Creed in the Aristoclutch...of
Creed's right knee giving way...

Back to Creed who now skips sharply...the decible level rising with each
snap of the rope to the floor...as the shot zooms in on the hardened
face of the young Creed.

Beat-Beat-Beat-Beat-Beat-Beat-Beat-Beat-Beat

The shot suddenly goes dead black and the sound completely drops out -
save for the quick, shallow breaths taken by the red gloved rookie.]

VO:  But....they're wrong.

[The shot now explodes into a fury of sound, color and real time motion.
"Ode to Joy" plays as quick cuts of Creed's pinning Highwayman, Sandman,
Marty Warnett and finally Lord Byron are shown - followed by the chants
of thousands of young black men... 

...Creed...Creed...Creed.

Back to Creed.  He now stands perfectly still, his body tilted slightly
in an openly defiant pose.]

VO:  Because this Saturday Night -- Creed returns.  And he's better than
     ever.  At Midnight in Mexico -- the rest of the IIWF is going to find
     out the real meaning of the word ...Payback.

[The shot focuses on the eyes of the rookie...the eyes that are filled
with the confidence of a man who knows his destiny is about to be
realized.]

VO:  IIWF ---Want some?  Come get some.

[The zoom burrows on into - Creed's eyes...and the shot fades.] 

[SCENE:  A long black ribbon of highway stretching to the horizon through
the badlands of Mexico, where the daytime high has climbed to nearly a
hundred and twenty degrees, and the rugged surroundings shimmer eerily in
the stifling heat and dust.  At a small run-down gas station, the only
evidence of civilization as far as the eye can see, an IIWF camera van is
parked at the single pump, filling up for another leg of the long journey
from the Four Corners National Monument to the Olympic Stadium at Juarez.
A crewman is standing by the side of the van, mopping his bow with a
handkerchief and chugging from a bottle of Gatorade, blandly surveying the
surroundings with a road-weary indifference.  The van's tank full, the
pump slams to a stop, and the crewman turns to remove the nozzle from the
tank when the faint sound of an engine catches his attention, and he turns
back to the highway, squinting through the harsh glare of the sun and the
wobbly haze hanging over the burning asphalt.

In the distance, a small vehicle of some sort can be seen approaching the
gas station, the high-pitched whine of its engine carrying over the sand
and brush.  After what seems like minutes, the vehicle can be identified
as a motorcycle with a single rider on board.  As the biker nears the
crewman, his puzzled expression gives way to one of incredulous
recognition, and he rushes back to the van for a shoulder camera as the
lone rider finally pulls into the station.  The leather-clad, helmeted man
dismounts from a sleek blue-and-silver BMW street bike outfitted with
saddlebags, and as he turns to remove a bottle of water from one bag, we
see a crimson lion design painted on the back of the man's jacket.  He
removes the helmet to drink, and a cascade of damp, ruddy-blond hair falls
from the helmet, hanging in long straight strands as the man throws back
his head to take a long swig from the water bottle.  Finally he turns, and
Duncan Macbeth regards the cameraman with calm interest.]

DM:  Amazin'.  Nae matter where ye go, th' fed's paparazzi always manage
     t' find ye!  [Holding up the bottle]  A good rule t' follow down 'ere
     in Mexico, lads - bring yuir own water.  Dinnae say I did nae warn
     yis, wha'.

     Yis may be wonderin' why I chose t' take me bike down t' Juarez from
     Four Corners when I could ha' chose t' use th' transportation
     provided by th' IIWF.  Well, Danny-boy, if ye're listinin', after a
     decade in the business, I dinnae go Greyhound.  Roberts had th' righ'
     idea, though he should ha' known not t' bet on a cock named Scott in
     Mexico.  'Tis just as well, I'd rather have th' time t' meself, out
     on th' road.  Time t' be away from th' Clash tour, time t' let meself
     think.  T' think about me career in th' IIWF.  T' think about me next
     match, 'way down th' road in Juarez.  T' think about Creed.

[Macbeth takes another swig from the bottle, pouring a small trickle
over his head to cool himself before continuing.]

     Creed.  One o' th' toughest, smartest, most powerful and most
     talented men t' step in t' th' ring in th' IIWF.  Th' most successful
     rookie in th' history o' th' fed, an' a man whose abilities are
     surpassed only by his principles.  I'll tip me hat t' ye, lad, ye've
     earned th' respect o' Duncan Macbeth, an' although it'll probably be
     th' toughest fight o' me career, I'm actually lookin' forward t'
     steppin' in th' ring wi' ye.

     Ye'd be suprised at how much we have in common, Creed.  We share a
     similar philosophy, as anyone who kens me well kens tha' I've never
     in me life backed down from anyone's challenge, anywhere, at any
     time.  We both have nae time fer th' circus antics in th' IIWF, time
     which fer some would be better spent preparin' fer their next match.
     An' we both want Byron.

     Byron hurt ye, Creed, an' 'e hurt ye bad.  Almost ended yuir career.
     Were it me, I'd be goin' crazy, foamin' at th' mouth, thinkin' about
     when I'd get another chance t' get me hands on th' bastard, even if it
     meant returnin' t' th' ring before I was ready.  I understand tha',
     lad, believe me, I've been there meself.  But tha' 'twould be a
     mistake, a big one, an' I hope it's no' a mistake yuir makin' when ye
     step in th' ring wi' me this Saturday, 'cause I'll be dealin' wi' ye
     as if ye're 100% fit, an' I cannae be responsible if yuir knee's no'
     up t' scratch. Y'see, as bad as ye want Byron, I want 'im just as
     bad, an' whoever o' us gets th' victory on Saturday'll be one step
     closer t' th' tosser.  Ye already had yuir shot at Byron's belt, an'
     despite everythin' tha' happened, nae matter how badly ye were
     interfered with, at th' end o' the day ye still did nae get th' job
     done.  'Twas a brave attempt, t' be sure, but I want
     me shot now, an' if gettin' a title match means havin' t' go through
     ye, I'm just goin' t' have t' find a way t' do tha'.  Nothin'
     personal, but I think ye ken tha' anyway.

[Macbeth pulls the helmet back on, climbs on to the BMW and starts it up
with a throaty, powerful roar.  He eases the bike over to the cameraman,
his piercing green eyes the only feature of his visible through the
helmet's visor, and leans into the camera.]

     Best o' luck t' ye, Creed.  Nae matter wha' happens on Saturday, it's
     goin' t' be one helluva match...

[Macbeth guns the BMW's throttle and launches himself back onto the
highway, spraying dust and gravel across the parking lot and over the
cameraman.  The Scot quickly disappears into the distance as the picture
fades.]


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
MAIN EVENT
= Brody Thunder vs. Tiger Claw

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[The shot returns back to Dos Diablos with a shot of an obviously
uncoordinated Larry Morton attempting to "dance" with the newbile young
coeds from El Paso Community College out on the dance floor.  The sounds
of "Hear Comes the Hotstepper" drive home a beat that sweeps everyone up
and controls their rhythm...everyone that is except for Larry, who can't
quite seem to get on beat, but remains all smiles and giggles anyway.]

JW:  [muttering into his headset]  White boy ain't go no soul...oh...we're
     on.  Our final matchup tommorow night pits two former stablemates in
     a huge grudge match main event.  "The Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder starts
     his run through the gaunlet of the Syndicate in his attempt to get
     his hands on IIWF World Heavyweight champion, Casey James.  But Tiger
     Claw is not an easy challenge, as Thunder - a former Syndicate
     member himself - surely knows.  That point was driven home last
     Saturday night at the Cow Palace when Thunder, in his first attempt
     to gain an IIWF belt, was mercilessly attacked by his former friends
     and beaten ruthlessly.  Did Thunder get the message?  Let's go back
     to Wednesday night and a special interview to find the answer out...

[SCENE:  The tape rolls with the subtitle "Taped last Wednesday night". It
opens with Steve Summers is standing at ringside awaiting the next match
as a bright light comes on, illuminating him and the entire ringside
area. He nods to a technician and raises the mic.]

SS: Well, wrestling fans right now we're about to hear from a man
    who doesn't appear to have many friends left in the IIWF. He
    requested this interview time and says he's got something
    very important to say. So without further adieu, let's bring
    out the "Lone Wolf" himself...

    ...Brody Thunder!

[A big heel pop! The curtains part and a somber Brody Thunder appears.
He is dressed in a black western style suitcoat with black jeans and a
black t-shirt under the suitcoat. He is wearing his trademark black
hat. He walks slowly to ringside occasionally glancing at the crowd
with a somber expression.He stands next to Summers who looks at him,
noticing a different demeanor about the cowboy. Thunder stands there
looking at the floor, occasionally rubbing his chin and looking into the
crowd with a blank expression.]

SS: Mr Thunder...you requested this interview time. You said you
    had something important to say. Would you like to tell us what
    it is you wish to say?

[Thunder remains looking at the ground.]

SS: Mr Thunder? Will you tell us what it is you wanted to say, sir?

[Thunder looks around the arena absentmindedly as if never hearing the
question that was asked.]

SS: Mr Thunder...?

[Summers places the mic nearer to Thunder's face. After a short pause the
big Arizonian begins to speak.]

BT: Y'know...this ain't a fun business sometimes.

    Sometimes ya do things that seem right at the moment,but in
    hindsight really weren't. Sometime's ya do things that are jus'
    plain stupid.

[Thunder tips his hat up revealing more of his somber face.]

    An' sometimes...in _this_ business...ya do things ya later regret.

[Thunder pauses almost as if to avoid becoming choked up on emotion.]

    The other night,after my.."match"..with Casey James, I went home...
    and my two year old daughter...she comes up to me and asks me....

    ...'Daddy..why do people..not like you?'

[Thunder pauses blinking his eyes rapidly.]

    An' y'know what, Summers? I didn't have an answer.

    I fought dogs like James and the Syndicate.  I tried ta help
    ol' Billy Shakespeare become a winner. I fought tooth an' nail
    against the best the IIWF has to offer an'I've more'n held my
    own. I earned that title shot. I've done everythin' the only way
    I knew how to an' that was on my own...my own way. My own man.
    The "Lone Wolf' Brody Thunder. I thought it was the right way
    ta do it despite the opinions o'others who wanted ta see me fail
    in this organization.  An' I never cared too much 'bout what people
    thought o' me in the process...an' still don't fer that matter.

    But still...that little face looking up at me keeps hauntin' my
    memory with the burning question...

    'Why do people not like you?'

[A pause as Thunder kicks around at the floor.]

    Well, I ain't too big a man ta admit my mistakes. I _am_ the best
    in this sport, that's a fact...

    ...but I _am_ human.

    An' ya sometimes get blinded in this business when yer tryin' ta
    win fer titles and money an' fergit what got ya ta where ya are.
    Ya may wrong people along the way. People who've extended their
    hand ta me.  People like the Syndicate.

[The crowd buzzes with confusion.]

    They took me inta their group an' got me opportunities that I may
    not have gotten otherwise. They took a chance on me. An' one man in
    particular has seen behind me through some tough times an' lately
    it seems we're at odds with each  other. A man that I...have been
    wrong about.

    That man.....is Casey James.

[Big heel pop! Thunder shakes his head in abject disagreement with the fans.]

    Hold on now. The guy had the guts ta extend his hand ta me
    after we nearly killed each other in the ring.

    That took brass. REAL brass.

    I shook his hand an' told him I'd be there if he ever needed me.
    I've done jus' that.

[Heel pop!]

    ...yeah,yeah, I know...look lemme get thru this...

    I watched his back an' then some.  But I wanted more. I got greedy.
    An' since then somethin's been...wrong. Things seemed a bit...
    different. I thought it was everyone else at first but now I know
    it wasn't them. Casey was right.

    It was me.

    I realized it when I heard Casey's comments the other night.
    He_was_right. I was runnin' him down jus' because he had some-
    thin'. Somethin' I wanted.

[Thunder pauses again and gently rakes his right thumb across his eyebrow.
He again looks at the ground.]

    Well Casey...

    I'm out here tonight ta say...

[Thunder lifts his head and looks directly into the camera.]

    ...that I'm sorry, amigo.

[A buzz grows and circulates throughout the arena. Thunder lowers his head
and shakes it.]

    I'm sorry fer what I've said.I'm sorry fer what I've done. An'
    I'm sorry if ya feel I turned against ya, pardnah.

[The crowd pops big.]

     But most o' all...I'm sorry...

[Thunder raises his head and smiles at the crowd.]

     ...that I didn't put yer sorry arrogant title-totin' ass outta this
     sport when I had the chance!

[A stunned hush falls over the crowd. Thunder grabs the mic from
Summers and shoves him aside. He looks into the camera. He removes his
suitcoat.  The black t-shirt underneath can now be seen. It reads the
familiar phrase "EVIL,MEAN & NASTY". The shirt seems to bulge in the middle
as if there were something under it.]

    Well James I ain't gonna make that mistake again. Ya had yer chance
    ta put me out. Well look at yer monitor back there fellas...

    ...I'm still here.

    An' I'm makin' it my personal mission in this life ta take apart
    the Syndicate. One member at a time. Startin' with that low rent,
    second-rate  Jackie Chan  wannabe...Tiger Claw. But thing's are
    gonna be a little different Saturday night.

    Now I ain't never been someone ta care what these idiots in the
    seats think o' me. They don't wrestle the matches...I do. They
    don't sweat an' bleed... I do. But you boys are comin' ta my neck
    o' the woods on Saturday night. An' while the folks there may not
    always like the way I handle things there's one thing they do like...

    ..an' that's a winner.

    Come Saturday night I'm gonna give 'em one. Claw..we're no strangers
    ta each other. Yer jus' the first link in the chain that's gonna be
    broken. Ya can thank Lau fer the beatin' comin' yer way. An' believe
    me, Claw...a beatin' is exactly what ya got comin'. James...I said ya
    lit the fuse. An' now it's time ta deal with the dealer,son. I will
    get another shot at that strap if I hafta put the entire Syndicate
    outta this sport fer good. Bank on it,amigo.

     I got me one other item o' business while I'm here. Derek Mota...

     ...son,if ya wanna stay healthy in this sport then ya better stay
     outta my business. I don't need some snot-nosed greenhorn gettin'
     in my way. Ya got a problem with the Syncdicate? Stand in line.
     Get in my way again an' I'll make sure yer retirement will be an'
     early one.

     ...An' Deathbringer...boogeyman..same goes fer you. Stick yer nose
     in my business again an' I'll mail what's left o' yer ass back ta
     that family crypt o' yers. Got it, deadman?

     So Lau...ya better have yer  boy  in  the shape o' his  life  come
     Saturday night. No excuses. No regrets.  An' Saturday night when I
     go home...an' my daughter  comes  ta  me  an' asks 'Daddy...why do
     people..not like you?'...I'll have an answer. It'll be the truth.

     "Because they're scared o' yer daddy".

     Scared o' the best.
  
     Scared o' Brody Thunder.

     So mebbe they ain't as dumb as they look afterall.

[Thunder places the mic on the ring apron and slowly walks back up the
aisle disappearing behind the curtain once again.  Steve Summers reappears
and picks up the mic, straightening out his tie as he does so.  Fade.]

[SCENE: Brian Lau sits with Tiger Claw in a little, run down restaurant
somewhere in Juarez, Mexico. Tiger Claw stares at a tennis ball in his left
hand that he repeatedly squeezes as Steve Roberts enters the shot.]

SR: Hey, Brian, how's the food here?

BL: I don't know. I won't touch the stuff. God knows what's crawling around
    back there. I ordered a glass of water...

SR: You what?

BL: I...

[Someone dressed in beaten up jeans and a stained apron comes up to the
table and slams a glass of brown liquid onto the table.]

Waiter: Agua... Bendejo...

BL: What? I didn't want Agua, I wanted water! What the hell is this? Some
    kind of cola or something?

SR: Ummm, well... Um, Brian, where's the gang?

BL: They're off doing some training or whatever. Claw and I are here to meet
    with someone to discuss a few business endeavours.

SR: Can you let us in on the story?

BL: Only that it involves training, Tiger Claw, and a Mexican athelete that
    I can not name at this time.

SR: Aw, come on...

BL: Sorry, I can't name the person due to contractual conflicts with rival
    organizations. I can say that this training will help Tiger Claw in
    the ring in the future. Mota...

TC: [muttering] Mota... Mota...

BL: Ummm, Mota has really gotten under the skin of Claw lately, and after
    observing his style, Claw is choosing to broaden his style a bit.

SR: What are we going to see? A bit more technical wrestling? A little more
    impact?

BL: I really don't want to let anything out of the bag just yet, but I can
    say that Claw has been toying with certain techniques for some time,
    even trained for a bit with some of the masters of said techniques.

SR: Okay, hold on a sec... We're in Mexico, so I'm thinking that it's not
    going to be training in the use of power moves. Why the hell...

BL: I can't say any more except that Claw will be the same brutal fighter
    that he was before, only with new dimensions.

SR: Okay, what about Claw's match against Thunder this Saturday?

BL: Why not ask him? Claw?

TC: [still squeezing and muttering] Mota... Mota... How does that feel on
    your new generation head, huh? Crush your head like a coconut... Oh,
    yeah, I'm going to make you cry for your mother, you little...

BL: Claw!

[Claw comes out of his trance with a start, and the tennis ball shoots from
his hand and across the table, past Brian. In the background, a crash is
heard and someone yells out "Ai-yai-yai!"]

TC: Huh? Oh, yeah... Mota... I'm going to stomp him a new...

BL: No, Thunder.

TC: What about him?

BL: Your match on Saturday!

TC: Huh? What about Mota?

BL: Who cares about Mota? Thunder! Thunder!

TC: Hmmm... Yeah, I'll beat him up... No problem.

SR: Ummm, guys, I don't mean to sound negative, but... Well, Claw doesn't
    seem to focused on Thunder... He seems to be looking towards Mota...

TC: Mota! I'll kill him!

SR: See?

BL: Nothing to worry about, Steve. Claw can take care of anyone in the ring.
    That's what makes him happy. Just put him in front of anyone and he
    fights them. It's his life. Thunder, this isn't going to be that much
    fun for you.

TC: And Mota, I'll get you, punk. I'll get you.

SR: Yeah... Okay... Alright, guys, it's been fun, but our time is up. Good
    luck on Saturday.

BL: Of course. Thanks, Steve.

[Brian reaches for his glass of "agua" and raises it to his lips, and takes
a sip. His face contorts, and he turns and spits it out all over the back of
a fairly large Mexican man with a huge moustache.]

BL: Ummm... Oh dear.

[Fade]

**************************************************************************
--------------------------- IIWF TRASH TALK ------------------------------
**************************************************************************

[Fade up to Morton eating the last of the remaining brownies and drinking
a glass of milk, all the while still "dancing" with the group of females.
The Furies have made their way from the bar to the dance floor, and have
started a slowly-building drunken mosh pit as "Bulls on Parade" by Rage
Against the Machine blares out on the speaker system.  The camers then
cuts to Jackson Witt who is sitting with his head in his hands, and is
being consoled by a well-endowed women of Mexican decent.  At the
prompting of the producer, Witt raises his head and speaks...]

JW:  Trash talk.  The stars of the IIWF are all good at it.  Let's check
out what they have to say...

[As the scene cuts to the footage, Witt can be heard muttering "And I'm
going to talk some trash to Morton when this damn shows over."]

[SCENE: Casey James and Steve Roberts sit at some rinky-dink bar. The
bartender sleeps in the corner, as do most of the patrons. Both men are
drinking something out of clear bottles with tape over the labels.]

CJ: I'm telling you, this Mexican beer makes me have to take a leak like
    every two minutes.

SR: Aw, get real... You're just not used to it. Besides, what else are you
    going to drink? You want to drink the water?

CJ: Hehe... Yeah, you're right... Well, I have to admit, this Dos Ackee
    stuff is okay, I guess.

[Steve looks at the camera.]

SR: Oh... Yeah... Okay, so here's the champ, the man, Casey James, folks,
    coming to you from... From... Where the hell are we, anyway?

CJ: Half in the bag, I think.

SR: Yeah... Okay, so the champ and I have been sitting here drinking...

[Looks at the taped over label]

SR: Damn the sponsors... We're sitting here drinking the ol' Double X [Rips
    off the tape]. And I'm sitting here, and we're relaxed and all, and
    you know, we get to talking... What the hell happened last week?

CJ: Ummm... Last week was San Francesco, right?

SR: Fransisco.

CJ: Whatever... In the Hooter Dome?

SR: Cow House...

CJ: Yeah... Okay... Oh, yeah... I fought Thunder... You know, I labelled him
    good. With them knuckle dusters, as the good ol' boys call them, in
    the dressing room, and I'll be damned if he didn't get right back up
    and go for my throat. The guy's tough, no doubt about it, but I took
    care of him... Me and Claw... Claw and me... And Pain Inc... And
    Dynamite... Oh, and Brian...He got a few shots in too. I took his hat.

SR: So what happened? He got into the ring after that?

CJ: Yeah... I was surprised as hell to see that... Anyway, he caught me by
    surprise, and hit me with a lucky shot with that elbow of his. That
    oddly steel-like elbow of his with the pad covering the steel-like
    texture of the... Elbow... Thing.

SR: He hit you from behind, champ. No shame in falling for that.

CJ: Ah, hell no... But it won't happen again. I know now that a few shots
    before the match ain't gonna take him out. I gotta fight fire with
    fire...Steel with steel, Mano a mano... Donnie and Marie, you know?
    The Jackson Five... Whatever happened to that kid that used to sing
    for them?

SR: Nose job... So what's going to happen now? Does the cowboy get another
    shot?

CJ: Ahhh... If he can prove that he's worth it, you know? I'll have to think
    about it... I got a lot on my mind now, you know? My belt bag is twice
    as heavy now.

SR: Oh, yeah! You're the NLWP world champ!

CJ: Damn right, I'm the NLWP world champ... I beat Kid Ego in the ring and
    took the title from him. So now I got two big ass belts for me to
    defend, so scouting Thunder ain't gonna be that easy. Maybe I'll get a
    chance on Saturday. Tiger Claw's fighting him, you know.

SR: Yeah, I heard.

CJ: Claw _wants_ Mota, but he's fighting Thunder. S'okay, 'cause Claw can
    take care of Thunder... You remember that thing? With the truck? And
    we threw Thunder in through the winshield? That was so Tiger Claw...
    Guy's a machine... Not one of those cheap ass condom machines like in
    the bathroom... Like one of those big "kick your ass" machines that
    kick your ass.

SR: Alright, drink up. We've got three more places to check out before
    midnight, and there's one that you just have to see... There's these
    chicks there, and they... [looks to the camera.] What!? Well then turn
    it off! We're done! Jeez, what do they pay you for?

[Shot cuts out.]

[SCENE: The "Enigma" Takezo Musashi is heading through the employee car
parking out behind the IIWF Coliseum. He is dressed in street clothes, and
wearing a Joe Petrow "Sycopath" T-shirt. The camera shakes as Tim Dross
and the interview team rush up.]

TD: Hey, Takezo!

[Musashi pauses and stares at the camera team malevolently]

TD: The IIWF is in an uproar over your actions last Saturday night,     
    Takezo! You ambushed Joe Petrow, seemingly in a completely     
    unwarranted assault, and nearly cracked his skull in with a     
    microphone! Any comments?

TM: Petrow has only himself to blame for my actions! Petrow has only    
    himself to blame for his suffering! When I look at him, I see a     
    former man drowning in the excrement of his own making; I see a     
    former man who succumbed to his base instincts. Petrow embraced
    the primitive drives that reside in all of us: violence, hatred and
    fear.   

    Before long, they shall undoubtedly become the catalyst for his         
    destruction. This Petrow is no man to me, he is a depraved worm         
    who lacks any concept of honour or values. He could have           
    harnessed his strength for the greater good, but instead he seems       
    content to wallow in self-loathing and destruction!

TD: But you yourself have been acting...

TM: [interrupting] Silence! I have not yet finished! Petrow you scum, my
    business is not done with you by any measure. What you saw last     
    Saturday night was but a drop of moisture in a vast ocean compared
    to what I have in store for you. You think you're alienated from the
    rest of the IIWF? Well, let me show you that you have a common
    brother right here. For you there shall be no peace, no respite
    and no escape from the fury that now drives the "Enigma".  The
    more you try to isolate yourself, the more you try to forget            
    about me, the deeper and darker I shall descend in pursuing you.     

    Start looking over your shoulder Petrow, start to feel an icy chill
    whenever you walk down a darkened street; for next time, there
    will be no higher authority to stop me...

[Takezo turns to leave.]

TD: Hey, wait!

TM: [with his back to the camera] There is no more. Nothing is left     
    inside of me.

[The "Enigma" disappears into the shadows, leaving behind a disconcerted
looking Tim Dross.  Fade into the next clip.]

[SCENE: The streets of Juarez. It is noon and the streets are deserted except
for a few die-hard tourists. In the distance you can see the Olympic Stadium.
Just then Otto Verhoeven and Nurse Heidi walk into the shot. Verhoeven is
wearing dark green shorts and a blue "Welcome to the Slaughterhouse"-tank
top and Heidi is in a crimson sports bra and white leggings.]

OV: [wiping some sweat from his head]  So this is Mexico.

NH: Vat a dirty and stinking country. And ze heat. Terrible.

OV: At least we get paid for this little "vacation". But let's talk about
    business.  Let's talk about Saturday. Once again the European Alliance
    was targeted by cowardly and unfair tactics and once again it just did
    not help.  Starks, when will you finally give up and admit that you
    are out of your league. You are like a disease, gutter boy, a disease
    that just won't go away. I defeated you, Byron defeated you, we
    pounded you to a bloody pulp but still you keep on annoying us.

NH: Sooner or later he can't take it any more, liebling. Sooner or later,
    he vill have to give up.

OV: I hope so. Then there is Mad Dog Watkins, who dared to take action
    against the Alliance. What is his problem? Is it because his mother-instict
    kicks in  when he sees Creed? Or have the long years in the ring
    finally taken their toll, have all the blows softened up his head and
    made it hard for him to think.  Old man, you have messed with forces you
    cannot even hope to compete with, a fact you will soon have to
    realize. Very soon indeed.

NH: Zat senile hundeso...

OV: Now come on Heidi. We should pay him at least some respect. He is, after
    all a veteran who has dedicated his life to our sport. He just made a
    bad career move in challenging the German Juggernaut, a career move
    that might well end it all for him. When we meet again I will once and
    for all show him what I showed Tony Starks a couple of weeks ago, that
    the European Alliance and Otto Verhoeven are unstoppable forces.

NH: Vat about Creed?

OV: What do you mean?

NH: Zat snot-nosed Schwachkopf makes his in-ring return on Saturday.

OV: Is that so? So what? Either he is foolish enough to continue his futile
    crusade, then he will be broken again, or he comes to his senses and
    admits that Byron is superior to him. Either way, he poses no threat
    to us anymore.

NH: But he was one of the most promising and dominant forces before Byron and
    you took him out. If he regains his full strength. . .

OV: [with a devious smile]  But he won't. Did you ever break a little
    ceramic figure and try to glue it back together. . . it's never as
    strong as it was before. Creed was broken, he was defeated. He was
    lucky to survive one round with the European Alliance with his career
    still intact. Do you believe he can do it again? I don't think so.

NH: [kissing him on the cheek]  Oh, you are so smart, my love. Let's go
    now and rest. You will soon need all of your energy.

[Fade]

[SCENE: Tony Starks stands among a group of his friends on a Staten
Island street corner about noon. Starks stands beside his Toyota
Landcruiser with one of people, the sounds of the new Wu Tang album
are bangin loudly from the car. Starks man starts to speak to him.]

Man: Ayo, Starks baby, I need to holla at you for a minute 'bout this
     IIWF.

TS: Wassup?

Man: Ayo, we all have been checkin your matches since you came
     back. You know the whole reason you came back right? (Starks
     nods) Word! That World Title. Now, you got yourself all up
     in this vengance with them Euro cats and it's lookin like
     you are hookin up with Watkins, Creed and Sampson.

TS: Yeah.

Man: Well, look here, us right here, we have been your people since
     before forever, know what I'm sayin? We goin to look out for
     you and we been speakin bout how you need to walk away from
     that vengance nonsense. Look at it like this: the only reason
     you came back was for the title. And dont neither of them Euro
     cats wear that gold. So forget 'em. (Starks nods) You need to
     focus yourself on that prize, you only got a few weeks 'till
     you are back in New York and you got to get your mind right.
     Forget 'bout them Euro cats, you want to show them, and everyone?
     Then dominate...

TS: Word, word.

Man: You said it yourself a few weeks ago, you got to go back to your
     roots. Like you did it last year in upstate New York and when
     you first came up in the IIWF. Be your own man, know what I'm
     sayin'? All them young buck brothers all lookin up to Watkins
     like he is some damn role model. You dont need no role model,
     baby, for real. You just need to rededicate this right here, put
     your eyes on that Clash and focus and if aint got to do wit' the
     shot at the world belt, forget it. You are a damn army of one,
     Shaolins' finest.

TS: [With a look of understanding on his face, Starks nods] Word up,
    for real. Good lookin out.

Man: Now what you goin' to do?

TS: Ayo, I am goin to get mine, forget them brothers that was holdin
    me back. All of 'em. I got to take over this right here, straight
    up like I know I can do. Be my own man, bring all types of pain
    up in that ring, all kinds of hell. Just like at the Clash last
    year. Forget all that vengance, all that personal vendetta does
    is cloud that mind. Don't serve no purpose. Word up baby, we goin'
    to rededicate this career right here. Only a few till New York and
    the first round, we got to shine all the way to the prize. Word,
    word. It starts right here and we wont never stop.

Man: Word, then lets do this then, for real.

[The rest of Starks people overheard the talk and they exchange hand
slaps, they turn up the Wu and go about their business. The camera
closes in on Starks face and that determination in his eyes is back.]

[SCENE: A small village outside Juarez, Mexico.  Young children, obviously of
Indian descent, run playfully around the mud huts until and then charge into
a man who towers over them.  It is Nightwing.  He snares a young girl and
tosses her into the air, laughing at her squeals before catching the child
and sending her off to play with her friends.  He faces the camera.]

NW: This is what it was like to grow up in my village.  The children can
    run carefree and play while retaining pride in their heritage.  But
    you can also see the poverty that has been forced upon them by
    Europeans centuries ago.  We share a common ancestry... we share a
    common history.

    Scott Rogers, Ronnie Paris... you know nothing of my past or my
    people.  Apparently you know nothing of Genesis.  We do not take on
    the IIWF because we are _part_ of the IIWF.  For once, we have the
    power to put an end to tyrants like the Syndicate who would hold the
    rest of the IIWF in poverty like these people [he points around him]. 
    Those who stand against us stand _with_ the oppressors.  We stand
    with the Genesis Generation.

    My people know injustice from the past. 

    I shall not let it happen again.

[Nightwing begins to walk, hesitating slightly as the children chase two thin
dogs past him.]

    Did Luke Steele know of injustice at the hands of Takezo Musashi
    Wednesday night?  I, myself, have felt an unexpected blow from the
    "Enigma" and could not let it happen to another.  Musashi, do not
    test the White Ph...

[He stops with a blank expression and shakes his head as if he had been
slapped]. 

    Do not... do not test Nightwing. 

[He looks around him at the huts and the impoverished people.]

    Perhaps it is already too late.

[Nightwing turns and walks away as the children rush past him again. Fade to
black.]

[SCENE: We open to a scene of destruction.  It is the set of the now
released movie Volcano.  The fake lava is everywhere, and the place looks
like a real disaster scene.  Suddenly, walking through the lava come the
IIWF's newest and hottest tag team, Violence Unlimited.  Mutilator walks
out on the right, wearing a pair of blue jeans, a white IIWF Logo t-shirt,
and a pair of Nike shoes.  On his right, the left of our screen, is his
muscular partner Jaguar.  Jaguar is attired with a black Violence Unlimited
t-shirt, black jean shorts, and a pair of Reeboks.  They walk into the
close area of the camera's range, and Mutilator cues the start by
speaking.]

M: We've been rather silent in the IIWF, the first thing any of you heard
   from us was that we were coming.

J: That was the last thing you heard from us also.

M: [Sarcastically] Hey, Cold Spell, we're here.  Hi!

J: We haven't talked much for one reason.  Actions speak louder than words,
   and you don't win a wrestling match by talking the guy's ear off, in
   the IIWF at least.  We've shown some action...and it spoke.

M: Cold Spell found the wrath of Violence Unlimited.  I don't think they
   want it, to tell the truth.  Coming up this Saturday night, however, we
   have the first match of ours that will fully be televised coming off
   our _action_ packed win over the Hangmen.

J: They got hung.

M: Pain Incorporated.  Former IIWF World Tag Team Champions.  That Mr. Mic
   guy.  And the thing is, normally we would be intimidated by a team that
   has been a champion, taking on a pair of rookies who haven't wrestled
   ANYWHERE in a while.  But you see, we're VIOLENCE UNLIMITED.

J: And that makes things just a LITTLE different.  Pain Inc.'s
   accomplishments speak for themselves, all their actions have been
   amazing here in the IIWF, and we congratulate them on their success.
   However, we must warn you, success in the past does not carry over to
   the ring.  After all, if that happened we'd still be elsewhere.  But
   we're in the best fed in the world right now, and we're about to teach
   something to you, Pain Inc.

M: We're going to teach you RESPECT.  And _that_, is something we DESERVE!
   We are Violence Unlimited...we WILL be a force.  Pain Inc., be prepared
   to learn the TRUE meaning of Violence.

J: Bring lots of bandages, blood stoppers, tourniquets, whatever you may
   have, because it's all gonna be needed...we have to teach you a lesson.

M: Violence Unlimited will teach you...

[Close up on Jaguar's intently evil look]

J: _Pain_.

[The scene stays as VU turn their backs to the camera and walk away through
the fake lava and off the screen out of view.  Fade to black]

[SCENE: A wide angle lens shot of the den in Mr. Mic's English mansion.
Morningstar and Hellraiser both dressed in sweatpants and their
trademark chainmail masks are each seated on seperate black leather
couches with Morningstar to Hellraiser's right. Morningstar is
meditating with his legs crossed. Hellraiser is leaning forward looking
into his inter-locking hands. Mr.Mic is dressed in an immaculate
charcoal grey Brooks Brothers suit. He peers out the east window looking
onto his 5 acre lot. He stares with a cold expression, completely
motionless. The monotony is broken when Hades comes sauntering into the
room, unnoticed by all until he speaks.]

Hades: There's no need to explain I've been following....

[Mr.Mic whips around and continues his cold stare as he approaches the
titan.]

MM: Oh you have, have you. Have you seen how the Dork Disciples have
    cost us two losses in a row!!!

[There is a moment of silence that is broken as Mr. Mic sees Hellraiser
has clenched his fists together so hard that both hands are turning
white. Hellraiser lets out a yell that would wake the dead as he starts
to pound his chest repeatedly. Morningstar opens his eyes from his
meditation, he stares forward and as Hellraiser pounds his chest again
Morningstar, still in a trance, pounces like a jaguar and sticks his
left foot between Hellraiser's chest and fist. Hellraiser, his eyes as
wide as saucers looks at his partner. Morningstar whips his head around
and stares at his partner and shakes his head. Hellraiser nods and
starts to take up Morningstar's meditation stance.]

MM: Thank god, I have two professional athletes who are focused and
    determined. I hope you had a good vacation Hades because we have a lot
    of work to do.

Hades: Of course, what do we have set up?

MM: A couple of things first on a smaller note. I want you to send a
    message to Deathbringer. Tell him that if he ever AND I MEAN EVER puts
    his cold, dead hands on Pain Inc. again, I will see he burns in hell
    for eternity!!!  [Mr.Mic starts to talk out loud]  Dead man, you may
    be the owner of many a soul but Pain Inc. has no souls. They exist on
    a plane you haven't even dreamt of!!!

[Hellraiser starts to clench his fists and starts to mutter.]

Hellraiser: BRING...ME...THE....DEAD...MAN!!!

[Mr. Mic stares at Hellraiser and goes over to him. He places his hand on
the big man's shoulder.]

MM: All in good time Hellraiser. First things are first...

Hades: Like what boss??

[Mr.Mic starts to pace around the room as he speaks.]

MM: Number one, it seems that the Dark Disciples and Pain Inc. cannot
    co-exist in the Syndicate therefore I think Brian should make a
    decision who will be in the Syndicate: Pain Inc. or the no-talent,
    has-beens the Dark Disciples. Either way Pain Inc. will destroy the
    Dark Disciples..bottom line, not run them out of town, not beat them
    by pinfall. DESTROY THEM!!!

Hades: What about recapturing those belts that rightly belong to us?

[Mr.Mic stops pacing, looks at Hades and starts to chuckle as he speaks.]

MM: Hades, there is a old Indonesian saying: "He who fills his plate
    with much food, never finishes it all". One thing at a time, however
    having said that I cannot the IIWF's audassity of having a four team
    tag match and not including Pain Inc. I mean Violence Unlimited only
    beat us because of those back-stabbing Dork Disciples. The Harlequins
    won the Oscar for biggest idiots in a tag-team role. Cold Spell, these
    two remind me of Kathie Lee and Frank Gifford with all the problems
    they have and finally the Weak & Worthless Express...they are all talk
    and no brains. Hades, contact the IIWF championship committee and ask
    them where Pain Inc.'s return title match is??? It seems that they
    have forgotten to give one to us.

[Hades nods and walks out from the room as Mr. Mic walks back to the
window and stares out onto his lawn.]

MM: Soon...very, very soon...


===========================================================================

[Fade back to Jackson Witt, who seems exhausted and frustrated from the
night's events.  He holds his hands up to his earpiece and listens
momentarily, then begins to speak.]

JW:  It seems that the crew has just received a special tape of a press
     conference that occured earlier in the day and it revolves around
     Steve Kowalski and his attempts to be reinstated into the IIWF.
     We'll try to get that tape ready to view before we go off the air.

     [casting a sickened glance to Morton on the dance floor] Since Larry
     isn't here to be long-winded this week and take up all of our time,
     it looks like I finally get to bring you the first installment of my
     segment entitled Witt's Witticisms.

*************************************************************************
----------------------- WITT'S WITTICISMS -------------------------------
*************************************************************************

[The camera focuses in on the lanky frame of Jackson Witt, who straightens
his tie, picks up his notes, and begins to speak.]

JW:  Well, it seems that the IIWF has been set a buzz these past few weeks
     by the age-old debate over...well, age.  The self-titled "New
     Generation"  of IIWF superstars have thrown down the gauntlet at the
     feet of the incumbant IIWF superstars which they have labeled the
     "Old Generation".  Men the likes of Derek Mota, Requiem, Nightwing,
     and the W & W Express all have criticized established stars like
     Tiger Claw, Deathbringer, Marty Warnett and the High Plains Drifters,
     calling them old and washed up.

     But if one cares to take a careful look at this so-called "Old
     Generation" of stars, it becomes obvious that their new label hardly
     fits.  Most of these men haven't even reached 30 years of age, and in
     wrestling, that means they haven't even reached their peak.
     Superstardom has come the way of many of the IIWF's atheletes, and it
     has arrived at a young age.  But I think most will agree that this is
     the exception, not the rule.  Most wrestlers do not achieve superstar
     status until well past their thirtieth birthday and well into their
     careers.

     But this is not the case in the IIWF.  Many people have asked me why
     this is so since the rise of this debate.  The answer is simple --
     the IIWF's committment to talent and determination.  The bold front
     office of the IIWF is not afraid to go out and sign fresh, new, and
     yes, young, talent when it sees it.  Even more important, the front
     office is not afraid to push this talent either.  Other feds call it
     a risk to push men like Creed, for instance, who, despite his
     talent, was not a ring veteran and therefore was not "established" in
     the minds of the fans upon his entrance into the federation.

     But the IIWF has a fanbase like no other.  Fans who cheer talent,
     hardwork, and dedication.  They respect whoever goes out and gives it
     more than is required, regardless of heel or face status or even age.
     And wrestlers who give that extra effort are quickly cemented in the
     minds of the fans.

     So what does this generational gap mean for the future of the IIWF?
     Nothing.  Except for great competition.  Just months ago, a guy like
     Marty Warnett was part of the new generation of talent to arrive in
     the IIWF.  Now, he is labeled old thanks to the arrival of a new
     rookie crop.  Months from now, perhaps some brash new hotshot will
     arrive in the IIWF and call out Derek Mota, labeling him "washed up"
     and calling him an "old timer" and the process will begin again,
     except this time the shoe will be on the other foot.

     So let the age debate rage on in the IIWF.  It will only fuel the
     fire of competition and might very well serve to raise the ire of
     some established stars who might have hit a lull in their careers in
     recent months.  So to this "New Generation" -- talk on...just be
     careful who you call out, because they might call your bluff in the
     ring. 

=========================================================================

[Witt looks up with a proud look on his face in search of a good response,
only to find out that the crowd has immigrated fully to the dance floor to
either join the Furies in some slam dancing or into watching Larry Morton
enjoy the spotlight by trying - in vain- to teach the young ladies
gathered around him how to do the Funky Chicken.  He shakes his head and
speaks.]

JW:  While Larry continues to amaze the crowd here at Dos Diablos and
     while the crew works on trying to get that Kowalski interview ready
     to show, let's check out the up to date ratings here in the IIWF.

************************************************************************
------------------------- IIWF SINGLES RANKINGS ------------------------
************************************************************************

Singles Rankings - 4/6/97
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Name                    F/H   Fought  W   L   D    Win%   Ranking
                                                          (old) new
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Casey James             H     41      23  16  2    59%    (WC)  WC
Lord Byron              H     25      20  5   0    80%    (IC)  IC
Dirt Dog Unique Allah   N     21      12  7   2    62%    (CW)  CW
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deathbringer            H     34      23  8   3    72%    (1)   1
Creed                   N     16      11  4   1    72%    (2)   2
Mad Dog Watkins         H     17      11  4   2    71%    (5)   3
Subway Psycho           F     36      24  9   3    70%    (4)   4
Otto Verhoeven          H     35      23  10  2    69%    (6)   5
"Enigma" Takezo Musashi F     32      22  10  0    69%    (3)   6
Highwayman              F     13      9   4   0    69%    (8)   7
Chris Quigley           F     30      19  9   2    67%    (7)   8
Requiem                 F     9       5   2   2    67%    (9)   9
Duncan Macbeth          N     6       4   2   0    67%    (17)  10
Billy Shakespeare       F     40      26  13  1    66%    (10)  11
Nightwing               F     14      9   5   0    64%    (13)  12
Brody Thunder           H     23      14  8   1    63%    (11)  13
"Sychosys" Joe Petrow   N     16      9   5   2    63%    (12)  14
Marty Warnett           F     41      24  16  1    60%    (15)  15
Ike Sampson             F     5       3   2   0    60%    (16)  16
Mr. Damage              H     34      20  14  0    59%    (14)  17
Ronnie Paris            F     18      10  8   0    56%    (18)  18
Derek Mota              H     11      5   4   2    55%    (22)  19
Serge Annis             N     14      7   6   1    54%    (19)  20
"Real Deal" Luke Steele F     13      7   6   0    54%    (21)  21
Tiger Claw              H     49      24  23  2    51%    (20)  22
Tony Starks             F     8       4   4   0    50%    (24)  23
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Danny Dynamite          H     2       2   0   0   100%    (25=) 24
Simon Lebec             H     1       1   0   0   100%    (27)  25
Scott Rogers            F     3       2   1   0    67%    (25=) 26
------------------------------ suspended -------------------------------
Steve "Fury" Kowalski   H     21      15  6   0    71%    (-)   -
------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tag Team Rankings - 4/6/97
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Name of team            F/H   Fought  W   L   D   Win%   Ranking
                                                         (old) new
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Prophets of Rage        H     12      11  1   0    92%   (WT)  WT
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Last Resort         F     5       4   1   0    80%   (1)   1
Cold Spell              F     12      8   4   0    67%   (2)   2
The Harlequins          N     13      8   5   0    62%   (6)   3
High Plains Drifters    H     35      20  14  1    59%   (8)   4
Pain Inc.               H     25      14  10  1    58%   (3)   5
Rising Sun Revolution   F     19      11  8   0    58%   (4)   6
Dark Disciples          H     18      10  7   1    58%   (5)   7
W & W Express           H     13      7   6   0    54%   (7)   8
The Zodiac Connection   F     27      13  14  0    48%   (10)  9
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Violence Unlimited      N     3       2   1   0    67%   (11)  10
------------------------------------------------------------------------
========================================================================

JW:  Okay ladies in gentlemen, it appears that the film techs have indeed
     gotten the press conference footage loaded up and ready to go, so
     without any further adieu, let's take you to the Fury...

[Even above the din of the techno music that fills the club, the Furies
amazingly hear the name of their idol and move, en masse, to view the
footage on the small video screens near the bar.  In the stampede, Larry
and his group are caught up in the shuffle and are moved as well.]

[Scene: Meadowlands Convention Center, East Rutherford, New Jersey The.
Simon and Tapper press conference has just started. Dozens of reporters
are grouped like a pack of hungry wolves, waiting to throw questions at
Steve "The Fury" Kowalski's legal representative, Kathleen Fields. Fields
reaches the podium to make her statement. Kowaklski is seated to the rear
of the stage on chair, wry smile on his face. Setaed next to the New
Jersey Nightmare are various legal assistants.]

KF: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. As you already know, Simon
    and Tapper is represnting Mr. Kowalski in his venture to sue the IIWF,
    over wrongful suspension.

Reporter #1: Why is a respected firm such as Simon and Tapper representing
             Mr. Kowalski? Not that he couldn't afford it, but he
             certainly doesn't seem like your common client.

KF: Simon and Tapper feels that Mr. Kowalski has a strong case, but more
    than that, S & T are testing the waters of a new field. With the
    emergence of wrestling promotions taking hold of the American dollar,
    S & T would be foolish not to examine their processes closer. Mr.
    Kowalski's situation is the perfect opportunity to get a feel for
    the IIWF's legal backing.

Reporter #2: It sounds like a bunch of sharks circling a whale for the big
             kill.

KF: We don't consider ourselves sharks, just business people exploring a
    new field.

Reporter #2: Fair enough. What are the demands that S & T are laying out
             for the IIWF? I'm sure the #1 wrestling organization on the 
             planet has plenty of coffers for you to raid.

KF: You are going to hear them right now...

[From the back Kowalski yells out.]

SK: Owens has to kiss my ass!

[After some spratic laughter from the crowd, Fields continues.]

KF: Not exactly.  Here they are...
  
    #1 - Immediate reinstatement of Mr. Kowalski in the IIWF, at his
    former #2 ranking.

    #2 - All the contract money that has been held back, because of the
    suspension, be paid immediately to Mr. Kowalski...including a $85,000
    payment due to damages and humiliation.

    #3 - On Mr. Kowalski's return, he is given a signed contract promising
    a World Heavyweight title match by September 30th, against
    whoever the champion may be. It doesn't matter to Mr. Kowalski.

SK: Damn right!

KF: Finally...
   
    #4 - Vice President Steve Owens must step down from the IIWF front
    office for an indefinite suspension of his own.

[The reporters are in an uproar at this last announcement.]

Reporter #3: I understand the demand of reinstatement, I can almost fathom
             the money aspect, because of his former ranking he may get
             that shot but how do you expect to get the VP of the IIWF to
             step down.

KF: We have an ace in our hands and we are going to play it early. Mr.
    Kowalski was approached by VP Owens and was requested to
    "turn things up and notch." He was then told that if he put
    someone out on the IIWF Saturday Night, he would serve a short
    suspension and get the Intercontinental title
    shot on his return.

Reporter #4: Your saying it was Owens' fault that Poutine Janois was
             attacked? He used Kowalski as a hitman...for what gain?

KF:  Nothing personal against Mr. Janois. Owens, in attempt to solidify
     his position as Spreadbury's right hand man, pushed the
     envelope and had my client make a scene. Since that day, the ratings
     skyrocketted and Mr. Kowalski was well on his way to a championship.

Reporter #2: We've heard these rumors before. Is Mr. Kowalski willing to
             state them in a court of law, though?

KF: Yes...and he will. IIWF management already had hints of Kauffman's
    retirement and since Mr. Kowalski physically manhandled
    the then-champion at an earlier date, he was the perfect tool
    to be the #1 'heel' of the IIWF. Thus the wheels were set in
    motion. My client was used and lied to, now justice must
    be served. This conference is over.

[The crowd yells for more answers, but to no avail. Kowalski and his
entourage leave, with the New Jersey Nightmare giving everyone the
finger.  Fade back to Dos Diablos.]

FURIES:  HELL YEAH!!!! WOOOOOOO!!!!!

[The Furies respond loudly to the footage of Kowalski, and begin to get
antsy.  It's almost as if, after seeing "The New Jersey Nightmare", the
group's need for blood has reached a fever pitch.  Jackson Witt sees the
growing chaos in the group, and hurridly speaks.]

JW:  That's all for tonight folks.  Be sure to tune in to IIWF Saturday
     night tommorrow night at the special time of midnight for our
     "Midnight in Mexico" extravaganza.  And Larry and I will be back next
     Friday from the next stop on our Crusade tour - that is is Larry
     makes it out of Mexico in one piece. [muttering] And that requires
     getting passed me....

     For Larry Morton, I'm Jackson Witt saying good night!

[Witt quickly looses his headset and microphone, grabs a bottle of Jim
Beam from the bar, and makes out the back door as the commotion
surrounding the Furies grows.  Jersey Jack, the apparent leader of the
frenzy, bumps into Larry as he is pouring a bottle of Early Times over his
head.  Sensing Morton's fear and lack of a spine to fight back, JJ brings
the empty bottle up to strike Morton over the head and make him the Furies
sacrificial lamb for the evening when...

A large hand attached to an equally large arm rips the bottle from
Jersey's hand.  Jersey quickly turns around to see who dared interrupt,
only to see the huge Mexican frame of...

The Smooth.

Fresh from his stint in jail, The Smooth picks up the quivering Morton,
shoves the Furies aside, and heads for the door and the safety that
resides outside the walls of Dos Diablos.

The credits roll as Larry and The Smooth walk down the back alley towards
the IIWF production truck, a half empty bottle of Jose Cuervo being
passed between the two of them, and a broken english version of the
Commodore's classic "Easy (Like Sunday Morning)" filling the night sky.
Fade to black.]