[Shot fades in to the IIWF tour bus with all sorts of IIWF personalities getting on board. Larry Morton, Jackson Witt, Tim Dross, Steve Summer... Each broadcaster looks fresh and excited to once again get on the road. Slowly, scenes from events on the Coronation Clash Crusade tour fade by... Tim Dross and Steve Summer looking nervously around a Goth club in San Francisco... Steve Roberts with his face in a plate of nachos in Juarez, Mexico, a collection of empty beer bottles next to him... Becky Larue pointing her niece's attention to the camera, and the little girl making a gesture that must be edited out... Steve Roberts with his face in a plate of mashed potatoes, a collection of empty beer bottles next to him and young Chelsea Clinton at his side... The Manhattan Center... Jackson Witt walking out on Larry Morton... The Fleet Center. The IIWF bus pulls up in front of the Fleet Center, and the IIWF personalities shown earlier begin to file out. Each person looks more nappy than fresh, more jaded than excited, A contrast to the earlier shot of them getting on the bus.] VO: After weeks of touring, the IIWF makes it's final stop here, in Boston, Mass. Here, a new champion will be crowned. Here, sixteen competitors... Group A:                                Group B: Takezo Musashi----.                     Otto Verhoeven----.                   |---.                                   |---. Mad Dog Watkins---'   |                 Duncan Macbeth----'   |                       |----                                   |---- Steve Kowalski----.   |                 Joe Petrow--------.   |                   |---'                                   |---' Ike Sampson-------'                     Derek Mota--------' Group C:                                Group D: Deathbringer------.                     Ronnie Paris------.                   |---.                                   |---. Tony Starks-------'   |                 Highwayman--------'   |                       |----                                   |---- Brody Thunder-----.   |                 Requiem-----------.   |                   |---'                                   |---' Serge Annis-------'                     Luke Steele-------' VO: Sixteen men will be narrowed down to four, who will battle it out     until only one is left. This is the Coronation Clash... Only in     the... [The bone crunching intro riff of Fear Factory's "Body Hammer" chugs away as scenes from several IIWF matches flash by, showcasing various stars performing their specialty maneuvers... Joe Petrow with the Bullet Train to Hell... The Dark Disciples performing the Deathmoon Drop... Simon Lebec whacking some poor jobber with the Blackball... The footage speeds up until the screen explodes into the logo we're all proud of...]                  #####     ######   ###            ##########              ########## ########## ####       ##  ##########              ########## ########## ####  #   #### ########                #####      #####    #### ##  ##### ####                 ####       ####    #### ### ####  ####                 ####       ####    ############# #########                 ####       ####     ########### #########                 ####       ####     ####  ####   ####              #########  #########   ###   ####   ####              #########  #########   ###    ##    ####               ########   ########   ##      #    ####              =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- ## =-=-=-=                INTERNATIONAL INTERNET WRESTLING FEDERATION             =================================================              "CORONATION CLASH CONTROL ROOM" - July 11, 1997             ================================================= [The scene opens up on Larry Morton sitting behind a steel, neo-industrial style desk with a video monitor wall looming up behind him. On the screens of the monitors, the words "Coronation Clash Control Room" zoom this way and that, morphing into birds and flying away, melting into a pool, and basically doing other things that you'd expect from a blatant display of computer graphics expertise. Larry attempts to look professional, organizing a few papers in front of him.] LM: Hello IIWF fans! [drops the papers he was shuffling] Oh... Darn...     Oh well... Umm, Welcome to Countdown... I mean... The... What is it?     Oh, yeah... The Coronation Clash Control Room. I'm your one and only     host, Larry Morton. [looks off camera] What? What do you mean,     "mystery commentator?" I thought it was clear that I was going to     carry this show from now on... Well, where is he? Hmmm? Couldn't     even show up on time, huh? Yeah, great talent you've got there...     Yeah... [looking back to camera] Sorry, folks. Well, moving on, we've had an exciting couple of months here in the IIWF with the Coronation Clash Crusade Tour. During the tour, we saw titles change hands, friendships form, friendships dissolve, and most important of all, we saw the IIWF World Heavyweight Title become vacant. This will be the main... thing... going on... at the Coronation Clash tomorrow night. I... Okay, what's going on? [There's a bit of a ruckus off camera as someone slams a door, converses with someone, then begins to walk on the set.] LM: Alright, what are you doing here? I thought you left the IIWF. [A person in a rather nice suit comes on to the set with his back turned to the camera, makes his way to the desk, and turns around, revealing none other than Brian Lau. He takes a seat.] BL: I'm your new host. LM: What!? This is... Well, it's not good, that's for sure... How can     you... A manager? You... But I... BL: I have a... friend... on the production staff, Larry. When I quit my     managerial position, I was offered a spot on the broadcasting team.     Ladies and gentlemen, Welcome to new... [looks at Morton] and     improved Friday night IIWF programming. LM: You... How? BL: Thanks for the input, Larry... So, it's that time again for another     IIWF Pay Per View extravaganza, neh? Big tournament... Big     tournament for the big prize, the IIWF World Heavyweight Title,     which, mind you, shouldn't even be up for grabs. Any thoughts,     Larry? LM: But the... BL: I didn't think so. Just as I have always said about you, Morton...     You're thoughtless. I hope you'll be able to contribute more as we     go on, Larry, because we have a lot to cover. I guess we should look     at the card... [Computerized graphics come up on the screen of a majestic-looking fellow with a crown stands atop a hill. He looks to his left, widens his eyes in horror, and about 15 huge men tackle him, leaving a cloud of dust that forms into the words...] ======================================================================== ----------------------CORONATION-CLASH-PREVIEW-------------------------- ======================================================================== Coronation Clash - Saturday, July 12, 1997 FREE FOR ALL     Triangle Tag Team Match:     Pain Inc. vs. The Dark Disciples vs. The Syndicate IIWF TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH     Prophets of Rage vs. Cold Spell Hollywood Bloods vs. Last Resort [Winner to receive title shot on Saturday, July 26.] FOUR WAY DANCE, FALLS COUNT ANYWHERE! Chris Quigley vs. Marty Warnett vs. Billy Shakespeare vs. Simon Lebec LOSER LEAVES THE IIWF! Creed vs. Lord Byron CORONATION CLASH TOURNAMENT! Group A: Takezo Musashi vs. Mad Dog Watkins Steve Kowalski vs. Ike Sampson Group B: Otto Verhoeven vs. Duncan Macbeth Joe Petrow vs. Derek Mota Group C: Deathbringer vs. Tony Starks Brody Thunder vs. Serge Annis Group D: Ronnie Paris vs. Highwayman Requiem vs. Luke Steele ======================================================================== [Brian sits, looking at the flabberghasted Larry Morton and shaking his head. Brian raises his eyebrows a bit as Larry misses his cue.] LM: Ummm... Huh? Oh... Remember, folks, those aren't the only matches     you'll see tomorrow night. The winners of each match in each group     will go on to face each other, and the winners of _those_ matches     will meet in a special four way dance... Any more dances on this     card and we'll need an in house band. BL: Oh, I'm sorry... Was that funny? Let me just say this. This whole     tournament is a sham. Did you know that Casey James received a     request to be in the tournament while he was still champion? Tell     me, Larry, if James was champion, then why would he want to be in a     tournament that gave the winner a shot at the title? He _had_ the     title already! LM: I, uh, can't really touch upon that... I don't know... BL: Of course you don't. You're an idiot. No matter, though. Casey James     and Tiger Claw will be showing the world what real tag wrestling is     all about in the Free for All. LM: Care to tell us why they're not on the actual card? BL: Don't get me started, little man. LM: It all happens on Saturday night, folks, so if you haven't ordered     yet... BL: Yes, yes... Cash in your welfare cheques and order this monumental     event... Yadda, yadda. LM: You really should be nicer, Brian. Well, folks, let's look at this     card match by match, group by group... ------------------------------------------------------ FREE FOR ALL     Triangle Tag Team Match:     Pain Inc. vs. The Dark Disciples vs. The Syndicate ------------------------------------------------------ LM: The Free For All starts off the huge Coronation Clash event with a     monstrous triangle tag match that could easily headline any card in     the world. BL: Then why is it in the Free for All, huh? I'll tell you why...     Politics. The Syndicate never laid down for the administration, but     I had ways of getting around their wrath. If there's any evidence of     my skills as a manager, it's in the fact that Casey James and Tiger     Claw are in a match that isn't even on the Pay Per View. LM: Ummm, no... It's because the match was last minute and signed after     the card was already made up. Bad timing, that's all. BL: Okay, little puppet, go on and think that. LM: I will. Folks, this will be the debut of the new tag team of the     Syndicate, and what a debut match it will be for them... Facing The     Dark Disciples _and_ Pain Inc. in the same match. These two teams     are both former champions, and some may argue two of the best teams     to ever grace the IIWF. BL: And they _both_ got kicked out of the Syndicate. This is when Casey     and Claw will kick then out of the IIWF with critical head injuries. LM: We'll see about that... We got these comments from the Dark     Disciples... I think you'll agree that they're ready... [SCENE: The Dark Disciples' lair - a dingy flagstone cellar. Kane and Wulf of the Dark Disciples are standing in front of a bulbous, bubbling cauldron. From the depths of the cauldron a foul looking steam is rising, and Wulf looks on in glee as he stirs the unseen contents with a big wooden ladle. Kane empties a jar of... something into the mix. Don McQueen looks on at the pair with a faint look of uneasiness and disgust.] DM: I don't know what the hell you guys are brewing in there and I'm     not sure if I really wanna' know. Damn... this place always gives me     the creeps, I still think my office is a better place to do these     interviews. [Wulf bares his freakishly long incisors with a manic grin, and Kane chuckles softly and menacingly.] DM: Whatever, we've got important business to discuss; tomorrow     night we've got Coronation Clash to worry about. Personally, I     couldn't give a damn about this overblown hype-fest, and it     doesn't mean [BLEEP] to me who wins the World heavyweight     championship; but at the Free For All, we're gonna' be settlin' a     whole lotta' beefs! KANE: You speak the truth, Don. Finally, we have been granted the       opportunity we've long lusted for - WULF: - those two traitorous Syndicate worms shall be ours for the       slaughter! They humiliated us in front of the world; how dare       they challenge the might of the Dark Disciples! I will rip out       their entrails and stomp their bones into dust! I will... DM: Settle down Wulf; save the rage for tomorrow night. You've left     something out of your calculations - what about Pain Inc? KANE: Those meek fools? They are of no consequence. We brushed them       aside with ease and can do so again at will. DM: That is true, but nothing would give me greater delight than to     see you get your hands on Mr. Mic and wring his puny pencil of a     neck! Mr. Mic, you're a pimple on the buttocks of humanity, and     the Dark Disciples are gonna' erase ya' like industrial strength     zit cream! KANE: Hellraiser, Morningstar, Casey James, Tiger Claw; I speak your       names as one who has already witnessed your tormented souls       burning in the pit of Inferno. You are weak fools, my friends, for       you made a choice that has sealed your fate forever. Soon the Dark       One shall turn his attention towards this world: If you had stood       by our side, loyal as our servants, as we in turn are loyal to       Him; you could have experienced undreamed of power and glory. You       could have reigned over the epochs of man with a terrible       tyranny! The servants of the Dark One are always richly rewarded -       but you threw it all away. Now you are merely four minor pawns who       stand between us and our final triumph. Pawns who must be disposed       of with the utmost cruelty! All are swept aside before the raging       ruthlessness; the boiling inferno; the terrible majesty that is       the Dark Disciples! Syndicate... Pain Inc... your blood shall be       our sacrifice to the Dark One; at our hands your horrible destiny       shall be played out before all the world. DM: Yeah, Yeah, Yeah; can we get out of here now? Phew! That stuff     stinks worse than the Subway Psycho. What the hell is that stuff     anyway? [Kane and Wulf do not answer, but instead begin to chuckle evilly, their soft and menacing laughter slowly building to an insane cackle. The horrible laughter reaches a crescendo, echoing off the cellar walls as if a whole legion of demonic maniacs were joining the chorus. Don McQueen covers his ears and dashes out of shot as the camera fades.] LM: I have to say that those guys are intent on seeing the destruction     of the two teams they will face tomorrow night. BL: Big deal... They just don't have what it takes to beat the     Syndicate. I had the pleasure of interviewing Casey James and Tiger     Claw, and they had some rather interesting things to say... [SCENE: The training area of what is now familiar to IIWF fans as the Dojo. Claw and Casey work over a few last minute details of their tactics, but as they notice the camera rolling, they stop and hop down from the ring. Brian Lau enters the shot with a microphone in hand.] BL: I can't think of a better way to start of my broadcasting duties     than to interview what promises to be the greatest tag team of all     time. Casey, Claw, it's a pleasure. CJ: No sweat, Brian. Finally, we have someone capable of interviewing     us... BL: You flatter me, Casey. So you guys are facing Pain Inc. and the Dark     Disciples at the Clash. Any thoughts? CJ: Plenty. It's funny that for our debut match, the suits put us up     against not one, but two teams. Is it a setup? Probably. Is it going     to affect our performance? Not likely. When it comes down to it, the     administration could put us up against the whole tag team roster,     and we'd still come out on top. Brian, you know how well Tiger Claw     and I work together. Everyone will see just how solid we are as a     team at the Clash. BL: Speaking of which, Claw, you've always been somewhat of a loner. To     see you tagging up with someone else... Well, it displays an aspect     of you that many are not familiar with. TC: People like to put things into categories. They like to look at     someone and say, "he's a good guy," or, "he's a bad guy," or "he's a     loner." What I am is a warrior, bottom line. I see an opportunity,     and I take it. I helped to train Casey to make him what he is today.     I watched him reach the pinnacle of the IIWF mountain, capturing the     IIWF Heavyweight Title. It pleases me to see him move from the role     of the student to that of my equal, and this tag team will allow the     world to see it. We've spent many months together, working on new     techniques, getting to know each other, and developing a great     working relationship. BL: A lot of people are saying that this tag team competition will be     short lived for you guys. What do you think about that? CJ: It's a load of crap. I hear the questions... "You guys are singles     wrestlers. How can you just decide to be a tag team?" Sure, we are     accomplished singles wrestlers. That's what makes us so dangerous.     If need be, either one of us could get through a tag team match by     ourselves. But the team comes first. We've got an arsenal of     techniques that utilize our specific strengths. Claw's been working     on some nice aerial techniques, and I must say, he's adapted well to     the restraints put on him by the Special Concerns committee. That,     coupled with my strength, are enough to put the beat down on any     team that gets put in front of us. BL: I know the answer to this next question, but I'm obligated to ask     it... Would you care to shed some light on some of these techniques? TC: Heh... Brian, you know we won't. To tip our hand right now would be     a mistake. Our advantage right now lies in the fact that Pain Inc.     and the Disciples have no idea what to expect. They only know us as     singles wrestlers. They have no idea what went on during the     training sessions Casey and I have taken part in. We, however, know     everything that these guys are about. We know their tactics, we know     their styles. We will come away from this match victorious, and our     enemies will leave different men. They'll leave injured and     crippled. CJ: What we can say is that if we have anything to say about it, one     unlucky contestant is going to be on the receiving end of possibly     _the_ most devastating tag team finishing maneuver in the sport     today. We sat and thought for hours to come up with a move that we     believe is impossible to kick out of once it's been hit. Kane, Wulf,     Morningstar, Hellraiser... Maybe even Don McQueen or Mr. Mic... One     of them is going to feel the Syndication, and when they do, they're     not going to be getting up for a while. BL: I've got to see it... You've got to show me... Hey... Do it on one     of the sparring partners I hired for you guys... TC: Alright, but make sure those cameras are turned off. BL: Yes, yes... Of course... [to the cameraman] We're done here... [Brian reaches towards the camera, and the shot abruptly cuts to black, then to the studio.] BL: And they showed me. I must say that it is probably the most painful     maneuver that I have ever seen anyone do. And the teamwork involved!     They truly are a well-oiled machine. LM: Yes, okay... Why didn't you touch upon the Outlaw sightings with     Casey James? BL: Why should I? Casey has nothing to do with that. Why would he? I     mean, he's in the tag team ranks now. The singles belts don't even     concern him anymore. You'd be best to stop listening to Tim Dross     and come up with your own conclusions once in a while... LM: Well, this match up is sure to be explosive, and it serves to kick     off the event that started it all! The Coronation Clash! If you     still haven't ordered... BL: Then save your money for a decent pair of shoes. ----------------------------------- IIWF TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH     Prophets of Rage vs. Cold Spell ----------------------------------- LM: The tag team... BL: Larry, please... Ladies and gentlemen, This match is going to be for     the titles. The Prophets of Rage will defend their titles against     Cold Spell, who some say have fought hard to earn the right for the     title shot. I wouldn't say that, but apparently a lot of other     people do. LM: Cold Spell have really shown talent since they came to the IIWF, and     I think they have a god chance of capturing those titles. BL: Doesn't matter... When the Syndicate gets a hold of them... LM: Brian, you can't use this whole report to push your friends, you     know... BL: I can do whatever I want... LM: Can we please talk about this match? BL: Alright, fine. We got these comments from the Prophets of Rage. They have some interesting views of the tag team scene here in the IIWF... [Scene: The Prophets of Rage sit at their lavish dinner table, Derek Rage dominating the center with his size and impressive shoulder-width. He wears a neatly-tailored cream linen three-button suit.  His afro is neatly trimmed and his beard freshly barbered.  Pizzazz sits to his right, wrapped around his arm, leaning her head on his shoulder.  Her eyes are bright green, her crown of black hair sets off in sharp contrast the  porcelain beige of her skin and the cream of Derek's suit. She wears a decolle translucent black blouse under a similarly diaphanous black jacket.  To Derek's left sits Shadoe Rage, his hair swept back into a ponytail with one unruly lock dangling down in front of his eye.  He's not as formally-dressed, wearing an old-style velvet coat over a fishnet tank top.  He has a bone-bead choker wrapped tightly around his throat.  Lastly, Medusa sits next to him, her dreadlocks hidden in an exquisite kente cloth wrap atop her head.  Her rawboned, beautiful face is minimally made up to emphasize her exquisite cheekbones and her full, luscious lips.  She wears a simple white cloth-wrapped dress.  She resembles an ancient African queen.  Her skin shines a healthy brown. Derek pours himself a glass of wine, letting the goblet fill and then overflow, red spilling all over the tabletop.] DR: This is the state of tag-team wrestling in the IIWF.  Nothing can     contain it.  It just spills and floods over everything, leaving it's     stain and taint.  There was a time when there was order in this     federation.  And the Prophets of Rage shattered it.  We took the     best this federation had to offer and simply dominated it.  Well,     now there's only one thing left for us to do.  And that's defend     these belts proudly.  The Prophets of Rage are perhaps the greatest     tag-team in the world today.  And that being so, I have to ask     myself, why is it that we can't finish a match any more? SR: Why is it that we're being locked tightly into a style that just     can't contain us any more?  Everybody thinks Prophets they think     brawls.  Well, that's not what we're about.  It's about athleticism     and competition. It's about finishing a man off once and for all.     We haven't had that exquisite pleasure in a long while.  Yeah, the     IIWF has it in for us. This I can tell.  They prohibit Pizzazz and     'dusa from watching our backs, but they let anybody who is anybody     run in on a match and try to ruin us. This has got to stop and stop     it will.  The Prophets have woken up now. That's the truth.  We've     been awakened.  And Cold Spell, that's not the best news you wanted     to hear.  I assure you of that.  That's not the best news you ever     wanted to hear because we're coming for you, Icehawk and Fitzgerald.     We're upset now.  We're mad at the world.  The Prophets are becoming     a parody of their former selves.  We dominate.  We don't just win.     Losses to Team Sychosys?  Why?  Because of the Harlequins.  Pinned     by the illegal Harlequin and then nothing but chairshots at the end.     That damn sure ain't what we wanted.  Yeah, we've seen the tide turn     ever since they banned Medusa and Pizzazz.   We've seen the     conspiracy.  And we are going to do something about it. MR: Cold Spell, we know your flier is hurt.  And you know we'll be     zeroing in on that injury.  But don't think about getting your     Genesis boys in on this.  Such a thing will not be tolerated.  Once     upon a time you were god folk.  Let's see how much of a competitive     spirit you have left. P: Si non, il y aura l'enfer a payer.  Nous deux, Meduse et moi, nous     sommes bani d'entrer dans un match.  Mais, pour proteger mon amour,     je dis je m'enfou de vos regles.  Cold Spell, I will do anyzing     necessaire to ensure zat my Derek iz not unfairly disadvantaged. SR: The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.  No team has ever had a more     appropriate theme.  The Prophets of Rage are angry and we will leave     a wreckage behind us.  You're going to be facing a whole different     unit this time out, gentlemen.  You're going to be facing athletes,     wrestlers, COMPETITORS. DR: Our ability is the ability to switch up.  Brawl when we need to,     wrestle whenever we can.  There is nothing the combination can't do.     And that includes taking you, Cold Spell, and putting you on the     deep freeze. Icehawk, Fitzgerald, we wanted Violence Unlimited.  We     won't lie about that, but you'll do.  Bring on your A game.  Come     try to take these belts. We haven't been in a significant match for     some time now.  Now we're going to get ours. SR: And at Coronation Clash you will ... All: _Die in darkness!_ [Fade out] LM: Cold Spell, on the other hand, aren't all that interested in dying     in darkness. They feel their time as champions has come... [SCENE: The stands of an empty Fleet Center. Preparations are obviously underway for the PPV, with the ring already set up, and banners being placed around the arena. Edmund Fitzgerald sits in the stands, watching, then turns and speaks into the camera.] EF: Here we go again.     Since we joined the IIWF, there have been three PPVs. At all three     of them, we have been the challengers in a tag title match. Twice,     we have dominated the champions, only to walk away empty-handed     because of outside interference.     At Ring Wars, we beat the Dark Disciples, but by DQ. They kept the     belts.     At Birthday Bash, we had the Prophets of Rage beat, but Violence     Unlimited stuck their noses in, and cost us the belts.     Tomorrow, it is us and the Prophets again. This time, for the big     one. The IIWF World Tag Team Titles. And this time, we are ready. We     aren't naive rookies anymore - we have some friends to make sure     that this match is two-on-two. Genesis won't interfere. But they     will make damn sure that no one else does.     Prophets, we aren't taking you lightly. We came into the IIWF at the     same time that you did, and the two of us have become the top two     tag teams in the world.     Tomorrow, we find out who is #1. And who needs to be trying harder. [Fade] BL: I have to admit that I'd rather see the Prophets take this one. They     came in and got where they are by competing, and they were rewarded     for it. Cold Spell came in, joined up with this Genesis group, and     began whining about how they haven't gotten their fair shake. Titles     are won through hard work. Not whining and complaining. LM: Are you saying Cold Spell is talentless? BL: No, I'm not. I realize that they have talent, but they just choose     not to use it. Instead, they put their energies into this so called     cause that Genesis subscribes to. They could be something if they     just went out on their own and performed to their fullest potential. LM: Brian Lau advising someone to quit a stable? BL: _That_ stable, yes. The Syndicate should not even be mentioned in     the same sentence as "Genesis." LM: So your pick is the Prophets? BL: Officially, maybe. But Cold Spell will probably be the dominant team     in the end. They may not win the titles, but the match will be won     by them as far as I'm concerned. While I dislike Genesis, there is     strength in numbers, and Genesis has the numbers. LM: Wait a minute, if they don't officially win, how can they win the     match? BL: Have you never listened to me in the past? Official decisions mean     nothing. Physical domination is all. I think Genesis will interfere,     giving the Prophets a DQ win. The Prophets might get the decision,     but they'll be losers as far as those watching are concerned. LM: Interesting viewpoint. But Fitzgerald just said that Genesis won't     interfere. BL: Oh, yes, and I'm sitting on the banjo that is my rump. What do you     think stables are _for,_ Larry? ---------------------------------------------------- Hollywood Bloods vs. Last Resort [Winner to receive title shot on Saturday, July 26.] ---------------------------------------------------- LM: We spoke of the big title match, which brings us to this one. The     winner of this match gets an opportunity to face whoever are the     champs after the Clash on the following Saturday Night. BL: Larry, I do the intros to the matches now. LM: Says who? BL: Says me. LM: Oh, come on... You're not even here full time yet. BL: I'm here as long as I want to be. I do the intros. LM: Whatever. BL: Curb that attitude, Moron. LM: [Tries to stare down Lau, but fails miserably.] Ummm... Okay, well,     like I said, the winner of this match will go on to get a title     shot. The W&W... I mean, the Hollywood Bloods are fairly certain     that it will take almost no effort to get there. We got these     comments from the Bloods... [The Camera opens to the first class section on a luxury jet headed to Boston.  Doug Wayne is sitting in the isle seat sipping on a martini while Clark Watson stares out the window.They are constantly being approached for autographs.] DW: [Finishes his martini and winks at the stewardess as she takes it     away] Ahhh. Well we are on our way to Boston, Massachusetts  On our     way to dispose of those burrito breath circus acts.  On our way to     show the whole world just who the biggest, baddest team on the     planet is.  This match is going to serve as a wakeup call for all     the IIWF. CW: [Takes another tranquilizer to calm his flight stress] Yeah, Last     Resort, we used to be friends.  We used to respect you.  We were the     two teams that were beating people fairly and honestly. Then we woke     up and smelled the bad odor.  The only way to make it in this     business is by any means possible.  If we got to break a bottle over     your head to win a match we are going to do it. DW: Last Resort, We changed and you guys remained a circus act.  Then     you guys got in our way.  We beat you and we get a title shot.     Friendship is thrown out the window because at the Clash you guys     turn into our most hated enemies.  After the Clash, you guys may     turn into our worst victims. CW: It's too bad that you guys are taking a bullet for the Dark     Disciples. It's too bad that you guys are the ones that have to be     made an example out of in front of the whole world. [Clark Watson unfastens his seat belt and gets up to go to the bathroom. A little boy then comes over to Doug Wayne asking for an autograph] Boy: Can I have your autograph, Mr.Wayne? DW: Sure kid, but let me ask you a few questions first.  What do you     think of The Last Resort. Boy: They are funny guys, that Masked Avenger makes me laugh. I like      when he goofs around.  That El Diablo is ugly and scary looking. DW: [laughingly] Do you think they will win against us? Boy: No, they are going to get hurt against you guys. Please don't hurt      Masked Avenger too bad, I like him. DW: [signs the autograph]  Here's your autograph. I will give Masked     Avenger an extra piledriver just for you. Boy: Thank you. [goes back to his seat] [Clark Watson comes back to his seat] CW: What the hell was that about, Wayne? DW: Just interacting with the kids.  That boy is one of the millions of     people that will get the privilege of seeing us end the careers of     The Last Resort. CW: Man, forget the world title tournament, forget the retirement match.     The reason to order that PPV is to watch us send Last Resort back to     Mexico in a doggy bag. DW: Maybe Mommacita and El Presidente can use their remains as     fertilizer because there ain't gonna be too much left of them.  Call     your cable company now everybody, Don't Wait. [Wayne orders another drink while Watson goes to sleep. Fade.] BL: You know, I hated the W&W Express. Then I started to like the     Bloods. Now I see that interview, and I dislike them again. LM: What? Why? BL: Listen, if they want to play the part, they'd better start riding     first class. Get away from these little snot factories that people     breed, and never sign an autograph unless you get paid for it. LM: That's just not right... BL: Oh really? Have you heard how much that Syndicate poster signed by     me is worth? LM: Actually, I heard it's got quite a price tag on it... BL: That's right. How much is your autograph worth? LM: Well, I... Ummm, I don't know, I sign my autograph on quite a few     things, you know. BL: Exactly. My autograph is worth something. If you sign any piece of     paper that some little brat hands you, your signature becomes     worthless. The Bloods need to either tell the fans where to stick it     or stop cheating. It's just an affront to everything I hold dear. LM: Oh, brother... Well, hopefully The Last Resort will appease you with     these comments. BL: I doubt it... [Scene: Masked Avenger of the Last Resort sits in the gym, he finishes a set of arm curls and puts the weight down before turning to address the camera. ] MA: So then, Hollywood Bloods, it all comes out now, doesn't it? How we're clowns, a couple of B-movie rejects -- what else was it? Oh yeah, a couplea border jumpers. Well, let me set you straight on something, Blunts, I'm as American as "momma's apple pie." Yeah you heard me right, I called you Blunts, you know why? 'Cause when it comes to a cutting edge you just ain't got one. [He laughs]     It's funny how things change so quickly -- it doesn't seem that long     ago since you were thanking us for saving your butts from a beating     at the hands Dark Disciples, and now you're crying that you've gotta face us instead of them.  Well, Blunts, believe me... the Last Resort have turned things up a few notches since we last met and if you think a couple of washed-up beach bums are gonna get another flukey win over us then you're sadly mistaken. [Mr Friday and El Diablo walk into the gym.] MF: Looks like everything is set for the Coronation Clash. MA: Even the...? MF: El Diablo has taken care of that, everything is set. You know what,     I'm proud of you boys the training that you've put in over the past     weeks; looks like it's gonna pay dividends, and if those bums we're     gonna face at the weekend want to think they are facing an aging     Mexican and a inexperienced rookie, well, that's okay by me because if they do, they're gonna find themselves on the receiving end of a     butt whooping. No, this weekend is gonna be when we show the rest of     the IIWF why I picked you two boys to become my team. ED: Is true I am in the best shape for years and if those Bloods think     that they are gonna be in for an easy ride then that just goes to     prove how arrogant they are. I may have once been called the     unluckiest wrestler in the whole of Mexico, but that does not mean that people thought I was a bad wrestler, far from it, it was just that the luck, it has never run for me, that is until I teamed up with Mr. Friday and my young partner Masked Avenger. MA: Too right, you were not the only person whose luck took a turn for     the better when we teamed up, if it were not for El Diablo and Mr     Friday I would have still been stuck amongst the jobbers. It is     amazing how much I have learned in the short time I have been teamed     up with El Diablo, this man posesses an amazing array of technical     skills and I'm sure that if he met up with the likes of Lord Byron     that he would be able to show even him a thing or two. MF: You see Bloods, my boys are ready for you, and rest assured, they     won't be the ones going down! [Fade] BL: Right... Guys, I know talent, and I don't see it in you. LM: That's hardly impartial, Brian. BL: I know, Larry. --------------------------------------------------------------------- FOUR WAY DANCE, FALLS COUNT ANYWHERE! Chris Quigley vs. Marty Warnett vs. Billy Shakespeare vs. Simon Lebec --------------------------------------------------------------------- LM: The... BL: [interrupting] Ap! You just sit there and grin like an idiot,     Morton. I've got this intro. Fans, this special Four Way Dance     showcases three complete boobs and one classy guy. LM: Quigley does show that classy side sometimes... BL: No, you idiot, I'm talking about Simon Lebec! Quigley has about as     much class as a sweat sock. A particularly old sweat sock, to be     more specific. Lebec, to be honest, "styles and profiles." He's not     afraid to tell it like it is, and he can wrestle one hell of a     match. LM: And you're saying that Warnett, Quigley, and Shakespeare can't? BL: Shakespeare? He's a good punching bag. Warnett? Nice try. And     Quigley? He should join Genesis, for all the bitching and moaning he     does. LM: That is uncalled for... BL: So is your suit, but I've been politely quiet about it up until this     point. The fact is that Quigley has made so many enemies here that     it's impossible for him to have friends. Even the people that don't     hate him can't listen to him for more than a couple of seconds.     Shakespeare... Well, the guy knows his classics, but he's not     exactly on the top of the list for killer instinct. LM: What about that Spur incident? BL: What about it? Where is Spur now? Gone. Shakespeare repressed that     gem so that it never comes out again. If you ask me, he should have     kept the mask on. Then there's Warnett... The Party Maniac. What's     the phrase? "Rock on"? Please. To tie Simon Lebec down by making him     fight these three is just disappointing. LM: Well, why don't we get comments from Lebec himself? BL: Gee, Larry... You're a smooth one, aren't you? LM: Well, thank you. I got these comments from the Showstopper     himself... [Larry Morton walks onto a film set, where "The Showstopper" Simon Lebec sits in a makeup chair] LM: Mr. Lebec, can we get a word? [Lebec looks up at Morton] SL: Oh for God's sake!  They could have sent me Roberts, or that tramp     Becky!  Hell!  Even Dross!  At least then I could've punched his     lights out!  But the bottom of the barrel?  What do you want,     Morton? LM: Wondering if I could get a word on your upcoming match at     Coronation Clash, where you'll be facing "Spotlight" Billy     Shakespeare, "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley, and Marty Warnett. SL: Well go ahead.  Ask away.  I mean, you're here! [Lebec looks up at     the makeup girl]  Hey honey, not so much on the powder.  I don't     want to look like a clown! LM: Well, I guess the fans of the IIWF would like to know your feelings     about the match, the wrestlers, and any other relevant information     you'd like to give. SL: What do you think, Morton?  I'm going to win the match.  Bottom     line. No "if"s, "and"s, or "but"s about it.  Not only will I be the     most talented man in the ring, but also the most talented man in the     arena that night. As far as the wrestlers go, I hate them.  No big     shocker there! LM: But why, Mr. Lebec?  The feud between you and Quigley has been     legendary.  You and Marty Warnett have been griping at each other     for what seems like forever.  You even traded haircuts.  And     Shakespeare, I don't know what you're motivation to hate him is, but     it seems like the two of you have been on opposing sides since the     IIWF began. [Lebec looks at Morton] SL: Why, Larry?  Why?  Is that what you want to know? LM: Well... yes. SL: Chris Quigley.  Might as well start at the top.  Mr. Wrestler.  Mr.     Fan Favorite.  Mr. "I'm better than everyone else!"  Mr. "I suck up     to the big wigs to get wins!"  Mr. "If I don't get everything I     want, I'm going to leave!"  Larry, do I really have to say anything     else about him? Wish I had as many title shots as he has. Billy     Shakespeare.  What a winner this guy is.  Mr. "Born to Perform!"     mmm......wish I had as many title shots as he has. And last, but     certainly not least, Marty Warnett.  Here, you got a kid. A punk.     He's sitting down one day, and he says to himself,"Boy, I'd really     like to make a name for myself.  How could I do this?  I know! I'll     get in Simon Lebec's face.  He's a star.  That'll surely draw heat!"     So, he does.  I got no problem with that.  We fight.  No problem     with that either.  He clips my hair.  Still, no real problem with     that either. So, I leave for a while.  Quigley will tell you why I     left.  Then, Lebec is back in the "I".  Warnett... he's still around, and as obnoxious as always.  You tell me, Larry... how could     I resist? LM: But, is it wise to go into a match with three men who hate you? SL: Larry, Larry, Larry... you forget three things: one, I'm quite capable of facing more than one man at a time.  Did it before, and I can do it again.  Two, these boys don't exactly like each other either. And three, I can out-think these three buffoons on any given day of the week.  Oh, I'll be at the Clash with bells on.  Count on it!  And I'll come out the winner.  Count on that too. LM: When this historic match is over, when all is said and done... will     this put an end to it all? SL: I said it before.  It'll never be over between me and Quigley.     There's always gonna be another time, another place.  As for the     other two... who knows?  Depends on how badly I beat them. LM: Well, it's certainly going to be a classic battle.  Good luck, Mr.     Lebec. SL: You don't need luck when you've got brains, Larry.  Remember that. [Camera fades as Lebec continues to get ready for filming] LM: He's quite arrogant... BL: That's confidence. Lebec is a smart man. You know he's got a plan.     Look at the new hairstyle he gave to Warnett. You know he was     planning that little gem for months. LM: Well, I know for a fact that Warnett will be looking to extract some     revenge for that one... BL: The term is to _exact_ revenge, you idiot. LM: Is it? Nonetheless, Warnett has high hopes for this match, and     little love lost for at least two of the other participants... [SCENE: The hallway in Marty Warnett's luxury house in California.  The camera tracks Tim Dross and a young lad into the main living room. Marty is sat clad in just a pair of badly ripped jeans, reclining whilst watching a video.] MW: Hey, Tim, who's the dude? [Dross steps into the room, the lad being too shy to come in.] TD: Dave?  This is my nephew.  He wants to be a pro wrestler, just like     you, Marty. Come on in, Dave. [The youth enters, revealing himself to be all of five foot two, greasy hair, extra thick glasses, weighing all of one hundred pounds after being caught in a monsoon. Marty looks agog.] MW: Well, Dave, I guess you'll need a gimmick to get you, ahem, over.     Hey, Dross, I know - he can dress up in a bird outfit, call himself     Alba! [laughs] TD: Sorry, Marty, I don't get it ... MW: You know?  Alba?  Alba Dross?  Never mind.  Hey, kid, want a drink? [Dave Dross looks down at his feet.] TD: Sorry Marty, he's just shy.  You're one of his heroes.  What do you     want, Dave? DD: [bites hips lip, doesn't look up.] A Mooselips, please, if it's not     too much trouble. MW: No worries, son. [Marty disappears for a few second, returning with a large pile of cans.] MW: Sorry, don't hold with that Mooselips - heck, it even made LaRue     unable to perform.  Drink some of this Duff stuff, you need to put     weight on, and I guess yellow skin would be a way cool gimmick. [Marty places the cans on the floor, tosses one to Dross, who instantly opens it, sending a plume of spray over the carpet.  Dave sits down quietly, taking a can and slowly sipping it.] MW: Dross, do you mind?  Remember the dry cleaning bill last time? Since     Owens got caught, you can't try the ole expenses trick.  Dave, son,     you don't wanna sip it, you look like Quigley on a wild night out -     shotgun it son, and line the next one up! [Dave takes a long swig, nearly chokes, then finishes the rest.  He starts on the other cans ...] TD: So, Marty, what's up with this video you wanted me to see? MW: Well, first of all, let's get Saturday night out of the way.     Shakespeare, I want to clarify things.  Now, I know LeBec doesn't     believe it, being the lowlife he is, but I was honestly out there to     watch your back.  What do you think I was doing out there?  Getting     a suntan?  I saw LeBec come out, did you think he was gonna admire     the view?  Fact is, Shakespeare, I helped save your ass from a     beating which was more than you did for me earlier in that     tournament. TD: Well, I don't think ... he did get eliminated. MW: Why?  Who held him down?  LeBec, not me, that's who.  Billy, I     always, always, thought of you as a friend, and yet you slapped my     cheek.  I'll wrestle you fairly on Saturday, due to the respect I     have for you.  You'd better come out powered up, though, pal,     because otherwise your spotlight will be very, very dim indeed. [Dave, meanwhile is intoxicated.] DD: I'm extreme! I am the Sandcastle!  I will whip you unmercilessly!     [slams empty beer can into his forehead ] OOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWW! [Dave falls to the floor, clutching his head as blood pours through his fingers.  Tim is, however, oblivious.  Marty smirks.] TD: Quiet, Dave.  So, what about this video?  Is it that one of LaRue     the Steve was on about? MW: Nah, Dross, Steve wore that one out - I'd never have thought that     going to the toilet can provide such a show ... Dross, here it is.     [hands over a tape to Dross] Slide it in with the style only you     have, Dross ... [Dave seems more calm now.  He stands up, blood masking his face.  He stands  perched upon a chair.] DD: I'm Fabo!  I'm hardcore! [Dave now leaps, soaring low, landing head first onto a table.  He falls, unconscious.] TD: Hush, Dave. MW: Look closely at this footage, Dross. [The cameraman swings round, focusing on the TV screen.  Blocky black and white footage shows an empty car-park, with a timestamp indicating that the tape was taken two Saturday's ago.] MW: Keep watching, Dross. [Gradually two men appear, from different sides of the screen.  Both appear similar, in both physique and gait as Chris Quigley and Simon LeBec, although the grainy appearance of the tape is inconclusive.  The pair start jawing at each other, almost starting a brawl, until one passes an envelope to the other.  The two then stare at each other, and walk off.] MW: See, Dross? TD: See what, Marty? [Dave, meanwhile, showing the resilience and heart of a member of the Jobber Justice Squad by standing up.] DD: I feel my pain! [He then falls down again.] TD: Dave, please be quiet, I'm trying to work! MW: See, Dross, that tape proves it all. TD: What? MW: I've smelled this set up, fishier than LeBec's trunks.  It's clear.     Obvious. TD: Sorry? MW: Well, I wanted Quigley in the ring, who returns?  LeBec.  Chris is     paying Simian to run interference. TD: Really, Marty, I feel that comment is totally unfounded - Quigley     would never do that. MW: Hey, anybody whose best insult is to accuse me of cross-dressing has     to be very desperate, not to mention terminally unfunny.  Nobody     said they have to be friends, money talks. [Meanwhile, Dave staggers up, aided mainly by the fact he's propping himself up on the sofa.] DD: I'm a Gitbull!  Wanna buy some hash? [He then falls down again] TD: I'm sorry, Marty, I cannot - no, I won't believe these allegations.     Those two on the tape could have been anybody whatsoever.  I'm out     of here.  Come on Dave. [A voice quietly calls out ... ] DD: Uncle Tim?  I've got that warm feeling again ... TD: Oh, dear. MW: DROSS! [The camera fades to black.  When the picture comes back on, Marty is alone.] MW: Sorry, Dross had a ... family emergency to take care of.  So let's     talk about next Saturday.  Quigley, Quigley, Quigley.  Yet again,     you blow an opportunity.  You know, it's quite ironic your     propensity to choke, for that's what you'll be doing in that ring     for the PPV.  You know, I was even impressed by the fact you gave an     interview last Friday night, I guess you ain't Mister Saturday Night     after all.  Now, you might whine about me, about my lifestyle, but     let's face it, Chris, in my interviews, but at least I know which     arena I'm fighting in each night - wherever the IIWF is.  I was     surprised you didn't get counted out - I mean, you being in Madison     Square Garden like that.  No wonder you date that Manning sister - I     guess you need somebody simple, to explain to you in simple terms,     which federation you're in on any given night, where you're     fighting, who you're fighting, which boot goes on which foot ...     And as for you, LeBec, well, what can I say?  Buddy - boy, you are     the biggest piece of [BLEEP] in the IIWF, and I'm the toilet paper     that'll clean you away.   You awoke a demon in me, for this bout I'm     on fire, Party Mania is back, jack, and this ain't soul, it's rock     'n roll.  I just thank those suits above that this bout is falls     count anywhere, for LeBec, wherever we go, I'll kick your ass so     badly, you'll be back off to South America quicker than anyone can     say, 'Loser'.  LeBec, you claim to be a star - stars implode,     Saturday, I'll explode.  Yet again, you go on about the exploits of     you and Quigley in yet another dull, monotonous, non-descript bush     league, where you wrestle in front of twenty five men in dirty macs     waiting for the porn show to begin.  Excuse me if I ain't impressed.     This interview is over, with a bullet. [As the camera again fades to black, a voice is heard yelling 'I'm fat! I'm bald! I'm Dangerous!  Uncle, gimme that phone!] BL: Hehe... Alba Dross. That's funny. But you're still a punk, Warnett.     It's too bad all you can do is make me laugh. LM: Are you going to run down any IIWF star that you've never managed? BL: Depends on my mood. LM: I'm almost afraid to introduce the next interview... That of Chris     Quigley. BL: Oh, now here's a guy I could run down for hours... LM: Please don't. Ladies and gentlemen, "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley... [SCENE: A grassy field just outside the Fleet Center in Boston.  In the background, children play catch.  Sitting on a small wooden bench, staring up at the sky lost in thought, is Chris Quigley, wearing a pair of shades and a hat turned backwards, along with a jean jacket, Boston Bruins T-shirt, and jeans, doing a satisfactory job of disguising himself.  As the camera zooms in further, Quigley begins to speak, his eyes still focused on the clouds overhead...] CQ: I guess every wrestler needs to reflect, every now and then, on the     most important match of their career.  I've always had a difficult     time looking back at past matches, because it reminds me of how much     time has actually passed on, and how much time could actually be     left in my wrestling career. [Lowers his head, now looking down to the ground on his left side...] CQ: Today I felt I had to.  I felt like, I had to take some kind of     inventory, to realize what this Four Way Dance actually meant to me.     One of the IIWF broadcasters mentioned that revenge probably     wouldn't be strong enough to carry any of us through the match.     We'd need something else. Something deeper. [Looks into the camera...] CQ: The question of the hour is, "Who wants.... no, who _needs_ this     feud to end?"  All four of us probably believe it's ourselves, for     whatever reasons. Lebec probably believes he needs to win this     match, because losing to any of us would be a humbling experience     for him.  Warnett wants to win this match, hoping maybe to get a bit     of respect.  Shakespeare wants to win this match, in order to give     him that one boost he needs to reach the status of megastar.  "Why     do I need this match?" [Quigley stands up, and watches the children playing...] CQ: I can't remember anything about my childhood that didn't involve     competition.  I learned to skate when I was 3 years old.  I began     training myself as an amateur wrestler when I turned 5.  Throughout     the rest of my childhood, until I turned 14 I tossed wrestling and     hockey back and forth, back and forth, trying desperately to neglect     neither, wanting desperately to do them both.  A small knee injury     was all it took to dash any hopes of being the next Ken Dryden or     the next Terry Sawchuck.  So, I focused on becoming the next Lou     Thesz.  I battled through a helluva lot to become a great amateur     wrestler, and I _was_ a great amateur wrestler.  I lived with the     fact that my entire family thought I was crazy and that wrestling     was a joke.  I kept going despite warnings that no promoter was     going to pick up a kid with a bum knee.  Steve Manning was the     reason I got into pro wrestling, but despite all he taught me, there     are some things you've got to teach yourself.  You've got to teach     yourself to win, and to do that, you must realize why you want to     win.  Again, I ask myself, "Why do I need this match?"  And to     answer that question, I've got to ask myself two other questions.     "What happens if I _do_ win this match?"  I move on with my career,     and get closer to finally winning the IIWF World Championship belt.     The second question.  "What happens if I _don't_?" [Quigley looks down at the ground, and simply shakes his head slowly, as if at a loss for an answer.  The camera fades to black.] BL: Better figure that last question out, Quigley, because you're not     going to win this one. LM: Brian, please... BL: Quit begging, Morton. Quigley should have listened to his parents     and stayed in his room tossing things back and forth, back and     forth. LM: That's... You can't say things like that... BL: I just did. LM: [sighs] Folks, this next interview we have for you is from none     other than "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare. BL: Should have kept the Spur persona, Billy... [SCENE: An audience, empty save for the unoccupied seats.  Slowly the camera rises, travelling up into the balcony where is found Billy Shakespeare, feet hooked over the seat in front of him.  He waits until the camera has stopped moving before he speaks.] BS: Some are born for greatness, some have greatness thrust upon them.     Others just keep trying to steal the fame of others.  What is it     Lebec?   Warnett?  I was on my way to another great performance,     when only to again be so rudely interrupted.  Now I find myself     trapped in some side show with three rude mechanicals.  A Comedy of     Errors it all is.     But here's the rub.  I don't want to be in this show.  What gain is     there for Billy Shakespeare?  To stand in victory over Lebec another     time?  To eke past Quigley?  To vanquish Warnett, who I have no     grievance with save for his act of poor timing?  What reason have I     to take to the ring save for the dictates of the directors.  I ask     you Chris Quigley...Marty Warnett...Simon Lebec:  Where lies my     motivation?     Too well I understand King Lear's lament when he sighed "I am tied     to the stake, and I must stand the course."  If this is what the     fans want, then the obligation of being the performer is clear.     Gentlemen, one more time.  If this is the means to the end, then I     must be the method. [Quickly the camera drops, fading out as it does so.] BL: Right now, a security guard who's job it was to keep watch over that     theatre is getting fired. LM: It will be interesting to find out who prevails in this match. Four     men battling it out, and falls count anywhere! You might see Simon     Lebec pinned in a hot dog stand... BL: Not likely. LM: ...You might see Quigley pinned at the merchandising booth! Heck,     you might even see two of these guys battling it out in the ladies     washroom! BL: Any two guys battling it out in the ladies washroom would be Quigley     and Warnett. LM: Suffice as to say that this one is going to be tough for the     referees to control. BL: And you know what that means... High entertainment value! ---------------------- LOSER LEAVES THE IIWF! Creed vs. Lord Byron ---------------------- LM: This match... BL: Can it, Larry... This match would be really interesting if Lord     Byron were fighting someone he had a chance of losing against. Creed     is just too weak. Just listen to these comments from Lord Byron and     try and tell me he isn't the picture of confidence... [The scene opens in the study of Lord Byron's Louisiana mansion.  The IC title lies neatly folded on the desk, as usual, but the seat next to it is empty.  Byron is stood in front of the window, looking out on the estate.  For once, he is completely alone.  Slowly, he turns to the camera, tapping his brass topped cane against his palm.  The usual sneer is gone from his face, replaced now by a look of pure and complete focus.  His face, the expression, looks unmistakably like that which usually falls on Creed's own.] LB: So then, Creed, the storm approaches.  Three days to go, until Coronation Clash. Three days until the big match, Creed versus Byron, Loser leaves town. [Byron allows himself the luxury of a sardonic smile] LB: One man with everything to fight for, one with everything to lose.  That is how it's been billed, hasn't it?  Maybe it's true.  But I tell you this.  I know how this will turn out. [Byron turns back to the window, and the camera follows him, looking out across the rain soaked fields.] LB: It will be a fight for survival, nothing more, nothing less.  Creed, you may think you're focused on winning the gold, for keeping your pride, for getting some measure of [Byron shrugs] 'payback', but you'll be wrong.  When you get into that ring on Saturday night,     and you face me for the final time, you may have all sorts of ideas in your head, plans, tactics, strategies... but believe me, when there's this much on the line, and you start to tire, instinct will take over. There'll only be one thing on your mind.  And that is to     survive. [Byron turns back to the camera, a reflective look on his face.] LB: And how do I know this, Creed?  Quite simple, really.  I've been in a position _exactly_ the same as yours before. [Byron nods across at a monitor, where footage of a much younger Byron is playing.  He is squaring off against a much larger opponent, and being dominated.  Time and time again though, he pulls a desperate move out of the bag, buying him enough time to return to the offensive.] LB: That was two years ago, my friend.  I was, much like yourself, still a hotshot young grappler, looking to make my name and win the gold.  This match you are seeing right here, was for the WAR!Lord title, and was loser leaves town.  I was the young challenger, and my opponent was the experienced veteran. [Byron picks up a remote control, presses a button, and the screen goes blank.  He looks up again] LB: I came through that match, in the end Creed, I took the title, made my mark, and began the reign of dominance that you see even now when you look at my record.  But it scarred me, Creed.  The match left me knowing exactly what it feels like to put everything on the line, and exactly what it feels like to watch it slipping away. And this is something you yourself have never experienced.  You don't know what it's like, Creed, and that's where I have the advantage. [Byron sighs deeply, and slowly walks across the room, picking up the IC title and putting it across his shoulder.] LB: Believe me, my friend, when you and I meet up in three days time, all thoughts of this title will be gone from both of our minds.  All thoughts of revenge will be gone from our minds.  All we'll be thinking of, all we'll be determined to do, is survive.  One way or another, survive.  Maybe Mad Dog's trying to prepare you for that, because I'm sure a veteran like him knows the feeling well.  But even so, Creed, he'll know that he can't prepare you for everything, and he can't give you what you need to win. [Byron brushes an imaginary speck of dust off the title, and turns back to the camera.] LB: And what about me, Creed?  We all know your desire, but what about mine?  I'm still as focused as ever, rookie.  I still have the desire, and I still have a lot to achieve yet.  And I'm not about to let you take all that away.  Payback?  No, my friend, it's not going to happen.  When we meet in the ring my friend, it will be everything but.  And when all is said and done, and the last blows have been thrown, I _will_ be the one standing.  I _will_ not be defeated.  I simply will not allow it to happen.  Think about what I've said, Creed, just think about it.  I'll see you at Coronation Clash.  Ciao. [Byron turns away from the camera again, and the scene fades out.] BL: See that? It's people like that who that should be cheered by the     fans. LM: Oh, sure... I, for one, am glad that he's not. I prefer an athlete     of the calibre of this man, Creed... [The screen is black.  A soft, acoustic version of Peter Gabriel's "Red Rain" mournfully plays in the background. One word now appears on the screen - shooting crimson letters seemingly trying to break completely through the shot:                     ANYONE. Cut to a shot vaguely familiar to encyclopedic viewers of "Countdown to Saturday Night.  It is a grainy, hand held shot of a dirty, cramped, inner-city gymnasium.  A 10 year old African-American boy lies uncomfortably on a threadbare floormat, soundlessly doing sit up after sit up, while a few older children look on in seeming amazement. The young boy's baby face is in sharp contrast with his overdeveloped cardio-physique; his perspiration drenched black sweatpants are provided an unsettling counterpoint by the only swatch of color in the dreary shot....the boy's left hand... Which is covered in red bandages. The screen goes black again -- and shooting through the frame is another portion of the crimson message:                     ANYWHERE. Cut back to the shot of the young boy, now surrounded by 19-20 others, all soundlessly cheering him on -- apparently chanting a one word name over and over as the boy continues his measured sit ups.  The pain is evident in his young body as it spasms involuntarily, the bandaged left hand twitching wildly as the children burst into applause -- a slightly older man with a pressed shirt and a red tie writing the number 2000!! in huge print on the backwall and shaking his head in astonishment. The screen blackens once more -- and again we see the crimson letters desperate to escape the prison of the screen:                         ANYTIME. Back to the shot of the now emptied gymnasium, the shouts and cheers of the boys a memory...the emptied ring and dormant speed bag a testimony to a day long since completed. Except for the 10 year old boy with the red bandages on his left hand. The overhead lights in the gymnasium turning off one-by-one as the young boy continues doing sit up..after sit up...after sit up.  His seemingly broken 10 year old body pressing itself beyond will, beyond need...to a place which might be best categorized as wrongly mechanical. The room grows nearly completely dark as the shot zooms in on the young face of the even more tenderly aged boy...and then to those eyes...the cold, dark eyes of someone who has seen what was never meant to be seen by someone of any age.  Much less the eyes of a child. The last light goes off, the music fades and the only sound is the faint swooshing of the boy's continued sit ups...over and over and over again. As the shot again goes completely black, it is the familiar softly resonant voice of the now adult Creed which is heard:] CREED: You're gonna have to kill me, Byron. You're gonna have to kill me. [In almost threatening red letters, the words now appear to burst off the screen:]                  CREED/BYRON III               CORONATION CLASH 1997              LOSER.  LEAVES.  TOWN. [Fade back to the studio.] LM: Intensity perso... BL: [interrupting] Oh, do shut up... Give me a break. This Creed... He     showed promise when he first came here. When he was aligned with     that Jack Montgomery. The two of them reminded me of two men who     entered the IIWF at the first Coronation Clash... You remember them? LM: Ummm... Steamroller? BL: No, you nitwit! They reminded me of myself and Tiger Claw! I saw the     same intensity in Creed's eyes... The same potential for managerial     genius in Montgomery. And then Creed somehow broke free and he's     now a pathetic shadow of his former self. LM: So your pick for this one would be... BL: What are you, stupid? Do you babble on like this to occupy your     feeble mind? Should I just start calling you Rain Man from now on? LM: No... Definitely not... Definitely not Rain Man. ---------------------------------- Group A: Takezo Musashi vs. Mad Dog Watkins Steve Kowalski vs. Ike Sampson ---------------------------------- LM: Well, here we... BL: Larry, you're upsetting me. Stop with the intros. Fans, we'll now     touch upon the "big event," and that's the actual tournament. Not     that the winner will be the _real_ champion or anything, but I guess     it'll be fun to watch all these guys beat each other up. LM: Wait... The prize at the end is the IIWF World Heavyweight Title! BL: A title that Casey James was never beaten for. Everyone saw the     Blackheart pin Thunder. LM: And we all saw VP Owens strip James of the title! BL: And he's gone now. Why is his decision upheld? We all know he was     crooked... LM: Whatever... Folks, Group A starts off by pitting Takezo Musashi     against Mad Dog Watkins and Steve Kowalski against Ike Sampson. The     entire bracket promises to be exciting. BL: Sure. I want to touch upon the first match... Takezo Musashi against     Mad Dog Watkins. I'm looking for Musashi to pull out a victory over     the old geezer... LM: We prefer "ring veteran." BL: I prefer "old geezer." You know, I used to have a problem with     Musashi... That whole Hakiro Matsuoko business. That was then,     though. Now, he's definitely got the warrior spirit in him. Not only     is he a great fighter, but he's very smart as well. Listen to these     comments... [SCENE: Inky blackness. A match flares in the darkness with blinding intensity before settling into a dim red glow. The illumination reveals nothing except for the face of the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi. His usual sky-blue/silver face paint has been replaced with a devilish red and black pattern, rendered sinister in the shallow light. His mouth spreads in a wide open grin - it is the expression of a madman.] TM: See? Do you see now, Kevin Christiansen? I did my best to implore     you; I spoke to you with the utmost sincerity of truth; I bared my     knowledge to you in all of its harsh misery - and yet still you did     not listen to me! You had me beaten "Cavalier"! You could have     destroyed my wrestling career for good and left me wallowing in my     own self-pity until the end of my days! But - what happened? Pity     stayed your hand! You allowed your 'lofty' ideals of honour and     justice to cloud your mind in all of their shallow foolhardiness!     How I laughed at you inside when my hand was raised in victory! It     was an incomparable delight to prove before all the world that mercy     and nobility of spirit are for the weak and stupid; this I knew     already, but now it is something proved and demonstrated for the     benefit of all!     It rends me inside to see that I was right! It angers me bitterly;     it tortures me as I try to sleep at night - but still I regard it     with glee! Perhaps I have gone crazy? Only a madman could feel such     things - but it is of no consequence to me.     Joe Petrow, you vile scum! - I thank you from the depths of my     twisted heart, for if it were not for you I would have given in to     Christiansen's pathetic little hold. It was my hatred for you that     provided me with the strength to resist! It glowed within me like     metal in the furnace; it roasted and spluttered and poured forth     like molten steel - It made me enjoy the agony I was feeling! Yes!     For I imagined myself inflicting such pain on you! I realized that     in all the despair and hopelessness my wrestling career has become     I never want it to end - not until I have seen you screaming before     me in agony! Not until I hold your career, your life, within my     grasp; only to crush it completely and utterly as a child crushes an     insignificant insect! That is the nature of my feelings towards you,     Joe Petrow.     But - already I can see your mind games at work. Do you really think     that I am fooled by your charade? You are tempting me with the     promise of a soothing balm for my bitter anger. You think that I     could find in you any kinship? You think that I could find anything     in you to relate to me? You think that I might find in you [his     voice falters]     ....a friend?     No! You are playing games with my mind! I am not stupid enough to be     fooled by your antics! I know you well, Joe Petrow! You manipulate     others to serve your own twisted ends - I will not become a pawn of     your machinations! There is nothing in either one of us that is     alike! We are complete opposites - I am your antithesis, Joe Petrow!     Attempt to draw me closer, and you'll be granted a glimpse into the     depths of my blackened soul; and believe me, Joe Petrow, inside it     there resides a violence and a hatred more intense than anything you     have ever known. [Musashi pauses and closes his eyes. When he opens them his face has taken on a calmer, saner countenance.] TM: Tomorrow night, the battle of Coronation Clash will be fought. I     have won myself a place on the battlefield, but for what? What do     the honours, the prestige and the titles such tournaments bestow     mean to me now? It is long since I cared for such trophies. The old     "Enigma" would have embraced them with pride and honour, but that     man has long since gone. All that remains is the empty man standing     before you. There is no longer any hope left within me to find an     answer. In the Clash, my sole goal is one of destruction, whether of     others or of myself... I can not foretell. [The match flickers and goes out, and nothing remains but inky blackness once again.] BL: That's the way a warrior should be! LM: Nuttier than a sack of chickadees? BL: No, I'm talking about... What did you just say? LM: The winner of that match will go on to face the winner of the next     match, Steve Kowalski vs. Ike Sampson. We had these comments from     Steve Kowalski... [Sitting at the Bull and Finch bar, in downtown Boston, The New Jersey Nightmare crushes walnuts between his thumb and fore finger. Next to him,   a smallish gentleman with a sweater tries to mind his own business and drink his beer. Nervously, the bartender brings Kowalski his beer and shot. After a swift gulp and a crunch of a walnut, the Fury turns to the guy next to him and begins...for lack of a better word, harassing him. Kowalski gives him a slap on the back to get his attention.] SK: Hey there, pinhead. Ya a wrestlin' fan? The IIWF's in town an' it     gonna be a helluva show. Ha ha ha! Man: Uh...no. Not really. I...uh...prefer to go see classical music and      ballets. SK: Junior, ya ain't seen [BLEEP] 'til classic ass beatin' at the hands     of yers truly. An' throw that bal-laid crap out the window, 'less     yer a homo. Them fairies can dance, but who wants to watch it     anyways? Ya should come down an' watch the Fury take the belt this     Saturday. As a matter o' fact, I  got me these tickets. Take'em!     [Tossing the tickets in the man's glass] Man: Why...why are you giving me these? I don't even know you. SK: I figure, since I'm gonna be champ soon, I gotta expand my fan base.     'Least that what the promotion guys always says. So, I'm givin' ya a     chance to expand _yer_ horizons an' see some real culture. BE THERE! Man: [Swallowing hard] Oh, okay. Since...since you put it that way. Who      are you going to compete against? If I may...uh ask. SK: Well, lugnut... Man: Its Robert. SK: Lugnut. Well, lugnut, I'll be facing a whole bunch o' punks. But the     first punk is gonna be Dyke Sampson. He's one o' them kid brother     types that's felt left out of the big picture an' know he's suckin'     up to the older guys so he'll feel loved. Real [BLEEP]in' touchin'. Man: Can you beat him? [Wishing he never said it, as soon as it left his      lips.] SK: BEAT HIM! I'm gonna [BLEEP] [BLEEP] [BLEEP] [BLEEP]'n leg an'[BLEEP]     [BLEEP] [BLEEP] [BLEEP][BLEEP] [BLEEP]so bad his muther won't     recogize his [BLEEP] [BLEEP], tear him a new [BLEEP] [BLEEP][BLEEP]     [BLEEP] [BLEEP][BLEEP]... all that an' a bag o' chips! [The small gentleman slumps in his chair after the mad tirade of Kowalski, looking rather ill. Suddenly, he spins around and looses a horrendous upchuck of insane proportions. Kowalski, unfazed, continues talking of the horrors he will inflict upon his opponents. The screen starts to fade and the 'Cheers' music kicks in:] "# Where everybody knows your name... #" [Fade] BL: That man definitely has some style... LM: Style? You call that style? BL: Yes, actually, I do. LM: Well, I hate to ask, but how do you look at this group for the     tournament? BL: Well, I see Musashi getting to the Elite Eight. Watkins maybe a "ring veteran," as you call it, but Musashi has a fire burning in him right now that will engulf the old man. In the next bracket, I see Kowalski coming out on top. He's just too tough for Ike Sampson to pose any threat. That, of course, pits Musashi against Kowalski.     This is a tough one. I'd have to say that The Enigma has the better     tactical mind of the two, so I think I'll go with him. Yes...     Musashi goes to the Final Four. LM: I personally think the Mad Dog will get to that stage. BL: What!? The old man won't even live long enough to _see_ the final     four match, let alone participate in it! I don't even know why he's     _in_ the tournament! What ever happened to finishing people off when     they got too old? LM: That's disgusting... BL: You only say that because you too are feeble, and you'd be one of     the first to go. --------------------------------- Group B: Otto Verhoeven vs. Duncan Macbeth Joe Petrow vs. Derek Mota --------------------------------- [Morton is so shocked he doesn't even attempt an intro.] BL: This group will see Otto Verhoeven make it to the Final Four. That's     all there is to it... Next! LM: [sputtering] Wait, wait! You can't just dismiss it like that! We     have to hear comments from all the parties involved! BL: All the comments in the world can't stop Verhoeven from going all     the way. He's on a mission. The only comments you need to hear are     of the man himself. Roll the tape... [SCENE: Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven, wearing a black muscle shirt and black shorts, is standing in front of the Fleet Center. Numerous advertisements for Coronation Clash are hanging on the walls, some showing the profiles of Creed and Lord Byron, staring at each other, on others is a picture of Simon Lebec, Chris Quigley, Marty Warnett and Billy Shakespeare brawling with each other while a third kind of poster shows drawn pictures of the sixteen participants of the tournament arranged in a 4x4 grid. Verhoeven walks toward one of these posters.] OV: Coronation Clash. Last year, this event marked the birth of the     what should become the most successful wrestling federation     on the American continent. Sadly, I was not part of this milestone     event. But on Saturday, when the second Coronation Clash takes     place, I intend to play on the center stage. [He pulls a pen out of a pocket and begins crossing the other competitors out: Requiem, Steele, Paris...] OV: I can feel it. I can smell it in the air. I can hear it here, in     front of the Fleet Center. I can see the World Title belt already in     my mind. [...Highwayman, Thunder, Annis, Deathbringer...] OV: The wind of change blows through the IIWF. After Saturday night a     new man will reign supreme, a new man will hold the ultimate prize     in his hand, and I will do everything in my power to ensure that I     am that man. [...Starks, Macbeth, Petrow, Mota...] OV: I can defeat any man in that tournament, be it one of the     snot-noses, like those Genesis-freaks or Steele and Paris, or one of     the veterans, Watkins or Thunder. I firmly believe that one-on-one     no man in this federation can compete with my strength, my skills     and my drive to win. [...Watkins, Musashi, Sampson, Kowalski...] OV: I will live up to my nickname and rage like a juggernaut, I will     tear right through the opposition to once again reclaim what should     never have left my possession and when the dust has settled and the     broken bodies have been removed there will be only one man left     standing... [The cameras zoom in on the poster and the last picture not crossed out is that of Verhoeven.] OV: ...the first two-time IIWF World Heavyweight champion, for the glory     of Germany, Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven! [Fade to black.] BL: How can you deny that Verhoeven's going to take it all, huh? LM: I'm not denying anything. It's just that there are other competitors     in this group that stand a good chance of taking themselves to the     Final Four... Verhoeven's first opponent on Saturday Night, for     example, Duncan Macbeth... BL: Oh, yes... Duncan Macbeth and his pet beard that walks... Who is     that guy, anyway? LM: Well, I have a feeling you'll know if you watch this interview that     Steve Summer conducted... [SCENE:  A cold, overcast, gloomy evening in the wind-swept Highlands outside the small town of Glenfinnan, Scotland, where a very out-of-place looking Steve Summer, dressed in a bright yellow IIWF anorak and rubber boots, is standing outside a large stone house overlooking the long black expanse of Loch Shiel.  Summer is shivering noticeably from the unseasonably chilly conditions, and he looks as though the next stiff gust of wind may blow him back down into the glen below, but he manages to bear himself up as he prepares to give a report from the rugged position.] SS:  [to himself]  Wow, my first on-location report!  Cool...let's see     now, how'm I gonna lead off?  I gotta have something     catchy...hmmm...okay....     "This is Steve Summer, coming to you from Glenfinnan, Scotland."     Nah, too ordinary....maybe something more like Peter Arnett, like...     "Hello, I'm Steve Summer for the IIWF, reporting to you live from     the Highlands."     No, that won't work either, we're not live...[sighs] Why didn't I     stay in journalism school... [Summer looks up from his pondering to see that the camera has been rolling for about a minute.  He turns a deep shade of scarlet and stiffens, jerking the microphone up to his face.] SS:  AAAH!!!  THIS IS SCOT STEVERS REPORTING FROM SUMMLAND!!! [The camera image begins to quiver as the cameraman struggles to hold back a fit of uncontrollable laughter.  Summer's crestfallen expression is such that it looks as though he would welcome the earth to swallow him up without a trace, but once the cameraman calms down, he takes a deep breath, and continues.] SS:  Excuse me.     Uh, okay...we're here outside the town of Glenfinnan in the     Highlands of Scotland to try to get a few words with the IIWF's     flying Scotsman, Duncan Macbeth.  Since the announcement of the     vacated IIWF World Title, and the naming of the 32 athletes     participating in the tournament to determine the new Heavyweight     Champion, the normally outspoken and highly visible Macbeth seems to     have become somewhat of a recluse, refusing all interviews and only     coming out of his solitude to wrestle or scout his opposition, then     disappearing once again.     Another interesting development in the case of Macbeth is the     appearance of a large, red-bearded man at the Highlander's most     recent matches and interview segments.  This unknown giant was last     seen at ringside with Macbeth last Saturday night, where he was     apparently scouting the Otto Verhoeven/Chris Quigley Group B match,     and later physically intervened in a post-match brawl involving     Macbeth and the self-styled German Juggernaut.  The two men made a     hasty exit from the Manhattan Center after the bearded behemoth     levelled Verhoeven with a devastating head butt, and have not been     seen or heard from since.  It doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure     out that the arrival of this mystery man on the IIWF scene has more     than a little to do with Macbeth's sudden reticence.     Sources close to Macbeth have reported that the brawny Scot has     returned here to his home in Glenfinnan to prepare himself in the     final days leading up to Coronation Clash.  There has been no report     of the whereabouts of his red-haired "companion", but if he is     indeed here in Glenfinnan as well, we'll find out momentarily. [Summer pauses, with an astonished expression on his face, and whispers to the cameraman.] SS: [whispered]  Hey...that wasn't bad, was it?!?  Do you think I     should send a copy to CNN? [The cameraman does not reply.  Summer shrugs, then turns and begins making his way up the winding pathway to the front door of the old Macbeth house.  He lifts the large iron knocker and lets it fall against the thick oak door with a loud CRACK, and waits.  After a few seconds, he lifts the knocker and lets it fall again, but after a minute or so it becomes clear that there is nobody home in the house.  Undaunted, Summer ventures around to the back of the house, where off to one side stands a large, thatched-roof stone barn.  One of the tall barn doors is slightly ajar, and the sounds of a ruckus can be heard from within.  Summer motions for the cameraman to follow, and he creeps slowly up to the barn door and slips inside. The interior of the cavernous barn resembles a modern training facility more than a place to keep animals and farm implements.  In one corner, a fully-equipped weight training and gymnastics area has been set up.  In another, several video screens are freeze-framed on various IIWF stars in action - Otto Verhoeven, Derek Mota, Joe Petrow, Steve Kowalski, Deathbringer, and Requiem, all frozen in place as they are each about to deal a punishing blow to their respective opponents.  And at the far end of the barn, the camera shows that a full-sized practice ring has been set up. Duncan Macbeth is about ten feet off of the canvas, rotating through the air and dropping down fast into the centre of the ring, but whatever he is aiming for, he is not going to hit it with this particular attempt. Macbeth crashes hard to the mat with a sickening thud, and lies there spread-eagled and motionless for a moment, before clenching a fist and pounding the mat in frustration.  Looking up from his prone position, we see the red-bearded stranger looming over the youngster, regarding him with displeasure.  The stranger is, curiously, wearing the same blue-and-white ring tights that Macbeth himself wears, and the elaborate dragon tattoo winding down the stranger's right arm can be easily seen as he extends a hand to help Macbeth up.  The Scot slaps the hand away, and rises to his feet unaided.  The stranger chuckles at Macbeth's apparently undamaged impertinence, and begins to counsel him.] S:  Now, will ye listen t' me, lad?  Ye've got t' _spot_ yuir opponent     as soon as ye leave th' turnbuckle, 'cause in that split-second when     yuir back is turned, ye're vulnerable!  While ye were wastin'     precious time doin' pretty gymnastics, I was gettin' out o' th' way!     As soon as ye're airborne, spot yuir target, an' _keep_ spottin' all     through th' manoeuvre, so that if he moves, ye can break yuir fall     an' not leave yuirself open t' counterattack - like ye just did now!     Now, to it again, an' this time, mind what I told ye! DM: Righ', I've almost got it, 'twill be better this time, mark me!     Let's start wi' th' collar-an'-elbow... 'ere, wha's this? [Macbeth notices Summer and the cameraman standing by the door.  The stranger turns and momentarily regards the two IIWF journalists with some disdain, then turns back to Macbeth.] DM: Let's take a break.  This lot won't leave 'till I talk to 'em, wha'. S: Duncan... to th' weights, lad.  Leave these wee bollix t' me. DM: Och, this is bleedin' insane!  Why in th' name o' Jaysis can I no'     even speak t' Summer?  I've things t' say, ye ken! [The stranger's gray eyes suddenly light up angrily, and he draws himself up to his full imposing height, towering over the young Scot and growling at him in a gruff baritone snarl.] S:  Are ye a CHAMPION yet?  Have ye got a BELT t' back up yuir     words? Then ye've NOTHIN' t say, d'ye hear me?  NOTHIN'!     Now, to th' weights, like I TOLD ye!  TO IT, man! [Macbeth's own green eyes blaze with indignation,  but after a moment he turns sullenly and flips over the top rope, dropping to the floor and making his way over to the weight training area.  The stranger steps through the ropes, and advances toward Summer.] S:  Righ' - who are yis, and what d'yis want? SS: Uh, sorry, I don't believe we've met... I'm Steve Summer, IIWF     corespondent... [Summer nervously extends a hand in greeting, which the stranger accepts readily, applying a vise-like grip to Summer's hand.  Summer grunts as he tries to hide his discomfort.] S:  Hello, Steve Summer, IIWF corespondent.  I'm Andrew Macbeth,     Duncan's cousin. [Summer struggles to free himself from the elder Macbeth's grip, and steps back, a look of understanding crossing his face.] SS: _Andrew_ Macbeth...oh, yeah!  I remember reading about you!  You got     Duncan into the business, you were tag-team partners, you were a     world heavyweight champ _and_ a world tag-team champ with     Duncan...jeez, you must be older than dirt by now...uh... [Andrew's brow furrows ominously, but he makes no response to this accidental affront.] SS: Sorry, I, uh, I just meant that you must have been around     since...hey, GREAT tattoo!  Man, I bet that must've hurt...by the     way, the last anyone heard of you, you were wrestling in Japan or     something.  Are you trying to get yourself into the IIWF now? AM: I don't wrestle anymore.  I hung up th' boots for good o'er a year     ago, and that's no' goin' t' change. SS: Are you kidding?  I think Otto Verhoeven may think differently about     that.  Okay, you're not here to wrestle.  Are you supposed to be     Duncan's manager now, or what? AM: Not exactly.  Duncan has a shot, an' a _guid_ shot at tha', t' win     th' IIWF World title.  If I really thought tha' he could win th'     belt based solely on his talent, I'd no' be here.  But I've been     watchin' th' IIWF telecasts th' last few months, an' I've seen how     men like Casey James and Laird Byron manage t' cling t' those titles     o' theirs, no' with ability an' guts, but with backstabbing,     cheating, an' other cowardly tactics.  Duncan wanted a piece o'     Byron, an' me little cousin' got as much skill an' twice th' heart     o' any man in th' IIWF, but with tha' great German piss-factory an'     those twa harpies runnin' 'round outside th' ring, I really didn't     like his chances.  I stayed away then, but now tha' he's got a shot     at th' Holy Grail o' wrestlin', I'm no' goin' t' stand by an' let     him get cheated out o' a chance t' be the Heavyweight Champion o'     th' bleedin' World! SS: I take it you don't have much faith in the IIWF's officiating then. AM: Och, the greatest pack o' blind, stupid, obtuse imbeciles I've ever     had th' displeasure t' observe!  Th' most farcical collection o'     clowns since th' Ringling Brothers circus.  If half o' them aren't     on th' take, I'd be VERY surprised. SS: Well hey, don't beat around the bush.  You were at ringside the last     two Saturdays, scouting potential opponents for Duncan, the first of     which will be Otto Verhoeven.  Your cousin scored a big victory over     the Juggernaut in their last meeting.  Will Duncan be doing anything     different against the big German at the Clash? AM: I watched th' video o' tha' match, an' Verhoeven was right.  Duncan     was lucky last time.  He didn't fight smart, an' Verhoeven wasn't     takin' him seriously.  'Twas only his desire t' win that made th'     difference. This time, if he sticks to' his game plan, his victory     will be undisputed, ye can be sure o' tha'. SS: And how will Duncan achieve this "undisputed" victory? AM: Just ye wait an' see, lad. SS: Will you be at ringside during Duncan's match or matches this     Saturday? AM: Absolutely.  Duncan's been workin' hard, an' I'm proud of him, even     though he probably hates my guts righ' at this moment.  He's got all     th' tools t' take him to the top o' th' mountain, but if he doesn't     make it this time, 'twill not be because someone played silly     buggers with him.  Duncan will succeed or fail by his own merit... [Andrew turns his attention from Summer to the camera, and fixes the lens with a strangely familiar and even more menacing grey-eyed stare.] AM: ...an' anyone who tries t' stick their nose in 'is business will     answer t' ME!!! [Andrew turns back to Summer, staring down at the young journalist like a hungry wolf.] AM: We're through, Steve Summer, IIWF corespondent.  Now away wi' ye.     Duncan an' I've got miles t' go before we sleep... [With that, Andrew turns and walks over to the weight training area, where Duncan is doing clockwork-like reps in an abdominal crunch machine.  The elder Macbeth speaks something out of earshot, and motions to the video screens.  Duncan unbuckles himself from the machine, and the two cousins go over to the video desk and begin running through footage of Otto Verhoeven. Summer turns back to the camera, raising the microphone to his chin. SS: So there you have it, folks.  Duncan Macbeth looks deadly serious as     he prepares for what may be the greatest night of wrestling in the     history of the IIWF, with the IIWF Heavyweight title on the line.     Will his colossus of a cousin Andrew Macbeth, now apparently his     trainer, manager, and mentor as well, make the difference in     Duncan's quest for the gold?  We'll find out in just over     twenty-four hours from now.  In Glenfinnan, Scotland, this is Steve     Summer for the IIWF. [Summer lowers the mic and whispers to the cameraman.  He is positively glowing as he walks out of frame.] SS: Did you hear that tag line?  That was _so_ cool!  Maybe Mr.     Dross'll let me back on the Saturday show now!  Hey, maybe they'll     even start calling me "Soundbite" Steve Summer!  Aw, that would be     the best... [Fade] BL: And I have no idea what that man just said. Perhaps if he'd lay off     the gopher chewing, he would make sense. LM: It's his accent, Brian... BL: No... That wasn't English. There's no way. I know English, and that     wasn't it. LM: [Sighs] Well, the next match in this group will pit Joe Petrow     against Derek Mota. What a match that should be. We got comments     from Joe Petrow about this once in a lifetime chance... [Cut to a sign outside of an otherwise unassuming building.  As we get closer, we see what would normally say, "Greater Boston Kiwanis Club", except that an "i" has been taped over the "a" in "Kiwanis". [Cut to a shot of the inside of the building, a very festive atmosphere, with several hundred people of all types seated, their maniacal faith in their man "Sychosys" Joe Petrow the only true link between them, but it is all they need to feel like a family.  On stage, the fat man known as the president of the company that makes Mooselips beer is finishing his introductory speech:] FM: ...and I hope y'all that part of these good times an good feelins     yer havin is tonight is cuz of that swil...fine lager today,     courtesy of the Mooselips Recycling Plant and Brewery!  And now,     it is my extreeeme pleasure ta intraduce the man youse all came     ta hear tanight..."SYCHOSYS" JOE PETROW! [Big whoops and hollers from the crowd!  Sychosys, sitting in the sixth row next to "Majestic" Maurice McArthur, rises from his seat, and makes his way to the podium.  Petrow is wearing blue jeans, and a grey "Ring Wars III" T-shirt.  Petrow makes his way to the front slowly, soaking in the adoration from his crowd, almost, but not quite, allowing a smile to come to his face.  Petrow stands in front of the podium, and the fans expect him to ask for quiet.  But instead, Petrow closes his eyes, and holds his arms wide in a mock self-crucifixion that draws a huge pop!  Finally, the crowd settles down, and Petrow begins to speak:] JP: July 11th, 1997.  My esteemed guests, welcome to the State of     Sychosys Address!  Tonight, you're gonna find EXACTLY where we're     all going tomorrow.  But first, we should all be on the same     wavelength about where we've been.  By way of example, I'll tell     you all where I've been.     I was a smart kid growing up.  A damn smart kid.  That alone     wouldn't stop me physically from playing baseball, or hanging out     with my friends.  But because I was smart, because of what they     all thought being smart was, I didn't HAVE any friends, and I     didn't get picked to play on any baseball teams!  Pretty damn stupid     reason, but I ended up spending my whole time growing up thinking     there was something wrong with ME!  I let THEM put ME down because     I was BETTER than THEM!     So I stayed in the background, fifth business to everything else     happening in life.  I never had a girlfriend, I spent prom night     home alone.  I spent every single day of high school praying for     it to end!     But no matter what happened, I was still me, and I was still smart.     Smart enough to get into the University of Michigan, and study real     brainiac stuff.  But I still didn't fit in, I was still a lonely     man.  And then one day it happened.  I was watching these people,     these people who seemed to know the secret to life...and I figured     it out!  The secret to instant popularity... you lie!  You sell     yourself out, you become the elastic chameleon, you can have     anything you want!  So I tried it out.  And dammit, it worked!  I     had a woman at my beckon call anytime I wanted, and it felt great!     I'd make five dates for the day, and go to the one I felt like, if     I felt like it at all!  And it was SO DAMNED EASY!  So easy that I     needed a new challenge.  So I walked onto the men's wrestling squad.     Now that people weren't telling me what I couldn't do, people were     seeing what I COULD do!  I went from a skinny 175 pound wimp to a     240 pound dominating monster!  The only thing that stopped me was     that late-night run in with some Dogface Gremlin.  He jumps me     after practice, I kick his ass defending myself, so what happens?     I get kicked off the team, and he goes on to become an All-American!     So I spend a few years after graduation, thinking about what could     have been.  Then I see some young organization is holding tryouts     for a shot at a pro wrestling World's Heavyweight Title.  So I     decide to take one more crack.  I pull out my act that got me more     notches in my bedpost than Wilt Chamberlin, I strut my stuff.  And     the promoter says, "He's the man!"  And my FIRST night as a     professional, I win a world's title.     I went on to carry that league for a year.  And then again, I tried     to do the right thing.  I tried to rage out against the people who     were crippling the league and ruining our product.  As a result, I     get stripped of my title, and banned from ever competing there     again. But that was cool, I had my money, I had my looks, I had my     pride. So I got some other business ventures together, and had some     fun.     Then I get a call from a promoter I thought was my friend.  He tells     me he needs a big draw for his pay per view, and wants me to bail     him out.  So I agree.  I agree to pretend that some wrestler's fat,     buck toothed wife was my one obsession, and that I was gonna fight     him for one night with his wife.  "Trust me Joe, it'll be great!",     they said.     Next thing I know, I'm in a cage with a lunatic, gouging my face     with anything he could find.  And then the fire.  He threw a ball of     flame that burned for ten seconds, boiled the blood on my face,     taking ME!     [Petrow is getting very agitated, pounding the podium with his fist     to punctuate his words] ...taking me, to a form of pain I never felt     before! And then he picks me up, and chokes me.  Shakes me.  Breaks     my neck. And I'm gone.  When I look at the video, I see another man,     with no business in my life, beating my body with a baseball bat.  I     was set up, two jealous men in a jealous world, looking to take out     the greatest threat they ever had.     I prayed for death, but it never came.  I prayed they'd never take     the bandages off my face.  They did.  And I saw the face you see     today. But this face... [touches his scars] This face was the     greatest present I've ever received.  This face... is THE TRUTH!  I     couldn't lie with this face anymore!  I couldn't be "The Heartbreak     Kid" anymore!  I was Joe Petrow! And I was so angry.  Just anger.     Anger and pain.  THAT'S why I came to the IIWF, to take as many     people with me to hell as I could.  But then something happened.     Then...[Petrow's tone softens, and he holds out a hand to the     audience] then I met you guys.  Guys that cheered me for what I was     doing.  And I started to wonder... why they hell would anybody cheer     me?  I really wanted to know.  So I talked to some of you.  I talked     to guys like Leon, [Petrow points to the fan who once took a missile     dropkick from Unique Allah] a guy who lost his wife, his daughter,     everything he cared about get taken away, and there wasn't a damn     thing he could do about it!     I watched guys like "Majestic" Maurice McArthur... [Petrow gets a     little angrier] a DAMN fine man, with a HELL of a lot of ability in     this sport! But they don't know what Triple M had to go through the     night after he signed his IIWF contract, how he wrestled under     circumstances that no mortal should have to endure.  Those first     nights are the way people remembered him, and they never gave him     another chance.     In short, MY fans, cheer ME, because I am fighting the SAME battle     they are!  We don't have the choice that everyone else does.  We     HAVE to live in the TRUTH!  We the people, who live life straight     up, have to suffer and pay for the consequences for the lying     bitches and bastards who use us to their own ends!  We get a little     bit of happiness in our life, it's gotta be taken away, because we     are the designated martyrs!  Right?  Is that right? [Murmurs from the crowd, most acknowledging Petrow's words.  Petrow slams the podium in fury] JP: HELL NO!  THAT'S NOT RIGHT!  THAT'S [BLEEP]ED UP!  Is that gonna be     censored?  Who cares, you heard it, that's all that matters!  WE     are right!  WE deserve the spoils!  And the State of Sychosys, is     that tomorrow night, WE... WILL... PERVAIL! [Raccous cheers from the crowd, chanting "Petrow!  Petrow!"  Joe speaks amidst the din] JP: DON'T CELEBRATE YET!  We're gonna get there, but we're gonna suffer!     To get where we're going, we have to take the suffering of a     lifetime and pour it into a single day!  I will have to use every     once of energy in my body!  When the arms and legs go, I use the     neck, the tongue, and other muscles of my body that haven't been     used as much as I'd like lately!  And then I have to steal from you.     I have to take the souls of each and every one of you... and DAMN     THEM TO HELL! [The crowd grows absolutely quiet at this remark.] JP: But here's where you have to have faith.  I've had a vision.  A     vision, of how to create our world.  A world where right is right,     and wrong is wrong.  A world that everyone else calls insanity.  To     get there... heh, not even you guys would believe everything.  But     the only way it can happen is we have an clean slate.  Each, and     every one of our hearts and minds must drop to absolute zero.  My     body must be on the brink of destruction.  But then it can happen.     The miracle will happen.  The collision of everything and nothing at     once will happen, and it will render all matter non-existent,     turning our everything into a single mass of pure energy!  And THEN! [Petrow stops to take a panoramic look at the crowd, each and everyone of them, fixated on his each and every word.  Petrow smiles.] JP: Then, my work is done.  It's up to you.  But you'll know when to     start when I climb the highest mountain top, and scream out the     first and final proclamation... KIWI AT LAST, KIWI AT LAST, THANK GOD ALMIGHTY, WE HAVE KIWI AT     LAST! [The crowd breaks into thunderous applause, jumping and screaming wildly. Petrow nods his head and satisfaction, and walks off the stage. A few chickens inexplicably fly in front of the camera, as we fade out...] BL: What a nutjob. LM: Like a bag of chickadees... BL: What the hell does that mean? LM: Moving on, Petrow will face Derek Mota, who has a few ideas of his     own about the... Ummm, kiwi. [A hoard of youngsters jump around the camera view as loud music begins to play.  The camera pulls back a little and focuses on what is the mosh pit at a live concert. A person is seen diving off the stage and is carried around the front rows of the stage, body surfing his way through until he is dropped at one side of the arena.  We find out this man is Derek Mota, who is looking like a ball of energy, his adrenaline obviously flowing like mad.  The cameraman passes a microphone to Derek who begins to speak.] DM: I bet you're wondering what the hell I'm doin' here only a few days     from the big tournament at Coronation Clash.  The answer's easy,     man.  It took me almost  two weeks to recover physically from that     big gang they call Genesis, but I did recover, and now I'm 100%     again.  But I haven't been in the ring for quite a while now, and     needed to prepare myself mentally.  And ain't this the best place to     get put in the zone? [The music continues to play loudly in what we find to be the Molson Amphitheatre in downtown Toronto, where Bush is playing a sold out show. Mota cups the microphone to ensure that he can be heard over the music and the pumped up crowd.]     Requiem ... Highwayman ... you're gonna get some, but you're not the     big time, right now there's only one man I'm thinkin' of, and that's     the psycho, oh, I'm sorry, it's "sycho", Joe Petrow.     You talk to me about kickin' off the shoes, Joe.  You talk to me     about takin' it to the air, Petrow.  But haven't you thought for one     second that maybe someone's gonna play your game for once?  You can     try to take it to me, Joe, but maybe you'll find out there's no one     there.  Cause I'm already on my way to take it to you.  You're     talkin' the kiwi, Joe.  I know what you're  thinkin'.  It's within     reach, buddy, it's just that I'm gonna be the man, and not you.     I'm gonna take you to the limit, Petrow ... and then some.  Cause     that's what I do, Petrow.  I push the envelope.  I bring change.     And like it or not, I laid the footwork for what became Genesis.     And I'm gonna have to close it as well. [Fade.] LM: So what do you think, Brian? BL: I think you have some serious problems... LM: No, about Group B. BL: Oh... Well, Verhoeven will kill Duncan Macbeth. I always bet on the     people I can understand. In the second match, the victory will go to     whoever gets to set the pace first. If Petrow sets the pace, then I     think Mota will succumb to the sheer weirdness of the whole thing.     But if Mota can keep it in his corner, I honestly think that he can     come through in the end. I won't matter, though, because Verhoeven     can beat either of them. LM: So you're picking Verhoeven in the Final Four? BL: Do you listen? ----------------------------- Group C: Deathbringer vs. Tony Starks Brody Thunder vs. Serge Annis ----------------------------- [Brian simple points at Morton, which breaks Morton's concentration long enough for Brian to slip in his intro.] BL: A group full of four people that I have problems with. Why do I have     a problem with Annis, you ask? Because he's dreadfully ugly. LM: And that makes him less talented? BL: I never said that. I said he was ugly. Are you sure you don't need     your ears cleaned out? LM: [shaking head] Let's look at the first match... Deathbringer vs.     Tony Starks. BL: Didn't we see this last year? LM: Ummm, no, I don't think so. Deathbringer was eliminated by Dan     Kauffman, and Starks went to the end. BL: Oh, yes... And neither won the title. What a surprise that the same     thing will happen. Neither man will win. LM: You sound pretty sure of that... Why don't we ask Tony Starks his     opinion? Let's roll those comments... [Scene: Midnight in Staten Island. Police sirens can be heard in the background. The scene is pitch black except for a fire that is in a trash can. The shot pulls in to see Tony Starks, Raheem Coles and a few other friends standing in the darkness. Starks and Coles begin to talk, the shot comes in hard on Starks face, half hidden by his towel:] TS: This is it. [Raheem nods] This is my time to shine. To hell with     all of the people that dont believe in me, that is going to be     your down fall, you know? I can feel it the air. You can just     feel that something is going to happen. RC: Word up, Starks baby. This right here, is a culmination of all     that you have been strivin' for, you know what I'm sayin'? This     is _your_ time, _your_ time. You gotta take it one match at a     time and realize that the man in front of you, see, he wants to     destroy you. This wrestling game is just like life, destroy or be     destroyed, you stay focused and dont let that side stuff mess wit     you and you gonna get yours. First up, Deathbringer. TS: Yeah, I been seein' this boy since way back. All ways talkin'     bout death and all that. Well, look here, you can run that little     psyche game on them other boys who don't know no better but,     'round here, we see death everyday. Don't scare us. I have been     lookin' death in the face since day one, I seen my people die,     heard there screams at night when I close my eyes. 'Bringer, you     gonna learn the same damn lesson that the whole IIWF is gonna     learn. Starks _is_ for real. You wanna talk about pain and horror     you gonna get real up close and cozy wit them. RC: No doubt, no doubt. Starks, you know this tournament is the     shot to win the title, that title is all that you are about. TS: Ain't no doubt Coles, I seen all that you was talkin' about,     wit that vengeance. All them men who fall to that, ain't none     of 'em in the runnin'. We done seen the science on this here     game, we know it, it is my time.     I gonna do whatever it takes to get mine. When I first started     wrestlin' I was evil, if some sucka looked at me wrong, or got     in a match wit me, he got his head split. Then I got hurt wit     that knee injury. I got soft, that ain't me, you reminded me who     the hell I am. These streets made me, what I seen made me, and     that is who I am. I ain't no body that got love for my opponent.     My opponent is my enemy, and you destroy your enemy... RC: Ayo, we gonna do this for all our fallen brothas out there... TS: Right, right. Them screams that I heard when I close my eyes.     Them is the screams of my people, and I am gonna do this for     them. Someone said that I had been through more hell than any     man should have. Nah, what I went through, that is my strength     Get ready, your time is 'bout out... RC: [smirking] Word up baby, it's time... [FADE] BL: Whatever... LM: Starks seems to have regained the focus that made him a superstar in     the IIWF. Will he reach his long time goal of becoming champion? BL: No, he won't. LM: What? Why? BL: I don't know... He just won't. LM: Alright, then. Unfortunately, we were unable to get comments from     Deathbringer, but as I'm sure we all know, Deathbringer is a man of     few words. BL: And even less brain cells. LM: In the next matchup, we'll see Brody Thunder take on Serge Annis. BL: And his bottle of Kessler's. LM: What? Where did you get that? BL: Have you seen this interview yet? Watch this... This is classic... [The camera opens with a panoramic shot  from  inside  the  Cask'n Flagon Pub located  just  outside  of  the "Green Monster" in  Fenway Park. The crowd is buzzing about the IIWF PPV taking place tomorrow night at the FleetCenter. A large banner adorns  the  room  above  the bar. It reads: "IIWF Fans : Welcome to Boston". As the camera  slowly pans the throng, people wave, smile and make hand gestures  towards  the camera. A rather rotund man, seated at  the bar, sports a "Kowalski is God" baseball cap. A very attractive young woman walks by with a shirt with a picture of Ronnie Paris which  reads "IIWF - Take Me To Paris". Another woman wears a shirt which simply says "Billy Shakespeare - Anytime.Anywhere.555-PLAY". As the camera continues to scan the room, it settles on a husky man sitting alone in a booth near the back. The camera slowly makes its way through the crowd and stops at the booth. On the table is a black cowboy hat, a half-empty bottle of Kessler's and a shotglass. The man lifts his head up and looks not into the camera but at the person wielding it. The man is Brody Thunder. He shakes his head in apparent disappointment,then fills the shotglass and downs it,wincing after he does so.] BT: An' jus' what the hell do you want? Did ol' Danny-boy send ya ta bother me? Cuz ya can jus' take yer cam'ra-totin' carcass right on outta here if he did. I ain't got anythin' ta say... ta _him_ or you. Now git...'fore I lose my good mood. [The camera swings around as a roar goes through the crowd. The people seem surround someone coming through the front door. It's  Tim Dross. The crowd applauds and Tim humbly  waves  a hands in acknowledgment as he makes his way through.He spots the camera man and heads for the booth. Thunder looks up again to see Tim arrive. The camera's lighting comes on,basking  Thunder in a white glow.] BT: Dross, what do _you_ want? [Tim smiles but it quickly fades.] TD: Hey Thunder... we were told you were here. We'd like to get some     comments for the broadcast tonight. How about it? [Thunder downs the shotglass and looks up at Tim Dross.] BT: Ya want comments? I'll give comments. I can't guarantee ya'll be able ta put on TV though. I'll tell ya how that no good cur Casey James escaped handin' that strap over ta me in that match. I had him beat eight ways ta Sunday an' I walk away with nothin'. No rematch. Nothin'.  Then Spreadbury puts the screws ta me by holdin' up the belt... _my_ belt. He decides I gotta face five men... not jus' one but _five_... jus' ta get back ta where I was. A match fer the world title. Don't that jus' beat all? TD: C'mon, we're just here to get a few quick words from ya on the Clash and the title tournament. A couple of questions and we'll get out of your... hair, so to speak. Fair enough? [Thunder takes a cigar out, his eyes never leaving Dross's. He lights it and puts the match on the table. Thunder nods slightly. The lights come back on prompting Thunder sit upright,shielding his eyes for a moment.] TD: Ready? [The camera nods.] TD: I'm here in the Cask'n Flagon Pub with one of the favorites in the IIWF World title tournement. He's none other than the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder. [A mixed pop from the crowd fills the room. Thunder sneers sarcastically then looks at Dross.] TD: Mr Thunder... you've got a tough road ahead of you in the tournament. If you _do_ get by the "Epitome of Evil"... Serge Annis... BT: Which I _will_... TD: ...you'll then have to face either Tony Starks or Deathbringer.     Both of whom are tremendous wrestlers in their own right. But let's start with Serge Annis. How do you plan on defeating a man as violently vicious and unpredictable as he? [Thunder shoots a look of contempt at Dross.] BT: Annis? Ya wanna know how I'm gonna beat Annis? Bad. Real bad. I've heard the stories 'bout the Zippo lighter and' how he likes ta jus' plain hurt folks, but lemme tell ya this, Drossy... I been put in hospital beds before an' I done put my share o' folks inta hospital beds too. So pain don't hold no threat ta this man. An ol' Serge is gonna find out real hard jus' why I will be world champion after tomorrow night. He can bring his lighter. He can bring his chairs, chains or whatever the hell else he feels he needs ta beat me. It won't matter  cuz when that final bell rings  ain't  but one o' us  gonna leave that ring with our hand raised. An' ya can bet yer bottom dolla'... it's gonna be me. TD: Now should you get past Serge Annis you'll then meet either Tony Starks or Deathbringer. Any thoughts on facing them? [Thunder rubs his jaw.] BT: Starks or 'Bringer,huh? Well... [Thunder takes a drag off the cigar and fills the air with a grey cloud.] BT: ...it really ain't gonna matter one way or fifty which o' them makes it ta face me. Like I said, I'm gonna walk out o' that arena with the world title... an' there ain't a man in the IIWF... who can stop me. I  shoulda had my hand raised over James. This here tournament shouldn't even be happenin'. I may not have gotten the job done against James... but ya can rest assured... I'll finish the job tomorrow night. TD: Yes well... let's say you do make it to the Final four. Who do _you_ think's going to be there? [Thunder flicks some ashes into a glass ashtray.] BT: If I'm a bettin' man I'd lay odds on Kowalski, Petrow an' that punk kid Requiem ta get ta the big dance. Kowalski may be the only man in this thing who's as driven as me. I know he wants it. So do I. That means he loses... plain an' simple. Petrow? He's a tough nut. Crazy  fella too.  But should it come down ta him an' me... well, he ain't the only one who can get a little crazy in that ring, y'know what I mean? An' Requiem... well, that boy ain't paid the price it takes ta be champion yet. AN' if we meet up rest assured he won't jus' be outta the tournament... he'll be outta the damn sport. He can take alla that  Angel o' Destruction crap an' stick it. He puts his trunks on same as me. He ain't immortal. He's human. An' if he's human... I'll beat'em. Jus' watch me. TD: Well, Mr Thunder..I want to thank you for your time and good luck in the tournament tomorrow night. The entire world will be watching as you and fifteen other superstars vie for the most coveted prize in our sport... the IIWF World title. Fans, let's go back to the studio and Larry Morton. [Fade] BL: Did you see that? He was apholstered! LM: He was just having a drink... I don't think... BL: Oh, right... Did you see how he was clutching on that bottle? His     loss to Casey James is getting to him. LM: He didn't lose that match he... Oh, never mind. Thunder will be     facing Serge Annis, who gave us these comments... [The scenario shows Serge Annis backstage of IIWF: Saturday Night. Annis is finishing packing up his IIWF duffel bag, and is wearing his 'EPITOME' T-shirt sold in UWF. Annis looks at the camera after zipping up a zipper] SA: Ah... the bloodthirsty media, looking for a word with The Epitome of     Evil. Tonight proved to the world just why I am the Epitome of Evil.     Dirt Dog Unique paid his price... paid his price for goofing off in     that ring like a drunken fool. Wait, he is a drunken fool. Anyway,     your pathetic mind games are no match for me Dog, and I think you'll     realize that after you wake up in the pound later tonight. But to     dwell on the past would be insignificant now, because Serge Annis     has moved on to the 'sweet sixteen'. I have an opponent by the name     of 'Lone Wolf' Brody Thunder. Thunder, you are the favorite to win     this tournament... this tournament wouldn't even be happening if it     were not for you. For that I am grateful. But not grateful enough to     let you get by me at Coronation Clash. You see Thunder, you had your     chance. Now it is *MY* turn for success in IIWF. And what better way     than going through you and then winning it all? Thunder, Annis may     not be as big a name as you, but face it... you're too much of a     marked man. People will pay to see you lose, and I intend on giving     them their money's worth... [Annis flings the duffel bag over his shoulder and puts on his black wire rim glasses.] SA: Deathbringer played a factor in tonight's match up, no doubt. For     that, I thank you friend. The Unholy Alliance' just got even     stronger. You have my back, and I have yours. And we unfortunately     are in the same bracket Deathbringer... I fully expect you to     advance. Should I beat Brody Thunder, then you and I will have a     classic match. And which ever one of us wins it, shall deserve and     receive that world title. But should I not survive past Brody     Thunder... I guarantee, Brody Thunder will be in no condition to     last two minutes with the dead man. [Serge takes a step to leave, but turns again] SA: Tonight marked two things: One, my step up to greatness in IIWF over     Dirt Dog Unique... and Two: Serge Annis is no liar. I promised     Unique revenge many months ago, and I proved that I do not forget,     I just wait. BL: Well, Annis, you can wait a while longer for that title, because     you're no champion, I'll tell you that. LM: Come on, stop that. Honestly, who do you pick for this one? BL: Well, in the first matches for this group, I expect Deathbringer and     Starks to explode in a flurry of boredom, leaving only     Deathbringer's leg. That leg will advance to the next round, where     he'll meet Thunder after Annis is bleached unconscious by Thunder's     breath. Thunder will be unable to pin Deathbringer's leg because,     well, it has no shoulders, so the leg will make it into the Final     Four by default. LM: Seriously... BL: Seriously? I don't care. I figured my earlier prediction was more     entertaining, though. --------------------------- Group D: Ronnie Paris vs. Highwayman Requiem vs. Luke Steele --------------------------- BL: Oh, yay... The Genesis bracket. LM: This one is being watched closely by the IIWF fans, I'll assure you. BL: Only because the IIWF fans are idiots. LM: That's no way to talk about the people who pay your salary. BL: You think the fans pay my salary? Oh, Larry, you poor little man... LM: Ummm, okay... Well, folks, the first match in this group is Ronnie     Paris vs. The Highwayman. BL: Wow! Really? I think I may soil myself, I'm so excited! LM: No need to be sarcastic. One man that is excited about his     participation in the tournament is the Highwayman. BL: He's the only one, then... LM: [Sighs] In a moment, we'll show you some comments we got earlier from Adam Smith, but first a few words about Nightwing, who last made an appearance here in the IIWF some three weeks ago. It is my understanding that Nightwing has made his last appearance in the IIWF, and is now said to be pursuing other interests, whether inside or outside of wrestling I do not know. This young man will be sorely missed -- and perhaps by nobody more than his former friend, the Highwayman: [SCENE:  A wide camera angle shows a side view of Highwayman who sits atop a boulder on a plateau of rock, looking out towards a horizon of mountain peaks, the clear sky seeming to contrast darkly with Highwayman's mood.  He looks down into his lap where he holds something out of camera view and speaks slowly, but with passion as the camera slowly zooms in;] HWM: Do you remember this place Nightwing?  [pointing to the edge of the     plateau] You sat out there on a blanket, Chiquoit soared     majestically overhead, I leaned against this very boulder I now sit     upon and watched you meditate.  I remember my very thoughts, I was     convinced I had found a soul-mate, a friend who didn't try to judge     me but just accepted me for what I said I was, with no explanations     necessary. [A brief smile..] HWM: I thought you knew me better than I knew myself.. [..which becomes a cold hard grimace..] HWM: But it looks like I was wrong.  Do you know me at all, Nightwing?     If you did, you would have fought me last Saturday, instead it looks     like you sought to embarrass me, make me the only one of the sixteen     wrestlers in the tournament that really does not know if he deserves     to be there. [He looks up at the camera as the angle slowly rotates to his front to reveal an antique flintlock in his lap.  He picks up a powder bag that lays next to him and pours some into the barrel] HWM: I feel deep down that your motives were true, Nightwing, how could     I do otherwise, so on Saturday I go into the fields of battle to     face, initially, Ronnie Paris and then, maybe Requiem?  It doesn't     matter. [He rams a metal rod down the barrel a number of times and then attaches it to the underside of the gun] HWM: Paris, accept my apology in advance, I have to prove I deserved my     place in the final sixteen, and to do that I must beat you, beat you     badly. [He pours a small amount of powder into the pan and draws back the hammer with an audible click] HWM: I am Adam Smith..  I am The Highwayman..  I am "Brigand Doom"! [Holding it by the beautiful walnut stock, he levels the flintlock at the camera and sights down the barrel..] HWM: And I have much to prove! [He pulls the trigger and a flash is briefly visible before an iron ball, propelled from the barrel, shatters the lens of the camera with a crash! The image is filled with static, which slowly fades to black.] BL: Brigand Dumb, more like. LM: You just don't like anyone, do you? BL: That's not true. I like me. LM: Oh, lord... The next match will see Requiem face Luke Steele. BL: You mean "Make me squeal" Luke Steele, right? LM: Are you looking to be the next Soundbite or something? BL: Me? No... I _made_ Soundbite what he is... LM: Ummm, yeah, okay... Let's move on to comments made by Requiem     earlier this week... [SCENE: The brightly lit amphitheater of the Cathedral of Souls, the thousands upon thousands of white candles casting an unusual light upon Requiem, dressed in black jeans and a black silk shirt. The unnervingly beautiful and somehow sinister melody of "The Music Of The Unknowingly Damned" echoes throughout the air as Requiem picks up his new guitar and begins to play. After a few moments Requiem begins to speak, his low voice somehow easily carrying over the music...] R : If all goes well either Adam Smith, who you know as the Highwayman,     or myself will become the new IIWF Heavyweight Champion this     Saturday night, at the Coronation Clash. We have always claimed that     Genesis is the future of the IIWF, and this Saturday we shall prove     it as the Genesis Era arises from the ashes of the old IIWF, like a     Phoenix.     And, speaking of the phoenix, you may be wondering about Nightwing.     Why did he not turn up to face the Highwayman? The truth of the     matter is, I do not know. Since 'inheriting' the Phoenix spirit from     Shinja Chow he has become withdrawn, even from his friends...     Yet he is still a member of Genesis, a founding member, and long may     he continue to be so.     There are two more things I must briefly touch upon, and they are     Tim Dross and Derek Mota. I will give both men the same advice: do     not cross Genesis, and more especially, do not cross the Requiem.     Saturday night... Coronation Clash... That night history will be     made, for the age of the old IIWF will come to the end.     The IIWF stands at a crossroads. Two destinies beckon, yet only one     of the pathways leads to what will be instead of what might be...     The first path, that of a Genesis triumphant, leads to the Genesis     Era. A new age of excitement, challenges and opportunity for all     within the IIWF. It is this path that I, and the other members of     Genesis, offer you.     The second path, the dark path, the path that sees Genesis fail,     beckons in a time of nightmare, a time of terror, where none in the     IIWF may feel safe. A time that all will fear. I _guarantee_ it.     Remember, men of the IIWF, remember the crossroad that Requiem has     foreseen. Remember it well, for come Saturday night all will know     which path the IIWF has taken. Pray that fate chooses the right     path... [Fade out] BL: So... What? If Genesis loses, they're going to whine and pout even     more than they have now? LM: I think he means they'll be angry, and will make the IIWF pretty     tough for everyone else. BL: It's already pretty tough to try and put up with that whining all     the time... LM: With comments, here's Requiem's opponent, Luke Steele... BL: The man they call "Clubbed Like a Baby Seal!" [Fade up to the parking lot outside the Manhattan Center in downtown New York City, Ohio.  Luke Steele is wearing a pair of jeans with a "IIWF Is Steeletown" T-shirt.  He's surrounded by a group of small children, all of whom are asking for autographs.  Luke obliges a few of them, and then stops to face the camera.] LS: Glad you guys caught up with me before the Clash.  I just want to     say a few things to some of my friends and opponents in the     tournament. Requiem, you and I will hook it up in the second round,     and you couldn't have picked a worse time.  A big win over the Party     Maniac and I'm on a roll.  You're gonna get steamrolled pal, and     that's not even taking into consideration my hatred for you and all     of Genesis.  Requiem, you're about to play your last song.     Ronnie Paris, buddy, pal o' mine.  We've settled our differences     from the past, but we both want the same thing.  To win the IIWF     World Title.  To do that, we may have to face each other and I don't     have a problem with it.  Remember, this is business only, and I'll     be glad to shake your hand should we meet.  If you win, you probably     will deserve it. If I win, ditto.  Ronnie, good luck.     Deathbringer, I haven't had the pleasure of talking to you yet, but     from your reputation I know you're a tough SOB.  If by some chance     we hook it up, expect the best from me, I'll be expecting the best     from you.     Serge Annis, same speech except replace the 'Bringer's name with     yours. Tough guy, loads of respect but if I meet ya, I'll beat ya.     And finally, Otto Verhoeven.  O' Captain, my captain.  You and I     have teamed up before, in the wild card match a few months ago.     Thanks to you I did pretty well in the match, and I respect you     tremendously.  But make no mistake that I want that title, and I'll     damn well bet you do too. Afterall, 2 is better than 1.  Boys, I'll     see you all on Saturday, and with a little luck I'll be standing in     the ring at the end of the night. [Fade out on Luke, signing more autographs.] BL: Not likely. "Raw Deal" Luke Steele doesn't stand a chance. LM: I beg to differ... BL: You beg for quarters. LM: I do not. BL: Sure you do... Can we roll that footage? LM: No! No, that's okay... Well, Brian, who do you pick? BL: Again, as much as I detest them, I'll go with the Genesis men, just     because they have the strength of numbers. That means that Requiem     and the Brigand of A-Doom Smith with meet in the Elite Eight. If it     came to that, I'd pick Requiem. LM: Why? BL: Have you ever seen the damage a good, stiff guitar shot can do? LM: But Highwayman has a gun... By your logic... BL: Have you seen how long it takes to load one of those? Please.     Requiem in the Final Four. LM: So then we've got... BL: We've got Takezo Musashi, Otto Verhoeven, Deathbringer's leg, and     Requiem in the Final Four. That one's a no brainer. Takezo's a good     wrestler, but Verhoeven will just overpower him. Deathbringer's     leg... Well, let's just say I'm not too positive about it's     chances... And Requiem? I'm sorry, but Verhoeven is just too tough     for your tactics to work, my friend. I predict Otto Verhoeven will     be the first two time IIWF World Champ. That's all there is to it. LM: I guess we'll see what happens. I have a feeling you're wrong about     Deathbringer's leg, though. BL: Doesn't matter. Verhoeven can beat a whole Deathbringer just as     easily. LM: Well, there you have it, folks. Next up, we have a new segment for     you. Of course, I was told that _I_ would get this segment, but it     would appear that someone stole it from me... [icy stare at Brian] BL: What do you expect, Morton? You stink. You couldn't expose yourself     if you were stripped naked and dropped on a street corner. LM: Oh, yes I could! BL: Okay, then... You're the one with experience... LM: I... Wait... No, I wouldn't! I wouldn't! BL: Then you agree with me. LM: Yes, I... No, wait! I... Okay, forget it... Go ahead, do your stuff,     Mr. Fancy Pants. ======================================================================== ---------------------------I-LOVE-IT-LAU'D------------------------------ ---------------------------WITH-BRIAN-LAU------------------------------- ======================================================================== BL: What? What's with that title? Who came up with that gem? Sounds like     something you'd find funny, Morton. LM: [smiling a little] The producer came up with it. BL: Oh, really? [Off camera] Change it. I don't care. If you don't     change it, I'm gone, and you can forget about the whole thing, if     you know what I mean. Got it? Good. [Morton looks at Lau, then off     camera, and again, the flabberghasted look comes to his face] What's     your problem, Morton? You can't go through life pussy-footing around     these people. Anyway, ladies and gentlemen, on to my segment. This     week, I'd like to talk about one of the greatest tag teams in the     IIWF today. Yes, that's right, the Syndicate. I'm sure you are all     aware of the significance of that name, seeing as how you couldn't     even speak of it in the IIWF without everyone cowering from you     saying, "Shhh! They might hear you!"     Well, after dominating the singles scene for over a year, Casey     James and Tiger Claw, two of the finest men in the sport today,     decided to team up and terrorize the tag teams that we have in our     wonderful federation. Of course, I use the term "tag teams" loosely,     since the only thing that tips one off to the fact that there's a     tag team division in the IIWF is occasionally we have four people in     a match at once. The so called teams here are nothing more than an     excuse for two people to brawl with another two people with     absolutely no structure whatsoever. The Syndicate will change that     by becoming the standard by which all other tag teams are judged. I     mean, let's take a look at tag teams in general. I think Simon Lebec     put it best when he said "Tag teams are just a pair of jobbers who     couldn't make it on their own." Granted, I don't like the term     "jobber." I prefer "Professional Loser." The wording doesn't     matter... the point does. More often than not, tag teams are made up     of two people who aren't versatile enough or in good enough shape to     depend on themselves to win a match, so they get someone to bail     them out.     Now look at the Syndicate. Former three time IC champ teamed up with     former Heavyweight Champion. Two men that - were they to end their     careers now - would be guaranteed places in the IIWF hall of fame.     These men have trained together, travelled together, even spent a     lot of free time together. I know first hand how well these two men     get along. They each know what the other is thinking, and _that,_     fans, is why they are destined for tag team gold. These two men can     work as a _team._ I look around at these other tag teams and they     make their offense one person at a time. One man beats on an     opponent, then tags in his partner, then that man beats on the     opponent. It's like watching a prolonged singles match. The     Syndicate is going to change that. Mark my words. LM: Didn't anyone tell you that you were supposed to be impartial in     this job? BL: I just call it as I see it. LM: They haven't even _wrestled_ as a team yet! BL: Not publicly. You forget, Morton, I know them personally. Or have     you forgotten that little stint of mine as a manager? LM: Of course not... It's just... BL: Yes, right. Okay, folks, we've got more comments from more IIWF...     stars... If you can call them that... ======================================================================== ---------------------------IIWF-TRASH-TALK------------------------------ ======================================================================== BL: First off, we have a live feed from an unnamed hotel in Boston, Mass. Apparently, "Dangerous" Danny Dynamite called an impromptu press conference and he's about to get it underway. Let's take a look... [Open up to a hotel lounge. Several reporters stand awaiting the arrival of Danny Dynamite. Flash bulbs go off as Dynamite, who is dressed in a suit walks to the podium, which has the IIWF logo on it. The fed heads of the IIWF sit on both sides of the podium] DDD: Ladies and gentlemen of the press... Thank you for being here on     such a short notice. Rumors have flown, Dynamite is hurt, Dynamite     is scared, Dynamite is gone. Well, folks, I am afraid of NO man, and     I am here today in damn good health. The truth is, I am retiring     from the IIWF. Reporter: Is it true you are not getting along with the heads of the     federation? DDD: Myself and the Pres. had a disagreement a long time ago, that was     worked out. The reasons I am leaving is because I have no business     here anymore. I came in as a favor to Dan Kauffman, and we made this     federation sit up and notice the Players Club. Kauffman left, and     Michael, my partner wanted to leave also, but I was greedy. Brian     and the Syndicate made me a offer I couldn't refuse, and I took it.     I thank the Syndicate for letting me work with them, and I will be     ready at a moments notice to help them again. Reporter: what about the fact that you and Mr. Reyna never held the tag     belts? DDD: What about it? True, we came in after the belts, and we failed.     Something that we had to get used to. For the first time, we     couldn't get what we wanted. But we still stuck here and made names     for ourselves. I wanted singles, and I wanted one match. Joe Petrow,     that's who I wanted. Unfortunately, Joe, we'll never know who the     better wrestler is.     Mr. Petrow, this is directed to you. You can get a hold of me,     brother. We have some unfinished 'business' to work out. A match?     There are supercards in the future, we need to have a match..     Mr. President, I thank you for letting me wrestle in your great fed,     may the IIWF continue to be the greatest fed in the world..     Ladies and gentlemen... Danny Dynamite is outta here... [Flash bulbs go off as he walks away from the podium] LM: I'm shocked... He's just gone? BL: Alright, Larry... You're going to have to start actually listening     to these interviews and stop asking stupid questions. LM: Alright, you don't have to get snarky. You managed the guy, how do     you feel? BL: I appreciate the work he did with my organization, and I wish him     well in the future. I guess it's better this way. LM: Okay, then. Next up, we have some comments from Kevin "The Cavalier"     Christiansen that were taped right after his match with Takezo     Musashi last Saturday. He's a little... Well, flabberghasted. BL: Fla-what? LM: Let's roll that tape... [Scene opens to Kevin Christiansen sitting in the locker room, a towel hanging limply around his neck and over his shoulders.  He is covered in sweat, and looks exhausted.] KC: Never in mine life hast I seen such a thing.  A man should not     be able to withstand such pain, with nary more than a blink.     And yet, thou hast done so, Musashi, and proved the better man     in our confrontation.  Truly, thou dost live up to thy name of     the Enigma- for I cannot figure thee out. [Christiansen wipes his forehead with the towel, then looks at the camera.] KC: As for thee, Joe Petrow, I know not what thou hadst said to Musashi -- be it insult or inspiration.  Whatever it was, though, was quite effective in driving him on to his victory. I wish thee the best of luck in the remainder of the tournament, gentlemen. [The Cavalier shakes his head, lost in thought for a moment, then continues to speak.] KC: Defeat is not a thing I take lightly, but at times 'tis an experience we all must have a taste of.  I hast had mine taste, and it is a bitter taste indeed.  But I shall recover. And thou hast not seen the last of me, IIWF.  This I swear. [Fade to black.] BL: Okay, that guy failed grammar school, that's for sure. LM: Come on... He's speaking a form of old English. Lots of "thee"s and     "thou"s. BL: And "duhh"s and "Phthtplplpt"s. LM: You are a bitter, bitter man. BL: And you, Larry, are a complete... LM: [interrupting] Okay, well, on to more interviews from our tag team     ranks. These next two interviews are by two teams that seem to     aligned themselves. The first is Licensed for Devastation, and the     second is the Nightriders. [The camera opens to Reggie Starr and Jonathan Chaos in a classroom. The lights are off, and there is no sign of humanity, with the exception of Licensed for Devastation.  Reggie is garmented in a graduate cape and hat, complete with tassel.  Jonathan is draped in a Nike T-shirt with a swoosh across it and big baggy blue jeans.] JC: You look queer. RS: Shut up, we've got work to do. JC: Right. RS: Alrighty, last week you saw me and Johnny get together with the     Nightriders and kick some serious ass on the Machines.  It was     pretty damn fun, actually.  But, I'd like to take this time to     apologize to the Machines. JC: Yeah, I'm gonna take this time to do the same thing. RS: We're sorry for making an example out of you.  Ya see, Infinite     Superiority needed somewhere to start off and you two seemed like     two very willing, able, perfectly ample human beings, so we     figured, why not give you a couple of home runs upside the head. JC: Yeah, it was all in goodwill and betterment of humankind. [Reggie takes a piece of chalk from the chalkholder and places it on the keyboard.] JC: Ya see, now people know who we are. [Reggie begins to write across the chalkboard, but what he is writing isn't visible.  Jonathan continues talking.] JC: But, we figure that the two of ya are kinda...slow.  So we've made a     match equation for the whole thing.  So you dumbasses understand. RS: Done, god damnit! [The camera shows the chalkboard, which reads, "I.S. ATTACK MACHINES = PEOPLE NOTICE I.S. = I.S. MOVES ON TO BETTER THINGS = MACHINES MOVE PAST IT AND GET NOTORIETY FOR BEING PUNKED BY FOUR OF THE BEST GOD DAMNED ATHLETES IN THE WORLD".] JS: How the hell did you fit that all on the blackboard?! RS: I gots mad skills, Jon, _mad_ skills. JS: Well, wrestlers of the IIWF...read it.  Take a long look.  Ain't     nobody gonna break our stride... RS: [interrupting, singing, doing a happy dance] Nobody's gonna slow me     down, oh no, I gotta keep on moving! [Jonathan slaps Reggie upside the head knocking off his cap.  He bends over to pick it up, and stands again, looking very aloof.] JC: Point is, we're set to take over the IIWF...me, Reggie, J.P., and     Jimmy.  Infinite Superiority.  Learn those two words, and love them.     The writing's on the wall. RS: Yeah. [The shot spin and shrinks, leaving the IIWF logo, until another scene spins and grows to fill the whole screen...] [SCENE: The shot opens inside of a police station in Manhattan which IIWF Saturday night went down just twenty four hours ago. We are looking at the back of the area where a jail cell is set up. The place isn't too full of low life scum today, luckily. J.P. Steele is walking inside the station, trying to find a cell. He is wearing blue jean shorts, tennis shoes, a solid black tee shirt, and a red and white Detroit Red Wings Hat. He comes to a cell, then smiles with relief. Staring back at him from inside the cell is Jimmy Hawk, who was arrested for his bat assault Saturday night. Jimmy is wearing black and white striped shirt and pants, and even a little cap. Steele looks at him quizzically, then shrugs. Jimmy leans against the bars, frowning.] JH: There gonna' give me the chair, J.P. Tell my mother I love her.     [frowns] I'm too young to die ... [smacks fist into palm] I'll dig a     tunnel out of here. No four walls can hold Jimmy Hawk. Now, what did     I do with that spoon from lunch? I can use it to dig a tunnel to     freedom ... JPS: Uh, Jimmy, you're not getting the chair. You're in here for assault     and battery in the lowest degree, pal. I just paid the bail money,     you're free to go. [pauses] Hey, where'd your normal clothes go? JH: [shouts] Freedom! Yes, I _knew_ they couldn't lock me in here     forever for an injusticed law ... oh, the clothes? I asked for them.     Listen, can we stick around just a bit longer. JPS: Why? JH: I used my one phone call to order a pizza. Steele, you don't know     how bad jail food is until you've lived with it. Gee, and I thought     hospital food was bad. At least you get some nice jello. JPS: [shakes head] Now I know why Reggie wanted us to join forces ... he     needed someone to make him look smart. [smiles] Man, last night was     a blast, eh? JH: Sure was. Man, we fooled them Machines good. They may be machines,     but I'm the unscrewed nut of the Tonka truck, baby. [smiles] Now,     I'm sure everyone's wondering why we joined forces with Licensed     for Devastation. Well, it's simply really ... even for a guy like     _me_ to explain. Can I tell it, J.P.? [sees Steele's nod] Okay ...     See, we can relate to them. A new team looking for respect. In a     place like the IIWF, it ain't easy for a bunch of newcomers to walk     in and demand respect. Reggie's kinda' like me, an easy going guy     who isn't exactly the brains of the team. Then there's Chaos, who's     all business and serious-like, just like Steele. Infinite Superiority... it's a perfect match, really. JPS: Got that right. Say, Hawk, can we get a move on? There's a hooker     over in that other cell eyeing me -- and I dunno if it's a woman or     a man. JH: Right. Okay, I'm ready for my freedom. [The scene flickers. When it returns, the Nightriders are walking down the steps, then on the sidewalk. As they walk, they continue their conversation.] JH: -- So I say to the guard, 'Hey, easy, big fellow ... anyone want a     pot pie?' Man, I thought he was gonna' nail me with his billy club.     At least he didn't have pepper spray. JPS: Yeah, that stuff really f[BLEEP]ing stings. I got it twice -- and     only a week ago, too. [evil stare] Anyway, the IIWF better look out,     'cause Infinite Superiority didn't form to stand around and play     pattycake. JH: We didn't? Aw, and I was so much looking forward to a game with     Reggie, too. Darnit ... JPS: Jimmy, you scare me sometimes. Anyway, we gotta' go call Reg and     Jon, tell 'em you're okay and free. Let's go. [The camera fades out as Jimmy and J.P. walk. Steele turns and catches a glimpse of Hawk leaping into the air and clicking his heels, singing, "I'm free!" over and over. He shakes his head sadly and smiles. Fade to black.] BL: Boneheads... LM: I thought you'd be supportive of them... Joining forces with others     and all. BL: Good idea, bad execution. There's four of these guys, and not a     brain between them. Now if they had a manager... LM: Why don't you go for it? BL: Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Oh, no. I'm here to stay. I'm     going to make you wish you never sent Jackson Witt up the river,     little man. LM: Ummm, yeah, okay... Hold on, I've got our Producer, Mat Findlay     speaking to me right now... [holds his earpiece] This must be an     important scoop. Okay, here goes... Brian, I picked that sub up for     you, it's turkey, with lots of pickles, just the way you like it.     What? BL: What? What about the extra cheese? [looks off camera] Oh, you     _moron!_ You forgot the cheese? Alright, go back right now and get     it _right_ this time! Don't look at me like that! Go! I'm hungry!     [Brian looks off camera for a moment longer until a door can be     heard slamming] It's hard to find decent help these days, you know? LM: What the... That was our producer! How can you get away with that? BL: Well, it's like this Larry... If you see dirt on your desk, what do     you do? LM: Well, I... I clean it up. BL: Exactly. That's why you are who you are: Nobody. When I see dirt on     my desk, I put it in an envelope along with the appropriate demands     and I send it to the appropriate parties. LM: I don't get it. BL: And you never will. Fans, we're out of time for this week. I'll see     you again on Countdown to Saturday Night! LM: What about me? BL: Shut up. LM: But what about tomorrow night? BL: Yeah, yeah, don't forget to call your local cable operator and order Coronation Clash, the biggest pay-per-view of the year, yadda, yadda, yadda. Happy now? LM: See you tomorrow night, folks! BL: Didn't I just tell you to shut up? [Fear Factory's "Body Hammer" plays again, and the shot pulls back, showing the studio in it's entirety. Larry Morton tries to talk to Lau, who simply gets up and walks over to the producer, who rushes back inside with a submarine sandwich in his hands. The rest of the crew do production crew type things as the shot fades.] +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I * I * W * F =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+ | President: Daniel Spreadbury | Vice-President: Jim Jividen | | univ0322@sable.ox.ac.uk | brokeback@webtv.net | | iiwf@sisko.demon.co.uk | | +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- http://www.sisko.demon.co.uk -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+