##### ###### ### ########## ########## ########## #### ## ########## ########## ########## #### # #### ######## ##### ##### #### ## ##### #### #### #### #### ### #### #### #### #### ############# ######### #### #### ########### ######### #### #### #### #### #### ######### ######### ### #### #### ######### ######### ### ## #### ######## ######## ## # #### =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- ## =-=-=-= INTERNATIONAL INTERNET WRESTLING FEDERATION =============================================== S + A + T + U + R + D + A + Y N + I + G + H + T ----------------------------------------------- + LiVE! + 2 August 1997 + LiVE! + IIWF Coliseum, Portland, Oregon [The opening graphics fade through to a montage of interior shots of the IIWF Coliseum, panning wildly over the sea of some twenty thousand fans lining the stands, many waving banners and wearing IIWF merchandise, some even dressed up as their favourite wrestlers. The various factions are evident in their little pockets of the stands -- the Sychopaths, the Furies, the Genesis Generation, the Dirty Doggies -- as the shots continue to cut quickly. Suddenly, the crowd is brought alive by a huge volley of fireworks exploding above the ring, rockets and flare shooting down towards the top of the aisle, where they seem to trigger another volley of explosions, another bank of fireworks exploding in sequence down the aisle towards the ring, where flame-pots on the four ringposts erupt in red fire. Huge, huge pop! "Beneath the Wheel" by DRI cranks up, as the crowd reaches a fevered pitch. The spotlights beam down and the smoke seeps out of the back entrance. Tim Dross, waiting in the center of the ring, grips the  microphone a little tighter. The most feared man in wrestling makes his presence known. Steve "The Fury" Kowalski strolls down the aisle, hate in his eyes and vengeance in his mind. The Furies are reaching out to him, as if he was some sort of a messiah, but he ignores them and keeps going. Hopping up to the ring apron, he steps between the ropes. Dross walks over and begins the interview.] TD: Steve Kowalski, you are without a doubt, a force to be reckoned with. But even you had to bow to the forces of Genesis. The awesome power of Requiem is almost too much for any man alone to overcome. SK: [Looking out to the crowd] Rectum ain't [BLEEP]! [Fury Pop!] He ain't man 'nuff to carry that strap. Hell, he can't carry my JOCK! TD: Be that as it may, he is the World Champion. And you have to respect the backing he has behind him. It was these very same men that stood in your way at the Coranation Clash. It will be these men that will be the wall against all comers. Whether it be you, Watkins, Verhoeven, Brody Thunder... [The Fury all but explodes at this statement, pushing Dross back and grabbing the microphone.] SK: Let met inform yer ass to how things really are, ya little stain! [Bigger Fury Pop!] Number 1: I don't respect anythin' about Genesis! When ya get dumped to the floor by Ike Sampson, ya get respect! When Mad Dog makes ya kiss the concrete, ya get respect! When ya sacrifice yer body to the the Craziest son of a bitch since Ivan the [BLEEP]in' Terrible, then ya get respect. But when it takes six punks to keep a broken an' battered man from whippin' ya... Ya ain't never gettin' it! An' why ya bring up that pansy cowpoker is like signin' yer death sentence! That tumbleweed blew the match last week! He can't get out of his own way. He whine all he wants... bitch all he wants, he'll never get to Rectum 'fore me... VOICE: [over PA] HEY! Lemme jus' get sumthin' straight right flamin' _now_... [The spotlights again hit the top of the aisle and the curtains swing open as Brody Thunder storms out and then down the aisle. His gaze is locked on Kowalski's, and vice versa. The big Arizonian makes his way down the aisle and walks up the steps, entering the ring. He goes nose to nose with Kowalski.] BT: ...yeah, I got my ass pinned in that match -- but my question is, where the hell was my so-called "pardner"? I thought maybe o' all the flamin' idjits on our side o' the ring... that _you_ could be trusted ta watch my back. I didn't sign ta be yer friend, yer pal or yer buddy, Kowalski. I was there as a partner. Now whether I liked it or not, that meant watchin' yer flamin' back, an' I expected the same outta you. Shoulda known better, an' that was my mistake. [Thunder grits his teeth hard and steps in closer to Kowalski, the brim of his hat now touching the Fury's forehead.]     A mistake I _won't_ make twice, amigo.     An' as fer that punk, Requiem... yer lucky ya faced _him_ fer the belt. At least ya stood a chance against _him_. SK: Crawled out from under yer rock, bull-milker? Ya talk a lot of [BLEEP] fer a guy who gets pinned by mid-carders. That's right... mid-carders. Yer only good for one thing... [Kowalski smiles and pulls off Thunder's Cowboy hat and places it on his head. The crowd goes into a hush as they see the "Lone Wolf"'s skin go red. It's common knowledge that you don't take a "real" cowboy's hat. There is suspense for about five seconds... before Thunder knocks the smile off the Fury's face. What follows next can only be described as a two man earthquake. Dross bails out of the ring as the crowd explodes and a brawl erupts in the middle of the ring. Kowalski and Thunder tumble to the mat in a flurry of fists and boots, each man rolling over the other in an effort to get on top of the other. Factions in the crowd chant, "Fury! Fury! Fury!", while others yell, "Brody! Brody Brody!" and debris begins to be hurled into the ring by the closest fans. Within moments, security flood down the aisle to separate the two athletes, desperately trying to pull them apart. Finally, they stand facing one another in the ring, now with a sea of security personnel keeping them apart. Thunder and Kowalsi stand a good head taller than most of the men standing between them, and thus are able to keep their eyes fixed on one another. As Thunder is bundled out of the ring, he yells, "_That's_ what I'm good fer, ya no good sonova..." Kowalski simply gives a grin and beckons for Thunder to bring it on again, and the big cowboy attempts to burst past security to go at the Fury again, but security manages to force him out and up the aisle, while Kowalski goes to the top turnbuckles and showboats to his Furies as "Don't Fear The Reaper" kicks in over the PA. Cut to the ringside broadcast table, where Tim Dross is adjusting his headset and sifting through his notes on the table in front of him, while Steve Roberts, wearing his usual leather jacket over the now familiar "Day 21 - IIWF Under Siege" t-shirt, is thrusting his fist in the air and yelling in support of Kowalski.] SR: Yeah, you go, Kowalski! You can go! Whoo! TD: Please, Steve Roberts, we have a show to do here. Welcome, folks, to the most explosive two hours of wrestling action you'll see anywhere on the planet. We are coming to you live and loud from the IIWF Coliseum, here in downtown Portland, Oregon, and what an explosive -- positively incendiary -- start to our broadcast this week. SR: You're not wrong, Dross... but we want more! Bring Thunder back out here -- let's have a war! TD: Wars of all shapes and sizes are certainly what we'll see here tonight, folks. I'm Tim Dross, and beside me, as always, is my broadcast colleague and tag team partner, the bloodthirsty "Soundbite" Steve Roberts. What a line-up we have in prospect, with the first title defences of the new World Heavyweight Champion and the new Intercontinental Champion... Steve Roberts, what are you doing? [Roberts has turned and is talking to an attractive young waitress standing on the other side of the crowd barriers, carrying a silver tray loaded with flutes of sparkling champagne. Roberts flirts with the waitress before taking a glass of wine from the tray, and patting the waitress on her behind before she disappears out of the shot. Dross looks at his partner with incredulity as he turns back to the table, sipping his champagne.] TD: Good grief. SR: Ah, nothing like a good glass of wine to wash down the biscuits, Dross. TD: Perhaps I should explain what is going on. A certain newcomer to the IIWF, one Timothy N. Turner, who is scheduled up for action later on tonight against fellow newcomer Sebastian Jericho, has bought a bank of seats here at ringside, and is having some sort of party, replete with tuxedoes waiters, fine wines and fine food. SR: Pity about the company, though, Dross. Take a look at who's in that bunch -- Mota, Macbeth, LaRue -- what a bunch of losers. But at least the big guy's in there. Hey, Tonnage, don't hog the sausages. I know you're eating for twelve, big guy, but what about us, baby? We gots needs! TD: Good grief. [The shot pans over the ringside party, where a number of wrestlers, all in their ring attire, are enjoying the hospitality of Turner and his luxuriant accoutrements.] TD: Well, while the festivities continue at ringside, let's run down the action we'll be seeing tonight. We've already heard from Steve Kowalski and Brody Thunder, and later tonight, we'll be hearing from the man who last week won the right to call himself the number one contender to the World title by defeating Mad Dog Watkins -- none other than the German juggernaut, Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven. SR: The big bad Butcher is back, Dross! The big man's on a roll, and Requiem is just gonna get rolled over come Midsummer Madness, you can bank on it! TD: We'll see about that, Steve Roberts. We'll also see the Harlequins battle the Machines, and four newcomers will mix it up. As I mentioned a few moments ago, Timothy N. Turner will square off against Sebastian Jericho, and Kevin "the Cavalier" Christiansen will go up against "The Intrepid" Ryan Howard. All promise to be tremendous matches, as do the encounters between Genesis' Scott Rogers and Derek Mota, which we will see in just a few moments, and one of the matches I've looked forward to for some time: former IIWF Champion Deathbringer will lock up with "Sychosys" Joe Petrow, the man who now believes himself to be the true champion of the IIWF, and who has promised to prove tonight that Deathbringer does indeed feel pain. SR: Who knows what Crazy Joe's gonna do tonight, Dross? The dead man had better be on red alert. TD: I dare say he will be, Steve Roberts. And rounding it all off, we will see two huge Championship matches -- World Champion Requiem defending against veteran Mr. Damage in the main event, and Intercontinental Champion Creed sqauring off against friend and fellow student under Mad Dog Watkins, Ike Sampson. And I understand that Steve Summer is backstage with comments from the challenger at this moment. Steve, are you there? [Cut to a corridor backstage in the Coliseum. Officials and paramedics rush about in the background, as Summer turns to face the camera and speaks:] SS: [clearly flustered] This is Steve Summer reporting for the IIWF, not ten minutes ago this reporter was getting a few exclusive pre-match comments with Ike Sampson, who was scheduled to take on the Intercontinental Champion Creed right here, tonight. I say "was scheduled" because as we were speaking, a large man wearing blue jeans, a mask with a smiley face on it and a black t-shirt with the words "Be Afraid.  Be Very Afraid." came up and blindsided Ike with some type of blunt object... it may have been a pipe or a baseball bat or something, I really don't know -- he shoved me to the ground and then hit Ike Sampson in the ribs, a half dozen, maybe as many as eight times... and then took off... I don't have any idea who it was -- but Ike Sampson was taken out of here by the EMTs... we'll get confirmation later in the evening -- but I don't think we're going to see Ike Sampson get to make that title challenge tonight.  Back to you Mr. Dross. [Cut back to ringside.] TD: Well, that's a worrying turn of events, Steve Roberts. Will Ike Sampson be in any state to face Creed tonight -- and who was the masked man who attacked him back there? SR: That loser Creed is as yellow as they come, Dross! He's no "brother" of mine -- jumping his opponent before the match. You'd never catch my homeys in the Age of Rage pulling some low-down stunt like that, baby dolls. Get down with the 'hood, Dross. TD: We have no reason to suspect that Creed would have attacked his friend, Steve Roberts. You may have jumped to utterly the wrong conclusion there. Well, folks, I'll try and get an update on Ike Sampson's condition a little later on tonight, but a huge question mark must now hang over that title defence. In any case, it's time to get down to the ring for tonight's opening encounter, as Derek Mota battles Scott Rogers of Genesis. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Derek Mota vs. Scott Rogers =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITERS: RH/DS [Sparkplug Lee, wearing his familiar powder blue tuxedo, complete with trouser legs a little too short, thus exposing his white socks, gives a grin to the camera, waggles his eyebrows, and raises his microphone:] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, this is tonight's opening encounter, and is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first, hailing from Toronto, Ontario, Canada, and weighing in at 224lbs, here is... the Heatseeker... Derek Mota! [Big pop from the crowd as "The Great Southern Trendkill" by Pantera kicks in over the PA and Mota makes his way out of the ringside stands, where he has been a guest at Turner's party. As he heads for the barriers, he stops a tuxedo-clad waiter, tips the elegant little nibbles onto the floor, and carries the tray with him into the ring, beating it with the ball of his hand like a gong in time with his entrance music. He jokingly threatens to blast the ring announcer with the tray, and Lee backs away, smiling nervously.] TD: What does Mota plan to do with that tray, Steve? SR: My guess is that it's his equaliser, Dross. When you've got about forty guys on the outside baying for your blood, you need something to even the score. I probably would have gone for something like a gun, though, rather than a tray. TD: Lax as it might be, I doubt that the IIWF's security would allow a gun to be smuggled into the Coliseum. SR: I did some smuggling once. Best weekend of my life. TD: That makes no sense, Steve Roberts. SR: Ah, but you don't know _what_ I was smuggling, Dross. Those Mexican girls are not only good at housework, but they have tight little... TD: [interrupting] Just stop right there with your unsavoury, insensitive comments, Steve Roberts. [Sparkplug Lee takes the microphone again as Vangelis' majestic "Conquest of Paradise" theme booms out over the PA.] RA: And introducing his opponent... representing Genesis, hailing from Hurricane, Utah, and weighing in at 297lbs, here is... Scott Rogers! [Scott Rogers appears at the top of the aisle, adjusting his dark blue elbowpads as he walks quickly down to the ring, ignoring the not inconsiderable heel pop from the crowd, except for the Genesis Generation, who stand and salute Rogers as he passes. Rogers enters the ring, and Sparkplug Lee is forced to run for cover as Mota immediately charges at Rogers, the tray held out in front of him. Rogers leaps with a standing dropkick, blasting the tray back into Mota's face, and it skitters across the ring as Mota is sent down to the mat! Huge pop! Rogers moves to drop an elbow on Mota, but the Canadian has the presence of mind to roll out of the way. The official, big Joey Patrick, kicks the tray out of the ring and signals for the bell as Mota rolls to his feet. Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: We are underway here tonight -- and already Derek Mota could be in trouble... he's leaning up against those ropes, and he looks a little groggy. [Rogers charges Mota -- who darts out of the way, and Rogers tumbles over the top rope to the outside! Rogers somehow lands on his feet, and Mota sizes him up, bouncing to the ropes and performing a springboard somersault plancha onto Rogers, taking him down to the floor, but also hitting his legs hard on the steel crowd barriers, and narrowly avoiding belting the front row fans with his boots. Huge pop!] TD: Oh my! What a move -- and both men are laid out on the floor! [While the referee lays the count on Rogers and Mota, the crowd erupts in a huge heel pop as the rest of Genesis make their way down to the ring, led by the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, Requiem, the gold of the title belt standing out against his jet black attire, Highwayman and Serge Annis following behind, and Edmund Fitzgerald, one half of IIWF World Tag Team Champions Cold Spell, brings up the rear, his belt slung over his right shoulder.] SR: Where's the gay guy, Dross? TD: If you're referring to Icehawk, Steve Roberts, he is apparently ensconced in extra training, although it is my opinion that Icehawk is really beginning to feel uncomfortable with the tactics employed by Genesis, and he is trying to distance himself from their actions. But here they come, and they look as formidable as ever -- four powerhouses on their way to the ring. SR: And every one of them an utter moron, Dross. TD: I hardly think that's an appropriate way to describe the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, who has very cleverly orchestrated his rise to the top of the mountain -- enlisting just the right help along the way. SR: Let me rephrase that, Dross: every one of them is an utter moron, Dross. TD: How exactly does repeating yourself constitute rephrasing, Steve? SR: Well, I was right the first time, anyway. They're all morons. [Patrick watches intently as Genesis make their way around the ring to where Rogers and Mota are beginning to stir. Requiem helps Rogers to his feet and rolls him into the ring, before getting up onto the apron and arguing with the official, while the other three Genesis members attack Mota outside Patrick's line of sight. Huge heel pop as Mota is punched and kicked by the angry mob -- but finally, Requiem climbs down from the apron, and Mota is rolled back into the ring. Rogers drags the Canadian to his feet and hits a DDT, dropping Mota back to the canvas. Big heel pop as Rogers flexes for the crowd, raising the ire of one particularly avid Derek Mota fan in the third row, and Rogers points a finger at him, instructing him to "Watch this!" Rogers moves to Mota and drags him up once again, kicks him in the midsection, and doubles him over for a piledriver -- which brings Mota crashing down to the mat again! Once more, Rogers rolls to his feet, and again jaws with the fan in the third row, who is growing increasingly incensed. Rogers simply laughs, and moves back to Mota, who is, incredibly, crawling back to his feet.] TD: This is bad, Steve Roberts. Rogers is decimating Mota, and poking fun at the fans all the while. SR: Sounds good to me. After all, the fans are morons. Ain't that right, morons? [Roberts turns to the fans behind him, who greet him with an ecstatic response.] TD: Good grief. Can we get back to the match? SR: You mean there's a match going on? TD: Please, Steve Roberts. Derek Mota is amazingly pulling himself back to his feet -- but here comes Rogers again! [Rogers cinches Mota in place for a suplex, and points at the fan in the third row again as he hoists Mota up into the air -- but Mota lands on his feet, and while Rogers once again flexes for the furious fan in the third row, Mota is getting his breath back and measuring his opponent. Rogers finally turns -- and is caught by a flying hurricanrana from Mota, snapping him to the mat! Mota explodes with rights and lefts on Rogers' face, slapping him from side to side, and blasting him across the jaw with a real haymaker. Huge pop as Mota leaps to his feet and lets out a yell -- more like a war cry, in fact -- to the crowd. Mota drags Rogers to his feet and whips him into the ropes, taking him off his feet with a huge flying clothesline, and then climbs to the buckles -- leaping with a huge full-body press from the top! Huge pop as Mota connects. He makes the cover on Rogers, but Requiem once again climbs to the apron, and Mota is straight back on his feet, blasting Requiem with a dropkick that sends the champion to the floor, where he is tended to by Annis, Highwayman and Fitz. Mota looks around at the crowd and points up to the sky. The fans give a huge cheer of approval as Mota moves to the corner and leaps up onto the top turnbuckle.] TD: What on earth is Mota planning? He's wasting valuable time here -- he should be covering Rogers! SR: He's -- he's facing the outside, Dross! Mota is facing outside the ring! TD: Oh my! [Cameras flash all over the Coliseum as Mota launches himself from the top turnbuckle to the outside with a perfectly executed Shooting Star Press, twisting into a full pike before opening up and hitting Requiem with the full surface of his body, knocking the champion to the floor once again! Huge, huge pop! Immediately, however, Highwayman, Annis and Fitz descend on Rogers and begin beating on him viciously. Meanwhile, in the ring, Rogers is beginning to stir.] TD: What a devastating manoeuvre from Derek Mota -- a Shooting Star Press to the outside, landing full square on Requiem -- but at what price? Mota is being absolutely brutalised by Genesis out here! SR: Let me go and sort them out, Dross! TD: No way, Steve Roberts -- you're staying right there. You're lucky they haven't attacked you after you labelled the Highwayman at Coronation Clash. SR: They don't have the guts -- or the brains -- to take me, Dross. But Mota, he's another matter. More guts than brains, no question about it. TD: Mota now -- oh my, the Daylight Robbery! Highwayman just executed that devastating neckbreaker on Derek Mota. This is horrible! Annis -- no! A chokeslam! Chokeslam! [Huge, huge heel pop as Mota is blasted to the floor by a chokeslam from Annis, who then drags Mota to his feet and rolls him back into the ring, where he is covered by a recovered Scott Rogers: 1 - 2 - 3! Ding! Ding! Ding!] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner, as the result of a pinfall: Scott Rogers! [Huge heel pop as Genesis roll into the ring to join their victorious comrade, Highwayman raising one arm and Annis the other. However, their celebration is short-lived, as Mota begins to stir on the canvas, trying to fight to his feet -- and the full force of Genesis is turned on him once more, all five men beating on the plucky Canadian. Joey Patrick tries to interject himself, and is hit by a hard right hand from the IIWF Champion, knocking him to the mat!] TD: Oh, he struck an official! He struck an official! Mota is in big trouble here! SR: Yeah, like the referee could have saved him anyway. [Suddenly, from out of the stands comes Duncan Macbeth, sliding into the ring under the bottom rope and dragging Mota out of Genesis' clutches, dragging him to the outside. Genesis yell insults and abuse at Macbeth from the ring, but the brawny Scot sensibly elects to remain on the outside, and helps Mota to the back. Meanwhile, Genesis celebrate their victory in the ring to a huge heel pop, parading around the ring for a while, until Requiem signals for them to leave, and they head up the aisle, jawing with the fans as they go. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Well, thank heavens for Duncan Macbeth, Steve. SR: I'm not thanking anybody for anything, Dross. I did it all myself. Self-made man, that's me. TD: Nobody knows what you're talking about, Steve Roberts -- but Genesis have certainly sent a clear message of their dominance here tonight, beating Mota to within an inch of his life. If it hadn't been for Duncan Macbeth, we could have seen his career ended. SR: And wouldn't that have been a shame. TD: Please, Steve. Now we're moving on to the next match, featuring two of the IIWF's most exciting tag teams. SR: Did you just use the words "exciting" and "tag teams" in the same sentence, Dross? I'm not sitting through this. I'm going over to Turner's party. TD: So you keep telling me. SR: [turning to the party and yelling] Hey, Timmy! How about sending some of the champagne over this way? [Timothy N. Turner, though looking a little annoyed at being called Timmy, sends one of the tuxedoed waiters over to fulfill Roberts' request.] SR: Hey Dross, want some bubbly? WAITER: I'm sorry, sir. We are to serve invited guests only. TD: Can we get on with the match? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= The Machines vs. The Harlequins =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: RP [In the ring, Sparkplug Lee is trying to get the attention of one of the waiters carrying an hors d'oeuvre tray. The waiter shoots him a disdainful look and Lee abruptly goes back to his cue cards.] SL: The next match in a tag team contest with one fall. Introducing first, at a combined weight of 503 pounds, from Denver, Colorado and Cleveland, Ohio, Paul Wong and Simon O'Neal... the Machiiiiines! ["Welcome to the Machine" by Pink Floyd begins to play as Paul and Simon head down to the ring. They are wearing their usual black jackets, fedoras, and sunglasses, and seem to be quite focused on the task ahead.] TD: This should be quite an affair, Steve Roberts. The Machines are setting their sights on nothing less than a victory here tonight. SR: Now this is good champagne, Dross. Are you sure... oh right. Not invited. SL: Their opponents... at a combined weight of 545 pounds, hailing from Sleepy Hollow, Illinois, accompanied by Harlequin Comedy... Tragedy... Chaos... the Harlequiiiiiins! [The music changes to "#1 Crush" by Garbage as the three start down the aisle, Comedy leading the way in front of Tragedy and Chaos. Comedy carries the ubiquitous Happy Hammer Mk. II, and Tragedy is a true picture of darkness, his long black leather coat almost trailing on the floor as he walks the aisle, ignoring the fans on either side. Chaos seems wired, as ever, his eyes darting about the crowd, as if looking for a potential assailant.] SR: Only three? Where's the rest of the brood? TD: No wait, there's Terror, following behind. He's meandering around the aisle. This guy is scary. [Indeed, Terror steps out into the aisle, the prodigously tall Harlequin, heavily bandaged, is greeted by a mixed pop from the crowd. He walks slowly, his gait best described as stalking, as he makes his way towards the ring, his large frame more than evident despite the bandaging that obscures his features.] SR: Maybe to you, Dross. I'd just snap an Asai Moonsault on him and be done with it. But where's the other chippie? [Just then Garbage is replaced by Melody's beautiful singing voice over the P.A. The camera pans up to find her in one of the arena's sky boxes singing away.] TD: There she is. It sounds like she's planning to sing all the way through the match. SR: Yeah, and it doesn't look like D'Amato is too thrilled about it. Doesn't this guy like music? TD: Maybe he finds it distracting. Wait! Now who's coming out? [Wong is standing in the ring motioning towards the back area. Out comes "Nifty" Ned Norton and other members of the Jobber Justice Squad -- the Londoner Casey C. in his Union Jack tights, the painted clown Jumpin' Jack with his oversized shoes and trousers, the masked El Super Gecko, the swarthy and unkempt Barnacle Brothers with their string vests and fishy trousers, Scott "the Whine" Bloom with his furtive glances and welded-on sneer -- all armed with water guns.] TD: It looks like the Machines have enlisted some extra firepower in case the Harlequins get out of hand. SR: Maybe this match will be worth watching! I could go for a good ol' brawl! [As the Jobber Justice Squad passes Terror, one of the Barnacle Brothers fires his water gun right in his face, and Terror throws himself into the midst of them! Soon it becomes total chaos with all of the Harlequins laying into the JJS, with the Machines watching on amusedly from the ring.] SR: This isn't so bad, Dross! TD: I don't think Dave D'Amato agrees with you, Steve Roberts. He's calling security out and he has banished Harlequin Comedy, Harlequin Terror, and the Jobber Justice Squad from ringside! [Big mixed pop as a number of suits and security officials make their way down the aisle to confer with D'Amato. They nod in agreement, and set about banishing all the extra personnel from ringside. Harlequin Comedy threatens one of the staff with clenched fists, and it takes more than half a dozen security staff to get the behemoth Terror, his eyes staring out wildly from under his bandages, away from ringside. The members of the Jobber Justice Squad half-heartedly squirt the security men with their water guns, but eventually give up their weapons and trudge back to the locker room. Meanwhile, Tragedy watches impassively from the ring, while Chaos kicks the bottom rope in frustration.] SR: Aw, just when it was getting good! TD: And that's not all! He's ordering Harlequin Melody away from the microphone in the skybox and banning her from ringside as well! We are going to see a two on two match-up! [A zoom shot reveals two suits stepping into the skybox and ripping the microphone cable out of the sound system, before emphatically gesturing for Melody to make herself scarce.] SR: Yawn. [Order is restored and Tragedy steps in against Paul Wong... and nails him with a resounding slap!] TD: What an insulting move! [Wong shakes off the slap and offers a collar and elbow lock-up to Tragedy. Wong's superior strength seems to be winning out but then Tragedy suddenly drops to the mat and sweeps out Paul's legs. Tragedy then quickly moves towards a neutral corner.] SR: Typical tag wrestler. Get an advantage and run away. TD: I don't think he's running away. He's setting for... [Wong gets to his feet only to meet Tragedy flying out of the corner with a Superkick!] TD: Superkick! Wong is back down as fast as he got up! Tragedy has tagged in Chaos and he falls at Wong with a headbutt... ohhh! [Paul Wong rolls out of the way and Chaos goes head first into the mat. Wong quickly tags out to Simon O'Neal who immediately falls on Chaos with a choke.] TD: A blatant chokehold by O'Neal! The ref is putting the count on him but he wisely breaks at four and then reapplies it. SR: Simon is obviously the smartest wrestler in this match. I mean why wrestle when you can cheat? [O'Neal pulls Chaos to his feet and drops him with a DDT. He goes for the cover: 1 - 2 - strong kickout by Chaos.] TD: There is no way that Chaos would be pinned that quickly. O'Neal is facing off with Chaos now and... that must be the fastest I've ever seen a man the size of Chaos move! He grabbed O'Neal and took him down with a Russian legsweep faster than Simon could even blink! Chaos has tagged Tragedy back in and... uh oh. Look who's coming down to ringside! [Reggie Starr and Jonathan Chaos are nonchalantly walking down the aisle. They are both carrying steel folding chairs.] SR: Don't jump to conclusions, Dross. Maybe they're here for Turner's party and brought their own places to sit! [Back in the ring Tragedy snapped O'Neal in a Dragon Suplex but was unable to get the pin that followed. He then performs an effective kneebreaker and O'Neal falls flat on his back.] TD: It looks like Tragedy is going for the figure four but... no! O'Neal hits him in the head and... he has a chain! The ref doesn't see it but Simon O'Neal just hit Tragedy in the face with a small steel chain! Chaos is in the ring and so is Paul Wong! Dave D'Amato has lost all control here! Chaos and Wong have gone tumbling through the ropes... right at the feet of Licensed For Devastation! SR: It's party time! TD: But no! Starr and Jonathan are just staring and laughing as both Chaos and Wong back off, expecting to be attacked. Dave D'Amato is admonishing O'Neal, looking for the foreign object and... oh my goodness! [Tragedy launches himself over the top rope with a plancha dive onto Paul Wong, but knocks Reggie Starr over as well! Then Simon O'Neal jumps out of the ring and pulls Tragedy off of his partner. Starr picks himself up, looking very angry, but still does not interfere.] TD: O'Neal has that chain out again and ohhhh! Paul Wong hits Chaos with a powerslam on the concrete floor but he knocked into his own partner as well! Simon O'Neal has just gone headfirst into the steel ringsteps! I think he's unconscious! [Tragedy picks up O'Neal and rolls him under the bottom rope. He follows in and clamps on the Tragic Ending.] TD: I can't believe that O'Neal can get out of this hold. His partner is still brawling with Chaos on the outside. Dave D'Amato picks up Simon O'Neal's hand... ONCE... TWICE... Paul Wong sees it and dives under the bottom rope... too late! O'Neal's hand has gone down a third time and Tragedy scoots out under the rope before Paul Wong can get to him! SL: The winners, as a result of a submission, the Harlequins! [Paul Wong is inside the ring reviving his partner while the Harlequins are on the outside, Chaos raising Tragedy's hand in victory! Licensed For Devastation take a look at one another, nod, and then approach the Harlequins from behind -- laying them out with their steel chairs!] TD: The match may be over but the war has just begun! Starr and Chaos are beating away at the Harlequins! This is horrible! Where's the Jobber Justice Squad? SR: What could they do? Shoot them with their waterguns? [As if on cue, "Nifty" Ned Norton and the JJS run out from the back and interpose themselves before Licensed For Devastation can do any more damage. As they are herded backstage O'Neal gets to his feet and the Machines head backstage as well ignoring the Harlequins. Finally the Harlequins get to their feet, with the help of Melody and Comedy, who ran out from the back, and the ring area is cleared.] TD: Well, Licensed for Devastation may not have the most sparkling win/loss record in the IIWF's tag team ranks, but nonetheless, they are proving to be an extremely dangerous partnership in their own right -- even attacking the Harlequins, with whom they have had no prior contact that I am aware of! SR: The tough guy and the gay guy, Dross! TD: Please don't start with that again, Steve Roberts. Hang on -- I'm receiving word via my earpiece concerning the condition of Ike Sampson, who was attacked just as we went on air tonight. Apparently, Sampson has been taken to Portland General Hospital, and is said to be in a stable condition -- he seems to have escaped with only a cracked rib, but there is no question that he won't be able to wrestle here tonight. SR: Aw, what a shame, Dross. I was looking forward to seeing Sampson and Creed get down and dirty. Really. TD: Of course, Steve. Well, folks, obviously this has some serious implications for Creed's inaugural title defence here later on tonight -- he was scheduled to defend his Intercontinental Championship against Ike Sampson, but now who knows what's going to happen. I understand that Steve Summer may have an update on the situation backstage. Steve? [Cut to a backstage corridor. Steve Summer stands in front of a closed locker room door, which is labelled "Creed & MDW" with a hand-written label.] SS: Thanks, Mr. Dross. I'm here outside the locker room of the Intercontinental Champion, and the latest word is that Creed will be making an appearance here later on tonight -- and he will have some kind of announcement for the fans. [Summer puts his hand to his earpiece as Dross and Roberts speak over:] SR: [over the headset] Yeah, like telling the truth -- that it was him who beat up Sampson! TD: [over the headset] You have no proof whatsoever of that, Steve Roberts. SS: But it's strange, Mr. Roberts, there's been no sign of that attacker. Whoever it was, he's gone to ground very quickly indeed. TD: [over the headset] Thanks, young Summer. [Summer nods as the shot cuts back to Dross and Roberts at the ringside broadcast table.] TD: So there you have it, folks. Ike Sampson has been hospitalised -- and Creed will apparently have some kind of announcement here later on tonight. Right now, however, it's time for our next match, pitting two of the IIWF's newcomers against one another. It's Timothy N. Turner going up against Sebastian Jericho. SR: Hah, Jericho wasn't invited to Turner's party, Dross. TD: No, indeed not, although somehow I don't expect Jericho is terribly upset about that. Let's go up to the ring. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Timothy N. Turner vs. Sebastian Jericho =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: MG [Outside the ring Sparkplug Lee sits listening to a personal stereo, nodding his head to the tune of the beat. After a few moments of embarrassed silence, the timekeeper mercifully puts Lee out of his misery with a nudge of the elbow. Lee looks around, jumps up quickly and scurries into the ring.] SL: [clears his throat] This match is scheduled for one fall only. Making his way to the ring, weighing in at 256lbs and hailing from Kalamazoo, Michigan -- Sebastian Jericho!     ["My name is Mud" by Primus begins to play as the crowd moderately cheers. Sebastian enters, the powerfully built pug-like young man quickly making his way to ringside and jumping over the ropes into the centre of the ring.] SR: Hey, Dross, who's the dwarf? TD: Very politically correct, Steve. That is Sebastian Jericho, one of     the impressive newcomers to the IIWF. Despite standing at only 5'8"     Jericho is quite a powerhouse, and from what I've seen very talented. SR: Oh. Excuse me while I pretend to be interested. SL: And his opponent, weighing in at 230lbs, he is from Victoria, British Columbia -- he is Timothy N. Turner!     [Tony Bennett's "The Good Life" blares over the speakers as TNT climbs over the ringside security barrier. TNT is immaculate in a red and white ornate robe with "TNT" emblazoned on the back. As he climbs the steps to ringside he pauses, turns to the audience, and cockily salutes.] SR: I like this guy's style, Dross. He's got class, he's got a certain     attitude, you know? TD: Hmm. I'm not certain I'd agree with you there... whoa! [In the ring Jericho has lashed out at TNT, doubling him over with a big kick to the midsection. The referee belatedly signals for the bell, which rings.] TD: Powerbomb from Jericho almost puts TNT through the mat, Steve. Just     like that the match could be over!     SR: Don't make me laugh, Dross. TNT's tougher than that. [Jericho drops down to pin TNT, the referee reaching two before TNT powers out. TNT sits up, groggily shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. Jericho is on him like a shot, pulling him up to his feet and levelling him again with a vertical suplex.] TD: Jericho's certainly starting off strong, and not giving TNT a chance     to react. TNT may be off his game plan, Steve.     [Jericho bounds off the ropes, using his momentum to launch himself high into the air to splash down on TNT, who is no longer there! Big pop as Jericho rolls in pain on the mat. TNT slowly stands, tapping his head in the universal "I know what I'm doing, I'm a smart guy" signal.] SR: Oh, yeah, Dross. TNT's doomed. I like the kid, he's showing me a lot. TD: He ought to be careful, Turner could get arrested doing that. SR: Whoa! Humour from the humourless! [TNT smiles broadly, then grabs hold of Jericho's leg and drops his leg across Jericho's knee. Jericho clutches at the knee, allowing TNT to execute a short clothesline unexpectedly. Jericho roars in pain, but lashes out with a big forearm to catch TNT, sending him flying! Big pop!] TD: Look at the strength Jericho's exhibiting! [Jericho back to his feet with a barely noticeable limp, TNT using the ropes to pull himself to a vertical basis. The two eye each other, evaluating their skills, before rebounding off the ropes, levelling each other with big clotheslines!] SR: Whoa! Both men came up with the same idea there, Dross. [The referee begins to count, reaching six before TNT slowly struggles to his knees, closely followed by Jericho. TNT drops Jericho again with a big elbow to the back of the neck, quickly latching on an STF to the dazed Jericho.] SR: Just like that it's over, Dross. Turner hits a big STF on the dwarf.     TD: Jericho isn't in any hurry to submit, Steve. SR: Yeah? Well, when you're as dense as Jericho it takes a little while     for the old pain signals to penetrate the skull, Dross. Give it time. [Jericho desperately tries to escape the STF, but without much success. The camera picks up a big smile on TNT's face, a smile that vanishes as Jericho begins to edge slowly towards the rope, inch by painful inch] TD: Astonishing! Steve, Turner's had that STF on Jericho for quite a     while, but Jericho's edging toward the rope. What power from Jericho, what grit!     [After long moments, moments that the crowd uses to roar their support, Jericho reaches the ropes. The referee orders Turner to break the hold, which he reluctantly does, before moving to the centre of the ring and raising a hand in victory!] SR: Jericho submitted! TD: He did not! TNT's simply grandstanding, Steve. Now what's he doing? [TNT leaves the ring to grab a sign from a fan at ringside. Somersaulting over the rope he shows the sign, which reads "Sir Timothy's Squire" beneath a less than flattering caricature of Kevin Christiansen. TD: I'm sure that's all very amusing, but TNT is giving Jericho too much     time to recover whilst he plays mindgames with Christiansen.     SR: Isn't Christiansen watching this match out back? TD: I believe so. SR: Probably polishing the Turner family silver. Ha! [The referee berates TNT, who is still waving the caricature, seemingly having forgotten about Jericho, who still lies on the mat, sucking in huge lungfuls of air.] SR: Hey, referee, leave the kid alone. He's having fun out there! [The referee finally manages to get TNT to concentrate on the match. TNT turns to face Jericho, pulling him into the centre of the ring and yelling "TNT!" before sprinting to the ropes.] SR: Hey, TNT gets a warm up match. I was expecting more from this Jericho kid than that, but why complain?     [TNT quickly climbs the ropes to the top turnbuckle and comes down with a big elbow! BIG crowd pop as Jericho's booted foot lashes out, catching TNT just prior to landing. TNT recoils off hard, slamming into the ropes and being hurled over them to the ground outside. Jericho springs up, a big grin on his face, then launches himself over the top rope in a big suicide dive!] TD: And Jericho fakes TNT out! Look at the impact he got on that boot!     Look at the elevation he got on that suicide dive, Steve! TNT is dead on his feet out there!     [Jericho roughly "assists" TNT into the ring, then climbs back in, signalling for his own finishing move...] TD: Jericho irishwhips a dazed confused TNT into the ring ropes, TNT now rebounds off! Raptureple- NO! What a despicable move! [Jericho sets TNT for the Raptureplex, but before he can do more than grab TNT he is felled by an lightning quick (and suspiciously low) blow from Turner! Big heel pop as Jericho's eyes cross and he slowly sinks to the mat...] SR: Oh, dear me. TNT appears to have "accidentally" ruined Jericho's     hopes for a date tonight. Isn't that a shame?     TD: You are shameless, Steve Roberts. [In the ring TNT blinds Jericho with a rake across the eyes, and then locks on a headlock. Jericho blinks rapidly, trying to clear his eyes whilst trying to escape the headlock. No luck there, so Jericho tries to get vertical again. Despite TNT's attempts to stop him, Jericho is able to get back to his feet. However, before he can begin the traditional series of elbows to the midsection TNT sweeps out his legs from under him, and again Jericho hits the mat hard! TNT capitalises with a legdrop across the knee again, to a heel pop from the crowd!] SR: Hey, Fido is getting his keister handed to him, eh Dross? TD: Fido? SR: Dross, anyone with even half an eye can see the family resemblance     between Jericho and that big ol' dog in Tom & Jerry. What was the     name? Spike? Put a collar on him and he'd be the spitting image.     TD: Well, I'll admit he does look a tad puggish... SR: WOOF! Hello, Fido is getting back into the match here, Dross! [Indeed. Back in the ring Jericho has eluded TNT and has secured a wristlock on TNT, slowly wrenching TNT's wrist around in a way it's not supposed to go. TNT grimaces, before slowly being able to reverse it. Jericho reverses, whilst TNT reverses again. Jericho reverses once more -- ] SR: Boring! Give me blood! Somebody bite somebody! [As if hearing the shouted commands of Steve Roberts, TNT lashes out with a big kick to Jericho's knee, but Jericho is expecting that, and pulls backwards whilst releasing the wristlock. The unbalanced TNT is easy pickings for a big short clothesline, which sends him to the mat the hard way. Big crowd pop!] TD: Oh my goodness! Jericho with a fell nelson and body scissors! You so     very rarely see those in professional wrestling today, but it is so     effective! TNT is yelling in pain, but he is not submitting!     SR: Why should he, Dross? That's a very sloppily executed move that Fido     has locked on there, you know. Why, it would be easy for anyone with     a brain to elude that hold. Maybe even you.     [In the ring Jericho has TNT locked tightly into the full nelson with body scissors, the sweat clearly breaking out on TNT's face as he tries to find a counter for the devastating hold. Finally he manages to get an arm free -- ] SR: What a brilliant counter to that move, Dross. TNT is without doubt a     technical wrestler's technical wrestler.     TD: A rake to the face? SR: Worked, didn't it? [TNT and Jericho are both vertical, but Jericho is clutching his face. He's in no position to see the enzuigiri to the back of the head which drops him like a rock. Big heel pop!] SR: You know, I like the kid, Dross. Reminds me of myself twen... no, ten... No, make that five, yeah, five years ago.     [TNT nips over into the crowd, meeting the rest of his party to grab a quick swig of champagne before upending the champagne bucket and placing it over his head.] TD: What on Earth? [Back in the ring the referee is counting TNT, ordering him back into the ring. TNT hears this, and reacts, blindly making his way to the ring...] TNT: Yoikes! How doth one see in this beknighted helm? I am in need of a proper visor! Where is my squire?!     SR: I love it! Kid's got a great sense of humour, Dross! [As the referee count reaches six, TNT still makes blindly toward the ring, the bucket still over his head. Unbeknownst to TNT, Jericho has recovered from the enzuigiri earlier than anticipated, and, making a shushing gesture toward the crowd, is sneaking up on the ringside TNT.] TD: I'd say Jericho is about to make TNT's "knight," Steve. SR: Two jokes in one night -- dammit, evening, Dross? [Big crowd pop as Jericho nails TNT, banging his helmetted/bucketed head into the ringside steps with a loud "CLANG!" The crowd counts along:" CLANG! One! CLANG! Two! CLANG! Three! CLANG! Four! CLANG! Five! CLANG! Six!"] SR: That was a despicable move on Jericho's part. Still, I gotta admit it was damn funny!     [Jericho whips the champagne bucket from TNT's head, revealing a cross-eyed TNT, before lifting TNT in a gorilla press and pushing him through the second rope back into the ring. Big crowd pop as Kevin "Cavalier" Christiansen walks down the aisle.] TD: Oh, dear! I guess the Cavalier doesn't like TNT's sense of humour as     much as you, Steve Roberts!     [Back in the ring a quivering TNT barely sees Jericho as he recovers from a severe "bucketing." Jericho signals for a powerbomb, which sends the crowd into a frenzy of approval. Jericho grabs TNT, who lashes out blindly. No luck there however, as Jericho heaves TNT into the air and brings him crashing down to the mat. Big pop!] TD: That's it! That's it! Jericho just has to pin him, Steve Roberts. SR: Nah, if you're tough enough to survive a bucketing you can survive     anything.     [Jericho drops a big leg across TNT's midsection before hooking the leg and covering the supine form of Timothy N. Turner. The referee counts 1 -- 2 -- ] TD: Three! Jericho wins it! Jericho defeats TNT --- Wait, the referee is     signalling a two count only! Turner must have got a shoulder up,     though to be honest I didn't see it, fans.      SR: Told ya he was tough, Dross. Anyone who gets bucketed and kicks out     is okay in my book.     [Back in the ring TNT slowly gets to his feet, shaking his head and looking mighty angry. The grin has vanished from his handsome face, replaced by an angry frown,] TD: I would have to say that that was TNT's wake-up call, Steve. It's     time to stop all this foolishness and get back to wrestling...     SR: Aw, Dross... you really know how to take the fun out of an evening! [Back in the ring a huge brawl breaks out, Turner and Jericho throwing punch after punch, blow after blow. The referee tries to prevent it, but both men push him away...] TD: Careful, gentlemen. You don't put your hands on an IIWF referee. SR: If Turner can afford a big ringside party, I don't see him worrying     about a piddling little fee Dictator Danny hands out.     TD: Even so, Steve Roberts. Order must be maintained. SR: Whatever you say, Dross. Hey, TNT! Light a fuse under the referee!     Give him the old hotshoe, bud!     TD: [sighs] I really don't know why I bother, Steve Roberts. Meanwhile, if you had been paying attention to the match, you would see that     Jericho and Turner are still brawling away, and it really does look     like the referee has lost control of this one.     [Seeing that the brawling is getting him nowhere with the powerful form of Sebastian Jericho, TNT changes tactics. Resorting to the "if in doubt, cheat your way out" school of wrestling TNT tries for a Three Stooges' style V-type double poke to the eyes. However, Jericho is ready and brings the side of his hand up, intercepting the double poke. The crowd roars with laughter, quickly turning into a heel pop as TNT closes in and brings a knee up into the forbidden territory southward of the belt.] SR: Oh, a wiseguy, eh? Nyuk nyuk nyuk. Jericho is Larry, I guess that     makes you Moe, Dross!     TD: I dread to ask but -- why? SR: 'Cos with that ferret stapled to your head you sure as hell ain't     Curly! Ha!     [Back in the ring Timothy N. Turner sends Jericho (complete with crossed legs and a pained expression) crashing to the mat with a snap suplex. TNT floats over to pin, but is surprised when Jericho wriggles out from under him and reverses, grabbing TNT's arm and wrenching it up his back. TNT cries out in pain, but attempts to find a way to escape.] TD: Now this is more like it, Steve Roberts. Some good old fashioned mat     wrestling.     SR: Yeah, that armbar is really gripping, Dross. It's strange, but     I'm suddenly very tired. I can- I can barely keep my eyes open.     TD: Yes, Steve. You're certainly on rare form. Meanwhile, back in the     ring TNT has slid out of the armbar, but Jericho has a vice like     sleeper hold! TNT is fading fast here.     SR: I know the feeling. We need a blood transfusion here, Dross. Liven it up for the kiddies. Bring me baseball bats. Bring me barbed wire.     Bring me your huddled masses yearning to see some brutal wrestling...     [Jericho's sleeperhold is proving most effective, as it appears that TNT is practically out on his feet. From the aisleway an impassive Kevin "Cavalier" Christainsen looks on, a half smile seeming to cross his face before vanishing once more. The referee raises TNT's arm once, only to see it drop like a stone. The crowd pops as the referee lets TNT's arm drop once more. The referee raises TNT's arm once more, but this time it stays up...] SR: TNT's not out of it yet, Dross. [TNT's arm reaches out, grasping the back of Jericho's head before TNT drops like a stone to the mat, the back of his head lashing into Jericho's jaw, the impact sending Sebastian lurching halfway across the ring. Jericho hits the ropes and stumbles through them, landing awkwardly on the outside. Big heel pop!] SR: Yeah, TNT knows how to use his head... God, I cannot believe I just     used that lame old joke again...     [The referee begins to count, TNT flat out on his back in the ring with Jericho flat out on the outside.] TD: Oh, no! Don't let it end like this, referee! SR: What, with TNT winning you mean? He's the guy in the ring, Dross. TD: A double countout, surely? SR: It must be nice to live in your own little world, Dross. [As the referee count reaches seven Jericho slowly pulls himself upright with the aid of the ring, desperately trying to enter the ring before he is counted out.] TD: He's not going to make it! SR: Good. [Contrary to Tim Dross' professional opinion, Jericho does in fact make it back to the ring, although admittedly on the 9.99999999 recurring mark.] TD: Jericho wins it, Steve! TNT is out, and Jericho isn't. SR: Look again, Dross. [TNT is also up, both men seem to be dazed and confused as they shuffle toward each other to do battle once more] TD: These two look to be out on their feet, Steve Roberts. I'm surprised     the referee hasn't stopped the match.     SR: Don't be a wuss, Dross. [Once again a brawl breaks out in the centre of the ring, though the action is to be so slow as to be almost comedic, the two seeming so punch drunk that they can barely recognize each other. However, from the slow motion chaos a victor soon emerges as TNT irishwhips Jericho to the ropes. TNT ducks his head to backdrop Jericho, but in his exhausted state he badly mistimes it, leaving himself a sitting target as Jericho pulls short, drops to his knees, and delivers a perfect double uppercut. Big crowd pop for Jericho as TNT goes flying!] TD: Look at that! I don't think I've seen a _double_ uppercut in... well, I don't think I've seen a double uppercut!     SR: I'll go on record for this one, Dross! That move was... okay. No Asai moonsault of course...     [Jericho seems to have gained his second -- or is that third? or maybe the fourth? -- wind as he delivers a big running clothesline to TNT, sending TNT flying out of the ring again! Big Pop!] SR: Look out, TNT! [As TNT wearily makes his way back to his feet he is greeted by 256lbs of Sebastian Jericho, who flies through the air with the greatest of ease right onto TNT! Another big pop! Jericho lands blow after blow on TNT, who seems dazed. Meanwhile, back in the aisle an impassive Kevin Christiansen looks on, though that facade of impassiveness is slowly beginning to crack as we see a smile slowly forming.] TD: And once more TNT rakes the face of Sebastian Jericho! Well, there is no doubt that Turner is certainly no stranger to your book "Cheating For Dummies", Steve Roberts.     SR: Thanks, Dross. And can I just say that it's available at all book     shops for only $14.95 paperback or $19.95 hardback?     TD: No, Steve, I'm afraid you can't. SR: Too late! Read it, morons, it's great! Fourth edition just published! TD: [sighs] Having gotten the free advertising out of the way, we can now perhaps concentrate on the match once more. Both men are back in the ring, and it would appear that TNT has really turned it up a notch.     SR: If you ask me, TNT looks angry as [BLEEP]. Possibly angrier. Reverse     neckbreaker from TNT lays Jericho out, and -- look at the style of     that man, Dross!     TD: This could be a big mistake, wrestling fans! Timothy N. Turner has     left the ring, and is approaching Kevin Christiansen. Good grief,     he's -- he's...     SR: He's ordering Christiansen to clean his boots, that's what he's     doing. The man is a genuine phenomenon, Dross. Always thinking of his appearance.     [Kevin Christiansen looks angry, in fact he raises a fist as if he to strike, but thinks better of it. He simply smirks, and points behind TNT. TNT smirks back. "I'm not falling for that old - ARK!" he says as the running form of Sebastian Jericho delivers a huge clothesline to the back of the neck! BIG pop as the surprised TNT hits the floor hard!] SR: That was a dirty rotten backstabbing kind of thing to do, Dross.     Almost makes me proud.     [Jericho is on top of TNT, pounding away with a series of closed fists, as the referee starts the ten count. At the five count Jericho realises what's happening, and pulls TNT up. Draping him over one shoulder he runs toward the ring...] TD: What strength Sebastian Jericho is exhibiting tonight, Steve Roberts! He's carrying the 230lbs TNT as if he were nothing! SR: Dross, Fido may be strong as a pitbull, but he's still got the brain     of a pitbull. Do you hear what I'm saying, Dross?     TD: I hear what you're saying, Steve. As usual, though, I cannot believe     what you're saying.     [As the referee hits seven Jericho is almost at ringside, but TNT pushes himself over Jericho, landing behind Sebastian and pushing the powerhouse into the ringside, catching the side right in the abdomen! BIG Heel pop as TNT smirks, and bows to the crowd before quickly sliding into the ring!] SR: Now there's a man who has also read my followup volume, "Cheat your     way to the belt!" Also available at all good bookstores for $19.95.     [Jericho slides into the ring literally milliseconds before the ten count, an angry TNT meeting him with a flurry of boots to the midsection and lower back. Jericho quickly rolls back in again, and hops up onto the ring apron. TNT is there to meet him, but a shoulder barge through the second rope catches him unawares, doubling him over. Jericho launches into the air...] TD: Sunset flip! TNT is flipped over, Jericho has the legs secured! TNT is on the mat as the referee counts! One- Two- SR: He's rolled through, Dross! TNT rolls through and it's Jericho who's     pinned to the mat! Come on referee, you can count faster than that!     [Jericho struggles desperately to free himself, made all the more difficult by the fact that TNT has hooked the tights outside the referee's field of vision. The referee counts -- 1 - 2...] TD: Jericho gets out of there with barely a moment to spare! Turner can't believe it, he's remonstrating with the referee! TNT is     _angry_, Steve Roberts! TNT is angered beyond belief by the simple     fact that he cannot beat Sebastian Jericho!     SR: He hasn't not beaten him yet, Dross! [Jericho is back on his feet, whilst TNT argues bitterly with the referee. Jericho looks at the crowd and shrugs, folding his arms, and miming looking at his watch.] SR: Another guy with a sense of humour. Hey, TNT! Get on with putting     this bum away!     [As if hearing Roberts, TNT turns -- only to be met with a big fist straight to the nose! BIG pop!] SR: We've got blood! Oh, happy happy day! Wait a minute --- that's TNT's     nose there! Jericho, you ratfink egg-sucking ferret! Disqualify him, referee!     TD: Ratfink egg-sucking ferret? [TNT lashes out with a quick kick to the midsection, followed by a snap suplex that levels Jericho! Big heel pop! Touching his finger to his nose -- ] SR: Hey, don't pick in public! [TNT notices the blood, and a dark cloud spreads across his face. With the referee behind him he reaches deep into his trunks...] SR: You'd better get the network censor ready for this, Dross! [TNT pulls a small chain from out of his trunks and wraps it around his fist. Big heel pop! The cry "Look out, referee!" can be heard, but as is tradition for referees everywhere it is ignored] TD: I cannot believe what I'm seeing! SR: Hmm... chapter twelve, if I'm not mistaken. [TNT keeps the referee behind him, circling TNT to wait for the right moment. TNT slowly, groggily, stands up.] TD: This is horrible, Steve Roberts, Turner is just circling like some     kind of bird of prey, just waiting for the right moment to strike!     SR: Hey, it IS chapter twelve! [Finally TNT takes the opportunity, lashing out at Sebastian Jericho as he slowly stretches to his full 5'8" height. Jericho's eyes widen in horror, instinctively he ducks and lashes out with a big fist! TNT's chain-wrapped hand passes over the ducking Jericho. Jericho lashes out with his fist, the awesome power behind it sending TNT spinning... TNT's fist is still flying though, and it now arcs towards a new target. The referee's eyes widen in horror mere milliseconds before he is slapped in the side of the face by a chain-wrapped fist from Timothy N. Turner. BIG HEEL POP!] TD: I cannot believe what I just saw! TNT has laid the referee out! SR: What a dirty trick by Sebastian Jericho, Dross! TD: What?! SR: I'm supposed to say stuff like that. It's in my contract. Looks like TNT cannot believe it either, Dross! He's just standing there in shock!     [Possibly TNT is in shock, but Sebastian Jericho isn't! He takes advantage of a TNT that puts up no resistance! KALAMAZOO FACEBUSTER! The crowd goes wild as TNT is sent hurtling down to the mat and Jericho covers...] TD: Jericho with the KALAMAZOO FACEBUSTER! But there's no referee! [Indeed, the referee is groggily trying to raise himself from the mat, but slumps down unconscious.] TD: This is dreadful, Steve! [The crowd, seeing that the referee is out, makes the count for Jericho as he angrily pounds the mat! One! Two! Three!] SR: Oh, yeah, what we've got thousands of referees all of a sudden?! Wake up, morons!     [Jericho releases TNT and gets to his feet, his hands raised in victory, to a big crowd pop!] SR: Hell, this man's a moron too. At last! Here comes a spare referee...     [As a spare referee comes running to ringside, a surprised Jericho is suddenly caught by TNT, who executes a reverse DDT to drop Jericho! TNT makes the pin, the referee sliding in under the bottom rope and signalling for the bell! TNT jumps up, a happy smile on his face and his hands raised in victory!] TD: What the? Did Turner just pin Sebastian Jericho? SR: Of course, Dross! Why else ring the bell? TD: Well, there's the little matter of the foreign object and knocking     out the referee...     SR: Details, details... SL: Ladies and gentlemen... the winner of this match, as the result of a     disqualification... Sebastian Jericho! [Big pop!] TD: Well, at least you get justice in the IIWF sometimes, Steve Roberts. SR: Maybe, but this isn't one of them! [In the ring an enraged Timothy N. Turner argues vehemently to the second referee, who simply points to the still unconscious original referee, to say nothing of the chain still wrapped around TNT's fist. Despite these logical arguments, TNT is still not convinced and leaps out of the ring...] TD: Oh no! TNT grabs the timekeeper's bell, and is making his way to the turnbuckle as we speak! Are we going to see Sebastian Jericho TNT'd with the bell?!     SR: Go for it, TNT! Aw, damn! TD: Thank heavens! Folks, Kevin Christiansen, the Cavalier, is in the     ring, standing protectively over the still unconscious Sebastian     Jericho! TNT leaps off the turnbuckle, but he lands on his feet a     scant few feet away from Christiansen, who hasn't flinched.     SR: Dammit, why did this living GI Joe or Sir Ivanhoe or whatever have to go and do that? We wanted blood!     TD: Fans, TNT loses the match and, despite standing toe to toe with the     Cavalier for the past few moments, seems to want no part of the     Cavalier!     SR: Who can blame him? TNT's just wrestled an exhausting match, he     doesn't want to wrestle some gimp who thinks he's the black knight or something. Yeah, that's it kid, leave the ring... Let Sir Fartalot look after Fido. That's the wise thing.     TD: Which chapter is that, Steve? SR: Actually, it's Appendix B, moron. TD: Ahem. Words to the wise from noted author Steve Roberts there. Well,     it looks like Sebastian Jericho is back on his feet, thanks to Kevin     "The Cavalier" Christiansen. The referee unfortunate enough to be     waffled by TNT has been helped out of the ring, and -- I've been     informed -- is okay.     SR: Great. Why is Sir Galahad staying in the ring then, oh great one? TD: Because he's up next, Steve. He's facing The Intrepid one, Ryan     Howard.     SR: Wow. That should be really exciting. TD: You're being sarcastic, aren't you? SR: How can you tell? =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Kevin Christiansen vs. "The Intrepid" Ryan Howard =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: MB [Sparkplug Lee once more climbs into the ring, prompting an irate Christiansen to compose himself and walk into his corner to await the announcements.  Lee glances furtively at Turner, who has regained his seat alongside the massive figure of Tonnage before bringing the mic to his lips:] RA: This next contest is scheduled for one fall.  Introducing first.. [The powerful strains of "Carmina Burana" by Carl Orff boom across the loud-speakers to a loud crowd pop which completely drowns out the derision shouted by Turner.  The Cavalier also fails to pick-up on the comments and with a smile, climbs the buckles to bask in the cheers.] RA: Hailing from London, England, and weighing 265 pounds... Kevin "The Cavalier" Christiansen! TD: Look at Turner, he has a face on him like thunder, Steve. SR: It's probably the wine. [The cheers of the crowd reduce as the music fades from the speakers, to be replaced by the heavy sounds of Metallica's "Don't Tread on Me."] RA: And his opponent, hailing from Detroit, Michigan, and weighing 255 pounds... "The Intrepid" Ryan Howard! [Howard's powerful, black-clad frame breaks through the curtains, a menacing glare on his face, he walks to the ring ignoring the lukewarm reaction from the fans along the aisle.] TD: This should be a good match-up, Steve.  They are both about the same weight and height, both powerfully built and both looking to climb the ladder to the gold here in the IIWF.  This could be one of the most telling matches of their careers in our illustrious federation.  Do you reckon one of these could go on to great things, Steve? SR: That Kevin guy doesn't have a hope -- but Howard, I kinda like his attitude. [Ryan enters the ring as Lee retires back to his table.  The bell is struck and the ref motions them together.  Turner and his guests begin another round of jeers and a stray patisserie arcs its way to land at the feet of the approaching Cavalier.  The ref deftly picks it up and with a wag of a finger warns the party attendants to "cut it out". Ryan, never one to ignore an opportunity, lets fly with a kick that catches Kevin heavily in the groin and doubles the London-born man up. The crowd issue it's disapproval which is met with an equally loud roar of approval from Turner and his guests.  The ref turns around in time to see Christiansen levelled with a perfectly executed Russian Legsweep.] TD: Howard stamps his authority on this match early on, Steve. SR: What would Porthos say?! The fifth Musketeer defeated by a pastry. [Howard drops a leg across his face, followed by a knee to the head before tying him up with an Indian Deathlock.  Christiansen, still in pain from the groin-shot, writhes around the mat trying to relieve the pressure on his knee with no success.  After a minute or so his writhing brings him near to the ropes and with the backing of a concerned crowd, he earns the break by grabbing hold of the bottom rope.  Howard smiles unconcerned at the ref as he asks with increasing assertiveness to break the hold.  The crowd boos awfully as the ref begins a count.  As he reaches the count of four the Detroit hardman steps out from the hold with a shrug and tries his hardest to ignore the official as he issues a stern warning.  Christiansen picks himself up from the mat and tentatively applies weight on the leg before stepping back into the middle of the ring.  The ref finishes warning Howard with little real reaction and the two men go into a collar and elbow lock-up.  Kevin begins to push the "Intrepid" one back towards the ropes, displaying his obvious strength advantage before whipping him across the ring and upon his return, hoisting him high with a military press...] TD: No!  Ryan has dropped behind him and clipped that same leg with a shoulder-tackle!  Christiansen looks to be in a world of hurt after that!  It's becoming quite clear what his game-plan is for this match. SR: Yeah, to win, perhaps? [Ryan is about to apply an STF when a loud belly-laugh from the party catches his attention.  With a look of malice, he slips out of the ring and walks over to the guard-rail and shouts "Hey Turner, sorry I couldn't come to the shindig, but I thought I was a little over-qualified by having a three-figure IQ!".  The crowd nearby burst into raucous laughter, and the assembled guests all jumped to their feet in anger, plates and food flying everywhere as Ryan slipped back into the ring with a wide grin on his face.  Turner spent a moment or two placating his guests before jumping the metal guard-rail and watching the match at ringside.  Christiansen, glad of the distraction, caught Ryan as he entered the ring with a fist to the midsection and a side-suplex that had the crowd and Timothy N. Turner cheering.  Kevin picked the Detroit native back up and deposited him back on the mat with a punishing piledriver and ties him up with a chin-lock.  Howard, not wanting to endure the move, pokes a thumb in Christiansen's eye which breaks the hold and gains him another admonishment from the ref.] SR: If in doubt, drop back to basics.  Always worked for me. TD: That's not something you should take pride in Steve. SR: Oh, and when did you last pull on your wrestling boots Dross?  How do you know what is needed in a match to gain yourself a win?  Now give your voice box a rest and have a biscuit. TD: I'm honoured, Steve, thanks.  Hmm, quite nice aren't they? SR: Honoured my rear!  That one had a bit of mould on it so I couldn't eat it, could I? [The sounds of Tim Dross retching is lost amongst the chorus of loud boos as Howard grabs the still-stunned Christiansen by the hair, runs him across the ring and with a heave, throws him clean over the ropes at TNT at ringside!  Turner just manages to get out of the way, as Kevin lands in a heap on the ringside mats at his feet and lies unmoving. Ryan, seeing an eager Turner at ringside, decides not to follow him out, electing instead to await the countout decision.  The ref begins a count on the downed Cavalier, but Turner helps Christiansen to his feet and rolls him back into the ring, much to the pleasure of the crowd, and the chagrin of Ryan!  He picks the stunned Englishman back up and whips him to the ropes, but Kevin manages to reverse the whip, sending Howard to the ropes instead.  Turner, seizing the opportunity, jumps up and drives a double axe-handle into Ryan's back leaving him staggering and breathless.  Neither the ref or Christiansen see the sneak attack as TNT jumps the rails back to his party.  The London-born Cavalier, seeing the slowly returning Ryan, steps into him, picking him up, then spins him through 180 degrees and plants him into the mat with a devastating Spinebuster!] TD: The Broadsword!  That is Christiansen's finisher! [Kevin hooks Howard's legs and rolls forward for the pin: 1 -- 2 -- 3! Huge Pop! Ding! Ding! Ding!] RA: Here is your winner, as the result of a pinfall: Kevin "The Cavalier" Christiansen! TD: He pulled that out of nowhere, Steve.  What a devastating move! SR: The axe-handle?  I agree. TD: No, actually I meant the spinebuster, but TNT definitely gets the assist. SR: Speaking of TNT, he's grabbed the mic from Lee and looks set to say something... TNT: Excuse me, Christiansen?  My guests seem to be out of champagne.      Could you run to the back and get another case?  There's a good lad. [The crowd call their displeasure quite audibly, but Christiansen looks over in disgust and leaves the ring.  Ryan crawls to his feet and staggers through the ropes towards the party behind the guard rail, prompting some of the guests to rise to their feet, but security intercept the angry young man and lead him away with a struggle, much to TNT's amusement. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Okay, folks, up next we're going to see "Sychosys" Joe Petrow go up against Deathbringer in... hang on. Somebody's coming down to ringside! SR: Hey, Dross, it's Shakespeare! Little Wilie has returned! [Early Shakespeare suddenly storms down the aisle to less than overwhelming support.  He grabs the mic from Sparkplug, who looks desperatly for someone top save him.] BS: I once made the claim that "New Generation" was just another way of saying "I've never won a belt".  Requiem, you proved me wrong. [Big mixed pop from the crowd, an ecstatic response coming from the Genesis Generation in particular. Shakespeare turns to face the black-clad legions and directs his question at them:]     You like Requiem as your champion?  [Another pop.]     So defeating three men in a night is the way to get the cheers these days in the ol' IIWF?  Then that's what I'm gonna do.  But Early Shakespeare promised something no on else has ever done... hmmmm... then I'll up the ante.  I will wrestle three IIWF superstars, on the same night... in a row.  No breaks... no previous opponents.  Is that what you want? [Fans cheer!]     Then here are the contracts. [He holds them up!]     Who will sign them?  [He waits a while, but no one comes forth.  He tosses the stack and it lands audibly in front of Tim Dross.]     If I don't get three opponents by next week, I'm coming out here and     pulling names.  "New Generation"... there is nothing that you can do that we "old timers" can't do... better. [He hands the mic back to Sparkplug and exits down the aisle, slapping hands with the now noticably more excited fans along the way. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Oh my! What a challenge laid down by Early Shakespeare! Unbelievable! SR: He's gonna get creamed, Dross. Absolutely creamed. TD: I doubt that very much. Shakespeare is a former Cruiserweight champion, a former Intercontinental champion, and holds victories over just about every top star the IIWF has ever seen -- and he is possessed of tremendous stamina and ring savvy, as we have seen in his classic encounters with stars such as Dan Kauffman, the "Enigma", and even the "Badboy" Randy Acorn some months back. SR: Yeah, but what has Shakespeare done recently, huh, Dross? Been in cat fights with Martina Warnett and Chrissie Quigley, and had the odd skirmish with Simon Lebec. Not exactly the stuff champions are made of. TD: But Chris Quigley is on the ascension, Steve Roberts -- his victory in that four-way dance at Coronation Clash, and the pinfall in last week's ten man tag team match on the "Viewer's Choice" Saturday Night -- and I think we may see the same type of resurgence from Early Shakespeare, who is truly one of the greatest athletes in our sport. SR: You're full of crap, Dross. TD: That's a matter of opinion. Well, barring any furher interruptions, we are now set for a very interesting encounter. SR: Hey Dross, what was the name of that guy who ate all those hot dogs? TD: I don't have any idea where you're going with this, Steve Roberts. SR: Aw come on, you remember -- a couple of weeks ago we're up in Spreadbury's office, the Prez. was travelling in Tunisia looking for "new talent", and we were watching the World Hot Dog Eating Championships on the Deuce; I'm rooting for the black guys and you're rooting for that one fat guy from Bitters, Arkansas... and the Japanese guy starts taking all the hot dogs out of the buns... the guy eats the hot dogs separately from the buns and I yell, "Damn Jap is cheating" and you say, "Will you stop?" and then we start talking about how many hot dogs we can eat... and you say that you can probably eat half a dozen and I say I can eat ten easy, and you say, "all right, let's see" -- so we order up a couple of dozen from the guy on the street, you know the guy with the tattoo of Hi & Lois on his back, and we clear off Spreadbury's desk and just lay them end to end, and I grab the mustard and the goddamn thing breaks all the hell over the place and you put Spreadbury's fern... what does he call that... Judy?... over it and then we just start wolfing down the dogs and I do about eight, Dross -- but you just kick my ass, I mean you wolf down a dozen sure as you're sitting here and then you say "them boys is tasty" and we laugh a man's laugh and then belch like a Scottish sailor and then we open up some of those confidential booking documents and you're a little hopped up on the dogs so you say, "know who would make a good Intercontinental Champion?" and I say, "how 'bout Quigley?" and then we giggle like schoolgirls until security comes and kicks us out of the building.  You 'member that, Dross? TD: Let's get to the ring. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Deathbringer vs. "Sychosys" Joe Petrow -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= WRITER: JJ [Sparkplug Lee stares hard at the Asian gentleman who is accepting the applause from the crowd as he swallows a handful of Nathan's Famous Franks.] SL: The following special contest is your _fifth_ match of the evening! [Slightly confused pop from the crowd.] SL: I would like to introduce first... your guest celebrity timekeeper! [The crowd is again confused as bunting begins to be unfurled from the top of the arena.] SR: What the hell is going on here, Dross?  The hot dog guy is here taking bows and we have a celebrity timekeeper?  I didn't know about all this stuff!  Who the hell's in charge here? TD: There is an odd atmosphere that's evident for this one -- I wouldn't want to say it's championship-like... but it certainly is peculiar. [The crowd buzz begins as ring attendants begin to pass out commemorative programs: "The Franchise" vs. Deathbringer: IIWF Saturday Night.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the star of film and television, you can currently see him in "Walker: Texas Ranger"... Ladies and gentlemen, Chuck Norris! [The fans remain confused as the veteran action star enters and sits at the timekeeper's table -- the L'il Soundbiter who are upright immediately begin a "Mor - ton! Mor - ton!" chant that gains a good deal of backing in the arena.] SR: Whooooo!  Hey, Morton... run on down to the arena, buddy.  I know it's past your bedtime, old timer, but from what I can see -- Chuck ain't wearing a wedding band! TD: Will you stop?  Larry, I apologize.  But the fact remains, what is Chuck Norris doing as the guest timekeeper?  I mean, Joe Petrow vs. Deathbringer is a very important match -- but this isn't a pay-per-view... it isn't even the main event.  I'm awfully confused. [Sparkplug looks puzzled as he flips through his note cards.] SL: And now, it is my privilege to introduce your guest celebrity ring announcer!  He is the longtime voice of the Chicago Cubs... Harry Caray! [Another confused reaction as the 70+ year old Caray is helped into the ring.  Caray wears a garish jacket, enormous eyeglasses, and shakes noticeably as he takes the microphone.] HC: Hey!  Well, it's great to be back in St. Louis, home of the Browns and our great President, Harry S. Truman.  Let's go to the wrestlers... yes, the wrestlers.  Up first, weghing 324 pounds -- he's a big boy... Arne, can you get a shot of the big boy eating the hot dogs?... and hailing from "The Dark Side"... You know, it was dark when I woke up this morning, I went to have a couple of tasty, cold Budweisers and it's dark again... he is the former IFWFW World Heavyweight Champion... Deathbringer! [The confusion quickly turns to excitement as the Deathbringer begins the march to the ring.  "The Reaper" plays as the masked man with the scythe takes his place in the ring to the roar of his fans.] TD: I don't know what the hell's going on here -- but this is a man who has come to fight, Steve Roberts.  No mystery with the Deathbringer -- he is one of the most powerful, most athletic superstars in IIWF history -- and with an almost one hundred pound weight advantage, he will put Joe Petrow in almost immediate jeopardy. SR: IFWFW Champion, Dross.  Listen to the man.   I can't believe a man that old can still get that drunk.  It's an inspiration to future lushes everywhere.  I wonder who his agent is. And how many hot dogs do you think he can eat? [The camera cuts to Majestic Maurice McArthur, sitting up with the Sychopaths and apparently going over some type of lengthy explanation with them.  McArthur has what appears to be a wax kiwi fruit mounted on his shoulder.] HC: And his opponent... [The lights dim and an enormous volley of fireworks go off as "Ai wo Shinjiteru" from "Sailor Moon" begins.] HC: What the hell is that?  Hey, Stone... you ever hear music like that? That Tony Orlando sure could sing, "Knock three times... la da da da da da da da... twice on the pipe... clang, clang."  He weighs 227 pounds and resides in Tokyo.  Hey!  Tokyo spelled backward is Oykot... Oykot.  He is the IIWF Franchise Performer, "Sychosys" Joe Petersen... Petrow.  Joe Petrow! [Big pop as the fireworks begin again, Petrow entering wearing loose red trunks and a long ribbon headband picturing the Japanese flag. Petrow says something in Japanese which is barely picked up by the overhead mic, the name Musashi the only word which is clear as he hits the ring, brandishing one of the defunct IIWF US Tag Belts over head as he steps upon the midbuckle.] TD: Well, what a contrast in styles here... Petrow will look to move, to keep the 'Bringer off balance -- and the dead man will attack with his power arsenal. SR: And Harry Caray is gonna go get him a brew... he's walking into the stands, Dross!  He's headed up to the concessionaire!  What in the hell is going on here, Dross? [Ding! Ding! Ding! Referee Alfonso brings the two competitors together, Deathbringer remaining thoroughly impassive behind his mask while Petrow kisses the defunct US title belt and hands it to Alfonso.] TD: Well, we're going to hook this up any second now -- Steve Roberts, I am not exactly sure what's going on here -- but I'm willing to bet it has something to do with Joe Petrow. SR: What is it about Petrow matches, Dross?  Three with Dirt Dog, the scientific match with Kauffman, the battle royal, the gauntlet match and those two against the Fury -- every time this guy wrestles it's like the freakin' twilight zone. [Alfonso backsteps and immediately Petrow advances, "Sychosys" driving at Deathbringer's stomach with a sharp boot..and then diving at the 'Bringer's midsection, tearing away at Deathbringer's cloak... Petrow pounding away at the Dead Man's stomach... almost trying to bore his way into his opponent.  Petrow backs Deathbringer up, firing away with rights and lefts at the stomach and then driving the point of his boot hard into the Bringer's midection as he backs him into a corner.  Weird Petrow Pop!] TD: Petrow seems to... Petrow seems to be attacking the Deathbringer's stomach.  Good grief. SR: Hope 'Bringer didn't put away any dogs before the match... or things are gonna get uglier than a Paris Family reunion. [Petrow attempts a cross-corner -- reverse -- and "Sychosys" goes hard into the buckle, Petrow comes staggering out of the corner and into a big clothesline by the 'Bringer!  Pop!  Petrow is quickly up and Irish whipped into a big boot to the face by the 'Bringer.  Deathbringer quickly covers... 1 -- 2 -- NO!  Kickout by Petrow. The 'Bringer scoops Petrow up... and into a running powerslam and another cover: 1 - 2 - NO!  Another kickout by Petrow.  Deathbringer returns Petrow to his feet, whipping him to the ropes again -and again sticking up the boot -- Petrow ducks under -- and the 'Bringer catches nothing but air... Petrow bounds off the backropes, hurling himself up with a flying forearm...] TD: Caught!  Caught!  Deathbringer catches Petrow clean out of the air! SR: Get Harry back in the ring and tell Chuck to ring the bell -- this one's over! [The 'Bringer sets Petrow up for a fallaway slam, hurling him over his head... HUGE POP... as Petrow grabs the 'Bringer as he flew over top -- and drives him to the canvas with an inverted neckbreaker that brings the crowd roaring to their feet!] TD: Unbelievable counter by "Sychosys", catching the 'Bringer in a neckbreaker as he was propelled from the fallaway slam from the big man! Both of these superstars are down! SR: That crazy Petrow is going back to the stomach... Petrow's just damn creepy with that stomach. [Petrow measures the fallen 'Bringer with a series of kneedrops to the stomach, Petrow peppering away at the midsection, Petrow is furiously attacking Deathbringer's stomach almost as if digging for the ark of the covenant.] TD: I can't claim to understand this strategy at all, Steve Roberts. Joe Petrow is clearly trying to injure the stomach of Deathbringer -- but this is a man who we has never displayed any evidence of pain. Petrow's got to be looking for the quick pin, not going after a specific part of the body. SR: If there's one man in the IWFAW who knows what Joe Petrow's doing it is Joe Petrow, Dross.  Don't question Joe Petrow... just let his weirdness envelop you the way sauerkraut envelopes a foot-long dog. [Petrow digs his thumb into the solar plexus of the Deathbringer, Petrow digging into the big man with a spike... staring at his red eyes as he searches for something -- for any sign that the dead man feels the pain of the onslaught.  Petrow pounds back into the stomach... almost scooping at the 'Bringer with that spike, but getting no sign whatsoever that the 'Bringer feels the affect... as the Deathbringer sits up from the hold!] TD: 'Bringer's rising!  The Deathbringer is rising! [Petrow grabs the 'Bringer around the waist, looking aparently for a gutwrench... but the 'Bringer clubs him with a forearm across the back, and then lifts Petrow up -- up into the air with both hands wrapped around his neck -- and hurls "Sychosys" across the full length of the ring to the opposite corner!  Huge Pop! The Bringer moves with uncharacteristic quickness, grabbing up Petrow and tossing him into the corner.  Deathbringer attacks with huge right hands, pounding the smaller Petrow deep into the corner.  Bringer then lifting a leg, and jamming his foot into Petrow's neck... Deathbringer choking out Sychosys to a big Old Gen Pop! Deathbringer pulls back and Petrow slumps to the mat, leaning his head over the bottom rope as he tries to get some air into his system. Deathbringer bounds off the backropes, leaping atop Petrow's back and slamming his full weight down onto Sychosys!  Big Boss Pop!] TD: Petrow's gonna be serving some hard time with that one, Steve Roberts.  Deathbringer really laid all of those 324 pounds on top of the back of Petrow... and he is in an obvious amount of pain! SR: And the dead guy doesn't look to feel any at all!  I don't think Crazy Joe did his homework tonight, Dross.  You can't just attack the 'Bringer like this -- it's never, ever worked. [Deathbringer climbs out to the apron as Petrow remains propped over the bottom rope... Deathbringer measures -- and drops a big leg atop the exposed head... Deathbringer landing on his feet on the floor and the crowd roaring its approval as Petrow's head is snapped from the rope! Sychosys rolling around the ring now, clutching his head violently. Deathbringer enters, bouncing from the ropes and dropping another leg on Petrow, and covering: 1 -- 2 -- NO!  Kickout by Petrow! Kickout by Petrow! Deathbringer now scoops Petrow up, whipping him to the ropes and charging...] TD: Oh my! Petrow ducked and pulled those ropes!  Deathbringer has fallen all the way out to the floor!  Deathbringer took a huge fall! SR: And he fell right on his left arm, Dross... The 'Bringer may have hyperextended that arm of his... he broke his fall right on that arm! [Petrow slowly makes his way to his feet, then slingshots himself over the top rope into a cross-body of the 'Bringer as he attempted to rise! Petrow stands, pulling the 'Bringer to his feet and applying an abdominal stretch, tossing his leg over the 'Bringer's head for extra leverage.] TD: That's an octopus hold, Steve Roberts... Petrow's got an octopus hold on Deathbringer, he continues to try to assault the stomach area of the Dead Man. SR: Yeah, I prefer to call it a gatame Dross... a manji gatame and it really does work those lateral obliques. Petrow has a textbook plan for how to beat, say, a guy with some extra girth around the middle.  But the Dead Man has never been broken down in the IIWF... he has lost matches, but ain't nobody really used this sort of scientific approach successfully. [The official's count causes Petrow to break the hold, and he guides the 'Bringer back into the ring. Petrow stands next to the Deathbringer in the ring, Petrow sending a boot to the stomach and then whipping Deathbringer farside, landing a big shot to the stomach upon the 'Bringer's return.  Petrow dives at the 'Bringer with a claw hold attempt to the stomach... but the 'Bringer shoves him hard to the mat!  Deathbringer seems no worse whatsoever for wear as he advances on Petrow... who drops him with a toe hold. Petrow then dives on the dead man's back, chicken winging his left arm while grabbing a wristlock, Petrow spins to the front, driving the 'Bringer's hand through the exposed loop...and forming a knot in the 'Bringer's arm!  Joe Petrow makes a knot in Deathbringer's arm and wrenches back!] TD: That's a submission hold, Steve Roberts!  Joe Petrow has got this sort of this chickenwing armbar on the Deathbringer... and look... he's spinning on the mat!  Petrow is viciously attacking the shoulder of Deathbringer!  He wants a submission, Steve Roberts!  Joe Petrow wants the Deathbringer to quit! SR: We saw the arm hyperextend just a few moments ago, Dross.  We saw what happened to the Dead man's arm... and Petrow's got this funky chicken all wrenched on -- and he is snapping the full weight of his body backward to the canvas!  [The official looks for a submission, but the Deathbringer remains impassive. Petrow begins to yell out -- but the 'Bringer is unmoved, Deathbringer showing no signs of either breaking the hold or submitting from whatever pain he might feel!  Petrow drives back again, jamming the 'Bringer's arm into itself...] TD: And the 'Bringer... the 'Bringer slapped the mat!  The 'Bringer slapped the mat! SR: He quit, Dross!  He quit!  He tapped out... Deathbringer just gave up for Joe Petrow!! TD: No he didn't!  No he did not... the Deathbringer is lifting -- he is powering up from the hold! [Deathbringer lifts with a ferocity, using his free arm to push off and Petrow desperately tries to maintain hold of the arm... but the 'Bringer batters him away with right hands!  Deathbringer sends a series of huge right hands that drive Petrow back to the corner.  Deathbringer cross-corner whips... and Petrow hits the buckle... and flips over the rope to the apron! Petrow remains on his feet... and Deathbringer grabs him upward for a vertical suplex back into the ring!  Petrow is driven hard to the canvas for a 'Bringer cover... 1 - 2 - NO!  Deathbringer stands, and Petrow rolls him up... 1 - Petrow breaks his own hold, releasing the dead man and then grabbing a cross-arm scissors, Petrow again working the 'Bringer's arms for the submission attempt!] TD: Petrow had a chance at a pinfall... maybe, but he wants the submission, he wants to hear the uncle from the 'Bringer!  He wants this submission! SR: Quit!  Come on, old man, quit! [From the stands, Harry Caray is now leading the L'il Soundbiters in a rousing rendition of "Take me out to the Ballgame."  Deathbringer sits bolt upright from the hold, Petrow falling away as the 'Bringer moves to his feet.  Petrow fires away with open handed chops, which have absolutely no effect!  Petrow sends chop after chop -- and the 'Bringer keeps coming... Deathbringer grabbing Joe Petrow around the neck and...] TD: Chokeslam!  Chokeslam!  Joe Petrow has been chokeslammed! SR: Petersen's out, Dross!  We have a new Champion! TD: We... what? SR: I don't know... it just slipped out. [Deathbringer grabs Petrow, placing him over his shoulder and walking to the corner!  Deathbringer places Joe Petrow on the top rope... Deathbringer walks to the top buckle and is getting set to send him to the canvas with the Burial!  Deathbringer picks up Petrow into the piledriver as the crowd roars...] TD: Petrow punches the Deathbringer in the stomach... and the Dead man doubles over!  Deathbringer doubles over!  Petrow to his neck... OH MY! [Huge Pop as Petrow bends himself backward, jamming a right hand into the midsection of the 'Bringer... and then flipping himself over to the Deathbringer's neck, pulling himself up and hitting a hurricanrana that remarkably sends the 'Bringer all the way down from the top rope hard to the canvas with a roll up! 1 -- 2 -- ] TD: Three!  Three! [Huge pop as Petrow releases the hold, collapsing to the mat in exhaustion.] SL: Your winner... as a result of a pinfall... and _STILL_ the IIWF Franchise... "SYCHOSYS" JOE PETROW! [Huge Sycho-Pop as Petrow rises... taking the defunct US Tag belt and waving it to the crowd. Deathbringer rolls from the ring, his left arm noticeably hanging from his side as he exits.  Another volley of fireworks shoots off as Petrow goes into a brief posedown routine to the wild approval of his Sychopaths, who are being led in a "We're number one" chant by 3M.] TD: A very impressive win by Joe Petrow... although he does not get the submission for which he apparently was looking. SR: Yeah, Dross -- but he hurt the man... Petrow softened up that midsection -- and then caught him with a blow when he needed to escape! Deathbringer felt the pain, Dross!  You know it and I know it and my friend Harry Caray knows it... hey Harry, check out the Sychopath in the sombrero, buddy! TD: I don't know if that's true or not, Steve Roberts.  But Joe Petrow has definitely taken a big step here tonight as the IIWF gets a little more confusing. [The celebrities, bunting and other odd big match trappings are stripped away as Petrow retreats to the locker room... slapping even the hands of non-Sychopaths along the way.] TD: Well, folks, it's certainly been crazy here in the IIWF Coliseum thus far this evening -- and it is set to just get crazier. In just a few minutes, we'll head right on into that big World Championship match between Requiem and Mr. Damage -- and we have some kind of appearance from Creed scheduled in just a little while, too. But before that, I will be interviewing the number one contender to the World title, Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven, so, if you'll excuse me, Steve. SR: Be my guest, Dross. But don't forget to bring back the dogs, baby dolls. [Tim Dross leaves the broadcast position and enters the ring, grabbing a microphone from the timekeeper's table as he goes. The fans give Dross a pop as he enters the ring, showing their respect for the veteran IIWF announcer. Dross smiles and waits for the crowd noise to die down before speaking:] TD: Ladies and gentlemen, my guest at this time is a former IIWF World Heavyweight Champion and he will fight for that title at Midsummer Madness. Please welcome the number one challenger, and his fiancee, Nurse Heidi... here is the German juggernaut, the Teutonic Terror... OTTO "THE BUTCHER" VERHOEVEN! [The crowd immediately starts to boo as the haunting theme of "Halloween" starts to play over the PA. The heel pop even increases as the German couple enters through the curtain side-by-side. Heidi is wearing black jean shorts and a black leather jacket while Verhoeven is wearing blue jeans and a red-and-black polo shirt. Both have smug smiles on their faces and do not even do their usual "taunt-the-crowd" routine, although Heidi stops at a section of particularly active Genesis Generation and shouts something at them while pointing at the Butcher, but the mics fail to pick it up. Finally the couple reaches the ring.  Verhoeven lifts Heidi over the ropes from the apron and follows her in to stand beside Tim Dross, who waits another moment until the heel pop has died down.] TD: So, Herr Verhoeven, I guess I first have to congratulate you for your victory over Mad Dog Watkins last week. [Verhoeven just grins and nods slowly.] TD: Well, your title shot at Midsummer Night will be your first title shot since last year's Ring Wars II, when you defeated Deathbringer in a punishing Casket Match. You never asked for another title shot. OV: Ja, right. I never asked for another title shot. I did not want one. If I could not earn one in the ring I would not be worthy of it. I am not a man who is comfortable arguing with the suits who run this federation, and I won't play a game of politics with them like others do. But now, after dealing with so many things, with so many enemies since I was robbed by Dan Kauffman, it is once again time to reclaim my place at the top of the IIWF, the only acceptable position for Germany's finest athlete. I overcame men like the Subway Psycho, like Tony Starks, like Chris Quigley and finally Mad Dog Watkins to consolidate my right to wear that belt and believe me, I will not be stopped, regardless who wears that belt at Midsummer Madness '97, when the night is over I will once again hold it in my hands. TD: At the moment Requiem is the World Champion and he will probably be your opponent. What do you think of him? OV: What do I think of the man who calls himself Requiem? Plain and simple, he is a coward, a freak who hides behind the mask of the "Angel of Destruction" or the "Herald of Damnation". What kind of man is it that has to hide behind ridiculous synonyms like that? I tell what kind of man it is: A frightened, uncertain boy who thinks he can hide his fear by claiming to be some otherworldly entity. But when he has to confront a true man like myself, he will be stripped of that freaky, fake identity, layer by layer, and when I pin him, I will not pin Requiem, I will pin a scared, little kid who has to wake up and face REALITY! TD: Of course you will not only have to face Requiem but a whole ARMY of his allies in Genesis, arguably the dominant force in the IIWF these days. OV: Sadly, this is the truth. Liebling, show them what we think of this whole situation. [Heidi takes off the leather jacket to reveal a "Day 21 - IIWF Under Siege" t-shirt. Big pop from the crowd!] OV: This "siege" has to end. Genesis is more than just an ordinary stable, it is a philosophy. And this philosophy is something I, and several other wrestlers back in the locker rooms, oppose vehemently. Without us, there would be no IIWF these days. Without people like Shakespeare or Tiger Claw there would be no big-money contracts or award-winning shows. We build this place and no little group of imbeciles like Genesis will come in and "take it over", not as long as I step into the Coliseum week after week. I am on a crusade, Herr Dross, and no one is going to be able to interfere with my plans, no... [Verhoeven is abruptly cut off as the sound of laughter booms out from the P.A. and echoes throughout the Coliseum.  The crowd begins to stir with anticipation as Dross, Nurse Heidi, and the Butcher all look around in confusion, searching for the source of the interruption.] VO: Well, tha's no' entirely true now, is it, ye Teutonic Tosser? [The camera catches Verhoeven's expression as it rapidly shifts from confusion to barely-contained fury, the mysterious voice all too familiar to him, and we see him silently mouth a single word... "Macbeth." The crowd pops wildly as "Scotland The Brave" rings out over the P.A. and the scrappy Highlander, dressed in jeans, motorcycle boots and leather jacket, emerges from the entranceway and begins to stroll down the aisle, holding a cordless mic in one hand.  Verhoeven, looking extremely annoyed, folds his massive arms in front of him and glowers at the Scot as he approaches.  A ringside camera follows the newly-bearded, grinning Macbeth as he stops halfway to the ring, and raises the mic as the music fades out.] DM: Guten Abend, Herr Verhoeven!  Und du auch, Krankenschwester Heidi -- d'ye like me new look, lass?  Ye should... 'twas partly yuir doin'.  An' dinnae ye think I'll soon forget tha'. So, here we have th' great crusader who's goin' t' save th' IIWF!  Th' "virtuous" Otto Verhoeven, who "earned" 'is title shot by gettin' knocked out o' Coronation Clash before th' half th' crowd had even got back from th' hot-dog stands!  Who claims t' represent all tha's good about th' IIWF while 'e cheap shots, sneak attacks, an' cripples 'is way t' th' top!  An' when someone has th' nerve t' serve 'im up a dose of 'is own medicine, 'e runs around cryin' 'is eyes out like the great weepin' bairn 'e is! Well, as they say 'ere in America, "if ye cannae do th' time, dinnae do th' crime". [Pop from the crowd.  Macbeth, clearly enjoying himself, continues.] DM: Twice we've met, Verhoeven, _twice_ ye've tried t' cheat yuir way t' a win over me, an' TWICE ye've FAILED!  Now, I can imagine wha' ye must've been thinkin' -- "I jumped Macbeth before th' bell, me auld lady distracted th' referee an' everythin'!  Why didn't I win?  It's no' fair!  I want me mommy!"  NH: [with a confused expression] What did he say? DM: What's th' matter, mavourneen, is yuir man's constant blubberin' makin' ye go deaf?  All 'is cryin' on yuir shoulder hurtin' yuir poor wee ears? NH: How... how DARE you! DM: [smiling up at Heidi] How dare I?  How dare YE wear tha' underwear wi' those shorts? [Heidi glances down quickly, then darts behind Verhoeven, looking embarrassed as Macbeth chuckles to himself in the aisle.  Verhoeven looks like a ticking time bomb as catcalls and wolf whistles echo around the Coliseum.  Macbeth, looking more serious now, fixes his glinting green eyes on the Essen native, and continues.] DM: I'll tell ye wha', "Teutonic Toddler", I'm sick t' DEATH o' yuir pathetic whinin', so why don't we settle th' matter next week, righ' here in' th' ring?  Maybe if ye lose yet ANOTHER match, Spreadbury'll just GIVE ye th' World belt, an' ye'll no' have t' wrestle Boy Requiem at all! [Macbeth lowers the mic as the capacity crowd cheers and places his hands on his hips, smirking wryly up at Verhoeven as the big German turns several shades of red with anger.  Trembling with indignation, Verhoeven roughly wrenches the ring mic out of Dross' hand and points menacingly down at the cheeky Scot.]    OV: Listen, you Scottish inbred, you have been getting on my nerves ever since you defeated me after that cheapshot. Every time I look over my shoulder I see you, mumbling some crap nobody understands, calling in your feeble-minded cousin to fend off my valet, sticking your ugly nose into my business. And yes, I am still upset over the way you ruined the World Championship Tournament for me, you stinking fool! It is time for me to resolve this thing once and for all. I accept your challenge, wimp.  Don't forget to bring your cousin so he can comfort you after I pounded you into a bloody pulp! [Macbeth merely arches an eyebrow at this, and once more raises his microphone.] DM: Nay, I needed no help t' beat ye before, an' I'll no' need any help t' beat ye again, tosser.  But by all means, bring yuir wee tart along next week -- when I get through with ye, ye're goin' t' NEED a nurse, wha'! [Verhoeven, eyes flaming with anger, every muscle in his body tight as steel springs, drops the mic and begins to climb through the ropes towards Macbeth!  Dross hastily evacuates the ring area, rejoining Steve Roberts at the broadcast table as Heidi tries to pull the three hundred pound Butcher back, pleading with him to calm down, but to no avail. As Verhoeven murderously advances up the aisle towards the Glenfinnan native, the fearless Macbeth stands his ground, removing his leather jacket and egging the German on with a torrent of verbal invective.  A thunderous pop rises from the crowd as Verhoeven suddenly charges, hoping to catch Macbeth with a lariat, but at the last second, Macbeth throws his jacket over the Butcher's head, and lifts a knee high into Verhoeven's midsection as he barrels by!] TD: Oh my goodness! This is getting ugly in a hurry, Steve! SR: That's what we like to see, Dross! This is what we want! Take it to the incomprehensible Scottish punk, Otto! [Verhoeven doubles over in pain, but as Macbeth closes in, a blind, lashing backhand from the Butcher catches the Scot across the face and drops him to the aisle floor like a ton of bricks!  Verhoeven pulls off the jacket, sees Macbeth prone at his feet, and pounces, but the Highlander somehow rolls out of the way, and the German lands hard on the floor beside him.  Seizing the opportunity, Macbeth grabs the back of the Butcher's head and slams his face into the concrete!  Pop!  Verhoeven, nearly insane with rage now, leaps to his feet, grabs a chair from the aisle, and swings away, scoring a direct hit in the middle of Macbeth's back as he rises, and sends him back to the floor!  Verhoeven lifts the chair high over his head and brings it down again, this time connecting with the back of Macbeth's skull!  Huge heel pop!  Sensing that he now has the upper hand, Verhoeven tosses the chair aside and seizes Macbeth by the throat, easily pulling the stunned, 270-pound Scot to his feet and holding him upright.  Verhoeven holds the semiconscious, choking Macbeth there for several long moments as he gestures dramatically to the crowd with his other hand, bellowing out, "Look at him!  Look at Macbeth!  The next visitor to the Slaughterhouse!" as deafening boos rain down from the crowd.] TD: Oh my! Both men could be very seriously injured here, Steve Roberts. This is bad! SR: Choke the moron, Otto! [Finally, the Butcher turns his attention back to Macbeth, his mouth stretching wide into a chilling death's head smile, and with an astonishing burst of strength hoists the Scot high into the air for the Slaughterslam!  But at the apex of the lift, in an act of pure desperation, Macbeth snaps in the air like a cat, whipping a leg up and nailing Verhoeven with an enzuigiri!  Incredible pop!  Both men crash back to the floor as the Coliseum security team and the Jobber Justice Squad finally pour into the aisle, swarming the two combatants.  The German Juggernaut, pinned down by several guards, strains to get back at Macbeth and actually manages to advance a few feet before two more men move to restrain him, while the quicksilver Scot slips out of two jobbers' grips before being tackled to the floor by "Nifty" Ned Norton and Scott "The Whine" Bloom, with the rest quickly piling on the downed Highlander.  Eventually, two large groups of men slowly begin to make their way up the aisle to the exit, Verhoeven in the middle of one, and Macbeth the other, both athletes still shouting threats and insults at each other in their own native languages and straining against their captors. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Well, the tension is absolutely at breaking point here in the Coliseum tonight, Steve Roberts -- and it continues to be Genesis who are starting the fires under most of the IIWF superstars. I have to believe that the level of competition here in the IIWF has been stepped up several notches since Requiem's coronation as the new IIWF Champion. The IIWF superstars see what they have to do now, who they have to beat, the odds they must overcome -- and they are hungry, Steve Roberts. SR: And so am I, Dross. Where are my biscuits? Let me get that waitress back over here. TD: Well, folks, up next was scheduled to be that Intercontinental Championship match, as the red-gloved rookie Creed was to make his first defence against friend and comrade Ike Sampson, but with Sampson's incapacitation in hospital due to an attack from a mystery assailant earlier tonight, Sampson has been admitted to hospital, and he will not be wrestling here tonight -- a very great shame for the promising young athlete, and for the fans here in the Coliseum, who have been robbed of the chance of seeing what promised to be a highly exciting match. SR: Aw, can it with the sob stories, Dross. Creed jumped Sampson himself to avoid fighting him -- the guy's ducking challengers left, right and centre. He knows he doesn't have what it takes to hold that title. TD: I hardly think that's fair, Steve Roberts. Creed defeated possibly the greatest wrestler in the world, Lord Byron, in one of the matches of the year just three weeks ago at Coronation Clash -- and he has vowed to be a fighting champion. Nonetheless, he has said that he will come out here tonight to make some kind of announcement, so let's get up to the ring. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= IIWF INTERCONTINENTAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Creed vs. Ike Sampson ----------------------------------------- WRITER: RD RA: Ladies and gentlemen! Here for a very special announcement tonight,     please give a big welcome to the IIWF Intercontinental Champion: the     man known as Creed! [The lights in the arena flicker out, immediately replaced with a bank of blood red spotlights, bathing the ring and aisle in an eerie, crimson glow. A voice echoes over the speakers, soft, yet menacing: "Anyone... Anywhere... Anytime." Beethoven's majestic "Ode to Joy" thunders across the arena, and the fans explode into cheers. Dry ice drifts down the aisle, and Creed steps out into its midst, Mad Dog Watkins at his side, dressed in his street clothes of faded jeans and a plain black sweater. The immaculately polished Intercontinental championship belt shines around Creed's waist, and he punches the air with his gloved left fist, reveling in the applause of the fans. As Creed and Watkins head down the aisle, showers of red sparks shoot up from the entranceway behind their backs, drawing even louder pops from the crowd.] SR: How much money do you think the IIWF wastes on all these fancy ring     entrances, Tim Dross? The suits could be donating all that money to     a worthy charity, just like the "Soundbite" does. TD: I hardly think that the "Mid-Western Cross-Dressing Society" counts     as a worthy charity, Steve. [Creed slaps a few of the outstretched hands on his way down the aisle, though Watkins remains impassive, and both men climb through the ropes and into the ring. Creed receives the microphone from Sparkplug Lee.] CREED: Heard 'bout what some gutless punk did to my boy Ike earlier        tonight.  Well, I gonna make a few promises to you people.  And I        ain't one to make promises I can't keep.        Number one... when Ike say he ready -- he gonna get the shot at        the Intercontinental title.  Anytime he want. [Pop for the gesture to the popular Sampson.]        Number two: me and the Dog been talking -- and we are gonna find        the guy who did this.  We are gonna find the guy in the mask... he think we should be "afraid"?  The only guy who should be afraid is him when me and the Dog and Ike teach him what payback is really all about! [Watkins nods his head as the crowd offers a big pop, and begins a "Pay - back!" chant, harkening back to Creed's victory over Lord Byron in the "Loser Leaves Town" Match.]        Number three: last week I was in a ladder match... so I didn't        get to defend my title in front of you people.  But you know        me... you know that I will fight... [The fans join in as Creed says the words:]        Anyone!  Anywhere!  Anytime!        So I got it all set up with the IIWF officials.... [Crowd pops as Creed removes his Intercontinental belt and hands it to referee Dave D'Amato who appears in the ring... the roar intensifies as the fans understand what Creed is doing...]        I came here tonight to defend my title -- and I gonna defend my        title -- and I gonna defend my title right here and right now!! [Big pop as Creed thrusts his blood red left glove in the air, accepting the chants... "Creed! Creed! Creed!"]        Now -- I know there someone back there who want some... I know        there someone in the IIWF who ready to fight.  I want any man in        the IIWF to come out here right now and find out why Creed is the        best wrestler in the world today! [The crowd grows silent as each and every neck cranes to the top of the aisle... each fan looking to see whom it will be who accepts the challenge of the red gloved Intercontinental Champion. There is a pause... and then the opening strains of a song all too familiar to the young Champ...] TD: That's... that's "Paint it Black"!  That's "Paint It Black"! [Shocked pop as Creed turns around and stares dead in the face of the man who has served as his mentor for the past few months... the man who saved Creed time and time again in his battles with the European Alliance... the man who now pulls his sweatshirt over his head to reveal a black T-shirt which reads... "Be Afraid.  Be Very Afraid."] TD: IT'S MAD DOG WATKINS!  IT'S MAD DOG WATKINS!  I can't... I don't... SR: Hah!  He set him up, Dross!  I think that old Watkins set him up! TD: We're gonna see this!  We're gonna see Creed/Watkins 2 -- and we're     gonna see it right now! [Many of the fans continue to pop in shock, others are simply stunned into silence by this turn of events. The referee immediately signals for the bell: Ding! Ding! Ding! - yet Creed doesn't even seem to heed the sound, still staring in disbelief at the man across the ring... Mad Dog Watkins... no longer a trusted mentor, but now a ruthless, deadly opponent; and one requiring the utmost level of heart and intensity to defeat. Creed's expression, however, for perhaps the first time in his career, seems completely devoid of these characteristics; the once ever confident rookie now shocked into open helplessness. Mad Dog Watkins, in stark contrast, wears an expression of grim resolution, almost as if he had been planning this moment for a long time... He charges at the rookie champion and levels him with a clothesline, Creed simply standing in front of the blow, too stunned by the betrayal to offer any resistance.] SR: Just check out that expression on the mush of Creed, Tim Dross! The     kid just can't believe it! He can't believe that his "daddy" would finally come to his senses and beat some humility into his swollen head! What an idiot! Does he really expect a true professional like Mad Dog Watkins to waste the last years of his career as some kind of glorified babysitter? Ha! Creed might be the Intercontinental champion, but he's still got a lot to learn about the game of wrestling, son! TD: I... I'm still too shocked to offer any rationale as to this callous     betrayal, Steve. And to think that just last week, we were talking     about how Mad Dog Watkins had earned the respect of the fans... and     now this! Was it really necessary? [Creed just numbly gets back up to his feet as Mad Dog Watkins charges in for a second running clothesline. The impact of Watkin's outstretched arm sends Creed careening into the mat, and the fans look on in horror, as the young rookie offered no kind of resistance to the move. Watkins wears an expression of grim satisfaction, and offers his hand to Creed. Meekly, the red gloved rookie accepts, clearly not thinking straight, and Watkins hauls Creed up, only to shear his head off with a short arm clothesline! The fans roar with disapproval and Creed drops down to the mat like he took a bullet in the skull, a wince of pain faintly coloring his the dazed expression on his face. Watkins drags his former protegé up into a piledriver position, Creed simply meek and compliant as Watkins executes the maneuver, brutally driving his head into the canvas. Creed drops limply on the mat.] TD: Oh my goodness! This match is torturous to watch! Watkins is simply     dismantling Creed in there, and the kid is offering no kind of     resistance whatsoever. Clearly, Creed's psyche has taken a severe     blow from Watkin's callous betrayal, and is in no condition to     wrestle this evening. This is no wrestling match, its a clinical     dissection! SR: Ha! Well the idiot should have taken his belt and gone home while he     still could! Instead Creed had to play Lancelot to Ike Sampson's     Guinevere, and now he's paying the price for his naivete! It's time     that Creed faced the reality of his surroundings: he's just a lost     little boy in a world of violent men, and Mad Dog Watkins is gonna     show him the cloth a wrestler SHOULD be cut from! [Mad Dog Watkins drops across Creed for the cover: 1 - 2 - from somewhere in the depths of his instincts, Creed finds the capacity to kick out; however, he cannot rouse himself to action, and remains prone on the mat as Watkins starts to lay in the boot. The veteran, his expression chillingly cold, works over Creed's fallen body, driving ferocious stomps at his former protegé and friend. Watkins drops across Creed's prone body, and slaps him right across the face! The sound mic picks up the Mad Dog's taunt: "Whatsamatter, Pup? You think you're a better man than the Mad Dog? You ain't nothin' but a cryin' little whelp!" Watkins begins to smash his fist into the face of Creed, pummeling away until D'Amato gets in his face and warns about the closed fists. Watkins gets up and jaws angrily with the ref over the call. Creed meanwhile, perhaps recovering a little of his wits, crawls over to the ropes and pulls himself up, staring listlessly out over the sea of fans. Watkins immediately breaks away from D'Amato, and goes to roll Creed off the ropes into a small package. Creed slips out of the way and tries to fasten on his patented Triangle Sleeper, but clearly his movements are lacking in killer instinct, and Watkins breaks out by savagely kicking back into Creed's bad knee. Creed gasps in pain and clutches at the wounded limb, but Watkins immediately goes to work by kicking repeatedly away at the fragile right knee. Creed drops to the mat and rolls around in agony.] SR: That's a potential career ender right there! After Creed came back     from that knee injury he assured everybody that he was fully     recovered, so how come he crumples whenever somebody so much as     breathes on that right knee! Y'now somethin, Tim Dross? Creed's knee     is still as brittle as the day Lord Byron busted it up with his     brass cane, and Watkins is gonna bust it up even more. What     ruthlessness and ring savvy from the Mad Dog! TD: I'm finding it hard to believe Mad Dog Watkins would go all out to     end the career of his former protege like this. I still can't     believe the turn of events we have witnessed here tonight, and it     looks like Creed was shocked more than anybody else. He's just not     going for it! The vitality, the speed, the power; it seems as if all     that has just slipped away from the man known as Creed. [The camera shows a familiar bearded executive at ringside, who, apparently in angst over the direction of the match, gets up and dashes out of the arena. Watkins slides under the bottom rope, grabs Creed by the leg, drags him over to the corner and... slams his knee right into the ringpost! The fans roar with disapproval. An ugly look of rage colors Watkin's face as he smashes Creed's knee into the cold steel for a second time! Watkins drags Creed from out of the ring, his head thumping on the arena floor as he drops. The veteran delivers a couple of stomps to the midsection of Creed, then retrieves the recently vacated ringside chair, folding it up and driving the edge hard into Creed's knee! The heel heat directed at Mad Dog Watkins is absolutely deafening as he seizes hold of Creed's leg once again, and balances it over the steel crowd barriers. Watkins hauls back with the chair and...] TD: Oh my goodness! Watkins just drove the edge of that steel chair     right into Creed's knee, sandwiching it over the crowd barriers!     This is just too much; is there no mercy left in the heart Mad Dog     Watkins? SR: Well, how would you feel being stuck molly-coddling some over hyped     orphan when you've got the talent to be a champion yourself? That's     the position Mad Dog Watkins found himself in, and I'm just glad     he's finally woken up to the facts. [Creed recoils violently from the chair shot, and writhes about on the arena floor in agony. The ten count is approaching, so Mad Dog Watkins drags Creed up by the hair and rolls him beneath the ropes, before climbing back into the ring himself. Creed attempts to get to his feet, but his wounded knee buckles beneath him and he slips back down to the mat. Watkins smirks and drops an elbow across the hamstring.] TD: Mad Dog Watkins just will not let up on Creed's knee, Steve Roberts.     Even though Watkins hasn't exactly been a nice guy during his     career, somehow I always thought that he was a man of honour who     respected his opponents. Is the Mad Dog really nothing more than a     cold-hearted thug? It's chilling to see how utterly without mercy he     is behaving towards Creed, a man we all thought Watkins was a     faithful friend to. SR: Don't get all emotional, Timbo. Watkins is just doing what he has to     do to be successful. The wrestling ring is not a place for mercy or     sentiment. [Watkins goes for the cover: 1 - 2 - Creed manages to weakly drape a leg over the bottom rope, forcing Watkins to break the pin attempt and get to his feet. Watkins looks down on his former protege with an expression of disgust: "You're only half a man, Creed! You can't even stand up an' fight! You're nothin' but a half-grown pup; you're the runt of the litter!" Watkins spits at Creed and beckons at him to get up and fight like a man. Creed staggers up to his feet, gingerly trying not to place weight on his right knee. It is as if Creed were lost in a fog, the hardened glint the fans were so used to seeing in his eyes is nowhere to be found. Nevertheless, Creed makes a half-hearted lunge at Mad Dog Watkins, grappling with him and attempting to go behind for a crucifix takedown. Watins stays cool, allows Creed to go for the crucifix, but simply slips easily into a Samoan drop, plunging Creed back into the mat. Watkins is on his feet once again, yelling at Creed to get up and fight.] SR: Ha! What a sorry excuse for an Intercontinental champion! If Creed     wants to be the best then he has to know how to overcome adversity,     and right now Mad Dog Watkins is making him look like a basketball     player trying his hand at a REAL sport. TD: You have to take into consideration the relationship between these     two men, Steve. Creed, an orphan growing up on the streets, looked     upon Watkins as a father figure, the parent he never had; and now     the Mad Dog has turned around and stabbed him right in the back!     It's almost as if Creed has lost his family all over again. [Creed shakily gets up to his feet, the pain clearly evident in his eyes as he faces up to Mad Dog Watkins. Creed locks up with his former mentor, grappling for a solid hold. He slips behind once again, locking on a full-nelson. The fans start to pop as they recognise the preliminary position of the patented Dragon Creedplex! However, the pop soon dies down again as Watkins easily powers out of the hold and switches it into a backslide. It almost looks as if Watkins purposely allowed the nelson to be applied, familiar enough with Creed's arsenal to confidently counter his best moves. The ref puts on the count: 1 - 2 - something, somewhere in the core of Creed's being prompts him to kick out! The fans begin to rally behind the red-gloved rookie! "Creed! Creed! Creed!"] SR: Watkins has got Creed all figured out, baby dolls! Do you think that     all that time Watkins was only pretending to be Creed's ally, and     that every step of the way he was merely studying his wrestling     style, figuring out the best counters, just so he could have this     moment of revenge?! TD: I don't know, Steve... I just don't know if Mad Dog Watkins could be     that cold. But y'see how Creed kicked out of that backslide? It     leads me to believe that there is still a glimmer of determination     left in the heart of the red-gloved rookie, and this match isn't     over yet. [Watkins slaps the mat in frustration, perhaps a little perturbed that Creed is showing even a brief spark of fight after all the punishment he has taken. As Creed attempts to get to his feet again, Watkin's scoops him up and slams him hard across the knee, the backbreaker rendering Creed a limp carcass on the mat. Watkins is not done yet, however, and hauls Creed back up, blasting his ribcage with a powerful belly to belly suplex. Creed's eyes go dead, the expression of shock now dissolving into one of unconsciousness. Mad Dog Watkins pumps his fist to the air, triumph written all over his face, his victory surely only moments away now. For the third time, he drags Creed up, the champion's limbs hanging limply, and sets him in position... The fans cry out in horror as Watkins smashes Creed with all his might... smashes him into the canvas with a gutwrench powerbomb!] TD: That powerbomb almost sent Creed through the ring! It's all over now, folks, it looks like the championship reign of Creed is over on only his first defense! [Mad Dog Watkins pauses with his hands on his hips, staring down at his crippled former friend, savouring the moment before victory, his revenge on Creed for their all-out war at Ring Wars III -- a war which Mad Dog Watkins lost -- only a three count away. And...] SR: What the... did I just hallucinate?! Tell me what I just saw, Tim     Dross!? TD: Good grief! Creed is standing on his feet! Listen to the roar of     these fans! Watkins delivered that seemingly career-ending     powerbomb, and Creed just leaped straight back up to his feet!     There's fight left in the Intercontinental Champion yet! SR: Un-be-lievable! [Creed stares dead in the face of his former ally -- now turned mortal enemy -- this time not with an expression of surprise and fear, but one of resolute determination. Watkins stares back, aghast at what he has just seen before him, Creed taking his best slams and now standing stronger than he has all the way through the match. Watkins snaps out of his malaise and wades forward, swinging powerful left and rights. Creed makes no move to defend himself, swallowing the hooks as if he needs them to get his blood flowing again; and although he is battered back, a flame is starting to smolder in his eyes. The crowd pops anxiously. Suddenly, Creed lunges under the guard of Mad Dog Watkins... and savagely clamps his teeth on the veteran's nose! The crowd pops in shock as Watkins face contorts in agony and tries to break free!] TD: Creed is biting Mad Dog Watkins right on the nose! What a crazy,     barbaric tactic that is! Watkins can't get free! SR: This all seems hauntingly familiar, but pro wrestling isn't one of     those wimpy sports where you get disqualified just for chewing on     somebody! [The referee immediately goes to force the break, with considerable difficulty extricating the two combatants! Watkins immediately leaps away, howling in agony as blood spurts from his wounded nose! The referee is immediately in Creed's face, yelling at him for the dangerous illegality, but the red-gloved rookie pays him no heed. Instead a look is written across his face that rages with pure killer instinct. Creed shoulders the ref aside and immediately charges at his hated foe, throwing a powerful left hook into the already damaged nose of Mad Dog Watkins. The fan's cheers are deafening as Creed unloads with lethal left handed shots to the head of Mad Dog Watkins, pummeling Watkins back into the corner, slumped against the ropes, slipping down to the mat.] TD: Where did Creed rediscover his strength?! How in the world has he     managed to change the course of this match after all the punishment     he has taken; after all the trauma of Mad Dog Watkin's betrayal of     their friendship!? I'm almost speechless, Steve Roberts! SR: Ha! That would be the day, Timbo. I really hate to admit this, in     fact it's causing me considerable pain to do so, but Creed looks     meaner and more determined than I've ever seen him before! It's as     if tasting Mad Dog Watkins blood hit a switch somewhere in Creed's     mind, and now he's a stone cold killer! [Creed clinches his left hand around Watkin's throat, his crimson glove a band of blood around the ebony neck of the Mad Dog. Creed heaves Watkins up into the air, the roar of the fans drowning out any other sound, whirls around one hundred and eighty degrees, driving Watkins into the mat with a devastating chokeslam, every bone in the Mad Dog's body seeming to shudder under the impact.] TD: Crimson Tide! It's all over! Creed has defied the odds once again! SR: No! No! No! No! No! [The frenzied cheers of the crowd drown out Steve Robert's cries of despair, as Creed drags Mad Dog Watkin's limp body over to the turnbuckles. He climbs up onto the top rope, carrying Watkins with him, the "Goodnight, Farewell, Amen" flying powerbomb only an instant away, when... Suddenly everything goes black. A few screams go up from the crowd -- the lights have inexplicably gone out. There is dead silence, over which can dimly be heard a dull thump.] TD: What's going on here? I can't see a thing, Steve Roberts! SR: Put your hand on your wallet, Timbo. I don't trust these Portland     fans! [The lights flood back on. The first sight available is Creed, stretched out on his back in the centre of the ring, blood pouring from his forehead. The fans pop in shock and confusion!] TD: What the heck happened?! What happened to Creed when the lights went     out? SR: Look down at the aisle, Dross! [In the aisle stands a man dressed in an eerie, smiley face mask, jeans, and a black shirt bearing the description "Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid." In his hands he is holding what looks like a sharpened metal shiv. Slowly, he turns and heads up the aisle and mysteriously disappears.] TD: Who was that?! Was that the man who attacked Ike Sampson earlier in     the evening? SR: It seems very likely, Dross, but don't look at the ring now! Mad Dog     Watkins has Creed set up for the "Every Dog Has Its Day" finisher! [Sure enough, Watkins is holding Creed balanced on the top turnbuckle, from which he launches himself, crushing Creed with the Samoan Drop! He leans across his unconscious for for the pin, and the ref puts on the count: 1 - 2 - 3! Ding! Ding! Ding! Shocked silence from the crowd, cutting through which comes the boistrous announcement from Sparkplug Lee:] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner, and NEW Intercontinental     Champion: Mad Dog Watkins! [And suddenly, as "Paint It Black" kicks in over the PA once more -- the crowd erupts with a huge, huge heel pop!] TD: I'm not a cussin' man by nature, Steve Roberts, but that result is a     load of crap! Creed started the match under unfavourable circumstances, managed to turn the tide with his skills and     determination, and now because some masked lunatic, very probably     under the direction of Mad Dog Watkins, he loses the match and the     Intercontinental Championship! SR: You can holler all you want to, Dross, but it doesn't alter the fact: Mad Dog Watkins is the new champion, and he's won the official     "Soundbite" seal of approval for the outright genius he used to pull     it all off! TD: Good grief! [The jeers shower down on Mad Dog Watkins as he stands triumphant, blood trickling from his nose, the referee presenting him with the gleaming Intercontinental belt. Immediately upon receiving the strap, Watkins runs over and clocks Creed across the head with it, aborting the rookie's attempts to get to his feet. Watkins drags his former protege up, and then hurls him into the mat with a jackknife powerbomb! The fans closest at hand begin to pelt the ring with trash, but Watkins just smirks and scoops Creed up once again, carrying the red gloved rookie up onto the top turnbuckle, facing outside the ring...] TD: Oh my goodness, Watkins looks set to superbomb Creed right off the     top rope to outside the ring! I can't bear to watch! SR: [laughing] Go for it, Mad Dog Watkins! Finish off the helpless     little puppy for good! [The fans look on in horror, gasping in shock as Mad Dog Watkins leaps to the outside. Creed and Watkins plummet to the arena floor locked in the powerbomb position; Creed crumpling into a lifeless heap as he crashes into the ground. Mad Dog Watkins gets up from the carnage and snatches up the mic from a ringside table. He stands over the crushed body of Creed, as teacher over student, and victor over loser. He snarls into the microphone:] MDW: Hey, pup, that's what I call "Pay-back". [Watkins hurls the microphone to the ground, and delivers a few extra kicks to Creed's midsection. He spits on the fallen Creed and then departs, waving the IC belt high for the heel popping crowd.  As he reaches the top of the aisle, Creed is able to sit up... staring almost without comprehension at his rival turned mentor turned betrayer. Watkins laughingly disappears and the shot is of the face of the rookie, his stone hard visage dissolving for the briefest of moments -- and that scared, orphaned, desperately forlorn eight year old boy is suddenly, shockingly evident. And then he is gone.  The cold, dead eyes of the red gloved rookie are once again apparent, Creed making his way shackily to his feet and then from the ring.  Creed ignores the emotional outpouring of the twenty thousand strong crowd, who clearly feel for the red-gloved rookie as he walks out of the ring -- up the aisle -- and then disappears. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside, where Tim Dross watches his monitor, shaking his head ever so slightly.] TD: I am speechless, Steve Roberts. What a complete, total miscarriage of justice. SR: Aw, you gotta love it, Dross. Sooner or later, you just knew that somebody was going to teach that cocky rookie that it takes more than a red glove and an attitude to rule the roost in the IIWF -- and for that somebody to be Mad Dog Watkins, who was his mortal enemy, and then his closest friend, taking him in completely and utterly, learning everything he needed to know to take him apart, to counter every move that Creed knows, and yet keep enough from him to have more than enough in his own arsenal to beat him -- pure genius, Dross. TD: It's one of the most callous, most despicable betrayals I think I have ever seen, Steve Roberts. Mad Dog Watkins has turned not only on Creed, but on Ike Sampson, apparently employing some hired heavy to eliminate him from the equation earlier tonight, so that nothing would stand in his way. I am totally disgusted by the actions of Mad Dog Watkins. SR: Just listen to you, Dross. Like some whining, snivelling little kid who's lost his favourite toy. It's over. Creed is over. It's over. TD: Well, what a controversial night it has been here in the IIWF Coliseum thus far -- truly unbelievable scenes here. And now we must head on to tonight's main event: the first championship defence of the man who currently wears the IIWF World Heavyweight belt around his waist -- the leader of Genesis, Requiem. SR: And if anybody can take that belt away from him, it's Mr. Damage, one of the most overlooked superstars in IIWF history. Dross, you know, I'm just having such a good time here tonight -- the champagne is flowing, the blood is flowing, the biscuits are in plentiful supply, we've seen one of the greatest double-crosses of all time... it just does not get much better than this. TD: You're disgusting, Steve Roberts. SR: Damned straight, Dross. TD: Let's go backstage to get comments from the Antipodean athlete with an attitude, Mr. Damage: [Cut to backstage, where Mr. Damage is seated on the bench in his locker room, a towel draped around his stocky neck, his well-built upper body glistening with water droplets acquired from a pre-match shower. He looks up at the camera, and speaks in his deep, accented voice:] MD: For twelve months I have waited for this one shot. If you think, Requiem, that I am going to waste this opportunity you will be mistaken. I have beaten you before, and I will beat you tonight. Requiem, this is my grand plan and tonight it comes to fruition. I will take the IIWF World Title. I will beat you to within an inch of your life and you will lose your precious title. And you out there in TV land, prepare to be shocked because in just a few minutes' time the IIWF will be changed forever. You will really have something to jeer about. I know you all hate me -- well, with me being the latest champion I will make you all bow down and kiss my ass! From tonight, all history will be erased. I will be the only one who matters. This former champion crap that you see these fallen heroes say about themselves -- it just means that they lost the title to a better person. Tonight, I will be the better person -- and as for Genesis, you had better fear the Silent Partner because he will be with me throughout the match, not on the end of a phone line but supporting me all the way at ringside. [Mr. Damage stands and heads out of the frame. Cut to the ring.] =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- IIWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Requiem vs. Mr. Damage ------------------------------------------ WRITERS: SG/DS [The lights rigged above the ring swing wildly around the Coliseum, and finally come to focus on Sparkplug Lee, standing in the centre of the ring:] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is for the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship, and it is tonight's main event! [Big pop!] TD: Well, here we are, Steve Roberts. That pack of dogs, Genesis, putting it all on the line against Mr. Damage, a competitor who has just plugged away and plugged away ever since he arrived in the IIWF last summer -- and now he finally has the shot he has waited one whole year for, he will finally step into the ring to wrestle for the World title. SR: And we could well see him take that title, Dross. Don't underestimate the power of the Silent Partner. [The first chord of "Straight, Hard and Long" by the Beasts of Bourbon strikes out over the PA, prompting a big heel pop!] RA: Hailing from Melbourne, Australia, weighing in 245 pounds, and accompanied to the ring by his manager, the Silent Partner... here is the challenger... Mr. Daaaammmmaaaggge! [Damage walks through the curtains alone and onto the arena floor to howling jeers from the crowd.] TD: Where's the Silent Partner? He said that his manager would make his first ever appearance at ringside tonight! SR: Maybe this is a ploy by Damage to throw Genesis before the match even starts. I'm telling you, Dross, Damage is a smart guy. TD: It never ceases to amaze me the amount of "boo"s this man gets. The crowd just simply hates him. SR: The crowd hates him, but you gotta respect Damage -- he is one tough customer. TD: I think Damage is going to be all business here tonight. His mobile phone antics have cost him dearly in recent weeks. This is his first ever title shot and he's waited a year for it. He's going to give this his best shot. SR: Also Damage beat Requiem fairly recently. I think tonight we will see a new champion. TD: It was a countout victory, Steve Roberts, when Requiem simply walked out on the match, but a victory it is, nonetheless. [Damage climbs into the ring and does a few stretches in one corner, awaiting the presence of the champion.] RA: And introducing his opponent, he hails... [Suddenly, Sparkplug Lee is cut off by a female voice booming out over the PA:] VO: [interrupting] Sparkplug Lee, cease your prattling...    [The lights dim to nothingness, leaving a single red spotlight shining down upon the aisleway, pulsating eerily as if in tune to some monstrous heart. The crowd gives a heel pop of truly monstrous proportions as a deep sepulchral voice is heard to intone "From this day forth, until the end of time, there shall be no mercy for the damned!" Suddenly a robed and hooded figure emerges into the spotlight, gracefully moving toward ringside as "The Music Of The Unknowingly Damned" booms from the PA system and echoes around the arena.] SR: Who's the druid, Dross? TD: I have no idea, Steve -- although whoever it is looks strangely familiar. [The figure enters the ring, and signals for Sparkplug Lee to hand him the microphone. Sparkplug Lee shrugs, and gently tosses it to the figure, who deftly catches it. The figure reaches up a hand to pull the hood back...] G: Hello, wrestling fans! TD: [over the headset] That's Gabrielle, Steve Roberts! The woman who engineered the entire Deathbringer scenario! The woman who "turned" Requiem to the dark side! Gabrielle, Requiem's own sister!    G: Did you all miss me? You know I missed you... But don't worry, because I'm back, and I'm back for good! SR: [over the headset] Oh, excuse me while I have palpitations of joy! G: Oh, and Phoenix? I'm fine, thanks for asking. Anyway, I'm very pleased to be able to be here tonight to do a very special interview... Ladies and gentlemen, my guest at this time is The Angel of Destruction! He is The Herald Of Damnation! Since Birthday Bash he is the undisputed Master Of Darkness... and _most_ importantly...    [The crowd begin booing once more, louder this time.] G: Since Coronation Clash he is the IIWF Heavyweight Champion! Ladies and gentlemen... REQUIEM!    ["The Music Of The Unknowingly Damned" begins once more as Requiem steps out from the shadows and makes his way to ringside. His trademark biker jacket has been replaced by a hooded robe much like that of his sister and he holds the IIWF Heavyweight Championship belt up to the air in his left hand, where it shimmers in the crimson light. The crowd heel pop is deafening!] TD: Here he is, Steve Roberts -- here is the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion! And he is undeniably a formidable presence in the squared circle. SR: Tell it to somebody who cares, Dross. [Requiem reaches the ring, and slowly strides to the centre. There is a tense moment, and then Requiem embraces his prodigal sibling. Massive heel pop! Damage simply stands in the corner, an arrogant smirk on his face, and folds his arms after seating himself on the top turnbuckle. Gabrielle hands the microphone to Requiem, who slowly scans the crowd.] TD: Requiem looks in fine form tonight. He certainly looks very confident. SR: Of course he's confident, Dross. He doesn't have to beat Damage -- Damage has to beat him. And that's no mean feat, when you have twenty or thirty guys coming down the aisle armed with... hey, what are those jerks carrying, Dross? TD: I believe there are only four Genesis members on their way to ringside, Steve Roberts, but they appear to be armed with... with air horns. [Indeed, Highwayman, Serge Annis, Scott Rogers and Edmund Fitzgerald -- one of the IIWF World Tag Team belts strapped around his waist -- are making their way to ringside, and they are carrying air horns. HONK! Requiem looks approvingly down at his stablemates as they approach the crowd, and then raises his microphone:] REQ: Would all of you idiots kindly shut up for a moment? [Huge heel pop! On the turnbuckle, Damage shakes his head, and stands on the top buckle. He looks out into the crowd, and then launches with a double axe-handle onto the back of the IIWF World Champion! Big pop from the crowd as Requiem drops the microphone and is staggered. HONK! Requiem unfastens the title belt, and turns to clobber Damage with it, but the Australian ducks under the swing, and the belt is grabbed by the match official, IIWF head referee Earl Alfonso.] SR: Is it just me, or has Alfonso been packing on the pounds, Dross? Did you introduce him to that new Waffle House outlet round the corner? TD: Actually he _is_ looking a little wider on the ground. [Damage snatches the belt from Alfonso as Requiem's back is turned. Requiem turns around to see Damage wearing the title belt! Big Pop! Requiem goes for Damage but is stopped by Alfonso. Highwayman and Annis climb the ring apron to threaten Damage, while Gabrielle yells at the referee, and at Damage, who buffs the belt and raises his arms to the crowd, who give a mixed pop to the Australian!] SR: Damage is just trying it on for size. TD: Don't you think this is a little premature? [Damage takes the belt off and tosses it at Sparkplug Lee who catches it. The bell sounds -- Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: All right, Steve Roberts, here we go. [The two men lock up collar and elbow. Requiem seems to be the stronger of the two, and Damage releases, shaking the kink out of his neck. Again, the two men lock up, and this time, Requiem shoves Damage into a corner. Pop! Requiem hits Damage with a devastating left hook, sending Damage down to the mat. Referee Alfonso reprimands Requiem for using a clenched fist. Requiem picks up the Australian and executes a perfect tilt-a-whirl stomachbreaker, causing Damage to convulse in pain on the canvas. Members of Genesis sound their air horns, while Requiem bends down and picks up the challenger once again. He sets him up for a powerbomb... and brings Damage down hard on the canvas!] TD: Oh my! Did you see that face-first powerbomb? SR: Yeah, Damage went down like a sack of potatoes. TD: Damage is hurt, he is hurt real bad. This match is just about over before it even begins. SR: I wouldn't count him out just yet. Look, Dross, he's getting up! [Damage shakes his head and slowly gets up. Requiem stands back and allows Damage to get up. Damage faces his enemy and says something inflammatory before issuing the champion with a vicious slap to the face. Requiem takes a step back, and then returns the favour -- but Damage does not go down, rolling with the blow and retaliating with a thumb to the "Angel of Destruction's" strange, white eye!] SR: This one is just going to get plain ugly, Dross. TD: You could be right, Steve Roberts. That thumb to the eye has Requiem reeling. [Damage follows it up with a blatant low blow, Requiem goes down. Heel Pop!] SR: Did you see that?! And in full view of the referee! TD: And referee Alfonso is not reprimanding Damage! Damage should be disqualified right there! [Damage circles the ring posing, allowing Requiem to regroup. Fitz climbs the ring apron to distract the referee, while Gabrielle climbs through the ropes to help Requiem up. She returns to the outside with a cheeky look on her face. As Mr. Damage has his back turned, Requiem retaliates with a low blow for himself, and Damage hits the deck again. Alfonso turns around and has a pretty good idea at what just transpired.] TD: Would you look at this?! The referee is all over the champion and he didn't even see what happened -- but when Damage made that infraction in full view of the official, nothing was said! SR: Looks like the referee dislikes Genesis as much as I do. More waffles for the big official, Dross! [While referee Alfonso is laying down the law to Requiem, Damage gets up and hits Requiem with a kidney punch. Requiem goes down but quickly gets up, although in obvious pain. Damage backs into a corner for a break but his legs are grabbed by Rogers -- who pulls Damage down onto his face, and then drags him sharply backwards, crotching him on the ringpost with the assistance of Gabrielle. Requiem grabs the Australian and drags him back to his feet, holds his arm and executes a near perfect short clothesline. Damage hits the canvas like a ton of bricks. Requiem runs to the ropes and bounces back with an elbow to the neck of Damage, before following it up with a cover. Alfonso drops and takes his time in calling the count: 1...] TD: This one could be all over right here, Steve Roberts! [...2...] SR: This is a slow count if ever I saw one, Dross! TD: No! It is six against one here. [Damage gets his shoulder up! Big pop! Requiem remonstrates with referee Alfonso, but doesn't take his hands off the challenger, dragging him to his feet and setting him up for a suplex... Damage tries to block it -- but can't. Requiem puts him up and holds him vertically, setting up for a delayed suplex. Cameras flash all around the Coliseum as the fans marvel at the strength and co-ordination of the champion.] TD: Look at that, Steve Roberts! The blood is rushing to the challenger's head -- he's been up there for ten seconds. [Crash! Damage is dropped to the mat with great velocity. Again, Requiem makes the cover: 1 ---- 2 ---- ] TD: Thre... NO! Almost, again Requiem complains to the referee for a slow count -- and Mr. Damage is still down. Look at this, the referee seems more concerned with Damage's condition. I don't believe the referee is being objective. Mr. Damage has been dominated this whole match. [Damage starts to move, Requiem grabs Damage, but Damage rakes the face of the champion. Requiem backs into a corner, and Damage follows it up with an elbow to the temple of the champion. Damage capitalises, grabbing Requiem and throwing him to the opposite corner -- but Requiem reverses -- and Damage counter-reverses! It is Requiem who is sent for the ride -- he hits the corner, and Damage follows up with another devastating elbow. Damage puts a head lock on the champion... Running Bulldog! Requiem hits the mat!] TD: What a bulldog from the challenger! Damage is picking up some momentum here, Steve Roberts. The champ hasn't moved. SR: Damage is in a no win situation. If he loses, he will be hurt bad -- we've already seen what they did to Derek Mota earlier on -- and if he wins, I hate to think what Genesis will do to him. There are four men and a woman outside the ring ready to belt the snot out of Damage. [Damage goes for a cover: 1 - 2 - Gabrielle breaks the count! Heel pop! Damage threatens Gabrielle but thinks better of it. The referee reprimands Gabrielle and tries to escort her from the ring, turning his back on the action for arguably longer than necessary. While Requiem is still down, Damage locks on a painful front facelock. The referee turns to see Fitz grab Damage's leg. Alfonso points at the tag team champ, and warns him sternly. Damage releases the hold, turns over the champion -- drops the leg -- and makes a quick cover. Straight away, Alfonso is there: 1 - 2 - again the count is interrupted, this time by Serge Annis. Alfonso has words with Annis, who flips him the bird. Referee Alfonso is steaming, then walks over to converse with Sparkplug Lee.] TD: Did you see how quick that count was? SR: What's the referee doing talking to Sparkplug Lee? [Sparkplug Lee gets up on the Ring Apron holds up the microphone to his mouth and says...] SL: Ladies and Gentlemen, at the command of match official Earl Alfonso, if Edmund Fitzgerald, Serge Annis, the Highwayman, Scott Rogers and Gabrielle do not leave the ringside immediately, Requiem will be disqualified and the belt will be awarded to Mr. Damage! [Huge heel pop!] SR: What?! Can the referee do that? TD: Well, it's an unprecedented sanction, but I believe that the rules state that after the opening bell, the appointed match official has absolute jurisdiction, and may make whatever decision he feels is necessary to ensure a fair result. If he believes that the odds are severely against one of the opponents, or if safety of the combatants or fans becomes an issue, he may take discretionary measures. SR: You've always been a stickler for the rules, Dross. If you ask me, the rulebook was written to be smacked over your head, Dross! TD: Will you be serious? SR: Who says I wasn't? [The Highwayman and Annis look at Requiem in disbelief. The champion nods grimly, and the four members of Genesis reluctantly exit the ring and walk down the aisle. Gabrielle, however, does not want to leave ringside. She refuses to leave -- prompting Alfonso to issue a five count on her: 1 - 2 - 3 - Gabrielle steps off the ring apron and onto the floor, slowly walking backwards toward the locker room area. Damage dropkicks the champ, sending Requiem to the canvas again. Damage follows up with a legdrop -- and another -- and another! Requiem is stunned on the canvas.] TD: Damage may be setting up for his Thunderstruck top rope leg drop here, Steve. SR: Of course he is, Dross. He's a methodical wrestler, a plotter. He knows what he's doing in there -- the only way to deal with a guy of Requiem's size is to keep him on the mat. [Damage climbs up to the top rope, teeters -- and then makes a giant leap! Requiem has gotten to his feet -- Damage launches himself with a flying cross body -- and lands it! He follows up with a cover: 1 - 2 - Requiem gets his shoulder up! Damage looks frustrated, and lays a boot to the champ for good measure, before once agains climbing to the top rope... He signals for the Thunderstruck leg drop! Cameras flash all over the arena as Damage launches himself once again -- and he connects! Huge pop as Damage makes the cover! Alfonso is in position...] TD: I don't think the Champ can get up from this! [Alfonso's hand hits the mat for the first time: 1!] SR: Damage hooks the leg and drives in the elbow... He's got him good, Dross! [Alfonso's hand hits the mat for the second time: 2!] TD: No -- the champ has his shoulder up! Requiem has his shoulder up! [Requiem appears to kick out, but Alfonso hits the canvas a third time! He signals for the bell! Ding! Ding! Ding! The crowd erupts in a huge mixed pop, the Genesis Generation practically apoplectic with rage in the stands. The Genesis members rush back to ringside, in a state of shock and disbelief.] SR: We have a new champion! I told you so, Dross! TD: But Requiem got his shoulder up before the three count! SR: I didn't see that, Dross! We have a new champion. You said yourself, the referee's word is final! TD: The whole world -- except, apparently, for the referee -- saw Requiem get his shoulder up in time. [Referee hands the belt to Damage who holds it aloft! Huge heel pop! The crowd start to throw beer cans into the ring, and Damage is quickly surrounded not only by the fallen champ, but also by the Highwayman, Serge Annis, Fitz and Scott Rogers. Gabrielle walks up to the referee and sprays mace in his face. Alfonso hits the deck!] TD: Hang on -- I'm getting word that something is developing backstage... some kind of disturbance. [Sparkplug Lee makes his announcement as the confrontation in the ring continues.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner -- and _NEW_ IIWF World Champion... Mr. Daaaammmmaaagge! [Alfonso staggers out of the ring and walks down the aisle. Debris is thrown at him, and he blinks back tears from the irritant sprayed at him, half-blindly staggering towards the top of the aisle. Just as he reaches the curtain, they are parted -- and a slightly thinner mirror image walks out into the arena! Huge confused pop!] TD: What the...?! SR: Hey, Dross, I must have drunk too much champagne -- is that _two_ Earl Alfonsos I can see?! [The two identical men look at each other, before the slightly thinner man grabs the still visually impaired official and drags him to ringside.] TD: What is unfolding before my eyes?! We have two Alfonsos! We have two Alfonsos! Damage has paid off an imposter! SR: How do you know he's an imposter? Maybe he is this Silent Partner we keep hearing about -- and twin brother to one Earl Alfonso! TD: Ridiculous as it seems, that makes perfect sense, Steve Roberts. Damage said the Silent Partner would be at ringside, but we thought he didn't show up. But he was in the ring all the time! You don't think the real Alfonso would make so many errors, do you? I told you he was looking fat! SR: No, Dross, I told _you_ he was looking fat. [As the crowd looks on in disbelief, IIWF President Daniel Spreadbury walks down the aisle flanked by security, a grim look on his face. Requiem grabs a chair and nails Damage, who is being held by Fitz. Highwayman, Annis and Rogers each have their turn at belting Damage. Security grabs Requiem and President Spreadbury gets a microphone:] DS: Ladies and gentlemen, I think it is pretty obvious what has gone on here. I have never seen such a travesty as we have just witnessed in this so-called "match." Since this match was officiated by a non-licensed referee, who was clearly somewhat less than impartial, I declare it invalid, and therefore a no contest. As a result, Requiem is still the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion! [Big heel pop as the President grabs the title away from the dazed Mr. Damage and hands it back to Requiem. Genesis showboat to the crowd in the background, as Spreadbury turns his attention to Mr. Damage.] Mr. Damage, as of this moment, you are suspended indefinitely on the grounds of your continued gross misconduct and flagrant disregard for all manner of regulations and authority here in the IIWF. I want to see you in my office on Monday morning, and I suggest you bring legal representation. [Damage, who was busted wide open by the numerous blows to his head from the steel chair, holds his head in his hands, the crimson seeping between his fingers. He takes his hands away from his face as the President leaves the ring, the two identical Alfonsos being escorted away from ringside by security.] SR: Well, Dictator Danny has spoken, but I don't think Damage will make it to his office on Monday. It looks like he'll be spending quite a while in hospital. TD: Mr. Damage has gone too far this time, Steve Roberts. I believe his tenure in the IIWF is over. He has been walking on thin ice for a long time. SR: Aw, come on, Dross -- he's the fairest wrestler I know. He's as straight as they come. TD: He couldn't lie straight in bed and neither could you. SR: What did you just say? [Damage finds himself set upon by Genesis once more, who summarily eject him from the ring, stomping him until he rolls to the outside. Scott Rogers follows him out, and continues to beat on him -- until Joe Petrow suddenly dashes down the aisle, grabbing Rogers in a hammerlock and ramming him hard into the ringpost, bloodying the Hurricane native's nose. Petrow then releases his grip on Rogers, spins him around, and jabs a scolding finger: "Not on my watch, Rogers!" Highwayman and Serge Annis jump out of the ring to aid their partner, but Petrow is already backing away, helping Mr. Damage as he goes. Requiem is handed the microphone again by Gabrielle, and the champion slings his belt over his shoulder before speaking:] REQ: Hey, Petrow, why don't you come back here and finish what you started, huh? No, didn't think so. [Big heel pop. Petrow simply shakes his head with a smirk and disappears back into the locker room.] Once again, Genesis stand tall -- and another foolish plot to discredit us is foiled. But still the Angel of Destruction hungers for new blood, for a true challenge. A warrior who will stand tall and fight like a man... but I know there is not a single soul who has the courage and the determination to face us. [Highwayman and Annis help Rogers into the ring, the Hurricane native wiping the blood away from his nose and shaking his head in fury, while all Genesis eyes are fixed on the entranceway.] REQ: Is there anybody out there? [Suddenly, the curtain is thrown aside, and somebody walks out into the aisle. Huge pop!] TD: Oh my! It's Derek Mota! Derek Mota is coming down to the ring! SR: Is this guy the freakin' Energizer bunny or something, Dross? TD: Derek Mota was brutally attacked by Genesis earlier tonight -- and he is coming back for more! SR: He's in no state to be dishing it out to five guys, Dross. He's done for. [Mota is limping slightly as he makes his way down to the ring, one eye swollen and discoloured, his left hand nursing his right shoulder -- but still he comes, this beaten man dragging himself down to the ring to face his enemies once more... and suddenly they are upon him! Highwayman, Annis, Rogers and Fitz launch themselves at the smaller Mota, and swamp him -- Mota gets in some good shots, sending Highwayman flying with a neat reverse kick, doubling Rogers over with a low blow and then hitting him with an uppercut which sends him to the floor, but Annis lays him out with a chokeslam on the concrete floor! Huge heel pop!] TD: Oh my! This is bad, Steve Roberts. [Annis rolls Mota into the ring, and Requiem lays his title belt on the canvas in front of him. He roughly grabs the back of Mota's head, almost enclosing his entire cranium in the grip of one big hand, and taunts him, rubbing his nose against the belt, before dragging him to his feet, doubling him over -- and powerbombing him right onto the belt! Mota's head hits the title belt hard as he is brought crashing down to the canvas! Huge heel pop!] TD: Oh my! Mota is out cold! He is out, Steve Roberts! SR: Mota's an idiot, Dross. He's got guts, but what a moron! TD: He undeniably has a great deal of courage, but... whoa! [Suddenly, the lights drop to total darkness, and the only visible illumination is a red glow on the video wall -- which is revealed to be the staring, eerie eyes of the Deathbringer! Huge pop as the 'Bringer's raspy voice echoes out over the PA:] DB: Requiem... Genesis... your cowardice and meaningless displays of your so-called power mean nothing to me. For it is written that you stand to face a far greater challenge -- a challenge who is your own size... [Huge pop as a red spotlight picks out the form of Deathbringer walking the aisle!] TD: Here comes the dead man, Steve Roberts! What history there's been between Requiem and Deathbringer -- this could get even uglier right here... we are out of time, folks, but we're going to try and stay with this just as long as we can... SR: Cut away from this at your peril, Mr. Producer -- we're gonna see more heads roll. [Suddenly, Deathbringer too is set upon in the aisle. The lights flick back up to normal as he is attacked first by the Highwayman -- who he backdrops to the concrete! Huge pop! Next to charge is Annis -- and 'Bringer catches him with a chokeslam onto the concrete! Huge pop! Fitz and Rogers attack from opposite directions -- Deathbringer knocks their heads together! Huge pop! The dead man fixes his gaze on the champion in the ring, who nods and beckons Deathbringer to bring it on. Deathbringer stalks to the ring and climbs to the apron. Requiem attempts to barge the 'Bringer off the apron, but the dead man grabs Requiem's head, and jumps to the floor himself, hotshotting Requiem across the top rope! Huge pop! 'Bringer rolls into the ring, and stomps away -- almost viciously, vindictively -- on Requiem, before dragging him to his feet and grabbing him by the throat. He looks out into the crowd, who give a huge pop!] TD: Oh my! Deathbringer is absolutely cleaning house out here, Steve Roberts -- and he has the World Champion in position for a chokeslam! Up he goes, and -- oh no! SR: Jumped from behind! This is bad, Dross! [Before Deathbringer can send Requiem crashing to his doom, he is jumped from behind by a chair-wielding Gabrielle, who brings the steel chair crashing against the skull of the big dead man, staggering him -- and suddenly, Fitz, Highwayman, Annis and Rogers are back in the ring, joining with Requiem and Gabrielle in beating on the big dead man.] TD: Oh, we need some help out here -- this is awful. Mota still isn't moving -- Deathbringer is being pounded into the mat -- where's security?! [Suddenly, another figure appears at the head of the aisle. Hands on his hips, with water droplets being flung into the air as he turns his head, a huge, blond man looks around at the scene in the Coliseum, and then strokes his stubbled chin...] TD: It's Casey James! "Blackheart" Casey James is in the house! SR: Come on, kick their asses, Casey! TD: Folks, we're out of time -- we'll have an update on this situation on the IIWF Hotline tomorrow night -- what a night it's been here in the Coliseum... We are out of here... So long, everybody! [The fans roar as Casey James suddenly breaks into a sprint down the aisle towards the ring. Fade.] +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I * I * W * F =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+ | President: Daniel Spreadbury | Vice-President: Jim Jividen | | univ0322@sable.ox.ac.uk | brokeback@webtv.net | | iiwf@sisko.demon.co.uk | | +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- http://www.sisko.demon.co.uk -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+