________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| |\ /| /\ |\ | | /\ \ / | || | \ v v / | __| | v |/ \| \| __| /__\ \/ |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| | |\ /| |/ |/ \/ | | \/ | |\_// /\ |\ /| | _ | / __ / __ | v | | | / \ . |\ | / \ / \ | | | | \__ | | \| | __ \__ 15 September 1997| | | | \ | | | \__| \ .....................|..v_____/.|.|..|____|____/ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Requiem ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Requiem enters the IIWF interview area, shortly after the epic match featuring Otto Verhoeven and himself. Unusually, he appears troubled:] RQ: I expect you're all expecting me to crow about my victory tonight. Well, I'm going to have to disappoint you on that score. I don't know what it was, but frankly I wasn't up to my usual level of performance this evening. Perhaps I've got a cold? Who knows? Who cares? Otto, to be honest... Tonight, you were the better man. Now, I'm not fool enough to go ignoring a pin when it's handed me on a plate, but you should have won tonight. I hope we can get a rematch soon, because I've got to know... Joe Petrow, I hope we beat some sense into you tonight, because frankly you were a piss-poor referee. Please excuse the language, fans! Joe, seek some help... you need help, Joe. What did I ruin, Joe? Was it your dreams of Otto becoming champ? I can't see you dreaming that, somehow! Was it the match, Joe? If so, please note that the spooky guy bearing a strange resemblance to the great Outlaw did that, not me. Would you have been dumb enough to have ignored that pin, Joe? Yes, perhaps you would. Joe, you need help. That's two championship matches you've been involved with, in one way or another, and two you've fouled up somehow. Your record is lousy, man. Oh, and remember that rulebook you were so fond of? [Requiem holds up a dog eared copy of the rules, still stained with Petrow's blood:] RQ: Look at this... Rule 1937, paragraph 5, subsection 4b, as amended 1993... "No referee shall permit themselves to become distracted by physically involving themselves with individuals at ringside whilst refereeing a championship match." [Requiem then grins, and ferociously tears the book into a thousand pieces before scattering them through the air like confetti:] Joe, it doesn't say anything about Suicide Dives, but I suspect they are frowned upon. As is, I suspect, referees carrying tear gas canisters to ringside... Joe, I'm led to believe it is you I shall face next, though personally I think you're far too wacky and zany a character to be allowed anywhere near a gold belt... Too barking mad, for that matter... When we meet, Joe... make sure you've already received some professional help. For your own sake, if nobody elses. Why not pay a visit to that nice Dr. Frazier Crane? Hmm? Why not? You know it makes sense... [Fade] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Sychosys" Joe Petrow ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [A horribly beaten "Sychosys" Joe Petrow shuffles slowly onto the set. The left side of his face is swollen so badly that his left eye socket is barely visible, and his right eye is nearly closed to the point where it is a wonder that he can see at all. The blackened color of his wounds is nearly indistinguishable from the remaining black face paint. Petrow turns, facing slightly askew from the camera and looks ahead. Then, he turns his head up, extends his arms perpendicular from his body, and lets out a loud, gurgling call, that cannot be expressed with letters from the English language. Many Sychopaths are familiar with this, as this is the sound of ultimate suffering. After about eight seconds, Petrow stops, and collapses to his knees. Quickly, "Majestic" Maurice McArthur runs onto the set. He bends down, placing Petrow right arm over the back of his neck, and helps him to his feet, softly saying, "C'mon Joe, let's get you fixed up." Sychosys offers no resistance, as the two men walk off the set. Fade.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chris Quigley ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [The IIWF interview room, a good two hours after the Midsummer Madness PPV came to a close. Heavy footsteps can be heard in the distance, and finally, Chris Quigley, wearing just jeans and an open leather jacket, appears. He looks towards the camera, stops, looks down at the ground, looks back up at the camera, and then approaches it.] CQ: So, I guess you're all waiting for the grand apology. Marty Warnett sure shut me up tonight, didn't he? Well, really! How was I supposed to know that drinking and partying were the key elements in a successful career! All this time, I've been wasting my time studying, training, working and working in The Living Hell until I'd lay nearly unconscious in a pool of my own blood. But, that's all irrelevant right now. Hell, Marty Warnett was better tonight. He's better all the time. Marty Warnett is the greatest [BLEEP]ing wrestler the IIWF has ever seen! [Quigley rubs his hands over his face] CQ: Y'know, midcarders like myself have got to take the bad with the good, and try to learn from experience. Getting my ass kicked by a true professional like Marty has helped me realize, I'm just not good enough. I'm going to need to make a few changes in this sadly lacking arsenal. My technical skills are rotten, my agility is sub-par, I'll never win a power struggle. I guess you're wondering what's left for me to use? [Quigley cracks a particularly unusual smile.] CQ: You'll find out soon enough. I'm not licked yet. This old dog can learn a few tricks. Despite me being exposed for a fraud and a liar and a totally incompetent wrestler, I have not yet begun to fight. But I will. Soon. [Quigley looks into the camera, obviously having an idea or two running through his head, but chooses to leave _everyone_ in the dark at the time, as he just backs away, turns, and walks off the set.] [Fade] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [The shot opens on an empty IIWF lockerroom and interview area. There's a commotion heard and when the camera swings around and it picks up Brody Thunder sitting on a bench. There are two or three IIWF security people around him and a man who is apparently a member of the IIWF medical assistance team looking at Thunder's blood-covered face.] BT: Jus' stitch the damn thing closed an' get the hell outta my face! [The camera focuses in shakily on the medical assistant who is indeed suturing Thunder's facial lacerations.] Medic: Please hold still... just a bit longer... there. You know you lost quite alot of blood from these cuts. I think you really should go to the hos... [Thunder stands up abruptly, wiping blood away from his nose and chin with the back of his hand and cuts off the medic in mid-sentence.] BT: I don't give a tinker's damn bout what _you_ think I oughta do. You get paid ta stitch me up, bones... an' now ya can jus' take yer lil black bag an' get outta my face. [The medic and the security people slowly leave as Thunder wheels around to see the camera. He does a double-take and starts towards the camera, his eyes wide with anger peering out through his blood-stained face.] BT: Get that thing on me right now 'fore I have 'em cart yer scrawny hide outta here on a stretcher, pal. That thing runnin'? [The camera nods.] BT: Lemme make this crystal clear.     I'm tired o' havin' my squash knotted up by cowards.     I go out there an' me an' Kowalski go balls ta the wall, knockin'     each other from pillar-to-post fer he better part of an hour an'     what happens? Some masked man gets the drop on me with a tire iron!     Well mystery man... ya ain't no mystery ta me....     ...Casey James.     An' if you've gone an' sold out ta them pack o'dogs, Genesis...     then yer jus' another notch ta be carved on my victim post. Y'see,     whether I stood beside ya or fought against ya, I thought ya were     a stand-up guy. Now I see yer nuthin' but a lowlife an' the real     men o' this business are guys like Kowalski... Watkins... Creed.     Not the cowards like you an' that band o'thugs, Genesis. It's like     my pappy usedta say, hoss... if ya lay down with dogs... yer gonna     get fleas. An' whether ya know it or not my friend, you jus' became item number one on this man's "to-do" list.     I hope yer listenin', amigo, 'cuz from this day on you ain't gonna     be able ta close both eyes without wonderin' if I'm gonna be there ta take you out. An' believe me... it ain't a question o' _if_ I'll find ya... but _when_ I'll find ya. An' when I do bub, yer gonna wish ta the good Lord ya never stuck yer nose in _my_ business. Got it, "Blackheart"?        Now get the hell outta my way, junior, before I shove that up... [Thunder steps towards the camera and puts his hand over the lense. Cut to static. Fade to black.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Showstopper" Simon Lebec ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Camera opens backstage, following the Triangle Cruiserweight match at Midsummer Madness.  "The Showstopper" Simon Lebec, battered and bleeding, sits in his locker room, disgruntled:] SL: Once again, I went out there tonight, and proved to everyone why I'm the best worker in the business.  And once again, I got robbed of my glory... robbed by some tramp with a kitchen faucet!  Whore... and even I use that term loosely... you've got your dues coming to you!  Allah, my drunken friend, she's your company... so I'll take it out on you as well! Derek Mota, you may have stole the show at Midsummer Madness, but pal... the spotlight will always be on me!  I'll be seeing you in the ring again, and this time, we'll leave the dog in the pound where it belongs! [Camera fades.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Ronnie Paris ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Ronnie Paris is standing in front of the usual generic IIWF backdrop, wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts for a change instead of his wrestling attire. Somewhat uncharacteristically he's allowing himself to show the hint of a smile, a smile which hasn't been around for a few weeks...] RP: You know, as I look back on Midsummer Madness and the success I had there, it just makes me wonder why I didn't wise up earlier. Once I realized just whose side these idiots in Portland were on, I started to succeed. Heck, I showed Little Willie who the captain of our team was, and as far as I'm concerned I've just totally outclassed him. Tell 'ya what, Billy, if you want it I'll extend a face-saving measure: you stay out of my way and I won't kick your ass yet _again_. However, if you want some of Ronnie Paris, if you haven't figured out you haven't and can't beat me, well, I'm not tough to find. Now, I also hear we're going to be doing some touring, and I'll have to leave Portland. [Paris makes a very deliberate display about spitting right after saying Portland, the symbolism apparent even to those who are subtlety-impaired.] I figure that if I can't get out of the IIWF, I might as well make the most of my contract, right? So, I figured I could shoot for a few goals, like beating whoever it takes to win the Cruiserweight Title, or a personal favourite, saving those few knowledgable fans out there the pain of ever having to watch a Nightwing match again. Maybe I should just go right out and beat on Chief Running Gag for a while... after all, I did have to go to the trouble of pinning him last week. I figured the man's breath would be an automatic dq, but I guess I was wrong. He smelled like a less pleasant Dirt Dog. Well, you know how those Cherokee have trouble with the firewater. And I'm a Texan, I'd know. We can hold our liquor like nobody's business. Finally, I hear speculation about making a stop or two in Japan. Well, the law of averages said Spreadbury had to make a good decision _sometime_... [Cut away from Paris smirking at the camera, stoping just short of laughing at his own joke because that's a little neurotic...] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Scott Rogers ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [SCENE: The IIWF/Genesis spray-painted backdrop now used apparently exclusively by Scott Rogers and Serge Annis. Scott Rogers stands before it with a grin on his face which, surprisingly, considering the events at the PPV, does not look at all forced.] SR: Hey, Kowalski, Thunder -- maybe ya can help me out here. Yeah? Me mind's gone blank. I forgot who it was who said whiners never win. [Rogers pauses and the grin grows wider] SR: Oh yeah, no-one did 'cause it ain't true. 'Cause you two _did_ win last Saturday didn't ya...? Hope ya don't feel too ripped off _this_ time. [Rogers starts to laugh for a few seconds then continues] SR: And Simon. Heyyyy. How disappointed I was to see ya didn't get the belt I staked my life ya would. But hey, I didn't win either so I won't be too rough on ya. Just make sure you're ready for the next chance ya get at it, yeah? 'Cause Mota sure as hell ain't no champ. Yeah, he's a Scott Rogers wannabe, but he ain't never gonna get close to bein' me! [Rogers walks off to the left then re-appears:] SR: Oh yeah, and Lukey-boy, we gotta hook up some time. Got a few things we gotta sort out. Okay? [Fade out.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Luke Steele ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Fade up to the IIWF interview stand, a few hours after the PPV has ended. Luke Steele stands there in street clothes, still wielding the steel bar that he attacked Requiem with. He doesn't look pleased.] LS: So, Requiem remains champion, does he? All I can say about that one is, it's a shame but no different than what the league's already been through. I thought Otto would be able to take guitar boy apart, but I guess not. It helps when you've got a pack of rats watching your back I guess. And to that pack of rats I can say the following: Scott Rogers, I owe you one from the LWC. Cost me a chance at Casey James and a title, will you? Payback's coming, just wait. Highwayman, I'm going to walk away with your ESPW TV title, it's that simple. And, Serge Annis, don't think for a second I've forgotten that attack so many weeks ago on Saturday night. I have a hitlist of just about every guy in Genesis, and now that Dan 'Flash in the Pan' Kauffman decided to split once again, I guess I have another chance to get at the Backstreet Boys, er, Genesis. But I'm still targeting those 'old gen' guys too. Just because I've got very little experience, you think you can shut me out of a fued that I deserve to be included in? Nobody's taken more lumps than me... Oh, and one last thing -- TNT, what happened? Why didn't we win? [Fade to black as we hear Luke laughing his head off.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Timothy N. Turner ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Timothy N. Turner storms into the IIWF interview area, with his steel pipe firmly in hand. He looks very angry] TNT: What a horrible week! First my good friend Diana died in the car wreck. I went to her funeral with the nobility that I associate with when I'm not slumming here in the IIWF. Then I had to catch a flight straight to Portland in order to arrive in time for the card. I almost didn't make it, what with the traffic and all. Then my team fought to a well earned victory, though the officials didn't recognize it. Why didn't they recognize it? That pathetic excuse for a wrestler, Luke Steele. The weasel slithered out of the arena, afraid that I might have cross words with him. If that little moron hadn't left he would have been eliminated anyway, since he is so useless, but he _might_ have been able to take one of them with him! That leaves Duncan and myself as the survivors, hence the moral victory we are claiming. Enjoy your hollow victory, Starks. We all know who the _real_ winners were. [Turner's face hardens as he pushes an arrant lock of hair out of his face.] TNT: Back to Luke Steele. Steele! You had the gall to spurn me. ME! You had the opportunity of a lifetime to join the TNT express train to the top of the IIWF! Look at LFD. They will probably start getting title shots any time now that they are associated with me in the minds of the bookers. Instead you turned your back on me and then tried to become me! Don't think that your little attack on Requiem has gone unnoticed. [He raises the steel bar] TNT: I mastered that move! Duncan has a great swing as well! But you just don't get it! Look at what Duncan and I have done. Ryan Howard... attacked... knocked out of the IIWF. Ike Sampson... attacked... beaten. Subway Psycho... attacked... beaten. Can you sense a trend here? What do you do? You jump Requiem and he goes on to win! You can't even hurt someone when you have a steel bar in your hand! People will start thinking of a sneak attack from you as good luck! I hope you come and attack me...it guarantees a victory! You call yourself Steele? There's only one steel that I trust! [Fade] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Dexter St. Croix ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Dexter St. Croix, dressed in a tie-dyed t-shirt and black, nylon sweat pants, stands in front of an IIWF banner, his posse surrounding him. A female member of the posse holds an icepack against his head.] DSC: I gotta hand it to ya, Phoenix, ya took ol' Dex out when he was least expectin' it. Revenge is sweet, huh mon? [Dex winces as the girl shifts his ice pack] DSC: De only t'ing I can say is, I t'ink I got a bit ahead o' m'self. I made de mistake o' lookin' into de future when I shoulda been concentratin' on de present. I gotta say, it won't happen again. I'm not takin' anyt'ing away from de Phoenix or 'is teammates, mon, but ol' Dex didn't 'ave 'im mind right. [One of the male members extracts a hand-rolled cigarette from his breast pocket and hands it to Dex, then produces a Zippo lighter and lights it for the Rastafarian. Dex takes a deep drag and exhales...] DSC: Good for what ails ya, mon. Anywhich, I'm gonna rest me achin' 'ead for a few days and den it's right back at it, mon. I don' t'ink I'm ready for a run at de Cruiserweight belt yet, but I don' plan on takin' long ta get dere. I figure, ta be de best, ya gotta beat de best. So I'm issuin' an open challenge to de Cruiserweight division 'ere in de IIWF. I'll win some, and I'll lose some. But I can't do no'tin' but get better, mon. And Mota, I 'ope ya still got de gold when I get dere, mon, 'cause ol' Dex would love ta take it from ya! Peace out! [Dex and his posse exit the interview area as the scene fades to black.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Tony Starks ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Scene: IIWF Interview area, still covered with sweat from his elimination match, Starks stands, back turned to the camera. His white towel is draped over his head and he is clutching a piece of paper in his hand. He speaks with a dead calm:] TS: Sole survivor... that is a role that I have been in my whole life. All that tough talk, how are you feelin Little Timmy? How does the Katha Jime feel? Like a boa constrictor, right? Yeah, that's what happens when you run your mouth about me. Had to teach you a lesson... school is out. [Starks sniffs hard] How is that nose, Highlander? You got the same damn treatment. That sound, that hit to your nose, that sick ass sound... music to my ears. You just got a lesson in street life 101. I am going to give you some advice: stay out of my way unless you like going to the hospital to get fixed. That goes for everybody. [Starks turns around slowly, his eyes half hidden from the towel] TS: Ike, you had better be careful who you callin' boy. I ain't no backwoods hick like you. You better watch your words, or they might just show up on your tombstone. I always had doubts if you could do anything that took some guts. But you got in my face. You are as stupid as I thought, make too many mistakes. You stay with Mad Dog, mistake. He played your ass like a fiddle. Now you want a piece of me? Mistake again. But I am not going to hold that against you, I will enjoy ripping your soul out. You see what I did DUD? He was helpless, remember that image. You are gonna feel it soon... [Starks shows the piece of paper in his hand, it is a promo picture of Ike Sampson. He holds it up and looks at it.] TS: Your time is up... [Starks spits at the picture, then crumples it up and tosses it aside. The camera shot focuses in on his face and catches the dead gaze in his eyes. Fade to black.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Ike Sampson ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Ike Sampson stands silently on in the IIWF interview area, slowly tapping his palm with an iron bar held in his other hand. He is silent for a long time, finally looking up to speak...] IS: Turner... Macbeth... Starks... Somebody's gonna pay. Somebody's gonna get hurt... real bad. [Fade] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Machines ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Paul Wong and Simon O'Neal stand in front of the IIWF interview area the day after the Midsummer Massacre. Simon O'Neal has a bandage on the back of his head. Paul begins:] PW: We did a halfway decent job last night. Even though neither one of us were survivors in our match, our team was victorious, and we handled our job well. Simon suffered a slight concussion, but a trip to the doctor's confirmed that he will be all right... SO: And I met this HOT looking nurse. She gave me a special examination, which... PW: [interrupting] Simon, enough. The point is, he's ready to fight. Unfortunately, our opponents aren't. The Hollywood Bloods left the IIWF... SO: They couldn't handle being humiliated by us. We beat them so badly that... PW: [interrupting again] Simon, enough. So we're looking for new opponents. We'd like a rematch with the Harlequins; they're the only team that's beaten us in a one-on-one match, and we'd like a chance to avenge that. But we're making steady progress up the ladder of contention in the IIWF, and we plan on continuing. SO: "... making steady progress up the ladder of contention..."? Paul, did you start reading the Tim Dross book of overused sports cliches? I mean, sure we're beating all of the scrubs around here. But now we want the bigger teams: Harlequins, Team Psychosis, Prophets of Rage. Of course, they're all very lonely. If you ever watch a match, most of the teams around here have more people in their corner than folks sitting in the seats. PW: And your point is...? SO: If they got friends, we should get friends. [Fade] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Licensed For Devastation ------------------------------------------------------------------------ RS: Whoo-hah! That was some great high-quality _family_ fun, wasn't it Jon!? JC: Oh yeah, beating the everliving [BLEEP] outta Derek and Shadoe Rage peaked my career in the IIWF so far, Reg... do you care that we got eliminated in that Midsummer Madness match? [Reggie nods "no"] JC: I agree wholeheartedly... we beat the hell out of the Prophets _during_ the match, immediately _after_ the match, and once again, during the main event... you two losahs got you'selves punked three times! [Jonathan holds up three fingers.] RS: So now, I ask, Mr. Spreadbury, pray tell, what, oh what, shall be our next conquest? Do we have to lights out the entire tag team division for you? Or will you stick us with those _shockingly_ bad wrestlers, the Prophets of Rage? [Reggie laughs wildly] JC: Whatcha' gonna bring at us now, sucka'? Ya know damn well that you ain't gonna put a team past us, 'cause we've hit da' stride... RS: We've mused quite enough, a[BLEEP]hole. We'll leave now... [Reggie puts his hand into his jeans, and retrieves Shock the Taser.] RS: Sweet dreams. [Fade] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Cold Spell ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [The IIWF interview set, moments after the end of the PPV. Edmund Fitzgerald walks past the cameras without saying a word, and gestures for Icehawk to do the same. Icehawk starts to do so, then turns and angrily faces the camera.] IH: Damnit, those jerks sold us out! All this crap that I've been hearing about how I'm not a team player, and I'm a traitor, and in the end, I was the only one really working for the team. I pinned Mad Dog Watkins, a legend in this sport, and Highwayman starts whining about how I cost him the title. I thought we were trying to win a match! And then a blind ref steals Fitz out of the match, and even after I pin Casey James, another legend, those other three stooges lie down and get pinned, leaving me to fight Brody Thunder, Steve Kowalski AND Tiger Claw. I'm good ... but no one is that good. Hell, they had to hit me with a Skullpump, two trikesaults and a Pewter Parrot Strike or whatever the hell Claw calls his move before they could pin me. But that's okay. Until the title match, I just wrote it off to incompetence on the part of our team. Not good, but excusable, given who I was teaming with... But now I know better. Casey James is obviously the newest member of Genesis, and he must have had some reason to join, right? What better incentive than to promise to throw the big match, handing Casey one-half of the World Tag Team Championships? [At this point, Fitz comes into view. He whispers urgently to Icehawk, but all the microphones can pick up is "I know. I told you we will deal with it. But not like this!" Finally, Icehawk relents, and leaves the set. Fade] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Natural Predators ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [KUYLER GREYSON, BEAR and WOLF stand overlooking New York City] KG: Impressive, isn't it? You've been given a chance to compete with some of the best in the world, boys...you've come a long way from bus stops and roadside diners. B: The Spirits have been kind. And now, the IIWF opens its arms to us, to take us in as part of it's family. W: I can hardly believe it. Seven years to make it to the top. And now that we are here... KG: You have a chance to prove yourselves in the ring with top notch competition. Trust me boys, it won't be long before the Natural Predators are known the world over. W: Natural Selection. B: It's the order of things. KG: And soon you will be the Best of the Best. Trust me. [Fade] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "B.G" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [The IIWF interview area. A banner with the IIWF logo on it can be seen in the background, but no wrestler stands in front of the camera. Suddenly an unknown, deep, male voice is heard, which somehow sounds as if it belongs to a rather old man...] VO: The IIWF - the _mighty_ IIWF, the award winning IIWF everyone is talking about. Just over a week ago the latest PPV was put on the air all across the world and everyone was able to take a look at the _mighty_ superstars of the IIWF. IIWF. Sounds like a disease to me, a disease that has to be extinguished. Why? I recently browsed through the list of former champions here in the _IIWF_. The Outlaw, J.W. Hardin? Gone. The Subway Psycho? A psycho, quite right. The Deathbringer? Yet another fake. Otto Verhoeven? He had better become a butcher, rather than a wrestler. Dan Kauffman? Talk is cheap, and Kauffman is all talk. Casey James? What can you expect of someone who calls himself "Blackheart"? Requiem? As if one fake wasn't enough... You see, I'm not too impressed with the former or current champions of this league, and if I look at the other guys who run around, telling everybody that they're wrestlers in the _mighty_ IIWF - well, they just make me sick... Tonnage, Derek Mota, Billy Shakespeare. Prelimary wrestlers, each and everyone of them. Soon, however, I'll come to this league - I'll show you what a _real_ wrestler is all about - And first of all I'll be your judge - and I'll sentence you... ...to DEATH! [The screen turns black and white letters appear on it, reading:] "B.G. --- Coming soon to the IIWF" [A bell tolls. 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 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+