________ ______ __ ____ ___ __ . _ ___ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| / /\ | | || \| \ /\ \ / |\ || / \| | | | || | \ v v / | __| \__ /__\ | | ||__/| |/__\ v | \||| __|-| | |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| \ \| v | \|__/ \| | || \_|| | | __________________________/...hour two...\........|...|.......|....| LIVE! Charlotte Coliseum, Charlotte, North Carolina 11 October 1997 [The opening graphics fade from the screen as the shot mixes through to further interior shots of the Charlotte Coliseum. The house lights drop, and another burst of pyrotechnics erupts in the rafters, sparks in a multitude of colours raining down on the fans, dying out and disappearing seemingly just feet above their heads. Bright spotlights swing over the sea of fans, casting them in kaleidoscopic colours. The lights rise once more, and the shot cuts to the broadcast table at ringside. Tim Dross is seated beside Steve Roberts, and addresses the camera while Roberts jaws with some fans behind him.] TD: Ladies and gentlemen... SR: Can it, Dross. There aren't any ladies or gentlemen watching. This is professional god-damn wrestling, it's not exactly high-brow. Everyone watching is a moron. [To the Lil' Soundbiters behind him:] Right, morons? [The Soundbiters, in various degrees of inebriation, reply loudly with the expected refrain: "Shoot, Soundbite, Shoot!".] SR: Morons. TD: Well, in any event, we have one heckuva wrestling match coming up.     Billy Shakespeare, a man who seems to think of himself as the people's choice for Cruiserweight Champion, faces a man he's never beaten in Tony Starks. Starks has really been getting more and more vicious lately, especially considering he used that deadly Katha Jime choke hold to knock Mad Dog Watkins out of action. SR: You have to respect a guy like Tony Starks... he isn't about playing     games or being pretty, he just tells you he's gonna cripple you and then he does it. ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|.................................................. | || | \ v v / | __| "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare vs. Tony Starks |_||_| \_/\_/ |_|.................................................... WRITER: JdW [Cut up to Sparkplug Lee, who's entering the ring while looking down at his feet, somewhat befuddled. Lee raises the mic to his mouth as a reflex, mumbling something lightly.] SL: ...so if the tree falls... and there's no one... [suddenly noticing     the mic is on.] Uh... I... This first contest is scheduled for one fall, and it still makes a noise! Uh, scratch that. Introducing first, hailing from Ashland Oregon and weighing in at 230 pounds, a former IIWF Cruiserweight and Intercontinental champion... he is "Born to Perform", Billy Shakespeare! ["Little Willie" blasts over the PA system, seemingly loud enough for all of the Carolinas to hear it. Billy Shakespeare walks into the aisle soon after it's started, looking fully focused for the match, although he stops in the glare of the spotlight a few steps in front of the curtain and gives his trademark deep, grand bow. The fans are all clamouring to touch or high-five one of their favourites, so Billy obliges as much as he can. His attention is distracted, however, by the plight of a forty-ish man carrying a hot dog, who's trying to get back into his front-row seat. However, this isn't easy -- as the man who stole it is Scott Rogers. The middle-aged milquetoast asks politely for his chair back, but instead Rogers grabs his hot dog and shoves the poor man down. Terrified, he scurries off as Rogers starts to devour the dog. Shakespeare takes off to try and help the man, but he's arrived too late, and instead stands face to face with Rogers. Scott points to a notebook sticking out of his pocket, presumably trying to say he's doing some scouting, so despite his better judgement Shakes lets it slide.] TD: That's just despicable... Scott Rogers has evicted a paying customer, stolen his hot dog, and not even batted an eye. There's no other way to say it, that guy's just a jerk. SR: Well, the Culture Club have been recruiting in the burlap sack weight division, maybe they're looking at Billy. After all, he is high in the running to be the guy that Derek Mota next gets to embarrass. Gotta love the plucky Canadian bastard. [Back to Sparky, who shows some recognition to the plight of our now seatless and hot-dogless friend by nodding his head and mouthing "Been there."] SL: And his opponent... hailing from Staten Island, New York, weighing at 269 pounds... Tony Starks! [The Wu-Tang Clan's "C.R.E.A.M." replaces the more popular entrance, and the fans begin mostly to boo as Tony Starks walks into the aisle, a trademark towel wrapped around his head. Starks is, as usual, supremely calm and prepared for the task at hand, paying no attention to the fans or Rogers at ringside taking notes. Starks rolls into the ring, tossing his towel in the direction of a ring attendant.] TD: You know, there's something very poetic about a wrestling ring... SR: What the hell are you talking about, Dross? TD: "One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring     them all and in the darkness bind them, In the Land of Portland where the Shadows lie." SR: I don't get it. [pause] Yes, Starks is going postal on Pukespeare! [Indeed, Starks went right to the attack with a clubbing blow to Billy's back, surprising him enough to start firing off a series of shots to the neck and back of his head. Shakespeare falls to the mat, but like a rabid dog Starks kicks at his ribs, refusing to relent. Finally, Earl Alphonso moves in to force a break, as Shakespeare's managed to roll towards the ropes. Starks looks as if he won't comply, but he does let Billy up only to measure him for a clothesline as he rises. The thespian has no time to react and is sent right over the top rope out in front of Scott Rogers.] TD: This is bad news for Shakespeare... Rogers is getting up to confront     him and... offering him the rest of the hot dog? SR: That kind of show of friendship just doesn't pass the mustard here in the IIWF. TD: Steve, I really relish your puns, to be frank. [More than a little suspicious, the groggy Shakespeare declines the snack, and turns just in time to see Starks flying at him for a plancha. He's also in time to react, however, so he gets into position and catches the bigger Starks in mid-air. Pop! Billy wastes little time, dumping the New Yorker onto the floor in a slam. Starks' doesn't take the shot well, and he seems to be in some back pain as Billy hauls him back to his feet, using the momentum to toss him into the ring. Shakespeare hops soon afterwards to the apron, and in a fluid motion jumps to the top rope, catapulting off towards the prone Starks. Because it's all done so quickly, Tony has no time to move and ends up splashed, with Billy hanging on for a cover of: 1 - 2 - Starks forces a shoulder up! Not dismayed yet, Shakes throws a weak kick towards the rising Starks which is caught. It's a decoy, however, as Billy winds up an enzuigiri... and Starks ducks!] SR: My bro Tony has a hold of Pukespeare's left leg, and once he starts     to work on a joint like the knee it's all over. TD: This could indeed be bad news for Billy Shakespeare, as Starks is     already trying to push him into a half-Boston crab. [Billy's no technical slouch, mind you, but he's having little affect as he tries to struggle against the half-Boston, which by now is pretty much latched on. As it's in the centre of the ring, Shakespeare can and is doing little but suffer, hoping to inch bit by bit towards the ropes. Starks hears the cries of his opponent, and it just makes him pull back harder.] SR: Look up killer instinct in an encyclopedia and you find a picture of     Tony Starks. TD: I wasn't aware that the encyclopedia was on your reading list, Steve. SR: You know, I'm sick of you, Dross. That was the lamest excuse for a     straight line I ever heard. What the hell can I do with _that_? [As the action slows down inside the ring, outside it just starts to pick up. A large heel pop arises as Ronnie Paris walks out from behind the curtain to survey the situation. Starks sees him, and although he doesn't get up the distraction is enough for a concerted effort by Shakespeare to break the hold and roll over. An angry Starks turns back only to be caught flush with a dropkick. Starks staggers back but does not fall, somehow wobbling to keep his balance only to be nailed again with a spinning heel kick. This time he goes down, and Shakespeare steps forward to stare at Paris, who's making some suggestive hand gestures towards his detractors. Billy stares right at his rival, while Rogers scrambles to write everything down... Paris returns the gaze, and the two stand oblivious to the rest of the world, intent on outstaring the other.] TD: Look out for... SR: [cutting in] Too late! Pukes gets nailed with a dragon suplex, that     has to be it! TD: One, two and... just barely a kick out! SR: Damn you, Fonz. Start giving a fair count or there won't be any happy days. [Starks, like a man possessed, gets right back to work after the near fall and whips Shakespeare to the far ropes. Billy's in no position to slow down his momentum as Starks grabs him in mid-stride and nails a tilt-a-whirl suplex! Another cover, and the crowd nervously hold their breath... until Billy kicks out a fraction of a second short of 3. On the outside, a bemused Scott Rogers continues to take notes on the match, and Ronnie Paris gives Billy some mock applause for kicking out. Starks stays on offense still, firing a few chops in at his chest before following up with a martial arts style kick to Shakespeare's left knee. Billy crumples under the impact, giving Starks a short respite to plan his next attack. Meanwhile, Paris continues to jabber on with the fans and mock Billy, until he hears a huge pop. Paris assumes it's for him, and takes a bow, coming back up and seeing Derek Mota out of the corner of his eye, the true recipient of the pop. Rogers flips over a page on his notebook and starts writing even faster.] TD: We have the three major protagonists in the Cruiserweight Title scene all out here, and Paris has just noticed Derek Mota. It'll be     interesting to see how these two react. SR: It'll be a scary sight. Not scary in the sense of the Marv Albert     Victoria Secrets layout, but scary in the good way, like a Wes Craven movie. TD: What do you mean, with lots of blood and gore? SR: Actually, the good things I was thinking of are Neve Campbell, Drew     Barrymore and Courtney Cox... Six of my favourites. [First, let's look back in the ring, where Starks moves over his fallen foe only to receive a chop to the throat. He falls back, and like an advancing army Shakespeare gets right back up to take his toll. Starks is really getting labelled with lefts and rights, each pushing him back towards the corner as we rejoin the supporting cast in the aisle. Paris looks right into Mota's eyes, points at the belt he wears around his waist, and makes the universal motion for "I'm gonna become the champion" with his hands. Mota for his part takes the belt off and lays it out in front of him, daring Paris to take his best shot. That's all the provocation a Texan needs...] TD: Oh my, Ronnie Paris and Derek Mota are at each other's throats     outside the ring, and inside... Billy Shakespeare just hit an incredible monkey flip! We hate to flip between in-ring action and outside brawls, but... SR: Come on, Derek, pull his hair! TD: Here's a cover by Shakespeare: One... two... almost had him. [The JJS members begin to storm out into the aisleway area, hoping to neutralize the disturbance. Meanwhile, Starks and Shakespeare are still going at it undisturbed, with Billy winding up for an elbowdrop... and missing. Tony follows right after him, springing up to drop an elbow and this time connecting. Taking advantage of yet another momentum shift, Starks sends Billy hard off the opposite ropes, setting up to catch him as he comes back. Billy jumps up in a move almost like a Thesz Press, but his leg is caught by Starks off hand. Tony doesn't hesitate a bit, repositioning Shakes' weight a bit before driving him back.] TD: Fisherman suplex! One... two... it's still not enough! SR: Wouldya look at the jobbers dropping? Mota drills Jumpin' Jack with a right, Paris low bridges one of the Barnacles... It's a thing of beauty. Sure, they're starting to get bogged down by the sheer weight anyway, but it was a valiant effort. [Finally, Mota and Paris are subdued by the superior numbers of the JJS, who begin to cart the two off. Scott Rogers, who's still just calmly watching the match, chuckles slightly before turning back to his note-taking. Meanwhile, Starks starts to smell victory, noticing that Shakespeare is pretty much running on empty by now, so he methodically continues his attack, firing kicks into the chest area. Shakes is having trouble breathing and is already keeled over, so Starks takes advantage, underhooking both arms for... a double-arm DDT! Again a cover, and again it's only good enough for two. No one's quite sure how Shakespeare keeps kicking out, as by now he's barely even resisting, so Starks hits him where it really hurts, setting up an inverted atomic drop. Sympathetic pop from the men in the crowd. Billy's stunned long enough for Starks to take a chance, shoving him into a corner and then lifting him off his feet, hoping to set him up on the turnbuckles.] TD: If Starks can hit a superplex here, you have to assume it's over....     Steve, are you watching that damn tape again? SR: I just don't get it, Dross. He was a good guy... and the other one     was a bad guy... TD: I'll explain it after the show. Starks is headed upstairs... [Indeed he is, heading up towards his quarry. This quarry, however, has enough presence of mind to shove Starks for all he's worth, knocking him for a nasty fall. Tony's up fairly quickly, but as he looks up the first thing he sees is a sight nobody wants to see: Billy Shakespeare in mid-backflip coming towards them, with too little time to react.] TD: Curtain Call! That must be it... One! Two! Three! He got him! SR: Not fair! Fast count! [Sparkplug Lee gets up somewhat lazily from his seat, and makes the announcement official.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, your winner via pinfall, "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare! [Huge pop as Billy heads back up to the top turnbuckles, celebrating his win. Starks is just starting to get up, shaking his head to get rid of the cobwebs, while Rogers from his seat finishes up his notes.] TD: Even if the Final Act has taken over as his primary finisher, that     Curtain Call can come out of anywhere too, and it's one of the most     effective moves in the history of our sport. Tonight it got Billy his first ever win over the Staten Island native. SR: I gotta hand it to Pukespeare, he came up with a fluky win, but a win nonetheless. TD: Well, it's always been true that... oh no! Tony Starks has just snapped! [Maybe we wouldn't go that far, but as Billy was playing to his fans, Starks attacked from behind and wrestled him down, applying the deadly Katha Jime chokehold. Shakespeare's caught totally unaware, and all he can do is make soft choking noises as his air supply is cut off. Starks ignores the massive boos, and the flying debris letting him no his actions aren't popular... he's just concerned with putting more pressure on.] TD: Someone has to come out and help Billy Shakespeare... and here they are! [Huge, HUGE pop as Ike Sampson, the local boy made good, runs down the aisle to try and lend a helping hand. The only problem is that Starks was fully ready for this, so while Ike's preoccupied with rolling into the ring, Starks is ready to catch him with his guard down and apply a Fugiwama armbar! A massive heel pop erupts, as Scott Rogers continues to look on, not taking notes anymore but still paying rapt attention.] TD: This is bad news for Ike Sampson... Shakespeare still isn't up, help is nowhere to be seen... this could be bad. SR: Yeah, imagine the loss to the IIWF booking committee if we didn't     have Ike Sampson around. Who'd... fill in doing whatever Ike does? [After about half a minute in the armbar, Sampson's starting to really scream, and Billy's still not in a position to help out. Fortunately, the JJS is getting ready to pull double duty, accompanied by a few members of Dennis Griffing's crack security team and a few suits comprising the "Usual pack of idiots". Starks sees them coming, but doesn't let go of the hold as the masses mill about him, mostly either admonishing him or making weak efforts to pull Ike away.] SR: You know, for a security force, these guys don't make me feel very     secure. [The Rotundos move in, using their massive weight in an attempt to push Starks off and force the armbar open. It's working to a small extent, so Starks decides he's done his job, and let's go to confront the scrubs. As soon as his hands are free all the jobbers take a step back, a bit afraid of being his next victim. Starks then hops over the top rope and starts his way back up the aisle under his own terms, as Ike is escorted back. Shakespeare by now is just standing up, and is about to get the ring to himself.] TD: And now, finally, Scott Rogers is getting up out of that ill-gotten     front row seat. SR: What's the Fop doing? Looks like he's headed for the ring... TD: I'll take answering my own questions for 300, Alex. SR: Geez, Dross, you're getting nasty. Maybe a little something is     rubbing off on you. TD: Something rubbed off on me once. SR: I think we did this gag a few months ago, big guy. [Rogers _is- headed for the ring, straight for Shakespeare who's keeping a wary eye on him. However, Rogers looks in a very concillatory move, going so far as to extend his hand for the Oregonian.] TD: Could this be... have we seen an offer made for a new Genesis member? [Shakespeare turns around for a moment to consider what the handshake means, and as he does he's promptly dumped on his rear by a Rogers clothesline. Scott then dashes towards the opposite side of the ring, diving out before Billy can get back up and try to retaliate.] SR: I guess not. Look at the coward run, he takes his cheapshot then he     runs away. TD: I thought you'd advocate that strategy? SR: Not when the Culture Club's doing it. [Shakespeare, hoping by now that there were no more wrestlers waiting to cause a disturbance, and still smarting from the Rogers clothesline, quickly makes his way back up the aisle on the heels of Rogers, who feels, in the words of Superman, that "his work was done here".] TD: A lot, and I do mean a lot of outside interference in this match, but despite it all the "Spotlight" shines bright. SR: All matches should be like that. Except for the whole Billy winning     thing, of course. TD: Of course. Steve, I don't know what's about to happen now.  We're scheduled to see "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin return to the ring for his first IIWF match in more than a year, but I understand that he never signed his contract after the unexpected attack by Brody Thunder last week. SR: Signed it?  Hell, Dross, he tore the damned thing up! TD: Under the circumstances, I don't know what... hold on, what's going     on? [Dross is interrupted by a big mixed pop.  All eyes turn to see "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin lumbering down the aisle in his usual duster and with his black cowboy hat pulled low.  He ignores the fans and also pays little attention to Poutine Janois, who walks quickly behind him babbling in his broken English.  Upon reaching ringside, Hardin turns and heads directly for the broadcast table.  The headsets pick up Janois becoming upset.] PJ: Dis is loodcrous!  When you tore up da contwact, dat say you don wan     wrestle here! JWH: Hey Dross, you wanna shut up Spreadbury's little French poodle lapdog that's been followin' me fer the last three days?  Otherwise, I may have to put my own special muzzle on him. PJ: Oh yah, you threatenin me you big galoot?  I got da lawyahs. [Roberts begins laughing as Dross looks on incredulously at the scene. Finally, he pulls a hand-held microphone from table and pushes it in front of Hardin.] TD: Would you be kind enough to tell us what this is all about? JWH: I ain't never been kind enough to do anything fer anyone.  I'm just      gonna tell you the way things are right now.  Ol' Spreadbury's      sittin' up in his big corner office too scared to face me.  He sent      me some note sayin' I've got a verbal contract to wrestle in the      IIWF.  Well Danny boy, if it ain't on paper... and we both know it      ain't... that means yer offer ain't even worth [BLEEEEEP]. [Big heel pop.] TD: I'll thank you to watch your language. JWH: You'll thank me for not rippin' that dead skunk off yer head and      shoving down yer gullet, so shut the hell up, Dross. PJ: Dis is completely... JWH: [turning to Poutine Janois] And you too, you cold French toast eatin' little bastard!  Because I ain't got a contract, I can come and go as I please.  But if Spreadbury wants a match tonight, I reckon we can oblige him... this time.  But it's gonna be on _my_ terms. [Hardin pulls some papers from his coat.]  No referee... no three count... no winner... just a survivor.  One man walks away and the other gets carried away or buried... it don't much matter by that point, ain't that right, Roberts? SR: An "Outlaw" match, I think they call it. JWH: Damn straight.  So just get Injun boy down here to sign the contract and THEN we'll get down to business. [A murmur runs through the Charlotte Coliseum crowd.  The fans begin stomping their feet and a few moments later a big face pop erupts as The Phoenix steps through the entry portal.  He glares at the broadcast table through his half-mask and begins a steady walk, slapping a few fans' hands along the way.] TD: [reading the contract] What's this about "an unlucky bastard bending     over and kissing his ass goodbye"?  Did you write this contract     yourself? JWH: The match is named for me... I can write the damned contract. [Janois hurries to meet The Phoenix before he reaches the table.  He speaks quickly and the mics do not pick up the conversation, but The Phoenix merely shakes his head and pushes the head of the IIWF Special Concerns Committee aside.  Janois continues to babble and walks back up the aisle, waving his arms and muttering.] JWH: Well, well, it looks like he ain't really a _squaw_ after all. TD: Phoenix, this is a most unorthodox match and it apparently is _not_     sanctioned by the IIWF.  I would strongly suggest that you consider     what could happen and not.... [Hardin pulls the microphone from Dross.] JWH: ...and NOT waste any more of my valuable time.  Either sign the      damn contract or get back to yer teepee like a good papoose. [The Phoenix takes the contract from Dross and scans it.  He looks at Hardin with fire in his eyes.] TP: You ask me to waive all liability in this match... then I ask you to     do the same!  I will not be held responsible for ending the career of some so-called Hall of Famer.  I bring the power of the spirits to the ring and they send me forth tonight as their warrior.  Tonight, in front of my people, you shall learn that! [Big pop as The Phoenix grabs a pen and signs his name on the contract. Steve Roberts joyously raises his arms in the air.  Hardin merely displays a half-smile as he watches The Phoenix drop the pen on the table, jump to the ring apron and hurdle the top rope.  He motions for Hardin to enter, but the big cowboy raises the microphone again as he looks at The Phoenix.] JWH: My name was already on the contract... but yer spirits already know      my name, don't they?      It's Hardin...      _J.W._ Hardin...      ...the son of a son of a cursed son and raised in the devil's shadow.      Yeah, yer spirits know my name... 'cause they created me...      ...and now, Tonto, _you're_ gonna learn why they _fear_ me! [Hardin drops the microphone, removes his duster and cowboy hat, and smiles once again as he steps to the ring.] TD: Oh my! SR: That's the meanest hombre who ever lived right there in that ring, Dross -- and no amount of sucking is going to save little ol' Nightwing now! ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|.................................................. | || | \ v v / | __| OUTLAW MATCH: |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin vs. The Phoenix ....................................................................... WRITER: DS [A sizable portion of the crowd begins chanting, "Har - din! Har - din!" as the Outlaw stands a few feet away from the Phoenix, dwarfing the half-masked high flyer with his impressive 350lbs frame, more muscular than on his last outing. Hardin palms the knuckles of a clenched fist in his other hand as he continues to fix the Phoenix with a confident gaze. The Phoenix does not back down from his much larger opponent, and seems ready, poised like a cat, ready to pounce. Hardin steps towards the Phoenix, and raises one arm to the skies, challenging his opponent to a test of strength. The crowd cheers as the Phoenix shakes his head, and instead bounces against the ropes, hoping to catch Hardin off guard with a flying cross-body... but Hardin catches him in mid-air!] TD: Oh my goodness! Hardin just caught the Phoenix in mid-air as if he weighed nothing at all, Steve Roberts! SR: Say, "night night," Nightwing! TD: And Hardin steps backwards -- and hauls the Phoenix over his head with a fallaway slam... all the way over the ropes and to the outside! Oh my! [Hardin deliberately throws the Phoenix as far as he can, moving towards the ropes behind him, and sends the Cruiserweight sailing over the ropes to the outside, where he crashes hard against the steel crowd barriers! Big pop! Hardin follows the Phoenix to the outside, and hauls the stunned Native American up to his feet. The Phoenix has the presence of mind to swing a few weak rights and lefts at his assailant, but Hardin simply smirks as he stops the Phoenix dead with a hard punch to the gut. Hardin presses the Phoenix above his head -- and drops him throat-first across the steel crowd barriers, sending front row fans scattering. The Phoenix clutches at his throat, trying to breathe, while Hardin knocks the nearby Sparkplug Lee off his chair and grabs it, folding it and wielding it above his head.] TD: Oh, good lord, no. Hardin is like an animal out here! He's methodically dismantling the Phoenix -- he brings that chair crashing down and... the Phoenix rolled out of the way! [Huge pop as the Phoenix rolls clear of the chair shot, and brings his fist sharply up between the Outlaw's legs, crotching him. Big, big pop! Hardin's face is briefly twisted in the agony of the blow, but it then darkens into dangerous anger. He wheels around... and viciously stomps on the Phoenix's head! Fans in the front rows avert their eyes as Hardin continues to stomp away at the Phoenix's head and face, the Native American trying to shield himself from the blows, his fingers being bent in all manner of directions.] SR: Holy smoke, Dross -- Hardin's gone nuts! TD: This man walks a knife-edge every day of his life, Steve Roberts. This is simply brutal... simply horrible. SR: Hey, Dross -- are fingers supposed to bend that way? TD: No they are not, Steve Roberts. The Phoenix appears to have suffered a fairly severe fracture or dislocation of two of the fingers on his right hand -- and he is busted wide open! Oh my! [Hardin finally steps away from the Phoenix, breathing heavily. A camera shot reveals the Phoenix to be bleeding badly both from a scuffed gash on his forehead, and from a cut under the eye not covered by his mask.] TD: Oh, the Phoenix is a mess, Steve Roberts. He's busted open, his fingers are broken -- and look, he has a tell-tale red weal on his jawline, suggesting that he may have suffered a compression fracture. Folks, we apologise for the graphic nature of this, well... this is not a match. This is simply carnage. SR: This is great, Dross! Looks like Nightwing really will be doing a lot more sucking from now on -- it's the only way he's going to be able to eat! TD: The Outlaw is simply relentless, Steve Roberts. [Hardin drags the battered and bloody Phoenix to his feet -- and whips him hard into the steel ring steps, hitting them with such force that the top half of the steps is dislodged. Hardin stalks over to the Native American and kicks him repeatedly, forcing him to try and crawl over the steps to escape the blows.] TD: This is horrendous, Steve Roberts. The Phoenix is totally defenceless! We need security out here! SR: You think security have the guts to come out here and face Hardin, Dross? You have to be kidding! [The Outlaw steps over the dislodged steel construction, and shakes his head with a smile as the Phoenix continues to try and crawl away. Hardin once again drags the Phoenix to his feet and pulls him into the aisle, away from the padded flooring of the ringside area. Hardin puts the Phoenix's head between his legs, then hauls him up... and piledrivers him hard to the concrete floor! The Phoenix goes limp as he slumps to the floor, now bleeding even more profusely from his head. Many of the fans on either side of the aisle are now hurling garbage at Hardin.] TD: These fans are disgusted by what Hardin is doing to their hometown hero, Steve Roberts. We could be witnessing the end of the Phoenix's career right here. SR: He had a career, Dross? News to me. All I ever heard was the sucking. [Hardin snatches some of the debris out of the air, and sends it flying back into the fans with a laugh, as if revelling in the hatred of the Charlotte crowd. He hauls the semi-conscious Phoenix up to his feet again, the Native American now effectively little more than a dead weight, and hoists him into position for a second piledriver.] TD: Oh, this has to be stopped, Steve Roberts -- the Phoenix is unconscious! [Huge heel pop as the Outlaw drives the Phoenix's head into the concrete a second time!] SR: Piledrivers in the aisle, Dross -- aw, shades of the Outlaw's debut way back when. TD: Indeed, we are seeing the same kind of assault here that we saw in the Outlaw's very first IIWF match, when he hospitalised Scott "the Whine" Bloom. SR: Looks like Hardin wants to go one better tonight, Dross, and send Nightwing to the great teepee in the sky. [Hardin now moves over to one side of the aisle and jaws with the fans as he yanks at a section of the steel crowd barrier, pulling it down and laying it across the aisle with a loud clatter. He moves over to the motionless Phoenix and drags him to his feet yet again, pulling him over so that both men are standing on the barrier, placing him in a front facelock.] TD: Oh no... this is bad, Steve Roberts. SR: Cattle Buster DDT, Dross! [Hardin brings the Phoenix's head crashing down against the steel barriers with a devastating Cattle Buster DDT, and then stands, raising two fingers into the air.] TD: Oh, he's going to do it again! We need help out here! SR: You go, Outlaw! You go, big man! [Again, Hardin drags the Phoenix to his feet... and again brings him crashing down with a vicious Cattle Buster DDT. The fans continue to pelt Hardin with all manner of trash, and one redneck fan from the area of the crowd exposed by the fallen barrier even charges out into the aisle to confront Hardin -- who drops him with a hard right hand!] TD: He struck a fan! Hardin struck a fan! Can we cut to commercial? SR: We'll stay with this, Dross! This is great! We could have a riot here! [Security staff quickly rush to the scene and hold the rest of the fans in check, others surrounding Hardin, who is yelling for others to come and take him on, and forcing him away from the scene, away from the Phoenix, who still lies motionless. A stretcher team is despatched and passes Hardin in the aisle, moving as quickly as possible to help the Phoenix. Hardin casually takes shots at one or two of the security guards, sending them down like skittles, but generally seems content to be forced slowly back to the locker room, watching while the Phoenix is placed on a back board, his neck encased in a brace, and then lifted gently onto the stretcher. Security replace the crowd barrier, and the situation appears to be defused.] TD: This is terrible, Steve Roberts. The Phoenix has simply been knocked unconscious by this brutal, heinous attack from Hardin... and look at that man, Steve Roberts -- he is _laughing_. SR: Well, it's damned funny, Dross. Although... poor Nightwing. I'll miss his sucking. TD: We may indeed have witnessed the end of the career of this promising young athlete -- and you think it's funny?! I am nearly as disgusted by you as I am by Hardin, Steve Roberts. SR: Aw, save it for somebody who cares, Dross. TD: The Phoenix now being rolled towards the locker room, and... hey! No! This is awful! SR: Yeah, Hardin! Go, big man! [Hardin breaks free of the security entourage just as he nears the head of the aisle, and charges down to the stretcher team, sending the paramedics sprawling with kicks and punches... and then Hardin knocks the stretcher over! The Phoenix is strapped down and unable to defend himself as Hardin continues to lay into the unconscious athlete with vicious kicks to the face and torso. Security finally drag Hardin away, and the paramedics right the stretcher, heading back to the locker room to the waiting ambulance, while Hardin thrusts his hands in the air and slowly leaves the arena, resisting the attempts of security staff to hurry him along. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: A truly sickening display from Hardin here tonight, Steve Roberts. I'm sure that Poutine Janois will hit Hardin with a heavy fine... SR: [interrupting] ...and Hardin will hit that French moron with a Cattle Buster, Dross! TD: Well, I apologise to any fans who may have been upset by the graphic nature of the footage we have just seen. I think it best if we just draw a line under this horrible attack and continue with the main event of the evening... SR: [interrupting] Fare ye well, Nightwing... we hardly knew ye. TD: Will you stop, Steve Roberts?! Well, folks, let's hope security manage to keep Hardin hemmed in backstage, because our next contest features the man who left him laying after turning on him in such shocking fashion. It's time for our main event... the new IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, Brody Thunder, battles "The Butcher" Otto Verhoeven. Let's get up to the ring! ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|.................................................. | || | \ v v / | __| NON-TITLE: |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder vs. Otto Verhoeven ....................................................................... WRITER: MG [Sparkplug Lee takes centre ring and raises the microphone to his lips:] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is your main event of the evening! It is scheduled for one fall, with no time limit. About to make his way to the ring, standing an imposing 6'8" and weighing in at 340lbs, hailing from Essen in Germany... [The theme from "Halloween" begins to play as the lights dim and a crimson meat cleaver, blood dripping from it, is projected onto the ring... Big heel pop from the crowd!] SL: ...here is Otto "The Butcher" Verhoeven! [Bigger crowd pop as the massive Teutonic Terror begins to march down the aisle, a look of determination upon his face as he ignores the outstretched hands of the fans. Entering the ring he quickly bounds off the ropes, criss-crossing the ring before returning to the centre and raising his hands high. The heel pop intensifies...] TD: Well, Steve Roberts, Otto Verhoeven certainly looks to be ready for     action. SR: Well, duh. The Butcher wants revenge, Dross, revenge! SL: And his opponent... and NEW IIWF Heavyweight Champion of the     world... [The seventeen thousand strong crowd bellows out a huge pop as the theme from "High Plains Drifter" begins to play over the Charlotte Coliseum's PA system...] SL: Weighing in at 267lbs, and hailing from Tombstone, Arizona, here is     "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder! [The Lone Wolf begins to walk down to ringside, an arrogant smile on his face, wearing his usual black trunks, black stetson and black boots, with a cheroot clamped between his teeth. A black T-shirt with white lettering across the chest reads "It's Clubberin' Time!", whilst the IIWF belt draped over his left shoulder completes the ensemble. Thunder has finally made it to the ring. Hurling the belt into one corner, he rushes to the centre of the ring and raises an arm in victory as the referee keeps Verhoeven back. He smiles as he removes his cigar, and drops it to the ring before grinding it out with the toe of his boot. Removing his hat reveals a bandage, obviously concealing the gash he received at the hands of Requiem the week before. Pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it to the startled ring attendant, he flexes his arms then beckons Verhoeven over...] SR: That's what I like to see, Dross. No fancy pants entrances like     some around here I could mention. No fireworks, no scantily clad     ladies... hmm, I guess it could use some work. [The bell rings, Otto Verhoeven and Thunder lunging toward each other, but suddenly... The lights go out, plunging the Coliseum into darkness! The crowd mutters as something appears on the giant IIWF videotron...] TD: What the?! Is it me, or has it suddenly gotten colder in here? [On the videotron letters of burning golden flame appear, slowly spelling out "Vengeance is mine, I shall repay, saith the Lord. Romans 12:16-19"] SR: Hey, what is this [BEEP]? Some nitwit found religion here, or what? [The crowd pops once more, as the cold, ancient, tolling of church bells is suddenly heard, then a voice...] VO: Unfortunately for you, Brody Thunder, the matter has been taken out     of HIS hands... and placed in MINE! TD: That's Requiem! That's Requiem's voice, Steve Roberts! SR: Dammit, Dross! I thought you told me Boy Rectum was off somewhere     in Japan? TD: Well, yes, I mean... I was informed Requiem was off competing in     Japan, at a special event organised by the... SR: [interrupting] Save it for someone who cares, Dross. [The letters of burning gold suddenly disappear, only for letters of scarlet flame to scrawl the message "The Angel soared on high, and fell. Within his heart beats only vengeance, hot as any flame of Hell..."] SR: Damnit, lookit this [BEEP]! First he plays the guitar badly, now     he's manglin' poetry too! [In the ring, Brody Thunder can be barely made out in the crimson glow, a sneer on his face, as he looks impassively at the words on the giant screen...] VO: Brody Thunder, there shall be no mercy... for thou art damned... SR: Ooh, big words for a dude halfway across the world, Dross. [As the lights slowly begin to rise, Brody Thunder is suddenly waffled by a big chairshot across the back, sending him dropping to the floor like a stone!  BIG pop! Somewhat belatedly, the bell rings...] TD: I didn't see who did that, Steve Roberts! Could you see who it was?     What a minute, I see... I think I can see who it was...  I cannot     believe it! It's Nurse Heidi, Steve Roberts! Heidi with a chair     shot under cover of darkness to Brody Thunder! SR: Ha! Looks like Thunder might be needin' some urgent medical treatment after that, Dross. Look at Verhoeven go in there! [In the ring Otto Verhoeven is busily putting the boot to a stunned Brody Thunder, as a jubilant looking Heidi, resplendent in her crimson Nurse uniform of old, drops from the ring down to ringside, a bent red chair still clutched in one hand. BIG heel pop, though one or two teenaged kids hold up signs saying "We missed you, Nurse Heidi. You can take our temperature any time!" Heidi grins, and mimes pulling on a latex glove...] TD: Well, it certainly looks as though Nurse Heidi is recovered from     her injuries at the hand of Gabrielle and the rest of Genesis,     Steve! SR: I'll say, Dross... she's lookin' hot in that uniform, too! Yessir,     Dross, my back has been troublin' me lately, ya think maybe Heidi     could give me some "private" treatment? TD: I think you'll be lucky not to get some "private" treatment from     The Butcher, if he hears you talking about Heidi like that... [Back in the ring, Otto Verhoeven is beating away at Brody Thunder, who desperately tries to roll out of the way of the mammoth feet that are pounding away at his back. With a cry of triumph, Otto yanks Thunder to his feet, only to drop him again with a big snap suplex! Heel pop! Otto yanks Thunder to his feet, and sets him up for another suplex but Thunder blocks it! Thunder wraps a leg around the big tree-trunks of the German, and blocks! Heel pop as...] TD: Low blow! Brody Thunder brings a knee up, and now it is Otto     Verhoeven who is in trouble! SR: That wasn't deliberate, Dross! Thunder just wanted to knee Otto in     the stomach, but forgot about the height difference. Hehehe... [Brody Thunder now backs away from the cross-eyed German, running up and... big kneelift! The German is sent sprawling, and it is now Thunder, with a wild-eyed look, that begins to put the boot in! Heel pop!] SR: Told ya, Dross! Brody got it right this time. If at first ya don't     succeed, try try again, right? [On the outside, Nurse Heidi pounds the mat in frustration as Thunder continues to apply liberal helpings of big boot, but Verhoeven slowly begins to rise, only to be knocked down again with a boot. Once more the big Teutonic Terror struggles to get up off the mat, but again a big boot sends him down. For a third time, Otto pushes himself to his hands and knees, and this time the blows of Brody Thunder appears to have no affect... Big pop from the Juggernaut's followers...] TD: Oh my goodness, Steve Roberts! Brody Thunder just cannot seem to     keep this mammoth down on the mat! Otto Verhoeven is just too angry     to be kept down. [Otto Verhoeven reaches his feet, and quickly lashes out with a gargantuan fist that sends Brody Thunder flying half way across the ring. Big pop! As Verhoeven strides over, Thunder pulls himself up, and wipes his hand across his mouth, where a small trickle of blood can be seen. His expression darkens...] SR: Uh-oh. Brody looks pissed now, Dross. I guess it's time for "No more     Mister nice guy"... [As Verhoeven strides over, Thunder suddenly explodes into action, delivering a huge clothesline to Verhoeven's knee. Huge heel pop! Nurse Heidi shouts something at Thunder that it is, perhaps, best we don't translate. ] TD: And just like that, the big German goes down! SR: I went down once. Best weekend of my life. TD: It's good to know you're still ready with the cheap joke, Steve. SR: You better believe it, baby dolls! [Thunder with a big elbow to Verhoeven's knee! And another! Another! Big, big pop! The German roars in agony as Thunder stays on the mat after the last elbow, and rolls Verhoeven over onto his front! Thunder jumps onto Verhoeven's knee, grabbing the ankle and yanking Otto's leg back, twisting the ankle in a way it was never meant to go!] TD: Thunder certainly has Verhoeven in a painful move, and the ropes are a good few inches outside Otto's reach. The referee is just now checking to see if Otto Verhoeven is willing to submit... SR: I doubt it. Otto's no American, but he's still a tough S.O.B. Take     more than that, Dross. [The referee is indeed down on the mat, checking to see if Verhoeven is willing to submit, but Verhoeven grits his teeth and says nothing, even as Thunder continues to yank away at the leg and ankle. Heidi suddenly yells something in German, and Otto cries in pain!] NH: Referee! He is biting mein liebling! TD: I don't see that... [The referee is forced to check, and as he turns his back to look at Thunder, Heidi pushes the ring ropes the few necessary inches toward Otto, who grabs them. The referee, Heidi's intervention going unseen, orders Thunder to break the hold. Thunder seems reluctant, and the referee lays on a count: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - Thunder releases Verhoeven a split second before five, and quickly lifts up and drops onto Verhoeven's leg... but Verhoeven isn't there... Verhoeven, having quickly pulled himself out of the ring, is now lying on the floor outside, a concerned Heidi speaking to him in rapid German...] SR: Aw, ain't it touching, Dross? Heidi whispering words of concern into     her loved one's cute little ear... TD: I wonder what she's saying? SR: "Vhy don't you distract einen idiot viff da referee costume vhile I     vack Brody viff my loaded bra. It's got ein brick in it." TD: Let's... let's not get into ladies underwear on national television,     Steve Roberts. SR: I _was_ gonna finish on a joke, but there's no way I can top that,     Dross! You da man! TD: Erm... yes. Meanwhile, Brody Thunder slides outside the ring, Steve     Roberts. He's not going to give Otto Verhoeven time to get his     breath back. SR: Quite right too. Anyway, Dross, wanna see what me and the idiots the     IIWF laughingly call a "Research & Development" department have     knocked up? TD: I almost dread to, but -- good grief, what is that?! SR: Well, remember I showed you the prototype IIWF tamagotchi? TD: "Root, Roundrite, Root!"? How could I forget? A virtual "li'l     Soundbiter" if I recall correctly... SR: This is a virtual IIWF wrestler. Collect 'em all. TD: Good grief. [Outside the ring, Brody Thunder has pulled Otto Verhoeven to his feet, and whips him into the steel ringpost, but Otto Verhoeven's massive bulk allows him to stand firm, and reverse the move. Thunder slams into the ringpost to the accompaniment of a huge pop! Staggering back, it can be seen that the pristine white bandage across his forehead now has a red blotch. ] TD: Goodness! It seems that the wound Brody Thunder received at the hand     of Requiem last weekend has been reopened! That close encounter with     the ringpost has certainly cost Brody Thunder! SR: I had a close encounter once! Best weekend of my life. Those alien     women are so damn hot! You know, Dross, I once met an alien babe     from Venus who had a very large... TD: [interrupting] Please, Steve. SR: ...IQ. Damn, Dross, she was smart. Knew right away that Quigley was     a joke as IC champ. Gotta respect alien brains like that. [Back at ringside, Otto Verhoeven, like a shark sensing blood, has moved in for the kill. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he rakes Thunder's face, tearing at the now bloody bandage. Big heel pop! Verhoeven at last wrenches the bandage clear of Thunder's head, but...] SR: Thunder's smilin', Dross! Ouch! Low blow from Brody leaves Otto     doubled over, and he's dropped the bandage... TD: Brody Thunder retrieves the bandage and he... he's choking Otto with     it! This is disgusting! This is supposedly a family show! [A camera close-up shows a look of delight on the face of Brody Thunder as he chokes out Otto Verhoeven with the bloodied bandage he so recently wore across his forehead, the German Goliath desperately trying to evade the hold! Verhoeven reaches behind Thunder, grasping him and...] TD: Suplex! Otto Verhoeven suplexes Thunder onto the ringsteps! I can't     believe we're seeing this sort of carnage! Where on earth is the     referee?! SR: Isn't it about now the referee is allowed a coffee break? I'm sure I saw it in the IIWF referee contract once... [Verhoeven pulls the bloodied bandage free from his neck and hurls it into the ring, where a lonely Sychopath sits. Catching the bandage he briefly cheers up, then returns his attention to his tear-stained Mooselips beercan.] SR: Sad. Damn near tragic, if you ask me. Here ya go, kid. [Roberts throws a "Sycho Joe" IIWF virtual wrestler to the kid, who grabs it, and begins pressing buttons, a look of delight on his face as the virtual Joe Petrow demands to be fed... with a Mooselips.] SR: It's always good to make somebody happy, Dross. [Verhoeven turns his attention to the ringsteps, where a broken and battered Brody Thunder gasps for breath. Laughing delightedly -- an unpleasant sound -- Otto Verhoeven grabs a chair, and raises it above his head... Huge disappointed pop as the referee reaches down from the ring and grabs the chair, ordering Verhoeven to let it go...] SR: Damn spoilsport. TD: The referee is only enforcing the rules, Steve Roberts. SR: It doesn't say anything in the rules about hitting someone with a     chair... damn. It does, doesn't it? [Now that the chair has been removed from Otto Verhoeven, the referee begins a count, deciding that since both men have been outside the ring for about three minutes it's time to begin counting... Otto Verhoeven slides inside the ring, and stands in the centre of the ring, impatiently awaiting Thunder...] TD: This is most unlike Otto Verhoeven, Steve. Normally he'd get in the     ring, break the count and then go out to hit Thunder some more...     Perhaps the Butcher is mellowing? SR: Nah, I think he's following the example set by that Costner movie,     "Field of Dreams"... If you hit him hard enough, he will come... [Brody Thunder stirs, and slowly begins to make the climb back into the ring, clawing his way up the ringsteps, sliding into the ring just on the referee's count of ten...] TD: That was so close! Thunder makes it in with _no_ time to spare! SR: Yeah, but now he looks out on his feet, and Verhoeven is lookin'     good! Give 'im hell, Otto! TD: I thought you were on Thunder's side? SR: That was then, this is now. [Verhoeven strides over, confidently pulling Thunder up, but Thunder rams his head deeply into the big German's gut, doubling Otto over, and allowing Thunder to bring his head up fast, slamming into Verhoeven's chin and sending the big man flying! Big astonished pop! Both men are down!] TD: That's... SR: [interrupting] You weren't going to say "That's what I call using     your head" were ya, Dross? TD: Certainly not, Steve Roberts. [Both men are lying on the mat, Heidi pounding the mat and yelling encouragement, presumably, at Otto Verhoeven. The referee looks down, shrugs, and then begins the ten count...] TD: What a huge disappointment it would be to see this end in a double     countout, Steve Roberts! SR: Hey, this coffee's gone cold. Sorry, Dross? Did ya say something? [The referee count reaches five, and Heidi's frantic pounding becomes ever faster, her calls ever quicker and louder! Otto does not stir, nor does Thunder. Looking around, Heidi spots Robert's cold cup of coffee, and rushes over to grab it!] SR: Hey! [Heidi hurls the coffee over Verhoeven, causing him to choke and sputter, raising his head and looking sluggishly around...] NH: Come on, liebling! [Seeing Thunder, the big German rolls onto his front and begins to crawl over to Brody Thunder as the referee continues to count...] SR: Hey, shouldn't the referee have stopped counting, Dross? TD: I believe that technically one man has got to get to his knees,     Steve. Otto must rise, or pin Thunder, to break the count. SR: Sounds weird. You sure about that? TD: Not really, but I assume the referee knows the rulebook. SR: Hah. That's probably asking a bit too much from some of our     referees... [Big pop as Otto Verhoeven drapes an arm over Brody Thunder, and the referee seems to sigh in relief before dropping to the mat and beginning to count...] CROWD: One.... Two.... TD: Brody Thunder kicks out! Thunder kicks out with authority, Steve! SR: Like I said, Dross, Thunder's a goddamn American! TD: Both men are slowly getting to their feet, and it looks like we're     going to get one of those comical slow motion brawls going up here! [Indeed, both men begin brawling away, but they both appear so exhausted that they are sluggish, their punches weak with little effect behind them, and delivered comicly slowly. The crowd begins to chant, to try and energize these two men. "THUN-DER!!" conflicts with "BUT-CHER!", the chants growing ever more quicker, ever louder, until the two chants cannot be made out, and only a huge, huge roof-raising roar can be heard!] TD: I can barely hear myself speak, Steve Roberts! I cannot believe the     noise here in the Charlotte Coliseum! [Slowly, ever so slowly, the pace in the ring begins to pick-up, and the two giants punches grow swifter and more vicious, until finally both men appear to be raining down blow after blow... The chant abates, the crowd seemingly happy to have brought the two men back into competition...] SR: That's more like it! [Brody Thunder appears to be getting the best of the match, as he pounds away on Otto Verhoeven, who suddenly lashes out and misses, leaving himself wide open for Brody Thunder...] TD: And Otto Verhoeven is wide open for Brody Thunder to -- NO! [Thunder tries to lash out with a big boot to the midsection, but Verhoeven anticipates, and pulls back just in time. Brody Thunder is momentarily caught off balance, and Verhoeven moves in!] SR: Powerbomb! Powerbomb! Powerbomb! [The off-balance Thunder is easily caught by Verhoeven, who lifts Thunder high into the air and slams him all the way down to the mat again with a gargantuan powerbomb! With a bellow of triumph the big German pounces on Brody Thunder, lifting the well and truly stunned Thunder off the mat and...] TD: Oh my goodness! Verhoeven has Thunder in a big full nelson, and he's     just shaking him about like a rag doll! The stunned champion looks     helpless! We could be seeing a submission right here, right now! SR: Yeah, Dross. That six inch height advantage and 73lbs weight     advantage is really working to Otto Verhoeven's benefit now! Thunder     is in big trouble! [In the ring Otto Verhoeven is crying out his triumph, his shouts heard throughout the arena as it seems Brody Thunder is growing weaker and weaker. Nurse Heidi screams her delight, thwacking the mat loudly and cheering her liebling on. The referee checks Thunder, who appears limp and semi-conscious. The referee grabs hold of a flailing limb, and raises it high in the air, only to see it drop. The referee signals one! Big heel pop!] TD: And this could be it, Steve Roberts! Verhoeven has the match won! [The referee has difficulty grabbing hold of an arm, so ferociously is Verhoeven swinging Thunder, but finally manages, only to see it drop for a second time...] SR: Once more and it's over, Dross! [The referee again grabs hold of the arm, but this time the arm is suddenly yanked in by Brody Thunder, causing the referee to slam into the side of Otto Verhoeven! Huge pop! The referee is sent flying, and a surprised Verhoeven releases Thunder, who slumps to the ground...] TD: I'm not sure if that was accidental or not, Steve Roberts. SR: Same effect, either way. Y'know, I'm not sure if Thunder was     expecting this kind of ferocity from Otto t'night. Thunder doesn't     seem to be with it, somehow... Aw, hell, it's probably just me. [Back in the ring Otto Verhoeven looks down at the slumped figure of the referee, he looks at the slumped figure of Brody Thunder. He looks at Heidi... and he grins evilly.] TD: If that was deliberate on Brody Thunder's part, I think it's about     to go horribly wrong, Steve. [Heidi hops up onto the ring, to an accompanying heel pop, and slips off one of her high-heel shoes...] SR: NO! Not the high heel shoe! Hehe, I can't believe I just said that. TD: This is no laughing matter, Steve! That shoe has a wickedly pointed     heel! SR: Don't give me that, Dross! We ain't down in Atlanta! That shoe's     about as dangerous as one of my old jocks! TD: I didn't think it was _that_ dangerous. [Heidi hands Otto the red shoe, who advances upon Brody Thunder, who slowly makes his way to his knees, just in time to see Otto Verhoeven loom above him, shoe in hand...] SR: OUCH! I hope Otto and Heidi ain't got anything planned tonight... [HUGE pop as Brody Thunder blatantly brings a big fist up into an area no self-respecting professional wrestler would normally go... Otto Verhoeven crosses his eyes and drops to the mat.] TD: That was a disgrace to professional wrestling! SR: Yeah, but it was sure funny to watch... [Thunder rolls Verhoeven onto his back, and pins him. One... Two... Three... Heel pop! But wait, there is no referee! Pounding the mat in anger, Thunder slowly moves over to the referee and begins to slap him gently awake... The referee stirs, and Thunder drags him over to where Verhoeven lies groaning. Draping himself over Verhoeven, Thunder tries again. The referee slowly counts: 1 - 2 - kickout by Otto! Big pop! Thunder complains of a slow count, then pulls the big German up, only to flatten him again with a snap suplex! Thunder covers again, but again Verhoeven kicks out. Slapping the mat, Thunder gets up and runs to the ropes, bounding off and sending himself high into the air to drop an elbow on Otto Verhoeven ... who has just wisely rolled out of the way! Big pop! Thunder clutches his elbow in pain...] TD: Isn't that the elbow with the alleged "loaded" pad? SR: I have no idea what you're talking about, Dross. [Thunder gets to his feet, desperately casting about for the location of Otto Verhoeven. Unbeknownst to him, Verhoeven is right behind him... big knee to the small of the back sends Thunder recoiling into the ropes! Thunder rebounds off and slams into the mat. Big pop! Verhoeven rushes over and -- big legdrop! Verhoeven quickly gets up and -- another legdrop! And another!] TD: Thunder looks hurt, Steve! When he landed on the mat he may have hit     the back of his head, and he's just allowing Otto to deliver those     big punishing legdrops! Thunder is in serious trouble! SR: I don't often say this, Dross, but you could be right! Looks like     the stitches on those gashes on Thunder's arm have opened up... His     head is red... He may have lost too much blood to go on, he may be     exhausted... Thunder's a mess. [Otto grabs him and yanks him to his feet one-handed...] TD: He's setting up for the Slaughterslam! NO! Thunder counters! Big     kick to the gut of Teutonic Terror! I cannot believe Brody Thunder     can move that quickly, considering all he's been through... [Verhoeven doubles over, but amazingly he's still got hold of Thunder! BIG pop! Otto manages to get back to his full height, a look of anger on his face...] TD: Oh my goodness! Otto Verhoeven has Brody Thunder by the neck in one     arm, and instead of chokeslamming him he sends him flying! Thunder     is sent hurtling toward the ropes! NO! Thunder over the top rope! SR: What strength from Otto! I guess they have spinach in Germany, as     well as the good ol' US of A! [Instead of following Thunder outside, Verhoeven now strides over to one of the ringposts, and attempts to rip off the protective covering. The referee is there, trying to stop him. Unfortunately, he's too busy watching Otto to keep an eye on Heidi...] TD: Heidi with a chair! Good grief, Steve Roberts, Heidi is certainly     keen to get back in action after her recent hospitalisation! SR: Yeah, well, I don't think Brody Thunder is too keen to be the victim     of her new physiotherapy, do you? [Heidi strikes Brody Thunder over the head with the red chair, and again. The crowd's heel pop alerts the referee, who turns to check on Brody Thunder. Heidi, however, seems to have been alerted by some mysterious sixth sense, and is standing there with an innocent "Who, me?" expression on her cherubic face....] SR: Damn, she's good... [However, while Heidi is clutching the chair behind her back and doing her best "I'm completely harmless" impression, an angered Brody Thunder seems to rise like a leviathan from the depths, looming over her with an extremely frightening expression on his face. Heidi doesn't see this, but Otto Verhoeven does... shouting a warning, he runs across the ring and launches himself into the air in a desperate "rocket launcher" type move over the ropes and onto Brody Thunder! The referee is sent spinning as Verhoeven barges past him! BIG pop!] TD: Oh my god! What a move from Otto Verhoeven! SR: That was devastating, Dross! Just devastating! [Otto Verhoeven lands square on Thunder, though Heidi is sent flying by a flailing leg. Punches rain down on Brody Thunder, but Otto suddenly notices that Heidi isn't by his side, and looks around. Seeing her slumped in front of a ringside barrier he gets off Thunder and goes to her side...] SR: Otto just made the mistake which'll cost him the match, Dross. [Behind Otto, a blood-soaked Brody Thunder slowly gets to his feet, and limps slowly toward Verhoeven. A big boot to the back of Otto Verhoeven stuns the big German, and Thunder pulls him upright, limping back to the red chair with Otto in hand, Thunder grunts with pain as he pulls Verhoeven high into the air! BIG heel pop!] TD: Look at the strength Brody Thunder exhibits as he's got Verhoeven     high in the air, and he's keeping him there! What is Brody Thunder     going to do with Otto -- NO! SR: Brilliant! The referee is still a bit too dopey to see much, but     Thunder lifts Verhoeven high into the air, and then... piledriver! A     so-called "Squaredriver" right onto a steel chair! Otto Verhoeven is     out, Dross! TD: What a move on the part of Brody Thunder, Steve Roberts! Otto quite rightly checking on the condition of Nurse Heidi, and Thunder taking advantage of that. I'm disgusted! SR: Quit yer bellyachin', Dross! Heidi is a professional wrestler, she     knows the score. She wouldn't be out here at ringside if she     couldn't take a little rough stuff! [Thunder pulls the now unconscious Otto Verhoeven upright, and pushes him into the ring. BIG heel pop! Thunder takes no chances, and covers Verhoeven, hooking both legs and even -- unbeknownst to the still groggy referee -- holding the tights for good measure! The referee edges slowly over, and begins to count, whilst on the outside Nurse Heidi staggers upright!] TD: I think this is it, Steve Roberts! SR: I'd say so, after being dropped face first six feet or so onto a     steel chair, Dross! Otto's tough, but he's not that tough! [In the ring the referee laboriously raises a hand and drops it! The crowd chanting along: "One... Two..."] TD: That's Heidi! Heidi is up on the ring apron! She's going to try and     interrupt the count, Steve Roberts! SR: Big deal. If she does that, Otto still gets disqualified! [Heidi grabs hold of the ring rope, and launches herself high into the air...] TD: Slingshot onto Thunder! Can she do...? [Interrupting Tim Dross, the referee slams his hand to the mat for a third time, the crowd yelling "Three!" just a split second before Heidi lands on Brody Thunder! Realising she is too late, she quickly rolls to the outside...] SL: Here is your winner, as a result of a pinfall... "LONE WOLF" BRODY THUNDER! [Thunder stands and grabs the World title belt from the referee, who has brought it into the ring. He raises it above his head to a huge pop from the crowd, and turns to leave the ring as Heidi darts back in to tend to her stunned fiancé, who has now sat up and is cursing his luck. Thunder hops down from the ring and heads up the aisle, slinging the title belt over his shoulder as he goes. Fans clamour to touch the gold as Thunder passes.] TD: Quite a performance from Brody Thunder -- but Otto Verhoeven proves yet again that he is one of the most dangerous men in this sport, Steve Roberts. SR: Shoulda had him, Dross. The Butcher shoulda had him. [Thunder continues up the aisle... and then there is a scuffle as the entrance curtains part, and a crowd of security staff are forced out into the aisle. They appear to be trying to hold back another figure, a thick-set, heavily-built, well-muscled man...] TD: It's Hardin! Hardin is out here to face the man who triple-crossed him last week! SR: We got trouble, Dross! This is gonna get messy! [Hardin and Thunder stand face to face in the aisle, separated by at least a dozen security officers, who do their best to keep the two men apart. Thunder has a grin on his face, and slaps the World title in a self-satisfied manner as he faces his former friend, who fixes him with a dark, angry stare. Cameras flash all over the arena.] TD: Folks, we are right out of time! We'll bring you the latest on these developments in the coming days on IIWF telecasts... what a night of action we've seen here in North Carolina. Don't forget, next week we'll be coming at you live from Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary in Kansas... and there are some spectacular matches in store! Until then, for "Soundbite" Steve Roberts, this is Tim Dross, saying: so long everybody! [Hardin and Thunder, both standing a good head taller than the security men who bustle inbetween the two to keep them apart, continue to stare at one another as the shot fades.] +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I * I * W * F =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+ | President: Daniel Spreadbury | Vice-President: Jim Jividen | | univ0322@sable.ox.ac.uk | brokeback@webtv.net | | iiwf@sisko.demon.co.uk | | +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- http://www.sisko.demon.co.uk -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+