C + O + U + N + T + D + O + W + N T + O ________ ______ __ ____ ___ __ . _ ___ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| / /\ | | || \| \ /\ \ / |\ || / \| | | | || | \ v v / | __| \__ /__\ | | ||__/| |/__\ v | \||| __|-| | |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| \ \| v | \|__/ \| | || \_|| | | __________________________/..............\........|...|.......|....| with Larry Morton Friday 17 October 1997 [Fade up on the interior of the IIWF's broadcast truck, in which is seated Larry Morton, in front of a bank of monitor screens, each showing various clips of IIWF footage past and present. Larry, seated on a swivel chair, spins round from the screens to face the camera.] LM: Welcome folks to another "Countdown to Saturday Night" -- coming to you this week from the maximum security federal penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas -- the facility which, in twenty-four hours, will play host to one of the most unusual... most exciting... most action-packed shows in IIWF history. Eight unique matches in one unique venue, in front of a crowd unlike any other. It could only happen in the IIWF! I'm Larry Morton, and over the next thirty minutes, we'll be hearing from the wrestlers as they prepare for this incredible, history-making night of action. We'll also be taking a look at each match in detail... and ahead at the remainder of the Road to Ring Wars IV tour. With no midweek house show this week to recap -- the IIWF superstars needed as much time as possible to train for the rigours of tomorrow's special event -- let's get straight to the preview of IIWF Saturday Night: Hard Time! ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|.................................................. | || | \ v v / | __| PREVIEW: IIWF Saturday Night - 18 October 1997 |_||_| \_/\_/ |_|.................................................... ------------------------------------------------------------------------ OVER THE WALL LOSER SPENDS THE NIGHT: Timothy N. Turner vs. Richard "Moxy" Blue vs. "One Man Army" Dakota Bundy ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LM: The big show will be kicked off in the courtyard of the penitentiary, with this match in which a great deal is at stake! It's our first real chance to see Richard "Moxy" Blue in action after his big, huge victory over Tonnage ten days ago -- and it's the kind of match in which a man like the punishing Dakota Bundy should feel right at home. Surrounded by inmates, these three wrestlers will start out in the ring. Around fifty feet away from the ring is a wall, twenty feet tall, against which is set a fifteen foot steel stepladder. The first two men to scale the wall and drop down on the other side win the match and go on to face each other on the October 25 card. The loser will be cuffed by prison wardens and dragged to a cell, where he will spend the night. The stakes are high in the opening match of the evening -- let's hear from the man who is an unfamiliar face to many here in the IIWF at the moment, but from whom we are sure to be hearing a great deal more: here's Richard "Moxy" Blue: [A serene and quiet scene, by a placid lake surrounded by mounds of evergreens. The camera is unsteady, almost amateur, but the tranquility cannot be denied. The soothing sounds of "The Peer Gynt Suite" play softly in the background as a small Canadian duck floats by with a lineup of her chicks, hardly making a ripple in the water. A soft wind blows through the camera microphone, and more ducks can be seen feeding on small fish and plants as the camera pans out.] SPLASH! SPLASH! QUAAAAAAAACK! QUACK QUACK QUACK! [The ducks fly off in terror as they are bombarded by what appears to be large rocks. They splash into the water as the ducks splash about, the not-yet-airborne baby chicks scurrying off as fast as their lil' flippers will take them! The music stops abruptly. The camera continues to pan out until the form of Richard "Moxy" Blue can be seen sitting on a log frantically picking up rocks from the side of the lake and buffeting them, howling in glee.] RMB: Keeeheeheeheeeheee!!!! Fly lil duckies, FLY FOR YOUR LIVES!!!! HA! Lookit 'em go! [It is now apparent that Blue holds some sort of remote control in his hand. He sticks out his tongue,presses a button and the camera turns slightly and zooms in towards his face.We can now see him clearly, he wears a faded blue denim jacket and neon green jogging pants. He wears crescent moon shaped sunglasses and a T-Shirt that reads "Die, Mushnick, Die" with a pic of the infamous anti-wrestling advocate with a super imposed bloody bullet through his head. Blue's hair is almost black today.] RMB: Ain't technology wonderful? Picked this lil sucker up on a Japanese tour. If Spread 'Ems says I have to talk to my adoring populace 6 millions times a week, then he's gonna hafta work into my schedule. [RMB tosses the remote aside, and places his hands behind his head as he speaks.] RMB: Now I know what yer all sayin'. "Ain't that that sexy Ricardo LeBleu fella?" Yes and No. What they DIDN't show you guys on War Room was how I revealed my true Blue colours, and openly admitted, yes, as hard as it is to admit, the greatest cruiserweight in the world today, Richard Blue, is now a part of the IIWF. Big poopy deal. Oh, and by the way, thaz me. [Blue gives a raspberry.] RMB: You didn't hear that because ol' Spread 'ems didn't want you to hear my poignant exposé on how those jobbers are REALLY treated, the squalor and disrespect that goes down in the bowels of the IIWF. I just got fed up with it, plain and simple. He didn't want you to hear my comments on how he tried to screw me out of my rightful place as a SUPERSTAR in the IIWF. And he painted ME as the bad guy when his lil band of so called "Justice" tried to pounce on me when I finally proved myself. You can't control me Top Dawg. You can try, but Danno, you're gonna hafta learn, trying to stop Richard Blue is like trying to stop Thanksgiving. Your annoying Uncle Bob will probably still visit you. Wait a second, that didn't make much sense did it? [Blue twiddles his fingers at the camera.] RMB: You are getting sleepy... you will disregard that last completely silly statement.. you will send all your money to Richard M. Blue, 87 Penny Lane, Chester, Nova Scotia.... [Blue winks at the camera.] RMB: So now at least the snoots and ties acknowledge my existence. That puts them right above the scum under my refrigerator on my list of favourite people. Sorry boys, maybe next year you'll beat my Dads old toenail clippings. And they already are trying to scare me outta the IIWF. I used to live in Louisianna. [With Cajun accent and lisp, completely genuine] Eef ya dain't get uzed to leeving wit conveects, you daint g'do schoolin', cause Miss Hilary yer ssscience teachair haid a record longer than a Sweesss name, and a tattoo of a peacock on da roof o' her mouth. [Back to normal, slightly embarrassed to have slipped] In other words, prison ain't gonna accomplish that goal, boys. I LOVED the Shawshank Redemption, but Morgan Freeman is FAR from an intimidating man I'm afraid. [Blue leans back on the log, reaching for the remote to his camera, but falls backwards out of view. We can hear him grumbling as the camera turns toward the wall of a of a large 19th century farmhouse.Blue pops his head into view and giggles. He tries to control himself and does his best Brody Thunder impression. IIWF fans get their first glimpse at Moxy Blue's impersonation skills, and this is one of his better ones.] RMB: You know what that is? Take a guess. Go ahead. Damnit, its a wall. Ooooooohh, downright terrifying. [Blue bursts out into fits of childish giggles] RMB: Man oh man, and my competition is supposed to be scarier! AAAGH! KEEeekekekeee! First we got the man some call the most obnoxious little twerp in IIWF, Timothy N. Turner. Well, don't worry Timsy... [RMB throws his arms in the air and waves his hands] RMB: 'Cause HEEEEEEEEEEEEEERE'S MOXY! Trust me, I'll hold that title soon. And all you'll be holding is the hand of yer Celtic buddy. You may have been here longer, but many still consider you a rookie. After this match they'll consider me a mainstay. What am I saying?! They'll worship whatever I sneeze compared to you. Why? Cause yer dirt. No no no, yer not dirt, you WISH you could be dirt. You are what is fed to dirt when dirt misbehaves. Oh,yeah RIGHTEOUS! [Blue stands on the log and streches his arms out to the sides] But I do have some honours coming up. I'm also facing the ugliest man in wrestling. How drunk DID your mamma hafta be until she would breast feed ya? It's gonna be hard to wrestle with my eyes closed, but it'll be worth it not catch a glimpse of that mug! Man, you're gonna be the one guy in that prison that WON'T turn the inmates on! Maybe bring that lil' manager of yours, he's just the right height for them too... better not say, don't want to be CENSORED again. [RMB leaps off the log with a wet "Shplork" onto the lakeside grass.] RMB: As you now depart the loveliness of Chester, from the beauty of my adapted Maritime home, let me part with words of wisdom for you... there are many different types of armadillos, but... AAAAUUUGH! [Blue is now being ravaged by an angry flock of ducks, bent on revenge. He tries to scurry them off, but to no avail! They flutter around him driving him across the lakeside...] RMB: Eeeek! Mine Leben! Good duckies! I'm your friend! Look! Look! I'm a duck! [Blue flaps his arms and goes "quack quack", sounding vaguely reminiscent of the Toilet Duck. The water fowl are smarter than that, however, and continue to lambast him.] RMB: My nose! ACK! Leave me be, fowl creatures of Hades! AAAAUGH! [Blue dives headfirst into the lake with a disgraceful splash. The ducks eventually scatter. We see the soppy, wet mop of hair on the head of Richard Blue pop out of the water, spitting a stream of water, a look of disdain is on his youthful face.] RMB: I am NOT amused. [Poorly edited cut back to the video truck.] LM: Somebody else who is not amused is Timothy N. Turner -- one of many wrestlers who has decried the IIWF executives' decision to swing the Road to Ring Wars IV tour through Leavenworth and stage such an extraordinary night of matches: [Timothy N. Turner is standing outside of Leavonworth Penetentiary, looking up at is high grey walls.] TNT: I can't believe what they are doing to Timothy N. Turner. I always that knew that President SPreadbury had it in for me but finally... finally I was getting my due. Derek Mota has offered a shot at his belt. Duncan and I had offered Genesis a handicap match. Luke Steele was going to offer up his body in the last match of his career... so what happens instead? Leavonworth. An "Over The Wall" match with two people who have done nothing to deserve a match with the greatest thing going in this sport today. Bundy and Blue... it almost sounds like one of those crappy buddy cop shows. Tango and Cash... Bundy and Blue. Which one of you is the dog? Steve Roberts, after all I've done for him, takes great pleasure in talking about what will happen if I'm stuck in prison over night. This will never happen. You can forget those free drinkd I used to slather you with Roberts! You can't make me stay! Do you understand that I am rich? You can't do anything to a rich person that he doesn't want! My father and brother were policemen. I know what happens in there. I'm not staying. Period. [Fade.] LM: I understand that Dakota Bundy and his manager, "The Mouth" Matt Malone, were said to be in heavy training with ladders and walls this week. This match is sure to be a wild, fiercely competitive bout to start off the evening's action... and one of these three wrestlers will truly be doing Hard Time! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ BEHIND BARS: Tony Starks vs. Ike Sampson ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LM: There's quite a history between Tony Starks and Ike Sampson -- united under the tutelage of Mad Dog Watkins, their union put asunder by Watkins' shocking actions in destroying the so-called "Black Pack", and Starks taking up with the Age of Rage. Sampson, however, has continued on the path he favours: honest hard work. Starks, on the other hand, has gone back to his roots: punishing, ruthless and vicious. In the past few weeks, not only Ike Sampson, but Billy Shakespeare and Mad Dog Watkins, have felt the excruciating pain of Starks' feared "kathe jime" choke hold. The submission master will be looking to inflict more pain on Ike tomorrow night -- but Sampson vows to be ready. This match may take place in a prison cell -- furnished with bunk beds, three walls, the fourth side being the door, which is constructed from vertical bars), and rudimentary washing facilities -- but can four walls contain the battle between these two men? They will battle it out to a pinfall or submission... it's going to be brutal. Let's hear from Tony Starks, who took the time to return to his native New York this week: [Scene: Outside Rikers Island Prison in New York. The shot zooms in on the front gate where Tony Starks walks out. Waiting for Starks is a black Ford Explorer. Starks gets in and the car drives off. Now inside the car, Starks is talking to Raheem Coles, who is driving the car.] RC: What did you want me to get you here for? TS: Had to visit an ol' friend... RC: Right, right. You had a lot on your plate lately, you know? First you got that whole problem with that Sampson cat and then there is those problems with the Rages, wassup with that? TS: Don't know... tried to talk to them cats but they never want to say a word, you know? Hell, even Unique ain't got a clue. I am gonna let them brothas do it just like I was raised, you know? Just them deal wit' it on they own. Let them sort out their own... RC: No doubt. Man, where in the hell do they got you wrestling this week? A damn prison in Kansas?  [Starks nods]  [Raheem laughs] And they even got you in a match with Sampson in a cell. TS: I know... poor little Ike, he is just gonna be the latest victim, you know? Watkins, Hamlet, Ike and I guess that Ike don't know whats good for him... had him screamin' like a baby in front of his hometown. Guess he wants some more... no problem.     I told these cats weeks back, I am gonna put trademarks on whoever gets in my way. It ain't about winnin and losin, just like life, you know? It's 'bout survival. What the hell you think is going to be the main focus of that match? Survival.     I played that role all my life and I am going to keep on 'till I die... ol' Ike ain't gonna walk away from this match, I don't feel sorry for him though, he should complain to the suits, they are the ones who book a match in a place that only breeds violence and on top of that, they ain't got no good docs at that place... that chump ain't never gonna recover.     Hell is on earth through me, you know? Life's lessons molded me, and I am gonna show everyone what I am made of: pain, straight up, you know? Hope they got a chapel there so Ike can make his peace with the Lord... cuz he ain't gonna be able to pray after this. RC: [smirking] No doubt baby, no doubt... [They continue to drive and the shot fades.] LM: While Starks is confident, Ike Sampson too is sure that he will be making a big impression tomorrow night: [SCENE: Ike Sampson stands inside a jail cell, leaning through the bars towards the camera.  He is wearing his street clothes, and a old-style T-C Minnesota Twins hat.  New found mentor and confidant Jackson Witt stands outside the bars, near the camera.] IKE: Cool Hand Ike... Midnight Ike-Spress... Shawshank Re-Sampson. Man, I could come up with these all day.       I'm here a little early.  Trying to get a little feel for what it's      gonna be like Saturday Night.  Something tells me Starks has spent a little more time behind bars than I have, so I'm trying to level the playing field a little... JW: Mad Dog's down, out of the picture.  The first step complete. Moving to number two:  Tony Starks.  Take care of him, show the world what you're made of, gain a little respect.  And then it's a short trip to title contention.  Eyes on the prize, baby... IKE: Starks, your little submission hold you slapped on me last Saturday -- big mistake.  I don't know what you were trying to do -- hurt me, send a message -- I don't know.  Well here's a message for you -- don't try that again.  'Cause you only hurtin' yourself.  You keep trying me -- you keep playing with _this_ fire -- pretty soon you've started a fire you ain't got no shot in _hell_ of puttin' out.  You gonna get burned, Starks.  Real bad.  Them boys in Connecticut think they got Hell in a Cell.  They ain't seen nothin' yet... JW: Eyes on the prize... IKE: And that's the truth... [Fade.] LM: Two men. Four walls. Bars. Pinfall or submission. It's going to be a breathtaking contest -- don't miss a moment of the action! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SOLITARY CONFINEMENT MATCH: Requiem vs. Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LM: Two men who have met a number of times in the past -- at Midsummer Madness, and just last week in a special cage match event in Japan -- meet again in their most unusual, most dangerous match yet. Both Requiem and Otto Verhoeven will be thrown "in the hole", a small -- we're talking seven feet by twelve feet here -- dark, dank, torturous sensory deprivation cell.  This dark, soundless tomb is so isolatory that the match will have to be filmed with infra-red cameras. To escape the cell and thus win the match, one man must reach through a small opening in the door and turn the steel handle a full revolution to open the door. The match ends when one man is on the outside of the cell, and the other has been shut inside. Otto Verhoeven, coming off the back of a narrow defeat at the hands of new World Champion Brody Thunder last week, is determined to change his fortunes in this match: [SCENE: Darkness. Complete darkness. A sound echoes from a distance. Footsteps, coming nearer and nearer. Suddenly, light floods into the room as a door is opened and it is revealed to be the solitary confinement cell of the Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary, known by inmates as "the hole". In the doorway you can see the massive silhouette of the German Juggernaut, Otto Verhoeven. Behind him you can see vaguely the form of a woman, who can only be his valet and fiancee, "Nurse" Heidi Uppenmann.] OV: [with an amused tone in his voice] Ahh, the IIWF cameraman, always on duty, luriking in the shadows, just waiting for some comments from the athletes that will compete here. I guess my adversary wasn't here yet? [You can hear a muffled "no" from the cameraman.] OV: Good. He will find my message, then. NH: Mein Gott, lilebling. Zis is madness. Who came up viz zis idea to let you and zat spooky Ragman fight in zis closet, fight like animals? OV: Who? Why, the marketing division of the IIWF, of course. Can you imagine the ratings for an event like this? It is gimmick match night in the IIWF and to top it all of, in a high-security prison. What better place is here to let _Requiem_ and me go at it again? NH: Requiem, oh, ja. Japan might be a good... OV: I don't want to talk about Japan now, Heidi. That was then. All that counts now is tomorrow, the future. All that counts is this tiny battlefield, where I have once again the much-needed chance to redeem myself in the eyes of the German people. Brody Thunder showed me last week that he truly was my better that night, that he had the last bit of determination that was necessary to gain victory. I let my guard down for only three _gottverdammte_ seconds -- and paid the price for it. I can live with that. It is competition like Thunder that has led me here, after all, challenges to hone my skills, to ultimately confirm my claim to be the world's greatest wrestler. But tomorrow, another one has to pay his dues. NH: Ja, zat stupid Regime vill get vat he has got coming for a long time. OV: Sicherlich. This will certainly be one of the most savage and violent contests in the history of the IIWF. Two of its most dominating athletes clashing in the confinement of concrete and darkness.     There is nothing in here that favors either one of us, no Genesis... no Heidi... only the "Angel of Destruction", the "Teutonic Terror" and their blood, staining the walls... the floor... the whole little, casket-like room. We have met in the past, Requiem and I, and he always was the one pulling out the last ace, making the last-ditch effort to overcome me, overwhelm me. This time it shall be different. It HAS to be different. Requiem has lost much of his momentum with the loss of his title and of Genesis. In Japan he was still riding high on his wave of superiority, but now he is beginning to reallize that the IIWF is not kind to its former champion.     He already demands a rematch, continues to gun for Brody Thunder. Futile efforts, my friend. You have to prove yourself before anyone in the booking comitee thinks about pitting you against the reigning champion again.     Prove yourself against me. I recognize you as one of my toughest     opponents ever, perhaps even _the_ toughest. That is why I have     to destroy you, to overcome my own limits, exceed my own borders. [Heidi slips past Verhoeven and enters the cell. She moves behind the cameraman. You can hear an audible "Plop!" and then a "hissing"-sound.] OV: People call this place many things. "Hole", "Hell", "Coffin", "Pit"... it is one of the most severe punishments the warden can issue. Prisoners, cold-blooded killers and other scum who were in here have gone mad, smashing their heads against the walls or tearing open their own arteries to get out of this. To what levels will we stoop to escape? What will we have to do to leave this place, and the broken body of our adversary, behind us? What kind of carnage will the solitary confinement cell witness? We will have to wait and see. [The hissing sound ends.] NH: Finished, liebling. OV: For me, this is no "hell", no "pit and no "hole". Do you know what I would call this place? [Verhoeven slowly turns around and leaves, quickly followed by Heidi. The camera moves forward, just out of the cell, then does a quick 180 degree to reveal that Heidi sprayed the creed of her man on the backwall with red paint: WELCOME TO THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE. Fade.] LM: Requiem has also been taking in some of the unique local ambience here in Kansas: [SCENE: A ramshackle old gas station, somewhere in Kansas. It stands next to a featureless road, bereft of road signs, bereft of any sign of human occupation. From over the horizon comes a cloud of dust, a cloud of dust that is thrown up by a night black Harley, driven at speed. It approaches without slowing down, and then brakes mightily to stop at the last minute with the screech of over-worked brakes and the smell of burnt rubber. The rider, a tall figure dressed in black leathers and a black helmet with dark visor, gets off the bike to approach the gaspump, removing his helmet to reveal that it is Requiem, the former IIWF champion and "Angel Of Destruction". He speaks as he slowly begins to refuel his cycle, forced to take it slowly by the dilapidated state of the old pump...] RQ: You know, it's not often that I admit to being scared of anything,     but today I encountered something that frightened me. You see, I was     in a small Hicksville town about seventy miles back, eating some     slop they called stew, when I was accosted by a young man, about 24     I'd say.     Turns out that this town gets IIWF, on the one or two TV sets it's     got, and it further turns out that this young man is a fan of mine.     He asked me if I would kindly give me his autograph, and I said I'd     be happy to. Pulling out a pen, I autographed a napkin and gave it     to him.     I could tell he was very excited at my mere presence. I dare say     nobody famous had ever visited their pathetic little nowheresville     town before, and he asked me if I would also provide autographs for     his wife and sister.     Of course, I said. And then he called his wife and sister in...     And it was only _one_ woman.     Frightening. In the immortal words of the great man himself, Bill     Hicks, "It's frightening to think that, whilst in some parts of the     world today men are calling 'Revolution! Revolution!', others are     calling 'Evolution! Evolution! We want our thumbs!'".     I hear ya, Bill. Frightening. Even I, the "Angel of Destruction"     felt a chill when I stared upon that woman...     And the IIWF are _forcing_ us to compete in a prison slap bang in     the middle of this territory? A lesser man might be terrified, but     not I.     What the hell is this, anyway? Me and Otto Verhoeven in a broom     closet or something? What were the booking committee smoking that     day?     Yeah, this is gonna be one hell of a match alright. Just think of     all the wonderful moves, counter-moves and high-flying manoeuvres     you can pull in a 7' x 12' cell.     Am I complaining? Yeah. Am I angered? Nope. It's a damn silly idea,     if you ask me, but I am the "Angel Of Destruction", so I'm going to     play along, just for another opportunity to get at Otto Verhoeven...     I can virtually guarantee that Otto will serve Hard Time on this     one, with little or no chance of parole. As for Heidi? Welcome back,     Nurse. I've got no quarrel with you, just so long as you don't get     in my way. If you do --- well, I was raised to never strike a lady.     But then, you're no lady, are you? [Requiem finally finishes filling the tank on his bike, and is about to go pay somewhere in the ramshackle wooden building that serves as an office when he turns back...] RQ: One other thing --- Steve Roberts, what the hell is it with you? I     say I have a fun time in Japan with another organisation, and you go     ballistic? What's the problem, Steve? Jealous, on the off-chance I'm     pulling in more moolah than you?     I know what your problem is, Roberts --- you're a bigmouth, plain     and simple. You know that you can say what you like, when you like,     and there is not a damn thing any of us can do about it. If we even     breath on you funny the IIWF comes down on us like a ton of bricks!     Well, I for one have had it. And I know a whole load of other IIWF     wrestlers who have had it up to here with your snide remarks and     your sniggering little "Best weekend of my life" jokes, but just     won't admit it.     You open your mouth and talk crap, and you never, ever, back it up.     Why? Because you can't, big mouth. You hide behind the skirts of the     IIWF, like a frightened child.     You wanna insult me? You wanna insult other people in the IIWF?     Well, Steve, feel free to. In fact, I'm happy for you to insult me     all you like...     On one condition, though.     Step into the ring with me. Lay aside your IIWF provided cloak of     invulnerability for fifteen minutes, and come say it to my face. If,     that is, you've got the guts.     It's easy for you to talk the talk when you've got the protection of     the IIWF with you. But can you walk the walk? It's a simple enough     thing, Steve Roberts, if ya got the guts. Guy like you should be     able to walk up to a "champ" like me, shouldn't be a problem for you     to walk up to me in the centre of the ring and insult me to my face.     Hey, if I get nasty you can always beat me down to size with that     Asai moonsault you're so proud of. Surely a big ol' fake like me     can't be a problem to the _mighty_ Steve Roberts, bad back an' all?     Fifteen minutes, that's all I want. Me. You. Fifteen minutes in the     ring, all on our own. Fifteen minutes for you to call me everything     you like, and to back it up.     Come on, Roberts, what do ya say? Have you got the guts? If you     haven't, do me a favour --- pucker up, kiss my ass, and shut the     hell up! [Fade] LM: Something tells me that Steve Roberts' back is going to be a whole lot sorer in the near future. Be that as it may, this match between two of the IIWF's biggest monsters -- Requiem and Otto Verhoeven -- is sure to be a show-stopper, _live_ tomorrow night from the Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAIN GANG WARFARE: The Machines vs. The Down Boys vs. LFD vs. Natural Predators ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LM: This match will take place in the courtyard of the facility. Four teams, each of the men bound at each ankle.  All eight men bound together in a large circle -- but no two partners will be next to one another.  The chain may be used as a weapon, and this is a tag elimination match: elimination may be by pinfall, submission, or being knocked backwards into the circle of felons that will surround the "chain gang". Once one member of a team is eliminated, the other member is automatically eliminated, at which point guards will remove the manacles of both members, and they will leave the circle. The last team remaining will be declared the winner and will go on to face the IIWF World Tag Team Champions the following week, live from the US Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. All four teams have been training especially hard for this opportunity, and if there's one match tomorrow night that is hard to call, it's this one. Let's hear from all four teams in turn, starting with the Natural Predators: [Kuyler Greyson and the Natural Predators, Bear and Wolf, stand in an empty locker room, the Predators heads bowed and shackled. Kuyler is wearing his customary black suit, and the Natural Predators are in their wrestling outfits] KG: Here we are in another average day of the IIWF. Four teams, four strong teams, all chained together in a dosey-do circle... Predators, Down Boys, LFD, and the Machines. What a conundrum, this is.  You see, you have the warlike LFD... the emotionless Machines... and the Down Boys? Well, they're crazy. They don't need to worry about the others, just because they're crazy. Past, present, and future... all in this one match. [BEAR looks up, snapping the chains] KG: You see, when you have the past in your fold... when you emphasize skill over gimmick, wisdom over folly. We know what you are all capable of... but you have seen only the slightest of what the Predators are all about... [WOLF looks up and snaps the chains] KG: You see... when it comes down to it... we are not the jokes. We have the power... we have the right. And in time, you will see the ascendance of my boys, the Natural Predators, to a position of prominence in this federation. BEAR: Ney ho neheye hiyo. WOLF: We shall triumph. [Fade.] LM: The Natural Predators, along with the Down Boys, have been the victims of attacks from the team we are going to hear from next. Reggie Starr and Jonathan Chaos, Licensed for Devastation, have been making waves in the tag team scene for many weeks now -- will they finally get the big victory that catapults them into the tag team stratosphere tomorrow night? [The camera opens to a sillohuetted image of Reggie Starr and Jonathan Chaos, LFD, plastered onto a wavy projection screen.  An empty auditorium surrounds the projector, and not a person is in sight. Reggie and Jonathan, draped in street gear, speak.] RS: Well, well, well.  The IIWF has decided to travel to prison and have a card, in the name of ratings. JC: And at whose expense?  The wrestla's.  Us.  The people that bring in the mad cash, the ones who get ta' snap the bones, _we_ are the ones that have to get chained togetha' and fight against each otha' for the good of the IIWF. RS: [BLEEP] the IIWF...[BLEEP] Spreadbury.  There are a lot of matches on Saturday night, but this one takes the cake!  There's a "Mess Hall Brawl", a "Behind Bars Match", and a "Winner Gets Raped by Jailcell Villain Named Bubba Match".  But the worst of 'em all is putting the LFD in the ring on _chains_ against six of the queerest men to ever fight a wrestling match. JC: Yeah, Reg.  I know for a damn fact that some drunk ass bitch is gonna rape Becky LaRue until she [BLEEP]s, and, hell, I don't blame 'em, I blame the corrupt head officers of the IIWF for being god damned ass[BLEEP]s about the whole thing...ya don't put vicious men like the LFD in a cage, sons! RS: You're liable to lose some of your talent...and you don't want that. [Jonathan looks to Reggie.] JC: Ya know...we gots ta' take out da' Natural Predators, da' Down Boys, and da' Machines.  But we still ain't got Shock back.  RS: Don't worry, Jon... Shock's coming home... and High Plains Drifters... after we take out the Machines, and after we take out the Down Boys, and after we take out the Natural Predators... we're coming back for Shock.  [Reggie looks at Jonathan and suddenly breaks into an uncontrollable laughter.  Both men being laughing out loud at an unbelievable rate. Finally, they stop, and start talking again.] RS: Oh, that's some funny [BLEEP].  So, Jon, let's talk about our opponent's on Saturday. JC: Word... we gots those punk-asses the Predators.  They think they're all that, with their stupid furs and all dat.  They think they're cool 'cause they're Bears and Wolfs.  Boys...ya'll are _human_.  We're gonna edj-u-cate you, like only the LFD can. RS: After we take out the Untrained Animals, we have to take care of some more unsitely blemishes... the Machines... didn't we already teach you two a lesson?  As I recall, one of you came out of our match with a toasted face... JC: ...extra crispy, y'all. RS: Yeah, and the other one had a big chair sticking out of his back.  I permanently implanted it there.  And, finally...the Down Boys.  The pukes from the eighties. JC: I used ta' dig some eighties music...I still do.  Funk Master Flash and the Furious Five.  They is the bomb!  But the two of ya'll listen ta'...ta' Poison, and Bon Jovi, and Skid [BLEEP]in' Row.  RS: The two of you should be eliminated just because of your ridiculous taste in music, but we're gonna do it for another reason...because we can.  And we will.  There are three teams in the IIWF about to be punked. [Jonathan bends out of the silohuette.] RS: All three of you are gonna feel the force of the LFD...and I hope you don't take it personally, 'cause we do it to everybody. [Jonathan emerges from under the "screen", and has a chain...he pulls it out quickly, making a loud snapping noise.] JC: But neva' did it hurt dis much. RS: Machines, Natural Predators, Down Boys...your time is up.  The chain of fate has been spun, and your destiny has been determined... [The projection screen turns off, and blackness takes over the screen. Reggie Starr's voice is heard.] RS: ...your fate lies in our hands. [Silence. Cut back to the video truck.] LM: It seems that the off-beat Down Boys have been preparing for this match in their own inimitable fashion: [Scene opens in a small room lit only by a swinging light bulb hanging from the ceiling.  Sitting behind the lone table in the room are your friends and mine, Dan Oliver and Adam Peterson, looking around nervously and beginning to sweat.  Suddenly, we hear the sound of a door opening and slamming suddenly, then approaching footsteps.  A man, whom we can only see from the neck down, begins to pace back and forth.  He stops for a moment, and turns on a spotlight, which stuns the Boys.  The man begins to speak.] VO: Now you boys seem like smart...well...smart enough to realize the situation you've gotten yourselves into.  Now, you boys wanna talk, or am I gonna have to force it outta ya? DO: [almost in tears] I swear to God...when we got the TV, it always got all the channels...we were gonna send the cable company the money for all the Pay Per Views we watched, I swear! VO: That's not exactly what I wanted to hear.  Adam, who was that young lady I saw you with last weekend? AP: She was a friend of mine...what, you mean to tell me you don't have any friends? VO: Wasn't talking about that...how old was this young lady? AP: Kip told me she was seventeen.  It's all Kip's fault...why don't you go get him? VO: Because we all know that Kip Winger couldn't get arrested in this town, but you could.  You know, you boys could be going away for a long time.  [Knock at door]  You boys stay right there...let me see what these people want. [Dan and Adam wait anxiously as the interrogator speaks to someone.  He comes back, none too pleased.] VO: It seems as if you boys have gotten off.  Judge Spreadbury has lightened your sentence. DO: Sentence?  Whatever happened to a trial? VO: Trial?  [Laughs]  With your representation, you're lucky Lawyer T isn't in here with you.  Your sentence:  one evening, Leavenworth Maximum Security Penitentiary... Leavenworth, Kansas.  You both will be chained to two other opponents.  You and three other tag teams in an elimination tag match.  Winner gets a tag title shot. AP: Chained to two other people? DO: Reminds me of the day care center mom used to take me to. VO: And there's no backing out of this one.  And no funny stuff... otherwise you'll end up getting gang raped by the prisoners that'll be watching. DO: ALSO reminds me of the day care center mom used to take me to. VO: Then make a note to be there, and if I were you, I'd try to come off as a little more... well... manly. [Camera begins its fade on the Down Boys shaking their heads at that final comment.] AP: Manly?  How can the Superstud be more manly? [Cut back to the video truck.] LM: Finally, let's hear from the Machines -- a team who, like the Prophets of Rage, appear to be having more than a few problems as of late: [The scene is the closed door to the Machines' workout area.  The cameraman tries the door, but it's locked.  He starts to turn around, but sees Paul Wong walking down the hallway towards the camerman.] PW: You're here early, aren't you?  [He fishes for some keys, and unlocks the door].  A chain match with four teams chained together? Whatever happened to... [He stops speaking as he looks inside.  The cameraman pushes open the door, and views the room.  The room is a mess; the furniture is overturned, empty beer bottles are everywhere, and clothes are lying all around the floor.  Paul shakes his head as he walks into the room.] PW: I'll kill him.  [Starts to pick up the furniture]  I'll kill that little... there he is. [He points under a table.  Sure enough, curled in a heap on the floor, is Simon O'Neal.] PW: Hold on a second. [He goes over to the other side of the room, and picks up a portable radio.  He checks out the tape, plugs it in, and carries it over right by Simon's head.  With a push of the button, he turns on the cassette player... and Lynyrd Skynyrd blares LOUDLY over the radio.  Simon O'Neal leaps up from the floor, banging his head on the table in the process.] SO: Hey!  Ho -- what?  I didn't mean it -- honest! [As he calms down, he stops sputtering and looks around.  He's wearing an Cleveland Indians t-shirt, red briefs, and red socks pulled up to his knees.] What the hell?  PW: About time you got up.  What the hell happened? SO: What happened?  The Tribe won the ALCS.  They're going to the World Series!  So I went to celebrate. PW: Hold on.  Let me guess.  You went to a bar, had a few drinks, met a blonde, and came back here. SO: Shows what you know.  She was a brunette.  I need an aspirin... and where's my pants? PW: How should I know?  We've got a match in two days, and you're... SO: ...sick and tired of putting up with your goody two-shoes attitude. PW: Aw geez, am I cramping your style?  Because I actually care about trying to win a match or two? SO: And what does that mean, Boy Scout? PW: It means that we've been losing a lot of matches that we shouldn't have been losing... and I know that I've been working out and trying to win our matches. SO: Trying, right.  The guy reaches the ropes, you let him go.  He's in trouble, you won't go for the kill.  You don't have what it takes to win. PW: What it takes is a partner I can count on. {Simon stares at the bigger man for a long minute.} SO: That does it.  I'm out of here.  If it weren't for that camera and this hangover, I'd go over there and show you why I've been carrying you all this time. PW: Uh-huh.  Right.  Get the hell out of here. SO: [BLEEP] you.  [Simon gets up, find his pants, and walks out of the room, slamming the door.  Paul kicks the wall, then turns to the camera.] PW: Look... you'd better get out of here.  Either he'll apologize, or I need to find another partner. [The camera fades.] LM: Four teams -- or at least, three and a half teams -- with one prize to fight for. Who knows what we could see in this match? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ MESS HALL BRAWL: Highwayman, Scott Rogers & Serge Annis vs. Derek Mota, Kevin Christiansen & "Showstopper" Simon Lebec ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LM: This match has the potential to be the most chaotic event of the evening -- with the potential to turn into a full-scale riot. It will take place in the mess hall of the facility, during dinner -- hundreds of federal prisoners will be seated at large wooden tables, surrounding the regulation IIWF ring erected in the middle of the hall. Thirty feet above the floor of the hall is a gallery, where the prison guards will sit, weapons at the ready -- and you have to believe that they may need to be used in this one. The match is not an elimination affair: it is one fall to the finish, and the match can only be ended by pinfall or submission inside the ring. However, there are no countouts and no disqualifications, so the match can go anywhere. And I expect it probably will. First up, let's hear from two members of the Genesis team, beginning with Serge Annis: [The scene shows a quiet park. The trees are all beginning to turn red and yellow, as Autumn slowly creeps in. A bitter, cold chilling wind breezes through the scene as the camera pans slowly, showing a small playground and a walking trail. A field is seen off in the distance, and a woman can be seen playing frisbee with her dog. The camera swings around to reveal the 6'8 frame of the IIWF's Epitome of Evil, Serge Annis sitting down on a park bench next to the trail. Sitting next to him is Genesis' favorite IIWF employee, Steve Summer. Both men are mic'd.] SS: Hello IIWF fans, this is Steve Summer here, sta... SA: [Cutting off Steve]  They know who you are, Summer. SS: Well... yes... but it's just the generic way of opening these things. I am Steve Summer, here on location in Oakville City Park, in Oakville, Ontario, home of this man, Serge Annis, to film an interview for Countdown. Serge, why the park? SA: Simple, Summer... when I was a child... when I could get away from my life. When I got away from the torture my Father brought down upon me... I'd come here. This park was my only pleasure in life... I would be free here. When the offices called me up and asked me for an interview, I figured they'd want a more rational Serge Annis... so I sent you guys here, heh heh... SS: Serge, in a few days, you will be stepping into the ring with your Genesis teammates, Scott Rogers and The Highwayman, against the combination of Derek Mota, Kevin Christiansen and Simon Lebec, in the mess hall of a prison. What are your thoughts on the match? SA: I'm actually disappointed, Summer. When I first heard about this match, I was ecstatic. I thought we were going to be wrestling in the mess hall itself... not a damn ring! Heh heh... I live for that kind of thing. But on Saturday, we will be surronded by 1500 criminals... murderers, theives, jaywalkers, rogues... The people that will be in attendence, are all sick. Sick, evil men... heh heh... Summer, that's my kind of place. Those are my people! SS: You cannot be serious. Those men are hardened criminals! SA: I am very serious, Summer. This may just be the only place IIWF will ever go... that I will fit in with the crowd. Heh heh... I can't wait. SS: Can you get along with your partners? We've been seeing less and less teamwork from you and your stable mates. SA: Of course I can get along. Just as long as Rogers' ego doesn't get in the way and screw things up like it has in the past! Genesis are not breaking up, no matter whatever idiots like Derek Mota and Steve Roberts think. We are one... and one cannot be divided. What Genesis does need to do though, is get things together. We can't attain victory without cohessiveness. If Scott or Adam screw up, trust me... it won't be good for them. SS: So basically you are threatening your stablemates. SA: Shut up. SS: Okay... the question that is burning on everyone's minds... why did you attack Creed a few weeks back? he has done nothing to you, and a... SA: [Interupting]  Excuse me? But he has done something to me, Summer. Creed came back, and he ticked me off in more than just one way. The ignoramus comes in and expects to be IC champion right away. He wants his shot? _Where the hell_ has he been these last monthes? Huh? Sitting at home on his ass crying about losing the IC title. Meanwhile... I've worked harder than ever before to get to the level I am now. I was out beating Otto Verhoeven in a match! I was putting Deathbringer out of the IIWF! I have earned my shot, Creed! You can't expect to be given one based on who you are. That kind of crap may be fine for the suits of the IIWF... but it does _not_ sit well with me! SS: You mentioned other reasons? SA: This guy is all washed up, Summer. Have you noticed that? I am so damn sick and tired of guys like Creed and The Subway Psycho leaving the IIWF, and coming back to expect everything to be the same as they left. What those idiots don't realize is that guys like me have replaced them! The IIWF has moved on without them. But The Psycho's ego can't handle that! Creed's arrogant attitude just doesn't seem to pick that up! Well, I have a real problem with these guys, Summer. Subway Psycho, Creed, it makes no damn difference to me! These guys are out of place, and out of touch in IIWF... and if they expect their past reputations to get them past me "politically" here in the IIWF... well.... heh heh... I'll just settle it in the damn ring, whether it be a match or not. It makes no difference to me whether I beat the hell out of someone in a match, or in the locker room... or anywhere else! All the damn crap the administration has given me has only pissed me off even more... and that is not a good thing for the Psycho or Creed. SS: Well Serge, your IC title match with Chris Quigley was canc-- SA: [interrupting yet again]  That is exactly the kind of [bleep] the IIWF keeps giving me! I earned my very first title shot here in IIWF against that freak show Steve Manning Jr. and that monkey boy of his Chris Quigley! I deserve the shot! But somehow, Creed gets the shot. I [bleep]ing almost won the IC battle royal! I eliminated Creed, but what the hell does that count for? Absolutely nothing! Well, finally I get my shot... and what the hell happens. At Saturday Night, I get an official telling me that we are running late and that my match had to be cancelled, to make room for the main event! For the main event? For God's sake, this was an IC title match! Not even that... it was an IC title change! I was going to be the IIWF's Intercontinental champion! But these goddam politics have kept me back, and gotten in my face yet again! Well I'm sick of it. And I acted on it. SS: How did you act on it? SA: Heh heh... let's just say this, Summer. Spreadbury knows just how lethal I can be with a lighter. SS: Oh my. What did the president say? SA: Oh, he said "we'll see what we can do." What kind of [bleep] is that? I want to make it clear to the administration... that I better get my shot because I want to be IC champion. And they know I can be... but they discriminate against me because I am Genesis... but sooner or later, they'll run out of loopholes... Serge Annis will get the shot he deserves. SS: [Looking at his watch.]  Oh man... four o'clock. Oprah's on... I mean... we are just about out of time for this interview, Serge. Anything else you want to say? SA: I just want to make something clear. See, I won't be seeing Scott Rogers or Highwayman until Saturday night, because I have contractual obligations in other feds... so I'll be on the road. So Scott Rogers... you better not [bleep] this match up on Saturday. You and Highwayman lost your match last week... so maybe you should concentrate on me in the ring, instead of pissing off the guy in the front row. SS: Strong words from the Epitome of Evil. We'll see whether he can back them up this Saturday in the Mess Hall brawl. SA: What's that supposed to mean? SS: Uh... nothing... back over to Larry Morton. [Fade to black as Annis is staring at Summer, as if plotting something.] LM: Serge Annis certainly seems to be running out of respect for the IIWF's administration, its superstars -- and even his own stablemates. Genesis have certainly been having a few problems since Requiem announced his split from the group -- but Scott Rogers seems keen to play down the dissent, instead targetting his opponents tomorrow night: Derek Mota and Simon Lebec. [SCENE: Scott "The Fop" Rogers stands before a run-of-the-mill IIWF backdrop. He is grinning but appears much more placid than usual. He wears a red "IIWF" polo shirt and white jeans. His face is covered in a couple of days worth of stubble.] SR: Mota, I'm gettin' sick and tired of hearin' you spoutin' the same old trash each and every week, buddy. Can't you understand? Do I really have to drill it into you? Last Wednesday, I beat you. What else needs to be said?! [Rogers laughs and grooms his stubble.] SR: But you wanna face me _again_, huh? And you wanna become our leader. It just don't make sense to me. Okay, you defy the laws of probability and win, yeah? Then what? Like Annis and Smith are gonna accept you. And like _I_ even would. One fluke win does _not_ get _any_ respect in my eyes. Just ask Christiansen. Kevvy-boy, why did you agree to this match, pal? The three strongest men in the IIWF all together against you, Mota and my main man Simon. Yeah, we've been messin' it up over the past coupla weeks, but tomorrow night's the time when we prove we're still _the_ stable in the IIWF. [Rogers stares into the camera then grins.] SR: Simon, tomorrow night it's judgement time. You get to prove to me, and everyone else out there that you're worthy of my tutelage! [Rogers leaves the set. Fade out.] LM: Quite what the situation between Scott Rogers, Genesis and Simon Lebec actually means is anybody's guess -- but it could backfire on both Cruiserweight Champion Derek Mota, from whom we will hear in a moment, and this man, the "Cavalier" Kevin Christiansen, the closest thing one could imagine to a fish out of water in this match: [Scene opens to Kevin Christiansen sitting in a large, comfortable looking chair.  A fireplace crackles behind him, and his armor is replaced by a pair of black slacks and a white long-sleeved shirt.]  KC: Hail, and well-met once again.  It would appear that mine comments     have been asked for concerning my match come Saturday eve.  'Tis a     strange day indeed when I must fight in the midst of so many of     society's undesirables, but be that as it may, I shall. [Christiansen chuckles for a moment, then looks back at the camera.] KC: Never would I have imagined that three of the miscreants would have been allowed to PARTICIPATE in this match.  Serge Annis, Scott Rogers, and the aptly-named Highwayman are those who would stand against me come Saturday, although at mine side shall be Derek Mota and Simon Lebec.  A strange situation indeed. [The Cavalier leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers.] KC: Perhaps when we are done with thy team, Genesis, thou shalt be left in the prison amongst thy peers.  Thy actions show thee as being reprehensible enough to join them, and who can tell? Perhaps thou shalt find some of thy former glory amidst the cell doors and degenerate lives of those inside... although it frightens me to think how. [Christiansen raises a glass of red wine to the camera, and continues speaking.] KC: Know this, Genesis.  We shall emerge victorious from this match, and return to the comfort of our homes... for come Saturday night, it shall be anything BUT comfortable for thee. [Fade out. Mix through to the outside of the Leavenworth Federal Penetentiary in Kansas, where we can see Derek Mota standing calmly, the prison framed in the background.  Mota is alone, with only the cameraman nearby to film his thoughts.] DM: Betcha the suits think they're REAL smart now, huh?  Some sorta prison event with all gimmick matches, man, their ratings are gonna be high this week. Just hope you hired a censor for this event, 'cause it's gonna be bloody. Just hope you hired a censor, 'cause after tomorrow the advertisers will be too busy throwin' up ta sign the cheques.  Just hope you know what you're gettin' into, boys.  You wanna play hardcore? Mota can play that game.  Mota can play.  And who better to play it with than Genesis?  Rogers... you think that a countout win on a house card, your specialty, makes a difference ta me?  Think again.  Annis... Smith... you guys have interfered so many times that I've developed a damn immunity to the Daylight Robbery and that damn chokeslam.  I finally got my match against ya.  And I intend on usin' it tomorrow night ta pay you back for all the double teams... all the sneak attacks... you think I'm gonna play nice with ya?  Keep dreamin', kiddies.  I've got Christiansen on one side, and Lebec on the other.  I've never fought Christiansen, but I know what he's about.  He's gonna play the line... and I ain't.  So Kevin, you just do your thing, and I'm gonna do mine.  We're on the same damn side, so I'll watch yer back.  And then there's Lebec... the Showstopper... Been in the ring with ya so many times, 'Bec.  I know you want my title.  I know what you're all about.  And as much as I hate to admit it, I got some respect for ya, Simey.  Don't screw it up. [Mota turns around and looks at the prison.  He seems to enter a trance for a second, almost forgetting where he is.  He finally turns back around and faces the camera.] I ain't yer damn poster boy, IIWF.  Tomorrow night I'm gonna bloody my knuckles against Genesis.  So Turner, Shakespeare, and all of ya Cruisers that are still in the tournament, take note.  Startin' next Saturday, I'm playin' the Cruiser game 100%.  Just a warnin' ... ...so you can start runnin' now. 601's outta here... [Derek just nods his head, smiling devilishly at the camera, which slowly fades to black.] LM: Six wrestlers, one fall -- and hundreds of prisoners. Folks, I just go giddy thinking about this one. I hope the executives have their insurance paid up. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SHOWER ROOM SHOWDOWN: Chris Quigley & Ronnie Paris vs. Billy Shakespeare & Duncan Macbeth ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LM: Two of the hottest feuds in the IIWF, four of the top competitors -- and a large shower area, with slick, watered down linoleum floors, surrounded by showerheads and rusty pipes. It's going to be one fall to the finish: pinfall or submission. Chris Quigley will face Duncan Macbeth at Ring Wars IV in a battle for the Intercontinental Championship -- but tomorrow night they will clash in the slippery, treacherous confines of the shower room. Let's hear from both men, starting with the Intercontinental Champion himself: [SCENE: Just outside the restraining, barbed wired fence of the Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary.  Several inmates are out in the field getting their daily excercise.  Chris Quigley, clad in a pair of Adidas sweatpants and a "Quickstrike Island -- Trespassers Will Be Executed!" t-shirt, watches on through his silver shades, his fingers wrapped around the steel of the cage.] CQ: There they are.  Just existing, basically.  When someone commits a serious crime, this is the outcome.  Hard time.  The lock up.  Every motion monitored, no freedom of speech, expression, or activity.  Treated harshly, some might say unfairly.  Every prisoner watching his back at all times, trusting no one.  Sounds familiar.  Sounds like my tenure in the IIWF so far.  All I've got to ask is, what crime did I commit?  Obviously, being the best is a crime around here, and every jealous wrestler in this Federation believes themselves to be the warden. [Quigley starts to walk along the chainlink fence.] CQ: There's never been a wrestler in the IIWF who has caused the same stir as I have.  Be it in the ring, or behind the scenes, and that, as they say, is a fact.  You can talk about your "legends" like J.W. Hardin, Flare, or Dan Kauffman.  None of them, hell, not even all of them together equal me. I can guarantee you that the fans of the IIWF want to see me in action more than any other wrestler, simply because I always do what it takes, and they always want to see me beat the odds.  I've been beating the odds time and time again here.  There's always something.  Outside interference.  Foreign objects.  Controversial decisions.  And now, I've begun to fight back.  And if you thought I was hated before... there isn't one wrestler backstage who I can pass by in the hallway without getting a cold glare.  What's the problem?  Sick of being overshadowed?  I wonder how many names were on that petition to have my match removed from IIWF Saturday Night last week.  I'm willing to bet Serge Annis signed it.  [Quigley stops walking as a warden stops by.  Quigley makes a motion to the gate, and the warden reluctantly opens it and lets him walk in.  Quigley walks through the yard, dangerous felons let loose around him.] CQ: It was Tom Petty who said, "I Won't Back Down."  Despite how much each and every one of the "stars" here want me to buckle and break, I show no fear.  What would happen if one of these dangerous, criminally insane prisoners walked over to me now?  There'd be one less dangerous, criminally insane prisoner in here.  When I make the "claim of greatness"... when I say I'm the best... it isn't talk.  It's confidence.  It's knowing your abilities and knowing the abilities of others.  I'm a graduate of The Living Hell.  Therefore, nobody in the IIWF can touch me.  On my best day, I'm absolutely unbeatable, on my worst, I'm just a little less unbeatable. That's why, despite the politics of last weekend, I wanted a match this week.  But, lo and behold, the IIWF has brainstormed a shower room brawl. What kind of sick idea is this?  I guess I should be a little grateful they at least gave me Ronnie Paris as a partner.  He's one of the real wrestlers of the IIWF.  He has self-respect, talent, and determination.  That's all fine and good. [Quigley leans against the fence, as three or four inmates stand a few feet away, giving him a strange look.] CQ: Billy Shakespeare is one of the men I'll be brawling with.  We've done this before, Shakespeare, and we know who won that one.  But I've really got no grudge with you.  You don't insult my intelligence or the intelligence of the IIWF fans by claiming to be better than me.  Duncan Macbeth on the other hand... [Quigley, confidence or arrogance nearly oozing from his body, walks right through a small group of inmates, nearly shoving one out of the way as he strides by.] CQ: Duncan Macbeth is the biggest piece of garbage I've ever seen.  He fluked his way to a title shot, and now, time and time again he takes cheap shot after cheap shot, hoping to lure me into his little world of bad mind games.  Mind games don't work on me, Macbeth.  The first key is, to be smarter than your victim, and there isn't anyone here smarter than I am. You're the real reason I'm even going to bother to show up for this "Shower Room Brawl".  I won't even keep my strategy a secret.  I'm going to take a steel pipe and knock your stinkin' head off.  I don't think you're going to make it to Ring Wars, punk.  I don't even think you're going to make it back home on Saturday Night.  If you want to see how dangerous I can be... [Glares into the camera.] CQ: Just keep watching.... [Quigley turns and walks away, heading out of the Penn's recreation field. The warden shakes his head at the brave/bold wrestler, as he closes the gate behind him.  The inmates continue to look as Quigley walks away, wondering just what was going through his mind, and somewhere in the back of their minds, wondering why they didn't attempt to humble him.  Fade.]     LM: It appears that Duncan Macbeth has taken the idea of preparing thoroughly for this match as far as he can go: [SCENE:  Leavenworth, Kansas, outside of the imposing Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary, site of tomorrow night's IIWF Saturday Night spectacular.  It is a cold, gray October evening, matched only by the somber gray of the cold stone walls of the foreboding prison, and a rustle of dead leaves scatters across the driveway leading to the main gate of the penitentiary.  Suddenly, an IIWF van pulls up to the gates of the prison, and is waved inside by the guard on duty.  The van screeches to a halt outside of the warden's office, and the side door rolls open, revealing the high-strung form of Poutine Janois, the IIWF's Special Concerns Committee chairman.  Janois, clad in a suit and overcoat, jumps out of the van and hurriedly makes his way across the driveway to the office, followed by a camera crew.  The group enter the office, and Janois is met by Leavenworth's Deputy Warden, Bill Matheson. Janois looks visibly upset, although he is making a supreme effort to calm himself as he measures his words carefully.] PJ: 'Ello, Warden Matheson, I am Poutine Janois, de IIWF's representative in dis matter.  Woud you mind tellin' me _why_ you are 'olding one of our employees in a federal institution? [Warden Matheson reaches for a clipboard on the desk next to him, and as the camera zooms in for a close-up, begins to read from the report clipped to the board.] WM: Well, Mr. Janois, it seems your boy had a pretty eventful evening on the town here in Leavenworth last night.  At 11:52 P.M. last night, Leavenworth police responded to a disturbance call from the Hog Trough, a local bar on the outskirts of the town.  Big hangout for the Angels, other biker types.  The local cops are usually there a couple times a week breakin' up fights an' such.  Anyway, the way we've been able to piece it together, your boy pulls in to the Trough around 11:15 P.M., and starts takin' some flak from some of the Angels out front on account of he was driving some sort of foreign-model motorbike... BMW or somethin', wasn't it, Jerry? J: Yessir.  Big ol' German number.  Blue. WM: Right.  So anyway, one of the barmaids said that your boy ignored the Angels for awhile, an' went in to the Trough an' started drinkin' Johnnie Walker like it was soda pop.  All the while, the Angels are still hasslin' him, but nobody wants to get too close, on account of he's such a big sumbitch.  The barmaid said your boy didn't say a word the whole time, he just stood at the bar like he was the only one there, pounding down that whisky. PJ: Don' tell me you arrest 'im for drunk drivin'! WM: No sir, once he calmed down we managed to test him, and he blew way under the limit.  Must be a helluva drinker.  No, we arrested him on account of the brawl that took place shortly afterward, and the subsequent damage to the front of the Hog Trough as well as to the seven motorcycles that were parked out front. PJ: [sighs] Mon Dieu.  'Ow did dis 'appen? WM: [squinting at the clipboard] It says here that your boy finished his last drink at about 11:45, and made to leave the bar, with six or seven Angels following him out, still gettin' on his case about the German bike.  Your boy apparently warned them to back off, an' I guess he's got this funny accent, so of course, the Angels were loving that, and so one of them goes over to your boy's bike and makes like he's gonna sit on it.  I guess your boy didn't take too kindly to that, so he goes over to this line of Harleys parked out front, kicks over the whole mess like dominoes, and starts puttin' the boots to 'em.  The Angels go nuts, and next thing you know, there's this huge brawl going on out front.  Real messy, too -- broken bottles, guys swingin' chains and two-by-fours -- hell, your boy even pulled the tailpipe off one of the bikes and started swingin' THAT, for cryin' out loud!  Anyway, he was pretty much out of control when the local police arrived, and seeing as how there wasn't enough room in the police lockup after they got all the Angels in there, they brought him up here to the Pen for the night.  But like I say, the guy was berserk -- kept punching and kicking the sides of the paddy wagon all the way up here and screaming about how he was gonna kill some guy named Quigley.  We had to put him into solitary confinement. PJ: Solitary confinement?  Merde... 'is 'e being charged wit' a crime? WM: That's the really screwy part.  Once the Angels and the staff at the Hog Trough found out what your boy does for a living, they dropped all the charges.  They were even asking us if we could get the guy's autograph, for Pete's sake!  However, he will be held liable for damages to the front of the bar, as well as to the seven Harleys he trashed.  PJ: [deeper sigh] Of course.  I will take care of dat.  When can 'e be released? WM: If you'll just sign this form here, Mr. Janois, we'll have your boy out of here in no time.  You can pick up his personal effects at the quartermaster's once we bring him up. [Janois signs the form, his hand trembling with indignation, and he, the warden, and the camera crew proceed down a hallway to the interior of the prison, which is in absolute chaos.  The prisoners are shouting at the top of their lungs and banging tin cups and plates against the steel bars of their cells, but they don't seem to be rioting.  In fact, they seem to be _cheering_, much in the same way a sellout crowd at the IIWF Coliseum would.  At the far end of the prison, a group of four guards can be seen escorting a large, well-built man, clad in the bright orange jumpsuit worn by all the inmates of Leavenworth.  The man is shackled in cuffs and leg irons, but even so, the guards maintain their distance from the big man as he shuffles towards the IIWF crew.  As he passes by the rows of cells, he is cheered on by the prisoners, who seem to be quite excited by the man's presence in the penitentiary, and a bizarre chant of "ONE OF US!  ONE OF US!" begins to echo loudly throughout the main hall of the prison.  Finally, the man reaches the group, his gaze directed at the floor, his face obscured by his mass of long ruddy-blond hair.  Janois clears his throat loudly, with the air of a high school principal, and glares at the big man, expecting some sort of acknowledgment, but none comes.  Finally, the increasingly red-faced Janois cannot stand the tension any longer.] PJ: JUS' WHAT DE HELL DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOIN'? [The shackled man finally raises his head, and Janois' angry glare is met with the cool, emerald-green gaze of Duncan Macbeth.  The big Scot has a black eye, but otherwise looks none the worse for wear after his encounter with the Hell's Angels, and the familiar twinkle in his eye is still present as he addresses Janois' question.] DM: Jus' trainin' fer me match tomorrow night.  _Sir_. PJ: You call dis TRAININ'?  Do you know 'ow many t'ousands of dollars damage you caused?  DM: Nay.  Don't ken, don't care.  They should hae stayed away from me bike, wha'.  PJ: MAUDIT!  I'm makin' a full report of dis to de President!  You 'avent 'eard de last of dis, Macbeth, I promise you dat! [to the guards] Now, get dese cuffs off of 'im -- we're goin' back to de hotel right now! DM: Nay, YE'RE goin' back t' th' hotel. I'm stayin' HERE. [Janois starts in surprise, beside himself with disbelief, as a mighty cheer erupts from the prisoners in the cell block, and the "ONE OF US!" chant starts up again.] PJ: QUOI? DM: Ye heard me, Janois.  Put me back in th' cell 'till tomorrow night. WM: Excuse me, Mr. Macbeth, but all the charges against you were dropped.  You're free to go -- why would you want to stay? PJ: Yes, YES, Macbeth!  Let's get out of 'ere -- dis place is a nightmare! DM: Aye, Janois... it is.  An' tha's why I'm stayin'. Y'see, I got this match tomorrow night, th' kind o' match where jus' walkin' out under yuir own steam is an accomplishment, fightin' with Shakespeare against Paris an' th' man who's keepin' me Intercontinental Title warm fer me, Chrissie Quigley. [Macbeth's expression turns grim, and he now directs his comments to the camera, glowering into the lens.] DM: Quigley. A man who thinks Duncan Macbeth's goin' t' be some kind o' pushover at Ring Wars.  A man who thinks tha' Duncan Macbeth no' takin' him seriously, tha' Duncan Macbeth's no' doin' 'is homework an' preparin' for Los Angeles.  A man who thinks Duncan Macbeth is afraid of 'im, who's insecure about facin' 'im in th' biggest match of 'is career. Bollocks. I've coughed up scarier things than Chris Quigley in t' th' toilet after a hard night's drinkin', an' if I can spend 48 hours in this hell-hole with this miserable pack o' bastards [HUGE pop from the inmates], I don't think a few minutes in a wrestlin' ring with a permed ponce with a PVC fetish is goin' t' keep me awake at night.  Ye're real good at talkin' th' talk, lassie, but Duncan Macbeth walks th' walk, an' righ' now I'm walkin' with a bunch o' men that make J.W. Hardin look like Kevin Christiansen.  An' ye know what?  I feel right at home! [Macbeth leans in to the camera, his voice dropping in tone to a chilling hiss.]  DM: Sae sleep weel tonight, Quigley, in th' comfort o' yuir hotel room, with yuir four-wheel drive bodyguard an' yuir portable lover, yuir Intercontinental Title safe an' sound beside yuir bed.  An' whatever ye do, don't dream about Duncan Macbeth, lyin' on a hard steel cot in a six-by-nine cell at th' bottom o' th' deepest, darkest hole in North America, surrounded by 1500 o' th' most disturbed, deranged, and downright evil men in th' country.  'Cause th' only thing I'll be dreamin' about is bein' th' next Intercontinental Champion. An' startin' tomorrow night, tha's goin' t' be yuir worst nightmare, tosser. PJ: [irritated] Are you finished? DM: Aye.  Now put me back. PJ: Tu es un fou, Macbeth.  [Janois looks to the warden]  All right! Take 'im back, if dat's what 'e wants!  Let 'im rot in de dark, for all I care! [The warden looks to Macbeth, who stands tall in his shackles and nods his resolution, a calm, confident smile on his face.  The warden shrugs and motions to the four guards, who turn and begin to escort the brawny Scot back down the long corridor of the cell block, as Macbeth pauses just long enough to turn back to the camera.] DM: See ye tomorrow, "champ".  An' don't forget yuir shower cap.  [Macbeth turns away once more, and shuffles off down the hallway surrounded by the guards, while all around him, the inmates cheer him on, resuming the chant of "ONE OF US!  ONE OF US!" and raining down rolls of toilet paper as the Scot passes their cells, the effect strangely resembling a ticker-tape parade.  Janois just looks on incredulously as Macbeth and the guards reach the end of the cell block and disappear down another corridor, the sound of a heavy steel door slamming in the distance echoing over the raucous cheers of the prisoners.  Fade.]  LM: The intensity between Quigley and Macbeth is sure to increase after tomorrow night's clash, and I have a feeling that the same will be true of the rivalry between two of the hottest names in the Cruiserweight title race at the moment: "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare and Ronnie Paris: [Scene: Ronnie Paris is seen, or at least from the shoulders up, submersed in a large and moderately expensive looking swimming pool. He's leaning up against the side of the shallow end, looking up into the mid-afternoon sky of Texas. In the background, Maggie Paris walks by, carrying a platter of hamburgers and wearing a somewhat skimpy two-piece swimsuit. Paris takes one look at her and then turns to the camera, with a look of mock concern on his face.] RP: Honey, be careful what you wear when you walk on camera! You just     made Luke Steele drop his towel and make a mess all over the carpet! MP: [chuckling slightly] Are you _ever_ getting out of that pool, Ron?     The Davidson's will be over in about twenty minutes, and salad doesn't toss itself. RP: I'll be out in a minute, I promise. I just gotta tape a segment for     the slave-drivers... a guy tries to relax at home with his wife, here in God's country, and some fool with a camera follows him into his own swimming pool. What a life, huh? [Paris waves his arms under the water, causing a series of small ripples to float towards the camera. Maggie turns to walk back out of the shot, giving Ronnie a look that means "When I say get out of the water, I mean get out of the water NOW, mister!". Ronnie's obviously seen the look a few times before, so he cringes a bit before turning back to the camera.] RP: Look, I don't have much time, so let me cut right to the chase.     Again, the geniuses the run the IIWF come up with a stinker of an     idea... throwing me into a tag match in a prison shower room, of all     places. Now, the good news is that I get to team with the only man     in the IIWF that can teach me a thing or two about technical     wrestling, Chris Quigley. Here's a man that can flat-out wrestle,     and it'll be an honour to work with him. However, I have to step in     with not only a man that redefines unintelligability, but I have to     step into the showers with Shakespeare. Nobody's earned more wins in     the shower than Billy Shakespeare. But, Billy, this time it's not     the Presidential shower in Portland, and I have no intention of     dropping any soap! [A shrill cry of "RON-NIE!" breaks through the still air, sending a shiver up the backs of any married man within a fifty mile radius. Paris as a reflex begins to pull himself out of the water, not wanting to incur any more of hie wife's wrath. As he's just about out of the pool, he turns to the camera again for parting comments.] RP: Derek Mota, Mr. Cruiserweight champion, you watch very closely when I kick Shakespeare's ass this weekend, because you're next! And Billy, I know the concept of me doing something to your ass in a shower excites you, but it's just a metaphor. I don't play ball the same way you do... [Fade out as Paris scrambles towards a large, sliding-glass door, trying to get to the salad he's supposed to be preparing before Maggie does. Mix through to Billy Shakespeare, who sits in some reghional theatre in the Kansas City area. He toys with a showerhead, looking at it potifically, before holding it aloft and speaking.] BS: "Words, words, words."  Ronnie Paris, I see you have finally found     a way to team up with a wrestler that can actually teach you     something...how to complain more than you do.  If you win this one,     or if I do, you know it means nothing.  You know that the cruiserweight belt is the only prize worth fighting for.  This match, well, this is for the fans.  We do this so they'll like us.     Macbeth, the connection behind our ancestral names is legendary, they why don't I feel peace in their union.  Perhaps I err.   Maybe,     together, "something wicked" will indeed be this way coming.     And a last word to Derek Mota: Read the fine print, sir.   I will face you in the ring before Ring Wars.  Mark well my words. [The camera begins to fade out as a local techie can be heard asking for an autograph. Cut back to the video truck.] LM: Rusty pipes, gushing water, treacherous surfaces -- and a whole lot of anger. That's the recipe for this match, folks, and it's sure to be a war. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TAG TEAM TRIPLE THREAT MATCH: Prophets of Rage vs. Damage Inc. vs. Cold Quins ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LM: For the final two matches, the scene will shift back away from the interior of the facility, and back out into the courtyard, in a regulation IIWF ring surrounded by makeshift bleachers packed with inmates of the penitentiary -- without a doubt the most unique crowd the IIWF superstars will ever have played to. And the first of the big two matches is a tag team triple threat match -- one fall to the finish, pinfall or submission only, three men legal at any one time -- featuring three of the hottest tag teams in the IIWF today. The rivalry between the Prophets of Rage and Damage Inc. continues to escalate... Let's hear from Alex Porteaux and Eddie Ramos: [The scene is outdoors somewhere... the trees show the signs of autumn as leaves noticably fill the air for every slight breeze. The sun is setting, as every second that passes gets darker and darker. No one can be seen until a slim silhouette appears. It takes greater shape, into the slinky curves of a woman. She steps through this shadow to reveal Jeandra, who is wearing a black half shirt that says "Dexter St. Croix" in white letters. Her long, curly black hair is dripping wet and covers parts of her chocolate face. Her smile can be seen through the hair... gleaming maliciously:] JE: How ironic... that a crime... not just to us, but to the whole wrestling world, sees justice in the middle of a penitentary. On Saturday night... this wrong WILL be righted... So the World Tag Team Champions can no longer defend their belts... and unities exist where there was once anger and hatred. Beautiful. But the belts remain out of balance. Leave it to the best. Leave it to Damage Inc and The Prophets of Rage. Let the best decide the title of champion... but no... the IIWF wants to give everyone a chance... and give us a raw deal. We don't like that. They want to give an oppurtunity to some team out of NOWHERE? This isn't the first time this has happened to us... [A quick flash of a younger Eddy Ramos powerbombing a white male wearing Confederate flag tights on a concrete arena floor. The person shows no sign of life after 15 seconds] JE: We didn't like it then, either. We got a bit upset... [Another quick flash shows Alex Porteaux superplexing a wrestler in a blue mask as Ramos IMMEDIATELY follows up with a splash from the top rope.] JE: And people are STILL talking about it because back then it didn't stop us. The present won't be any different. You doppelgangers... you phonies.... you... Cold Quins... take heed in my words... life is a comedy for those who think... and a tragedy for those who feel. Cold Quins... [A longer set of highlights flashes: Ramos executing a flying senton through TWO tables in front of what looks to be a MASSIVE crowd. Two men under masks (presumably Ramos and Porteaux) plastering a black man dressed in an expensive suit with steel chairs. They strike every inch of his body up and down as other wrestlers try to jump in and get wasted themselves. A young black male with short dreadlocks being carried off by two other black males. The younger male's knee is visibly bent out of it's normal position as Jeandra's laughing face is superimposed over the scene.] JE: You're going to do a WHOLE lot of feeling. Tragic... isn't it? [Suddenly, two more silhouettes appear. Alex Porteaux and Eddy Ramos step into the faint view, and both are also wearing "Dexter St. Croix" t-shirts. Ramos takes a spot behind Jeandra while Porteaux stands a bit closer to the camera, his eyes seemingly cold and slanted. His darkskinned bald head gives a little gleam thanks to a flash of lightning.] AP: You know... everybody in the IIWF is thanking their lucky stars right now. They're saying to themselves... the Prophets of Rage are DONE! They're FINALLY DONE!! Now, we can go on to our normal chances of winning a title because THE BIGGEST THREAT TO THE CLAIM OF NUMBER ONE TEAM IN THE WORLD IS FINALLY GONE AND BROKEN APART! And EVERYONE in the IIWF is having some kind of sigh of relief that the whole Rage family was having themselves and old fashioned hoedown on each other in the ring.... everyone... except US... AP: You see... we're calling your bluff, Prophets. Because for every team that wants to never see you again... we want to. For every team that wants to hear of your demise... we want to know you guys are happy as a bunch of well baked crawdads. You see, you aren't breaking up. You CAN'T break up... not yet. Because there ain't no WAY IN HELL, HEAVEN OR THE CRESCENT CITY OF NEW ORLEANS that you are getting out of your DESTINY... and that is to fall to US. AP: Just before we signed up with IIWF... me and the 'Dog and JeJe... we all went to mah house in New Orleans... and I stayed up all night ponderin' and wonderin'.... and I jumped up, sprinted into my backyard and asked God. I asked Him what was gonna happen? What was comin'? What was supposed to go down? And you know what He said? Thunder started boomin' and lightning flashing and His voice thundered over me like nothin' I ever heard. He told me ta git back in that ring... because we had a date with history... and the Prophets of Rage... our BIGGEST threats... had a bigger date with DESTINY! [Porteaux's voice rises to a dramatic tone] A DESTINY CARVED IN STONE AND COVERED IN BLOOD... A DESTINY WRITTEN OUT BEFORE YOU WERE EVER CONCEIVED.... BEFORE YOU HAD ANY KNOWLEDGE OF WHO YOU _FREAKING_ WERE! And it says... that valiantly... like the warriors before you and the warriors after you... you will fall... like true fighters... you will give your all, but in the end you cannot RISE ABOVE IT ALL!! You can't COMPETE... YOU CAN'T SURVIVE!! Because we are DESTINED to be etched into the halls of tag team ETERNITY and that eternity comes from beating the likes of guys like you... guys who have a higher status than US.... AP: Let me tell you something, Rages... you can fight and bicker and slap each other all you want. But don't try to get out of it.