________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| | || | \ v v / | __| |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| ________ ______ ______ | | \ \ / / _______ | | \ \__ ___ / / | ____ \ _____|_ __ |____ \ | | | | / __ / _____ _____ | | \ \/_ _| \ | |/ ___\ \ | | __ | | / / \/ | __ \/ ____| | |___/ / | | | \| | / __ \ | |/ \| |/ / /\ \ | |_> | /____ | ____ < | | | \ \ |/ /_ \ \ | / /\ \ | / ____ \| __ <\____ \ | | \ \_| |_| |\ |\___\ \ \| / \\ |/ / / \ \ | \ \____\ \ |_| |_|____/|_| \_|______/ |_/ \\_|\/ / \/_| |_|______/ | | \ / | | \ / |______| \______/ ________________________________________________________________________ \ / \ L I V E! Los Angeles Memoral Coliseum, Los Angeles, CA L I V E! / / Saturday 8 November 1997 \ /______________________________________________________________________\ H + O + U + R T + W + O [Mix through to shots taken from high, high above the arena floor, depicting the huge orange sun beginning to dip beneath the Los Angeles skyline. The shot pans down past the IIWF blimp, still hovering over the Coliseum, and down into the jam-packed stadium, further shots panning down one of the aisles running up the raked side of the dome, the ring little more than a rumour in the distance. High above the fans, four huge video walls relay these shots to the crowd, who cheer like crazy as another volley of fireworks erupts from the ring. As the smoke clears, cut to the broadcast table at ringside, at which stand Tim Dross and "Soundbite" Steve Roberts.] TD: Welcome back, folks, to the second hour of this tremendous pay-per-view spectacular. What tremendous action we've seen already tonight -- but the best is yet to come! In the next hour, we'll see the Cold Quins face Harle-Spell in a most unique tag title tilt, we'll see Requiem wrestle his last ever match against the Blind Guardian, we'll see the rivalry between Billy Shakespeare and Ronnie Paris finally come to a head in a two of three falls match, and we will see that barbaric... that brutal barbed wire elimination match. SR: Somebody get the paramedics on danger money, baby dolls! TD: It's going to be a war, Steve Roberts, that much is for sure. Well, we're just about ready to move on to our next match -- and just listen to the crowd here, Steve Roberts! This really is an unbelievable reception the fans are giving us here tonight! SR: Ain't that the truth. Let me tell you this, Dross, there ain't nothing -- and I mean nothing -- quite like the sound of one hundred thousand crazed maniacs baying for Boy Requiem's blood. It's pure heaven. TD: We'll be seeing Requiem in only a matter of moments, up against the challenge of the Blind Guardian in what he has already stated will be his _final_ match here in the IIWF. SR: Like I said, Dross, pure heaven. It can't get any better. This is better than biscuits. Better than Disneyland. Hell, it's better than se... no. Almost, yes. But not quite. Hell Dross, there's only one thing I need right now to make the evening complete... TD: What's that? SR: Chelsea Clinton, under the table, in a pink catsuit. TD: Quickly moving on, the Blind Guardian has made no pretences about his hatred for Requiem, that's for sure. And tonight, he'll be facing an opponent who is suffering from a number of serious injuries, and frankly, Steve, I can't see how Requiem will be in any fit shape to wrestle. I understand that although he was given the all clear earlier this week, President Spreadbury has been attempting to meet with him and a team of doctors tonight, in order to personally assess the situation. SR: Just like the boss man, trying to deny me my fun. TD: Well, from what I gather, he's so far failed in his attempts -- Requiem refuses to speak to a doctor -- and I have no idea what the President's reaction will be. SR: Look, Dross, it's pretty damn simple. Requiem's been cleared to wrestle. So let the punk come down here, step in the ring and get hurt and then beaten by a blind man, before leaving the IIWF arena for the last time with his tail tucked firmly between his legs and the morons laughing their heads off. So speaketh the Soundbite. TD: Well, we're about to see if that prediction will come true -- we're ready to get things underway once again, so let's go across to Sparkplug Lee for the official word! ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|................................................... | || | \ v v / | __| Requiem vs. Blind Guardian |_||_| \_/\_/ |_|..................................................... WRITER: MP [The scene switches across to the ring, where Sparkplug Lee once again steps into the ring to meet the deafening roar of the near one hundred thousand fans. Sparkplug swallows deeply and takes a deep breath, and a hush descends as he starts to speak] SL: The following contest is scheduled for one fall, with a thirty minute time limit! Introducing first, weighing in at 308lbs and hailing from parts unknown... here is... THE BLIND GUARDIAN! [The crowd pops uncertainly as the eerie voice echoes across the PA system...] VOICE: In the name of the Lord, you will be taken from this court, and hung, drawn and quartered. What are your last words, accused? [The crowd's pop increases as the question starts to repeat, and the Blind Guardian steps out in the aisle, dressed in his usual attire and wearing a smirk on his face. He strides quickly towards the ring, not even acknowledging the roar of the fans around him as he steps down the aisle.] TD: Well, the Guardian looks almost as though he feels he's got this one already tied up -- that could be a mistake, Steve: after announcing that this will be his final match, you can be sure that Requiem will be ready to throw everything he's got at the Guardian. SR: Look, Dross. The guy has four cracked ribs and a punctured lung. Hell, it doesn't take much to beat the punk when he's fully fit, so granddad here's gonna coast it. Hell, I'd coast it, even with my bad back. Not that his injuries would make any difference to me of course -- the poor little kid simply ain't got the smarts to beat the Soundbite, baby dolls. TD: I'm sure Requiem would be more than happy to take you up on that challenge. SR: Yeah? Well, it's a pity he's leaving then, isn't it? So soon... [The Guardian climbs onto the ring apron, and steps between the ropes. He walks to the centre of the ring, making no motion to prepare for the match, simply standing there waiting, hands on hips and the smirk increasing...] SL: And his opponent... [The crowd erupts into a roaring chorus of jeers, apart from the small contingent of remaining Genesis Generation fans, whose pop is almost drowned out by the majority. The Blind Guardian laughs loudly as Sparkplug Lee raises his voice over the noise...] SL: And his opponent... weighing in at 306lbs and hailing from parts unknown... here is The Angel of Destruction... REQUIEM! [The heel pop from the crowd increases to the point where it almost drowns out "The Music of the Unknowingly Damned" as it starts up over the PA system, and after a lengthy pause, Requiem steps out into the aisle!] TD: He's here! Requiem's here! And listen to the reception of the fans for the Angel of Destruction! They do not like him one little bit! SR: And you do? [Requiem pauses, looking towards the ring with a wry smile. Instead of his usual attire, he is wearing a large black duster, sunglasses, black fingerless gloves and a black bandana. Slowly, and to an ever increasing hostile reaction from the fans, Requiem raises his arms and turns around, revealing on the back of his duster a depiction of Steve Roberts, writhing in the grip of demonic hellfire. The caption below reads "Steve Roberts: Your Last Chance For 15 Minutes".] SR: Wow. I'm touched. TD: Looks like you've definitely got yourself on Requiem's bad side this time, Steve Roberts. SR: Hell, no. What am I supposed to do? Panic? Run? Beg for forgiveness? Scream like a woman? Nah. I think I'll just sit back, relax, and watch the punk get the living shit kicked out of him. [The crowd behind Roberts starts up the familiar "Shoot, Soundbite, Shoot!" chant, and Roberts leans back, hands behinds his head, with a grin.] SR: Music to my ears, morons. [Requiem walks swiftly towards the ring, taking off his sunglasses and bandana, throwing them to the Genesis Generation fans as he passes, who cheer loudly and reach out to slap hands with him. As he reaches the ring he glares at the still smirking Blind Guardian, before leaping up to the ring apron and stepping between the ropes. Requiem, still silently glaring across at the Guardian, slowly removes the duster to reveal plain black pants, black elbow and knee pads, black boots and black wristlets. His ribs are taped up with black bandages, and he winces slightly as he removes the coat.] SR: Aw, shucks, the poor boy's done gone hurt himself. Poor kid. He'll need more than a couple of fashion rags after this match. He'll need a life support machine. [Requiem turns at the renewed "Shoot, Soundbite! Shoot!" chants, glaring down at the announcer's table and slowly raises the jacket up in the air for all to see...] REQ: Got those waivers yet, Steve? [With a flash, the coat bursts into flame, and with a look of pure contempt he hurls it out of the ring... straight towards Steve Roberts!] TD & SR: Good god! [The coat, apparently made of flash paper, disintegrates before it reaches the announcer's table, but the effect leaves both men in shock for a moment. Requiem chuckles softly, and turns back towards his opponent, who is gesturing for a microphone... Requiem watches him cautiously, as the announcers struggle to recover from the shock of having flames flung in their direction.] TD: That... SR: [recovering some of his composure] Did I just hear something, Dross? Did that punk say something to me? TD: That... That... SR: [getting his confidence back] What's the matter, Dross? Never seen cheap pyrotechnics before? Never been to one of Beck's house parties? She's got some bras that do that, if I remember rightly... TD: That... SR: [slapping Dross on the shoulder] I'll give you a minute, should I? You've managed to go three seconds without saying anything for the first time since I've met you. Must be serious. Here, have a drink. [Back in the ring the official passes the Blind Guardian a microphone. Requiem steps forward, gesturing for the Guardian to shut up and put up, but the Guardian raises his hand with a grin...] BG: Would you please wait a second, brat. There's something that you oughta know about the upcoming encounter. SR: [over the headset] Now what could that be, old man? BG: First of all I'd like to explain why I was so keen to get a match against you, the most over-rated wrestler of all time [mixed pop], and especially why I was so keen to get that match for tonight. Now I told you what I think about the _mighty_ IIWF and its _mighty_ wrestlers [heel pop]. And I told you what I think about you, Rectum. I think that there's not much difference between you and a sewer rat [mixed pop]. SR: [over the headset] Wait, what has the Subway Stinker to do with this? TD: [over the headset] Please! BG: But this all doesn't matter any more. Whatever I told you, whatever I wanted you to believe -- forget about it. Truth is that you have no idea of what I've planned for you, right? Well, wait and see. SR: [over the headset] Perhaps we wait until we're all as old as him, that should be in about two hundred years. BG: But before we continue, I'd like to show you something, Rectum. [The Blind Guardian pulls out a piece of paper from underneath his cloak.] You recognise this? [He holds it into the direction of Requiem, who nods, and then towards the camera. It obviously is a kind of contract] Yes, folks, this is a contract. To be more precise, it is the contract which I signed and which Rectum signed. This is the contract that officially allows this match to take place. And now you'll wonder why I insist on showing around this contract, right? SR: [yawning, over the headset] Wake me when he's done, will you? BG: Well, I'd like to ask Mr. Spreadbury to come down to ringside to take a look at this contract, just in case that I'm misunderstanding something that is written in it. Mr. Spreadbury, would you be so kind to meet me right here in the ring, please? [Requiem stands a few feet away from the Guardian, totally unfazed by the delay in the start of the match. His white eyes bore holes in the Blind Guardian, and the crowd begins to murmur as moments pass. Soon, the curtains at the head of the aisle part as the IIWF President, accompanied by a pair of security guards, makes his way to the ring. The Blind Guardian continues:] BG: I always like it when a match is signed only a few days before it is scheduled to take place. Contracts are hastily put together, clauses are added or deleted. And usually no one reads what is really written in them. Now I just read this contract thoroughly behind that curtain and I came across a _very_ interesting clause. [The security guards stop at the foot of the aisle. The harassed looking IIWF President climbs the ringsteps and enters the squared circle, looking at the Guardian impatiently.] BG: Welcome, Mr. Spreadbury. If you'd be so kind to take a quick look at what is written in this paragraph, please? [The Guardian hands the contract to the President, who quickly dons his spectacles, looks over the paragraph, and then speaks:] DS: This is a standard clause in a standard contract. I'll thank you for not wasting my time, bringing me out here for such trivial matters... [The Guardian snatches the microphone away from the President, and also retrieves the contract, shooing the official away with a motion of his hand.] BG: Thank you very much. I see that you fully understand the meaning of this paragraph. Well, I don't think I need your assistance any more at the moment. See you soon, Mr. Spreadbury. [Shaking his head in frustration at being brought out so unnecessarily, the IIWF President heads out of the ring and back up the aisle, security guards in tow.] BG: Hey, Rectum, I've got a surprise for you! You don't have to fight me tonight, at least not officially [surprised pop!]. No, this clause reads that the wrestler, who is called the _CHALLENGER_ in this contract, and that's me, is allowed to retreat from the match whenever he likes. It isn't even necessary that the match has begun already, it is only important that both the competitors are in the ring together in order to begin that match. That's not exactly what's standing within this paragraph, but I doubt that you would've understood the meaning if I had used the words that are written down in this contract. Well, and to make it short, I'll retreat right now! [Huge confused pop, which is turning into a heel pop as the crowd realises that they'll see one less match this evening. The Blind Guardian looks at the contract again, reads over a few other paragraphs and gets a very surprised look on his face] Mr. Spreadbury, would you please return to the ring, I think there's something else I've got to show you! [The IIWF President, who has not yet reached the head of the aisle, seems to visibly grimace as he turns about face and heads back down towards the ring, shaking his head. All the while, Requiem simply stands, unblinking, staring at the Blind Guardian with his emotionless eyes.] BG: Yes. This one's interesting, too. [The IIWF President, now clearly frustrated, enters the ring once more.] BG: How about this paragraph, Mr. Spreadbury? [Spreadbury again takes the contract, and upon reading it, speaks:] DS: This clause states that in the event of one wrestler withdrawing from a contracted match, another wrestler may be substituted in the match without prior consultation and with immediate effect. [The President looks over his spectacles at the Blind Guardian, gamely offering back the contract and the microphone before they can be snatched away. The Guardian takes both.] BG: Thanks a lot, Mr. Spreadbury. [Raising his eyes to the heavens, apparently rueing his choice of career, the IIWF President once more leaves the ring and heads up the aisle.] BG: Yet another surprise, Rectum! I'm allowed to pick a substitute from the roster! Now if that's not a nice idea! I wonder just who puts in these paragraphs! [laughs a little bit] So, let's see. Whom should I choose? Billy Shakespeare? [pop] Otto Verhoeven? [bigger pop] Maybe the Subway Psycho? [huge pop] Yes, I think... no, wait! [The Blind Guardian takes a look at the contract again, smiles and continues to speak.] Mr. Spreadbury! [The IIWF President, who has sensibly not moved far from ringside in anticipation of being called back a third time, almost throws his hands into the air with frustration before entering the ring once again.] BG: So, Mr. Spreadbury, for a last time, would you please read _this_ paragraph? [The Blind Guardian points at another part of the contract. The IIWF President reads the paragraph... and then appears to read it again, his brow furrowing. He leafs through the pages of the document, and looks utterly bewildered.] DS: Well, this is most unusual. This clause provides for the substituted wrestler, in the event of a withdrawal, to be _any_ wrestler in the world -- irrespective on any prior or current relationship with the IIWF. In other words, it could be somebody retired, suspended, no longer under contract... this is a highly unusual contract. And furthermore, should this substitute wrestler be victorious, they will be offered a standard IIWF contract to continue wrestling for the promotion. This is unbelievable! I'm going to have to consult the legal department about this... [Again, the Guardian snatches the microphone away from the President before he can finish his sentence.] BG: So sorry, Mr. President. No time for your blathering. Well, the right to choose. That's what I like. Mr. Spreadbury, I thank you very much for your help, and I'm confident that I won't be needing your help any more -- at least for tonight. [The IIWF President leaves the ring, still studying the contract, apparently more than a little worried by the provision of this very odd clause. Meanwhile, in the ring, Requiem continues to stand motionless, his ribs strapped with black bandages and his arms folded across his chest. The Blind Guardian, by contrast, is becoming more and more animated.] BG: Okay, Rectum... How about Tonnage? How about Bane? How about Bishop? But, no... We want to see some _huge_ matchup tonight, right, folks? [Big pop from the impatient crowd, who are by now desperate to see _anything_ resembling a match.] But before I tell you who I'm thinking of, I'd like to tell you something. I said that I disliked this league, its wrestlers, and its fans. [heel pop]. I said that I could be the crap out of every one of the competitors here. But today I say, that I was more than wrong. The wrestlers of this league _are_ the greatest wrestlers in the world today, the champions of this league _are_ the greatest champions in the world today, this league _is_ the greatest league in the world today -- yes, this indeed _is_ the _mighty_ IIWF! [Big pop from the crowd!] TD: [over the headset] Quite a change of heart from this most strange character, Steve Roberts. [pause] Steve Roberts? Will you please wake up, Steve Roberts! BG: But Rectum, I didn't mean you with this, I was talking about wrestlers! [First face pop ever for the Blind Guardian] Hey, just kidding, brat. I'm sure you'd like to know who shall be your opponent for tonight, right? Okay, I guess it's time! Would you please dim the lights, I just love dramatic moments! [laughs a little bit] [The lights drop, the fans falling into a hush as they anticipate the resolution this posturing.] BG: I've chosen a mighty opponent for you, Rectum. I've chosen an opponent whom everyone knows around the world. And I've chosen an opponent who used to strike fear into the hearts of everyone who had to step into the ring against him. And just in case you're wondering: no, this is not going to be a handicap match [laughs again]. All right, so let me call him out... [Suddenly, music pierces the silence in the arena. "Scythe, Rage And Rose" by Dark Tranquillity begins to play over the PA as the Blind Guardian introduces Requiem's opponent...] BG: [in a changed, unearthly voice] FORCES OF DARKNESS, THEY SHALL NOT REST. COME SUMMON, BE MY GUEST. GIVE BIRTH TO DEATH, AND SERVE MY SPELL. THE _REAPER_ SHALL RISE FROM THE FIRES OF HELL! [A figure steps out into the aisle from behind the entrance curtain, picked out by a single white spotlight, casting long shadows behind him. A carpet of dry ice several inches thick licks at the figure's feet as he walks. The figure is huge -- standing nearly seven feet tall -- but his features are disguised... by a cowl... and in his right hand, the figure carries... a scythe...] TD: Oh my! It's... [Huge pop from the crowd as the identity of the figure becomes obvious!] TD: ...it's the Deathbringer! [The Deathbringer slowly marches towards the ring, which he enters. There he drops to one knee, and holds out the scythe on outstretched palms. TD: Deathbringer is giving the scythe to the fans -- he's saying that he has returned to the IIWF! The Deathbringer -- who was suspended after Midsummer Madness... the Deathbringer is back, Steve Roberts! SR: ...what, Dross? Hey, it's Deathbringer! Is he still with the promotion? [The Deathbringer removes his cowl and scythe with the help of the Blind Guardian, revealing his new outfit, featuring blood-coloured gloves and boots. The rest of his outfit appears to be stained with tears of blood, the words "Death is just the beginning" emblazoned upon the back of his outfit in blood red letters. A camera catches a shot of his eyes, staring at Requiem... they, too, are blood red. Two red arrows have been painted on his mask, pointing to the eyes, and beginning somewhere behind his head, one running over his right ear towards the right eye, the other one over his left ear towards the left eye. The ends of the two arrows are bent into each other and represent a cross. The two men stand just a few feet apart in the ring, staring at one another unblinkingly. The only sign of emotion from either man comes from Requiem, who arches one eyebrow, the closest approximation to an expression of surprise his ice-cold demeanour will allow.] TD: Oh my, folks. Talk about two wrestlers with some history between them -- right from the day Requiem stepped into the IIWF, he and the Deathbringer have been at one another's throats... who can forget that brutal Master of Darkness match at Birthday Bash last May, at which Genesis was born at Deathbringer's expense. These two stars have clashed on so many occasions -- and they will clash again, right here tonight, in Requiem's last ever match! [The Blind Guardian leaves the ring, carrying the cowl and scythe, and takes up station in the Deathbringer's corner as the two athletes in the ring continue to stare at one another. Referee Earl Alfonso signals for the bell to start the match...] TD: And look at these two go at it straight away! Rights and lefts... this is a slugfest! And Requiem takes the early advantage with a thumb to the eye! SR: He stole that move, you know... TD: I'm sorry? SR: He stole it from every good wrestler who's ever used it. He's defacing the good name of that move, and the whole world of wrestling, right now. The guy is a disgrace. TD: You just don't let up, do you? SR: That's what Snow White said. And she meant it more than you do. [Requiem drags Deathbringer across to the corner by the mask, and slams his head into the turnbuckle! Deathbringer slowly turns around to face him, and grabs hold of Requiem, spinning him into the corner and firing away with a rapid and violent series of blows to the head...] TD: And Deathbringer with an uppercut that almost sends Requiem sailing out of the ring! SR: That's gotta hurt, baby dolls. TD: Requiem staggers out of the corner... and turns... straight into a kick to the midsection! Requiem doubles up straight away! SR: Injured ribs, Dross... this is it, Requiem's going down. TD: And a kneelift by the Reaper sends him staggering back into the ropes... Deathbringer straight back on him... Irish whip.... [The crowd pops wildly as the under fire Requiem rebounds off the ropes, and straight into a Scythe flying clothesline from Deathbringer which sends his head snapping back before he crashes down to the canvas... Deathbringer rolls on to his knees, tightening his glove, before pulling Requiem up by the hair...] TD: Irish whip by Deathbringer into the turnbuckles... and what impact again! Requiem is in serious trouble already! SR: He was in trouble before the match even begun, Dross. It took all his abilities and two outsiders for him to take out the 'Bringer last time they met. He's got no chance in there. TD: And you're loving every minute of it. SR: Damn right. [Deathbringer charges into the corner, catching Requiem with a crushing avalanche, elbow smash combination, and Requiem immediately clutches at his ribs again. Deathbringer doesn't relent for a second, twisting Requiem's arm around, and Irish whips him again, towards the opposite corner...] TD: Requiem pulls up short... Reversal by Requiem! Deathbringer hits hard and staggers back out... straight into a lariat! Oh my, Requiem hit him hard! This is his chance! [Requiem follows through with the lariat, taking Deathbringer down to the canvas with a crash! Requiem pauses for a second, leaning on the turnbuckles and shaking his head to clear it, before turning and launching himself onto Deathbringer as he starts to rise, pummelling away at the giant with a rapid series of closed fists... Deathbringer's arm shoots out...] TD: Death Claw! Deathbringer with the clawhold on Requiem! [Requiem reaches to his face, trying to prise the vice-like grip from his temples, and Deathbringer sits up, slowly pushing himself back to his feet and driving Requiem back towards the ropes... Requiem reaches out himself, grabbing a handful of tights... and charges back, sending Deathbringer flying over him and straight out of the ring, where he crashes down into the steel barriers! Huge heel pop!] TD: Oh my! Requiem throws Deathbringer over the top, and that'll buy him some time! SR: No it won't, Dross... look at the 'Bringer! [The crowd pops wildly as Deathbringer shrugs off his fall, climbing straight back to his feet and stepping back towards the ring... where he's met by a baseball slide from Requiem!] TD: And Deathbringer into the steel railings again! And he gets back up again! [Requiem charges towards the ropes as Deathbringer climbs back up to the ring apron, rebounds, and leaps... deafening heel pop from the crowd!] TD: OH MY! Requiem just body blocked Deathbringer right off the ring apron, and both men are down outside the ring! What a reckless move! Three hundred pounds of muscle, over the top rope and straight into the 'Bringer, and then crashing down to the arena floor! Incredible! [Requiem slowly rolls to his knees, wincing and reaching for his ribs as he stands, before stomping on Deathbringer's head as he too starts to rise. Requiem plants his foot on Deathbringer's forehead, putting all his weight down on it, before kicking him again! Earl Alfonso starts to count both men out on the outside...] TD: Requiem now, not relenting, as he'll have to do if he's going to win this final match, picking Deathbringer up and... no! He sends him crashing through the steel steps with an Irish whip! [Deathbringer hurtles into the steps, smashing them over and into pieces completely! Requiem follows up, lifting one of the segments up over his head as Deathbringer struggles to rise...] TD: And Requiem smashes the steps down across Deathbringer's head! This is... this is turning into a brawl here, folks... this is going to get real ugly, right now. SR: Ugly as Requiem's mother. It's only a matter of time, Dross... he won't be able to keep this up forever... [Requiem picks the steps up, and as the crowd's jeers reach deafening levels, starts to climb back up onto the ring apron... Earl Alfonso immediately breaks his count, grabbing Requiem's arm as he raises the steps over his head again...] TD: Oh, no... [Requiem shrugs the official's protestations off as Deathbringer struggles back up to his feet, and leaps off the apron...] TD: No! [Requiem brings the steps crashing down across Deathbringer's head again, this time with all the momentum of an nine foot drop behind it! Deathbringer crumples to the floor, and Requiem starts tearing the mats on the arena floor off the concrete... the crowd screams as he pulls Deathbringer back up to his feet and over his shoulder... over his shoulder and into position for a Tombstone piledriver...] TD: Oh no... a Tombstone on the concrete... Requiem's going too far... SR: Come on, Deathbringer, don't let this punk get away with this! [Deathbringer starts to kick, trying to get out of the dangerous position... Requiem stumbles and fights to regain his balance...] TD: Deathbringer's got Requiem rocking... he's going to break out of it... no! [The crowd screams again as Deathbringer kicks and Requiem stumbles again, but this time forwards... and down, bringing Deathbringer crashing down into a split-legged tombstone on the concrete! Deathbringer lies motionless, and Requiem slowly picks himself back to his feet, breathing heavily...] SR: I don't believe it! TD: Requiem with that piledriver direct on the concrete... I don't believe it... and Deathbringer is out. He is out cold. [Slowly, Requiem drags the unmoving form of Deathbringer back up to his feet, and rolls him into the ring. The crowd screams for Deathbringer to get back up as Requiem drags himself up to the ring apron and into the ring...] TD: Requiem... with the cover... Alfonso counts... One... two... no! [Deathbringer's shoulder lifts off the canvas a fraction of a second before the three count. Requiem falls back onto his haunches, shaking his head, before pulling Deathbringer back up to his feet again...] TD: Requiem now, pulling Deathbringer up and across to the corner... he's setting him up for a _second_ piledriver... SR: Come on, dead man, don't fail us now.... [The crowd screams as Requiem pulls Deathbringer into position again... and drops him into the Tombstone again! Requiem turns around, and starts to climb the turnbuckles....] TD: Requiem's going all the way to the top... we could be about to see... [Requiem pauses on the top rope for a fraction of a second, and then, as the heel pop from the crowd starts to fill the arena again, he leaps... he leaps up and backwards, throwing his legs back over his head and coming crashing down... crashing down onto Deathbringer...] TD: Requiem with the moonsault! SR: And Deathbringer brings his knees up and into Requiem's ribs! [The heel pop is replaced instantly by a pop for the Reaper as Requiem rolls off the his opponent and curls into a ball, clutching at his injured ribs... Deathbringer too makes no motion to get up, lying unmoving on the canvas... the referee, with no other alternative, starts to count both men out...] TD: I cannot believe Deathbringer found the strength to counter the moonsault attempt... two piledrivers... this man is incredible... SR: Two sub-standard piledrivers. TD: Sub-standard? He could have broken the man's neck! [Earl Alfonso's count reaches five, and Requiem slowly rolls onto his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps... Alfonso counts six...] TD: Requiem looks to be in terrible pain, Steve... I don't think he's going to make it... and Deathbringer's _still_ not moving! [Requiem slaps the canvas, pushing himself up onto one knee - the count reaches seven -- he reaches for the ropes... eight -- and he pulls himself back to his feet! The crowd roars as he clutches again at his ribs, before turning towards Deathbringer... ] TD: Requiem now, dragging Deathbringer back towards the centre of the ring... he's pulling him to his feet... SR: And Deathbringer kicks him in the guts for his troubles! I love it! [Requiem doubles over again, and Deathbringer slowly backs him into the turnbuckles... he brings his knee up hard into Requiem's ribs... and again... he drags him out of the corner...] TD: Irish whip coming up by Deathbringer... [The crowd pops as Requiem is hurtled into the opposite corner, connecting face first with the turnbuckles and falling backwards to the canvas with a crash... Deathbringer grabs his legs and drags him out into the centre of the ring...] TD: Deathbringer off the ropes... huge elbowdrop to the ribs of Requiem! The cover... no! He gets up and goes to the ropes again... another huge elbowdrop! SR: This is it. This is it, Dross. The beginning of the end for Requiem here. It's over. He got his shots in, but much more of this punishment and he wont be able to breath any more, let alone wrestle... TD: You may be right, Steve... Deathbringer's picking his shots now. And another huge elbowdrop! The cover... one... two... and Deathbringer pulls Requiem's shoulder up! He's not finished with him yet! [Alfonso yells a warning at Deathbringer, who grimly shakes his head and pulls Requiem up to his feet by the hair, before backing him into the ropes with a series of uppercuts... he grabs Requiem's hair again...] SR: And what's the Boy Requiem got to offer? He can't even throw a punch any more! He's just standing there stroking that belly of his! Listen to the fans, Dross, they think it's all over! [Deathbringer charges Requiem across the ring by the hair, and the official dives out of the way as... as...] SR: It is now! TD: Deathbringer with the hip lock -- and Requiem goes sailing right over the top rope! SR: ...and straight down onto the exposed concrete below! Get the EMT teams ready, we have another casualty... [Deathbringer watches on as Alfonso starts to lay the count on the former champion, the crowd chanting in time... One - two - three...] TD: Requiem's not moving at all. He could be seriously hurt down there... SR: I've said it before, Dross, and you can be damn sure I'll say it again... ain't it marvellous? [Four. Slowly, Requiem fights to his knees and reaches out in front of him, reaching out for the retaining barriers to help himself up... five... he knocks over a chair in front of him collapsing back to the arena floor... six... he reaches up again, grabbing hold of the railings and pulling himself back up to his feet... the official counts seven... Requiem staggers backwards, shaking his head... eight... ] TD: Look out! Deathbringer off the ropes...! [Alfonso dives out of the way again as Deathbringer leaps over the top to a deafening crowd pop as Requiem turns... and the pop turn instantly into a deafening heel pop as Requiem swings the chair he was holding around and into the flying Deathbringer!] SR: I don't believe it! Disqualify that man! TD: Alfonso's certainly giving a lot of lee-way here tonight... Both men down again on the outside... SR: Hey! [Roberts stands up] Hey, Rectum! What's the matter? Ribs hurting ya? You look a bit out of breath, pal! TD: Steve, will you sit down? [Requiem and Deathbringer slowly start to pull themselves to their feet as Alfonso counts both men out of the ring... Deathbringer reaches out for Requiem, and Requiem responds by bringing his head forward sharply, butting the Deathbringer hard in the groin... Deathbringer doubles over, and Requiem springs into motion...] SR: That's right, Requiem, you just go for your favourite area! No wonder your little buddies didn't mind you leaving, if that's the sort of thing you get up to in the locker rooms! TD: Steve... family show! SR: Screw that! You listening to me, Requiem? [Requiem drapes his leg across Deathbringer's neck, and leaps, the heel pop reaching earsplitting proportions as he sends him crashing face first into the arena floor in his patented Redemption rocker dropper... Alfonso's count reaches six, and Requiem staggers away from Deathbringer... and he suddenly turns around at the sounds of the "Shoot, Soundbite! Shoot!" chant... he pauses, and his eyes narrow.] SR: Shit. [Alfonso leaps out of the ring and tries to pull Requiem back as he stalks purposefully across towards the announcers desk... Roberts pushes his chair back, glancing around for an escape route... Alfonso pushes himself in front of Requiem, who palms his face and throws his backwards, tumbling onto his behind! The crowd roars deafeningly as Requiem closes in on the Soundbite! Tim Dross slowly starts to edge himself away from Roberts, his mouth frozen in shock...] SR: You stay away from me... [Slowly, Requiem shakes his head...] SR: You stay away from me or I'll whip your.... aack! [The crowd around the ringside area erupts and starts hurling rubbish at Requiem as his arm shoots out and catches Steve Roberts around the throat... Robert's face starts to shade purple as Requiem's grip tightens and he drags Roberts out from the announcers desk and into the ringside area...] TD: Oh my god... Steve! [Roberts clutches at the hand around his throat, kicking madly... Requiem shakes his head one more time, and the crowd erupts into screams and roars as Requiem hoists Roberts into the air!] TD: No! Requiem's going to chokeslam Steve Roberts! We need help out here! [Suddenly, a man... a _huge_ man... in a Lionel Ritchie t-shirt and a sombrero... leaps out of the pack of the jeering/cheering L'il Soundbiters and swings a double axehandle onto Requiem's back!] TD: It's the Smooth! The Smooth's saved Steve Roberts from tasting concrete! [Requiem stumbles and drops Roberts and turns, a look of incredible fury briefly crossing his otherwise emotionless face... Roberts scrambles desperately out of the way as the Smooth throws a punch... Requiem blocks... and his hand shoots out and wraps itself around the five hundred pound Mexican's throat, before lifting him up and bringing him crashing down onto the concrete! Screams of outrage and disbelief echo around the arena from the crowd as they see the lovable hero downed, and several of the fans have to be restrained by security from leaping over the railings and actually attacking Requiem himself!] TD: I don't believe it... Requiem chokeslammed the Smooth... [Requiem turns angrily away from the big man and walks back across towards where Deathbringer is still shaking off the effects of the Redemption. Requiem picks up the fallen chair, and proceeds to blatantly beat the Reaper into the arena floor! The crowd is now on its feet, and even the section of Genesis Generation fans are being bombarded with empty drinks containers and other rubbish. Requiem slowly drags Deathbringer to his feet, and rolls him into the ring, throwing the chair into the ring after him...] TD: We need another official down here, or something... anything... this got completely out of control... SR: That... [coughs] ...that man is finished! My lawyers are going to have a field day with him! Knocked down the official... tried to chokeslam me... chokeslammed the big guy... aw man, why did he have to chokeslam the big guy? He never hurt nobody... TD: Requiem now, climbing back into the ring, which is rapidly filling up with rubbish... SR: I tell you, I'm gonna leave that man without a nickel to his name! He's gonna be walking the streets! TD: Good to see you haven't lost your voice, Steve... why didn't you show him the Asai Moonsault? SR: And as for you... you shut the hell up, before I beat seven shades outta ya. TD: Sorry I spoke. [Requiem positions the chair in the corner, and drags Deathbringer up, before backing into the turnbuckles and slowly ascending, one by one... Earl Alfonso picks himself up on the outside...] TD: Oh no... Requiem is trying to finish it, right here! He's going for the Final Lament... onto a steel chair! That could do it! [Requiem positions himself on the top turnbuckle, slowly pulling Deathbringer up after him... he starts to hook him into position...] TD: No! Look at that! Will you look at that! Deathbringer just grabbed Requiem by the throat!! SR: Yes! Kill him! Finish that son of a bitch for good! [Deathbringer gazes at the struggling Requiem again, and braces himself...] TD: Deathbringer with a chokeslam from the top rope to the centre of the ring! Requiem is out, and he is out cold! [Deathbringer reaches down, picking up the chair and throwing it out of the ring as Alfonso stumbles to his feet on the outside, and then he walks across to the prone Requiem, dragging him up to his knees by the hair... and slowly, purposefully, he draws his thumb across his throat...] TD: Deathbringer's saying it's all over! He's saying he's going to finish it here! [Deathbringer hoists Requiem to his feet and carries him across to the corner, placing him on the turnbuckles... and quickly starts to climb up after him...] TD: This could be it! We could be about to see the Burial! [Earl Alfonso rolls into the ring as Deathbringer hooks Requiem into position, and straightens up, looking around at the crowd... he waistlocks Requiem, and pulls him up , leaping up and back at the same time... the crowd pops wildly, deafeningly, the stadium filling up with the noise as Deathbringer brings Requiem crashing down...] TD: He nailed it! [Deathbringer throws his head back, crossing Requiem's arms over his chest and pinning his shoulders down... Alfonso drags himself across towards the pair...] TD: The count! One! [Alfonso slowly raises his arm again, the crowd popping in tense expectation...] TD: Two! [The noise continues to build as Alfonso raises his arm a third time...] SR: THREE!! He got him! He got him! [The pop continues unabated as Deathbringer rises to his feet, and the referee raises his arm into the air... Requiem continues to lie motionless on the canvas... the noise subsides as Sparkplug Lee announces the decision...] SL: Here is your winner... DEATHBRINGER! [The roar from the crowd begins anew as Deathbringer beckons for the Blind Guardian to join him in the ring, and he picks up a microphone and steps onto the ring apron to join him... the crowd quietens down again as he raises the microphone...] BG: Now we almost forgot the most important thing. Deathbringer, may I ask you whether you're willing to, once again, join this league as a wrestler? Don't forget that it's your free decision! [Hushed silence] DB: [looking into the crowd] It is not my decision, it is yours! [Deathbringer points out towards the crowd. A "R.I.P" chant echoes through the arena, almost not audible at first, then getting louder and louder. As it has reached an almost deafening level, Deathbringer raises his right hand, to calm the crowd down, which recognises the sign and falls silent once again.] So be it! [Deathbringer drops down to one knee and extends his right hand towards the ceiling, as the once again audible "R.I.P." chants reach a deafening level once again. The lights go out... and when they relight, neither the Deathbringer or the Blind Guardian are anywhere to be seen! Left in the ring, still unmoving, is the unconscious and crumpled form of Requiem. Slowly, from the aisle, the Genesis Generation fans start to flood over the crowd railings... the arena quietens down, and eerie silence creeping in as they descend upon the ring. They slowly lift Requiem's body from the canvas, and very slowly, almost reverentially, they hoist him onto their shoulders and begin to carry him back down the aisle.] SR: That's right, boys. Take out the trash. [The procession finally reaches the end of the aisle to a deathly silence, and it disappears through the curtains.] TD: What unbelievable events we've seen here tonight, Steve... what an unbelievable match. The burning coat... the return of Deathbringer... Requiem destroying Deathbringer with the piledriver on the concrete... the attack on you... SR: Don't ever -- and I mean ever, Dross -- refer to that again. TD: The chokeslam on the Smooth... the chair attack... and the victory following the Burial... Deathbringer's back, and he looks awesome. But I'll say one thing. Unlike my colleague here, I truly believe that we've seen a loss to the federation here tonight. Requiem, despite all that was said and done, remains a truly outstanding athlete. SR: I don't believe it. I should hit you. I'm going to hit you. No... no, Steve, stay calm... [Cut back to the broadcast table.] TD: Requiem has wrestled his last ever match here tonight, Steve Roberts -- and what a match it was. What a career to be cut short through injury. Requiem's star may not have burned for long here in the IIWF -- but it burned brightly. Speaking of stars, as promised, let's find out what has become of the "Showstopper" Simon Lebec, who disgraced himself with his actions in not only stabbing Kevin Christiansen several weeks ago, but in attacking the Lady DeWinter a couple of weeks back. Let's go to this special footage: [Clips of Lebec hitting the "Blackball" enzuigiri are shown, accompanied by the voice over of Geraldo Rivera.] GR: As we have seen, the man known as "The Showstopper" has become a shadow of his former self. [Clips of Lebec punching Lady DeWinter, mooning the audience.] A man... ravaged by lunacy... stung by insanity. [Clip of Lebec STABBING Kevin Christiansen in the IIWF footage, being arrested for the murder of Edward Amos in some IEWF/LWC footage.] Two weeks ago on IIWF Saturday Night, the glitz and glamour that surrounded this controversial superstar may have been seen for the last time. [Clips of Lebec attempting to piledrive Lady DeWinter.] A heinous act by the hands of Otto Verhoeven and Simon Lebec, just may have been the one act that sent Lebec over the top. [Clip of Lebec laughing like a jackal as the police arrest him. "Piledriver... HEE HEE... Heh..." is heard as the noise fades away in the background] Having just been acquitted on murder charges of the late, great Edward Amos, Lebec's attitude seemed to have changed. [Clip of Lebec licking a fan.] No more the happy-go-lucky trickster with a witty comment, Lebec seemed to have lost it. [Clips of Lebec pretending to take his opponent from behind, and the infamous stabbing incident,] The potential that would-have-been now gone... in a hearing this afternoon in camera-filled, media frenzy, as Judge Thomas Muldoon delivered his sentence. [Clips of the Judge reading, speaking with a southern accent] JUDGE MULDOON: Simon Lebec, upon failure to live up to your end of the bail agreement, I have no other choice but to render you in police custody. [Clip of Lebec standing in the courtroom with a gimpish smile on his face, oblivious to everything around him.  Muldoon continues] However... I don't think police custody is the way do go about things in this case.  Frankly, Mr. Lebec, I firmly believe that you're not only a danger to others, but a danger to yourself.  For this reason, I have decided to suspend your sentence... [murmur in the courtroom as the Judge continues] However, I believe your punishment is really a blessing in disguise.  Mr. Lebec, I sentence you to involuntary custody of the Leaky Beaver Asylum for the Criminally Insane.  At Leaky Beaver, you will remain until you are deemed fit in the eyes of the medical professionals.  Do you have any questions, Mr. Lebec? [Lebec looks at the judge and smiles.] SL: What... what COLOR IS YOUR BLOOD?! [With that, Lebec makes a mad dash towards the judge, failing to reach the judge before his is subdued by four large bailiffs.  Lebec continues shouting:] WHAT COLOR IS YOUR BLOOD, YOU ASSHOLE?! I'LL BE BACK!  NO CELL CAN KEEP ME!  NONE!  NONE!  NONE!  I'LL BE THE KING OF PERSIA ONCE AGAIN! [The bailiffs are assisted by others in the courtroom, but all of a sudden, Lebec stops fighting.] Your Honour, will they have fruit pies at Leaky Beaver? [The judge nods, motioning for security to get a straight-jacket.] I like fruit pies, and blue socks. [Lebec offers no resistance as the security begin putting him in the straight-jacket.] Is it raining out?  I... I don't much care for the rain, you know. You'll catch a cold, and never make anything of yourself... and never jump off cliffs because everyone else is.    [Lebec looks at the jacket as they continue buttoning him up.] Is this water-resistant?  I don't like the rain.  They spray coats with teflon... like a pan.  I don't like pans, but I hate rain even more. [Lebec looks into the camera, as a tear streams down one of his cheeks.] I... I just wanted to be the best.  Top of the world, ya know? [Straight-jacket is finally zipped up, and security places Lebec in leg chains.] Some people dig ditches for a living.  I bust heads.  It's my niche. [More tears roll down Lebec's face as he is led out of the courtroom.] Now... now I don't like raseberry fruit pies.  They make me shit.  And we'll sell 'em for a nickel a piece... and a dime for three. [Lebec looks nito the camera.] I'm sorry. [Camera fades. Cut back to Tim Dross and "Soundbite" Steve Roberts at ringside.] SR: That... that's just plain sad, Dross. A great athlete reduced to a gibbering imbecile. And who's to blame, Dross? TD: Simon Lebec? SR: No, don't be stupid, Dross. Society's to blame. They make me sick. You understand, Dross? Sick! TD: Well, it would appear that we have seen the last of Simon Lebec for the time being -- perhaps this has been the closing chapter on his chequered career. In any case, folks, we must move on here tonight with the second of our three championship matches. The tag team belts are on the line as the Cold Quins face Harle-Spell -- let's get up to the ring! ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|................................................... | || | \ v v / | __| IIWF WORLD TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| Cold Quins vs. Harle-Spell ........................................................................ WRITER: MB [Sparkplug Lee performs a quick circuit of ringside, stretching out his arms so that he can tag the fans that are holding their own hands out for a low-five.  Halfway around the ring he gets winded, and takes a short breather, doubled over and breathing heavy.] TD: It would appear that Sparkplug hasn't prepared very well for tonight. SR: And that's something, considering all he has to do is walk in a     straight line.  Don't give him any gum, he'd never get there. TD: You're in rare form tonight, Steve. SR: You said it, Dross.  I'm pumped with over a hundred thousand "L'il Soundbiters" here.  As for Lee, he's breathing heavier than LaRue during spring break. [Sparkplug, now fully recovered from the half-wind sprint, continues on his merry way and enters the ring with about as much grace as he usually has, which isn't much.  Still, he manages to get through the ropes without tripping himself.  He pulls a large stack of cue cards out of his pocket, and begins to read over the very first one, when the crowd again gets noisy with a mixed pop as Simon O'Neal and Paul Wong emerge from the tunnel and walk the aisle.  They, unlike Sparkplug, manage to go the distance without a rest.  They both enter the ring, and Simon asks for the microphone, which Sparkplug hands over.] SO: Let's see.  Do you know what the four men soon to be in the ring have in common?  Tragedy, Chaos, Fitzgerald, and Icehawk?  They all lost to Paul and myself. Everyone keeps forgetting that fact.  All four of them lost to us.     By all rights, we should be the number one contenders.  Instead, we     get pushed back to the Free For All. PW: Well, we are here to make a challenge.  We don't care which two of     you walk out of here with the belts.  Simon and I want our shot at     the titles -- the shot we think we should have gotten a long time     before now. SO: So, we don't care if it's Tragedy and Icehawk, or Chaos and     Fitzgerald... hell, it can be your little chippies Melody and     Comedy. [Paul rolls his eyes at disgust for his partner on that     one]  The point is, we want a match for the belts.  Becuase no     matter who wins... we beat you before, and we'll do it again. [O'Neal laughs and Paul shakes his head as the two leave the ring after handing the microphone back to Sparkplug, pausing for Simon to point to his waist and remark "This is going to be covered in gold soon enough." Sparkplug recomposes himself and begins to introduce the competitors.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the next contest is scheduled for one fall, and is for the IIWF World Tag Team Championship! [The crowd bursts into heavy cheers, and "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" by Gordon Lightfoot starts to play over the sound system] First, the challengers... From Rogers City, Michigan, and weighing in at 280 pounds... EDMUND FITZGERALD!  And his partner, hailing from Elgin, Illinois and weighing in at 344 pounds, accompanied by Harlequin Melody... HARLEQUIN CHAOS!  Together they are known as HARLE-SPELL! [A round of fireworks explode overhead, and from out of the tunnel emerges Edmund Fitzgerald to a loud pop.  Instead of his partner in the match walking behind him, it is actually his opponent, Icehawk.  The members of Cold Spell walk down the aisle, and around them the crowd gives them a decent pop.  As they climb into the ring, Sparkplug looks at them for a moment, then shrugs and continues.] SL: And their opponents, the current World Tag Team Champions... Hailing     from Sleepy Hollow, Illinois and weighing in at 220 pounds, accompanied by Harlequin Comedy... HARLEQUIN TRAGEDY!  And his partner, from Oulu, Finland, weighing in at 220 pounds... ICEHAWK! Together, they are known as THE COLD QUINS! ["#1 Crush" by Garbage replaces the theme music of Cold Spell, and the crowd explodes with a rousing cheer for what is expected to be the united Harlequins.  They keep waiting, because nobody shows up.  This causes Sparkplug to throw his cards up in the air, exasperated.  Icehawk takes the microphone from Lee and addresses the fans.] IH: The Harlequins don't want to wrestle? I don't blame them. It's bad     enough when we wrestle them normally and embarrass them. But this     way, they would have looked bad on _both_ teams. But you fans paid     good money to see a match... and you are going to get a match! [Fitz and Icehawk lock up and start the match without their opponents and partners.  Icehawk takes Fitz down with an armdrag, but Fitz lifts 'Hawk right up with a bearhug, and the voice of Tim Dross breaks into the match.] TD: Fans, apparently there is a situation brewing backstage with the     Harlequin camp, so let's go over to Larry Morton, who's in the midst of it all right now. [Cut to Larry Morton, standing between Harlequins Tragedy and Chaos on one side, each man holding one of the IIWF World Tag Team Championship belts, and IIWF President Daniel Spreadbury on the other.] LM: Tim, I'm backstage with President Daniel Spreadbury and the     "self-proclaimed" IIWF Tag Team Champions, the Harlequins.  Now, Mr.     President, I believe you have something to say? DS: Yes, I do.  Now gentlemen, I understand your situation.  And believe     me, I sympathise.  But I have an obligation to the fans here     tonight.  And I'm afraid that if the two of you don't wrestle as     scheduled, you'll have to forfeit the belts as well. HT: Fine. [Tragedy goes to give Spreadbury his belt.] HCh: Wait! HT: What do you mean, "wait"? HCh: You don't have to do this for me. HT: You don't understand. HCh: Yes I do.  All my life you've made sacrifices for me.  Well, maybe      I owe you for that.  I'm not going to let you throw away a      championship simply because we're on opposite teams.  Let me do      something for you for once, please. [Tragedy thinks about it for a while, then speaks:] HT: Okay then, but on one condition.  [turns to Spreadbury]  Regardless     of who wins tonight, the Saturday Night following it, you sign Cold     Spell vs. Harlequins, winners take all.  No more Cold Quins, no more     Harle-Spell.  Agreed? DS: Agreed, you've got yourself a match. HT: Very well, come my brother. [The Harlequins leave.] LM: Well, gentlemen. You saw it. The match is on, Cold Quins vs.     Harle-Spell here at Ring Wars IV.  Back to you, Tim! [Cut back to the stadium, and again "#1 Crush" starts to play.  Sparkplug is out of the ring already, so the Harlequins make an entrance without an introduction from the ring announcer.  Even more unexpected, as the music plays only Tragedy and Comedy appear.  They walk down the aisle and hit the ring to a pretty good pop, as Comedy carries the Happy Hammer.  The cheers continue as "Mathematics of Chaos" by Killing Joke comes over the PA system.  The other half of the Harlequins (and Harle-Spell for that matter), walks down to the ring with Melody on his arm, and Melody carries her guitar.] SR: Look at those two in the ring.  They don't even care about the     Harlequins, they just keep going and going. TD: Chaos has just thrown Icehawk's rightful tag title at Icehawk, but he doesn't seem to care.  Referee Joey Patrick picks it up and hands it, along with Tragedy's belt, to an official. [Each of the Harlequins climbs up onto the ring apron in their respective corners, but the members of Cold Spell don't seem to care, or even notice. Fitz puts Icehawk into a sleeperhold, but the smaller and more agile Icehawk uses a jawbreaker to get out of it.  He gets to his feet and grabs Fitz by the head, and holds him there in a headlock.  Fitz lifts Icehawk up and drops him in a backbreaker, then goes for the cover.  Icehawk kicks out of a pinfall, and Fitz applies a nerve hold on his partner in Cold Spell. The Harlequins are each becoming more and more agitated with being left out of the match, and Comedy takes the burlap sack and puts it over the railing in front of the ever growing horde of Harlequinners.  The 'Quinners dig into the bag, as the match continues between the members of Cold Spell.] SR: Look at that, Dross!  The fans are pelting Cold Spell with potatoes! Potato Famine lives! TD: What an odd sight.  I'd expect nothing less than a few surprises though, this is a pay-per-view, after all. [Fitz and Icehawk are trying to dodge the oncoming potatoes being hurled at them, and as they do Fitz wanders near his partner and is duped into a tag. Chaos enters the ring and the potatoes stop coming, while the big man attacks Icehawk with a series of chops, followed by a kneelift to the midsection and a powerbomb on the tag champion.  He tries to make a cover, but Icehawk kicks out and gets to the ropes, only to be clotheslined out to the floor.  Chaos follows, and slams Icehawk into the guardrail backfirst, before bodyslamming the 220 pounder on the floor.  The Harlequinners burst into cheers for Chaos, who quickly returns his opponent to the ring.  Chaos gets up and stands on the ring apron, faces the crowd and raises his arms, and is met with a knee to the back by Edmund Fitzgerald, his own partner.] TD: Fitz is attacking his own partner!  He's got Chaos up and -- hotshot on the guardrail!  Chaos is down, and down hard. SR: That's gratitude for you.  Chaos was on his way to getting Potato     Famine the belts, and Fitzgerald just ended that dream. [Fitz rolls Chaos back into the ring, and as he does two things happen. First off, Harlequin Melody makes good use of her guitar, striking Edmund Fitzgerald down with it, and inside the ring Icehawk moves to cover Chaos. The count is broken at two by Tragedy who rushes into the ring and legdrops Icehawk in the back of the head, then rolls him off Chaos and helps his brother to his feet.  The Harlequins pick Icehawk up and ues a double Irish whip to the ropes and then Tragedy backdrops him into Chaos' waiting arms for another powerbomb to the mat.] TD: This is totally out of hand!  We have partners attacking partners here! SR: There is no justice for the Potato Famine!  What are all the little     Faminers gonna do without those two lovable goofs to cheer for? [The referee tries to clear the ring of the excess men, but instead Fitz rolls into the ring, and the match turns into a Cold Spell versus Harlequins setup.  Fitzgerald hammers on the back of Chaos, but Tragedy defends his brother with a flying forearm, then picks Icehawk up and throws him into the ropes, scooping him up for a tombstone piledriver.  The momentum goes to Icehawk when Fitzgerald clotheslines the move into a reversal, but another twist of fate emerges as Chaos slams into both men, leaving Tragedy on top of Icehawk, and covers him for the three count by the referee.] SR: We have a winner, Dross! TD: But did you see who got pinned?  Tragedy pinned his own partner! [Tragedy and Chaos leave the ring and claim the belts on their way out, but a second referee runs down the aisle and enters the ring, pointing out his mistake to the first referee.  After minutes of arguing the point, both referees come to the same conclusion and order that the match must continue.  The Harlequinners boo in disgust and pelt the referee with the remaining potatoes, while the Harlequins walk back slowly down the aisle with the belts, demanding to know why the match isn't over.  The members of Cold Spell slowly regroup, and Chaos climbs into the ring, only to take a double kneelift in the head.  Tragedy is KO'ed with a baseball slide dropkick, and then Chaos takes the Shipwreck Slam spinebuster, followed by the Arctic Blast legdrop from the top rope.] TD: GALES OF NOVEMBER!  GALES OF NOVEMBER! SR: Take a pill, Dross. TD: The cover by Icehawk on Chaos -- One, two, three!  It's over, the     champions retain the titles! [Ding! Ding! Ding! Huge pop!] SR: But it ain't over Dross, look! [Tragedy now climbs into the ring and starts to trade punches with Icehawk, while the nearly unconscious Chaos is subjected to a flurry of shots from Fitz.  Before the two teams get into a full scale war, the entire Jobber Justice Squad rushes out and breaks it up, the Barnacle Brothers leading Cold Spell away, Icehawk hastily grabbing the tag title on the way out. The quartet of Harlequins leave after claiming their half of the tag championship, and to a hail of cheers leave the arena.] TD: Quite the eventful championship match, wouldn't you say, Steve Roberts? SR: I suppose, but nothing would have beaten the sight of Potato Famine     holding those belts up after a solid victory.  That's not gonna happen now, and that's a shame. TD: Speaking of incredible sights, the Squad hasn't left the ring yet. [He hears the beginning strains of "YMCA" start up, and the front section of the crowd now seems to be wearing "There's no Justice like Jobber Justice!" shirts.] TD: Here we go again, they've got a groove on. SR: Dross, never try to call a dance contest.  You're horrible. [Inside the ring, the JJS captivates the crowd by dancing in a line to the sounds of the music, and then as the chorus comes over the speakers, the Gecko, Jumpin' Jack and Scott Bloom spell out the letters "J", "J" and "S" with their arms. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Well, what more can I say? The noise from the crowd behind me says it all -- it's already been a truly memorable evening, and there's still so much more to come! The tag team Bragging Rights match, the Intercontinental Clash between Duncan MacBeth and Chris Quigley... SR: Don't forget the Barbed wire elimination match... TD: And of course the gigantic clash of the cowboys -- you don't want to miss any of this action, folks, right here on pay-per-view. SR: One hundred thousand fans. I feel like God. Hell, to these morons, I am god! [The cries of "Shoot, Soundbite! Shoot!" start to echo around the arena once again] TD: And yet earlier this evening, you were so nearly not a person anymore, let alone a god... SR: I told you not to mention that again. You've worked with Becky before, right? TD: You know I have. SR: You know that painful little thang she does with her stiletto heel? TD: Yes? SR: Well, don't tempt me. TD: You're wearing stiletto heels? SR: Hell no, Dross, I'll just ask Cinderella down here to lend me one of hers. [A pretty young female head briefly appears above the edge of the announcers table, and whispers the words "Shoot, Soundbite! Shoot!", before disappearing again.] SR: Carry on like that, baby doll, and I will. TD: Good grief. Moving swiftly on to keep the censors happy, we're almost ready for our next match up, and what a battle this could well prove to be -- "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare faces the man he formerly tormented as Spur, and the man he eliminated from the Cruiserweight Contenders Tournament last week, Ronnie Paris. These two seem to have been at each others' throats for as long as I can remember. SR: Yep -- and now they finally get it on. You know what my only problem with this is, Dross? TD: Go on... SR: That we have to watch them do it once, then again... and then possibly again. Three falls of Widdle Wonnie Pawis in one night, dammit, is too much for anyone. TD: [sighing] Well, Steve, I've been hearing word from Larry Morton backstage -- and Ronnie Paris has not been seen all evening. Some people are even doubting whether he's even in the arena tonight at all. SR: It'd be just like Paris to no-show. Not that I'd mind too much, I tell ya -- it'd just mean we move straight on to the blood. Now ain't that a sweet little thought? TD: Let's go down to ringside for the official word. ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|................................................... | || | \ v v / | __| TWO OUT OF THREE FALLS MATCH: |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare vs. Ronnie Paris ........................................................................ WRITER: MP [The one hundred thousand capacity crowd echoes to the chants of "Lee for President." Sparkplug Lee holds his hands up in appreciation, drawing hoots of laughter from the crowd. Flushing bright red, he raises the microphone once more...] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is a special two out of three falls challenge match: falls may be decided by pinfall, submission, countout, or disqualification. Introducing first, weighing in at 230lbs and hailing from Ashland, Oregon... here is... "SPOTLIGHT" BILLY SHAKESPEARE!! [Huge pop from the crowd as "Little Willie" by the Sweet starts up over the PA system, and the pop increases to a deafening roar as Billy Shakespeare steps out into the aisle... looking more than a little unusual.] TD: Good grief. [Shakespeare stands at the head of the aisle, beneath his magnified image on the giant video wall above him, which reveals to everyone in the capacity crowd that first of all, he's bald. Bald -- thanks to an obviously fake "bald cap" that appears to be several sizes too big for him. As well as this strange choice in headgear, he is also eating an ice cream cone -- and carrying a carton of cigarettes. He slowly starts to walk down the aisle, stopping occasionally to pass out pamphlets to the crowd as he does so. As he approaches one of the aisle cameras, he grins and holds up one, revealing the title "The trilateral commission and the Texas Clover Leaf: what you should know"] TD: Good grief. SR: I knew it. I just knew it. Off to never-never land. [Shakespeare reaches the ringside area and, with a thumbs up to Steve Roberts, drops he cigarette carton on the announcers' table. Roberts just watches him sadly. Unflapped, Shakespeare leaps up to the ring apron and steps into the ring, throwing the bald cap out into the crowd.] TD: And here I was, thinking I'd seen everything. SR: Hey, Smooth! [Roberts turns to the 500lb Mexican seated in the stands behind him. The Mexican stops rubbing his neck and looks up] SR: Go fetch us one of those leaflets, will ya? [The big man rumbles off into the crowd, and Roberts turns back around, surpressing a yawn...] SR: Don't do much reading, Dross, but with the prospect of watching these two in front of us, I'm willing to give anything a try. [Billy stretches against the ropes as "Little Willie" fades out, and Sparkplug Lee once again steps into the centre of the ring...] TD: Well, it looks as though we're about to see whether Paris is actually going to show up... SL: And his opponent... weighing in a.. huh? [As Sparkplug begins to speak, Billy taps him on the shoulder. As he turns around, he presses the half-eaten ice-cream cone into his hand, before slapping him on the back and walking back to the corner. Sparkplug watches it drip with an expression of despair for a second, then passes it to Earl Alfonso, who shrugs and throws it out of the ring. Sparkplug coughs and adjusts his bow tie, leaving white milk stains on his suit collar.] SL: And his opponent... [a heel pop begins to build up from the crowd] ...weighing in at 210lbs and hailing from Texas, here is... RONNIE PARIS! [The heel pop continues to mount as "Simply the Best" by Queen starts up over the PA system, and then die down again as it becomes apparent that no-one's coming out into the stadium...] TD: So where is he? [Long moments pass. Still no sign of Paris. The music fades out, and Sparkplug Lee has hurried words with the official, who shakes his head. Shakespeare yawns and stretches in his corner.] TD: Well, folks, it's starting to look as though the rumours are true, and Ronnie Paris is indeed not in the building here tonight... [The official checks his watch, and Shakespeare starts talking to some of the fans at ringside. The official beckons Sparkplug over, and the two start a hurried conversation... whistles and angry shouts start to fly in from the crowd...] SR: The kid's dropped out Dross. Nerves, dammit. he's always been a coward -- looks like the prospect of getting whooped in front of one hundred thousand people got a bit too much for him to handle. TD: I'm not sure, Steve, I've never seen Ronnie Paris back out of anything before... but it certainly... [Dross is cut off by shouts from the crowd around the head of the aisle, and as the reason why becomes clear, the jeers begin to fly down as Ronnie Paris steps out into the aisle, and the jeers quickly change to shouts of confusion...] TD: Good grief. [Paris too, is dressed somewhat strangely... Over his wrestling tights, now emblazoned with symbols of the Japanese flag, he is wearing a steel chastity belt. Over his right shoulder, he's carrying a Japanese flag. As the crowd sees this on the video wall, the heel pop increases tenfold...] SR: Hold on... Ronnie Paris? Wearing a chastity belt?? TD: [ignoring Robert's laughter] I think we know what Paris is implying here, Steve... SR: A chastity belt? Bwahahahaha... as if! [Paris walks down the aisle, the smirk on his face increasing with the crowd's jeers. Shakespeare leans on the ropes, watching him as he progresses with a look of amusement...] SR: I mean... Paris... come on! Even Shakespeare's not that insane... TD: Steve, please... [Paris reaches the ring, and leaps to the ring apron, carefully placing the flag in his corner before vaulting the stepping through the ropes and into the ring. Paris gestures for Shakespeare to come on. Shakespeare looks at him amusedly, and then looks at the referee. Paris again gestures at Shakespeare, and the referee steps between them, explaining to Paris that he'll have to remove the chastity belt. Paris glares at him, shakes his head and mouths the words "No way." Heel pop!] TD: This is quite ridiculous. SR: Look, it's simple. All you have to do with those things is get a piece of wire and... TD: Where do you come by this information, Steve? SR: Well, it seems ol' Bill's getting a mite bit protective of lil' Chelsea, the old stiff. A man's gotta find a way, Dross, know what I'm saying? The Soundbite's got needs, baby dolls. TD: You simply don't stop, do you? SR: Not for anyone. Anywhere. Anytime. Now damn it, where have I heard that before? Oh that's right, Creed baby. Is he still with the promotion? Or has he gone looking for his daddy? I'd rather find his mommy. TD: You're disgusting. SR: Neeeds, Dross. Neeeeeeeeds! [Back in the ring, Paris finally submits to the referee's insistence that he remove the chastity belt, and backs into the corner, eyeing Shakespeare suspiciously as he takes the virginity shield off. Shakespeare looks at his wrist, as though checking a wrist watch. Paris moves out of the corner, and the two men cautiously begin to circle...] TD: Finally, it looks as though we're ready to get things underway here. [A hand taps Steve Roberts on the shoulder. He looks around at the huge form of The Smooth, holding a king size bag of nachos under one arm and offering a pamphlet to Steve with the other.] SR: Cheers, ol' buddy ol' pal. You're just in time. [To Dross] great guy. Real great guy. TD: Ahem... Paris now, looking for the lockup with Shakespeare... who backs straight in between the ropes, and the referee forces Paris to back off! [As Paris backs off, Shakespeare grins at him, and slowly steps back into the ring. The pair move for a lockup again, and again Shakespeare lowers his guard as Paris approaches, before backing into the corner! Paris glares at him, hands on hips, as he's forced back by the referee.] TD: Seems like both men are intent on employing psychological warfare here tonight... SR: [not looking up from the pamphlet] Mmm-hmm? [Shakespeare holds up his hands as the referee asks him what his problem is, and nods, signalling that he's ready to start now. Both men circle quickly, and move in for a lockup.... and Shakespeare quickly slips behind Paris, moving into a waistlock, then a waistlock takedown, following up with... ] TD: A slap to the thigh? SR: [looking up for a second] It wasn't me. [Huge crowd pop! Paris kicks away from him and rolls to his feet as Shakespeare springs back, a huge grin on his face... Paris charges, fists raised...] TD: And Shakespeare's out of there again! And look at him taunting Paris! [The referee holds Paris back, and Shakespeare steps away from the ropes... Paris lunges out angrily... and Shakespeare backs straight back in! Paris throws his hands up and walks away, inciting jeers from the crowd as he kicks the ropes in frustration... Shakespeare grins, and walks back into the centre of the ring as Paris recovers his composure... and Shakespeare offers his hand to Paris, a grin on his face. Paris simply glares at him. Shakespeare turns to the referee and shrugs, before offering his hand to Paris again. Paris seethes with anger, and slaps the hand away, before getting right in Shakespeare's face. Heel pop!] TD: Uh-oh, it looks like Shakespeare's taunts are working... SR: Quieten down a bit, will ya? Can't ya see I'm trying to concentrate? This is actually quite interesting stuff. [Shakespeare simply smirks at Paris' tirade, and Paris responds by pushing him hard in the chest, knocking him back a few paces. Shakespeare gives a low whistle, bites his lip and shakes his head, before smirking and pushing Paris back! Pop! Paris turns, looking away for a second... ] TD: And Paris comes right back with a slap to the face! Shakespeare's stunned! And now Paris is really starting to unload on him! A series of punches backs him into the ropes... an Irish whip... lariat attempt... ducked by Shakespeare... both men rebound off the ropes... flying cross body by Shakespeare! The referee slides into position... One... two... kickout! [Both men quickly kick up to their feet, and Shakespeare catches Paris, with a perfectly positioned dropkick! Paris springs straight back up, and this time Shakespeare catches his arm, throwing him over with a hip toss! Paris leaps straight back to his feet, is sent straight back down a third time, this time through a beautifully executed arm drag by the former Cruiserweight champion! Shakespeare winches on the pressure, and Paris struggles to try and get into a sitting position.] TD: What an incredible flurry of moves there by Billy Shakespeare, and it looks like Paris is becoming increasingly frustrated here, Steve! SR: [not looking up] Mmm-hmm? [Paris retrieves the sitting position, and Shakespeare switches the point of pressure by converting the hold into a hammerlock. Paris pushes himself back to his feet, and slowly backs his rival towards a corner. Alfonso asks for the clean break, and Shakespeare releases the hold... Paris holds his arms in the air and starts to step away....] TD: No! Paris back with an elbow smash into the corner! And a second! And he follows up with a series of punches and... oh, what a backhand slap! SR: [not looking up] Take that, you bee-atch. TD: Paris now, with the Irish whip into the opposite turnbuckles... he comes back out... kick to the stomach by Paris... and into a gutwrench suplex! There's the cover! One... two... no! [Shakespeare kicks out strongly, and Paris locks on a reverse chinlock before he can get up. Shakespeare fights back up to his feet, Paris switches the hold to a standard side headlock, and Shakespeare forces him back into the ropes... an Irish whip by Shakespeare...] TD: Reversed by Paris... Paris now with a lariat attempt... and Shakespeare catches him in a crucifix! The referee's out of position... one... two... no, so close! Both men spring back to their feet... and another wonderfully placed dropkick by Shakespeare takes Paris down again! And another armdrag, and straight back into the armbar! Paris simply cannot get any momentum going here! [Paris slaps the canvas in frustration, and raises his fist as if to punch Shakespeare, who quickly ducks his head back out of the way... Paris turns in towards his opponent, forcing himself back up to his feet despite the pressure being applied on his shoulder by Shakespeare... and slowly, he reverses the armbar, twisting Shakespeare's arm around... Shakespeare counters with a quick forwards roll, before kicking up to his feet again and reversing the armwringer... ] TD: And Paris with a lariat out of nowhere! And look at him kick away at Shakespeare! [Paris repeatedly stomps on the downed Shakespeare, before dropping a legdrop across the back of his neck as Shakespeare rolls onto his stomach. Paris picks him up, twisting his arms around Shakespeare's neck before sending him crashing to the canvas again in a snap mare. Paris quickly backs into the corner, before running out behind the dazed Shakespeare...] TD: And Paris with a sunset neckbreaker! The cover! One... two... kickout by Shakespeare! SR: Hey, Dross, it says here that the Trilateral Commission recently held a secret meeting at in New Hampstead Church in England. Spooky stuff, huh? TD: What, you mean the fact that the church intersects one of the supposedly most powerful ley lines in the World, running through Stonehenge and Salisbury ring? SR: Hell no, Dross, where do you get this stuff? I meant that if it was so secret, how did they find out about it? The truth is out there, dammit... TD: Oh. I see. SR: That's a strange colour you've gone, Dross buddy. [Back in the ring, Ronnie Paris presses home his advantage, pulling the dazed Shakespeare back to his feet and backing him into the ropes... Paris whips Shakespeare cross-ring, and rebounds off the ropes himself...] TD: Flying dropkick by Ronnie Paris, and that sent Shakespeare flying! Incredible! Hold on Steve, what's Hampstead Church got to do with the Texas Clover Leaf? SR: [pausing, then looking down at the pamphlet] I have no idea, Dross. [Paris rolls to his knees, and starts to pull Shakespeare back to his feet again... he backs towards the corner, scoops Shakespeare up and plants him back down with a body slam! He backs into the corner and jumps to the second rope...] TD: Elbowdrop off the second turnbuckle by Ronnie Paris... the cover... one... two... kickout by Shakespeare! Paris pulls him back to his feet again... Irish whip into the ropes... another lariat... and Shakespeare ducks it! [Both Paris and Shakespeare rebound off the ropes, and as they return, Paris measures Shakespeare up for another lariat...] TD: No! Shakespeare slipped behind, and he's got the sleeperhold! Shakespeare with the sleeper on Paris! SR: How appropriate. [Paris staggers backwards, his pace turning pale as Shakespeare applies the pressure... he backs towards the ropes, then runs forward... huge heel pop!] TD: Oh my! Paris just dropped to the canvas, and Shakespeare was sent flying to the outside! [Shakespeare groggily gets to his feet on the outside, and Paris charges the ropes, leaping over.. and connecting with an incredible plancha dive onto the dazed Shakespeare! Heel pop! Paris climbs back to his feet, and pulls Shakespeare up... ] TD: And a body slam on the outside by Ronnie Paris! Now what... he's climbing back onto the ring apron... [Paris backs towards the corner post and watches Shakespeare as he starts to rise to his feet... Paris eyes him carefully, then charges...] TD: And a flying dropkick from the ring apron by Ronnie Paris, and it sends Shakespeare crashing through the ringsteps and all the way into the steel barriers! Incredible! SR: [looking up briefly] Is it just me, or have those steps shifted more times tonight already than my man Smooth's bowels after a hot curry? [Paris soaks up the heel pop from the crowd, and pulls Shakespeare to his feet, rolling the stunned superstar into the ring... he follows up, climbing up onto the ring apron first, then onto the top turnbuckle... the referee starts to lay the count on him as he waits, watching Shakespeare as he slowly climbs back to his feet...] TD: This is unfamiliar territory for Ronnie Paris right here... he's taking a big risk... [Shakespeare straightens up and staggers around, looking for Ronnie Paris... who jumps off the turnbuckles as he turns...] TD: Shakespeare's playing possum... no! Paris connects with a double axehandle! Shakespeare's down! Paris makes the cover... one... two... [Shakespeare kicks out weakly, and Paris pauses, looking at him for a second, before getting to his feet and turning back towards the corner again, raising his arms...] TD: Paris wants to go up top again! He wants to finish this one off! SR: [turning the pamphlet over, but now looking up] Bad move. [Paris moves to the corner and starts to climb up the turnbuckles, as Shakespeare slowly rolls to his knees behind him..] TD: Paris now, up top... what's he going to do this time? [Paris starts to turn on the top turnbuckle, as Shakespeare staggers to his feet... Paris slips slightly, and struggles to regain his footing... and Shakespeare falls into the ropes... huge crowd pop!] TD: Oh no! Paris just dropped from the top turnbuckle... SR: [glancing up] And into a very painful position, methinks. Not the kind of guy to say I told you so, but... [Shakespeare turns to see Paris perched precariously on the buckles, and with a burst of energy, he leaps up the buckles after him... Paris swings a punch out at Shakespeare frantically, but Shakespeare ducks it, waistlocking Paris...] TD: And Shakespeare with the belly to belly superplex! The cover... [Shakespeare hooks the leg, as the official slides into position: 1...] TD: Two! Thre... no, no! So close! How did he manage to kick out? [Shakespeare pulls Paris back up to his feet, backing him into the ropes... he Irish whips Paris cross ring, and comes off the ropes himself...] TD: Shakespeare with the clothesline... no! Paris ducks it! The pair rebound again, Paris drops his head for a backdrop... and Shakespeare nails the Final Act out of nowhere! [As Shakespeare rebounded off the ropes again, Paris dropped his head down for a backdrop, and Shakespeare sprung into action, instinctively grabbing the opportunity to execute the Final Act somersault DDT! The crowd explodes into a heel pop as Shakespeare makes the cover: 1 - 2...] TD: Three! He got him this time! First fall to Shakespeare! [Shakespeare rolls away as the referee signals for the bell...] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the first fall... "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare! [Huge crowd pop! Paris groggily gets to his feet as the bell rings again, and Shakespeare catches him quickly with an inside cradle: 1 - 2 - ] TD: Thr - no! Shakespeare almost won it right there! [Paris climbs back to his feet again, and Shakespeare catches him in a small package, another count: 1 - 2 - Paris reverses the cradle: 1 - 2...] TD: Shakespeare re-reverses... One... two... and Paris was milliseconds away from defeat here again! SR: Hey, Dross, it says here that Poutine Janois is actually an agent for the Trilateral Commission! TD: [pausing] That'd certainly explain a lot of things... [Shakespeare pulls Paris back to his feet, and backs him into the ropes... the Irish whip attempt is reversed at the last second by Shakespeare, who rebounds off the ropes into a clothesline from Ronnie Paris...] TD: And Shakespeare counters it with a crucifix! Paris staggers... and drops into a fallaway slam! SR: [putting the leaflet down] I don't want to hear any crap about "wind" or "sails" either. TD: Oh. You're back, are you? SR: It looks that way, yeah, unless you've got anything on the Bilderberg Group I can have a look at? TD: Not on me, no. Although if you're really interested I could... SR: No, Dross, don't trouble yourself. So -- how much did I miss? TD: Only the whole first fall. SR: Is that all? Damn. [Back in the ring, Paris slowly pulls Shakespeare back to his feet, before sending him crashing to the canvas with a kneelift. The cover: 1 - 2 - kickout by Shakespeare, who clutches at his ribs... Paris responds by immediately dropping the knee across Shakespeare's midsection...] TD: It looks like that fallaway slam aggravated an injury to Shakespeare. It might have happened when he hit the outside earlier, I seem to remember him holding his ribs then. SR: Oh, you're a fountain of useful information today, aren't you, Dross? [Paris pulls Shakespeare back to his feet, and backs him into the corner, before sending him across ring hard with an Irish whip...] TD: And Shakespeare hits the buckles with impact, he staggers back out... kick to the stomach from Paris doubles him over... and then a side Russian legsweep takes him to the canvas! And Shakespeare looks hurt! [Shakespeare doubles up, clutching at his ribs, and Paris pushes his shoulder's down, hooking the leg for the cover - 1 - 2 - kickout by Shakespeare! Paris gets to his feet, comes off the ropes and measures Shakespeare, before driving an elbowdrop hard down into his sternum...] TD: And Paris picks him straight back up, into a position for a side backbreaker... he nails it! And look at him stretch Shakespeare over his knee! [Shakespeare grits his teeth in pain as Paris forces his head back, bending him over his knee. The referee asks for the submission - nothing doing. Paris breaks the submission hold, opting instead to drive an axehandle blow into Shakespeare's ribs. He gets back up to his feet, before twisting Shakespeare to the canvas with a snapmare, and driving his feet into Shakespeare's back, pulling his arms back into a crossbow submission hold...] TD: And Paris, despite the slow start, seems to be really coming into his own in this fall now he's changed tactics. High impact really didn't look like his game, Steve Roberts. But now he's using his head -- he's kept Shakespeare grounded, and he's got him locked in what is a very painful submission hold here. SR: Oh yeah, Widdle Wonnie's a veritable bag of tricks. Unfortunately, his exploits in that department can't really be applied to wrestling... well, not unless it's shown after eleven -- and what he says about Billy Bob here is true... TD: Family show, Steve -- there's kids watching.. SR: Y'see Dross, I think I've figured Widdle Wonnie out. He's just lonely. He wants Billy to keep him company these long, winter nights... TD: Family show, Steve... SR: And that thing with the chastity belt -- well, you know what they say about playing hard to get. TD: Steve Roberts! [Despite the evident strain on Shakespeare's face, he refuses to give in. Paris pours the pressure on, and Shakespeare raises his leg, stretching it out in front of him...] TD: And Shakespeare's got his foot on the ropes! Paris will have to break it! [The referee asks for the break, but Paris shakes his head grimly, keeping the hold locked in tight. The referee asks again - still no break - and he begins the warning count: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - Paris still holds on! Heel pop! The referee gives him another verbal warning of disqualification, and then counts again: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4...] TD: And Paris relinquishes the hold at last. SR: Y'know, despite myself, I'm actually starting to warm to Widdle Wonnie here -- or I would be, if he didn't use so many restholds... mind you, like you said, he's not much good at anything else... TD: Ronnie Paris is an excellent athlete, Steve -- I never said anything of the sort. [Paris slowly drags the gasping Shakespeare back to his feet, and slips behind him... and nails a fast snapping German suplex, bridging up for the pin: 1 - 2 - kickout at the last second by Shakespeare! Paris pulls Shakespeare up to his feet again, and Irish whips him towards the ropes...] TD: Hip toss by Paris, no, Shakespeare with a reversal... and Paris blocks it! He grapevine's the leg, Shakespeare doubles over... and Paris locks on an Octopus hold! He's got it locked on perfectly! [Shakespeare yells out in pain as Paris winches the improved abdominal stretch on tighter, and the referee asks for the submission... Shakespeare grits his teeth and shakes his head, despite the look of agony on his face. Paris continues to pour on the pressure unrelentlingly...] SR: No place to go, baby dolls. TD: You're right, Steve, Paris has got this locked on right in the centre of the ring, and I'm not too sure how much more of this punishment Billy Shakespeare can take... [Alfonso asks Shakespeare for the submission once again, and recieves no answer from the brave athlete. He checks again... and signals for the bell...] SR: Smart move. TD: You might be right. Paris has to release the hold now -- and you have to wonder how much damage would have been down if he'd kept it on longer. SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the second fall... Ronnie Paris! [Heel pop from the crowd, which increases in volume as Paris starts to kick away at the fallen superstars ribs... Shakespeare rolls towards the ropes to avoid the assault, and Paris picks him back to his feet, pulling him into the centre of the ring and hooking on a waistlock...] TD: Northern Lights suplex by Paris! The bridge! One... two... and Shakespeare just barely kicks out in time! [Paris continues to press home his attack, pulling Shakespeare back to his feet and Irish whipping him into the far ropes...] TD: And a scoop... into a side slam by Paris! He backs to the turnbuckles and leaps up to the second rope... and plants a kneedrop straight into Billy's midsection! SR: Ouch, man. He's got him. TD: Paris with the nonchalant cover... One... two... three! SR: No! TD: Shakespeare got his arm up! And Paris is complaining to the official about a slow count! SR: Yeah, right. Like _you_ know better than the official, Wonnie. Like _you_ couldn't even be bothered to hook the leg... [Paris glares at the referee, before pulling Shakespeare to his feet once again... he backs Shakespeare into the ropes, and whips him cross-ring again...] TD: Back body drop by Ronnie Paris... no! Swinging neckbreaker by Shakespeare! And he got some impact behind that move! SR: But he can't capitalise on it! He can't capitalise on it! Go on man, all you have to do is roll and cover him! [Both men lie flat out on the canvas, Paris clutching at the back of his neck and kicking the canvas while Shakespeare holds his ribcage, face twisted in pain and his breath coming in ragged gasps. The referee starts to count both men down: 1 - ] TD: What a battle between these two! We've seen some action tonight already, folks, but these two are giving it as good as any we've seen so far! [...2 - the crowd starts to pop nervously as neither athlete makes a move to get to their feet... 3 - Paris rolls onto his knees, and Shakespeare starts to roll towards the ropes.... 4 - Paris starts to push himself up, as Shakespeare tries pulls himself up with the help of the ropes... 5 - Paris reaches his feet, and looks around for his opponent groggily... Shakespeare makes it to his feet... and turns to face Paris as he advances...] TD: Paris moving in now... no! Kick to the midsection by Shakespeare! And Paris catches it! And Shakespeare counters in turn with an enzuigiri! Incredible! SR: Cover.. that... man! [Paris rolls in pain, kicking at the canvas, and Shakespeare makes it back to his feet. Instead of pinning him, however, he moves towards the corner and starts to climb the turnbuckles!] TD: This is it! Shakespeare's going to try and end this battle, right now! SR: Why?! He's taking too long! He should have covered him when he had the chance! [Paris, with the help of the ropes, slowly starts to pull himself back to his feet as Shakespeare climbs. Paris staggers drunkenly across behind him, and catches him just as he turns on the top turnbuckle!] TD: And a fist drops him onto the turnbuckles! Uh-oh, it looks as though Paris is trying to go up after him! [Shakespeare tries to hold Paris off as he starts to climb the turnbuckles after him, and the pair start to have a slugfest, Shakespeare precariously balanced on the top turnbuckles, Paris stood on the second rope! Paris rocks Shakespeare with a rapid series of closed fists, then climbs to the top rope, headlocking Shakespeare and throwing his arm over his shoulder...] TD: It's going to be a superplex! Paris is going for the superplex! That'll do it! SR: Shakespeare's on the express elevator to hell, going down. TD: Good cliché. SR: I liked it. [Paris braces himself as well as he can on the top rope and lifts... the crowd pops wildly.. and Shakespeare locks his feet under the turnbuckle, blocking the attempt! Huge crowd pop! A glimmer of confusion passes across Paris' face...] TD: He blocked it! [Paris tries again -- and again the attempt is blocked! The noise from the crowd is deafening now as they cheer Shakespeare on... and the cheers rapidly turn into screams of fear and disbelief as Shakespeare braces himself...] TD: Oh no... surely he's not going to try to... SR: Oh yes! I smell more casualties... [The screams from the crowd reach a crescendo as Shakespeare stands upright on the buckle, braces himself, and lifts... time seems to pass in slow motion as Paris comes over Shakespeare's head and the pair start to fall backwards and down... camera flashes light up the arena as they capture the spectacle... as the pair fall down to the cold, hard concrete below...] TD: Oh... my... God... [The noise from the crowd dies off abruptly as there is a loud crash, and a splintering of wood.] TD: Oh... my.. God... [Worried murmurs ripple through the crowd at ringside as the fans and camera survey the scene...] SR: Was that... was that the Spanish announcer's table... again? TD: I believe so. SR: We must be losing a lot of our Latino fan base if their reception keeps on cutting off every other card... TD: I'm not thinking about that right now, Steve, I'm thinking of these two athletes. [Both men lie sprawled out amidst the wreckage of the announcer's table, not moving. Earl Alfonso slowly starts to make the count: 1...] TD: I'm not sure who took the most of that impact, Steve... they both fell so far. In any case, I doubt either man will be able to make it up by the ten-count. [...2 - the worried cries from the crowd increase, as neither man seems to make any kind of motion whatsoever - 3...] TD: Hold on, I can see movement! SR: Who is it? [...4 - slowly, and arm raises up out of he wreckage, and Shakespeare rolls himself over, putting his arm underneath him... 5...] TD: It's Billy Shakespeare... oh my... he's been busted wide open... SR: Claret. Let's party. [he turns to the Smooth] Get the paramedics ready... we've got two guys needing urgent treatment right now... yeah, they're making a real mess of the ringside area... there's blood everywhere... TD: Will you stop, dammit? [...6 - Shakespeare groggily crawls back towards the ring... behind him, Ronnie Paris rolls over onto his knees, showing a number of cuts across his back, reaching up to grab hold of the steel railings - 7...] TD: This is unbelievable. How much punishment have these two men taken? Surely the match can't go on... SR: No way, Drossman. There's no way that either of these two can beat the count back to the ring. [Shakespeare reaches the ring apron, and starts to pull himself up to his feet, as Paris does likewise using the retaining barrier... 8 - Paris lifts his leg onto the ring apron, and rolls into the ring under the bottom rope... Ronnie Paris staggers away from the guard rails... 9 - Paris limps towards the ring, under his own power...] TD: Paris collapses! The referee calls for the bell [Shakespeare lies sprawled on the canvas, hands on his face, seemingly unaware that he's won the match... while the unfortunate Ronnie Paris lies face down next to the ring steps...] SL: Ladies and Gentlemen, the winner of the third and final fall, and the match.... "SPOTLIGHT" BILLY SHAKESPEARE! [The crowd roars with approval as "Little Willie" by the Sweet once again starts up over the PA system, and the official tries to help Shakespeare back to his feet... on the outside, Paris pulls himself back to his feet with the help of the steel steps, shaking his head to himself.] TD: What a proud moment this must be for Billy Shakespeare... he came through the odds here, he really did, after winning that first fall... Paris was dominating him completely... SR: But he still couldn't manage it, could he, Dross? No... takes a little fall and he wimps out. TD: Little fall? SR: Mind you, I didn't expect much else from him -- I've always known he was a quitter... TD: Little fall? Good grief, Steve, he fell well over fifteen feet, through a wooden table and onto the concrete floor! Little fall? [Slowly, groggily, Billy Shakespeare raises his arms to the crowd, who yell their approval out to the brave athlete... and the cheers instantly turn into cries of warning as Ronnie Paris rolls into the ring behind him, clutching the Japanese flag he brought to the ring with him...] TD: Oh no! Look out Billy! SR: He can't hear you, Dross... [The referee dives out of the way as Pairs nails Shakespeare from behind with the flagpole, knocking him to the canvas. Paris tears the cloth of the flag, and wraps it around Shakespeare's neck, strangling him...] TD: This is ridiculous! What has Shakespeare done to deserve this? This is ruining the end of a terrific contest -- there's no need at all. SR: Wrong Dross, there's every need. TD: Name one. SR: To keep the Soundbite happy. And I'll name you another one. To warm the crowd up for the barbed wire match next. TD: You sicken me sometimes, Steve, you really do. We need security down here. Now. [Paris, with Shakespeare out cold on the canvas, picks the flagpole up and brings it down again, cracking it hard again and again on Shakespeare's already injured ribs. Then suddenly, the crowd at the entrance to the aisle start in shock, and an incredible face pop starts up..] TD: What is it? Has security arrived? I can't see... oh... oh my... it's the "Enigma"! The "Enigma" Tazeko Musashi! SR: Where the hell did he come from?! Is he still with the promotion?! TD: I thought he'd left for good! But it looks like he's returned -- and none too soon! [The Enigma storms down to ringside and rolls into the ring, shouting a warning out in Japanese... the crowd pops increasingly louder as Paris spins around, starts in shock, and starts to swing the flagpole...] TD: Spinning savate kick by the Enigma knocks the pole from Paris' hand! And a side thrust kick to the jaw plants him out cold! The crowd's going wild... and the Enigma's going to the top! [The pop from the crowd once again reaches deafening proportions as the Enigma pauses on the top turnbuckle, before leaping off amidst an array of camera flashes, spinning through a triple somersault and then reversing his momentum, coming crashing down on top of the prone Ronnie Paris in a moonsault splash!] TD: The Starsault Press! The Enigma nailed Ronnie Paris with the Starsault Press! [The crowd's incredible pop continues unabated as the Enigma raises his arms and reaches out for a microphone... which Sparkplug Lee quickly passes to him...] TM: Behold! A new star is in ascension! The "Enigma" has returned from his empty limbo -- returned to the fields of war! Unlooked for, uncalled for; a wandering shadow bursting into light -- that is the tale by which I stand before you. For a long time, the "Enigma" was lost -- darkness wreathed his vision, and demons gnawed at his soul. But behold! A new horizon dawns before me -- a new epoch and a new struggle! Many trials have I overcome to find my way back to this, my calling; yet many lie before me still. To the warriors of the IIWF I extend a challenge -- to overcome me in battle would be your greatest glory; but to fall before me would grant you honours still. The only shame is cowardice -- and to you, Ronnie Paris, this petty trait is a curse enshrouding your name. You have betrayed your integrity for your reckless vanity, and the emblem you bear on your tights is a mask of bitter taunts -- to the "Enigma", these transgressions can only be redeemed with blood. But first! Let us celebrate a new beginning and a new conquest! Fans of the IIWF -- the "Enigma" arises in might once again! [The pop from the crowd starts up again as loud as before as Musashi helps Billy Shakespeare back to his feet and raises his arms to the crowd! Slowly, Ronnie Paris rolls out of the ring and to the arena floor, while the Enigma and Earl Alfonso help Shakespeare back down the aisle.] TD: Absolutely incredible, Steve... what haven't we seen tonight? The return of Deathbringer... the return of the Enigma... and thank heavens he got back when he did. SR: Hey, you know me, Dross, if anyone wants to beat on Wonnie Paris, that's fine by me. But this time, I just wish he'd left it a little bit later before he got the rush of blood and came down here to break things up. TD: Truly incredible. Already, this looks like it's going to be another memorable night in IIWF history... SR: You can bet your life on that, Drossman, because what have we got coming up next? TD: After this match, I don't even what to think what it's going to be like... SR: Two words, Dross. Just two little four letter words. TD: Family show... SR: It's gonna be Hard. Core. Hey, ol' buddy, ol' pal. Whaddya think of the show so far? [Steve turns to look back at the Smooth, who stuffs a handful of nachos into his mouth and gives Steve a big thumbs up.] SR: Great guy, Dross. Friggin' great guy. [Cut to a shot from one side of the rim of the huge Coliseum, pointing up into the darkening sky, which is now overcast with the pregnant greys of gathering clouds.] TD: As you can see, folks, the sky is darkening here in Los Angeles -- we were warned that we may well see showers here tonight, and it seems that the clouds are gathering ahead of this next match -- the Barbed Wire elimination match. What a war this is going to be. [Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: While we are getting the ring set up for the next match, let's go back to the dressing room area where we understand there is some type of disturbance involving Serge Annis. [Cut to backstage. The camera is in Serge Annis' dressing room. Annis is sitting on a bench; he looks a lot better than when we last saw him, as the cut on his forehead has literaly vanished thanks to plastic surgery. However, Annis has a bruise on his left tricep, and sports a black wrist guard on his left hand. Serge is wearing full ring attire, consisting of his black pants and boots, with the tears of blood running down the sides. Poutine Janois is standing next to Serge. The door creeps open, and the doctor that checked over Serge last Saturday Night walks in. The doctor wears a stethoscope and white coat, basically looking like your generic doctor. He has an envolope in his hand.] DR: Well, Serge. How are you doing tonight? SA: Can I wrestle? DR: I'll get to that. Serge, your wrist has a bone chipped in it. It is nothing serious enough to pull you from ring competition. I see you're wearing the brace I gave you... SA: Heh heh... oh yeah... I'm wearing the brace... [Serge flashes an evil smile at Janois and the doctor.] DR: Uhm... all right. Good. The surgery from Monday seems to have done well. You look good. SA: I don't care how I look. DR: Right, I'll note that. Anyway. Our biggest concern is your neck. When you fell from the top rope in your match with Bishop, your system went into a state of shock. That is why you couldn't move. With neck injuries, one must be very cautious of how they go about rehabilitation. Some wrestlers would be out for months, nursing it back to health. But you are a lucky man, Serge. You didn't receive a "stinger" when you fell, and you were not paralysed. After looking over your x-rays, I think I've seen enough, to give you medical clearance... SA: Heh heh... see that, Janois? I told you not to worry about me. But frankly doctor's clearance means nothing to me. But you take this clearance... and shove it up your... DR: [interupting Annis] _BUT_ due to the nature of tonight's match-up, and the extent of injury you have already received... I am afraid that I just cannot give you clearance. PJ: Hah! SA: _WHAT_?! Let me tell you something. I don't care what some runt in a lab coat has to say. I don't care what you have to say, Janois. I'm going out there, and I am wrestling! I don't give a damn if I have wrestling clearance! Hell, it won't be a wrestling match! It's a goddamned barb wire match! That is survival! And regardless of whether you sign some stupid form or not, Serge Annis is going out there, and I'm going to bust Creed and The Psycho's heads! [Serge gets up and kicks over a garbage can. Janois and the doctor both look at each other, and the doctor's knees begin trembling in fear.] SA: You and especially you... [pointing at Janois] Can't stop me. You won't stop me! This match means everything to me, and there is no goddamned way I am letting to weasly little runts like yourselves stop me! The only person that knows just how sore I am is me! And I clear myself to wrestle! If you don't like it, tough... because I'm going out to that ring to take apart the Psycho and Creed! [Serge looks over at the camera and gets angrier.] SA: You! Get the hell out of here! Now! [The camera man begins to leave, but not soon enough for Annis. Annis kicks the camera out of the camera man's hands, and it drops onto the floor, breaking the camera and the video connection.] TD: Well, we were aware that Serge was suffering from an injury... his participation here apparently is in question. SR: An injury?  An injury?  Dross -- this is a barbed wire triangle elimination match... anyone who would sign for a match like this isn't just injured -- he needs a complete neurological workup.  Get his Culture Club ass out here, strip him naked, smother him with honey and strap him to a ringpost! TD: I don't know if all of that is necessary, Steve Roberts. SR: Hell, Dross... a lot of things ain't necessary, Hanson, cigar bars, Kathie Lee Gifford, laws against sexual harrassment, the designated hitter, anything owned by Ted Turner, those damn Puerto Rican kids who broke into my car and stole my John Cougar Mellencamp CD -- and don't think I don't know which ones of you did it and that I won't kick all your asses just because you're my sister's children, get that, "amigos"? TD: John Cougar Mellencamp? SR: Everyone needs a hand to hold on to, Dross. TD: Let's get up to the ring. ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|................................................... | || | \ v v / | __| BARBED WIRE ELIMINATION MATCH: |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| Creed vs. Serge Annis vs. Subway Psycho ........................................................................ WRITER: JJ [The IIWF crew is putting the finishing touches on what appears to be a monstrous, almost Faustian rendition of the traditional wrestling ring. Razor sharp barbed wire is intertwined with ringrope... and then intertwined with nothing but more barbed wire as the camera pans across the ring... finally stopping on the figure in the center... Steve Summer.] TD: Young Summer, the man who truly was the forerunner of the "New IIWF Generation", welcome to Ring Wars IV. SR: Got that resume updated yet, kid? SS: That's funny, Mr. Roberts.  You're very funny.  Hi, everybody! Thanks to you Mr. Dross for buying me a ticket to Ring Wars and letting me serve as the ringside reporter for this match... I really think it's gonna be awesome! TD: Tell the people a little bit about the special stipulations for this match, Steve Summer. SS: Okay, great!  What you have here... if the camera would point right at the wire... great!  What you have here is a barbed wire match... now the IIWF is using Cimarron barbed wire -- the finest wire in the world, with triple galvanized, high carbon steel with a breaking strength quotient of 950 ft. lbs.  SR: What the hell do you know about foot pounds -- other than how many foot pounds it takes to boot your scrawny ass right out the door? TD: Steve Roberts! Young Summer, what else can you tell us specifically about the barbed wire? SS: Well, what makes it especially dangerous is the barbing notched along the sides of the wire... you'll notice not only is the wire double barbed... but it's cut diagonally, see? That means it is exceptionally sharp.  It'll slice a man up, Mr. Dross!  It's sorta scary down here, I gotta say. TD: You can feel that the atmosphere around here has picked up a couple of notches, Steve Roberts.  This has been a fine card thus far... but there is something about the spectre of true danger that brings out the bloodlust in a crowd. SR: It's the Christians and the lions, Dross -- and I vote thumbs down on all three of these punks.  You wanna know who I'm picking in this match, Dross?  I'm picking the wire. TD: Okay, anything else, Steve? SS: Only the most important thing, Mr. Dross!  If you look at all four sides of the ring... come on, Mr. Cameraman... if you look at all four sides of the ring you'll see that at the east and the west end... we have what is called a "Spider Web" affect... that means that the barbed wire is pretty much spun around the ropes...horizontally. SR: Let's get physical, Dross. SS: Now... that's a pretty ugly scene, because that means that if one of the wrestlers is, say, whipped to the ropes... he'll hit the wire, and he'll be hurt... but he'll still bounce off and back into play... sort of like this basketball.... [From outside, Sparkplug Lee tosses Steve Summer an official 1997-98 Golden St. Warriors autographed basketball.  Oddly enough, Summer shows no hesitance about throwing it hard into the ropes.  A noticeable puncturing sound is heard... but the ball nevertheless bounces back to Summer.] SS: See!  So, if the Subway Psycho whips Creed to the ropes... he'll come back, just like this basketball.  Hey, is B.J Armstrong still in the NBA? TD: So, this is effectively a Spider Web Match... or more exactly -- a Half Web match? SS: That's right, Mr. Dross... I knew those bootleg tapes I left on your desk back at the IIWF Towers would come into good use.  Anyway... the reason it's only a Half Web, is that the other two sides of the ring... have no ropes at all!  Just streams of barbed wire.  It's like a nightmare, isn't it? SR: It just keeps getting better and better. SS: Now... what we have on these two sides is just randomly strewn wire, sort of in the pattern of normal ring ropes... but now really... it's more like a death camp than a wrestling ring in here, Mr. Dross. TD: Ably articulated, young Summer. SS: Anyway... if something is thrown into these ropes... I don't have another ball... [Roberts stands...tossing the familiar plastic blow up doll, "Troy", into the ring.] SS: Thanks Mr. Roberts!  You sure are funny.  If someone is, say, whipped into these "ropes"... [Summer hurls Troy into the barbed wire... a loud, "POP" is audible... then a whistling sound as Troy remains entangled in the wire, quickly losing his form and melting into nothing but the red smeared open mouth... on which the camera lingers.] SR: Plop, Plop, Fizz, Fizz.  Goodnight, Betsy. SS: There you are, everybody.  It's a Half Web, No Rope Barbed Wire Triangle Elimination Match... and I haven't even begun to tell you about some of the stuff these guys have outside the ring... it'll just be a surprise.  It's gonna be great, Mr. Dross! TD: It certainly will be memorable, young Summer.  Thank you for all you've done for us, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the show. SR: We loved ya, kid!  You coulda been a contender! SS: Thanks for everything, guys!  Goodbye, everybody! [Ring attendants gingerly lead young Summer out of the ring where he is replaced quickly by official D'Amato.  Not moving to the ring, noticeably, is Sparkplug Lee, who remains at the timekeeper's table alongside a bearded IIWF executive, who holds up a small sign reading, "Hartbreaking" as the Sparkplug begins.] SL: Ladies and Gentlemen, the following contest is No Disqualification and is a very special Barbed Wire Elimination Match! [Big Pop from the 100,000+ in attendance, the sea of humanity now riveted on the ring.] SL: Introducing first, from the subways of New York City, he weighs 255 pounds and is the former IIWF Heavyweight Champion of the World... Subway Psycho! [Big Face Pop as the Psycho is seen at the top of the aisle.  The low whistle of the subway train is heard, followed by the blaring of Ozzy Osborne's "Crazy Train".  The grey panted Psycho is in his customary black face paint... and sprints down to the aisle as the crowd continues to cheer.  The Psycho leaps high into the air, clearing the barbed wire and landing in the ring, his fans cheering as he pushes the long black hair out of his face and begins his pre-match ritual.] TD: Everyone knows about the Subway Psycho, it was less than eight months ago, during our last Ring Wars, up in Toronto, Canada... when the Subway Psycho was defeated in his attempt to become the IIWF's first two-time World Champion.  We said at the time that it was a crossroads in his career... and since that date -- he frankly has been unable to capture that former glory. SR: Has been, Dross.  Don't beat around the poontang.  He's a has been. Like Fritz Mondale, Marilyn McCoo, New Coke and Tommy Tutone.  867-5309, Psycho.  Ain't nobody makin' a good time call for you anymore. [As the Psycho waits impatiently, Sparkplug again begins.] SL: His first opponent.... ["Some Days It's Dark" begins, as the lights dim, the crowd turning to see if anyone will enter.] SL: He weighs 287 lbs. and hails from Oakville, Ontario, Canada... he is known as the "Epitome of Evil"... Serge Annis! [The heel pop begins... and then increases loudly as Annis quickly makes his way down to the ring, cockily waving a piece of paper.  Annis is wearing black tights, boots and a black wristband on his left wrist.  As Serge reaches the ring, his face becomes visible, a black line is drawn underneath his left eye atop a scar.  Annis steps inside, moving to the center and thrusting his arms outward -- fire shooting from all four corners as the heel pop grows loud and the lights then return to their full strength. Annis tosses his Zippo lighter and the piece of paper over to the official, the camera reading the words, "Official Medical Release" over D'Amato's shoulder.] TD: Serge Annis is here... and he is ready to fight. SR: A bigger shock there never was, the question now is, "Who's got the honey?" TD: There are a number of questions surrounding this man... but the answer that we have is that he is here to fight.  In fact, over the past couple of months Serge Annis has been here to fight repeatedly -- and you have to wonder if perhaps a victory here, over these types of IIWF mainstays, might lead to his becoming firmly entrenched within the lead pack of IIWF superstars. I hear we have our camera in the back... let's see what's going on in the locker room area. [The screen splits to show backstage, in Serge Annis' dressing room. Things are trashed: the mirror is smashed, the lockers dented, the bench knocked over. The envelope which the doctor had earlier been holding is on the floor, ripped open. Next to it is a pen. The doctor is seen, his white coat ripped to shreds. He has a big black eye, and is holding an ice bag to his head. Cut back to a normal shot of the ring.] TD: Well, that answers a few questions. SR: Man beat up his own doctor.  That's just wrong.  I like it, Dross. I really like it. [Annis and the Psycho share some quiet words, neither man taking his gaze from the other as the crowd intensity builds again, the pop already building as the young Creed Army leads a large section of the fans in the chant of "Creed... Creed... Creed... Creed... Creed... Creed"] SL: And their opponent... he weighs 276 pounds and hails from Oakland, California... he is former IIWF Intercontinental Champion and is making his _final_ appearance in an IIWF ring... he is the red gloved warrior... he _is_ Creed! [Loud pop as the lights go down... and a red spotlight is matched by the crimson words now appearing on the video wall: ANYONE ANYWHERE ANYTIME A red spotlight hits the aisle... and as Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" begins the crowd's pop is tumultuous as their home state son makes his way down the aisle. Creed is dressed as was he on "Countdown", heavy black sweatshirt, black pants and boots... his red left-handed glove offset by a heavy glove on his right hand. Creed reaches the ring, not moving to a midbuckle... instead going to the center of the ring as the chanting of his name begins anew.] TD: And here is this man... the "Warrior Spirit" of the IIWF who has announced that win, lose or draw -- he is leaving the IIWF after this match. SR: Maybe then we can get back to business around here, Dross.  Creed, Creed, Creed.  All I ever hear is Creed.  Makes me sick, Dross.  Sick, sick, sick. TD: It appears that he is the only of our three competitors who has modified his ring garb to take the barbed wire conditions into account, Steve Roberts.  SR: Wuss. [Creed stands before the other two men, and then methodically begins to remove his outer clothing.  The sweatshirt and pants... the right handed glove... Gone.  Creed is now left with his black trunks -- and a red right kneebrace which serves as a reminder to all of a battle past.] SR: Oooh, he took off his clothes.  Scary. TD: We are set, Steve Roberts.  The Subway Psycho... Serge Annis... and Creed are standing within the confines of a ring bounded by barbed wire... it is Ring Wars IV... and it is gonna happen _right_ now! [Ding! Ding! Ding! Referee D'Amato waves the superstars together... all three seeming to pause for a split second, taking in the moment as 100,000 screaming fans are waiting for these three men to spill their blood.  And they won't be disappointed. Creed, the Psycho and Annis meet in the center of the ring... the Psycho firing out first with big right hands.  Annis follows, sending rights and lefts at both of his opponents... and it is Creed who then responds, the red gloved warrior pounding away with right hands at Serge and the Psycho. All three men now fire away... each man rapidly sending a torrent of blows at the others, each man moving in a blur of motion and fury: Serge, Psycho, Creed, Serge, Psycho, Creed, Serge, Psycho, Creed, Serge, Psycho, Creed!] TD: Look at all three men!  This is gonna be a wild one, Steve Roberts! SR: I... Want... Blood! [The Psycho and Serge, something perhaps having passed between them last week, then turn on the rookie.  Each man lifting heavy boots into Creed's midsection... Creed attempting to back away but he is struck with short clotheslines by each man... Annis... and then Psycho. Subway's sharp clothesline sends Creed driving back to Annis... who kicks Creed in the stomach -- and then _rocks_ him to the canvas with an inverted neckbreaker.  Annis moves to cover, but Creed slides out -- and dives at the Psycho for a double leg takedown. Creed draws a huge roar from the crowd as he repeatedly rams the Psycho's head into the mat... over and over again -- Serge, never one to miss an opportunity, joins with two quick elbowdrops to the exposed hamstring area of the "People's Champion".] TD: The alliances are going to shift rapidly in this one, Steve Roberts.  Friends turn to foes within a split second in a triangle match. SR: I... Want... Blood! [Creed and Annis stand the Psycho to his feet, whipping him to the webbed ropes and drawing an "ooohhh" from the crowd as the Psycho painfully bounces back -- and into a tilt-a-whirl backbreaker by Serge. Creed leaps high into a scissor kick leg drop that guillotines the Psycho hard to the canvas... and leading the crowd to briefly roar his name... until Annis swoops from behind...] TD: Cross-Face Chicken Wing!  Cross-Face Chicken Wing!  Annis has the cross-face... and he is choking Creed out of this match! SR: Hey, that's nifty.  Now give Lestat his damn blood so I can enjoy the rest of the match! [Annis and Creed hit the mat... Creed stunned with the maneuver, trying to escape as Serge digs into his throat with that "wristband" of his... the two men continue on the canvas... neither seeing the Psycho rise... rise to the top of a webbed corner...] TD: Senton backsplash!  Subway Psycho with the senton -- and he has wiped these men out! SR: There are five litres of blood in the human body... all I want is one of them!  I ain't askin' for much! [The Psycho lands with the backsplash... and then rolls atop Serge, floating over to apply an armbar.  Annis rolls forward, getting back to his base, and then applying an armwring counter on the Psycho. Technical pop as the Psycho reverses the ring, moving to a top wristlock, that Serge escapes with a go-behind into a waistlock.  The Psycho moves to a standing switch... and then from behind him comes Creed with a waistlock of his own! Creed grabs the Psycho tightly while simultaneously the Psycho does the same to Annis... each man then snaps backward...] TD: Oh My!  Double Released German Suplex!  Double Released German Suplex! [Annis and the Psycho each fly hard over the top, the crowd chanting Creed's name as he charges... and is double backdropped by Serge and the Psycho... right into the barbed wire!] TD: Good God!  Good God!  We knew it would happen... but... good God! SR: Oh, Sweet Jesus, can I get an amen? We have juuuuuuuuiiiicccee!! [Creed is entangled in the no-rope barbed wire, the anguish evident as the unforgiving barbs carve deeply into his flesh.  Serge charges the Psycho, swinging a clothesline that the Psycho slips... and then counters with an atomic drop that flings Annis to the wire... and right into Creed!] TD: Barbed wire!  Annis and Creed in the wire... and we got blood in the ring, folks. [The Psycho wastes no time, running from the opposite side of the ring and doing a handspring into an elbowsmash that drives Serge more deeply into Creed... and Creed more deeply into the wire! The Psycho moves in on Serge, yanking him from the wire... the "Epitome of Evil" leaving a trail of blood in his wake as he staggers to mid-ring.  The Psycho halts this mediocre movement, grabbing a sidelock and looking to lift the nearly 300 pound Annis up for a vertical suplex... Blocked. Annis then grabs the Psycho... quickly snapping him back over the top with a suplex that sends the "People's Champion" into the wire...] TD: ...and into Creed!  Creed again is further embedded in that barbed wire!  I don't think he can get out! SR: He is wedged in there like Rosie O'Donnell in size two Calvin Kleins, Dross.  Creed is hooked up! [The Psycho gets free, a trickle of blood now evident from his right tricep. The Psycho fires at the helpless Creed... kicking him to that long-weakened right knee... the leg which seems to be completely entangled in that wire. The Psycho sends sharp boots, then is pulled away by Serge, baling him out of the ropes... and then swinging a crescent kick as the Psycho moves to his feet... Creed now savagely tears at his right leg, realizing that it is the brace which keeps him entombed in the wire... The Psycho slips the kick... then places a leg atop the bent Annis' neck, looking for a rocker dropper that will never be as Annis stands completely vertical, flipping the Subway Psycho into a complete revolution... but the nimble "People's Champion" lands on his feet... Creed tears the kneebrace from his leg... leaving a good portion of his skin behind as he pops up to the middle portion of the wire... The Psycho, his balance maintained, flips up to the neck of Annis... bringing him crashing to the mat with a huge hurricanarana that brings a wild pop from the crowd as he rolls Serge up for a: 1 - 2... NO!  Creed dramatically comes flying out of the wire, hurling his body over the two of his opponents as he takes the Psycho all the way over with a mid-wire sunset flip for a: 1 -- 2 -- NO!] TD: UNBELIEVABLE!  A Psycho-canrana ino a nearfall that's broken up by a Creed mid-wire sunset flip! SR: Aw, the kid's in trouble now, Dross.  He's taken off the kneebrace and now that bad pin of his is bloody red meat for these two hungry kodiaks. [All three me again meet in the middle of the ring, all three again throwing rights and lefts at each other, all three moving a noticeable notch more slowly than were they at the top of the match: Creed... Psycho... Serge... Creed... Psycho.... Serge... Creed... Psycho... Serge... This time it is Annis who stops the tripartite assault -- Serge grabbing the Psycho around the neck and brutally hurling him into the corner, Subway's spine crunching from the pressure of the galvanized steel. Annis charges... landing with a knee lift, then chopping at the Psycho's chest -- Annis grabbing Subway low, and lifting him up to the top, seating him on the exposed top buckle. Serge races back to the center of the ring, slipping a Creed clothesline, then grabbing Creed around the arm, corner-whipping him hard into the wire...] TD: NO!  Good God! [Creed, a mere moment from smashing headfirst into the barbed wire corner, elevates, lifting high up into the air where he _smashes_ dead into the Subway Psycho with a flying forearm that cleanly takes him off the top buckle, over the apron... and both men fall to the floor!] TD: Is it real?  Is it real?  Did you see that maneuver, Steve Roberts? Both of these men are outside the ring... and Serge is coming to join them! [As Creed and the Psycho attempt to stand on the outside, Annis remarkably propels his nearly 300 pounds over the top rope with a plancha cross-body that again wipes all three men out -- and leaves the appreciative crowd popping with wild, wild pleasure.] SR: This ain't the minor leagues, baby dolls.  This is the Double Eye, Double You, F'N, F... and it is the _only_ game in town! [Creed is the first of the superstars to pick his beaten body from the ground, Creed sizing up the situation... reaching over to the guardrail and pulling forth... A trash can... A barbed wire trash can! Big Pop as Creed brings the barbed wire trash can down solidly onto the head of the rising Annis! The crack resonating across the enormous Coliseum... Serge falling like a stone back to the ground.  Big Ugly Pop! Creed then turns to the Psycho, moving to bring the clearly dented can down upon his head...] TD: BLOCKED!  BLOCKED!  The Subway Psycho has a barbed wire baseball bat! SR: It's a 1997 Barry Bonds model, Dross! Bar-ry! Bar-ry! Bar-ry! Bar-ry! [The Psycho blocks the can with the bat, knocking it from the hands of Creed... the Psycho then rearing back and swinging...] TD: GOOD GOD! [Enormous pop as the Psycho connects with a ringing shot to Creed's left temple, the bat shattering as if it were jammed by a 92 mile an hour slider.  Creed falls to the ground, Creed unmoving as the Psycho stands above him... cockily waggling the bat over Creed... ...and then he is dropped by an Annis bulldog! Serge picks Creed to his feet, pausing a moment as he notices the absolutely heinous condition of the red gloved warrior's left eye.  The blood is bad... yes... the blood is very bad... but what is of more immediate concern to the many fans of the Creed Army is the swelling which has already completely closed Creed's eye.  The shattering bat has rendered the rookie half blind... and as Annis now advances, he prepares himself to take advantage.] TD: Oh... look at Serge... pounding away with closed fists at the side of Creed's head!  Creed is totally helpless... he cannot see Serge at all from the left side!  SA: Annis ain't dumb, you have to give him that, Dross.  He is forcing Creed to go left... and then whacking him... over and over into that left eye! TD: That eye is closed, Steve Roberts!  That left eye of Creed is completely and totally closed!  Dave D'Amato is gonna have to pull Creed out of this one... he cannot defend himself!  [Annis whips Creed hard into the steel steps, the steps jarring free as Creed's left side again goes ramming unrepentantly into the steel! Annis smiles broadly, picking Creed to his feet and, continuing to batter at his left side, whips Creed into the guardrail, allowing Serge time to peel away the outside mat... Huge, Huge Pop!] TD: GLASS!  GLASS!  That is jagged, twisted, broken glass which is underneath that floor mat!  How the hell did that get there? SR: Hey, Dross... wasn't it Summer's turn to guard the IIWF trophy case? [Annis is momentarily stunned, seeing the floor outside the ring covered in broken glass... and then that ability to see is dramatically impaired as Creed lunges from the railing into a takedown of Annis... both men hitting hard on the glass... each man's skin noticeably cracking as the jagged glass begins to cut and carve the superstars to ribbons. Annis and Creed lie basically motionless, each man's very life nearly taken out of him... each man cut, bleeding badly... nearly broken by Ring Wars IV... And each man stunned to see the form of the 255lbs former Heavyweight Champion of the World, the Subway Psycho, flying down from the apron... _with_a_table_!!] TD: Blocked!  Blocked!  Annis and Creed each lift their boots, breaking through the table -- and now all three men are down!  All three men are down!  And we have carnage! SR: And death, war, pestilence and famine, Dross... the mountains are crumbling and the tides are rising... TD: Who's gonna be the IIWF's number one, Steve Roberts? [It's Serge.  Annis is the first man to stagger to his feet... grabbing a table leg with which he takes a gratuitous whack at the left side of the face of the next man rising... Creed... the rookie does not fall... contiuing to stagger forward as Serge raises the table leg over his head to bring down on the skull of the warrior...] TD: Blocked!  Boot to the midsection!  Creed whirls Annis around and grabs a full nelson... He grabs a full nelson using that table leg! Table Leg Nelson... OH MY! [Creed snaps Annis over the top to the glass with a Dragon Creedplex... a table leg Dragon Creedplex!  Creed's fans roar their lungs out as Annis lands squarely on his head on that pile of broken glass... Annis lying motionless... Creed crawling back into the ring... Where he finds the Subway Psycho. The People's Champion, fighting with the frenzy of a man who perhaps has just realized that his time at the dance may be growing precariously short, pulls Creed through the ropes... and then drives him backward with sharply placed European uppercuts and then a series of crackling reverse knife edges that, even from this Los Angeles crowd, bring the predicted, "Wooooooooooo"!] TD: That eye... that eye no longer exists, Steve Roberts.  Creed is fighting out there on guts and instinct... and I gotta believe he is ready to go.... SR: # Na-na... na-na na-na... Hey Rook-ie... Good-bye! # [The Psycho continues his assault on Creed's left side...attacking with a rapid series of thrust kicks and then a sidewalk slam that draws a cover and a: 1 -- 2 -- NO!  Creed is able to get a shoulder up... but then is only whipped to the webbed ropes by the Psycho who catches him, lifting the rookie up into a military press... and dropping him over his knee with a stomachbreaker!] TD: Press slam into a stomachbreaker for the Psycho!  The Subway Psycho is dominating this performance! [The Psycho attempts another fall... 1 -- 2 -- No.  Again, Creed is just able to lift a shoulder... and he is again pulled to his feet by the Psycho... Subway Psycho whipping Creed hard to the webbing... Creed bouncing off hard...] TD: Spinning Spinebuster!  Spinning Spinebuster! SR: The punk still can't see!  The punk can't find the Psycho to cover him! [Creed staggers around the ring, moving to the barbed wire and yanking away at a straggling piece.  Creed grabs the wire...] TD: He's slicing his own eye!  Creed's slicing his own eye!  Good God! Good god! [Even the hardest of hardcore members of the crowd turn slightly inward as the fifty feet matrix video wall shows Creed turning the barbed wire to his own swollen eyelid, puncturing the lid and allwowing a stream of fluid to escape to the mat.  As Creed recoils in obvious pain from his own act, the Psycho moves back to his feet... and Serge returns to the ring... And he's brought a section of the retaining barrier.] TD: Annis brought the guardrail into the ring... the Psycho has recovered from that spinning spinebuster... and Creed... by God... by God... Creed has cut open his own swollen skin -- and he can now see again from that eye.  What are we doing to these men, Steve Roberts? This cannot be that important. SR: It's more important!  It is everything, Dross.  How many times in a man's life does he go into war, with one hunred thousand people cheering his name? This is Ring Wars IV and you do whatever you have to do... even maiming yourself... to capture the prize.  This is the IIWF, Dross... ain't nobody should ever forget it! [The three men now return to center ring.  This match is no longer about art, about competiton, about namecalling, about fortune or about glory... it is three bloody, beaten, ravaged men standing toe-to-toe-to-toe in the middle of a Coliseum filled with screaming fans... It is about survival. Once again the three men begin exchanging blows... now clearly more slowly than either of the previous two altercations: Creed..... Psycho..... Annis..... Creed..... Psycho..... Annis..... Creed..... Psycho..... It is Serge who stops first, Serge grabbing a front facelock on the Subway Psycho... and driving him to the mat with a nifty inverted Russian leg sweep. Creed then piles on, driving at the Psycho with an elbowdrop as Annis get back to his feet... Serge lunges at Creed while the rookie simultaneously returns to his feet...] TD: Back Body Drop!  Creed backdrops Serge to the barbed wire! Oh... and that's a bad one!  Serge is now badly lacerated around the throat!  Serge is badly lacerated, Steve Roberts! SR: More juice than an orchard at harvest time, Dross!  Don't anybody ever say the Double Eye can't go hardcore! [Creed snapmares Annis from his entrapment within the wires... a jagged piece of steel evident in Serge's throat as he now lies seated on the mat, in place for an inverted rolling neck snap from Creed, causing Serge's head to smack to the canvas... and then pop back up... Just in time to be driven backward from a Psycho sliding dropkick... Big Pop... and even bigger as the Psycho's momentum takes him to the webbed ropes. He leaps to a midrope... and then flips backward with a luchador-like springboard moonsault that catches Creed perfectly and brings an enormous roar from the crowd as the Psycho rolls him up... 1 -- 2 -- NO! Creed gets a shoulder up... and is then buried again!  Annis leaping atop the Psycho who remains atop Creed for the cover... 1 -- 2 -- NO! Creed is just able to weakly thrust a shoulder into the air... but is then scooped up by Annis and the Psycho... who double whip Creed hard into the section of the guardrail which is propped up in the corner... Creed hits the rail... and flips completely over, a full 360 degrees... landing in a crouch high atop the rail!] TD: The Psycho's gonna charge! SR: Never charge the corner... especially with your neck!! [The Psycho cannot halt his momentum as he nears the rail -- and is caught from up top by a flying Creed who comes down with a _swinging_ DDT that drives the Psycho hard into the canvas... Creed covers for a: 1 - 2...] TD: NO!  The Subway Psycho is able to kick out!  The Subway Psycho is able to kick out! [Wild Pop as Annis now moves in, scooping Creed up from the canvas, picking him over his shoulder and tossing him, head first, like a dart into that barbed wire!  Annis turns, but finds that the Psycho has gone low, bringing Serge up with a fireman's carry takeover... Annis stumbles to his feet... but is then driven into the wire opposite Creed's with a standing dropkick!] TD: It is again the Subway Psycho... again it is the People's Champion who grabs this match by the throat. SR: Ain't no one ever gonna grab Serge's throat again, Dross... his neck... damn, that is ugly.  Between his neck and Creed's eye, we have second and third place in the "Ugliest Body Part In the IIWF" Contest. TD: And what's number one? SR: Anything of Bundy's. [The Psycho stands now in the middle of the ring, soaking up the cheers of the fans... and then is shocked to find that each man, Creed and Annis, is hurtling his way with a flying shoulderblock!] TD: That's a damn wreck!  Right there is a damn wreck!  Annis and Creed with the double flying shoulderblock... they smacked the Psycho... they smacked each other... this is not pretty... this is not pretty at all! [All three men slump their way upward, moving as a scrum together to the corner of the ring, each man climbing the corner, the scrapes of skin -- and in some cases, bone -- against wire almost desensitizing as each of the three men crawl upward... each man climbing the few inches up the corner as if making their way up the mighty Everest.  One inch worth thousands and thousands of feet in the barbed wire match conversion. Creed, Annis and the Psycho reach the top, the wire bending and swaying now under the weight of the half ton of superstar which stands atop it... Serge, the powerful Serge begins to double up his punches, firing faster... and faster... and then grabbing the two smaller men...] TD: DOUBLE T-BONE SUPERPLEX!  DOUBLE T-BONE SUPERPLEX... TO THE _WIRE_!  Annis Superplexed both Creed and the Psycho from the top rope... and all three men are tangled in that wire!  SR: That wire has collapsed, Dross!  The whole side of the ring has collapsed!  I-I-W-F... I-I-W-F... I-I-W-F! [The crowd agrees with Roberts, to a man, all 100,000 strong chanting "I-I-W-F... I-I-W-F... I-I-W-F... I-I-W-F..." Creed, the Subway Psycho and Annis are buried in the wire, none of the three seemingly able to move, the blood and the sweat and... and the pain seeming thick enough to drown each of them... From the crowd comes a small figure, a figure familiar to veteran watchers of the IIWF as...] TD: It's Mench!  It's Mench!  The Psycho's longtime friend is at the ring... he's got wire cutters!  Mench is slicing the Subway Psycho clean out of that wire! [Big Pop as the diminutive Mench shears the Subway Psycho from the barbed wire!  Annis and Creed remain trapped, each man tangled in the wire. The Psycho and Mench grab the portion of the retaining barrier propped up in the corner... moving it atop... moving it _atop_ the prone Creed and Annis... who are still unable to get free of that barbed wire... The Subway Psycho then moves to the top...] TD: OH... OH... We're gonna see a De-Railer!  The Subway Psycho is gonna come down onto this guard rail with the De-Railer...that damn well might kill all three of these men... this thing has to... this thing has to... SR: Jump, Freak!  Jump! [The Psycho flips from the top, coming down with brutal force onto the steel guardrail placed atop Annis and Creed -- those two men are shot from the impact clear to the outside, the Psycho's successful maneuver perhaps doing as much damage to himself as to either of his opponents. The crowd pop is huge as all three men are separated.... ...The Subway Psycho remains atop the guard rail, atop what used to be a side of the ring bounded by barbed wire.... ...Serge Annis is now standing... still covered in barbed wire... Annis... Serge Annis is now taking the excess barbed wire from the ring... and _wrapping_it_around_his_body! ...Creed has stumbled to the timekeeper's table... the area that once served as his left eye is now a pulpy hunk of meat, the blood on his face not serving merely as a crimson mask but a Red Rain... Creed, seemingly in the knowledge that somehow, someway he must stem the flow of his most vital of bodily fluid moves to the bearded IIWF executive...] TD: Creed's... Creed's got a needle!  The "suit" gave Creed a needle... Creed's stitching himself up!  Creed is stitching himself up, right here during the match... right here during Ring Wars IV! SR: I have been all around the world, Dross.  I have been to the human pits in Thailand, the sweatshops of Nepal and once I banged Brooke Shields on the kitchen table of her mother's summer house... but I have NEVER seen anything like this.  Good grief. [It is now Serge... Serge the legendary champion, who is so close... so close to finding his way to the top of the IIWF heap... it is Serge who is now wearing the barbed wire like a baby wrapped in a blanket and nestled against his mother's bosom. Serge... Serge is home. And Serge, the wire piercing his own skin even as it serves as an assault weapon... finds his prey.] TD: Ooooooh.  Annis just rips into the Psycho with a flying bodypress... and Annis is a dangerous man.  Serge Annis is wrapped in barbed wire... and he has just ripped the Subway Psycho damn near in half... this is bad, this is real bad. SR: Oh, Dross... I don't want to say it... but I think I'm gettin' a little sweet on ol' Serge.  Kick his ass, Annis!  Woooooo!  [Annis repeatedly rams his flesh piercing weapon into the crevice-laden Subway Psycho... Annis then whipping the Psycho hard to the retaining barrier... and then charging...] TD: Slipped!  Slipped!  Annis goes into the crowd!  Annis goes into the crowd!  And we've got trouble!  Annis is in the crowd... that barbed wire armor has to be injuring some of our fans... oh... it's the Genesis Generation fans... oh... oh... Serge Annis has just ripped the Genesis Generation clean apart! [The Psycho moves to Annis, grabbing the barbed wire without hesitation, tying it around the raw, exposed, bloody throat of Annis... and then begins to hang Serge over the guardrail!  The Subway Psycho hangs Annis over the barrier with his own barbed wire!  Serge thrashes about in clear pain... Serge clearly attempting to scream... but he is soundless as the Subway Psycho chokes him over the barrier... The Psycho pulls Serge back to ringside... then immediately doubles over...] TD: Testicular Claw!  Testicular Claw!  Annis has jabbed that barbed wire... and he has jabbed that barbed wire down _there_! SR: Down where? TD: You know where, Steve Roberts. [Annis struggles to his feet... scooping the Psycho up... and then dropping him sharply on his neck with a Doctor bomb that seems to take every last bit of energy either of the two men have... Annis and the Psycho each lying flat out on the outside of the ring... each man completely unaware... ...of Creed. And that, well, that's a mistake. Creed, looking more like Frankenstein's monster with his body riddled with homemade stitches, is now back in the ring. Or rather, above the ring. On the top of a ladder. Creed has pulled a 15 foot high stepladder from underneath the ring -- and has now climbed to its apex... higher and higher he goes... Creed standing high above -- seemingly above the din of these 100,000 people strong... 100,000 of Creed's home state brothers... 100,000 people sounding for all the world like everyone in the universe must be a Creed fan. The young superstar stands at the top, thrusting his red glove high in the air to the roar of the chanting fans... and as the open aired night sky explodes with a crack of lightning and a roar of thunder, the red gloved warrior points his way down... down toward the earth... Creed and the ladder... Creed and the ladder tipping over... tipping _all_the_way_down!] TD: GOOD GOD!  GOOD GOD! SR: The punk kid just flew down... all the way down! TD: And the skies have opened up, Steve Roberts... it is coming down in buckets here in Los Angeles! [Huge Pop as Creed and the ladder go hurtling across the webbed ropes, then flipping upside down and all the way out to the floor... landing upon the prone Annis and Psycho... all three men absolutely devastated on the outside. The "IIWF" chants ring across the seventeen acres of the Los Angeles Coliseum as those three men, those three men, Creed, Annis and the Subway Psycho pick themselves up... and stagger into the ring. The three great superstars stare at each other one more time... now once again... as they have throughout the match.... prepare to square off. With the rain... the rain now pouring down upon them.] TD: They could not be moving more laboriously... with more effort, more pain.  They may look like three slabs of meat... and believe me -- it might be easier to watch if they were. But these are men, men with the hearts of lions... men with the hearts... of champions. [The right hands circle around again: Creed.............................Serge.......................Psycho.... .......Creed................Serge..............Psycho.............. .................Creed...................Serge.............Psycho... It is Serge who stops first, Serge sending Creed for the ride against the webbed ropes. Creed bounces off... and then is just able to leapfrog the approaching Annis... but right into the arms of the Psycho! Subway Psycho whirls Creed over, setting him up for a piledriver... but he can't hold on... the red gloved warrior slides out... reversing the hold into a piledriver attempt of his own... but Creed then staggers... staggers backward into the arms... into the arms...] TD: Into the arms of Annis!  Serge... Serge has both men!  This monstrous Annis has both men up... he's going to... OH MY! [Huge Pop as Annis, demonstrating a rare power, is able to land a double piledriver!  Creed and the Psycho both tumbling to the canvas as Annis makes the cover on both men! D'Amato smacks the mat: One... Two...] TD: NO!  NO!  Double Kickout!  Double Kickout! [Annis staggers up, swinging a clothesline at Creed -- ducked -- but Annis stays on his feet, moving to the back for a waistlock, the Psycho is now up... and harkening back to a point earlier in the match... the Psycho behind Annis who is behind Creed... Subway Psycho locks up the waist... looking for the German suplex as simultaneously does Annis... But both maneuvers are blocked, Serge grabbing the Psycho from in front with a backlock -- and Creed doing the same to Annis... the three men intertwined into each other as Creed suddenly, explosively bursts into a dead sprint... Creed showing the kind of torque based athletic ability that led him to the Intercontinental Championship as he powers his way forward... then up... then over 270 degrees!] TD: Back-To-Belly Creedplex!  Back-To-Belly Creedplex!  Oh MY! SR: He got 'em both, Dross!  The kid got 'em both... we got a cover! [D'Amato once again smacks the double pinfall... One... Two...] TD: NO!  NO!  Everybody kicks out... and it goes on! [The rain is now thundering down as the three men make their way to their feet... the water filling the ring... washing away the canvas stained blood as if baptizing the ring -- and the IIWF -- free of all past sins. Serge is again the first man to his feet, the barbed wire still around his body has now bunched up, bunched up around his upper torso, collecting primarily around his shoulders... Creed is next, and is again whipped to the webbing.  Creed again with a leapfrog... and as Annis whirls around...] TD: Creed's not there!  Creed's not there! SR: He went behind... Creed's got the sleeper hold!  Creed's got the triangle sleeper hold! [Creed locks in on his triangle sleeper hold... jamming his thumb into the Annis carotid artery, causing the big man's legs to go dead as Creed looks for the bridging back Triangle Creedplex...] TD: Psycho!  Psycho!  The Subway Psycho has a sleeper hold on Creed! The Subway Psycho has a sleeper hold on Creed!  SR: They're both going out, Dross!  Creed and Annis are both going out! [The fans begin to loudly stomp and clap, the thunderstorm not drenching their excitement whatsoever regarding this titanic struggle... Creed continues the pressure on Annis... the Psycho appears to have a cobra clutch on Creed... Each man appears to be fading as official D'Amato grabs the arms of the two men on the wrong end of the sleeper... One... Two... D'Amato drops the arms a third time... and neither arm goes down! Neither arm goes down... Creed and Annis, almost imperceptibly each shifting in opposite directions... Annis moving left... Creed moving right as Creed intentionally releases his hold on Serge... and both men then grab ahold... grab ahold... Grab ahold of the Subway Psycho... BAM!] TD: JAWBREAKER!  STUNNING... STUNNING DOUBLE JAWBREAKER! [Big Pop as Creed and Annis drop the Psycho with a double jawbreaker, each dropping to the mat and each man hooking a leg as D'amato slaps the mat: ONE... TWO... THREE!] TD: The Psycho is gone!  The Subway Psycho is gone!  This match is down to two! [Disappointed Pop as medical personnel quickly drag the Psycho from the ring... the "People's Champion" given an intravenous drip as he is helped away from ringside.] TD: We are down to two... Serge Annis and Creed... Serge Annis and Creed... Who is it going to be?! [The rain continues to thunder down, Serge and Creed move to their feet, and then begin attacking each other wildly, Creed and Annis punishing each other with heavy blows, Creed and Annis giving each other every ounce... every drop... every bit of heart that each man has... Annis again with the whip. Creed again bounding off the webbed ropes. Creed again with the leapfrog...] TD: NO!  NO!  Serge has him!  Serge has his wrapped around the throat! Serge has Creed wrapped around the throat!! SR: Ain't no shiny band of gold up there, Dross... Serge has an Epitomizer for Creed's ass! [Annis lifts Creed up, sweeping out the legs -- and _DRIVES_ the red gloved superstar into the mat... Annis moving for the cover... ONE... TWO... TD: NO!  NO!  Creed kicked out!  Creed kicked out of the chokeslam! Oh MY! SR: The kid ain't gonna be stopped... not in this one, Dross. Not in his last ever IIWF match... here he comes! [Big, big pop as Creed hops up to his feet... Creed seeming to dig deep... dig deep for the extra reserve of energy... and Serge is backing up!  Serge is backing up!  And Creed begins rocking him back with the lethal left hands!  Creed begins rocking Serge Annis backward with the lethal left hands! Creed whips Serge to the webbing... Annis comes off hard, defenseless... and into the head and shoulders left handed chokeslam from the rookie Creed!] TD: Crimson Tide Chokeslam!  Crimson Tide Chokeslam! SR: This is the finish, Dross... this is how he beat Marty Warnett... this is how he beat Lord Byron... this is how he beat Mad Dog Watkins at Ring Wars III some eight months ago.  Hell, Dross -- this is how that punk kid came to be Creed... TD: He is going up for the GFA Superbomb! [Creed hurls Annis in the corner, picking him up and placing the prone Serge up on the top buckle... the blood, the wire and the rain continuing to mix in a macabre cocktail... Creed grabbing Annis on the top rope... hoisting him in the air... the crowd chants growing wild... "GFA... GFA... GFA... GFA... GFA... GFA... GFA..." Creed then leaps, leaps high into the air with Annis in tow, driving Serge down... down... all the way to the canvas!] TD: Goodnight! [D'Amato smacks the mat.  ONE!] TD: Farewell!! [D'Amato smacks the mat again.  TWO!] TD: Amen! [D'Amato smacks the mat a final time... but too late.] TD: NO!  NO!  NO!  NO! SR: Wooooo! Serge Annis kicked out!  Serge Annis kicked out of the GFA Superbomb!  [It is more difficult to tell who is more stunned, the capacity 100,000 man crowd, almost to a man counting the pinfall along with Dave D'Amato... ...or Creed himself, a look of shock unlike which we have seen before stripping the veneer of invicibility from his face. Annis too is slackjawed -- amazing himself perhaps atr his reserve, Annis taking advantage of Creed's momentary defenselessness to lift him high... high... high into a horizontal backbreaker!] TD: He's got him racked!  Creed is up in the rack... NO!  NO!  Creed with the crucifix! [Creed slides from that painful backbreaker, quickly down lower between the shoulderblades to a crucifix... trying to take Annis down as...] TD: OH MY!  Creed's Stuck!  Creed's Stuck in the wire!  Creed is stuck in the wire! SR: Goodnight... [Annis, realizing Creed's plight, realizing that the wire bunched around his shoulders now has Creed totally immobile stretched across his back... lets out a primal yell... and dives down with a Samoan drop! D'Amato moves for the count... ONE... TWO...] TD: NO!  NO!  Creed kicks out! SR: Farewell... [Annis angrily gets back to his feet, Annis acting with the ferocity of a triathlete mere steps from the finish line, leaps high into the air -- driving his back down once again -- once again with a Samoan Drop and another cover by Annis and another count by D'Amato... ONE... TWO...] TD: NO!  NO!  Creed kicked out again! SR: Amen, buddy.  Amen. [Annis yells a familair obscenity, yelling, "How do you stop this [BLEEP]in' guy?"  Annis then runs to the ropes, Creed still helplessly entangled in the wire across Serge's back. Annis facing away from the ropes and prepares for one more Samoan Drop...] TD: It's a mid-rope Samoan Drop!  That's an Every Dog Has Its Day! It's Mad Dog Watkins' finishing move!  Serge for the midrope Samoan Drop... [Annis thunders down to the canvas, hooking a leg with a flourish as D'Amato counts... ONE... TWO...] TD: THREE!  THREE! THREE!  THREE! SR: Suicide may be painless, baby.  But this one ain't.  It... is... over! ["Some Days It's Dark" begins as medical personnel hop into the ring, shearing Annis and Creed apart as Sparkplug takes the mic.] SL: Your winner... as a result of a pinfall... "THE EPITOME OF EVIL"... SERGE ANNIS! [The crowd pops as D'Amato raises an exhausted Serge's arm in victory. Medics grab the arms of Annis, tending to his throat injury, leading the victor from the ring as the crowd roar begins to swell. Annis is exhausted, physically and emotionally, but even as he is being helped up the aisle, his bloody throat being patched up, he finds the strength to yell, "Who's The Man, IIWF?  Who's the Damn Man, Now?"  A number of the fans turn their applause to him... rewarding the victor's effort with the approval due a victorious gladiator.] TD: Unbelievable, Steve Roberts.  Absolutely unbelievable.  Serge Annis has won this match, this impossible, horrifying nightmare of a match. You have got to believe that he is so close to superstardom in the IIWF. SR: Ya gotta love Sergey... I don't know how many times I have to say it, Dross.  He's the future of this sport. TD: Then there is the Subway Psycho... what a tremendous, a tremendous performance he put on tonight... SR: Who? TD: Finally there is this man. This man, the red gloved warrior Creed, who has waved all of the medical personnel away and who now stands alone in the ring. [Creed stands, his hands on his hips, reconstructing the last several minutes. As he sadly shakes his head, the crowd... the 100,000 strong Californians begin a chant as clear, as loud, and as true as any clarian call ever uttered: "Please _don't_ go... Please_don't_go... Please_don't_go..." The red gloved warrior looks out at the fans, the hideous toll of the battle apparent on his face, his left eye... his left eye appears to actually no longer be attached to his face... Creed then waves to the ring attendant, who throws to him his black "Anyone... Anywhere... Anytime" sweatshirt. Creed takes it... then hurls it into the section of the Creed Army, his always supportive fans who now begin a painful chanting of his name as Creed ascends to the midbuckle for the final time, thrusting his powerful red glove in the air as the clouds disappear... the night sky brilliant overhead. Creed hops from the ring... catching from the crowd another red and black t-shirt which he slips over his head as the crowd chant grows greater and greater... threatening to engulf the whole stadium... Creed reaches the top of the aisle and turns... allowing the camera to catch the slogan ablazoned on the new shirt of the red gloved rookie: THE IIWF. PERIOD. Creed waves one final thrust of his left glove, then brushes away what appears to be a single tear from his left eye... Creed turns... and walks out of view.] TD: Oh my, Steve Roberts. I am simply speechless. SR: That's gotta be a first, Dross. [The camera pans over the crowd, who have now taken up the chant from the Creed Army. The arena seems to shake to its very foundations as the fans continue to chant into the night, the rain now having stopped and a kind of moist freshness tangible in the air. Still the chant comes... "Creed! Creed! Creed!" The shot pans over the fans, all of them standing and either looking towards the entrance at the head of the aisle, or the huge video walls high, high above their heads.] TD: What scenes here in the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, Steve Roberts. We have seen the red-gloved wrecking machine, Creed, wrestle his last IIWF match. This, Steve Roberts, is a man who has lived, breathed and bled IIWF since he arrived -- a man who has tonight lost his left eye for the IIWF. Creed will go down in history as truly one of the all-time greats ever to step foot in an IIWF ring -- but in many ways, this match belongs to Serge Annis. What a Herculean effort from all three men -- but it is Serge Annis who has risen above his opponents... and now surely stands poised for greatness here in the IIWF. [The shots continue to pan over the fans, many holding up home-made signs, such as "Say It Ain't So, Creed!", "Creed: LA's #1" and "Please Don't Go!".] TD: We have witnessed the passing of one of the IIWF's greatest enigmas here tonight, Steve Roberts. SR: Who? Little Steve Summer? TD: No, Steve Roberts... no. On behalf of these fans, these one hundred thousand people... on behalf of the IIWF... to you, Creed, we say... thanks, kid. SR: Aw, you're gettin' all emotional on me, Dross buddy. Come on, Dross, join in the "Goodbye Song" with Uncle Soundbite. Sure-fire way to cheer yourself up. TD: Steve Roberts, you are truly unbelievable. Folks -- we've still got four incredible matches to come here tonight. We will see Chris Quigley face Duncan Macbeth -- we will see the Prophets of Rage and Damage Inc. in a cage -- we will see the European Alliance collide... and, of course, we will see the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder square off against the "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin... we'll be right back! [Cut to a wide-angle aerial shot of the whole arena, the lights of the Coliseum now sending shafts of light into the darkening sky above. Fade.] +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I * I * W * F =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+ | President: Daniel Spreadbury | Vice-President: Jim Jividen | | univ0322@sable.ox.ac.uk | brokeback@webtv.net | | iiwf@sisko.demon.co.uk | | +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- http://www.sisko.demon.co.uk -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+