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Los Angeles Memoral Coliseum, Los Angeles, CA L I V E! / / Saturday 8 November 1997 \ /______________________________________________________________________\ H + O + U + R T + H + R + E + E [Cut back to interior shots of the huge Coliseum, the shot panning down from the deep purple sky, past the huge steel cage that hangs from the lighting rig, to the ringside area, which is still a hive of activity after the preceding Barbed Wire match. One ring crew is busy placing a new, dry -- and unstained by blood -- canvas on the assembly, while another finishes adjusting the replaced ropes. Cut back to Tim Dross and "Soundbite" Steve Roberts at ringside.] TD: Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the third hour of Ring Wars IV! We've got four tremendous matches still to come here tonight, people -- from the Bragging Rights cage match which we will see in just a few moments, to the huge cowboy vs. cowboy main event, via Quigley and Macbeth in the Intercontinental Championship match and, of course, Lord Byron and Otto Verhoeven colliding... all that still to come, folks. SR: Look at the mess here at ringside, Dross. We've had barriers in the ring, barbed wire in the crowd, garbage cans and baseball bats wrapped in the stuff -- it's been a crazy, crazy night. TD: It certainly has, Steve Roberts. I think the ring crew has just about finished repairing the ring after that history-making barbed wire match. ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|................................................... | || | \ v v / | __| BRAGGING RIGHTS CAGE MATCH: |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| Prophets of Rage vs. Damage Inc. ........................................................................ WRITER: JH [After a few minutes of non-action, the massive Coliseum crowd starts buzzing again as the IIWF crew starts setting up the biggest cage the biggest IIWF audience has ever seen, which is slowly lowered from the overhead lighting rig. Chants of "Damage" and "Rage" begin to pop up throughout the stadium, as the finishing touches of the steel structure are laid down. Everyone is getting restless.] TD: Would you get a look at that thing, Steve. It has to be the most imposing thing I have ever seen. What about you? SR: You haven't seen me in the morning. I bend an iron bar over it... TD: Steve! I meant man-made structures. SR: Nothing compares to me in the morning. Just like nothing compares to the Prophets of Rage! Damage Inc. had better unzip the bodybags for themselves -- because the only people bragging after this match are gonna be the Dirt Dog and Derek Rage. [Suddenly, a big crowd pop.] TD: Derek's brother, Shadoe, is here! And he's having the IIWF crew set up a... a... throne? [Sure enough the crew sets up a platform, just to the side of the wrestlers' walkway, with a throne on top. The crowd is going wild as Shadoe hops up and seats himself on his majestic throne. Nearby fans are going wild screaming for autographs, attention, etc. but Shadoe pays them no attention.] SR: This is his kingdom and he's here to watch the match. Just because he's not wrestling, doesn't mean he's not interested in his subjects. [Sparkplug makes his way to the cage, but gets interrupted along the way. A fan grabs the mic and yells,"Hey, Mayor, when the hell are we gettin' a new football team?!" Lee wrestles it from him and jogs to the cage, obviously trying to avoid anymore situations.] SR: [to the fan] If anyone came to the games, maybe they'd stay, jerkweed. Kids just don't understand the biz. But, hell, as long as they're here tonight! SL: This match is a match only for the TOUGHEST! The STRONGEST! The MEANEST! It is time for the... BRAGGING RIGHTS CAGE MATCH!! SR: Whoa, cut down on your caffiene intake, Sparky! [Huge pop for the much-anticipated match. As soon as the pop dies down it starts up again when "Reunited" by the Wu-Tang Clan blares over the PA system.] SL: First half of this battle... Led to the cage by their lovely manager, Jeandra... Hailing from New Orleans, Louisiana... weighing in at a combined weight of 628 pounds... Here are... "The Ace" Alex Porteaux, and "Mad Dog" Eddy Ramos... DAMAGE INCORPERATED! [Huge pop for Damage Inc. as they appear in the aisle. Jeandra is dressed in a beautiful forest green evening gown, strutting all the way. Porteaux wears long black tights with the four card symbols -- spades, clubs, diamonds, hearts -- running down the left leg in alternating red and blue. On the seat is the word "Ace" in gold script. He is a bald African-American with shifty brown eyes, a goatee that houses a crafty smile and a decent, well-muscled body. Meanwhile, Ramos wears a black and gold singlet with full-length tights, the word "DAMAGE" running down the right leg. His fists are taped. He is a huge Hispanic man with an imposing physique. He also sports a goatee and short black hair. The group stops at Shadoe's throne to bad mouth and challenge the eclectic wrestler, but he just waves them off as if he really was royalty.] TD: Damage Inc. trying to stir the ire of Shadoe, but the former Prophet will not be shaken. SR: "Ire"? Speak English, you dribbling idiot. We're not doing dinner theater here, although I could go for a steak right about now. [Jeandra walks to the side of the cage as Damage Inc., done teasing Sparkplug about his "alleged" hair piece, climbs into the cage waiting for the Prophets. But they know the Prophets are here as "The Death Match" begins to play. ] SL: Their opponents, making their way down to the ring... accompanied by Pizzazz... Hailing from Halifax, Nova Scotia... Weighing in at a combined weight of 563 pounds... Here are Dirt Dog Unique Allah... Derek Rage... the PROPHETS OF RAGE! [Huge Crowd Pop! Pizzazz is dressed in a leather two piece combo, pumping arms along the way. Derek Rage is a tall, muscular black man who resembles Alonzo Mourning. He wears a mustache and goatee. His eyes are dark and hard. He has a penetrating stare. Derek strides to the ring wearing a short, black hooded boxer's robe and short black boots. Underneath he wears a basketball uniform in black with purple pinstripe with Prophet 2 on the front and Rage 2 on the back. He wears one black glove on his right hand. Unique looks like a man who never caught a break in his life. He is Afro-American, dark-skinned with yellowish eyes. His hair is a nappy afro and he sports gold fangs in his mouth. He wears a ragged pea coat, denim shorts and work boots to the ring. The Prophets make their way past the throne as well, looking up. Except Shadoe acts as if they don't even exist. After an uncomfortable moment the group makes their way down. Mirroring Jeandra, Pizzazz takes her place opposite from Jeandra on the other side of the cage. The Prophets make their way to the cage door when... Shadoe Rage stands up out of his throne. He produces a cordless microphone. He smiles out over the crowd. They're stunned by his presence and a hush falls over them as he speaks:] SR: Damage Incorporated. This is Ring Wars. You didn't really think you wouldn't see me, did you? Listen, you ran from us in the FWLI a long time ago. You know that and I know it. Now, you've come crawling back into the light tonight. There's no way in hell you're ever going to win bragging rights over the Prophets of Rage unless we do it right. You are the Original Damage Inc. It is only right that you decide who the better team is when you face the original Prophets of Rage. One last time in the IIWF, I'm gonna give these people the chance to see the Angel of Death and the Hammer of God join forces to bring down the terror of the Gods. One last time to send you all home to hell! TD: Whoa! Shadoe is back! If even for one night! [Shadoe leaps up from his chair, grabbing a zipline that swings him down to ringside. Huge pop! Dirt Dog high-fives Shadoe and steps aside to let him through. The fans pop madly as he throws off his cloak and sunglasses. He points to a kid in the front row wearing a Damage Inc. T-shirt and draws his thumb across his throat. The crowd pop is deafening as Shadoe enters the cage to stand beside Derek Rage, the door being locked behind him.] SR: Original ganstas in the house, baby! No... I mean no one brags louder than Derek and Shadoe! [The official signals for the bell... Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: Each team's counterparts are staring each other down! Ramos, Derek... Porteaux, Shadoe... having quiet but intense words for each other. It is clear that the bragging has begun. I can hear Ramos saying, "break you" and Shadoe saying, "The last thing you'll ever see..." These men are going to explode! SR: And explode they have! Let the beatings commence! All four men are trading blows! It doesn't get any better than this... except if Pizzazz and Jeandra start rolling around on the floor. [The four men, none of them holding back, chop, club and punch each other. The scene is amazing! As the combatants battle, the L.A. Coliseum crowd starts the wave around the cage. The cameras pan back for a moment, showing the enormous crowd sway back and forth screaming "Bam!" and "Pow!" every time one of the wrestlers connects with a hit. Ramos tackles Derek to the mat, straddles him and starts peppering him with lefts and rights. On the other side of the ring, Shadoe slams Porteaux to the mat. The smaller of the two Rages races across the ring drop kicks Ramos off Derek, allowing his bigger partner to get up.] TD: Porteaux catches Derek Rage on the chin with a jumping knee! It doubles the big man over enough for a... Whoa! "Ace" tried a rocker dropper on Derek -- but Rage didn't budge! SR: He's a mountain of a man. Even at 250lbs, Porteaux is a little man. See how small he looks as Derek presses the "Ass" above him? TD: That's "Ace," Steve Roberts. SR: Whatever. [Porteaux is dumped down again. Shadoe runs "Mad Dog" to the corner, but hits the brakes. Shadoe crashes chest-first into the turnbuckle. Ramos follows up with an avalanche charge, crushing Shadoe in the corner. Ramos turns to meet Derek in the center of the ring and the two lock up. But this is a bad strategy, as Porteaux comes off the top rope with an elbow. Derek is brought down and feels the impact of a "Mad Dog" leg drop! Ramos, showing show skill, throws on a half crab. Shadoe is tied up with Porteaux, but send him to the ropes. Both men cross, Porteaux ducking an attempted clothesline. They come back with Shadoe catching Porteaux in an awesome tilt-a-whirl suplex!] TD: Referee Joey Patrick is asking Derek if he wants to quit. Derek says... SR: [BLEEP] you, pal! It'll take more than a bloated she-male to ruin my day! TD: He didn't say that! SR: No, that's what I'd say. TD: Seeing as he won't get Derek to quit on such an early move, Ramos executes a fine powerslam! Shadoe is having his way with Alex on the mat! Porteaux, face down, is caught in a hammerlock. Rage is rubbing his face in the mat. Disgusting. [Big Ramos boots Derek rage in the corner, but is distracted by Pizzazz. Pizzazz throws a cups of beer on the big man, infuriating him. Joey Patrick is over scolding her but the job is done. Derek Rage, finally getting a chance to catch his breath, low blows Ramos.] SR: Right in the biscuits! [Shadoe is over there in an instant, helping Shadoe deliver a wicked two man chokeslam! The crowd goes wild as big Ramos is finally taken off his feet. Shadoe rolls Ramos up for a inverted cradle but its broken up by Porteaux, who quickly rakes Derek eyes. Porteaux, turning it up a notch, takes the situation in hand. He runs Shadoe down with a bulldog and in a flash is double teaming Derek in the corner.] TD: It seems both teams are trying to take each other's big man out early, as it is best for... Oh my! Ramos powerbombs Derek and Porteaux drops the leg from the second rope! Porteaux covers... one! SR: Ramos has Shadoe! Damn, he ain't gonna make it! TD: No! Derek kicks out! Close one there. [Shadoe chops Ramos back a few steps and goes to the ropes for momentum. Porteaux sunset flips Derek, only to get sat upon. Derek, seeing an opportunity, grabs Alex's legs and rolls back for an odd but effective cover. Unfortunately, Joey Patrick is distracted.] CROWD: YES!! SR: Sweet mother of Mercy! Jeandra just flashed her top to Joey! That boy's in jug-land and has totally forgotten about the match! You can't blame him though... so perky! TD: Well... uh... a more... interesting tactic you won't see. [As the cameras pull away from Jeandra pulling here top back up, we see "Mad Dog" clothesline Shadoe over the top rope. Shadoe having about three feet between him and the cage starts to climb up slowly. Derek Rage is in the face of Joey Patrick for not making the count. Ramos attempts a sneak attack but Derek is ready and catches "Mad Dog" and belly-to-bellys him clear over the top rope... crashing into the cage! A savate kick from Porteaux stuns Derek Rage. "Ace" follows with a shin stomp and locks on a front face lock.] SR: Porteaux ain't keeping that sucker on long because he doesn't even see Shadoe behind him for a... [Crowd Pop!] TD: He was ready, because he moved as soon as Shadoe went to the flying forearm! Derek is sprawled out on the floor! And... DDT! Alex Porteaux just DDT'ed Shadoe! And he's... climbing the cage?! Why isn't he covering? SR: I don't know but Ramos just headbutted Derek and booted him right on the jaw! Shake it off, Derek! I got money on you! [The big men lock up, only to have Derek attempt a powerbomb on Ramos, but the weight is too much. Both men fall through the ropes and bounce to the floor. Ramos is busted open and the ref is down there to check. Seeing his own blood, Ramos lives up to his name. "Mad Dog" howls talking Derek and the ref back against the cage door, causing it to burst open! Crowd Pops wildly!] TD: The cage is open! "Mad Dog" just ran right through it! Joey Patrick is out -- Derek is down -- and Ramos is going for a chair! And if that isn't enough.... [Crowd explodes!] SR: I think I just wet myself! [Amazingly Porteaux moonsaults off the side of the cage, destroying Shadoe Rage. In the frenzy of the crowd and the heat of the moment, Dirt Dog charges into the cage. A sliding groin kick stops Porteaux dead in his tracks, crumpling to the floor. Derek sends "Mad Dog" against the guard rail with an Irish whip, hammering him over and over, trying to break his back. Jeandra plants a heel in the crotch of the huge Rage, bringing the behemoth to his knees. Ramos smashes a chair over Derek... again and again! Jeandra telling Ramos to get back in the ring, which he does, but is cut off by a headwrecker by Pizzazz! Ladies Pop!] TD: Dirt Dog with a spin wheel kick on Porteaux! We need some order down here! This is mayhem! Derek Rage is hurt and is bleeding all over the place. That broken chair is like a collar on him! Ramos has what's left of the chair and is climbing back in the cage and Pizzazz is on his back! SR: Perhaps I need to amend my adage, "No women, midgets or celebrities." These girls can go! [Dirt Dog is fighting for that last piece of chair with Ramos and sprays his deadly venom blast! Crowd goes wild, as they love that stuff. But even as Ramos gets caught, so does Pizzazz. Joey Patrick stirs and starts to get up. Dirt Dog leads Pizzazz out of the cage... and gets caught from behind as Porteaux brings what's left of the chair on his back, causing both DDUA and Pizzazz to tumble out of the cage. Ramos is still covering his eyes, as Porteaux drags a half awake Patrick back into the cage.] TD: The Jobber Justice Squad is being sent down to get the outside participants out of here. Porteaux has the cover... Ramos is screaming from the blast... Shadoe is still out and Patrick is counting! One... TWO... THR... NO! SR: Derek with the save! He's a bloody mess, he's busted up, he's broken but he knows I got money on him... and the Prophets always cover! Always! [The JJS is down at cage side to escort Dirt Dog, Jeandra, and Pizzazz away from ringside. IIWF crew members throw a chain on the door... locking it for good. Derek and Porteaux are trading blows, while Ramos desperately tries to wipe the venom from his eyes. The crowd goes wild as Shadoe starts to get up.] SR: He's alive! Get up, dammit! Give them the Hammer! TD: We are happy to see Shadoe with some movement! I was sure he suffered internal injury with that cagesault from Porteaux. [Alex directs the blurry-eyed "Mad Dog" to hold Derek as he brings down the last of the chair on the big Rage, letting him stumble to the center of the ring and fall to his hands and knees. As soon as he falls, though, Shadoe runs and springboards off Derek's back and hits with a huge cross body block on both Ramos and Porteaux. The crowd is going wild and are starting the wave again. Ramos, half-sitting in the corner, takes a shot from Shadoe's boot. Shadoe turns to get caught in Porteaux's FLUSH! Crowd Pop! Getting a two count, because Derek breaks it up again, Porteaux is furious. Vision coming back to him, Ramos shoulderblocks Derek down -- and points to the top rope!] TD: That madman is going to the top! SR: The correct terminology is "Mad Dog". [Porteaux launches Shadoe to the ropes, who ducks a left hook. Shadoe comes back with a double axe handle, but "Ace" hooks one arm and turns it into a crucifix. Shadoe Rage falls back but avoids a three count by putting his foot on the bottom rope. "Mad Dog" has made it to the top and skies... Huge crowd pop!] TD: He missed! Mad Dog missed... Derek rolled out of the way! That moonsault could be heard throughout Orange county! Derek is on Porteaux now! SR: Twist his head off! Hit him with the... YES! And it's good for two! [Marv Albert style] Hammer of a God! TD: It has been described as a "human dunk", the Hammer of a God, a claw face slam -- an awesome maneuver! [Derek raises his arms and tells Shadoe to go up for an Angel of Death Drop. Derek, picking up, Ramos is caught by a European upper cut. Shadoe goes soprano as Ramos shakes the ropes. Falling down and getting a crotchshot from the turnbuckle, Shadoe falls forwards on his head. Ramos is a house of fire in the ring, hiptossing Derek Rage against the cage! He now hefts Shadoe in a bear hug and calls Porteaux for the "End".] TD: This is the "End"! Derek is stunned outside the ring, bloody against the cage -- and Porteaux is going up top to set it up! [As Porteaux climbs, Shadoe pops Ramos' ears over and over until Ramos drops Shadoe feet first on the second rope. MONSTROUS CROWD POP! Shadoe springs off the second rope, over the top rope to the outside of the ring, bringing Ramos' neck across the top rope!] TD: Ramos' neck was nearly taken off by that maneuver! He's choking out there and Porteaux finally noticed, hopping back down. SR: It's just Shadoe and Porteaux now! Derek is down and Ramos has just rolled his fat ass out of the ring, gasping for breath. [The crowd stands up as they see Porteaux say, "It's just you and me now." With that, both men hit the ropes and criss cross. Porteaux ducks a super kick and locks up Shadoe's hips for a sidewalk slam! Shadoe pulls Porteaux over with his legs, which "Ace" escapes and rolls up again, a little faster than Shadoe. Derek Rage takes a devastating power bomb outside, head raking along the cage! Clipping Shadoe on the chin with a chop, Porteaux lifts Shadoe for a power slam...] TD: Porteaux has an exhausted Shadoe up and... Shadoe rolls with it and... turns it into an inside cradle! One... Two... No! Porteaux rolls it over... One... Two... NO! ROLLED OVER AGAIN! AND SHADOE HAS HIS FEET UP...AND JOEY PATRICK DOESN'T SEE! ONE... TWO... THREEE! ...NO! Joey Patrick saw the feet and has waved it off! SR: If this crap doesn't stop, I'm gonna have a stroke! Don't get... hit. [And hit he is! Big Eddy Ramos drops Shadoe with an overhand forearm. Porteaux drops an elbow and they begin stomping away. Bruised and battered, Derek climbs up to the ropes. Ramos, wiping the blood from his forehead, looks to finish what her started. "Mad Dog" charges Derek... POP CITY!] TD: Rage pulls down the top rope! Ramos flies out -- COLLIDING with the cage... and drops like a stone! SR: Like a turd hitting a fan! Do it to him! Yeah, that's the way! [Things get ugly fast, as Derek Rage places Ramos' hand beneath the chain that holds the door closed. Creepy pop! Derek stomps the trapped hand, ignoring the screams of the "Mad Dog"! Porteaux comes off the top rope with a wicked leg drop on Shadoe. "Ace" lifts Shadoe only to get a headbutt to the groin. Porteaux falls back and Shadoe slumps down.] SR: No more piano, Ramos! I hope you can sing! TD: You are horrible, Steve. But correct, none the less. Ramos' hand looks mangled and Derek is back in the ring -- closing in on Porteaux! All four men are wasted but rarely have they been able to double each other! This could be the chance the Prophets need! [Porteaux is to his feet and ducks a Derek clothesline, rolling and is up again drop kicking Derek to the corner. Crowd Pops wildly! "Ace" then Monkey flips the huge man over, but catches a spinning neck breaker from Shadoe! Ramos struggles to climb up with one hand but gets kicked back down by Derek. The crowd is going wild for what happens next!] TD: Derek puts Porteaux on his shoulders... Shadoe is on the top rope... HEADWRECKER!! SR: Yes! The sweet... One... two... THREE!! [Ding! Ding! Ding! Huge, huge pop!] SL: Your winners... and thus designated as the best tag team in the world... The Prophets of Rage! [Security staff and officals quickly descend on the ring as the fans continue to cheer wildly. Cut to a wide-angle view of the huge, endless sea of fans as officials unlock the cage door, freeing Ramos' hand. Shadoe and Derek Rage are joined in the ring by the returning Dirt Dog and Pizzazz, closely follows by both Tony Starks and Medusa, who congratulate Derek and Shadoe, who shake hands to cement their victory. Ramos, meanwhile, struggles over to his fallen partner, helping Porteaux from the ring. The cage is slowly raised as ring crews look on, and Jeandra also comes down to ringside to support her two men. Damage Inc. turn and look back at the ring from the foot of the aisle, regarding the team who have defeated them.] TD: What a war we have witnessed, Steve Roberts! What a total, total war between these two teams -- but it is the Prophets of Rage who stand triumphant. This has truly been a match for the ages -- and it is the Prophets who can now lay claim to being the top tag team in the world today. SR: Just confirming what we already knew, baby dolls. [Damage Inc. slowly move up the aisle, followed by the entire Age of Rage entourage, celebrating their famous victory. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Fans, in just a few moments, we will see Chris Quigley and Duncan Macbeth go at it -- hang on. There's a disturbance in the locker room area. Can we go to backstage? [Cut to hand-held camera footage in a crowded corridor backstage in the Coliseum. Amidst the many officials and security staff clamouring in the enclosed space towers Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven, at his feet the prone and stunned forms of one of the Barnacle Brothers and "Majestic" Maurice McArthur. Verhoeven is apparently arguing with Poutine Janois and Dennis "Griff" Griffing, head of IIWF security.] TD: Is that...? That's Lord Byron's locker room behind Verhoeven! Otto wants to start his match early! SR: Yeah, and you notice that Byron's locked his door like the coward he is. Come on out, Byron, and face the Butcher like a man! [Verhoeven turns and blasts the door of Byron's locker room with a couple of hard kicks, before allowing himself to be ushered away by the security staff, cursing in German. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Don't forget, folks -- that huge match between Otto Verhoeven and Lord Byron still to come here tonight. But ahead of that, the no disqualification Intercontinental Championship match betweeh current holder Chris Quigley and Duncan Macbeth -- who, as we learned last night, _will_ wrestle in this match, but risks permanent injury in the form of a nasty MCL tear. SR: While I admire Macbean's guts, Dross, I don't admire his brains. He could just rest up and take his shot at Quigley when he's fit -- but no, he's going to play right into Chrissie's hands... and it's not going to be a pretty sight. The things Quigley does to a man... it's just wrong, Dross. Just plain wrong. TD: Folks, we've seen some tremendous action already tonight, but what a real fight this next match is shaping up to be. Duncan Macbeth, the rugged and wily Scotsman -- his brief career already shaping up to be one of the brightest in the IIWF -- has the opportunity of a lifetime in his hands: a shot at Chris Quigley's Intercontinental championship. But even more than that, these two wrestlers seem to have developed a genuine hatred for one another in recent months. Apparently, Macbeth has really managed to get under the skin of Chris Quigley with his constant jibes and lack of respect, and Macbeth, being quite a down to earth individual, feels more than a little antipathy for Quigley's, shall we say "over-confident" demeanor. SR: Ha! What you mean to say is that Quigley is an arrogant bastard! He's a pompous whinging sack of decrepit talent and fading ability, with all the charisma of a hat full of assholes! Everybody in the "Eye" despises Quigley with a vengeance, and that's why it's gonna be all the more satisfying to see Macbeth introduce him to a Glasgow style beat down, and rip that tin strap off his fat gut to boot! Bring it on, Daddy-O! TD: Well, no matter what your opinions of Chris Quigley might be, Steve Roberts, there are legions of fans who think otherwise, and you can't deny that he truly has been a fighting champion. And you have to consider that Quigley is the slight favourite to come away with the duke in this encounter -- he does have a lot more experience than Macbeth, and there have been more than a few questions floating around about the condition of the challenger's knee. Is Duncan Macbeth really fit enough for such an important bout? SR: Macbeth's knee might be all busted in and funny lookin' like Dan Kauffman's face, but if you've ever been set upon by a wild Scottsman on a lonely moor, you'll know that these bastards know how to fight! Except for Mel Gibson! He's a right tosser mon! A big girl's blouse! Och I the noog bricht ya wee laddy! TD: I believe that Mr. Gibson actually hails from Australia, Steve Roberts; but questions about the creibility of his portrayal of William Wallace aside, let's go down to Sparkplug Lee for the official introductions. ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|................................................... | || | \ v v / | __| INTERCONTINENTAL TITLE NO DISQUALIFICATION MATCH: |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| Chris Quigley [c] vs. Duncan Macbeth ........................................................................ WRITER: RD [The camera pans out over the majestic Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum -- the clear open air fading into a purpelish dusk, the massive array of fans stuffed full of rich, thick IIWF goodness, but still clamouring for more -- then zooms in on the rather less spectacular sight of Sparkplug Lee and his powder blue suit.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, the following bout is scheduled as a no disqualification contest for the IIWF Intercontinental Championship! [Audible pop from the crowd, drunken cries of "Get on with it!"] No countouts or disqualifications will be recognised, and the title can only change hands on a pinfall or submission! Introducing first: the challenger! Proudly hailing from the distant town of Glenfinnin, Scotland, and weighing in at a powerpacked 270 lbs; he is the number one contender to the IIWF Intercontinental championship -- please give him a big welcome -- here is Duncan Macbeth! [The lights of the Memorial Coliseum go dim, and the ring is illuminated in yellow, with the crimson image of the Lion Rampant projected onto the mat for the entire 100,000 strong crowd to see. "Scotland The Brave" blasts out live across the stadium, as the entire Royal 42nd Highland Regiment, resplendent in their dark green and black tartan kilts, march down the aisle playing their pipes and drums! Duncan Macbeth follows at the regiment's tail, and he is greeted by the sort of overwhelmingly loud pop that can only be generated by such a massive audience! Macbeth is kitted out in his usual fashion -- red tartan kilt, a black leather jacket with the Lion Rampant emblem on the back, a heavy black belt with a silver buckle and a white-fur sporran -- and his expression is as confidently cheerful as ever, although perhaps a little awed by the sheer magnitude of the whole affair.] TD: What an entrance for Duncan Macbeth, and this surely must be the highlight of his brief career -- wrestling in front of this ocean of fans, his national pride so clearly demonstrated -- the chance every young wrestler dreams of only moments away. SR: I hate to put a dampener on this little parade, Drossy, but I can't help but notice Macbeth is limping like a drunken, deranged lumberjack has just attempted to remove his leg with a blunt hacksaw. TD: I'm afraid to say it, but the limp in Macbeth's gait does seem more than a little pronounced. The courage and determination of this man, to turn up for this match even though he is clearly at the risk of serious injury... But I can't help but think that it's a recklessly foolhardy thing to do. SR: It's nothing to do with courage. Macbeth just doesn't want to miss the big pay day, that's all. TD: But he could be placing his entire career in jeapardy! SR: Careers are on the line whenever you step in the ring. Big deal! All that matters is the wads of cash you get payed for it all. That, and naked nymphomaniac swedish maidens, of course. [The Highland Regiment does a circle formation of the ring, then marches back down the aisle, still trumpeting away. Duncan Macbeth removes his jacket and kilt, throwing the latter into the crowd with a laugh, and revealing for the first time a thick brace wrapped around his right knee. He climbs up onto the apron and vaults over the top rope -- perhaps trying to demonstrate the fitness of his knee to the crowd -- but when he lands on his feet a noticiable wince creases his face.] RA: And his opponent: Proudly hailing from Corner Brook, Newfoundland and weighing in at a lean, mean 238 lbs; to wrestling fans he requires no introduction -- here is the IIWF Intercontinental champion -- the one, the only, "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley! [The crunching riff of the AC/DC classic "For Those About to Rock" thunders out over the stadium, and Chris Quigley runs down the aisle to a deafening roar from the crowd! Steve Manning, having been kidnapped by TNT earlier in the evening, is nowhere to be seen.] TD: Here comes the champion, to an equally impressive reception, although if Steve Manning were here I doubt he'd recieve much sympathy from the fans. SR: Just because he's stuck in a wheelchair, it doesn't give him the right to behave like a Dalek! TD: Quite right Steve, although I wonder WHO here in the United States will have any idea what a Dalek is. [The camera cuts to ringside, showing a big dangerous looking man, wearing a cowboy hat pulled low over his face, sitting next to the crowd barriers -- it is the "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin! Noticing the presence of the the IIWF Hall of Famer, Quigley pauses and turns his glance upon him, and the two men stare at each other for several moments -- Quigley's face remaining impassive, but Hardin giving a faint sneer. Quickly as the tension between them builds, it passes away again, as Quigley turns his attention back to the ring, climbing up onto the apron and stepping between the ropes.] TD: It looks like the Outlaw has reserved himself a ringside seat for this match, and the tension between him and Quigley -- you could have cut it with a knife right there. SR: Ha! If Quigley has been entertaining wet dreams about challenging Hardin, he needs some damn sense knocked into that inflated head of his. Beating Macbeth would be a trial enough as it is, but beating Hardin could only ever be a deluded fantasy. [Quigley and Macbeth face up in the centre of the ring, waiting for the bell. Both men stare stoically into each others eyes, psychologically feeling each other out for any signs of weakness or fear. Slowly, Quigley unfastens the glittering Intercontinental title belt from around his waist, and Macbeth makes a motion around his own waist, signifying that it is his turn to strap on the championship gold. Taking the title belt, referee Dave D'Amato holds it up into the air to a mild pop, and then deposits it to ringside. Quigley and Macbeth continue to stand chest to chest, putting the hard stare on one another, and finally, the ref signals for the bell: Ding! Ding! Ding! Macbeth mouths something to Quigley, perhaps taunting him with another jibe, and the champion responds with a smug grin, reaching back and slapping Macbeth right across the face! Pop from the crowd! Macbeth shakes off the stinging blow, hauls back with his own right hand, and slugs Quigley right in the mouth! Another pop! Quigley staggers backwards in shock, but an angry glint sparks in his eyes, and he unleashes a stinging reverse knife edge chop across the chest of the challenger! Macbeth winces and backs up, but Quigley lashes at him with a second lacerating chop, the crack audible across the arena! Big pop! Quigley winds up for a third chop, but Macbeth snarls with rage and lunges at his foe, unloading with punches, battering Quigley back into the turnbuckles with a flurry of blows. Blocking the champion in the corner, Macbeth digs a couple more uppercuts under the ribs, but Quigley, in a bid to stave off the punishment, clinches Macbeth's arms and holds them fast. Macbeth can't punch under such restriction, and Quigley forces his way back out of the corner, the two wrestlers twisting, grappling... each striving for an advantageous position from which to launch an offensive.] TD: Well, this title match is finally underway, and it's a somewhat scrappy, messy start from both Duncan Macbeth and Chris Quigley. Both of these men can wrestle, both men can brawl -- I'm wondering which style will come through dominant in this encounter. SR: They're just feeling each other out right now Drossy, testing each others strengths and weaknesses... It's gonna be a long and intense bout. Although with this no DQ stipulation, carnage is always only a heartbeat away, and that's just what we're waiting for, baby dolls! [Quigley and Macbeth are still locked up, Quigley pressing the action to the centre of the ring. Macbeth digs his heels in, pressing back at Quigley, and shoves him right down to the mat! Quigley immediately kips up, but Macbeth hits him with a clothesline and deposits him to the canvas for a second time! Macbeth runs to the ropes, bounds off and charges at Quigley, but the champion is already back on his feet, ducking down and backdropping Macbeth through the air, sending him crash sliding across the mat! Not particularly fazed by the impact, Macbeth leaps back to his feet as Quigley lunges in, and the two lock up once again, grappling for an advantageous position. Quigley is able to twist Macbeth into a hammerlock, but the Scot quickly slips out of it and moves to an armbar. Quigley winces a little as Macbeth applies the pressure, but suddenly drops prone, hip tossing Macbeth into the canvas as he does so. Macbeth, caught unawares by the break, quickly falls prey to a chinlock.] TD: We're seeing a rapid exchange of wrestling acumen here, folks, with Quigley utilising his greater experience to retain the slight advantage. SR: What the hell is going on here? I thought these guys hated each other, but they're spending all their time pussy-footing around with wimpy rest holds! Kick his teeth in MacBean; let's see a bit of red! [Quigley applies the pressure, and the strain is visible on Macbeth's face. The challenger goes for a switch out, but Quigley is watching for it and stalls the attempt. Macbeth grits his teeth and begins to power up to his feet, Quigley unable to retain him in a prone position. The champion is forced to loosen his grip as Macbeth drives an elbow into his ribcage. Macbeth blasts Quigley with a second elbow to the midsection, and winded, the champion drops his hold and staggers back against the ropes. Macbeth whips around and lashes Quigley's head back with a forearm smash, then, taking hold of the champion's arm, irish whips him across the ring. Quigley bounds off the ropes, and Macbeth meets him in centre ring with a lariat, nearly shearing his head off! Macbeth drops an elbow across Quigley's sternum, and then backs up into the corner, climbing up onto the top turnbuckle. The crowd pops in anticipation, Macbeth waiting for Quigley to stagger back up to his feet, and then launches himself through the air, grappling Quigley around the head and blasting him into the canvas with a flying bulldog! Huge pop from the crowd! Quigley clutches at his skull and rolls around on the mat, and Macbeth leaps atop of him for the cover: 1 - 2 -] TD: Quigley kicks out! Duncan's knee certainly seems to be holding up quite well for now -- he's leaping around the ring as if he wasn't even injured at all! The problem is, all it will take is one kick from Quigley to excarberate that damaged cartilage and wipe Macbeth right out. SR: All it would take is one sharp pin prick to wipe Troy out, and that would hurt Quigley more than anything thrown at him in the ring. Then again, hanging around the basement of the Manning household, Troy would have felt more than enough pricks already. TD: I beg your pardon? [Macbeth clambers back up to his feet, dragging Quigley up with him, who still appears a little groggy from the impact of the bulldog. Macbeth pummels the champion backwards with two overhand rights, then lunges under his guard, hooking Quigley's arms in preperation for a double underhook suplex. Macbeth goes to execute the move, but Quigley manages to block it, slips out of Macbeth's grip, leaps around his back, and takes him down to the mat with a well executed crucifix! Quigley holds Macbeth's shoulders pinned to the mat with the crucifix, and D'Amato makes the count: 1 - 2 - kickout with just a moment to spare! Pop from the crowd! Both men leap up to their feet, and Quigley lashes out with a kick at Macbeth's wounded knee. Unusually, Macbeth doesn't even seem fazed by the brutal tactic, and as Quigley stares blankly in surprise for a moment, boots him hard in the midsection. Quigley doubles over in pain, and Macbeth takes the opportunity to rake his bootlaces across the champion's eyes. Quigley scrabbles at his face in pain, and Macbeth leaps up into the air, striking the champion forcefully in the chest with a standing dropkick. The impact of the maneuver sends Quigley toppling over the top rope and down to the arena floor. Big pop from the crowd!] SR: Hey! What the hell... Quigley just put a dent in MacBean's injured knee and he didn't even blink! What's up with that? TD: I can only assume that Macbeth is exercising a tremendous level of control with regards to... oh my goodness, look at this! [Macbeth runs across the ring, bounds off the ropes, and comes charging back, leaping through the strands to the outside and careening into Quigley with a flying bodypress! Awed pop from the fans as the two wrestlers tumble down to the arena floor like bowling pins. Both men scrabble on the ground in an attempt to gain the advantage, but Quigley manages to roll over Macbeth, pinning him to the ground and nailing him with a flurry of punches! Macbeth can't throw Quigley off, and the champion grabs hold of the challenger's flowing locks, using them to steady his head as he repeatedly bludgeons Macbeth's nose with his fist! A trail of blood streams from Macbeth's nostril, and finally, Quigley lets up with the reign of blows, getting to his feet and dragging the groggy Scotsman up by his hair. Quigley uses his hold on the hair to whip Macbeth's head forward, cracking it across the steel crowd barrier to a meaty smack! Macbeth reels dizzilly, but Quigley, retaining his grip on Macbeth's flowing locks, whips him around and hurls him hard into the steel ring steps! The sound of flesh mashing against metal resounds across the Coliseum, and Macbeth flips over the steps, sprawling out on the arena floor. Quigley orders a ringside official to vacate his seat, and folding up the foreign object, advances on Duncan Macbeth. The challenger is dazedly trying to get back up to his feet, but Quigley hauls back and deals him a tremendous head shot with the chair! Awed pop from the fans as Macbeth slumps back down on the arena floor.] TD: Oh my goodness, what a shot! Chris Quigley is really taking advantage of the no disqualification stipulation at this point, battering Duncan Macbeth from pillar to post! SR: This is sick and depraved! Ban this man Chris Quigley! Ban this monster! A resthold guy dishing out the hardcore beat down to a genuine rough house wrestler... it's just not natural! [Chris Quigley lifts the chair up high... then drills the edge down into Macbeth's midsection! Macbeth cries out in agony and rolls over, covering up his body. Quigley demonstrates no respite, however, and brings the chair smashing down across Macbeth's back, where it snaps in two under the impact! Awed pop from the crowd! Quigley tosses the mutilated chair aside and drags Macbeth up by his hair once again, rolling him under the bottom rope and back into the ring. Macbeth rolls painfully around on the mat, blood still trickling from his nose. Quigley rolls under the bottom rope, scoops Macbeth up, and smashes the Scot into his knee with a punishing shoulderbreaker, depositing him back onto the canvas. Quigley draws his hand across his throat, signifying to the crowd that the end is nigh, and they respond with a huge pop! Quigley grabs Macbeth's right leg, steps over it, and locks on the Quickstriker scorpion deathlock!] TD: Oh my goodness! It's all over! Nobody gets out of the Quickstriker, and Quigley's got it locked right over Macbeth's wounded knee! SR: Who would have thought that Quigley would triumph so quickly? What a disappointment! TD: I guess Macbeth just isn't ready for a champion as experienced and talented as Quigley at this stage of his career... But he's lasting out in that hold for an awfully long time... [The Macbeth fans in the stadium rally behind him, anxiously wondering just how long he can hold out; the Quigley fans cheer equally as fervently, their man's victory surely only moments away. But, the seconds pass into minutes, and still Macbeth has not yeilded up the submission... In fact, he has yet to even show any signs of discomfort! The fans begin to grow restless and confused.] TD: What the...?! Something isn't quite right here. Surely nobody can hold out in the Quickstriker for this long? With an injured knee it's damned impossible! SR: Look at Duncan Macbeth's face! That crazy Scottish bastard is grinning from ear to ear! What the hell is going on? [Noting that something is up, Quigley releases the Quickstriker, and, with a frustrated expression on his face, goes to take a closer look at Macbeth's leg. Macbeth is not nearly as out of it as Quigley believes him to be, however, and blasts him right in the face with his knee! Quigley staggers back under the impact, and Macbeth is immediately all over him, ramming his right knee into Quigley's midsection and lower abdominals with crunching impact.] TD: Something is really strange about this! If Macbeth's knee is so busted up, then how the heck can he be using it as a weapon! SR: I think I got it all figured out, Drossy! That sneaky Scottish bastard is putting it all on! It's all an elaborate swerve to fool Quigley into thinking that Macbeth is much more vulnerable than he really is! TD: That knee brace... it must have absorbed the pressure of the Quickstriker! SR: You got it Daddy-O! But that's not all... take a close look at that brace, and you'll see it's all made up from strips of metal. You smash that in some fools face and -- POW! -- red flows all over the shop! Oh yeah! TD: Good grief. [As Quigley reels against the ropes, winded, Macbeth looks out over the crowd, giving them a big grin and slapping his knee! The Duncan Macbeth fans, catching on, respond with a huge pop, but there are plenty of Quigley fans who seranade the Scot with jeers. Macbeth lunges at Quigley once again, smashing his knee brace hard into the champion's groin. Quigley groans and doubles up, giving Macbeth the opportunity to grab hold of his head, and drive his knee smack into the centre of Quigley's face! Brutally, Macbeth retains his grip and delivers another punishing knee smash, this one blackening Quigley's eye. The fans pop in shock, but Macbeth is unmerciful, and drives his knee in a third time, striking the champion right hard in the jaw. Quigley's head snaps back, a spurt of blood and saliva flying out of his mouth, and he drops cold to the canvas. Macbeth runs to the ropes, bounds off, and leaps at his prone opponent with a kneedrop, his knee brace crunching right into Quigley's face.] TD: I can hardly bear to watch, as Macbeth just bludgeons that metal brace into the head of "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley! This is just out and out brutality! SR: This is just great! Quigley's ugly mug is getting pulped into a bloody mush, revealing what I have suspected for years -- the damn thing is empty! [Macbeth drags the near unconcious "Quickstrike" to his feet, blood spattering all over the canvas, and executes a vertical suplex. Quigley's back smashes into the mat, but Macbeth drags him up once again, hooks his arms, and executes a double underhook suplex! Quigley arcs through the air and goes right over the top rope, crashing hard into the arena floor! Shocked pop from the fans! Macbeth slides under the ropes himself, and one of his fans at ringside offers him a pint glass! Macbeth takes a good slug on the foaming brew, the "McKewan's Scotch Ale" label clearly displayed on the glass, then advances on Quigley. The champion is spitting out bits of teeth, his face horribly battered from Macbeth's knee smashes, and he tries to clamber up to his feet with the aid of the crowd barrier. Before he can fully do so, however, Macbeth lunges in and dashes the pint glass right against Quigley's head! The fans pop in abject shock as the glass shatters in Quigley's face and beer splashes everywhere! Quigley slumps down to the arena floor, blood spilling profusely from his forehead.] TD: Oh my goodness! What a dangerous match this is turning out to be! I can't believe our IIWF security didn't confiscate that pint glass -- we can't allow that sort of thing to go on in our audience! SR: I can't believe Duncan Macbeth wasted such a good drop of brewski on a punk like Chris Quigley! He should have downed the pint and THEN broken the glass in Quigleys face! TD: Good grief. SR: Heh, heh. Ya gotta love these Scottish pub brawlers, Drossy. One day I will travel to their homeland to drink McEwans and hunt wild haggises. TD: You're going to hunt highland sausages? SR: What are you talking about, you crazy bastard? I'll be hunting the Haggis! The wild and fearsome beasties that roam the Scotland moors! TD: Good grief. [Macbeth grabs Quigley and rolls his carcass back into the ring, his blood already staining the mat. Macbeth climbs up onto the apron, and slingshots himself over the top rope, crashing into Quigley with a big splash! Quigley remains comatose, bloody beyond recognition, and Macbeth begins to climb up onto the top turnbuckles. He balances on the top rope, back facing the ring, and as the fans pop in awe, moonsaults through the air, smashing into Quigley with tremendous velocity!] TD: What a spectacular maneuver from Duncan Macbeth! The Intercontinental Championship is only three seconds away from changing hands, folks! [Macbeth hooks the leg and goes for the cover, the entire 100,000 fans in attendance popping anxiously. Dave D'Amato puts on the count: 1 - 2 - Thr... Quigley kicks out! A massive pop rocks the stadium!] TD: Unbelievable! Simply unbelievable ladies and gentlemen! Chris Quigley, beaten into a bloody pulp by Duncan Macbeth, blasted with that stunning moonsault press, and he has managed to kick out from the pin attempt! What incredible tenacity from the Intercontinental champion! SR: He doesn't wanna give it up, Drossy. That fading, arrogant windbag is stubbornly delaying the inevitable! Come on Quigley, give it up! Drop the strap and retire to a shack somewhere in the desolate wasteland of Wales, far away from the IIWF! Then, you can have all the time in the world to spend with Troy, without even having to share him with the Manning boys! Think of all the possibilities! Give it up give it up give it up give it up... YO! TD: I belive Chris Quigley has no intention of relinquishing the Intercontinental championship without a good, hard fight, Steve Roberts. [Macbeth slaps the mat in frustration, but doesn't waste any time in getting back down to business. He gets up to his feet and scoops Quigley up, holding him aloft in a vertical position, then brutally piledriving his head into the canvas! Quigley drops to the mat, shudders, and goes still. Macbeth retreats into the corner once again, and clambers up onto the top turnbuckle. He balances, poises... the crowd popping in anticipation... then launches himself off into a frog splash! Macbeth sails gracefully through the air, diving at Chris Quigley with tremendous velocity, but...] TD: Quigley has rolled out of the way! Oh my goodness! Duncan Macbeth has just crashed face first into the canvas, and Chris Quigley has just bought himself a desperate glimmer of hope! SR: Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn it all to hell, Drossy! If Quigley turns this match around I'll be forced to shag a whole legion of Scandanavian amazons and drink twelve pints of Mooselips just to get over the trauma! [Duncan Macbeth is out cold on the mat, completely motionless. Chris Quigley is stretched out beside him, blood coating his face in a gruesome mask, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The cheers from the crowd reach a fevered pitch, half rallying behind Macbeth and the other half screaming for Quigley to get up to his feet first! The referee is approaching the ten count, but neither man looks as if he is fit to continue! Suddenly, Quigley stirs on the canvas and sits up! Big pop from the crowd! Reaching deep inside of himself, Duncan Macbeth follows suit, and both men clamber up to their feet! Macbeth lunges groggily at the Intercontinental champion, but Quigley spins around and blasts him right in the face with a superkick! Tremendous pop as Macbeth is taken straight off his feet! Quigley pauses to wipe away some of the blood blurring his vision, and grabs hold of Macbeth, dragging the Scot up to his feet. He wraps his arms around Macbeth's midsection, and then heaves him up into an overhead belly to belly suplex, smashing him back first into the mat! Quigley rolls across Macbeth for the cover: 1 - 2 -- the crowd collectively draws in its breath -- Thre... Macbeth gets a shoulder up!] TD: Macbeth survives! Chris Quigley has remarkably managed to turn the tide of this match, but he looks so exhausted, either man could pull a pinfall from out of nowhere at this point. SR: It's all down to the bottom line, Tim Dross. These guys have spilled each other's blood and sweat to the point of unconciousness -- the physical match is over. What it all comes down to now is: who wants it more? It's a test of wills, and Macbeth has his eye on the prize. [Quigley painfully gets up to his feet, stomping Macbeth a few times in the chest and head, before going over to the corner. He climbs up onto the second turnbuckle, and launches himself off with a flying fistdrop, driving his clenched fist into Duncan Macbeth's head! Macbeth shudders under the blow, and remains prone on the mat as Quigley rolls to the outside. He goes over to a ringside table, and siezes up the ring bell! Macbeth shakes his head, dazedly trying to get rid of the cobwebs, and Quigley pulls himself up onto the apron. Quigley climbs up onto the top turnbuckle as Macbeth staggers up to his feet... The crowd popping in anticipation... Quigley leaps from the top rope with the bell poised above his head, bringing the heavy metal crashing down across the skull of Duncan Macbeth! The Scotsman drops to the mat like he just took a bullet in the temple, and satisfied with the damage, Quigley tosses the bell aside.] TD: What a war, ladies and gentlemen! These guys are so determined to win, they'll go to abosolutely any lengths for the Intercontinental championship! That tremendous shot with the ring bell may have just ended Duncan Macbeth's brave bid for the title, Steve Roberts. SR: I know MacBean, Timbo, and I can tell ya that he's got the hardest skull in the IIWF. It'll take more than a little tap from a girl like Quigley to take him out! TD: I think that may be wishful thinking on your part, Steve Roberts. [Quigley drops exhaustedly across Macbeth's limp body, his eyes glazed over with dehydration. Dave D'Amato begins to count: 1 - 2 - Thr... Macbeth kicks out! A huge roar of approval rocks the stadium, and Chris Quigley drops his head to the mat in despair!] TD: How much punishment can these guys take and still keep coming back for more! Macbeth must have had to draw deep, deep into his reserves of stamina to escape that time! This is insane! SR: Come on Duncan Macbeth, you crazy Scottish bastard! Don't let the "Soundbite" down now! Get up there and beat Quigley's ass into a small puckered ball! [Quigley resigns himself to continue the match, and clambers wearilly to his feet. He drags Duncan Macbeth up, and pummels him in the midsection with several right hands. As Macbeth lolls unsteadilly, Quigley whips him to the ropes, cutting him down on the rebound with a punishingly stiff clothesline. Quigley scoops up the Scot, and straining under the effort, carries him over to the corner, positioning him on the turnbuckles. Quigley steps up onto the buckles himself, grips Macbeth's tights, and hoists him up, over... through the air and crashing down to the mat with a pulverising superplex! Huge pop from the crowd for the awesomely damaging maneuver! Quigley, a look of relief washing over his face, victory now surely his, hooks Macbeth's leg for the cover...] TD: That superplex must have smashed the stuffing out of Duncan Macbeth, and it probably took everything out of Quigley to execute it! He's got the two count... SR: That's three! No! Duncan Macbeth has kicked out! Whooo! TD: Listen to the roar from these fans! They can't believe it! The intensity of this battle, the sheer stamina of both Chris Quigley and Duncan Macbeth... I'm at a loss for words! [Quigley slaps the mat in abject frustration, then rolls off the body of Duncan Macbeth, clutching at his bloodied skull and trying to muster up enough energy to continue. After several moments, he gets up on his knees, staggers painfully up to his feet, and pulls Duncan Macbeth up for some more punishment. Groggily, he siezes hold of Macbeth's arm, and tries to whip him to the ropes. Macbeth has sufficient wits about him to reverse the maneuver, however, and sends Quigley for the ride instead! Quigley bounds off the ropes and comes careening back towards Macbeth, who leaps up into the air, clinches his legs around the head of the champion, and drives him into the mat with his Claymore frankensteiner! A thunderous pop washes over the 100,000 strong crowd! Quigley is completely out cold, and Macbeth is trying to muster up sufficient wits to go for the cover!] SR: Halleluya! It's game over for the champion! Did you enjoy your little title reign Kick-me? Duncan Macbeth is the new Intercontinental champion, from this moment forth! TD: Duncan Macbeth still has to make that cover to be crowned the new champ, Steve... hold on a moment! Steve Manning is on his way down to ringside! Steve Manning is furiously wheeling his chair down the aisle, and he's got a lead pipe in his hand! Where the heck did he come from? SR: It's too late, goddammit! He'll never make it in time! Go for the cover Macbeth! Come on man, do it! [The crowd is in an uproar, many of them yelling at Macbeth to make the cover, others hurling jeers at Steve Manning, who is speeding his wheel chair down the aisle as fast as he can... but it doesn't look like he'll make it in time. Duncan Macbeth, finally shaking off the cobwebs, rolls across the prone and comatose Quigley for the cover. D'Amato's hand slaps the mat once... Suddenly, to the utter, utter shock of all observors, Steve Manning leaps up off his wheelchair and begins to sprint towards the ring! A massive shocked pop rocks the crowd!] TD: Oh my goodness! Steve Manning... What the heck is happening out here!?! SR: That twisted, demonic lying little toad! Steve Manning is a fake cripple! [Dave D'Amato's hand slaps the mat a second time. Steve Manning leaps up onto the apron, lead pipe in hand, and dives into the ring! Dave D'Amato's hand hovers, descends, about to strike the mat for the third time... Manning lunges forward and cracks Macbeth across the head with the lead pipe, and the Scot jolts and rolls off the body of Quigley, just as D'Amato's hand hits the mat! An immense roar of disapproval rolls over the stadium, and Steve Manning, cackling evilly, rolls Chris Quigley's unconcious body across the equally unconcious Duncan Macbeth. D'Amato shakes his head in disappointment, but without the power to call for a DQ, has no option but to register the pinfall: 1 - 2 - 3! Ding! Ding! Ding!] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, as the result of a pinfall, here is your winner, and STILL the Intercontinental champion... "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley! [The chorus of jeers is so pronounced, and so many paper cups fly at the ring, that Sparkplug's face turns green with fear and he scurries back to his ringside seat as fast as he can.] SR: What a miscarriage of justice! I'm no stickler for the rules, but that was just plain sadism from Steve Manning! Damn that twisted little creep... and damn Steve Manning too! TD: I'm still speechless, Steve Roberts. I can't believe I saw Steve Manning walk... I can't believe he's been faking his handicap for all this time. What a sick, depraved individual this man is, and if Chris Quigley truly is a decent human being, he'll completely cut off his association with Steve Manning from this moment onwards! [Steve Manning is jumping up and down, cheering for joy and shouting out "It's a MIRACLE!" over and over again. The fans hurl insults and pelt him with trash, but he just laughs. Slowly, Chris Quigley stirs on the canvas, and clambers up to his feet. The referee presents him with the Intercontinental title, but he just looks completely dazed, not knowing what has just transpired. Suddenly he catches a glimpse of Steve Manning jumping up and down manically and waving his lead pipe around, and his his eyes open wide in abject shock! Quigley simply can't believe the sight in front of his eyes! Abruptly, all the noise in the stadium dies out, as every fan in attendance waits to see what will transpire...] TD: I don't approve of unsanctioned violence, but right now I think Chris Quigley would be perfectly justified in planting Steve Manning's ass through the mat! SR: I'm just praying an aircraft will fly overhead and napalm the both of them. [Rapidly, Quigley's expression of shock dissolves, and it is replaced with one of raging anger. He yells at Manning -- "I can't believe you, you goddamned psycho!" -- the words spat out with pure venom, and then simply shoulders past his former friend, climbing out of the ring and storming up the aisle. He slings the Intercontinental title over his shoulder as he goes, but pauses to regard the toppled wheel chair in the middle of the aisle, shaking his head grimly. Steve Manning looks extremely dissapointed, and runs after Quigley, but the champion quickly dissapears into the backstage area. Duncan Macbeth, having recovered, watches the drama play out dis-interestedly, his usually cheerful expression now completely crestfallen. He turns and heads back up the aisle, and although the fans give him a rousing cheer, his head remains bowed.] TD: What a disappointment this must be for Duncan Macbeth! This man should be holding the Intercontinental championship aloft in triumph right at this moment, but because of the callous machinations of Steve Manning, he will be going home empty handed. I for one, will certainly be campaigning to get this young man a rematch. [Cut back to the broadcast table.] SR: Unbelievable, Dross. Unbelievable. Nobody worked harder to put that damned Quigley away than Macbeth... and Manning has just completely screwed it all up. Totally screwed it up. I don't believe it, Dross. TD: I have a feeling that Chris Quigley will be more than happy to give Duncan Macbeth a rematch, Steve Roberts. A champion like Chris Quigley wouldn't want to claim forever that he was only able to beat Duncan Macbeth by having somebody clobber him over the head with a lead pipe. Shocking, shocking scenes here in the Coliseum, folks -- and it's only going to get more shocking as we head into the match between Lord Byron and Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven. SR: Aw, this is gonna be one hell of a beat-down, Dross. Byron should've stayed in retirement -- but as it is, he's gonna wind up re-retired... courtesy of a trip to the Slaughterhouse, baby dolls! TD: That remains to be seen, Steve Roberts. Let's get up to the ring for the introductions. ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|................................................... | || | \ v v / | __| EUROPEAN ALLIANCE COLLIDES: |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| Lord Byron vs. Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven ........................................................................ WRITER: SK [Sparkplug Lee climbs into the ring, taking a moment to survey the grand sweep of the packed Memorial Coliseum, and laughing at a group of youths at ringside who are clad in identical black T-shirts that read "I'M DOWN WITH L - E - E!".  Lee pulls the lineup card for the next match out of the pocket of his trademark powder blue tux with a flourish, and raises the ring mic as referee Chuck Sanders looks on.] SL: Ahem... ladies and gentlemen, the following match is scheduled for one fall, and will be contested by the former members of the European Alliance!  [Mixed heel pop from the crowd.]  Introducing first, hailing from Essen, Germany and weighing in at 340 pounds, he is known around the world as the "Teutonic Terror" and the "German Juggernaut". Accompanied by his valet, Nurse Heidi, here is OTTO "THE BUTCHER" VERHOEVEN! [The theme from John Carpenter's "Hallowe'en" is nearly drowned out by the deafening heel pop that erupts for the Butcher as he and Heidi appear at the entranceway to the aisle, the intense look on the face of Verhoeven projected onto the massive video screen over the tunnel entrance for all 100,000 fans to see.  Verhoeven and Heidi are flanked by a group of Memorial Coliseum security guards, headed up by the IIWF's own chief of security, Dennis "Griff" Griffing, who looks as incensed as Verhoeven after having to deal with the Butcher once already this evening.  The security guards try their best to keep Verhoeven and Heidi moving along towards the ring, despite the taunts and jeers of the aisleside fans, but Verhoeven stops for a moment to point menacingly at a young fan at ringside holding a makeshift sign that reads OTTO = FAT SOW, but the Butcher can only hurl a stream of German threats at the fan before he is shoved from behind by Griffing and herded down the remainder of the aisle by the guards.] TD: There is the Butcher himself, Otto Verhoeven, and he looks as if he is just barely in control of that burning rage he harbours for his opponent, Lord Byron.  You can bet that after the heinous attack perpetrated by Verhoeven on Byron just last week, and the previous attack on Byron and his ward, the Lady DeWinter, we're going to see a no-holds barred contest here tonight, Steve Roberts. SR: And that's just the way the Butcher wants it, baby dolls.  Otto's not just some dumb German cabbage farmer, you know -- he knows that Byron's at his best when he's wrestling ice-cold, and Otto's got the has-been so worked up now over his little girlfriend, he's gonna run right through the front doors of the Slaughterhouse.  It's gonna be carnage, Dross. TD: That may well be, Steve, but Verhoeven would be wise not to underestimate the vast technical capabilities of his opponent... hello, what's going on here? [Verhoeven and Heidi have climbed into the ring, and as the Butcher stands cross-armed in the middle of the ring, his face impassive and grim, Nurse Heidi, decked out in a form-fitting, gold evening gown and accompanying white fur coat, walks over to Sparkplug and roughly grabs the ring microphone out of his hand, motioning to the announcer to leave the ring!  Lee stands there for a moment in confusion, but one look at the imposing Verhoeven is all it takes to convince Lee to vacate the ring with all speed.  Heidi smirks as the heel heat rises around her, then raises the ring mic to her lips.] SR: Looks like Heidi wants to do the honours here, Dross.  That's quite an ensemble the little strudel's sporting tonight -- hell, it sure beats the hell out of that K-Mart tux Sparky dug out of the ten-dollar bin at the Sally Ann. NH: Ladiiiiiiiieeees and Gentlemeeeeen, children of aaaaaaaalll aaaaaageeeees!  Please velcome the opponent, and soon to be victim of the German Juggernaut, a deceiver and backstabber of epic proportions, a spineless, sniveling idiots who takes pride in hid meaningless heritage, ze most overrated technical vrestler in ze whole vorld, here is... "LYING" LORD BYRON! [The crowd erupts in another deafening heel pop as Heidi looks to Verhoeven, who is grinning broadly.] TD: Oh my. SR: This is gonna be Verhoeven's masterpiece, Dross.  The Butcher's been putting the screws to Byron for weeks now, and this little stunt's just gonna be one more whip in the eyes of His Losership.  He's leading Byron just like a bull to the abattoir. TD: To the what? SR: The abattoir, Dross.  It means "Slaughterhouse". TD: Well, it remains to be seen just how Byron will react to this affront.  Perhaps he'll see that this is just a tactic to put him off his game. [How Lord Byron reacts to this affront is suddenly apparent for the thousands of spectators in the Memorial Coliseum to see, and a mighty cheer rises from the crowd as Byron, his face twisted in an expression of pure hatred, bolts out of the tunnel and begins sprinting down the long aisle towards the ring, his brass-topped walking stick in hand! Heidi scampers out of the ring as Verhoeven begins rubbing his hands together in anticipation as the speeding Byron approaches the ring area!] TD: Lord Byron is in the arena, and he is _incensed_, Steve Roberts!  We seem to be on the verge of all-out war here at Ring Wars IV! SR: Come to Poppa, Byron!  The Slaughterhouse is waiting! [Chuck Sanders calls for the bell as Byron reaches the ring, tossing his cane over his shoulder and into the crowd, but he does not slow his pace as he is still speeding full-tilt towards the apron!  Verhoeven, who has been preparing himself for Byron's entrance, seems momentarily confused about Byron's hell-bent approach, which is all the time Byron needs to launch himself into the air, diving under the bottom rope and skidding across the mat, taking the legs out from underneath Verhoeven and sending the German toppling to the canvas!  Big pop!] TD: The Juggernaut is down! SR: What the hell is THIS?  C'mon, Otto, wake up in there! [Verhoeven springs to his feet, eyes flashing fire, but Byron is way ahead of him, and the former Intercontinental champion tags the Butcher right on the chin with a standing dropkick that rocks the German, but does not put him down!  Verhoeven drops to one knee, holding his jaw, as Byron picks himself up of the canvas and launches himself over the Butcher, grabbing his head as he flies over and snapping Verhoeven's head into the mat!  Huge pop from the crowd!  Verhoeven bellows out with rage, and rises to his feet like a bull elephant, but his anger blinds him to Byron's next approach, as he lines up the Butcher from behind and when he turns, drops him hard to the canvas again with a thundering clothesline!  Incredible pop!] TD: This capacity crowd here at the L.A. Memorial Coliseum is on its feet for Lord Byron, as he is really taking the fight to the "Teutonic Terror", Otto Verhoeven, Steve Roberts!  What an incredible offense the aristocrat is mounting against the big German! SR: Yeah, but how long is he gonna be able to keep this up, Dross? Byron can't keep this pace up for long, and as soon as he slows down, Otto's gonna take him. [As if reading Roberts' mind, Byron scrambles to his feet once more, and leaps at the prone form of Verhoeven, driving a sharp elbow into the side of the Butcher's left knee!  The crowd pops in approval as Verhoeven roars in pain, and Byron is quick to follow up the elbow strike with a series of step-over toe holds that leave the Butcher pounding the mat in frustration before Byron drops another elbow directly onto Verhoeven's left patella!] TD: Byron has now changed his tack after taking Verhoeven down in the early going, and is now working over that left knee of the Butcher in an attempt to weaken that powerful vertical base that Verhoeven relies upon for many of his power moves.  I must admit to being quite surprised at Byron's tenacity here, Steve Roberts, but what we are seeing here is a textbook approach to dealing with a larger, more powerful opponent, and as a result, Byron has dominated this bout right from the bell. SR: Yeah, but I really doubt that Otto read that book, Dross. [Byron quickly backs into the ropes to get some added momentum for another elbow strike, but Nurse Heidi grabs one of his boots from the outside!  Byron waves his arms to regain his balance, then turns to glare at the valet, sneering with derision as he points threateningly at the young woman, and he does not see the Butcher as he rises to his feet and lurches forward, driving a massive axehandle into the small of Byron's back!  Byron cries out in agony as he is bent almost backward into the ropes, tumbling on the rebound into the middle of the ring! Otto regains his footing, limping slightly from the work Byron did on his knee, but he does not seem to be hampered by the pain as he walks over to the prone Byron, curled up in pain, and leaps into the air, bringing his 340 pounds down across the lower spine of Byron with a crushing legdrop!  Heidi claps approvingly on the outside as the Butcher, his lips pulled back in a chilling grin now, as Verhoeven drops across the back of Byron and locks his beffy hands under Byron's chin, pulling him back into an agonising camel clutch!  Big heel pop!] TD: Byron is in real trouble now, Steve Roberts!  Otto Verhoeven has managed to turn this match around, and now he's got that camel clutch locked in tight!  Byron's going to have difficulty getting himself out of this one! SR: How's that feel, Your Lordship?  I told you, Dross -- all that technical genius don't mean squat to the Butcher.  It's kind of like trying to level a mountain with a hammer and chisel -- you can try, but you'll be dead of old age before you ever get finished.  The mountain's gonna win, every time. TD: Steve, you surprise me sometines.  That analogy had an almost Zen-like quality to it. SR: Learned that in Bangkok, baby dolls.  I met this sweet little piece of wa-wa who would whisper all this philosophical mumbo-jumbo stuff in my ear, but I never did absorb it all.  Too many distractions. TD: Distractions? SR: Yeah... the squeaky bed, the clanking of the handcuffs, the side effects of all that complimentary Sapporo you got if you rented the room for more than two hours... TD: Uh, let's concentrate on the match, shall we?  Verhoeven's bearing down hard with that camel clutch, and Byron appears to be faltering under the pressure... [Back in the ring, Verhoeven's brow is furrowed with the effort as he leans back as far as he is able, flexing his powerful arms as he attempts to pull Byron's head clean off his shoulders.  The Englishman is in obvious pain, his teeth clenched and his eyes squinted tightly shut.  Byron's arms flail about madly as he searches for a rope or anything within reach that he can use to break the hold, but finds nothing, and Verhoeven just bears down even harder to discourage any further attempts.  Chuck Sanders moves in to check for the submission, but Byron refuses, drawing a smile from the Butcher, who brings even more pressure to bear on Byron's head and neck!] TD: Byron's been in that hold now for an awfully long time, Steve Roberts.  This has got to be agony for him. SR: Otto's just getting started, Dross.  This is nothing. [Finally, Byron summons a surge of energy, and with a supreme effort, drives an elbow back into the soft tissue on the inside of Verhoeven's left knee!  The Butcher bellows out in surprise and pain, and his grip on the camel clutch loosens, prompting Byron to drive another elbow into the weakened knee of the Butcher!  Big pop!  Verhoeven lets go of the clutch and rolls to the side, clutching at his knee as Byron collapses to the canvas, freed from the clutch but still in considerable pain from the effects of the move.  Heidi begins pounding on the mat, pleading for Verhoeven to get up as Byron slowly rises to his knees, cheered on by the capacity crowd, and rubs at his sore neck before pulling himself up to his feet with the ropes!] TD: Byron is up!  Byron is on his feet! SR: Get up, Otto! [Byron leans in the corner as Verhoeven begins to pull himself up, still unsteady from the pain in his sore knee, and as he turns around to face the Englishman, Byron leaps at Verhoeven, twisting in the air, and catches the German in the side of the head with his spinning enzuigiri! Huge pop from the crowd!] TD: Byron hits the enzuigiri!  It could be all over right now, folks! SR: C'mon, Otto!  I got money on this match, man! [Byron falls on the downed Verhoeven for the pin as Chuck Sanders drops for the count - 1 - 2 - BIG kickout by Otto Verhoeven!  Shocked pop from the crowd!] TD: He kicked out!  Verhoeven kicked out! SR: Attaboy, Butcher!  They don't call him the Juggernaut for nothing, baby dolls! [Byron slaps the mat in frustration, but does not look all that surprised at the German's tenacity, as he rains in a flurry of blows to the back of Verhoeven's head, then leaps to his feet and begins grapevining Verhoeven's left leg, falling on top of the downed Butcher and cinching in a sleeperhold from behind!  The crowd goes wild as the capacity crowd recognises the all-too-familiar move!] TD: Aristoclutch!  Byron has Verhoeven in the Aristoclutch!  This match is over! SR: Hang on, Otto, HANG ON!  We're talking five grand here!  Don't blow it for me, baby! [Verhoeven struggles frantically against the hold, waving his arms and pounding the mat, but Byron is bringing all possible pressure to bear against the German's flailings, and the pain of the legbreaker combined with the mind-numbing effects of the sleeperhold begin to take their toll on the Butcher.  Verhoeven gasps for air and flinches with every squeeze of the Englishman's arms and legs, and Chuck Sanders drops to the mat in front of the two, this time to check Verhoeven for the submission.  The question seems to energize the Butcher, and he shakes his head violently, renewing his struggles against the hold, struggles which are quickly becoming weaker and weaker!] TD: Verhoeven is failing!  Byron's almost got him!  In just a few more moments, Otto Verhoeven will be unconscious, and Lord Byron will have won this match! SR: Not so fast, Dross!  Look! [Suddenly, Verhoeven's struggles seem to cease entirely, and his body goes limp in Byron's hands.  Byron seems to panic at this, and strains to apply as much pressure as he can on the Butcher, but Verhoeven just lies motionless, his arms splayed out loosely in front of him. Verhoeven makes a movement to the left with his head, rolls his right shoulder ever so slightly, makes another subtle motion that the camera can't quite pick up... and slips out of the sleeperhold!  Shocked pop!] TD: He got out!  Verhoeven has slipped out of the Aristoclutch! SR: Ha!  Told you, Dross!  Remember back at Birthday Bash, when Byron told Verhoeven how to get out of the Aristoclutch when Starks put it on him?  Well, the big German's got more in common with elephants than size and strength -- the Butcher never forgets, baby dolls! [Byron leaps at Verhoeven again in a desperate attempt to re-apply the sleeperhold, but Verhoeven is quicker, raising a thick elbow behind him and catching the Englishman right in the temple!  Byron rolls off of the German, stunned, as Verhoeven struggles to his feet and drops a huge fist to the side of Byron's head!  Heel pop!  Byron bounces on the canvas, clutching his head in pain, as the Butcher rises again, glares down at the Englishman, and scoops him up with a frightening burst of power, hefting him high over his head and slamming him to the mat with a devastating powerbomb!  Verhoeven raises his arms high over his head and lets loose with a triumphant bellow as Byron lies stunned at his feet! Huge heel pop!] TD: The almost legendary strength and endurance of Otto "The Butcher" Verhoeven has manifested itself once again here at Ring Wars IV, Steve Roberts!  Verhoeven has survived both the spinning enzuigiri and the Aristoclutch tonight, and now he has Lord Byron on the ropes!  SR: It's the beginning of the end for Byron, Dross.  Welcome to the Slaughterhouse, you washed-up ham-and-egger! [As Verhoeven picks up Byron roughly by the hair, drawing a cry of pain from the Englishman and a warning from Chuck Sanders, a pop rises from the crowd as at the far end of the long aisle, the Lady DeWinter appears and begins timidly making her way to the ring!  Nurse Heidi pauses from her encouragement of the Butcher and notices Byron's ward in the aisle, and swiftly moves to prevent her from entering the ring area.  DeWinter has a large, ugly purplish bruise on one side of her otherwise unblemished face, and her right arm is sporting  white plaster cast, held in place by a sling.  Heidi stands defiantly in the aisle, beckoning DeWinter to come on, but the injured Lady stops in her tracks, uncertain what to do.] TD: Here comes the Lady DeWinter!  I'm told that Lord Byron gave strict instructions forbidding her from coming to ringside for this match! What is she doing here? SR: Ain't that just like a woman, Dross... they just don't freakin' listen!  Byron just didn't want her there so she wouldn't have to watch the Butcher kick her boyfriend's tired ass all over the ring. TD: Well, whatever the reason, she could be in a lot of trouble coming down here now.  Verhoeven is completely dominating Byron now, and Lady DeWinter is certainly no match for Nurse Heidi.  Verhoeven has Byron in a facelock now... oh my goodness! [In the ring, Verhoeven cinches Byron with a reverse facelock, and the crowd gasps as the 340 pound Butcher leaps into the air, driving Byron's head into the mat with a vicious jumping DDT!   Heel pop!  Verhoeven goes for the cover, arrogantly placing one hand on the heaving chest of the near-unconscious Byron, and Sanders drops for the count - 1 - 2 - Verhoeven pulls Byron up!  Deafening heel pop!] SR: YES!  YES!  Give him some more, Otto!  This is great! TD: This is atrocious, Steve Roberts!  Verhoeven almost certainly could have won the match right there, but he seems intent on seriously injuring Byron, not just defeating him!  SR: He was warned, Dross, and now he's gonna pay the price!  This is what the people want to see, man!  Impeach Spreadbury!  Janois for President!  Pass the biscuits, baby dolls! [Lady DeWinter clutches the steel barricade, still under the watchful eye of Nurse Heidi, and can only look on in horror as Verhoeven reaches down to the stunned Byron, and with a powerful jerk, pulls the Englishman to his feet, pulls him nose to nose with him, and as the crowd catches its collective breath, _spits_ directly into Byron's face! An ear-splitting heel pop howls from the crowd as the video monitors show a close-up of Byron's face, his eyes half-open, spittle running down his nose and cheekbones as the Butcher leers manaically at him!] TD: Oh my goodness!  What a despicable act! SR: Don't worry, Dross... it's all gonna be over soon.  Here comes a Slaughterslam! [A groan rises from the crowd as the Butcher, with an incredible display of his awesome power, hoists the defenseless Byron into the air by the throat, then snatches him down and slams him across his knee as he plants his foot into the mat!  DeWinter turns away as an audible rush of air escapes from Byron's mouth as he lies across the bent knee of the Butcher, his arms outstretched in a crucifix position, the Butcher staring impassively at his foe, his meaty hand still wrapped around the throat of the Englishman.] TD: It appears to be all over for Byron now... but wait --  Verhoeven's not going for the pin!  Verhoeven is kneeling in the middle of the ring, with Byron still across his knee after that Slaughterslam, and the Butcher still has not pinned him! SR: It's never quitting time in the Slaughterhouse, Dross!  Otto's not finished yet! [Verhoeven seems to be almost studying Byron, regarding him much like a scientist would an insect on a pin, and long moments pass before Verhoeven finally stands, pulls Byron to his feet once more, and...] SR: TWO Slaughterslams!  He did it again!  Byron gets the double whammy! TD: This is absolutely outrageous, Steve Roberts!  Something has got to be done -- Byron could be risking everything here!  Come on, Sanders, get in there! SR: What's he gonna do, Dross, tell Otto to play nicer?  Screw that -- we want blood!  Dare we hope for three? [Chuck Sanders is indeed making his displeasure known to Verhoeven, but the Butcher just waves him off, as once again, he reaches down and clutches Byron one more time around the throat.  Byron is showing no signs of consciousness now, and his head lolls to one side as the Butcher just holds him there in the centre of the ring for long seconds, as the heel heat rises to fever pitch throughout he Memorial Coliseum. Verhoeven's eyes are locked on Byron, perhaps searching for some flash of lucidity, some last-ditch attempt by Byron to escape his clutches, but none comes.  The German's brow furrows, his head nods ever so slightly, as if acknowledging his former partner's utter helplessness, and then his mouth twists into a ghoulish grin, as one more time, he gathers his power and heaves the Englishman high into the air, and this time, holds him up for a second over his head!  The crowd goes still as Verhoeven slams Byron into his outstretched knee for the third time, and this time, places a foot on the chest of Byron as he stares into the ringside camera, his grim visage projected for all 100,00 spectators in the Coliseum to see as Chuck Sanders counts the fall - 1 - 2 - 3!  Ding! Ding! Ding!] SR: Whooo-hoo!  Easiest five grand I ever made! TD: Thank goodness!  At last this horrible match is over!  I simply cannot believe the extent of these atrocities committed by Otto "The Butcher" Verhoeven here tonight, Steve Roberts! SR: I don't know, Dross.  If you ask me, I'd say Byron got off lucky. SL: Here is your winner, as a result of a pinfall... OTTO "THE BUTCHER" VERHOEVEN! ["Hallowe'en" blares forth from the P.A. as the Butcher once again raises his arms in victory, turning round in place for all the crowd to see, as the heel pop intensifies and threatens to drown out the music. Heidi climbs into the ring and runs over to embrace Verhoeven, then raises one of his massive arms as the two stand over the unconscious, motionless form of Lord Byron.  Outside the ring, Lady DeWinter starts to creep towards the ring, clutching at the cast on her right arm, unseen by Verhoeven and Heidi.] TD: Oh my goodness!  Lady DeWinter has just climbed into the ring! She'd better be very careful... look at that, Steve! SR: She's taken off the cast!  Oh man... sweets, this is _not_ a good idea... [As Verhoeven and Heidi continue to play up to the crowd, DeWinter slips off the fake cast around her arm, and slams it with all her might into the back of Verhoeven's head!  The crowd pops wildly, but their cheers turn into a horrified silence as Verhoeven just turns slowly, completely unaffected by the attack, and DeWinter begins to back away in fright as Verhoeven's stare threatens to burn a hole right through her! TD: Get out of there, Lady! SR: Too late, Dross!  There's always room for more in the Slaughterhouse, and DeWinter looks to be the next tenant!  Whoo-hoo! [DeWinter suddenly bolts for the ropes, but she is cut off by Heidi, who grabs her by the hair and pulls her into the centre of the ring!  As Verhoeven looks on, laughing, the stronger, bigger Heidi yanks DeWinter up and slaps her around the face as the terrified DeWinter holds her arms up in a feeble attempt to ward off the blows.  Finally, Heidi pulls DeWinter down by the hair, jams her head between her legs, and hoists DeWinter up into a piledriver position, and holds her there!  Huge heel pop!] TD: Oh no, this is terrible!  Where's the security?  Lady DeWinter could be seriously hurt here! SR: She was told not to come, Dross, and this is precisely why!  I don't feel any sympathy for the dizzy broad whatsoever!  Give it to her, Heidi! TD: Wait... what're they doing?  Oh no... [Heidi, still holding DeWinter up, says something in German to Verhoeven, who nods and moves to the corner, climbing up onto the second turnbuckle.  On Heidi's signal, Verhoeven leaps off, grabbing DeWinter's legs and pushing down with all his strength and inertia as Heidi drops to her knees, driving DeWinter's head into the mat! TD: Spike piledriver!  Otto Verhoeven and Nurse Heidi have laid out Lady DeWinter with that move!  Why isn't somebody coming down here to stop this?  This is absolutely unbelievable! SR: This is great! [Verhoeven and Heidi look down laughing at the unconscious forms of DeWinter and Byron as the heel heat raging throughout the Coliseum boils over, then step through the ropes and make their way up the aisle towards the tunnel at the end of the Memorial Coliseum as and EMT crew speeds down the aisle towards the ring.  The medics storm into the ring, examining the two stricken individuals, and one of the medics motions to the remaining crewmen on the floor for the stretcherboards.] TD: I simply cannot believe the events that have transpired in this match, Steve Roberts!  Lord Byron, in his return match to the IIWF, has been decisively and brutally beaten by Otto "The Butcher" Verhoeven, and may have sustained serious injuries to his neck and back, and his ward, the Lady DeWinter, was the victim of yet _another_ heinous assault at the hands of the Butcher and his valet, Nurse Heidi, and may have been seriously injured herself!  SR: They both brought it on themselves, Dross.  Byron should have stayed retired -- he gets beaten by Creed and Verhoeven in the same night, he does nothing for months, and he thinks he's just going to walk into Ring Wars against the Butcher, and it's gonna be easy?  Forget about it, has-been.  TD: You can bet that this is not the end of this, ladies and gentlemen! Not by a long shot!  There will _have_ to be a reckoning for this evening's actions! SR: Well, if Byron's smart, Dross, he'll forget about reckoning.  He should just check himself out of the hospital in a few weeks, take his dim-witted bimbo, and disappear.  Forever.  Or the Butcher just might do it for him. [Byron and DeWinter are both stretchered out of the ring and loaded on a pair of gurneys.  Both Byron and DeWinter have been fitted with horse collars to support their necks, and neither has regained consciousness. The EMT  crew slowly wheels the two up the long aisle and out of the Coliseum as the crowd of 100,000 strong looks on in stunned silence.] TD: I simply cannot believe what we have seen here, people. It certainly has been a night of shocks -- the return of Deathbringer, the return of the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi, Creed losing an eye in that brutal, brutal barbed wire match, Steve Manning sprinting down the aisle... and now Lord Byron and the Lady DeWinter have had to be wheeled out of here on stretchers. What a night, folks. What a night. SR: And it's only gonna get better, Dross! One more match, Dross... and it's one I've been looking forward to for the longest time. TD: Indeed -- just the main event remains tonight, folks. It's cowboy vs. cowboy... and it's coming up right now! [Cut to a pre-prepared video package, accompanied by the funky beats of Sting's "Jeremiah Blues (Pt. 1)". Brody Thunder clobbers Casey James and Tiger Claw with his newly-won IIWF World Championship belt, and then drops the "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin with a Cattle Buster DDT. The footage freezes as Sting sings:] # Everybody wants to look the other way / When something wicked this way comes... # [As the music continues, cut to highlights of the rivalry between Thunder and Hardin since October 4: Hardin's systematic dismantling of the Phoenix; Thunder pinning "To Excess" Rick Williams; Hardin and Thunder staring each other down; Thunder being confronted during an interview by Hardin in the aisle; the two men brawling at the conclusion of Thunder's successful title defence against Requiem. Cut to short snippets of interviews given by the two men over the past several weeks:] BT: Two men will walk inta history. One legend will walk out. [Flash.] JWH: Ya know what makes a legend in this sport, Thunder?  Just one second. But it's the longest second of yer damn life. [Flash.] BT: I only made two mistakes, hoss. One was ever trustin' _you_. An' two was not finishin' the job when I had the chance. Rest assured, ol' friend... I won't make them again. [Flash.] JWH: During that longest second of yer life, yer gonna be asking yerself whether or not Brody Thunder is a legend.  But all yer gonna hear as the ref slaps the mat a third time is... my voice with the answer. [Flash.] BT: Ya wanna think yer better'n me... go right ahead. But when ya start sayin' [BLEEP] like because I supposedly worry 'bout providin' fer my family as an attempt ta gain some "edge"... well, believe me when I tell ya, friend... I got _no_ such worries 'bout endin' yer career. [Flash.] JWH: Spreadbury gets his pocket lined with pesos. You get to keep yer shiny lil' trophy. An' I got free rein to kick yer ass. [Flash.] BT: It's gonna be like no other fight you have _ever_ had. Bell ta bell an' straight through Hell. [Flash.] JWH: There ain't a thing in this world more dangerous than a man who's got nothin' to lose.  [Flash.] BT: Yer wrong, John.  The most dangerous man... is the man who's got everythin' ta _lose_. [The package fades from the screen, mixing back through to live footage. The shot pans over the sea of fans on the bleachers constructed over the floor of the Coliseum, stretching as far as the eye can see, and then raking upwards on the curved sides of the stadium bowl, signs, camera flashes and costumes on every side. The camera pans up to the now mostly cloudless evening sky, the IIWF blimp hovering overhead with its spotlight swinging from side to side, causing the occasional lens flare on the camera below. Cut to an aerial shot from the camera mounted on the blimp, showing the bright lighting surrounding the ring area and lighting rig as a pool of brightness in the centre of the field.] TD: Well, Steve Roberts, the skies have cleared -- the evening air temperature is a balmy seventy-two degrees... and we are ready for our main event here tonight. SR: Whoo-hoo! It's cowboy vs. cowboy, Dross! [Cut to footage from a camera in the backstage area, just behind the entrance curtain.] TD: This is where the two competitors in our next match will stand in just a few moments, Steve Roberts. This is where Brody Thunder and J.W. Hardin will collect their thoughts, focus their minds... and take a deep, deep breath before stepping out in front of this huge, record-breaking crowd. We may have seen that brutal barbed wire match, that chaotic cage match -- but there is simply no comparison here, Steve Roberts. The intensity between these two former allies, these two great champions, one past and one present, needs no special stipulations. The ring is their battlefield -- a single, no-frills match is the terms of their engagement. SR: Always with the flowery language, Dross. Always the big sell. Let's put this simply: this is the match of the year, no question. [Cut out to ringside, the camera tracing a route around the ringside area, the fans in the front rows clamouring to get in shot and waving banners and signs, some sporting cowboy hats and the odd adult fan even smoking the occasional stogie -- at least until the security staff ask them to put them out. Finally, cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: These fans are ready for this big finale to the evening's action, Steve Roberts -- and I believe we are ready to go down to the ring! ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|................................................... | || | \ v v / | __| [MAIN EVENT] NON-TITLE GRUDGE MATCH: |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder vs. "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin ........................................................................ WRITER: DS [Cut to the ring, illuminated by the overhead spotlights, one filter casting the IIWF logo down in the centre of the canvas, the spinning logo playing over the face of Sparkplug Lee as he enters the ring once more. The fans are already stirring, the opposing chants of "Hardin! Hardin!" and "Thunder! Thunder!" beginning to build in volume.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen... the following contest a non-title bout scheduled for one fall... and it is your _MAIN EVENT_ for Ring Wars IV! [Huge pop! Cut to a shot from one of the raised sides of the bowl, the camera progressing down the steps towards the stadium floor, the dark sea of fans spreading out before it, with the pool of light which represents the distant ring in the centre of the frame. High above the ring, one of the four fifty-foot matrix video walls relays Sparkplug's introductions to the fans.] RA: Introducing first... [The theme to "High Plains Drifter" kicks in over the PA. Huge, huge pop!] TD: Oh my! I can barely hear myself think, Steve Roberts! SR: What did you say, Dross? [Sparkplug Lee continues his introduction, straining to be heard:] RA: ...he hails from the town too tough to die, Tombstone, Arizona... he weighs in at 267lbs... and he is the current IIWF World Heavyweight Champion. Here is... the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder! [Cut backstage to a shot from the camera poised behind the curtain. The shot swings to a corridor leading from the locker rooms, and the form of Brody Thunder can be seen approaching, flanked by a pair of officials. Thunder is wearing his traditional ring attire -- his black stetson pulled down over his eyes, casting shadows over his stubbly chin, a lit cigar hanging from his mouth, a well-worn leather vest that looks as if it has simply been thrown on at the last moment, over a black t-shirt emblazoned with red lettering reading "LEGEND KILLER", his wrists wrapped in alternating red and black tape, and his right elbow covered by his infamous elbow pad. He carries the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship belt loosely in his right hand, the leather and gold dangling by his side as he walks towards the camera.] TD: Here he is, Steve Roberts. Without a doubt, this is the biggest night of Brody Thunder's career. [Thunder's music and the cheers of the fans can faintly be heard as Thunder finally approaches the entrance curtain. He pauses, and seems to draw one last deep breath -- before throwing the curtain aside and stepping out into the aisle. The camera follows, looking over his shoulder, as the huge arena unfolds before the IIWF Champion's eyes. There, well over a hundred yards away, is the ring in which he will battle Hardin -- and as far as the eye can see, fans on every side, the empty aisle leading to the ring like the bed of the Red Sea, the pressure of fans clamouring over the barriers to the left and to the right threatening to engulf Thunder.] TD: Imagine what must be going through the mind of the IIWF Champion as he makes this walk to the ring, Steve Roberts -- as he makes this walk to face the man he has variously called his friend, his teacher... and now his sworn enemy. [Thunder seems to ignore the cheers of the fans as he makes his steady progress down the aisle, smoke curling into the evening air as he chomps on his cigar. Without so much as a glance at the fans, Thunder heads up the ringsteps, climbs inbetween the ropes, and enters the ring, tossing his belt to the mat as if it were an empty beer can. Thunder removes his hat, revealing his steely blue eyes. He shrugs off his leather vest and removes his t-shirt, exposing his upper body, his gaze fixed on the head of the aisle.] TD: The intensity is almost tangible here, Steve Roberts. There's so much more at stake in this match than titles or pride... this is going to be one for the ages, folks. [The strains of "High Plains Drifter" fade from the PA, and the crowd falls hushed as the lights above the ring turn from the ring and point into the sky, their brightness replaced by a deep crimson which illuminates not only the ring, but the long aisleway and the entrance from the locker rooms. Sparkplug Lee continues his introductions:] RA: And his opponent... [Suddenly, the voice of the "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin booms out over the PA system, piercing the relative hush of the expectant fans:] JWH: A man ain't allowed many mistakes in life.  This bullet's got yer name on it, Thunder. [Rather than "Outlaw Blues", Dire Strait's "Brothers in Arms" begins to play, the bleak guitar solo bringing a very subdued atmosphere over the fans in the Coliseum.] TD: Whoa... can you feel that, Steve Roberts? SR: Get your damned hand off my leg, Dross! TD: My hand is nowhere near your leg, Steve Roberts -- I'm talking about this atmosphere. Every one of these one hundred thousand plus people is expecting something very special here, folks... [Sparkplug Lee continues his introductions:] RA: ...hailing from Dry Gulch, Texas, and weighing in at an even 350lbs, here is... the "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin! [The song continues to echo wistfully over the capacity crowd, some of the fans even holding cigarette lighters above their heads. A wide-angle shot of the arena shows the form of Thunder standing impassively in the ring, bathed in red light, while all around the ring dance little sparkles of light, punctuated by the occasional flashes of cameras. As Mark Knopfler sings:  "We are fools to make war on our brothers in arms...", Hardin steps into the red spotlight wearing his hat, black cowboy boots and jeans. The heel pop almost sounds apologetic at first, as if the fans' reaction is somehow sacreligious -- but soon it grows in intensity, becoming almost deafening as Hardin begins his walk to the ring, his gaze unwaveringly directed at Brody Thunder.] TD: Here he comes, Steve Roberts. Here comes John Wesley Hardin IV, the meanest hombre ever to walk the face of the earth -- but a man who felt it all slipping away from him just a few short weeks ago when he was betrayed by Brody Thunder. SR: Nobody betrays the Outlaw, Dross. Nobody. You dig? TD: Absolutely, Steve Roberts. Unfortunately for Mr. Hardin, Brody Thunder doesn't agree -- and his infamous triple-cross on Steve "the Fury" Kowalski and the combined forces of the new Syndicate will go down in IIWF history, that much is certain. SR: Yeah? Well, Thunder's fifteen minutes of fame end tonight, Dross. After Hardin's through with him tonight, Thunder's just gonna be another footnote in the Outlaw's history book. TD: I don't know about that, Steve Roberts. Both of these men have a tremendous desire -- each man needs to be recognised by the other as the superior athlete, as the more cunning and dangerous man. [Hardin continues the long walk to the ring, illuminated all the way by the deep red spotlights, as camera flashes explode on all sides, the fans continuing to jeer the huge Outlaw as he makes his way to ringside. Like Thunder, he climbs the ringsteps without so much as a glance at the fans, entering the ring and immediately stepping up close to Thunder, removing his hat and staring the "Lone Wolf" dead in the eye.] TD: Both of these men are all business here tonight, Steve Roberts. But just look at the difference in size between these two cowboys. Hardin outweighs Thunder by more than eighty pounds, and towers over him by some eight inches. SR: Hardin's the bigger man in every sense, Dross. No question about it. [Thunder mutters something to Hardin that the cameras don't pick up, and then grasps at his elbowpad, tearing it from his arm, holding it up before Hardin -- and then tossing it aside.] TD: A symbolic gesture here from Brody Thunder. That elbowpad has been the source of much controversy -- many have speculated that it is loaded, which is why his forearms and clotheslines have such devastating effect... but here, Thunder is removing that pad, as if to say, "This is on the level... this is just you and me." SR: Each man challenged the other to leave the toys at home, Dross. Looks like these two men want this to be the fairest fight possible. [Hardin remains stony-faced as official Earl Alfonso scoops up Thunder's elbowpad and tosses it out of the ring to a ringside attendant. Finally, "Brothers in Arms" fades from the PA system and the lights rise once more, the crowd again falling hushed, as if straining to hear what Alfonso is saying to each athlete as he steps closer to them.] TD: IIWF head referee Earl Alfonso is going to have a hard time in this match, Steve Roberts. I believe he's trying to lay down the law early on, and tell each of these men that he won't tolerate any chicanery. SR: Give me a break, Dross. If I have to give Thunder any credit at all, it's that he's a smart competitor. He knows what he's doing in there, Dross, and he knows how to play these matches. Hardin -- he's the master of the cheap shot, the low tactic... these two guys are gonna redefine "chicanery" in this match, make no mistake about it, baby dolls. [Alfonso appears satisfied that his message has been received loud and clear, despite the fact that neither Hardin nor Thunder have taken their eyes off the other throughout his little speech. Alfonso steps away from the two athletes -- and signals for the bell! The crowd explode into a frenzy of cheering and chanting as the bell echoes into the night air: Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: We're underway, Steve Roberts -- what kind of a match are we going to see here? [Thunder and Hardin continue to stare at one another, their intense staredown not broken by the ringing of the bell. Finally, Thunder makes a move, raising his arms to Hardin for a collar and elbow tie-up, still not removing his gaze from the Outlaw's. Thunder's eyes have a glint in them as he stands poised before Hardin, apparently trying to gauge his likely reaction. Hardin also raises his arms slowly, keeping his eyes on Thunder at all time.] TD: Look at these two men, Steve Roberts -- they each seem to be daring the other to make the first move, to set the pace of the match. [Just as their fingers are about to lock, both Thunder and Hardin suddenly pull away from one another. Both men crack a smirk, clearly thinking that they both know the other's style too well and know what to expect. Thunder nods, and raises his arms again. Hardin does likewise -- and this time they lock up! Big pop from the crowd as the two athletes vie for position in the centre of the ring... and almost immediately, Hardin's superior strength gives him the advantage, switching Thunder into a side headlock. Thunder slaps Hardin's back, pushing him into the ropes -- and as Hardin rebounds, Thunder ducks under the huge Outlaw, his 267lbs frame considerably more nimble than that of Hardin. Thunder pops back up -- only to receive a thumb to the eye from Hardin, who had put on the brakes! Big heel pop! Thunder winces with the pain and staggers backwards -- but fires straight back at Hardin with a fist to the gut! Within moments, a huge fist fight has erupted in the centre of the ring, amidst a cacophony of chants -- "Thunder! Thunder!" competing against "Hardin! Hardin!" -- and camera flashes.] TD: Oh my! We might have seen a scientific bout here, Steve Roberts, but it looks like this one is going to be a _war_! SR: I wouldn't expect anything less, baby dolls! This is gonna be great! Slug him, Hardin! [Hardin does indeed have the early upper hand, blocking Thunder's shots, and blasting him with two, three, four right hand shots, forcing Thunder into a corner. Hardin sizes Thunder up -- and connects with a hard European uppercut, his forearm snapping the IIWF Champion's head back! Big heel pop as Hardin performs the uppercut again... and again... and again!] TD: Hardin's strategy is clear right from the outset, Steve Roberts -- he's weakening Thunder's neck for the Cattle Buster DDT. SR: Just the beginning of the end, Dross. The opening bell was just the beginning of the end for Thunder. [Thunder raises a boot sharply between Hardin's legs, staggering the big man -- and then hops up to the middle turnbuckle, before... launching himself with a flying inverted bulldog, bringing Hardin down hard on the back of his head, wrenching his neck and further knocking the wind out of him! Huge pop!] TD: Oh my! What a move from Thunder -- a kind of flying inverted neckbreaker, if you will. What a move! But Thunder doesn't make the cover -- and Hardin is rolling to the outside! SR: Come on, Outlaw baby... regroup for the Soundbite! [Hardin rolls to the arena floor, groggily clutching at the back of his head, the base of his skull having hit the mat with tremendous impact just moments previously. Despite the protestations of Alfonso, Thunder steps out onto the ring apron through the ropes -- and kicks Hardin in the back of the head! Hardin lurches forwards, but does not go down! Big heel pop as Hardin wheels around and grabs Thunder's legs, yanking on them and bringing Thunder down off the apron in a most undignified manner, Thunder also cracking his head on the apron as he tumbles to the arena floor! Huge heel pop!] TD: Oh, this is getting ugly early here, Steve Roberts. Both men are targetting their opponent's head -- this is going to get real ugly in a hurry. [Hardin pauses to collect his thoughts, and then begins blasting boots into the torso of the felled Thunder, who is momentarily stunned and unable to defend himself. In the ring, Alfonso has begun to count out both men, his count reaching three. Hardin drags Thunder back up to his feet -- and whips him the length of the ringside area, sending the IIWF Champion crashing into the steel crowd barriers at the opposite end of the enclosure with tremendous force, dislodging them and sending the front row fans scattering.] TD: Oh my! It's proving to be an occupational hazard to be a front row fan at an IIWF event, Steve Roberts. Earlier, we saw Serge Annis, wrapped in barbed wire, tumble out into the fans... and now Thunder has dislodged that barrier... dislodged that barrier with his _head_, Steve Roberts! SR: Split it like a ripe coconut, Jay Dub! Whoo-hoo! [Earl Alfonso climbs down from the ring to step between the prone Thunder and the advancing Hardin, who simply palms the official's face in his huge right hand -- and shoves him to the floor! Huge heel pop as Alfonso goes down, himself colliding heavily with the steel crowd barriers.] TD: Referee down! Not even five minutes into this match, and the referee is down! SR: Who needs a referee, Dross? This match isn't about pinfalls or submissions -- it's about revenge. It's about pride. And it's about maple syrup. TD: Maple syrup?! SR: Know what's good, Dross? Maple syrup. An essential part of the breakfast of champions... pancakes, waffles, maple syrup... all served on the stomach of a naked blonde. TD: Please, Steve Roberts. Let's get back to this match -- let's get back to this match as the fans... the fans are simply yelling at the tops of their lungs, Steve Roberts. J.W. Hardin drags Thunder to his feet -- and clotheslines him over the barriers and into the bleachers! Oh my! [Security staff quickly move to usher fans out of the way as Thunder topples backwards over the barrier and lands in the front row of seats, sending chairs scattering. Hardin, meanwhile, simply steps over the barrier, fans behind him yelling abuse to which the "Outlaw" pays absolutely no attention. He goes to drag Thunder to his feet once more -- and Thunder nails him with a right hand! Thunder nails Hardin with a right hand... and then another! Huge pop! Hardin and Thunder are slugging it out in the front row of the stands... Thunder staggers the huge "Outlaw" with a swinging fist to the jaw, and then grabs one of the many dislodged chairs... swinging the chair -- and smashing it down over Hardin's head! Hardin crumples to the floor, sending fans behind him scattering, as Thunder admires the head-shaped dent in the chair, which he then tosses aside.] TD: This is brutal, brutal stuff, Steve Roberts. Thunder now -- heaven knows how he's even still on his feet after those blows to the head, he's bleeding from a cut on the back of his head... but Thunder is up, and he is _stomping_ Hardin into the floor of the Coliseum! [A semi-circle of fans has now formed around Hardin and Thunder, the Champion stomping on Hardin's torso in the small clearing their brawl has made, chairs scattered all around. Thunder goes to stomp on Hardin again -- and Hardin grabs Thunder's foot! The "Outlaw" yanks Thunder's legs out from under him, and the Tombstone native goes down hard, his head hitting the mess of chairs strewn behind him. Hardin, jeered by the fans who surround him, drags himself to his feet, and runs his hands over his torso, as if trying to determine whether he has suffered any broken bones. He looks down at Thunder, lying amidst a pile of chairs before him, and then begins tossing chairs away from the "Lone Wolf"... except for one.] TD: What's Hardin doing now, Steve Roberts? What is he doing? He's got a chair -- he's putting the folding chair over Thunder's head! SR: Thunder's wearing a deadly necklace right about now, baby dolls! [Hardin places the unfolded but slightly mangled chair around Thunder's neck -- and then closes it! Or rather, he attempts to close it, trying to fold it up -- and squashing Thunder's neck in the process! Hardin tries to slam the chair shut once... twice... three times! Finally, Hardin relents, allowing Thunder to slump back to the floor, the chair still wrapped around his head.] TD: Oh, this is bad, Steve Roberts. Hardin may have broken Thunder's neck right there! Thunder is bust open on the back of his head -- and he has that chair around his neck... this is bad. SR: No, Dross -- this is great! [Hardin turns his attention to the dislodged steel crowd barrier, trying to free it at both ends so that he is able to -- to pull it down, covering Thunder! Thunder is prone, chair still around his neck... under the up-ended steel crowd barrier!] TD: Oh my. We've seen this before, Steve Roberts. We saw this two weeks ago when Hardin had Duncan Macbeth under that steel crowd barrier, and hit him with that elbowdrop off the ring apron. What's Hardin going to do now? [Hardin steps out of the stands once more, back onto the matting of the ringside enclosure. He climbs the ringsteps, his back to Thunder -- and launches himself backwards with a sort of self-imposed back suplex! Hardin launches himself, back first, at the crowd barrier which covers Thunder some six or eight feet away... cameras flash as the 350lbs "Outlaw" launches himself through the air... and Thunder manages to force the barrier up with his powerful legs! Thunder manages to deflect the impact of Hardin's full body weight somewhat with his legs, Hardin crashing hard into the barrier earlier than he expected -- and hitting the back of his own head in the process! Huge pop! However, the barrier crumples down once more, Hardin on top of it, and Thunder still underneath.] TD: That could end this thing right there, Steve Roberts! Hardin -- Hardin is out, and Thunder is trapped under that barrier, that chair still wrapped around his head. This is just horrible. SR: It ain't over 'til the Lone Wolf's head has been Cattle Busted back to Texas, Dross. Hardin's got more fight in him than that, Dross. [Indeed, as the conflicting chants of, "Hardin! Hardin!" and "Thunder! Thunder" once again begin to resound around the darkening Coliseum, Hardin begins to stir, rolling himself off the crowd barrier, and then rolling his neck, determining that he can still move. As Hardin slumps back to the matting at ringside, still too hurt to drag himself back to his feet, the felled crowd barrier is shoved aside by a gnarled hand, and Brody Thunder emerges from underneath, his nose bloodied, his right ear also bleeding from the lobe where the chair has torn at his flesh. Thunder extricates himself from the chair, tossing it aside, and licks his lips, moistened by the blood running from his nose. He flinches as he puts a finger to his ear, and examines it, seeing the crimson of blood.] TD: Thunder may have lost part of his ear in there, Steve Roberts! SR: He should think himself lucky, Dross. At least Hardin didn't bite it off him. [The battered IIWF champion crawls from the wreckage of what was formerly the front row of the stands, and drags himself to his feet. The crowd give a huge, huge pop as they see Thunder back to his vertical base! Meanwhile, a second official makes his way almost unnoticed down the aisle.] TD: Can you believe this, Steve Roberts? Can you believe that either of these two men can stand after the punishment they've inflicted in this match? SR: What I can't believe, Dross, is that the Outlaw's not up first! Come on, Hardin! [Thunder appears to echo those very sentiments, snarling, "Get yer ass up, 'legend'!" at his groggy foe, before putting the boots into Hardin. Hardin rolls over onto his back so that he can look Thunder in the eye, and grits his teeth, levering himself into a kneeling position with his arms -- and is hit by a hard punch from Thunder! Hardin rolls with the punch -- and is hit by a second. Hardin turns his face back to Thunder, and then grins as he rams a fist into Thunder's groin! Huge heel pop! Hardin brings himself back to his feet as Thunder staggers backwards in pain, the "Outlaw" grabbing the "Lone Wolf" and attempting to Irish whip him along a second side of the ring, towards the opposite ring post. Hardin swings Thunder around -- but the IIWF Champion is able to reverse the momentum, sending Hardin for the ride... and Hardin hits the ringpost hard, his left shoulder colliding heavily with the steel! Hardin drops to his knees, clutching his shoulder, unaware that Thunder is charging him from behind -- huge shocked pop!] TD: Oh my... oh, this match has to stop, Steve Roberts! Brody Thunder just hit J.W. Hardin with a dropkick to the back of the head -- and Hardin's head just hit that steel barrier with one heck of a thud. SR: Holy smoke, Dross. This is rough stuff, baby dolls. TD: Just look at these two men, Steve Roberts. Thunder is bleeding from three separate wounds on his head -- Hardin may just have sustained a separated shoulder with that collision with the ringpost, and... oh... oh, that is just ugly. That is just ugly, Steve Roberts. [Thunder rolls Hardin over, and it is immediately apparent that Hardin's forehead has been split with a nasty gash from his head's collision with the steel crowd barrier. The blood flows freely into Hardin's eyes, and the "Outlaw" is forced to blink away the crimson tide, his eyelashes becoming matted with his own blood as his vision swims murkily before him. The shrieks of some front row fans, already traumatised by the graphic violence of the barbed wire match earlier in the night, are picked up by nearby camera microphones as Thunder drags Hardin back to his feet. Thunder growls, "Now we're even, John." at Hardin, who appears light-headed from the blows to his head. Thunder roughly rolls Hardin back into the ring, smearing the "Outlaw"'s blood on the canvas. The "Lone Wolf" follows Hardin back into the ring, the fans cheering him on.] TD: This match -- if you can call it that -- this match is back in the squared circle, Steve Roberts. What brutality we are seeing from these two competitors. [Substitute official, Joey Patrick, leaves the side of the injured Earl Alfonso, and enters the ring, where Thunder drags Hardin to a sitting position, applying an armbar and yanking on the hold with as much power as he can muster. The pair make a macabre sight in the ring, Hardin's face still running with blood, the "Outlaw" blinking through a crimson mask, while Thunder's wounds also continue to bleed, his ear only now beginning to clot as a red mess. The fans continue to chant the names of both men as Thunder continues to keep the hold applied. Joey Patrick checks Hardin for the submission, but the "Outlaw" grimaces and shakes his head.] TD: Thunder keeping that armbar locked on, Steve Roberts. He's trying to weaken Hardin's arm and shoulder -- I would guess that it's a ploy to try and reduce the effectiveness of the Cattle Buster DDT. SR: Gonna take more than an armbar, Thunder. Gonna take more than you got, champ. [As the crowd continues to chant the names of the two competitors, Hardin finally grits his teeth and begins to fight to his knees! The crowd begin to stomp their feet and cheer ever louder as Hardin forces himself to his feet -- he reaches up, grabs the back of Thunder's head -- and then drops straight back down into a sitting position, executing a devastating jawbreaker on the cowboy! Huge heel pop as Hardin slowly rolls to his knees once more, while Thunder clutches at his throat on the canvas!] TD: Oh my! Hardin with a huge jawbreaker -- and Thunder is once again in big, big trouble. His neck surely can't take much more of this punishment, Steve Roberts. SR: Softening him up, baby dolls. [Hardin drags Thunder to his feet, and places his head between his legs. The crowd jeer as Hardin manages to hoist Thunder up in the air -- and brings him crashing down to the canvas with a shattering gutwrench powerbomb! Huge heel pop! Hardin makes the cover: 1 - 2 -- Thunder kicks out! Huge pop as the "Thunder! Thunder!" chants begin anew. Hardin is unfazed by his opponent's fortitude, and drags him straight back to his feet, whipping him into the ropes -- and hitting him with a devastating lariat, snapping Thunder's neck back! Huge heel pop! Hardin again drops and makes the cover: 1 - 2 - again Thunder kicks out!] TD: Incredible stamina and endurance here from Brody Thunder, Steve Roberts. His neck has taken a deadly, lethal battering throughout this match -- but he will not give up! SR: He's running on fumes in there, Dross. It's just a matter of time before Hardin puts him away. Just a matter of time, baby dolls. [Hardin again drags Thunder to his feet, and goes to whip him into the ropes once more -- however, the IIWF Champion reverses the attempt, and instead sends Hardin into the nearside ropes, only a couple of feet away. Hardin hits the ropes, unable to turn himself around in time -- and topples out of the ring! Hardin tumbles to the outside, landing in a heap on the arena floor, his momentum sending him clattering into the steel crowd barriers once again. Big, big pop as Thunder, his chest heaving with exhaustion, slumps against the ropes himself, looking down on his former mentor on the floor below. Thunder seems to gird himself, and then rolls out of the ring to the arena floor. He moves over to Hardin, wiping drying blood away from his nose before dragging him up to his feet. Thunder hits Hardin with a series of reverse knife edge chops, backing him against a ringpost. Thunder plants a hard boot into Hardin's midsection -- two kicks -- three... and Hardin slumps down, his back to the ringsteps. Thunder backs away from Hardin and prepares to charge the Outlaw, attempting to squash him between himself and the steps... Thunder charges... and Hardin moves! Hardin dodges out of the way, and Thunder clatters hard into the steel steps, sending the top half of the construction flying!] TD: Oh my! Thunder just hit those steps with absolute full force! He's slumped over the bottom two steps, and Hardin... what's Hardin doing? Oh no... SR: Hardin's grabbing the other half of the ringsteps, Dross! We're about to see Thunder in a ringsteps sandwich! Whoo-hoo! [Hardin grabs the heavy top half of the steps and brandishes the sharp-edged steel above his head as he approaches Thunder, still slumped on the bottom half of the steps. Hardin brings the other half crashing down -- and now it is Thunder who rolls out of the way! Huge pop as the two halves of the steel steps crash together, Hardin furiously picking up the top half again and moving to clobber the rising Thunder with the steps... but Hardin doesn't see that Thunder has grabbed a steel chair! Thunder has grabbed a steel chair, and jabs it in Hardin's gut from beneath, causing Hardin to stagger backwards, still carrying the steel ring steps. Thunder drops the chair -- and hits a standing dropkick! Thunder dropkicks the steel steps carried by Hardin, sending the huge "Outlaw" crashing down to the floor, the steps on top of him! Huge, huge pop!] TD: Oh my! These two men are just dismantling the ringside furniture, Steve Roberts. This is just brutal. [Thunder kicks the steel steps off Hardin, but the "Outlaw" makes no move to attack his rival as the "Lone Wolf" bends and lifts the ring apron, rooting about underneath for something. A few moments later, he produces a bag, which he opens -- and pulls out the barbed tip bullwhip seen the previous week.] TD: Thunder's got that bullwhip -- he calls it "Scorp," Steve Roberts, because it has a real sting in the tail. [Hardin crawls to his knees, Thunder approaching from behind with his bullwhip poised -- Thunder cracks the whip noisily, and Hardin arches his back in pain! Huge pop as moments later, an angry red gash on Hardin's back begins to flow with blood. Thunder cracks the whip again, opening up another laceration on Hardin's back, and official Joey Patrick finally joins the two athletes at ringside, grabbing the bullwhip away from Thunder and warning him of using it again. Thunder argues with Patrick, apparently unaware that the furious Hardin has pulled himself to his feet -- and Thunder is suddenly face to face with his nemesis once more, the official, dwarfed by Hardin, wisely ducking out of the way -- as Hardin blasts Thunder across the face with a huge right hand! Thunder drops like a ton of bricks! Huge heel pop!] TD: Oh my goodness -- Hardin just dropped Thunder like a bad habit... and look, Steve Roberts... the "Outlaw" has brass knuckles! SR: Why else do you need pockets in your jeans if not to bring brass knucks to the ring, Dross? Whoo-hoo! TD: These two men are simply a mess, Steve Roberts. Hardin's forehead is still bleeding, his back is gashed wide open from that whip -- Thunder's got a busted nose, a torn earlobe and a cut on the back of his head... their lifeforce is literally running from their bodies out here. [Hardin replaces the brass knuckles in his pocket, and drags Thunder back to his feet and tosses him back into the ring, climbing to the apron and following him back in. Patrick also returns to the squared circle to warn Hardin as he chokes the fallen Thunder with his boot, driving the heel into Thunder's throat! Huge heel pop! Patrick lays the count on Hardin - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 -- the "Outlaw" finally relents... only to go straight back to the choke! Thunder pounds his feet on the canvas, and clutches at Hardin's boots with both hands, while Patrick again lays the count on the "Outlaw". Again, Hardin breaks the count with just a moment to spare before disqualification -- and this time does not go straight back to the choke. Instead, he rolls Thunder over onto his stomach, and drapes his throat across the bottom rope -- then proceeding to put his boot on the back of Thunder's neck, choking him from both sides!] TD: Oh, this is disgusting! Hardin is strangling Thunder in there, Steve Roberts! Look at this so-called legend... pretending not to hear the official as he demands for the hold to be broken. This is outrageous. [Hardin finally releases Thunder, the Tombstone native rolling on the canvas, his throat visibly reddened from rope burns. Hardin drags Thunder to his feet, slowing his thrashing arms with a couple of neat kicks to the gut -- and then slams him straight back to the mat with a swinging neckbreaker! Big heel pop as Hardin immediately pulls both himself and Thunder back to their feet... and hits another neckbreaker!] TD: This is the beginning of the end, Steve Roberts. Hardin is setting Thunder up for that Cattle Buster DDT... this is bad. SR: Come on, Hardin -- put him away, once and for all! [Hardin drags Thunder to his feet yet again, and whips him into the ropes. Cameras flash all over the arena as the massive Outlaw ducks down, hoisting Thunder up onto his shoulders as he rebounds from the ropes!] TD: Hardin's got Thunder in a torture rack! Unbelievable! He's tossing Thunder around like a rag doll! [Hardin roars and jumps up and down, putting as much force and leverage behind the torture rack, the fans on their feet and jeering at the tops of their lungs.] SR: Dross, I don't think this is any ordinary torture rack... This is the... [The crowd explodes as Hardin brings Thunder crashing down on his knee with a vicious, vicious shoulderbreaker. Thunder's body jerks a little, and then seems to go limp. The heel pop is almost deafening!] TD & SR: THUNDERBOLT! TD: Oh my! Oh my! Hardin has planted Thunder in the mat with his own finisher! Unbelievable! SR: It's over, baby dolls! It... is... over! [Hardin goes to make the cover as Patrick drops to the mat: 1 -- 2 -- Hardin pulls Thunder's shoulders up away from the canvas! Hardin pulls Thunder up! Huge, huge heel pop! The Outlaw drags Thunder to his feet, almost appearing to revel in the hatred of the one hundred thousand strong crowd baying for his blood, and places the "Lone Wolf"'s head under his arm. Hardin pauses, and points to the dark evening sky above.] TD: This is disgusting! Thunder is _out_, and Hardin is trying to humiliate the IIWF Champion! Hardin now, with Thunder, setting him up for the Cattle Buster DDT, and... [Huge, huge pop! Cameras flash all over the Coliseum as Thunder somehow manages to block the DDT attempt -- and backdrops Hardin!] SR: What the...?! TD: Incredible! Just listen to these fans, Steve Roberts! These fans cannot believe that Thunder, after all the beating he has taken throughout this match, just back body-dropped the "Outlaw" to avoid the Cattle Buster DDT. They can't believe it... and nor can I! [Both men lie slumped on the mat, both their chests heaving as they fight for breath. Hardin is first to his feet, although as he approaches Thunder, the IIWF Champion rolls to his knees, swinging wildly with a punch as Hardin approaches -- and landing a punch in the big "Outlaw"'s lower abdomen. The crowd explode once more as Thunder tries to fight to his feet against his opponent, who has a size, height and leverage advantage...] TD: And here is a gutcheck for Brody Thunder, Steve Roberts! Here is a gutcheck -- will the IIWF Champion rise to the occasion? [Thunder rocks the "Outlaw" with uppercut after uppercut as he fights first to one knee, then to the other -- and then up onto one foot -- and finally Thunder is standing, going toe-to-toe with Hardin one more time! Hardin and Thunder trade blows in the centre of the ring, the crowd around them practically apoplectic! Thunder drives a knee deep into Hardin's midsection, stunning the big "Outlaw" -- and then grabs him in position for a suplex!] TD: What's Thunder doing?! Surely he doesn't have the strength to suplex Hardin after all this punishment... [Thunder slings Hardin's arm over his shoulders, attempts to lift him -- and manages it! Thunder hoists Hardin up into position for a vertical suplex, and in a flash, drops him straight down on his head with a brutal DDT! The crowd explodes yet again, the pop reaching new decibel levels even when it seems that it cannot get any louder!] TD: WIDOWMAKER! WIDOWMAKER! Thunder just hit his Widowmaker suplex/DDT combination on J.W. Hardin! And Hardin is out! Hardin is _out_! [Thunder slumps to the mat next to the prone Hardin, dragging himself closer and closer. He puts on a burst of energy and makes the cover. Patrick drops to the canvas and makes the count: 1 -- 2 -- and this time it is Thunder who pulls Hardin's shoulders up from the canvas! Thunder pulls Hardin up! Huge, huge pop!] TD: Oh my, Steve Roberts. Oh my. Where is this match going to end? These two men could kill one another in there! [Thunder is clearly almost totally spent as he drags the "Outlaw" back to his feet once again. The toll of the match is clearly visible on both men, their faces bloody messes, Hardin's back still bleeding from the two whip strokes, Thunder's right ear now blackened and swelling, the lobe red with congealed blood... and yet Thunder drags Hardin to his feet! Thunder drags Hardin to his feet -- and yells in his face: "How'm I doin' now, _teach_?!" Huge pop! Thunder whips the apparently barely conscious Hardin into the ropes, and puts his head down for a back bodydrop. Hardin bounces off the ropes and... BAM!] TD: No! No! CATTLE BUSTER DDT! SR: Aw, baby, yeah! TD: Out of nowhere -- the "Outlaw" looked like he was out on his feet, totally spent... and Thunder has been planted by the Cattle Buster DDT! SR: Ring the bell, baby dolls. It... is... over! [Huge, huge -- deafening heel pop as Hardin rolls over to Thunder. But the "Outlaw" does not make the cover! Hardin does not make the cover, instead dragging Thunder to his feet. Thunder appears to be a dead weight, slumping down to his knees. Hardin slaps him across the face to no discernible response, and drags him up again, placing the "Lone Wolf's" head under his arm a second time.] TD: Oh... oh no. Oh, this is bad. Hardin setting Thunder up for a second Cattle Buster DDT! [Hardin has to support Thunder with his left arm as he prepares for the move -- and then drives the IIWF Champion's head into the canvas with a second brutal, devastating Cattle Buster DDT! The crowd continues to yell at the top of their lungs, screaming their displeasure.] TD: Thunder is out, Steve Roberts. After this terrible, terrible beating -- both men have taken so much -- but now Thunder is out... and Hardin is still not satisfied. He still refuses to make the cover! SR: You know what they say, Dross: three Cattle Busters is better than two! Go on, Jay Dub -- one for the road, big man! [Hardin, battered from all sides by the wall of sound from the furious fans, drags Thunder back to his feet for a third time. For a third time, Hardin places Thunder's head under his arm in a standing side headlock. For a third time, Hardin has to support Thunder's limp body with his left arm. And for a third time, Hardin drives... Hardin... Huge, huge, monumental pop!] TD: Oh my! Thunder -- Thunder just small packaged Hardin! Thunder with the inside cradle on the "Outlaw"... Patrick is there... Hardin with nowhere to go! SR: No! No! [The crowd can barely believe its eyes as Thunder suddenly rolls Hardin into a small package just a split second before his head was to be planted in the canvas for a third time. Patrick drops to the mat and makes the count -- 1 -- 2 -- 3! Ding! Ding! Ding! Thunder releases the inside cradle, Hardin springing out of his entrapment in disbelief! The fans cheer louder than they ever have as Thunder lies on the canvas, his chest heaving.] SR: What the hell just happened, Dross?! TD: I can't believe it myself, Steve Roberts. I cannot believe it! Brody Thunder -- after _two_ Cattle Buster DDTs... after all the punishment he has taken in this match... somehow, he trapped Hardin in an inside cradle -- and he has pinned J.W. Hardin! [The theme from the "High Plains Drifter" echoes out into the evening air once more, almost inaudible beneath the deafening cheers of the crowd. Official Joey Patrick raises Thunder's arm as the IIWF Champion lies flat on the canvas, while Hardin, apparently unable to believe what has happened, sits up. He is only stirred out of his shock when Sparkplug Lee makes the official announcement:] RA: Ladies and gentlemen... here is your winner, as the result of a pinfall... the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder! [Hardin shakes his head -- and then appears to go into a fit of rage as his face darkens and he pulls himself back to his feet. Official Joey Patrick tries to calm Hardin -- but ends up being tossed out of the ring for his trouble! The crowd begins to hurl torrents of abuse at Hardin once more as the "Outlaw" drags the victorious Thunder back to his feet yet again.] TD: Oh no... no, please. Thunder defeated Hardin fair and square. This is just wrong. SR: Teach that bastard a lesson, Jay Dub! Plant his ass! [Hardin roughly jams Thunder's head between his legs, locks his arms around the Champion's waist, hoisting him up into the air -- and brings him crashing down to the canvas with a huge, huge powerbomb! Massive heel pop!] TD: Unbelievable! Hardin just drove Thunder damn near through the ring -- and he's picking him up again! Hardin is going to powerbomb him again! [Suddenly, a spotlight hits the aisle, where a figure can be seen sprinting down to the ring! Huge, huge pop!] TD: It's Chris Quigley! Chris Quigley is coming down to the ring! [The crowd cheers wildly as Chris Quigley, apparently fresh from the shower and now in jeans shorts rather than his wrestling attire, hits the ring, causing Hardin to drop Thunder to the canvas. Quigley goes nose-to-nose with the much bigger "Outlaw" -- and Hardin shoves him, palming his face and pushing him away! Quigley is furious, and fires back, blasting Hardin with rights and lefts! The crowd continues to go wild as Hardin and Quigley brawl in the ring!] TD: Oh my! We've seen these two men brawl before when Hardin wrestled Duncan Macbeth -- there's absolutely no love lost between these two athletes. SR: I can't believe this! Quigley has the nerve to attack J.W. Hardin! This is unbelievable, Dross! TD: That it is, Steve Roberts -- oh my! Here comes Duncan Macbeth! [Another huge pop as Duncan Macbeth appears in the aisle, his long red hair tied back behind his head and wearing a jogging suit. He peels off his shirt to reveal his well-muscled physique before he too enters the ring -- and teams with Hardin in putting a beating on Quigley! The fans give a thunderous mixed reaction to the two-on-one beating in the ring, Quigley fighting valiantly but eventually being forced into a corner, where he is viciously stomped and punched by both Hardin and Macbeth. However, Hardin then turns to Macbeth -- and blasts him with a big right hand! Huge heel pop!] TD: This is quickly getting totally crazy, Steve Roberts! Thunder is still down in the ring, and... oh, here comes Timothy N. Turner! [Eschewing his trademark flying entrance, new Cruiserweight Champion Timothy N. Turner sprints down the aisle, title belt in hand, to an excited reaction from the crowd. He leaps up onto the apron, and then, cat-like, onto the top rope, launching himself with the belt ahead of him, attempting to blast Hardin in the head with the gold -- but Hardin catches Turner in mid-air, and plants him to the canvas with a modified spinebuster! Huge heel pop!] TD: Macbeth and Hardin going at it -- Quigley recovering in the corner... Thunder just pulling himself to his feet... and here comes Derek Mota... and Ronnie Paris! [Mota and Paris appear one after the other in the aisle, sprinting down the aisle to join the fray, both men immediately stomping away at the stunned Timothy N. Turner, Mota also pausing to lay a right hand each into Quigley, Macbeth and Hardin. The ring begins to fill up with bodies... as Deathbringer appears in the aisle! Huge, huge pop as Deathbringer appears in the aisle, making his way down to the ring -- but he is overtaken by Billy Shakespeare and the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi, who dash past the huge reaper and each go to opposite turnbuckles, Shakespeare launching himself at Paris with a flying cross-body, and Musashi sending Quigley flying with a flying shoulder tackle! Huge, huge pop! Deathbringer hits the ring and immediately makes a beeline for Hardin, who is slugging it out with Macbeth. Thunder sits slumped in another corner of the ring, slowly regaining his breath, and being largely ignored by the heaving mass in the ring before him.] SR: How many guys are in there now, Dross?! I don't think I can even count them! This is crazy! TD: It certainly is -- we have Mota, Paris, Quigley, Macbeth, Musashi, Deathbringer, Hardin, Shakespeare... and here comes Otto Verhoeven! Here comes the Butcher! [Warring duos now begin to spill out of the ring and into the ringside area, Shakespeare and Mota brawling at ringside on one side of the ring, while Musashi attacks Paris, knocking him from the ring with a clothesline and then launching himself on the fallen Texan with a topé dive. Hardin and Quigley resume their running battle, while Macbeth slumps against a corner, regaining his breath. Timothy N. Turner tries fruitlessly to topple Deathbringer -- and then Verhoeven hits the ring, grabbing Turner by the throat and tossing him into another corner before going nose to nose with Deathbringer!] TD: Two old rivals stand face to face again here in the IIWF! What scenes we are seeing here at Ring Wars IV! [The impasse between Deathbringer and Verhoeven is broken as they suddenly begin throwing punches at one another, the two giants dominating the ring as Hardin and Quigley continue to go at it, the "Outlaw" choking the Intercontinental Champion over the top rope. Still unnoticed, Thunder continues to watch what goes on in front of him, content to regroup in the corner of the ring. Another big pop goes up as Tony Starks appears at the head of the aisle. Looking as mean as ever, Starks walks down to ringside -- and is attacked from behind in the aisle by Ike Sampson! Sampson knocks Starks in the back of the head with a clubbing clothesline, and the two men begin brawling in the aisle once again, Sampson ramming Starks' head into the steel crowd barriers. Meanwhile, Shakespeare and Mota have spilled over the barriers into the crowd, sending fans scattering as they continue their brawl. Musashi and Paris continue to go at it on the outside, Musashi leaping up onto the crowd barriers and using them as a springboard to hit a legdrop on the felled Paris on the arena floor.] TD: There's too much going on here for me to call, Steve Roberts -- I'm even hearing that we've got brawls going on in the locker room. Apparently, Scott Rogers and Richard "Moxy" Blue were on their way out here when they were attacked by the Highwayman and Dakota Bundy. We've got to get some order restored out... hey! [There is a crackle on the audio as Timothy N. Turner hops up onto the broadcast table, making obscene gestures at Otto Verhoeven from his vantage point, trying to lure the Butcher out of the ring.] SR: Hey, Turner, don't take this the wrong way -- but get off the goddamned table, freak! [Turner obliges, jumping nimbly from the table to the ring apron, and receiving a hard right hand from Verhoeven for his trouble, sending him flying backwards and straight back onto the broadcast table, equipment sent flying in all directions! Huge pop!] TD: Good grief! We have utter chaos here, Steve Roberts -- the ring is slowly emptying... Deathbringer and Otto Verhoeven have taken their fight to the outside... Hardin and Quigley are still going at it... they're leaving the ring... they're leaving Thunder in the ring. Whoa! [Suddenly, the lights in the arena go out, and only the occasional momentary illumination from nearby camera flashes, instananeous sparkles of light flickering around the huge one hundred thousand strong crowd, provide any clue as to what is going on... the brawls continue around the ringside area... in the aisle...] SR: Damn! Who turned out the lights, Dross?! I was enjoying seeing Hardin paste Quigley! TD: I don't know, Steve Roberts, but... oh my! [Dross' words are almost drowned out by the huge, huge pop as the lights rise once more, to reveal...] TD: STEVE "THE FURY" KOWALSKI! SR: Hot damn, Dross! It's the Fury! TD: It's Kowalski -- and he has Thunder... oh my! [As the lights rise once more, the figure of the New Jersey Nightmare, Steve "the Fury" Kowalski, is revealed in the ring, standing with Brody Thunder's head between his legs, and both arms hooked, hooked in preparation... Kowalski jumps into the air, and sits down sharply, driving Thunder's head into the mat with a...] TD & SR: SKULLPUMP! [Huge, huge pop! Even those brawling around the ring pause as they hear the crash of Thunder's head hitting the canvas, Kowalski standing and raising his arms to the crowd, who greet him with a near ecstatic reaction!] TD: Oh my! Oh... my. Words fail me, Steve Roberts. What else can we possibly see here tonight? SR: The Fury is back! Whoo-hoo! TD: Hang on -- Kowalski has a microphone... the brawls continue on the outside... this is just chaos. The Fury has a microphone, folks. [Kowalski grins as "Don't Fear the Reaper" kicks in over the loud speaker. As the crowd of wrestlers around the ring stand stunned, the New Jersey Nightmare, backs up and rolls out of the ring. Kowalski makes his way up the aisle, brandishing a cordless microphone:] SK: Did ya think I was dead? Did ya think Brody was man 'nuff to take me out? I don't [BLEEP]in' think so! I just wanted to tell everyone that I'm back... back fer my belt... back fer some SKULLPUMPIN'... back fer _ya_, Brody! So when ya wake up an' ask what happened to ya... _I_ happened. It's time to pay, Cowpoker. Ya know why? 'Cause hell hath no... [Kowalski doesn't have to finish his statement, as the berserk crowd does. Chanting "FURY! FURY! FURY!" over and over. Thunder is left lying in the ring as Kowalski backs up the aisle, cockily waving to the wrestlers left in his wake around ringside.] TD: Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable! Steve "the Fury" Kowalski is back! We are dead out of time, people... we are totally out of time, but what a night it has been here at Ring Wars IV! I can barely believe what we have seen... this is incredible. SR: I still can't believe all this, Dross -- Hardin pinned by Thunder, Quigley and Hardin going at it, the Fury coming back... unbelievable! [The brawls in the ringside area resume, the fans continuing to cheer wildly.] TD: We've got to go, folks... We hope you've enjoyed Ring Wars IV. For "Soundbite" Steve Roberts and Larry Morton, this is Tim Dross, saying: so long, everybody! [Cut to a wide-angle shot of the ringside area, with all the brawls going on, the clamouring fans, the security staff struggling to contain the chaos. The shot pulls back until the ringside enclosure is just a small pool of light amidst a dark sea of one hundred thousand fans. 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 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+