________ ______ __ ____ ___ __ . _ ___ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| / /\ | | || \| \ /\ \ / |\ || / \| | | | || | \ v v / | __| \__ /__\ | | ||__/| |/__\ v | \||| __|-| | |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| \ \| v | \|__/ \| | || \_|| | | __________________________/...hour two...\........|...|.......|....| LIVE! IIWF Coliseum, Portland, Oregon 13 December 1997 [Fade through to interior shots of the IIWF Coliseum, fireworks erupting around the ring entrance area and high above the rigging in the rafters of the jam-packed arena. The shot cuts rapidly between various sections of the crowd, fans waving at the cameras, holding aloft their signs and showing off their merchandise. Eventually, the shot comes to rest on the squared circle, in the centre of which stands Larry Morton, mic in hand:] LM: Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, we crowned new World Tag Team Champions last week, as Damage Incorporated pinned Cold Spell to end their second title reign. But before any celebration could occur, rumours have surfaced that Damage Inc has "died". No one has confirmed this rumour and even some of our dirt diggers have been checking Portland area hospitals for any signs, but all we know is that Jeandra is here and has been the only member of Damage Inc. we could find for comment. Let's bring her out here now... ["Ambitions of a Ridah" by 2Pac starts up, as Jeandra comes through the curtain. She is the opposite of her usual showy self, ignoring the lights, the crowd and musical atmosphere. She is wearing a black t-shirt that reads "Shoot, Soundbite! Shoot!" and black jeans, while her long curly hair is tied up in a large bun. She is holding both IIWF World Tag Team Title belts, draping each over one shoulder. Her face is worn, showing evidence of lack of sleep, lots of crying, and even looks a little skinnier than usual. As she enters the ring, Morton volunteers to take both belts from her and does so, placing them at his feet beside him.] LM: Jeandra, you look as if you've had a rough week -- but we have brought you out here to address the issue at hand. What is the situation with Damage Inc.? JE: [long pause] Larry... I don't really know how to say this... it just hurts inside to bring my lips to utter the words again, God it hurts... LM: We understand, Jeandra, but we need to know what's going on here. We've heard all sorts of rumours and stories and... JE: ...well, forget your stories and rumours... forget all the lies people may have told you... the truth is... the real deal is... [starts to sputter]... the truth is... Damage Inc. _is_ dead. LM: W-what... what do you mean? Were they in an accident? Did they commit suicide? Were they assaulted by...? JE: They died... they left this world... like they wanted to, Larry... on top [tears begin to well up in her eyes]... they did their best to do it their way... they fought hard... and they wrestled some of the best teams in the IIWF... and they went out in a blaze, Larry... a real blaze of glory... LM: I-I... I don't understand? It was a fire? Did someone set them up? Do you know who did it? JE: I do know who did it... yes... [the crowd stirs a bit]... they were killed... by JEALOUSY! [Confused pop from the crowd. Morton gives her a "what the...?!" look.] JE: They were killed... DESTROYED... by those who couldn't handle their years of success, by those who couldn't take losing as a way of life, by those who can't compete and instead want to make up excuses and lies and STUPID INSIGNIFICANT... [At this moment, the crowd stirs and Alex Porteaux and Eddy Ramos come out from the entranceway. Both have on wrestling gear: Porteaux sporting plain long black tights with white boots, Ramos in an all black Vadersuit with black boots. They too ignore the crowd as Morton tries to calm Jeandra down] LM: That's them! That's Damage Inc! See? They're right there... they're okay... JE: [as DI enters the ring] No... they're not the same men... that you're used to... [Porteaux takes the mic while Ramos hugs Jeandra and glares at Morton.] AP: What I need from y'all right now... is to shut the [BLEEP] up! [The crowd now lets rip with a heel pop, the ferocity of which makes the collective disapproval very clear.] LM: Now I don't think that's necessary... AP: Necessary? You want necessary, mon ami?! I give you necessary! The necessary evils... the things about us that make us human... the things we naturally do no matter how STUPID they are... things like jealousy... like envy... those things that make you say and do DUMB [BLEEP]... do you know what I'm talking about? LM: As a matter of fact, I don't... because this woman came here in tears, saying you guys are "dead" and here you two are in the flesh! You mind explaining what is going on here?! AP: It's simple, pudgehead. Damage Inc. was a hot commodity in the IIWF. Came in, played by the rules... did what was asked of us... did decent. Nobody pretty much said a word. No one said anything when big Eddy got pinned in the pen in the three-way dance, nobody had anything to say when WE GOT BEAT by the Prophets of Rage... no one cried foul when we got jumped by the Rages, Tony Starks and Unique Allah... but the very SECOND we win a match... the very MOMENT we realize our potential and start WHUMPIN' that ass... people have something to say.... LM: I guess you're referring to comments made by Awesome T as well as the Fabulous Ones... AP: Well, as a matter of fact I am, genius. [Porteaux gives Morton a COLD stare which makes him take a step back... right onto Ramos' foot. Morton can only quiver as Ramos looks down at his boot and wonders what to do to Morton once he raises his head again.] AP: ...as a matter of fact... THEY are the ones... guilty of MURDER! Of killing Damage Inc... of destroying the legend! They stained it... soiled it with their accusations and lies and jealous words... with their BITCH crying... [Ramos has taken this oppurtunity to grab Morton by the neck and just stare at him while Jeandra has long stopped crying and is enjoying Morton's pain -- apparently almost to the point of orgasm.] AP: ...and that's why we've KILLED Damage Inc. Dead. Gone. No more. That's why you don't see none of the flash. None of the "Ace and Maddog" stuff. They're gone. Now, it's just Alex Porteaux and Eddy Ramos. It's just us. No past, no history, no old glory. We're starting from scratch. We're starting even, at zero and zero, so that there are no more excuses. No more BITCH crying. Because now when you get THROWN to the mat, you can't... you WON'T say it's "Damage Inc and their damn rep". Instead, as you look up into the hot lights, you'll gather your last breath and say, "Wow... The Lost Boyz just [BLEEP]ed me up!" C'mon Larry... say it... SAY IT!! [Morton appears to be fighting for breath too much to speak.] LM: [still being choked by Ramos] ack... the... The Lost... B*ack*... The Lost Boyz just messed... messed me up... AP: No, we didn't... [Ramos then waistlocks Morton and SPIKES him to the mat with a powerbomb as the crowd looks on in shock! Huge heel pop as Porteaux stands above Morton's crumpled form and yells into the microphone:] AP: _NOW_ we did. The Lost Boyz. We ain't got no history anymore, Down Boys. We're startin' fresh, so you still want some? Fabulous Ones, bunch of bitch faggots... you ain't gotta worry about the greatest team anymore... you just gotta worry about us... still want some?! Still desire a foot lodged in ya throat?! C'mon... tell me you don't. The Lost Boyz, mutha[BLEEP]as... get used to it. Because the past is over... but we are the FUTURE of this damn sport... and if anybody wants to see it first hand, you got a choice: you can either join us -- which we don't mind -- you can contest us -- which I prefer cuz it means I can beat that ass some more -- get used to the name... ER: [looks over Morton's body] And Shadoe... do yourself, your family... your friends, and your God, a favor: stay the [BLEEP] out of our business. Our dealing with you is done, unless you want more. We'll be happy to oblige but until then, we wrestle our matches, and you wrestle yours. Interfere in our business again... and that's gonna be one short singles career. [Ramos drops the mic as Jeandra has let her curly hair flow outwards. She hands Porteaux and Ramos the World Tag Team Title belts and leans down and stares at Morton's head, still buried in the mat, playing dead possum. Jeandra lifts it up, and Morton's face shows some anguish as she laughs in his face. Je kisses his cheek and lets his face fall on the mat again. The Lost Boyz posture outside of the ring to the camera, and then leave. Security and officials descend on the ring to help Larry Morton to his feet as Porteaux, Ramos and Jeandra retreat to a huge heel pop. Cut to the broadcast table at ringside, at which are still seated Tim Dross and "Soundbite" Steve Roberts.] TD: Frankly, Steve Roberts, I'm disgusted by the conduct of Damage Inc. -- or the Lost Boyz, if that's what they're calling themselves now. SR: Aw, I dunno, Dross. About time Morton was dropped on his head, if you ask me. Perhaps it'll have knocked some sense in. TD: Fans, before we move on -- let's just show you what happened during the break just a few moments ago. Duncan Macbeth and Chris Quigley were staring each other down in the ring... [Cut to footage captioned, "Moments Ago." Security and the Jobber Justice Squad descend on the ring, getting in between Macbeth and Quigley. The Scotsman motions that the belt should be around his waist, and begins working the crowd, who are soon chanting "DUN-CAN! DUN-CAN!", much to Quigley's chagrin. Meanwhile, a medical team appears in the aisle to stretcher Derek Mota out of the arena, the Canadian grabbing at his ankle, his face contorted in pain. A shot of a disturbance high in the mezzanine shows Richard "Moxy" Blue escaping out of a distant exit, and the shot then pulls back to show Scott "the Fop" Rogers still lying in the ring as Macbeth and Quigley are forced back to the locker room. Cut back to live shots of ringside.] TD: What chaotic scenes at the end of our last match -- I understand that Derek Mota has suffered a severe ankle strain, and the medical staff here suspect that he may have torn ligaments as a result of Manning's brutal attack. Scott Rogers was also helped out of the arena during the break -- and I understand that he is absolutely furious that he was left high and dry by Richard "Moxy" Blue. [A medical crew helps the groggy Larry Morton from the ring. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Our broadcast colleague Larry Morton has been helped out of the ring -- the Lost Boyz have headed back to the locker room. Let's get the proper action kicked off for this second hour of the show. Don't forget, folks, coming up in the next sixty minutes, that huge match between Steve Kowalski is on its way, plus the title double bill as Brody Thunder defends the World title against Billy Shakespeare, and Chris Quigley takes on Triple M in that Intercontinental Championship rematch. Plus we'll be getting comments from the Meatman! Right now, however, we're going to see Luke Steele, on the hottest streak of his young career, take on the directionless Lord Byron. SR: That is, if Byron decides to grace us with his presence, Dross. TD: Well, he did elect not to come down to the ring to face nemesis Otto Verhoeven earlier tonight -- but he is here in the arena, and IIWF officials are determined that he should fulfil his contractual obligations to wrestle, since he is not injured. Let's get up to the ring and find out what's going to go down in this one. ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|.................................................. | || | \ v v / | __| Lord Byron vs. "Real Deal" Luke Steele |_||_| \_/\_/ |_|.................................................... WRITER: JH [Cut to the ring, where Sparkplug Lee stands with the microphone.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall, and has a fifteen minute time limit. Introducing first, on his way to the ring, one of the hottest properties in the IIWF today. Hailing from Cleveland, Ohio... weighing in at a lean, mean 275 pounds... "The Real Dealllllll" Luke Steellllllleee!! ["I am the Man" by the Philosophy Kings seeps in over the P.A. system. Surprisingly good ovation for the "Real Deal", pushing his way through the curtain. Luke Steele, obviously pumped up, has shoulder length dark brown hair, and eyes of the same color, almost a chocolate brown. His ring attire consists of basic red pant-style tights, with the simple word "Steele" down the left leg. Tonight Luke is donning a yellow and red bandana, wrapped tightly around his brow.] TD: This young man is on the rise here in the IIWF and flaunts quite a hot streak. Something Lord Byron, so long out of action, has got to be wary of. SR: You mean like watch his back? I can relate to that. Sometimes you don't know who to trust. [Dross ignores the comment awaiting Sparkplug lee to announce the next participant. The mystic sounds of "Intermezzo" from "Karelia" Suite by Sibelius, begin to enter the arena.] SL: And his opponent... back from a little down time... Hailing from Lancashire, England... Currently residing in New Orleans, weighing in at 265 pounds... the technical wizard himself... Lord Byronnnnn!! [Moments pass by, waiting for the Lord. Chatter between the crowd members grows until and appearance is finally made. Byron is a handsome -- and still fairly young looking -- wrestler, with long blond hair, tied back in a short ponytail and piercing deep grey-blue eyes. His face has the classic profile, marred only by a small scar above his left eye. His body itself is well tanned from his time in the US, lithe and muscular, muscles clearly defined, a further testament to his intense training regime. However, the usually stoic and regal Byron seems somewhat distant, probably with thoughts of his valet, Lady DeWinter. Byron is dressed in plain black loose fitting trousers, tucked into black leather calf boots with a gold buckled belt around his waist. He is shirtless tonight and does not carry his trademark cane.] SR: Give it up, Byron, and get yourself a new broad. The old one's damaged goods. TD: Please, Steve. How could Byron not feel uncomfortable without the Lady? SR: Romance is dead. Why dig it up? [The audience is visibly excited at the return of the Byron, but he hardly seems to notice their cheers. Lost in a dream, he makes his way to the ring. Steele, on the other hand, is quite chipper. Hopping side to side, throwing a few jabs here and there. The "Real Deal" even goes so far to put his arm around Sparkplug and say into the mic, "Would you take a look at this guy... road pizza!" The official, big Joey Patrick, signals for the bell: Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: And we are underway! Luke with a wild haymaker that Byron ducks and turns into a hammerlock. But it's quickly broken up by a jarring elbow to the Lord's face! Steele has a handful of hair and raises Byron with a high kneelift! SR: That move will shake those biscuits loose. Of course, whiskey could do the same. [Luke scoops up Byron and slams him, but the Lord hooks the neck and brings Steele over with him. Before the referee can drop from the makeshift pin, the "Real Deal" is up. The Lancaster native is stunned by a violent kick to the face and send to the corner at full speed. Steele charges, only to hit turnbuckle. Byron rolls out of the way and sprints to the opposite ropes.] TD: Leapfrog by Steele and he hits the floor. Byron runs over the top and rebounds off the ropes! La plancha! [Steele Pop!] SR: "Banana Peel" Luke Steele catches the English twit and gives him a... what is that? [Steele catches Byron and with a show of strength, executes an impressive slingshot suplex. Lord Byron is further harassed by his opponent, after getting the laces run across his face. Trying to get up, Byron is caught in a cross face submission. But Byron understands the game well and already has a fistful of rope. The referee counts to four and a half and scolds Luke Steele for his lack of attention. Steele seems somewhat pleased with his work. To pleased as... Byron Pop!] TD: Byron has dusted off the moth balls and hit Steele with a spinning neckbreaker! He rolls Steele over... crosses the legs... grabs his chin... crossbow submission! Steele is feeling the burn! SR: Easy there, Sparky, this is a family show. Besides, it's too early in the match. Steele is already working out of that hold. Maybe he didn't dust off all the moth balls. [True to Roberts' words, Byron is somewhat surprised that Steele makes his way out so quickly. That doubt allows Luke to his feet, facing Byron, ready to strike. Except it is Byron who strikes first. Charging Steele, he spins around the "Real Deal" and goes for his backspin DDT. Steele Pop!] SR: Not today, has-been! TD: Steele has done his scouting! He sits out of the DDT and kicks upward, nearly taking Byron's head off! Lord Byron's maneuvers aren't coming as naturally as he would like. SR: [sarcastically] Yeah, it's so... unnatural. [Quick to his feet, Steele has Byron about the waist and lifts... only to have his piledriver stopped! Byron brings himself up with his legs and pops Steele square on the jaw, both men falling to the mat. This time Byron seems to have a little more energy and locks up and hits with a suplex. A series of reverse knife-edges leave blotches of redness on the "Real Deal's" chest and leave him woozy.] TD: Finally taking the offensive, Steele tries a weak kick but is caught by Byron. [Byron pop! A legdrag takedown wows the crowd! Byron signals that he is going for the figure four, soon to lead to the Aristoclutch. As Byron leans over to lock on the move, Steele grabs his long hair and rolls a small package.] SR: One! TD: Two! [Kickout! Steele struggles to his feet as Byron seems bewildered at what is going on. You can almost see him mouth the words, "I have to compose myself." But Steele will compose now! A press slam brings the crowd to its collective feet and an unceremonious drop leaves them screaming for more.] TD: Four months ago, I would have said that Byron would have wrapped this up in five minutes, but now... SR: Now, Steele's rise is Byron's demise. You can't go off from the greatest sport on earth and expect to just cruise right in again. Otto's had a field day with him. Heck, he may have never recovered. Not that I don't mind. I'm glad to see everyone's putting him in his place. TD: His place is here in the IIWF, Steve. SR: Why can't anyone say that about me?! [The two announcers seem stirred by what Roberts just said, sitting silently. But the crowd is more than having there money's worth as they watch Byron trade drop kicks with Steele. Unfortunately for Steele, the Lord avoids the last one and hops to the second turnbuckle. Waiting for the right moment, Byron hits with a flying bulldog! The crowd knows what's coming next.] TD: Steele is face down and Byron's setting up for the Aristoclutch... NO! Low blow by Luke. Steele kicked upwards with his legs as Byron was setting up for the unique hold. SR: That is the reason they say, "Don't keep all your eggs in one basket." Now Byron's eggs are broken. Scramble them eggs! Otto-style! [A shoulder block drops Byron on his rump. Steele looks to extract some teeth with a kick but Byron grabs the foot and sweeps the leg. They lock up again, this time Lord Byron slaps on a standing wristlock and turns it into a... Rocker Dropper! The crowd sees Byron gain the upper hand and starts cheering louder. The Lord lifts Steele for a sloppy gut wrench suplex. Byron finishes the move but stumbles backwards in doing so, slamming his head on the mat.] TD: Byron always seems ahead of the game but his execution is lacking! Steele sends him to the ropes for a hiptoss... Reversed! Steele is sent tumbling! Superkick tags an on-rushing Luke. Steele's in trouble, swinging wildly! SR: To your left... No! Your other left! [Byron's backspin DDT levels Steele! The "Real Deal", dazed and on his back, tries to gather himself. Lord Byron has dragged his opponent closer, stepping between his legs. It is obvious that he is locking on the figure four. Then Byron sees it. Amid the sea of numerous signs: "SCOOPS", "Kowalski 3:16", "Who Booked This?" But the one that catches his eye: "Lady DeWinter, We Miss You" is being held up by a little girl. It is a very powerful moment for Byron... and for Steele! ENORMOUS STEELE POP!] SR: Steele Mill Drill Pill... or whatever the hell it's called, just knocked the crap outta Byron!! Get your ass over there, ref! TD: Too busy looking at signs, Byron is laid out by that floating DDT from Steele! [Patrick makes the count: 1 -- 2 -- 3! Ding! Ding! Ding! There is a huge pop for Steele, but the surprised hush by the Byron fans seems even louder. The referee raises Steele's hand as Lord Byron just sits on the floor, shaking his head.] SL: And your winner... by pinfall... still the IIWF's hottest property... the "Reallll Dealllll" Luke Steeeeeeellleee!! [Huge pop for Steele as he is elated, strutting out of the ring all the way back to the dressing room. Lord Byron, still sitting on the floor, seems to be talking to himself... berating himself.] TD: Byron, stunned by these turn of events, is trying to grasp just what happened. SR: Sounds like Becky LaRue in math class. [Byron slowly picks himself up, and makes his way out of the ring, his head bowed, pushing his hair out of his face as he walks back up the aisle, seemingly completely oblivious to the muted but sympathetic pop from the crowd. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: What on earth has happened to Lord Byron, Steve Roberts? He's scheduled to face Otto Verhoeven in a Towel Match next week -- but he doesn't look in the least bit ready for such a big match. SR: The Butcher's gonna mince him, Dross. Byron-burgers coming up in your local fast food chain, baby dolls. TD: That remains to be seen -- but speaking of mincing, it's time for me to get comments from a man who doesn't mince his words... Jimmy "the Meatman" Steele. SR: If it wasn't the Meatman you were talking about, Dross, I would punk your ass for making that kind of bad pun -- but you're lucky that I'm in a good mood. TD: Oh, I am more grateful than I could ever express, Steve Roberts. If you'll excuse me. SR: Excused, fatso. [Tim Dross rises and leaves the broadcast position, once again heading for the ring, and taking a microphone with him. TD: Ladies and gentlemen, it is with a mixture of exhileration and apprehension that I introduce to you the latest addition to the IIWF ranks. Ladies and Gentlemen, meet "The Meat," Jimmy "the Meatman" Steele! [The sound of a truck's back-up horn blares out across the PA. A truck trailer backs through the entrance curtains. The crowd pops vigorously and breaks into the chant of, "Meat, meat, meat, meat, meat..." The gate rolls open and the camera dollies forward through a cloud of ice vapor and past racks of hanging cattle flesh. The Meatman, at 6'4" and 274lbs resplendent in his bloody butcher's apron, holds a live turkey under one arm. He bolts out of the truck, high-fives the crowd, climbs the ring post and pumps the turkey into the air.] CROWD: Meat, meat, meat, meat, meat.... MM: Meat, meat, meat, meat, meat... [He plays to all sides of the arena, then joins Tim Dross ring center.] TD: Jimmy "the Meatman" Steele -- welcome to the IIWF! [Crowd cheers.] Your auspicious debut here two weeks back saw you victorious in the now classic Newcomers vs. Returnees match -- but first, Mr. Steele, who are you?! [The turkey gobbles and squirms in the Meatman's grip.] ...and can we lose the bird? MM: First, Tim. I would like to present a holiday gift to any IIWF wrestler who thinks he can "beat the Meat." [jerks arm up and down - CRACK!] ...a broken neck! [The turkey squabbles for a moment, then dies.] TD: Oh my, can we show this on television? MM: [grabs mic] I'm Jimmy "the Meatman" Steele. I'm a trapper, a butcher, and a meat packin' plant owner. Every kind of meat, except one: human meat. You got a lot of pork here in the IIWF. Well... I'm here to hunt 'em, trap 'em, hit 'em with my "Meat Hook," kill 'em, gut 'em, skin 'em, and tenderize 'em. So, I got one question for all you wrasslers back there in the meat locker, if you ain't too busy taintin' your beefcake with drugs and steroids, I got one question. [climbs ring post and shouts] Who wants a piece of "The Meat?!" [The Meatman dropkicks the turkey into the crowd. Fans tear it apart with a frenzy borne of adolescent sexual frustration. Meatman exits the arena, slapping hands with the fans on his way back up the aisle and into the freezer truck once more. The truck judders as the engine starts, the Meatman pulls the door closed, and the truck rolls out of sight. Tim Dross stands by, speechless, before leaving the ring and returning to the broadcast position.] TD: Well, a most unique individual, Steve Roberts. The Meatman, folks. SR: He's the man, Dross. You ever seen a turkey killed in a wrestling ring on live TV before, Dross? TD: Certainly not, Steve Roberts. SR: He's an innovator, baby dolls. Accept no imitations. TD: Well, things are about to get a damned sight wilder in here, people. We are expecting a crazy, crazy match when the "Next Big Thing," the New Jersey Nightmare, Steve "the Fury" Kowalski, steps into the ring against the "Epitome of Evil", the self-proclaimed "Man" -- that's with a capital "M", people -- of the IIWF, Serge Annis. These two have been developing something of a rivalry the past couple of weeks -- just last Saturday Night an interview with Annis culminated in a brawl between the two men -- and tonight, they go at it one on one. Let's get up to the ring! ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|.................................................. | || | \ v v / | __| Steve "the Fury" Kowalski vs. Serge Annis |_||_| \_/\_/ |_|.................................................... WRITER: SK [Sparkplug Lee climbs into the ring and proceeds to pull out the lineup card for the following match, but is momentarily blinded when a piece of plaid cloth flies from the audience and lands on his head.  Lee pulls off the offending swatch and looks at it, recognising it as one of the many tartan scarves seen of late in the Coliseum in support of Duncan Macbeth.  Lee gives the scarf a tentative wave, and is greeted by a lusty cheer from the huge throng of Macbeth supporters, who wave their own scarves, instantly creating a veritable sea of red tartan all around the arena.  Lee looks on for a moment in amazement at the commotion he has started, then deposits the scarf at ringside and carries on with the introductions.] SR: Come on, Sparky, get on with it!  We want to see carnage, not the Scottish [BLEEP]in' Glee Club! TD: Apparently Duncan's fans are just as supportive as ever here tonight, Steve Roberts. SR: Yeah, well, MacBabble ain't wrestling tonight, is he?  So what the [BLEEP] are these morons doing here, anyway? TD: [sighs] I'm sure that statement won't endear you to the IIWF's ticket sales department, Steve. SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall.  Introducing first, weighing in at 293 pounds and hailing from Oakville, Ontario, Canada, here is the "Epitome of Evil"... SERGE ANNIS! [The foreboding sound of a gong rings throughout the Coliseum, and a martial drumbeat gives way to a crunching guitar riff as "Hands Of Death" by Rob Zombie & Alice Cooper heralds the appearance of Serge Annis in the aisle.  The crowd gives up a big pop for the Canadian, who still bears the marks of his Ring Wars IV victory over Creed and the Subway Psycho, with a visible scar under his left eye and a longer scar running across his throat.  Annis is grinning his trademark madman's leer and is clad in his black wrestling tights with crimson blood tracks down each leg, and a T-shirt that bears the caption "WHAT'S YOUR EVIL?" Finally, Annis reaches ringside and climbs into the squared circle, holding his ever-present Zippo lighter aloft and flicking it, producing a unusually large five-inch flame.  As if in response, the four corners of the ring suddenly burst into tall pillars of fire, producing another cheer from the crowd and causing referee Joey Patrick to start in surprise.] TD: Here is the big Canadian, Serge Annis, with his usual dramatic entrance.  The Epitome of Evil has been on quite a roll as of late, and looks to continue his good fortunes here tonight against Steve Kowalski. SR: It'll be good fortune for Annis if he manages to walk away from this match under his own power, Dross.  SL: And his opponent, from Newark, New Jersey, weighing in at 268 pounds, here is the "New Jersey Nightmare" himself, STEVE "THE FURY" KOWALSKI! [The crowd goes absolutely wild and a chant of "SKULL-PUMP! SKULL-PUMP!" threatens to drown out the ringing guitar figure of "Don't Fear The Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult as the Fury appears in the aisle, hand on his hips, and surveys the cheering crowd with a somewhat contemptuous smirk before making his way down the aisle, largely ignoring the ringside fans as he begins hurling a torrent of verbal abuse at Annis from outside the ring.  Annis, who's heard it all before, just removes his T-shirt and checks the black tape on his wrists as Kowalski climbs into the ring and immediately charges Annis, kicking him in the stomach and just as quickly dropping him with a vicious knee lift!  Huge pop from the crowd!] TD: Oh my goodness!  Steve Kowalski is wasting no time here tonight, folks, and has just lit into Serge Annis before the bell! SR: It's about time these morons got some real entertainment for their money tonight, Dross.  These two are gonna paint that canvas red.  The ring crew's gonna need all the buckets, mops and sponges they can get their hands on after this one! [Kowalski drops a spike elbow to the left eye area of Annis, hoping to re-open the cut he suffered at Ring Wars, and attempts to drop another, but he is stopped by a stiff blow to the groin from the prone Annis! Kowalski doubles over in pain, and Annis scrambles to his feet to lay the Fury out with a DDT!  Pop!  Annis leaps upon the fallen Kowalski, grabs him around the throat, and begins vicioulsly slamming the Fury's head again and again into the mat, leering manaically the whole time, until Joey Patrick moves in to break this up, but as the referee bigins the count, Kowalski raises a knee and catches Annis with a low blow of his own!  Big pop!  Annis rolls off in agony, and both men are slow to get up.] TD: Well, if anything, both of these men seem to be risking their chances of producing offspring in this match, Steve Roberts. SR: Just as well, Dross.  The world's a frightening enough place without Serge and the Fury creating another generation of sociopaths.  Hell, that ferret on your head scarier than both of them put together. TD: Hey! [Kowalski and Annis get to their feet and begin trading blows, the smaller Fury holding his own against the more massive Canadian, who suddenly rocks Kowalski with a headbutt!  Kowalski staggers back, and Annis hammers him again with a double axehandle, but the Fury stays on his feet!  Annis quickly dashes to the ropes, leaping into the air and driving another double axehandle square in the chest of the Fury, and Kowalski goes down hard!  Pop!  Annis pulls Kowalski to his feet and sends him into the ropes, hitting the opposite ropes himself and dashing at the Fury to nail him with a lariat, but Kowalski somehow ducks under! The two men hit the ropes a second time, and this time Kowalski hits the brakes in the middle of the ring, catches the surprised Annis on the run with a bodypress, and hotshots the big Canadian onto the opposide rope!  Annis' head snaps back and he collapses in a heap as the crowd goes wild!] TD: What a reversal by Steve Kowalski!  This match has been a real see-saw battle thus far, Steve Roberts! SR: It ain't halfway bloody enough for my tastes, Dross.  Wake me up when the red starts to flow. [As if on cue, Kowalski begins viciously kicking Annis about the head, drawing protests from Joey Patrick, but the Fury shoves him away and resumes putting the boots to the Canadian, and the scar tissue under Annis' left eye gives way, starting a flow of blood down the cheek of the Epitome of Evil.  Patrick finally manages to pull Kowalski off of Annis, and backs him into the ropes, harshly reprimanding the New Jersey native as Annis slowly rises to his feet, grimacing and wiping blood away from his face.  Kowalski is protesting his innocence to Patrick, stretching out his arms in the classic "Who, me?" pose.  Annis glares over at the distracted Kowalski, an enraged snarl twisting his features, and charges, hurtling into both Kowalski _and_ Patrick with a Lou Thesz press, sending all three of them spilling over the top rope and tumbling to the floor!  Big pop!] TD: Oh my goodness!  Serge Annis is incensed, Steve Roberts, and has cleared the ring with that move!  Joey Patrick has been knocked cold on the outside and Kowalski... oh my... SR: Kowalski hit his forehead on the ring steps, Dross!  The Fury has been busted wide open!  We got blood on both sides!  Now, _this_ is great! [Joey Patrick lies motionless on the arena floor as Annis jumps to his feet and searches for Kowalski.  The Fury has pulled himself to his knees beside the ring, covering his forehead wth one hand to try to stop the rapid flow of blood from over his right eye.  Annis leers at Kowalski, and sends him right back to the floor with a big boot to the side of the head!  The Canadian then pulls the Fury to his feet, hoists him up with an impressive burst of power, and drives him into the concrete with a spectacular Michinoku driver!  Pop!] TD: This is getting out of control, Steve!  The referee is still down, and it seems that Serge Annis now has a licence to brutalize Steve Kowalski, who may be seriously injured! SR: Oh, boo hoo hoo, Dross.  They're big boys - let 'em play! [Annis backs up as Kowalski incredibly struggles to his knees, blood coursing from the wound over his eye and spattering on the floor as he tries to shake off the effects of the driver.  The Canadian charges at him again, attempting another clothesline, but Kowalski somehow has the presence of mind to clutch Annis around the waist and use his momentum to heave him over in a modified fallaway slam, sending the Epitome of Evil crashing head-first into a steel crowd barrier behind him! Incredible pop!  Annis slumps to the floor, stunned, as the battered Kowalski pulls himself up and grabs a folding chair from the timekeeper's table!] TD: This is turning ugly now, Steve!  We need to get somebody down here -- a substitute referee, a security team, _anybody_ who can stop this chaos! SR: Why stop it, Dross?  So the IIWF can keep putting the audience to sleep with more boring crap from mama's boys like Quigley and Ike Sampson?  You and the suits just want to take everything that's good, decent, and dammit, _entertaining_ out of this glorious sport!  Give the people what they want, I say! TD: Now hold on, mister, I never said... Oh my goodness! [Kowalski, incredibly, does not swing at the stunned Annis with the chair, but instead puts the Canadian's head through the open back of the chair, and uses the chair to drag Annis to his feet, choking him with it the whole while!  The crowd buzzes in confusion as Kowalski looks over to the broadcast table, his face a crimson mask, and grins an evil grin to rival Annis himself!] TD: What is Kowalski doing? SR: Dross, I think we'd better scatter! TD: Oh, no... [Dross and Roberts just barely manage to clear out of the way as Kowalski drapes an arm around the neck of Serge Annis, the folding chair still hanging from the Epitome of Evil's neck, and rushes at the broadcast position, leaping into the air at the last moment and driving Annis' head into the announcer's table with a high-impact bulldog! Thunderous pop from the crowd!  The table is sent flying from the impact of the two men, and takes the legs out from under Dross, who topples to the floor!  Annis' head snaps back alarmingly as the metal chair around his neck causes his neck to be bent in ways necks aren't meant to bend, and Kowalski roughly pulls the chair off of the Canadians head, tearing ever wider the gash under Annis' left eye.  Joey Patrick begins to stir at ringsde as Kowalski wipes more blood out of his eyes and teeters over to Annis, who is a bloody mess himself now, and as the chant of "SKULL-PUMP!  SKULL-PUMP!"  begins to rise once more from the Coliseum crowd, Kowalski looks down and sees the disoriented Tim Dross lying across the shattered broadcast table.  A frightening smile crosses the face of the Fury, and he pulls the stunned Annis to his feet, walks him over to stand beside Dross, and underhooks the Canadian's arms!  The crowd goes wild!] SR: [over headset] ...are we still on?  Can anybody hear me?  What the [BLEEP] just happened?  Hey, Fury... aw, man, you're not gonna do what I think you're gonna do... hang on, Dross, I'm coming! [Kowalski summons a bust of power and hoists the 293 pound Annis high into the air.  Dross looks up, paralyzed with fear, as the Fury pulls the massive form of Serge Annis right down on top of him!  From out of nowhere, though, Steve Roberts manages to grab Dross by the ankles and pull him out of harm's way at the last split-second before Kowalski Skullpumps Annis into the remains of the table!  Thunderous pop from the fans!] SR: [over headset] You okay, buddy? TD: [over headset] ...he tried to kill me!  That sonofabitch just tried to kill me! [Patrick finally manages to pull himself to his feet, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, and signals for the bell, officially endng the match as a double disqualification as Kowalski seaches for the steel chair once again, finds it after a fem moments, and moves to hammer Annis with it.  As he raises the chair high over his head, though, the prone Annis suddenly reaches for a broken table leg, and swings it with all his remaining strength into the side of the Fury's knee!  Kowalski howls in surprise and pain, and drops the char as he collapses to the floor.  Annis, table leg still in hand, crawls over to where Kowalski is lying, clutching at his knee, and begins mercilessly bludgeoning the Fury about the head, starting a fresh flow of crimson rushing from Kowalski's forehead!] TD: ...don't have to put up with this, you hear me? I don't need some goddamn psycho trying to kill me on network television!  I'm a professional, for Chrissake!  Why can't I do my job without having to put up with this bull[BLEEP]? SR: Dross... we're live. TD: We are?  Oh... oh my goodness... [The Jobber Justice Squad storm down the aisle to a loud cheer from the fans, but have considerable difficulty separating Kowalski and Annis, who have managed to rise to their feet and are once again trading haymakers, each man seemingly covered from head to toe in blood.  The Smooth tries to pull Kowalski off of Annis, and gets a roundhouse right between the eyes for his trouble, causing the massive Mexican to burst into tears.  Scott "The Whine" Bloom and Jumpin' Jack each seize one of Annis' arms and pull him back, giving Kowalski an opportunity to hit the Canadian with a charging clothesline, but at the last second Annis drops to the floor, pulling Bloom and Jack together, and Kowalski careens into the two jobbers, knocking them all to the floor!  Big pop!  Finally though, with both combatants now down, the remainder of the JJS pile onto Annis and Kowalski, pulling them apart and swarming each man as they struggle to break free and get at each other once again.  As the JJS pull the two men to their feet, Annis and Kowalski, their faces shining crimson, continue to scream threats and insults at one another as the two groups slowly move up the aisle and out of the Coliseum, brought up by The Smooth, who is still sobbing uncontrollably from Kowalski's shot.  The Coliseum ring crew rushes down to ringside with mops and buckets to clean up the blood, and a replacement table for Dross and Roberts.  The scene at ringside looks as though a tornado had touched down in the middle of the arena as the two announcers once again take up their broadcast position.] TD: That was... I just don't have the words at the moment to describe that match, Steve Roberts.  Serge Annis and Steve Kowalski have seemingly taken violence to new heights, or should I say _lows_, here in the IIWF Coliseum tonight. SR: And if we had more matches like that every week, Dross, the Soundbite would be a much happier guy.  Too bad the suits would never allow it.  They're probably up there in their private box right now, cringing from all this bloodshed and plotting how they're gonna run these two _men_ out of the fed. TD: Well, be that as it may, I've got a feeling that we may be seeing a repeat of this match sometime in the future, as it would seem that Annis and Kowalski have more than a few scores to settle with each other after tonight.  Um... Steve? SR: What is it, Dross? TD: That Skullpump thing back there... I just want you to know that I... SR: Don't get all misty-eyed on me, Dross, okay?  I didn't do it because I didn't want to see you get squashed like an ant.  If you got hurt, they'd probably make me do the show with that idiot Morton.  You're just lucky that he annoys me more than you do. TD: Well, anyway... thanks. SR: Whatever. TD: Folks, we could all do with catching our breath after that encounter -- but there's no time for that. We're going to crash headlong into another intense match: and this is one I've been waiting to see for some time, folks. Billy Shakespeare, arguably the finest all-around athlete in the sport, wrestling in front of his fellow Oregonians with a big opportunity tonight: a shot at Brody Thunder's World Heavyweight Championship. SR: And this bout is every bit as important to the World champion as it is to Blitzsphere, Rug Head. Thunder hates to lose, and Shakin' Stevens here pinned him cleanly before all the world at Ring Wars III. You can bet all your worldly goods that the cowpoker will be out for blood tonight. TD: The question is: will Billy Shakespeare be sufficiently recovered -- both mentally _and_ physically -- from that shocking betrayal and subsequent beat-down at the hands of Marty Warnett just last week, to put up a competitive fight against the World champion? SR: Thunder may have a strange attraction for bovine life forms, but he shouldn't have any problems squashing Shakes into a pitiful puddle of blancmange. There's no way a guy taking all that time off can come out here and win the big strap on his first night back. TD: First night back? What are you talking about? Shakespeare has never left the IIWF, Steve; he's been here all along! Haven't you realised that yet? SR: Listen up Rug Man -- I've had just about enough of your smart ass attitude for one night! So Shakespeare does nothing interesting for the last dozen months, and I'm 'sposed to notice he's here? The "Soundbite" is an important man; I don't have the time to grant my attention to punks like Shakespeare. Can yer attitude and get back to babbling about the match! TD: [sighs] Let's go down to Sparkplug Lee for the official introductions. ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|.................................................. | || | \ v v / | __| IIWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder vs. "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare ....................................................................... WRITER: RD [The camera cuts to centre ring, where Sparkplug Lee appears to be on the point of breaking out into a heart-rending, chest-swelling, patriotism inducing rendition of "America the Beautiful." Thankfully, however, a flying paper cup strikes the Sparkster in the side of the head, prompting him to get down to business.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest will be your co-main event for the evening! Scheduled for one fall, the match will be contested for the IIWF's World Heavyweight championship! [crowd pops] Introducing first, the local hero, hailing from Ashland, Oregon, and weighing in at 230 lbs; he is a former IIWF Cruiserweight champion, a former IIWF Intercontinental champion; tonight he is challenging for the only legitimate World championship in professional wrestling; here he comes - please give a big welcome for - "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare! ["Little Willie" by the Sweet blasts out over the loudspeakers, and the entire Colisseum explodes into a massive face pop. Billy Shakespeare steps out into the aisle with a grin on his face, and bows with mock extravagance to his cheering fans.] TD: Here comes Billy Shakespeare, given a tremendous reception from his fellow Oregonians here this evening, and fortunately, he doesn't look too banged up from his altercations last Saturday night. However, in these matters, the physical trauma is only the half of it... SR: Yeah, well... Shakes has to contend with his mental hang-ups as well: reduced to tears every time the "Soundbite" laughs at his incompetence with the babes; Steve Kowalski throwing Brody Thunder through the windscreen of his Ford Isuzu... [Shakespeare heads down the aisle, slapping the hands of his home state fans; and then vaults of the top rope into the ring. He paces around impatiently, limbering up his muscles.] VOICE: Hey, Shakesbaby! [The camera cuts to the crowd to see the figure of none other then "The Brat" Bradley Reed walking through the crowd with a portable mic in hand.  Reed is looking his usual self.  He is wearing a "Hero Slayer" t-shirt with the Superstar title strapped around his waist.] BR: You didn't really think I was going to let the night go by without a     friendly visit from the neighborhood Brat, did ya, Shakes?!  So how     is the head?  You must be feeling like your favourite treat -- a     sucker.  Man oh man, I really have to feel bad for you, Shakes.  It     must hurt your head to be that damn stupid.  How could have you ever     thought Warnett was your bud?!     Not that I like him either.  Hell, I hate him as much as I hate     you.  He's a loser.  But I guess we all can't be Bradley Reed,     right? [Shakespeare leans nonchalantly against the turnbuckles with his chin propped on his hand, glancing occasionally at his wrist, where a watch would be were he wearing one.] BR: Well I'm Bradley Reed.  And I like being Bradley Reed.  'Cause being     Bradley Reed means I'm one damn asshole.  Which is lots of fun.  You     should try it sometime.  Well, Shakes, you may be wondering why I     popped by tonight.  It's simple.  I'm doing business.  I was hired     to make sure your ass gets sent out on a gurney on January 17, and     I'm going to fulfil my task.  So tonight I am just preparing you.     I'm just letting you know I'm serious, kid.  No tricks tonight --     I'm just letting you know that the worst is yet to come.  Hell, I     want you to get the win tonight.  'Cause that means come Snow Brawl     you got the pretty IIWF strap around your waist -- which means I can     prove once and for all that the Superstar title is far superior to     that phoney "world title".  So I am going to give you a fair match     tonight and hope for the best.  Hope you get the win.  But just like     your acting skills, I think you're gonna bomb -- but hey, you can     always prove me wrong, right?  [chuckles] [Shakespeare mimes a yawn and stretches in the corner of the ring, waiting for Reed to depart.] BR: Well, Shakes, I hope you don't take me lightly next time we meet     'cause I sure won't.  I am going to take you as serious as anybody     I've ever met.  I am going to come at you with 100% intensity.  I'm     going to prove to you and the world that I'm for real.  Worst of     all, I'm out to kill.  I'm out to end your career.  I did it to     Warnett and now it's your turn.  I give you my word, Shakes, Snow     Brawl will be your last match.  I promise you, on that night I WILL     end your career.  Snow Brawl is going to be your final act.  And     starting next week the games begin.  You thought I played nasty mind     games with Warnett.  HAHAHHA,  You haven't seen nothing yet.     Have a good night, kiddo. TD: What an angry, disturbed young man that is. SR: Just the tonic to cure the IIWF of the pimple that is Billy Shakespeare once and for all. [Heel pop as Reed laughs to himself and then makes his way back up the runway, while Shakespeare makes shooing motions with his arms, then moves to the centre of the ring, puts his arm around Sparkplug Lee, grins, and invites the announcer to continue in his duties.] RA: And his opponent! Hailing from the "Town too Tough to Die" Tombstone, Arizona, and weighing in at 267 lbs; he is the toughest damn hombre ever to raise hell in the world of professional wrestling; he is the only World heavyweight champion that really matters; please give him a big welcome - here is the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder! [The theme from "High Plains Drifter" echoes across the Colisseum, and Brody Thunder steps out into the aisle. He is attired only in the basics - black boots, black trunks, cowboy hat, and a T-shirt bearing the logo "Evil, mean and nasty." The fans give Thunder a somewhat mixed reaction, many cheering him fervently, but others, clearly behind the hometown boy tonight, jeer him loudly. Thunder doesn't appear concerned with the crowd reaction either way, and his eyes fixed with deadly intent upon Billy Shakespeare, slowly makes his way down the aisle.] TD: And here comes the World champion, experiencing a little of the heel heat he used to recieve earlier in his career. Many experts proclaim this man to be the very best wrestler in the world today, and judging from his impressive title reign so far, that might not be far off the mark. SR: I don't know about that, Rug Man. If you ask me - and let's face it, everybody asks the Soundbite - Thunder's performance was more than a little patchy during his last defense. Coming third behind Timothy "Don't take my belt, my pants will fall down!" Turner and Chrissie "Give Troy back to me Manning you bastard!" Quigley isn't exactly the stuff of legend. [Thunder paces around the ring, never once taking his fierce gaze away from Billy Shakspeare, before climbing up the steps, through the ropes, and into the squared circle. Referee Chuck Sanders signals for both men to face up in centre ring, giving them the "I wanna see a good, clean fight..." spiel. Neither man appears to pay much attention to the ref's comments, instead choosing to play an intense game of stare down. Thunder's bad ass glare penetrates to the core of any man's fear, but Billy Shakespeare appears calm and focused, displaying no outward signs of anxiety. Thunder slowly unstraps his magnificient title belt, handing it to the ref, his gaze never flinching; Shakespeare makes a motion around his own waist, signalling that he intends to be strapping on the championship himself before the night is over! Sanders raises the glittering trophy up into the air, and the crowd pops loudly! Ding! Ding! Ding! Thunder feignts with a right cross, but quickly pulls back and begins circling warilly. Shakespeare doesn't flinch, but joins in the circle, looking for an opening. Thunder lunges in, grappling at his challenger, and the two men lock up, struggling for an advantage. Thunder shifts to a collar and elbow tie up, momentarilly befuddling Shakespeare, but the challenger quickly twists out of it, taking the champion down to the mat with a perfectly executed armdrag. Mild pop from the crowd. Thunder is straight back to his feet, pulling Shakespeare in close for a short arm clothesline, but the veteran ducks beneath it, grapples Thunder around the waist and hoists him up into the air in a kind of backdrop maneouvre. Thunder tumbles to the mat, but immediately leaps back up to his feet. Moderate pop from the crowd. The two men return to their circling pattern, Thunder giving Shakespeare a nod and a grim smile.] TD: Both men are opting to fight a chess match in the early stages of this title encounter, with Shakespeare retaining the slight edge. These two are considered about equal in scientific acumen, and although Brody Thunder might by far be the superior brawler, Shakespeare has that great ability to pull off perfectly timed aerial manoevres. SR: Will you ever get yer nuts off the fence and say what's really on yer mind, Rug Man? I may not like him very much, but when Thunder starts dustin' off those fists of his, Shakespeare's gonna be slammin' off those turnbuckles like a demented pinball. [Shakespeare and Thunder, still circling warilly... this time, it is Shakespeare who is the aggressor, lunging at the champion and initiating a lock up. The two rivals press their weight against one another, striving to win an advantageous position... Thunder manages to twist Shakespeare around, applying a standing chinlock. Shakespeare struggles under the pressure, driving his hips into Thunder's midsection, and in the resulting break, rapidly clinches on a side headlock. The crowd pops, eagerly following the exchange of holds, as Thunder twists and turns his head, trying to free it from Shakespeare's grip. Shakespeare has the hold locked tight, however, squeezing Thunder's bald head until it starts to go red. Thunder changes tactics, and locking his arms around Shakespeare's waist, heaves him up, backwards... smashing him into the mat with a back suplex! Big pop from the crowd! Both men leap to their feet, Thunder lunging in for a belly to belly, but Shakespeare manages to hook his arm and take him down with a hip toss! As Thunder rises from the mat, Shakespeare runs to the ropes, bounds off, and strikes him powerfully in the chest with a flying dropkick! Big pop from the crowd! Both men leap up to their feet, a little bruised maybe, but still game. Thunder throws a left hook at Shakespeare, but the challenger catches his arm and irish whips him to the ropes. On the rebound, Shakespeare ducks his head down in preperation for a back body drop, but Thunder manages to put on the breaks, and, clinching his rival around the mid-section, blasts him into the mat with a powerfully executed gut wrench suplex! Big pop from the crowd!] TD: Whoah! What an evenly contested match-up this is turning out to be! The pace is hotting up, the crowd heat is buiding... I think we may be witnessing a classic in the making, Steve Roberts. SR: Don't talk to me about classic matches, Corn Dog Man. Until we see somebody's head split open like a ripe watermelon; until we see crowbars and ring steps smashed over skulls... hell, until we see limbs gettin' sheared off with chainsaws or Lady DeWinter nude mud 'rasslin Nurse Heidi, this match'll be as mediocre as all the rest. [Thunder is up and drops an elbow across the sternum of Billy Shakespeare, who jolts under the impact. The cowboy rolls across, and grabbing hold of Shakespeare's leg, fastens on a step over toe hold! Big pop from the crowd, mixed with jeers, as Thunder locks the submission hold on tight. Shakespeare's face immediately contorts with agony, and he claws the air with his hand, reaching out for the ropes...] TD: Shakespeare could be in severe trouble here. Brody Thunder has that toe hold locked on flawlessly, and positioned as he is in the centre of the ring, those ropes might as well be miles away from Billy Shakespeare. [Billy Shakespeare claws at the mat and air in turn, vainly striving to reach the ropes and break the hold. Brody Thunder smiles grimly through his gritted teeth, applying all the pressure he can muster on Shakespeare's limb. A gasp of pain escapes from Shakespeare's lips and Chuck Sanders asks for the submission, but the challenger shakes his head furiously, refusing to give in! The hometown fans begin rallying behind Shakespeare, yelling out their encouragement, spurring on his determination to hold out!] TD: Billy Shakespeare displaying tremendous resilience here... Oh my goodness, look at this! Shakespeare is powering out! [As the noise from the crowd reaches fever pitch, Shakespeare manages to roll over, forcing the pressure off of his limb, and drives both of his boots up into Brody Thunder, who releases his grip and goes staggering backwards! Wild pop! Shakespeare kips up to his feet and dives at Brody Thunder with a leaping clothesline, sweeping him off his feet and down to the mat! Shakespeare uprights himself quickly, dragging Thunder up with him, and blasting him into the canvas with a belly to belly suplex! Shakespeare is up, and nails the prone champion with two consecutive fistdrops. Shakespeare goes for a third, his fist driving through the air towards Thunder's head, then... the champion rolls aside! Shocked pop as Shakespeare's fist strikes the mat, spraining his wrist quite severely.] SR: Heh, heh. Shakespeare won't be playing five knuckle shuffles for a while after that one. [Thunder rolls away and gets back to his feet, dropping a leg across Shakespeare's throat. The challenger jolts against the canvas under the impact, and Thunder drags him by his hair up to his feet, scooping him up into the air, and smashing him with an across the knee back breaker! Heel pop from the crowd as Shakespeare's body drops limply to the mat. Thunder drags him up again, this time hoisting his rival into a vertical position, and smashes his collar bone across the knee with a shoulder breaker! Shakespeare flops lifeless down to the canvas, and the crowd pops ominously as Brody Thunder goes for the cover: 1 - 2 -] TD: Shakespeare kicks out! Listen to the roar of approval from these fans! SR: Bah... who gives a crap? The champion is putting more hurt on Billy Shakespeare than the time he took Daisy the Cow out the back of the barn and... TD: Steve Roberts! SR: What!? What!? You have a sick, disturbed mind, Rug Man. I was only gonna talk about branding cows... I don't know what the hell you were thinking of. TD: Oh, please. [Brody Thunder stands, pauses, and looks down at his crumpled up challenger. He reaches down, grabs him by the hair, and drags him to his feet. Shakespeare lolls groggily, and Thunder places his head between his legs, hoisting him up for a piledriver... just before his skull is brought crunching down to the mat, however, Shakespeare claps his legs togethor around Thunder's head, flips him head over heels, and drives him noggin first into the canvas! Huge pop for the stunningly acrobatic maneouvre!] TD: What a way to escape a a piledriver! Shakespeare has been absorbing a tremendous amount of punishment - that piledriver might have put him right out of commission, and now he's turned the match around in his own favour! Incredible! SR: Don't get too overjoyed, _buddy_. Shakespeare doesn't look to eager to get up from the canvas either... [Both Shakespeare and Thunder are laid out side by side on the mat, both men feeling the pace, gulping in huge breaths of air. The crowd pops anxiously... Shakespeare stirs, sits up, and clambers painfully to his feet! Rousing pop for the hometown hero! Shakespeare grapples hold of Brody Thunder, drags him up to his feet, and double under-hooking his arms, heaves him up, overhead... into a suplex! Thunder crash slides across the mat, striking his back awkwardly. He turns to clamber up to his feet, but Shakespeare is straight back on to the champion, dragging him up, knocking the breath out of him with a knee to the mid-section, and then whipping him to the ropes. Thunder careens off the strands, and as he bounds forward, Shakespeare leaps up, catches him with his legs, and pumps his noggin into the mat with a flawless frankensteiner! Huge face pop from the fans!] TD: Shakespeare's hooking the leg for the cover... we could have a new world champion on our hands... That's one... That's two... Thre... No! Brody Thunder kicks out! [Huge roar of disappointment from the fans as Thunder escapes his pinning predicament.] SR: It's gonna take a collision with a ten tonne truck to put this cowboy outta' commission. Or maybe just a run in with Truck Turner. TD: I doubt Isaac Hayes would pose much of a threat to our world champion, Steve. SR: You questioning the toughness of that crazy bald black bastard, Rug Man? You got some nerve... [Billy Shakespeare clambers wearily up to his feet, although Brody Thunder doesn't seem capable of picking himself off the canvas just yet. Shakespeare makes sure he stays down by running to the ropes, bounding off, and smashing him with a flying elbow drop. Shakespeare is up again, the fans popping madly for his momentum, and goes over to the corner. He climbs up onto top turnbuckle... poises, his back facing the ring... then hurls himself through the air with a moonsault, crashing into Thunder's prone body with devestating velocity! Huge, huge pop for the acrobatic manoeuvre!] TD: Hot damn! That was a move and a half, and Brody Thunder is not moving a muscle down on that mat! He's completely out of it! SR: If this punk wins the World championship, I'm outta here! I'm no idiot; I know what the hell is going on here! It's all a conspiracy to annoy the hell out of the Soundbite! [BLEEP] you, Dross, [BLEEP] Shakespeare, and [BLEEP] the IIWF! TD: I've never heard such nonsense since Don Antonio was in his prime... Shakespeare has the cover... That's one... Two... Thr... Unbelievable! Brody Thunder has kicked out! [The roar from the fans is deafening - some heard to cry out in dissapointment, others cheering for the remarkable resiliency of Brody Thunder. Billy Shakespeare looks a little frustrated by his inability to put the world champion away, but nonetheless, he clambers up to his feet, sweat streaming down his torso, and drags Thunder over to the corner. He hoists the champion up, positioning him on the second turnbuckle, where he sways unsteadilly, and then climbs up onto the buckles himself. He drapes Thunder's arm over his shoulder, grabs him by the trunks, and prepares to deal out a devestating vertical superplex... Shakespeare goes to hoist Thunder up, but in sheer desperation, obviously operating on pure instinct at this point, the cowboy blocks, grabs Shakespeare by his own trunks, and launches him up, through the air, down towards the Guetamalean announcer's table with a superplex of his own!] SR: Jesus Christ! [Shakespeare smashes back first through the table with devestating force, splinters showering through the air, as the petrified Guatemalean announcers dive for cover. Thunder himself crashes into the arena floor with bone shattering impact, and both men lay amidst the shattered carnage, completely immobile.] SR: What a crazy, wicked, and outright brutal looking maneouvre from Brody Thunder, reversing Shakespeare's superplex to outside of the ring! Damn, that was what I needed to see! TD: You talk about suicidal gambles - that was one of the riskiest I've ever seen! At what price was that out-of-the-ring superplex bought? Shakespeare might be knocked outta commission, but by the looks of things, so is Brody Thunder! [The fans pop anxiously at a fevered pitch, as Chuck Sanders lays on the count. Neither champion nor challenger is showing any signs of life, however, both men stretched out spread-eagled and comatose on the arena floor. Suddenly, a big heel pop goes up, as Brody Thunder lifts a shoulder, and drags himself drunkenly up to his feet! He advances on Billy Shakespeare, drags his head off the ground by the neck, and begins bludgeoning away at his face with his fist! Shakespeare's head is lashed back after each shot, but he can do nothing to defend himself in his present state. Thunder deposits his rival's head back to the concrete with one last punishing roundhouse, then pulls himself up onto the apron, rolling under the ropes to break the count. As soon as Sanders stops counting, the champion rolls back out of the ring, dragging the pain wracked Billy Shakespeare from out of the table wreckage and hurling him straight into the steel ring steps! Shocked pops go up from the crowd as flesh mashes against metal, and Shakespeare three sixties right over the steps, sending them scattering acorss the arena floor. Thunder goes over to the barriers, throws a cowering suit out of his seat, and folds up the metal foreign object. He approaches Shakespeare menacingly as the challenger attempts to regain his footing, then cracks him across the back with the steel chair! Big heel pop as Shakespeare goes staggering over to the crowd barriers and slumps helplessly across them. Thunder scowls with brutal intent, and lunges at Shakespeare a second time, this time cracking the chair right across his skull! Another tremendous heel pop emenates across the Colisseum as Shakespeare jolts and drops to the concrete under the impact.] TD: Oh my goodness! Shakespeare is really taking a beating here from the World champion. Thunder tried to put him away with scientific holds and technical power moves, but it just wasn't enough. Now he's down to his last card - out n' out, blood n' guts, hardcore brawling! SR: Thunder is working over Lil' Willy like a London club bouncer works over an under-age gatecrasher. This is great! [Thunder tosses the chair aside, drags Shakespeare over to the apron, and rolls him back beneath the bottom rope. Thunder follows closely behind, and exhaustedly drapes across the challenger's broken carcass for the cover: 1 - 2 -] TD: Thre... No! Shakespeare kicks out! Unbelievable! Listen to the roar of approval going up from the crowd for this brave challenger's resiliency! SR: Oh man! What does it take? What on earth does it take to get rid of this annoyingly persistant goody-goody? [Thunder stares down at his rival in disbelief, perhaps struggling to think of something that will put Shakespeare away once and for all. He doesn't wait for long, however, and gets to his feet, driving a few boots into Shakespeare's head to make sure he stays down. Brody Thunder runs to the ropes, bounding off with high velocity, back towards Billy Shakespeare, but, unbelievably, the challenger is up on his feet, snaking out a foot, and blasting Thunder right in the chops with a superkick! The crowd collectively leap to their feet and explode into cheers as Thunder drops to the mat like a shotgun blast!] SR: No! No! No! No!.... and No! TD: What unbelievable action, what an intense athletic encounter we have on our hands here, as, unbelievably, Billy Shakespeare takes the advantage once again! [Shakespeare looks down at his prone foe, pausing to catch his breath for a moment, sweat streaming down his brow, then staggers over to the corner. He climbs onto the turnbuckles, right up to the top rope, then looks over his shoulder, waiting for Brody Thunder to get up. The crowd pops with nail biting anxiety; Thunder staggers dis-entoriatedly to his feet, his back to the corner... ...Billy Shakespeare hurls himself from the top rope, backflipping through the air, clinching Thunder around the head as he does so, and DDTing his skull with thunderous impact into the canvas!] TD: Moonsault DDT! Moonsault DDT! Never in my life have I seen a maneouvre of that description, and with it, Billy Shakespeare has just destroyed the world title reign of Brody Thunder right here on IIWF Saturday night! SR: Look at that red staining the mat from Thunder's noggin! We gots some hardway juice flowing now, baby dolls! [The crowd pops in a thunderous crescendo, completely in awe of Billy Shakespeare's moonsault DDT. The challenger exhaustedly rolls the carcass of Brody Thunder, and flops dazedly across it for the cover. The crowd chants the count in unision... One... Two... Thre... Brody Thunder kicks out!] TD: What the..?! I'm seeing it, but I don't believe it... Brody Thunder kicks out - he's still in the match! SR: I don't think either of them are in the match after this. They might never be in another match after this... TD: What superhuman intensity! What superhuman depths of resilience resides in the hearts and bodies of these men! Who the heck is gonna come out on top now, I can't begin to guess... [The fans are popping in abject shock, and Shakespeare simply remains motionless across the carcass of Brody Thunder, completely exhausted from the fierce intensity of the match. Brody Thunder also remains on the canvas, one shoulder pinned to the mat, the other up in the air. Chuck Sanders puts on the count, ready to declare a draw if neither champion nor challenger can make it to their feet. As the count of ten approaches, the crowd begin to respond with a huge level of heat, clearly feeling the tension of this battle of wills. Sanders counts nine... he counts te... Suddenly, Brody Thunder hurls the body of Shakespeare off of himself, and towers up to his feet! Huge pop from the crowd!] TD: Oh my goodness! Thunder is up! Thunder is up! [Brody Thunder's eyes blaze with wild fury, and although blood is flowing into his vision, and although he staggers disentoriatedly, he reaches down, grabs Shakespeare by the neck, and pulls him up to his feet. POW! Thunder unleashes a fast overhand right between the eyes of Billy Shakespeare. CRACK! The champion batters Shakespeare's nose in with a powerful headbutt. POW! Another punishing overhand right... and there it goes... punch, headbutt, punch... the pop from the crowd growing louder with each strike, as Shakespeare is savaged by the brawling tactics of Brody Thunder. The challenger, a black eye swelling on his face, a purplish bruise under his cheek bone, lolls like a dummy in Thunder's grip. Thunder yells out "Now's the time, punk!" before slinging Shakespeare's arm across his shoulder, gripping his trunks, and hoisting him up into the air... the fans collectively hold in their breath... Thunder drops and drives Shakespeare's skull into the mat with his devestating Widowmaker suplex DDT, and the challenger's last vestige of strength almost visibly drains from his body, as sprawls lifeless on the mat. Huge mixed pop from the crowd!] TD: Brody Thunder with the Widowmaker! What an absolutely deadly finishing maneouvre this man has devised! He's going for the cover... SR: The curtain has finally drawn on Billy Shakespeare! TD: That's one!.. Two... Three! SR: It's all over! [Ding! Ding! Ding! Billy Shakespeare reamins plastered to the mat, and Brody Thunder is helped to his feet by the referee, who hands him his title belt and raises his fist to the air.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner, and STILL the IIWF Heavyweight champion of the world - "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder! [Brody Thunder shoves the referee aside, staggers and almost falls, but uprights himself with the aid of the ropes. He thrusts his title belt into the air once again, blood dripping down his face, and the crowd responds with a huge pop.] TD: What a victory for Brody Thunder! Surely, this man must be considered the best wrestler in the world after such a triumph! SR: Hah! And Shakespeare is now the greatest loser in the world. TD: Let's not take anything away from Billy Shakespeare, Steve Roberts. For him to come back from the punishment he was dealt last week, and put up a fight like this against the world champion, is truly an amazing feat. Who knows? - if it wasn't for the machinations of Marty Warnett, Thunder might not have been the one holding the gold aloft right now. [The shot cuts away from ringside, as Thunder makes his way up the aisle, the fans still popping with mixed reactions all around him. Cut to the backstage side of the entranceway curtain, where a nervous looking Dave Bacon stands with a wet Steve Kowalski, apparently just out of the shower following his match with Serge Annis, and with a set of golf clubs over his right shoulder and a garbage can in his left hand.] DB: Mr. Kowalski, what are we doing here?  You are banned from ringside     and... SK: [Interrupting] Y’know, Davey, El Diablo said that I should take up     golf to control my temper.  I don’t feel like controllin’ my temper,     but el devilo mighta had a good idea. DB: We should go.  Besides, you don’t even have a ball. [At that moment, the exhausted “Lone Wolf” Brody Thunder makes his way through the curtain towards the locker rooms, momentarily surprised by the presence of the Fury.] SK: Ball’s here! [With that, Kowalski slams the garbage can over Thunder's head.  The situation quickly gets worse, as the IIWF Champion can’t see or use his arms, due to the garbage can cinched tightly over his head and torso. The New Jersey Nightmare winds up with a driver and...] SK: Fore!! >>>>>>>>>>>>>!CRACK!<<<<<<<<<<<<<< [Launched back through the curtain and sent rolling back down the aisle, Brody Thunder is helpless.  Dave Bacon scurries away in search of help.  The crowd’s roar goes a pitch higher, as Steve Kowalski emerges. Again Kowalski crashes down on the IIWF champ with a golf club, bending it.] >>>>>>>>>>>>>!CRACK!<<<<<<<<<<<<<< SR: Five iron! TD: Where is security?!  Kowalski is devastating Thunder and the "Lone     Wolf" can’t fight back!  The Fury has already gone through two clubs     and... >>>>>>>>>>>>>!CRACK!<<<<<<<<<<<<<< SR: Correction, Dross -- _three_ clubs.  I believe that was a two wood.     Lee Trevino eat your heart out! >>>>>>>>>>>>>!CRACK!<<<<<<<<<<<<<< [The garbage can is now crushed and molded around Brody Thunder’s upper torso. Leaning against the steps to the ring apron, Thunder is on his knees.  One can only guess the pain he is in.  Droplets of blood are raining out from beneath the can, falling to the floor in a sickly scene.] >>>>>>>>>>>>>!CRACK!<<<<<<<<<<<<<< >>>>>>>>>>>>>!CRACK!<<<<<<<<<<<<<< >>>>>>>>>>>>>!CRACK!<<<<<<<<<<<<<< [Three times more the Fury wails away on the prone champion, destroying each club on each swing.  The Jobber Justice Squad comes charging down! The crowd is going wild as Kowalski starts to lay out each jobber member.] >>>>>>>>>>>>>!CRACK!<<<<<<<<<<<<<< [Scott “the Whine” Bloom does a 360 after being leveled by a 6 iron.] >>>>>>>>>>>>>!CRACK!<<<<<<<<<<<<<< [One half of the Barnacle Brothers is bloodied under the force of another swing.] >>>>>>>>>>>>>!CRACK!<<<<<<<<<<<<<< [His latest swing wraps a club around the neck of "Nifty" Ned Norton. More security has hit ringside and there is a crowd of people sent to contain Kowalski but they are held bay by the last golf club.] SR: [laughing] This is what America is all about!  This is ratings!     Pinch me, Dross!  I think I’m dreaming of a white Christmas! TD: This is horrible.  Unfortunately for the folks at home, we are     seeing why he is called the Fury!  He has just dragged Thunder into     the ring.  He has the IIWF belt and he just... [Huge Fury POP!] SR: Kicked it into the cheap seats!  There’s a gift, Row 23A! [Kowalski grabs a microphone that was left in the ring and announces to the prone and bloodied champion.] SK: Brody!  Ya ain’t gotta Snow Brawl's chance in survivin’! Let me show     ya how it's gonna be! [Kowalski violently pulls the garbage can off Thunder's body, revealing a bloody pulp that used to resemble the IIWF champion.  The crowd is chanting "SKULL-PUMP!" as The Fury hooks one arm, then another. Suddenly he hoists Thunder up, but to everyone’s surprise, he presses him into the air and holds him above his shoulder by the small of his back.] TD: Kowalski is holding the champ up like a broken trophy!  It's stomach     churning!  Oh God!  You can see the blood pouring off Brody’s     crimson face! SR: Do it!  Do it! [There is an eerie silence as the champion is tossed into the crowd of security and Jobbers.  Time seems to slow down as the broken body of Brody Thunder, floats through the air, before impacting against the people below.  Like a crumbling tower, the security team falls under the impact, never suspecting such a projectile.  The silence is broken, when Kowalski lifts his arms in victory and wades his way into the crowd. "Fu-ry! Fu-ry!" is becoming deafening as the IIWF’s most dangerous man disappears into the crowd.] TD: I am just speechless. And that will bring another wild edition of IIWF Saturday Night to a close with our highly anticipated Main Event. SR: Aw man.  Who the hell woulda ever thought that Majestic Maurice McArthur would be the Main Event on back-to-back Saturday Nights.  How much talent have we lost over the last few months, Dross? TD: I don't know if there's any athlete in the world of wrestling who could stand in the way of something like this, Steve Roberts, Chris Quigley's reign as Intercontinental Champion has been nothing if not dramatic -- and we may well see the unfolding of quite a chapter here tonight. SR: Speaking of unfolding, what I'm looking forward to is Tuesday night, when both viewers of "Inside the IIWF" will finally see what a complete and utter fraud you are, Dross.  I've seen that videotape, and I can barely believe it myself.  I'm ashamed to be sitting with you. TD: I have nothing to hide, Steve Roberts.  No skeletons in this ol' closet. SR: Hell, where would you put them, all those Taiwainese boys hemming your Triple X trousers take up all the space. TD: Ah yes.  I have a weight problem.  You are a brilliant, brilliant man, Steve Roberts. SR: Glad to see you've noticed. TD: Let's get up to the ring. ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|.................................................. | || | \ v v / | __| IIWF INTERCONTINENTAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley vs. "Majestic" Maurice McArthur ....................................................................... WRITER: JJ [Sparkplug Lee gives a thumbs up to one of the anonymous IIWF suits at ringside who is straightening a garish yellow and black striped hat.] SL: The following contest is set for one fall and is for the IIWF Intercontinental Championship! Introducing first... [Lee looks at his notecards... then glances about him quizzically before beginning.] SL: ...From Corner Brook, Newfoundland, Canada... he weighs 238 pounds and is the IIWF Intercontinental Champion... "QUICKSTRIKE" CHRIS QUIGLEY! [Enormous mixed pop as Quigley, without his customary music, emerges from the back.  Quigley is shaking his head slowly, clearly irritated at being sent into the ring prior to the challenger, McArthur. "Quickstrike" is not wearing his leather jacket, nor his traditional sunglasses -- and slowly drags the coveted IIWF Intercontinental Championship belt along he ground as he walks.] TD: A very unhappy Chris Quigley making his way down the aisle, Steve Roberts.  There may be no man in this sport more conscious of his place in history than Chris Quigley -- and that loss last week to Maurice McArthur, tainted though it was, has upset this man tremendously. SR: Oh, am I sick of hearing how bad Chris Quigley's got it.  Musashi had it right a couple of weeks ago, Dross -- no one gets more bites at the apple than Quigley.  He's always there, like a giant macaroni and cheese tapeworm... sucking the very vital fluids out of your lower intestine. [Quigley tosses the belt haphazardly to the timekeeper, then rolls into the ring... taking a moment to acknowledge his fans... but just with the briefest of glances as he stares dead up the aisle.] SL: And his opponent... he is accompanied down the aisle by El Super Gecko and weighs 230 lbs... he represents the Jobber Justice Squad... TRIPLE M... MAJESTIC MAURICE McARTHUR! [Big Pop as Journey's homogenized "Don't Stop Believin'" plays and Maurice McArthur comes into view, followed quickly by the Gecko, who appears in the aisle in a fret and start -- being yanked back behind the curtain after a momentary entrance, then reappearing with a "Hissssssss" to share in the adulation the fans are giving his long-time colleague McArthur.] TD: McArthur and the Gecko are here... and there is a large percentage of this crowd which is solidly behind them... this Jobber Justice Squad has become much more high profile over the last couple of months... and many of these IIWF fans respect their work ethic. SR: And many of them just flat hate Chrissie Quigley, Dross.  Did you see the way that punk treated the Intercontinental belt?  That just makes me sick, Dross -- how little respect this guy has for this organization.  How many guys have spilled their blood for that belt, only to have a punk ass champion like Quigley defile it like this? [Quigley begins to get into the face of referee D'Amato... apparently giving him "instructions" about the matchup... Quigley turning away from McArthur as he steps into the ring... Quigley getting more and more angry as he thrusts his index finger at the official... ...and he is attacked from behind by McArthur! Ding! Ding! Ding!....] TD: Maurice with the proverbial Pearl Harbor job on Quigley... and Quigley is roaring back!  Quigley with big right hands on McArthur... Quigley with the whip... the flying shoulderblock... and Maurice goes all the way to the outside! [Quigley wastes not a second, grabbing the top rope and slingshotting himself to the outside into a legdrop to the fallen McArthur.  Quigley is crisply vicious, hopping to his feet even while his fans are still cheering the plancha -- and _dropping_ the onrushing Gecko with a big right hand! Quigley drops atop 3M, ramming his head into the ground... Quigley tearing away at the outside mat, exposing a portion of the concrete and thumping McArthur's skull into the ground!] TD: We know about this side of the "Quickstrike"... he is a man prone to tremendous anger, prone to let his pride carry him forward -- and he is really putting it to 3M tonight! SR: Damn it, McArthur... get up!  Get your jabrone ass up! [The Gecko attempts to intervene on behalf of his friend Maurice -- and is easily flicked aside with another big Quigley right hand!  Quigley then grabs a steel chair... and as McArthur now rolls over onto his stomach... Quigley rams the chair repeatedly... over and over into the kidneys of Maurice!  Big Mixed Pop as Quigley relentlessly jabs the chair into Maurice, and as the Gecko once again makes his way over to McArthur -- Quigley turns -- and blasts El Super Gecko over the head... the crack of the steel whistling out through the IIWF Coliseum!] TD: Chris Quigley is really risking disqualification here, Steve Roberts... he is taking advantage of Dave D'Amato's lenient streak, and really going to work on both McArthur and the Gecko! SR: I've about had it with this guy, Dross... hey... Hey!  What the hell do you want, Chrissie!  You... You want to go right now! [Quigley motions to Roberts, turning away from his opponent to yell at the Soundbite.  Roberts stands as the crowd squeals... Quigley now moving toward Roberts.] TD: Steve, no... [From behind Quigley, McArthur grabs the chair... readying himself to waffle the Quickstrike... but Quigley senses the charge, whirling around and drilling the chair back into McArthur's face with a standing dropkick!  Quigley knocks the Gecko down again with a right hand, El Super Gecko seeming even more ineffective than we have come to expect, when the P.A. suddenly blares out Metallica's "Frayed Ends of Sanity"... and entering the aisle is Steve Manning!] TD: There's Manning... he was scheduled to be in the corner of Chris Quigley tonight, but the champion told him to stay away -- nonetheless, he is here... and it looks like he's dragging a Christmas tree! [The cigarette smoking Manning reaches the ringside area as Quigley tosses McArthur into the ring, Manning yelling out, "You chopped this down yourself in '95, Quickstrike!" Quigley turns to yell at the oncoming Manning... ...and Maurice slips behind him... rolling Quigley up with a schoolboy... D'Amato drops down for the count... 1 -- 2 -- NO! Quigley kicks out, stomping viciously to McArthur as Manning _waylays_ the Gecko with a swing of the tree!  Manning stands above the fallen Gecko, laughing uproariously as the luchadore scrambles to free himself from his pine needle prison. Quigley picks McArthur to his feet... Big Pop!] TD: Here comes Macbeth!  Duncan Macbeth is running to the ring!  SR: Yeah, turn around, Quigley... turn around again! [Quigley moves to the ropes as the Scotsman stands at ringside, Quigley motioning for Macbeth to come into the ring! McArthur moves behind Quigley again, grabbing a waistlock as Manning screams for Quigley... Manning looking to hop into the ring... ...but he is cut down by the Gecko!  El Super Gecko, leaping to his feet with remarkable quickness, flies to the head of Manning in a momentum altering maneuver and _rocks_ the young man to the timekeeper's table with a bulldog!] TD: Good God!  Good God!  El Super Gecko with a bulldog to the timekeeper's table and Steve Manning is out!  El Super Gecko has laid Steve Manning out! SR: And McArthur win the German suplex!  McArthur with the released German suplex -- and he's going up to the top rope! [The crowd is wild with emotion as Maurice ascends the top rope, yelling out to the skies, "Who wants to see a..."] TD: Good grief. ["...Starsault Press?" McArthur readies himself... and leaps...] TD: Oooooooh... that... that was not good. [The crowd shrieks in empathy for Maurice as his dive was to the ropes, McArthur crotching himself over the top rope as Quigley regains his footing and moves upon him... Macbeth now makes a motion to the apron, and is grabbed from behind by Serge Annis!  Annis, now heavily bandaged in his streetclothes, grabs the Scotsman, yelling to him that "he's already had his damn shot!" Macbeth gives Annis a shove... and Serge fires back with a big right hand! Annis and Macbeth begin brawling back up the aisle, El Super Gecko remains poised over Manning... the Gecko startlingly seething, seeming ready to strike at the soonest opportunity... Quigley lands stiff forearm shots to the already injured back of McArthur, eventually driving him from the ropes back to the canvas...] TD: This is breaking down out here, Steve Roberts.  Annis is now... Annis is now choking Macbeth over the guardrail in the aisle!  The Gecko... The Gecko is ripping away at the guardrail by ringside!  El Super Gecko is... he is standing over Manning with the guardrail!  SR: And Quigley's done with Maurice, Dross... Quigley's stepping over... there it is. [Big Pop as Quigley locks on the Quickstriker!  D'Amato checks for the submission... and McArthur shakes his head! Annis continues to choke Macbeth... when hobbling down the aisle comes Derek Mota!  Big, Big Pop for Mota as IIWF officials and doctors come sprinting after him, the pain is clearly evident on Mota's face as he jumps atop the back of Annis... Mota trying to back Serge away from Macbeth... Serge grabbing the smaller man from his back, the bandages from his ankle beginning to come undone... and Annis _rips_ Mota to the unforgiving steel aisle rampway with a Samoan drop!  Officials and doctors begin to shove all three men back up the aisle where they soon disappear from view...]  TD: Quigley's still got the Quickstriker locked on!  Quigley's still got the Quickstriker locked on! SR: I don't think Maurice has quit yet!  How the hell about... well, there it is. [McArthur slaps the mat, yelling "No More!", and D'Amato calls the for bell.  Ding! Ding! Ding!] SL: Your winner, as a result of a submission, "QUICKSTRIKE" CHRIS QUIGLEY! [Big mixed pop as 3M submits... but Quigley refuses to release the hold! Quigley refuses to release the Quickstriker!  Maurice begins to audibly moan in agony... Quigley refusing to release the hold as the crowd screams... and El Super Gecko dives into the ring... the Gecko pulling at Quigley... the Gecko pulling at Quigley... the Gecko... ...pulling Quigley _off_ McArthur!  Quigley swings a haymaker right hand at the Gecko... ...and misses... Gecko ducks, whirling Quigley around into an atomic drop -- but without benefit of a knee, Chris Quigley sent hard to his tailbone... Quigley sent stunningly hard to the canvas!] TD: Oh my God!  Oh my God -- that was... that was... [The crowd screams, each and every IIWF fan, both in the building, and one can safely assume watching on television stands, men gripping each others' arms... grown men standing with their arms in the air and their mouths agape as Manning hits the ring... Manning charging the Gecko -- who easily avoids the rush... hooking up Manning and _dropping_ him with a combination fisherman suplex/DDT!] TD: Oh.  My.  God.  [The Gecko stands amidst the fallen three men, the crowd screams increase... increase... increase... seeming to come from an almost primal place... as the Gecko rips off his mask... Rips... off... his... mask... Crazy, Crazy POP!] TD: IT IS... IT IS JOE PETROW!  JOE PETROW!  JOE PETROW IS _BACK_ IN THE IIWF!! SR: Yes!  Yes!  Yes!  For the love of under-aged Japanese subway riding girls everywhere... YES! [The shock on the faces of Manning and Quigley is easily matched by that on the face of McArthur... Maurice mouthing the words... "Joe? Joe?" as Petrow is suddenly thrown ringside objects from fans who have bowled over the retaining barrier in an attempt to rush the ring... Petrow grabs a steel chair, blasting both Manning and Quigley, although neither one seems able to move to his feet.  Petrow grabs a trashcan, placing it over the head of Manning and then taking a two by four and _whacking_ the can as the crowd continues making its way to the ring... IIWF security, themselves clearly stunned, now surrounds ringside, trying to move the fans away from the wrestlers... ...also making a move is Quigley... the shock still present on his face... but now the anger of the competitor within takes over... Quigley diving atop Petrow as he batters away at Manning... Quigley and Petrow rolling around on the canvas... The fans storm the ring... the chants now beginning... "Pe-trow! Pe-trow! Pe-trow!"  The two battling men are separated, separated by the fans and security... Quigley gathering up Manning from the mat...] TD: And Petrow grabs the tree!  Joe Petrow grabs the Christmas Tree and begins swinging it at Chris Quigley!  Joe Petrow has that Christmas tree!  We've got fans in the ring!  We've got police in the ring!  This thing has broken down!  This thing has completely broken down!  We're out of time!  We're out of time!  Good God!  Good God!  [The Portland Police and IIWF security scramble feverishly to eject fans from the ring... Petrow and his Christmas tree are pulled away from Quigley... Petrow grabbing the clearly injured McArthur and hoisting him gingerly over his shoulder as the crowd continues to roar... the roar shaking the very foundations of the IIWF -- and as the shot fades the chanting continues unabated...] "PE-TROW!!...PE-TROW!!...PE-TROW!!!!" [The shot goes to black.] +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 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 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+