________ _______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| |\ /| /\ |\ | | /\ \ / | || | \ v v / | __| | v |/ \| \| __| /__\ \/ |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| | |\ /| |/ |/ \/ | | \/ | |\_// /\ |\ /| | _ | / __ / __ | v | | | / \ . |\ | / \ / \ | | | | \__ | | \| | __ \__ 15 December 1997 | | | | \ | | | \__| \ .....................|..v_____/.|.|..|____|____/ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [The camera awakens with a jostling view of IIWF medical staff carrying a bloody, semi-conscious Brody Thunder on handstretcher into the IIWF interview area. Awaiting there are more medical personnel with a metal ambulance gurney, set to roll. They shift the prone Arizonan onto the metal gurney, Thunder's arms weakly trying to strike out at the nervous attendants. The battered Lone Wolf can be heard coughing strongly over then hussling technicians. The camera tries desperately to get a close- up of Thunder's bloodied face but is thwarted by the medics and pushed back by security. Thunder's arms fall silent to his side as they begin to wheel him away. Then the camera man almost absent-mindedly calls out to the fallen champion.] CAMERAMAN: Thunder?! Thunder...any words for Kowalski, the man responsible for this?! [As they wheel him through the doors, Thunder slowly reaches out with his left hand, catching the doorjam and stopping the gurney. There's a pause which seems to happen in slow-motion. Then, with his body still prone on the gurney, Thunder slowly raises his right hand up mere inches off the stretcher, making a tight fist in the air. He then extends his middle finger shakily, to the camera before collapsing back onto the gurney in exhaustion. The medical teams rushes him out through the doors, followed by the camera. Once in the ambulance, the vehicle speeds off. The lasting image of the ambulance's tail-lights burn into the camera lens... then fades to black.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley & Steve Manning ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [SCENE: Backstage after IIWF Saturday Night. "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley stands, obviously terribly unhappy with the results of the night. Standing NEXT to him, is "Sanguinary" Steve Manning, a huge smile on his face, as he pats Quigley on the shoulder. Quigley just slowly nods as he begins speaking, or more like, yelling...] CQ: Just when I thought I had it all figured out! Just when I thought the IIWF was finally giving me the respect I deserve! They go and haul Joe Petrow out of the asshole of the earth, Japan, and bring him back, to try and steal my title away from me! This must really be upsetting for the IIWF, knowing the Intercontinental Title is in the hands of someone who doesn't appreciate it. All this title is, is a _fraction_ of the recognition I deserve, for giving my notice to every other Federation I was signed with, and laying my ass on the line for the Double Eye! This the the thanks I get! Here, "Quickstrike", you can lose to a jobber, and get your ass handed to you the next week my Joe Petrow, who [BLEEP]ed us over really bad, but we don't care, since he's such a _great_ heat magnet! I've discovered that, despite his flaws, Steve Manning is the only one here who looks out for my best interests! [Quigley tussles the sadistic Manning's hair.] CQ: Daniel Spreadbury, can go to _hell_. Steve Roberts, can go to _hell_. Joe Petrow, can go back to Japan, a place much _worse_ than hell! And the fans of the IIWF, the fans who chant "Dun-can! Dun-can!" and "Triple M! Triple M!" at me during my defences... the fans of the IIWF can kiss my mother[BLEEP]in' ass! [Steve Manning jumps up and down in delight, as he lights a cigarette, hands it to Quigley, and lights another one for himself. The Intercontinental Champion takes a long draw on the "cancer stick" as Manning puffs away on his before speaking himself.] SM: Derek Mota. How's the ankle? Maybe this is just by coincidence, but I have a wheelchair I don't need anymore... I'd letcha have it for half price! And Joe Petrow, you original sonuvabitch! The Christmas tree was my foreign object! You can have your kiwi, or your tricyle, or your 3 foot dildo, but the Christmas tree was mine! You wanna out-hardcore the hardcorest bastard in the whole f'n hardcore f'n uni... f'n... verse?! I dare ya to drag your "I don't wanna job to a Jap." ass in the ring with the "Sanguinary" one... and if ya do... you'll need someone to drag your ass back _out_! [Manning gives a shrill laugh as he draws back on his cigarette, as Quigley, who is puffing rings in the air, speaks once more...] CQ: Duncan Macbeth... forget your title shot. You're not getting it. Move on with your career. I beat you fair and square at Ring Wars IV, and don't you ever forget it. Joe Petrow, I don't wrestle racist pigs, and that's what you are, you proved it already, and I'm sure, soon enough, you'll prove it again! And to you, "Majestic" Maurice McArthur... good luck in your new career as a squeegee boy. I'm sure you'll do your family proud! [Manning jumps gleefully, as it finally seems Quigley has started to see things his way.] CQ: The IIWF is a slime-pit, covering up one diamond. I'm the rare jewel. I'm the prize horse. I'm the man who carries this whole stinkin' Federation on his shoulders, and I get _nothing_ in return! [BLEEP] this Federation! [BLEEP] this Federation's president! [BLEEP] this Federation's wrestlers! And [BLEEP] this Federation's fans! I am the Intercontinental Champion, and as long as I am, you _will_ give me respect, whether on your own free will, or whether I have to beat it out of ya! [An irate Quigley sticks a middle finger in the air, as does Manning, who is still smiling gleefully, as the camera fades on the sad scene.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Rocket Man" Timothy N. Turner ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Tim Turner walks into the interview area, moving in an obviously ginger manner. He is holding his arm tight into his ribs and there is a slight swelling along one side od his face.] TT: So another title defense has come and gone and the Rocket Man is still the IIWF Champion. Dicky Blue has had his chance and is now lying with the rest of the pretenders to my title...like Thunder and Quigley. There is a reason that Blue and Rogers can't make it to the top...it's because they are a team. Teams will never beat family. Teams will never beat friends. Why did Duncan and Derek come to my aid? We are friends. Are Moxy and Rogers friends? I don't think so. [Turner winces and holds his ribs a little tighter.] TT: I told President Dan that I would face the most worthy challenger to my title this week. I'm sure you have noticed that there are no worthy challengers...so I get the week off. When I come back...I want Rogers. I owe that over-muscled freak of medicine and I aim to pay my debts. That's right...Scott Rogers will be my next title defense. [I small grin sneaks onto Tim's face.] TT: Oh wait...he's not eligible for my title, is he? [Turner laughs as the shot fades.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Sychosys" Joe Petrow & Majestic Maurice McArthur ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [The IIWF Monday Musings backdrop. Maurice sits propped up against the wall in the background, his knees bent up to support his folded arms and head, the events of Saturday night rendering him either unable or unwilling to speak. Meanwhile, Joe Petrow has taken his place in front of the camera, still dressed in El Super Gecko attire except for the mask, which he holds in his hands.] JP: You can't hurt the lizard...but you can make him shed his skin. But don't worry Juventud, your secret's safe with me. [Petrow tosses the mask aside, and speaks in a low monotone] JP: A man on his last legs, looking to cash in on a jobber's recent good fortune. An administration that doesn't know whether it's coming or going. A crazy man who doesn't even know what he's doing. A career assassin hired by Steve Manning. Or even, an interfederation conspiracy to make Chris Quigley look like a complete jackass. Since you won't believe a word I say anyway, I've given you all the options there are. Except of course, that Chris Quigley got what he deserved, but we know that can't be right, right? Anyway, choose your truth from which to make your traditional excuses and bitchfits. But for Maurice and I, the unforgiven, unsmiled upon dregs of this sport, we have but two absolute truths to take shelter with. No matter how bad things seem, we will always be there for each other. [Petrow walks towards the camera] And Quigs and Manning....we don't like you. [Petrow swats at the camera with an open left hand, dropping it from its perch, giving the viewers a momentary jolt before the screen turns to snow.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Duncan Macbeth ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Duncan Macbeth storms into the IIWF interview area, jade eyes blazing with fury, shoving studio technicians out of the way as he strides close up to the camera, spitting his words out through clenched teeth in a voice rattling with indignation and barely-contained fury.] DM: It seems I've a lot on me plate after tonigh', so I'll try an' keep this short an' sweet. Serge Annis... I reckoned ye were a hell o' a lot smarter than ye showed tonigh', ye bloody great eejit! I've gone toe t' toe in this fed wi' th' likes o' Verhoeven an' Hardin, an' I'm supposed t' be frightened by a poncy carnival sideshow like yuirself? Somehow, I _think_ I'll manage t' sleep tonigh', tosser. Ye ken, I get righ' bleedin' pissed when people try t' meddle in me affairs, but I'll warn ye once an' once only - stick yuir head in me business ag'in, Annis, an' I'll rip it off an' hand it righ' back t' ye. Try me at yuir peril. Mota, I owe ye one, mate. Manning, I hope ye've still got tha' wheelchair handy, 'cause between th' Heatseeker an' meself, ye may find yuirself back in it sooner than ye think. An' if we have our way, pipsqueak, ye'll be pushin' it 'round wi' yuir _mouth_ next time, instead o' yuir hands. Rogers - och, ye're no' even worth wastin' breath on, waterboy. I suggest tha' before ye go messin' about wi' Tim again, give Ryan Howard a call an' ask 'im how 'e's enjoyin' retirement, wha'. An' tell 'im tha' Tim an' I send our regards. [Macbeth seems to calm a bit, and his expression grows more thoughtful as he measures his next words before speaking again.] Now, as fer ye, Crazy Joe, I've ne'er been one t' persecute th' mentally challenged. In fact, if I ran in t' ye outside o' th' liquour store wi' yuir hat out, I'd probably give ye a couple o' quid. Tha's th' kind o' guy I am, y'see. But if I run in t' ye here in th' IIWF while I'm tryin' t' get tha' lyin', whinin', yellow-bellied weasel Quigley in th' ring, so I can reclaim th' title tha's rightfully mine, I'm goin' t' give ye more trouble than I think ye'll want t' deal with. I've spilt too much o' me blood, sweat, an' tears o'er th' last three months t' let ye bugger it all up now. Stay out o' me way, Petrow - dinnae say ye weren't told. [The Scot runs a hand through his thick mane of ruddy-blond hair, and his expression changes again to one of steely resolve, his jade eyes glinting with hatred as his voice drops to a low, ominous baritone.] Sae, Quigley - where does all o' this leave ye an' I? Petrow's after ye now, an' now Serge Annis, an' probably tha' namby-pamby Rogers, want a piece o' Duncan Macbeth. I reckon ye think tha' yuir prayers have finally been answered, don't ye? Ye've finally got tha' big scary Scotsman off yuir back, righ'? Yuir precious Intercontinental Title is safe once again, righ'? Keep prayin', Quigley. Nothin's changed between us, paper champion. It seems like I had t' fight through a bleedin' ARMY t' get t' ye, Quigley. Th' Battle Royal. Th' Hell's Angels. Leavenworth. Hardin. Now, I've got t' deal wi' Annis. Petrow. Rogers. An' o' course, yuir number-one fan, Manning. It doesn't matter, 'cause they can't stop me. NOTHIN' stops me. Sae, ye'll give me a rematch "when ye're good an' ready"? Well, ye'd better hope t' Jaysis ye're good an' ready on January 3rd, tosser, 'cause Steele an' Reed aren't goin' t' stop me, either. An' neither will anyone who's foolish enough t' try an' keep me from winnin' tha' match on Saturday. An' neither will YE. This Saturday, I'm goin' t' TAKE what ye don't have th' stones t' give me. An' there's NOTHIN' tha' ye, Petrow, Annis, or yuir wee pet Manning can do about it. I _will_ have justice. [Fade.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Epitome of Evil" Serge Annis ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [The scenario: the IIWF Coliseum. A ring crew is sweeping up the pine needles from the Christmas tree brought into play in the main event. Another crew is trying to get the blood stains from Annis and Kowalski out of the mat using bleach, while others are scattered about the arena scraping gum off of the seats, picking up trash, and anything else imaginable. The camera pans up to the seats high above the ring, in the nose-bleed section, to find "The Epitome of Evil" Serge Annis sitting quietly, gazing down at the ring. Using the camera's phenominal zooming capabilities, the camera closes in on Annis' face, which sports a band aid under the left eye. Annis grins.] SA: Before I get to the topic of Steve Kowalski, I want to make one thing clear and known. Duncan Macbeth, you do not deserve to be anywhere near Chris Quigley. See, you won a battle royal to get your shot. I earned mine by beating opponent after opponent. Then you lose your shot... well, that's it. You don't deserve a second chance. Earn it again. And because of that... I made it my business to prevent you from costing Quigley anything... eww... I never thought I'd be saving that queer's ass. Anyway, Macbeth. Don't like it? I don't really give a damn. Learn to deal with it. And now... "The Fury" Steve Kowalski. You had quite a night tonight. A Skullpump through the table. Hell, you nearly killed Dross... I guess you aren't as bad as I thought. But the fact remains... I still hate 'ya. I still think YOU are the over-rated hack. And Kowalski, I still think that you don't deserve any World title shot. And next Saturday is my chance to take that from you. Because you and I are gonna crash through those ropes once again, this time with no disqualifications. Do you really know what that means, Kowalsaki? That means I can do whatever the hell I want to you... and it will be legal. I hape Spreadbury's alerted the censors, because it sure as Hell isn't going to be pretty. The fact is, it's going to be one bloody mess. Seven days, Steve Kowalski. Go visit that Dad of yours. Tell 'em how your career is going to be cut short, and you just won't live up to the family name. Because you have a madman on your tail and on Saturday I'm fixing to cut it off, among other things. Let's see how much of an attitude you still have after Saturday, Fury... because I have a feeling that your life is about to get a whole lot... darker... heh heh heh... ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Deathbringer ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [SCENE: The IIWF interview area. Deathbringer and the Blind Guardian, both dressed in their known outfits, are standing in front of the camera. The old man raises his voice, while Deathbringer just stands there, the arms crossed in front of his chest:] BG: Two down. And we might even see the second ex-Genesis member leaving the IIWF for good. So if y'ask me, it seems as if the Deathbringer's once again doing what he does best... Ending other wrestlers' careers. And having this in mind, I doesn't really wonder why Otter Verhoeven isn't too keen to meet his worst nightmare once again in the squared circle. I just find it difficult to talk about spineless, gutless cowards, especially if these words come out of the Master of Cowards very own mouth. May I remind you, Otter, that without the Outlaw's interference back at that casket match, the Dark Destroyer would have taken you six feet under right away? May I remind you, that you never meant a threat to the Reaper, that you never were capable of handling him your own? But... [Deathbringer lowers his hands and interrupts the Blind Guardian] DB: But maybe you are right, Verhoeven, maybe it is not the right time for the two of us to meet within the squared circle again. And please do not get me wrong, Verhoeven, I am not hiding from you... No, watch your back as I _WILL_ walk at your side from now on... and I _WILL_ make sure, that you will pay for your deeds. So, Verhoeven, whatever might happen... PREPARE TO MEET YOUR MAKER! [Fade] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Ronnie Paris ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Ronnie Paris stands in front of the typical Musings backdrop, his smile a mile wide. He's not alone, however, as the four security men he'd paid off on Saturday are standing behind him in somewhat of a defensive posture, probably on the lookout for Takezo Musashi. Paris is holding the dented garbage can from his earlier attack, and wears a "Property of the Soundbite Special Forces" t-shirt.] RP: I think all you fans out there owe me some congratulations... heck, I just got three new jobs over the weekend. I know you morons in TV Land might not think three jobs is much... but I'm keeping all these. I'm not pulling a "work four weeks, collect unemployment for twenty" scam like you layabouts. First of all, as you saw on Saturday Night, I'm the new Head of Security in the IIWF... and my first order to my forces was to clean up the transient trash that hangs around the Coliseum. How was I to know the trashiest guy they'd find would be Takezo Musashi? [Pause, as Paris triumphantly holds up the massively dented trash can.] Secondly, I appointed myself the new "garbage man" of the IIWF. See, Musashi, to get rid of trash you use a trash can, so that's why I nailed you with this puppy. I have to admit, your head is pretty hard, but I think I had an effect. What can I say? I'm good at my jobs. [Paris points down to the print on his new t-shirt, and the camera briefly pans down to allow viewers to read it.] RP: Finally, last Tuesday, I got an offer... now, I'll be the first to admit Steve Roberts and I didn't get along in the past, but things change. I've known for too long what it's like to be screwed by the IIWF Administration, and now he suffered the same fate. So I'm gonna milk this thing for all it's worth. This is the Head of Security, the garbage man, and Lieutennant Paris of the Soundbite Special Forces reporting for duty. God, I love my jobs! [Fade away as Paris turns around to show the slogan on the back of his shirt, "Let's get Smooth!".] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Enigma" Takezo Musashi ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [SCENE: The camera shakilly tracks a white uniformed stretcher team as it hurries through the corridors of the IIWF Colisseum, carrying an unconscious and bloody Takezo Musashi. A savage wound cuts a red swathe across the Enigma's forehead, streaming blood down his battered face and into stains on his white "Sychosys" T-shirt. The crew of medics take a few twists and turns through the bowels of the Colisseum, before barging though a set of double doors and out into the concrete parking lot. An ambulance is already parked in wait, red and blue lights spiralling on its rooftop, bathing the night air in strobe like brilliance. A crowd of stunned spectators look on as the ambulance doors swing outward, and waiting orderlies begin to load the stretcher into the back. The Enigma groans in pain, stirs, and with sudden abruptness, leaps right up from the stretcher! The medics are immediately in a fluster as Musashi lurches forward, eyes wide with delirium... ...he drunkenly sways... ...then falls right back into their waiting hands. Order appears to be restored for the moment, as the medics carefully begin to position Takezo back on the stretcher... But, suddenly and urgently, the Enigma's eyes flash open once again, and he begins to flail his arms through the air, breaking free and lunging about himself with wild punches and chops! The medics scramble backwards in shock, maintaining a safe distance; Musashi lurching to and fro, striking the air frantically, his eyes glazed over with delirous madness, and his blood dripping onto the concrete!] TM: [voice in ragged gasp] Paris... Konton Kami... [Suddenly, the Enigma seems to fix his mad stare on the camera, and lurches towards it. The medics crowd cautiously behind him, somehow hoping to subdue Takezo and get him back into the ambulance. Musashi stumbles forward, grabbing onto the camera to balance himself. The picture swerves wildly for a moment, but rapidly steadies itself, bringing the face of the Enigma into stark, gruesome close up. Blood coats his face, a wild fire rages in his eyes, and as the ambulance siren flashes through the air, the red light flickers across the Enigma's visage, casting it in a devilish hue.] TM: [voice growing hoarser] Ronnie Paris... the Konton Kami... unleashed... the dance in... ...the dance in darkness has just begun! [Just as the words escape the Enigma's mouth, a medical orderly runs up behind him, and plunges a hypodermic syringe into his arm. With a howl of rage, Musashi rips the camera from the hands of its operator, the picture swerving crazilly, then abruptly breaking into static as the instrument is smashed across the head of the unlucky medic. The sound mic, however, is still in operation, picking up the shocked babble of the spectators, the running of feet, and two bumps as first the medic, then Takezo Musashi, slumps to the ground...] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Fabulous Ones ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Gold’s gym, Muscle beach, California, “The Universal Heartthrob” Agito Nakajima and “Sweet” Sho Satsuma, work out in the mid-day sun. Many fans, mostly women have gathered around. Ms. Miki walks into view, wearing a tight red spandex workout outfit.] Ms. Miki: Konnichiwa, to all the fans in IIWF land. I’d like to address something that happened this past Saturday. Because of a stipulation put into the contracts by Simon O’Neal of the MACHINES, the Fabs couldn’t be ringside and scout out the talent. So, I did the scouting. Once I was done, what happens? Paul Wong practically chased after me. What followed in the back room I have on tape and I’ll show the footage this week, but until then... [Agito stops working out and approaches the camera.] AN: Enough of that for now! I ‘ve got a few words for DAMAGE, INC, or whatever they want to call themselves. [Sho steps into view of the camera from the right.] SS: LOST BOYZ! AN: You were killed by words from the FABULOUS ONES, damn you really aren’t as good as your “little reputation”. We figured you to be more of a challenge. Ooh well! You were killed by jealousy? SS: It’s okay to be jealous of Agito and myself, it comes with the territory. But, to attempt and hide from us by changing your names...not a good idea, especially when your the tag team champions of the IIWF. AN: Hold on Sho! I want to know about this “Bitch crying” stuff. And all the references to “ass” they like to mention? SS: [with a look of pondering] It seems they call guys “Bitches” and talk a lot about their opponent’s ass... AN: Didn’t they call us faggots? [The women around the gym gather around the Fabs. Sho disappears in the sea of ladies.] AN: Are we faggots, ladies? [All the women, not in unison, shake their heads from side to side and say “No”! At that time, Sho comes out from the ladies with a hat, a single eye glass, with a pipe, he resembles Sherlock Holmes.] SS: [With a British accent] It’s elementary my dear ladies. After reviewing the facts, it seems that DAMA... THE LOST BOYZ, which was a very good movie, are actually faggots! [The women along with Sho start laughing. Agito’s face becomes very serious.] AN: We’re here, LOST BOYZ, we’re not going anywhere, so when you're ready, then pucker up and kiss your belts goodbye! SS: [still in Sherlock Holmes disguise] You mean to say... pucker up and kiss our ass! [Sho starts laughing uncontrollably with the ladies around him, as Agito walks away.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Machines ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Simon O'Neal waits impatiently at the IIWF interview area. He scowls at the camera, and mutter something under his breath. Paul Wong walks up from the other side to the IIWF arena.] SO: What the HELL were you doing during that match? PW: Miki showed up at ringside, I was getting rid of her. SO: Getting rid of... Paulie, look at me. You're an athlete. I'm an athlete. Those two huge monster clowns we lost to tonight are athletes. Ms. Miki's a manager, a cheap piece that looks halfway decent. The only way she could hurt you is if she brought out her chains and leather outfit. While you were concerned about her, I was doing a triple-somersault courtesy of those freaks! PW: Sorry. I thought with the Fabulous... SO: I GOT RID OF THEM! Geez, don't you trust me? PW: Look, forget it. We've got another match this Wednesday, and we'll start over there. SO: [Rolling his eyes] Whatever. But this time... [motions his partner closer. Paul obliges.] SO: STAY IN THE [BLEEP]ING RING! [Simon storms off. Paul starts to follow him, then shakes his head and goes the other way.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Jimmy "Meatman" Steele ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [The Meatman narrates a video montage of "barnyard life." A montage of chickens, cows, geese, and ducks, parade across the screen. Laborers shovel slop into a pig pen, and children dive into bales of hay.] MEATMAN: Long as I can remember, up at 4, milk the cows, clean the pen. Dinner bell at 6. Hard work, my whole life -- and I love it. My father started out cleaning cages, then he sold pheasant eggs along the freeway. By the time I was born, he had 12 acres. By the time he died, and my son -- The Meatboy -- was born, we had built his beginnings into an industry. A chain of farms, and a meat-packin' plant in Emeryville. Go into any grocery throughout the U.S, you'll see Steele farm meat, brought to you by Meatman Industries. Quality meat and poulty your family will love and can afford. "Meat that Screams in the Oven." That's us. [End montage. Cut to The Meatman standing with a middle-aged woman and a portly 10 yr. old boy.] MEATMAN: On behalf of myself, Jim Steele, my wife Elsie, and the Meatboy; we would like to extend our warmest season greetings to you and yours. [Logo appears: Meatman Industries -- "Meat that Screams in the Oven."] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Real Deal" Luke Steele ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Fade up to the IIWF interview area, some time after the card has been completed. Luke Steele wanders into the camera's view, wearing only a pair of jeans, Nike running shoes, and the yellow and red bandana. He looks at the camera, a small smile hinting at the corners of his mouth.] LS: The hit parade continues, no? Lord Byron, I'll hand it to you, there isn't much ring rust on you. But no amount of preparation can prepare you from the hottest wrestler on the planet, especially when he's on top of his game like I was tonight. You've gotten soft, B. [Luke points at the camera lense, almost in an accusatory manner.] LS: You, Byron, you beat yourself. You let some sign distract you. Pathetic. I'd have finished you off anyways, but you prematurely finished yourself off by getting taken off your game. The Floating DDT racks up yet another high profile name to it's list of victims. Byron. Highwayman. Starks. That list is going to keep on growing. [Luke starts to walk away, not even bothering to look back as he says his final words.] LS: Bank on it, baby dolls. [Fade to black.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Natural Predators ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Light comes up through the window of an empty gym, the first light of morning, reddish in its glow. The gym is empty and silent, save for a heavy bg swinging and rattling it's steel chain lightly. The sound of footfalls breaks the silence, and the camera pans to the doorway, where three silhoutted figures stand and wait in silence. The lights come up full to reveal the NATURAL PREDATORS and KUYLER, dressed for a workout, with GREY PHOENIX in his standard wrestling outfit, and BEAR wearing a t-shirt and shorts, the t-shirt saying "Strongman...nothing but the best". Kuyler who is dressed in a grey suit jacket, black turtleneck, and jeans, looks at his wristwatch and nods to the two wrestlers.] KG: Right. Let's get to work. [Beginning the montage, subtitle flashes saying "5:00 AM". The Predators are shown in various jump clips of a warmup, including stretches, situps, calisthenics, and breath exercises. Kuyler keeps the tempo steady for them with a snare drum that he taps, emphasizing a steady rhythm rather than hurky jerky style] KG: One, two, one, two, keep the tempo steady. [Montage changes, subtitle "6:30 AM" to the first spar of the day. Grey Phoenix is the primary focus of this match, as he steps in against a medium sized grappler and a large brute. Kuyler calls out advice to him, as he ducks dodges and whirls] KG: You're a lightweight, Michael...use that to your advantage! Stick and move, like a boxer. No reason to stand toe to toe unless you have to! [Montage changes to "7:30 AM", a session in the weight room, where Grey Phoenix works his leg muscles, and Bear strengthens his upper body. Never truly and clearly seen beneath his ring outfit, his upper body is well built, and at 385 lbs, he is well balanced in terms of muscle and fat.] [Montage change, "10:00 AM", and a cooldown period on treadmills as Kuyler re-plays the Machines vs. Predators match from last week.] KG: You need to keep the tempo up, Michael....you're a Phoenix, not a sloth...and Daniel, keep your strength up, but don't rely too heavily on it. [Montage change, "12:00 noon", the second spar, same two wrestlers focusing on Bear] KG: Keep it fast, Bear...Strong if you get them, but keep the tempo up! If you're strong and quick, you're twice the threat. [Montage at 1:30 pm, standing in the dorway, Kuyler holding both edges of the door] KG: Sorry, fans, can't let you in on all our secrets.... [Closes the doors and fades 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 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+