[Fade up on footage captioned, "Last Week". Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven stands in the ring, alone, clutching a microphone.] OV: All I want is... The end. The end of Lord Byron. Let's finish it, Byron. Let's finish it once... and for all. If there is any trace of the Byron of old left in you, even one tiny chunk of spirit, answer my call. [Suddenly, the "Intermezzo" from "Karelia" Suite by Sibelius kicks in over the PA system, and the fans give an expectant pop as a spotlight falls on the head of the aisle. The music continues to play, but Byron does not appear. The curtains twitch as an official peeks his head out for a moment, and then disappears. Verhoeven once again begins prowling around the ring like a caged animal. Verhoeven finally loses his patience, and holds up the microphone again:] OV: CUT THE MUSIC! [The music is quickly halted, and the fans buzz in disappointment as Verhoeven addresses a camera.] OV: Byron, you are nothing but a spineless, gutless coward. You have proven that your spirit is truly broken. But I will not rest until you have been eradicated, expunged from the IIWF. You are scared to face the German Juggernaut? You are terrified to face the Teutonic Terror one more time? I am not surprised. [Big heel pop as Verhoeven removes his polo shirt, revealing his immensely powerful upper body, chiseled in its definition.] I lay down the gauntlet to you, Byron. I offer you a final challenge. Answer me next week in the ring. [The crowd buzzes in anticipation once more.] OV: I am willing to fight you on your own terms, Byron. You are such a pathetic, snivelling shadow of your former self that I am willing to face you in a match tailor made for your supposed skills. Let us make it... a TOWEL MATCH! [Big pop from the crowd!] OV: Each of us shall have a corner man. Each of us shall fight the other until we are simply unable to continue -- and a towel is thrown into the ring. And more than that... the loser of the match... must leave the IIWF forever! [Big heel pop! Verhoeven looks icily into the camera.] OV: I know you can hear me, Byron. I know you can hear the bell of destiny tolling for you, Byron. It is to be your death knell. You have no choice but to face me in the ring next Saturday Night. And one of us... will not come back. I await your answer... your _Lordship_. WELCOME TO THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE! [Verhoeven's words echo seemingly into infinity as the shot freezes and begins to be discoloured by what appears to be blood running down the image. A pulsing beat kicks in as a turbo-charged montage of the history between Byron and Verhoeven flashes past: the European Alliance attack on Creed's knee; Byron's many Intercontinental Championship defences; Byron lying in the ring after narrow defeat at the hands of Creed at Coronation Clash; Verhoeven attacking Byron backstage after the match; Verhoeven applying the Meat Hook chokeslam and his trademark Slaughterslam on victim after victim throughout the summer; Lord Byron returning to the IIWF and being attacked by Verhoeven and the "Showstopper" Simon Lebec; the Lady DeWinter being beaten by Verhoeven and Lebec and stretchered from the arena; shots of Lord Byron's bedside vigil of his ward... the shots come faster and faster, the music building in intensity... until the opening graphics explode onto the screen:] ________ ______ __ ____ ___ __ . _ ___ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| / /\ | | || \| \ /\ \ / |\ || / \| | | | || | \ v v / | __| \__ /__\ | | ||__/| |/__\ v | \||| __|-| | |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| \ \| v | \|__/ \| | || \_|| | | __________________________/...hour one...\........|...|.......|....| LIVE! IIWF Coliseum, Portland, Oregon 20 December 1997 [The opening graphics fade through to interior shots of the familiar IIWF Coliseum, the twenty thousand strong crowd as excited as ever to witness live IIWF action. Cameras flash all over the arena, from the floor to the mezzanine, with such rapidity as to almost create a strobe effect, briefly illuminating one area of fans, then another, then another... In the midst of the darkness is the beacon of the ring area, a huge rigging erected over the squared circle, many coloured spotlights spinning over the crowd and the canvas. Suddenly, the Coliseum itself seems to shake as huge volleys of pyrotechnics erupt in the rafters, rockets streaming up to the rafters from the head of the aisle. The crowd is now brought alive, the fans shouting their approval as showers of sparks fly as a path of fireworks explodes in turn down the aisle, finally reaching the ringside area -- and the four ringposts are together seemingly ablaze as brilliant white flame shoots up from each corner! As the smoke in the ringside area clears, the voice of Tim Dross is heard over this footage:] TD: Welcome everybody to Portland, Oregon! Welcome to the IIWF Coliseum! Welcome to the hottest two hours of live wrestling entertainment anywhere in the world! Welcome to IIWF Saturday Night! [Big pop! The shot continues to pan past row upon row of fans, many waving signs and bedecked in IIWF merchandise. Eventually, the shot comes to rest on the ring, in which stands veteran announcer, Tim Dross. He smilingly shrugs off the chants of "Show Your Toes!" and raises the microphone:] TD: Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to the man who     last week stunned Chris Quigley and the wrestling world with his     shocking reappearance.  Apparently making his return to the IIWF,     here is "Sychosys" Joe Petrow! [Silent pause for a few seconds, just enough to make Dross and the crowd uneasy... followed by "What Do You Want From Me?" by Pink Floyd blaring over the loudspeakers... followed by Team Sychosys!  But only one man walks, as Petrow slowly pushes McArthur to the ring in a wheelchair.  Team Sychosys has a sports theme going, as Petrow wears an Oakland A's jersey with "Sychosys" and the number 3 written on the back over blue jeans, while Maurice wears an Oakland Raiders shirt with "McArthur" and the number 22, hiding behind a pair of dark sunglasses.  True to the spirit of the holidays, Petrow also wears a red Santa hat.  Neither man shows much emotion, until Petrow stops midway up the aisle and flashes the crowd... a "4M" hand sign?... for which the Sychopaths give a big pop.  Team Sychosys proceeds to the ring, where Petrow turns McArthur around to face up the aisleway.  Finally, Petrow gets into the ring to begin his interview with Tim Dross.] TD: All right Joe, the IIWF is waiting to hear the story.  Why did you show up last Saturday night, and what is your agenda with Chris Quigley? [The crowd pops slightly at Quigley's name.  Dross points the mic at Petrow, expecting a response.  Petrow stands silent, unmoving, staring at an increasingly disturbed Tim Dross.  Finally, Petrow holds his hand out in front of Dross.  Eventually, Dross senses what he is supposed to do, and hands Petrow the microphone.  Upon grabbing the microphone, Petrow makes a backhanded wave to the announcer's table, and gives Dross a sly smile.  Knowing Petrow's at his most dangerous when he's smiling, Dross meekly bows out of the way, and heads out of the ring back to his broadcast position. Petrow slowly walks over to the near ropes by McArthur, enjoying the increasing buildup by the impatient crowd.  Petrow takes a seat on the middle rope, and pokes his head out from between to look out, and speaks:] JP: So how y'all been? [Huge rafter shaking pop from the Sychopaths, eccstatic to see that their leader has returned, prompting a smile from Petrow.] JP: Well, you guys sound pretty happy!  I'm not sure why though, I mean, I'm not very happy with you guys at all. [The crowd suddenly gets much quieter.] JP: Oh yeah, you're cheering me now, but where were you three months ago?  When I was squeezed out of my title match in Tokyo, where were     the cries of outrage?  Where were the calls for a rematch?  What were you doing while McArthur here carried on the banner alone for three whole months?  Are my fans really the type of people who cheer a man when he's up, then jump on the next Kowalski out of the station once the first sign of trouble pops up?  Honestly -- [Petrow puts his hands on his hips in mock disgust] you people make me sick! [Eerie silence for a couple seconds... then from the crowd, a loyal Sychopath shouts out, "We suck, Joe!"  Petrow loses it for a second, but quickly contains his laughter] JP: Damn right you do!  And you're damn lucky that the one true face left in this league is man enough to forgive you!  Assuming, y'all     are man enough to forgive me, eh? [Big pop from the Sychoflock!] JP: Okay, no more of this.  Let me reintroduce you to a man who doesn't     suck! [Petrow climbs down from the ring to stand by his wheelchair bound partner.] JP: A man who carried on when I couldn't, a man who picked up the gauntlet and helped run the Syndicate out of this league to grant my     vengeance!  A man who all by himself, broke through and exposed the     facade that is the "Quickstriker" Chris Quigley! [A mixed pop from the crowd.] A man, who by being stripped of the Intercontinental title that was his in every way became not only my friend, but my kindred spirit!  And most of all, the guy who gave me the reason to come BACK... to the IIWF! [Big pop from the crowd!]     So if this guy doesn't deserve a title, he damned well deserves a     promotion.  So ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you the man who     from this day forward shall be known as "MISTER Majestyk" Maurice     McArthur! [Petrow holds up the new "4-M" sign to the crowd, while 4M holds up what looks like a "3-NN" sign.] JP: So Quadruple M, any words for your fans about last Saturday Night? [Petrow holds the mic to the cockier-than-ever McArthur.] 4M: You know, even stuck in this wheelchair, I'm TOOO... [Petrow pulls the mic away] JP: Okay, big guy, don't want you to strain yourself yet! [Pop from the crowd, as Petrow returns to the ring.] JP: Now... why _am_ I back here anyway? [Petrow slowly, kinda aimlessly walks around the ring while talking, eventually settling in the center and sitting down Indian style.] JP: Everyone seems to have their own ideas, and as usual, everyone is     good at predicting what I want and what I'm going to do.  Duncan     Macbeth is particularly curious, going out on Monday and biting the     hand that feeds him.     You remember how you got to this lofty position, Macbeth?  Remember     back when you were still a nobody scrub that nobody cared about, they held a battle royal to decide who would get the shot at Chris Quigley at Ring Wars.  I was supposed to be in that battle royale.  I've never lost a battle royal in the IIWF... and I never will.  But I wasn't there.  You were there, and you won.  So, let me put it in very sharp, simple words that will penetrate that thick Scottish haze you live in.     I made you.  Stay out of my way, or I will break you. [Pop from the crowd, with some boos from the Macbeth supports.  Petrow stands up and walks back to the near ropes by McArthur.] JP: Hey, don't get me wrong, I got no problem with a guy conjured up     from a bad enchillada nightmare Billy Shakespeare once had.  But     I've waited long enough for my shot.  Bad enough Brody Thunder has     ducked my open challenge for nearly a year now, but Quigley goes     back even further than that! When I first made my comeback to this sport, I didn't come straight     into the IIWF.  I wanted to test my skills at first, so I joined a     scrawny little league called the RSPWF.  This league had a scrawny     little champion named Chris Quigley.  He didn't even win the title,     they just handed it to him.  Typical Quigley rise up the ladder,     sucking up to presidents, world champions, anybody who could help     him get ahead in the world without forcing him to actually use his     own ability.  So I come in, and I say that I'm coming for Quigley.     Next thing I know, Quigs is on the last train to Clarkston, and     without their hand-picked champion, the scrawny little league has     to shut down.     So I have to come into the IIWF almost straight out of the hospital.     And I could have tried to mail it in, rest on my laurels like some     other dinosaurs have tried, and continue to try to do, and no one     would have blamed me. But I worked my ass off every Wednesday, every     Friday, and every Saturday I could to try and gain some respect in     these parts.  Meanwhile, the backroom golden boy Quigs comes out every week in the main event, gives a kid his sunglasses, puts on his Quickshooter, and he's an instant superstar.     So finally, I get a contract to get him in the ring.  But lo and behold, here comes a load of stipulations.  A _one_ count match?     Whose stupid idea was that?  And then tying it all into the main     event at Ring Wars III... yeah, I could smell the bat from a pile     away.  So I did the only thing I could do... I lost, and I shot his     ass down in the process!     The _one_ other time I get him in the ring, was the Gauntlet Battle     Royal.  Again, while I'm getting my ass kicked from here to last     week, Quigs got the "Quiggie Stall" in full effect, barely getting     a scratch before he's gotta fight me one on one.  And in an act of     pure desperation, he tries to suplex me from the top rope to floor,     tries to cripple me for good.  And while I'm picking my legs up,     getting ready for hell on my back, Quigs is stretching his toes to the ground, desperately trying to save his sorry neck! [Petrow is finally starting to get agitated.] And of course, he bitched when he lost! He bitched when he lost that match, he bitched when Quadruple M beat him, he bitched when I took his psycho friend's Christmas tree!  The man whose meteoric rise through the industry is limited only by his complete lack of ability has more freaking escape routes than Vice President Jividen has bananas!  Hell, he's probably gonna tell you that everything I've said today is nothing but lies, right!? [Frothing pop from the Sychopaths, as it looks like he's going to go on an insane tirade.  But instead, Petrow collects himself to finish his crowd address] JP: Bratman, Scotty, and Brooke Shields, you don't gotta worry about me.     I'm patient, hell, I've waited this long, and I'll wait until one     of you gets done with whatever you gotta do.  But Quigs... it didn't     happen in 1996, it's not gonna happen in 1997... but in 1998, I will     finally be the man, who takes the one thing that keeps you going.     And to paraphrase the late, great Chris Farley, I'm gonna leave you     livin' in a van down by the freakin' river! [Petrow jumps out of the ring, as the Pink Floyd carol returns.  Turning towards McArthur, he holds his right hand out towards him, slowly, majestically, raising his hand.  As he does, Mr. Majestyk slowly pushes... and RISES OUT OF THE WHEELCHAIR!  Big pop from the Sychopaths, as Petrow yells out "Yet ANOTHER miracle... ONLY in the IIWF!", as Team Sychosys walk out together.  Looking back at the wheelchair, we notice that, written on the back, is the message, "Reserved for Chris Quigley". Cut to the broadcast table, at which are seated Tim Dross, dressed in his traditional royal blue IIWF blazer and tie, and "Soundbite" Steve Roberts, who wears his trademark leather jacket over a t-shirt which reads, "Bah, Humbug." A few rowdy fans behind the broadcast table are waving "Muff Studdins" signs and chanting "Show Your Toes! Show Your Toes!" in the direction of Tim Dross, bringing a smirk to the face of Steve Roberts.] TD: Howdy, folks, and happy holidays! I'm Tim Dross, and beside me, as always, is my broadcast colleague "Soundbite" Steve Roberts. Strong words from Joe Petrow to kick off the action here tonight! SR: Good ol' Crazy Joe is back -- and with the kind of mission the Soundbite can really identify with: complete and total elimination of Chris Quigley. TD: We'll be getting comments from Chris Quigley later tonight, in the light of Joe Petrow's sensational return to the IIWF just seven days ago. Folks, we are coming at you loud and live with another blockbusting show from the IIWF Coliseum. Tonight we will see the career of one of two legendary IIWF superstars come to an end. As you saw at the top of the show, Lord Byron will face his arch-nemesis Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven in a Loser Leaves Town Towel Match in tonight's main event. What a match, Steve Roberts -- what a historic match that is going to be. SR: Lord Byron is gonna be sent packing, Dross. No question about it, the Butcher is on the biggest roll of his career -- arguably even more so than when he captured the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship back in November 1996 -- and Byron is a shadow of his former self. He's a nobody, a nothing -- and he's going back to the bush leagues after tonight, baby dolls. TD: As if that huge main event wasn't enough, we'll also see a No Disqualification match between two men who had such a brutal no contest encounter last Saturday Night -- I'm talking about Steve "the Fury" Kowalski and Serge Annis... and the stakes are high in this match: the winner gets a shot at IIWF World Heavyweight Champion Brody Thunder right here next week! SR: And there's that contract signing, Dross. A chance to jab a pen in a guy's eye, crack him over the head with a chair, stuff that contract down his throat... aw, you have to dig the contract signings, Dross. TD: Indeed, folks,the road to the IIWF's next pay-per-view spectacular, Snow Brawl, begins right here tonight, as the contract signing for the main event will take place at the end of our first hour. We're only four weeks away from the biggest show of the winter, coming your way live on January 17, from the Aloha Dome in Hawaii! SR: Finally the suits get the right idea. Finally a pay-per-view from a location we can all be proud of. No more damned Air Force bases in Alaska -- let's get steamy in Hawaii. TD: On top of all that, we're going to see two other matches that have been brewing for a long, long time: Ronnie Paris meets the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi, while Tony Starks and the Subway Psycho also face off in one-on-one competition. The rivalries between these individuals are becoming big news here in the IIWF -- but will we see any scores settled tonight? SR: Does Becky LaRue wear leather underwear? TD: What the hell does that have to do with anything, Steve Roberts? SR: I don't know, Dross. Just curious, I guess. TD: We'll also see a tag team encounter between two of the most storied and decorated partnerships in the IIWF, two teams who have also been great rivals in the past: the Prophets of Rage, making their first appearance here on IIWF Saturday Night since their win against Damage Inc. at Ring Wars IV, face Cold Spell, former two-time World Tag Team Champions. SR: And there's a triple threat match pitting Fluke Steele, Duncan Macbeth and "The Brat" Bradley Reed against one another, with the winner getting a shot at the Intercontinental Champion in two weeks' time. TD: Indeed. Plus a first here in the IIWF: a Strongman Contest between Bear of the Natural Predators and Eddy Ramos of the Lost Boyz -- the artists formerly known as Damage Inc. SR: A Strongman Contest, Dross. Unbelievable. TD: And that huge, huge main event, folks -- Loser Leaves Town. It's going to be a memorable night here in the IIWF Coliseum. Okay, let's kick off tonight's action with a match pitting two newcomers against one another: it's Charles Scheffield, the young blueblood from Lordship, Connecticut, taking on the "Ragin' Cajun", Christopher Stonebreaker. Let's get up to the ring for our opening match. ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|.................................................. | || | \ v v / | __| Christopher Stonebreaker vs. Charles Scheffield |_||_| \_/\_/ |_|.................................................... WRITER: JV [Cut back to the ring as Sparkplug Lee looks at the camera ready as ever to begin another IIWF Saturday night! Sparkplug is wearing a "Don't Leave Out Larry!" button on his lapel. He straightens his Santa Claus tie and grins into the camera.] SL: And now the following contest is scheduled for one fall with a regulation time limit! Introducing first... weighing in at 231 pounds and hailing from Lordship, Connecticut, here is... Charles Scheffield! ["Fur Elise" by Beethoven plays over the PA as the curtains part and a double-stretched limousine drives into the aisle leading to the ring.  The headlights are switched off, and the car is parked there, after which the chauffeur, in full uniform, gets out of the driver's seat, walks around the side of the impressive vehicle, opens the back door on the right side, and Scheffield steps out to a positive reaction from the fans.] TD: Quite the entrance from this young high flyer, Steve Roberts. SR: Reminds me a lot of Lord Byron, Dross -- and look what happened to him. [Scheffield looks around, projecting dignity and valor. He shakes the hands of a few fans and hops into the ring, ready for action.] SL: And his challenger this evening weighing in at 265 pounds and hailing from Lafayette, LA, here is... Christopher Stonebreaker! ["A Country Boy Can Survive" by Hank Williams Jr. plays over the PA and Christopher Stonebreaker charges out in his usual ring attire, full length black tights with a sledgehammer down one side, and the word "Stonebreaker" written down the other. Black wrestling boots and pads compliment the rest of the outfit. Stonebreaker is carrying his trademark sledgehammer. He looks right the camera on the way to the ring:] CS: Enigma, take a hard look, because this is in your future. [As Stonebreaker passes the announce table on his way to the ringsteps, Steve Roberts appears to be conducting the fans behind the railing in a chant of "Show your toes!"] TD: You must be very proud of yourself, Steve Roberts! SR: Hey, don't mess with the "Soundbite", Dross! Do I have to sit here while these couplea jabrones bore me half to death? TD: Sheffield and Stonebreaker are two up and coming wrestlers here in the IIWF, Steve! And here we go as Stonebreaker is wasting NO TIME in taking it to Sheffield! [Sure enough, Stonebreaker is pumped! Stonebreak charges in and locks up with Sheffield. But Sheffield changes it to a boot to Stonebreaker's midsection!] TD: Interesting tactic early on by Sheffield. He's trying to match Stonebreaker's power with some evasive maneuvers! SR: Who cares? [Sheffield, having chaught Stonebreaker off guard, looks as if he is going for a neckbreaker... but instead flips Stonebreaker in front of him and catches him in a chinlock!] TD: What is Stonebreaker going to do now? Sheffield is pretty much the mat wrestler of the two but Stonebreaker is the "ragin' Cajun"! SR: CALL THE PRESS! Dross made a funny. TD: Will you stop? Pay attention it's the first match of the night! SR: WHO CARES, Dross? I want to see Otto take care of business tonight. The rest is bunk. [Stonebreaker hits Sheffield with a reverse elbow to the face and that causes the mat wrestler, as Dross puts it, to lose some momentum. To establish further control, Stonebreaker flings Sheffield at the ropes and as Sheffields heads back towards Stonebreaker...] TD: Oh my! Wicked clothesline by Stonebreaker who now has control. [Roberts points to the Lil' Soundbiters right behind the broadcast table, who respond with another chant: "Show Your Toes! Show Your Toes!" Stonebreaker picks up Sheffield and POWERSLAMS him! Goes for the quick cover... 1 -- 2 -- kickout! Stonebreaker powerslams Sheffield yet again and applies a standing reverse neckbreaker! Sheffield is in pain, very evident on his face and stares into the eyes of Stonebreaker as Stonebreaker begins pummelling Sheffield with multiple punches from his right hand!] SR: [sarcastically] Oh, gee, a right hand punch, Dross! Hey, it's the main event! I'm impressed! Let's give these two a lifetime contract with the IIWF! With benefits and a retirement plan! Hey, let's... TD: [interrupting] Looks like Sheffield's still got some life left in him... [Sure enough, Sheffield sets up Stonebreaker and... SIDE SUPLEX! Stonebreaker is surprised and a bit taken aback as his foe is still there! Sheffield tries to follow through with an STF... but is floored by a MISSILE DROPKICK from Stonebreaker! Sheffield is on the mat now... really trying to pull himself together. Stonebreaker catches Sheffield in a piledriver... and goes for the cover: 1 -- 2 -- kickout! Frustration rages within Stonebreaker who picks up Sheffield and with every ounce of his being he pulls up his reserves and...] TD: I think this is the ending, ladies and gentleman... SR: BFD, Dross. [...hits Sheffield with the Rockslide Suplex! Stonebreaker goes for the stong cover and: 1 -- 2 -- 3! Ding! Ding! Ding!] SR: Which geek won? TD: I have no idea what I am going to do with you, Steve Roberts. SR: At least I don't have spiked heels. TD: Good point. Anyway, Christopher Stonebreaker gets another win here in the IIWF. Maybe you should have him tag up with your man The Smooth! SR: That geek? In the Soundbite Special Forces? Please. TD: [smiling] He did last longer than ten seconds. [Roberts points to the Lil' Soundbiters and once again they chant.] TD: How many times are you going to have them do that? SR: We have all night, Drossy. We've got all night long! [Cut back to the announcers' table at ringside.] TD: Okay, Steve Roberts, up next we have... Hang on. What's going on here? Awesome T, manager of the Down Boys, is making his way down to the ring. [The fans give a confused reaction as the manager makes his way alone to ringside, his head bowed and apparently in subdued mood. He climbs the ringsteps and enters the ring, signalling for the microphone from Sparkplug Lee, who obliges.] AT: We all have to move on. The Down Boys are no longer with us, and I'm slowly learning to deal with that.  [T grabs the handkerchief from Sparkplug Lee's tux, wipes away a few tears with it, blows his nose with it, then places it back in Lee's tux pocket.] TD: [over the headset] Well, folks, I'm not sure what to make of this. SR: [over the headset] Those eighties throwbacks are dead? So what?! [Awesome T waits for the confused reaction from the crowd to die down before raising the microphone again.] AT: And as soon as I announced that they were gone, many teams called me up to hire me as their manager.  One team, in particular, caught my eye.  Unlike my Down Boys, this team had a great reputation.  They won many awards all around the wrestling community.  They also won many championships.  This team... was even ranked #13 in all of wrestling in a recent RSPWF poll.  They were TAG TEAM OF THE YEAR in 1996!  And... of course, they recently won the IIWF World Tag Team Championship from the very talented team of Cold Spell. [The crowd begins to buzz again.] TD: [over the headset] Well, Steve Roberts, Awesome T would appear to be talking about Damage Inc. -- but they're now the Lost Boyz. What on earth is going on here? AT: Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce my new tag team... ["Ambitions Of A Rider" by 2Pac blasts over the PA to another confused pop.] AT: Being led down to the ring by their lovely valet, Hoochiemama... [A _very_ large breasted valet pops out from behind the curtain.  She's blond, very pretty, and wearing a very tight t-shirt that reads "Awl Dis N Branes 2".] TD: [over the headset] Oh my. SR: [over the headset] Whoa, look at the bazookas on that, Dross! TD: [over the headset] What is going on here?! [The crowd look on as Hoochiemama showboats at the top of the aisle, moving to sweep aside the curtains.] AT: Ladies and Gentlemen... "The Ace" Adam Peterson... "Mad Dog" Dan Oliver... DAMAGE INCORPORATED! [With that, Dan Oliver and Adam Peterson, formerly the Down Boys, come out from the back, through the curtain, and down to ringside, Hoochiemama leading the way. At first, the crowd doesn't know what to make of this little display -- but soon begins to cheer louder and louder.] TD: Well, this is most strange, Steve Roberts. SR: Hehe, I love it, Dross! Damage Inc. is dead -- long live Damage Inc.! [Both wrestlers have on dark shades and have their hair pulled back in pony tails.  Both wrestlers wear the exact kind of wrestling gear that Damage Inc. used to wear -- Adam with the long black tights with the card symbols, Dan with the black and gold singlet with full length tights with DAMAGE written down the side.  Dan Oliver, as the bigger "Mad Dog", begins to growl and flex repeatedly, implying he's bigger than his 229 pound frame.  On her way to walking the "new" Damage Inc. to ringside, Hoochiemama falls over on her face, not realizing the weight of her chest. Eventually, Damage Inc. take their places at the flanks of Awesome T, who raises the microphone again, a grin on his face.] AT: Now I know you're all just dying to see what this awesome partnership can do in the squared circle -- so we're going to give you a little demonstration of their skills. Ladies and gentlemen, will you please welcome the tag team of Jumpin' Jack and El Super Gecko! ["YMCA" by the Village People kicks in over the PA to a big pop as Jack and the Gecko appear at the head of the aisle, both wearing their trademark "There's No Justice Like Jobber Justice" t-shirts, and performing the hand motions associated with their theme tune -- although the Gecko forms all the letters back to front -- much to the hilarity of the crowd. Eventually, they make their way down to the ring, the Gecko walking with his trademark bandy-legged gait, and Jumpin' Jack, his face fully painted up like a clown, squirts fans in the face with water from his fake flower.] SR: I don't know which of these teams is the bigger joke, Dross. TD: This is ridiculous. Can't we just get on with our next match? SR: What _is_ our next match, Dross? TD: It's the Strongman Contest. SR: Let's keep the gay guys out here a little longer. [A bemused looking Joey Patrick also makes his way down to the ring, as Jack and the Gecko climb into the squared circle and Awesome T, along with the impressively proportioned Hoochiemama, bails out of the ring. Joey Patrick looks down at T, who gestures for him to continue, and then signals for the bell.] TD: Well, it looks like we have a bonus match here, folks. The Down Boys -- er, Damage Inc. -- against two eminent members of the Jobber Justice Squad. [Dan Oliver starts the match for his team against Jumpin' Jack, growling at his opponent and doing his best to look rabid. Jack can barely contain his mirth, and sniggers at Oliver, who quickly approaches and nails him in the stomach with a hard right hand. Oliver then attempts to hoist Jack up into the air for a gorilla press -- but fumbles the move, and drops Jack back to his feet. Jack takes the opportunity to lash out with a right hand of his own, and Oliver falls flat on his back. He springs right back up, and tackles Jack, sending him down to the mat. Pulling him back up, he whips Jack into the ropes and scoops him up on the return for a powerslam -- but his lack of girth means that the move is hardly effective, and Jack springs back up to his feet.] TD: This is just silly, Steve Roberts. Dan Oliver is trying to wrestle the power style of a man twice his size. None of these moves have enough behind them to do any damage. SR: Yeah, but it's kinda funny to watch. [The crowd is indeed enjoying the match, chanting "D - I! D - I!" as Peterson works them from the apron. Jack tags in the Gecko, who charges into the ring and towards "Mad Dog" Dan Oliver, who labels him with a kick to the midsection, and then attempts a powerbomb -- which is reversed into a hurricanrana by the lizard, who flips Oliver to the mat! Big Jobber Pop!] TD: Good sound reversal by the Gecko to that sloppy powerbomb attempt by Dan Oliver -- and now Oliver is tagging in Peterson. [Peterson leaps into the ring over the top rope and immediately plants the Gecko with a double-arm DDT, before nimbly leaping to the top rope and waiting, poised, for the Gecko to stagger back to his feet. The Gecko rises -- and gets hit hard by a flying dropkick from Peterson!] TD: At least "The Ace" Adam Peterson's imitation of Alex Porteaux is effective -- but he's tagging the "Mad Dog" back in. Here comes Dan Oliver, flexing to the crowd. He looks ridiculous, Steve Roberts, posing like that. SR: He's not exactly huge, Dross -- but look at the definition, look at the raw power of that man. [Oliver drags the Gecko back to his feet, and signals that he is about to execute the "Dog Collar".] TD: Oh my -- Oliver signalling for Eddy Ramos' trademark finishing move, the top rope powerbomb known as the "Dog Collar"! SR: He can't get him up, Dross! Oliver can't get him up! TD: Here comes Peterson -- he's coming in to help! [Together, Peterson and Oliver are able to hoist the Gecko up into position for the Dog Collar powerbomb. The Gecko is brought crashing down, and as Jumpin' Jack runs in to try and save his partner, Peterson nails him with a hard clothesline as Oliver makes the cover: 1 - 2 - 3! Ding! Ding! Ding! Damage Inc. stand and raise their arms together in victory, before Oliver then continues to flex like a madman. Before they depart, Oliver grabs the microphone, and yells:] DO: DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO FEEL THE TOP ROPE POWERBOMB?!  WHOEVER'S GOT OUR BELTS... OOOOH.... SOMEBODY'S GONNA DIE! [Big pop for the entourage as they leave ringside and head back to the locker room. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Well, I dare say that the Lost Boyz, who were known as Damage Inc. up until their transformation seven days ago, will not take kindly to this little tribute by the Down Boys -- who are now apparently taking up the mantle and calling themselves Damage Inc. This is wild stuff, Steve Roberts. SR: I'm still in awe of the incredible power display we just saw from "Mad Dog" Dan Oliver, Dross. Unbelievable. TD: The World Tag Team Champions are certainly under fire at the moment -- not only have they got the Down Boys, uh, Damage Inc., gunning for them, but they also must deal with the Natural Predators. In fact, that's exactly what we're about to see. This next match is sure to be an out and out confrontation of raw power. For the first time in wrestling history, we'll be witnessing a "barbell match", and it could well prove who is the strongest man in wrestling. What do you think, Steve Roberts? SR: Stanley Kubrick. "Eyes Wide Shut". Will it be as good as "A Clockwork Orange" or "Dr. Strangelove"? Will the fact that Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman play the starring roles -- who who have never been a movie that hasn't sucked -- make it suck? TD: I was talking about the match... SR: Oh, that. Derek Rage will take it in under five minutes. TD: This match is between Eddy Ramos and Bear of the Natural Predators -- Derek Rage has nothing to do with it! SR: Whatever. TD: [sigh] Let's go down to the man on the mic, Sparkplug Lee, for the introductions. ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|.................................................. | || | \ v v / | __| STRONGMAN CONTEST: |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| Eddy Ramos [Lost Boyz] vs. Bear [Natural Predators] ....................................................................... WRITER: RD [The spotlight beams down on centre ring, where the Sparkster peers intently into his microphone.] RA: Is this thing on yet? I told the suits not to bring my equipment along to their Karaoke Apple Sauce nights... Jeez... Can I get another one of these plastic wonders up here? [Sparky suddenly realises that his mutterings have been amplified across the breadth of the Colisseum and turns bright red. The entire audience stare at him blankly in dead silence.] SR: [over headset] What a clot. RA: [clears throat loudly] Ladies and Gentlemen, the following match has been stipulated as a Strongman Contest! A 400lbs barbell has been placed in the corner of the ring; the first man to press it cleanly overhead for three straight seconds will be declared the winner! Introducing first, hailing from Kinzua, PA; weighing in at 385 lbs of solid muscle; he is one half of the Natural Predators; please give him a big welcome... here is Bear! [The mellow beats of "Destination Eschaton" by pop techno has-beens the Shamen pump out over the loudspeakers as the huge physical specimen that is Bear makes his appearence in the Colisseum. Kuyler Greyson walks out at his side, and his tag team partner, the Grey Pheonix, slaps him encouragingly on the shoulder. The fans give Bear a solid enough face pop as he lumbers down the aisle, looking particularly buff this evening.] TD: The Natural Predators, one of the young up and coming teams firing up the IIWF's tag division in recent months. Just look at how huge this man Bear actually is, Steve Roberts! SR: Harvey Keitel just upped and left the set. Can you believe that? Damn. The movie will be missing that extra touch of class without big Harv' on the screen. Have you heard the "Kubrick shoots porno flick" rumours? We might be seeing Nicole Kidman doing more than just putting rubbers on her leg in this one. Heh heh. TD: I really have no idea what you're talking about, Steve. SR: Top Gun on wheels. What a crock of [BLEEP]. Don Simpson and Jerry Bruckheimer -- the false idols of Hollywood. [Bear pauses to look at the "First Petrow - Now Paris fears Musashi" sign displayed prominently in the audience, before stoically climbing into the ring.] RA: And his opponent! Hailing from New Orleans, Louisiana; weighing in at at 376lbs of pure power; he's one half of IIWF World tag team champions, the Lost Boyz; please give a big welcome for Eddy Ramos! ["Ambitions of a Rider" by hip hop icon -- but still nowhere near as good as Public Enemy -- 2Pac Shakur blasts out over the loudspeakers, and the awesome hulk of Eddy Ramos makes his way down the aisle. Ramos is accompanied by his smaller partner, Alex Porteaux and the lasciviously clad Jeandra. A strong level of heel heat greets Ramos' appearance, but he just scowls at the fans. Both Lost Boyz prominently display their shimmering golden title belts across their shoulders.] TD: Eddy Ramos' physique is more bulky and less defined than Bear's, but the best bodybuilders aren't necessarilly the strongest wrestlers. I'd consider both men nearly equal in the power stakes. SR: What's up with this 2Pac Shakur theme song? Y'know, this guy is considered some sort of hip hop martyr, but when you listen to that last album of his... it's obvious he was selling out the music to broaden his appeal. You'd never catch the Wu-Tang Clan or the Pharcyde doing some crappy "Beyond Thunderdome" video for their songs. TD: Why don't you stop talking trash and concentrate on the match? SR: Why don't you go chew on a corn dog and shut the hell up, Rug Head? The "Soundbite" only talks about matters worthy enough of his concern. [Eddy Ramos steps through the ropes and immediately strides up to Bear, bumping him chest to chest. The huge native american merely stares stoically down at his foe, as Ramos makes some venemous threats. Ding! Ding! Ding! Ramos immediately throws a huge clubbing right hand, rocking Bear's head backwards, but the Natural Predator shakes off the effects and responds with a punishing right of his own! The crowd pops as the two behemoths begin to trade furiously, blasting each other with tremendously powerful punches. Ramos takes it to Bear with a headbutt, a left hook to the ear, and an uppercut flush on the chin; but the native american doesn't take a step backwards, responding with a flurry of roundhouse blows that force Ramos to back up a little. Ramos pauses, gives a nod of acknowledgement for Bear's punching power, then offers his hands in the air for a test of power. Bear steps up to the plate and locks knuckles with his rival. Immediately, the strain is evident on both mens faces as they strive for domination.] TD: Neither man is paying much attention to that barbell just yet, wisely opting to feel each other out first... Neither man has budged an inch in this power test thus far! SR: When is that Spice Girls bikini blast free for all due on the card? Give me what I need, what I really really need. Yeah! [The fans pop, most of them cheering on Bear to force Ramos down to the mat, but the huge hispanic is keeping the power test deadlocked. Each man forces his considerable bulk and muscle power against the other, struggling, grimacing... both eager to prove themselves the stronger man. Suddenly, Bear's legs wobble, and Ramos begins to force him down to his knees! Grey Pheonix slaps his hands on the canvas from the outside, yelling at his partner to not give in... With a burst of effort, Bear pushes his way back up to a neutral position, and, exerting the pressure, begins to inch Ramos down to the mat!] TD: What a titanic struggle we are witnessing here, as Bear and Eddie Ramos pit their raw power against one another! You can almost see the waves of force emanating from their arms! SR: [singing] "Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies / Farewell and adieu you ladies of Spain. / For we received orders for to sail back to Boston / And soon never more will we see you again..." [This time, it is Jeandra who slaps the mat frantically, willing her man on to a comeback. Ramos visibly reddens as he expends all of his might to prevent his steady descent to his knees, and finally, manages to reverse the momentum, powering back up to a standing position. Growing bored with this power test, Ramos lashes out with a boot to Bear's midsection, doubling him over in agony. Ramos wraps his beefy arms around Bear's mid-section, heaves him up, and then drives him into the mat with a gut wrench powerbomb! Big pop from the crowd! Bear is spread eagled and motionless down on the canvas, and Ramos immediately heads for the barbell. He gets a firm grip on the 400 pounds of dead weight, and the crowd gasps as - with some difficulty - he pries it out of the corner and up over his head! The ref makes a count in the air.] TD: That's one second... two seconds... Ramos has it! Wait, here comes Bear! [Bear has picked himself up off the canvas, runs towards Ramos, and leaps at him with a dropkick! Bear's bulk prevents him from getting a great deal of height on the dropkick, but he still manages to drive one leg into Ramos' chest, and the Lost Boy topples... the barbell drops from his hands and out over the top rope, and completely overbalanced, Ramos three sixties over the top himself! Awed pop from the fans.] TD: Wow! The match was almost over right there, but Bear saved himself in the nick of time. Ramos is picking himself up off the arena floor, and here comes Bear right now... SR: Here's to swimmin' with bow-legged women! [Bear runs along the apron and comes jumping off with a big double axehandle across the stooped over back of Eddy Ramos, flooring the big hispanic man once again. Bear immediately drags his rival up to his feet, however, driving a knee smash into his midsection, and then hurling him like an over-sized rag doll into the steel crowd barriers. Bear charges in, hoping to sandwich Ramos against the hard steel, but the Lost Boy is able to drop and roll out of the way, and Bear rebounds off the barriers with shattering force. Ramos picks himself up and begins to stomp viciously on Bear's head, making sure he is in no hurry to get back up again. The Lost Boy turns his attention to the barbell, stoops over it, takes a firm grip and... jerk lifts it up over his head once again!] TD: Ramos with another clean lift! Remember, there are no count outs or disqualifications in this match, and the barbell must be pressed for three straight seconds to earn the duke! SR: You've got city boy hands, Hooper. You been countin' money all your life. TD: What the hell are you babbling about? [Seconds pass... Ramos wears a look of triumph, but it quickly turns to puzzlement as the referee has yet to call for the bell. Chuck Sanders leans over the ropes and informs Ramos that the barbell must be pressed in the ring to get the victory. Ramos looks furious and mouths "What the [BLEEP]?" - But Bear is picking himself off the arena floor... he's charging over...] TD: Oh my goodness! Bear just levelled Ramos from behind with a clothesline! [The crowd pops loudly as Ramos topples, still clutching the barbell, and plunges to the arena floor like a concrete slab. Bear is immediately on the strongman's back, grabbing him by the back of the head and ramming him face first into the barbell discs! Ramos cries out in agony as his forehead is pounded against the steel, and it is not long before the skin is busted open and red begins to flow down his face. Satisfied with the bloody damage, Bear changes tactics and applies Ramos' throat down across the steel bar of the weight. Bear exerts as much pressure as his considerable strength will allow, crushing Ramos' trachea and choking him out on the bar! Before long, Ramos begins to slacken and slip into unconciousness. Bear opts to pull him up at this point, and hurl his limp carcass beneath the bottom ropes.] TD: We're not used to seeing that kind of brutality from a man like Bear, but he's doing what he has to do to win the match. Ramos looks in pretty bad shape right about now. SR: Fellows, let's be reasonable, huh? This is not the time or the place to perform some kind of a half-ass autopsy on a fish... And I'm not going to stand here and see that thing cut open and see that little Kintner boy spill out all over the dock! TD: Huh?!? [With some effort, Bear drags the barbell up and rolls it under the ropes, before climbing back into the ring himself. Ramos is still out of out down on the canvas, but Bear decides to go for more punishment, scooping his rival's considerable bulk up into the air and then slamming it straight back to the mat again! Bear drags Ramos up a second time, gorilla pressing the 370 pounder with impressive power, and then dumping him like yesterday's trash! Awed pop from the crowd! Bear turns his attention to the barbell, squats, grips the bar tightly, and jerks it up to chin level! The crowd cheers as Bear staggers under the heavy, dead weight, standing up and pressing the barbell over head! The ref puts on the count: 1 - 2...] TD: That's thre... No! Ramos just lashed out with his leg, hamstringing Bear and toppling him to the canvas! SR: Martin, it's all psychological. You yell barracuda, everybody says, "Huh? What?" You yell shark, we've got a panic on our hands on the Fourth of July. TD: I give up, I really do. SR: I guess you could say that Ramos just escaped from the JAWS of defeat. TD: Glad to see you actually noticed something. [There is a dull thud as the four hundred pound barbell drops from Bear's hands and strikes the mat, rolling a few inches. Bear drops right along with it, clutching at his knee in pain. Ramos stirs and tries to pull himself up to his feet, but slumps back down, dizzy from his earlier choking. The fans pop anxiously, waiting to see who will get to their feet first and take control of the match... Bear towers upwards, hopping slightly from the sharp kick to the inside of his knee, and the fans explode into cheers! Bear grabs hold of Ramos, dragging him up and placing his head between his legs... he hoists his rival up into the air and then crushes his skull against the mat with a piledriver! Big pop! Bear rolls across his rival, hooks his leg, and slaps a three count on the mat with a mock pin.] SR: What the hell is that idiot doing? TD: I believe with that mock pinfall, Bear is sending a clear message to the Lost Boyz. He's saying "That's one half of the World tag titles won right there." SR: I think he just wandered in from narrating "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest". He Chief Bromden. Me Randall Patrick McMurphy. TD: Will you stop? [Bear towers up to his feet and flexes his impressive physique for the benefit of the fans. Ramos, however, stirs down on the mat, grabs hold of his legs and tackles him to the ground! Ramos sets himself atop of Bear and begins pummelling him with repeated lefts and rights. Heel pop! Bear is left battered and groggy after the onslaught, and Ramos drags him up to his feet, hammering in the midsection with a pair of uppercuts, then whipping him to the ropes. Bear bounds off the strands, and Ramos cuts him down with a lacerating clothesline. The Lost Boy permits him no time to recuperate, hauling him up once again and blasting him with a powerful belly to belly! Bear is pasted down to the mat, and Ramos runs to the ropes, bounding off and squashing his rival with a thunderous big splash! Ramos turns his attentions to the barbell, squats before it, and clinches his hands on the bar tightly. He grunts... strains mightily under the effort, and begins powering the heavy weight up into the air...] TD: The tremendous power of Eddy Ramos, to be able to cleanly lift four hundred pounds! SR: You're gonna need a bigger boat. TD: Here we go again. I won't be surprised if Steven Spielberg sues for copyright infringement. SR: Peter Benchely wrote the script, moron. TD: Ramos has that four hundred pound weight pressed to chest level; he just has to lift it up over his head... No wait! Here comes Bear! [Bear has picked himself up off the canvas, and he runs, charges at Eddy Ramos, launching himself into a flying bodypress! The crowd collectively draws in it's breath, as Ramos comes crashing down to the canvas with the four hundred pound weight - and Bear's bulk - crushing his chest!] TD: Oh my goodness! That could have smashed in Eddy Ramos' ribcage! He's not moving beneath that weight! SR: Smile you son of a bitch! [Bear gets off the fallen carcass of Eddy Ramos, grabs hold of the barbell, and begins to power it up in the air... he has it positioned over his head; Sanders counts: 1 - 2 - 3! Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: And we have a winner! What an evenly matched battle of power that was! SR: I used to hate the water. TD: Forget these damn quotes, we have a winner! [Bear drops the barbell and pumps his fist triumphantly in the air as the fans pop loudly.] RA: Here is your winner, as the result of... oh [BLEEP]! [Sparkplug bails from the ring as Alex Porteaux and Jeandra immediately rush in, pounding away on Bear with hard rights and lefts, Jeandra swinging her tennis racquet at the exhausted Natural Predator. The Grey Phoenix quickly dives into the ring to try and protect his partner, but he is outnumbered by the Lost Boyz, especially as the irate Ramos is now on his feet and wailing away against Bear, backing him into the corner and pounding him with punishing rights and lefts. Big heel pop as Grey Phoenix is subjected to a low blow from the handle of Jeandra's tennis racquet. He doubles over, and is then planted in the mat by a DDT from Porteaux, who then drops a leg hard over the back of the Phoenix's neck. On the outside, Kuyler Grayson pounds the mat in desperation, trying to stir his men to defend themselves, but they are outnumbered and outgunned.] TD: Oh, this is bad, Steve Roberts! The Phoenix and Bear are simply being pounded in there! What sore losers! SR: No, I think it's the Predators who are gonna be sore after this, Dross. Yee-haw, another beatdown. [Security officials head down to the ring and attempt to drag the Lost Boyz away. Satisfied that the motionless Grey Phoenix, who lies face down on the mat, and Bear, slumped in the corner with a bloody nose, have been taught a lesson, the Lost Boyz do not greatly resist as they are ushered out of the ring to a big heel pop. Porteaux approaches a camera and yells something about the Predators and the Down Boys having to stay out of their way or to expect more of the same. The Lost Boyz head to the back, arms raised and with Jeandra carrying the World Tag Team belts on her shoulders. Kuyler Grayson, meanwhile, enters the ring to help his charges to their feet. The crowd respond with a big ovation as Grey Phoenix and Bear are helped from the ring.] TD: Well, there goes the strongest man in the IIWF, Steve Roberts. An impressive display from Bear, marred by a disgusting lack of sportsmanship on the part of Ramos of the Lost Boyz. SR: Guess Damage Inc. shouldn't have riled them up earlier on, huh? TD: We're already falling behind schedule, so let's press straight on with our next match. The encounters between the Prophets of Rage and Cold Spell, which took place in the spring and summer earlier this year, are among the finest tag team matches in IIWF history -- and we're going to see these two partnerships reprise their heated rivalry once again tonight. Let's get up to the ring! ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|.................................................. | || | \ v v / | __| Prophets of Rage vs. Cold Spell |_||_| \_/\_/ |_|.................................................... WRITER: MB [Sparkplug Lee takes up his station in the centre of the ring, microphone in hand:] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall, and has a regulation time limit.  Introducing first, at a total combined weight of 500 pounds, the team of Icehawk and Edmund Fitzgerald... COLD SPELL! ["The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" starts to blast over the speaker system, and the crowd delivers a huge pop for the former two-time tag team champions.  Icehawk and Edmund Fitzgerald make their way out of the locker room, each tagging fans down the aisleway, and step into the ring to await the arrival of the Prophets.] SR: The gay guys are here, Dross.  Isn't that part of a Christmas song? TD: What?  I doubt it. SR: Sure.  Listen... [starts singing] # Four Har-le-quins, three ki-wis, two gay guys, and a pa-ay-per cham-pion! # Told ya. TD: I have a feeling we'll be hearing from lawyers over copyright laws this holiday season. SL: And their opponents... Accompanied to the ring by Medusa Rage and Pizzazz, and weighing in at a total combined weight of 573 pounds, the team of Dirt Dog Unique Allah and Derek Rage... THE PROPHETS OF RAGE! SR: Damn Dross, Santa's here!  Santa Rage, that is. [As the crowd starts booing, the Prophets arrive in a spectacle fitting of them.  All four members of the Prophets band are coming down the aisle in a reindeer-drawn sleigh.  Unique Allah and Derek Rage sit up front, each riding one of the reindeer down to the ring like horses.  In the sleigh sits Medusa Rage, dressed up with white wig, padded stomach, and trademark red and white suit.  Next to her is Pizzazz, who's catching many a fan's eye with her outfit, a very skimpy red Santa Bikini.  The Dirt Dog and Derek Rage, not to be outdone, each sport white puffs of fur on the edges of their tights, also red.  The Dirt Dog is chowing down on some sort of meaty bone as he makes the grandest entrance of the night.] TD: Wait a minute, I only count seven reindeer. SR: You wanna know where the eighth is?  Take a good look, Dross, he's in that picture.  That ain't no turkey leg he's biting down on, that there's venison! TD: You mean he's eating the last reindeer? SR: You got it, skippy.  Don't you know the names of each reindeer? Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Victim, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen. TD: I think you mean Vixen, not Victim. SR: She's a victim now, Dross.  Either that, or Donner got his name from the Donner _PARTY_. [Regardless of which one it was, the reindeer are struggling under the bulk and strain of their cargo.  Eventually they reach the ring, while the crowd goes crazy for the Prophets of Rage.  Allah and Derek Rage dismount, then get up on the ring apron and start tossing gifts out to the crowd.  As Cold Spell watch on, the Dirt Dog and his partner reach into a big bag next to Medusa, and throw such objects as doorknobs, oranges, shoes, and etch-a-sketches into the audience.  Allah then reaches down into his tights and pulls out a pair of pink silk panties and walks over to Fitzgerald, exclaiming to him that "your wife left these in my hamper."  This set Fitz off, and he grabs Allah by the throat and starts to execute rapid kneelifts.  But as he does, Derek Rage attacks both members of Cold Spell with the remains of his bag, which is still quite full.  Both members are beaten down to their knees, while Allah kicks Fitz in the head and then bounces off the ropes, executing a particularly low huracanrana on a kneeling Fitz that takes him off his fee... er, knees, to his stomach.] SR: That's a hell of an entrance, Dross.  I'm gonna have a merry Christmas, especially if I can get that Pizzazz' phone number. TD: I'd have thought Medusa was more your style. SR: Bite your lip, Dross, or I might be forced to show a little more tape from your old job.  Remember that 1977 Christmas Party? TD: I'll be good. [Derek Rage picks Icehawk up and executes a powerbomb right on top of the bag, which crushes any remaining oranges inside the bag.  He drops a knee right on top of Icehawk's face, and drags him by the head to the corner, climbs to the second turnbuckle and comes down with another kneedrop, again catching Icehawk in the face.  The former tag team champion clutches his nose, which spurts out blood almost immediately.  Fitzgerald gets back up and catches an oncoming Dirt Dog with a side suplex, then grabs him and pulls him back up and starts to slug away at him rattling the former Cruiserweight Champion with staggering shots to the head.  Allah flops to the mat and rolls out to the floor, then takes Fitz off his feet and drags him out as well.  Edmund Fitzgerald swings at him with a mighty fist, but Allah ducks and takes his fist, smashes it into the barrier and then dropkicks him out on the floor.] SR: These Prophets are twice as nasty as the originals, and I tell ya, a hell of a lot funnier to watch.  Go get 'em, Doggie! [Derek Rage picks Icehawk up on his feet and tries to execute a belly-to-belly suplex, but Icehawk reverses it and takes Rage to the mat, then clutches his nose again and tries to stop the blood.] TD: I don't like the look of that, I think his nose is broken. SR: I always said the gay guy could use a makeover.  A nose job is just the first step. [Icehawk climbs to the top rope and comes off with a somersault splash, landing on top of Rage and trying to make the cover.  Rage kicks out, and Icehawk yanks him right back to his feet for another attack.  He bounces off the ropes and takes a trip from Pizzazz, which gives Rage the chance to drop an elbow into the back of Icehawk's head, and then grabs him in a front facelock-chinlock type manoever.  Outside the ring, Allah picks Fitzgerald up and executes a mighty bodyslam on the concrete, then gets up on the apron and takes a tag from Derek, as the two bump knees instead of slapping hands as usual.  Allah jumps up and springboards into an elbowdrop to the top of Icehawk's head, as he and Derek trade places.  Fitzgerald gets up slowly and walks around to the other corner, recovering and trying to get his partner back into the match.  Icehawk tries to draw in some air and get some of his strength back, but with the broken nose he has trouble. Allah yanks him to his feet and executes an Exploder suplex, then grabs him by the legs and turns him over into a boston crab.  But as he does, he's close to the ropes and headbutts his partner lightly, another of their improvised tags.  Derek climbs the ropes and comes off with a legdrop onto Icehawk, who's still in the boston crab, adding extra damage to the back.] TD: Cold Spell really wasn't prepared for this at all, were they? SR: They're getting their heads handed to them.  It's great. [Derek turns Icehawk over and tries for the pinfall, but Icehawk amazingly kicks out, which draws a pop out of respect from the crowd.  Derek drags him into the middle of the ring and bounces off the ropes with a kneedrop, but Icehawk rolls out of the way and starts crawling along the ropes. Derek grabs a hold of his leg and tries to pull him back, but Icehawk kicks him away and lunges the last few feet, bringing in Edmund Fitzgerald.  Fitz enters the ring and grabs Derek by the head, then whips him into the ropes and clotheslines him.  Rage tries to tag out, but Fitz grabs him and lifts him up into a powerslam, setting him down in the middle of the ring.  Allah is handed a sprig of mistletoe by Medusa Rage, and enters the ring behind Fitz, holds it over his head and gives him a kiss on the cheek.  The unsuspecting Fitz turns around, and has the mistletoe rubbed in his face, which blinds him momentarily.  Allah, meanwhile, grabs his throat and falls on his back, gasping and begging for some mouthwash.  Icehawk springs into the match, skying off the top rope, over his partner and Derek Rage onto Allah with a flying headbutt.] TD: The scene out here is one of mayhem!  What more could happen this month?  December has brought chaos to the IIWF. SR: Oh, shut up, Dross.  Another paid advertisement the suits are paying you to read?  It's not beneath you -- but that rigged bet, that was beneath you. [Icehawk turns the Dirt Dog over and tries to pin him, but the referee is quick to remind him that he isn't the legal man, and pushes him out of the ring.  This gives the Dirt Dog the opportunity to go up top and try to execute Shadoe Rage's Angel of Death drop.  Unfortunately, he misses badly and falls onto Fitz backfirst, laying on top.  Chuckling, Derek Rage pulls him to his feet and exlaims "Way to blow a spot" to his partner, who playfully shoves his partner away.  Fitz meanwhile starts to rise, only to be felled with a double clothesline, but Icehawk again gets involved, taking both men outside to the floor with a double clothesline of his own as the Prophets celebrate.  Icehawk helps his partner to his feet, and as Fitz shakes off the dusty cobwebs, 'Hawk bounces off the opposite ropes towards him.  Fitz executes a backdrop that carries Icehawk over the top rope and out of the ring, right onto both of the Prophets with a double bodyblock.  The crowd rises to its feet with thunderous applause, and Icehawk returns to his feet first, then pulls Derek Rage up and starts to kick him in the thigh repeatedly.  Before he can do more damage to him, Allah reaches up and hits him with a low blow to the groin, doubling Icehawk over.  Derek goes right to work, smashing Icehawk's already damaged face and nose into the cement with an inverted powerbomb.  Meanwhile Allah gets up on the apron and grabs Fitz from behind, jumping onto his back with a sleeperhold and pulling him over the top rope, leaning there with his stomach exposed along the top rope.  Allah snaps him off the ropes by jumping to the floor with a reverse neckbreaker, while Derek rolls Icehawk back into the ring, and then both Prophets follow.] TD: Both teams really could use the win to get into title contention.  Or in the case of Cold Spell, to remain in contention. SR: The Prophets won at Ring Wars, they've got a hot streak to protect. The only thing Cold Spell have to protect is their parent's reputations by not coming out of the closet. TD: Will you stop that?! [Derek goes right back to work on Icehawk, further bloodying his nose with a stomp to the back of the head, followed by an impressive reverse crucifix powerbomb, that drives Icehawk facefirst into the canvas, and knocks him clean out.  Fitz meanwhile locks up with the Dirt Dog, and as he does Derek bumps into the referee inadvertantly.  Pizzazz, in all her glory, tries to hit the Headwrecker, only to be caught in midair by Derek.  He puts her over his knee and starts to spank her, and then offers the same to Fitz. Pizzazz bends over for Fitz and starts to wiggle, almost eager to be spanked.] SR: HOT DAMN!  Let me up there. TD: You stay right where you are, Steve Roberts. [Fitz stares in disbelief at Pizzazz, which distracts him from Derek, and gets him a foot to the groin and then a DDT into the mat.  The Dirt Dog leaps from the top rope with the Tossed Salad splash, landing on Fitz. Medusa, meanwhile, rolls the referee back into the ring, who makes the count: 1 -- 2 -- 3!  Ding! Ding! Ding!] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, here are your winners as a result of a pinfall... THE PROPHETS OF RAGE! [The Prophets drag Fitz and Icehawk out of the ring and start to batter them some more, but when they pull just about everything out from under the ring, they're dissatisfied.  Searching for something else to use, they each look at the sleigh they rode in on, and look at each other, exclaiming "Grandma got run over by a reindeer!" as each reaches into the pack of reindeer and pull two out, obviously fakes.  Then they walk over to Cold Spell and smash both over the head with the plastic animals, and Unique Allah declares, "The Dirt Dog brings the ruckus to the tag-team division!"] TD: The Prophets get the win over Cold Spell, with a little help from their "insurance," I suppose. SR: If that's insurance, sign me up for life.  Hey, what the...?  What's going on? [As the Prophets of Rage make their way back up the aisle, dozens and dozens of fish start to rain down on the ringside area.  All kinds of fish, large and small start to pour down on Cold Spell, the technicians, referees, poor Sparkplug and even the announcers.] TD: Ugh! This is disgusting! There's raw fish everywhere! SR: Sushi, anybody?! [The Prophets depart, laughing, as the hail of fish slows, the occasional halibut or kipper soaring through the air and landing in the ring with a splat. A ring crew quickly descends on the area to clear away the fish, while Cold Spell pick themselves up and head away from the ring to a big pop.] TD: What a horrible smell. What on earth else can happen here tonight?! SR: Hey, look, Dross -- more gay guys! TD: Here come the Machines, folks. Perhaps they want some of this fish. [The crowd lets out a small heel pop as Simon O'Neal and Paul Wong of the Machines walk down to ringside.  Neither is dressed to wrestle, as Simon is wearing blue jeans and a red t-shirt, while Paul is wearing a business suit.  Simon stops at Sparkplug Lee's chair and yanks the microphone from his hands.  Sparkplug starts to protest, but a raw fish shoved into his mouth by O'Neal shuts him up.  O'Neal enters the ring.  Paul borrows a microphone of his own and climbs up into the ring.} SO: Everyone, just shut up for a damn minute. [Wrong words as the crowd gets even louder.  O'Neal rolls his eyes.] We just got a note from the Fabulous Ones telling us to come out here.  I said [BLEEP] this, and went to take a baseball bat to the faces, but the goddamn boy scout here [points his thumb at Paul] said we should head out to see what they want. PW: We're getting sick and ti... SO: No, I'M getting sick and tired of you, Paulie!  What the [BLEEP] are you doing?  I've put up with your damn uppity moral nonsense for three years, but this garbage is new.  We've lost to just about every team in this area, even though we can run rings around these losers talent-wise, because every time I try to tag out, you're following Madame Butterfly like some damn puppy dog! PW: Me?  I'm not the one screaming how bad she wants me! SO: I'm not screaming... I'm stating a fact.  But that's not the point.  The point is, she's nothing more than a pair of legs, a pair of breasts, and a pair of eyes.  And what the hell were you doing following her back to the locker room?     [To answer his question, the jumbotron kicks on.  Footage is shown from last Saturday of Paul leaving the ring and walking down the aisle to the dressing room area.  He disappears behind the curtains, then footage rolls of him catching up to Ms. Miki backstage.] PW: Why? MM: Why what? PW: Why are you and your boys doing this stuff to us?  I understand having problems with Simon, but it's affecting our team. MM: First of all, it's your fault for dealing with Simon-kun. Second, you two stand in the Fabs way of gaining the World Tag Team titles! PW: When is this going to stop? MM: It'll stop when we feel Simon has paid his dues. [Ms. Miki turns around to walk away, but Paul grabs her arm and she turns back around.] MM: [with a look of surprise] What the...?! PW: You've got to stop this! [Ms. Miki slaps Paul across the face.  Paul lets go of her arm, and she walks away.  The camera focuses on Paul, who has a look of remorse, like he didn't mean to do that.  Then, the picture switches to Agito and Sho, the Fabulous Ones, who are standing backstage.] AN: Well, Simon, how do like Paul's little fiasco from last week? SS: I know Ms. Miki liked it.  [Sho starts laughing.] SO: Hey, Sho, you're laughing pretty hard for a guy who's nothing more than sloppy seconds. [Sho stops laughing, while Simon smirks.]  Tell Bertha I said hi... and did she ever show you that cherry stem trick? PW: Okay, enough.  It doesn't need to go into the gutter... SO: We're already there... you're just too blind to see it.  Tell you what.  Get Spreadbury, or Janois, or one of those suits to sign us a match. You've been a pain in the ass ever since you showed up.  Get into the goddamn ring, and we'll take you apart.  Then, I'll take Miki... [turns and stares at his partner] and show you exactly how trash should be treated.  [O'Neal throws down the microphone and hops out of the ring.  Paul shakes his head, hands the microphone back to Sparkplug, apologizes for his partner, and heads back to the locker room.] AN: [Agito pointing to Sho and himself]  If you think you’re ready for this, we accept! [Sho and Agito back up and pose for the crowd.  The women in attendance eat it up as the jumbotron fades to black. Cut back to the broadcast table, and an exasperated Tim Dross.] TD: Anybody else want to come out here and throw food around, or air their little tiffs in public, or watch home movies?! SR: Hey, cool it, Dross. As long as those tag guys don't actually wrestle one another, we're laughing. TD: Folks, I apologise for the constant unscheduled delays in tonight's action. Without any further ado, let's get to our last match of the hour: the Subway Psycho takes on Tony Starks! ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|.................................................. | || | \ v v / | __| Subway Psycho vs. Tony Starks |_||_| \_/\_/ |_|.................................................... WRITER: SK [Sparkplug Lee climbs into the ring, stepping over scattered bits of debris from the previous match that are being cleared away hastily by the ring crew, and nearly slips after stepping on a broken table leg. Lee catches himself from falling by grabbing one of the ring ropes, and hangs there bouncing for a moment to the delight of the fans, before composing himself and beginning the introductions.] TD: Our esteemed Mr. Lee nearly took a bad spill on all that debris, which is still in the process of being tidied up, Steve Roberts.  Cold Spell and the Prophets certainly made a mess of things down here. SR: Might as well just leave the junk lying there, Dross.  I've got a feeling that Starks and the Stinker may be doing a little property damage of their own tonight.  Or maybe they'll each just grab a heavy blunt object and bludgeon each other to death. SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall.  Introducing first, hailing from Staten Island, New York and weighing in at 269 pounds, here is... TONY STARKS! ["C.R.E.A.M." by the Wu-Tang Clan kicks in over the P.A. as the intense, brooding Starks enters the aisle to a moderate pop from the crowd, his head shrouded by a white towel.  As he walks down the aisle, Starks ignores all attention from the crowd, whether it be cheers or jeers, and continues on in smouldering silence to the ring.  Referee Earl Alfonso moves to check out Starks as he steps through the ropes, but Starks acts as if Alfonso isn't even there, pulling the towel off of his head to expose his stony features and ice-cold stare as he turns to face the entrance, awaiting the appearance of the Psycho.] TD: Tony Starks is looking downright murderous, Steve.  After that ugly incident on last week's installment of IIWF Saturday Night, you can bet that both he and the Subway Psycho will be at each others' throats from start to finish. SR: And our viewing audience will probably be in the kitchen, whipping up some snacks to munch on while Otto retires His Losership one more time tonight.  I wonder if the suits know just how much commercial revenue they lose every time they let these two morons on the card. TD: On the contrary, Steve, I believe that this is going to be a very interesting match. SR: Yeah, well, you believe that ferret on your head makes you look good, too. SL: And his opponent, he comes from the subways of New York City, weighing in at 255 pounds, here is... THE SUBWAY PSYCHO! [The lights of the Coliseum dim, and Randy Rhoads' chugging guitar riff from "Crazy Train" by Ozzy Osbourne blasts from the P.A. as the Subway Psycho bursts from the entrance and charges full-tilt down the aisle towards the ring!  Sparkplug Lee sees the advancing Psycho and clears out of the ring, but Starks just smiles, and beckons the sprinting subway denizen with a "come to Daddy" hand gesture.  The crowd pops wildly as the Psycho dives through the ropes, springs to his feet, and immediately begins trading wild blows with Starks as Alfonso calls for the bell to start the match!  Ding!  Ding!  Ding!] TD: The Psycho's wasting no time tonight, and is taking the fight straight to Starks, Steve Roberts!  This match is only seconds old, and we've already got a brawl on our hands! SR: I'm gonna go get a couple of hot dogs, Dross.  Can't watch Otto take apart Byron without some munchies. TD: You're not going anywhere, mister, you've got a job to do right now! SR: My job is to provide colour commentary, Rug Boy, with these two, there just ain't enough colour to comment on.  I know when I'm licked. You want a bratwurst, baby dolls? TD: Steve... [Starks and the Psycho continues to trade swinging roundhouses, and then the Psycho suddenly strikes with a leg sweep, taking Starks to the mat. The Psycho goes for a quick elbow drop, but Starks rolls out of the way, and the Psycho finds nothing but mat.  Starks wastes no time in slapping on a Fujiwara armbar, causing the Psycho to bellow in pain, slapping the mat as he works to free himself from the hold.  Starks bears down on the armbar, but can't keep the Psycho from crawling to the ropes for the break.] TD: Tony Starks goes for the quick submission hold, but the Psycho's much too fresh at the moment, although he certainly felt the effects of that armbar, Steve... Steve? SR: Hey, over here... hey, hot dog boy!  Get down here, I need... what do you mean, you're sold out?  Get your ass back up to the mezzanine and bring me some dogs, boy! TD: Why can't you just concentrate on the match, Steve? SR: Why can't you accept that you're as bald as a cueball, Dross? [Alfonso calls for the break, but Starks takes his time, keeping the Fujiwara locked on the Psycho's arm until just before the five count. As soon as Starks relinquishes the hold, though, the Psycho drives his shoulder into Starks' solar plexus, doubling him over, and follows up with a headbutt to the back of Starks' skull!  Pop!  The Psycho then dashes to the ropes, and nails Starks with a double axehandle to the back of the head, sending Starks crashing through the ropes to the outside!] TD: The Subway Psycho climbing the turnbuckle... oh my goodness! [The Psycho scrambles to the top turnbuckle, turns into the ring, checks behind his shoulder to spot Starks, and then launches himself off the turnbuckle with an astounding moonsault to the outside, catching Starks just as he pulls himself up to his feet!  Incredible pop from the crowd! Starks and the Psycho crash into the concrete, and lie there motionless as the crowd cheers wildly!] TD: You wanted action, Steve Roberts, and you've got it in spades!  What a crazy, incredible move from the Subway Psycho! SR: They're getting up, Dross!  They're gonna go at it again!  Maybe I will stick around for a bit. [Both men begin to struggle to their feet, the Psycho slightly ahead of Starks, but Starks manages to grab a splintered table leg from ringside left over from the Prophets/Cold Spell match, and as the Psycho charges him, Starks whirls and smashes the Psycho in the knee with the object, sending him careening into the timekeeper's table!  Heel pop!] TD: Oh my goodness!  This affair is turning ugly fast, Steve! SR: Not as ugly as your rug, Dross, but it ain't bad!  Whoo-hoo! [Starks now advances on the Psycho, as Alfonso begins counting the two out from the ring, but just as he is about to pounce, the Subway Psycho suddenly swings around, a heavy steel object in his hand, and catches Tony Starks flush on the temple with it!  Big pop from the fans as Starks drops as if he'd been shot with a Magnum!] TD: The Subway Psycho just laid out Tony Starks with the ring bell! This is absolute chaos! SR: This is great!  I could sure use those dogs right now - or better still, a big plate o' biscuits!  Hey!  Anybody seen that hot dog boy? [The Psycho limps over to the prone Starks and rolls him into the ring, rolling in himself just under Alfonso's ten count, and covers Starks for the pin - 1 - 2 - Starks kicks out!  The Psycho shakes his head in disbelief, and hauls Starks to his feet, sending him into the ropes and snapping him to the mat on the rebound with a flying scissorlock! Another cover - 1 - 2 - kickout by Starks!  The frustrated Psycho drags Starks up again and sets him up for a snap suplex, which Starks blocks! Another attempt, another block by Starks!  The Psycho tries a third time, and this time, Starks reverses the momentum, snaps the Psycho into the air, and...] TD: Gourdbuster suplex from Tony Starks!  What incredible stamina this New Yorker has shown, and now Tony Starks has turned the tide! SR: Yeah, but that move pretty much took the wind out of Starks too, Dross.  They won't be able to keep this pace up for long.  Dammit, where's that [BLEEP] hot dog boy? [The Psycho lies on the mat dazed and twitching from the impact of the suplex, while Tony Starks has collapsed just a few feet away, his chest heaving from the incredible effort he had just mustered.  After a few moments, though, Starks begins to crawl over to the prone Psycho, and slowly reaches out an arm to cover for a pin!  Alfonso drops - 1 - 2 - the Psycho manages to lift a shoulder!  Big pop!  Now it is Starks' turn to be frustrated, and he rises to his feet, pulling the Psycho up with him, and spins him around, locking on a Cobra clutch!  The Psycho doesn't have time to struggle against the sleeper, though, because Starks summons up a burst of power, and snaps the Psycho up and over, driving him into the mat!] TD: Cobra suplex from the suplex master, Tony Starks!  That's his usual setup for his fearsome finisher, the Katha Jime!  It could be all over for the Psycho now, Steve... Steve? [The much-maligned Coliseum hot dog vendor has finally made his way down to ringside, and Steve Roberts is digging into his pants pocket for his billfold.] SR: Yeah, two with extra mustard.  Here, keep the change, punk. TD: What about my bratwurst? SR: You said you didn't want one.  Tough beans. TD: I didn't say I didn't... oh my goodness, what's Starks doing now? [Instead of going for the Katha Jime, Starks instead dashes outside of the ring, shoves the timekeeper out of his seat, and drags the timekeeper's table over near a corner of the ring!  The crowd buzzes with confusion as Starks rolls back in, grabs the dazed  Psycho, and lifts him up, seating him on the top turnbuckle.  Instead of climbing up himself from inside the ring though, Starks steps through the ropes and climbs up behind the Psycho from the outside!] TD: This looks like the setup for Starks' Tiger Superplex, only... oh my goodness, that table... he can't be serious!  He's going to suplex the Psycho outside onto that table!  Somebody get some security down here! [Starks stands up behind the Psycho on the ropes, and draws a finger across his throat for the benefit of the now-jeering fans, who have sussed his intentions.  Starks pulls the Psycho up, ducking under one arm and cinching him around the waist and prepares to heave him over onto the timekeeper's table below, but suddenly, the Psycho jerks to a halt!  Big pop from the fans as the confused Starks looks down and sees...] TD: The Subway Psycho's hooked a foot under the ropes!  Starks can't get him over! [The momentary distraction is all the time the nearly-spent Psycho needs to drive a hard elbow into the breadbasket of Starks, doubling him over on the turnbuckles!  Pop!  The Psycho manages to turn himself around on the ropes, facing Starks, and grabs him around the chest, attempting to pull Starks back into the ring with a belly-to-belly suplex, but Starks resists!  A tug of war ensues between the two exhausted wrestlers, the Psycho trying again to suplex Starks into the ring, but the tough New Yorker manages to hang on!] TD: Both of these men are dead on their feet, and they're in a very precarious position at the moment, Steve.  A wrong move here could be disastrous for both the Psycho and Tony Starks. [Suddenly, the Psycho loses his footing on the ropes, Starks digs deep down for an untapped reserve of power, and as the crowd catches it breath, Starks heaves the Subway Psycho off of the turnbuckles with a belly-to-belly of his own, the two men rotating through the air, and both men crash into the timekeeper's table below, shattering it to splinters!  Incredible pop!] TD: What an incredible move!  Tony Starks and the Subway Psycho have just destroyed that table with that suplex from the top turnbuckle to the outside!  Neither man is moving, and they could both be seriously injured, Steve... Steve? [Cut to a shot of Steve Roberts, a half-eaten hot dog in his hand, mouth full and chewing away happily, and giving a big "thumbs up" to Dross in approval of the action at ringside.] TD: Good grief. [Starks and the Psycho lie motionless amid the remains of the table, as Alfonso counts away in the ring.  But when the count reaches seven, incredibly, both men begin to slowly pull themselves to their feet!  The crowd eagerly cheers them on, hoping for a continuation of this incredible action, but as the seconds tick down, it becomes apparent that neither man has anything left in the tank.  Starks tries to stand, but loses his balance and tumbles into a crowd barrier, and the Psycho, having pulled himself to his knees, slumps exhausted back down to the concrete as Alfonso reaches ten and calls for the bell - Ding!  Ding! Ding!] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the result of this contest is... a DOUBLE COUNTOUT! TD: Well, somehow that result seems only right, after the performance that these two individuals have put on tonight, Steve Roberts.  SR: Looks like they're gonna dish out some more punishment, Dross! They're getting up again! [Starks finally manages to pull himself to his feet, and staggers over to where the Subway Psycho is struggling to stand up himself, shaking his head from the impact of the suplex.  The Psycho spots Starks advancing, and grabbing a broken chunk of the tabletop, springs up with a burst of adrenaline, raising the wooden object to strike.  Starks shakes his head, raising his hands in the air, and the Psycho, confused, lowers his weapon.  Starks then takes a step towards the Psycho, and extends a hand to the subterranean dweller.  The Psycho regards Starks for long moments, weighing the situation in his head, and then steps forward and accepts Starks' handshake!  The crowd pops wildly as both men continue to shake hands, nodding to each other, and then the Psycho turns and walks away from the ring and up the aisle to the exit.  Starks watches him go, hands on his hips, then makes his way out as well, rubbing the back of his head as he leaves.] TD: What an inspiring finish to this match, Steve Roberts!  Tony Starks and the Subway Psycho did their best to annihilate each other in that match, but one was never able to get the upper hand over the other, and apparently they have forged a mutual respect for each other as a result. SR: A great match ruined by a sickly-sweet soap opera ending, Dross. Frankly, it makes me sick.  Starks should have just grabbed that ring bell and crushed the Stinker's skull with it.  TD: I suppose they felt that they had both had enough punishment for one night, Steve. SR: They don't have to spend the whole night looking at your rug, Dross. They don't know the _meaning_ of "punishment". TD: Well, folks, Steve Roberts' petty jibes aside, some of us have a job to do. It's time for tonight's big contract signing for Snow Brawl. If you'll excuse me, Steve Roberts. [Dross takes a microphone and enters the ring. An eight foot folding table is set up beside him. He looks to ringside then nods as he raises the mic.] TD: Okay wrestling fans, right now it is my pleasure to bring out the ruling hand behind the IIWF.  A man who has some very interesting news with regards to Snow Brawl'98.  So without further ado please join me in welcoming the president of the IIWF...     ...Daniel Spreadbury! [A mixed crowd reaction greets the IIWF honcho as he steps through the curtains and begins making his way down to ringside. He is accompanied by two large, burly and muscular individuals wearing jeans and green t-shirts with yellow words which read "IIWF SECURITY". President Spreadbury, dressed as splendidly as ever, politely waves to the throng in attendance before climbing the steps and entering the ring. As Spreadbury takes his place beside Tim Dross, the mic is raised once again.] TD: Alright, Mr. Spreadbury, Snow Brawl '98 is a mere four weeks away and what better way to kick off the year than with PPV action, the IIWF way. Now it is my understanding, sir, that you are here tonight to make a major announcement concerning that PPV card and two of the IIWF's top wrestlers, am I correct? [Tim holds the mic up for the slightly taller IIWF President.] DS: That's right, Tim. With 17 January just around the corner we've got big plans in store for the IIWF and to kick the year off with one of the greatest PPVs ever is just the start of things to come. Live from the Aloha Bowl in beautiful sunny Honolulu, Hawaii... [Enormous pop! Spreadbury pauses briefly, soaking in the crowd's very favorable reaction.]     ...the IIWF is going to present the biggest night of pro wrestling     ever! The road to Snow Brawl starts here tonight, Tim Dross. In     just a few short moments you and all these great fans out here are     going to see just what I mean when I say Hawaii and the _world_,     will never be the same. TD: All right, then I guess I'll turn it over to you, Mr President. [Tim Dross attempts to hand the mic to the President, but Dan puts his hand up in a "no need for that" gesture.] DS: No, Tim, I'd like you to stay right here and be a witness to what's about to happen here tonight. [Tim Dross's expression becomes one of self-importance as he straightens out his tie, still holding the mic for the President.] DS: Now, Tim... you and these fans out here would have to agree with me that things have gotten a bit... well... crazy here in the IIWF lately. It seems to be becoming the norm for wrestlers to take their matches _out_ of the ring and taking them _to_ ringside endangering themselves, IIWF employees and the fans. [Big crowd pop!]     Seems like people want to run in and sneak attack each other rather than settling their differences in this ring. [Another big pop!]     Well, tonight I'm taking steps to start changing that trend. Tonight, right here, we're going to have a match signed between two of the more volatile offenders of this latest trend. I have with me the contract drawn up and ready to be signed by both parties. I've spoken with both men separately and they've agreed to come out here tonight and sign this contract for a match at Snow Brawl '98. And to ensure that things stay _in_control_, these two gentlemen here are going to remain in the ring until the contract is signed and both parties have left. So right now I'd like to have the first participant come down to the ring. [President Spreadbury motions to the back of the arena. The audience goes ballistic as "Don’t Fear The Reaper" starts. The curtains part and the man makes his entrance. Steve “The Fury” Kowalski, dressed in his denim Harley jacket, jeans and a t-shirt that reads "What ya lookin’ at, Jobber?", heads to the ring. The crowd is screaming "SKULL-PUMP!" as the Fury struts around on the apron. After having a little fun by trying get President Spreadbury into a test of strength, he steps up to Tim Dross.] SK: Oh, Danny boy! Ha ha. I only have to wrestle once this year? So I guess I better make the best of my opportunity. Meanin’ I’d best [BLEEP] his ass up the first time! [Fury Pop!] ‘Cause I did it b‘fore an’ buddy, I’ll do it ‘gain. C'mon, Danny, bring 'im out... bring me the victim! [Tim Dross returns the mic in President Spreadbury's direction.] DS: Well, I said Mr. Kowalski was the _one_ of the participants in this match. I'd like the _other_ participant to come down here now, if he would. [Again the IIWF President motions to the back. Suddenly the haunting strains of the theme from "High Plains Drifter" fills the arena. A moment later the curtain swings open and Brody Thunder steps through to a mixed pop. He's dressed in blue jeans, black hat, boots and t-shirt. The ever-present stogie is smouldering between his clenched teeth and a pair of sunglasses adorn his face. Bandages can be seen from under his hat. He's dragging the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship belt by its strap as he makes his way down the aisle.  He pauses briefly, grabbing a fan's sign. He turns it towards ringside so all can read its message which reads, "THUNDER FEARS... NO ONE". Thunder then turns back to the fan and rips the sign in two, throwing both sections to the crowd. He climbs the steps and enters the ring, keeping a wary eye on Kowalski at all times. He slowly walks over to the President and grabs the mic from his hand. The security bruisers take a step towards Thunder but are halted by Spreadbury.] BT: Smart move, Spreadbury -- 'cuz I'll tellya this...it'd take more'n     these juiced up goons ta stop me if I wanted ta smoke yer ass.     So jus' back yer needle-injectin' hides right back there. [Thunder turns his attention to the Fury.]     Now Kowalski... let's get one thing straight right now. Victim?     Hell, there ain't gonna be no victim at Snow Brawl, ace. There's     only gonna be a survivor. Fer weeks now we've danced without a     band. Come 17 January, the dancin' ends. Come 17 January, the sneak attacks an' suckerpunches end. An' come 17 January, yer stay in this sport ends. I ain't playin' with ya no more, hoss. On 17 January... Honolulu, Hawaii... I'm puttin' ya outta this business... fer good. [Kowalski simply laughs at Thunder. Thunder throws the mic at Tim Dross, never taking his eyes off the Fury.] TD: Well, then... with the fact that Brody Thunder is involved in this     match, can I safely assume that... DS: That's right, Tim Dross. This match is for the IIWF World Championship! A one fall, winner takes all match! Both men seem unable to settle their differences without putting the fans at risk so now I'm mandating that both of these men meet once and for all to end this violence. [Both Kowalski and Thunder smile sarcastically at the statement made by the President. Mr. Spreadbury reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a folded set of papers.] DS: Here I have a contract for the IIWF World Title match to be held at Snow Brawl '98. All it needs is the signatures of you two gentlemen. [President Spreadbury lays the opened paper contract on the table. He then holds out a pen waiting for either man to take it and sign. Both are busy eyeing each other. Finally Thunder motions for Kowalski to sign first.] SK: Ya must be really shakin’ in yer boots, cowpoker, gettin’ Danny here to set somethin’ up to end the violence. [Kowalski smiles and puts his arm around Spreabury, the President beginning to sweat. The New Jersey Nightmare winks at the IIWF headman and says...] SK: Ya don’t think this is gonna end the party, do ya, Danny? But ya     sure as hell have my word to carry m’self like a gennleman for Snow     Brawl. An’ ya know... Brody? [Kowalski makes his way over to the IIWF Champion, coming menacingly close. He is just inches away from the big cowboy's face.] SK: It’s ‘bout time to see who’s got the guts to gain the glory. [Thunder grins.] BT: Jus' have the guts ta _show_up_... that's all I want, runt. [Kowalski grabs the pen, scribbles his name on the contract and makes his way over to President Spreadbury.] SK: Danny, ya jus’ made a PPV... an’ I jus’ signed a death warrant. I don’t know if it was mine... [Huge thunder Pop!] SK: I don’t know if it will Brody’s.... [Huge Fury Pop!] SK: Or yours! [Monster hardcore pop as Fury pushes the President back. Again the security men step in to avert any action against the President. Kowalski merely laughs at the motion. Spreadbury straightens out his coat and tie and reaches for the mic.] DS: Just watch yourself, Mr. Kowalski. You're still an employee of the IIWF and as such you're still subject to disciplinary actions should they be deemed necessary. [The Fury laughs even harder. Another huge pop!]     Now Mr. Thunder if you'd step forward and sign the contract. [Thunder smiles and steps to the table. The bodyguards again step closer to Mr. Spreadbury.] BT: Whoa... hold up them big dogs, Prez. Wouldn't want them ta start     somethin' they wouldn't be conscious enough ta finish. I'm gonna     sign yer damn paper but I wanna tell ya this. [Thunder talks as he signs the contract.]     When we hook 'em up in that ring on 17 January, tell the man in stripes ta jus' stay home. He won't be needed. [Thunder finishes, slams the pen down hard on the table, and points at Kowalski.]     Jus' open the hole ta bury _him_ in. DS: Now that the contract's been signed... [Thunder interrupts.] BT: Wait a minnit... I ain't done yet. Now, sure as there's heat in Hell I'm gonna kick Kowalski's miser'ble hide at Snow Brawl -- but after that I got one another l'il thing I wancha ta take care o'     fer me, Prez. There's a l'il mouse runnin' 'round the IIWF shootin'     his mouth off. Claims he's the real champeen or some such bull[BLEEP]. I'm tired o' hearin' his trap. So right here... [Thunder reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a set of folded papers.]     ...I got me a l'il contract o' my own, chief. It's for a match. A match 'tween that primadonna pantywaist Turner an' me. Get it done. 'Cuz if ya don't... I'll find him myself an' then ya won't have a choice. [Thunder picks up both contracts and shoves them forcefully into the President's chest.]     As fer you, Kowalski... see ya January 17. Hope ya can make it. [President Spreadbury collects the contracts and pockets them.] DS: I'll see what I can do. Now as far as Snow Brawl goes, I want to make you both aware of something. We've got a little under four     weeks until Snow Brawl. Until that time I'm warning _both_ of you to stay away from each other. I don't want any more of these attacks or brawls at ringside where people can get hurt -- or else... [Both the Fury and the Wolf in unison say...] BT & SK: Or else _what_?! DS: ...or else I'll fine the offender five thousand dollars on the first offense. Ten thousand on the second. Twenty thousand for a third offense -- and on the fourth offense... SK: What? You'll take away my beer?! BT: You'll take away my kid?! DS: If a fourth offense occurs I'll make sure you never wrestle in the IIWF again. _Ever_. Do I make myself clear, gentlemen? [Both Kowalski and Thunder look disgusted, first at each other, then at President Spreadbury. Both men take a step towards Mr. Spreadbury only to have the two husky bodyguards step between them. Kowalski then turns to Thunder.] SK: Ya heard the man, cowpoker. [Thunder eyes the Fury hard.] BT: Damn straight I did. [Both men turn to leave. Suddenly they wheel around and both kick the bodyguards in the midsection causing the big men to double over in pain. Thunder and Kowalski then stand over the guards. A smile comes across each man's face. Simultaneouly both men grab the bodyguards around their waists and hoist them high into the air. Then both men are driven down with a powerbomb through the table! Humongous face pop! The table collapses instantly, leaving the bodyguards sprawled and unconscious in a heap on the mat. President Spreadbury then turns his attention to the advancing Fury and cowboy. Kowalski grabs the mic.] SK: My check'll be on your desk in the morning, Prez! Cowpoke, I'll see ya at Snow Brawl. Bring my belt. [He tosses the mic at Thunder.] BT: I'll bring more'n that, runt, I'll bring yer retirement. [Thunder turns back towards the President.] BT: An' as fer any fines fer this l'il deal... ya want _my_ money? [Thunder looks down at the prone bodyguards as he walks by and smiles an evil grin.] BT: Then send me a bill, chief. You know the address. [Thunder tosses the mic to the President who is still stunned by the turn of events unfolding before him.] SR: [over the headset] Whoo-hoo! Let's take a break while this mess is cleared up. Kowalski vs. Thunder -- it's for all the marbles, and it's coming your way at Snow Brawl in four weeks time! We'll be right back! [Tim Dross consults with the IIWF President as Thunder and Kowalski leave the ring to a huge pop from the crowd, a kind of uneasy truce between the two of them. Fade.] +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I * I * W * F =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+ | President: Daniel Spreadbury | Vice-President: Jim Jividen | | univ0322@sable.ox.ac.uk | brokeback@webtv.net | | iiwf@sisko.demon.co.uk | | +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- http://www.sisko.demon.co.uk -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+