[The bluesy, whiskey soaked riff of John Lee Hooker's "One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer" plays quietly over a scratchy record as the camera shot wends its way down a debilitated Portland backstreet. Trash whips past the chipped and discoloured stretches of brick and concrete wall. An old flea bitten wino in moth eaten rags shuffles off down a side alley, hunching his shoulders against the banshee wind. A street lamp flickers in spectral twilight before shorting out entirely, leaving only a thin pool of pale moonlight awash over the tenements. It is not a night that would tempt those seeking comfort to leave the shelter of their homes. It is not a street that the wary would venture upon by choice... Yet as the camera continues its steady trail along the row of buildings, a din of voices raised to shouts and laughter drifts down upon the wind, and the unmistakable raw tone of a real live band drowns out the original soundtrack record in a blaze of over-amped guitars. Abruptly, the camera turns to stare at a leering, black skull of a building, so seedy in its appearance that even on such a backwater street as this, it lurches drunkenly out of its surroundings and immediately into the mind's eye like a crowbar-wielding mugger. Suddenly, illumination spills out over the sidewalk, and the noisy clamour -- the riffing guitars, jolly shouts and agitated curses -- notch up in volume, as the building's double doors burst outwards, the eye scarcely catching a glimpse of the jam packed crowd and smoky haze situated beyond, before being drawn automatically to the figure flying head first out of their midst, coming to land with a crunch in the middle of the road. A hulking, barrel-chested bouncer with a long scar tapering down his grizzled cheek emerges to stand framed in the opening, dusting off his hands. He pauses to light up a cigarette, exhales smoke into the wind, then, leaving the deposited patron lying motionless out in the night air, disappears back into the building, the doors swinging ominously shut behind him. The camera pans up to a sign swinging above the entrance, roughly hewn into the shape of a foaming tankard of ale, bearing the name of the establishment: "THE VOMIT N' GUTTER". A marquee stained with drops of red liquid (identifiable as either tomato sauce or blood) is pinned to the doors with the tip of a dagger: TONIGHT AT THE VOMIT N' GUTTER: * Free shot of Dram Buey upon entrance * Jimmy Bones and the Bourbon Boys play the Blues * Scorpion Arm Wrestling Challenge * Tattoo Parlour open all night * And by special request, we host... . ___. __ ____ __ ________ ______ ||\ |/ | || | | || | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| || \|\__ | __||__ | |_||__ | || | \ v v / | __| || | \|/ || | | || |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| ||______/|\__||__ | | ||_________________________ with Tim Dross and "Soundbite" Steve Roberts Tuesday 14 April 1998 ................................................... [The camera pans around a scene of drunken anarchy that will never be featured in tourist brochures for the Pacific north-west. The biggest bunch of misfits, rogues, sociopaths and drunks seen outside of a IIWF ring crowd the spacious room, tossing back foaming pints of ale, thickening the air with the yellow smoke of nicotine, and either shouting violently, laughing uproariously, or merely swaying precariously with the effects of imbibing enough intoxicants to kill an elephant stone dead. The very floor is an ankle deep wading pit of broken glass, spilled beer and the remains of curry take-aways re-introduced from the stomach to the outside world. At a far table, two fat, bearded, leather jacketed bikers are in the midst of a deadlocked arm wrestling match, a crowd shouting out bets around them, the stakes elevated by real live scorpions placed on either side of their elbows. A mob of skin headed English yobs proudly displaying their Millwall football club shirts and scarves stand near the bar, pouring beer over each other's heads and drinking toasts to the memory of Robski. A white boy blues bland, looking as if they have just been dragged out of the sea, grind out blues riffs from behind the safety of a steel grid. Every few minutes, a pint glass or bottle goes sailing through the air and smashes against the screen. Behind the bar, a burly bartender with a tattooed head spits into a mug and polishes it with his greasy apron. Above his head, proudly displayed upon the wall, are numerous trophies acquired by the "Vomit n' Gutter" over the years... the brass plated arm of Angus McAngus, removed during an arm wrestling contest with the mighty Bartholomew Blackbeard; the giant reptilian head of the great man eating serpent that plagued the Indian Ocean during the eighteenth century; an anchor from the good ship "Scurvy Dog", whose entire crew simultaneously dropped dead from the plague whilst carrying a shipment of Blancmange to the prison colonies; the eyepatch of Cap'n Ned Brasiliano, stained with the blood of a cabin boy who once drunkenly mistook it for a groin protector; the huge battle axe wielded by the legendary Viking, Thorfinn Shinsplitter; the missing beard of a certain former wrestling administrator; and in pride of place, perhaps even more magnificent than the IIWF World championship belt in its own brass n' pewter fashioned way, is a huge replica title belt, bearing on the front piece the following words: "VOMIT N' GUTTER HEAVYWEIGHT DRINKING CHAMPION FOR 1997: STEVE KOWALSKI". The camera continues to wend its way through the drunken abandon, past numerous victims of the notoriously powerful Vomit n' Gutter grog, some face down in their pint mugs, others merely lying spread-eagled on the floor amid the wreckage. Finally, we find ourselves carried up to an elevated platform positioned against the far wall, upon which, sticking out like a sore thumb in such surroundings, stands the regular blue n' gold desk and broadcast equipment of "Inside the IIWF". Our dynamic duo, Tim Dross and Steve Roberts, sit in their positions surveying the carnage before them, Roberts with relish, and Dross with a nervous air. The complimentary shooters of Dram Buey do their rounds, Roberts knocking his back with relish, and Dross... well, Dross wrinkles his nose up in disgust at the alcohol reeking from the foul liquid, and tips it out onto the platform, where it immediately sizzles and burns a hole straight through the wood.] TD: Welcome everybody, to the second addition of the all new, not quite improved, weekly review of all the action, all the drama, all the headlines, all the stuff that matters most in the world of sports... Inside the IIWF! I'm Tim Dross, and with me as always, my broadcasting tag team partner... [Dross takes a deep breath] The first man to trek barefoot across the North Pole; the newly elected president of Manchuria; THE heavyweight nude chess champion of the world; the brains behind the Forbin project; the brawn behind the construction of the pyramids; the apple in the eye of Zeus... The one, the only... "Soundbite" Steve Roberts! [Immediately, the patrons of the "Vomit n' Gutter", who previously appeared to pay not a whit of attention to the "Inside" desk, give vent to a mighty cheer and hurl their glasses through the air in celebration. Dross ducks and covers as glass splinters fly like torrential rain through the atmosphere, but Steve Roberts stands up with his arms outstretched to the heavens, and miraculously, not one sliver in the hail even so much as nicks him.] TD: Here we are at the... at the... errr... SR: Vomit n' Gutter, baby dolls! TD: ...ready to broadcast another dose of all the inside information you can't afford to miss. Well, our new producer promised that he would find fresh locations for us to broadcast from last week, but this, uh... establishment is definitely not what I had in mind, Steve Roberts. SR: It's the "Vomit n' Gutter", Dross, my main man! As fine a drinking establishment as you'll ever find in the Northern Hemisphere. We got booze, bluez and tattooz, ol' buddy; the only thing that's missing is Michelle Pfeiffer, Cameron Diaz and Tia Leone in a wet t-shirt n' jello competition. This ain't one of your yuppie and college student "theme" joints that charges eight bucks for a pint and has a maximum ceiling of five drinks per customer like the Arm Bar, bless its departed soul. No, goddammit, this is the genuine sewer rat shot glass poundin' beer wadin' tavern from hell, and I'm feelin' right at home, baby dolls! TD: This crowd looks a little rough. Are you sure we're safe? SR: Hell no! Any one of these bastards would stick a knife in your head, slap off yer grandmother's glasses and french kiss yer cat as soon as look at ya, that's the fine, alcohol-fuelled, brain marinating in whiskey fumes, upstanding chaps they are. Good fellows, the lot of 'em. Wanna' start a bar fight? TD: Err... not really. SR: Aw, come on ya yella' spoil sport! With that newly bald nonce of yours, you're looking hardcore enough to nut a few nostrils in. TD: I think we'd better just run down the results of last Saturday Night. ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|................................................... | || | \ v v / | __| REWIND: |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| IIWF Saturday Night: 7 March 1998 ....................................................................... - Team Sychosys defeated the Machines by disqualification to retain the World tag team titles. - Joe Petrow defeated Richard "Moxy" Blue by pinfall. - The Benjamins defeated Robert D'Artois and Reiner Ver Magnusson by pinfall. - Night Patrol defeated the American Dragons by disqualification - Tiger Claw defeated El Hijo Del Satanico by pinfall to advance to the second round of the King of the Cruisers tournament. - Steve Manning defeated Shawn Harrison by pinfall to advance to the second round of the "King of the Cruisers" tournament. - Icehawk defeated Eddy Jacks by pinfall to retain the World Cruiserweight title. - Marty Warnett emerged triumphant in the battle royal to become the number one seed in the Intercontinental title tournament. TD: What an action-packed card to kick off the new IIWF season! Eight incredible matches... SR: Except for that one with the American Dragons in it. I'd rather have my eyelids soaked in maple syrup and then stapled to an ant hill than watch that match again. TD: Eight incredible matches, ladies and gentlemen, and more than enough intrigue, drama and excitement to fuel a dozen lesser wrestling federations. Team Sychosys emerged successful in their very first title defence, though it was something of a fluke victory, and sure to be a huge disappointment to the Machines. SR: With the brains on these guys, I'm not sure it's even sunk in yet. Here we have a team so damn stupid that the one title shot they have, the one title shot they'll probably ever get because they have about as much heat as the New Kids on the Block at this stage of their careers, and they throw some other punk in the ring with them and get themselves DQed. We're talking brains that react about as quickly as a three-toed sloth here folks. TD: The real talking point of the match, however, is the further development of "Mr. Majestyk" Maurice McArthur, a man on a truly synapse bending learning curve, who managed to pull off both a Bullet Train to Hell _and_ a Knightmare on Simon O'Neal. Remarkable, Steve Roberts. SR: Okay, I'm man enough to admit it, maybe ol' Soundbite judged 4M a little harshly last week. Maybe he does have what it takes to notch up a win or two. Maybe he does kinda maybe have the stuff to make it big one day. But you gotta remember, a guy like O'Neal ain't exactly the Dom Perignon and caviar, y'know what I'm sayin'? He ain't exactly the whipped cream delight on the firm buttocks of Anna Nicole Smith. He's not quite the blazing sun the moons and planets revolve arou... TD: I know what you're saying, Steve Roberts. SR: So what I'm saying is, putting a Bullet Train to Hell on a wrestler like O'Neal is one thing. Putting it on a guy that can really go is another kettle of fish altogether. TD: Somewhat disturbingly, we witnessed what may be the very first cracks in the foundation of friendship that has been built up between Joe Petrow and 4M, or perhaps just a few growing pains in their evolution. Petrow appeared to lose his temper with his partner on more than one occasion last Saturday night. SR: Well, Dross ol' buddy, it looks to me like ol' Sycho Joe is getting more than a little bit jealous of the success his partner has been enjoying. It looks to me like maybe Sycho Joe doesn't really want his partner to strut his stuff and make good for himself. Maybe Joe just enjoyed having 4M around to wash the dishes, shine his shoes and call him "Sir Psycho Sexy Machine" on evenings. Maybe Joe is pissed off that his underling won't bow and scrape and get down on his knees any longer. 4M is trying to make it clear that he's no stooge feeding Petrow's superiority complex, or a dog performing tricks for our amusement. Maybe Petrow wants the old, clumsy ass, mindless, jobber among jobbers Triple M back... but the problem is, McArthur just doesn't see it that way anymore. TD: It's all just aimless speculation for now, Steve Roberts. Petrow also emerged triumphant in a special challenge against Richard "Moxy" Blue, who was wrestling in what was possibly his last match under IIWF auspices. Unfortunately, the victory had more to do with the calculations of Maurice McArthur than anything Petrow did in the ring. SR: It's good to see that the IIWF is taking a responsible attitude by evicting small children from the ranks. This is a man's game, Poxy Moxy, and we've no place for snivelling little stick figures who cry when their buddies get punked through the concrete. Have fun in the little leagues. TD: We also witnessed a match that may prove to be somewhat prophetic for the IIWF, as the Benjamins triumphed over fellow newcomers Robert D'Artois and Reiner Ver Magnusson. SR: I have indeed peered into my crystal ball and witnessed the future of these teams... and it says, bottom of the card until the end of your days. TD: That's not quite fair, Steve Roberts. The Benjamins displayed a lot of enthusiasm and youthful vigour against their opponents, and that kind of energy could burn right to the top of the tag team ranks. D'Artois and Magnusson were also impressive with their combination of raw power and technical know-how, and if it wasn't for their apparent underestimation of the opposition, they could just as easily have emerged with the victory. SR: Word of advice, my Continental friends, and listen up, because I don't usually slum it around on the tag teams: you just don't come in here and start insulting your new employees like you're already the twelve-time champions. You don't just come in here and insult the history of an entire organisation and expect everybody to lay down in front of you like whipped cattle. That's because we already got two dozen guys under our banner with more talent in their small intestine than you've shown us so far, and they'd be more than happy to stuff your heads up your asses and boot you back down to the minor leagues before you even get a chance to say "Bratwurst Sausage". You ain't done nothin' in this game yet, and it's time to recognise your place in the hierarchy. Damn cocky upstarts better wise up. TD: It was an inconclusive victory for the recently returned to action Night Patrol, who schemed their way into getting the American Dragons disqualified. The Dragons already have a chance for revenge, however, as they accepted the challenge of a Texas Death Match -- that's a no rules, fight to the finish, folks -- at Birthday Bash, the IIWF's next PPV spectacular. SR: These Night Patrol fellows ain't bad. I don't have much use for bacon boys on most days of the week, but when they take some time out to bludgeon a couple of wannabe wrestlers like the American Dragons, I'm down with it. And I got a special scoop for all the lil' Soundbiters out there, you're hearing it for the first time right here... Rodney King will be in Night Patrol's corner for this one! He's turned to the dark side and joined up with uncle! Woooo! Woooo! Woooo! TD: That is simply not true, Steve Roberts. We had two men advance to the second round of the King of the Cruisers tournament -- Tiger Claw, a former affiliate of the IIWF, now wrestling only for himself, and the maniacal Steve Manning, a permanent resident in the Double Eye. If those matches were anything to go by, wrestling fans are in for some spectacular feats of athleticism in the coming weeks, and on the behalf of the IIWF, I'd like to thank El Hijo Del Satanico and Shawn Harrison for bravely venturing onto foreign turf and giving it their all for this tournament. SR: I can hardly wait for the accusations of biased officiating and blow jobs to do their rounds. This, of course, masking the fact that the guys who advanced are actually more _talented_ than their opponents, which for some reason never seems to get taken into account in these accusations. TD: Icehawk, who seems to be pulling off upset after upset at this point in career, was not intimidated in taking the fight right to a man twice his own size and power, Eddy Jacks, retaining the Cruiserweight belt with his spectacular somersault legdrop. Of course, Icehawk did receive a little accidental help from the interference of Derek Mota. SR: Good to see Mota get back in there with a little fire in his eye, ditching the morons from outer space, notching up a few dents in heads and gunning for gold all over again. TD: And finally, Marty Warnett surprised many observers by emerging triumphant in the Intercontinental title elimination battle royal, becoming the number one seed in the upcoming title tournament! This victory could well be the tonic to revive Warnett's flagging career, Steve Roberts. SR: Yadda, yadda, yadda. Wouldn't it have made more sense to have a couple of tournament rounds first, with the winners _then_ going on to a battle royal to crown the new champion? What the hell does this number one seed thing prove anyway? Did Larry Morton have a hand in organising this tournament? TD: Regardless, the battle royal made headlines in more ways than one. The "Enigma" Takezo Musashi attempted to disrupt the proceedings as usual, but he was ousted by Simon Lebec before he could cause too much damage, and we saw the debut of that towering, bestial seven and a half footer, Valtharius the Mad, who has wreaked havoc in other organisations across the nation under the directions of his mentor Karachel for quite some time now. Historically, giant sized wrestlers have enjoyed little success in the IIWF, most of them being a clear cut case of all size and no skill, but that could all change with the emergence of this barbaric monster. Valtharius absolutely ripped havoc through the battle royal, and it took half a dozen able bodied men to eliminate him. With that kind of imposing physical presence, Valtharius could make a big impact here in the Double Eye. SR: Hey, we haven't seen one of these incoherent half-man, half-animal guys in wrestling for a while, it might be fun tormenting the big idiot with words he can't understand. Hey, Valtharius, how many stools does Karachel need to stand on to show you his fellatio performance? TD: You're treading on very thin ice, Steve Roberts. [At this moment, the proceedings are interrupted by the appearance of a tired, yet still buxom barmaid, who plunks what can only be described as a huge vat of foaming ale down in front of Steve Roberts.] BM: There you go, darling. One measure of Black Tooth Ale, by compliments of Cap'n Black Eye Pete and the Lads. [The bar maid gestures towards a nearby table, where a grizzled assortment of overflowing beards, wooden legs and stuffed parrots adorning half a dozen hard bitten men, raise vats of their own Black Tooth Ale in toast. Rising from their midst is Cap'n Black Eye Pete hisself -- as recognised by his big black eye patch and captain's hat -- who, swaying slightly from his inebriation, begins to make a proclamation.] PETE: Arrrrrr mateys! HENCHMAN1: Arrrrrr! HENCHMAN2: Arrrrrr! HENCHMAN3: Arrrrrr! HENCHMAN4: Arrrrrr! HENCHMAN5: Arrrrrdy Arrrr Arrr Arrrr! PETE: I be bad! HENCHMAN1: I be bad! HENCHMAN2: I BE bad! HENCHMAN3: I be BAD! HENCHMAN4: _I_ be bad! HENCHMAN5: We be bad! PETE: Aye... We be bad. But the baddest son of a bastard that ever braved the seven seas o' hell; who wrestled with more sea serpents and creatures from the deep than Odysseus hisself; who was hung by the neck until 'e was dead for firing shots at the King's galley on the Spanish main; who raided more ships than Blackbeard's ghost and sank all the booty in grog an' wimmin an' song; who resisted the siren call of the nymphomaniac mermaids from the depths... but only for a little while... The baddest son of a bitch that ever called the ocean his home, be that old salty sea dog and grog drinker, the one the Caribbean voodoo practitioners used ta call the Black Jesus, me ol' friend and first mate... "Soundbite" Steve Roberts! Arrrrrr! HENCHMAN1: Arrrrrr! "Soundbite" Steve Roberts! HENCHMAN2: Steve Roberts! Arrrrrr! HENCHMAN3: Arrrrrrr! HENCHMAN4: Lusty Wenches! HENCHMAN5: Arrrrrr! TD: This be... I mean, what the heck are they talking about? PETE: A toast, Steve Roberts, a toast! [Collective "Arrrrrs!" and cries of "A toast! A toast!" from Cap'n Black Eye Pete's crew. Steve Roberts stands, solemnly lifts his vat of Black Tooth Ale, and gives a nod to his old sea dogs.] SR: Here's ta' swimmin' with bow legged wimmin! PETE: Arrrrrr! [Pete's crew join in with a rousing chorus of "Arrrrrs!", then swig their vats down at an extremely rapid gallop. Following this, there is much stamping of feet and arrrrring, indeed, the arrrrrs reach such a level of deranged apolepsy, that one of the crewmembers chokes on his beer and falls off his chair clutching at his throat. Immediately, the crew hushes and leap to the aid of their fallen comrade, slapping him hard on the back.] TD: That was... I'm at a loss for words, Steve Roberts. I had no idea you used to be a nautical man. SR: I wasn't. I've never stepped foot on a ship in my entire life. Hell, now that you mention it, I never saw any of these guys before either. TD: Good grief. [Suddenly, Cap'n Black Eye Pete leaps back up to his feet, now swaying about quite pronouncedly from the effects of the grog, and points directly at Tim Dross.] PETE: An' what be you drinkin', ye scurvy landlubber! HENCHMEN: Get 'im a drink! Get the landlubber a drink! TD: Uh, I'm fine, thanks. PETE: Eh?! You be turning down the hospitality of Black Eye Pete n' 'is lads? [pause] TD: Well, maybe I'll just have a tomato juice. [Suddenly, the entire bar goes into a dead silence. The blues band quit their playing, the pint glasses cease their hurtling through the air, the drunken shouts and gales of laughter come to an abrupt halt. Every last patron in the bar stops what they are doing. The scorpion arm wrestlers look up from their tables, the Millwall supporters quit their barracking, the bartender stops his tending, and every single eye turns with a scowl upon the conspicuous figure of Tim Dross. A pin drops somewhere in the room, and the sound echoes off the walls.] TD: [gulp]. [Uncomfortable silence reigns supreme for several long moments.] BM: We don't serve that kind of filth around here, farm boy. [With this proclamation, the barmaid spits on the ground at Dross' feat.] TD: I think we'd better just go on to our next segment. ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __|.................................................. | || | \ v v / | __| NAMES MAKIN' HEADLINES! |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| All the news that matters most ....................................................................... [Abruptly, the live band cuts into a rendition of the Pogues' "Whiskey You're the Devil", the energetic punk inflected folk anthem throwing the patrons back into their usual state of rowdiness, and prompting a group of inebriated Irishmen to leap atop of their table and do the jig for national pride.] ------------------------------ GUNNAR GAINES SHOCKS THE WORLD ------------------------------ TD: Kicking off our headlines this week, can be none other than the shocking announcements made by Gunnar Gaines on both Saturday Night and Monday Musings. The first bombshell was the revelation that Justin Lawrence Gaines, the child everybody thought had tragically passed away on his day of birth, is in fact still alive, the whole purported miscarriage being in fact a sham concocted to mess with the psychological wellbeing of Jimmy "the Meatman" Steele! SR: It just goes to show what a thoroughly twisted and devious brain sits cookin' away within Gunnar's skull. He even had me fooled with that "respect for the fans, they're my family" claptrap. The Meatman bought the whole charade with the last dime in his pocket, and that just bankrupted his win column at Ring Wars 5. This man Gunnar is a dangerous, dangerous wrestler and a master of psychological warfare. Nobody in the IIWF can afford to disregard him any longer... not if they want to stay anywhere near the top their game that is. Evil stuff, baby dolls. TD: Indeed. It's as callous a scheme as I've ever witnessed in my career as a broadcast journalist, but there's no questioning its effectiveness against Jimmy Steele. One man who was more offended than possibly any other amid the furore, one man who has suffered personal loss of his own in such tragic matters, is none other than "Sychosys" Joe Petrow. The co-holder of the World's tag team championship placed his trust and bond of friendship in the hands of Gunnar Gaines, only to have it laughed right back in his face. Petrow has vowed revenge, and Team Sychosys will defend their titles against Gaines and... well, this is the second bombshell that struck the IIWF... SR: Caleb Temple, baby dolls. Caleb mufuhn' Temple. TD: Yes indeed. Celeb Temple, himself a former EWA champion, currently recognised as one of _the_ greats outside of the IIWF, and Gunnar Gaines has promised he will be here next Saturday night on IIWF programming to stand by his side against Team Sychosys. SR: What a coup for the IIWF. This man is one extreme, hardcore, brutal, hate driven sonofabitch, and the violence he's unleashed during his career would give even Takezo Musashi pause to stop and think. When he's on form, Temple ranks without a doubt among the best four or five wrestlers in existence, and now he's right where he should be, about to kick serious ass in the Double Eye. I mean, the elevator doesn't go all the up to this guy's head. You want a serious religious fruitcake to come to your party and kick out all the freeloaders, this is the man you call. TD: Now Steve Roberts, we've yet to receive confirmation that Caleb Temple will in actuality make his IIWF debut this Saturday Night. Rumours have floated around in the past about Caleb jumping ship, and they've come to nothing. In fact, the IIWF administration flatly denies that they have even entered into contract negotiations, so it remains to be seen whether Gunnar Gaines will be able to deliver on his promise. You also have to take into consideration the brutal war that raged in the past between Gaines and Temple, which makes it kind of hard to believe that they would actually team with each other any time soon. It was Gunnar Gaines himself who injured Caleb Temple and put him on the shelf for months. These guys have been friends in the past, but most of the time they can be found attempting to rip chunks of flesh from one another. SR: Who knows what Gunnar has up his sleeve? He's already demonstrated how crafty he can be. Does he plan to team with Temple and then double cross him? Or is the renewal of their friendship a genuine one? Or still yet, does Temple have a little double cross planned of his own? TD: Or will Gaines bring in Caleb at all, more's the question. We do have evidence that Caleb Temple has recently returned to action in an independent league, and he has apparently recovered fully from his injury, as this footage shows. Make of these events what you will: [The words "COURTESY OF THE GFWA" flash upon the screen as the footage runs. Voice-overs provided by the GFWA commentary team.] Adams: Bryant is looking to finish off Renge here... meanwhile Soleil is in trouble! [HUMONGOUS POP!!] Reed: Oh my god... Adams: CALEB TEMPLE!!! CALEB TEMPLE IS HERE!!! Reed: He's wheeling himself down to the ringside though! The Unholy Alliance can't believe it! Adams: They've backed off from Soleil! Dave Bryant can't believe it either! Renge is up... clutches Bryant from behind... ROLLING REVERSE CRADLE!! Adams: Caleb Temple is still watching... now he's rolling over by the timekeeper and grabbing a nearby chair. Reed: Hmmm... Adams: OH MY GOD! Reed: The UNHOLY ALLIANCE IS IN SHOCK!! Adams: THIS CROWD IS IN SHOCK!! CALEB TEMPLE IS STANDING UP!!! [The shock turns into a HUGE pop!!] Reed: For a crippled man he can sure climb the cage! Adams: Caleb Temple is perched on top with a chair in his hand... Bryand and Renge are still lying on their back... Oh my God! Super Arabian facebuster by Caleb Temple on top of Dave Bryant from the top of the cage -- and I think Bryant is dead! I think he's dead! Reed: Caleb Temple is out of there as quickly as he came in! Adams: This crowd is on fire here!! They, and Soleil are cheering Renge on! Reed: And Caleb Temple sits down in the wheelchair like nothing happened! [The footage fades out on the ominous figure of Caleb Temple. He is a frightfully intense looking man, his torso and arms thick with knotted muscles and covered with ritualistic tattoos. Beneath the long, straggling black hair that hangs loosely over his face, above his short and shabby goatee, can be faintly made out a devilish grin.] TD: A truly shocking scene there... SR: I know. The production values in these hick leagues are simply atrocious. And what kind of obnoxious announcing was that? TD: I meant the appearance of Caleb Temple, Steve Roberts. Will this former "loop" superstar make his debut in the IIWF this Saturday Night? Keep tuned to your IIWF programming this week to find out! ------------------------------------------------------- MACBETH CONFRONTS SPREADBURY, PULLS FROM THE IC TOURNEY ------------------------------------------------------- TD: It was a tense moment for our president last Saturday night... SR: I was there! I saw it all! There I was, helping Chelsea out with her maths homework, when all of a sudden, all of her clothes flew right out the window! I leapt outside to fetch them back and cover her modesty, and what did I see down there in the bushes? Clinton, Al Gore, and a recently missing giraffe from the DC zoo all together in a very compromising posi... TD: Not _that_ president, Steve Roberts. I'm talking Daniel Spreadbury here. Duncan Macbeth took him to task over his controversial decision to hold up the Intercontinental title, and it was all he could do to fend off the accusations. In fact, it was a doubly dangerous situation for Mr. Spreadbury, because Simon Lebec nearly took a pop at him as well. SR: When's the Spreads gonna go hardcore and put up the dukes, Dross man? When's he gonna say, "enough's enough" and strap on the tights his bad self? When's he gonna get in the ring and prove his manhood by soundly whooping the asses of all these renegade employees? TD: That's a completely ridiculous suggestion, Steve Roberts. And Duncan Macbeth, in an action that is sure to drastically affect the calculations of the odds makers, disgusted with what he perceives to be selfish and greedy motivations on the part of the IIWF administration, has withdrawn from the Intercontinental championship tournament. SR: I withdrew once. [Cap'n Black Eye Pete and his crew all join in drunkenly for the rejoinder...] CREW: BEST WEEKEND OF YER' LIFE! ARRRRRRR! SR: No, I don't recall that it was, actually. [Cap'n Black Eye Pete and his crew mutter amongst themselves in consternation, finding solace only in a fresh round of Black Tooth Ales.] TD: But the drama didn't end there, as Timothy N Turner and his new compatriots, the NorthPac Coalition, arrived in the ring to confront Macbeth with accusations of their own. Macbeth and his brother Andrew stabbed TNT right in the back several weeks ago, if you recall, perceiving him to be the weak link holding them back in the IIWF. SR: Ain't nothin' wrong with that, baby dolls. If you wanna make a life for yourself in this cold, hard world, you gotta know when it's time to cut loose and kick your best buddy's teeth down the back of his throat. TNT just ain't got what it takes to hang with the hard cases, and he found that out along with his minor league boffin boys when the Black Watch took 'em to task with their words, their wits, and their fists. They got 'em outclassed on all fronts. TD: I think that may have more to do with the fact that Simon Lebec took them by surprise, making a shocking shift in allegiance by joining in the fray himself on behalf of his former rival, the man who almost killed him at Ring Wars 5, Duncan Macbeth. Only in the IIWF, folks. ----------------------------------- DISCORDIACS' FUTURE PLACED IN DOUBT ----------------------------------- TD: As quickly as they first made headlines in the IIWF, it appears that the Discordiacs may in fact be finished for good. First up, it was revealed that Richard Blue's IIWF contract had been terminated due to his abuse of prescription painkillers, although he did make an appearance to wrestle one last match against Joe Petrow. Then, Derek Mota, who always appeared a reluctant partner in the whole affair, turned around and launched an unprovoked assault upon his stable mates. What is to become of the remaining members, Luke Steele and the Down Boys, remains to be seen. SR: Well, that's a shame. It really is. All those legions of Discordiac fans who'll lose interest in wrestling completely after this. All those good times Dan Oliver spent playing "Leavenworth Prison Capers" with Moxy Blue. Stone making all that progress with his English language lessons. Nobody left for 4-D to feud with. Maybe they should disband as well... TD: One man who appears unshaken by the break up of his team, which is really not surprising given his role in the proceedings, is one Derek Mota, who made his future intentions quite clear during the Icehawk vs. Eddy Jacks match. He's gunning for a second run as Cruiserweight champion, and what a high flying spectacular it will be when these two daredevil aerial masters -- Derek Mota and Icehawk -- finally clash. ----------------------------------------- SERGE ANNIS HOLDS BACK ON STEVE KOWALSKI ----------------------------------------- TD: It was a moment of intense anticipation for many fans in the IIWF, as the long simmering feud between Serge Annis and Steve Kowalski threatened to explode last Saturday night. The champion was confronted by Serge Annis during an in ring interview, placing the IIWF security team on immediate alert, but remarkably, the notoriously volatile Annis refused to respond violently to the threats and taunts the Fury dished out at him. SR: He's gone soft, Timbo. The old "Epitome of Evil" wasn't such a bad guy, setting things on fire, cackling like a maniac, spinning yarns of child abuse, raising a little hell. But he's been beaten into a pulp by Kowalski and the rest of the gang so many times he's gone a bit soft in the head. I mean, he was always a few cans short of a six pack, but that manifested itself in something mean, nasty and downright psychotic. Attitudes like that can make you a major player, but now Annis has become one of those "Norman" type guys... a cuddly lunatic who only does something crazy if nobody gets hurt, like spending all his money on soft toys for children's hospitals. You're supposed to feel sympathy for him, you're supposed to be inspired by the "idiot savant" proclamations spewed forth from the confused depths of his mental retardation, but in reality, the sugar coating just makes you sick to your stomach. I hate to put it in such blunt and mean spirited terms, but Serge Annis has become none other than.... FORREST GUMP! TD: Well, I'm not too sure about that assessment, Steve Roberts. I don't think Annis has gone soft at all. Indeed, it was blatantly apparent that Annis was striving mightily to contain his anger at Kowalski last Saturday night, and it was only a prodigious act of will that prevented him from wreaking unholy havoc. When you take into account the heartfelt comments Annis made on Countdown last Friday, it would appear that he has been doing some serious soul-searching during this, the mid-point of his career, and he's asking himself whether his tendency towards the psychotic is really the correct way for him to behave. From now on, Annis looks intent on doing things the right way to the wrong people, and he must be commended for his law-abiding efforts in the sport's current climate of mayhem and destruction. SR: You're square as a billiard table and twice as green, Dross ol' buddy. If what you say is true, and Annis _has_ lost none of his killer instinct, then I just can't see this sudden turn to the good guys being a genuine one. A guy just doesn't go from being a deranged, schizophrenic, small animal torturing sociopath one day, to a pleasant, fan respecting, clean cut, all American, apple pie munchin' good boy the next. Either Annis has gone soft in the head and lost his edge, or he's got something tucked away up his devious sleeve. TD: That remains to be seen, Steve Roberts, but for now, the former "Epitome of Evil" turned "Lethal Protector" looks headed for a final showdown against World Heavyweight Champion, Steve Kowalski, possibly at Birthday Bash. Annis is currently serving a sentence of probation from the IIWF administration following a whole series of violent acts... setting fire to a steel cage, putting newcomer Nick McGill out of action and so on, but behind the scenes, the word is that Annis has been unhappy with his current position in the IIWF, and is demanding to be placed in more "top drawer" bouts. It is unknown as yet if the administration intends to comply with his wishes, but given his run triumphs over the likes of Creed and Mad Dog Watkins, it would be hard to bet against a bright future for Annis in the IIWF. SR: Maybe he's being a nice guy just to butter up to the suits? Ever think about that, fat boy? Didja? Huh? [Suddenly, the double doors of the "Vomit n' Gutter" are flung open once again, and the same grizzled and scarred bouncer who appeared earlier comes running in... only this time, his face is struck ashen white with fear. All heads stop and turn as he lurches violently against the bar, clutches at his throat, and attempts to give vent to his message... but his voice comes out ragged and hoarse.] BOUNCER: Flee, you fools! Flee for your lives!... Ack... Cap'n Jack Skull is here! [With his solemn warning declared for all to hear, the bouncer turns a paler shade of white and drops to the floor with a gargled moan. He could be stone dead for all the patrons could care, however, as the entire Vomit n' Gutter mob erupt into a panic, flinging tables and chairs aside, pushing and trampling over each other in their hurry to reach the exit first. Tim Dross and Steve Roberts, bewildered, are the only ones to remain seated.] PETE: He'll have the black dot on us! It be time to beat a hasty retreat, mateys! HENCHMEN: Arrrrrrrggghhh! [The crowd immediately goes deathly silent, poised deathly still in their current position of struggle, as the double doors suddenly swing inwards again with an ominous creek. Slow, heavy footsteps are heard, before a tall, dark figure, covered from head to foot in a velvet black hood and cape, steps into the tavern. All eyes stare down into their drinks in fear. None dare look upon the menace that is... Cap'n Jack Skull. Slowly, Jack makes his way over to the bar, his leaden footsteps echoing across the room all the while, and leans nonchalantly against the wooden surface. Immediately, the bartender produces a tall bottle of grog from a shelf above, and although his hands are trembling violently, he manages to remove the cork at a rapid pace and hand the liquor over. Jack takes a long, slow swig on the bottle, and as he does so, his shadowed head pans the length of the room, soaking in the fear of each cowering patron in turn... seeking... searching... searching... ...for a victim. Abruptly, Jack pauses as he catches sight of the raised platform containing the official "Inside the IIWF" desk; behind it, our dynamic duo, Tim Dross and Steve Roberts. Drawing out a soft, slow, chuckle that fairly drips with evil intent, Jack begins to make his ominous way towards them. PETE: [barely daring to raise his voice to a whisper] Those poor fellows be done for, mates. [Taking his time, Jack steps easily with his long legs up onto the platform. He stalks right up to the desk, and leans his wraith like figure over it, staring directly ahead, staring directly into the face of... Tim Dross. Spectral wisps of mist drift out from under Jack's hood.] JS: [with a voice of cold gravel] You... fat man... Answer me this... What is the capital city of Equatorial Guinea? [A sigh of relief is palpably audible across the tavern, as each and every man thanks his lucky stars that he has managed to avoid the probing questioning of Jack Skull.] TD: Well... ah... let me see now... Ah... that would be... Malabo! [pause] JS: Malabo you say, eh? [Jack Skull pauses, then raises his voice so that everybody in the vicinity can hear him] Well what if I was to tell you, that you're a goddamn fool and a liar, and that the capital of Equatorial Guinea is, in fact, Djibouti? TD: Djibouti? Where did you get your atlas from? Djibouti is a city state, and thus, the capital of Djibouti IS Djibouti. [Sharp intakes of breath are heard across the tavern at this daring line of questioning taken against Jack Skull's judgement. These patrons, by and large, are violent men, brought up in the school of hard knocks, their faces lined with the scars to prove it... yet, the mere thought of the violence Jack Skull is capable of unleashing is apparently enough for them.] JS: Well... well... well... It looks like we got ourselves a smart guy here. [Raises voice again] Hey look everybody, we got ourselves a smart guy over here! [Everybody continues to stare down into their pint glasses, refusing to meet the gaze of Jack Skull. Jack pauses for a moment, and then leans in even closer to Tim Dross, so that the brim of his hood is almost touching Tim's shiny bald forehead.] JS: Well, what if I was to say to you, that not only are you a goddamn fool and a liar, but you're also a miserable, weak, yella' coward of a man with shit for brains, and yer mother is a whore to boot! Whaddaya got to say about that, fat man? [Many patrons begin to cover their eyes so that they won't have to witness the shocking acts of violence to come.] TD: Well, let me see now... [Tim Dross inclines back slightly in his chair, looking Cap'n Jack Skull straight in the eye.] TD: What I have to say is this! [Suddenly, Dross lunges forward with his noggin thrust outwards, the centre of his shiny bald forehead catching Jack Skull dead in the centre of his face, the absolutely cracking headbutt sending the caped man flying in a clean punt off the edge of the platform, only to crash hard down through the middle of Black Eye Pete's table, coming to rest amid the splintered wood and smashed vats of Black Tooth Ale. Abruptly, the entire patronage of the "Vomit n' Gutter" leap to their feet with a mighty cheer! Dross calmly sits back down in his chair, although the grin of pride on his face is barely suppressed.] SR: Jesus Christ, Dross ol' buddy! I never knew you had it in ya! PETE: Damn scurvy dog spilt me' drink! This calls for a Pub brawl! HENCHMEN: Arrrrrrrrr! [At this lusty war cry, the patrons immediately launch themselves at each other in a frenzy, swinging fists, bottles, pint mugs, chairs and stuffed parrots at one another with gleeful abandon. The bartender plucks the axe of Thorfinn Shinsplitter from the wall and leaps over the counter top, tracing figure eight patterns through the air. The blues cum Irish folk band cast down their protective barrier and run through the mob, weilding their instruments crazilly over their heads. And like any good football thug, the Millwall supporters immediately leap upon the fallen carcass of Jack Skull and begin to kick it into oblivion. Bottles smash upon skulls, blood drips from punched noses, and glass hurtles through the air like shrapnel rain. Behind the "Inside" desk, Steve Roberts grabs the bewildered Tim Dross in a headlock, tucks his head under his arm, and charges off the platform and into the fray, utilising his partner's bald dome as a battering ram. As Dross' head cuts a bloody swathe through the rank and file of brawling patrons, he somehow manages to shout out the following words above the din.] TD: We're rapidly running out of time, folks, so this is Tim Dross on behalf of Steve "Soundbite" Roberts saying... so long everybody! Be sure to catch up with all the action packed IIWF house show action tomorrow night on Wednesday War Room! [Roberts and Dross plunge recklessly out of sight amid the depths of the brawling masses, but the camera shot lingers over the scene of utter carnage taking place within the "Vomit n' Gutter". Abruptly, Cap'n Black Eye Pete lunges up to the camera, cutlass drawn and held poised menacingly overhead.] PETE: There be none of them cameras allowed in this here establishment, matey! [Pete's cutless swipes through the air directly at the camera lens, and abruptly, the picture fizzles out.] +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I * I * W * F =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+ | President: Daniel Spreadbury | Vice-President: Gregg Osterhout | | univ0322@sable.ox.ac.uk | ghost@frii.com | | iiwf@sisko.demon.co.uk | | +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- http://www.sisko.demon.co.uk -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+