[There is total darkness and silence. Moments pass, until the sound of a bank of spotlights being flicked on echoes across the large hall... which is, it soon becomes clear, the empty interior of the IIWF Coliseum. Empty, that is, apart from the ring which still stands in the centre of the arena floor, the apron still emblazoned in primary colours with the corporate logo, the mat still silkscreened with the four letters that represent the finest in wrestling action anywhere in the world. The harsh beams of the overhead spotlights on the ropes and ringposts cast a criss-cross of shadows over the canvas. The shot slowly begins to pan around the ring, as if it were revolving on a turntable. The voice of Tim Dross breaks the deafening silence:] TD: To the superstars of the IIWF, the wrestling ring is many things. It is there to be conquered. [As Dross speaks, ghostly figures almost magically appear inside the squared circle. With crowd noise echoing quietly as if heard from a great distance, the ring is now heaving with athletic bodies, a battle royal in full swing. After a few seconds, the apparition dissipates.] TD: It is there to be befriended. [Another apparition forms in the ring: Billy Shakespeare vaults to the top rope from a standing position on the mat and performs a springboard moonsault onto a stunned opponent. Just as quickly, the image fades.] TD: It is the site of the greatest triumphs... [The "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin is seen pointing a ghostly finger upwards towards a cage hanging above the ring as he roughly hauls Dan Kauffman into position for a Cattle Buster DDT. As the sound of the impact of head against canvas echoes around the empty arena, the ring once again stands empty.] TD: ...and the most bitter defeats. [Mad Dog Watkins appears, standing on the turnbuckles and hoisting the Intercontinental Championship up towards the rafters, while behind him on the canvas lies the red-gloved superstar, Creed, his body wracked by pain and injury, his face showing not those pains... but the agony of betrayal. Just as quickly, the scene fades, leaving the ring in sharp black and white relief.] TD: This ring has seen champions come and go. [Steve "the Fury" Kowalski stands in the centre of the canvas, the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship fastened around his waist. Again, the apparition dissolves.] TD: This ring has seen legends made... [The ring is now littered with bodies, as one man stands above them, one man clutching the IIWF World title -- the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder. In a moment, the image is gone and the ring is empty again.] TD: ...and myths shattered. [There is chaos in the ring as the huge Deathbringer is rolled over the apron... and into a casket that stands at ringside, as Otto Verhoeven, J.W. Hardin, and the sinister Cadaver gloat over their triumph. Just as quickly, the arena is silent once more.] TD: This ring is the battleground on which more than one hundred and fifty athletes have fought. Many have fallen... but many have climbed to heights undreamed of. This ring is the frontier for the IIWF's last stand. [The shot continues to pan around the ring slowly, the glare of the spotlights above obliterating from sight everything beyond the confines of the four sides of the squared circle.] TD: This is where the IIWF will be... forever. [With Dross' last word, the spotlights are shut off... and utter darkness engulfs the shot. After a few moments, the opening graphics dissolve onto the screen:] ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| | || | \ v v / | __| |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| C + O + U + N + T + D + O + W + N T + O ______ ____ ______ _______ ___ _______ ______ \ ____\/ __ \\ ___ \\ _____\\ | / /_____\\ ___ \ | | / / | || | \ \ | | | / / | | | \ \ | |__/_/ | || |__/ / |_____| | / /| |_____| |__/ / | ____/| | || __ /| _____/| |/ / | _____/| __ / | | | | | || | \ \| | | / | | | | \ \ | | | | / /| | \ \ | | / | | | | \ \ | | | |_/ / | | \ \|____ | / | |_____| | \ \ | | \___/ | | \ \____/|/ /______/| | \ \ | / | / \/ | / \/ |/ |/ |/ with Tim Dross and "Soundbite" Steve Roberts Friday 17 July 1998 [Sting's "Bring On The Night" plays as the shot opens on IIWF's Studio Three.  Veteran commentator Tim Dross sits at the long, glass desk which is placed in front of a large video monitor.  Beside him, two chairs stand empty, and behind him, the screen bears the "IIWF Forever" logo. Dross is wearing his now traditional IIWF blazer and smiles confidently at the camera as the shot zooms in and the music fades.] TD: Howdy, folks, and welcome to this very special edition of "Countdown". I'm Tim Dross, and it's good to be back here in this studio after what seems like an eternity. They say all good things must come to an end, and unfortunately it seems that even the _mighty_ IIWF isn't exempt from that truism. Over the next sixty minutes, I will, along with my notably absent co-host, be bringing you the low-down on what is already being called the biggest event of the year. I'm talking, of course, about IIWF Forever, the latest -- and last -- pay-per-view spectacular, which is coming your way in just three weeks, live from the already sold-out IIWF Coliseum here in Portland, Oregon. [Suddenly, there is a commotion off-camera and Van Halen's "Running with the Devil" kicks in, followed by the piped voice of ring announcer Sparkplug Lee:] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, "Soundbite" Steve Roberts! [The crew immediately burst into spontaneous applause as Steve Roberts walks onto the set, immediately dropping himself casually into one of the empty chairs and crossing his feet on the glass desk in front of him. Under his ever-present leather jacket, he wears a t-shirt emblazoned with the legend, "The End Is Nigh".] TD: Steve Roberts, welcome. SR: Hey, Dross-man! I haven't seen you in months, buddy! Well, except for that weird thing with the red-gloved guy and the dead Englishman. Have you lost weight? You're looking great! TD: Thank you, Steve Roberts. I've taken my first vacation in two years, and it was a welcome break indeed. SR: You ought to be a little more like the Soundbite, Dross. Every day is a holiday for Steve Roberts, baby dolls. I get up when I want, I get _it_ when I want, and... TD: That's quite enough, Steve. SR: It's never enough, Dross. So, tell me... what are we doing here? TD: We're here to talk about the last ever IIWF event, Steve Roberts. [Steve Roberts suddenly removes his feet from the desk and pulls his chair closer to Dross, a look of intense concern crossing his face.] SR: Whaddya mean, the last ever IIWF event? TD: Come on, Steve Roberts, you've read the papers, you've seen the television news. SR: No, Dross, humour me -- I've been stuck on a Hawaiian island for the past six weeks, it was the damnedest thing, no television, no radio, only those delicious Polynesian girls and their exotic fruits... TD: Steve Roberts. SR: Aw, just messin' with ya, buddy. I know exactly what's going on. Ol' Dictator Danny's fallen behind on those mortgage payments, and he's selling up. I heard the date for the auction's already been set. TD: Be that as it may, Steve Roberts, the world was rocked by the news that the IIWF is closing its doors... but the world will be rocked again on August 1st, as the IIWF goes out with a bang. SR: And how, Dross! I can hardly believe the line-up for this show. TD: Indeed. Folks, the IIWF front office has been working overtime these past few weeks tracking down veterans of the game from all four corners of the globe, with the aim of assembling them all for one last time in the IIWF Coliseum, the building where it all began, and the building where it will all come to an end in just three weeks from now. It's hard to imagine what's going through the minds of the IIWF superstars as they prepare to make their bids for immortality. Under normal circumstances, these athletes are forced to keep one eye on the next show, and on their relationships with promoters. But here, Steve Roberts... here, there _is_ no tomorrow, there are no politics, nobody to answer to -- just the simple matter of who wants these matches more, and, in the case of the big belt, who wants to be the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... forever. SR: You know, Dross, I'm almost tempted to tell the insurance company where they can stick their huge payments, pull on the ol' tights, and get me one more nice shiny belt to melt down and turn into a Princess Leia -- in her gold bikini, of course -- figurine. TD: Whatever you say, Steve Roberts. But the footage we see in these "Countdown" shows, in the course of this sixty minutes... I would imagine that the comments of the IIWF superstars will be very important in terms of their preparation for this event to end all events. SR: What are you saying, Dross? That if we don't see the guys jawing with some camera guy, they won't last five minutes come August 1st? TD: Something like that, Steve Roberts. Right now, however, I'd like to welcome our special guest co-host. SR: Whoo-hoo! Is it Jenny McCarthy? TD: Uh, no, it's... SR: Wait, wait, let me guess, Dross. Has to be somebody with style, with class... so it has to be... Susan Sarandon! TD: No, Steve Roberts. SR: Demi Moore? TD: No, Steve Roberts. SR: Damn. Victoria Silvstedt? TD: No, Steve Roberts. SR: Holy smoke, Dross. What kind of co-host is this, anyway? TD: Steve Roberts, please. Allow me to introduce our special guest co-host for this evening's show... he is the recipient of the Melville Vernon Gable Junior award for lifetime achievement... SR: The _what_? TD: ...he is the IIWF President, Daniel Spreadbury! [Sting's "Jeremiah Blues (Part One)" is piped over the studio sound system as the IIWF President makes his way onto the set. Dross stands and shakes hands with the suited, bespectacled official, while Roberts simply folds his arms and turns his head away, apparently sulking. President Spreadbury takes the seat inbetween Dross and Roberts, pushing his glasses up his nose as he does so.] TD: Well, Mr. President, here we are, facing the end of the number one wrestling organisation in the world. DS: I'm afraid so, Tim. It's been a great two years, but it's time for a change. I only hope that folks will remember the IIWF for what it was -- a damned fine promotion that delivered not only the best wrestling, but also the best entertainment, and the most compelling action in the world. And judging from the many, many letters of comiseration I have received since the official announcement was made a week ago, many people already feel that way. After IIWF Forever, I'm sure there will be even more converts. TD: Absolutely. Now, Mr. President, let's take a look at the matches that we'll see in three weeks time, live from the IIWF Coliseum. The match everybody is talking about, of course, is that incredible main event -- the thirty-man Eternal Rumble to crown the man who will be the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... forever! [The video screen behind the three men now bears a large graphic:] =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= MAIN EVENT: 30-man ETERNAL RUMBLE Winner is IIWF World Heavyweight Champion FOREVER! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: Folks, you will not believe the field of men who are entered in this huge, huge match. We have no fewer than _seven_ men who have held the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship. We have a further seven men, all of whom have held the IIWF Intercontinental Championship. No less than six of the remaining participants have held the IIWF Cruiserweight Championship... and we even have a former IIWF World Tag Team Championship co-holder in there. SR: Not to mention the obligatory mystery entrant, Dross. TD: And I suppose, as is customary, that you know who that mystery entrant is, don't you, Steve Roberts? SR: You betcha, baby dolls. TD: Well, before you start reeling off the names of any more Hollywood actresses, let's just run down the rules of this big, big match. Before the start of the show, all the entrants will draw numbers, and the wrestlers who draw numbers one and two will start things off in the ring. Thereafter, another wrestler joins the match every two minutes, until all thirty men have hit the ring. The only way to be eliminated from the match is to be thrown out of the ring, over the top rope, and for both feet to touch the arena floor. And when the dust clears, the last man standing will be crowned the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... forever! Mr. President, it's hard to pick any favourites from a collection of thirty athletes of this calibre. DS: It certainly is, Tim Dross. What I like most about this match is that it gives us the opportunity to showcase the past, present, _and_ future of the wrestling industry in a single match. This whole event is about a celebration of what has made the IIWF great over the past two years -- and if you asked me to name thirty men who are responsible for the stature of this organisation, I'd be hard pressed to leave any of these athletes out of that list. TD: Before we talk in detail about the athletes in the rumble, let's get comments from the man for whom this Eternal Rumble is a disappointment as much as it is an opportunity. I'm talking about the current IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, Serge Annis, whom you will be calling upon, Mr. President, to surrender his title on August 1st. DS: I've spoken with Serge, and he understands the situation. I don't wish to take anything away from Mr. Annis -- he defeated Steve "the Fury" Kowalski at Birthday Bash, and he can proudly stand alongside all the IIWF's previous World Heavyweight Champions with his head held high. TD: I'm not sure Serge himself would agree with that assessment. Let's go to his comments: [The camera fades in from blackness. A graveyard. It is bright out, as the sun shines down on the world with no trace of a cloud anywhere in the sky. On the ground, the grass is a dark green amongst the old and somewhat weather-worn tombstones. The camera slowly pans right. The voice of the IIWF World Heavyweight champion is picked up, and sounds like he is engaged in conversation with someone.] SA: Well, Mother, I did it. [The camera continues to pan, and Serge Annis is finally shown, kneeling in front of a small tombstone with his back to the camera. The IIWF World Heavyweight title rests at Annis' feet, on the green grass that grows in front of his mother's tombstone. Serge is wearing a black sleeveless shirt, and black stone wash jeans. Several new cuts and scrapes are visible on his shoulders and arms. Serge speaks in a low, quiet tone, which is something he is unaccustomed to.] SA: I've finally kept my promise to you. I became the champion. [Serge runs a hand through his short brown hair. The camera pans to the side of Annis. His face is expressionless, as per usual. Serge's icy blue eyes are hidden though by a pair of black wire rim sunglasses.] But not without controversy. I had the toughest... meanest... and perhaps even, the greatest IIWF World champion, Steve "The Fury" Kowalski beat Mom. After all that I've endured. After the years in the little leagues as some like to call it... after Genesis... after my political punishment... after my probation... [Serge runs his hand through his hair once again.] After years of people telling me I can't... I'm not good enough... I'm incapable of it. I pinned Steve Kowalski for the IIWF World championship. ...But it doesn't feel right, Mother. Something is missing. I know Kowalski was hurt before he even wrestled the match. I know that Gregg Osterhout had his dreams and vision riding on me. I know how high the odds were stacked against Kowalski... but I didn't care. I went in there, and I did what I promised to do so long ago... I burned him, and Osterhout, to the ground. And now, people are calling me a transitory champion. I only won the IIWF World title because Steve Kowalski was hurt... and I barely beat him. Why don't they understand? Steve Kowalski at two percent, is just as dangerous and deadly as at one hundred percent. [Serge breathes in a heavy breath of air, and glances around the cemetery. After a moment, Serge looks back at the gravestone.] I thought I put all of this B-S behind me. After Genesis died. After I rose from mediocrity to become one of the best in the business today. After I took Creed to the limit, and beat him at Ring Wars Four. That marked my liberation, Mother. [Serge hangs his head low.] Being champion is great Mother. It marks liberation for me. Liberation from mediocrity. Liberation from Genesis... ...but most importantly, it liberates me from my tortured past. I hope Dad was watching from Hell when I won this belt. Because that Mother... that was the greatest day of my life. I escaped the norm that everyone set down on me. I escaped the past Mother... [Serge takes in another big deep breath of air, and looks back up at the grave.] And now... just when I've finally reached the pinnacle of my life... when I've amounted to something... when I've finally found a salvation... The past returns. The IIWF is closing down, Mother. Shutting down on me, when I reached the top. It's like pulling the carpet from under the feet of a king. It doesn't really bother me that Dan Spreadbury has to close shop. That's his own choice. There will be other feds... But what really bugs me... is that I didn't get a single, solitary chance to prove myself as the IIWF Heavyweight Champion of the World. People weren't satisfied with my win over Kowalski. I have to give them something more concrete. More definitive. And the federation is closing down before I even get my chance to prove it. They're stripping me of the title Mother. They're making me forfeit. Forfeit it without a single title defence. Without a single victory to call my own. Without a chance... to prove myself. [Annis wipes a drop of sweat forming on his forehead.] And to top it all off, there's going to be a big battle royal. For the gold. I have to go through twenty-nine other men to leave the federation with some form of a blaze of glory. And he will be there... Requiem. [Annis rises up to his feet now, standing tall over the small cement tombstone.] Requiem, Mother... [Annis bends down and picks up the title belt with his right hand, as it dangles in the wind.] The man that shaped me... ...the man that also broke me. ...I don't even know if it's worth it any more, Mother... [Serge slowly turns around, and begins to walk away from his mother's graveside. Serge's head is hung low as he walks away from the grave... and away from the past. Fade to black, and cut back to Studio Three, where Steve Roberts can be seen disinterestedly making a paper aeroplane.] TD: Now, folks, amongst this field are no fewer than nine of the twenty-four men who kicked off the IIWF in May 1996 with the inaugural "Coronation Clash". The People's Champion, the Subway Psycho, will return to an IIWF ring for the first -- and last -- time since that brutal barbed wire match with Creed and Serge Annis at Ring Wars IV last November. SR: I wonder whether he smells any better this time around. DS: The Subway Psycho has always been a real favourite with the IIWF's fans. He was the most popular athlete in the organisation throughout 1996, and with memorable matches against the likes of J.W. Hardin and the Syndicate under his belt, I'm sure the Coliseum fans are going to welcome him home in style. TD: You're right, Mr. President -- and I'm told that the Subway Psycho is fixing to bring along a very famous friend on August 1st. We'll bring you more details when we get them, folks. Another true fan favourite in the field is one "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare, now thankfully fully recovered from the blinding incident with Rick Williams at Ring Wars 5, and ready to bring his unique high-flying style to the IIWF ring one last time. DS: Billy Shakespeare is one of the most resilient, resourceful athletes the IIWF has ever seen, and the fact that he has held both the Intercontinental and Cruiserweight Championships -- being, in fact, the inaugural holder in the case of the latter title -- is a worthy testament to his enduring success. TD: Speaking of enduring success, current Intercontinental Champion Simon Lebec is another man who has been with the IIWF since the very beginning, although he had to wait for his success. He finally captured his first taste of gold a couple of months ago at Birthday Bash -- but he has also had a stellar career here in the IIWF. DS: I may not always see eye to eye with Simon Lebec, but he is a tremendous competitor, and a worthy inclusion in the field for the Eternal Rumble. SR: Aw, admit it, Danny -- the guy hates your guts. Can't imagine why. TD: Please, Steve Roberts. Two other highly-decorated veterans will also be in the field -- former two-time Cruiserweight Champion Takezo Musashi, and former World Champion Deathbringer. DS: It would be tough to list all the memorable matches featuring these two men: in Musashi's case, his feuds with the "Angel of the Sun" Hakiro Matsuoko -- who sadly can't be with us on August 1st -- and the White Phoenix stand out in my mind; for Deathbringer, that unforgettable series against Dan Kauffman -- again, who can't be with us -- and his matches against Genesis last summer. SR: If you ask me, Dross, Musashi is one to watch in this match. The Cruiserweight belt was always small change for the "Enigma", and I wouldn't be surprised to see him go wacko on many of the favourites in this rumble. He could go all the way. TD: I'd certainly agree with that assessment, Steve Roberts. Musashi is undoubtedly one of the most dangerous men in the sport right now -- and I wouldn't bet against him, even when there are twenty-nine other athletes in the running. But let's not count out the Deathbringer, either -- who had some words for our camera crew earlier this week: [SCENE: The IIWF interview area. Deathbringer is standing there in front of the camera, wearing his usual attire and holding the scythe in his right hand. The Dark Destroyer's eyes shine brightly from underneath the mask as he begins to speak in his low, growling voice] DB: Greetings, mortals... [Deathbringer pauses for what seems to be an eternity. Obviously the man from the dark side doesn't know what to say, as his eyes begin wandering around the room as if looking for something. Finally he again raises his voice] DB: My books of history used to tell me everything I had to know. They always revealed secrets which I could use against my opponents. And in most cases they predicted the outcome of matches or feuds correctly. This time, however, they let me down. It was not before last week that I learned about the closure of the IIWF, and for the first time in my existence, I felt something like surprise pulsating through my veins. [Deathbringer lowers his head now, and again there is a pause, before the Dark Destroyer looks up again and continues to speak] DB: The IIWF has been my home for more than two years. I have seen many competitors walk in, I have seen many competitors walk out and I have seen many great athletes during this time. And though I often appeared in other leagues all around the world, I always returned back to this place, where the best of the best met in the squared circle to test their strength. An era is about to end. [pause] DB: I never felt bad about taking other wrestlers six feet under. As a matter of fact I enjoyed it. But it is somewhat different with this league. As I think about burying it once and for all, I feel like digging my own grave. [laughs in his growling way] DB: Maybe those so-called experts were right as they said I never was the same after my feud with Serge Annis, and maybe they were right when they said I felt something like... madness. But in this moment all I feel is honour and pride to have been a member of this great organisation... and these feelings almost scare me... [another pause] DB: I came here tonight to make some comments about my upcoming matches on the next, the _final_ PPV of the IIWF... But now, that I am standing here in front of this camera, all those words I wanted to say seem so senseless to me. Just a few months back I would have been talking and talking and talking, and though no one ever really understood what I said, I for myself would have been certain to have spoken out important words of wisdom. Now, however, facing the closure of the IIWF, I realise how unimportant my words were. They were not able to stop what is about to happen. And whatever I could say right now would not be able to stop what is about to happen. So for now I want to stop talking. In a few weeks I will be back on the road, travelling around the world to visit some leagues and searching for a new home. The IIWF will be dead and buried by then... and a small part of me will be as well... Perhaps I will have a few words concerning those matches next week, but for now... farewell... [Deathbringer lowers his head again, turns to the right and leaves the screen. Fade. Cut back to Studio Three.] TD: Completing the nine men in the rumble who wrestled on the IIWF's first event more than two years ago are four men who we haven't seen for quite some time. SR: Don't tell me, Dross -- Moondust, El Lobo Negro, Altair, and Mr. Blu Tone. TD: Not quite. Two members of the IIWF's original stable, the Horsemen, will be with us in the Coliseum: both Flare and the giant Blackjack Haley will be in the running to become the last ever IIWF World Heavyweight Champion. SR: Aw, you have to dig Haley, Dross. I always loved that guy. Once the Horsemen managed to persuade him he wasn't the Jolly Green Giant, this huge momma from Baroda, Michigan kicked a lot of butt. TD: Haley is certainly a phenomenal physical specimen, and a great athlete to boot. DS: I got quite a surprise when I called Jack Haley's agent. Since disappearing from IIWF action after his short but fruitful career, Haley used the royalty money from his t-shirt sales to build a ranch in Montana where he raised Buffalo and eventually earned the nickname of "Iron Jack" from his few-and-far-between neighbours. He grew fat off the land, engaging in the occasionally fun but mostly failed schemes, including a "Haley's Comet" comic book. SR: Hey, I saw those books! Haley lent his name to a superhero made of rock. "Haley's Comet" was the coolest. TD: Whatever, Steve Roberts. DS: That's not all. There were also "Haley's and Cream" liquor collectibles. SR: I saw those too, Dross. The bottles were shaped just like Haley himself... but they were too easily confused with Mrs. Butterworth at the breakfast table. TD: Good grief. DS: Then everything changed. In his quest to take over the Great Northwest, Ted Turner bought out Jack Haley's ranch for a wad of cash. So Haley went where all rich and homeless folk go. SR: Hawaii? DS: Mexico. There, he rediscovered his love for the sport of professional wrestling. Embracing the Lucha style as his own, Haley studied the Mexican style as if he were a man half his size, eventually opening his own Mexican training facility. Wrestling under the name "El Ultimo Haley", he sits atop the scene south of the border as heavyweight lucha champion. SR: And now he's coming back! Whoo-hoo! The world may have been ready for BlackJack Haley, the Horseman... but now he's got the look, the size, the rap. He smells money, and there ain't nothin' in the hemisphere that can stop El Ultimo Haley from becoming IIWF Champion of the World, baby dolls! TD: El Ultimo Haley?! The guy is seven feet tall and weighs more than three hundred pounds! This ought to be interesting, folks. We'll see him in the flesh in just three weeks -- but for now, let's go to comments from the former leader of the Horsemen, Flare: [Video montage: Black screen fades to a shot of Flare walking down the aisle, he raises his arms, fireworks shoot off, and his theme music starts. Quick cut to Flare standing with the "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin, cut to a shot of Brad "Bodybag" Kinder and Flare in the Iron Den, cut to a low angle shot of the Horsemen in the ring with their arms raised, cut to a shot of Blackjack Haley with Flare in a tag match finally ending off with Flare in the centre of the ring, "whoooo"ing. Fade to a pan shot of a cobweb-filled Iron Den. Flare illuminated in the centre of the practice ring:] FLARE: Double Eye Double U F... sure brings back some memories. I remember when this all started we had a lot of great wrestlers here like Brad "Bodybag" Kinder, Subway Psycho, Tony Starks, the "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin, Tiger Claw and many more. I fought with them and I fought against them. The thing was I was a stolen gimmick and I joked around too much to really accomplish nothing. Now recently when I received word from President Spreadbury about one more time, I quickly jumped to the opportunity. If we're going to send this federation off I'm going to do it the way it all started. This fed started because of the need for change. A change to something better -- and change is what I did. In the true fashion of IIWF greats I _will_ prove that I was one of the _best_! No more gimmicks and no more games... in the tradition of the IIWF I'm going to kick some ass! Tell me that this can't be done and that's all I need to do it! [Flare nods as the shot fades out. Cut back to Studio Three.] TD: Former Intercontinental Champion Don Antonio will also make his first IIWF appearance in well over a year in the Eternal Rumble. The Don, along with cousin Vinny Cappicola and manager Salvatore Fiorello, together known as "The Family," was highly successful throughout 1996, but became disillusioned with the increasing rulebreaking that began to prevail as the Syndicate's grip on the IIWF tightened. DS: I'll certainly never forget the remarkable turn of events back in September 1996 that saw the Intercontinental Championship change hands twice in the same night, and then that fateful locked door baseball bat match between Tiger Claw and the Don to settle the score at Ring Wars II that November... SR: I seem to remember that you didn't come out of that little skirmish exactly smelling of roses, did you, Danny? DS: I still write your pay cheque, Steve. SR: Point taken. TD: If you don't mind, gentlemen. Finally, the Venusian Death Cell will also be in the running. SR: Boy, the VDC. There's a blast from the past. For a guy who was supposedly from Venus, he could sure talk. And talk. And talk. And talk. TD: Steve Roberts. SR: And talk. TD: Steve Roberts. [Steve Roberts raises his eyebrows at Dross, and then tosses his now-made paper aeroplane out of camera shot.] TD: The Venusian Death Cell was always a dangerous opponent... and one of only a handful of wrestlers by whom I've ever been physically assaulted. SR: Yeah, didn't he go on with that whole "Dross poisoned me" thing? I mean, what was this guy's problem? Dross is out here every damned week poisoning the minds of today's impressionable youth with his tales of the sex, drugs and rock-and-roll lifestyle that has left his body debilitated, his mind destroyed, and his head bald... and the VDC accuses him of good ol' fashioned drink spiking? What the hell is the world coming to? TD: Have you quite finished, Steve Roberts? SR: Just speakin' my mind, baby dolls. TD: I had the, uh, privilege of interviewing the VDC for tonight's show, and I got quite the shock. Let's take a look at the footage: [SCENE: Tim Dross, veteran broadcaster, is standing in a dimly lit corridor. Candles are strewn along the walls at various junctures. It's silent. Dross walks along the corridor, along which are multiple rooms, all with metal doors. The cameraman overtakes Dross, who speaks softly, while continuing up the corridor.] TD: Fans, I'm in a building I hoped I'd never set foot in again... but, here I am, in the castle owned by the man known as The Jailer. Now, we haven't seen this man for well over a year and a half -- possibly longer -- when he parted company with former IIWF superstar, the Venusian Death Cell, who joined up with Oak, of the notorious Cult. But, my sources tell me that the duo have joined up once again -- The Jailer and the VDC that is -- and once again they're living here. I've no idea how this alliance reoccurred, but hopefully I'll be receiving some answers very soon. [They arrive at their destination door, which is ajar. Dross knocks. "Enter" comes the reply, and Dross and the cameraman enter. Inside the room is The Jailer, sitting playing patience. He has his feet on a table, on which sits a bottle of wine, and a glass, which is half full, and a set of keys. Opposite him is a cell, inside which sits The Venusian Death Cell. He's wearing an opaque green mask and green tights, and his hands are chained together. He's sitting on the edge of his wooden bed, and in front of him is the formerly-ever-present bottle of red liquid, which, it is presumed, is blood. The floor is covered in "splats" of green "goo."] TJ: Ah, Mr Dross, I've been expecting you... [He cackles with laughter, and ignores Dross' offer of a handshake.] TJ: You found us okay, did you? TD: Yes, no problem. Well, we've been here enough times in the past, right?! [Dross smiles; The Jailer ignores him, and begins piling the cards on top of each other, in the four piles denoting their suits.] TD: Have you done it? TJ: Done what? TD: The game. Have you won? [The Jailer ignores Dross, who then sighs. The Jailer picks up all fifty two cards, and begins to shuffle them. Dross turns his attention to the VDC.] TD: Hell, Cell. It's been a while, eh? [The Cell looks blankly at Dross.] TD: Tim Dross. IIWF. Remember? [The VDC looks at the floor, and spits.] TD: Cell! I'm the one who you claimed tried to poison you. Remember? [The VDC looks up at Dross, and beckons him over. Dross walks towards the cell bars, and quick as lightning, the VDC gets to his feet, and tries to wrap his huge hands around Dross' neck. However, the chain prevents him from doing so, and Dross moves back.] TD: Cell... I thought we were friends. TJ: It's no good sucking up to him, Dross. He'll never forgive you for what you did to him. TD: It was because of the way _you_ treated him, that we even got into that mess! TJ: Yeah, yeah. You're living in the past, Dross. Why did you even bring that up? TD: To try and evoke some kind of response...? TJ: Well I hope you're happy. _Look_ at him! [The VDC's struggling with the chains around his wrists, attempting to free himself, and spitting like wildfire.] TD: I'm sorry. I didn't think he'd react like that. We formed quite a bond before he joined forces with Oak, and I thought he'd... [The Jailer suddenly gets out of his chair, forcing it to fall backwards and crash against the wall. He gets in Dross' face, holding a cattle prod up to his nose.] TD: What's the matter with you, man?! TJ: Don't you _ever_ mention that man's name in my presence _again_. TD: I'll try not to even _be_ in your presence again, if that'll help... TJ: Don't get funny with _me_, Dross. TD: I don't even know what I said! TJ: Yeah, that's half your trouble, Dross. You're losing it, Dross... so I'll forgive you. Say it again, and you won't be so lucky. TD: Okay, okay, sorry. We're talking about the man with the name of the tree, yes? Randy _Acorn_'s father, if you will. [Dross chuckles to himself. The Jailer threatens him once again with the prod.] TD: I'm sorry. All right? TJ: You better be. TD: I am. All right, so, let's discuss the VDC. How come he isn't talking? TJ: He's got nothing to say! TD: Well that's ne... TJ: Yeah, yeah, Dross, that's never stopped _you_. Heard it all before. TD: Oh. I was actually going to say... TJ: Yeah? Great. TD: All right, so tell me why you accepted President Spreadbury's offer to have the Cell wrestle in the battle royal at... TJ: Because he's got the budget the size of the national debt, and he's got to spend the lot to avoid paying tax. Naturally, I screwed him for all I could get, and in return, I've told him the VDC will be there. TD: You're doing it solely for financial gain? You don't have any affection for the federation where not only the VDC himself, but also _you_ made your name? TJ: No. He has, I don't. TD: The VDC has? TJ: Yeah. TD: Care to tell us about it, Cell? [The VDC ignores Dross, and lays back on the bed. Suddenly he leaps to his feet, and begins wrestling with the chain again.] TD: Don't you feel guilty, chaining him up like that? TJ: Guilty? For what? I've saved your life, Dross. TD: How? TJ: Do I really need to spell it out to you? TD: No. I know what you're saying, and I disagree. I feel if you _didn't_ chain him up like an animal, he wouldn't feel the _need_ to attack. You're messing with his mind. TJ: Dross, he _is_ an animal. And besides, if he didn't like it, he wouldn't have moved back in. Right? TD: Incidentally, how _did_ you two... reform your "alliance," for want of a better word? TJ: None of your business, Dross. But, Dross, now he's back with _me_, there's no way on this planet, he's not going to win the World Title. See, Dross, we _all_ knew he was going to win it under my guidance first time round... but, let's just say the planets weren't in the right configuration. TD: I see... so you're sure he's going to be ready to wrestle by August first are you? He looks like if you let him in the ring now, he'd be ready to _kill_! TJ: That's the idea, Dross. And we've still got another two weeks of preparation yet. TD: Oh, you're preparing are you? How? Where's the nearest gym to here? TJ: Gym? Dross, by training I mean locking the man up... depriving him of food. Feeding him only on pig's blood, and the occasional joint of raw flesh. Once August first comes around, he'll be in the best condition of any wrestler _on Earth_, never mind the twenty-nine others involved in the battle royal. Believe me, Dross, the IIWF won't be remembered for "revolutionising" wrestling, or winning "best fed" awards every year. It'll be remembered for one thing, and one thing only -- as being the federation with the Venusian Death Cell as its last ever champion. Trust me, Dross, I'm right. TD: Jailer, and the VDC... thank you both very much for your time. [Fade out. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Crazy, crazy people, folks. Another man we've not seen for quite some time is the Butcher, Otto Verhoeven. Verhoeven, you'll remember, lost a "Loser Leaves Town" match to Lord Byron some months ago on an edition of IIWF Saturday Night, but you've waived that no compete clause in order to bring the German Juggernaut back to the Coliseum for one last time, Mr. President. DS: Absolutely, Tim. Otto Verhoeven is one of the most dominating men in the squared circle today, and as a former IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, he was a no-brainer for the Eternal Rumble. TD: We'll hear from the Teutonic Terror a little later on tonight, folks, when we discuss the "Legends Match", which also features Deathbringer, the Subway Psycho... and "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley, who will also be in the Eternal Rumble. SR: Whoo-hoo! Quitley returns to the Double Eye, tail tucked firmly between his legs. I hear he's hanging out with some other has-beens down in California these days, doing some kind of moody, solitary hard-case gimmick. You're not fooling anybody, Chrissie -- we know you for what you are... a quitter! TD: Frankly, Mr. President, I'm amazed you managed to persuade Chris Quigley to step back into an IIWF ring after the fall-out that followed his Submission Match against "Sychosys" Joe Petrow last January at "Snow Brawl". DS: I think it's a glowing testament to the character of this man that Chris Quigley is willing to suck up everything that has gone before and, in the full knowledge that he is bound to be publicly hounded by announcers and wrestlers alike, face the competition one more time. Chris used to want nothing more than to wear the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship -- a desire that wasn't satisfied by his reign as Intercontinental Champion -- and he'll get one more chance on August 1st. TD: We hope to hear from Quigley himself a little later on. Another big name making a surprise return is the former Cruiserweight Champion, the "White Phoenix" Shinja Chow, a man we haven't seen since he passed on the spirit of the Phoenix to young Nightwing more than a year ago. SR: Ol' Flame-brain! Wow, they're really coming out of the woodwork for this one, baby dolls. DS: Shinja Chow was during his IIWF tenure one of the most incredible light heavyweight talents in the world -- and I only hope that his skills haven't been dulled by his lengthy journey of self-discovery that he has undertaken since leaving the United States last year. If I know the Phoenix, he'll come back sharper than ever. TD: We still haven't talked about two big-name returns, gentlemen. How about former IIWF World Heavyweight Champion Requiem? SR: Boy Rectum! Whoo-hoo! The Soundbite is in seventh heaven, baby dolls. Remember how the big albino goof tried to take out little ol' me at Ring Wars IV? How I laughed! TD: Indeed, Requiem hasn't been seen in Portland since facing Deathbringer back at Ring Wars IV -- but rumours of his demise have been greatly exaggerated. Let's get comments from the former Angel of Destruction: [SCENE: A darkened room, the blinds on the windows closed, the lights off. Outside, a cloudy night offering little comfort. Within the room shadows pool in gloomy corners, darkness dwells all about save for a single weak beam of moonlight. Suddenly, as if from afar there comes a voice. A soft, yet strangely powerful, voice that is distantly familiar...] VOICE: Once, I dwelt amongst you, proud holder of a prestigious title, gained by deception. A title around the waist of a man who, perhaps, did not deserve it. A title around the waist of a man, nevertheless, who would sooner die than relinquish it. A man claiming to be the "Angel of Damnation", showing great pride in proclaiming himself the "Herald of Damnation". A man with eyes as white as ivory, yet in the final analysis -- merely a man. No supernatural creature, no agent of greater powers. No more, no less than a flawed, imperfect human being. No more, no less, than a man. A man called... [Stepping into a lone patch of light is a man who stands 6'10" tall, around the 300lbs mark. Long bone-white hair is pulled back into a scraggly ponytail, two days growth of white beard bedecks a face that is home to two solid white eyes, two one-way mirrors to the soul that shows little yet sees all. Blue jeans, white shirt and black leather jacket complete the ensemble, and the figure once more speaks, this time in a strangely earnest voice...] Requiem. For all my life I have travelled the world, seeking something, I know not what. And then, at last, some eighteen months past, I came across the IIWF. Expecting not to stay long, I immersed myself in that which was required, expecting any day to feel that siren call that would tell me my search was not yet complete, that it was time to continue my quest.... But much to my surprise, that strange feeling never came and I grew to realise that I had truly found that which I searched for all those long, distant, painful years. Home. Family. Friends. All these things the IIWF was to me. My home, my family, and -- to some of those within its halls, my friends. And, to some, my enemies. Then, one day, I took by force of arms, guile, deception and cunning the IIWF belt, and I rejoiced. My friends, my colleagues in the group we had formed called "Genesis" rejoiced with me, for many of us were outcasts, looked down upon by "proper" wrestlers and we had at last struck back, causing them to fear us. Why Genesis? Because I felt this was truly a new beginning for us all, an opportunity to redeem ourselves and to truly prove to those who had scorned us just what we were capable of. But I was wrong. What I had perceived of as a grand beginning was simply more of the same, and so we fell to squabbling and bickering, and cheating. And before long I came to realise that the belt I wore around my waist I had never truly earned, and so I resolved to prove myself a worthy defender of the belt I had stolen. Alas, there existed in the IIWF men even more cunning, deceptive and callous than I, and soon I found myself without the belt I had so desperately yearned for. And I grieved, and grew angry, and swore bloody vengeance against the men who had done this thing to me. I will not trouble you with what happened next, for much is known. Shortly thereafter I left my home, and began again to wander. Soon I came across another place, much like the one I had left behind, and so I joined them. But it was not the same, could never be the same, and soon I became something hideous. The Outcast, the darkest, sickest portion of my troubled soul. Realising my error, soon thereafter I left that place to continue my trek around the world, hoping that my travels may soothe a troubled soul. And so it has been ever since. I have travelled far, and seen many strange and wonderful things. I have crossed vast snowy plains and great mountain ranges, traversed deserts and oceans, experienced delights and hardships too numerous to describe, and still I have found no peace. Until at last I returned to the United States, and heard the sad news. The IIWF, once the mightiest bastion of wrestling in the world, is soon to be no more. At first I could scarcely believe it, but soon knew it to be true. So I have returned, in the last few lingering twilight days of the IIWF, the prodigal son gone for so long is back. I have come to say farewell to my friends, and to grieve for a thing that was once renowned far and wide but will soon be no longer. And I have come for one final crack at my enemies, before once again I return to my lonely existence, my hermitage of the road. I have come to say farewell to all those who were my friends. I have come to grieve for my home. And I have come home for one final opportunity to kick the ass of all those who proclaimed themselves my enemies. For now... I am not the Angel of Destruction. I am not the Herald of Damnation, nor the Master of Darkness or even the "Outcast". Now I am just Requiem. And I have returned home, for the twilight of the IIWF is upon us, and soon winter shall fall.... [Fade. Cut back to Studio Three.] TD: A heart-felt tribute to the IIWF by former Champion Requiem, Mr. President. DS: Yes, Tim. I know Requiem relishes this opportunity to go out in front of the fans of the IIWF one more time and, perhaps, make some kind of peace with them. TD: One man who certainly knows no peace is the former Intercontinental Champion -- the red-gloved wrecking machine, Creed. When you talk about impact players, you have to be thinking about the rookie from Oakland, California. Here is a man who came into the IIWF without any fanfare, and rapidly established himself as one of the major superstars in this sport. His unprecedented undefeated streak cemented his position in the eyes of the fans as an invincible force, culminating in his capturing the Intercontinental Championship from hated enemy Lord Byron. But betrayal, disillusionment and physical injury -- not to mention his participation in some of the most brutal matches in IIWF history, notably the Barbed Wire match at Ring Wars IV which saw him lose his right eye -- have, arguably, left Creed as little more than a shadow of his former self. Nevertheless, I would argue that as long as Creed's heart beats, his drive will carry him on to the single goal that holds him together. Let's get comments from Creed: [Fade up on the San Francisco Bay at twilight, the shimmering light refracting off the water is a Chamber of Commerce wet dream, the majestic reality of the eight and a half mile superstructure connecting San Francisco and Oakland -- the Bay Bridge -- comes into view as a concrete reality. This bridge, this awesome 72 year old hulk of 200,000 tons of steel and a million cubic yards of concrete, cantilevered with a 1400 foot double deck and an ingenious Mora-Purcell caisson serves not just to functionally provide for the safe passage of over 270,000 vehicles per day... but cleaves within the sharply distinct subcultures of the peoples of this region -- divides the "shining city on the hill", the "Baghdad By the Bay", San Francisco.... ...from the place that the noted American writer Gertrude Stein once referred to as having "no _there_ there," Oakland. A town more hardscrabble than effete, more down and dirty than debonair, if San Francisco is Baghdad, then Oakland is Baghdad after the 1991 American bombing raid. And it is also the hometown of a man who is perched atop the bridge. The camera begins to zoom past the centre anchorage, beyond the 52x65 foot bore tunnel that is just this much west of Yerba Buena Island, up, up to the highest nearly flat surface of the bridge, to the line of demarcation, some 200+ feet above the water, which separates San Francisco from Oakland... And sitting, high atop that bridge, dead on that border line and peering over a very precarious edge is a man in a wheelchair... A large black man. A large, bald, black man wearing black wraparound Oakley sunglasses, all black street-clothes and on his left hand.... ...a very quiet red glove... The man is Creed. And he has something to say.] CREED: I gots almost nothin' left for y'all. I gots almost nothin' left 'cause in the last two years, this damn business has taken damn near ev'rything from my ass. Left eye gone. Right one damn near. Knees shot to hell, walkin' more like an old lady than the "wrestler of a new millennium". Torn Anterior cruciate, detached medial collateral, no one know what the hell happen to Creed medial meniscus, goddamn retinal detach, corneal rip -- damn Creed 'bout to go get hisself a medical degree all he learned 'bout his own broke down, beat up, can't cross the street without somebody axin' me "do you need help, Mr. Creed" ass. Go get me a tin cup and a dog, make a little money after I retire. [Creed smiles, almost in spite of himself, taking a moment to look east toward his hometown of Oakland and then to gaze downward at the increasingly murky Bay -- a Bay that is home to more suicide attempts than any body of similarly sized water anywhere in the United States. As Creed again moves to speak, shifting ever so slightly in his wheelchair, his soft voice turns more serious than is even his custom.] CREED: Damn game took my daddy away. He gone... meant no one but me to protect my momma. I ain't never been back, you know. Back to Oak-town. I come to SF, I come up through SoCal, I go back down same way. I ain't never crossed this line right here, I ain't never set foot one on this half of the line. I ain't never gone to see the old projects, ain't been to the playground... Ain't been to the grave but once. An' I ain't goin' back... Not without my strap. You get that? Y'all get that out there? _MY_ STRAP! You think Creed spend two year outworking ev'rybody in the damn business jus' fo' the hell of it? You think Creed spend two year fighting monsters like Watkins and Byron jus' 'cause he got nothin' better to do? You think Creed give up his time, his energy, his eyes, his legs, his body, his GODDAMN LIFE, jus' 'cause he wanted to have hisself a little fun? Stupid sons of bitches. Creed life, ev'ry damn day of Creed life since those bastards kill Creed momma been 'bout one thing, one _damn_ thing... Getback. Getback, Payback. My daddy always out chasin' some damn dream, tryin' to be sumpin' he ain't never be, tryin' to be World Heavyweight Champeen -- if he jus' give that up an' come home, my momma be here right now... An' I could go home. Well, Creed gonna damn well go home. Creed damn well gonna go home, on August 2, Creed gonna go home an' Creed gonna go to that grave an' Creed gonna stand there an' Creed gonna tell his momma that her baby boy damn did it, that her boy fo' just one damn moment stood above the who' damn world with a Big Strap in his han' and heard the words... An' _NEW_ Heavyweight Champion of the World... CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!! [The camera pulls away, panning the Oakland skyline as the words of the red gloved warrior continue to cut through the night... CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!! The echo then dropping out as it's replaced by a whistling through the air... And then a splash. Cut to the water, a large object clearly having fallen from the top of the bridge... And then back to the bridge where momentarily, nothing is visible... And then appears a solitary, standing Creed, now without wheelchair.] CREED: World Champions don't need no wheelchair. My name be Creed. I got no eyes. I got no legs. But on August 1, at IIWF Forever, I gonna have something mo' important than any of that... I gonna have the World's Heavyweight Championship Belt. You want Creed, IIWF? You want Creed? You _got_ Creed. [The shot zooms in on the red left-handed glove of the warrior, now wildly twitching in the moonlight as the shot fades. Cut back to the studio.] SR: Punk kid. TD: Steve Roberts, Creed is most certainly not a punk kid -- and I have to believe that despite his limited mobility and his impaired vision, Creed is one of the most dangerous men in the Eternal Rumble. DS: Absolutely, Tim Dross. I can't tell you how pleased I am that Creed has agreed to come home to the IIWF for one last dance. This is a man who has given everything he has -- his body, his health... his _life_ -- to the Double Eye, and it would certainly be a satisfying conclusion to his story if, when the smoke clears after the Eternal Rumble on August 1st, it is Creed who raises the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship above his head. But it won't be easy, and with such a strong field, his physical condition may well be the limiting factor... certainly it won't be his heart. TD: Creed is one of several real heavy-hitters signed up for this Eternal Rumble, along with the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder and Steve "the Fury" Kowalski. We'll talk more about Thunder later on, but the impact these two men could have on this match can't be overstated: both men are former two-time IIWF World Heavyweight Champions, and what a rivalry has existed between the two of them. You have to believe that if they should meet in this match, all hell will break loose. SR: The Fury's my pick, Dross. The Fury is _still_ the man -- and ain't nobody going to deny Kowalski the place in history that is undoubtedly his. TD: That remains to be seen, Steve Roberts, but certainly, if Steve Kowalski is healed up after the dreadful injuries that plagued his championship reign, he'll be among the favourites in this match. However, when I went to get comments from Kowalski earlier this week, I was presented with a disturbing piece of news: [The sights and smells of India Square in downtown Jersey City are delicate to the palate of the eyes and nose. The area may be slightly run down, but you cannot help but fall in love with the culture planted in this mini-society. There are very few crimes here. Very few arguments heard, the unwritten rule is politeness. Tim Dross, along with one of the IIWF cameramen faithful, has made the trip. Dross, decked out in a khaki shorts polo combo, leads the jean-laden youth carrying a shoulder unit to capture a few words from the MAN... the MYTH... THE LEGEND! The FURY... Forget what I said about the unwritten politeness thing... The yelling is heard and the brash talk and bad language fill the air, mingling with the faint sounds of a local vendor complaining in his native tongue. The sterling Harley chopper sits in front of Chowpatty Chrome muscle and warm rubber can only be the ride of the IIWF Triple Crown Winner and former two-time Heavyweight Champion Steve "The Fury" Kowalski. Walking out the store front backwards holding a sack full of grub and giving the New York salute to its owner, the ex-champ hasn't changed a bit. With a quick hop and a leg over, the Ex-Big Thing saddles his hog. All set to go he is ready to cut out, but before he can...] TD: Steve! Steve! Wait! It's me, Tim! We just wanted to get a few words with you. We couldn't find you at the Amber Bug and you haven't been answering my calls since I got into town. [Stopping to catch his breath and allow the camera man a better angle, Dross pauses.] I figured we could catch you down here grabbing a bite to eat. SK: Yer always thinkin', Timmy. TD: Have to. Let's get right to it, Fury. Are you pumped up for the final one? The biggest one! IIWF: Forever. As much as I am saddened by the soon to be demise of the greatest federation of all time, I am ecstatic about what could be the most explosive PPV of all time. And you doing double duty. A referee?! Before the Champion of all Time Match? SK: I ain't comin'. [Silence. The loudest, deadest silence ever heard. The camera slumps. Dross' jaw drops. The Fury just stares.] TD: Wh... what? Why... why aren't you going? This is the last... the final Double Eye event of all time! It wouldn't be complete without the Fury. The ugliest moonsault in wrestling! The tricycle the in ring! The indestructible... SK: I... ain't...indestructible. I jus' ain't doin' it. I'll ref fer Brody and Ronnie but that's all. I'm done wit'. [Kick starting his 'cycle!] I'm done wit' all o' it. [With that, he's gone. In a dirty smoke cloud of exhaust and burnt rubber the baddest man in wrestling is gone.] TD: I don't know what to say. He's not going to wrestle. [Dross stares after the bike. Fade and cut back to the studio.] TD: Folks, we'll keep you updated on the Kowalski situation. As of this moment, the Fury _is_ signed to wrestle in the Eternal Rumble... but obviously that could change. Another popular choice will surely be Marty Warnett, the former Intercontinental Champion. DS: I know Marty's disappointed with not being granted another shot at the Intercontinental belt, but he's a great, great athlete -- and I'll be looking for him to ruffle some feathers in the Rumble. TD: Marty is currently preparing hard for his participation in this weekend's I-Crown tournament, but he did find the time to make some brief comments: [A large-ish man rides down the road on a Harley; strapped to his back is a sawn-off shotgun. He wears overly large black leather trousers, boots and a leather bullet hole-ridden jacket over a black t-shirt, along with dark sunglasses.] MW: IIWF? I'll be back... [The bike roars off towards the horizon. Fade and cut back to the studio.] TD: Another former Intercontinental Champion in the Rumble is fellow Brit, Duncan Macbeth. Macbeth is another man who can be considered a superstar in this sport -- and our cameras caught up with the surly Scot earlier this week in the IIWF Coliseum. Let's run the tape: [SCENE: An unusually dark, unusually quiet hallway deep within the IIWF Coliseum in Portland, Oregon. The framed photographs of IIWF stars past and present which usually line the corridors which lead from the front offices of the Coliseum, to the dressing rooms, to the auditorium itself, are conspicuously gone, and the harsh glare of emergency lights provide the only illumination within the building which has hosted some of the greatest matches in the history of the sport in its two short years of operation. It is late in the evening, but even the cleaning crews who work seven days a week to prepare the Coliseum for the capacity crowds it usually holds every Wednesday and Saturday night are absent this evening, as well as the banners, posters and flyers that advertised the IIWF's merchandise line upcoming pay-per-view events. Fax machines, telephones, weight machines, and electric typewriters, amongst other equipment, stand outside empty offices or lie in cardboard boxes in the hall, waiting to be picked up and moved away. In short, the Coliseum has all the appearances of an operation that is going out of business. The sombre quiet of this scene is suddenly broken by something that was at one time a common occurrence within the confines of the Coliseum's backstage area -- the sound of a locker door being swung open, and the rattle and bang of equipment being moved. The camera proceeds down the dark hallway, past the trainer's office and the curtained entrance to the auditorium, and towards a door at the far end of the hallway, where a crack of light can be seen streaming from the entrance. As the camera reaches the doorway and turns the corner to enter the room, we see a large room, with an equipment table set up in the middle, and the walls lined with a row of steel-grey lockers. Almost all of the locker doors in the room are open, revealing their empty contents to the camera's eye. The camera pans past the lockers one by one, and we see that the names of their former occupants are still written on strips of white adhesive tape above each one: KOWALSKI WARNETT MOTA LEBEC ANNIS S. RAGE D. RAGE PETROW L. STEELE J. STEELE MUSASHI DEATHBRINGER A. MACBETH and so on, until finally, the camera comes to rest on the solitary occupant of the abandoned locker room, a tall, burly man dressed in black motorcycle boots, jeans, and a familiar black leather jacket with a crimson lion painted on the back. From behind him, we see that the man's long, ruddy-blond hair is tied back in a severe ponytail, and he is slowly, almost reluctantly, removing the contents of the locker he is standing in front of and placing them gently in a black canvas equipment bag at his feet. As the camera swings around to one side of the man, his sharp, rugged featured can be clearly discerned, and if there is any nagging doubt as to the man's identity, a glance above the locker door reveals all for the viewer: D. MACBETH If Duncan Macbeth is even aware that he is being filmed, he doesn't acknowledge the presence of the camera as he goes about the business of cleaning out his Coliseum locker -- for possibly the last time. The usually fierce countenance of the young Scot is strangely missing, and Macbeth appears to be lost in melancholy thought as each object he removes from the locker brings back a cascade of memories for the loyal IIWF stalwart. Macbeth pauses for long moments with each memento of his tumultuous IIWF career he digs out from the bottom of his locker. A branding iron, stained dark red with Macbeth's own blood, which the Scot recovered from ringside after his match against IIWF Hall Of Famer "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin. Macbeth's green eyes narrow momentarily as he inspects the dull cast iron shaft, then shakes his head, chuckling, as he slides the iron into his bag. Macbeth's demeanour darkens somewhat as he pulls out what appears to be a steel knee brace, a souvenir from his match at Ring Wars IV against then-Intercontinental Champion, "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley. The brace was a ruse, designed not to support a damaged joint, but to provide a potent weapon for Macbeth in a no-disqualification match -- but as Steve Manning Jr. would prove, Macbeth's ruse would not be the only one played that night. The Scot snorts in disgust as the bitterness of that night washes over him once again, and he tosses the brace into a nearby wastebasket, and reaches into the locker again, this time pulling out a dog-eared issue of IIWF Monthly, the federation's official fan magazine. The glossy cover shows, under the caption "NEW GENERATION STORMS IIWF!" a shot of Derek Mota, recoiling in shock and surprise from the six-foot Scottish claymore sword that stands impaled in the ring directly in front of him, dropped by Macbeth from the rafters of the Coliseum split-seconds earlier. Macbeth himself appears on the cover in a special in the lower left corner, above a smaller caption which reads "DEREK MOTA, DUNCAN MACBETH LEAD THE CLASS OF '97". The Scot clearly has mixed feelings as he gazes at the magazine's cover, not knowing whether to toss it out or keep it, but after long moments, finally elects to lay the magazine in his bag with his other treasured mementoes. A yellowing piece of paper is the next item, and Macbeth seems to beam with pride as he reads the official-looking script on the document. The camera moves back slightly, so that the viewers can see the text on the paper, and an ornate, round seal is immediately apparent, followed by the title "UNITED STATES FEDERAL DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS -- LEAVENWORTH, KANSAS -- RECORD OF INCARCERATION". The paper seems to be the official record of Macbeth's arrest and remand in Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary, just days before the IIWF's Saturday Night show which took place within the walls of the prison. A photograph is paperclipped to the document, showing a seething, wild-eyed Macbeth in full-face and profile, with the number "LFP-13141745" printed underneath both angles. A signature scrawled across the mugshot reads: "Hey Duncan, hope you liked the food! Best, Warden Matheson + staff, Leavenworth. P.S. KICK QUIGLEY'S ASS!" The Scot chuckles again, and gently folds up the paper, sliding it into a side pocket on his duffel bag. More items follow, as Macbeth pulls out the old royal blue and white saltire cross tights that identified Duncan Macbeth for years before the change to the black and red, lion-crested garb of the Black Watch; next, another photograph, this one of a crimson-haired Becky LaRue wearing an impossibly-short tartan micromini and matching bikini top, with the inscription: "Dearest Duncan -- thanks for the bagpipe lesson! What do you think of my breath control? Kisses, Becks" Macbeth arches an eyebrow and lets out a long, breathy whistle before tucking the Polaroid into his bag, and finally, he pulls out the last item in the back of the locker, a black wrestling mask. Macbeth stares at the mask for long moments, his brow furrowing as he recalls the circumstances under which he donned it many months ago -- when he appeared as a masked waiter to aid his friend Timothy N. Turner against the man he first feuded with in the IIWF, Kevin "The Cavalier" Christiansen. Obviously, much water has passed under the bridge since those days, as the recollections of his subsequent partnerships with Turner, and the events that led to Macbeth turning on him at Ring Wars V, seem to fire Macbeth's anger with each fleeting thought, and finally, the Scot flings the black mask across the room with a growl. The anger washes over him after a moment, and Macbeth, calm again, takes a moment to survey the room where he has spent the better part of two years, thinking back to all the times he'd staggered in in agony and exhaustion, sometimes aided by fellow wrestlers or EMT crews, and the other times, more numerous, when the pain seemed to go away for awhile, and he strode into the room like a proud lion after finding victory in the ring. Macbeth's jade-green eyes, whose intense, burning stare unnerved countless opponents in the ring, seem to cloud over as the Scot passes his gaze across the rows of lockers, finally coming back to his own, and with a sigh, he pushes the door closed and slides the latch with a dull click. Macbeth takes his time as he zips up his duffel bag, then throws it over his shoulder as he slowly makes his way out of the locker room and begins the long walk down the hallway towards the Coliseum's staff exit. His steps echo eerily in the darkened corridor as the Scot reaches the doors, and pausing to take a last look behind him, pushes the door open and steps out into the warm Portland night. Macbeth's silver-and-blue BMW motorcycle waits in the empty parking lot, gleaming in the sodium lights, and as Macbeth goes about the business of strapping his bag onto the back of his motorcycle, he notices a work crew erecting a giant billboard right in front of the Coliseum. Intrigued, Macbeth walks across the lot, and watches as the workmen begin pasting the pieces of a huge poster onto the board. The poster is not a "For Lease" sign, nor is it an advertisement for beer or automobiles or any other commodity of that sort -- is an ad for what will be the final wrestling event held in the IIWF Coliseum. Macbeth's eyes grow wide, and he grins as slowly, the matches that will appear on the card are pasted up onto the billboard. The undercard passes as the workmen move higher and higher on the billboard... Gaines and Temple vs. Jacks and Williams... Petrow vs. Musashi... Cruiserweight King Of The Mountain... and Macbeth starts as IIWF Intercontinental Champion Simon Lebec's name is pasted up on the board. The Scot seems to be on tenterhooks as the workmen paste up the strip bearing Lebec's name, and we see him visibly deflate as Tiger Claw's name appears beside Lebec's. Macbeth's emerald eyes flash with anger and resentment -- the indignity of being stripped of the Intercontinental Title obviously still stinging him -- but he keeps watching as the workers near the top of the board, and the strip bearing the names of the participants of a huge battle royal are put up. Macbeth sees his name amongst the others, and his eyebrows raise in surprise as the main event is finally listed: MAIN EVENT: 30-man ETERNAL RUMBLE Winner is IIWF World Heavyweight Champion FOREVER! Macbeth lets that thought wash over him -- IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... FOREVER -- and he eagerly looks back at the billboard, scanning the names... Hardin... Verhoeven... James... Thunder... Kowalski... Requiem... Mota... Musashi... Turner... Lebec... Annis... Quigley... Gaines... Temple... Deathbringer... Petrow... and the young Scot lowers his head, staring blankly at the pavement as he thinks of the insanity of stepping into a ring with thirty men of that calibre. He thinks back to months ago, and recalls the pain, the torment, the unbelievable exhaustion he felt in Calgary, Alberta, when he fought his way through twenty-nine men to get a shot at Chris Quigley and the Intercontinental Title. Macbeth remembers all the times in that match, when he was pinned in the corners, when he was blindsided from behind, when two or three or four or more men hammered away at him, trying desperately to force him out of the ring, when it was late in the match and every second in the match seemed like a minute, when he was short of breath and his whole body felt like it was on fire, when the agony built and built until it seemed he could take no more, and he just wanted to give in, and resist no longer, and make the pain stop by letting himself go over. And then he remembers why he _didn't_ let himself go over. Macbeth looks up from the pavement, and the narrow, gleaming eyes lock themselves on the caption above the entrants' names once again... IIWF World Heavyweight Champion. Forever. The pinnacle. The top of the mountain, the mountain Macbeth has climbed his entire career. The greatest prize in wrestling, there for him to take. The most prestigious place in the sport, there for him to stand... forever. The workers finally complete the billboard as Macbeth contemplates the enterprise he is about to undertake, finishing the sign with a huge title that dominates both the poster, and the downtown core surrounding the Coliseum: IIWF FOREVER Macbeth nods his agreement with the choice of title, and regards the poster for long moments before he slowly turns away from the billboard, heading back across the parking lot towards his motorcycle. The camera does not follow, and the Scot grows smaller and smaller as his long steps carry him into the distance. As Macbeth approaches the bike, the wind catches the sound of whistling, echoing across the parking lot. The whistling is faint, but the tune can still be clearly heard... "Heilan' Laddie". Macbeth climbs aboard the BMW and kicks it into life, the throaty roar of the engine filling the air as it reverberates across the lot, and the Scot pulls on his black helmet before gunning the throttle and launching the bike across the asphalt, speeding past the new billboard, past the names of the finest athletes in the sport, and past the title that, after two wonderful years, may as well be tattooed across the fighting heart of Duncan Alexander Roy Macbeth: IIWF FOREVER The camera catches Macbeth's jade eyes, narrowed and glinting in the city lights, as he speeds past on the motorcycle, and then the rumbling engine fades as Macbeth's taillights disappear in the distance, as the young Scot prepares himself for one last, desperate grab at IIWF immortality. Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Duncan Macbeth has a fine history in battle royals, folks -- as you saw in that footage, it was Macbeth who triumphed in a battle royal to crown the number one contender to the Intercontinental Championship last year... the title that he then proceeded to take from Chris Quigley. Another man with a fine history in battle royals is "Sychosys" Joe Petrow, who we'll see a little later on. SR: Ol' Sycho Joe is another one to watch, Dross. This is the guy who hopped around the ring to avoid being eliminated from a battle royal. TD: Absolutely, Steve Roberts. Joe Petrow has to be another favourite in this unique match. Observers have expressed surprise at the inclusion in the field of a number of athletes who we've yet to mention -- not least, Jimmy "the Meatman" Steele. I headed down to Emeryville to try and get a word with Mr. Steele: [Scene: Emeryville, California. Tim Dross, wearing a ten gallon hat and denim jacket, stands in a dust-blown yard. He is surrounded by warehouses replete with conveyor belts, hog pens, chicken coops, and barbed wire. A chicken and a goat wander in front of the camera.] TD: Meatman Industries. Behind me: a processing plant; over there: a barn; to my right: a packing plant, but a few months ago -- in this yard -- it was nothing less than a SLAUGHTERHOUSE! [Montage of stills: Jim Steele and Valtharius crammed into cages. Dexter Gilbreath on the big screen. The Meatman and Valtharius in agony, their cages dipped into a vat of boiling water.] TD: The match was no less than a spectacle of human atrocity, as a disgruntled employee of Steele's, sabotaged the event, engineering the Meatman's own plant to wreak upon the contestants a toll so excruciatingly horrendous, I am not allowed to re-broadcast the match! [More stills: Valtharius' bloody hand in a cloud of chicken feathers. Blood dripping from a wolf's jaws. The Meat Strap being thrown from one Karachellian Cultist to another. Valtharius punching the Meatman. A cultist handing Valtharius the Strap.] TD: Eventually, the event managed to look less like "Faces of Death" and more like wrestling, when Valtharius, aided by the cultists of Karachel, won the day. [Cut back to Tim in the yard:] TD: But what of Jimmy "the Meatman" Steele? Little has been heard from him in the past weeks. Will he answer the call, and participate in IIWF Forever? I, for one, hope so. He has always stood up to the collusive gang structure which rules the IIWF. Whether it be cultists, assistants, or entire families aligned against you, Jim -- I say, fight on! But, godspeed in whatever you do. You have enraged us, enthralled us, and sometimes appalled us, but you have always entertained! This is Tim Dross, reporting. [Cut back to the studio.] DS: For me, Mr. Steele represents what the IIWF is all about. The Meatman was a rookie, and his involvement here has kick-started his career. Within months of his debut, he was in World title matches against Steve Kowalski, and feuding with Gunnar "Grizzly" Gaines. SR: Not to mention that wacked-out "Meatman Challenge" at Birthday Bash. TD: No, don't mention that, Steve Roberts. Speaking of Gunnar Gaines, both he and partner in crime Caleb Temple will also be in the Eternal Rumble, along with the "Black Jesus" Shadoe Rage. To my mind, those four athletes represent the future of this sport -- and a bright future it is indeed. We'll hear from the Baddest Thangs Running later tonight, but right now let's get comments from the Age of Rage: [Fade in: the familiar black backdrop with the Prophets of Rage logo adorns the wall. They are all gathered. Pizzazz, Medusa, Marissa Monet, Derek, Unique, Shadoe. This is the unit collectively known as the Age of Rage in the IIWF, the World Tag Team champions, the Black Jesus, the exquisite Parisian model, the stunning sexual chocolate duo. The group watches the camera as they get counted down to the cue.] SR: Freak out! Freak out! [clawing the air with his hands] The final countdown, the clock is ticking in low digits, right? Well, that's all well and good. But if this is the end of the road, the Prophets of Rage are going to be there to bring the house down in fine style! MR: That's the key, isn't it? It's all about style. The last time we grace the halls of the IIWF, the scene of some of our most spectacular matches. The place where we rose to prominence and earned the attention and respect of the wrestling community. There are still a lot of jealous haters out there. Well, you're going to be even more jealous when you see how we end things IIWF style. DR: It kinda makes me misty-eyed to say goodbye. This was the spot. This place is and always will be the best. The place where anything can happen. And the one organisation with the balls to use their imagination and let their talent push the envelope. DDUA: And it's only right that these muhfuhs finish the job in fine style. Yo, the Ghetto Supastars are in the house and that's gonna be the way it goes. You, we know our ABCs and we manage to spell out disaster, defeat and embarrassment for every muhfuh in the Alphabet Boys. These was the most popular team-mates in the IIWF? Yo, 'riss. Tell 'em what you're thinkin'. MM: I'm thinking that the Black Jesus needs to be represented on the card a little more, but our family is going to be a big damn part of the final farewell. That's our word. And Dirt Dog, show 'em what you've got. [Dirt Dog fumbles with his buckle.] DDUA: Awright, then! Yo, IIWF, you can kiss! [Fade out before the shot needs to be censored.] MR: [off camera] Damn, thank God they faded to black. That'd be a lot of screen for them to visually distort! [Cut back to the studio.] TD: We'll also see Cruiserweight Champions past and present featured in the Eternal Rumble with Icehawk, Derek Mota, Ronnie Paris, and Timothy N. Turner taking part. We'll hear from all of those men later on in the show, but right now, let's hear from the "Real Deal" Luke Steele, another surprise entrant in the eyes of many. DS: While Luke Steele has never captured a title here, the IIWF is in many ways Steele's true home. It was here that he got his break into the big time, with his "Winner Earns A Contract" match at Snow Brawl back in January 1997, and it is here that he has built the foundations for what is sure to be a highly successful career in this sport. TD: Indeed. Here's what Luke had to say about this great event. [Scene: the backseat of a limousine. A luxury model judging from the large space, the black leather interior, the television sets and the champagne bottles on ice. Resting on a pillow on one of the seats are a pair of golden championship belts bearing the initials "M.L.W.O.", and sitting beside them is none other than the "Real Deal", Cleveland's own Luke Steele. As the camera comes on we can see just the shapely backside of a young lady as well as a man's hand helping her out of the limo's backseat. Steele sees the red light on the camera and gets a panicked look on his face when he sees the belts. He scoops them up and hands them to the man outside the limo, speaking to him at the same time.] LS: Take them before the camera sees them! You don't know what the rivalry is like! They're freakin' pitbulls or something, gnashing their teeth over the last chewtoy. [Steele looks at the camera and grins. He's wearing a pair of cut-off blue jean shorts with a white t-shirt that reads "Blue Chips = Two of a Kind, and everything's wild!", and finally a red bandana over his skull.] LS: Well, after everything I put into Portland, I'm finally getting something back. The mighty IIWF is going out with a bang, and guess who's invited to the party? Good ol' Lukey Steele, the hick from Ohio. Well I've got bigger intentions than just showing up. I'm going out to win that battle royal and scoop up the "eternal" IIWF championship from under the noses of the greatest wrestlers ever to compete in Portland. I mean look at the names involved. Thunder. Verhoeven. Mota. Creed. Annis. Hell, even some of the _really_ old guard, like Flare. The Cell. Don Antonio. Does Luke Steele really have a chance? [Steele slowly leans back against the seat, then smiles warmly at the camera.] LS: You betcha. I wouldn't have thought so a few years ago when I entered the Double Eye. I wouldn't have thought so when I was facing Genesis. I wouldn't have even thought so in the last days of the Discordiacs or when I had that winning streak with the Floater. [Steele cocks his head slightly.] LS: But you know something? I'm finally at a place in my career where I've got the confidence to go out and kick some ass. My buddy, my pal, my partner, Kevin Elliott, is back and we're out there together again. I won't name any names or companies, but we're the tag team champions in one hell of a competitive field. This gives me the confidence I need to finally go out and show myself off as one of the top dogs around. I may not win the whole damn thing, but be sure that Luke Steele will send the IIWF off in his own little way, by putting up one hell of a fight. I'll get to say hello to some old "friends" like Requiem, Ronnie Paris and Jimmy Steele, and won't that be fun? It'll be a hell of a blast, folks, and Luke Steele is going to leave his mark in history. See you at the races, _baby dolls_. And hey Soundbite, it was mine first. [Fade to black. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Folks, that completes our run-down of the twenty-nine confirmed names in this ground-breaking Eternal Rumble. Of course, that leaves the thirtieth man, the much-vaunted mystery entrant... and I believe that's where you come in, Steve Roberts. SR: What? TD: The mystery entrant, Steve Roberts. You know who the mystery entrant is, as usual? SR: Oh, you betcha. Hot diggety damned straight, Dross. TD: And you're going to share this information with us? SR: Not on your life, Dross. Wait and see like the rest of the morons out there. TD: Of course. Folks, this could very well be the biggest match of the decade. The fate of the premier title in all of wrestling will be decided in the Eternal Rumble. Thirty men with one shot at a place in history -- it's going to be an incredible match, only on pay-per-view! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= LEGENDS MATCH: Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven vs. Subway Psycho vs. Deathbringer vs. "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: The IIWF doesn't throw around words like "legend" in reference to just any athlete... but these four men, each a great champion in his own right, can surely lay claim to that prestigious title. And in this elimination match, four of the IIWF's greatest superstars will do battle until just one man is left in the ring. DS: We've seen just about every combination of these four athletes in singles competition over the course of the past two years. Put any two of these men together and you have a match that could headline a card anywhere in the world -- put all four of them together in a wild, elimination-style brawl... and you have a match that could only come from the IIWF. SR: I'm really looking forward to seeing this one, Dross. There's bad blood between all of these guys. The wars between Verhoeven and Quitley are world-renowned, Verhoeven defeated Deathbringer for the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship back at Ring Wars II, Quigley holds a victory over Deathbringer, and the Psycho... well, the Psycho got beat on by just about everybody, right? So he's bound to have some pent-up aggression to release on the other three guys in this match. TD: Eloquently put, Steve Roberts. We've already heard from the Deathbringer tonight, so let's get comments from Otto Verhoeven: [SCENE: A taxi at the airport of Portland, Oregon. The driver, a shabby looking Caucasian with greasy hair and a shaggy beard is munching on an apple, the juice flowing down his chin. Just then the passenger's door in the back is opened and the huge form of a man enters the taxi, which shakes slightly under the bulk. The man, about 6'8" tall and probably exceeding three-hundred pounds, is wearing a plain green shirt and black jeans. His face is cleanly shaven and his black hair is a strict crew cut. He glances with his blue eyes at the driver, then sneers.] TD: Where should we go, sailor? OV: [with a slight German accent] Emerald Palace hotel. Make it fast. TD: All righty, meng. [Without a second thought the driver throws the rest of the apple out of the window and starts the motor. The car protests for a moment with a shrill noise, then it smoothly runs off. The driver checks his passenger in the mirror again.] TD: Don't I know you? OV: Possibly. TD: Hey, waitaminnet! You are one of these Double Eye wrestlers, right? What's your name again? The Slaughterman? OV: [sighs] The Butcher. TD: Right, right. Otto Verhoeven, correctumondo? [Verhoeven just nods and looks out of the window. The driver cracks a satisfied grin.] TD: I knew it. My son has your action-figure, I think. Boy goes completely bonkers as soon as wrestling comes on TV. We were even at the Coliseum a couple of times. You are no longer with the Double Eye, are you? OV: No. A little while ago I lost a match to Lord Byron which forced me to leave the promotion. TD: Helluva fight, man. I saw that one. That Englishman kicked your butt real good. Bet you are still hurting pretty bad from that beating, huh? OV: Not really. TD: So, what brings you back to Portland? You going to appear at that farewell card? OV: Ja. TD: Not really talkative today, huh? OV: I don't want to burden you with my thoughts. TD: Whateva. [The following uneasy silence lasts only for a moment, as the taxi comes to a screeching halt.] TD: Here we are, Emerald Palace, most expensive hut in the jungle. Fifteen dollars, Butcherman. [Verhoeven hands him the bills, then steps out of the car. The driver turns around, an annoyed expression on his face.] TD: Hey, where's the tip? Aren't you a frickin' millionaire or something. [Verhoeven does not even look back.] OV: You don't deserve a tip, little man. Your mindless chatter got on my nerves. [He slams the door shut behind him. The taxi driver mutters a curse and races off. Cut to a large, luxurious suite near the top of the Emerald Palace. Verhoeven, still wearing the shirt and the jeans, is sitting on a caramel-coloured leather couch, his right foot resting on the mahogany table in front of him. The German smirks at the camera, arrogance flashing in his eyes.] OV: So that is how the ordinary American here in Portland remembers me? "The large German who got his butt kicked by that English fellow." [He slowly shakes his head.] OV: I know that the people of this nation are foolish and simple-minded but this... I am sure my opponents in the "Legends match" still have some have some painful memories about me. Deathbringer... [Cut to footage of a visibly younger Otto Verhoeven throwing the limb body of the Deathbringer into a casket while around them a dozen other wrestlers fight each other with savage abandon.] Subway Psycho... [Cut to footage of a bloodied and bruised Subway Circle lying on the mat, surrounded by Verhoeven and several other German wrestlers.] And Chris Quigley? I met him not so long ago... surely he could not forget that. [Cut to Otto Verhoeven executing the Slaughterslam on Chris Quigley. A referee slides down beside them... one, two, three. Cut back to Otto in the apartment.] OV: But that is the past. The end of the IIWF is the present. I am honoured that President Spreadbury asked me to participate, especially in a fight called "Legends match." [He leans back on the couch.] OV: Am I... a legend? If the definition is just someone who has done much in a promotion, then the four of us deserve to adopt that nickname. During the first year of the IIWF we were the elite of the promotion and later, when other, more aggressive athletes showed up, we still kept a high profile, still were dangers for every athlete, still were part of the upper Echlin of this federation. [He sneers at the camera.] OV: But is that enough to call all of us "legends"? What kind of a legend lingers on until it is too late, until he is degraded to a laughing stock when he should have moved on with dignity. The Subway Psycho did that. Is he a legend? What kind of legend surrounds himself with an aura of invincibility which is obviously a lie? Who would violently scream defiance into the face of certain and utter defeat, yet fail to live up to the expectations of the crowd? The Deathbringer did that. What kind of legend would go out with a whimper, crying and whining like a spoiled little girl when he was oh-so obviously overpowered? Quigley did that. [A shadow crosses his features and a trace of bitterness can be heard in his voice.] OV: And what kind of legend would succumb to a man he had broken before, a man who was the mere shadow of his former capabilities. Who would let arrogance get in the path of glorious dominance and end a reign of terror that had not yet reached its peak? I did that. When Lord Byron defeated me a world came crashing down. I could not believe my time in Portland would be cut short by someone who was proven to be my inferior before, whose loss was a mere formality for me. I was mistaken and I paid dearly for it. Ja, my career was not over, not by a longshot. I had my successes elsewhere... I fought other wars, downed other opponents and showed that most of you athletes don't stand even a slight chance against Germany's Premium athlete... but that one loss always ate away at me... still does. The humiliation of being _banned_, the other mocking fools who shook hands with me... I wanted to kill them right there, on the spot. [Verhoeven rubs his nose with his left thumb for a moment.] OV: IIWF Forever will be the chance where I can redeem myself. The "Legends match" will show once and for all that... [He raises the index finger of his right hand.] ...the Subway Psycho is a stinking American gutter-runner who will never get the beggar-stench of his hide... [He raises a second finger.] ...that the Deathbringer is nothing but a mortal, an ordinary man who can be defeated like every other athlete and who _will_ feel pain. [He raises a third finger.] You will all see that Chris Quigley is not the great wrestler he thinks he is. His greatness [he taps against his temples] exists only in his mind. I showed that at the Deschenes Cup and at IIWF Forever... Chris Quigley will be broken, shattered for the final time to prevent yet another comeback. [He raises a fourth finger, now basically flashing the sign of a famous wrestling stable. He becomes more and more agitated.] OV: And for the last time Portland will have to realise that there is no way to stop the Teutonic Terror... the German Juggernaut.... the Butcher! [He clenches his right hand to a fist and slams it down on the table.] OV: For one more time... welcome... to the Slaughterhouse! [Fade to black as Verhoeven starts to laugh maniacally. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Let's go straight to comments from Chris Quigley -- who has certainly changed somewhat since last we saw him. [SCENE: A dark, winding highway. The time must be sometime after midnight. The night sky is clear, the only illumination in the scene coming from the bright full moon and the millions of stars. In the distance, the camera catches someone walking away from the scene, to God knows where, maybe Portland, Oregon, for instance. The camera cuts to a closer view, approximately 10 feet behind the figure who is wearing black jeans, a brown leather jacket, and has wet black hair, brushed back into a spiked look. In his left hand he carries a black guitar case, over his right shoulder, a black and red hockey bag, presumably filled with clothes and other personal belongings he'll need on his journey. Indeed, "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley is looking a little different these days. Despite the distance the camera is trailing Quigley, his voice is still audible through the night air. He begins to speak without so much as a glance back.] CQ: Questions. Questions. Questions! [Slight pause as he continues walking.] CQ: Y'know, I've been called a lotta things in my life. A braggart, a whiner, a quitter, an under-achiever, a hypocrite, a cheater, a loner, and a bastard. But I've never been called a sell-out. Never been called a liar either. That is... 'til now. [Another pause.] CQ: Don't need to even be listenin' to hear the voices around me sayin', "Quigley's gone back to the IIWF." "Quigley couldn't hack it without the ol' Double Eye." "Guess Quigley's broke, or he's a sucker for punishment." Yeah well, I've said it before, and I'll say it again... stay out of my damn business and leave me the hell alone. I've got reasons for everything I do. 'Course, lately I haven't been accomplishing my goals too well, have I? [He picks up a rock on the side of the road, and lets it fly, smacking into a road sign a few metres in front of him.] CQ: I fought Petrow at Snow Brawl to get even with him for making me look bad, making the world think I gave up and handed my title to Macbeth. Tried to right the wrong, and ended up getting my ass handed to me. Of course, everything's outta the bag now, ain't it? Everyone knows the story. My parents, my brothers and sister, my _family_ were flyin' in to see the match, first time they'd ever watch me wrestle... the plane crashed... they never made it to the arena that night. They never made it, period. You'd think maybe with that bit o' motivation behind me, I coulda pulled off the win, but I guess nothin' was stopping Petrow that night. Obviously. But that aside, I decided to quit. Hang it up. I was sick of this business, this business was sick of me, and it worked out fine for everybody. 'Til I got a phonecall from Deschenes, wantin' me to join his little Deschenes Cup tournament. And y'know, I actually thought goin' back there and wrestling again... somehow things would be different. [Quigley shrugs and continues walking.] CQ: Yeah, sure... I beat the living _hell_ outta Gunnar Gaines in the first round. Made the sonuvabitch tap out and everything. That's _something_, I s'pose. Fought Otto Verhoeven, lost. That's it. End of story. I made a mistake, he made me pay, he pinned me and ruined some sort of storybook comeback that everyone expected. Big f'n deal. I've beaten Verhoeven before, he's beaten me before. I wanted Hardin. But my motivation to face J.W. Hardin wasn't enough to get me past Verhoeven. I tried. I failed. The feelin' of deja vu was just sickening, ya know? [Pause.] CQ: So the IIWF is finished. You're expecting me to say something derogatory, aren't ya? Maybe you're waiting for me to claim that the IIWF couldn't last without me. That's not true. Maybe you're waiting for me to say that I'm glad the Fed is closin', that everyone involved with it can, and probably will, go to hell. Not gonna happen. If that were true, I wouldn't have agreed to come back. 'Cause for all my minor motivations that have failed me in my career, there was always one true motivation that slapped me in the face, kicked me in the groin, and still left me comin' back for more. Ya might know what that is. [Quigley continues walking, still not looking behind him, at the cameraman, who's probably a little exhausted from all the walking by now, as he's fallen back a few more feet.] CQ: And of course, the "Legends" match. What the _hell_ is this all about? When did I become a legend? Nobody notified me. I was expecting a telegram. Mebbe a lil' marching band? I half expected J.W. Hardin and Brody Thunder to show up at my door and hand me a plaque, at least. Well... whatever. I guess that's a switch, huh? Me being called a "legend", and the only one who's raising any arguments about it is... _me_? [Another lengthy pause. The sound of footsteps the only sound in the quiet night.] CQ: Lemme ask you this: My three opponents in this "legends" match. Subway Psycho... Deathbringer... Otto Verhoeven... what do they have that I don't? Why is it that I'm the oddball in this match? Why can't I quite measure up to them in terms of bein' a legend? What makes them a little more important than me in the "storied history" of the IIWF? Ya catch on yet? You think you got the answer? [Quigley sighs an exasperated breath.] CQ: And the idiots ask me why I'm goin' back... [Pause.] CQ: That answer yer damn questions? [Quigley continues the walk, slowly walking up a hill, and then disappearing down the other side, as the camera fades on the scene. Cut back to the studio.] TD: A very intense, troubled Chris Quigley. We'll see just how his motivation is affected in three weeks. Finally, let's get comments from the Subway Psycho, another man we haven't seen for several months: [Scene: A dark city street at night. The camera begins to move towards a steaming manhole cover in the ground. Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train" fades in. As the camera plunges into the darkness of the manhole, its speed quickens... accelerating with the music. Video clips of the Subway Psycho alternate with the darkness in time to the music, creating a strobe-like effect. The final image is of the Psycho holding aloft the IIWF World Heavyweight belt after Ring Wars I. The image and the music is cut off by a subway train tearing past the camera. After the train passes, a form emerges from the dark tunnel behind it. It is the Subway Psycho.] SP: I've been waking up in cold sweats these last few months. You see the human body becomes conditioned to except a certain environment to live in. It can also become addicted to those conditions. For several years my body got fed a steady diet of pain and brutality. Like a drug I grew not only to like it, but to crave it. Every inch of my body would scream out for me to find new ways to torture it... and of course in the process torture someone else. Like some sort of bloodthirsty vampire... thirsty for the blood spillage not only of others, but of myself... I've lived down in these dark tunnels... trying to cope with existence outside the squared circle. So when President Spreadbury contacted Sasha with an invitation for me to participate in IIWF Forever you can be sure I jumped at the chance. Not only will I get to compete for the IIWF title in the battle royal, but I also get to participate in the Legends Match. More chances to beat the hell out of people I care nothing about, and another chance to perform for the fans... the people I _do_ care about. Ah yes, the Legends match. Deathbringer, Verhoeven, Quigley, and myself... we should all be honoured considering the formidable talent that has come and gone through the IIWF. But I promise you this, you three hacks, you'll be wishing you didn't have to get in the ring with me again... and that's for damn sure. Deathbringer... I've known you for a long time... we were even partners back in the old Alliance of Excellence days... but you betrayed me once and forgiveness is something I don't ever do. I've beaten you before and I'm sure as hell going to do it again. I'm rested and fresh -- and more hungry than ever. Otto... You're a damn coward. Last time we faced you hired some German goons to take me out. A job you knew you couldn't do yourself. Not after I fried your ass in a Third Rail match just prior to that. All things being equal you know you can't take me down... and it's only a matter of time before I have you screaming in the middle of the ring. And Quigley... now I can't say I ever remember facing you. If we did, I obviously don't remember it because you're not worth remembering. I never liked you, Quigley. The first impression I had of you was you spouting off at the mouth of all your championships in other feds. I'm sure it didn't take you long to realise that the IIWF is like no other fed in the world and all your bragging added up to a heap of crap. I still don't like you. So there you have it... I burned all my bridges in this one. No secret alliances to get me through this match. I'm laying it all out there... the three of you can hit me with all you got... I want it... as much as you can dish out. For when it's all said and done, this train stops for no one. [Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: This Legends Match is sure to be a memorable affair -- and you can only see it at IIWF Forever, live on pay-per-view in just three weeks! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= LAST MAN STANDING MATCH: "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder vs. "Playboy" Ronnie D SPECIAL GUEST REFEREE: Steve "the Fury" Kowalski =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: Arguably the greatest IIWF World Heavyweight Champion of all time against wrestling's most reviled man. That's the story for this one, folks -- and while it's a rivalry that spans other organisations, it's no surprise that it will come to its head right here in the IIWF. This is set to be the third meeting between the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder and the "Playboy" Ronnie D, with both of the previous encounters -- the first at the inter-federational IIeW event earlier in the year, and the second in a California-based... SR: [coughing] ...bush league. TD: Please, Steve Roberts. Suffice it to say that both of the previous encounters have gone the way of Ronnie D -- and this time, the stipulations of the match are of Brody Thunder's choosing. According to Last Man Standing rules, the match can only end when one of the two wrestlers fails to answer the referee's ten count. There will be no pinfalls, no submissions, and no disqualifications. This one could go all over the arena, through the fans, through the locker room, out into the parking lot and on into the heart of Portland if need be. DS: All of which goes to explain why I have taken the liberty of appointing a very special guest referee for this match. SR: The Fury! The Fury! Whoo! DS: Steve "the Fury" Kowalski will indeed be the appointed official for this match, which is sure to be a wild, wild brawl. TD: And you have to wonder whether or not that decision is to Brody Thunder's advantage, given the considerable history between the "Lone Wolf" and the "Fury". Remember, these two men traded the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship twice, culminating in that breathtaking Cell Match at Snow Brawl last January. Let's hear from Brody Thunder right now: [Blackness. Unending... unstirring... total blackness. Slowly the sound of a driving rainstorm can be heard. A flash of lightning illuminates the darkness, revealing a bird's eye view of the top of a barren oak tree, its branches twisting eerily in the storm's wind. Then blackness returns. Another flash of lightning and the camera swings down very slowly, almost through the branches until a lone figure can be seen, standing amidst the torrential downpour. The blackness gives way to the bluish hue lighting provided by the night itself. The sound of the storm is shattered by the sound of metal scraping gravel. *SSSSSSSHUUUUUUUTTT* Quick cut to a close-up shot, a shovel's spade digs deep into a pile of earth then disappears out of sight. A scratchy voice can be heard above the din of the storm:] VO: A legend. That's what some folks called him. Others called him champion. Still most called him foe, while few... if _any_... [The shovel appears again, removing some dirt from the pile then moving out of sight.] ...called him... friend. [Cut back to an overhead shot. The figure stands with the shovel in his hands. He wears a weathered old hat and a rain-soaked overcoat, flapping wildly in the turbulent wind.] They say he fought with a courage...a fire uncommon in the so-called heroes today. They say he stood alone for what he believed in... that he never wavered from his beliefs. They say he was one the sport's superstars... winnin' awards throughout the sport. [The figure turns and lifts another shovelfull of dirt from the pile.] He always said he was in it for the money... for the titles. He always said he was the best... not just in some money-grubbin' fed... but the entire sport. [The camera swings around slightly to catch the figure as he drops the load onto what appears to be a freshly dug grave. A headstone, now visible, cannot be read from the overhead angle.] Some say he was. Some say he wasn't. Don't matter much now anyways. [The camera now swings down to eye-level as the man turns back and retrieves yet another shovel load of dirt. He plants the shovel into the pile and sinks it in further with the push of his worn leather boots. The man's shoulder-length ratty hair whips around in the blustery air.] They say he never backed down from anyone... never balked at any challenge issued. He met each obstacle like he met life... head-on. They say he never knew any other way to do it. They say that was his _style_. [The shovel's contents are once more dumped onto the plot, nearly filling it back in.] Now I hear them say he'd lost his edge... lost his fire. They say he became a shell of his former self. They say they're glad he's gone... that he wasn't the man he once was. Bad karma to speak ill of the dead. [Cut to a worm's eye view from the grave, looking up at the headstone, it's carved inscription now clearly legible. A flash of lightning further illuminates the marker's message. It reads "BRODY THUNDER -- BORN JULY 9, 1968 -- DIED JUNE 1, 1998". The words take up the entire camera shot. Then suddenly the shovel shoots into the shot, sticking into the fresh earthen grave, blocking the camera's shot of the marker.] 'Course, there's always a few who simply don't believe he was a "legend". They say he was simply a lucky individual. A man who managed to gain some success by a less than moral fashion. They say he was never as good as he claimed... they still whine about it to this very day. 'Course... ...not to his face. [Lighting flashes as the camera cuts to a shot of the back of the figure. The man heaves a heavy sigh, his breath can be seen as a leaking grey stream from his mouth. He takes off his hat, his hair wet and matted to his head. He wipes his face and returns the hat to its rightful position.] Some folks... they think his spirit's dead... gone... buried. [The man kneels down next to the headstone. The driving rain sounds like firecrackers as it hits his coat and hat.] Yeah... that's what they say all right. Me? Hell, I guess I knew the ol' sunuvabitch best of all an' I say.... [The figure slowly turns towards the camera, his face now being revealed. Despite the long hair the face is unmistakable. It's the face of "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder... and he's smiling a devilish grin.] BT: They only _thought_ they knew him. [A flash of lighting lights up Thunder's face revealing a black eye-patch over his left eye and a scraggy beard now adorning his chin. An unlit cigar is clenched in his teeth. A lit match ignites the stogie and a cloud of grey smoke pours from Thunder's nose and mouth. He stands up and takes a few hard drags on the cigar.] The IIWF. The "Playboy"... Ronnie D vs. the Wolf. One last match. A boatload o'dinero fer Spreadbury... a big shindig fer the flamin' fans... an' a _world_ o' hurt fer you,"D". We've been there before, you an' me. The first time ya took my win. The second time ya damn near took my eye. This time "D"... ya better take my life, 'cuz I ain't jus' comin' ta fight ya, pretty-boy... I'm fixin' ta make this yer last stop in this sport, ace. Fer the last few months all I ever heard was how ya beat me at the IIeW. Ya got yer hand raised... that's a fact... but we all know who won that match. Then ya managed to pull a fast one on me in the EMWC. I was bleedin' true enough... but I was also kickin' yer prima donna dumper from pillar-ta-post. Game's over, "D". My past is buried an' my future's crystal clear, amigo. The Wolf's comin' back ta P-town one more time. I'm comin' August first an' ain't but one o' us leavin' that flamin' ring upright, runt. An' lemme be the first ta give ya a clue. [Thunder's evil grin disappears, replaced by an intense steely gaze.] Yer starin' at 'im. [Thunder spits on the ground, accentuating his point. The camera remains focused on the headstone behind him as he walks out of camera range. One final carved line, unseen before, can be read. It simply says: "REBORN -- AUGUST 1,1998" A bolt of lighting flashes across the screen as the raspy voice of Brody Thunder can be heard once more.] BT: One match... August 1st. One place... the IIWF. One man... Ronnie D. One word.... [The screen abruptly goes black with a clap of thunder. Another flash occurs, leaving just one word on the screen on crimson colour against the ebony background.] _Retribution_. [Another flash of lightning, followed by thunder which fades into the night, leaving only the almost calming sound of the driving rain as a familiar laugh echoes in the distance. Fade out. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Let's go straight to comments from Thunder's opponent, the reviled "Playboy" Ronnie D. [The camera opens upon a luxurious room, its cream white walls elegantly adorned with flowers of all colours of the spectrum and pictures framed with deep, rich ebony. The lighting is dark, as the only light is emitted from candles, their glow casting mysteriously warm shadows in the room. The sound of a woman laughing is heard as the camera pans to the action. On a king-sized bed, a satin duvet covering it, lies a man, dressed only in silk boxers. The glowing candles at bedside highlight the scene as a woman with flowing blond locks, standing in front of the bed with her back to the camera, lets her night gown slip down her curvaceous body, revealing her smooth, luscious... Snow suddenly fills the screen, cutting the film off. A voice is heard, a familiar voice, from off-camera.] ??: Why do you ALWAYS come at the most inconvenient times? [The camera whirls around to face "Playboy" Ronnie D, the most outspoken man in wrestling, not to mention wrestling's icon, marquee man, and many other adjectives. He sits in a black recliner, a remote control in his hand, his other hand doing nothing... We hope. It is, after all, very dark in this room, only lit by the television. He is wearing his hair loose, and he sports black jeans with a black "I Popped The IIWF's Cherry" t-shirt. He has no shoes on, only his black socks. His attire is not designed for high-visibility.] RD: Now, why are you here? [Something is muttered off-camera by one of the IIWF crew] RD: Oh, you! The IIWF... Um... Wait... I better get ready for this. There's cheese in the fridge. Don't eat it all, though. And, uh... Well, don't touch the ravioli in there. I'm saving that for a midnight snack. [We fade out, and open up on a shot of Ronnie D sitting at his dining room table, waiting impatiently. He looks a little fixed up, his hair not so loose. Off-camera, an IIWF staffer is heard asking, "What is this, havarti?" "No, idiot, it's cheddar," another staffer replies. And then, the big countdown... "Okay, icon, you're on in 1... 2... 3!"] RD: So... It's all over, huh? The Double Eye is taking the fall? It's going down for the three-count? The fat lady is singin'? I'd say it's a real shame... But, there's cause for celebration. I get to take Brody Thunder "from bell to bell and straight through hell." [An IIWF staffer delivers a can of Pepsi to Ronnie, and Ronnie just stares at the worker. An odd moment of silence follows until the staffer realises he should open the can for Ronnie. He does so, and Ronnie takes a sip before continuing.] RD: Brody, we've done this before. The first time, we did it at the IIeW, the greatest damn show of all time. And I laid the smack down. Second time, we did it at the EMWC's Showtime, what they call the biggest event of the year, next to the IIeW. And know what? I crippled you, and took a hunk out of your eye, and I outsmarted you. So now, the IIWF's last card, possibly the biggest event of the year, and we do it again. And you know what, Brody, I notice a trend here. Besides the fact that the reason each of these shows is great is because I'm on them, I also notice that I beat the crap out of you both times. And Brody, the third time won't be a charm -- For you. [Ronnie takes another sip of the pop. He brushes his hair back and leans on one arm, looking at the camera.] RD: Brody, you've been around. You've been around for a long time. Maybe too long, if you ask the boys in the back. When you're getting your ass carved up and handed to you by a "young pup" like me, maybe you oughta look at your career options. Brody, old man, maybe you don't have it in you anymore. [Ronnie lets that comment sink in with a pause, before continuing.] RD: I mean, every dog has his day, and you had a heck of a day. I mean, you were trickin' people, and lickin' people, hell, you crossed J.W. Hardin back in your day. But Brody, I'm doing all that now, and you're doing dick all. You're too damn old to hang with me. They all said you shoulda whupped me the first time. They were SURE you'd finish the job the second time. Now what, Brody? You've been slipping. And slipping. And slipping. You lost to the Fury, the current IIWF Chump, who had his ass handed to him by something that should be locked away, not fighting in a ring. Then, you tried to get back on track by facing me, and you lost in front of the whole damn world. And then, we didn't hear from you for a long time. Maybe you were thinking about how BAD the Icon bruised that image of yours, no matter what the heck you did to my leg. And one fine day, May 31st, to be exact, you walked down that aisle again... And you didn't know what the hell you were walking into. And when it was over, you looked like the has-been you are, tricked by the Icon. Now, you're gearing up for yet another go-round with me, hoping that you'll have better luck. Well, Brody, I can tell you now that I'm a little older and wiser, and I have a few tricks up my sleeve yet. You're just older. Brody, this time _I'm_ the favourite walking in there, and you're just the lamb to the slaughter. Good luck, _old man._ [With that parting shot, the Ronnie sips the pop as the camera fades out. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Folks, you can't see this contest anywhere else -- it's Thunder vs. Ronnie D III, and it's only at IIWF Forever, live on pay-per-view. SR: Shill, Dross, shill! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= IIWF INTERCONTINENTAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: "Showstopper" Simon Lebec [c] vs. Tiger Claw =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: The IIWF Intercontinental Championship is one of the most prestigious titles in the game today. It's often said by its holders that this is _the_ title for the wrestling purist -- and this would certainly be borne out by the men who have held the belt in the IIWF's two year history. From its first holder, the "Angel of the Sun" Hakiro Matsuoko, via Brad "Bodybag" Kinder, Lord Byron, Creed, Mad Dog Watkins, Chris Quigley and Duncan Macbeth, the Intercontinental belt has been coveted by some of the premier stars in the sport. SR: And Marty Warnett, of course. Don't forget ol' Farty, Dross! TD: My intention wasn't to list all the men who've held the... SR: [interrupting, looking up from his notes] And Shakespeare! And the Fury, Dross! TD: Please, Steve Roberts. The belt was last won by Simon Lebec in the culmination of a highly controversial tournament sanctioned after the title was vacated. And on August 1st, the current Intercontinental Champion will defend his title against the only man to have held the belt on no less than three separate occasions -- the Syndicate's Tiger Claw. SR: Hey, Dross, did you know that Claw isn't from Thailand at all? TD: I did know that, yes, Steve Roberts. SR: He lied to us, Dross! All those years, those wasted years I spent believing Tiger Claw came from the streets of Bangkok, and Brian Lau was his sugar daddy... and all the time, he was just some Canadian guy. And you know what they say about Canucks, Dross. TD: No, Steve Roberts, what do they say about Canadians? SR: You know, Dross -- that thing about the full moon and the cows and the trousers. TD: Steve Roberts, nobody has the faintest idea what you are talking about. SR: No matter. We all love Claw anyhow. He's a tough little bastard, and my money's on the Syndicate to add another title to their trophy case. About time they got another real belt to go along with all those hokey bush league titles they've been collecting the last nine months. TD: Just for a moment there I thought you were going to be complimentary, Steve Roberts. I've been such a fool. DS: Gentlemen, if I may interject? TD: Of course, Mr. President. SR: Shoot, Danny-boy. DS: This is a simple, no-frills title match signed to showcase what the Intercontinental Championship is all about: wrestling. I've listened to those complaints about Thames Barge matches, and triangle matches, and tournaments... and to close the history books on the IC belt, we're going to have a real, honest-to-God wrestling match. Simon Lebec has been flaunting the title since he won it at Birthday Bash, and I know there's nothing Tiger Claw would like more than to be able to say he retired the belt that established his formidable reputation. TD: Let's hear from the manager of Tiger Claw, former IIWF broadcaster and mastermind of the Syndicate, Brian Lau himself, right now: [SCENE: Static.] TV: Psssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. [Suddenly, the static is broken by a very old IIWF program intro, accompanied by what many now know as the "Old IIWF Report Music". After a bit of interesting IIWF graphics flying by the screen, the shot changes to show Tim Dross sitting at a desk, his trusty sheaf of papers in front of him. Dross is dressed in a suit, and seems a bit thinner than we've all come to remember him. His hair is also different... The patch on the top of his head seems less... real than we've come to remember. Always the professional, Dross begins to speak...] TD: Hello, folks, and welcome to the IIWF Control Centre Report. The ranks of IIWF continue to swell... so much so in fact that we need a whole programme just to discuss the newcomers. I am, as always, Tim Dross, and I can now bring you details of more entrants into the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship Tournament at Coronation Clash. The first newcomer to the IIWF's ranks this week is the intimidating Tiger Claw... [The shot fades out a bit, static taking its place. Several other images fade in and out of the shot, as if someone were trying to reposition an antenna on an old TV set... Finally, the shot is re-established... To a scene with a young Brian Lau standing in a dark room, with the only light being on him and Tiger Claw in the background working on a heavy bag...] BL: Hello, fans... This is Brian Lau coming to you from the Dojo of Tiger Claw. As you can see, it's late, and all the usuals here have gone home... Except for my man, Tiger Claw... He recently got wind of this World Title tournament, and hasn't stopped training since... I don't think he'll stop for a very long time, either... He can go for hours upon hours... The last time I saw him train like this... Well, perhaps it is better that you don't know... [Again, the shot fades out to static, and again, ghost images fade in an out... Only to re-establish once again... To an IIWF ring surrounded by a cage. In the cage are Tiger Claw and Hakiro Matsuoko, and judging by the looks on their faces, the match has been going on for some time. Matsuoko keeps Claw in the corner, and begins raining kicks on him, spinning round in what looks like one movement. Claw slumps to the mat. Hakiro pushes him into the centre of the ring, and drops a few more kicks and elbows on him. Then he looks out into the crowd and raises his arms. Big pop!] TD: What's Hakiro planning now? SR: No doubt some cheating tactic to try and rob Tiger Claw of his rightful victory. [Hakiro bounds to the top rope with a single bound, and then leaps again, in a single movement clinging to the cage, more than ten feet above the ring. Then he launches himself in a reverse moonsault from the top of the cage! Flashguns lend a strobe-light effect to Matsuoko's descent -- but Tiger Claw just manages to roll out of the way, and Matsuoko hits the canvas with huge velocity! Big heel pop!] TD: Oh no! That's got to be it for Matsuoko! SR: Yes! Yes! Cover him, Claw! [The crowd are going crazy as Claw rolls over, and lays one arm over Hakiro Matsuoko. The referee makes the count: 1 -- 2 -- 3! Ding! Ding! Ding!] SR: Yes! Yes! Yes! I told you, Dross! I told you! Yes! RA: Here is your winner, and _NEW_ IIWF Intercontinental Champion: Tiger Claw! [Again, cut to static... Then fade in again to action in an IIWF ring... This time, the two men in the ring are Claw and Brad "Bodybag" Kinder. Also around the ring are Kinder's stablemates, The Phantom, The Prince of Darkness, and The Sandman. As the footage is run, Sandman, POD and Phantom storm the ring. With Kinder they begin a triple team which Tiger Claw cannot withstand for long. Finally, Kinder gets Claw in a full nelson. Sandman climbs up on the shoulders of the massive Phantom and launches through the air. With his last effort, Claw slips the hold and Sandman delivers a decapitating lariat to "Bodybag" Kinder. The Ref gets back to his feet, immediately expelling the illegal Knights. Claw climbs the ropes.] LM: He's getting in position to end it all. BL: Get up, Brad! LM: It's too late! Here comes the Golden Tiger Strike! [Tiger Claw sails off the ring ropes with the Golden Tiger Strike. He lands the knee to Kinder's head then covers: 1 -- 2 -- 3! Ding! Ding! Ding!] RA: Here is your winner, and _NEW_ Intercontinental Champion: Tiger Claw! [pop] [Static once again... Then back to more wrestling footage... This time, Claw fights Don Antonio in the ring... Actually, everyone seems to be fighting everyone in and around the ring at this point, as the match has degenerated into chaos. The Syndicate wars with the Family. The brawl doesn't favour the spent Family, and Vinny and the Don soon find themselves flagging. Casey James sends the Don clattering into the ringsteps, where he is intercepted by Tiger Claw. While the referee attempts to separate the warring factions outside the ring, Claw drags the Don into the ring and executes his knee fury on the exhausted Sicilian. Big heel pop as Lau throws the baseball bat into the ring. It is caught by Claw, who quickly kicks the groggy Don in the stomach, bending him double, and puts the bat under his torso, executing a powerbomb, using the bat to lift him. As the Don hits the mat, Claw continues to drive the bat into the Don's chest, and Antonio screams in pain. Claw throws the bat out of the ring and covers the Don... but the referee is still outside.] SR: I'm sure I heard one of the Don's bones snap! This is great! TD: Well, Antonio looks to be in a great deal of pain right now, and it's entirely possible that he could have broken a few ribs or cracked his sternum with a blow like that. Tiger Claw is simply brutal... Unbelievable. [Lau drags the referee away from the brawl, and orders Casey and Latta to leave Vinny alone. Cappicola is battered and exhausted, and leans up on the apron as the referee re-enters the ring and counts the cover on Antonio: 1 -- 2 -- 3! Ding! Ding! Ding! Huge heel pop!] SR: Yes! Brian Lau's done it! TD: No! No! [Brian Lau grabs the belt from the timekeeper's table and leaps into the ring, joined by Casey and Joe Latta. He straps the gold back around the waist of Tiger Claw and raises his man's arm.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner, and _NEW_ IIWF Intercontinental Champion: Tiger Claw! TD: I can't believe it! [The shot once again fades into static, fading back in to a shot of Lau... A recent shot... He's dressed in an exquisite suit, seated behind his desk, facing a bank of video monitors on one wall. On the monitors are the clips that have just been shown in the video montage... Clips of Claw winning the IIWF Intercontinental title. Lau turns to the camera, and speaks...] BL: You know he can do it... You know he's capable of taking that belt. He did it three times, using his skill... Using his strength... Using his wits. He's held that belt three times... Is it difficult to believe he can hold it for a fourth? Of course not... The fans know it, the rest of the men in the locker room know it... Even you, Lebec... You know it too. Saviour... Showstopper... Whatever you're calling yourself this week... What we have here is a battle between two men that helped to form the IIWF. Two men that were here in the beginning, and shall battle it out during the bitter end. It's almost poetic... An art-form. This match, I'm sure, will be nothing less. A throwback to what is now referred to as "The Good Old Days". The Good Old Days... The days when we were young... Before the IIWF hit the big time. When we were all just fighting to prove ourselves to each other, and not to the rest of the world. The times before the egos. The times before the public eye. The times before backstage politics and deals made in the shadows... Okay, well, not that far back... If I remember correctly, I made quite a few deals with some referees back then. That's not the point... My point is that during those times, it was Tiger Claw who held that belt more than any other man. To this day, nobody has broken his record of times holding the title. When Lebec and Claw meet at IIWF Forever, it will be just like old times again... And Claw will be just as ruthless... Just as dangerous... Just as _victorious_ as he was back then. Mark my words... Enjoy the title, Lebec, because your days as champion are numbered. [Lau turns from the camera, and directs his attention to one of the monitors, showing a segment of Kenny Tanaka interviewing Lau... Lau looks at the screen closely... Looks at his own stomach... Then looks again at the footage... He shakes his head as he reaches for a cheeseburger half-wrapped in foil, then stops himself, muttering, "Damn American food..." Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: We've seen him three-peat... but can Tiger Claw make it four at IIWF Forever? Not if Simon Lebec has anything to do with it. Let's get comments from the Showstopper: [Camera opens to a shadowed figure, lingering in the background of a darkened alleyway. The shadow begins to speak:] VOICE: Two years. The Double Eye. The greatest memories of my career. [Camera cuts to a clip of Simon Lebec pinning "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley for a quick three count] Some hardships... and some triumphs. [Camera cuts to a clip of Simon Lebec getting his hand raised in victory] Some battles... and some real wars. [Cut to a clip of Simon Lebec and Duncan Macbeth battling it out in their famed River Thames Barge Match, as the barge lights on fire.] I've seen it all... and done it all. Some of the most shocking things in the history of our sport. [Clip of Lebec bashing Macbeth over the head with a baseball bat on "Countdown to Saturday Night". Then, another clip of Lebec shaving Marty Warnett's head.] And now it's time to nail the coffin... an end of an era. Still... I've saved me the best for last. [The shadow begins walking into the lights, as two other shadows draw towards him from either side. Once in the light, we see that the shadow was none other than "The Showstopper" Simon Lebec. The two other shadows are of buxom ladies, dressed in mini-skirts. Lebec looks at the two girls, then at the camera, and grins.] SL: Who'd you expect? A choir boy? [Camera fades.] =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= IIWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP KING OF THE MOUNTAIN MATCH: Icehawk [c] vs. Derek Mota vs. vs. The White Phoenix vs. Billy Shakespeare vs. Harlequin Tragedy vs. Ronnie Paris vs. Dirt Dog Unique Allah vs. Timothy N. Turner =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: The popular "King of the Mountain" rules make a comeback for the IIWF's final event in another championship match, this time pitting no fewer than seven holders of the Cruiserweight title, past and present, against each other in a match that is as much about the luck of the draw as it is about skill. SR: Remind me of the rules of this one, Dross. The first guy comes to the ring and bends over, right? Then he waits to be, uh, attacked from behind? TD: As ever, we apologise for Steve Roberts, ladies and gentlemen. The rules for this match are simple: Icehawk, as the current holder, will start things off, and the other wrestlers will hit the ring one at a time according to a number they drew before the match. Each fall will have a time limit of five minutes, and the winner of the fall -- by pinfall, submission, disqualification, or countout -- within that time limit will remain in the ring and face the next man. The loser of the fall... is eliminated. If no decision is reached within the five minute time limit, _both_ men are eliminated from the match, and the next _two_ combatants make their way to the ring to do battle. SR: So it's virtually guaranteed that ol' Chickenhawk is gonna lose his belt, right? TD: Certainly the odds of Icehawk defeating seven other athletes in succession are slim in the extreme, but young Icehawk has made it a point to defy the odds in his career. Don't forget, he came back from a career-threatening neck injury to take the Cruiserweight title from the man who put him on the shelf, the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi. Let's hear from the Champion now, and welcome young Steve Summer back to the broadcast team one last time: [SCENE: The now-familiar Cold Spell Training Centre in Northern Michigan. Well, actually, the front door. As the camera comes up, we see an excited-looking Steve Summer knocking. The door opens, revealing Icehawk. The Cruiserweight champ is wearing a Red Wings jacket and denim shorts.] IH: Steve! What are you doing here? SS: Haven't you heard? The IIWF is coming back for one last card! [Icehawk grins, then suddenly his face falls as he realises the implication of what Steve has just said.] IH: One _last_ card? So this will definitely be it? SS: Yeah. But you are in two of the best matches on the card! IH: Two? Who am I wrestling? Did they finally sign the Cold Spell-Team Sychosys match? SS: Um, no. First, you are defending your title against seven guys in a King of the Mountain match. IH: Seven? Geez. Well, at least it is a King of the Mountain match, not a battle royal. I hate battle royals. But who are the seven guys? SS: Hang on -- I've got the list here. Okay. First, TNT. [Icehawk nods.] SS: Dirt Dog. [Disgusted look.] SS: Ronnie Paris. [Icehawk mouths the word "loser".] SS: Tragedy. [Wry smile. "Of course".] SS: Billy Shakespeare. [Nod.] SS: The White Phoenix. ["Wow".] SS: And, last but not least,... IH: Derek Mota. SS: Right. How did you know? IH: Oh, I just knew that little slug would be there. That's a helluva group. I'm honoured just to be included in the match. But what is the second one? SS: Umm, a battle royal. IH: [wincing] Damn. I hate those. I hope the prize is at least worth it. SS: [grinning] It is! The winner will be the IIWF World Champion forever! IH: [shocked] Wow. I'll bet old Serge is pissed about that. Who's in it? [Steve hands the list to Icehawk. As he reads it, he mouths certain names -- Requiem, Thunder, Musashi, Petrow. When he gets to the end, he smiles, and hands the paper back to Steve.] SS: Well? IH: This is one battle royal I wouldn't miss for the world. [Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Icehawk has his work cut out for him in this historic match, going up against former champions from throughout the belt's history... including the man who was first to wear it, one "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare: [A hand seen drumming on a table. A hand. Nothing distinguishes this hand as it drums its slow tattoo: tap...tap...tap...tap. The hand stops drumming, a voice speaks.] BS: The fight to find the final Cruiserweight Belt holder. The last in the long and pitiful history of that strap. These last years it has been worn by a drunk. A porn star. A psychopath. A child in a man's body. Not since its first wearer has that strap been honoured by a legitimate star. That man was "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare. That man has returned to reclaim what is his by right... by destiny. [Billy's hand uncurls from the first it just made. One finger is held up.] BS: I have not come to praise my opponents, but to bury them. The current champion: a tag wrestler by trade, salvaged from a crumbled team to try and add grace to my disgraced title. Who else? Tragedy? A man forever in search of the recognition that eludes him. A couple past champions, each more shameful than the next: Dirt Dog the drunk and "Widdle Wonnie" taking time off from complaining, whining about his family and prostituting his wife to actually wrestle. Derek Mota and Timothy Turner round out this motley band... Are these really the same two men or does it just seem that way? Wait, I've forgotten someone... Hakiro. Unfinished business, Hakiro. Unfinished business. [A second hand appears holding a fingerless white glove. With measured precision, the glove is pulled onto the hand.] BS: I was first; I was best. I will be the last. This isn't about giving the people what they want, this is about giving the people what they have always wanted. Born to perform. [Slowly fades in the faint sound of an energetic crowd in some distant arena shouting, "Billy!...Billy!" Billy stands, the hand disappears from view, the camera fades. Cut back to the studio.] DS: Billy Shakespeare is one of the IIWF's true greats, gentlemen. Few athletes have captured the imagination of the fans to the same degree, and few have the same endurance in the squared circle. I, for one, will never forget the cage match Billy fought against Dan Kauffman in the spring of 1997. TD: That certainly was a tremendous match, Mr. President -- and I have to believe that Shakespeare would like nothing more than to bring the Cruiserweight belt full circle at IIWF Forever. Another man in the running is the former "Rocket Man", Timothy N. Turner, who is currently coming to terms with the death of his brother, Tom. Our deepest sympathies lie with the Turner family at this difficult time. Let's hear from Timothy N. Turner. [The shot opens at the edge of a graveyard. It is not a stereotypical windy night but rather a fairly sunny midday. The camera follows a well manicured path until two figures can be seen standing near a graveside. As the camera gets closer it is also clear that this is not Deathbringer, whom the viewers might have expected. Rather the figures are Akira Saito and Timothy Turner. The camera pans onto the headstone which reads: Thomas Michael Turner 1968-1998 Justice Was Served The camera pans back up to see Saito whispering into Turner's ear and then moving out of the shot, leaving Turner standing alone, brooding in his long black trenchcoat.] TNT: I've heard a saying... "To All Things An Ending." This is the time of endings it seems. Not just... [He motions towards the grave]... Tom but the IIWF as well. So when President Spreadbury wanted the biggest names from the history of the fed back for IIWF Forever, who else could he come to but the Rocket Man? [Turner pauses and then starts to walk down the path. The camera follows.] TNT: The IIWF has meant a lot to me. So much has happened to me since I joined a year ago that I'm not even sure where to begin. When I joined I was a cocky bastard who had some success in the independents and though I could conquer the world. I did pretty well I guess. I won the Cruiserweight belt from that loser, Mota. Then I lost it in a ridiculous fashion to Paris because Duncan was afraid of losing his undeserved title. Everything went to hell after that. From the low of being turned on by the Macbeths, people I thought were lifelong friends, to the high of finally getting up the courage to admit to the world I was gay. [Turner stops, clearly unsure of what to say next.] TNT: Maybe it is good timing that the IIWF is closing now...because I don't think I could stay in Portland anymore, after what happened to my brother. He was killed while standing up for the justice he served... but he was also killed with anger on his lips for me. Our last words were not kind. May be it is time to move on. First, though, we have IIWF Forever and my chance to rise above the pack to gain my place in the firmament. President Spreadbury knew what he was doing when he booked this card since he put the Rocket Man out there not just once... but twice. I'd tell you how I will walk out of there with two belts... but then what would I talk about for the next two weeks. [The camera picks up a quick flash of Turner's former mischievous grin as the shot fades away. Cut back to the studio.] TD: We'll take a closer look at the athletes in this match right here next week on "Countdown", but for now, let's leave our discussion of this match with comments from a man who just recently made his return to the IIWF at Birthday Bash: the third-generation Texan, Ronnie Paris. SR: Whoo-hoo! Widdle Wonnie and his slut of a wife are back in town. TD: Ronnie Paris is clearly a disturbed individual, Mr. President. As the footage we're about to see shows, Paris seems to believe that he is still the IIWF Cruiserweight Champion, despite having lost the title to Takezo Musashi at Snow Brawl and subsequently quitting the organisation. DS: Ronnie has what you might call "issues," Tim. We considered taking legal action against Paris after his unprovoked attack on the King of the Cruisers at Birthday Bash, but dropped the charges on condition of his participation in IIWF Forever. Despite his uncertain grip on reality, Ronnie is a tremendous athlete, and I'm very happy to have him involved with this match. TD: Folks, let's get a first-hand look at Ronnie Paris' uncertain grip on reality. [The scene is a smallish, but seemingly jam packed arena somewhere in small town North America. A caption appears across the bottom of the screen, reading "Taped from Red Deer, Alberta, Canada -- July 13, 1998 -- Courtesy the Universal Wrestling Federation". Some of the fans, upon seeing a camera, realise that what they thought was a normal house show may be televised in part, and thus they scramble to be seen. A slightly overweight, middle-aged man -- UWF broadcaster Peter Phillips -- steps into the ring, wearing black jeans and a blue shirt with a "UWF" logo over the left breast pocket. He brings with him a microphone.] PP: For the benefit of our IIWF viewers who are not familiar with our promotion, my name is Peter Phillips. My guest at this time is a man that both the fans here in attendance, and you watching Countdown at home are very familiar with... he is the self-professed King of the Cruisers, and also the self-professed UWF and IIWF Cruiserweight Champions of the world... a member of the Pride, Ronnie Paris! [Tina Turner's "Simply the Best" begins to play, signalling the UWF crowd to boo loudly, just as the IIWF crowds always did for Ronnie. Only a small core of fans, mostly college kids, give him any kind of support as he walks into the aisle... and oh boy, is he decked out. He wears the dented King of the Cruisers crown, as well as an official looking (but not legitimate) UWF Cruiserweight title over on shoulder, and an official looking (but also not legitimate) IIWF Cruiserweight title over the other shoulder. He also wears a black t-shirt, with red lettering that reads "Pride Wrestling" Paris strides to the ring fairly quickly, considering all the excess baggage. He is soon entering the ring, largely ignoring the "Ronnie sucks!" chants that abound. He slides in under the bottom rope just after handing off his "gold" to a ringside attendant, and proceeds right over to Phillips for the interview.] PP: Mr. Paris... we've already heard from you tonight about your situation in the UWF, but this interview is being taped for IIWF Countdown, and it regards your participation in the IIWF Forever Pay Per View event. You are signed to challenge for their Cruiserweight title in a King of the Mountain match, am I right? RP: You're almost right, except for one slip of the tounge. I'm not challenging for the title, I'm _defending_ it. [This brings out a fresh chorus of boos, as the "Ronnie sucks!" chants begin anew, and a series of "Bullshit!" chats arise with him, the fans apparently disputing his claim to the Double Eye's title.] PP: There are probably a lot of IIWF fans wondering just how you can lay claim to their Cruiserweight Title. I know you've explained it before, but if you don't mind, would you run through your case just one more time? RP: Gladly, Pete. Before I do, though, I'd just like to tell these fans something... if Ronnie sucks, at least I don't swallow like you all do! [Someone get some ice cubes, this guy's heel heat would be melting them.] Well, as for why I am still the IIWF Cruiserweight champion. As you may recall, one week after winning the title I was forced to put it on the line at IIWF Snow Brawl against Takezo Musashi in a ladder match, and as you may recall, he won that match. I'd lost the Cruiserweight title... or so I thought. [Ronnie pauses to sweep a hand through his hair, smiling as if he really enjoys telling this story. Peter Phillips, meanwhile, just rolls his eyes.] RP: About a week later, I get a call from my lawyer. It turns out he'd been doing some routine checks on the contract and so on, and he'd unearthed something very interesting in the State of Hawaii Athletic Commission's charter. The commission, by the way, was the body that sanctioned our bout. The charter, which was coincidentally written in 1942, contains a clause which reads, and I quote, "No person of Japanese citizenship may compete in an athletic contest in the State of Hawaii without the express written consent of the state legislature, obtained in full accordance with all other state laws and presented to this commission within 5 days of the contest." It turns out they forgot to ever take this law off the books, and when I pointed it out, the commission was quick to withdraw their sanction for that match. PP: Which means...? RP: [gleefully] Which means, in the eyes of the State of Hawaii, I am still the IIWF Cruiserweight Champion of the Woorrrllllldddd!! [A fresh round of boos, and some thrown objects head towards the ring as Paris breaks away to go to the top turnbuckle and raise his arms in triumph, loving this moment to the fullest. He milks the crowd response for quite some time, finally coming back down to finish the interview.] PP: Now, Ronnie, we don't have that much time, and I'm sure you'll have opportunities in the next two weeks to address your competition. What I'd like to ask you, as a parting question, is what you think of the IIWF's closure? [Paris stays silent for a moment, pondering how he should respond... seemingly trying to restrain himself from saying something he might regret. And with the rather lax limits this man puts on himself, whatever he was thinking of would have been pretty bad.] RP: It's well known I never really got along with the IIWF executives or their booking committee... but they did give me an opportunity, regardless of what kind of opportunity I thought that was. Heck, I was willing to try and work for them again, if the contract terms were good enough. And we were negotiating a fairly lucrative deal for a while, there. It's a shame the promotion has to close down, that's undoubted. No matter what anyone thinks on a personal level of Daniel Spreadbury or his product, you have to admit it was the best damn wrestling promotion any of us have every seen. With that said... I'll be looking to raise a little hell on their last card, and walk out of there with my Cruiserweight title reign intact. Seven other men think they can stop me, and I don't think they can. We'll see in a couple of weeks. PP: We most certainly will. I'd like to thank you for giving up some of your valuable time, Ronnie, and good luck to all the IIWF superstars, past and present, in your future endeavours. [Fade out as "Simply the Best" starts up again, and Paris heads over to pick up his goodies from the ring attendant. Cut back to the studio. Steve Roberts makes "cuckoo" noises and rolls his eyes.] TD: We'll hear from more of the participants in this match right here next week. What an opportunity for these high-flyers to showcase their talents in a match where they simply _must_ go all out to win! You can see the "King of the Mountain" match _live_ from the IIWF Coliseum, only on pay-per-view! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= THE MATCH THE WORLD HAS WAITED FOR: "Sychosys" Joe Petrow vs. "Enigma" Takezo Musashi =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: Our next match is one that is literally a full year in the making, two men from whom we will hear in a moment, "Sychosys" Joe Petrow and "The Enigma" Takezo Musashi. SR: It's a Patsy Cline special, Drossy. TD: For the benefit of President Spreadbury, Steve Roberts is gently referring to the signature hit by Miss Cline, "Crazy", as a way of poking fun at the less than sane tendencies of each of these two men. DS: Thank you, Tim, that "Soundbite-to-English" dictionary should be a big seller for you after you hang up your microphone. SR: If you two ladies are done chatting, what I mean is each of these guys is destined to die in a fiery plane accident, while licquored to the gills and being groped by their 72 year old cousin/manager. In fact, I hear that the Peleponesian guy is already releasing his first country single, "Women Have Rights -- And So Do My Pants", available at Wal-Marts and Krispy Kremes near you. TD: Takezo Musashi is Japanese. DS: It's a wonder you've stayed employed for so long, Mr. Roberts. SR: It's a wonder I haven't taken off my pants during this show yet, boss. Damn, this is almost as long as that Tuesday show we used to do... what the hell was it called again? TD: I don't recall. But IIWF fans will recall that it was virtually one year ago that Takezo Musashi first became obsessed with one Joe Petrow, stalking him from match to match -- literally turning a man in "Sychosys" who had always been the hunter -- into the hunted instantaneously. It was an open declaration of war -- and a challenge that Joe Petrow quite frankly avoided. SR: Nah, Drossy, you're usin' regular people logic to analyse Petrow. See, the Crazy Guy's hooked up different than you and me. He knew the one way to beat an animal like Musashi was to ignore him, just flat pretend he didn't exist. And you know what --- it worked, the Flemish guy went Coocoo for Cocoa Puffs on us, turning into some kind of human assault weapon, ripping and shredding his way through the company like I did through Chelsea at the Sidwell Friends junior prom. DS: Do you have any idea the kinds of legal costs that I incur because of comments like that? TD: Takezo Musashi is Japanese -- and he indeed seemed to channel that incredible hatred of Joe Petrow into an attack on the rest of the IIWF -- an attack that would vault him high up the Federation rankings and eventually net him a Cruiserweight championship. Meanwhile, Joe Petrow... SR: Gave up. TD: Pardon? SR: Gave up, gave up, Joe Petrow gave up. Here was a guy -- here was a guy who came out of retirement with scars on his face, so damn ugly he makes Strom Thurmond look like Jennifer Love Hewitt...and the things I would do to that tight little piece of.... DS: Please. SR: ...oh, she'd say more than please when I grabbed the back of that little head of hers and... DS: We could simply all go home now. SR: All right. Damn, you're no fun anymore, Spreadbury. Used to be a time when you and me would stay late in the office with a pint of stout and a couple of sopranos and... anyway... Joe Petrow was a real tortured soul -- like Picasso, but, you know, with wrestling trunks -- and he came to the IIWF with something to prove, he came to the IIWF to show the world what Joe Petrow was really made of. And he blew it. So he got screwed over a couple of times, hell, who hasn't gotten screwed over a couple of times in this business? I know about "casting couches." I worked for Vern Gagne. TD: Good grief. SR: So, what does Petrow do? Does he fight until he draws his last breath? Does he fight like he's Jim Freaking Bowie defending the Alamo from Santa Anna and his 5000 wetbacks? Hell, no! He gets some piece of crap from the back and teaches him a hammerlock takedown and goes after the worthless hunks of aluminum we call tag belts. Big Bleepin' Deal. You know what I want to see at IIWF Forever, Drossy? I want to see Joe By-God Petrow, the single most talented wrestler in the history of this company, get out there with his hair on fire and take it right to the Prussian guy, we know what Musashi's got, a truckload of crazy in a hatchback sized package -- he's gonna come after Petrow all night long -- but if we get, just for _one_night_only_ the Joe Petrow who came into this company... then it really will be a match for forever. TD: We've heard from Mr. Petrow, so let's go to that footage. [The dark of an urban night pierced only by the lingering neon signs that entice its patrons to a world of pleasure and pain. A single street light flickers into action, sending a rat scurrying away. The heat and the stench of this hot July night is almost visible to the human eye. As a slight wind moves a piece of garbage from one inconsequential place to another, a figure off in the distance walks closer and closer into camera view. It is "Sychosys" Joe Petrow. Petrow squints slightly as he breaches the circle of light, obviously not accustomed to the sensation. Dressed for the exact opposite season, his torn jeans, worn black leather jacket, and long straggly hair appear to be the constant feature left in his life. Even his scarred face shows new signs of the new battles he has fought as of late. As he reaches the centre of light, Petrow stops, briefly contemplating what he will say. Then, as if instinctively knowing where any camera is at all times, he turns to look towards the proper place and speaks] JP: I am back. Birthday Bash II taught me two very important lessons. One, I had come a long way since I first entered the IIWF. And two, and most importantly, I didn't like where I was going at all. In the midst of the glitter, the pomp, the circumstance, I had forgotten who I was. I had forgotten what I was fighting for. So I went back to my roots, back to relearn all the things I had always hoped I would someday forget. Back to the urban jungles. Los Angeles. Chicago. New York. Prague. Budapest. Brazzville. Windhoek. Cambodia. Ho Chi Minh City. And now, this is Bangkok, I think. And I've witnessed the horrors all over again. Old men dying in a pool of filth and slime, men swarming like vultures to relieve him anything of value he might have left. Women in back allies butchering themselves and their unborn children so they can continue the only profession that allows them to feed the family they already have. Hopelessness, poverty, desperation, the myth of the sanctity of life disproved over and over every second of every day. Here, it all becomes perfectly clear. The need to get back to basics, the need to get back to who I really am. And the need take care of the three final, long, festering, lingering problems in the IIWF. Number three: "Enigma" Takezo Musashi. I really screwed up here. In every way. Looking at this man from the very beginning, looking at his pathetic cries for attention, his desperate attempts to make a name for himself at my expense, it was obvious to me that he wasn't worth my time. So instead of breaking his body, I decided to break his mind. Do the one thing he would not expect and could not accept. Absolutely nothing. There but for my momentary lapse of reason in exploring options outside the IIWF, the problem was solved, the gnat was effectively batted away from my face. But since the gnat didn't have the sense to know that the IIWF is *my* territory even when I'm not there, the gnat returned to an illusionary sanctuary. But I thought he had learned his lesson. I thought he had truly come to terms with the madness. So I decided to use him as my minion of destruction, to destroy all that I had built up in this league. Just because I could. Just because I knew I had complete control, because that frail and confused mind of his finally knew better than to mess with Joe Petrow. [Petrow looks down, and notices a can a couple of feet to his left. He takes a step over, and violently sends the can sprawling down the street.] JP: Ain't hindsight a kick in the ass? One thing I didn't remember, Takezo. You have to have a mind bigger than a peanut to be able to control it. You have no mind Enigma! You have become 100% the chaos you sought to control. Now, it controls you, like nothing else can! It is your saving grace, and your dying curse! It cannot be stopped. You cannot be saved. You are a threat to others, but more importantly, you are a threat to me. Therefore, you must, finally, completely, and utterly, be destroyed. It is not what I want to do. It is my responsibility. Musashi, you've waited one year for this. You've racked your mind to Chavoian proportions trying to make this happen. You want to shut this mouth, you want to cripple this body so bad you taste it, can't you? Well bring it on, big boy! Bring your chaos and destruction and everything you think you believe in, and put it all on the line! Because the doctor *will* be in, and the sychotherapy _will_ begin! [Finally, a smile creeps over Petrow's face. The camera switches to a reverse view, showing Petrow's back as he walks out of the shot:] JP: But Enigma... be careful what you wish for. It's already become true. [An eerie laugh is the last sound that is heard, as Petrow walks out of the light, which flickers briefly before extinguishing itself, as the camera fades out.] TD: Who knows what we're going to see in this one, folks. What a match it's going to be, live on pay-per-view in just three weeks! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= IIWF WORLD TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: Prophets of Rage [c] vs. Alphabet Boys =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: The Prophets of Rage are probably the most impressive tag team the IIWF has seen, and they'll be defending the titles they won for the second time at Birthday Bash in three weeks at IIWF Forever -- against the most bizarre partnership in IIWF history, the Alphabet Boys. DS: There have been a lot of raised eyebrows concerning this match, Tim. Some observers have expressed surprise that it was the Alphabet Boys who were chosen to challenge the Prophets, and not, for example, Rising Sun Revolution, the Armed Forces, the Dark Disciples, et al. But the Alphabet Boys have always been firm crowd favourites -- and they never got the opportunity to challenge for the titles during their two tenures in the federation. SR: And, best of all, the ABoys are so stupid, they won't even notice when the Prophets kick their behinds into the next millennium. These two guys make Joe Petrow look like Albert Einstein. TD: I don't know about that, Steve Roberts. We've already heard from the Prophets tonight, so let's go to comments from Abie and Zed, the Alphabet Boys: [A trailer in a run down trailer park. Eight months worth of undelivered newspapers clog the front door. A trash barrel, long past the time for required emptying, collects a convention of flies. The door swings open and the camera tentatively enters. Inside, the scene is not much better. Stale pizza crusts, more newspaper. An annoying Chihuahua jumps about, yipping at the cameraman. Framed like a montage against the fake wood panelled walls are the legendary Alphabet Boys: Abie and Zed. Zed is dressed in his customary wrestling gear, the black sleeveless unitards and mask decorated with neon pink, yellow and green letters of the alphabet. It appears that Zed has been wearing this, and only this, outfit for the many months that he has been away. Abie, too, wears a mask, but instead of his tights he wears the saffron coloured robes of a Tibetan monk. Zed rages, kicking a pile of papers, but instead striking a long-buried sack of pure, refined sugar. A hail of sweet powder covers the room.] ZED: Eat this, we're in training. [He pulls a deep fried Monte Cristo out of a fat soaked bag emblazoned with the logo of a local "greasy spoon."] ABIE: We all in training for the ultimate happiness. Z: We wrestle again. Prophets of Rage. A: There is no profit in rage. They should think about joining a monastery. Z: WRESTLE! The IIWF! For the championship! A: I no longer wrestle. Since we went to Tibet, trying to walk to Japan, I don't wanna wrestle no more. I wanna be a poet. "Oh, little Bird on the driveway/Are you going my way?/If I hit you with my car/ You won't be going very far" Z: That was nice. I liked that. [The two spend a bucolic moment reflecting on this bit of tranquillity that Abie has introduced. At that moment, an attractive framed picture of Elvis painted on velvet, which had previously been hanging on the wall, snaps and crashes to the floor. The Chihuahua explodes in a sonata of yaps.] Z: A sign! A: "O sign/be mine/In the dark..." [Abie's latest ode is interrupted by Zed smacking him on the head.] Z: Quit that. Wrestle time! Make everyone flood! A: Not wrestle! Z: Prove it. [To prove his pacifism, Abie leaps at Zed, pinning him to the floor. Zed retaliates by working over the top and latching on a full nelson. Dragging his tag partner to his feet, he spin-tosses Abie into the wall. Abie hits hard, a lifetime collection of shot glasses falling off the shelves above him.] A: NO WRESTLE! NO MORE! [Abie continues his assault with a reverse armbar. The Chihuahua takes the moment to latch onto the seat of Abie's robes, swinging about wildly. The cameraman takes this as an appropriate opportunity to leave, and quickly retreats from the house in time to see the grappling A-Boys come crashing through the door of their trailer home and continue their combat on the dead lawn in front. As the camera cuts out, Abie can be seen viciously assaulting Zed with a bent hula-hoop. Cut back to the studio.] TD: This one is shaping up to be the most... unique IIWF World Tag Team Championship match in history, folks. Don't miss a moment of the action, in just three weeks from tomorrow! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= FUTURE BOWL MATCH: Gunnar "Grizzly" Gaines & Caleb Temple vs. Eddy "Flap" Jacks & "To Excess" Rick Williams =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: And to open up the card on August 1st, we have a special "Future Bowl" tag team attraction. Mr. President, perhaps you'd like to explain the reasoning behind this one? DS: Of course, Tim. For the most part, IIWF Forever is a celebration of what has made the IIWF so successful over the past two years -- and no celebration would be complete without showcasing some of the talent that promised to carry the IIWF forward into the future. The four men in this match are among the most exciting talents in the sport, and they are, for me, emblematic of the positive direction in which the IIWF has been headed for the past few months. TD: Certainly we have four tremendous athletes here -- the Baddest Thangs Running, of course, have made quite the splash in the few months since they arrived in the IIWF, and I'm sure Gaines and Temple will continue to function well as a team in this match. However, the unique nature of this bout means that teamwork is only a positive attribute to a point: as soon as one partnership is victorious -- be it by pinfall, submission, countout, or disqualification -- the two members of that winning team must fight _each_other_ one-on-one immediately! So if Gaines and Temple beat Eddy Jacks and Rick Williams... it'll be Gaines vs. Temple straight away! SR: Whoo-hoo! Can you imagine what kind of crazy-ass match those two guys could have, Dross? TD: I most definitely can, Steve Roberts. But let's not discount the opposition in this match. Both Eddy "Flap" Jacks and "To Excess" Rick Williams are former World Champions in other organisations... SR: [coughs] ...bush leagues... TD: Please, Steve Roberts. Both men are former World Champions, and they are tremendously talented in their own right. The only question, however, is whether their highly contrasted styles -- not to mention attitudes -- will mesh successfully in tag team competition. Let's get comments from the participants, beginning with Rick Williams: [Scene opens to a parking lot, late at night. Empty, save for a couple of cars, and a figure, which sits on the ground, his back against a low wall, the occasional sound of a passing car is heard in the distance. With shaky -- bordering on amateur in style -- camera work, the dark figure comes into focus. Dressed in black jeans, a black jacket and a red baseball cap, the figure of "To Excess" Rick Williams is barely recognisable. Only the incessant gum-chewing is familiar, as the Minneapolis native begins to speak -- his voice quiet, just about audible, almost betraying his known arrogant and outspoken personality.] RW: I think Paul Valery said it best... "The trouble with our times is that the future is not what it used to be." [Nodding his head in agreement, Williams stares at the ground as he speaks again.] How right he was. Looking back now, it's almost as if he gazed into the future and saw the unfolding story of the IIWF and Rick Williams. You see, "To Excess" _used_ to be the future... he _used_ to be the great white hope... he _used_ to be potentially the greatest wrestler in the world. How times have changed. [Staring deep into the camera, Williams spits the stick of gum to the ground.] With potential fulfilled... with dreams realised... and with greatness accomplished, I stand before you today as the greatest wrestler on the planet, bar precisely nobody. I don't care who doesn't get tossed over the top rope... I don't care who walks away with that belt, because one thing's for sure -- I'm better than him. [His eyes cold and unblinking, Williams almost visibly radiates with arrogance and an unshakeable belief that his comments are nothing but pure fact.] But I _do_ care about Gunnar Gaines... I _do_ care about Caleb Temple, and I sure as hell care about Eddy Jacks. [From his jacket pocket, he produces another stick of gum, which he immediately unwraps and places in his mouth, before discarding the paper.] It's ironic that this match should be entitled "Future Bowl", because "To Excess" is no longer the future, but the present. Jacks isn't the future, but instead, a prime example of a guy, who's not bad, but will never be quite good enough. And Gaines and Temple? Two supreme examples of a bygone era that we're all desperately trying to forget. [With a smirk of resignation, Williams proceeds.] But far be it from me to tell dear ol' Dan that he's got it wrong yet again. Hell, he's got it wrong since the first day I met him. But tell me this, _boss_... What do you do when the future becomes the present before your very eyes? [Williams stares directly at the camera, almost as if he's waiting for a response. After a few seconds seconds, he shrugs his shoulders, and answers the question himself.] Why, there's nothing you _can_ do... other than _accept_ it. You see, thanks to your politics, I may never be your World Champion, but you'll know I'm the best... ...and that's all I need. [Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Confidence, as always, running high for Rick Williams. His partner Eddy Jacks is characteristically more pensive: [SCENE: Ottawa, Ontario. Eddy Jacks' summer cabin. Midnight. Slow fade-in. As picture slowly becomes clearer... lighter, the camera pans around Jacks spacious den. Hundreds of priceless mementoes dot the walls and line the mantle. From his 1986 TOUGHMAN CHAMP plaque to a bronzed sumo belt worn during his stint in Japan, the room is a tribute to a man who spent a lifetime overcoming adversity... battling for respect... striving to find light in an increasingly dark world. More than that, the den is a tribute to the places Jacks has been. Still shots of Jacks wrestling with such notables as Curtis Hansen, Ken Curtis, Tony Starks, Derek Mota, J.W. Hardin -- and his prized possession, an autographed picture of Jacks shaking hands with IIWF President and marketing genius Daniel Spreadbury -- hang in such incredible numbers that they blot out almost all view of the cabin's attractive, varnished walls. The pan around the room is a slow one... and is accentuated by the sounds of a soft dirge played on the bagpipe in the background. When the camera finally centres on him, the mammoth Jacks is reclining in an oversized oaken rocker, IIWF t-shirt covering his thick upper torso. What once was a night-black beard now is tinted with shades of grey... what once appeared a rugged, fierce countenance is now little more than a craggy, badly-scarred face with eyes that betray a deep and abiding sorrow. Above all, the scene smacks of finality... of the ending of things.] EJ: I been a lot o' places. I've known a lot o' people. I seen things people ain't never dreamed of... [Pause. A solitary tear streams down Jacks careworn cheek.] ...an' as bad as it all seemed, I loved it. I wouldn't trade my life fer nothin'... [Jacks' gaze turns away from the camera... he stares at the picture of him shaking Dan Spreadbury's hand... and shakes his head.] Proudest day o' my life was the day I inked my IIWF contract. Back then, I wuz a bum who made a rep in a young fed. Didn't have much money... didn't have much class... [Pause.] ...an' I thank the high heavens that, fer every moment I'm alive, I got ta meet Dan Spreadbury. It ain't often in this biz that we get ta shoot, but I owe everythin' I is ta him an' Alex Grey... [Jacks stands... approaches the mantle... and delicately lifts up the picture.] ...'cuz dey had faith in me when nobody else did, eh. When people like... hell, I ain't even gonna say 'is name... that Baltimore boy... when 'e said I wadn't nothin' but a washed-up drunk, it was Danny and Al that got me back on track. I was busted on my ass... mortgaged ta high heaven... but they both took it in 'ere hearts ta give me an advance... [Jacks smiles, a smile that reflects his unwavering loyalty... his pride for having served in the IIWF.] ...an' all I gave em back was da best ring work I could do. I'm a big boy... wadn't never afraid ta step in 'ere an' give some rookie a chance. 'Cuz that's what its about. It's about chances. If I hadn't 'ad a chance 'ere an' elsewhere, I'd still be a bum fightin' fer booze money at high school gyms an friggin' National Guard Armories. I wouldn't 'ave a damn red cent ta my name. [Jacks places the picture back down on the mantle... and gingerly lifts another, a picture of him standing next to Gunnar Gaines in the locker room immediately prior to the announcement of Jacks' sudden... unexpected... King of the Mountain victory.] An' then Danny calls 'gain an' says, "Well, Eddy, it's over. I've got enough left ta pay y'alls whatcha earned... but the IIWF... it just ain't gonna be no more." An then 'e proceeds ta tell me bout his last card... da one thing that's gonna make IIWF 'membered, more'n all its stars an peoples combined... [Jacks pauses, contemplative.] ...an' he says, "Well, Eddy, I never got ta showcase ya in a match. Didn't with Rick Williams." An if ya don't know Rick Williams, well, 'e's a damn fine man. Watched 'im work an' train after 'e came ta SCRA... an' I'm amazed by da kid's work ethic. Got a desire ta be... well, ta be perfect. So, Danny says, "Well, I'd like yunz two ta wrestle together 'gainst Gaines an Temple, two other new boys who didn't get much o' da spotlight in da Double-Eye." [Jacks puts the picture down.] So what can I say, eh? Leaves me an Rick, two o' da finest Canadian-bred grapplers in da biz, goin' against two o' da only men not named John Wesley Hardin da Fourth an' Brody Thunder dat ya can honest-ta-goodness call legends. [Jacks places the picture back in its spot on the mantle, and moves towards the wall, pausing in front of an old autographed EWA program.] EWA. A piece o' time, I suppose, back durin' da glory days. I never lived 'ose days, mind ya, but that was when wrestlin' was wrestlin' an everyone knew everyone. An' back 'en, everyone knew Gaines an' Temple. Before there was da Double-Eye, 'ere was Gaines. An' I ain't doubtin' fer one minute that Gaines is just as much a part o' wrestlin' history as da Double-Eye. [Jacks grins.] But dat don't mean shit or two dimes no more. 'Cuz, when EWA died, it got remembered for what it was... but IIWF, boys, is gonna be remembered for what it _did_. An' Gunnar... Caleb, much as I loves an' admires ya... [The grin widens.] ...I gots but one question ta pose... an' my good buddy Curt Hansen say da same thing, "Whatcha done lately, fireballers?" Outside o' screwin' over poor Jimmy Steele an' swappin' spits an' haggis with a team o' swarthy, stinkin' Scots, dat is... [Jacks grin widens even more, revealing a ragged set of teeth...] ...hell, I'm even stealin' yer trademark, Gaines. Cuz, while you wuz doin' all dat, Rick Williams was walkin' away from da beloved NLWP as its last goddamn champ, an I was tradin' shots wit' Hardin in SCRA. If I don't recall, boys, yer asses were at ringside ta watch dat. I might not o' won... [Jacks turns, walking back towards the rocker.] ...but I proved a point. I got just as much right ta be in da ring on IIWF's last card as anybody. So does Rick. Hell, Rick's probably even got more right than me... [Jacks resumes his previous seat, pausing to pick up and leaf through a pre-ordered IIWF Forever program.] An' that leaves me wit' just one last question, boys. Ya call yerselves da Baddest Thangs Runnin', kee-rect? Well, I got this last lil point ta ponder... an I'm settin all my purty sentiment aside ta make this last lil point... [Jacks gives yet another grin...] Whatcha gonna do when da road ends an' ya hit a fifty-foot drop? [Jacks grins yet again, a mocking grin... and resumes reading the program. The camera zooms out, fading to black all the while until... Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Both members of the Baddest Thangs Running had interviews for us this week. Let's go to that footage: [SCENE: Total darkness. We hear footsteps shuffling softly across a wooden floor, followed by a quick rasping sound. A match is lit, casting a dim half-light around the small room. The match moves to a candle and holds steady until it is lit, and then to another, and a third. The room is now illuminated, and a figure shuffles slowly away from the candles. The detailing of the tattoo which covers his back gives away his identity long before he takes his place in the black leather armchair in the corner of the room. He inhales deeply before speaking in his trademark calm Southern drawl.] CT: "Whereas thou hast been forsaken and hated, so that no man went through thee, I will make thee an eternal excellency, a joy of many generations." Isaiah 60:15. [He runs his hand through his hair, sweeping the dark, damp strings back and away from his face.] CT: Oh, to be a legend. To be a God walking amongst men. To be held above all others as a monument to eternal excellency. To be REMEMBERED... That is the fate which awaits one man. On the first day of August, in the year of Our Lord 1998, one man shall cast off the shackles of mortality and assume his place in the halls of legend. He shall step forward from the gathered throng... and BECOME a God amongst men. [His pale face creases into a slight smirk.] CT: Or perhaps I'm just reading too much into all of this. See, for those among you who are, even after all this time, still unfamiliar with the modus operandi of Caleb Temple, such matters are trivia. Unimportant, and treated as such. It was once said of me, "Some men march to the beat of a different drum. Caleb Temple has his own damn orchestra." For twenty-nine men, the first day of August will present an opportunity to become the final IIWF World Heavyweight Champion. For twenty-nine men, the chance to claim their place in history. For twenty-nine OTHER men, perhaps, but NOT for Caleb Temple. No, no, no... For Caleb Temple, the first day of August will present an altogether more satisfying goal. Not glory, not championship gold, but the chance to bid my own personal farewells to many of the names who have been held above mine. Men in whose long shadows I have been forced to walk. Men whose stories have been given more credence than my own. Men... who would be God. Oh yes, come the first day of August, those would-be legends shall find one amongst their number who cares not for their prize. But one who covets their HEADS. [He looks to the wooden floor for a moment, composing his thoughts.] CT: Thunder. Verhoeven and Quigley. Kowalksi and Annis. Deathbringer. Lebec, Musashi and Mota. Great names one and all. A regular "Who's Who" we have assembled, don't we? Twenty-nine men in all, counting our mystery friend. Twenty-nine men who will have their eyes fixed firmly on that glittering pot of gold at the end of the rainbow... and not a single eye in the house on Caleb Temple. I wouldn't have it ANY other way. See, there's an old saying that goes, "the greatest trick the devil ever performed, was convincing the world he didn't exist." All of you legends can fight over the gold, you can tear each other to pieces for it, as far as I'm concerned. Because in the midst of that chaos, treading blood like Jesus did water, there can be only Caleb Temple. Waiting. Waiting for his moment. Oh, the anticipation. [He stands, and every muscle on his lean torso tightens. He begins to walk slowly across the wooden floor.] CT: Now, to the other item of business which awaits my attention. The one-night-only, never-to-be-seen-again, absolutely final curtain call of the Baddest Thangs Running. In what President Dan has dubbed a "Future Bowl Match", our guests for the evening will be Eddie Jacks and Rick Williams. The future... the future... [He makes a "crystal ball" motion with his hands, lightening up for a moment.] CT: I see blood, boys. Your blood. [He breaks into a soft chuckle before reverting to his own deeply serious persona.] CT: But I shouldn't laugh. I really shouldn't. It's no laughing matter. "Flap" Jacks and "To Excess" have bought into a world of pain they won't even be able to comprehend, let alone survive. On this most special of occasions for the good old Double Eye, Brother Gaines and myself will give a VERY special performance. A performance fitting of our billing as the "dream team of the Extreme". The Baddest Thangs Running, one last time, will show ALL of you how this game is to be played. [He begins to blow the candles out, first one, then another...] CT: And on that, you can... [He hovers above the final lit candle, demonic shadows dancing across his face.] CT: ...Trust Me. [He blows out the final candle. Darkness. The shot mixes through to a new scene: [SCENE: Casa Gaines, Portland, Oregon. Seated at a computer desk is none other than Gunnar "Grizzly" Gaines, dressed in a black muscle tee with his back to us. His smirking, bearded features can be seen reflected in the computer monitor. The back of the tee reads, "Gunnar Gaines Retirement Tour." He turns to face us.] GGG: Well, I guess you saw the back of the shirt. Gunnar Gaines is retiring, as I have already indicated elsewhere. I am simply going to fill out my commitments in the IIWF, the Z-Cup, and plus have a few final matches elsewhere. Why retirement? Well, it's because I'm moving back to Alaska. Actually, I already have. The family's just here in Portland to wrap up a few loose ends. You see, when Spreadbury shut things down for a few months here, it gave me a taste of "unintentional" retirement -- a chance to be home with not only my wife but my new kid for the very first time. And truth be told, I _liked_ it. No more whining, snivelling, lily-livered fart stains on a monkey's diaper that I have to beat up and humiliate on a daily basis. Very refreshing! [He does the Grizzly Grin -- for those who haven't seen it before, it's a squinting smirk with his teeth showing and his chin tilted impishly forward.] GGG: Of course, I couldn't resist coming back for one last time. IIWF Forever. The Grizzly will be in a battle royal ring with 29 whining, lily-livered, snivelling, fart stains on 29 monkey's diapers, and he plans on throwing out each and every single God damn one of them. [Grinning and scratching his chin, pretending to ponder with his eyes tilted skyward] Now, of course, the idea of 29 on one could be rather intimidating to some, but the Grizz cannot be intimidated. I've regularly fended off entire stables, such as the Clique and Death Row, without breaking into too much of a sweat, and while cracking a beer before, after, and in many cases, and I do mean cases, during. So if all you wet-shorted little twerps in the Double Eye want to par-tay with the Grizz, you're more than welcome. Call me the bartender and the bouncer all in one. I'll simply serve you with an onslaught of pain and agony, follow it with a Grizzly Slam chaser, and then throw your asses out of there when I think you've had enough. End result? Gunnar retires his second belt in just over seven months and becomes the final champ of two of the greatest promotions of all time. Why? Because I'm the Baddest Thang Running, and there's just one thing that no one in the IIWF has _ever_ been able to do, and that's to beat _me_... as _if_ they can. [Wife Cheryl calls out from the kitchen] CG: But Gunnar... what about that Future Bowl Match? GGG: Good point. I'll have to prepare for that one. I'd better research these guys. I know Caleb Temple quite well, but I don't know Rick Williams or Eddy Jacks too terribly well. So I guess I'll just hit a few keys, type a few things and see what I get. [He does, and a screen --pun intended, as you'll see -- comes up.] GGG: [calling over] Hey! Check this out, Cherry! This Eddy Jacks sure has a weird website! All _kinds_ of crazy crap! CG: [walking over] What's that, dear? GGG: I found the official Eddy "Slap" Jacks website! CG: [reading over his shoulder] www dot jackinworld dot com? GGG: Yep! Listen to this: [reading] "Three guys go to a ski lodge, and there aren't enough rooms -- so they have to share a bed. In the middle of the night, the guy on the right wakes up and says, "I had this wild, vivid dream of getting a hand job!" The guy on the left wakes up, and unbelievably, he's had the same dream, too. Then the guy in the middle wakes up and says, "That's funny -- I dreamed I was skiing!" CG: That's not Eddy's website! GGG: It's not? I typed in his name and this is what I got on the search engine. Top of the list. Hell, it's even got his name in it. CG: Gunnar... [blushing]... that's a... um... how should I say... "self-gratification" website. You know. GGG: [playfully pretending not to understand] Huh? What do you mean? CG: It's not about Eddy Jacks. It's about... you know. That thing guys do. GGG: I'm not sure what you mean. [Exasperated, she finally just makes a motion. Gunnar smiles and nods.] GGG: Looks to me like it's about both. CG: [rolls her eyes] Aargh! [She kisses him on the back of the head and walks off.] GGG: I entered "slap" and "jacks" into the computer and this is what I got, so help me. Anyway... "Slap" Jacks... you're big, bad and old. I'm just big and bad. Perhaps it's my dad, Larry "Chainsaw" Gaines that you ought to be wrestling. Caleb and I spent a whole match over in the SCRA protecting your ass. Well, in _this_ match, there ain't gonna be _nobody_ to protect your ass, just the Baddest Thangs Running _attacking_ your ass. [calling over to Cheryl] Hey, honey? Am I using the word "ass" enough? Do you think that's enough to get "over?" CG: Better throw it in a few more times just to be sure, honey. GGG: Ass, ass, ass. You've got a big one, Jacks, and we're kicking it. Period. There. That oughta do. And "To Excess" Rick Williams? I thought you had hung yourself naked while doing the Eddy Jacks thing. No, wait. That wasn't _TO_ Excess, that was the guy from _IN_XS. Michael Hutchence or something. Oh, well. Like it makes a difference or anyone can _tell_ the difference. My point is, son, that you haven't SEEN excess until you've gone bar-hopping with Gunnar "Grizzly" Gaines or been in a fight with him. So this here Future Bowl match is a chance for you to actually EARN that name you've been toting around. But I got sad news for ya. It ain't gonna happen. No, kid... you're gonna find yourself _just_ like Michael Hutchence... CG: Uh, Gunnar... GGG: ...because son, you're going to be at the _end of your rope_. Courtesy of the Baddest Thangs Running, _but of course_. Why? Because me and Caleb have some unfinished business and we're not going to let two runny-nosed green little snots stop us. And THAT, kids, is all I have to say about that. For now. [Grizzly Grin, as we fade out to the music of "Devil Inside," Gunnar pantomiming acts of onanism, synchronised to the song's bongo drum beat. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Folks, that concludes this week's look ahead at the biggest pay-per-view event of the year... possibly of all time. Eight tremendous, history-making matches, featuring more than forty IIWF superstars past and present. We'll be back next week with another special edition of "Countdown", but that's all for now. Mr. President, I'd like to thank you for being with us here tonight. DS: That's my pleasure as always, Tim. TD: For "Soundbite" Steve Roberts, and for the IIWF President, this is Tim Dross, saying: so long, everybody! [The lights in the studio fade, casting Dross, Spreadbury and Roberts in silhouette. As the IIWF President turns to Dross, Roberts makes bunny ears above his head. The shot fades.] +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I * I * W * F =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+ | President: Daniel Spreadbury | | iiwf@sisko.demon.co.uk | +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- http://www.sisko.demon.co.uk -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+