________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| | || | \ v v / | __| |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| C + O + U + N + T + D + O + W + N T + O ______ ____ ______ _______ ___ _______ ______ \ ____\/ __ \\ ___ \\ _____\\ | / /_____\\ ___ \ | | / / | || | \ \ | | | / / | | | \ \ | |__/_/ | || |__/ / |_____| | / /| |_____| |__/ / | ____/| | || __ /| _____/| |/ / | _____/| __ / | | | | | || | \ \| | | / | | | | \ \ | | | | / /| | \ \ | | / | | | | \ \ | | | |_/ / | | \ \|____ | / | |_____| | \ \ | | \___/ | | \ \____/|/ /______/| | \ \ | / | / \/ | / \/ |/ |/ |/ with Tim Dross and "Soundbite" Steve Roberts Friday 24 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, a second chair stands empty, and behind him, the screen bears the "IIWF Forever" logo. The bald-headed Dross is wearing the usual IIWF blazer and looks up from the sheaf of papers on the desk in front of him as the shot zooms in and the music fades.] TD: Howdy folks, and welcome to another special edition of "Countdown". I'm Tim Dross, and over the next sixty minutes, I, along with my broadcast colleague and tag team partner, "Soundbite" Steve Roberts, will be bringing you all the latest news concerning the event that will, without doubt, be the biggest pay-per-view of the year... perhaps of all time. IIWF Forever is just eight days away, folks, and right here tonight, we have several major announcements concerning this history-making spectacular, which will come your way _live_ from the IIWF Coliseum here in lovely Portland, Oregon. [Suddenly, Van Halen's "Running With The Devil" kicks in over the studio sound system, and the piped voice of ring announcer Sparkplug Lee chimes in:] SL: Ladies and gentlemen... "Soundbite" Steve Roberts! [The crew once again breaks out into spontaneous applause as Steve Roberts waltzes into the shot, arms open wide to acknowledge the adoration, and a huge grin on his face. Leather jacket slung over his shoulder, he places it over the back of his chair and runs his fingers through his hair as he takes his seat next to Dross. He wears a black t-shirt bearing the immortal legend: "Double Eye Double U F'n' F: No Love. No Learnin'."] TD: Steve Roberts, welcome. SR: Hey, Dross, great to be back again. Say, I haven't seen you in months, buddy. Have you lost weight? TD: We did that bit last week, Steve Roberts. SR: Of course we did, Dross. Just messin' wit' ya. TD: Why do you always insist on arriving late for these broadcasts? SR: Aw, come on, Dross -- it's all about the Soundbite. The girls, the maple syrup, the music... it's all about the Soundbite, baby dolls. TD: Folks, we are just eight days away from what is being referred to as the most anticipated pay-per-view event of all time. It hardly seems possible that the mighty IIWF is closing its doors... but it will close them in grand fashion, with the most incredible card in its history, featuring the most star-studded cast of athletes ever assembled. SR: But where are the porn-stars, Dross? Where are the world leaders? More to the point, where are their daughters? I gots needs, Dross! Needs! TD: We all know rather more than we had wished to about your needs, Steve Roberts -- but we have a jam-packed sixty minutes to get through, folks, so let's kick things right off with the match that has the world talking: the Eternal Rumble to crown the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... forever. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= MAIN EVENT: 30-man ETERNAL RUMBLE Winner is IIWF World Heavyweight Champion FOREVER! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= SR: I get goosebumps just thinking about this match, Dross. Thirty naked girls all duking it out in a chocolate mud pit... so many bodies, so much licking to be done. Oh, the humanity! TD: Steve Roberts, this is a battle royal to determine the last ever IIWF World Champion. There are no naked girls, and there is no chocolate mud pit. SR: I'm not talking about the damned rumble, Dross -- I'm talking about the little post-match celebration I gots lined up. What better way to drown your sorrows than to bathe them in chocolate-covered women? Whoo-hoo! TD: Steve Roberts aside, ladies and gentlemen, this match is one that will most certainly live up to its hype. This is, quite simply, the _ultimate_ in main event matches. Thirty superstars -- including no less than twenty-one champions past and present -- will battle it out for the biggest, most coveted prize in this sport... the opportunity to be the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion _forever_. SR: Forever is a long time, baby dolls. TD: The spoils in this one, folks, are bigger than any other match in history. It's almost a mind-boggling prospect: to be the champion for all time. What an accolade, Steve Roberts. SR: Almost as great an honour as having your butt kicked by the Soundbite, Dross. TD: A memo from the office of the IIWF President issued earlier this week set out a new development in the rules of this match. The winners of matches earlier in the evening will be entitled to numbers in the back half of the draw -- so they will have a big advantage. Remember, folks, the luck of the draw will play a big role in determining the final IIWF Champion: before the match begins, all the entrants will draw numbers, and the match starts with the wrestlers who drew numbers one and two. Thereafter, another wrestler joins the action every two minutes according to the numbers drawn, and the only way to be eliminated is to be thrown over the top rope and to the arena floor. SR: At which point it's "bye-bye, baby dolls." TD: Indeed. And another announcement from the IIWF President, perhaps as a direct reaction to Serge Annis' disappointment at having to give up the title before the beginning of the Eternal Rumble, is that the current IIWF World Heavyweight Champion will be entitled to the #30 spot! Serge Annis will be the last man to enter the ring in the battle royal, which puts him at a tremendous advantage over the rest of the field. SR: I'm not sure Annis will thank ol' Dictator Danny for that, Dross. The guy's career has been one long attempt to show everybody that he has succeeded _despite_ all the obstacles put in his way... something tells me he won't appreciate the concession. TD: Be that as it may, Steve Roberts, that's the way things will go down in just eight days. We have comments from a number of the entrants in this historic match, beginning with the red-gloved wrecking machine, Creed, who is making his return to wrestling... perhaps for the last time. [Fade up on a Northwest Oregon scene which is as familiar to professional wrestling fans as the view from their bedroom windows; the east bank of the gently flowing Willamette River, the lightly dusted West Hills, at the base of which sits Portland State University, the 6th Avenue bus line which criss-crosses the MAX lite rail system traversing Pioneer Square. We see towering Mt. Hood and the Washington Park Zoo, the botanical rose gardens and the quirky Museum of Vacuum Cleaners, all of which make of the wonderful tapestry of the city which has served as professional wrestling's capital, it's nerve centre, for two full years... Portland, Oregon. We sweep into the historic Pearl District and into view comes the newly refurbished Arm Bar, the only professional wrestling themed restaurant west of the Mississippi and the former home of the Tuesday trailblazer in sports commentary, "Inside the IIWF"... And then across the railroad tracks comes into view the "Beaver Trap", Portland's premiere full contact "adult night spot," and then finally to the majestic IIWF Coliseum, home to the forerunner in virtual entertainment, the_ Mighty_ IIWF, where, outside of which is a gathering of several thousand fans who are collected for what appears to be the tail end of a ceremony, the purpose of which is clear by the enormous banner draped across the main gate: July 19, 1998 IIWF Forever Day! Area dignitaries such as Mayor Charlotte Lehan, Oregon Governor John Kitzhaber, Nike CEO Phil Knight and Portland TrailBlazer star guard Damon Staudamire sit at a dais along with various IIWF officials as "Soundbite" Steve Roberts, beverage in hand, finishes his speech accepting the Key to the City on behalf of the company, a speech that has already included references to the seventies funk band Earth, Wind and Fire, the first Chief Justice of the US Supreme Court John Jay and the aureole size of Queen Elizabeth II, "bigger aureoles than any Queen since Freddie Mercury died," said Steve.] SR: ...but the real reason the IIWF was so goddamn good was its reliance on what I always felt were the three cardinal rules of wrestling or any good industry for that matter... you Microsoft guys, I see your ass Paul Allen, might want to take notes: One... No women; Two... No midgets; And three... No celebrities. Now, when I'm off in Hollywood putting the pork to Drew Barrymore I ain't gonna come back here every five minutes when your lady mayor decides to get her "oil changed" Soundbite style, so you gotta remember this stuff. I don't have time to be taking calls from the Chamber of Commerce asking me, "Mr. Soundbite, is it midgets we hate or dwarfs? Is it midgets or dwarfs? We forgot, is it midgets... or is it dwarfs?" Because if I get a goddamn phone call like that I'm gonna go freaking Lorenna Bobbitt on each and every one of you sons of bitches and I just might do it Mike Tyson style, if you can see how the Soundbite is shooting, so you had better get the city constitution out here pronto, Tippy, and write in big red crayon that a "dwarf is just a dwarf, but a midget would cut out your heart just as soon as look up at you, the Godless mother[BLEEP]ers." Thank you and Keep A Rockin'! [The Soundbite departs, not just from the dais but from the entire ceremony, to resoundingly confused applause and is quickly replaced by Portland Mayor Lehan.] MAYOR: Thank you, well... just... thank you. Finally today, I would like to introduce a young man who perhaps best exemplifies the "warrior spirit" of the IIWF, a young man who holds the longest undefeated string in the history of the IIWF and with his catch-phrase of "Anytime, Anyhow..." -- I'm sorry, that's "Anyone, Anywhere, Anytime" -- captivated the hearts and minds of IIWF fans like few before or since... Ladies and gentlemen, our very special guest, making his return to Portland, making his return to the IIWF and making his return to wrestling, let's give a big welcome to the former Intercontinental Champion... This... Is... Creeeeeeeeeeeeeed!! [Explosive Pop as the young African-American men known as the "Creed Army" emerge in red and black t-shirts with a picture of the red gloved warrior and the simple word... ......forever...... inscripted thereon -- this collective yelling in full throat the name of 1997's 11th ranked wrestler in the world, in a chant as simple as it is well known... "CREED!...CREED!...CREED!...CREED!" But Creed does not appear. And as the shot now pulls...not back...but backward, rewinding through the Portland landscapes earlier seen until coming to rest on a small government office complex featuring a door which reads: "Professional Sports and Gaming Commission" Into an inner office we go, a darkened medical examination room in which stands a doctor in a laboratory coat and, seated on a coolly antiseptic table, shirtless, with white bandages covering both eyes, is the subject of all of those chants across town... Creed. It is the doctor who speaks, clearly finishing a marathon examination session.] DOCTOR: ...it isn't even the knees that we're most concerned with, if it were the knees I'd be inclined to sign that form and let you participate in the wrestling event. The problem, young man, are your eyes. You know about the retinal detachment from last September... CREED: Annis. Goddamn Annis. DOCTOR: ...but now we have a new injury, the Anaster Grid test which we just conducted shows that in your left eye we have clear evidence of macular degeneration. In the central part of your retina, in the very back portion of the eye you have ruptured blood vessels and currently the leakage is resulting in what you refer to as "lightning flashes". Do you still see those flashes, Mr. Creed? CREED: It's like... it's like there be a cloud in my eye, you know... and then like... lighting there this quick... burst... of light. Damn Byron messed up my leg, damn Byron messed up my eye. But, goddamn, Doc, I can see, put some damn fingers up all in my face right here, we ain't gonna be doing needlepoint in the ring, these are big damn guys, and big damn ropes -- all I gotta do is stay inside. You... you can't do this to me man... you gotsta sign that paper. DOCTOR: What you have in your eye we call "floaters", Mr. Creed, the degeneration is pulling away from the retina -- if you take any additional blows to that region what you risk... no... what you guarantee is permanent injury. You are a young man, whatever is in that wrestling ring cannot be as important as the rest of your life. [Creed stops, allowing the doctor's words to lie heavy in the air... then, the red gloved warrior draws his breath and softly shatters the stillness of the room...] CREED: What in that ring be the Heavyweight Championship of the World. My daddy left fo' that belt. My momma die fo' that belt. I going to get that belt. No matter what I have to do. [Creed stands, pulling on a t-shirt, a pair of Oakley wraparound sunglasses and a black San Francisco Giants baseball cap, then turns and begins to move from the room.] DOCTOR: I'm sorry, son. But there's no point in fighting me on this. I can't in good conscience sign this release form -- and you cannot compete August 1 in IIWF Forever. [Creed stops at the door without turning around, the weariness in his body evident as he readies himself to leave.] CREED: It gonna take mo' than a fight to stop me, Doc. You gonna have to kill me. [Creed disappears from view, the shot going black as we again hear the resounding chants of the Creed Army, the chants of IIWF fans everywhere who await the now, very questionable return to action of the red gloved warrior... "CREED!...CREED!...CREED!...CREED!" Fade. Cut back to the studio.] SR: Can you believe this punk kid, Dross? I guess he knew that he could never hope to follow the "Soundbite" out there -- so he decided to no-show. TD: Young Creed's body is old before its time, Steve Roberts, ravaged by the fierce competition it has seen over the past eighteen months. What a meteoric career it has been for Creed: from rookie to overnight sensation, to Intercontinental Champion... and then, things took a severe down-turn. SR: What do you expect when you wind up in the bush leagues, Dross? TD: Regardless of where Creed has wrestled, Steve Roberts, he has given one hundred and ten... one hundred and fifty percent in every single match. He puts body and soul on the line every night he steps into the ring... and the blood that courses through his veins is IIWF blood through and through. As I have said previously, what an end to the story it would be for Creed to finally capture the World title that has eluded him thus far. SR: What a bunch of crap, Dross. For a punk with such a banged-up body, his ego's pulled through with remarkably little damage. If you think for one moment that Creed won't be target number one for the other twenty-nine guys in that match, you've got another thing coming. Creed ain't going home with no belt, Dross -- he's going home with another injury to add to the list. TD: That remains to be seen, Steve Roberts. Another young superstar who is IIWF through and through is former Intercontinental Champion Duncan Macbeth. We caught up with the fiery Scot, along with his cousin and tag team partner Andrew, in the IIWF Coliseum earlier this week. Let's go to that footage: [SCENE: The dimly-lit auditorium of the IIWF Coliseum, which is slowly beginning to show signs of the spectacular -- and final -- event that will sound the end of the greatest federation in the history of wrestling, IIWF Forever. It is nearly midnight, and the building should be empty at this time of night, but the familiar sounds of boots on canvas, bodies snapping against steel cables, and the resounding booms of impacts against thinly-padded mat echo throughout the cavernous arena. The shot pans down the aisle to ringside, where so many young talents, so many stars, so many _legends_ have passed down on their way to the ring wars, and as we approach the ring itself, it becomes apparent that one such battle is still raging on in the IIWF ring tonight. The imposing form of Andrew Macbeth, one half of the Black Watch, stands outside the ring, his tree-trunk arms folded across his barrelled chest, his grey eyes glinting as he barks out orders. Inside the ring, we see who those orders are directed at -- his tag team partner, cousin, and former IIWF Intercontinental Champion, Duncan Macbeth, who is pinned in a corner, being hammered mercilessly by the Barnacle Brothers, Seadog and Bluto. Andrew is clearly not pleased with his cousin's fortunes as he struggles to fight his way out of the corner, the considerable bulk of the Barnacles giving the feisty Scot some difficulty. Andrew's brow furrows as Bluto and Seadog land a few more shots on the younger Macbeth, and he bellows up at his cousin, eyes narrowed with consternation.] AM: Speed, cousin, SPEED! Dinnae try t' punch yuir way oot... let 'em commit first, an' then slip around! Use yuir HEID, boy! [The advice does not go unheard by Duncan, and as Bluto winds up and prepares to deliver another haymaker, the quicksilver Scot ducks under the beefy forearm and jigs to one side, improvising upon Andrew's direction by driving a knee into Bluto's abdomen as he passes around, and then shoving him roughly into the corner! Duncan and Seadog are now side-by-side, facing Bluto, who gasps for breath in the corner, and the younger Macbeth wastes no time in delivering a crisp elbow to the side of Seadog's head, causing him to cry out in pain. Duncan slaps on an armbar, coils like a panther, and prepares to Irish whip Seadog across the ring, but at the last second digs his heels in hard, and snaps Seadog back around and sends him flying into Bluto in the near corner! Duncan stands back, grinning now, and watches with cocky satisfaction as the two groaning JJS members slowly crumple to the mat... ...and he is suddenly cut down from behind by a large figure who barrels into him like a freight train! Duncan bounces roughly across the canvas and into a corner from the incredible force of the shoulderblock he had just absorbed, and the confused, disoriented scrapper scrambles to regain his footing, but not before his cousin Andrew is upon him once again, with a quickness that belies his great mass. Andrew drives a ham-sized fist deep into Duncan's stomach, doubling him over, and the snarling, red-bearded Scot, follows it up with a huge knee lift that snaps Duncan's head back! Andrew is seething with rage as he grabs his young cousin, snaps him up to his feet, and pulls him close, his low baritone rumbling into Duncan's face.] AM: Think it'll be easy, do ye? Think ye'll be able t' play th' smartarse on August 1st, like ye can wi' these twa pathetic tossers? August 1st is goin' t' be HELL, boy. An' ye'd best SMARTEN OOP, if ye're goin' t' survive it an' take tha' title! Ye want t' get fancy in 'ere? Get fancy wi' ME, an' I'll put ye in t' th' bleedin' tenth row! [Andrew suddenly drives his head forward, smashing his skull into Duncan's forehead, and the younger Macbeth reels across the canvas, gripping his head in pain as Andrew approaches like a Leopard tank, lining his cousin up and dropping a massive elbow with murderous accuracy across Duncan's left temple... BAM! The glint of dull cast iron flashes before Duncan's eyes, as a branding iron comes out of nowhere, catching Duncan flush across the side of the head. The young Scot's eyes roll back in his head from the incredible impact, the ringing in his ears deafening, but just before everything goes grey, he catches a glimpse of the tall Texan, J.W. Hardin, grinning over him, the branding iron clutched in his right hand... Andrew sets upon Duncan once again, easily sidestepping a wild swing from his cousin, and wraps one of his thick hands around Duncan's throat. Andrew's eyes narrow as he gathers up his strength, the tendons in his hand and arm tightening... And suddenly, Otto Verhoeven stands before Duncan, laughing that bone-chilling laugh of his, choking the very life out of Duncan as he struggles against the German Juggernaut's clutches, but to no avail. Verhoeven's whole body seems to shiver as he marshals his inhuman strength, and with ridiculous ease, hoists the young Macbeth high into the air, snaps him around, and drives him into the mat with his patented Slaughterslam... BAM! Andrew stares down at his cousin, who just seems to loll on the mat, showing no signs of fighting back. The elder Macbeth grits his teeth and comes after Duncan again, this time jerking him up to his feet, twisting one of his arms, and sending the former I-C Champ back to the canvas with a scything short-arm clothesline... BAM! Duncan's eyes flutter open, and he is outside the ring now, his head absolutely pounding, and he squints painfully through the bright lights of the Coliseum up at the figures of the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder and Steve "The Fury" Kowalski, who split-seconds earlier sent Macbeth tumbling out of the ring with a vicious double clothesline. Thunder and Kowalski seem to mock Duncan from their perch above him, as if to say "Better luck next time, kid" before the two rivals turn to each other and begin brawling away, passing out of sight beyond the lip of the ring. Duncan's eyes quickly shut to ease the stabbing pain in his skull... ...and he opens them again to find himself perched upon the broad shoulder of his cousin, who is walking him towards the ropes! Andrew, looking extremely annoyed and a bit disappointed, prepares to toss his cousin over the top rope, signalling the end of yet another training session for the youngster... ...and this time, it is Andrew who is surprised, as Duncan suddenly comes to life, grabbing the elder Macbeth's head as he flies over the rope, twisting in mid-air to land with both feet square on the apron, and using the momentum to snap Andrew's head down on the top rope, slingshotting him backwards into the centre of the ring! Andrew clutches at his throat, but has no time to recover as Duncan vaults himself over the top rope and nails his cousin with a big plancha dive! The Barnacles look on as the mercurial Duncan waits for Andrew to rise before leaping over him and smashing his head back to the canvas with a big flying head snap, then moves in close to his disoriented cousin and drops a knee across his head. Duncan backs off, as the furious Andrew springs to his feet, looks daggers at Duncan, and calls for a lockup. Duncan steps in, and immediately drives a shoulder low into Andrew's abdomen, and charges him across the ring into a corner! Andrew's body rocks from the impact against the turnbuckles, but the quick-thinking elder catches Duncan off-guard and quickly locks him into a full nelson!] AM: Nice run, boy, but ye've got t' be quicker than tha', aye! [Without a word, Duncan suddenly snaps himself up into the air, his muscular legs pointing straight up at the ceiling as he bends at the waist in the clutches of the full nelson. Andrew looks genuinely confused, as this manoeuvre is not one he has taught his cousin, and he struggles to bear down on the hold with more power. Before he can muster the added strength, though, Duncan's hands suddenly clutch the back of Andrew's head, and he whips his legs down hard, the centrifugal force of the move pulling Andrew down with Duncan, and as Duncan's legs hit the mat, the force drives Andrew's chin hard into the top of Duncan's head! The modified jawbreaker snaps Andrew's head back, and he lets go of the hold, fighting to keep his balance as vertigo suddenly washes over him. Duncan scrambles out of the corner, measures his stunned cousin, and charges, nailing Andrew across the chest with a big clothesline and sending him tumbling over the top rope! Duncan steps to the ropes, and looks down at his cousin, who is lying on his back, still rubbing at his chin.] DM: Was THA' quick enough fer ye, cuz? AM: [grunting] Aye... _this_ time. 'Bout time ye got one in on me, after I've been throwin' ye o'er th' top fer th' past week. An' then ye went an' fell asleep on me halfway through tha' session -- wha' th' Jaysis was goin' through yuir skull while I was puttin' th' beatdoon on ye? DM: I was thinkin' about wha' it takes t' be th' IIWF World Champ... all th' greats who've held tha' strap... Hardin, Verhoeven, Thunder, Kowalski, an' on an' an... an' they're all goin' t' be there in tha' battle royal. All of 'em. They're goin' t' make Calgary look like a bleedin' kindergarten, wha'. AM: Worries ye a wee bit, does it no'? DM: [pause] Aye. It does. 'Tis a lot t'bite off in one sittin'. AM: Well, tha's guid, Duncan. Ye _should_ be worried. If ye weren't, I'd hae given ye th' back o' me hand! [Andrew stands up and climbs back into the ring, his iron-gray eyes meeting his cousin's jade-greens, and he speaks with the tone of a schoolmaster.] AM: Let me tell ye somethin', cuz... th' men ye're goin' t' be in tha' ring with are th' most dangerous men in th' game, bar none. An' anyone who says 'e's NO' worried aboot gettin' in a ring wi' twenty-nine men like tha' might as well no' even bother showin' oop, cause they'll no' be lang fer tha' match, I promise ye! Ye've got t' RESPECT every single man in tha' ring wi' ye -- 'cause they're th' best o' th' best, an' they all want th' same thing -- th' last IIWF World Title. An' if ye want tha' strap, ye've got t' prove ye DESERVE it, cuz. Ye've got t' prove ye want it more than anybody oot there. DM: Bit o' a tall order, Drew. We're talkin' about Hardin, Verhoeven, Creed... we're talkin' about _legends_. AM: [bristling] We're talkin' about MEN! Men tha' can be BEATEN! Ye beat Verhoeven before, ye had Creed dead t' rights before Byron stuck 'is toffee-nose in t' th' match, an' ye impressed th' hell oot o' Jay Dubba 'cause 'e needed a bleedin' brandin' iron t' help put ye away! An' might I add, Serge Annis is th' champ righ' now, an' ye BEAT 'im in Calgary, in a battle royal jus' like this one! Sae dinnae ye get yuir heid all caught oop wi' this notion o' "legends", boy. Legends are _men_. Legends can be beaten. An' if you turn th' trick o' walkin' oot o' this arena on August 1st wi' tha' shiny IIWF World Heavyweight Title strapped 'round yuir waist... There'll be one more legend walkin' round th' sport o' wrestlin'. YUIRS. [Duncan lowers his head, pondering on this, as Andrew takes his hand away from his sore chin and places it on his young cousin's shoulder.] AM: Ye keep yuir heid aboot ye, an' wrestle smart like ye jus' showed ye can, an' don't go gettin' star-struck in there, an' th' prize will be yuirs, Duncan. 'Cause in all me days in this game, I've ne'er seen a scrapper like ye. Ye don't back doon, an' ye don't quit. I ken ye want tha' belt, like ye want oxygen, I'll wager. [Duncan doesn't look up, but he chuckles.] AM: But wantin' it's no' enough. Ye're goin' t' have t' work yuir ARSE off t' get it. Are ye ready t' do tha'? [Duncan looks up at his cousin, and the fiery, glinting gleam in his emerald eyes speaks volumes for the young Scot, as he takes a deep breath and draws himself up to his full height, standing defiantly before the elder Macbeth.] DM: I'm ready t' kick th' piss oot o' YE one more time, auld man! [Andrew grins, and holds out his hand to his young cousin, who accepts it eagerly. Andrew immediately drives a big boot into Duncan's midsection, sending the air barking out of his lungs.] AM: First thing yuir goin t' have t' do t' prepare yuirself fer this match, Duncan... ...is get used t' PAIN. Let's go, tosser! [Andrew and Duncan begin brawling in the centre of the ring, as unnoticed by the cousins, the Barnacle Brothers make their way up the aisle and sneak out of the Coliseum. The camera slowly pans up from the ring, past the score-clock that shows the time at 1:26 A.M., and finally comes to rest on a broad, colourful banner that simply reads: IIWF FOREVER The two cousins continue to battle in the ring below, the sounds of their struggles echoing throughout the empty arena as the scene slowly fades to black. Cut back to the studio.] TD: The work ethic of young Duncan Macbeth is simply second to none, Steve Roberts. Macbeth is a thoroughbred athlete, and he's not a man to bet against in a battle royal situation -- it was his sheer drive and desire that netted him the victory in the Intercontinental Championship battle royal last year, and I believe he has the tools to make a very strong showing in this event. SR: I still don't understand a word those guys say, Dross. What the heck were they talking about? TD: They were talking about the event the whole world is talking about, Steve Roberts. The Eternal Rumble is on the lips of wrestling fans -- and wrestlers themselves -- everywhere... but for one man, the match has a different significance. I'm talking about the current IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, the man who will be entrant #30 in the battle royal... let's hear from Serge Annis: [The camera slowly fades in from black, to a bright shot of the sun. There are few clouds in the sky, which itself is painted a royal blue. Several ducks can be seen flying high in the sky, almost seemingly disappearing into the sun. The camera begins to pan down from the sky, to reveal the green tops of trees in the background. Raising high with the treetops is the steeple of an old, run-down church. What is left of a broken oil glass painting mounted below the cross atop the steeple, glistens under the sunlight. The church itself is small. There are two doors, which form the entrance, but the church is so weather torn and run down, one of the doors has been pulled off its hinges, and lays flat on the small steps in front of it. A very sloppy rendition of the famous song "Chopsticks" can be heard playing on an old-fashioned sounding organ, coming from inside. The camera starts to pan inside, and quickly fades. The camera fades back up, and we are inside the church now, where things look more familiar. Five rows of wooden benches on each side of the main aisle, of which four are knocked over, broken, or rotting. At the front end of the desolate church are three steps up, leading to a platform where the altar is tipped over on its side, and split in two. Dozens upon dozens of old hymn books, Bibles and other assorted religious reading material are spread all over the floor. A small spiral staircase is set up in the left corner, leading up to a door, which has long since been ripped, or worn, off its hinges. A beam of sunlight flows into the church via the broken stain glass window, and lightens up the very front of the church where an old organ lies. An ominous figure sits with his back turned to the camera, and is playing the uncoordinated version of chopsticks. The man is the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, Serge Annis, as apparent by the visible scars that lie across the back of his neck, and on his meaty shoulders and forearms. Annis is dressed in a simple pair black jeans, and a black sleeveless shirt. His short brown hair is wet, and a pair of rims can be seen resting on his ears, that belong to a pair of wire rim sunglasses. Annis stops playing the tune, and speaks out, his voice echoing through the abandoned church. SA: Saturday... August 1st... is the one event so big... that it would draw many men who have been hiding in seclusion, away from society... away from the spotlight... away from the IIWF... it is the one event that would draw these men out, and back for one last show. [Serge slowly turns his head back, to look at the camera.] SA: Many of these men have forever etched their names in wrestling's hall of fame. Some will go down as legends of the sport. And others... others will compete for a chance to rise up from mediocrity, and attempt to walk out of IIWF Forever with a stunning blaze of glory. [Serge turns his attention back to the keys, although he doesn't play.] SA: Perhaps... just about everyone is looking at IIWF Forever with anxious eyes and endless breath. Except me. "IIWF Forever... where Serge Annis surrenders over the IIWF World... Heavyweight... championship." [With each breath, more hints of anger rest under his breath.] Surrender. Almost as if I stole it to begin with. But I didn't. I earned it. And if anything, Serge Annis shall most definitely not surrender the heavyweight belt. [Serge rises up to his feet now, and turns to his side. His face turns more, to the camera.] SA: They want me to show up, drop the IIWF World title belt into Mr. Spreadbury's hands, and walk away from a World Title reign without a single title match to prove my worth as champion. Apparently beating Steve Kowalski wasn't enough. But I'm not going to get my chance... my chance will have to come, when I meet twenty nine other IIWF superstars in the big battle royal, with the winner walking out as IIWF World Heavyweight champion, for all eternity. Well, that's bull-[bleep] to me. [Serge slowly makes his way past some of the fallen books, walking towards the centre of the aisle.] SA: Don't I deserve anything better than that? Apparently not. After all, I am Serge Annis. [Serge makes it to the centre of the room, and turns around again, facing the camera.] SA: Then there's the big battle royal... A match which brings out the legends. The "names." When I look over the names, all that I can see is twenty nine victims. Victims of circumstance, for they all stand in my way. [Serge stops for a moment, and seemingly thinks for a second.] SA: The way I see it... this is my first... and only IIWF World Heavyweight championship defence. So you can bet, that Serge Annis shall enter that ring with fury and reason like none before. I shall not let any one of those legends... or anyone else stand in my way again. It took me over twenty months to do what I am going to do in the span of sixty minutes. And that is to go through these men one by one. Inch by inch. Victim by victim. [Serge stops speaking, and looks around the church. He slowly spins around once as his eyes explore his surroundings.] SA: All good things must come to a close they say. The final chapter must be written. Just like this old church... it is time for the IIWF to close down. What do you say to a federation that has had you break more bones than you would deem possible? How do you say goodbye to a federation that has drawn your blood as if it were the very life force of the foundations that built the IIWF Coliseum? How do you leave the IIWF with one blaze of glory that shall silence the critics, and stun the non-believers? [Serge starts to grin... an all too familiar grin which matches the one he made when he set the cage and ring on fire, with Mad Dog Watkins inside. The same one that he grinned when he turned on Gregg Osterhout's "Wrestle Clean" campaign. The same one he grinned when he had to wipe his own blood out of his eyes just to see... all this, is something he hasn't done for nearly two months. Serge removes his sunglasses, revealing his ice-blue eyes. The camera starts to zoom in on Serge...] SA: I know the answer... And when it's all said and done... that age old question... "Who is the damn man now?" ...heh heh... that's going to be answered. And like a fire burning straight from the flames of Hell, the winds shall forever cry out the name... Serge Annis. [The camera fades to black, as it zooms on the unstable eyes of the IIWF World Champion.] TD: One of the most remarkable things about this huge match is the unique opportunity to see how IIWF stars past and present compare. For every Duncan Macbeth in this match, we have a Don Antonio; for every Serge Annis, we have a Venusian Death Cell; for every Shadoe Rage, we have a Jack Haley -- and to see these men of different epochs together in the squared circle, battling it out for the greatest prize of them all... it's going to be quite unlike anything you've ever seen, folks. Let's hear from some of those "old generation" superstars, starting with the mysterious Venusian Death Cell. Young Steve Summer was sent on assignment to get words from the Jailer and his charge. Let's go to that footage: [SCENE: Inside a gymnasium. Steve Summer is wandering around, obviously looking for someone.] SS: You're absolutely _sure_ she said he was here? Why? This doesn't make sense! [Summer, evidently realising he's being filmed at this point, looks to he camera.] SS: Fans, I'm here inside the gymnasium of former IIWF superstar Jack Haley, now known as El Ultimo Haley. But I'm not looking for _him_, I'm trying to find The Jailer, manager of the Venusian Death Cell. When we went round to their castle earlier today, The Jailer wasn't there as expected, and the proverbial cat seemed to have got the VDC's tongue, so right now we're hunting for The Jailer, who we've been assured has travelled down here! And we don't know why! [Summer eventually stumbles across the man, who's dressed in long, dark clothing, covering his entire body, looking completely out of place in this environment. Summer taps him on the shoulder.] SS: Jailer? Steve Summer. IIWF reporter. [The Jailer just looks at him, blankly, then scours the gymnasium once more.] SS: We'd arranged to meet in your castle earlier? But you weren't there, and we were informed you'd travelled down here. [The Jailer looks at him again, warily.] TJ: By whom? SS: By... I forget her name. TJ: Her? SS: Yes... a lady inside the castle. Very pleasant. [The Jailer squints, then sighs heavily.] SS: You asked her not to tell? [The Jailer just looks at him like he's something he might find on the bottom of his shoe.] SS: I see. So may I enquire as to what you're doing down here? I mean, it's _miles_ from home! Surely with just over a week to go, you should be priming your man for the Eternal Rumble! [The Jailer gets in Summer's face.] TJ: Don't... tell... me... what... to... do... _ever_! SS: Sorry, sir. TJ: I hope you are... for your own sake. Don't you understand I own the body and soul of the most dangerous being on this planet? Do you realise that? Huh? SS: Yes, sir, sorry, sir. I'm just intrigued as to why you'd be _here_ of all places. TJ: Ask Mr Dross, lad... maybe he'll fill you in... and give you the details while he's at it. [The Jailer allows himself a snicker for his pains.] SS: Will do! But could I assume you're here to see Mr Haley? TJ: Assume whatever you like... but don't expect to be right. SS: You want him to help you train the VDC for the Rumble? TJ: No -- what's your name? SS: Steve Summer. TJ: Well, Summer, I suggest you give up now before you land yourself in some _very_ hot water. I'm here for reasons I'm not going to tell _you_, or anyone else, so either shut up of your own accord, or I'll have to shut you up myself. Which is it to be? [Summer turns and looks into the camera.] SS: I... I think we've got enough now guys. Portland here we come! [Fade out. Cut back to the studio.] TD: IIWF fans of very long standing will know, of course, about the bad blood that existed between the Venusian Death Cell and Jack Haley, then known as Blackjack Haley, but today known as the world's largest luchador, El Ultimo Haley. The VDC and Haley's feud stems from the very first IIWF event, Coronation Clash, where they wrestled to a brutal draw in the first round of the tournament to crown the first ever IIWF Champion. Now, more than two years later, the two men will meet again in an IIWF ring... and once again, the prize is the IIWF World Heavyweight title. SR: It's a small world after all, Dross ol' buddy. TD: That it is, Steve Roberts. Long-time fans will also remember that Jack Haley would often refuse to accept the visits of the IIWF's camera crews, and preferred to send missives to us here in Portland. Well, although his persona may change, Haley remains much the same in that sense -- and he has sent us a letter to be broadcast on the air here tonight. [Cut to a graphic of Haley's letter as Dross reads the text out loud:] "Haley 3:16: My a** is bigger than your a**. And I plan to use it when this vato loco runs wild all over the ring this weekend. A great big guy beats a good small guy 11 times out of ten. Ultimo Haley is the greatest of all time. Few words. Final Warning. IIWF unretirees, head back to your walkers, your nursing homes, your hospital beds caked with the odour of the dead and incontinent. Or I'll put you there myself. EL ULTIMO HALEY" [Cut back to a shot of the studio.] SR: I tell you, Dross -- a seven foot luchador. What a crazy idea. I can't wait to see Haley hitting Space Tiger Bombs and Tornado DDTs in that battle royal. TD: I have absolutely no idea what to expect when we see Haley for the first time in two years next weekend... but he's sure to find some support with the legions of IIWF fans on hand in the sold-out Coliseum. Haley's old stablemate, Flare, will also be on hand next Saturday night, hoping to get his first -- and last -- taste of IIWF gold. Let's hear from the dirtiest player in the game: [SCENE: The locker room of the Iron Den. Dim lights grace the once glorious room. Memories of the Horsemen haunt the cold air like a ghost. Flare, last of the Horsemen moves in silence while rummaging through the lockers. He turns to speak.] FLARE: The Eternal Rumble, a ring full of warriors with the zeal to fight. I have nothing but respect for them but... [Camera zooms in] ...Don't F@*K with me! That goes for EVERYBODY! I don't care who it is. Even if it's Haley, I'm going into this match with the attitude to kill! [slams a locker shut] Look into these eyes! You see that?! That's years of anger, rage, frustration and hate burning. Burning inside of me! At double I - W - F Forever I'm going to unleash that rage and spread that fire into the ring! I may have dropped the gimmick but I'M STILL THE DIRTIEST PLAYER IN THE GAME!!! So as a warning to EVERYONE, eliminate yourself or stay the hell out of my way because when I'm through, this PPV will be known as FLARE FOREVER! [Fade.] TD: Strong words from former leader of the Horsemen, Flare -- and I for one will be very interested to see how this man fares in the biggest match of his career. SR: What I want to know, Dross, is where the hell his valet has gone. Victoria Secret was always the best thing about Flare's matches. TD: I'm not sure Flare would appreciate that analysis, Steve Roberts. Before we leave discussion of the battle royal for tonight's show, let's hear from two members of the IIWF's current crop of superstars who have yet to taste gold, and for whom this is their last chance, beginning with the "Real Deal" Luke Steele. [Scene: a small-town coffee shop, somewhere in the heartland of America. As the scene opens, a down-to-earth good-looking waitress wipes down the countertop as a few of the locals can be seen in the background. The clatter of dishes, the sound of the jukebox, and the murmur of conversations are all mixed together to set the ambience. The whirr of the ceiling fan overhead completes the picture of tranquillity, until a bell rings out as the door opens. The camera catches sight of "The Real Deal" Luke Steele, walking into the restaurant. Luke wears a pair of khaki denim shorts with a white sleeveless denim shirt and a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses. Wrapped around the top of his head is a blue and red bandanna bearing the IIWF logo on it. Steele takes off his glasses and puts them in his pocket, looking around as two more people enter the shop, standing next to him. One is a gorgeous redhead wearing a short red skirt and a baby t-shirt that leaves her midriff bare, and the other is a muscular man a couple of inches shorter than Steele. He's wearing a pair of Adidas canvas shorts and a Nike mesh tank top. Steele finishes looking around, and walks up to the counter.] LS: Hello there, Miss. Waitress: What'll it be, Mac? LS: We're a little rushed for time, we'll take three cups of coffee, a couple of BLTs and a rib-eye steak sandwich. We've gotta be in Portland in a couple of days. Waitress: Portland, eh? You aren't going up for that rasslin' thing, are you? LS: Sure am, baby doll. As a matter of fact, I'm on the schedule. Waitress: No kidding? My father and brothers are into all that rasslin' stuff, but I never could see a use for it. After seeing you, maybe I'll change my tune about it. Do _you_ wear spandex tights? LS: [grinning ] I've been known to don the tights a few times. You'll have to tune in August 1st and check it out. It's the last show up there, you know. Waitress: Really? Why's that? LS: The suits are closing the doors. But I'll tell you, nobody knows how to go out with a bang then they do. Thirty guys in a ring trying to throw each other out of it, plus a bunch'a matches on the undercard. Waitress: What's at stake? Cash? LS: Nah, the chance to go down in history as the Eternal IIWF Champ. All thirty guys in there would give their right arm for the nod, and I'll be in the thick of things, dishing it out as best I can. Waitress: What makes you think you'll have a chance to win it, hun? LS: You aren't the first to ask that. My own partner over there [points to the muscular man sitting on the barstool with the redhead on his lap] himself wonders why I bother. It's something I feel I should do. I started out in Portland, and no matter where else I go to compete, it'll always be my first home. Last time I was up there I didn't exactly do myself justice, and I want to make up for it one last time. I've got no pipe dreams about winning the whole damn thing, I just want to send a message to the world that Luke Steele's potential in the IIWF didn't go wasted. Of course I intend to win the event, but my primary goal is just to give the fans one last thrill from the real deal. Waitress: Well, good luck, mister. Here's your order. [She hands him a bag with the order, as Luke opens his wallet and plunks down a wad of bills to take care of the order, and a little bit more.] LS: There you go, thanks for listening. Waitress: Fifty bucks tip? Wow, thank _you_, mister! [Steele pretends to tip his hat (imaginary, of course), grabs the bag and heads for the door, the other two following him. Fade to black.] TD: That brings us to the IIWF's other Steele, Jimmy "The Meatman." As you will remember, I travelled to Emeryville last week in search of him, and here is the second part of the video documentation of what I found. [Cut to footage of Tim Dross in leather gear and cowboy hat, ringing the bell on the front porch of a colonial style ranch house. The porch is a blend of western furnishings, hanging ferns, and wood carvings. Elsie Steele, 46, a stout but petite woman, answers the door. She wears a house dress and apron.] TD: Mrs. Steele, I'm Tim Dross. I'm with the IIWF, and I would like to interview your husband. ES: Well, he's in Washington right now, but if you'd like I have some shepherd's pie in the oven. IIWF: is that the television? TD: No, ma'am. It's a wrestling organisation. ES: Oh, no. He's done with that. That's no good. [Elsie Steele slams the door in Dross' face. Cut to footage of Tim Dross picking through a garbage can in front of the ranch house.] TD: My cameraman and I did notice some telltale clues in the trashcan outside. A pair of wrestling tights and a $500 pair of wrestling boots -- size 13 -- destined for the junkyard. [Cut to footage of The Meatman, in a Brooks Brother's suit, as he addresses the Senate on C-SPAN.] TD: I did, indeed catch Mr. Steele in front of a Senate finance committee while channel surfing in my hotel room. [The television screen shows Jimmy Steele making a speech to a packed conference hall.] JS: I'll never forget Terence Edwards tell me how his organs shut down one at a time and the Doctors didn't know what was wrong. All they knew was he got it from a hamburger. A hamburger. This here chart shows the E-coli epidermis as it spread over the course of a year. Not a decade. A year. TD: It turns out that Mr. Steele was appropriating a reinstatement of funds for the meat inspection arm of the U.S.D.A. [Shot of Tim Dross as he exits an elevator in an office building. He gasps and wheezes and waves his hand in front of his face. Cut back to the studio.] TD: I had the feeling I was just missing the Meatman. A hair's breadth behind him at every step. Next week, the bizarre, dramatic and... conclusive result of my investigation. SR: Aw, come on, Dross -- I gots to know now, buddy! Meat! Meat! Meat! TD: You'll just have to wait, Steve Roberts. Folks, this match is simply the biggest attraction this sport has ever seen. Thirty of the greatest athletes in all of professional wrestling will do battle for the most prestigious title there is: the chance of being the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion _forever_. We'll hear from more of the participants throughout the course of the evening, but where else can you see men like the Subway Psycho, Otto Verhoeven, Requiem, Brody Thunder, Steve "the Fury" Kowalski, Marty Warnett, "Enigma" Takezo Musashi, "Sychosys" Joe Petrow, Gunnar "Grizzly" Gaines, Caleb Temple, Deathbringer, Don Antonio, Shadoe Rage... the list goes on, folks. SR: Plus, of course, the mystery entrant, Dross. TD: Plus, of course, that mystery entrant. Care to enlighten us, Steve Roberts? SR: No way, Dross. But you won't believe your eyes. TD: I wait with bated breath, Steve Roberts. Ladies and gentlemen, there has never been a match like this... and you can only see it in the IIWF. It's the Eternal Rumble -- coming your way in just eight days, live on pay-per-view! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= LEGENDS MATCH: Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven vs. Subway Psycho vs. Deathbringer vs. "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: A wild elimination-style brawl between four of the greatest champions in the history of the IIWF -- that's the Legends Match, and what a match it promises to be. Three former IIWF World Heavyweight Champions, and one former Intercontinental Champion, in the ring together, duking it out until one man remains. We got comments from all four participants, so let's kick things off by hearing from the "People's Champion," the Subway Psycho: [SCENE: A dark tunnel. Light strains in from an above floor grating. The separate beams of light frame a dark figure...the Subway Psycho.] SP: Right above this dark service tunnel is the IIWF Coliseum. Right up through this grate is the place that is the closest thing I have to a home. The IIWF ring... the squared circle of the IIWF. A place of many a celebration and abomination. My blood and sweat is just as much a part of that ring as are the ropes or the canvas. So with one more opportunity to step back into that ring you have to believe that the Subway Psycho is taking IIWF Forever extremely seriously. Let's first talk about the word, "forever." Forever... that's how long the winner of the battle royal will be champion of the IIWF. No matter what becomes that man in the future, or what that man has done in the past, nobody will ever be able to take that honour from him. That is indeed a heavy load to carry on one man's shoulders... you see I see that honour as a privilege... not as a token for bragging rights. The man who is crowned IIWF's last Heavyweight Champion has to carry forth the IIWF's virtues into everything he does until the day he dies. Now I had a chance once to carry the torch for the IIWF. Without making any excuses, I'll tell you right now that I dropped the ball... I shot myself in the foot. I had the IIWF Title taken from me... and deservedly so. I tarnished what that title stood for once... I vow not to let that happen again. I know that after all is said and done that I am the very best the IIWF ever had and I will carry that belt with pride and honour for the rest of my days. I'm not the "People's Champion" for nothing... and the same qualities that earned me that title will help me prevail in IIWF Forever. It's been eating me alive ever since I was stripped... and I won't let this last chance to redeem myself pass. After I take care of Deathbringer, Verhoeven, and Quigley in the legends match I'm taking the gold. Serge Annis... I heard your belly-aching in last week's broadcast... let me tell you that I have absolutely no sympathy for you because the IIWF taking the belt from you... I've been there too. You only have to go through the battle royal to recapture the belt... I have to get through the Legends Match as well. [Fade.] TD: Folks say that the Psycho has lost a step or two since his glory days in the IIWF's first summer of love back in 1996, but I believe the "People's Champion" could surprise us all in this match, Steve Roberts. SR: He could give me a pleasant surprise and not show up, Dross. TD: Another man who has taken to the streets of Portland ahead of this huge match is Otto Verhoeven. Let's hear from the German Juggernaut now: [SCENE: Portland by night. It is one of the more distinguished areas of the town. Neon lights of the shops illuminate it. The street, wet from the too common rain, mirrors the colourful lights. A few passers-by walk on the sidewalk, past one giant-sized poster glued to one of buildings. On it we see a larger-than life IIWF World Heavyweight Title belt. The background is made up of thirty pictures of the participants in the Eternal Rumble. After a moment the camera zooms out again, revealing Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven standing only a few feet away from the advertisment. He is wearing a long black leather coat. The German glances at the camera, then looks back at the belt.] OV: The whole city of Portland is whipped into a frenzy by the last efforts of Spreadbury's PR department to make the Forever show the greatest success ever in the history of pro-wrestling. The radio plays the theme songs of the wrestlers, the newspapers boast editorials dealing with the influence the promotion had on the business as a whole and the TV stations broadcast one classic match after the other. A huge build-up even for IIWF standards and the people are anxiously awaiting it. But what about us? What about the wrestlers? [It's starting to rain again, but Verhoeven does not move, doesn't even seem to be aware of it as the drops fall down on his head.] OV: Most are dreading the day, the final day of the "Double Eye".... the last few moments. Most of us have different reasons. Some are just sorry that their big money contracts are null and void after Spreadbury closes shop. Others fear the future, being afraid that they find no other place to shine, or that anywhere else their firmly cemented status, the security of the familiar, is gone. A few, like me, dread that day because it marks our last chance to hold the IIWF World title in our hands, the very last, final chance. [He sighs.] OV: Make no mistake, I have few illusions about winning the Eternal Rumble. Matches like that are the most unpredictable in this sport. You can be as good as you want... you can be the best... but to come out on top in a thirty men rumble you need only one thing.... Fate. Ever since that day in 1996, when Kauffman stole that belt from me, I hungered after it. The biggest trophy, ultimate prize... it had slipped all too soon from my grasp and I never got it back. I had two chances, first against Requiem and then Brody Thunder. Twice I failed. Perhaps some of you remember that the Masked Outlaw... was it James or Hardin that night... destroyed what should have been my biggest triumph. Genesis' leader was already a broken heap when... [He makes a sweeping gesture with his left hand.] OV: But this is not the place to talk about old wounds like that. The Eternal Rumble... one more shot at the gold... one last time within reach of destiny.... one final chance to sit down in the throne... forever. [He turns around to face the camera. The rain is pouring down now and the water running down Otto's face give the Butcher a somewhat intimidating, psychotic appearance. He starts to walk away from the advertisement, the camera moving backwards in front of him.] OV: I know that I am not the only one clinging to the hope of the final victory. Luke Steele, Ronnie Paris, Marty Warnett, Tim Turner... they never held it in their hands, never tasted the feeling of superiority, the surge, the rush of adrenaline that comes when Sparkplug Lee declares you to be the Heavyweight Champion of the World. They are hungry for it, willing to prove that in all the time they worked in the IIWF they would have been worthy champions. Don Antonio, Flare, the Venusian Death Cell and others have returned from oblivion to particpate one more time... trying to make the people forget that, ultimately, they were all failures, their careers more blunder than bliss, more frustration than triumph. Their place in this is that of fodder for the predators, like myself. There will be many more, past champions and top class fighters like Thunder and, perhaps, Kowalski... and there will be those who I long to face one more time, to grind their heads once again under my boot... Creed, Starks, Annis... The Eternal Rumble will be a memorable one, that much is guaranteed. If you think that Otto Verhoeven has come to be just another filler, just another name on a list of returners who are contend with even appearing on last IIWF card... think again. Germany's premium athlete knows when he sees an opportunity and I shall be damned if I do not everything in my power to come out on top in this last, this decisive battle. [He wipes some of the rain out of his face.] OV: And the Legends match? None of the participants has changed. Deathbringer is still up to his smoke and mirror tricks, trying to intimidate children with his talk about death, doom and demise. Perhaps that night I should rip away that mask from his face... The Subway Psycho is still too simple-minded to argue with, his mind never really living up to his in-ring skills. The 'goons' I hired to 'take him out' as he put, were friends of mine. Ja, we tried to cripple him... but they didn't appear until _after_ the match, _after_ I had defeated him in the middle of the ring... [he claps his hands three times] one, two, three, in front of thousands of my people in Berlin. Then my friends and me punished him for his role in the night they stole the title from me. I never forgot that. It was after that, I lost in his speciality match, which did not have that much to do with wrestling, but that is a different story. We even had a third fight the Psycho never managed. I guess he does not want to remember that loss, either, which won me one hundred thousand dollars. You are pathetic, Psycho, the most miserable champion this promotion ever had to endure and once the bell rings on August 1st the idea of you being a legend will be erased... by me. [Verhoeven stops again, glaring at the camera now.] OV: Chris Quigley is still the same whiner he always was, blaming the world for his failures. Was there ever not an illegal hold responsible for his loss, an interfering enemy, an incompetent referee... or a loss in the family? Quigley, one of these days you will run out of excuses. When you look into the mirror on that day, you will see what you really are. A nobody. [Fade to black as Verhoeven walks out of the shot without another word, without even acknowledging the camera one final time.] TD: Otto Verhoeven, as usual, refusing to pull any punches in his commentary about his three opponents in this match. Another man who isn't pulling any punches concerning his involvement in this huge pay-per-view is the man we last saw after Snow Brawl, "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley. Let's go to his comments: [SCENE: A dark apartment. It appears somewhat similar, as if we've seen it before. The camera pans around the walls, where we might have once seen pictures of past glory, newspaper clippings, small little ego trips, perhaps used as some sort of daily affirmation. In the background we see an empty wooden shelf, perhaps once used to showcase a variety of trophies, medals, championship belts. Now... nothing. Maybe it was nothing back then as well... it just _looked_ like something. In the centre of the room, a figure sits, on a solitary wooden chair. A guitar in his arms, his face not looking up to meet the camera. But it's obviously who it is. And amidst a mild grazing of the strings, Chris Quigley speaks.] CQ: Everyone's got their answers. Except nobody is asking themselves the right questions. [Pause.] CQ: According to the waste of oxygen known as Steve Roberts, I've come back, my tail tucked firmly between my legs. Y'know, Roberts... you may be right, for once. Why did I come back anyway? Yeah, I'm showing "great character". Everyone's gonna be giving me hell, but I simply brush it aside and focus on the match, right? Yeah... well of course. Name me one time I ever appeared in the IIWF that I didn't get hell from everyone within a five-mile radius. I guess I've developed a thick skin... or a thick skull. One of the two, anyway. [He starts quietly strumming a different tune on the guitar.] CQ: I don't care what people say. I don't care what people think. The only reason I returned for this little farewell party was to get a final crack at redemption. I'm sure everyone knows the history between me and the elusive prize. Injuries, screwjobs, and at times, I just wasn't good enough. Yeah, it's definitely no secret what my main objective for coming back here one last time is. You'd hafta be an idiot _not_ to know. But I've got two other goals... secondary goals, if you will, that I wanna achieve on this night called IIWF Forever. These two... they ain't so obvious. So I'll just keep 'em to myself. They're really none of your business. [He plays a few final chords and then puts the guitar in the black case at his feet.] CQ: I've got a lot of people questioning my motivation. Hell, I myself have questioned my motivation many, many times. I know it's not money. I used to think it was respect, but then I realised that I couldn't care less what the masses really thought of me, as long as I could respect myself. Then I proved that theory wrong when I lost at Snow Brawl, and lost all respect for myself as well. Yeah, before the match... tragedy. And while I was in that Tree of Woe, I decided that I'd had enough, that I'd better spend sometime with what I had left before she too, would be taken from me. I don't make too many mistakes in the ring, but that was the biggest one of my career. No longer was she the only one left that I could count on... she turned into the girl who cost me everything. I left her. I left my entire life. And I've never been happier. [Quigley glances up at the camera for a second, with a cold, glassy glare.] CQ: So what is it that makes me tick? Desire to be the best? Maybe that's it. But then again, Snow Brawl shoots that theory down the drain as well. In all honesty, I don't have a clue why I do what I do. I don't know why I want to win as bad as I do. The only thing I know, is that I just _do_. I could sing the same song and dance that I've always sung in the past... y'know the one. Nothing is gonna stop me. Nobody is better than me. That's the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. [Takes a deep breath.] CQ: But I'm not gonna. [Pause.] CQ: For all I know, I'll go into that Legends match, get chokeslammed by Verhoeven again and lose five seconds in. [He shrugs.] CQ: For all I know, I'll go into that battle royal, no matter what number I draw, and get tossed out before the next guy even comes in. But on the other side of things... [Looks up.] CQ: For all I know, I'll go into that Legends match, wrestle flawlessly, and beat Otto Verhoeven, beat The Subway Psycho, and beat Deathbringer and be crowned as an official IIWF legend. [He nods his head.] CQ: For all I know, I'll go into that battle royal, no matter what number I draw, and toss out every other person in that ring, and keep throwing out every guy that comes down that aisle until there's nothing left in that ring but me and the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship belt. [Quigley stands up now, and walks around the dingy room.] CQ: Then again... for all I know, I'll be involved in an accident on my way to the arena, and never even make it to the event. Life's kinda funny like that, huh? [Shakes his head.] CQ: Imagine... me winning the IIWF World Title belt. That _would_ be funny. [Turns his back to the camera and stares out the only window in the room.] CQ: Hey, I know _I'd_ laugh. [While one ponders exactly what he meant by _that_, and while one hopes for maybe a bit of an elaboration, the scene ends. Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Chris Quigley has faced criticism his whole career: when he arrived in the IIWF, he was criticised for boasting about his successes elsewhere; when he left, he was accused of chickening out; and now that he is set to return for one last appearance, he is in the firing line yet again. SR: Quitley's time has come and gone, Dross. The sooner he realises that, the better. There's always an excuse for everything that goes wrong... and it's never his fault. TD: IIWF Forever is perhaps Quigley's shot at redemption, Steve Roberts, in his own eyes, and perhaps in the eyes of his peers. Let's get comments from the fourth participant in this match, the dark destroyer himself, former IIWF World Champion, Deathbringer: [SCENE: The mortuary. Deathbringer is standing all alone within the stone built building, the walls of which are lighted by a couple of burning torches. The caskets that used to stand all across the hall have obviously been removed, just like the old wooden table behind which the Dark Destroyer often stood during his flashes. The door in the rear wall stands wide open, but no red light emerges from there. Two shelves are still hanging at the wall, on top of one of which lies a violin. The old wooden door in the left wall which functions as an entrance to the mortuary is open as well, and two tall men are currently trying to carry the last casket through the narrow opening. Deathbringer looks at them and walks around. It seems as if he doesn't know what to do in the empty building, but as the camera moves closer, Deathbringer turns around towards it, comes to a halt and begins to speak in his low, growling voice] DB: And so it all comes to an end... You know, during the last couple of days I got several invitations to different leagues all around the world. They all want to call the Reaper himself their own. [Deathbringer raises his hands and again begins to wander around through the mortuary] DB: This has been my home for more than two years... [he lowers his hands again] and it is indeed a hard decision the leave this place once and for all. But I have got to continue on my path, my war is far from being over. And so I will settle down somewhere else from where I will let you feel the power that lies buried within my mortal shell. But enough of that, mortals, you certainly want me to say a word or two about my upcoming matches at IIWF Forever... First, I see the Eternal Rumble, the winner of which will become the IIWF world heavyweight champion forever. Who could be a more deserving winner than me, I wonder? Who else could be able to really _be_ a champion _forever_? Who else but the immortal one? After the last PPV I was one of the top contenders to the belt. I was certain to be the next IIWF champion, but then... [A pause in which Deathbringer comes to halt] Serge Annis complains about losing the title without the chance to defend it even a single time... and I on the other hand could complain about not getting a single chance to win that belt from him. But I do not complain... On August 1st, 1998, I will once again write history here in the IIWF... a final time... I will be the last man, the last creature, standing within that squared circle, and I will be the man, the creature, whom everyone looks at as the last, the true, the one and only IIWF world heavyweight champion... FOREVER... The field is a strong one... many foes from the past will be there, all desperately trying to hold their own against the Dark Destroyer himself. But, mortals, this time you have no chance to survive... This time, after August 1st 1998, there will be no tomorrow. A final battle... no excuses afterwards... no need to justify your actions... just the regret and remorse of having shown too much mercy within that rumble... Believe me, mortals... on August 1st, 1998, you will learn that I _never_ knew the true meaning of this despicable word... _MERCY_... [Deathbringer turns around and walks towards the old wooden door which leads to the graveyard. Just as he is about to leave the mortuary, the two tall men enter it. They head towards the shelves and Deathbringer looks after them.] DB: Farewell, you my home... We have been through some good and troubled times, and I am now letting you down by leaving this league... I am sure you will understand this... and forgive me... [Deathbringer stares into the emptiness of the mortuary for what seems to be an eternity, before finally turning around and leaving the hall. The camera follows him and reveals the graveyard, which is enlighted slightly by the full moon that is hanging deep above this place] DB: A place of peace, a place of freedom. A place which I never had left on my own. Now history forces me to do so... Fate... how cruel you are... [Deathbringer passes dozens of graves and crypts and finally reaches a bridge which leads over a small river. On top of it Deathbringer comes to a halt and looks down to the running water] DB: Another match is going to take place on August 1st, 1998... Another match, pitting the Dark Destroyer against three of the greatest IIWF champions of all time... I know each and everyone of you... I know I can defeat any of you on any day... but I also know that any of you can defeat me on any other day... perhaps not by fair means... but in the IIWF fairness never was a winning factor. Subway Psycho... I remember you as the one who first managed to cleanly pin my shoulders to the mat here in the IIWF. I never forgot that day, and many nights I stood right here on top of this bridge and wondered about what made me lose in this match... My conclusion? Well, Psycho, some say you were the better technician, some say you were the better brawler... but I say I just underestimated you... Face it, Psycho, you are no match for me, and without any outside interference, without any underestimation, without any unfair tricks you will not again beat me like you did back in those days. Otto Verhoeven... The Butcher... You are one big man, granted. You are one of the strongest wrestlers I have ever faced, granted. You scored a victory about me in that infamous Casket Match, granted... But did you ever defeat me? Did _YOU_ ever defeat _ME_? Be honest to yourself, Verhoeven, until the Outlaw J.W. Hardin blindsided me in that night, until he hit me with that steel chair, I was in control of the match. And that despite the fact that you were not even supposed to be my opponent on that night... You, Verhoeven, are no match for me, and you know it. Just keep on talking about revealing my mortality on August 1st... But as I see it right now, I will be revealing _yours_ on that day... Chris Quigley... I never cared about you, but it seemed as if you cared about me... Until today I wonder why. Probably I would never have taken notice of you whatsoever, had it not been for that despicable attack during my title match against Dan Kauffman, a match which I controlled from the very beginning. You stole my chance to become a two time IIWF world heavyweight champion on that night... and on August 1st, I will make you pay for it... dearly... [Deathbringer stops staring down into the dark water and continues to walk across his graveyard. After a while, he comes to an old, rusty gate, which he opens. After leaving the graveyard, he takes a last long look back towards it and then slowly closes the gate. Still holding the gate's handle in his left hand, he lowers his head and says] DB: The end of all days comes closer... I have to leave all of this behind... just to build up a new existence... no... this is not the end, it is a new beginning... [Deathbringer turns around and walks in the dark forest which lies behind the gate. Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Don't forget, folks, all four men will be legal in the ring at all times, with elimination coming by pinfall, submission, disqualification, and countout. When the dust clears, just one man will remain... and that man may truly lay claim to the title of "legend." Only on pay-per-view, in just eight days! SR: Shill, Dross, shill. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= LAST MAN STANDING MATCH: "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder vs. "Playboy" Ronnie D SPECIAL GUEST REFEREE: Steve "the Fury" Kowalski =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: The history between Brody Thunder and the "Playboy" Ronnie D is common knowledge, and this rivalry is set to explode for the final time at IIWF Forever as arguably the greatest IIWF World Heavyweight Champion of all time... SR: ...will be the guest referee for a match between the cowpoke and a punk kid who knows as much about wrestling as a Twinkie. TD: Well, Steve Roberts, both Brody Thunder and Steve "the Fury" Kowalski could lay claim to the title of being the greatest World Champion ever... and both men will be involved in this match. Indeed, the "Last Man Standing" rules are highly dangerous, and both Thunder and Ronnie D will be essentially putting their careers -- if not their lives -- in the hands of the special guest referee. SR: Just the way we likes it, baby dolls. Kowalski can rid the world of Thunder and that moron Ronnie D in one fell swoop. TD: Let's just recap the rules of this match: there will be no pinfalls, no submissions, no countouts, and no disqualifications. The only way for this match to end is for one man to fail to answer the referee's ten count. If one man is unable to rise to his feet before Steve Kowalski completes his ten count... then it will literally be the Last Man Standing who comes out victorious. SR: And this one could go all over, Dross! It could go through the fans, into the basement... heck, even out into the streets of downtown Portland. TD: Absolutely, Steve Roberts. This is a match in which there is but one rule: survive. Let's hear from both competitors, starting with the "Lone Wolf" himself. [Cut to videotape footage of Crusher Kreel nailing the "Crush-plex" on the ZWA world champion Adrian Starr. The referee slaps the mat for three and Kreel has become the new ZWA World Heavyweight champion. The footage goes to freeze-frame with a shot of the bloody Kreel holding the world title aloft in the air. The shot miniaturises into a screen graphic and zips into its spot on the screen behind "This Week in Wrestling" anchor Peter Brande's right shoulder.] PB: And that's how Crusher Kreel took the gold from Adrian Starr last Sunday night in Dothan, Alabama. Kreel's first opponent as champion? [The picture graphic fades into a headshot of a smiling blond-haired man.] That's right...Kreel's former tag team partner "Handsome" Billy Golden. They're set to meet on July 25th at the Fairgrounds in Knoxville, Tennessee. Tickets are on sale through the Fairgrounds box office and TicketStarz. [The picture fades out as the words "SPOTLIGHT IV" takes its place.] Well, fans, you know we try and bring you the biggest and brightest stars of pro wrestling each and every week in our Spotlight IV segment and this week's no exception. Our guest this week has been a world class champion throughout the globe. He's held numerous regional and world titles. He's won awards and has been acknowledged as one of the sport's true legends. Please welcome our Spotlight IV guest tonight... the one and only... ..."Superstar" Shado Knight!!! [The camera cuts to a shot of the entrance curtains. The jarring sounds of Bruce Springsteen's"Born in the USA" begin blaring over the set's sound system. Some rhythmic clapping begins as the live audience anticipates the arrival of one of wrestling's greats. A few seconds tick by with no sign of the "Superstar". The clapping drops off as the music fades, prompting Brande to shrug his shoulders on camera in confusion.] PB: Ladies and gentlemen... "Superstar" Shado Knight!!! [Again the music begins, the crowd pops huge and still no sign of Knight. Then suddenly the curtains burst open and out steps...] PB: Brody Thunder?! But...you're not supposed to...what happened to...? [Thunder walks over to the specially-designed dual desk usually used for the IV segment. He's wearing a worn black Stetson hat, a faded blue denim jacket and jeans and a weathered pair of Lucasi's finest bootwear. His shoulder-length ratty hair sneaks out from under his hat. A black eyepatch is fixed firmly in place over his left eye. He moves the chair out from the desk and then sits down. A confused Peter Brande gathers himself but before he can speak again he's cut off abruptly by the Arizona native.] BT: Ah... Mr Knight... will not be joinin' ya this evenin'. PB: Well where is he? BT: Damndest thing... left out the back mumblin' sumthin' 'bout a dentist appointment or sumthin'. Told'im I'd step in fer him. I figger ya wouldn't mind. PB: Okay...well...I...uh,...I don't have any questions prepared for... [Thunder cuts him right off.] BT: Good. I ain't here ta listen ta yer flamin' piehole. I'm here because I know ya got some big ratings thing with this show. That means a lot o'folks sit an' listen to ya prattle on while they suck on their supper. That means a lot o'folks are gonna get my message. If yer smart, Brande... you'll be a good l'il announcer boy an' keep yer mouth shut 'til I'm finished. We on the same page, hoss? [A caustic Brande fixes his tie with a look of contempt.] There are three reasons why I'm here. One... contrary to what the boob tube an' rag sheets say... I _ain't_ retired. Where I've been an' what I've done is my business an' mine alone. I ain't gotta answer ta no one 'cept the Almighty himself an' last I checked... his plane ain't landed. The truth is... I ain't _back_. I never _left_. An' now there's this final bash bein' put on by the IIWF. Y'know what I'm talkin' about? [Thunder casts a disturbing glare at Brande, who quickly averts his eyes from the Arizona native and begins to answer.] PB: Well...yes...I do...and we're scheduled to talk about it later on in the show as a matter of... [Brande's sentence is cut off by the booming voice of Lone Wolf.] BT: Change o'plans, ace... we're gonna talk 'bout it _now_. [Brande adjusts his tie and appears to bite his tongue for fear of further incurring Thunder's ire.] Y'see the second thing I came out here fer...is the IIWF World title battle royal. Heard President Spreadbury claim the winner is declared as the IIWF World champion..._ferever_. Ferever's a mighty looooong time. The money an' prestige that strap'll bring is somethin' worth scrappin' over an'that's jus'what's gonna happen in three weeks. Twenty-eight o'the toughest bastards in this business...an' one "mystery guest". Some o'them I faced,some I haven't. They're all goin' ta Portland fer one thing an' one thing only. Ta win that ten pounds o'gold an' be declared the IIWF's best...ferever. Well, them twenty-nine men... they're all gonna _leave_ Portland with one thing an' one thing only. Disappointment. 'Cuz as God is my witness...I'm gonna fulfill my destiny o'bein' the best there is in this sport today bar none. Whether I have ta drag twenty nine sorely kicked carcasses over that top rope one by one or whether they beat the livin' tar outta each other, I don't really give a damn. But in the end two things are gonna be true that ain't true now. One...there's gonna be one _helluva_ fight...an' two... I _will_ walk out o'that ring the final IIWF World champion. PB: Well, there you have it wrestling fa... [Cut to a closeup shot of Brande, smiling nervously, as he tries to regain his composure.] BT: Get that flamin' cam'ra back on me, punk... [The camera spins wildly to the right, focusing back in on the now obviously quite agitated Brody Thunder.] ...'less ya want a size twelve upside yer ugly squash. I said I had _three_ things on my mind... Jeezus,Brande... ya better take a math refresher... an' a breath freshener while yer at it. The third thing is a personal issue. A _very_ personal issue. I happen ta know this li'l show is watched by millions. Well there's only one man in yer audience I want ta send a personal message to. An' his name... ...is "Playboy" Ronnie D. [A collective gasp emerges from the studio audience.] For those o' you who chose ta live in a flamin' cave fer the last year... lemme jus' say... "D" an' me... we don't much get along. I've broken his leg... he's busted my nose and gave me a concussion. I busted him open... he nearly carved out my eye, leavin' me with this li'l reminder. [Thunder points to his eyepatch.] Well now, August 1st we're fixin' ta go ta fist city one more time. An' 'D'...I know yer watchin'...so I wancha ta listen up real good, m'man. [The camera tightens in on the stoic Thunder's face.] We both know this is fer all the marbles. This ain't fer Spreadbury. This ain't fer the flamin' fans. This ain't fer money or belts. _This_? [A sly, devilish grin creeps across Thunder's face, then vanishes just as quickly, replaced once again by the steely stare.] Naw..._this_ is fer real. I heard ya run yer trap bout how ya "laid the smack down" on me. [Thunder grinds his teeth, calmly letting his anger seep through his expression.] Son, you don't know what smack _is_... yet. Ya bump yer gums 'bout carvin' up my eye. True enough, ya stuck me good. Hunnerd an' twenty-seven stitches an' the Docs still don't when or even _if_ the eye'll be back. But y'see... the way I look at things, ya didn't do the job by leavin' me with one bad eye... [Thunder squints real hard with his right eye.] ...ya made the mistake o'leavin' me with one good 'un. Ya rant on about me bein' too old... over the hill. What was the phrase you used? "You're too damn old to hang with me." Heh,heh.... well y'see "D"... ya missed my flamin' point. I don't wanna hang _with_ ya, son... I jus' wanna _hang_ ya. Make no bones 'bout it "D"... you an'me... we're ridin' a hellbound train onna rail o'pain, amigo. The trip ends August 1st... a Last Man Standin' match. [Thunder stuffs an unlit cigar into his mouth, absentmindedly still talking as he savours its aroma.] It ain't no wrestlin' match. It ain't no flamin' street-fight. It ain't no damned bunkhouse brawl. What it _is_... is a _fight_. Jus' you an'me. Toe-ta-toe... blow-fer-blow... 'til one o'us is ready ta be put under the sod, runt. [The Arizonan strikes a match and lights the stogie, sending pungent clouds of grey smoke swirling into the air surrounding Thunder's head. A quick reaction shot of Peter Brande shows him wrinkling his nose at the smell of the ignited tobacco. Back to Thunder as he watches the match slowly burn.] An' as fer Kowalski bein' the "special referee"... 'ski knows what bein' a man's about. We went ta war more'n once an' took each other's best as well as gave it. We fought through a hell o'wood an'steel an' when the dust cleared he got his hand raised. Takes a helluva man ta do that. I respect 'im. [Thunder abruptly blows out the match, staring past it into the camera.] That don't mean I _like_ 'im. Kowalski... my advice ta you, my friend... is ta call this thing down the middle. I don't give a tinker's damn what happens in our match on Aug. 1st... but when it comes time fer you ta make that ten count... ya better not get a memory lapse, ace. I ain't against knottin' yer squash again, believe me. [Thunder grabs Brande's coffee mug and deposits a few ashes into it. Brande summons up some courage and cuts Thunder off mid-sentence.] Now "D"... PB: This station has a strict policy against smoking on the set. [Thunder takes a step towards him and the mic catches Brande's next comments that are said almost under his breath and out of fear.] A policy which I personally feel is a violation of my civil rights. [Thunder returns back to his position and picks up his train of thought once more. With a puff of grey smoke Thunder begins again.] BT: Now "D"... ya might think yer better an' smarter an' tougher... an' I know ya think o' yerself as some "wrestling icon" or "marquee man"... then I must be the damned "marathon man"... 'cuz come August the first I'm gonna _run_ yer ass ragged from bell-to-bell an' straight through Hell, amigo... an' there ain't a flamin' thing on this godforsaken mudball that's gonna stop me from mailin' yer cocky lil ass back ta Canada in pieces, sport. So "Icon"... "Marquee Man"... "Sand Pounder"... whatever ya wanna believe ya are... whatever the hell ya _need_ ta believe ya are, in order ta drag yer arrogant hide ta the ring... well, junior, believe in it. 'Cuz in less than three weeks, I'm gonna give ya somethin' else ta believe in... Reality. An' while ya might be the man who beat me at the IIeW... an' ya might be the man who got his hand raised over me in the EMWC... an' ya might jus' be the man who thinks he's got my number... [A handheld camera slowly moves in on Thunder...closer...closer...] ...on August first...when that final bell rings...the one man you _won't_ be, runt... [The camera stops with a shot of just Thunder's eyes, patched and not, squinting hard into the lens.] ...is the _Last_..._Man_..._Standin'_. [Thunder's right hand then covers the lens, sending the picture into static. Cut back to the studio.] TD: A very determined Brody Thunder looking forward to his opportunity to get even with the "Playboy" -- who is showing remarkably little concern with his opponent. Rather than an interview this week, Ronnie D simply sent a product endorsement video which, in lieu of anything more suitable, we shall duly air: [The shot opens to a white screen. Pure white. In the background, a light samba beat accented with maracas starts. From the lower-right corner, a small black dot with legs starts shaking to the beat. It shimmies its way up to the top-left corner of the screen as two more dots-with-legs join it. They dance their way across the screen, soon joined by other dots. The samba beat increases in tempo and more and more dots join the dance. The screen quickly fills up as a rapid bongo solo plays. The screen is quickly enveloped in black. As the solo crescendos, in white writing, two words appear over the blackness: GOT CRABS? They are quickly replaced by the words: GET CRABBO. The light samba beat resumes as we cut to the interior of a club. People of all races dance and romance in the tropical setting, with grass and flowers lining the walls. Bamboo holds the grassy roof up. Suddenly, among the hustle and bustle, wearing a black suit with a red shirt and black tie, appears none other than the icon, the marquee man and the GOD of wrestling... "Playboy" Ronnie D. He speaks to the camera.] RD: As a porn star, and a frequent passer-by to the red light districts, I know quite a bit about venereal diseases. [Ronnie approaches the camera.] RD: You can get chlomedia, gonorrhoea, and many other NASTY illnesses that are hard to pronounce! But the one that really gets me is the one that's really easy to pronounce. Yes, you know what I'm talking about. They scratch and burn and bite... Crabs. [The camera shows a man at a urinal, scratching with fervour. We cut back to Ronnie.] RD: You scratch and scratch, and sometimes hump the wall, but NOTHING helps. Those little bastards have penetrated your pores and found a nice little home. [The shot shows one of the little black dots with legs hanging up a "Home Sweet Home" sign. Back to Ronnie.] RD: Your only option is to wait for them to die or try to find someone to share them with. [A young woman walks up to Ronnie.] WOMAN: Hey, cowboy! Wanna go for a ride? I go side-saddle and western. [She leers at him as he pushes her aside.] RD: Is there any relief? The answer is... Crabbo. [Ronnie removes a small tube, about the size of a toothpaste tube. It is blue in colour, with "CRABBO" written on it in white.] RD: Crabbo is a new, untested but probably safe crab removal product. Just a little dab'll do ya. [The shot shows a man, wracked with pain, squeezing some Crabbo on to his finger. He reaches down his pants, applies the Crabbo, and instantly, a broad smile crosses his face. Back to Ronnie.] RD: It works all the time, and best of all, after oral sex, it works as a great tasting, tartar-fighting toothpaste! [We switch to a shot of a woman brushing her teeth, holding up a tube of Crabbo.] RD: And, as an added bonus, it works as a superb lubricant! Now, you can stop chiggers before OR after sex! [The shot switches to a man mounting a woman. Quick cut back to Ronnie.] RD: Just remember... Got Crabs? Get Crabbo. [As Ronnie winks at the camera, holding up a tube of Crabbo, the camera fades on a tight shot of his face and the tube of Crabbo. Cut back to the studio.] SR: You know, Dross, I find it incredible that a guy who thinks of himself as some kind of icon can't even find the time to talk about the biggest match of his career. Now I'm no great fan of Thunder, but I'm gonna be rooting for the cowpoker to break Ronnie D's neck next Saturday night. Little punk. TD: Certainly Ronnie D is the epitome of confidence; he holds two victories over Brody Thunder, and has even cost him the sight of one eye in the process... but will the third time be the charm? Find out, live on pay-per-view, in just eight days! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= IIWF INTERCONTINENTAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: "Showstopper" Simon Lebec [c] vs. Tiger Claw =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: For afficionados of pure wrestling matches, this is the one they're waiting for. Current Intercontinental Champion Simon Lebec faces three-time former title-holder Tiger Claw in a real battle of IIWF veterans. Brian Lau, representing Claw, held a press conference earlier this week, and we sent our cameras along: [SCENE: The main training area of the Dojo, known as Syndicate headquarters. The heavy bags and weights... The ring and practice mats... The racks of boxing gloves and practice pads... They're all gone. In their place are rows and rows of chairs, and in front of those, a large table in front of a backdrop covered with IIWF and Syndicate logos. Reporters mull about the room, talking to each other, discussing whatever it is that reporters discuss. The atmosphere in the room suddenly changes, as though a switch were thrown, from a relaxed one to a very professional air. Flashbulbs start going off as photos are taken. Brian Lau and Tiger Claw make their way to the large table, and have a seat. Lau is dressed as usual in one of his fine suits. His hair is freshly cut and held back with gel. He smiles to the crowd of reporters as he repositions his microphone. Claw is dressed in training gear... A beat up pair of track pants and a black tank top. He looks completely uninterested in the entire production, simply looking around the room. No microphone sits in front of him. Lau leans forward, and begins to speak.] BL: Greetings, ladies and gentlemen of the press. I'm glad you could all make it. There was a time when the number of reporters who had seen the inside of this building could be counted on the fingers of one hand. It looks like those times have changed... Hey, I'm a progressive kind of guy, you know? [The reporters give one of those fake professional laughs that are usually given when someone at one of these press conferences gives one of those fake, professional jokes.] BL: Anyway, on to why I've called you all here. As you all probably know by now, the IIWF, an organisation that is an integral part of the history of the Syndicate, is closing its doors. In honour of this day, the IIWF is holding their final card, called IIWF Forever. On this card will be defences of every title, including the Intercontinental title. It is this defence that will involve my client. Champion Simon Lebec will face former three-time IIWF Intercontinental champion, Tiger Claw. Now, I know there are plenty of questions surrounding this match, specifically as far as the Syndicate is concerned, and I'd like to take the time to address those questions. Please, begin. [The reporters all leap forward like a pack of wild dogs to ask their questions. Lau picks a young female reporter for the first one.] R1: Mr. Lau, what about the rumours surrounding the relationship between the Syndicate and the IIWF? It has been said that you vowed that you'd never step into an IIWF event ever again. [Lau smiles, almost impressed with the woman's resources.] BL: I am aware of these rumours, however, at this time, I can neither substantiate or denounce them. I can say that at one time, yes, there were some... minor disagreements between myself and the IIWF administration, but those happened a long time ago. This is to be the last IIWF Intercontinental defence ever. It would be wrong of me to deprive the world of the chance to see the present champion put his skills to the test against the man many herald as the greatest IIWF IC champ of all time. Next question. [Claw doesn't seem to hear the words being spoken about him. In fact, he looks far less impressed with himself that Lau is with himself for dodging an issue in such a fine manner. The reporters scramble for Lau to notice them. Finally, he picks a middle-aged man with a pencil stuck behind his ear.] R2: Mr. Lau, many have felt that after the last loss of the Intercontinental title, Tiger Claw has been... well, a little aimless in competition. For the past year and a half or so, Claw has been out of the spotlight. Isn't this just kind of beating a dead horse? [Claw, again, seems to be completely oblivious to the question being asked, instead, examining his forearm.] BL: I'm glad you asked that, because it's something that comes up a lot. After Claw's last title reign, he started training Casey James for the world title. Because of this, competition had to take a back seat. After that was said and done, a few booking issues came up, and Claw ended up getting put on the back burner. It was an unforseen consequence of stepping out of the spotlight for such a short while, but Claw believes it was worth it. In the last few events Claw has been in, the reception towards him has gotten better and better, and his performance is nothing short of spectacular. Let's face it... This man is a former champ... [One quick reporter gets his question in.] R3: But is he? The style is different, the attitude is different... Is this really the same man who held that belt? [Lau listens for a moment, nodding his head.] BL: I think so. Claw thinks so. But who can be sure? Is the Claw of today the same Claw capable of holding that belt? Some people would say no. For those people, and, of course, for the reporters here today, I'd like to announce a public training demonstration next week right here in this room. As I said before, Claw has shown lately that he is a competitor not to be ignored, and you will see that at the demonstration. R3: But in these events, most of which have been tournaments, Claw has made an impressive showing in the first few rounds and then choked at a later time. Take the recent D-Cup. Claw made it to the finals and lost to J.W. Hardin. And then the EMWC Television Title tournament. He made it to the finals again and lost in what some view as an upset. It looks like Claw has a problem with the big show... The main event. [Claw still ignores the reporters, while Lau looks for a short while at the reporter.] BL: I assure you that Claw is not what some might call a "choker". It's just coincidence that these two events ended in similar fashion. In the D-Cup, for example, Claw met J.W. Hardin in the finals. J.W. Hardin. The man voted by many as the best wrestler in the world. Yet Claw held his own, and it was only by one well-placed move that Hardin took the victory. Ask Hardin himself, and he will tell you the match could just as easily gone to Claw. Hardin is a tough competitor, and there's no shame in losing to him. The EMWC TV Title tourney ended with interference. It's that simple. Claw was attacked by a rival group there. The two losses are completely unrelated. [The first reporter again stands up.] R1: What about the comments about the Syndicate being "Bush Leaguers" now? BL: Completely untrue. Any league the Syndicate is in becomes the big times, no matter where they stood before. Ask any administration who knows us what we've done to help their organisations. Even the IIWF at one time was a "bush league" according to many. It was stars like Tiger Claw and the rest of the Syndicate that brought the IIWF to the number one spot... Even before many of the names now recognised in the IIWF even arrived. If we were Bush Leaguers, we wouldn't be targeted immediately by the newcomers entering the sport. We're the guys to beat in order to make a name. It's that simple. R1: What if Simon Lebec beats Claw at IIWF Forever? BL: Well, then he'll have the distinction of winning one of the toughest title defences he could hope to ever have. It will not happen, though. What Claw wants, he gets... And he wants his belt back. [Another reporter comes forward, quickly blurting out a question...] R4: What about the Thailand thing? And the Asian thing? [Claw snickers quietly to himself, although whether or not it has anything to do with the question is unsure. Lau smiles briefly.] BL: Tiger Claw does make his residence in Thailand. Although he was born in Canada to two very Caucasian parents. The "Thailand thing" was a gimmick when Claw first entered the sport. It's not without precedent... I seem to recall hearing about a man who pretended to be Cuban for a gimmick when he actually wasn't. It happens in this business. It's the name of the game. R4: And the award? BL: The #1 Asian wrestler award? Well, like I said, Claw does live in Asia, so I guess in some way, he deserves it... Although something quite different comes to mind when the term "Asian" is used. But hey, appreciation is appreciation... I don't make a habit of questioning these things. [The crowd of reporters chuckles softly, and Lau takes the opportunity to wrap things up.] BL: Well, I believe that's all the time we've got for this thing. I'd like to thank you all for coming today, and I've appreciated answering your questions. I'm sorry that I wasn't able to address them all, but there will be an opportunity for more discussion at the public training demo next week. Until then, take care. [Lau and Claw both get up from their seats simultaneously, and the flash bulbs start oing off again... The photographers attempt a few "attention grabber" trick to get Claw to face them, but none of them seem to work. Claw is completely calm... In fact, it seems as if he's not aware of being in the room at all. Lau smiles to the photographers in an effort to make photo opportunities, although the cameramen don't seem as interested in capturing him on film. The two Syndicate members walk to a door near the edge of the backdrop behind the table, and walk through. Fade.] TD: Brian Lau may well be certain that there can only be one outcome to this match -- a victory for Tiger Claw -- but Simon Lebec clearly has plans to rain on the Syndicate's parade: [Camera opens to the scene of a backstage wrestling event. "The Showstopper" Simon Lebec sits in a chair, holding the IIWF Intercontinental Title in his hands. Lebec is wearing a "BALD MEN MAKE BAD CHAMPS" T-shirt] SL: Ya know, everybody is talking about The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of... the transition champ who is gonna pave the way for Tiger Claw's fourth reign as the IC Champion. Well, let me tell ya something Claw, it ain't gonna be that easy to pry this belt from around my waist. 'Cause all them years, we've been battling it out, I finally got the respect that I deserve. The respect of being a champion. [Lebec points to the belt] And though this is the end, my friend, I may go out as being called a lot of things. However, I fully plan on going out as the last IIWF Intercontinental Champion. [Lebec points to the belt again] Yeah, I know what you've done. I know that you've held it. I know all about your accomplishments in the ring. And you better know about mine. 'Cause Claw, all the pain in this world ain't gonna amount to nothing when I'm through with you. You want the gold? That's fine. I don't have a problem with that... as long as you don't have a problem with the fact that I'm the Stuff that Intercontinental Champions are made of. I just about damn near killed myself in trying to win this thing, and I respect what it means... unlike you. If you did, you never would have lost it in the first place. [Lebec kisses the belt] The Stuff... the champion forever! [Camera fades. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Simon Lebec and Tiger Claw are competitors whose association with the IIWF goes right back to its inaugural event, and this final battle for the Intercontinental Championship seems entirely appropriate, bringing the belt full circle. It's sure to be a memorable encounter, and it can only be seen on pay-per-view, live from the sold-out IIWF Coliseum in just eight days! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= IIWF CRUISERWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP KING OF THE MOUNTAIN MATCH: Icehawk [c] vs. Derek Mota vs. The White Phoenix vs. Billy Shakespeare vs. Harlequin Tragedy vs. Ronnie Paris vs. Dirt Dog Unique Allah vs. Timothy N. Turner =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: Let's recap the rules in this exciting match. SR: Eight little gay guys fly around for a while, then one guy gets a bit of tin. TD: Steve Roberts, the athletes in the hunt for the Cruiserweight Championship are among the most skilled and innovative wrestlers in the sport today. And in this "King of the Mountain" rules match, eight tremendous athletes will compete for the honour of being the man to retire the prestigious IIWF Cruiserweight Championship. The rules are as follows: the entrants will draw numbers before the match, and numbers one and two will start out in the ring. They will wrestle to a five minute time-limit, in which time one of them must score the victory, be it by pinfall, submission, countout, or disqualification. If there is no decision within five minutes, both men are eliminated from the match... so we can expect some extremely quick-paced action in this one, folks. Whichever man wins the decision remains in the match, and must then face whoever comes to the ring next. If the man who draws number one or two is to become the last ever Cruiserweight Champion, he must defeat no fewer than _seven_ other athletes in succession... so the luck of the draw again plays an important part. SR: What happens if the last two guys draw, Dross? TD: If the last two combatants go to the five minute time-limit, then the match will continue until there is a clear winner. All eight of these men will be looking to pull out all the stops in this bout, folks. Let's get comments from some of the participants, beginning with the first ever Cruiserweight Champion, "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare: [Still frame of Billy Shakespeare holing high the IIWF Cruiserweight Title belt. From far away, as if in a dream, the crowd chants "Billy...Billy..." Slowly this scene dissolves and is replaced by another one, very similar, of Billy holding aloft the IIWF Intercontinental Title belt. The same chant continues as the scene fades to Billy Shakespeare wandering around an old library. Many have seen this place before: the roaring fire, the duty hard-backed volumes, the massive tomes containing the works of Shakespeare.] BS: Richard the third. Henry VI, part three. Working in threes wasn't foreign to the bard... and I aim to continue the legacy. I have won the Cruiser title. I have won the Intercontinental title. It has always been my dream to wear the Heavyweight title. No man has legitimately achieved this triple crown of wrestling. But Billy Shakespeare is no ordinary man. Billy Shakespeare is "Born to perform." Sometimes that moniker is a blessing, sometimes a curse, but always a promise to do everything that this body will allow me to so that the fans will be entertained. And who is my competition? Rolly-polly Oto Verhoevan? More style than substance Flare? "Quitstrike"? The "old in the tooth" new generation of Requiem and Annis? VDC? The long list continues into oblivion headlined by Kowalski and Thunder. This isn't a match being played on the internet where your talents are lauded and defended by legions of teenagers who boast that they know you. This isn't just any fed where it's more important to have your name on the marquee than to have your participation. This is the IIWF... big time wrestling... where legends are made and frauds revealed. I made that mistake once too. And I found out that the taste of victory elsewhere isn't as sweet as the flavour of the IIWF. The next champion... yea... the last champion will carry the legend of the IIWF with him. Will that winner prostitute himself after grabbing the belt... or will he maintain the dignity of the Double-Eye and escort her legacy into legend? I'm Billy Shakespeare. I understand the grace of eternal poetry... the history of the show done well... the telling of the tale as well as the tale told. I'm going to win the heavyweight title. [He snaps shut the book he is holding with an audible bang. Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: One of Shakespeare's longest-standing enemies will also be competing in this unique match... the somewhat delusional Ronnie Paris had comments for Dave Bacon earlier this week: [Open to a small room, filled with monitors, tape machines, and various large instruments that the technically uninitiated can only assume comprise of a "control room" for a recording studio... and those neo-Luddites would be correct. There are two men sitting in chairs in the studio, facing each other. One is former (current, according to him) Cruiserweight champion Ronnie Paris, and the second is sometime IIWF correspondent Dave Bacon. Both look fairly relaxed and cordial, which may be a sign of danger when Ronnie Paris is about to cut an interview. But I digress...] DB: Dave Bacon here with the man who claims to be the IIWF's Cruiserweight champion, Ronnie Paris. Ronnie, in the next couple of minutes I'd like to ask you both about that claim to the championship and your participation in two matches at IIWF Forever. The matter of the "fake" or allegedly bogus title is the most pressing with many fans, however, so I start with it. To be blunt... do you realise that you aren't really the champion? [Paris seems angered for a moment by Bacon's frankness, but the look soon passes and he regains control of his emotions. He licks his lips quickly before commenting.] RP: I saw the show last week, and I've heard people insinuate that I'm crazy, that my title is bogus, that I'm just grasping at straws. I was expecting every one of those responses. I'm fully aware that my title reign may be considered... a little bit less than legitimate. I intend to erase any shadow of a doubt over my championship status next week on Countdown, however. DB: How, exactly, do you intend to do that? RP: It's very simple. Next week, on Countdown, all the IIWF fans will get an early taste of IIWF Forever, as I will fight Icehawk, one on one, live, for the Cruiserweight Title. [A look of disbelief crosses over Bacon's face, and his sceptical instincts seem to kick in immediately. Especially since Paris is beaming from ear to ear as he speaks.] DB: Icehawk has accepted such a challenge? Where would the match be held? Why exactly would our producers allow such a thing? And... RP: [cutting off further questions] Tune in next week, and you'll find out. I assure you, it's all been taken care of. I've signed every contract, observed every by-law, dotted all the "i"s and dotted the "t"s too just to be on the safe side. This thing is so legal, Marty Warnett wouldn't date it! DB: [slightly uncomfortable] That rather... regrettable analogy aside, I suppose we'll have to take your word for it for the time being. Moving along, we've heard you talk about the King of the Mountain Cruiserweight match in general, but not really about specific opponents. For the sake of brevity, why don't we play word association? RP: Because we're not in a psychatrist's office? [Dave Bacon lets out an exasperated sigh... the kind a mother of five year old triplets gives at the supermarket. The kind every civil servant seems able to dredge up. The kind that bearded guy with the laptop was heard uttering every five minutes or so during his tenure. And still, somehow, he goes on with the interview.] DB: Icehawk? RP: Pretender. DB: Derek Mota? RP: Intense. DB: Harlequin Tragedy? RP: Gay tag wrestler. DB: Timothy Turner? RP: Gay singles wrestler. DB: Hakiro Matsuoko? RP: A true legend. DB: Dirt Dog Unique Allah? RP: A disgrace to the sport. DB: Dare I ask, Billy Shakespeare? RP: [with no hesitation] Gimmick. All gimmick. [Dave quickly looks at his watch, presumably trying to figure out how much more time he has before the segment should end... or before Tim Dross leaves for IHOP without him. Ah, a short stack smothered in maple syrup, topped with strawberries and whipped cream has mysterious powers over a man. Come to think of it, anything smothered in maple syrup would float my boat. But once again, I digress...] DB: I'd like to ask you quickly about your involvement in the World Title battle royal... you are certainly considered an underdog, as you're not only one of the lightest men in that match but you'll also be wrestling a gruelling contest earlier in the night. How much effort are you putting into the battle royal? RP: As much as I can, Dave. I've never been afraid of being spread thin. Granted, for a lot of the night I'll be preoccupied with retaining my Cruiserweight Title, but once that's out of the way I'm going to throw everything I have at the World title, because there will be no second chance for this. I can take a break from my workload in other promotions, come back when I'm healed up and fresh, but the IIWF title is up for grabs... and the winner keeps it forever. I think that's worth fighting for. [As soon as Paris has stopped speaking, Dave rises from his chair to end the interview, nodding to the cameraman that everything is done. We quickly fade to black as Bacon can be heard in the background...] DB: Where is that bastard? He promised he'd wait... and after 11, they stop serving pigs in a blanket! Now what am I going to do?!!? [Cut back to Studio Three.] TD: Worth fighting for, indeed. Another man who considers this title worth fighting for is the "Rocket Man" Timothy N. Turner, who this week returned to the site of his own Cruiserweight Championship victory, Disneyland in Fresno, California, in an effort to inspire himself to another success: [The shot opens up in the Magic Kingdom. The crowds of families wander through, with exclamations of delight sounding through the air. Now and then an oversized cartoon character walks by...a Mickey Mouse here...a Goofy there. The Matterhorn and Sleeping Beauty's Castle tower over the proceedings and the sound of "It's A Small World" can be faintly heard. The camera pans the crowd until it spots a figure that is clearly out of place. The man does not sport the usual tourist accoutrements of tacky shirts and expensive cameras. Rather he is outfitted in an exquisite Prada suit in a deep, not quite Navy, blue. As the camera gets closer it becomes apparent that the man we are seeing is none other than "Rocket Man" Timothy N. Turner. He has just the hint of a smile on his lips.] TNT: This is where I had one of my greatest victories. Right here I beat Ronnie Paris for the right to challenge Derek Mota for the IIWF Cruiserweight Championship. I came soaring through the sky and the Rocket Man was truly born! [Turner wanders in the direction on Sleeping Beauty's Castle and the dutiful cameraman follows.] TNT: Now it is time for me to reclaim that title. It's a King of the Mountain match featuring not only myself but some of the greatest Crusierweights in the business. It also includes Paris and Mota, but that's another story. I've beaten most of these guys already. Why don't they just hand me the title now? [Turner stops at the foot of the castle and his smile broadens.] TNT: Fitting place for a king, wouldn't you say? [He laughs out loud.] TNT: Or is that Queen? [The mirth doesn't quite leave his face, though he does turn a little more serious.] TNT: One of the greatest minds this business has ever seen often said, "I would rather be lucky than good." This is very fitting to the matches I will take part in during IIWF Forever. In both, no matter what the macho, testosterone types will tell you, placement is everything to your odds of winning. You've got to be lucky... and you still have to be good. It just so happens, I am both. Let's look back at the events leading to my reign as Cruiserweight Champ. There was a tournament to decide who would face Mota. I faced Ronnie Paris in the first round and lost. No excuses. I just lost. I guess that would be it for me and the Cruiserweight belt, eh? Not so fast. It seems that Dirt Dog Unique Allah got himself a bye into the semi-finals and then dropped out to join the Prophets of Rage. What a stroke of luck! President Spreadbury announced a special kind of ladder match to decide who got the chance to fight Ronnie Paris in the tournament final. When he announced it I was backstage tuning up the rocket pack I had used in the Over The Wall match at Leavenworth. Luck continued to shine! I was able to soar above the crowd and snatch victory from the jaws of defeat! [Turner smiles.] TNT: I said, however, that luck isn't enough. What happened after I got my lucky break? Simple. I beat Ronnie Paris. I beat Derek Mota. I won the belt. That's not luck. That's skill. [He walks forward to the camera until his head fills the shot.] TNT: Luck. Skill. Victory. [Fade] TD: Finally, let's hear from the only man in this match who has yet to hold the IIWF Cruiserweight Championship. Former two-time World Tag Team Championship co-holder, Harlequin Tragedy, has long harboured desires for success in the IIWF's singles division, and perhaps -- at the very last -- he will get his wish: [A gentle ray of moonlight filters in through the broken boards of the ceiling above. Its pale glow barely illuminating the vast emptiness of the room. In the centre are a circle of candles, slowly burning away. And in the centre of those candles sits Tragedy, atop a small ladder. He flips through a small stack of photos in his hand. The candlelight reflects off of the glossy surface of his black painted nails as he picks a photo out of the stack.] HT: "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare. The first IIWF Cruiserweight Champion. Reigned from September 11, 1996 to October 19, 1996. [Tragedy throws the picture down. It lands next to one of the candles who's flame starts licking at the corner of it. Tragedy takes another picture and holds it up.] HT: "The White Phoenix" Shinja Chow. Held the Cruiserweight Title from March 22, 1997 to May 3, 1997. [Tragedy drops the picture of Chow. It lands next to the photo of Shakespeare, which is starting to smoulder. Tragedy picks up another picture.] HT: Dirt Dog Unique Allah. May 31st to August 23rd 1997. [Tragedy drops the photo on the other two, which are now starting to be set alight. He takes another picture.] HT: "Heatseeker" Derek Mota. Defeated Allah for the title on August 23rd. Lost the title on November 8, 1997. [A careless drop adds more fuel to the growing fire at Tragedy's feet. He takes another picture.] HT: The man who beat him, "Rocket Man" Timothy N. Turner. He held the title until January 10th of this year. [Turner's picture is cast into the flames. The fire grows as Tragedy takes another photo from the pile.] HT: Ronnie Paris. One week champion. Lost the title to Takezo Musashi on the 17th of January. [Like those before him, Paris' picture is discarded to the inferno below. Tragedy holds up the final photo in his hand.] HT: Icehawk. Current IIWF Cruiserweight Champion. Defeated Takezo Musashi in a steel cage at Ring Wars V. [Tragedy throws the picture down. The flames cast a yellowish glow on the gothic grappler as he stares at the ground.] HT: Out of all of those in this "final" match, I am the only one that has never known the distinction of being the IIWF Cruiserweight Champion. I am the only one in this match that has been denied that privilege. [Tragedy steps off the ladder and walks through the small fire at his feet. Soot forms on his boot as he passes the circle.] HT: I first arrived in the IIWF in November of 1996. Most of the people in this match weren't even around back then. I proved my worth standing toe to toe with Lord Byron. Then I became the only man to defeat Otto "The Butcher" Verhoeven inside a steel cage. I even received a shot at the Cruiserweight Title in a match against Musashi, when we were on the other side of the fence we are now. Then came the United States Tag Team Titles. I was asked to forgo my singles career to fill a bracket. I lost in the tournament, but eventually came up champion. But the belt was meaningless, as the promotion got rid of it shortly thereafter. I then found myself going nowhere. Once I was a rising singles star, then I was asked to "put over" the new teams entering the IIWF. "Make them look good," they said, "it'll be worth it in the end." What did I get for that? A title, but at the expense of having to face my own blood. I eventually broke free again. They said they were happy. They said I would finally get my due. But first, I had to "put over" another ego. Then I was dumped to the side, forgotten. I was angry, I had enough. So I did what no one else would dare do. I tore the mask away from the decaying flesh of the Deathbringer. An action that nearly cost me my life. But they took notice. Intercontinental and Cruiserweight challenges came up. But then the threat came from the back. No one wanted me back to where I once was. They joined against me, but my family fought back. And now it's down to this. I don't give a damn about the legends, their time has past. The others don't even compare to the great ones before them. But I have been denied from the day I first arrived. I played by the rules, but now those rules no longer apply. They talk about the former champions in this match. But I am the only one that they can't call champion. I am the one they look over. That changes very soon. [The flames die down.] Friend or foe, legend or flash in the pan. August the First, all will face the dark hand of destiny. I intend on going out champion. No fancy talking this time. If I go down, I go down breaking a bone, tearing a ligament, or ending a career. [Tragedy turns to the fire. The photos are now smouldering piles of ash by the candles.] HT: Because going out without the belt, is one tragedy I intend to avert. [Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: We've yet to hear from the White Phoenix, who is, I understand, still in China, and will not be flying over to compete until just days before the event itself. We haven't heard anything about his fighting condition, but even if Shinja Chow returns at fifty per cent of his ability, he will be a dangerous foe in this match indeed. With the Dirt Dog Unique Allah, Derek Mota, and current Cruiserweight Champion Icehawk completing the field, eight of the world's most exciting wrestlers will be battling it out in what promises to be one of the most fast-paced encounters of the year. It's only on pay-per-view, live in just eight days! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= THE MATCH THE WORLD HAS WAITED FOR: "Sychosys" Joe Petrow vs. "Enigma" Takezo Musashi =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: Another huge announcement here tonight concerns this match, Steve Roberts. SR: Let me guess, Dross. They've added stipulations to the match, and it's now a loser leaves town match! TD: Not quite, Steve, although you are right in that the announcement concerns the stipulations of this match. In fact, this will be the IIWF's first ever "Konton no Kamisama" match. SR: First ever _what_ match? TD: "Konton no Kamisama" is Japanese for "God of Chaos," Steve Roberts, and chaotic is exactly what this match promises to be. It is my understanding that this will be a marathon match... but a marathon match with a difference. In a "God of Chaos" match, the stipulations change _every_five_minutes_. Apparently, we will see some of the favourite speciality match rules wheeled out for this one. Although we won't know exactly which stipulations will be chosen until the match itself, it's likely that we will see Ladder Match rules, Seven Tables of Fear rules, Pure Science rules, Third Rail Match rules, Winner Must Use Opponent's Finisher rules, and goodness knows what else! SR: Oh my, Dross. This is the stuff that the Soundbite's dreams are made of. Two absolutely schizoid crazy guys like Petrow and Musashi beating seven shades of snot out of one another in a marathon match in which the rules change every five minutes! Whoo-hoo! TD: Folks, this promises to be simply the wildest match you are ever likely to see. This match has been a year in the making... and it seems that it will live up to its promise. We got comments from both men this week, so let's hear from the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi: [SCENE: A flickering pantomime of candle light, reflected as if through a room of fractured glass, blurs and dances before the eyes. Points of illumination connect, separate, and blend into one another in a liquid fusion of platinum and gold. Gradually, the miasma softens and begins to fade, revealing first in silhouette, then slowly into focus, a live human face... It is an oriental face, grave of countenance, jaw clenched with granite intensity, set with eyes of a penetrating pale blue, coloured almost indefinably with an air of unsettling menace... perhaps even a hint of the demonic. Patterns are painted shimmering around the man's eyes, but the shifting, reflected candle light bends the distinction almost tortuously to the eye, first radiating one way, and then another, so that at times the images appear as bursting solar flares across the cosmos, and at others, flaming red symbols of chaos, falling through the pits of hell. Abruptly, the candle light winks out, and there is nothing to be seen except for a faintly human shadow, shifting slightly in the darkness. A voice intones, and it is thick with ominous portent.] TM: Before you stands a man with a rift torn deep inside of him. For a long time now, my soul has been rent by hate, gnawing upon itself until it became hollow and empty. Now, it is a gaping maw, edges ragged and frayed, drawing everything and everyone down into its depths with a relentless, sinister compulsion; drawing everything deep inside... and into oblivion. For a long time now, this is all I have held inside of me. The desire to destroy and mutilate; the desire to annihilate and mutate. Nothing on this earth... nothing in this universe, could ever evoke in me a single shred of compassion; nor could I ever find a single thing to hold dear; a single value to uphold. Utter annihilation... that alone would I call a slake for my ceaseless hunger, and even then... But now, my foremost object of hatred, my driving anger and life's blood, has been taken away from me. The organisation I craved to rend into bloody shreds has died. Not, as I sought, by my own hand, but through the machinations of others: the bureaucrats, the officials, and the petty men. What, now, is left for me? A new beginning perhaps? A fresh hope and redemption? Will the man they called the Enigma find himself once again and take up such worthy, foolhardy notions as honour and justice as his warrior's mantle? Will he fight for value once more, and take value in what he fights for? Never. The end has come for me, as it must come for all, and a new age will soon begin. Perhaps I was never meant for this world. My fate, tortuously, has ever been tied up with the IIWF's own, and no matter how much I strived to bring about its destruction, I could never delude myself in this fact. My time, and your time also, has all but faded... But... A last dance stands before us. A last battlefield upon which violence may be vented and glory won. A last act of valour before our phantoms forever return to the eternal plains upon which all warriors are first born. But before we take to the field and plunge ourselves recklessly into the fray, each of us bears a heavy burden. For in this, when the battle is done, whether we stand in triumph or fall in defeat, we all must surely die. Beyond us lies nothing, or merely the wispy fragments in a dream of what our lives once were. All we leave behind us, are memories in the minds of others... The names of the weak are forgotten and perish in dust. But the names of the strong and mighty... these names are spoken with awe for millennia to come. Only in this, do we become immortal. The question for us, my brothers in war, my fellow men of greatness, and one we all must ask ourselves, is this... "How shall history cast my shadow?" As tyrant? As avenger? As blood thirsty destroyer? Or as a man of honour. This is the heavy burden that weighs on the mind of the Enigma; this is the choice set before me. I cannot change my past. I do not ask for redemption in your forgiveness. I am what I am, and I am evil. But every man is remembered only by his final deed. The memories of men linger only upon the very last act. _Our_ final act is upon us. My choice for you, Joe Petrow, was made a long time ago, and as my nemesis, as everything that I hate in myself and the world, you will never escape it. But you will not be the last act. That honour belongs to the battle royal. The very last dance before our stage is blanketed in darkness. Upon this, our final moment, my mind is stretched between two cliffs of doubt, and until the last split second of calm, until the final breath of anticipation, I will come to no decision. Whether I come to the dance in good or in ill, in darkness or in light, I can not yet tell. My future is as yet unwritten. [Here, the candlelight flickers and starts once again, and for a little while longer, the roving points of illumination radiate across Musashi's face. Trickery of light, the weaving of illusion, and the symbol of the glittering star intertwines with the symbol of the demonic pentacle, first one coming to prominence in the mind's eye, and then the other. Finally, both merge at a single point of space, and it is no longer clear which is which, or even, if there was ever any difference between them...] But I will tell you this... I come to the last dance as a man. As a warrior. And the one code a warrior must always uphold, whatever his cause may be, whether he fights for good or evil, whether he revels in triumph or is shattered in defeat... the one thing a warrior must always be... is a man of courage. Remember me always for what I am and was. Remember Takezo Musashi always... as a warrior. [The candles blink out at last, leaving nothing but darkness. Abrupt cut to a view of a room. A room that could considered rather spacious...if we were talking about a walk-in closet. However, this is a person's entire living space. Sparsely decorated, containing a bare minimum amount of comforts, such as a television, VCR, half-filled bookshelf, and a small laptop computer near a mat on the floor, that apparently serves as a bed. Only a few of the engraved plaques hung on the wall give a clue as to who's room this is, but none are needed, as its occupant suddenly enters: It is "Sychosys" Joe Petrow. And he is home. But his features have changed. His skin, a little darker, a little more creased, a little more scarred than before. Even more apparent, the haphazard _dreadlocks_ that Joe Petrow now calls his hair, flying with his movements like the streamers that regularly fly down from the rafters at wrestling cards held at nearby Korakuen Hall. More could be said about his appearance after yet another trip to Hell, but it seems his own words will convey this better:] JP: Yeah, this is my place. What were you expecting? What the hell more do I need? That's what I like about Tokyo, you can customise your experience here any way you want. Bare minimalism one way, total extremism another. I've got everything here just the way I like. I've never been more comfortable in any situation in my life. [Joe takes a deep breath before continuing] JP: That's why I'm never coming back. [Joe stops again for a moment...then lets out a slight laugh] JP: So you don't follow my logic? Heh, typical. Awright, I'll spell it out for you. [Petrow walks over to the television and turns it on, to some Japanese programming about nothing in particular. He then walks over to a plaque on the wall, taking it off and holding it in his hands] JP: I am Joe Petrow. I am Sychosys. And I...AM NOT [BLEEP]ING... [Joe hurls the plaque into the television screen] JP: ..._ALLOWED_ TO BE COMFORTABLE! [Sparks fly and smoke flows from the former television set, as Sychosys stalks around his apartment like a caged animal, talking much louder than before] JP: I thought I'd already proved it everybody! I'd gone through and beaten and humiliated everybody the IIWF had put in front of me, topped off by humiliating that little goof Quitley like nobody ever before or since! There should have been no doubt in anyone's mind! So I decide to have some fun, and head for the uncharted waters of the tag division. And sure enough, I make history doing that as well! And yet, what do I hear in the locker room when they think I'm not around? What do [Joe reaches over and grabs his laptop] all the Internet rags have to say about the legendary Joe Petrow? What!? [Joe heaves the laptop out the window, which unfortunately was closed at the time] JP: That Joe Petrow is a joke! A has-been! A man who GAVE UP!!! Now, don't get me wrong! I ain't out for public praise! I ain't never asked no one to like me! As far as I am concerned you can talk all these damned useless awards and accolades [Joe runs along with his hand pressed against the wall, knocking over the hanging plaques one by one] and shove them back up Spreadbury's ass where they came from! But if there's one thing I'm damned sure gonna have, it's the number two most important thing I need: the fear and respect of everybody goddamned person associated with the IIWF. And it all starts with you, Musashi. You little manaical menace, whose only saving grace is the place he was born. We got a date with the Konton no Kamisama! The God of Chaos for the uneducated sector of the population! Third Rail, Master of Darkness, Seven Tables of Fear, Pure Science, Audience Pariticipation, whatever the hell the gods can think up, we're gonna do it! I've spelled out my problems with you already Enigma, all that's left is to leave you broken, bruised, barbed, flamed, electrocuted, drowned, and basically completely destroyed in a way that redefines the term destroyed! And then, the Eternal Rumble, where the final twenty-nine...er, twenty-eight scores are settled one by one, once and for all. 'Cause I got issues, damned straight I do, and I intend to beg or grovel or do whatever the hell it takes to draw #1 so's I can be sure to take you all out myself. [Joe Petrow heads over to a nearby table, grabs a pen, and starts to write on a Post It note, only occasionally looking at the camera to emphasize his points.] Kowalski, I don't care what you say, I intend to find you and drag your feeble, crippled ass into that Rumble to finish what we started, cause I sure as Hell ain't taking that last crock of a match we had in April as the final answer! Thunder, you been ducking me since Day One! You were the very first challenge I put forth over a year and a half ago, and I intend to answer it even if I have to meet you out in the parking lot after the event! But I have a feeling it's gonna end up you and me at some point in that Eternal Rumble, and when that happens you're gonna wish you still had that fish bait Ronnie D to play with! Shadoe Rage...you bite me. That's about as original a comment as you deserve! I'm gonna throw you into the 15th row, and don't bother asking me how, I didn't get this far by sweating the little details like that! Creed! [Suddenly, Joe stops writing, and breaks out into a huge fit of laughter! This goes on for a couple of seconds, before he finally regains his composure.] JP: Don't you worry boy. I got something real special in mind for you. Requiem, you _know_ I got my eyes on you! I don't think there are any two guys out there who want closure in their personal history more than we do! And it _will_ be closure for you, not unlike the closure of a coffin lid for the last time! Deathbringer, I'm gonna make you flood! And scream! And cry! 'Cause you owe me a submission, big boy, and you just ask Chris Quitley if I'm good for it.... WHOA! Chris Quitley! He's back? The man I humiliated _every_ _single_ _step_ of the way of that little thing we had before? And to top it all off, I even got the satisfaction of sitting on a reef in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with a bazooka and shooting your god-damned parents' plane right out of the sky! And you know the saddest thing about that Chris? I bet more people believe my story than yours. Stupid hypocritical lying rat bastard, I guess I need to beat the _real_ truth out of you one more time, eh? Very well, your wish is my command... And as for the rest of you...even that damn Mystery Participant, be it Dan Kauffman or Jackass Wanker Hardin, you got two choices, only one of them being right. You either stay the hell out of my way, or test the theory that I can't get any madder than I am! 'Cause I'm Joe Petrow. I ain't got no catch phrase, I ain't gonna ask what'cha gonna do, I ain't gonna give you a hell yeah, and I can't promise y'all that this is gonna be the best weekend of your lives. All I can promise is that you ain't never gonna forget me again. [Petrow turns to walk out of his apartment, holding his Post It note. The camera angle changes to the hallway outside his room, where a couple of the other residents can be seen peeking out from their doors to see what the commotion is about. Suddenly Petrow bursts out of his room, quickly locking the door behind him. He throws the key underneath the door and slaps the Post It onto the door, and turns to stalk away, his scream of "NANI MITENDAI!?" scaring the residents back into their rooms. The camera zooms in on the Post Note, focusing on some scrawled Japanese, with its apparent translation below: SEND ME THE [Video Distored] BILL! Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Neither man will know exactly what to expect going into this match, Steve Roberts. Some of the rules could be clearly to the advantage of one or other of the combatants, but neither man will know what rules they will have to wrestle under until that announcement is made every five minutes in their match. The winner will officially be the man with the most decisions in his favour at the end of the allotted time... but who knows whether either man will even survive this encounter? SR: Whoo-hoo! I can hardly wait, Dross. This is gonna be great! TD: Yet another completely unique match coming your way in just eight days, folks. Call your local cable operator right now to make sure you don't miss out on any of the action. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= IIWF WORLD TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: Prophets of Rage [c] vs. Alphabet Boys =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: Like the IIWF's other championships, the fate of the World Tag Team Championships will also be decided at IIWF Forever, and the current champions, the Prophets of Rage, face their most unique challenge yet, in the form of the Alphabet Boys. SR: I can't believe that the greatest damned tag team in the history of this sport, the Prophets of Rage, have to make their last ever title defence against those moronic inbred Alphabet Boys. TD: Well, Steve Roberts, there is in fact a good deal of speculation that the Alphabet Boys might not make it to IIWF Forever. Since Abie became a Buddhist, his stance against violence has ruled out any further athletic competition. It's rumoured that the IIWF administration has been in contact with other veteran teams as possible replacements; names being bandied around include first ever Champions Steamroller, the Hangmen, Stunt Team USA... and the Aces of the Deep. SR: Anybody but them, Dross! I don't want them to make me flood! TD: The front office are still pushing for Abie and Zed to be there next week, but as this footage shows, their participation is far from confirmed: [Abie and Zed, the Alphabet Boys, sit in the front yard of their run down trailer. Both sit legs crossed, staring at each other. Zed wears his A-Boys wrestling tights, Abie is still masked and dressed in the robes of a Tibetan monk. All is quite and still. Even the ever bothersome Chihuahua is silently chewing on a broken hula-hoop. The two continue to stare at each other... a waiting game of what appears to be utmost importance. A light rain begins to fall, and the dog quickly runs beneath the trailer home, yet Abie and Zed are as unswerving as they have ever been. Finally, Zed talks.] ZED: You will too. ABIE: Will not. Z: Wrestle. A: No. Z: Then we settle this. One on one. Like men. Winner gets his way. A: Loser gets the channel changer. Z: Agreed. [Both men clench their fingers into fists. They shake them in rage. One... twice... three times... and Zed puts out his hand flat. Paper. Abie too has made his choice: also paper. The two face off again. Zed chooses paper... Abie chooses paper. The two would be partners are at a fevered pitch, unmindful of the soaking rain. They shake their fists again and show their choices. For a third time, Zed chooses paper. The camera pans over to Abie who...... static.] TD: We have to apologise at this point. Apparently the rain caused the camera to malfunction. We will let you know if Abie chose rock or scissors when we can find the cameraman who shot this footage. SR: He chose paper again, you know it, and I know it. Those two idiots are still out in the rain. Now "Soundbite" never loses that game. When he was a lad, his daddy sat him down on the back porch and told him this. "Son, you're a sissy. You'll always be a sissy. Now wipe that lipstick off your face." TD: I fail to see... SR: "Use a gun". That's what my Pappy told me. Always use a gun to settle your disputes. You know what I always say: "what the hell, use a gun." TD: You never say that, Steve Roberts. SR: I did once. TD: I would ask how that turned out for you, Steve Roberts, but we're in serious danger of lapsing into cliché. SR: You know what I always say, Dross: "what the hell, use a cliché." TD: I understand the Prophets of Rage were unavailable for comment this week, but we know from past experience that the Rages prefer to do their talking in the ring. Next Saturday night, they get one final opportunity to do just that -- but who will their opponents be? We'll keep you updated on this situation as we get further news. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= FUTURE BOWL MATCH: Gunnar "Grizzly" Gaines & Caleb Temple vs. Eddy "Flap" Jacks & "To Excess" Rick Williams =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: And kicking everything off at IIWF Forever is the special "Future Bowl" match, so named because its participants represent, in the eyes of the administration, the future direction of the IIWF -- examples of the stars that, it was hoped, would carry the federation on their shoulders and take it forward to even greater successes. SR: Instead, they're all going to Canada. Sometimes I wonder about this sport, Dross. TD: A quick recap of the rules: this one starts out like a regular tag team match, until one team is victorious, at which point the winning partnership must wrestle _each_other_ in a one-on-one match, directly after scoring the win! So if Gaines and Temple should triumph over Jacks and Williams, we'll see the Baddest Thangs Running go at it in singles action just as soon as Jacks and Williams have left the ring. This match is a test of endurance -- and a true test of teamwork. SR: Not to mention a test of patience. You know who's going to be at the broadcast table with us, Dross? TD: I do indeed, Steve Roberts. Andrew Macbeth will be joining us for colour commentary in this opening match, and he's sure to have some interesting insights concerning the participants -- not least the Baddest Thangs Running, with whom the Macbeth cousins have no small amount of history. Andrew has been tending to his pub back in Glenfinnan this summer, but recently he's been skulking about the streets of Portland, seemingly with a lot on his mind. SR: Not that we'd ever know what's on his mind, because we can't understand a damned word he says. Are we also going to have an interpreter out there with us, Dross? It could get pretty crowded, and the Soundbite needs his personal space, baby dolls. TD: Let's hear from the four men involved in this match, beginning with an up close and personal interview I had the pleasure to conduct with Rick Williams earlier this week: [Scene opens to a small interview room. The two seats are occupied by Tim Dross and "To Excess" Rick Williams, who sit facing each other. Dross is dressed in black slacks, and a green sports jacket, which for the most part, conceals a white shirt. Williams wears black jeans and a blue shirt, under which he sports a red T-shirt. While Dross shuffles some papers, Williams chews incessantly on a stick of gum. Behind the pair is the IIWF logo, in large blue letters. Upon seemingly receiving clearance to begin, Dross commences the interview.] TD: Rick, thanks for joining us, for one last Double Eye interview. [Williams simply nods his head in recognition, as Dross glances at his notes before he continues.] TD: If you don't mind me saying, since we've been here, you've almost belied the personality we've become so familiar with on IIWF programming for the last several months -- in other words, an embittered, arrogant and self-absorbed young man, with little time for anyone other than himself. RW: I'll have to disagree with you, right off the bat, Dross. I honestly don't think I'm an arrogant man. You see, what you perceive to be arrogance, _I_ believe to be _honesty_. I don't claim to be the best wrestler in the world for no reason... I don't say a large percentage of today's top wrestlers are either overrated or way past their prime -- or both -- because of some misguided gimmick. I do it because I believe it to be true. I'll admit that I'm the most resentful, self-absorbed bastard you'll ever meet -- and with damn good reason -- but as for being arrogant, you've got the wrong guy. [Dross looks a little surprised at the denial, as he again glances at his notes.] TD: Well, be that as it may, I'd like to bring you on to another subject a subject close to all our hearts, the IIWF. You've been with us now since November of '97. Any fond memories, lasting impressions or disappointments that stick in your mind? Will you be sorry to see the big padlock go on the front door of the IIWF Tower one final time? RW: Sure I will. Even before I arrived in Portland, I was a Double Eye fan. I may say a lot of things about Spreadbury, but he should be in line for a knighthood for the federation he created. But as for the way he treated me... I can't help feeling they should reintroduce public hangings. TD: Why do you say that? RW: The "W" in IIWF stands for "wrestling", Dross, and there's not a man alive who does it better than me. So, maybe you could explain to me how I was always stuck facing people like Shakespeare, Warnett and Sampson... all the wrong side of two hundred, and like a Romanian wine, deteriorating with age. They were all good in their time, but it just felt like I was going from one decrepit old guy to the next. I wouldn't have been so concerned if they were marquee matches, but they all had that same 'nobody cares' mid-card feeling about them. You know, Shane McGowan once sang, "I could have been someone". "To Excess" already _is_ someone, but if the sands of time and unchanging attitudes decree that I can't be anything more, I'll be a hell of a lot more bitter and resentful than I am now. I got two Saturday Night main events, in seven months, Dross. You think I was content with that? If "video killed the radio star," then Spreadbury sedated the great white hope. I wanted the spotlight, Dross... I wanted it so bad. I could accept not getting it, if I thought I wasn't good enough, but not getting it because I don't do comedy, or because I think before acting, or maybe because my pronunciation and syntax were a little too good... that hurts, Dross... more than you'll ever know. [Williams pushes his hair back, as the camera focuses on him revealing the face of a visibly disappointed man.] TD: Then, I have to ask -- Why keep going? Why not pack it all in? RW: "Tiocfaidh r l", Dross... "Tiocfaidh r l". It's actually an IRA slogan, and you know what it means? [Dross shakes his head.] RW: "Our day will come"... it means "Our day will come". It's a hell of a mantra, Dross, and every time I felt like quitting, I reminded myself of that saying. You see, even in your darkest hour, you have to keep believing that your day will come. I still believe it, Dross. I still believe those who are overrated will be found out as such. I still believe that wrestling's natural progression will be allowed to occur because the older generation will accept that their time has passed and they'll move on... hell, some of 'em might even _stay_ retired. But most of all, I still believe that Spreadbury and the rest of the world will wake up one day and say, "Yeah, that Rick Williams was a hell of a misused talent. There ain't no one better than ol' "To Excess". Call it blind optimism, or whatever you want, but I guess I'm an idealist, Dross... always have been, always will be. I formed The Coalition with Derek Mota, but I live for the day that Mota versus Williams is the biggest draw in wrestling. Two _wrestlers_ headlining a wrestling card... who'd have expected _that_? And of course, the filler matches would consist of guys who don't know the meaning of the word "wrestling", and those who make a living out of transcribing Monday night interviews. "Tiocfaidh r l", Dross... "tiocfaidh r l." [Dross nods his head, as Williams takes a drink of water, from a glass beside his chair.] TD: To change subject, somewhat, you'll team with Eddy Jacks to face Gunnar Gaines and Caleb Temple at IIWF Forever, in the "Future Bowl" match. Your thoughts on your partner, and your opponents? [Williams pauses briefly, as if to contemplate his answer. After a few seconds, he smirks -- a smirk, which almost breaks into a laugh -- before he answers.] RW: They're all right. If I was hand-picking a partner and two opponents, I could choose a whole lot worse. I just don't get Eddy Jacks... and maybe I don't want to. You know, Dross, that bastard called me at home the other night to discuss match strategy for the pay-per-view, and I told him to [BLEEP] off. Twenty minutes later, he called to ask whether I wanted to enter the arena separately or together, as one cohesive unit, so I told him to [BLEEP] off. Then, ten minutes after that, he called to tell me that he respected me, and he'd be the best tag team partner I ever had. And you know what I did? TD: Told him to [BLEEP] off? RW: Oh yeah. But, even I've gotta admit the guy's a persistent bastard. Unlike others, he's done things the right way. It's not about getting a bunch of marks to react to you. It's not about quoting everything you hear on a Monday night, and then regurgitating it to anyone who'll listen. He'll never have my friendship, but he's earned my respect. I guess I'm not overly-familiar with Gaines and Temple, other than the fact that they made their names in the overrated beyond belief EWA. Although, Temple did tie with my old pal, Survival, for some award last year, and anyone who did that has to have something about them, because Survival was hot, back then, Dross... not hot enough for Danny boy to lift the ban, but pretty damn hot, nonetheless. I'll give Gaines credit, while I'm at it too, Dross. You know, last week, I saw his interview, and I almost laughed... for the first time in twelve years, I almost laughed at something other than Warnett or Shakespeare. I thought he could make it as a stand-up comedian for a while, Dross... but then he ruined it. He had to go for the all too obvious "To Excess" equals INXS line, and as we all know, good comedians avoid the easy jokes. [With Dross considerably more at ease than before, and the somewhat sombre tone of the interview now lifted, Williams continues.] RW: There's so much dead wood in the upper echelon of wrestling these days, Dross, but I don't believe any of these three to be negative influences. Don't get me wrong -- I don't like any one of 'em, and the day I share a beer with one of 'em is the same day I'll be committed to a mental institute. And I know, for a _fact_, that I'm better than Jacks, Temple and Gaines, but they don't follow the crowd... they don't need cheap heat or a done-to-death gimmick to be successful. That's why I'll consider it to be one of my finest moments when I become the IIWF Future Bowl winner... because I'll have beaten someone worth beating to win it. TD: So, there's no doubt in your mind that you'll emerge victorious at IIWF Forever. RW: Not even one. Gaines likes to say, "Beat us... if you can". But I won't just beat 'em... I'll beat 'em _up_... _then_ I'll beat 'em. And when I pin Eddy Jacks' shoulders to the mat, there won't be any IRA quotations, Dross... Instead, I'm gonna use a quote from the Marseilles... "Le jour de glorie est arriv". Then, when _I'm_ the stubborn old bastard, who's living off his reputation, rather than his ability, I'll be able to watch a tape of that match, and say, "That was _my_ day... _my_ day of glory. Now, it's _my_ turn to move on". [Williams takes another drink from the glass, as Dross consults his notes once again.] TD: And what now for Rick Williams? Where do you go from here? Are our friends and rivals down in California an option? Does it interest you? RW: Of course it's an option, Dross. I've been in the IIWF, haven't I? That's pretty much the criteria fulfilled, isn't it? I'd be surprised if _you_ haven't received the recruitment offer yet. Don't know if you remember an interview I did just before Birthday Bash, Dross, but in it, I said Steve Sampson was a prime example of how being around a long time can often be confused with being great. It's so easy for federations to benefit from similar misconceptions. Why they don't just call it Monday Night IIWF, I'll never know, Dross. I'd sell my soul to the devil before I went there, Dross. I thought some of its wrestlers were the definition of "over-rated" before I saw the fed, itself. Roberts gives it way too much credit when he calls it a bush league. Nah, I'm heading back to Canada. Al Grey's got money to burn, and that's where the future lies... possibly because of an ability to innovate, rather than imitate the great Double Eye. And you know me, Dross -- I've always claimed to be the future. There, I'll announce myself as the present. TD: Rick Williams, thanks for your time. Any closing words? RW: Tiocfaidh r l, Dross... tiocfaidh r l. [Fade. Cut back to the studio.] SR: Jesus marimba, Dross -- what with Rick Williams spouting Irish, and Macbeth and his brogue... we're being invaded! TD: Rick Williams is undeniably a well-educated and extremely talented individual, Steve, and I'm sure he'll be keen to make a good showing for himself next Saturday night... as will his tag team partner, the unorthodox Eddy "Flap" Jacks: [SCENE: Mandatory autograph session, IIWF Coliseum-exterior, Portland, mid-day. A massive edifice, the sterile yet all-too-familiar walls of the Coliseum knife upwards. Typically undecorated stone and concrete, the exterior walls are now dotted with bright banners and full-length posters of many of the federations top stars. However, for all the fanfare, the scene is at once unnerving and uncomfortable. Loyal fans, many decked out in IIWF clothing, converge on the small series of tables at the foot of the arenas steps. All the booths are empty...many of the top stars have long since left to eat lunch...but Eddy Jacks remains, dutifully autographing random pieces of IIWF paraphernalia. The throng of the IIWF faithful is smaller, too, many disdaining an audience with this much lesser-known superstar. Jacks, however, is unfazed by the slight of the crowd. Decked out in a bright IIWF t-shirt and boasting a freshly-shaven head and trim beard, the behemoth smiles and jaws with the fans.] FAN 1: Mr. Jacks, Mr. Jacks...sign this IIWF tub stopper! Sign my IIWF shower curtain! [Jacks grins, looking at the crudely-stamped merchandise with disdain.] EJ: [laughs] Jesus...what da hell won't dey license? [Jacks puts pen to shower curtain and tub stopper as more fans surge forward.] FAN 2: Eddy, Eddy...why're you guys leaving? F3: Why? F4: We didn't know, Eddy...we didn't know... [Jacks shrugs, motioning for another piece of merchandise. However, the fans just move forward...almost overtaking the burly behemoth!] F5: Eddy, where's the IIWF goin'? F6: You made 'em leave! [Jacks steps away from the table...stumbling over the folding chair as he moves backward...but still the fans surge forward!] EJ: What da hell is 'is? What's goin' on? What_da_hell_is_this_?! [Suddenly, Jacks is struck on the shoulder by an officially-licensed IIWF baseball! The behemoth grabs at his wounded shoulder... and suddenly falls back, overcome by a barrage of merchandise! Pens, notebooks, clothes, and all other forms of clothing rain down on Jacks, who continues ascending the steps... as the crowd presses towards him.] EJ: Goddamnit, I didn't do nothin'! I didn't do nothin'! F7: You took it away! You took Gunnar and Caleb and Steve and you made 'em leave! F8: The Coliseum must burn! [Jacks' gaze turns from one of shock to one of horror as the fans charge forward, their countenances now changed... their teeth suddenly elongating, becoming sharp and canine... their eyes, yellow and feral... their cheeks transforming, mysteriously, into black fur... ...and then Jacks is in the wilderness, modern clothing replaced by strips of fur. His beard, so manicured but moments before, is suddenly long, wild, and ragged. The big man looks down at his the sharpened rock he holds in his left hand. He hefts the thing, notes its weight... ...and then looks around. The moon, particularly high in the sky, is bright and unwholesome. The forest surrounding him...he stands in the only patch of clearing...is totally black. Suddenly, deep within Jacks' subconscious, a primeval fear overtakes him. He clenches the sharp rock tighter... ...but is still no match for the speed of the ancient, oversized bear that leaps out of the forest to meet him. Jacks circles the brute warily, deathly afraid of its size...of the blood dripping from its foul maw...the ferocity in its yellow, inhuman eyes. Unable to take flight, the human behemoth leaps at his counterpart. With a measured stroke, he drives the stone into the bears side. The magnificent beast rears back in pain...but still Jacks pushes, intending to gut the brute... ...but a swipe of a massive paw sends the wild man reeling! As Jacks struggles to regain his footing, he wipes the crimson from his face. Woozy from the tremendous blood loss, Jacks prepares to meet the beasts final onslaught. The bear leaps... Jacks plants himself, stone raised threateningly... and... the scene fades... ...and then Eddy rises, finding the wilderness gone. A landscape of fire surrounds him. Geysers spout unhealthy towers of steam into the air. Huge lava trails ooze down unearthly mountains. In short, a scene of tremendous heat...of unchecked fire...and pure, immeasurable hatred. Clad in his standard singlet, Jacks is unable to comprehend the scene until a ghostly-but-all-too-familiar voice is heard in the background.] FATHER: Yer worst enemy always wuz yerself, fat boy. Welcome ta hell. [Jacks looks about, unsure of himself. He steps forward...but the ground collapses in front of him, a vicious geyser of steam preventing his forward progress. Jacks wheels about, instinctively, only to find himself face-to-face with his double. Alike the true Jacks in all respects save for the colour of his singlet, the clone motions Jacks to attack him. Jacks steps back, frightened.] EJ: [stammering] I... I... don't wanna fight. [The not-Jacks only laughs...and then strikes the true Jacks with a haymaker that sends him careening backward into the chasm behind him... and Jacks falls, falls into darkness...into confusion...fade. SCENE: Outside of Ottawa, Jacks' cabin, midnight. Eddy Jacks wakes up violently, almost leaping out of his cushioned rocker. His face is sweat-stained, his face a ghastly mask of fear and uncertainty.] EJ: Jesus_christ. Jesus_frickin_christ. [And then the big man looks up...at the picture of him and Gunnar Gaines standing together in the locker room prior to his triumph at Ring Wars V. Jacks face goes blank...his jaw drops...] EJ: What da hell did I get myself inta? [He pauses, collecting his thoughts.] EJ: Nah. I ain't afraid o' nothin'. 'Course not. No. If all ol' Gunnar's gonna do is cause me ta lose some sleep, well, it ain't nothin' ta worry bout. [Longer pause.] EJ: Well, mebbe. But mebbe...mebbe I'm in somethin' dat's bigger than me or anythin' else... [Jacks shakes his head.] EJ: An mebbe I done got marked, jus' this once. [Sneers.] Nah... dreams is just dreams. [Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Jacks and Williams may not be the first tag team partnership that one might think of, but these two men could surprise us all at IIWF Forever. Certainly they would surprise nobody more than their opponents, long-time tag team partners and friends -- not to mention occasional enemies -- Caleb Temple and Gunnar Gaines. Let's hear from the Baddest Thangs Running: [SCENE: The superbly atmospheric Church of the Final Judgement in Trinity, South Carolina. For those who haven't seen this building, it's impressive to say the least. Statues of marble and wood, artwork, a marbled floor, and behind the main altar, a massive wooden crucifixion scene. The slightest sound echoes around this cavernous building, and on this occasion, we hear footsteps. A man shuffles into the scene. The riven form of Christ depicted on the tattoo upon his muscular back writhes as if alive with every single movement of his lean torso. He turns to face the camera, his hands clasped together and his head bowed. Strands of dark, damp hair fall over his face as he raises it slowly. He begins to speak, in a soft, Southern drawl.] CT: "Thou shalt be for fuel to the fire; thy blood shall be in the midst of the land; thou shalt be no more remembered: for I the LORD have spoken it." Ezekiel 21:32. [He unclasps his hands, and they fall loosely to his sides.] CT: Now, I'm not one to make idle threats. Never have been. Lord knows, I've seen enough opponents come and go, and ALL of them have left the ring KNOWING that Caleb Temple delivers upon every promise he makes. Without exception. And this is the promise I make to you, the humble fan of the Double Eye... Come the first day of August, in the year of our Lord 1998, Caleb Temple will step into that ring one last time, and shall leave not with the heavyweight championship of the World strapped around his waist... but with the blood of twenty-nine men on his hands. I'm a great believer in destiny, in fate, in the Lord's great plan. And it's my opinion that wearing that gold is not part of the Lord's great plan. But it IS his will that I shed blood on August 1st. And his will be done. On earth as it is in heaven, remember? [He begins to pad softly across the marbled floor of the church.] CT: I might not walk out of that Portland arena with your gold. But by God I'll leave with the respect of twenty-nine of your superstars. Annis and Kowalski. Deathbringer and Requiem. Verhoeven and Musashi. Brody Thunder and even my old acquaintance Gunnar. Great names, ALL of them, but by the end of that night, each and every one of them will KNOW they've been in the ring with Caleb Temple. I have a habit of sticking in the memory, dontcha know. Dan has labelled it the "Eternal Rumble". For Caleb Temple, it has a different meaning than for the others involved. To the others, it's a chance to go down in history, to be remembered for eternity as the IIWF champion. Quite an achievement, but not the goal to which a soldier of the Lord aspires. No, for Caleb Temple, this is the opportunity to show everyone what might have been. To show Serge Annis, Steve Kowalski, Brody Thunder, and the rest of those greats the Caleb Temple they never got the opportunity to shed blood with. Gunnar knows. But that's a whole other story, and one to which Caleb Temple shall pen the final chapter come August 1st. See, Brother Gaines got it right when he said there's a little unfinished business between us. And THAT alone is enough reason for me to take out Eddy Jacks and Rick Williams, by myself if need be. Eddy, Rick... the saddest part of all this is that you don't even realise what you've walked into. [He looks up at the tortured form of Christ on the wooden crucifixion scene behind the main altar.] CT: I'm not a pleasant man, boys. I get very upset when I don't get what I want. And what I want right now, is the opportunity for the Baddest Thangs Running to give Dan the match which SHOULD have been the main event of "IIWF Forever". The match which would top ANY card in ANY promotion. Caleb Temple versus Gunnar Gaines... Part two. I'll stop at nothing to make that match happen. [A slight smirk crosses his pale face.] CT: "I will make thy name to be remembered in all generations: therefore shall the people praise thee for ever and ever." Psalms 45:17. Oh, you'll never forget ME. [He chuckles softly to himself.] CT: Trust me. [Fade to black, and then fade back up on a new scene: SCENE: Out on the porch at night at Casa Gaines, Portland, Oregon. Gunnar is sitting below the glow of the moon drinking some sort of concoction, probably his infamous "Moose Juice," in a tall plastic glass. Recipe: One part wood grain alcohol, one part Moosehead Beer. Appearing to be in a relaxed state, he senses the presence of the camera and leans forward and says three words.] GGG: "Future Bowl" match... [He makes an unpleasant scowl.] GGG: Future. [snort] What a joke. You have me and Caleb Temple, two of the most experienced veteran wrestlers around, against the [makes quote signs with his fingers] "team" I like to call "Jacks To Excess"... [He snickers while making an appropriate, or rather inappropriate, motion up and down with his almost-closed fist] ...also consisting of two veterans, or should I say, washed up little fart stains, known as Eddy "Slap" Jacks and "INXS" Rick Williams. [He smiles, but goes back to his unpleasant look.] GGG: My opponents have touched on the irony that this match is being sold as a "Future Bowl." I'll be more direct. It's an effin' insult. It's a load of horse sh[bleep]. Like I'm some green little rookie destined to take over the world in ten years. Rather than being the great, dominant wrestling star who was voted number one in the world, I've been turned into the "IIWF New Generation" in Danny boy's little marketing mind. [He takes a swig from his drink and slams it down.] GGG: Future... hah. I'm past, present AND future and whenever the hell else I damn well want. My destruction knows no boundaries of time and space, and I think being stuck in a match with Eddy Jacks and Rick Williams is the biggest load of shit I've ever seen, and I'm going to prove to Danny boy that my ass should be on the TOP of the card by embarrassing, humiliating, obliterating, discombobulating, annihilating, emasculating, pulverising AAAAAAAAANNNNDDDD pinning this little impromptu odd couple that Spreads slapped together for no apparent God damn reason. You see, kids... I ruled the EWA, and when it closed I came here to the Double Eye for some big, big money. "You'll get your title shot," I was told. In the meantime, I simply dominated the fed. I made an idiot out of the Meatman, I mean bigger idiot, and then abused Sycho Joe and his lawn ornament of a partner. Brother Caleb and myself then proceeded to make the cousins Macbeth wish they had never even _heard_ of an Alaskan Death Match. The ref proclaimed them winners. You call them winners after the beating they took? I don't. But you know damn well who stole the show, and who's been keeping butts on the ends of seats since he got here. Gunnar The God Damn Grizzly Gaines. And I get rewarded by being stuck at the end of the card, behind all the idiots who ran out of here because they were scared of the Baddest Thang Running. So now, as promised... here is my chance at that belt. Battle royal. Some chance. I have to fight 28 squishy little Hershey squirts plus the only man around here I'd even call a man, namely Caleb Temple, to get it. It don't bother me since I am the man who _does not care_, but it's still not the odds ya look for. But I can't complain. It's my shot, it's my ONLY shot, and Gunnar Gaines is a man who capitalises on the moment, and this time it ain't gonna be no God damn different. [He pauses, scratches his chin, smiles, and continues.] GGG: Let me tell you all about something called Grizzly's Law. Someone hits me hard... I hit them twice as hard. They break one of my fingers... I break two of theirs. I get one concussion... I give two out in return. Take that and multiply it by 29, and you'll get an idea of the kind of mayhem the Grizz is going to lay down in that main event. Or let me tell it to you a different way. [He grins, relaxed, while taking another pull on his drink.] Didja like my riddle last week about the frog in the blender? I knew you would, so here's another one, kids. Most people have heard of the Riddle of the Sphinx. What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon and three legs in the evening? And the answer, which people puzzle over until they're told it, is man. Morning is childhood and he crawls. Afternoon is adulthood and he walks. Evening is old age and he uses a cane, like my grandfather Ebeneezer Gaines, who could still kick 50 percent of all your asses. Get it? [camera bounces up and down, "yes"] Good. I _knew_ you would. Now here's another one: The Riddle of the Grizzly. See, kids, at IIWF Forever, someone's going to walk in there on two legs, but they're going to leave the event on four wheels if you get what I'm saying. All the complete and total chaos I was going to deliver over the years of my contract has to all be compressed into one evening, and someone's taking a ride in the big white van because of it. So what's the riddle, you ask? Good question, moron. The Riddle of the Grizzly is "Who? Who is going to have compound fractures and black and blue spots all over courtesy of the Baddest Thang Running?" Well, right now I don't _know_ who, and I don't really give a good God damn who, and it don't really matter a good God damn either way, seeing as how I am The Man Who Does Not Care. Just remember... the Grizzly Slam can do some _very_ nasty things to the neck and shoulder area. Just ask Caleb Effin' Temple. And he's my best friend. [He points to his head.] Think about _that_, and if you're too stupid to run if you see me... _beat_ me... if you can. [He gives one of the most unpleasantly gruesome Grizzly Grins ever seen... then the screen fades as he cackles menacingly with a glint in his eye reflected from the moonlight. Cut back to the studio.] TD: So there you have it, folks. Eight incredible matches, one incredible federation. The IIWF Coliseum is completely sold out, so the only way for you to join in the excitement of this huge, history-making event is to call your local cable operator and order IIWF Forever. SR: It's gonna be great, Dross, ol' buddy. You and me out there, against the world... that cruel, cruel world. I can hardly contain myself, baby dolls. TD: We're almost out of time here, folks, but before we go, the tributes to the IIWF have been pouring in over the past few weeks, and a number of former and current superstars who are not wrestling on the card itself will be in attendance at ringside. Among them will be members of 4-D, former World Tag Team Champions the Natural Predators, and their close friend, Josef "the Cavalier" Tadeuscz. Let's get their comments: [The lights come up on Kuyler Greyson... sitting quietly, head bowed, in his office. The room is only scarcely lit with the table lamp and slits of light from the venetian blinds behind him.] KG: A legend begins as the story ends. [He looks up at the camera, face half-silhouetted by the desk lamp.] I remember a year ago... coming to the IIWF, thinking that my boys... my team -- the Natural Predators -- would be able to make history here. The road was never easy. [On the shaded part of the room, highlight clips of defeat against the Down Boys and Licensed for Devastation, being pinned by Cold Spell and the Harlequins, and the Machines and the Down Boys teaming to pin Grey Phoenix.] Took beating a legend... to take that step to becoming a legend. [Clip of the Predators' pinfall win over the High Plains Drifters, their first "name team" pin.] And once we started... we were on a tear. [Predators defeat the Machines. Drifters. Bear wins the Strongman match against Eddy Ramos. Pin the Harlequins.] And then... one January evening... we made history. [Clip of the Predators pinning Alex Porteaux, winning the Tag Team Championship of the IIWF.] Didn't matter that we lost it a month later... or that things are ending before we can regain the titles. Look back... [Clips in rapid succession of the Predators' matches in the IIWF] Takes a while to realise that the legend is not the person or teams... but the place where those people belong. The IIWF... a legend begins as the story ends. [The lights come up... and Bear and Grey Phoenix of the Natural Predators flank Kuyler, wearing their "IIWF: Where the Wild Things Are" t-shirts and "4-D" baseball caps] GP: I've been around for a while, moving here and there... finding a niche if I can to work from. Before I met Kuyler, I used to watch the IIWF and wonder if I could ever cut it there. Then I got here... and then we won the Tag Team Championship. I met and worked with the legends of the sport. It was what I had hoped for. What they say isn't true. Fans are not the same the world over. I've never met any fans who meant more to me than the people who would line the rows at the Coliseum... or come out in droves just to see people like us wrestle, to cheer us on, in the name of the IIWF. I'm going to miss this. [Bear looks on stoically.] B: Never was as good with words as Kuyler and Michael. I'm still a young man, and I know that I'll never find anything like the IIWF again. I know that the fans here are the best in the world... and whatever happens to us from here on out... it'll be the IIWF and the fans that I've met... that make me look back on my career with pride when it's over. KG: We'll always be around, fans. In one form or another. And in the end, so will the Double Eye. Like I said before, legends die hard. GP: Neye-ha, ne-ya-ho neyheyo. B: The triumph is ours. [Lights fade to black. Cut to an airport lounge in Lodz, Poland, where Josef "the Cavalier" Tadeuscz is seated. He looks to the camera and smiles a little.] JT: Hello. I suppose you are asking who this is. Memories may be hard to keep of those who come and go quickly. But when Kuyler Greyson... my old manager... asked for help, there I was to respond. As he formed 4-D. What I have in my career done has been no small thing. I have been a Heavyweight champion. I have been one of Europe's most popular wrestlers. And now? I go to say farewell to the IIWF. Why, you ask? [He smiles, rustling his red beard a little.] Opportunity comes for us but one time. I chose instead of following my start in the IIWF, to take a leave of absence...to be with my wife, then newly-wed. As the IIWF closes its doors...it is a nice thought...to be able to stop once more there...and to say goodbye. A single candle may pierce the blackest of nights... and the IIWF, for me, was like a roaring flame. A chance I know not if I will ever have again. So I go to say goodbye. [A voice in Polish echoes through the terminal...and Josef rises to go and meet his plane as the camera fades. Cut back to the studio.] TD: All of the IIWF's titles on the line... for the last time. One man will leave the arena as the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... forever. Feuds will be settled, legends will be made, myths will be shattered. It's IIWF Forever... and it's only on pay-per-view. We'll be back next Friday night with one last look ahead at this huge, huge event... so until then, this is Tim Dross, for "Soundbite" Steve Roberts, saying: so long, everybody! SR: Damned straight, baby dolls. [The lights in the studio fade, casting Dross and Roberts in silhouette. Steve Roberts stretches as Dross shuffles the papers on his desk in front of him. Fade.] +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I * I * W * F =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+ | President: Daniel Spreadbury | | iiwf@sisko.demon.co.uk | +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- http://www.sisko.demon.co.uk -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+