________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| | || | \ v v / | __| |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| C + O + U + N + T + D + O + W + N T + O ______ ____ ______ _______ ___ _______ ______ \ ____\/ __ \\ ___ \\ _____\\ | / /_____\\ ___ \ | | / / | || | \ \ | | | / / | | | \ \ | |__/_/ | || |__/ / |_____| | / /| |_____| |__/ / | ____/| | || __ /| _____/| |/ / | _____/| __ / | | | | | || | \ \| | | / | | | | \ \ | | | | / /| | \ \ | | / | | | | \ \ | | | |_/ / | | \ \|____ | / | |_____| | \ \ | | \___/ | | \ \____/|/ /______/| | \ \ | / | / \/ | / \/ |/ |/ |/ with Tim Dross, Larry Morton, and "Soundbite" Steve Roberts Friday 31 July 1998 [Sting's "Bring On The Night" plays as the shot opens on IIWF's Studio Three.  Veteran commentators Tim Dross and Larry Morton sit at the long, glass desk which is placed in front of a large video monitor.  Beside them, a third chair stands empty, and behind them, the screen bears the "IIWF Forever" logo. Dross 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 the final edition of "Countdown"! We're now just twenty-four hours away from the biggest pay-per-view event in the history of professional wrestling, and the anticipation truly is building. I'm Tim Dross, and beside me is my long-time friend and colleague, the inimitable Larry Morton. LM: Don't call me that, Tim! I'll have you know my mother loves me like a son! TD: I don't doubt it, Larry. Folks, over the next sixty minutes we will give you ten reasons to order the IIWF's latest, greatest... and _last_ pay-per-view spectacular, IIWF Forever, which will come your way _live_ tomorrow night from the IIWF Coliseum right here in downtown Portland, Oregon. [Suddenly, Van Halen's "Running With The Devil" kicks in over the PA, and the canned voice of ring announcer Sparkplug Lee is heard:] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, "Soundbite" Steve Roberts! [The crowd yet again breaks into spontaneous applause as Steve Roberts... as the bottom half of Steve Roberts slides into the shot, across the surface of the glass table! Dross and Morton recoil in terror as Steve Roberts careens down the glass surface, in all his shoeless glory. The cameraman quickly pulls out to reveal the rest of the "Soundbite", who stands jubilantly on the table wearing his trademark leather jacket over a t-shirt that reads, "The End Is Nigh... So Let's F***!"] SR: And one of those ten reasons is standing right here on this table, baby dolls! TD: Steve Roberts, would you please sit down? SR: Sure thing, Dross-man. You know, I've always wanted to do that. [Steve Roberts nimbly climbs down from the table and takes his seat, removing his jacket and placing it over the back of his chair. He ruffles Larry's hair with a grin.] SR: Barry! Great to see you! You're looking well! LM: The name is _Larry_. And it's good to see you, "Soundbite." SR: Of course it is! It's always good to see the rootin'est, tootin'est son of a gun ever to throw an Asai moonsault. There's enough Soundbite to go round for everybody, baby dolls! TD: When you're quite finished, Steve Roberts. SR: Be my guest, Dross ol' buddy, ol' pal. TD: You're very excitable tonight, Steve. SR: The Soundbite's excitable every damned night of the week, Dross -- but especially when he knows that in just over twenty-four hours' time, he can tear up the contract that's been keeping his pert little ass in Portland for the past two years and finally pull in the big bucks in Hollywood. That thing's a damned paper ball and chain, I tells ya, Dross. And the Soundbite has needs! Needs!! TD: Good grief. Folks, I promised you ten reasons to order IIWF Forever. And here's the first. SR: Me! TD: No, Steve Roberts. Would you please be quiet for just one minute? SR: We have to give the people what they want to see, Dross! And they wants to see the Soundbite in all his ripped and rippling glory! TD: Can we just cut to the arena? [Cut to an interior shot of the empty IIWF Coliseum, with the word "LIVE" blinking in one corner of the screen. The camera pans past the ring, already erected with its special "IIWF Forever" logo silkscreened onto the canvas, and the lighting rigging positively groaning under the weight of dozens and dozens of lights of all shapes, sizes and colours. About half-way up the aisle, a familiar looking stage has been furnished with a pink chaise longue and a tiny wooden chair. The red curtains behind said furnishings are tossed aside, and out steps the voluptuous figure of Becky LaRue, her flame-coloured hair pulled up and held in place by a pencil. Dressed in tight-fitting jeans and an IIWF t-shirt, she turns to the camera and smiles.] BL: Well hello there, boys and girls. I know what you're thinking: it's been months since we've seen the hostess with the mostest, the most beautiful woman in sports, the goddess of professional wrestling... TD: [over headset] Becky, we only have thirty seconds for this segment. BL: Damn you and your ugly producer, Tim. It's Becky LaRue here, and as you can see, the production staff have dusted off the set one last time. LM: [over headset] Did they have to dust you off too, huh, Becky? BL: Shut up, Morton, you worm. Right here on this stage tomorrow night, I had planned to conduct one more scintillating, stimulating and satisfying interrogation of one of the IIWF's legendary competitors. Unfortunately, we could only get Chris Quigley. But I should be reason enough to tune in tomorrow night... so make that call to your local cable operator. TD: Thanks, Becky. BL: I feel so used. [Cut back to the studio as Becky shudders.] TD: Becky LaRue will interview Chris Quigley live at IIWF Forever tomorrow night, folks, and that will be one conversation you won't want to miss! That's one reason down... and here's the second. [Behind the trio, the huge video screen is illuminated by the logo for the main event of IIWF Forever:] =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= MAIN EVENT: 30-man ETERNAL RUMBLE Winner is IIWF World Heavyweight Champion FOREVER! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: Folks, there has never been a bigger match in the history of this sport. SR: That sounds kinda familiar. LM: He's been saying the same thing the past three weeks, Steve. SR: Shut up, Gary. LM: That's _Larry_. SR: Whatever. TD: Thirty of the toughest, most driven superstars in the wrestling world today will compete in the same ring for one glittering prize: the honour of being the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... forever! And if names like Brody Thunder, Steve Kowalski, Joe Petrow, Requiem, Creed, Duncan Macbeth, Marty Warnett, and dozens more don't persuade you that this is one match you won't want to miss, nothing will. SR: Except perhaps the cast-iron promise that Larry Morton won't be anywhere near ringside. LM: Aw, come on, I'm sitting right here! TD: Steve, stop picking on Larry. The rules of this match are simple: all thirty competitors -- including the much-vaunted mystery athlete -- will draw numbers before the match begins, the winners of the evening's preceding matches granted the advantage of being able to draw from numbers 16 to 29, and numbers one and two will start things off. Thereafter, every two minutes another superstar will join the fray, and the only way to be eliminated from the match is by being tossed out of the ring over the top rope, and for both feet to touch the floor. The only thing we can be certain about this match is that we know who #30 will be -- current IIWF World Heavyweight Champion Serge Annis. SR: Although... I also know who the mystery entrant is, Dross. TD: Of course you do, Steve Roberts. Folks, we'll be giving you our picks for the man each of us feels is most likely to succeed in this match of matches on this night of nights... but first, let's get comments from some of the heavy-hitters who'll be in that ring in just a matter of hours, starting with one of the heaviest hitters of them all, Triple Crown winner Steve "the Fury" Kowalski. SR: Whoo-hoo! Fury in da house! TD: You'll remember, folks, that just two weeks ago the Fury declared that he would not be participating in the battle royal -- that he would officiate the Thunder/Ronnie D match as contracted, but that he was in no condition to wrestle against twenty-nine other guys. Well, I am pleased to report that the toughest son-of-a-gun in IIWF history _will_ be in the Eternal Rumble tomorrow night -- and it's all down to our esteemed President. Let's take a look at the footage: [Blur into the scene. Scattered medical x-rays, head and neck. Manila folders open and spread about. Dusted about the table in no certain order. The terminology on the paper work would probably leave the common man scratching his head. As the camera pans across the table, it slows down and comes to a halt over the term "Cranial Swelling." The sound of a shot glass scrapes across a few photos and comes into view. The large meaty and scarred hand just pushes the paper work aside only leaving the top of the of the medical report: Steve Kowalski. The Fury. The Next Big Thing. Triple Crown title holder, two-time World Champion. Drunk. The rugged ex-champ downs another whiskey, while mulling over his personal medical records. In the darkest corner of the Amber Bug sits Kowalski. Alone with his bottle and shot glass. He pushes the rest of the folders to the floor in disgust. No one dares speak with him, no one dares look his way. Barley audible is the Fury's voice mumbling something like...] SK: [BLEEP]in' docs. I'd rat'er they lie to me. [Every time he speaks, the room becomes quiet, waiting to see if its safe to speak again a few seconds later.] Butchers'll do anythin' to keep ya under the knife. [Silence again. The murmuring starts, a few of the ruffians pointing to the headlights pulling up to the window. Until some dizzy drunk breaks the silence...] DD: Hey [hick]! Who's going to [hick] drive a limo down here? Look at the suit! [They do look. Everyone looks, except Kowalski. He is in his own world. But the man that catches everyone's attention is none other than the IIWF President Daniel Spreadbury. A fine, charcoal Armani suit adorns the wrestling superpower head honcho. Looking around in disgust, he eyes the Fury.] SK: College punks... [Halfway over, the bartender stops Spreadbury and warms him...] B: Buddy, you walk over there an' you'll come back in a bag. I wouldn't recommend it. DS: Thank you for the warning, but I will risk it. Would you be so kind as to make me a Gibson. [Spreadbury continues over the corner, bracing himself for anything. Meanwhile the bartender just says...] B: What the hell is a Gibson? [All eyes turn to watch the idiot that pulls out a chair at Kowalski's table. All wait for the beating of a lifetime. Better the suit get it, then them. Spreadbury sits down and wait for Kowalski to notice. It's three minutes and two shots later until he does.] SK: What the [BLEEP] do ya think yer doing here? This is my table, No one sits here 'less I says so. So ya got 'bout three seconds 'til... DS: I know why you're not coming. I have seen the records. Dizziness is still there, isn't it? They say that it will be perm... SK: _They_ say a lot of [BLEEP], Danny. But they should shut the hell up. But I guess with the cash ya got, ya can get all the docs to sing fer ya. Talk 'bout my "private" records. Get the scoop on ol' Steve. Well, yer [BLEEP]in' right! I'm hurt an' I ain't never gettin' better. [What's left of the crowd knows it's closing time. But mostly they know things are going to get ugly, fast! And _no one_ wants any part of Kowalski. So they mosey on out, leaving Steve, Dan and the bartender. The bartender minds his own and cleans glasses, never looking at the two men but listening intently.] DS: Steve, I'm not here to gloat. I'm here to say that I am... SK: Gloat! [Now standing] Ya must be happier than a pig in [BLEEP]! Seein' me like this! Fin'lly get one over on me. Serge gettin' the one two three! Now ya come down here to laugh! DS: It is not like that. We have had our fair share of differences, Steve. There are days where I want to see you in jail, locked away and have that key tossed. [Becoming louder himself] You have assaulted me, discredited me, and embarrassed me. I will admit, I wanted Annis to grind you under his boot heel! Nothing satisfied me more than seeing you knocked off your pedestal! SK: Well, ya won! Ya [BLEEP]in' won! I'm done fer all time! I will be nuthin' but a memory now. So take a good look an' get the [BLEEP] out! DS: Damnit, Steve! I am _not_ here to gloat! I am here to say that I have been proud to know you! As much as I want to hate you, you have always won me over! Your prick attitude! Your dirty, no-nonsense work habit! Your never-say-die spirit! I wanted to break you so bad, I could taste it! I dreamed at night of every IIWF star I could throw at you. And you... You bastard! Always found away to pull it off! You are everything unathletic kid growing up wanted to be. Unstoppable, undeniable. You were that person I could _never_ be! I have been running the IIWF for years and admiring the greatest athletes and no one captivates me more than you. You're a horrible amateur wrestler... SK: I know an armbar... DS: Your moonsault sucks! SK: Graceful I'm not... DS: Your personality is for [BLEEP] and still the people love you! SK: I know when to smile... DS: You are every little boy's hero. And if you want me to say, I will... you are _my_ hero! You are brash, bold and boisterous. You are everything I'm not! I have lived vicariously through your matches... in my head for two years. When the crowd screams for you, I wish they were screaming for me. When you somehow lift that shoulder, I feel a great weight being lifted. When you SKULLPUMP an opponent, I feel the rush of victory! So before you thrash out and tell me what a piece of crap I am and how I tried to destroy you, I want to tell you thing. I ran the greatest show on _EARTH_! And you were my _GREATEST_ star! [A stunned Kowalski looks dumbfounded as Spreadbury puts his hand out to shake Kowalski's...] I just wanted to thank you, Steve. That's all I want to do. Thank you. [Kowalski looks at his boss for a long moment, staring. Maybe it's the liquor or the surprise confession of the President, but the Fury hesitates. Spreadbury waits a few seconds, but turns to walk away when he realises it won't happen... ...or will it? Steve grabs Daniel's hand and gives it a hard squeeze. The two men have the look of old friends meeting for the first time in years. It's only five seconds but it feels like a lifetime. Finally they break and the IIWF President makes his way toward the door. Kowalski just squats into his chair.] SK: Hey, Danny. [Spreadbury stops to turn around in the doorway, heading Kowalski's call.] We threw some pretty damn good shows, huh? DS: The best, Steve. [Kowalski looks on the floor at the scatter medical reports, furrowing his brow. A second later he spits on them. He smiles and says...] SK: Well... Maybe we should do one more. Fer ol' time's sakes. [Fade as Kowalski fills his shot glass one more time. Cut back to the studio.] LM: To my mind, Tim, Steve Kowalski at even fifty per cent is a favourite in a match like this. The mere fact that he has decided to wrestle tonight demonstrates exactly why he is so dangerous -- he doesn't know when to quit. TD: Absolutely, Larry. I've never encountered such a fighting spirit as that of Steve Kowalski... except perhaps in former Intercontinental Champion Creed. One leg, one eye, and in rapidly failing health... but the red-gloved warrior wouldn't miss tomorrow night for the world: [Open on familiar ground for IIWF watchers, the shining city on the hill, San Francisco, California. From the moan of the foghorns floating through the Fisherman's Wharf mist to the clang of the cable car bells as the famed cars wend their way through the China Basin, it is a scene which has been replicated in innumerable fashions over the past two years. This time, however, we do not come to rest at the historic Cow Palace, or the Airport Hilton in Burlingame. This is not a rally in the Mission nor a two-night doubleheader at the Park formerly known as Candlestick. Instead, we stop outside the Federal Building where, standing outside the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals are all manner of demonstrators, many wearing red and black t-shirts with the simple message... "Free Creed". At the sides of the courthouse are television production trucks from all across the country, Court TV, MSNBC, various local news outlets, and standing up for CNN is legal affairs correspondent Greta Van Susteren, who is bringing coverage of the goings on coast-to-coast.] GVS: The issues in this appeal from the Oregon District Court are fairly straightforward, the professional wrestler Creed is seeking a temporary injunction, or TRO, against the State of Oregon's regulatory board which has refused to license his participation in the Pay-Per-View wrestling event, IIWF Forever, which will be held this Saturday Night, August 1. The burden on Creed, who has been ably represented in oral argument this morning by his long-time friend and counsel, Jack Montgomery at this emergency hearing, is to demonstrate that, firstly, he has a likelihood of success on the merits when the dispute goes to full trial... a likelihood which seems reasonable given plaintiff's reliance on the case of Borne vs. Oregon... and secondly, that "irreparable harm" will be done to Creed if he is not granted this injunctive relief -- meaning if he is not permitted to wrestle this Saturday Night. With that point as the lynchpin, we now head back into the courtroom where our three judge panel is abandoning traditional procedure and questioning the plaintiff himself. [Inside the oak drenched courtroom we go, a gallery of quiet observers nervously awaiting the outcome of the proceedings, the circuit judges, Harry Pegerson, Melvin Bunetti and Thomas Rison thoughtfully... presumably... considering the evidence. The Honourable Judge Pegerson addresses plaintiff's table, at which we see the returning Jack Montgomery, dapper as we remember him, alongside a face a little more ever-present in our memory banks. The large, bald, black man is wearing a bone-white Armani suit, a small red eye-patch and a twitching left-handed glove (which is resting underneath the plaintiff's table), the only splashes of life in what is the remarkably hard countenance of the man whom we know as the red gloved warrior... It is Creed.] Judge: What is troubling me, Mr. Creed, is the medical record which clearly indicates that with six, perhaps eight months away from professional wrestling, your eyesight would most likely return to completely acceptable levels. The record is clear that your international reputation has expanded far beyond the IIWF, that you competed successfully in a California based wrestling promotion known as the EMWC, that your status as the 11th ranked wrestler in the world gives you cart blanche to re-enter tournaments like the Deschenes Cup, to go really to any professional wrestling entity in the world and be able to easily to achieve a status to which you have become accustomed, why, then, Mr. Creed... why then should this Court accept that denying your plea for relief today would cause you irreparable harm? [The red gloved warrior pauses, raising... no... unfolding... himself from his chair, clearing his throat and, with every eye upon him, begins:] Creed: I don't know much 'bout the law or the courts. I leave that to y'all. What I be knowin' is that whatever I done in the last two years... You can keep. You can keep the 11th ranked b.s. -- and you can keep the fifteen-match unbeaten streak -- and you can keep me beatin' James and Warnett when they each had straps and fightin' with thirteen guys on one night and you can keep the two-year feuds with Watkins and Byron, eight ball breakin' matches with them guys alone... You can keep me givin' respectability to a L.A. company that no one ever heard of 'fore I got there. You can keep the damn truckload of letters I got sayin' that what I did in the month 'fore D-Cup 1 be the greatest thing they ever saw in wrestlin'... An' you can keep the people who say that the barbed wire match 'gainst Annis and the fifth match I fought that damn Byron at D-Cup 2 be the best in the who' history of this sport. You can keep the blood, you can keep the sweat, you can keep ev'ry single night I gave up over the last two year, you can keep all the damn pride I had to swallow day after day, week after week, when I got kicked 'round fo' doin' what I damn well knew was what I had to do fo' that goddamn business. [Creed's voice now increases in rate, the timbre changing, the quality growing more and more rough as the red gloved warrior's full 6 feet one inch, 276 pounds of steely determination is on display in the middle of the courtroom. Creed grabs his jacket, peeling it from his body and tossing it on the floor.] Creed: You can keep my eyes and my damn legs. An' you can keep my future in this business the same way you can keep this suit, Judge. 'Cause I ain't got no future in this business. Win, lose or draw this Saturday Night... I say, win...lose...draw...this Saturday Night... Come August 2nd...Creed be retired. In the ring...and behind the scenes...Creed be retired. [A noticeable murmur goes up throughout the courtroom as the full scope of Creed's retirement announcement resonates throughout the building.] Creed: So it don't damn matter 'bout what I might do 'fter this Saturday Night... 'cause ain't none of y'all ever gonna see Creed 'fter this Saturday Night. Fact be, Judge... fact be, you can keep ev'rything I ever did or ev'rything I might ever gonna do in this sport... 'Cause none of it matter to me. And none of it ever did. All Creed care 'bout be all Creed care 'bout since the first day he came into professional wrestling back in 1996. Only ever wanted one thing. That be to raise the IIWF Championship belt up in the air and know that, fo' at least one moment, that Creed truly be... The best wrestler in the world. [Creed pauses again, removing his tie and slowly unbuttoning his shirt.] Creed: After Saturday, there be no mo' IIWF. That mean that after Saturday, there be no mo' chance to be IIWF World Heavyweight Champion. So, Judge, you can say whatever you want here today...you can make any damn decision you got to make.... But on Saturday Night, at IIWF Forever, in Creed last day ever in professional wrestling, I am gonna hold that belt over my head, and I am gonna be 'nnounced to the who' damn world as... The _NEW_ IIWF Heavyweight Champion of the World!! Creed. It ain't a prediction. It a promise. [The shot zooms on the chest of the red gloved warrior, a new crimson tattoo appearing on his left pectoral muscle, a permanent emblem over his heart eternally marking his unquestioned feeling about which wrestling promotion is indeed the one to which he will always belong...] "IIWF Forever" [Final fade.] TD: You talk about an athlete you identify with the IIWF, and Creed has to be on the tip of your tongue. This young man has given everything -- his body, his soul, his sweat, his tears, his blood -- for the IIWF, and he deserves not only our respect and our admiration... but our best wishes for tomorrow night. LM: It would certainly be quite the story, Tim, for Creed to finally bring home the title that has driven him throughout his entire career... his entire life, almost. And what a tragedy it will be if Creed doesn't fulfill that life-long goal. SR: Aw, what a pile of crap. Dross, the punk kid is all washed up. Sure, he can hit a couple of suplexes, but he can barely see, he can barely move in the ring, he's more banged-up than Ronnie Paris' ho' wife. TD: We apologise for the comments of Steve Roberts, ladies and gentlemen. Let's go to the comments of another individual who has announced his retirement following tomorrow night's big event... and he is another former Intercontinental Champion, Marty Warnett: [SCENE: Portland, Oregon. Marty Warnett's apartment. Strewn around the floor, amongst the clothes, the CDs, videos and assorted pizza boxes, lies Marty's wrestling gear. The Party Maniac sits down in front of the camera. He's wearing a pastel coloured shirt, white slacks. His hair is tied back, and he's wearing a thin pair of glasses.] MW: Well, the time for jaw-jaw is nearly over, all the words no longer have any meaning... the only thing that will matter will be the talk in the ring. So let's talk, right here, right now. So, no Intercontinental shot for the true eye-sea title holder... okay, fair enough. Let Claw have his moment of glory, let Lebec look stupid. The fans know who the real champion is. I'll just re-iterate what I said for the I Crown event; I'm tired, bored and fed up with the state of wrestling, after IIWF Forever, I quit. But, I'll quit as IIWF champ. Hey, honey, pass me that piece of paper. [A slim but curvy dark-haired young lady passes a scrap of paper to Marty.] MW: Oh, yeah, meet my new partner, Esther Howe. EH: Hi. MW: I think it'll last between us. EH: Only for three and a half weeks until I break your heart, darling. [Both laugh. Marty looks at the entry list for the Battle Royal thingy, not an obvious copy of any other event in any other federation, oh no, sirree. Not at all.] MW: Hmmm... interesting. Ha! What the... Qui... [Marty starts convulsing. All of a sudden, the screen fades out, as if into a dream sequence segment. The scene is now that of an old vaudeville stage, the whole shot "coloured" in sepia. Marty stands on the stage, wearing a straw boater and multi-coloured striped jacket. There is noise of laughter in the background.] MW: How many Quigleys does it take to change a light bulb? AUDIENCE: [as one] No, Marty, how many Quigleys does it take to change a light bulb? MW: One; as soon as he starts speaking, the light bulb will volunteer to be electrocuted! [Shot of old footage of a crowd laughing.] MW: I say, I say, I say, did you know that Chris Quigley is so boring that he's employed by the Canadian Tourist Board to make every other Canadian seem interesting? [Repeated shot of crowd laughing.] MW: What do you get if you cross Quigley with a well-known cutesy American series? AUDIENCE: [again as one] No, Marty, what do you get if you cross Quigley with a well-known cutesy American series? MW: Why, "No-job" Boy Walton! [Repeated shot of audience laughing.] MW: How many Quigleys does it take to screw in a light bulb? AUDIENCE: [well-trained] How many Quigleys does it take to screw in a light bulb? MW: None, it's a well-known fact that the light bulb would be only one more at the back of a long, long line of objects that have conspired to screw Quigley during his illustrious career... [Cut to shot of an old, weight-challenged woman laughing hard. Extremely hard. To the point she explodes with a large bang.] MW: Aaaarrrgggghhhhhhhhh. EH: It's okay, love. I had to burst that balloon, you had that bad dream again. MW: You mean? EH: Time for therapy... [Esther then hands Marty some darts. He stands and throws them at a board on which is pinned an official Chris Quigley doll, available at all good, hell, even mediocre discount stores, world-wide. All three darts piece the doll, one in the head, one in the hart, whoops, heart, the other, well, if a soft toy had dangly bits...] MW: OH MY GOD, I KILLED QUIGLEY... [Fade to black. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Old feuds die hard, it seems. Marty Warnett still harbouring ill-feeling towards Chris Quigley, right to the bitter end. Perhaps those two men will lock it up in the battle royal tomorrow night... and what a battle it would be if they do. [SCENE: Once again, from a camera position high in the top deck, we see the darkened interior of the IIWF Coliseum, and the famous arena which has played host to some of the greatest moments in wrestling history has never looked finer. From the red, white and blue ropes and brand-new ring canvas sporting the IIWF Forever logo, to the banks of television lights lined with seemingly thousands of pyrotechnics for the pay-per-view, to the many colourful banners hanging from the rafters proclaiming the final event in the IIWF's glorious history, to the immaculately maintained seats which line the bowl of the cavernous auditorium, the Coliseum has been dressed in its best -- for the final time. The only illumination provided in the arena comes from the ceiling spotlights which bathe the ring in harsh, white light, and the red exit lights which surround each deck in the Coliseum. The silence which blankets the empty arena is almost eerie, a stark contrast to the scene which will play out here in just twenty-four hours, when the loyal, vocal fans of the IIWF will congregate here one last time to voice their enjoyment and support for the federation that has provided them with the finest in wrestling entertainment... and also, to say goodbye, before the Coliseum returns to silent darkness -- forever. As we soak in this solemn atmosphere for a few moments, the camera begins to swing on its mount, and sitting in a seat just a few feet away, we see a pensive, brooding Duncan Macbeth, leaning forward in his seat, his chin resting on his clasped hands as he stares down at the empty ring far below him. The former Intercontinental Champion has never looked in better shape, the result of his non-stop training regimen, made especially intensive since Macbeth learned both of the closure of the IIWF, and of the fiery Scot's entrance in the battle royal that will determine the final IIWF World Heavyweight Champion. Dressed in a plain white T-shirt with "IIWF" written across the front in black, blue jeans and black motorcycle boots, Macbeth's powerful arms appear slightly less beefy, but much more sinewy and defined, the chest slightly less broad but more angular, the waist trimmer. His more recent role as the high-flying half of the Black Watch has accounted in part for Macbeth's leaner, meaner appearance, but since the announcement of the IIWF's closing, the intense young Scotsman has been working feverishly with a different goal than tag team success... To take the greatest prize in wrestling. The IIWF World Heavyweight Title. Macbeth appears to be lost in thought, perhaps musing on the many battles he has waged in the ring below, the exhilaration he felt after each hard-fought victory, the crushing disappointment after each defeat. He remembers so many little things about each match he has fought in this building... the cheers of the crowd, the sensation of his sweat coursing down his back, the taste of his own blood in his mouth, the varying degrees of pain as night after night, he pushed his body to the limits of its performance and beyond. Macbeth closes his eyes as these sensations wash over him, the forgotten sensations made fresh again in his memory, and he lets out a long, slow sigh. Then, his jade eyes sparkle in the half-light as he open them again, and begins to speak, his eyes never leaving the ring below him.] DM: I've no' had much t' say lately. Haven't really known wha' t' say, I suppose. I've been tryin' t' put it out o' me mind fer weeks an' weeks now, tryin' t' ignore th' reality of wha's goin' t' happen 'ere tomorrow nigh', th' reality tha' once I walk out o' these doors tomorrow, there'll be no comin' back. Th' IIWF's been me home away from home fer goin' on twa years now. Ye ken, I still remember th' day I arrived 'ere in Portland, after drivin' me motorcycle halfway across th' country after th' last fed I was in closed its doors. I remember pullin' in t' th' parkin' lot o' IIWF Towers, takin' tha' posh elevator up t' th' top floor, walkin' righ' past th' secretary in me grubby biker's leathers, an' bangin' on Danny-boy's door. I must hae looked a sight, standin' there all dusty an' sweaty, me hair in a state, demandin' tha' this wee man in th' specs sign me t' a contract. I mean, I'm sure he had no idea jus' who th' Jaysis I was, since I'd been bouncin' 'round th' bush leagues fer years. [Macbeth chuckles to himself, as the recollection plays out in his mind.] But Spreadbury ne'er sae much as batted an eye, wha'. Maybe 'e admired me brass, maybe 'e jus' wanted me t' go away an' leave 'im in peace, but 'e gave me tha' contract. This crazy stranger drops in out o' th' blue, an' 'e signs 'im t' wrestle in th' greatest promotion goin'! I reckon 'e was figurin' at worst, 'e'd 'ave another jobber t' break up th' brawls when guys like Otto an' th' Syndicate got out o' hand. An' at best... well, I reckon tha' was my end o' th' bargain t' hold up. An' I never forgot wha' Spreadbury did fer me tha' day. I was given th' opportunity o' a lifetime, an' I was goin' t' do me damnedest t' see tha' I made th' most o' it. I remembered all th' talk in all th' locker rooms o' all th' minor leagues I ran in, how th' IIWF was a tough life, how hard ye had t' work t' stick there, how th' talent was damn near unbeatable, an' how sae many people went there an' were either sent packin' back t' th' bush leagues, or got put out o' wrestlin' altogether. I swore t' meself tha' if I e'er made it t' th' IIWF, I'd stick it out t' th' bitter end. [Macbeth sighs, lowering his head momentarily.] An' now, th' end is 'ere. I've had a wonderful career 'ere in th' Double Eye. I've fought th' guid fight against th' best in th' business, an' 'ave been lucky enough t' have beaten quite a few o' them. I've made guid friends, an' guid enemies. I won th' Intercontinental Title, an' no matter what anybody may say, I wore it with pride, an' I can rightly say tha' no man in th' IIWF was e'er able t' take it from me -- in the ring, anyway. In th' twa years I've been in th' IIWF, I've risen from an unknown rookie t' a respected member o' this federation. I've accomplished jus' about everythin' I wanted t' do in th' IIWF. Everythin' but ONE. My goal has been, and always will be, to be th' best. Tha's why I came 'ere t' th' Double Eye in th' first place. I was tired o' th' minors, and I wanted t' be in th' best federation goin'. Ever since I've been 'ere, I wanted t' be th' best wrestler in th' best federation goin'. I was close wi' th' Intercontinental Title, but there's still one las' rung on th' ladder t' climb. Th' IIWF World Heavyweight Title. There's nothin' I wouldn't give t' have tha' title 'round me waist. If I have t' sweat fer it, I will. If I have t' hurt fer it, I will. An' if I have t' bleed fer it... I will. I've got one last chance t' grab th' brass ring. One last chance to take the greatest prize in wrestlin'. One last chance t' climb t' th' top o' th' mountain. [Macbeth's demeanour darkens, and his focus turns from the ring as he levels his trademark jade stare at the camera, his piercing eyes glittering, his face half-masked by the dark shadow cast from the harsh spotlights in the centre of the arena.] There's goin' t' be twenty-nine men out there, all fightin' fer th' same thing I am. Twenty-nine o' th' most talented, th' toughest, th' meanest men e'er assembled under one roof, an' in one ring. Many o' them have been champions. A few o' them have been IIWF Champions. Fewer _still_ have been IIWF World Champions. But they're all goin' t' be there, an' it's goin' t' be a livin' HELL. Some o' those men are bigger than me. Some o' those men are stronger than me. Some o' those men are more experienced than me. An' some o' those men are more talented than me, aye. I'm goin' t' be sweatin'. I'm goin' t' be hurtin'. An' sure, I'm goin' t' be BLEEDIN'. [Macbeth's voice lowers to a baritone rumble, his teeth clenching as the steely determination fairly shines in his face and glows in his emerald eyes.] But I SWEAR tha' NONE o' those men are goin' t' work HARDER than me! I'm NO' goin' t' QUIT. I'm no' goin' t' quit until, jus' like in Calgary, I'm th' last man standin'. I'm no' goin' t' quit until I strap tha' shiny World Title belt 'round me waist. This is me last chance. An' I ALWAYS make th' most o' me chances. Mark me. [The feisty Scot lets that sink in for a moment, then turns his attention back to the ring below. Macbeth's demeanour softens and becomes more thoughtful as he regards the site of the IIWF's final battle for the World Title.] Ye ken, I remember once a lang time back tha' Joe Petrow, a bloke tha' everybody in wrestlin' has heard of, once referred t' me as a "no-name scrub". There's many ways t' make a name, Joe. Ye can go out there an' sell yuirself, talkin' up a storm, gettin' in people's faces, actin' like ye're God's gift t' th' wrestlin' world. Ye can go out there an' gripe an' complain, tellin' everyone tha' nobody treats ye righ', tha' everybody's tryin' t' keep ye down, in th' hope tha' th' squeaky wheel will get th' grease. Or ye can go out there, nigh' after nigh', an' give one hundred an' fifty per cent, ne'er givin' less, ne'er givin' quarter, ne'er givin' up, workin', sweatin', hurtin' an' bleedin' fer every single win, an' makin' yuir opponents realise tha' t' beat ye, they're goin' t' have t' work, sweat, hurt an' bleed even MORE. Tha's how I made MY name 'ere in th' IIWF, Joe. An' tomorrow nigh', IIWF, I'm NO' goin' t' give up. No' until I've made one more name fer meself. IIWF World Heavyweight Champion. FOREVER. [With that, Macbeth stands, and he continues to gaze down at the ring below for a few moments, as if trying to visualize the battle royal that will rage within its ropes just twenty-four hours from tonight. His entire body looks hard and taut, although the Scot appears perfectly relaxed, and the camera catches a quick glimpse of the letters "IIWF" stretched across Macbeth's broad chest on the plain white T-shirt before he turns and walks away from the camera towards a nearby exit. As Macbeth disappears into the darkness of the Coliseum, from which he will emerge for one last time tomorrow night, we see a single word written across the back of his shirt, just before the young lion vanishes from sight: FOREVER The sound of one of the Coliseum's heavy steel exit doors slamming shut reverberates throughout the cavernous arena as the camera fades to black. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Duncan Macbeth has never looked better, gentlemen -- and I believe he is going to be one of the prime targets for the competitors in this match. With his prior victory in battle royals, and his renowned stamina, I wouldn't be surprised to see other superstars ganging up on Macbeth right from the get-go. SR: I wonder, Dross, what would Macbeth rather have: the IIWF Championship forever, or a nice, piping hot haggis? TD: I beg your pardon? SR: You know what these Iranians are like, Dross. TD: For goodness' sakes, Steve Roberts, Duncan Macbeth is _Scottish_. SR: I know, Dross. Just messin' wit' your mind, ol' buddy. TD: Good grief. The final instalment of my series on the Meatman has me back in Emeryville, California. Let's go to the VT: [Cut to: Talking heads shot of Elsie Steele, wife of the Meatman.] ES: Jim has not had a vacation in fifteen years. The IIWF was his vacation. [Cross-cut to Patrick Melt, Chamber of Commerce Director:] PM: There were reports that a gentleman who purported to represent the meat industry, was wrestling in a butcher's apron, carrying big slabs of meat into the ring... I laughed at first; until I found out this man truly did represent the meat industry. In fact, he was a major player. [Cut back to Elsie Steele:] ES: He put into the IIWF the hours that he used to put into the farm, and the passion that he used to reserve for his family. [Back to Patrick Melt:] PM: The only way I can describe it is this: what if a doctor took FDA approved drugs and sold them on the street to the highest bidder? He couldn't do it. He would be misusing the tools of his trade, it would be an affront to his craft and what it stands for. [Back to Elsie:] ES: The Shadoe Rage bout is what started his decline. Every night, he would sit on the edge of the bed. He would squeeze one of those handgrips for hours at a time. "Creak, creak, creak...." I realised my husband was sick. PM: He drove a meat truck into the arena. He hit wrestlers with venison, ham hocks, cattle skulls, meat cleavers... he drenched himself in pig's blood, he even strangled men with intestines. It was ludicrous. ES: You didn't see me at the Meatman Challenge, did you? You want to bring these wrestling fans on our property, I told him? I will not have these... _animals_... on our farm. PM: Here is a "Cease and Desist" order issued by a judge in Emeryville. Jim Steele will lose his farm, his plant, his shop, his license, even his meat truck, if he so much as buys a ticket to attend an IIWF event. This piece of paper declares in effect, that Jimmy "the Meatman" Steele... is dead. ES: Meat, meat, meat... I fell in love with a man -- not a beat up, sweaty, hate-filled cartoon! I love you, Jim Steele. But you've jeopardised our business, our son, and our marriage. Either give up the wrestling- or give up your family. PM: One more Pay-Per-View? Doesn't matter. One more or a thousand more. Jim Steele will not attend. ES: I don't care if the IIWF only has one more show. It's over. A woman has to draw the line. I have drawn the line here and now. End of story. [Finally cut to Tim Dross standing in front of the huge closed gates of the Steele Family Farm.] TD: Ladies and gentlemen, the Meatman was not available for comment. He was in Washington, as we saw last week; and then shortly thereafter he flew to Texas. The recent heat-wave has apparently created lactose deficiencies in the cattle. Will he compete? I'm of two minds about it. On the one hand, why would any man in his rightful mind sacrifice his marriage and career for one shot at a wrestling title? It wouldn't make sense. On the other hand... who are we talking about here? Say what you will, no man can deny Jimmy "The Meatman" Steele is a true original in our sport. [Dross moves out of the frame as the shot zooms in on the "NO ADMITTANCE" sign affixed to the gate. Cut back to the studio.] LM: I agree entirely, Tim. The Meatman is one of the most unique individuals ever to step into an IIWF ring -- but is he paying too great a price for his participation? TD: Well, I have no idea whether or not Jim Steele will be there tomorrow night... but something tells me that he'll be in that ring when his number's up. SR: Of course he will, Dross! He's bringing me a pastrame sandwich! All that blood-letting always works up the Soundbite's appetite, and the Meatman is my designated food-provider. TD: Let's hear from a man who shares a name with the Meatman -- the "Real Deal" Luke Steele: [SCENE: elegant IIWF Towers, midday in Portland, Oregon. The usual traffic on the street passes by, unaware that in just a few days the mighty IIWF will close its doors to the world. The revolving door sees its share of men and women in business attire pass through the doors, all the while under the watchful gaze of Cleveland's own "Real Deal" Luke Steele. Steele sits on a bench facing the building, wearing a pair of denim shorts cut off at the knees, a sleeveless blue t-shirt featuring an oversized IIWF logo on the front and his name on the back in the form of a sports jersey. On his head is a bandanna with one large IIWF logo, obscured by the folds of the material. He continues to gaze upwards, seemingly in a trance and not aware of the camera focused in on him. Suddenly, he begins to speak without turning his head away from the towering structure.] LS: Majestic, wouldn't you say? There it is, the pinnacle of the wrestling world, and in about... [looks at his watch] 72 hours, it'll all be over. What's going to move into the building? Lord only knows. Maybe another new wrestling company, many an existing one will try to take over the local scene. Whoever it is, this will _always_ be the IIWF Towers to me. [Steele turns his head to the camera.] I may whine, I may cry, I may sulk every now and then, but the IIWF is my home. It's where the Real Deal came to be known as the master of the floating DDT... as a superb technician and aerialist... and where Luke Steele's wrestling career was born. It may not have been the first place I fought in, it may not be where I got my big break, but it's home simply because it was the first organisation to take a chance on me. On _me_. Not on me playing some other identity, as myself. Luke Steele. Not Shane Stevens, not Luke Duke. [Steele sits upright, and looks down at the shirt he's wearing. He smoothes out the IIWF logo and smiles, looking up again.] LS: There have been a lot of memories since Snow Brawl 1996. There was that first match against J.P. Steele, which haunts him to this day. There was my on again-off again rivalry with Ronnie Paris, and that little thing with Bill Shakespeare and Spur. Who could forget Genesis, except for maybe Brody Thunder after all the lumps to his head. I've still got a few lumps on my head from Requiem and Annis, and I plan to give a little back on Saturday. Ditto a lot of those other guys in the ring in the main event. After all, it'll be the last time we see the Double Eye in the Coliseum, and after that wrestling will _never_ be the same. So Portland, raise a glass and make a toast to the IIWF. You never know what you've got until it's gone. [Fade. Cut back to the studio.] SR: All these fond farewells make me want to puke, Dross. Are these guys wrestlers or goddamned actors?! TD: I'll pass on that one, Steve Roberts. Larry, what of Luke Steele's prospects in this match? LM: He's not an automatic favourite, that's for sure. Luke's IIWF career seems to be a story of near-misses -- and I wonder whether perhaps that will come back to haunt him tomorrow night. TD: I won't do Steele the disrespect of putting his lack of gold down to bad luck -- but you do end up feeling that the number a man like Luke Steele draws in this match will have an important part to play on his potential success. Another man yet to hold IIWF gold but who wants it so bad he can taste it is Shadoe Rage... SR: Yo, yo! Brotha in da house! TD: Nobody knows what you're talking about, Steve Roberts. Let's go to Shadoe's comments: [Fade in: the camera invades a church, winding its way through the rows of abandoned, dusty pews. It stops at the altar, warped and discoloured. A chalice is tipped over, wine spilled all over the faded wood. In the shadows sits a man, a man who has been tortured since early childhood. Shadoe Rage. He is swaddled in his black cape like a giant spectre. He watches the camera impassively.] SR: Who dares invade my kingdom of despair? My empire of ash? [shouting] My bastion of brimstone rifts? Did I ask for your intrusion? Did I ask for your presence? _Did_ I? [Shadoe draws in a deep, hissing breath. He stares at the ground.] SR: They say death is the moment when there are no more possibilities. When there are no more chances. Well, I have no more chances at the IIWF Heavyweight Championship. I have no more chances at the title that has always eluded me in my career. No more chances. Except this one. A battle royal. All the big guns have returned for this. All the IIWF-born names and one Angel of Death who wasn't supposed to be in the thing from the beginning. But the Black Jesus hasn't lost his drive. He hasn't lost his focus. He hasn't lost his desire. And he hasn't lost his never surrender drive. So let the Black Jesus preach to you for one minute. I _will_ not be thrown out of that ring. This is my dream. This is my life. Understand that. This is my sole purpose in existence. Joe Petrow, you may think that I am beneath your commentary, but let's understand one thing. I am the persistent bastard that broke your body and drove you out of the singles ranks of the IIWF. I was the man who dreamt up the most twisted match of all time, the most violent display of wrestling that surpassed all your pathetic gimmicks. And then my family ruined your tag team dreams, too. And right now I know you're licking your lips, dreaming up some brilliant storyline as to how you will finish your career as the IIWF champion forever. It won't happen. The Black Jesus won't let it happen. [Fade out. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Here's a man who took Steve Kowalski, arguably the greatest Champion the IIWF has ever seen, to the limit, Larry. His endurance isn't in question, his desire isn't in question, his ability isn't in question. A dark horse winner, perhaps? LM: I would agree with you, Tim... but I believe that Shadoe's hatred for Joe Petrow could cost him his last shot at the prize he so desperately wants. Shadoe comes at you with such rage, no pun intended -- and I wonder whether he might see red, get sloppy... and get tossed out as a result. SR: Ain't nobody touchin' the Soundbite's homey, D-man! Shadoe, he's gonna cut through the competition like Morton through a queue of folks waiting to lick Chuck Norris's moustache... LM: [dreamily] Oh yeah. TD: Good grief. SR: ...but, of course, Shadoe ain't gonna win this thang. TD: Of course. So the winner would be whom? SR: The Soundbite knows, but the Soundbite... he ain't the telling kind. [Suddenly there is an interruption in the studio, and general consternation off-camera.] TD: Uh, what's going on here? [The lovely Victoria Secret in all her beauty steps up, clutching a microphone which she holds for Flare, who struts into the frame with a grin on his face.] FLARE: Drossy, Roberts, close your mouth and stop drooling. I've got something to say here. [Victoria smiles and bats her eyes] The time is drawing near for the Eternal Rumble. Thirty men enter... one man leaves, and WHOEVER GETS IN MY WAY WILL BE HURT! I just don't care, it's the last IIWF match and you better be damn sure that I pull out all the tricks of the trade to win! Just to let you twenty-nine other sorry asses know, I don't care what you've accomplished here in the IIWF, I don't care what you're made of, and I don't care about the crap you talk! I'll let my actions in the ring speak for themselves, Dirtiest Player forever is what you'll be saying! One more thing, after I win the World's title forever I'll be having the IIWF Forever after party at the Flare estates in Miami. [Flare turns the mic to Victoria.] VICTORIA: Everyone who was with IIWF past and present is welcome to come and party! Flare, how about one for old time's sake? FLARE: Whooooooooooooooooo!!!! [He throws the mic down and walks off with Victoria. Steve Roberts leans back and stares lasciviously at Miss Secret as she departs.] SR: "Whoo" is right, Dross. Ol' Vicky's hotter than a hot thing. TD: IIWF veteran Flare with an unannounced appearance, ladies and gentlemen. I had the questionable privilege of interviewing another of the IIWF's old hands ahead of tomorrow night's match. Let's go to the tape, as I met the Jailer, along with the Venusian Death Cell: [SCENE: The IIWF Interview Area. Tim Dross stands alongside The Venusian Death Cell and The Jailer. The VDC is inside small a steel cage, equivalent in size to those used in animal testing laboratories.] TD: Fans, with me at this time are two men who are evidently determined to leave a lasting impression on the IIWF, The Jailer and The Venusian Death Cell. Gentlemen, may I start by saying it's an honour to have you with us here on this, the last ever edition of "Countdown." [Dross receives zero response from the duo.] And, of course, the two of you were present on the _first_ ever edition of this show, if my memory serves me correctly. [Again, no response.] Well, folks, there's just twenty-four hours or so to go until the IIWF closes its doors, seemingly forever, and just the same amount of time until the two of you venture into an IIWF arena for the very last time. TJ: Cut the sentimental stuff, Dross. See, we're not sentimental people. The IIWF's meaningless to us. We're not here to try and re-live what you'd have us believe are the "good old days," Dross, we're here to leave a mark on history... that's _it_. But it's not the federation _you're_ concerned about is it, Dross? It's your weekly pay packet. It's the reality you're no longer in a job... and you'll never get another. You're finished, Dross. TD: Now hold it right there! I haven't come here to discuss my personal situation, and I'm not at liberty to do so anyway, but I take offence to what you're insinuating here! TJ: The truth hurts, doesn't it, Mr. Dross? TD: Yes, it does, and the truth of this whole charade, is... [The Jailer puts his hand across Dross' mouth. He speaks softly, almost whispering.] TJ: Don't play with fire, Dross... you'll only get burnt. And we don't want to see _that_ happen now, do we? [He removes his hand from Dross' mouth. Dross shakes off the cobwebs, and takes a deep breath. He turns to look at the VDC.] TD: Now, Cell... I'm wondering if we can just get a few final words from you. TJ: What's there to say, Dross? What do you want him to do? Just repeat everything _I_'ve just said? Because that's all he'll do. TD: Well, I know a lot of our fans out there would like him to utter a few words before we say goodbye to him permanently. TJ: You'll get words from him, Dross... in his victory speech after the match is over. TD: Oh, you'll allow him to speak _then_, will you? TJ: If he chooses not to speak when there's nothing to say, Dross, that's hardly _my_ fault, is it? You come here looking for us to say something to you three weeks in a row, and you get upset when we don't co-operate? Didn't you _get_ the message last week? We've said all there is to say! TD: Well, maybe _you_ have, but the Cell hasn't said a word! TJ: Don't refer to him as that, Dross. It brings back bad memories, and he's liable to become rather... upset with you. I don't refer to you as Oss, do I? TD: No, but it's hardly the sa... TJ: It's _exactly_ the same thing, Dross. TD: Well as you've said yourself, after today, you'll never need speak to me again. TJ: Apart from tomorrow night when you join us in our celebration inside the ring. Then we'll speak all night. [The Jailer smiles, his eyes squinted.] TD: Yes, of course... after the VDC here wins the World Title. [The Jailer goes to speak. Dross snaps.] TD: It's not going to happen for goodness' sake! How can you possibly expect him to win this thing? He going up against twenty-nine of the greatest wrestlers ever to grace this sport with their presence! And you expect him to beat them all? It's crazy! TJ: Disbelieving the reality is what's crazy, Dross. Look at the physical condition of him. Just look at the stature; the composure. TD: I'll agree it's impressive, but with all due respect, a match of this type is in many ways a lottery. He could be eliminated in any of a number of ways... TJ: And _he_ can eliminate in even more. _But_, Dross, this is just idle chit-chat, and it's getting us _nowhere_. What we say's of no importance... just watch the match tomorrow night, and see us prove you wrong. It's been a pleasure. [Fade out. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Thirty men, one prize, folks... and what a prize: to be the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion _forever_. Reason number two to catch IIWF Forever tomorrow night... and your picks, gentlemen? LM: Out of a field of thirty incredible athletes, this is the toughest call I've had to make... but I'm going to go with Chris Quigley. I realise that he probably ranks as an outsider, and he has to get through the Legends Match before he can even think about the Eternal Rumble... but it's Quigley I'm picking, to finally make good on that promise. TD: I have to go with the red-gloved wrecking machine, Creed. He may be limited nowadays in comparison to the explosive rookie who blasted his way to that fifteen-match unbeaten streak last spring... but his desire, his self-belief... and his _need_ to win this thing; I think they'll carry him through. And finally, what about you, Steve Roberts? SR: I ain't sayin. I know who's gonna win... but I ain't sayin'. It would ruin all the children's fun... and if there's anything the Soundbite is about... he's about the little children. TD: Good grief. Ladies and gentlemen, it's the Eternal Rumble... it's the match of the year -- it's a match for all time. And the only way to see it is live on pay-per-view tomorrow night... so make that call, or regret it... forever! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= LEGENDS MATCH: Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven vs. Subway Psycho vs. Deathbringer vs. "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: The third reason to make that call to your local cable operator, folks, is this huge four-way elimination brawl between four of the IIWF's very finest competitors. All four of them may already lay claim to the title of "legend," but after tomorrow night, one man will stand tall as a true, bona fide IIWF legend. LM: And for that man to then go on and become the final IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... what an honour. TD: Indeed, all four of these men will be competing in the Eternal Rumble just minutes after the conclusion of this match, but don't expect any of them to hold back one little bit. I fully expect all four to go all out to try and earn victory in the arena that is steeped in their history. SR: You know, Dross, I'm not sure what all the fuss is about for this match. Sure, Verhoeven's a real soldier, a real tough guy -- and my pick to take home the marbles in this one by a mile -- but what have the other three done lately? Deathbringer got snarled up in a petty feud with some whining kid, Quigley ran off back to Canuck-land after tapping out and cobbled together some cock-and-bull story about dead parents, and the Subway Stinker got maimed in that barbed wire match last November. They're hardly the stuff of legend in my book. TD: What about, then, Deathbringer's World title reign, his memorable series of matches against Dan Kauffman? What about Chris Quigley's Submission Match victory at Ring Wars 3? What about his reign as Intercontinental Champion? What about the Subway Psycho's victory over the "Outlaw" J.W. Hardin, his incredible battles with Tiger Claw, and his adoration in the eyes of the fans as the "People's Champion"? SR: Aw, that don't add up to squat, Dross. TD: Really. Well, these four men would beg to differ -- and so would I. Folks, all four men will be legal in the ring at all times during this battle, with eliminations coming by pinfall, submission, countout, or disqualification... and the last man standing is declared the winner. Let's get comments from three of these individuals, starting with Chris Quigley. [SCENE: What seems to be a park of some sort. It appears to be late at night. A figure sits on a bench, bent over a guitar, lightly picking the strings. The identity is obvious, his reasons however, for returning have been somewhat shadowed, much like his interview settings. Maybe he'll spread some light on the subject, as he begins to speak, without looking up.] CQ: I'm speakin' English, but it doesn't seem like anyone is really understanding me. Or maybe they're just not listening. [Shakes his head.] CQ: They've got me written off before I get a chance to redeem myself, nobody wants to hear the same old song and dance from Chris Quigley. Well, y'know what? _NEITHER DO I_. [He continues strumming a tune on his guitar.] CQ: I guess what some people are wondering is what it is I'm all about this time around. Why did I come back? Everyone knows I want that IIWF World Title belt. _Everyone_ knows that. But did I sell myself out? Did I make myself look pathetic and foolish in the process of coming back to get it? Maybe. Don't care. But I've got a few things to say that I didn't quite cover in my classy little exit. [Pause...] CQ: To Otto Verhoeven, I say this: it's time to listen to me speak, and not just make assumptions to save yourself five minutes. I ain't makin' excuses, Otto. Now _you're_ the one gettin' repetitive. Keep writing me off, "Butcher". It'll make it all the easier for me to take you apart at IIWF Forever. I don't lose to people twice in a row. You're gonna find that out, whether you take me seriously or not. I ain't whinin', but you will be. Trust me. [Another pause, as he begins to play another tune, ending it abruptly with a hard TWANG on the strings.] CQ: To Deathbringer, I say this: you claim I cost you the IIWF World Title against Dan Kauffman. Maybe I did. But I look at it this way. I saved you the embarrassment of losing to Kauffman. You were in control, but you were _far_ from dominating. I merely stepped in and ended the match before anyone else became suicidal. [He shrugs.] CQ: To Subway Psycho, I say this: you had a real problem with me when I first came in. I was the arrogant son of a bitch "disrespecting the IIWF". Well I ain't the only one, my friend. You disrespected the IIWF during the final months of your career by hanging around, hoping to snag a win or two on reputation alone. Never bothering to try any more, just waiting by the President's door for your weekly paycheque, enough to buy you a two-four and a nightful of memories from IIWF circa 1996-97. Don't ever forget _this_, Psycho. When you were still somethin', I made you look _sick_ in the middle of the ring. You don't believe me? You don't remember? Check the tape archive, pal. Although for your confidence's sake, I wouldn't advise it. [He finally looks up at the camera, just giving an empty looking glare, but if you look deep enough, you see that it's not all that empty, there's still a fire in these eyes, a slight little blaze, rekindled by this one last chance to capture "his" prize.] CQ: To anyone else... Joe Petrow... Daniel Spreadbury... Steve Roberts... J.W. Hardin... Steve Kowalski... Brody Thunder... anybody else who decided at one point or another to stand in my way, to reprimand me, or to ruin my life... I say this: one at a time... one at a time my goals are slowly being accomplished before I finally fall apart and give up for good. The clock is tickin'... but is it ticking for me, or for you? We'll soon find out. But remember this: you'll never be rid of me. Somewhere, in somebody's imagination, Chris Quigley is delivering rapid-fire punches to your skull, and it'll be like that for eternity. Because the IIWF _is_ Forever. [He looks back down over his guitar, and begins playing once again, a tune that sounds passionate, but cold. Fade and cut back to the studio.] SR: Yadda, yadda, yadda. The words may change, but the tune stays the same -- and man, is it off-key. TD: Chris Quigley with words for a great many of the prominent figures in the IIWF. You get the distinct impression that he is more determined than ever to prove his gain-sayers wrong. Maybe he will do just that tomorrow night. SR: And maybe Larry Morton will develop a personality. TD: That's enough, Steve Roberts. Let's move on and hear from the man who, in historical terms, is perhaps Quigley's greatest nemesis: the German Juggernaut, Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven, who has made one final pilgrimage to the Coliseum: [SCENE: Once again we find ourselves looking at the IIWF Coliseum, dark, empty and silent. Even now we can see that all is prepared for the final time this building houses the IIWF superstars. The ring where the camera is positioned looks, even in this dim light, as magnificent as ever, cleaned off the last trace of blood that had stained it. Huge banners emblazoned with the "IIWF Forever" logo hang down from the ceiling and each and every seat in the huge arena seems almost to gleam. Suddenly, the echo of footsteps can be heard, booming through the giant building. The camera pans to the rows upon rows of seats on the ground level and we catch sight of a lone figure walking past the deserted crowd sections, slowly but determined making his way to the ring.] OV: Time to say goodbye. [The voice of Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven reverberates through the building. As comes closer we can see that the huge German is wearing a dark suit, but he is still too far away to make out details.] OV: A lot of my fellow athletes have done this before me. Like moths drawn to the flame many of us come to the Coliseum in private, to bid our farewell. How many things did this building see? How many victories, how many losses? How many treacherous plots were made cruel and harsh reality in here, in front of the hungry eyes of thousands of bloodthirsty people in attendance? Heroes and villains fought for various things here... Justice. Honor. Vanity. Money. Glory. [Verhoeven stops, standing in the third row now. The suit he is wearing is a pinstripe suit, dark blue and seeming to fit perfectly. We can even see Otto's sombre and grim facial expression, almost bordering on anguish.] OV: Whatever the motive was... everybody always had one thing in mind that was more important, one objective that was worth any risk, any sacrifice... the World Title. Be it friend or foe who held it you always eyed him with envy, with jealousy... with the burning desire to rip that piece of gold right from his waist. [He walks on, striding towards the ring, oozing determination... or is it arrogance?] OV: One last chance to do that. When there was often hope in other title matches, and confidence and self-assurance, on Saturday there will only be one feeling in the air... [He vaults over the guardrail, the motion almost graceful for a man of his size, yet he never took his eyes of the camera.] OV: Desperation. Simple, ugly desperation. Every blow struck fueled by fear that this could have been the last one, that the dream could be over any second now... [He slowly climbs on the ring apron and stands on the outside of the ring, gripping the top rope with both hands.] OV: But I shall not falter, nor shall I fall. For several months I stood on the outside of this ring due to my banishment. I was forced to watch others standing right there in the spotlight, week after week competing in the battles that mean everything to me. Redemption is within reach now and only one more day... one more day... [The last few words linger in the air for a moment as Verhoeven pauses for a moment... or does he hesitate? Then he pushes the top rope down and steps over it. The camera retreats into the far corner as Otto steps into the centre of the ring, his eyes set on the four letters silkscreened on it.] OV: One more day until the Butcher returns to the IIWF. A glorious day, filled with strife and hate, blood and tears, triumph and disappointment, joy and pain... People will not remember me as the "kraut who lost to that English guy." When Saturday is the past and I walk out of the Coliseum for the very last time, everybody who saw this event will remember Otto Verhoeven as Germany's premium athlete... whether I won the title or not. [His head snaps up suddenly as he glares at the camera again, a vicious, almost cruel grin on his face as he advances again, this time towering over the camera in this point of view, looking down on us.] OV: Deathbringer... Subway Psycho... Quigley... we all deserve to fight this last battle. But only one man can leave the ring and claim to be the best of us, only one man can take the reputation as one of the IIWF's finest and keep it for himself. I may not even be a legend... but I have destroyed each and every one of you and I will do so again. [He shoots both of his arms up, high above his head, his eyes following them, still staring at the camera, his eyes seemingly aflame.] OV: The future is dead. Time for the final victory. [Fade to black as Verhoeven is virtually frozen in this position. Cut back to the studio.] TD: The emotional resonance of the building we will be in tomorrow night, gentlemen, is huge -- its history may only be two years, but the IIWF Coliseum has been many things to these athletes... a battleground, a home, a retreat... and even Deathbringer uncharacteristically left the confines of his mortuary to pay his last respects: [SCENE: A corridor, somewhere deep within the IIWF Coliseum. A single door can be seen in the left wall and the camera moves towards it, until the name of Deathbringer can be read that has been written on the door in a blood-red colour. The door swings open and reveals the interior of the chamber that lies behind it. It's seemingly an old locker room, with a dust-covered bench positioned at the rear wall. A single locker stands beside it, obviously empty, as it has been open and not a single item is lying within it. Suddenly a low, growling voice can be heard] VOICE: I am over here, mortals... [The camera swings around, leaves the locker room and turns to the left, where the Dark Destroyer himself, Deathbringer, stands. He's wearing his usual attire, but there's no sign of his scythe or even the Blind Guardian, just like in his last few appearances. Deathbringer's piercing red eyes can be seen shining brightly through the mask of his, as the Reaper begins to speak.] DB: The IIWF coliseum. The place where it all will come to an end... Can you feel the power and glory that lies buried within these corridors? I can... When it all started here in this league, more than two years ago, many things were different from nowadays... There were no glamorous stars like there are today, there were no huge, spectacular PPVs like the one we are all going to witness tomorrow night... and there was far more respect between each and every wrestler. And still -- I am certain about that -- we saw so many intense battles, so many great feuds in the first few months of the IIWF, that every other league around this globe just _had_ to step back and let our league storm to the front. So here we are. Right at the front... and it seems as if we all got shot by an evil sniper, who just wanted to stop us in our tracks... but he failed... the memory of the IIWF will live on in us forever more... Legends are born... but they never die... [Deathbringer lowers his head and pauses. After what seems to be an eternity, the Dark Destroyer looks back up and continues to speak] DB: The Eternal Rumble... will I become the last IIWF world heavyweight champion? Will I become the creature that goes down in the annals of wrestling as the eternal IIWF title holder? We will see about that. Perhaps Annis made plans about throwing one of those Zippo lighters into my face. Perhaps Verhoeven tries to put me into a casket which he takes to the ring with him. Perhaps the Mystery Entrant is Cadaver himself, who wants to make me pay for not taking Dan Kauffman six feet under back in those days... Who can really say just what will happen in that rumble? Well, I could of course, if I took a look into my books of history... But this time... maybe I just want to be surprised myself... [Another long pause] DB: The Legends Match... I said about everything necessary as far as this match is concerned. Four old foes, four archenemies if I may say so, four great IIWF champions will be standing in the ring at the same time. And at the end of the bout, three of them will be lying on the ground with broken necks, with wounds, that are never to heal. No way to reverse the decision, no way to get a re-match the following week. Whatever happens, we will have to accept it. Perhaps Otto wins it... This huge German would be a deserving winner, that is for sure. He should not be a match for me, but then again, he bet me in that infamous Casket Match... not on his own... but who can say whether he will have some backup behind the curtain... Perhaps the Subway Psycho wins... Steve Roberts likes to call him a sewer rat, and I think he is right. Now please do not take this as an offence, I like sewer rats... I even found a few of them in my mortuary sometimes... and do not dare to ask me where they came from... Anyway, the Psycho should be no match for me, but I remember quite well the time when he hit the De-Railer on me... I will try not to underestimate you, Psycho... but again: who knows what will happen tomorrow night? Perhaps Chris Quigley wins... Many nights when I was sitting behind my table in the mortuary, I thought about Quigley's despicable chair attack on me during my title match against Dan Kauffman. And I wanted him to pay for it... I still do... however, he got me once with that chair... maybe he succeeds in blindsiding me again tomorrow night at the PPV... and then he could very well become the winner of the whole match... And then again... perhaps _I_ win... Yes, I probably will... I always do... One way or another... [Deathbringer turns around and all of a sudden heavy fog emerges within the corridor, engulfing the Dark Destroyer almost immediately. A final sentence is heard, before the scene fades:] Wrestlers of the IIWF, prepare to _FINALLY_ meet your maker... [Cut back to the studio.] TD: This is going to be something of a prelude to the Eternal Rumble, folks, with all four men battling it out in the ring from the get-go. The competition is sure to be fierce... but who is going to come out on top? Larry? LM: I have to go with the Deathbringer, Tim. The Dark Destroyer has those seemingly unending resources, the ability to get up, get up again, and just keep on coming. Who's going to stop him? TD: I've got to side with a sentimental favourite -- and pick the Subway Psycho. There's nothing I'd like to see more than the "People's Champion" get one more chance to shine. How better than to put to rest his rivalries with three long-standing IIWF superstars? SR: You're both way off the mark, baby dolls. The only possible winner in this match is the big bad Butcher... and I ain't talkin' about the Meatman. Otto's gonna make one last batch of mincemeat in the Coliseum tomorrow night. Anybody for a QuigMac? TD: Good grief. Folks, it's the "Legends Match" -- and it's only on pay-per-view in just over twenty-four hours' time. Make that call right now! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= LAST MAN STANDING MATCH: "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder vs. "Playboy" Ronnie D SPECIAL GUEST REFEREE: Steve "the Fury" Kowalski =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: Reason number four to tune in tomorrow night: the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder battles hated arch-rival, the "Playboy" Ronnie D in a wild Last Man Standing match. Remember, folks, the only way this match can end is if special guest referee Steve Kowalski counts one man down for ten. There are no pinfalls, no submissions, no countouts, no disqualifications... this match can go absolutely anywhere, whether it's in the ring, in the crowd, in the locker rooms... even out into the streets of Portland! And there is only one rule: knock your opponent out. SR: I've said it before, and I'll say it again, Dross. I'm no fan of Brody Thunder, but in comparison to that jumped-up runt Ronnie D, Thunder is okay by me... and here's hoping that the "Playboy" gets sent back to whichever the hell hick league it is he comes from in a box. LM: I think that's possibly a little harsh, Steve. Ronnie D may be a little... arrogant, shall we say? But his attitude belies the fact that he is actually a highly resilient competitor. If Thunder thinks knocking the Playboy out is going to be an easy task, he's got another thing coming: Ronnie D will take a licking, but he'll keep on kicking. TD: I've certainly seen bouts in which the "Playboy" has got a second, third, and even fourth wind. He's in good condition, and, lest we forget, he holds _two_ victories over the tough Arizonan cowboy. SR: Can either of you two goofs say "screwjob"?! Thunder pasted Ronnie D to the mat in both of those matches... and he's gonna do it again tomorrow night. At least this time we'll have an official on hand who won't take any crap from that little jerk. TD: Indeed, there has been much speculation about the role Steve Kowalski will play in this match. Observers seem fairly evenly split as to whether or not Kowalski represents an advantage or a liability to Thunder as he seeks to finally put an end to this feud once and for all. Let's hear from the former two-time IIWF World Heavyweight Champion now: [The scene fades in on rolling black clouds, silhouetted against the sky's illumination from a full moon. The sound of rushing air is the only noise to be heard. The camera then pans straight down to an overhead view of what appears to be one of many ghost towns still scattered throughout what used to be called "the Old West". The dirt street has long since been taken given way to tall grass and sagebrush. A few worn old wooden buildings litter the landscape as if stubbornly refusing to die and be laid to rest. The camera swings down to about fifteen feet off the ground and begins slowly descending down the lane as if making its way down a path of American history. It passes an old church, the bell in its steeple still intact, despite the best efforts of Mother Nature. Another building sits almost staring at the camera through its facade of broken windows and its door, still clinging to life by one rusty hinge. It swings slightly in the breeze as the wind continues to ebb and flow over the grey-hued landscape. As the camera continues its snail's pace journey, a calm raspy voice splits the eerie night's procession as it begins to speak.] BT: History. Ya can't escape it an' yer doomed to create it. Fer some history will be their legacy... their "mark"... which lets the rest o'mankind know... [The camera passes by a small wooden structure, its doors and windows long since boarded up. A faded and worn wooden sign swings on a rusty chain. On it are the carved words "Hotel Stanton -- Charles P. Stanton Prop.".] ...they were here. Fer others... history is simply the passin' o'their mundane existence. Day by day... month by month... year by year. No lastin' monument to their time on this mudball... jus'... [A small graveyard is now seen. A few headstones are visible, beyond a worn rod iron fence, among the over-growth of brush and the erosion of time.] ...their past. History can be a great help to a man. Rememberin' the past tends ta make a man learn from his failures an' appreciate his achievements. History can also provide a man with a means ta gauge his progression in life. Fer some history is somethin' that leaves folks seekin' fergiveness... their drivin' force to rectify past wrongs. [The camera pans to the left to view a large mortar monument. On the face of the monument is a faded brass plaque with the words "To The Good Citizens Of Stanton" engraved on its surface. The camera pauses with a close up of the placard, its lustre appearing to want to shine through the now dulled sheen.] Yeah... history can be a wunnerful thing. But there's one other thing history can do. [A low soft moan, an almost ghostly moan, is heard wailing in the distance mingling with the rush of the breeze. Was it real... or just a figment of your imagination?] It can haunt a man. [The camera pans back down the lane. Another moan can be heard above the wind's torrent.] It can cause a man ta be driven ta the edge o'madness... or embrace a less... _moral_ attitude. [The camera now pauses. In front of its lens, approximately one hundred feet in the distance, is a wood and stone building. A large weatherworn wooden sign is affixed to its front porch's overhang, not yet quite legible from this distance. Then a faint flickering reflection appears in its right front window... or was it just a trick of the mind?] History haunts me. [The camera begins moving towards the building and its flickering image.] It's in my wakin' thoughts. It's in my night's dreams. It's in everything I see and hear. It's always with me... like relatives that jus' won't leave after ya feed'em. It's always there.... remindin' me... torturin' me... ...mockin' me. [The camera is now only fifty feet away. The large sign's inscription can be read now. It says "Stanton Stage Stop & Saloon". The flickering light in the window is now also very visible. Its reflection dances along the side wall inside the building.] Ghosts from the past. _My_ past. My _history_. Blurrin' the line 'tween the real...an' the unreal. [A bell tolls loudly. The camera spins and focuses in tightly on the church's bell tower, the bell standing silent... and still.] It's gotta end. [The camera wheels back around and continues moving forward. It reaches the building now and swings into the building through the empty window frame into a large empty room. Across the room is a man sitting at a table with his back to the camera. The flicker of candlelight casts him into shadows as it lights up the surrounding room. The camera slowly continues to move towards the figure.] Well... I ain't never been one partial ta ghosts from the past. I'd rather erase the past by creatin' a better future. A future that begins on August the first. A future that begins in Portland, Oregon. A future that starts... [The camera pans around to face the man. He wears a faded black Stetson hat, pulled low on his brow masking his eyes. His worn grey duster's collar is turned up on his neck. A single candle burns on the table, spilling tufts of black smoke into the room's air as the flame flickers in the breeze. A bottle of Owen's Goldenrod Whiskey, half empty, sits defiantly on the table next to it. A shot glass, filled to the brim, rests in the figure's hand. By now his identity is obvious... it's Brody Thunder.] ...with you, "Playboy" Ronnie D. Yer a part o'my history... a part I need ta exorcise. I've heard the whispers... the rumours... "he's done"... "he's over-the-hill" ..."a has-been". An' fer every whisper disparagin' remark... I'm gonna take a measure o'satisfaction outta yer arrogant l'il hide. [Thunder downs the glass of liquor, exhaling with a grimace from the liquid's bite.] August first I get rid o'my demons once an' fer all, runt. I'm gonna take it to ya like ya ain't never had it before, "D". It ain't about trophies or accolades now. It's about the truth. An' the plain truth is... ...you ain't better'n me, an' ya never were. Ya were simply the luckiest sonovabitch ta ever look me in the eye... [Thunder tips his hat back slightly, revealing his bearded face... and black eyepatch.] ...no pun intended. I'm done talkin'. Now it's time ta end the madness. "D"... I hope yer takin' me seriously, ace. Cuz I tell ya right now... I've never been more serious in my flamin' life. You've been a burr in my saddle since the day I locked eyes with ya an' it's gonna be my pleasure ta personally tattoo yer squash with my fists. Mark my words, runt... a Sunday fulla miracles wouldn't change the fact that the only way yer ass is leavin' that ring... ...is horizontally. It's time ta purge the past... bury the ghosts an' walk into destiny. [The camera pans in for a close-up of Thunder's face. Not a trace of a smile is anywhere to be seen. He places a cigar in his mouth and moves it to the side. He grabs the candle and holds it in front of his face. The heat from the flame ripples the image of Thunder's face in the background.] Yer part o'my past. Now yer part o' my present. But I assure ya, "D"... as sure as they sing hymns on Sunday... after August First... yer not part o'my future, runt... [Thunder cracks a slight eerie smile as he lights the stogie with the candle. He then holds the candle back out in front of his face, staring through it to the camera.] ...yer _history_. [Thunder blows out the candle, leaving the screen in utter darkness. Another ghostly moan echoes through the stillness. A bell tolls once more. The wind whistles in the blackness. Then there is only... silence. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Wow. Let's go straight to comments from the "Playboy": [The camera, hand-held, opens on a dark alley. Narrow, the city lights behind the alley cast a light on the mist almost hanging in the air. On the paved ground, cigarette butts, gum wrappers and used condoms float in pudd les created from the rain, which has fallen not long ago. As the cameraman walks, the camera bounces with his step. His footsteps echo in the alley, pounding the asphalt. A rat scurries out of a corner noiselessly as the cameraman passes by. As we reach the head of the alley, a familiar voice speaks up...] RD: One last time. [The camera whirls around, the face and upper body of the icon, the marquee man, Ronnie D coming in full view. His blond hair hangs long over his shoulders, slightly wet from the drizzle. He sports a black t-shirt, the white words, "Dan spelled backwards is nad" just visible. He walks as he talks.] RD: We've done this in Toronto, Boston, and now... Portland. [Into the nightlife we step, as the camera swings around, pulling in the bright city lights. We sweep by sex shops, a casino, and several convenience stores.] RD: You know, there are three things that make Portland stink. The fact that it's in granola-crunching yuppie country, the north-west. The fact that it rains here almost as much as it does in Seattle. And the fact that Brody Thunder's been around here. [Ronnie walks down the sidewalk, passing several shops as he talks.] RD: You know... Thunder... He talks a mean game. Mean old dog, they say. But when you think... Ronnie D beat him. Not only did I beat him, I also outsmarted him. And I also took his eye. Little Ronnie D, the young pup, be at the mean old dog, Brody Thunder, twice. Makes you think. Maybe, just maybe... I'm not the paw licking puppy here. [A car drives swiftly by, its red lights forming tails in the night, almost like comets.] RD: Who spent three months in hiding, healing up from his injuries? Not me. I was out in two weeks, wreaking havoc again. But where's Brody been since I plucked his eye out? Licking his wounds like the puppy dog he is. [A motorcycle rips through the night, flying down the road.] RD: I'm not a mean old dog, I'll say that now. I'm a sleek, smooth fox. But you know, a fix can still school a little puppy, and I think ol' Brody's gonna get taught a lesson. And as for Kowalski... Steve, I don't consider you an enemy... Yet. And I certainly don't consider dime-a-dozen punks like you as friends. But, hey, you never know. When we get in the ring, we may just hit it off... Or I might have to hit you, period. [A small sports car speeds past Ronnie as we see a blinking neon red sign a short distance away. We near it as Ronnie talks.] RD: Brody, Lone Wolf, Asspony, whatever I wanna call you... When we hop on that little bullet train o' pain, you can bet your bottom dollar that Ronnie D's gonna toss you off of that train easier than Crabbo gets rid of chiggers. And then, Brody, you'll stare up at the ceiling, except you won't see it. You'll see my face. The face of... The Last Man Standing. [As it fades out, the camera catches a glimpse of the neon sign... "Horshack's Whore Shack." Click. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Thunder/Ronnie D three -- your picks, gentlemen? LM: I've got to go with Brody Thunder. The "Playboy" has had payback coming for months now... and he's going to get all he can handle, and then some, tomorrow night. SR: Damned straight, Morton. And don't be surprised if the Fury doesn't just do a little Skullpumpin' of his own to help send that jacked-up jerk on his way. TD: I have to agree with the both of you. There's no way Thunder is coming out on the losing end of the draw three times straight against an athlete like Ronnie D, formidable an opponent as he is. It's the "Lone Wolf"'s night for revenge... and I'm behind him all the way to get it. Folks, you'll only see this tremendous "Last Man Standing" match one place... and that's live at IIWF Forever, tomorrow night on pay-per-view! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= IIWF INTERCONTINENTAL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: "Showstopper" Simon Lebec [c] vs. Tiger Claw =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: Reason number five to catch IIWF Forever tomorrow night: a match that could be taken straight out of the pages of the IIWF's history. Two men, each of whose association with the mighty Double Eye stretches back to its very beginnings, battling over the final fate of a title that has been pursued by men like Chris Quigley, Marty Warnett, Billy Shakespeare, Creed, Lord Byron, Mad Dog Watkins, and Duncan Macbeth. LM: I'd say that the Intercontinental Championship is the title most readily associated by the fans with the real _wrestlers_, the real purists in the IIWF. SR: Enough of the shilling, and out with it, baby dolls. TD: Simon Lebec, a man who waited two years for his first taste of IIWF gold, does battle with Tiger Claw, the man who has held the IC belt more times than any other, and who has left his indelible mark on its history. Claw held a public training session this week, and we sent our best crack reporter down to the Dojo. SR: Unfortunately, I was otherwise detained with Chelsea... so they ended up sending Morton instead. LM: Let's just roll the tape. [SCENE: Once again, we find ourselves in the Dojo training area. The heavy bags are back, as are the weights, and most importantly, the ring is set up once again. Around the ring stand several reporters and television crews, getting prepared for the public training session promised last week. In a far corner, away from the crowd, Tiger Claw runs through some stretches, dressed in his Muay Thai shorts. In another corner, a group of men dressed in sparring gear get prepared for the task to come. The occasional picture is snapped, likely with Claw as their subject. The amount of picture taking increases as Brian Lau walks into the room and addresses the crowd.] BL: Greetings, greetings, all... Welcome to our public training session. Today we'll be looking at a short sparring session as Claw gets ready for his match at IIWF Forever, that being against Simon Lebec for the Intercontinental title. I'd like to ask the photographers right now that you restrain from using flash photography, since this might serve to distract the participants. After all, we don't want to take any more advantage away from the sparring partners if we can help it. [A soft laughter rises from the crowd of photographers, cameramen, and reporters. Lau grins slightly, and motions to Claw, who makes his way to the ring.] BL: Now, those of you using video cameras may keep rolling, obviously. I'm sure you'll find the lighting sufficient. And to the reporters, I'd like to ask that any questions through this session be directed to me in a quiet, organised manner. I'm sure with a bit of co-operation, this can all go smoothly... Now... How's about we get started, huh? [Claw enters the ring as is, with no padding on his legs, head, or hands. A sparring partner also enters the ring, but he is decked out in shinpads, protective headgear, and protection for his "lower abdomen". Underneath he wears what appears to be a black karate Gi. Lau, on the outside, blows a whistle, signalling the start of the session. The two men in the ring begin to circle each other.] BL: Ladies and gentlemen, you'll be seeing a fine display of Muay Thai kickboxing today, with wrestling mixed in. Notice the way the two men circle each other, searching for an opening. This is only natural for Claw, and is a display of uncommon skill for this sparring partner. [The two men lock up, and Claw quickly ducks under, grabbing an arm and twisting. The sparring partner bounces Claw off the ropes, and attempts a clothesline on the rebound. Claw ducks, and stops short, waiting for the man to turn and face him. When the time is right, Claw unleashes a left jab, right cross, moves in slightly, right hook, left elbow uppercut! The sparring partner staggers back slightly, and Claw plants a picture perfect thrust kick on the man's jaw. The sparring partner falls to the mat, not moving all that much. A trainer enters the ring and checks on the man, motioning Claw back.] BL: And there you have it... A quick KO from Claw. It can be that fast. All it takes is a single hit, when you think about it. One well-placed hit, and the brain shuts down. [One reporter near Lau moves forward and quietly asks...] R1: So, are you saying that Claw could win the title that easily? BL: Well, it's certainly a possibility. Granted, Lebec is most likely better trained on his defensive technique than this man here. There's a simple way of not having that one hit resulting in a KO. Don't be there. I would assume Lebec knows how not to be there. [The sparring partner is dragged from the ring and helped into a corner of the training area. All this time, Claw has been standing in the corner, arms resting on the ropes, looking as calm and rested as if he hadn't started the training at all. Another man enters the ring, clad in attire similar to the first man's.] BL: Now this man has been in our pool of sparring partners for some time. He knows Claw's style, and that's likely to affect this round. [The trainer from before gives the signal for the two men to start. The two men circle... The sparring partner occasionally fakes a shot or two, but Claw doesn't flinch at all. The partner moves in with an axe kick, which hits nothing but air, since Claw is now at the man's side. Claw pushes the man back with a push kick, opting to allow the round to go a while longer. The man, frustrated, puts his hands back up in defensive position. Claw fakes a punch, and the man covers up. Quick as lightning, Claw moves in and grabs hold of the man's head, linking his hands at the back of his neck, and trapping the arms. Claw lets loose a barrage of knee shots to the man's torso, hitting the stomach and ribs. After a while of this, Claw lets go, and the man staggers back, holding his midsection. Claw takes the opportunity to step up onto the man's thigh, swing around in a full 360, and deliver a powerful calf kick to the back of the man's neck. The sparring partner falls to the mat, and again, the trainer intervenes.] BL: Pow! Did you see that? What a move! [A second reporter comes up to Lau and asks a question.] R2: That was a new speciality of Claw's, wasn't it? The step-up enzuigiri? BL: Yes, in fact, it is. Claw began using it during a tour of Japan, and ever since it's brought nothing but success to him. It's an unorthodox move to many of the wrestlers in North America, and sometimes, the sheer surprise of it is enough to stun a man. Make no mistake, though, it's a crushing blow in it's own right. Okay, here we go... This is partner number three... This man... He specialises in aerial technique. He's rather good at it as well... Let's see how he fares. [A third sparring partner, this one a bit smaller than the rest, is now in the ring. The trainer gives the signal, but instead of circling, the sparring partner leaps forward with a dropkick, which hits Claw square in the face. Claw staggers back, and the man kips up to his feet. He closes in, and executes a nice standing head-scissors, taking Claw down to the mat. The sparring partner comes off the ropes just as Claw gets to his feet. Claw goes for a back body drop, which the man uses to flip up and over Claw, then back into the ropes. Claw turns around, and goes for an armdrag, but the man flips through, locking the arm, and hops down, forcing Claw's face into his knee. Claw is dazed, and the man quickly leaps up to the top rope. Claw staggers into range, and the man leaps into a plancha. Claw, suddenly, isn't quite as dazed as he was before, and extends his leg into a reverse thrust kick, hitting the man in the chest as he comes down. The crowd gives a collective "Ooooh", as if feeling the impact. The sparring partner hits the mat, clearly in pain. Claw leaps to the top rope himself, and launches himself into a flying knee drop. The Golden Tiger Strike connects, and Claw makes the cover... 1... 2... 3...] BL: The Golden Tiger Strike! Well executed as well, I might say! That, my friends, is the very move Claw used to put Simon Lebec away in the second D-Cup tournament. In fact, Lebec held the IIWC IC title at the time as well... You can take that for what it's worth, but I take it as a clear advantage. [Lau looks over to the corner where the sparring partners wait, and tuns back to the reporters.] BL: Well, it looks like we've gone through enough sparring partners for today. After all, we need some for tomorrow, don't we? [The crowd laughs along with Lau.] BL: I figured we'd take a look at one last demonstration. For those of you familiar with Claw's past, you might recognise this one. [Lau signals to the trainer, who in turn signals to one of the sparring partners. A baseball bat is tossed into the ring, and it is caught by the trainer. He holds it out vertically between both hands.] BL: This is just a small example of the power behind one of Claw's kicks... [Lau signals again, and the trainer nods, then braces himself. Claw steps forward, assumes his fighting stance, and swings a round shin kick out towards the bat. Almost effortlessly, Claw breaks the bat in half, re-assumes his stance for a moment, and then walks back to his corner as if nothing happened. Lau, on the outside, applauds enthusiastically.] BL: Bravo! Bravo! You see that, folks? Claw's shins have been conditioned after years of training to be almost rock hard. He can knock a man unconscious with a kick like that, or break a femur. This is a dangerous, dangerous man. [A reporter steps forward. When he speaks, we hear a familiar voice...] LM: Um... Brian? [Brian looks at him with a mix of shock and feigned joy.] BL: Oh my! Mis-tah Moh-tan! How nice it is to see you here, and how surprising it is to see that you still have a job! LM: Thanks Brian... The IIWF sent me here today because they figured after your stint on "Countdown," we had a kind of rapport... BL: "Rapport"? That's a new word for you, Larry... You've been reading the dictionary again, haven't you? LM: Um... Yeah, but I don't see how... BL: You had a question? LM: Oh, yes... Well, you just showed us what Claw is capable of doing with his shin kick. What about the ruling from Poutine Janois that stated that Claw must wear protective shin padding to keep from injuring other wrestlers? BL: Why, Larry... That is a good question... No, really... That's a great question... And I was ready for it... Just not coming from you... Anyway, I have right here... [Lau pulls a piece of paper out from inside his suit jacket pocket.] BL: ...a retraction from none other than Poutine Janois himself. You see, I met with the man last week. It appears that the ruling itself was made as a part of an out of court settlement with Jumpin' Jack, who was the man that had his face broken by Claw. Jumpin' Jack, however, is no longer employed by the IIWF on a full-time basis, and as a result, the IIWF is no longer legally bound to enforce this ruling. In short, Claw will _not_ be wearing the shinpads in his Intercontinental title match on August 1. [The crowd, including Morton, gives a murmur at the news, and before long, questions are being directed to Lau from left and right. Lau holds his hands up.] BL: Please, please, folks. I regret to inform you that we are out of time today, and that this public training session is over. Claw requires some training in private, so that he can actually get something done in preparation for this match. I would like to thank you all for coming out today for this demonstration... Especially you, Larry... Oh, the memories of berating you week in and week out on national television... Anyway, everyone, if you'll just follow my assistants over here [points to a group of men easily described as 'hired toughs'], they'll be more than happy to show you the way out. Claw and I will be seeing you all at the IIWF Forever card. [The hired toughs round up the reporters, cameramen, and video crews in an efficient manner as Lau hops up on the ring apron and converses with Claw for a few moments. Claw nods, then leaves the room via a door in the back of the training area. At this point, a particularly jar-headed hired tough asks the cameraman to turn the camera off in that kind way that hired toughs are known to request things. The cameraman quickly obliges, as we cut back to the studio.] TD: This match is so intriguing, gentlemen. Two men of similar stature, but of totally opposing styles: Lebec is a classic United States-style grappler, mixing power with mat techniques... and Claw is a fascinating hybrid of Muay Thai, submission and aerial techniques. Who do you see coming out on top? LM: This might come as a surprise, but I'm siding with Lebec here. The "Showstopper" waited two years to get his hands on an IIWF title -- and I don't believe he's ready to give it up just yet. TD: I agree, Larry -- although I'd cite the presence of one Ronnie D on the outside as being an equally important factor. The "Playboy" and Lebec have proved to be a wily pairing in the past, and I'm sure they'll have something cooked up for tomorrow night. SR: I don't know what you two have been smoking... but keep it well away from the Soundbite! I don't want to end up like you two goons. It's Claw all the way here, baby dolls. There ain't no way the Syndicate's going to be denied their final chance to take home the Intercontinental Championship. Claw's gonna kick your a-ass. TD: We shall see -- live from the IIWF Coliseum in just twenty-four hours! Call your local cable operator right now to make sure you don't miss one moment of the action! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 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: The sixth reason not to miss IIWF Forever is eight of the world's highest-flying, highest-impact, most adrenaline-fuelled athletes in a "King of the Mountain" match to crown the final IIWF Cruiserweight Championship. SR: Or, what is known in the trade as a "filler match." TD: Good grief, Steve Roberts. There's no such thing as a filler match on this card. SR: Sure there is -- the good people have to take a piss-break some time, and it may as well be while Nancy Shakespeare and Chickenhawk bitch slap each other to death. TD: As usual, I apologise for Steve Roberts. Folks, the rules of this match are simple... SR: So simple even Larry Morton could understand them, right, Lar? LM: Of course. Icehawk is automatically the first man into the ring as defending Champion, and the other seven guys draw numbers before the match starts. Icehawk faces the number two wrestler, and they wrestle to a five-minute time limit. Within that limit, a decision must be reached by pinfall, submission, countout or disqualification, and if it isn't, then both athletes are out of the match. The winner of the fall stays in the ring and faces the next entrant... and the man who is left standing at the end, after all seven wrestlers have made their entrances, is the last ever IIWF Cruiserweight Champion. SR: Uh, did he just get that right, Dross? TD: He certainly did. SR: Damn. TD: Let's hear from the young Finn and defending Champion, Icehawk: [SCENE: The video room at Cold Spell's headquarters. As Steve Summer and the camera crew enter, Icehawk is sprawled in a recliner, eating some grapes and watching a tag-team match. He's wearing a Detroit Dynamite t-shirt and denim shorts.] SS: Hey, buddy! Are you scouting your opponents for the match? [Icehawk jumps, having been so engrossed in the match that he hadn't even noticed the noisy entrance. He grins sheepishly and hits the pause button.] IH: Actually, no. I've done some scouting, but it is me against a ton of guys. I'm going to need more luck than preparation. SS: So what were you watching? IH: Oh, just a bunch of old matches. I guess it is kind of a "Icehawk's Greatest Hits" tape. Just some reminiscing. SS: This isn't easy for you, is it? IH: [sighing] No, it's not. For 18 months now, the IIWF's been my home. Yeah, Fitz and I wrestled in the NLWP for a while, and that was a lot of fun, but that was always an extra deal. The IIWF was where we belonged. And now Fitz is gone, and the IIWF is going to be gone. I don't feel like I have a home any more. SS: Yeah, I know exactly how you feel. There have been some great memories, haven't there? IH: [smiling slightly] God, yes. Our first match against the Rotundos, wrestling at our first PPV on no notice and almost winning the tag titles, finally beating the Prophets to win the belts, beating Violence Unlimited, making peace with Trag and Comedy and winning the belts as the Cold Quins, then winning them again with Fitz... all my singles wins... it has been amazing. Rookies don't usually get their start in the IIWF and go on to win titles like I have. It's been an amazing run. SS: What's your single proudest moment? IH: That's easy. Beating the Enigma at Ring Wars. Everyone thought I was insane to get into a cage with that nutcase, especially when I was injured, but I knew I could beat him. That was the first time in my career that I felt like I had proven myself. Not as a Genesis drone, or a fluke, but as a star. SS: Are you glad that you won't be facing him again Saturday? IH: Yes! I mean, I might run up against him in the battle royal, but that King of the Mountain match will be tough enough without him. SS: Who do you fear most in that match? IH: I'm not sure I fear anyone. But if you want to know who worries me the most, it is two guys -- Mota and Tragedy. I've got long histories with both of them, and I've been lucky enough to come out on top most of the time. So I know they are both going to want to change that. And they are both fantastic wrestlers. I just hope I get them early on in the match. SS: How much does this Saturday mean to you? IH: More than anything I've ever done. Even more than beating Musashi. One of us is going to walk out of the King of the Mountain match as the last Cruiserweight champion in the history of the greatest wrestling federation on Earth. Somehow, some way, it is going to be me. That's the only way that the story can end. [Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: I'm sure that the other participants in this match have other ideas -- not least the third-generation Texas superstar, Ronnie Paris, whose delusions of grandeur seem to be deepening: [Open to what seems to be a hastily decorated high school gymnasium. A makeshift wrestling ring stands in the middle of the basketball court, while the bleachers, which we're sure bring back painful memories for all of us who ever had to sit through a junior varsity volleyball game just to get a look at the redhead in physics class wearing those short little... okay, maybe that memory applies only to me. Sorry. In any event, about 200 hundred people sit or mill about, and a semi-officious announcer type tries to keep the crowd warm. It's obvious that a small time, indie promotion has set up here and is putting on a show. Suddenly, the audio cuts in loud enough that we can hear the announcer.] ANNOUNCER: And I would also remind you at this time that the doors are locked, and there will be no refunds. [Huge chorus of boos, and some garbage is thrown at the ring. The announcer adroitly avoids it all.] And now, your special feature opening bout! We have, as promised, two stars from the local IIWF promotion in a classic grudge match! Allow me to introduce first, the man who's only wrestling for us because he couldn't find any other promotion in Oregon that would announce him as the IIWF Cruiserweight Champion... the IIWF Cruiserweight Champion, Ronnie Paris! [Somewhere behind the shaggy curtains used as an entranceway to the aisle, a flip is switched on an ancient boom box, and a raspy version of Live's "Lakini's Juice" begins to play. The fans boo about as loudly as 200 disinterested 14 year olds and dropouts can, while Ronnie Paris saunters into the aisle, wearing a black and red t-shirt that reads "Pride Wrestling", and his severely dented (stolen) King of the Cruisers crown. Ronnie acts as if a crowd of 20,000 strong are jeering him, and he plays it to the hilt as he makes fun of anyone who catches his eye... which in this small crowd is most everyone. Paris enters the ring and is gladly given the mic by the announcer, who's eyeing a bottle of Southern Comfort he has somewhat poorly concealed on his table outside the ring.] RP: I'm about to put my Cruiserweight title on the line against Icehawk, live, like I promised! But first, I just have a couple of things to say. To you people, I have a few thanks to send out... you see, I have a good friend who works as a bus driver, and he owes his job to you! It's thanks to you carless inbreds that public transportation has the demand it does! Thank you! [This rouses some ire from those still listening... although a few couples in the back rows seem to be getting overly familiar. If one listens hard, you can almost hear Steve Roberts back in the studio, trying to get someone to zoom in on one such couple.] RP: I also want to thank the IIWF. They gave me a chance to shine, a chance to make my name, and a steady paycheque. Not a big one, mind you, but that tight-ass Spreadbury throws around the nickels like manhole covers, if you know what I mean. Wait... you don't. Okay, a nickel is what you'd get if you had five pennies to rub together. [Once again, the locals boo for being razzed in such a manner... and as they look about ready to revolt, Ronnie wisely decides to wind up his tirade.] RP: You're about to see a classic match, folks, and you don't deserve it. But I just want to prove that I am a rightful Cruiserweight Champion, and beating Icehawk does just that. The talk is over, it's time to settle this like a man and a Finn. Hey Icey... bring it! [Paris tosses the mic away, just as the curtains part dramatically, whoever's behind them not showing their face just yet. Then, the person walks out... and it is clearly not Icehawk. This person is dressed in a decent copy of Icehawk's wrestling attire, has a similar hair style and slightly similar facial structure, but he also weighs about 100 pounds soaking wet. Most of the fans recognise this isn't the real Icehawk, or the real anything for that matter, and they turn their noses up at the farce. Paris, meanwhile, plays it to the hilt, warming up for his match and point menacingly at "Icehawk". The scrub jumps into the ring, tripping as he does and falling flat on his face. A bell is rung thrice, and this match is underway. Ronnie, ever the gentleman, allows "Icehawk" back to his feet before offering to lock up in a collar and elbow. Icehawk accepts, and Paris easily overpowers the man, tossing him about ten feet across the ring. "Icehawk" flops about a bit, and then rolls onto his back and stays there, showing little if any signs of life. Paris poses down for a second, flexing, and then runs off the ropes at super slow speed. He hops over the prone jobber once, then twice on the way back, and then finally on the third pass he slows down to a near crawl, wiggles his legs a bit, and drops a big (and very phony) knee over "Icehawk"'s throat. The move looks almost comical, but "Icehawk" sells it like he was Hiroshima and Paris' knee was Little Boy. With the scrub "out cold", Paris drops down to one knee, and plants his pinkie finger right over Icehawk's chest. The announcer, who apparently is pulling double duty on this one with no self-respecting referee agreeing to officiate this face, rolls into the ring to count the three. The count is quite deliberate, almost to the point of absurdity. ONE...... TWO...... THREE!!!!!! The announcer dives right back out of the ring to ring the bell and announce Paris the victor, while the Texan jumps right to his feet, heading to the corner where he left his belt and holding it up to the heavens, yelling out...] RP: I did it! I did it! Yo Maggie... I did it! [At this point, someone in the studio wisely cuts the feed.] TD: Oh, give me a break. SR: That Ronnie Paris... you gotta love him. TD: Let's go straight to comments from the Canadian Heatseeker, Derek Mota: [The scene opens with a collection of dark colours. We can't see exactly what's going on here, but only one voice is heard in the background as the forms begins to sharpen and gain their distinctiveness.] VO: It's dead, it just don't know it yet. Put it out of its misery. [The camera pulls back a bit, and we see an operating table, a beautiful German shepherd lying down on it. On its side rests a huge burn mark. Besides the dog stands a veterinarian, examining the wound, and Derek Mota.] VET: There's always a chance that she can survive, Mr. Mota. One can always hope. DM: Trust me, boy. I see the look in her eyes. She ain't comin' back. [Mota looks at the camera and puts his eyes down... then he realises what he's said, and a slight smile comes over him.] DM: Dammit, you were thinkin' I was talkin' about the Double Eye, weren't ya? My damn dog's dyin' and that's all you can think about. "Shoot, Mota, Shoot!" Screw you, ya little bastards. I ain't givin' you that pleasure. [Mota asks the vet quickly if everything's okay, and after receiving his acknowledgement, walks out of the room, Chuck the Cameraman following closely behind.] DM: You really think I'd shoot on the league that made me? The league that gave me that chance just one year ago, and put me in the spotlight? Nah. I ain't ever givin' up that spotlight. Hell, I took the ball... and ran with it. You're now lookin' at Derek Mota... the #4 cruiserweight in the world. The #6 wrestler in the world, according to the MVGJ's. And the I-Crown Champion. Not so bad for a _midcarder_, huh? Time ta go back to my roots. Got a call from Spreads, he said the Double Eye's comin' back for one more card... and I told him I'd be there... he asked me if I was gonna be hangin' with my new buddies the Syndicate. Yeah, I joined the Syndicate. A year in the makin'. I was waitin' in the wings when the triple cross happened last year ta screw everythin' up. But hey, I'm a patient man. Took me a year ta do it, but I'm better off for it. I am Syndicate. But tomorrow night, I ain't showin' up with them. Why? 'Cause tomorrow night, you're gonna see the Derek Mota you've seen at his best in the Double Eye... you're gonna see the toughest little bastard in the IIWF... you're gonna see the little goddamn engine that could... you're gonna see me up against five, six guys at a time and not back down. You wanted ta see somethin' special. You wanted ta see more from Derek Mota. Well, tomorrow night you're gonna see it. It ain't just about the Heatseeker anymore. Tomorrow night you're gonna see the Hardcore Hero of the IIWF. The man that never gives up... that never backs down... and the man that's gonna be the final IIWF Cruiserweight Champion... the hard way. I'm walkin' outta the arena with that belt... even if it kills me. And dammit, you know I ain't lyin' there. You know I would make the sacrifice... One more night for the greatest league of all time. One more night for Derek Mota ta show his stuff... One more night. Double Eye Forever. [With that, Mota walks back into the hospital room, taking his dog's side as the camera fades out. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Derek Mota determined to showcase his abilities tomorrow night... and so is fellow Canadian, the "Rocketman" Timothy N. Turner. Let's get comments from the IIWF's only openly gay athlete: [The shot opens on a darkened Portland street. It is not the most inviting neighbourhood in the world but the summer heat has kept it fairly populated. The camera closes in on one figure in a stylish grey pinstripe, three button, Ermenegildo Zegna suit. Even before the face comes into view, the immaculate dress and demeanour announces Timothy N. Turner's presence. He stops near an alleyway and faces the camera.] TNT: So it's almost here. The end of the IIWF is nigh. I've listened to wrestlers go on over the last couple of weeks about how the are hanging up the boots and leaving right along with the best federation in the history of the sport. Well, you're not going to hear that from the Rocket Man. Nope. I will wrestle. Why? Because that's what I do. Timothy N. Turner existed before the IIWF. I was wrestling ten years ago before many of the so-called superstars of this industry were even contemplating a career. I will still be wrestling after the IIWF becomes the most important chapter in the annals of history. So why is the IIWF important to me? Simple...it gave me a focus I had lacked. From Tim Turner, the leader of one of the many Horsemen clones throughout the independent leagues, to Timothy N. Turner, the aristocratic talent whose arrogance angered everyone he encountered...there was always something missing. In the IIWF I found it. The Rocket Man was born. I was able to let the whole world know who I really am and to celebrate my existence, rather than hide behind bravado. That's right, I'll wrestle. I'll wrestle and I'll do so with the pride of knowing I continue to represent the IIWF. I am its legacy. I'll wrestle knowing I hold IIWF gold and will do so until the end of time. [Turner looks down the alley.] TNT: Some of you may have figured out what this place is. Some of you may have seen the news in the E-Wrestling Times or heard Tim Dross mention it a couple of weeks ago. For those of you who don't know...ask around. I want to dedicate my performance and victories on the IIWF Forever spectacular to those who have allowed me to get where I am. To the long forgotten Timber Rattler and Timber Wolf. To the Macbeth Clan, no matter what our current relationship. To Akira Saito. To President Daniel Spreadbury. Most of all...to my brother Tom. I'm winning this one for you, little brother. [Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: A sombre significance in this match for Tim Turner... and as the curtain is set to fall on the mighty IIWF, who better to have the last word on this match than the one who is "Born to Perform," Billy Shakespeare? [All is black. Suddenly one lonely spotlight cuts through the gloom, its beams illuminating falling bits of dust like fairy dust. The target of this beam is a man. A man who sits, his head resting on his knees. Slowly the camera begins a 360 degree trip around the figure, who, when the camera reaches in front of him, raises his head. To the surprise of no one, it is "Spotlight" Billy Shakespeare.] BS: Final curtain time: last lines, closing speeches, villains vanquished, hero's cheered. There is no more time for hyperbolae and threats. The time has passed for boasts and quotes. Well, maybe a few quotes. [The camera continues its circular trip] BS: Now, "Measure for Measure" comes the test of the wrestlers that have made the IIWF the greatest. Already we have seen some succumb to the slings and arrows that are the pressure of these closing weeks of this federation. Simon Lebec, you have followed up your marvellous showing at the D-Cup with an equally impressive one here. I venture forth in conquest of two titles, and if I return with none, I feel only gratitude for having been there that night. As it is written, "Let the end try the man". It is a grand moment to see all the greats return to pay their respects, many coming back one last time to salute the grand dame, and others trying feebly to convince us that they aren't past their prime just because they can't do better than second in other feds and other tourneys. Justifying your losses by citing your opponent's on-line popularity is a strange way of backing up rants that "we're just in it for the fun". Then again, there have always been two faces to the Syndicate. [Slowly, silently the camera continues its journey from side to side and front to back.] BS: Approaches the final sunset, when all moments become memories, legacy and legend. 'Twas said best, appropriately, in "All's Well That Ends Well": "Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear." I have no lack of praise for the men who gave their hours to make this wrestling novice into a minor celebrity. I have made some friends, some enemies, and watched as some started as one and became the other. No one does it alone: no man is better that the fed... no fed better than the men within it. [He drops his head momentarily, but raises it long enough to speak one last phrase:] BS: The IIWF: Born to perform. [The beam winks out, but the shimmery fairy dust continues, silhouetting the man who calls himself spotlight before this vision, too, fades.] TD: Eight tremendous athletes, gentlemen, and so many possible combinations in this unique match... but there can be only one winner. My question to you: who's it going to be? SR: As sure as eggs is eggs, Derek Mota, baby dolls. That tough little bastard has one thing the rest of the panty-waists in this match lack: cajones. Wait, I suppose that's two things. TD: Good grief. Larry, how about you? LM: I'm picking the dark horse, Shinja Chow. Sure, we've not seen the White Phoenix in what, getting on for a year now -- but even if Chow has lost a step or two in his hiatus, he'll still come at you harder, faster, and from more directions than you can handle. I'm with the Phoenix. TD: Again, I have to make the sentimental choice -- and I'm backing Billy Shakespeare to become the last holder of the belt that he was first to hold way back in the fall of 1996. Say what you will about Shakespeare -- and I know you will, Steve Roberts -- but there has never, in my opinion, been a competitor of the resilience and resourcefulness, not to say popularity, of Billy Shakespeare. He's born to perform... and what better stage than this match? SR: I could think of a few. TD: I'm sure you could, Steve Roberts. The "King of the Mountain" match to crown the last ever IIWF Cruiserweight Champion of the World... only on pay-per-view, live tomorrow night from the IIWF Coliseum right here in Portland. Make that call! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= KONTON NO KAMISAMA MATCH: "Sychosys" Joe Petrow vs. "Enigma" Takezo Musashi =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: Reason number seven to order IIWF Forever is the match that many are expecting to steal the show... the first ever "God of Chaos" match here in the IIWF, between two bitter rivals who have waited one full year before they finally lock it up, one on one, in this most unique match -- a bout in which almost anything could happen. SR: Let's get the monkey to recap the rules again, Dross! Can we, huh, can we? Can we, Dross? Can we, huh, can we? TD: Good grief. LM: I'm certainly looking forward to this match, Tim -- a match in which the rules are almost as intriguing as the competitors. Simply put, this is a forty-five minute marathon match in which the winner is the man with the most decisions at the end of the time limit. But there's a twist. Every five minutes, the stipulations of the match change. TD: It's my understanding that the stipulations won't be announced ahead of time, not only keeping us in suspense, but also preventing either Petrow or Musashi from gaining an advantage on the other by being able to prepare for any particular set of rules. However... I have it on good authority that the sealed cage last seen at Snow Brawl for that wild main event between Brody Thunder and Steve Kowalski has been shored up in the past week, and it will be suspended above the ring tomorrow night. Now, I don't see any cage matches on the card... so I'm willing to bet we'll see the cell play a part in this "God of Chaos" match. SR: Whoo-hoo! Diced Laotian! Come get some, everybody! Plenty of crazy Zambezian guy to go around! TD: Speaking of Takezo Musashi, let's go to his comments: [SCENE: A dark and musty gym, worn down through the ages with the grime and sweat of a thousand wrestlers and boxers, dreams of stardom bright in their eyes, determination held grimly in their clenched fists. Yellowed and tattered fight posters adorn the walls, announcing the big fight spectaculars of decades gone by. Old-fashioned training equipment of spartan, functional design -- punching bags, speed bags, skipping ropes, wooden mannequins -- all devoid of the gimmickry of modern technology, clutter the room haphazardly. A slat high up on the cold concrete wall filters in a ray of sunlight, highlighting dust motes swirling through the air. Behind the ray of light, cast in a darkened silhouette, a lean, compact yet muscular figure can be dimly made out, shadow fighting unseen assailants. He dances with astonishing grace and fluidity, ducking, twisting, flipping, cart-wheeling... lashing out at key moments with kicks and punches, the strikes delivered with a super charged velocity of speed and power. Abruptly, the figure ceases his work out, towels down briefly, and steps out of the shadows towards the camera. The slanting shaft of light casts the figure's face in sudden illumination... a grave oriental face, expression set as hard as granite, the twin blue windows of his eyes providing the only key to what lies within this man's soul... eyes that pierce to the core, eyes that glimmer with a strange exuberance of menace and madness, eyes that few men would dare to look into for long...] TM: Joe Petrow... I'm coming for you, one last time. For years now, an eternity to a brain diseased with the madness of vengeance, you have evaded the demon that has haunted you at every step. For years now, your fear has kept you in a state of constant motion: running, ducking, hiding... anything that would keep you from facing up to your demons... from facing me, your nemesis... To many, Joe Petrow, to those more feeble than I, you have always been a riddle. Just what it is that motivates you, the meaning behind all your actions, the very essence of your being, has been shrouded in mystique, and for too long, mistaken for profundity. For you are a master in the art of deception, Joe Petrow, at lying to yourself and your opponents, at dressing up the single base element that has always been inside of you in grandiose disguise. But to my eyes, Joe Petrow, nothing is impenetrable. Your mind is translucent, and its contents are a lit display cabinet for me to examine at will. Now, the time has come for the Enigma to strip you of your illusory veneer, to end the myth surrounding your name, and expose the naked truth. The time has come, to reduce Joe Petrow to nothing but a man filled with the stench of fear... Because that is what you really are, is it not? Fear through and through? All your petty mind games and comedy acts and little displays of pseudo madness could never mask this from me. Thusly, your actions have spoken to the Enigma. At the very first I did not know what it was I loathed in you so, but my first instinct was to tear you into bloody shreds. I hunted you down, strove to corner you in the ring, but somehow, you managed to elude me at every turn. You spoke up in public, laughing at me, scorning me, pretending that I was not worthy of the "great" Joe Petrow's attention. And I, in a moment of weakness, before my transformation into a man of hatred and strength, took it to heart. I became lost and confused. Yes, even I believed in your trickery and art of words. It was not until much later, as new-found blood flowed through my veins, when I learned to despise the world and draw strength from that despite, that I slowly began to perceive the truth. For it was not _I_ Joe Petrow, who was unworthy. All along, the weaker man was you. You knew there was something evil lurking within me, a violence waiting to be unleashed, and you were destined to be its first victim. Undoubtedly, you were never mistaken in this, for your perception was always acute, though you be feeble and a coward at heart... You saw it before I did, even. But all your trickery and deception, all your cunning manipulation, came to nothing, for I still became what you most feared. The adversity you set before me became just one more conduit to greater depths of devilry and might. So what did the "great, courageous" Joe Petrow do when his trickery failed him? Did he face up to his fear, to the demon that pursued him, and stand like a man in full blooded combat? No... that would have been the path of courage, the warrior's path... but not Joe Petrow's path. Instead he tried to play another hand, but I looked behind the cards, and I knew that it was just the same old ploy all along. Deceit and illusion. You saw me laying waste to the federation that lauded you with false honours, Joe Petrow, and trembling with the brutal consequences of it all, you sought to ally yourself with me. You spoke to me as your friend and confidant. You even granted me aid in my quest of destruction. And like a fool, you underestimated me... Did you really think that I was taken in by your charade? I walked into it openly and knowingly, all the while laughing inside, well aware that your intentions were nothing more than treachery, an attempt to catch me off my guard and vanquish me with one cowardly blow. But I had grown too strong, too clever, too ruthless and evil to allow that to happen, Joe Petrow. I pre-empted you. I struck the first blow, and caught you at your weakest ebb. But it was only the beginning, Joe Petrow, but a ripple of water in the tsunami of violence I am about to unleash... Now, all your cards have been played, and your back is to the wall. You can no longer evade me; your fate has been sealed with blood. At IIWF Forever, you will creep into the ring like a beaten dog, knowing full well that what stands before you can never be overcome. Your defeat is as inevitable as death. To reveal your true nature before the eyes of the world, at the very last battle on this, our field of war, will be my greatest honour. Now, perhaps my loathing for Joe Petrow is understood. The soul of a feeble man is judged by his cowardice, and the soul of a great man is judged by his courage. The feeble loathe the great by the strength of their resentment, and the great loathe the feeble by the strength of their disgust. As the sun rises tomorrow, a great loathing will begin, and the konton na tamashii of a warrior shall be unleashed. Our dance will begin with evil intent, and end only in bloody violence. But what of the battle royal? The battle to end all battles? In this, the dice of fate have yet to be thrown, and our futures are as yet undetermined. But I promise you now, I give you my word as a warrior, that the true nature of the Enigma will finally be revealed, and my name will forever be sealed in history. Takezo Musashi's time has come at last, but as befits all great warriors, the end will never be anything less than glorious. [As Musashi's gaze lingers, the shaft of sunlight slips up between his eyes and the camera lens, and in the blaze of light, his expression is no longer determinable. But wait... was it there, or just a trick played by the mind's eye? Did the burning madness in the Enigma's gaze fade for that brief moment, just before his face became obscured? Does it lie there still, as it surely must until the end of his days? Or?... Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: The "Enigma" Takezo Musashi simply bubbling with rage going into tomorrow night's match... meanwhile, his opponent, "Sychosys" Joe Petrow, was outspoken as usual. Let's go to that tape: [A long, sweeping panoramic view of a landscape that divides the viewer's attention equally between the gloomy overcast sky, the calm grace of the Pacific ocean, and the ever undulating shoreline. http://www.grantspassoregon.com/photo/manzanit.jpg Like the view from a soaring bird, the camera dive-bombs down, down towards the ocean. As the viewer feels he is about to crash, the view levels off, skimming inches over the water, heading towards the shore, the previous calm silence overruled by the sound of the endless battle between water and land. As the shoreline is reached, the perspective veers, racing along parallel to the shoreline itself. Suddenly, the movement slows, as the camera follows a pair of footprints in the sand. The footprints are followed, until the camera suddenly stops, then pans up and focuses in on a man about 10 feet away. "Sychosys" Joe Petrow on the shoreline, looking at the water. He has transformed yet again, as we see him for the first time with short, well-trimmed hair and beard, sporting blue jeans, a "Joe Petrow. Period." t-shirt... and an unusually gaudy seven-pointed star pendant around his neck. The sensation of water rushing at his feet seems to awaken him from his trance, as he turns to face the camera.] JP: Been a lot of talking, been a lot of posing, been a lot of everything 'cept getting down to business and fighting lately. So this ain't gonna take long, 'cuz there's only one thing I ain't said yet. Yeah, Musashi, there's you to think about. I ain't gonna listen to a damn thing you say before Saturday, because I'm sure your strategy is the same as always, try to bore your opponent into submission before the match even begins. You're probably calling our encounter total chaos, all out armageddon, yadda yadda yadda. You know what I call it? A warm-up. And yeah, there's my honor, my pride, and all that other crap I talked about last week. But there's only one reason why I'm putting on those trunks and stepping in the ring one more time. The IIWF World Heavyweight Championship. It's been the object of my desire ever since my rebirth. And this is my last chance. Before the IIWF also becomes my redeath. Say what you will about my loyalty to this league, use the "Dark Savior" to prove your point all you wish. But the IIWF is my blood. It is my life. It is my soul. Without the IIWF, there is no reason to fight. Without the IIWF, I will not fight. And from August 1st on, there is only one way for me to be in the IIWF. And that is to be the IIWF World Champion. For life. [People turns as if to walk away. But inexplicably, a cow meanders into the shot. Petrow turns back to the camera, a sick grin appearing on his face.] JP: Oh yeah, people have been commenting about my crack of throwing Shadoe Rage into the 15th row. They're saying that was a lame joke. Well... [With that, Petrow turns and walks towards the cow. Petrow reaches down near the udders...adjusts his feet to a proper stance...and PRESSES THE COW OVER HIS HEAD! The camera pans back to a wide angle shot of this surreal scene. As the startled cow begins to struggle, Petrow walks with the cow over to the water's edge, shaking slightly. Then, after taking a deep breath... Petrow LAUNCHES THE COW HIGH IN THE AIR! A pitiful "MOOOOOOOOooooo" slowly fades away, as the cow reaches the top of its arc, and begins its descent, finally landing with a deafening *KERSPLASH!* nearly 100 feet away, sending up a plume of water just as high. A satisfied Petrow reaches into his pocket to grab a can, pops the top on his Mooselips beer, and addresses the camera one last time:] JP: Saturday, August 1st, IIWF Forever. "Sychosys" Joe Petrow intends to walk out as the last and greatest IIWF World's Champion. And nothing, not even e-wrestling kayfabe, is gonna stop him. [With that, Petrow clutches his seven-pointed star pendant, and turns and walks away. The Duck Savior flies into the shot.] DS: IIWF Forever. Best weekend of your life! Quack! [The Duck Savior flies away. Fade to a message in plain white text: NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE FILMING OF THIS FLASH Before fading to black for good. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Tough talk from Petrow, gentlemen -- and no doubt he'll be willing to back it up in the ring tomorrow night. Musashi's going to give him one heck of a fight, that's for sure. With it impossible to predict what we're going to see, can we even pick a winner, Larry? LM: I'm behind Petrow, Tim. I don't think anybody can out-weird Joe Petrow, even with the element of surprise if not on their side, at least not turned against them, as is so often the case against Petrow. Something tells me that "Sychosys" is coming out of this one on the winning end of the draw... but it'll be close. I'll lean 4-3 Petrow. SR: No way, Terry. LM: That's _Larry_. SR: I know your name, moron, now shut the hell up. Just think about this for a moment: two absolutely nutzoid guys in all manner of crazy, sadistic, goddamned dangerous matches, at each others' throats for forty-five whole minutes... and the best you can come up with is 4-3 Petrow? Damn it, Morton, this match is gonna score big! We're going to see both guys get falls numbering in double figures... but I'm going with the Icelander. I say Musashi takes it 15 falls to 13. TD: Steve Roberts, I'm inclined to agree with Larry. Joe Petrow has always managed to stay one step ahead of Takezo Musashi -- how else has he managed to worm his way out of fighting him for twelve whole months? I have to believe that Petrow is cooking something up for this match... I say Petrow wins eight falls to two. SR: Holy smoke, Dross ol' buddy, you need a holiday. TD: After Saturday night, that's precisely what I'm going to have, Steve Roberts. But not until I've sat at ringside and called the action in the most historic night of my career, the biggest event this sport has seen -- IIWF Forever, live on pay-per-view. [Larry appears close to tears. His lip trembles. Dross pauses, but Larry motions for him to carry on.] =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= IIWF WORLD TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: Prophets of Rage [c] vs. Alphabet Boys =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: Reason number eight... two crazy goofs named the Alphabet Boys in probably the most unlikely championship match of all time, facing the holders of the IIWF World Tag Team titles, the partnership commonly regarded as the best tag team in the world, the Prophets of Rage. SR: Can anybody say "mismatch," baby dolls? Although personally I'm looking forward to seeing Abie and Zed out there one last time. Those guys is funny, funny stuff, Dross. Even if they can't wrestle worth a damn. TD: Let's hear from both teams, beginning with the champions: [Fade in: Derek Rage fills up the screen, jabbing his finger into the camera.] DR: Alphabet Boys, the Prophets of Rage owe the IIWF almost everything. Sure we'd been bush-league stars forever, but when we took the IIWF by storm they catapulted us to international celebrity. Finally people recognised us as the best team in the world. Now, you may have been the most popular tag-team in the history of the IIWF, but the Prophets of Rage were the best. And we all know what this game is about. Yes, we do. It's about concessions, it's about crowd reaction. It's about ratings. We always win our quarters. We always sell our merchandise. And we always get the crowd hot. Why do you think we got a title shot for throwing fish? Because no matter what we do the people love us. They love to react to us. We're like that crack when it starts to get up in your veins. It starts talkin' to you, whisperin' in your ears. That's what we do. And we eat you from the inside out. We're provocative, we're the best damn wrestlers in the business and roll with the finest women. Tell 'em, Dirt Dog. [Derek Rage steps aside as Dirt Dog shambles forward, stumbling and staggering.] DDUA: [slurring and stumbling] Yo, yo, muhfuhs... this is the Dirt Dog hollerin' at y'all muhfuhs! A and Z, yo, you been watchin' your TVs? You ever seen the Prophets in action? There's just too many angles for you to hit. There's just too many people for you to watch us all. There's just too much creativity. Yo, you bring your goofball antics to the ring and y'all'll see what happens the first I yell "Where my doggies at?" and you'll see what heat is all about. Yo, we as hot as jalapeno peppers in your lower intestine with a quart of hot sauce. DR: Damn, that's hot. DDUA: Shoot fire out yo' monkey ass! [Fade out. Cut back to the studio.] TD: One wonders whether the Alphabet Boys are even aware of who their opponents are in tomorrow night's match -- although at least they now appear to be in the right state. Let's go to the tape: [A "Burger-n-Blow" outside of Portland. Zed of the Alphabet Boys is obviously in training: he shovels handfuls of fried onion rings into his mouth, pausing only to wipe his hands on his wrestling togs. His erstwhile partner, Abie, sits across the table of this fine family restaurant, obviously pouting.] ZED: [spitting chunks of onion ring out of his mouth as he speaks] Nyah nyah, I won. ABIE: Not gonna wrestle. Z: Will too. A: Will not. Z: You promised. A: I had my fingers crossed. Z: Did not. A: Did too. [Zed throws a handful of onion rings at Abie. Abie retaliates by grabbing a squeeze bottle of ketchup and spraying his partner. Zed reaches out to strangle Abie and the table goes over. A voice from off-camera mutters "Not again." Small children can be seen fleeing the scene. Zed rubs Abie's face in a puddle of special sauce that is on the floor. Abie defends himself by shoving a fork into Zed's rear. Abie gets a headlock and bulldogs Zed into the "Kiddie's Well-O-Prizes". Plastic necklaces and dinosaurs geyser across the restaurant. Zed regains his feet to find Abie is playing with two plastic dinosaurs.] A: Dino, this is Fred. Fred meet Dino. Do you want to get married? [The camera is abruptly shut off on this disturbing scene. Cut back to the scene.] TD: Larry -- they don't have a hope, do they? LM: Much as I love the Alphabet Boys, Tim, I think they'll be lucky to even make it out to the ring, let alone beat the Prophets of Rage. I'll be happy just to see them walk out of the ring. SR: Aw, come on, Morton, don't sell the kooky guys so short. I mean, sure, they might not know an armbar from a burger bar; yeah, they might have a fixation on the King; fine, they eat twice their own body-weight in sugar every day; and of course, one of them is a pacifist Buddhist monk... No, you're right. They're gonna get their asses handed to them. TD: I think we're all in agreement. It'll be wonderful to see the Alphabet Boys out there one more time, but even I can't bring myself to back the sentimental favourites this time. There's just no way arguably the world's number one tag team is going down to Abie and Zed. But folks, it's one for the history books -- and it's live, only on pay-per-view, tomorrow night, live from the IIWF Coliseum! =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= FUTURE BOWL MATCH: Gunnar "Grizzly" Gaines & Caleb Temple vs. Eddy "Flap" Jacks & "To Excess" Rick Williams =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= TD: Reason number nine... two matches in one, four hot superstars. It's the Future Bowl match, and it'll kick things off tomorrow night at IIWF Forever. Two pairings, chosen by the IIWF President to symbolise the possible future that the Double Eye might have known, will square off in a regular tag team match... and when one team stands victorious, the partners must immediately face one another one on one! SR: It's the world gone mad! Tag team partners fighting? Whatever next! TD: Let's hear from the more unlikely partnership of the two, beginning with the veteran grappler, Eddy "Flap" Jacks: [SCENE: San Antonio, Texas. The Alamo. Late afternoon. The sun's brilliant rays strike the Alamo from behind, cascading across the crumbling corners of the ageing relic. The camera pans around, allowing the viewer to note the landmark's many angles. Spectators in the background gawk and point at the structure, some noting various historical markings and others merely noting the overall state of disrepair. The Alamo, sadly, is not one of the US's best-preserved historical sites. Finally, the camera pauses, settling and slowly zooming in on the squat figure of Eddy Jacks. Jacks, clad in a "Who's Buried in Gunnar's (1832-1888) Tomb?" t-shirt and plain brown work boots, is admiring the building, a sarcastic sneer forming at the corner of his chapped lips. Suddenly... inexplicably... the theme from "Ghostbusters" begins to play in the background. Jacks' sneer quickly becomes a grin...] EJ: I ain't afraid o' no ghost. [Jacks slaps a nearby wall with his meaty right hand, guffawing loudly. Weakened residue crumbles off the wall. Jacks steps backward, admiring his handiwork. He speaks, his voice hearty and deep...a far cry from his earlier, more paranoid tone.] Guess ya could say they don't make 'em like dey use ta, eh? Nah, dey don't. 'Cuz if dey did...an' I already said dey don't...bums like Gunnar Gaines an' Caleb Temple would still be somethin' more'n shadows o' a long-dead fed. O' course, that's assumin' a lot...hell, I'm assumin' Gaines can still wrestle. Grandpa Gaines didn't prove nothin' ta me 'cept that he had ta cheat ta win in takin' out Steele... [Jacks pauses.] ...an' ya lost ta da Scots, didn't ya? Yeah, ya did. Wasn't pretty, nah. Yer asses got whipped. An' ya know why, fellas? 'Cuz yer so far from bein' da damn future it's silly. Yer like da Alamo...people come ta look at it...stupid Americans "donate" money ta it...an' it's still gonna fall apart in da end. [The "Ghostbusters" theme kicks in again...and Jacks nearly doubles over in laughter.] Ya sound effects boys crack my ass up, ya really do. I'll give ya some o' my el-dubbya-cee money, kids, an' that's a shoot straight from my 'eart. [Pause. Jacks surveys the structure...the history "marks" walking through it...and laughs again.] An' Caleb...'ell, boy, I use ta watch tapes o' ya wrestlin' in ee-dubbya-ay back when I was just learnin' this gig up in Canada. Yer ass set da example fer every high-flyer dat came after ya. But guess what? [Jacks pauses, almost as if waiting for a "what?". Unfortunately, this is the Alamo...and people are here for history, not wrestling.] I wouldn't put a buffalo nickel on yer ass in a fight against Maurice MacArthur nowadays. Future bowl? Yer right in sayin' it's a joke, Gunnar. Yunz two belong in a damn museum, not in a frickin' wrestlin' ring. Time's time, fellas, an' ability goes away. Legs get wobbly...rubbery...an' then they're gone. Wind goes...an' goes...an' goes...an' then ya can't move no more. [Jacks takes several steps to the left, pausing to admire a bronze plaque with a portrait of the legendary Davey Crockett emblazoned on it.] Davey _frickin'_ Crockett. King o' da damn frontier. He's dead now, ya damn marks. An' he wasn't a wrestler, neither. Big guy thought he'd take a last stand 'ere, he did. Already was a legend, y'see? Now he's dead. Dead. Gone. Finished. [Pause.] Hell, I know all 'bout bein' dead an' finished. My life ended at around, oh, 8:38 PM on da mornin' o' August 15, nineteen _frickin'_ sixty-five. I got brought inta a world o' hell...an' I ain't gonna burden yunz good people wit' my story...but I learned what it was like ta hate an' feel pain. An' I wasn't s'posed ta be a "future star", neither. My time's gone...but I reached inta my hat, Miss Thangs, an' pulled a lil' somethin' extra out. [Jacks taps the plaque, grinning.] I played up bein' washed-up, kids. Ain't nobody da common man likes better den a bum like me. I got humble real damn quick...an' ya gotta get humble ta survive in this biz... [Grin widens.] ...an' ya get humbled fightin' hombres like Jay-Dub Hardin in Canada an' gettin' burnt ta damn crisp in a Maryland hellhole I ain't about ta mention. [Pause.] Caleb, I ain't gonna ferget yer words. Da world don't neither another Gaines-Temple. What it needs... [Jacks steps forward, his countenance now solemn...a glint of determination in his eyes.] ...is Jacks-Williams. We ain't da future...but we ain't playin' on da past, neither. Rick's a helluva guy. He can say he hates me an' say 'f[bleep] you, Eddy' on every talk show from here ta Ottawa, but I still loves da guy. Rick's one o' da finest men I ever had da privilege o' wrestlin' wit'. I'm gonna be happy ta wrestle wit' him...an' I'm gonna be damn ready ta wrestle him, if it comes ta pass. [Pause.] Gaines, Temple, consider yerselves a way station as 'is sport continues on its evolution. Hell, everythin's just another stop on a long damn trip. IIWF carried da sport as far as it could. Wrestlin's gonna get better an' faster an' bigger... [The camera pans up, capturing a still of the crumbling Alamo...then pans back down onto Jacks.] ...it's gonna 'ave new stars.... ...it's gonna 'ave better ideas... ...it ain't gonna be EWA or IIWF... ...an' I'm damn sure the future ain't Gunnar Gaines an' Caleb Temple. If me an' Rick...if we win...then yer gonna get a front-row seat ta da future. Rick, he says he don't respect da common man...an' maybe he don't...but he works as hard as anyone. An' me? I'm gonna dedicate my last match ta every bum dat never made it here in da Double-Eye. [Jacks pauses, almost in tears.] I'm gonna win fer Tonnage... I'm gonna win fer Sebastian "Bulldog" Jericho, one o' my closest buds... I'm gonna win fer Dexter St. Croix... I'm gonna win fer da Brat, Bradley f'n Reed... I'm gonna win fer da Masked Terror, whoe'er da hell he is... But most o' all... [Jacks pauses, openly weeping.] I'm gonna win fer Dan Spreadbury an' Al Grey. You guys gave me everythin'. Like "Two-Ton" Tony Galento, one o' da finest heavyweight boxers in da history o' da damn sport, said...'I was jus' a damn bum...an' I'm still a damn bum... [Pause.] ...but you guys, you guys made me a high-class bum. God bless ya... [Jacks collects himself.] It's about lasts, Thangs. Consider me as havin' signed yer frickin' walkin' papers, boys. Consider Rick_frickin'_Williams as havin' punched yer time card. Wrestlin's done gone past ya, boyos. Yer finished. Yer done. An' ya know what I gotta say 'bout that? Stick a fork in yerselves... 'Cuz yer done. Hell, yer asses're overcooked. An' ya know what else, boys? It's also my last frickin' IIWF match. It's time fer me ta collect m'self...ta say, 'Eddy, ya never got a clean pin in prime time. Ya didn't prove nothin'...nothin'. Hell, Eddy, ya lost ta da Smooth.' [Pause.] I don't like leavin' my business unfinished, fellas. An' I don't like yunz two. Time's tickin'. I said it before...an' I'll say it again... An' my buddy Curt Hansen'd be sure ta back me up on 'is... If ya ain't Old School.... [Pause. A final, mocking "Grizzly Grin".] Yer just old. [Longer pause. Jacks winks.] An' Ricky-boy...Don't think I'm complimentin' ya 'cuz I like ya. If it comes down ta yer ass or mine, I'll splatter yer ugly pumpkin so far 'cross Portland it'd take a frickin' Jacques Cousteau search mission ta pick up da pieces. As Stevey-Boy Roberts said, "Bang-bang, baby doll". 'Nuff said. I ain't one ta waste words. [The camera pans backward... the colour fades from the historic scene... fading to black and white... and then to black. Cut back to the studio.] SR: I'd just like to say that I have never once said, "Bang-bang, baby doll." What the hell is the matter with these people?! TD: Let's go straight to comments from Jacks' partner, "To Excess" Rick Williams: [Scene opens to the exterior of a large grey house, seemingly in the early evening. A few drops of rain fall on the camera lens, somewhat obscuring the picture. Several passing cars are heard in the distance, before the shot changes to the interior of the house. There, "To Excess" Rick Williams sits, staring blankly at the TV screen, on which some old IIWF footage is being shown. Surrounded by extremely sparse furnishings, Williams doesn't even acknowledge the presence of the camera, as he juggles the remote control in his hand. Dressed in a black shirt and blue jeans, Williams' gum-chewing habit is once again in evidence, as he places his feet on a nearby table. Leaving the television on, he throws the remote control on to the table before he stares at the camera and begins to speak.] RW: From May '96 to July '98, the words on everyone's lips were simple -- "Double Eye"... four letters that the world couldn't stop talking about -- "I-I-W-F". From May '96 to July '98, one name commanded God-like status. Revered the world over, his transgressions were overlooked because for all intents and purposes, he was king -- "Spreadbury". From May '96 to July '98, one man's name was overlooked. He was useful at times... at others, he was merely another name -- "Williams". Then came August the first, 1998. From that day forth, only one man's name mattered... everyone else was insignificant. One name, four words -- "To Excess" Rick Williams. Not from May '96 to July '98... but From Here to Eternity. [Williams spits the stick of gum at the camera, narrowly failing to hit it. He immediately takes another stick of gum from his pocket, before unwrapping it and placing it in his mouth.] Don't give me my battle royal spot, Danny boy? That's fine with me. Shove the most over-rated, undeserving morons in there instead? That's fine with me. Put me in the opening match with a Bible-basher, an overrated hick, and an incoherent sap? Dammit, that's fine with me too. Expect anyone to accept your "champion" as just that, despite the fact that he never beat Rick Williams? Don't count on it, Jack. [As the camera focuses on the cold, unblinking eye of Rick Williams, his belief that everything he says is nothing but pure face is more evident than ever before.] You see, Danny boy, you can put Rick Williams' name in the opening match... you can tell the whole world that the main event is thirty guys, who aren't as good as me, trying to dump each other over the top rope... you can say that he who wins the belt is the best... [His tone suddenly becomes very different. From loud, confident and angered, his voice becomes deathly serious... a mere whisper, with malicious intent hanging from every syllable.] ...But you and I... we know different. [He chuckles slightly. The laugh, however, is more evil in nature, than it is comedic.] The "Future Bowl" may be another of our dear president's delicious schemes to bump up the buy-rate... a match to determine the man who would have been king... ...But with "To Excess" in the mix, it becomes _so_ much more. You see, I'm not just the man who would have been king... I'm the man who _will_ be king. [Williams grins an all too familiar grin, which is quickly replaced by an even more familiar emotionless expression.] Jacks... don't get in my way, don't annoy me and don't show up late. I like you about as much as I like the man who pays your wages, but I won't be your Judas Escariot... unless you give me damn good reason. And when we're done with Gaines and Temple, _then_ and only then, will I crucify you. And on that Biblical note, I come to you, Caleb. And Caleb, I really hope you'll forgive _me_ for _my_ trespasses... of which there will be many -- you can trust _me_ on that one, Jack. I've already been led into temptation, and it's too late to deliver me from evil. I just hope you can find it in your heart to forgive... And then there's you, Gunnar. "Mr. Comedy" himself. I'm "washed-up", just like you _wash_ on a daily basis. After tomorrow night, it's not gonna be about you _deciding_ to retire... it's gonna be about you _having_ to retire. And wouldn't that be cute? The supposed best wrestler in the world in '96 being finished by the best wrestler in the world, period. I almost pity you and Temple. Living your lives with the misguided notion that achieving something in the EWA makes you a star. That's pretty damn sad. The only way to judge a man is by his non-Loop record, and let's see... We've got a guy who has to pretend his kid's dead to win a match, and we've got a couple of guys who couldn't even beat the least fighting IC Champion of all time, along with his insignificant cousin. Hardly the stuff legends are made of, now, is it? [Williams stares deep into the camera, as if awaiting a response.] But if you can live a lie, more power to ya. [Williams winks arrogantly at the camera, as confidence almost visibly radiates from his entire body.] As we come to approach the IIWF's final hour, there is but one saying that springs to mind... "Cometh the hour... Cometh the man." Tomorrow night, have no doubt about it... I'll be the man. [Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: The more established partnership in this match, by a long way, is that of Caleb Temple and Gunnar Gaines, known collectively as the Baddest Thangs Running. But behind the current co-operative spirit lies a deep-rooted rivalry that stretches back long before the match that finally pitted them against each other one year ago, the match that nearly ended the career of Temple. Let's get his comments as he prepares to team up with -- and perhaps face -- Gunnar Gaines one more time: [SCENE: A dark, windowless room, somewhere deep in the heart of the Church of the Final Judgement. To the fore, a candle, burning silently. Slowly, as the camera draws back, more candles come into sight. The room is lit by dozens upon dozens of them, their flames casting dancing shadows all around. Amongst those shadows, a man. The candles illuminate the flesh of his back, and we see the tapestry of flesh his torso has become. His arms, muscles writhing like snakes, give an almost surreal life to the artwork thereupon. His back, still to the camera, displaying the work which has become a motif for his very existence. The martyrdom of Christ upon the cross, his face blood-riven and tortured. Below, three chilling words: Vengeance is Mine. Caleb Temple turns toward us. His long, lank hair hangs loose over his bowed face. His voice is an almost hoarse drawl couched in calm authority.] CT: "I sat not in the assembly of the mockers, nor rejoiced; I sat alone because of thy hand: for thou hast filled me with indignation." Jeremiah 15:17. It is a solitary path along which walks a soldier of the Lord. [He raises his head slightly, his dark, piercing eyes glaring from behind a mask of damp, stringy hair.] CT: As I count down these final few hours until our final glorious letting of blood, I find myself back in this most familiar of places. The outside, looking in on a world which heeds not my words, and sees not my deeds. This path, this horrid blood-washed path, is one which I, Caleb Temple, have walked alone all my years. And it is the path which has brought me to this final moment of absolute calm before the storm. In a matter of hours, all which has passed will become nothing. Singularly worthless. All of our bonds will lie broken, and our previous battles consigned to empty history. Everything will revolve around the moment, that glorious moment. And out of it all, one image shall remain, burned forever into the memories of those who see it. That image... shall be of Caleb Temple, blood-soaked, immersed totally in the carnage upon which he thrives. [He looks back to the floor for a moment, composing his thoughts.] CT: "Let me alone, that I may destroy them, and blot out their name from under heaven: and I will make of thee a nation mightier and greater than they." Deuteronomy 9:14. Oh, I walk this path alone. In these shadows, I am alone. And in just a few hours, when we engage, one last time, in this most glorious of battles, I will remain... alone. When thirty men do battle, when all but one are chasing the gold which signifies the very peak of this profession, everyone will understand that which I have already accepted as the most fundamental of truths. That there are NO allies in war. I am already prepared to do battle with twenty-nine foes. Amidst the chaos they inspire, amidst the greed they share, a man alone shall flourish. THIS man alone. [He runs his right hand through his stringy hair, sweeping it back and away from his pale face. We see the cross-shaped scar, white as snow, dead centre of his forehead.] CT: My training for such solitude in war shall come in, of all places, the Future Bowl match. The event which shall mark the final dissolution and resting place of the living, breathing nightmare which was the Baddest Thangs Running. When the match commences, I shall be part of a team. When it ends, I shall not. What is fixing to happen in between those bells, it does not take a genius to conceive. When Jacks and Williams have been discarded for the human trash they ARE, only Gunnar and myself will remain, eye-to-eye and toe-to-toe. That is where the war TRULY begins. It is also where this solitude I have chosen for myself will become invaluable. Gunnar, let it be known here and now that I will hold nothing back from you. I expect nothing less than the same from you. Anything less than your total attention and commitment, I will take as a personal insult. Because rest assured, partner, what YOU will receive courtesy of Caleb Temple, is pain like only I have EVER made you feel. [A sick smile spreads across his face, as he recalls their last bloody encounter.] CT: Yes, I remember that night in Anaheim, Gunnar. And I know you certainly do. I remember how we fought like no two men have EVER fought. And I remember how that match ended. With me, exhausted and broken, neck and spine damaged ALMOST to the point of my permanent paralysis. And with you, hand raised in blood-soaked victory. You don't forget that kind of pain too easily. Those seven months I sat on the sidelines were the hardest months of my life, Gunnar. Surgery. Physiotherapy. And most painful of all, more so than ANY of the physical agonies, watching everything I had worked so hard to achieve being taken away from me. On that night, you proved your point. In a few short hours, I will prove MINE. [He inhales deeply.] CT: Partners we might have been. A great team, we surely were. But my best friend, Gunnar... you will NEVER be. In a few short hours, when we do this... I will have NO friends. I'm going to say this for the first time... [He breaks into a devilish smirk.] CT: _DON'T_ trust me. [A soft chuckling sound. Fade. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Gentlemen, it wouldn't surprise me to see either of these teams break loose before the tag team portion of the match is over. Do you have any picks? LM: I'm behind Caleb Temple, Tim. The teamwork advantage of the Baddest Thangs simply can't be ignored -- and I believe that Caleb is one of the most innovative and dangerous men in the ring today. For a man his size, his aerial arsenal is impressive, not to say devastatingly effective, and he absorbs punishment like a sponge. SR: Kinda like the way you absorb charisma, huh, Lar? I'm gonna surprise you two rocket scientists here and side with Rick Williams. Sure, Gunnz is one of the best big men in the sport today, and he has a mean streak wider than some of the smaller states, and Caleb is a great fighter, a great flyer... but Rick Williams, he's a guy I like, Dross. He's a guy with the attitude to back up his ability. TD: Surely that should be the other way around, Steve Roberts. SR: Don't try and correct the Soundbite, Dross. My papa tried it, and look what happened to him -- I shot him dead in the desert, sure as I shot my sick little dawg. And ever more was I known as the Masked Soundbite, baby dolls. TD: Fine. But I'm picking Gunnar Gaines. Like Larry, I believe the tag team experience of Gaines and Temple, plus the fact that these two men know exactly what makes the other tick, will see them through the first segment of the match... and what a psychological advantage Gaines has in a singles encounter over Temple, having half-killed the man the last time they went toe to toe. It's the Grizzly one, for my money. Folks, eight great matches -- and only nine reasons so far. But before we wrap up the show, let's hear a couple more tributes from IIWF stars past and present. First up, Simon O'Neal, one half of the Machines, who wrestled their last match at Birthday Bash: [A slightly familiar figure steps in front of the camera as it fades in. A thin guy with curly brown hair under a grey fedora hat. Dark sunglasses cover his eyes, and a belt with the words "MIGHTY BASTARD CHAMPION" is around his waist. It is Simon O'Neal, one half of the IIWF Tag Team the Machines. He is reading an official-looking document.] SO: Misters O'Neal and Wong... yadda yadda yadda... please be advised that the loser-leaves town contract you signed for Birthday Bash... yadda yadda... are prevented from appearing at IIWF Forever... even as a fan at ringside... etcetra etcetra... will be arrested if you violate the rules... explicitly stated by Daniel Spreadbury himself... the attorneys of the IIWF. [O'Neal looks over at the paper, then into the camera. He wads up the paper and throws it over his shoulder. He gives his trademark smirk to the camera.] SO: Geez, you powerbomb one manager twenty feet into a group of fans and the head honchos take it so personally. Say, Danny, did you settle those lawsuits yet? [Simon sighs, and his smirk is replaced with a somber look.] SO: You know, Paul Wong and I came into the IIWF on the greatest run of our lives. We ruled the AEWA; it took a bunch of stipulations in the favour of our opponents to take our belts, after we had dominated the scene for the last year. So we come into the big time -- the almighty Double Eye itself. I gave us three months before we held the belts; Paul was more conservative, but I knew he thought we could do it. It just wasn't meant to be. Part of it was our fault; we seriously underestimated our opponents. The Harlequins looked like jokes, but they wrestled like hell. Same with Cold Spell, the Natural Predators, even the Down Boys. The competition was a hundred times better than I thought it would be. But... let's face it; the IIWF didn't like us. I'm not sure why; I don't remember pissing anyone off, and Paulie sure as hell can't... couldn't. But somehow, we became the dumping ground; every time the IIWF brought in a new team, they'd throw them against us. Sometimes we'd run them out; sometimes they'd stick around, and get better matches against the better known teams. And there we were, stuck in the same place. Finally, we get a four-way match with a title shot to the winners. This was our chance to step into the spotlight, the chance to prove how good we were. We were ready for those three teams; we weren't expecting the Fabulous Ones. I won't bore anyone with the details. Suffice it to say that the Machines are the only people not allowed to be at IIWF Forever. Everyone else who has left, no matter what terms, is welcomed back with open arms. Except for us. Just as well- all they'd do is stick us in a Meatman Challenge match. Not that it matters; I wouldn't go back to that league if hell froze over and Steve Roberts and Tim Dross did the nasty in the middle of the ring in front of 80,000 people. Come to think of it, Roberts probably goes that way. He always talks about tag teams being gay, and how Dross is his "tag team partner". And I'm sure that Paul would agree with me. [Simon stops, then removes his sunglasses and shakes his head.] Except that I haven't seen or spoken to Paul since Birthday Bash. The IIWF chewed up the Machines and spat us out. You want my thoughts on the so-called "Great" IIWF? Fine... [BLEEP] 'em. [Fade. Cut back to the studio.] SR: Hey, O'Neal... [BLEEP] you right back atcha... ya [BLEEP]. LM: Is Steve Kowalski in the studio? SR: Shut your trap, Morton. TD: It appears that the Machines harbour a grudge against the IIWF... but Charles Scheffield is at least more reflective: [Fade in. Charles Scheffield stands looking out of a window in his multi-million dollar estate as he rests his hands on the window sill. A look of sadness is upon his face as he watches the clouds in the distance. The 6'1", short brown-haired man turns his finely featured face toward the camera. He definitely looks the part of a rich man as he looks more like a man from the late eighteenth century rather than the average person of today. Scheffield manages a bit of a smile as he looks at the camera... though it is obvious he isn't very happy.] CS: The "Mighty" Double Eye. [Scheffield's gravelly aristocratic voice carries a bit of a waver in it for once.] I don't believe _anyone_ thought this was happening any time soon. "All is well in the city", everyone thought. But I believe in the back of _everyone's_ minds was the thought that maybe something this great had to come to and end... and it is... ...forever. [Scheffield's deep-set eyes accented by his slightly bushy eyebrows meet the camera with a slight ferocity one wouldn't imagine from Scheffield.] No regrets? Unfortunately I am not one of those people who can say that. There are a _million_ things I wanted to do with my career here in the Double Eye. It is no secret that I personally wasn't as successful as perhaps I should have been. It is no secret that I threw away my chances at stardom on several varied occasions. It was _always_ business first for me... then wrestling second. I kept my finger on the pulse of Wall Street better than I even kept up to date with the current happenings in the Double Eye. Of course, that was all before the fall. Now looking back I must say I threw away the biggest chance I ever had. Now the only thing I can say about it is I was able to be ranked the fifth greatest European wrestler in the world by the internet junkies. [Scheffield manages a small chuckle. He then does an extraordinarily good European accent.] But you see, old chaps... I am not a European. Unfortunately, the ol' chaps running the show never realised I was born and raised right here in Connecticut, USA... so in the end there really isn't anything I gained. When I personally came to that realisation.... having been voted as a European, I must say I was quite perturbed. I thought, "Aren't my pearly white teeth enough of a testimony to the fact that I am a United States citizen? Come now! You surely don't find _that_ in Europe!" But then again, at least I wasn't in the "man of colour" brackets. [Scheffield goes back to his American aristocratic accent, which to the uneducated ear sounds every bit as foreign.] So as I was saying, I do have my regrets. The biggest one, however, being the fact that I shall _never_ step into an IIWF ring again... ...forever. [Scheffield's face assumes a grave look.] Until next time... carry on. [Fade out as Scheffield resumes staring out of the window distantly. Cut back to the studio.] TD: Well, folks, that just about brings us to the end of this very final edition of "Countdown"... and I'm very happy to have had you right here with me, Larry, as the veteran of this venerable show. LM: It's been my pleasure to be here, Tim -- and despite everything, Steve Roberts is not the most objectionable co-host I've shared this studio with. SR: Aw, Larry, I's gettin' all misty, buddy. You're too kind to the Soundbite. You want to see my albums of Chuck Norris? TD: Good grief. Folks, I promised you ten reasons to order IIWF Forever, live from the sold-out IIWF Coliseum on pay-per-view tomorrow night, and so far you've had nine... ...the Eternal Rumble, to crown the man who will be the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion _forever_... ...four IIWF legends battling it out in one ring... ...the final encounter between Brody Thunder and "Playboy" Ronnie D with IIWF triple crown winner Steve Kowalski as the special guest referee... ...the battle for the Intercontinental Championship, pitting Simon Lebec against former three-time holder Tiger Claw... ...the King of the Mountain match to crown the final Cruiserweight Champion of the world featuring eight of the world's best... ...a unique, crazy, unpredictable marathon match between two of the wildest wrestlers ever to set foot in the squared circle, Joe Petrow and Takezo Musashi... ...one last chance to see the Elvis lamp as the Alphabet Boys battle the Prophets of Rage for the IIWF World Tag Team Championship... ...the Future Bowl match... ...Becky LaRue interviewing none other than "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley in her Lair... ...and... SR: ...and me! And the Soundbite! Whoo-hoo! TD: Steve Roberts, you're not the tenth reason. SR: Damn you, Dross, I'm the _first_ reason. It's all about the Soundbite, baby dolls! Just you wait until tomorrow night! TD: It's going to be the most memorable night in wrestling history, folks. Gather round your family, get the VCR ready, and the backup VCR just in case, unplug the phone... SR: ...spread the maple syrup liberally over the stomach of a nubile blonde and busty sophomore... TD: Good grief. Move heaven and earth to catch IIWF Forever, ladies and gentlemen. Eight matches, thirty men, one prize... one last chance. Until tomorrow night, this is Tim Dross, for Larry Morton and "Soundbite" Steve Roberts, saying: so long, everybody! [The lights in the studio drop as Don MacLean's "American Pie" drifts over the credits, Dross giving Larry Morton's shoulder a supportive squeeze, and Steve Roberts leaping up from his seat, punching the air in jubilation, and heading out of the shot. Fade.] +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I * I * W * F =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+ | President: Daniel Spreadbury | | iiwf@sisko.demon.co.uk | +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- http://www.sisko.demon.co.uk -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+