[Black. First, we hear the sound...the... Clickety, clack, clack of freshly polished hard-soled shoes across an unseen surface. Enter IIWF President Daniel Spreadbury, youngish, bespectacled and more than a little world-weary. He is immaculately attired in tweed, a new gold pocket-watch glinting from his breast pocket, a shine which matches the one in his eyes... the small lines around the corners of which are testamentary of a man who, more than any other, has lived the hard days and the long nights necessary to bring to life the International Internet Wrestling Federation.] DS: There are those who will say that it was the early IIWF, the 1996 version, which was the finest professional wrestling organisation the world has ever seen. It was a time of superstars. The days when powerful icons like J.W. Hardin and the Deathbringer ruled the Federation. When Hakiro Matsuoko, Billy Shakespeare and the Subway Psycho continually thrilled the fans with never-before-seen antics. The days when the Armed Forces and Rising Sun Revolution revolutionised tag team wrestling and when it sometimes seemed as if Dan Kauffman and the Syndicate would reign forever... [The screen flashes with clips from the IIWF's first "summer of love": the Subway Psycho wraps himself around the shoulders of the Masked Outlaw with a crucifix, rolling him backwards for the pinfall... Hakiro Matsuoko misses a moonsault attempt from the top of a fifteen-foot steel cage... Deathbringer dives out of the ring on top of Dan Kauffman, both men colliding with the steel crowd barrier... Billy Shakespeare hits the Curtain Call somersault backflip on Moondust... Cut back to the IIWF President.] DS: There are those who say it was the middle period of the IIWF, the year of 1997, which rightly holds the crown as the finest professional wrestling organisation the world has ever seen. It was a time of diversity, when technicians like Lord Byron and Chris Quigley held permanent claim to Intercontinental gold and manic, suicidal performances of Joe Petrow and the Age of the Rage stole show after show. It was the shocking dawn of Genesis, behind their charismatic leader Requiem, and the even more shocking conclusion of same, as Brody Thunder rode a controversial triple-cross to a two-time title run and achieved heights never before reached in the sport. [The screen again flashes with clips: Creed hits the Goodnight, Farewell, Amen super flying powerbomb on Mad Dog Watkins from the outfield wall of the Toronto Skydome... Marty Warnett and Lord Byron in a fast-paced exchange of chain wrestling... Steve Kowalski and Joe Petrow brawling through the crowd, objects of all shapes and sizes being used as weapons... Deathbringer being brutally beaten by Requiem and his hired guns, who would later name themselves Genesis... The final fateful demolition of the Bulldog Brown table in the original Seven Tables of Fear match between Joe Petrow and the Dirt Dog Unique Alllah... Icehawk hitting the Arctic Blast flying splash on a hapless opponent... Brody Thunder laying out his former Syndicate colleagues with the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship belt... Cut back to the IIWF President once more...] DS: There are those who will say that it was the most recent version of the IIWF, the teetering on the brink of insanity 1998 version, which truly was the greatest wrestling organisation the world had ever seen. It was wrestling turned "up to eleven", a fire-balling Serge Annis and a Skullpumping Steve Kowalski carried the big belt while the indomitable Duncan Macbeth, the acrobatic Icehawk and the nuclear Takezo Musashi pushed boundaries of more than physics. It was a time in which a veteran like Simon Lebec could garner his first taste of Federation gold and in which newcomers like Gunnar Gaines, Rick Williams and the "Meatman" Jimmy Steele changed what it meant to be an IIWF superstar. [Cut to clips taken from the past several months: Steve Kowalski Skullpumping Brody Thunder through the roof of the cell cage at Snow Brawl, the structure collapsing around them... The "Enigma" Takezo Musashi slamming hard into Icehawk on the outside with a somersault body-press from the ring, seriously injuring the young Finn... and then Icehawk leaping on the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi from the top of a steel cage... Duncan Macbeth and Simon Lebec leaping from the flaming barge on the Thames as it hits the river bank and explodes in incendiary reds and oranges... Jimmy Steele stands at the head of the aisle and is drenched in pig's blood... Gunnar Gaines and Caleb Temple brawl with cousins Duncan and Andrew Macbeth in an Alaskan Death Match... Serge Annis chokeslams Steve Kowalski and covers him to win the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship... Finally, cut back to the IIWF President once more.] DS: It was the IIWF. From Otto Verhoeven to Charles Scheffield. Luke Steele to Timothy Turner. Ronnie Paris, Marty Warnett, the High Plains Drifters, and the red-gloved warrior Creed. A symphony of the ignominious and the unforgettable, the comic, the heroic, the quixotic and the tragic. But always, always, always... IIWF. Tonight, we bring them all together, the "new" generation and the old -- not for a war, but for a celebration, for one night, one brief moment in time when each of us can come together and raise a glass in tribute of what was, for its full two plus years of existence, truly the greatest professional wrestling organisation the world has ever known... The _Mighty_ IIWF. Tonight is IIWF Forever. We hope you enjoy the show. [Fade. A moment passes before the opening graphics explode into view:] ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| | || | \ v v / | __| |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| ______ ____ ______ _______ ___ _______ ______ \ ____\/ __ \\ ___ \\ _____\\ | / /_____\\ ___ \ | | / / | || | \ \ | | | / / | | | \ \ | |__/_/ | || |__/ / |_____| | / /| |_____| |__/ / | ____/| | || __ /| _____/| |/ / | _____/| __ / | | | | | || | \ \| | | / | | | | \ \ | | | | / /| | \ \ | | / | | | | \ \ | | | |_/ / | | \ \|____ | / | |_____| | \ \ | | \___/ | | \ \____/|/ /______/| | \ \ | / | / \/ | / \/ |/ |/ |/ LIVE! + IIWF Coliseum + Saturday 1 August 1998 + LIVE! H + O + U + R O + N + E [The opening graphics make way for interior shots of the IIWF Coliseum, the arena that has served for more than two years as the purpose-built home of the _mighty_ IIWF. Tonight, it is, as usual, lined with more than twenty thousand fans, a capacity crowd in full voice, bearing signs, wearing merchandise, and palpably anticipating the action to come. The camera swings over the sea of humanity, over fans clamouring to make themselves visible in the shot, past the brightly-coloured IIWF banners hanging from the rafters, over the ring, upon the canvas of which is silkscreened the "IIWF Forever" logo, over the ringside enclosure, lined with photographers, press reporters, and broadcast tables... Suddenly, the lights dim, pyrotechnics begin to fly across the Coliseum, and the crowd pops louder and hotter than ever before. The crowd reaches a fever pitch as streaks of red, white and blue fireworks erupt throughout the rafters of the IIWF Coliseum, each burst more deafening than the last. Over these scenes comes the voice of veteran IIWF announcer Tim Dross:] TD: Welcome, everyone, to Portland, Oregon! Welcome, everyone, to the IIWF Coliseum! Welcome... to the greatest night of our lives! It's IIWF... FOREVER!!! [White sparks shoot out alongside the rampway, spotlights swirl from every corner of the arena, and, above the ring, blue laser beams streak from pillar to post, then begin to dance maddeningly until finally projecting the words "IIWF FOREVER" onto the roof of the jam-packed Coliseum. The decibel level climbs higher and higher; then, with one last thunderous burst of white pyro, the lights come back on, and the fans pop with all their might. The camera pans quickly across the chaotic sea of IIWF fans, a blur of signs left in its wake. Assorted close-ups reveal fans screaming at the top of their lungs. One exuberant fan has another locked into a cobra clutch. One fan has a sign that says "IIWF 4-Life." Another sign says "Double-Eye 'til I Die". Still another says "Steve Roberts is my Dad". As the camera continues its journey, we see that just about every wrestler has a contingent in the audience: Sycopaths, Soldiers of Hell, Creed Army, Furies, Dirty Doggies, and one elderly woman wearing Spandex and holding a sign that says "Ronnie D. Fan Club". Gathered around ringside is just about every wrestler who ever set foot in an IIWF ring that isn't on the card today. Most of the veterans have big smiles on their faces, while most of the current crop of IIWF starts seem anxious, no doubt preferring that they were backstage warming up for the big show. Lord Byron is there; Rising Sun Revolution; the Armed Forces; the High Plains Drifters with Josey Wales; Steamroller; Stunt Team USA; the Man of Steel; the Dark Disciples... they're all there, and their presence is felt throughout the arena. Finally, cut to ringside, and the English broadcast table, at which are seated Tim Dross and "Soundbite" Steve Roberts. Both men are decked in tuxedos -- although Roberts has eschewed the traditional dinner jacket for his own trademark black leather number -- and Dross adjusts his headset before addressing the camera:] TD: Howdy, folks, and welcome to the _final_ IIWF event ever. I'm Tim Dross, and with me is the man himself, my tag team partner and broadcast colleague for over two years... ladies and gentlemen, "Soundbite" Steve Roberts. SR: Hallelujah, Dross-man, I'm happier than a three-armed man at a "Fondle the Nun" contest. Three hours of the best wrestling ever seen, then I'm off to San Tropez for a lifetime of Sangria and sexy Latina masseuses. Whoo! TD: Now _that's_ a severance package. Folks, every title is up for grabs tonight... and in the main event, the winner of the Eternal Rumble will be crowned the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... _FOREVER_! Bitter feuds will be settled once and for all tonight! Top to bottom, this is the best card of all time, and it all begins right here, right now! SR: I got goosebumps, Drossie! Just listen to that crowd! I haven't heard an ovation like this since my pants accidentally fell down during my backstage visit to "Miss Saigon"! TD: As you can see around ringside, we have the full contingent of foreign... er... _international_ language broadcast tables with us. SR: After tonight, it's back to inline skating commentary on public access cable for these yahoos... it's a tragedy, Dross, really... [Steve Roberts takes the handkerchief from Dross's breast pocket, dabs at the corners of his eyes, then blows his nose _hard_. He takes a look at the pulpy mass, folds the handkerchief up nonchalantly, and stuffs it back into Dross's jacket as if nothing had happened.] TD: Good thing this tux is a rental... anyway, as I was saying, the eyes of the world are watching us today. Broadcasting to Japan are our colleagues, Charlie Innamoto, and the Master of the Giant Swing, Tio Tiiaolo! [The camera pans across to show each table as Dross introduces it.] SR: I'm glad they're gone after this. I've had to put up with Innamoto shouting "E-ru-BOOOOOOOOOOOOhhhhhhh!!!" in my ear way too long! TD: Next to them, the Mandarin language team of Li Jiansheng and Li Xiaolong! SR: Not only do they announce, but they also wash the wrestlers' tights at a great discount. TD: That's uncalled for, Steve. Next up, broadcasting to Benin, Djibouti and depanneurs all across Quebec... Bernie Parent and André "Moose" Dupont! SR: Looks like they've been hitting the poutine pretty hard... TD: Last, but certainly not least, two of the all-time greats, the Spanish announce team of "Here Comes" Hernandez and Esteban Martinez! [Martinez is busily checking their table to see if it's been scored, while Hernandez, with some nails sticking out of his mouth, is trying to hammer some supports for the table legs into place.] EM: Oy... no es bueno! SR: Waitaminnit... where's the Antiguan table? TD: What? SR: The Antiguan table! They're always here! TD: Ummm... they speak English in Antigua, Steve. SR: So? They speak Spanish in Guatemala, and they have their own table here. TD: Where? Hang on -- what's this? ["The Devil in the Kitchen" by Ashley MacIssac blasts over the public address system, as a large figure, immaculately dressed in a dark blue Hugo Boss suit, emerges from behind the curtain at the top of the rampway, with a dark brown leather valise at his side.] SR: Aw, crap. I forgot about him. TD: Well, this isn't his usual entrance, but that's none other than Andrew Macbeth, who's joining us for commentary during our first match! SR: Dammit, Dross, the guy doesn't speak English. It's like listening to whales humping, or a vacuum cleaner being shot. [Andrew Macbeth steps onto the rampway, then stares up at the P.A. speakers, obviously not sure what to make of the music. He turns around to see, on the videotron, in huge white letters, the initials "AMB" appear on the screen. Pyro shoots up from alongside the rampway as Andrew, nonplussed, makes his way to the ring. The crowd roars its approval, spurred on by the music and lighting effects.] TD: This crowd is hot! Listen to the ovation for the pride of Glenfinnan! [Andrew climbs through the ropes and stands in the middle of the ring, staring at the crowd around him as they applaud. He points in the general direction of the videotron, looks at Tim Dross, and points at himself, as if to ask Dross "This is for me?" Dross shrugs his shoulders. Cool and calm, Andrew removes his jacket, carefully folds it up and places it on the mat on top of his valise, then drops to one knee and flashes a double biceps pose while more pyrotechnics come shooting out of the mat behind him. Briefly, a hint of a smile crosses Andrew's face. However, he's quickly back to his stern self as he puts his jacket back on, picks up the valise and bellows to a ring attendant for a microphone.] SR: He's gonna speak! Get me some aspirin! Tequila! Elephant tranquilisers! Anything! AM: Children starvin' in th' Sudan, and they spend money on special effects fer _me_. Sweet Jaysis.... All right, ye bunch o' miserable sods. Look at yis: twenny thousan' shinin' examples o' Pavlov's dog. I should be tellin' yis all tae GET STOOFED! [Crowd boos.] AM: But I cannae do it. I've wrestled twenny-odd years, an' th' fact is, this is th' BEST damn crood I've ever seen in me whole... bleedin'... LIFE! [The crowd goes insane in self-tribulation!] AM: Noo, afore we get on with th' festivities, please indulge me with a moment o' yuir time. First, there's a bunch o' guys in th' back who get the tar beaten oot o' them night after night, but they get nae credit at all. They're in the back right noo, prayin tha' things don't get oot o' hand tonight... there they are on th' big screen, let's hear some bleedin' noise oot there fer th' Jobber Justice Squad! [As the videotron provides the crowd of a camera shot of the locker room area where the Jobber Justice Squad are assembled, the rag-tag collection of has-beens and never-weres sees themselves on the monitor, and realises that they are being watched. El Super Gecko is quick to hide a bottle of Jose Cuervo behind him, while the Rotundas drop their game of "Old Maid".] TD: [over headset] Macbeth knows about these guys -- he spent several weeks in that very locker room as "The Masked Terror"... wait... what's this? Listen to this crowd! [The crowd cheers. The cheers become louder. Several of the wrestlers around ringside get out of their seats, and before you know it, the IIWF Coliseum is engulfed in a standing ovation for the Jobber Justice Squad. The JJS is clearly moved; for the first time in their lives, they are appreciated. Gecko salutes the crowd, while Scott "The Whine" Bloom is overcome in tears. The Smooth goes over to Bloom and consoles him with a hug and a "There, there." As the cheers finally die down, Andrew speaks.] AM: Damn straight. Noo, on tae moor important business... Spreadbury, get oot 'ere, I got somethin' tae say t' ye. TD: [over headset] Uh-oh... SR: [over headset] Yeah! Kilt-boy's gonna turn Spreadsie into a side order of haggis! [Sting's "Jeremiah Blues (Part One)" begins to play as Daniel Spreadbury, the President of the IIWF, wondering just what has happened to the schedule and fretting about satellite feed rates, walks down that aisle and into the ring.] DS: What can I do for you, Mr. Macbeth? You know we're already running behind... AM: "Runnin' behind"? This is IIWF bleedin' FOREVER, mate! [Crowd pop!] AM: Noo, let me tell ye somethin', laddie. Ye... pencil-pushin', backroom-dealin' desk jockey! Every single person in th' Double Eye, from th' wreslters tae th' announcers tae tha' pimple-faced popcorn boy in th' Bob Eucker seats... has a score tae settle with ye. Not th' least of all, me! Sae, "Mr President", it's payback time, right 'ere, right noo! SR: [over headset] Look out! Spreadsie's gonna get an ass-whuppin'! [The crowd buzzes in anticipation, and Spreadbury flinches for just a moment as Macbeth reaches for his valise... and pulls out... a giant commemorative plaque!] SR: [over headset] Just teasin' you marks out there in TV-land. Fish! FISH! TD: [over headset] We've been planning this for a while, folks! [The camera zooms in on the giant solid oak plaque, the front of which, engraved into what appears to be pure gold, reads... TO DANIEL SPREADBURY THE BEST DAMN PROMOTER EVER FROM EVERYONE IN THE IIWF ...and the crowd gives yet another standing ovation. Macbeth shakes Spreadbury's hand, whispers something which makes the two men laugh, and ducks out of the ring toward the announce table. Spreadbury looks around at the sea of humanity that has faithfully followed his organisation for all its existence. He smiles, and he waves to the crowd. Pyro shoots out from each ringpost, and the crowd pops one more time for The Man They Call "Spreads".] TD: Oh my, what a crowd! And what a moment for the man who started it all! SR: Macbeth, you bastard, well done. Couldn't understand a damn word, but well done. AM: Yea, yea, get stoofed yuirself. Let's get on with it! TD: Welcome, Andrew. Folks, in just a moment, we're going to get the action underway with the so-called "Future Bowl" match pitting the team of Gunnar "Grizzly" Gaines and Caleb Temple against "To Excess" Rick Williams and Eddy "Flap" Jacks... [The shot cuts to a still graphic of the four men. Dross continues: ...and from there, we'll see IIWF World Tag Team Championship action as the Prophets of Rage defend against old favourites the Alphabet Boys... [Another graphic slides into view, showing the entire Age of Rage, complete with entourage of Marissa Monet and Medusa Rage, and the bizarrely-dressed Alphabet Boys.] ...the Intercontinental title will be on the line as the "Showstopper" Simon Lebec faces former three-time champion Tiger Claw... [Simon Lebec is shown with the IIWF Intercontinental belt slung over his shoulder, facing Tiger Claw, who stands with manager and mouthpiece Brian Lau.] ...no less than eight of the world's finest light heavyweights will battle it out for the IIWF Cruiserweight Championship in a "King of the Mountain" match... [Cut to a graphic of the eight participants: Icehawk standing centrally wearing the gold belt around his waist, and ranged about him, Harlequin Tragedy, Billy Shakespeare, Derek Mota, the White Phoenix, Dirt Dog Unique Allah, Timothy N. Turner, and Ronnie Paris.] ..."Sychosys" Joe Petrow and the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi will meet in a forty-five minute marathon match with a difference -- it will be the first ever "Konton No Kamisama," or in English, "God of Chaos," Match... [A graphic shows Joe Petrow standing with the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi.] ...Former two-time IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder, looks to finally settle his score with hated nemesis, the "Playboy" Ronnie D, in a "Last Man Standing" Match -- with special guest referee Steve "the Fury" Kowalski! [Kowalski is pictured in a sleeveless black-and-white striped vest standing between the eyepatch wearing Brody Thunder and the smirking "Playboy" Ronnie D.] ...Four of the IIWF's greatest superstars will duke it out in a wild elimination-style brawl to crown an undisputed legend... [Cut to a graphic of "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley, the Subway Psycho, Otto "the Butcher" Verhoeven, and Deathbringer.] ...and then the big one, ladies and gentlemen. The biggest match in the history of professional wrestling, as thirty superstars battle it out in the Eternal Rumble for the right to become the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... FOREVER! [Cut back to Dross, Roberts, and Macbeth at the broadcast table.] TD: Four incredible hours of action, folks -- and let's kick it all off with the "Future Bowl" match. Over to you, Sparkplug Lee! ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| ..........................| || | \ v v / | __|.......................... |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| FUTURE BOWL MATCH: Gunnar "Grizzly" Gaines & Caleb Temple vs. "To Excess" Rick Williams & Eddy "Flap" Jacks ......................................................................... WRITER: Jason Lake [Sparkplug Lee enters the ring to yet another thunderous round of applause. He waves back at the appreciative audience. Maybe, just maybe, Sparkplug Lee will be all right tonight.] SL: Welcome, everyone, to IIWF FOREVER! [Huge crowd pop! Sparkplug is positively beaming.] SR: There's another poor slob heading for the bread line after tonight. TD: I'm sure Sparkplug will have no trouble finding gainful employment. AM: Aye, if 'e can say "Ye want fries with tha'?" withoot injurin' 'imself. SR: Hey, comic relief is my job. Your job is to sit there and drool quietly. AM: Shut yuir arse. SL: Our first bout is scheduled for ONE fall, and it is... the FUTURE BOWL! The rules are as follows: this bout starts as a regulation tag team match. However, once a team has been eliminated, the members of the remaining team must face each other in a singles match! The winner of that contest will be named the winner of the FUTURE BOWL! SR: At least they had the decency to get the tag matches out of the way early. SL: Coming down the aisle, from Ottawa, Ontario, Canada, and weighing in at 336 pounds... Eddy... "FLAAAAAAAAAP" JACKS! [Jacks walks out alone and stomps his way towards the ring. No handshakes. No smiles. Nothing but sheer focus. Jacks is wearing a crimson singlet with the word "RESPECT" written down the middle and the words "HOP" and "JACKS" emblazoned in flaming white letters on the outer legs. Twin omega symbols appear on his night-black boots. His head is shaved.] TD: Well, the crowd doesn't quite know what to make of this... we're used to seeing a much more... shall we say, _buoyant_ Eddy Jacks. SR: Hell, Dross, if you were from Ottawa, would _you_ be happy? AM: 'E's right. What a doomp. They cannae e'en say "Dal-HOW-sie" right. TD: I have no idea what you're talking about. SL: And his partner... from Minneapolis, Minnesota, and weighing in at 257 pounds... "To Excess"... RiiiiiiIIIIIIIIIIck WILLiams! [Radiohead's "Creep" comes over the PA system as "To Excess" emerges from behind the curtain. Williams is wearing black trunks, with "To Excess" written down the sides in white lettering. His hair has also been cut very short for this match, and Williams has also chosen to remain focussed, muting his usual swagger to the ring.] TD: They're tag team partners, but the only unison I've seen so far is with their haircuts! SR: Williams would just as soon destroy Eddy Jacks as tag with him. Which makes him all right in my book. SL: And their opponents... coming down the aisle, at a total combined... HOLY SMOKE! [Sparkplug Lee bails out of the ring as Gunnar "Grizzly" Gaines and Caleb Temple, the Baddest Thangs Running, charge the ring and immediately start pounding on their surprised opponents.] TD: The Baddest Thangs Running have arrived! And they're cleaning house! [On one side of the ring, Gaines hammers Jacks with a series of rights and lefts, while Temple does likewise to Williams on the other side. Gaines winds up and clocks Jacks with a giant uppercut, sending Jacks over the top rope and to the floor, while Temple simultaneously dumps Williams over the top with a massive clothesline. The crowd pops wildly as Gaines and Temple stomp triumphantly around the ring, while Jacks and Williams try to collect themselves on the outside.] TD: What an entrance for Gaines and Temple! SR: Yeah! Now there's a couple of tough bastards. Poppa's gonna see some _blood_! [Jacks and Williams finally gather themselves together and head up the ringsteps toward their corner. Referee Chuck Sanders ensures that Temple vacates the ring and that Gaines allows Williams to climb through the ropes unabated.] TD: It looks like Gaines and Williams starting things off! [Gaines takes a look at Williams, smirks, and points at Jacks. Williams extends the hand to Jacks, but Jacks hesitates. So Williams charges at Gaines instead.] TD: Collar-and-elbow tie-up. It seems Jacks isn't quite ready to deal with Gaines yet. AM: Nae a guid sign. After Gaines's comments these past weeks, Jacks should be ready t' _fight_. SR: Well, maybe Gaines was right. Maybe he's been spending too much time doin' the crazy Hand Jive. TD: I don't think we need to go there. SR: Chokin' the chicken! Pullin' the pud! Spankin' the monkey! TD: Steve... SR: Windsurfin' on Mount Baldy! Shakin' hands with Abraham Lincoln! TD: STEVE! [Gaines pushes Williams to the ropes. Referee Sanders calls for a clean break, but none is coming. Saunders interjects himself between the two wrestlers, which gives Williams a chance to gouge Gunnar's eyes. The crowd boos lustily. Williams follows with a boot to the midsection, then an Irish whip into a clothesline. Gaines hits the deck hard, but pops right back up and tags in Temple.] TD: Gaines makes the quick tag! AM: Already, we're seein' tha' Gaines an' Temple are functionin' as a yoonit. SR: What, you're giving them credit? You're supposed to come out and say "Och, them wee buggers, I'll turn 'em inta haggis, och wee", or something just as weird. AM: At least I'm not oot here makin' masturbatory references, wha'. [Temple and Williams lock up, with Temple securing a headlock. Williams pushes Temple off and across the ring. On the rebound, Williams drops down, Temple bounces off the ropes again, and Williams goes for a hiptoss. However, Temple blocks it and catches his opponent with a vicious clothesline, knocking Williams down. Crowd pop! Temple, with a handful of hair, picks Williams up and makes the tag to Gaines, who plants a boot into Williams' gut, snapmares him to the mat, bounces off the ropes and plants another foot into the back of Williams' head.] SR: Ouch! Williams is gonna need more than just two little yellow pills tomorrow. TD: Looking on from high above are some members of one of the most lethal stables in all of wrestling, The Syndicate! [The camera shows J.W. Hardin, Casey James, Brian Lau and Nyx Dunne of the Syndicate in the front row of a special executive skybox.] AM: Weal, this is th' Future Bowl match, an' th' Syndicate is surely gonna play a part is the future o' these lads. TD: Sure enough. The four men in the ring crossed paths up north in the independent Canadian promotion SCRA not very long ago, and they have a score to settle from that incident. The SCRA, of course, being the current home of the Syndicate. SR: Yeah, but Turner just showed up there, too, so it can't be any good. It's a damned bush league -- Double Eye all the way, Drossie! [Gaines picks Williams up, bodyslams him, and lands a big elbowdrop into his chest. Williams winces. Gunnar picks Williams up again, puts on a front facelock, and nails a textbook vertical suplex. An Irish whip leads into a flying powerslam and a quick cover, but Sanders barely counts one before Williams has kicked out. Gaines continues the offensive with a double-underhook suplex.] TD: It looks like Gunnar is showing Williams a thing or two about technical wrestling! AM: Aye, a nice series, but it's all power. Williams is aboot finesse. SR: Williams is going to be "aboot" done pretty soon if he doesn't tag out. But Jacks isn't exactly screaming for a tag over there. [Eddy Jacks is encouraging Williams to get up, but isn't extending the arm for the tag, even though Williams is fairly close by. Gaines taunts Jacks with some self-flagellating motions.] SR: Yeah! "Jacks to Excess", baby! [Jacks is fuming, but still hesitant to stretch that arm out. Instead, Gaines picks Williams up and hits a beautiful piledriver. A cover, and this time, Gaines gets a two-count before Williams kicks out, but it's not close to three. Gaines bodyslams Williams again, close to a neutral corner, and climbs the ropes! The crowd pops as they sense a big move from the burly woodsman!] TD: Look out! Grizzly Splash ahead! [Gaines mounts the top turnbuckle, and soars into the air, at least as much as a 357 pound man can soar... and land square on the canvas.] TD: Williams moved! SR: Whoa, pancake city, baby dolls! [Williams is quickly up and on the offensive, driving a knee into the prone Gunnar's left leg repeatedly. Williams springs off the ropes and delivers a quick legdrop to the back of Gaines' neck. Now, Williams has an evil grin on his face, as he begins to lay into Gaines with a series of kneedrops and stomps, followed by a flying mare from the second turnbuckle.] TD: The tide has turned for Rick Williams! AM: 'E played possum, got Gaines tae make a mistake, an' noo 'e's capitalisin'. [Williams begins to focus on Gunnar's legs, stomping on the back of his knees and locking on a spinning toe-hold that has Gaines bellowing in pain, but not submitting. Williams lets the hold go, but then secures an Indian Death Lock. Gaines hollers in pain again, and Williams starts to taunt his opponent. Heel heat starts to build as Williams continues to pull back on the hold. Sanders checks to see if Gaines wishes to submit, but Gaines is having none of that. Instead, Williams releases the hold, turns Gaines over into a prostrate position, grapevines the legs, and arches back to place a chinlock on Gaines while maintaining the leglock.] AM: Ach, beautiful move. TD: A superior show of technical wrestling by Williams! Wait... what's this? Eddy Jacks looks like he wants into the match now! SR: About freakin' time. You know what I always say... TD: "Where the hell's my paycheque?" SR: No, the other one. AM: "Hello, me name's Steve Roberts, an' I'm a recoverin' pedophile."? SR: I oughta smack you one right now. But I have to save my energy for later. TD: What do you mean? SR: Huh? Oh... it's "Pin the Donkey on the Tail" night at the Beaver Trap. [Eddy Jacks is begging Williams for a tag. Williams releases the hold, glares at Jacks for a moment, then makes the tag and exits the ring, arms held high in the air.] TD: Williams is obviously pleased with his performance so far. AM: 'E should be. But there's no need fer a tag there, nae in th' midst of a submission hold. [Jacks gleefully kicks away at Gaines's prone figure. The crowd boos, then picks up a chant of "Jacks to Excess! Jacks to Excess!" Jacks obviously isn't pleased, covering his ears and screaming at the crowd to be quiet. Livid, Jacks Irish whips Gaines across the ring, lowers his head for a back body drop, and...] TD: Boot to the head! Jacks just took one right in the mouth! SR: I took one right in the mouth once... AM: Aye? Ye swing tha' way, then, d'ye? SR: Dammit, Dross, I'll paste this guy, see if I don't! TD: Gaines makes the tag! [The crowd erupts as Temple storms into the ring and levels Eddy Jacks with a clothesline once, twice, three times in succession.] TD: Temple is a house afire! [Temple continues his assault with an Irish whip into a shoulder tackle, sending Jacks sprawling to the mat. Another Irish whip, and a dropkick right on the button fells Jacks once more. Temple plants Jacks with a bodyslam in the middle of the ring, flies across the ring toward the ropes, jumps onto the second rope and lands a flawless Asai moonsault. Sanders counts two, but Jacks kicks out.] TD: A stellar move by Caleb Temple! SR: Almost as nice as my version, Dross-man! [Quickly, Gaines is in the ring, and the Baddest Thangs Running Irish whip Jacks into the ropes. Temple hits a drop toehold, and Gaines comes crashing down on the back of Jacks's neck with a massive legdrop. Big crowd pop!] TD: Business, as I always say, is fixing to pick up! SR: You never say that, Dross. TD: I did once. SR: How did it turn out for ya? TD: Best weekend of my life, Steve Roberts. SR: Whoo-hoo! You da man, Dross! [Sanders gets Gaines back out of the ring, while Temple delivers a series of axehandle blows to the back of Eddy Jacks. Another Irish whip is followed by a clothesline, but this time, Temple charges and nails Rick Williams with a sucker punch. Incensed, Williams tries to enter the ring, but Referee Sanders blocks his path. While Williams complains, Gaines enters the ring and the two Thangs start to stomp away at the helpless Eddy Jacks.] SR: Yeah! Kick him! KICK HIM!! AM: Ye don' like Mr Jacks much, I presume. SR: When I see Jacks, I envision that Cliff guy from the IHOP commercials. KICK HIM! [Finally, Williams gives up his argument and Sanders turns around, admonishing Gaines yet again. Temple nails Jacks with a double arm DDT and goes for the pin.] TD: One... two... no! Two count only. Jacks still has something left. [Temple makes the tag.] TD: Here comes Gunnar Gaines, and he doesn't look too happy! [Gaines begins to lay meaty lefts and rights into Jacks's skull. Gaines yells across to Temple, "Gimme the boot!" Temple puts his foot on the top turnbuckle, and Gaines rams Jacks headfirst into it. Another tag is made.] TD: Textbook teamwork from the Baddest Thangs Running. AM: Obviously, they've learned somethin' from th' beatin th' Watch gave 'em at Birthday Bash II. SR: A-ha! Now we see it coming out. Go on, call 'em a bunch of "wee tossers". AM: I dinnae hold a grudge. We beat 'em. Tha's th' business. [Temple locks in an armbar, giving it an added twist for good measure. Eddy howls out in abject pain, and his eyes grow wide as Temple makes the tag. Gaines climbs the top turnbuckle, and connects with a clubbing blow into Jacks' exposed shoulder. Gaines then turns to the crowd, and gives the thumb-across-the-throat signal! Major crowd pop!] TD: This could be it! Listen to that crowd! [Gaines gives a signal to Temple, who drops down from the apron to the floor. Again, Gaines goads Williams into entering the ring, which draws the attention of Referee Sanders. Temple spies Andrew Macbeth at ringside, and glares at him momentarily. Gunnar whips Eddy Jacks across the ring...] TD: Jacks reverses... WHAT THE?! Temple just tripped up his own partner! SR: Gaines is pissed! Whoo! Look at him! [Gaines pops up immediately and starts berating Temple from inside the ring. Temple tries to explain that he didn't mean to trip the wrong man, but Gaines isn't buying it. Meanwhile...] TD: Jacks rolls him up! One! Two! SR: _Three_?! [Referee Sanders calls for the bell.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, The Baddest Thangs Running have been ELIMINATED from this match! [Excessive crowd booing!] TD: Jacks pins Gaines! Jacks pins Gaines! Jacks pins Gaines! SR: I don't believe it! Somebody check that man's ass for horseshoes! [Gaines, almost apoplectic with rage, confronts Temple outside the ring right in front of the broadcast table.] GGG: What the hell did you do that for! CT: Take it easy, Gunnar. GGG: [to Macbeth] This is _your_ fault, isn't it?! AM: Dinnae look at _me_, lad. [While Gaines vents his anger at Macbeth, Temple gives the universal "to hell with you guys" signal and heads up the rampway. Macbeth coolly points out to Gaines that his partner has just left. Gaines sees Temple disappear behind the curtain, then takes off after him.] AM: Weal... looks like those twa have some issues t' discuss, aye. SR: Oh, you're just loving this, aren't you? This is a total travesty! It's a travesty of a mockery of a sham of two travesties! No _way_ Jacks should have pinned Gaines! TD: Well, it only took a nanosecond's lapse of concentration to totally change the complexion of this match. Now Eddy Jacks has to face his own partner, and it doesn't look like he's in any condition to do it! [Eddy Jacks is only now picking himself up off the mat, apparently too spent to actually enjoy the fact that he's scored the pin. Williams enters the ring, rubbing his hands with glee.] TD: Williams is fresh! He's hardly taken any beating thus far tonight! SR: KICK HIM! I'll get to see Jacks destroyed, one way or the other! Yeah! [Williams immediately locks in a wicked tiger bomb. Sanders counts the pin, but only gets to two-and-a-half before Jacks manages to get a shoulder off the mat. Williams shoves Jacks away in disgust.] TD: This isn't going to be pretty, folks. [Williams picks up Jacks, who tries to fend off his foe by clinching and leaning on him. But Williams is able to put on a front facelock. He grabs one of Jacks' legs, and looks ready to plant him with a cradle suplex, but instead of suplexing Jacks over, he drives him down on the back of his head! The crowd cheers wildly!] TD: Fishermanbuster, and a beauty! [Williams with the cover...] TD: One... two... thr... no! Two and seven-eighths! SR: Dammit, Dross, if Jacks wins, I'll give up drinking and loose women for a month. [Williams picks the near-dead weight of Jacks up from the mat once more. Jacks tries to shove Williams sumo-style into the corner, and succeeds, but his strength is just about gone, and he has no follow-up moves. Williams whips Jacks into the far turnbuckle, and Jacks crashes into it chest-first, with a sickening thud. The crowd oohs. Williams catches Jacks stumbling backwards out of the corner with a devastating Russian sickle, and goes for the pin, hooking a leg and leaning back.] TD: One... two... SR: THREE! TD: No! Jacks just barely got a shoulder up in time! AM: Aye, t'was close. Williams needs tae goo fer a submission move 'ere an' stop playin' aroond, wha'. [Instead, Williams once again puts on a front facelock... but Jacks manages to turn it into an inside cradle!] TD: One... two... oh my, that was close! Williams just managed to kick out in time! SR: Did I say a month? I meant a week. Okay, a _whole_ day. I mean it. No booze or broads tomorrow between 9AM and 5PM. AM: Ah, stoof a sock in it. Everyone kens yer datin' th' Palm sisters tonight. SR: YOU LITTLE... TD: Gentlemen, please! Just call the match! [Williams pops up off the mat, screaming mad, his face red like a rose on a thornbush... Jacks, meanwhile, is motionless on the mat, save for the occasional twitch. Williams picks Jacks up off the mat, quickly grabs him by the neck, spins him around, and snaps him straight down.] TD: Excessive Force! That's gotta be it! [The crowd counts as Referee Chuck Sanders strikes the mat once, twice... and three times! Huge crowd pop! Sanders calls for the bell.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen... the winner of the Future Bowl... "To Excess" RiiiiiiiiIIIIIICK WILL-iams! SR: Whoo! Poppa's gettin' some tomorrow after all! TD: Well, what an impressive victory for Rick Williams to kick off our show tonight, but you have to give credit to Eddy Jacks for somehow managing to score the pin on Gunnar Gaines. AM: S'trooth, tha's an oopset in anyone's books. But ye gotta keep yuir eye on th' ball, aye. TD: Well, we'll certainly have to wait and see what the future has in store for all four of these fine athletes... and, to you, Andrew Macbeth, thanks for dropping in and spending time with us tonight. SR: Yeah, whatever. Thanks, and get back to the old folks' home in Scotland, where they speak your language. AM: Cripes, Roberts, yer a real stick-in-th'-mood. But, t' show tha' there's no hard feelin's, 'ere's a wee somethin' fer ye lads tha' I brought o'er from me poob. [Andrew reaches into his valise and pulls out two bottles, and hands one each to Dross and Roberts.] AM: Enjoy. Noo, if yis'll excuse me, I have tae get Duncan ready fer his match. Have a soddin' guid life. [As Macbeth leaves the broadcast table, Dross reads the label on his bottle, while Soundbite simply pulls the cork out with his teeth and starts drinking.] TD: "Single Malt Cardhu Highland Scotch Whisky. Morayshire, Scotland." SR: [coughing] Holy frig! Firewater burn! Hey, that old lug isn't so bad after all... [As IIWF officials come out to the ring to assist Eddy Jacks, the crowd bursts into a spontaneous chant of "Ed-dy! Ed-dy! Ed-dy!"] TD: Eddy Jacks, being helped from the ring... he's obviously worse for the wear, but he'll live to fight another day! SR: Rats. TD: Folks, sit tight, because we've got the tag-team titles up for grabs next! SR: Rats again. TD: But before that, I understand our broadcast colleague Larry Morton is up in that executive skybox with the Syndicate, who have tonight stepped into the IIWF Coliseum for the first time in some eight or nine months. Larry? [Cut to a shot of the mezzanine level in the IIWF Coliseum, where Portland's rich and powerful have rented luxury skyboxes for the big card. Television lights rise in the centre skybox. Cut to a shot from inside the box as a waitress wearing a white shirt and black tie passes in front of the camera. Three tiers of cushioned theatre seats lead to the front of the box. As the cameraman moves to the front row, members of the Syndicate -- Casey "Blackheart" James, J.W. Hardin, and Nyx Dunne -- are seen sitting in the front row. Brian Lau and Larry Morton stand at the far end of the row.] LM: Thanks, Tim. We've grown accustomed over the years of seeing the Syndicate en masse running wild in the IIWF. While some members of this famous -- or infamous -- group are competing at IIWF Forever, Brian Lau is treating them all in style here tonight. I've got to admit, Brian, the Syndicate has quite a view of the proceedings here tonight. BL: Yes, wonderful, isn't it? I guess this is one of those over-dramatized symbolic clichés or something that this Coliseum has seen so many of.... You know, us standing atop the IIWF the entire time we were here, looking over all our minions, and here we are again. Kind of a full circle effect. LM: The Syndicate is a name that will always be synonymous with the IIWF. What are your thoughts as this historic night has finally arrived? BL: My thoughts are focused on Tiger Claw's performance tonight, and little more... Although I must admit, some of the other matches catch a bit of my attention, but when the time comes the Intercontinental title match will pale all the others by comparison. LM: Even the Eternal Rumble? BL: Well, I guess it shows some promise... Speaking of Claw, though, I really should get down to the locker rooms to make sure that everything is in order with him and Derek Mota. See you later, Larry, if I'm horribly unlucky. [Lau gets up and leaves the skybox, leaving Larry to deal with the other members of the Syndicate himself. He slides between the first and second rows, looking down at the Syndicate members... who are universally ignoring him.] LM: Ahhh... Okay, well, let's see... Well, I don't think an interview with the Syndicate would be complete without talking to the man who holds the record for the longest World Title reign in the IIWF, none other than Casey "Blackheart" James. Casey, I see you're in your customary formal wear... [Morton leans over the front row and holds the microphone in front of James, who is dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt with a picture of a tuxedo jacket drawn on the front. He's guzzling some sort of beverage from a green bottle, and it doesn't seem like a Mountain Dew bottle.] CJ: Ehhh? Oh, yeah... Well... I figured I oughtta look spiffy for this big card and everything... LM: Of course! I assume, though, you'll be changing your attire soon for the Eternal Rumble... [James stops mid-swig, and looks with a sideways glance at Larry. He swallows, a look of something close to concern on his face.] CJ: Larry, I ain't in the Eternal Rumble. LM: Wha... But... Well, sure you are! CJ: No, man, I ain't... I'm right here... In this seat... Drinking this beer. That's it. LM: Oh, I get it... [touches the side of his nose] Mum's the word, big guy... No problem... CJ: Uhhh... Yeah, okay, Larry, you tell em' tiger... Hey, I heard tonight's a night of big surprises and all that kind of crap... So tell me, Larry... You finally going to come out tonight? LM: Come out of what? CJ: You know... Come out... The closet. LM: Ummm... I'm not quite sure what you mean... A closet... What does a closet have to do with anything? CJ: You ain't serious, are you? LM: Well, I don't know... I mean, I'm not in a closet right now, and I can't recall any time I was ever actually _in_ one ever... I mean, you know, I open the door, and there's all the clothes, and I get the clothes and stuff, but I'm not exactly _in_ the closet... Unless I had a walk-in closet, but I don't... We don't get paid as much on the broadcast team, you know. CJ: You know, Larry, I'm glad I came here tonight. Before tonight, I thought Lau was making all the stuff about you up. Thanks for backing him up, big guy. LM: Hey! You're welcome! Any time, Casey! Moving on now, here's a man many thought they would never see again in the IIWF -- J.W. Hardin. [Morton shuffles farther down the first and second rows, peering over to where Hardin sits with his feet perched on the edge of the skybox. Dressed in black jeans and a black "Been Here, Done This" t-shirt, Hardin wears his stetson low over his eyes. A tall glass of Kessler's is in his right hand. Beside him sits the exotic Nyx Dunne, the dark skinned beauty wearing a long sleeved, Mandarin-style dress of ivory satin. Her ebony hair is plaited into one long, thick braid which drapes elegantly over her right shoulder. She watches the goings on below with great interest. Morton leans between Hardin and Nyx.] LM: So, Hardin, how does it feel to be back in the IIWF? JWH: Morton, I always said if I didn't see ya again... it'd be too damn soon. And just so we'll be _real_ sure 'bout it... I _ain't_ back in the IIWF. I'm here as Lau's guest to let the lapdogs o' the rasslin' world -- Petrow, Kowalski, and the others -- _try_ to entertain me fer a night. Hell, at least I know Claw and Mota'll put on a good show. LM: And, of course, Casey James in the Eternal Rumble. JWH: Casey ain't in the Eternal Rumble. LM: But he... I thought.... Anyway, I'd say you're certainly conspicuous by your absence in the ring tonight. JWH: Ya can say whatever ya damn well please, Morton. Ain't nobody listenin', as usual. [Hardin turns and looks directly into the camera] Hey Starks... Matsuoko... y'all missin' some damn fine grub up here tonight. LM: So you're denying that you're the mystery entrant in the big battle royal tonight? There's been a lot of speculation about that. [Hardin remains silent, taking a gulp of his whiskey.] LM: Can you at least tell us how it feels to be here on this very historic evening? [Hardin pushes his stetson up and glares at Morton.] JWH: Ya wanna know how it feels, Morton? I busted my ass fer fedheads all over the world -- from Portland to Los Angeles to Texas to Toronto to Tokyo. And I done made a lot o' stops in between. There ain't a suit been born that cared more 'bout a fed than his own bank account. The fed's 'nitials may change on the paycheck, but a lotta the names from the ring show up somewhere else eventually. Life goes on. What's it mean? How's it feel to be at "IIWF Forever"? Forever's over tonight, so wipe yer damn eyes and get out yer snotrag, Morton. It's only a fed... and the body's already gettin' cold. Let's just get a shovel and bury this bitch. [His eyes wide, Morton now turns toward Nyx Dunne. She meets his look with one of her own -- her cobalt gaze fixed on him like a serpent eyeing a frightened mouse. Nyx's lips part as if she is to speak, yet only a low, seductive hiss escapes her mouth, causing Morton to jerk back the microphone and run quickly down the row.] LM: That... uh... I guess... that's all from here, Tim. [Cut back to the announce table at ringside.] SR: Why don't you tell us how you really feel, Hardin, you ingrate? TD: That's enough, Steve Roberts. Folks, the Syndicate are in attendance here tonight, as you've seen -- and two of their number, Derek Mota and Tiger Claw, will be in action later on tonight. Well, Steve Roberts, we've seen the Future Bowl... so you know what it's time for now. SR: The dawning of the age of Aquarius? TD: No. SR: It's the time of the season for loving? TD: No. SR: I'm just joking with ya, Dross. Can I ask a question, though? TD: As always, shoot, Soundbite, shoot. SR: Do you believe in love at first sight? TD: Yes, I'm certain that it happens all the time. That aside, though, we're about to see the Tag Team championship match, and on this night of classics we might consider this a classic mismatch. SR: You're not kidding, Drossie. Don't get me wrong, I love those goofed up Alphabet Boys... against most teams, Abie and Zed would be my boyz.... but they're up against the nastiest team to ever step in that squared circle. Prophets in the hizouse! TD: Will the ABoys even manage to find their way to ringside? Only one way to find out, and thus we forge ahead. SR: I forged ahead once. TD: Oh please, Steve, you'll be using that gag all night. Can it. Before we go up to Sparkplug Lee, let's take a special look at the history of the prestigious IIWF World Tag Team Championships. [Cut to a shot of the IIWF World Tag Team Championship Belts. They sit on velvet cushions, their nameplates empty, awaiting their final owners. Larry Morton provides the voice-over:] LM: No IIWF belt has known as many holders. No belt has seen such battles as these have. No other belt has been both spray-painted and melted down. These are the IIWF Tag Team Championship Belts... and these are the stories of the men who won them. May 18th, 1996 saw Steamroller -- Taylor and Brassow -- ultimately triumph over the United Nations in a tag team battle royal to become the first ever IIWF World Tag Team Champions. But the challenge to defend would come some, come fast, and come hard. Having defeated Steamroller twice in non-title situations in the run-up to the first Ring Wars, expectations were high for Ryudo "Daioni" Kenjinata and Hiroshi "Taisu" Kasai -- Rising Sun Revolution -- to defeat them for a third time at the big show and take the titles. The Demon and the Dragon did not disappoint, and pinned Steamroller for the World Tag Team Championships, although they didn't get the chance to defend them. [Again the familiar black screen which has begun to characterise a vacated belt in these histories.] LM: Following their victory at Ring Wars, visa problems necessitated a return to Japan for new champions Rising Sun Revolution, who were thus forced to vacate the titles, the fate of which, it was announced, would be decided by a tournament. [The video cuts to an odd collection of Kessler's Whiskey, belt-buckles that look strangely like Golden Grapples, and a faded IHIW tour poster:] LM: The finals of the tag team tournament saw Josey Wales' boys, The High Plains Drifters, facing off against the Senator's finest, Larn and Steroid, on August 3 of 1998. Long-time enemies of Pale and Easy Rider, the Atomic Destroyers had secretly entered the IIWF under masks as High Velocity. Yet another match in their long series of battles, this time it was the Drifters who came out on top, and who captured the World Tag Team Championships. [Renegade justice meets military might:] LM: 1996 saw Aaron the Caddy's impressive duo of NavCom and DefCon, known as the Armed Forces, tear through the tag team ranks in the IIWF, and won the World titles at their first attempt in a match on the August 3rd edition of IIWF Saturday Night. Their victory was earned in controversial fashion, with the judicious use of a golf club. [Return of the Champions. Cut to footage of the Armed Forces, Rising Sun Revolution, and the High Plains Drifters in the ring together:] LM: The Armed Forces' defence at Ring Wars 2, October 12, 1996, was originally scheduled to be a rematch against the High Plains Drifters, but much to everybody's surprise, Rising Sun Revolution made an unannounced return, and, since they had never been beaten for the titles when they were forced to leave several months previously, they were added to the match at the last minute. Their homecoming was a victorious one, coming out on top to become the IIWF's first two-time World tag champs. December 7, London's Royal Albert Hall was the site of the IIWF Saturday Night rematch between Rising Sun Revolution and the High Plains Drifters, who had defeated the Armed Forces one week previously to become the #1 contenders to the titles. This time, the Drifters weren't going to be outnumbered and outgunned, and defeated RSR to capture their second tag titles. [Video of Pale and Easy displaying the belts. Slowly this picture dissolves into the single graphic: 1997.] LM: The new year brought many new teams... new challengers... and new champions. Four days into the year, the Dark Disciples, Don McQueen's devastating partnership of Kane and Wulf, the sabre-toothed, satanic pair first brought in by McQueen to avenge his humiliation at the hands of the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi, soon established themselves as dangerous foes in the tag team ranks, and put an end to the Drifters' second title reign after securing contention by winning a tag team battle royal at Snow Brawl. Representing the Syndicate, the Dark Disciples were victorious thanks to the ill-advised interference of enemies, the Players' Club. ["Aquarius" by The Fifth Dimension displaces Morton's soporific ramblings. An astral chart fills the screen followed by two wrestlers:] LM: Perhaps it was written in the stars of 15 February 1997. In a shocking title change, the Zodiac Connection -- Taurus and Scorpio -- were able to best the Disciples courtesy of the interference of Domination. Their reign was to be short-lived, however, as seven days later the Zodiac Connection were rushed into a rematch with the Disciples, who were literally out for blood. Kane and Wulf made short work of the Zodiacs, claiming the World Tag Team titles for a second time and sending their opponents packing. [Cut to more footage, captioned: "5 April 1997", the Dark Disciples facing the giant Pain Inc.:] LM: In another IIWF Saturday Night title change, the Disciples' relationship with the Syndicate hit rocky ground as they fell in controversial fashion to Mr. Mic's beasts from Jakarta, Indonesia, the monstrous, chain-mail mask-wearing Hellraiser and Morningstar narrowly edging out the Disciples, with the aid of a few foreign objects, and prompting Brian Lau to recruit Pain Inc. into the Syndicate, causing more than a few problems between the two rival teams. [Cut to footage captioned, "24 May 1997", the beginning of a championship, the end of a championship belt, and the Genesis of a champion:] LM: In a unification match pitting US Tag Champs, the Prophets of Rage, against the Syndicate's World Tag Champs, Pain Inc., it was Shadoe and Derek Rage who came out on top in a match marred by the interference of both Team Sychosys -- Joe Petrow and partner 3M, who had entered the tournament to crown the first US Tag Team Champions a couple of months earlier -- and the Dark Disciples. The Prophets lost the belts on July 12. Cold Spell had made two previous attempts at tag team gold on successive pay-per-views, and at Coronation Clash 1997, the third time was the charm, as they defeated the Prophets of Rage to win the IIWF World Tag Team straps, adding the first, but not the last belts to the stable known only as: Genesis. [Video of Tiger Claw pinning Icehawk.] LM: The newest stable met the IIWF's most legendary stable on September 6. The team of former World champ Casey "Blackheart" James and three-time former IC champ Tiger Claw was always bound to be a dangerous force in the tag team ranks, and this was proved at Midsummer Madness. In one half of the main event, Team Genesis: Scott Rogers, Highwayman, Serge Annis and Cold Spell faced the team of Mad Dog Watkins, the Syndicate, Brody Thunder and Steve Kowalski. If either member of the Syndicate succeeded in pinning either member of Cold Spell in the course of the elimination tag team match, the tag titles would change hands... and ultimately, Tiger Claw pinned Icehawk to win not only the match, but also the World tag team titles. [The screen goes black. Slowly an image comes into focus, that of President Daniel Spreadbury lying motionless in centre ring as horrified officials look on.] LM: 18 October 1997 saw the Syndicate stripped of their titles. Casey James and Tiger Claw were outraged with the IIWF, and walked out, leaving the IIWF President lying injured in the ring after a Syndi-Cutter for good measure. The President declared the titles vacant, and would award them to the victor of a triple threat match between the Prophets of Rage, Damage Inc., and the impromptu partnership of Harlequin Tragedy and Icehawk, known unofficially as the Cold Quins -- and it was the Cold Quins who were victorious in the triple threat match on the "Hard Time" special edition of IIWF Saturday night Night from Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary. [The sound of a cell door slamming.] LM: At Ring Wars IV, the Cold Quins had faced the team that became known as Potato Famine -- comprising Edmund Fitzgerald and Harlequin Chaos -- but the match degenerated quickly into the more traditional partnerships. As such, a match was signed on IIWF Saturday Night that would pit the Harlequins and Cold Spell -- each with one of the two IIWF World Tag Title belts in their possession -- against one another, with the winning team taking home both titles. Ultimately, Cold Spell were victorious, making Icehawk a three-time co-holder of the IIWF World Tag Team Championship. The next change came December 6, when Alex Porteaux and Eddy Ramos, Damage Inc., the 1996 tag team of the year, made good on their pedigree with an impressive victory over Cold Spell in an IIWF Saturday Night match that seemed to mark the beginning of the end for the partnership of Icehawk and Edmund Fitzgerald. Although Icehawk would go on to singles success, Fitz became increasingly disillusioned -- and perhaps even unbalanced -- and left what he called the "circus" of the IIWF. [Video starts again, illustrating the next conflict for the title:] LM: 17 January 1998: Natural Predators defeat The Lost Boyz. Under fire from the moment they set foot in the IIWF, Damage Inc. -- who soon declared their old selves "dead" and remodelled themselves as the Lost Boyz -- failed to hang onto the World Tag Titles for long. Scheduled to defend the belts against the winners of a tag team battle royal earlier in the night, the Lost Boyz unexpectedly found themselves facing the two teams that placed joint second in that match, the Natural Predators and the Down Boys, rather than the official victors of the battle royal, Team Sychosys, who were represented by Joe Petrow alone, Maurice McArthur being injured. The element of surprise, coupled with weight of numbers, was sufficient to see Ramos and Porteaux eliminated first, and Bear and the Grey Phoenix then triumphed over the Down Boys to capture the tag straps. But revenge was sweet. A long-awaited rematch between two of the teams who had battled it out at Snow Brawl this time had a different outcome. In a tremendous, fast-paced encounter, the Down Boys edged out the Predators, Dan Oliver securing victory with a hurricanrana into a cradle, pinning the Grey Phoenix for the count of three. [Mysteriously, the image of a duck fills the screen:] LM: March 21. Again, three teams battled it out for the titles at Ring Wars V, live from Wembley Stadium, London, England, with the Down Boys defending against both the Natural Predators and Team Sychosys in the first ever tag team Seven Tables of Fear Match. At the climax of a controversial bout, it was the partnership of "Sychosys" Joe Petrow and "Mr. Majestyk" Maurice McArthur who would capture the World Tag titles, finally legitimising Petrow's much-criticised move into full-time tag team competition. [The last champions:] LM: Team Sychosys came unstuck when they went up against the partnership regarded by many as the best of all time, the Prophets of Rage, in a Lumberjack Match at Birthday Bash 1998. It was in no small part due to the presence at ringside of Petrow's nemeses, Tiger Claw and the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi, that Team Sychosys was off its game, that Petrow was stranded on the outside and unable to enter the ring to help his partner, who was trapped in a submission hold, and lost consciousness. The referee stopped the match, awarding the titles to the Prophets of Rage, who thus captured their second World Tag Team Championship... this time with different members -- Dirt Dog Allah Unique and Derek rage instead of brothers Derek and Shadoe. [Photos of the current incarnation of the Prophets juxtaposed with The Alphabet Boys:] LM: The Prophets of Rage, possibly the greatest tag team in IIWF history, squares off against The Alphabet Boys, one of the most confusing and random teams ever to grace the early history of this federation. The excellent against the excruciating... tonight. [Cut back to the Coliseum:] ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| ..........................| || | \ v v / | __|.......................... |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| IIWF WORLD TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: Prophets of Rage [c] vs. Alphabet Boys ......................................................................... WRITER: John deWolfe [As we pan past all the various luminaries and fanatics in the crowd... some arguably falling into both categories... it's blatantly obvious that everyone is pumped for the first title match of the night -- but none more than the Dirt Doggies, who've never been reserved to begin with. A huge chant of "Prophets!" seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, even before they have been announced... intuition at an all time high tonight in the Coliseum. Sparkplug Lee steps up to the mic for his last crack at announcing a tag match, and just enough of a respectful hush falls for him to go on.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest, scheduled for one fall with a sixty minute time limit, is for the IIWF World Tag Team Championships! The winners will have the privilege of retiring those belts! [HUGE, monster pop! Who said tag wrestling wasn't over?] Introducing first, they are the defending champions. Arguably the greatest collection of talent tag team wrestling has ever seen, they hail from Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. They are accompanied to the ring by the statuesque Marissa Monet and the lovely Pizzazz... they are the Prophets of Rage! [Theme music may or may not be playing... it's too hard to tell with the absolutely deafening crowd noise that accompanies the Prophets walking into the aisle. Twenty thousand fans, all realising they may never see these men again, regardless of whether they like or hate the Prophets, let loose with a barrage of cheering, chanting, and wolf-whistling for the two valets. All three members of the Rage gang, Derek, Shadoe, and the Dirt Dog, walk side by side into the aisle. The three and the two ladies behind them move slowly, purposely, soaking up the incredible atmosphere of this last and most important title defence.] TD: [shouting at top volume] THIS IS INCREDIBLE, STEVE ROBERTS! I CAN HARDLY HEAR MYSELF THINK! SR: YES, I _WOULD_ LIKE A DRINK! [The three have now made it to ringside, and the entire gang gather in a corner to discuss some last minute strategy... we can be fairly certain they'll have to do the strategizing for both teams. As they huddle, Sparkplug steps up to introduce the fan favourites.] SL: And their opponents... they have a combined weight of 589 pounds, give or take a few sacks of sugar! They are one of the most controversial, unpredictable, and wildly popular IIWF tag teams of all time! The challengers, ladies and gentlemen... Abie and Zed, the Alphabet Boys! [The Coliseum suddenly goes quiet, as everyone waits to see if the Boys will actually show up for their match. The traditional chorus of six year olds singing the Alphabet Song can be heard, but there is no sign of the challengers yet... yet... ...and then a large man in a saffron coloured robe walks into the aisle. A monk this large, this goofy looking, wearing a black wrestling mask, can only be Abie. He's also given away by the fact that he carries with him a giant thirty pound sack of sugar and a hula hoop, and has a small Chihuahua dog following on his heels. Zed follows soon behind, causing several old time fans to groan as he is wearing a Rising Sun Revolution t-shirt over his usual unitard, thereby obscuring some of the garish glowing letters on the, er, attire. Zed has somewhat more mundane paraphernalia, as he carries only a cardboard box with him to ringside.] SR: These guys are gone, Dross. I love 'em, but they're just gone. TD: It would seem the fans love them too, as this place is going electric! Listen to the cheers! And... wait a minute, what is Abie doing with that sugar? [About halfway down to ringside, Abie has ripped a huge hole in one end of the sack, and is starting to toss handfuls of sugar in every direction, dousing aisleside fans with it as if it were confetti. The powder falls into his hands and he flicks it onto a still approving audience... save for one man who seems to be pretending to be a Cuban. He grabs some sugar, licks it, and gets a disappointed look on his face, as if he were expecting something else. His pain soon passes, as he turns to grope a fifty-something woman in the next seat. We quickly, and wisely, pan away to watch the Alphabet Boys heading up the stairs towards their corner, the extraneous items being left to the ring attendants to find room for... and the poor dog just left on the floor. Fortunately, it looks fairly docile at the moment, and it's just sitting there.] TD: Why do I have the distinct impression that this thing is going to be a little out of control? SR: A little out of control? This thing's gonna be fruitier than the Beaver Trap on Ladies' Night. Somebody's gonna get screwed harder than the head cheerleader on junior prom night. We're gonna see more violence than... TD: [exasperated] I get the point, Steve. [Referee Earl Alfonso signals to both teams that the match is about to start. Zed shoots a look at Abie, but wrestling's most vocal Buddhist just shakes his head, and Zed steps in to start the match for his team. Meanwhile, just as Derek and DDUA are stepping forward for the Prophets, Shadoe Rage pulls the Dirt Dog aside and spins him around. Seemingly expecting this, the two immediately go into a game of Paper, Rock, Scissors, apparently to decide which one will be in the match. One... Two...] TD: Shadoe takes rock! SR: And the Doggie takes paper! He wins! Why the hell does rock job to paper anyway, Dross? That's bullshit. [Allah has apparently won the spot, fair and square, but Shadoe just shoves him aside anyway, and the original Prophets are to be the legal pairing... this draws another great response from the crowd, especially those who remember the two in their glory. Even the former superstars in attendance allow some polite applause. After all of this, the bell is rung and Shadoe Rage steps forward to face Zed.] TD: We are apparently going to have a match after all of this build-up! SR: Don't be too harsh, Dross. This is it... the last tag match I ever have to call. I'm so happy, I'll put up with ten minute ring introductions! Besides, we got the original Prophets back... the Black Jesus in the ring... I'm happy for my brothas! TD: Uh, Steve? May I point out that you are Caucasian? Of European descent? White? Has that fact eluded you over the past two years? SR: Shut up. [Shadoe circles his larger opponent, looking for an opening, while Zed just stands there in amusement, cocking his head to follow Shadoe's progress. He seems to find the whole thing humorous, so he turns to let Abie in on the fun, and with his attention thus distracted, Shadoe grabs the early initiative, diving in with an elbow to the back of the neck. Zed is more stunned than hurt, but when he turns around he takes a big haymaker right on the jaw, and then is snapmared over. Shadoe tries to cut off his man early, latching onto a side headlock, but Zed knows an easy counter. It also happens to be an illegal one, but a quick poke to the eyes still serves to get rid of Shadoe for a moment. Zed gets to his feet, only to be chastised by referee Earl Alfonso that he just cheated. In response, Zed shrugs and pokes the ref in the eye as well, giggling like a fool as he does. Big ABoys pop!] TD: An illegal counter there from Zed, but I don't think he even realises that! SR: You know what I always say, Dross. "What the hell, use a thumb to the eye." TD: You've never said that, Steve Roberts. SR: No, but I could have. It sounds like something I'd say... [Alfonso struggles around for a moment, trying to get his vision back, and Zed continues to think this is the funniest thing he's seen all night. His tune soon changes, as Shadoe nails him from behind with a clothesline, knocking him over. Wasting no time, the smaller Rage grabs Zed by the back of his mask and grabs some momentum, tossing him out over the top rope to the floor.] TD: That may be a preview of the Eternal Rumble, Shadoe Rage throwing a man out of the ring! What a fantastic match that will be! SR: Stop shilling, Dross. They already bought the show. [Zed takes a moment to get his bearings on the outside... and Shadoe takes an equivalent amount of time to get ready where he is, before getting up a head of steam and leaping in one smooth motion to the top rope. He stays there only for a split second to re-adjust, and then he leaps off again to fly through the air, hitting a spectacular double axehandle and drilling Zed back down into the concrete!] SR: Did you see that, Dross? He must have had like fifteen feet on that jump! TD: Shadoe Rage will take risks all night, and so far it's paying off... Zed has been getting pounded. [Shadoe picks himself up from the human wreckage with some help from Marissa and Pizzazz. He quickly high fives DDUA, allowing a quick smile to the two valets and a threatening glance to the Chihuahua, which looked like it was considering defecating around the Prophets corner. The dog backs off, and Shadoe can turn his attention back to the match, such as it is. Zed is hauled back up and rolled into the ring, before Shadoe leaps in after him with a big guillotine legdrop! Shadoe stays there for the pin attempt, getting one... two... and Zed fires a shoulder up! The audience is very relieved, but Shadoe isn't perturbed. He just reaches over and tags in the big seven footer, Derek. The two each grab one of Zed's arms as he's rising, and whip him to the ropes. They try for a double clothesline as he comes back, but Zed is unusually nimble in ducking the move. He comes back a second time, and as the Rages are turning around he leaps up to hit a double clothesline of his own, knocking both men over! A tired Zed falls to his knees, and starts climbing towards the corner to look for a tag.] TD: Zed needs to make a tag... SR: Of course, he's going in the wrong direction. [Quick course correction from Zed, who just figured it out for himself.] SR: There ya go... TD: As I was saying, Zed needs to make a tag, but will Abie want to fight? [Zed inches towards his corner, as the Rages take a bit longer than usual to shake out the cobwebs and get up. Finally, Derek is up and ready to lumber over and break up the tag... but by then, Zed is in position. He reaches his hand up, waiting for his partner... who just turns away. Disappointed pop, as Derek charges in from behind and drapes a leg over Zed's back, stretching him out. He even takes a swat at the newly pacific Abie, but the Buddhist just ignores it and turns the other cheek.] TD: Abie refused to enter the match, he won't fight! For all intents and purposes, this is a handicap match! SR: With the Alphabet Boys, it was already a mental handicap match. TD: Please, don't alienate our viewers in the mental health field. SR: Hey, wouldn't that be great? Watching the IIWF strung out on Prozac? I shoulda tried that at some point... [Derek grabs Zed and hurls him back towards the centre of the ring, just in case Abie does decide to get involved on a whim. He waits for Zed to start getting up, and then grabs his left leg around the knee and holds it up, hooking over his shoulder... and pulling back with a nasty teardrop suplex! The Fonz goes in to count: one... two... th... another kickout! Derek isn't deterred, as he just gets right back up and fires Zed to the ropes, putting a foot up to (hopefully) catch him as he bounces back. Zed, however, just slides under the boot and ends up on the back side of Derek. A mischievous look crosses Zed's face, and he quickly jumps in to perform the spot that will make midget wrestlers the world over proud.] SR: He's biting Derek's ass, Dross! That's just sick! TD: [obviously uncomfortable] While I... er, that is... I would never... SR: I mean, what kind of sicko would be in for that kind of thing? TD: Umm... we have a... er... [Earl Alfonso moves in, and is eventually able to make Zed let go of his newly found rump roast. Zed, however, has apparently developed a taste, as he starts chasing Alfonso around the ring, trying to bite him as he goes. The fans absolutely break down at this display, and the luminaries at ringside are having trouble staying straight-faced as well... even the normally reserved Lord Byron is chuckling. Derek Rage isn't laughing, however -- he's attacking. The big man stops the comedy with a big clothesline, bowling Zed over. He sets the goofy fan of early literacy up right away, and nails him with a jacknife powerbomb! Derek then makes a somewhat lazy cover, not hooking the leg... and only gets two!] TD: How much does it take to put that man away? SR: Oh, about twenty pounds of sugar, an old 45 of "Love me Tender", and a few cheeseburgers with everything. TD: I was saying that rhetorically. Do you even know what a rhetorical question is? SR: Do _I_ know what a rhetorical question is?! [A little frustrated by now, Derek decides to go all power, whipping Zed to the ropes once again and nailing him as he comes back with a big spinebuster. Instead of covering, however, he drags Zed over to the Prophets' corner, hauls him up long enough to hold his ribs open, and then tags out to Shadoe, who goes quickly to the top rope and drives a fist into the exposed ribs. Derek quickly steps out of the ring as Shadoe fires shots onto the fallen form of Zed, hoping to weaken him up. After having done a bit of damage, and drawing quite a bit of ire from the crowd, Shadoe brings Zed to his feet and sends him barrelling in, face first, into a neutral corner. Shadoe runs in right after him to compound the damage, but when Zed hits the buckles he staggers back, and by blind luck his elbow clips Shadoe on the jaw. Both men flop back in pain and collapse, signifying that it's time for... you guessed it, the classic "Race to Tag" (tm).] TD: Both men are instinctively going for a tag, but we can't even be sure if Zed will get one! SR: He'd better, because he's winning this race! Look at that little bastard crawl! [Despite being less fresh, Zed is somehow moving quite a bit faster, drawing off the crowd support and his tremendous heart. He makes it to his corner well before Shadoe does, and looks up for the tag... but does not see Abie!] SR: Where is that nut? TD: Well, he's... oh my goodness, he's in the crowd. Abie has always been an easily distracted man, and it seems he's playing with someone's foam finger out there. SR: Do you have any idea what that just sounded like? TD: No, I don't think I do. [Zed gets a handle on the situation very quickly, and a dire look passes over his face. Obviously, this is the time for extreme measures. He heads to the outside, quickly petting the dog, and then he opens up the cardboard box he'd brought to ringside with him. Just as Derek is tagged in, Zed grabs a strangely familiar object and rolls into the ring with it, holding it up for all to see. It's... it's... it's the Elvis lamp, for Cripes' sake! This finally catches Abie's attention, as he drops the finger and looks up at what may be his most prized possession. Abie starts walking back to the ring in a trance-like state, the lamp drawing him back to the match and Zed using it to beckon him. That is, until Derek Rage snatches it out of Zed's hands! Heel pop! The big man looks at the tacky lamp derisively, and then turns to smash it in two on the mat, kicking the pieces away under the bottom rope. Shadoe, Derek, and the flunkies outside the ring all smirk, while Zed has a shocked expression on his face and Abie's goes momentarily blank... well, momentarily MORE blank.] TD: That may not have been a wise move on the part of Derek Rage. SR: But if he can pretend it's a performance, he might be able to get money from the NEA for it. [Suddenly, Abie snaps. He rushes into the ring like a man possessed, flying right towards the man that broke his precious lamp. Zed just gets the heck out of the way, while the Rages are too surprised to move. Abie is now in the ring, and he moves with the speed of a cat, driving a stunned Derek down with a football tackle. A little slow in reacting, Shadoe comes in to help and is promptly hip checked right over the ropes to the outside. DDUA thinks about helping, but he catches a baseball slide to the face and flops back, almost landing on the unsuspecting Chihuahua. The ring is clear, and a still enraged Abie just flies around in every direction, ranting and raving as the fans go nuts. He tears off the monk's robes, and thank God... he is also wearing an RSR t-shirt underneath and a pair of faded bell-bottom jeans.] TD: Good lord, Abie is a man possessed! SR: Thank God he's a man clothed, as well. TD: Derek breaking that lamp really seemed to put an end to Abie's pacifism. SR: That's 'cause there are three things you don't do in the IIWF. You don't tug on Steve Kowalski's tights... you don't stand on the turnbuckles when Serge Annis is doing that creepy fire shooting thing... and you DON'T break the Elvis lamp! TD: Oh no, this is just bad... do you see what that Chihuahua is doing? SR: It's... heh, I don't believe this one... it's taking a whizz on the Dirt Dog! He's marking DDUA! [With somewhat of a lull in the in-ring action, the dog decided to liven things up and relieve himself on a man who really should be used to things like this... the Dirt Dog. However, Allah doesn't seem too pleased to have Mexican dog piss on his leg, even if he would gulp it down when they put it in a bottle labelled Corona. The Dirt Dog shoots up to his feet and, angry as all get out, starts to chase the dog in a circle around the ring, always just coming up short of catching him. As they pass the ABoys' corner, however, Allah is shocked when Zed flies off and nails him with a clothesline, knocking him over and gaining freedom for the dog, which ducks under the ring to hide. Meanwhile, if we can tear your attention away from this surreal scene for a moment, back in the ring Derek and Shadoe Rage have taken the momentum back, catching an unaware and spent Abie from behind with a double back suplex!] TD: That's not fair, Abie is not the legal man! He was never tagged in! SR: Aw, who the hell cares? Obviously, the Fonz is going to let a little bit go in this one. Don't spoil all my fun. TD: Even with the addition of Abie to the match, and all this distraction on the outside, it would seem the Prophets are still in firm control. SR: You better believe it. [Zed climbs back up to his corner to see his partner in trouble, as Derek and Shadoe are taking turns dropping elbows on the former pacifist. Finally, Earl Alfonso steps in and forces Shadoe out of the ring, so Derek takes over as the legal man and quickly turns Abie over onto his back, sitting down on the small of it to latch on a painful camel clutch... made more painful by the incredible leverage seven feet of verticality can bring a man. Abie screams out incoherently, which may be a sign of pain or it may be a sign that he's Abie.] SR: This is not a good place for Abie to be. My man Derek is going to tear him some new... whatever the hell muscles he's pulling on now. TD: You are a medical genius, Mr. Roberts. He's not going after the medial co-lateral ligament, is he? SR: No, the external occipital protuberance, I believe. [Whatever he's going after, he's going after it hard, and right in the centre of the ring, too. There doesn't seem to be any way out, so Zed just runs right in and kicks Derek in the stomach to break the hold, before being run back to his corner by Alfonso.] TD: Does Zed know he just risked disqualification there? SR: I'd be surprised if he can spell disqualification. [While Zed is being herded away, this gives the Prophets a chance for some classic double-teaming... well, a classic gang beatdown, actually. Abie is hauled over to the ropes, where Marissa steps up to slap the taste right out of his mouth. Pizzazz then takes her place, and like any French woman, she's surprisingly aggressive in that she drives a knee right into Abie's, er, special area. Still trying to get rid of the foul smell of Chihuahua urine, the Dirt Dog enters the ring as well, while Derek grabs an understandably stunned Abie and takes him up to the top rope. Derek goes up top with Abie, and quickly scoops him up, following through with a tremendous powerslam! The two fall through the air, seemingly frozen in time as all the fans stand at once, chanting, cheering, flashbulbs popping. Then, the two land, Abie absorbing much of Derek's fall, on the unforgiving ground outside the ring. Derek quickly rolls away, as DDUA steps up to the plate and hits a prone Abie with an incredible springboard splash! He too rolls right out of the way, as Zed complains loudly about the illegality of this... and it only serves to keep Earl Alfonso distracted.] TD: What are we going to see next? SR: It's Shadoe... the Black Jesus... here comes the Angel of Death Drop! Goodnight, Farewell, Amen! TD: Isn't that somebody else? SR: Oh, shut up. [With all three of the Prophets having nailed Abie on the outside, he is now fairly easy prey. They roll the limp little maniac back into the ring, and position him just so right in the centre... and finally, Earl Alfonso tries to turn around, only to be distracted again as Marissa is trying to sneak up and attack Zed! Alfonso turns his attention to deal with her, just as Derek has gone in for a pin. Seeing a chance, or perhaps just too angry to wait, Zed runs in to charge Derek, but the Prophet sees him coming and ducks away. Zed careens right past him, stopping when his foot bumps against something. Zed stops, picks up that object, and turns around to just drill Derek with it, falling on top of him for a pin just as Alfonso turns around again!] TD: Goodness! The remnants of the Elvis lamp are used to plaster Derek Rage, and Alfonso is counting it! [Everything goes silent, and passes in slow motion, as Alfonso makes the count. One... Shadoe realises what's going on. Two... he dives in for the save attempt... and nails Zed. But he nails him a fraction too late.] SR: Three! We have three! They did it! The crazy bastards did it! [Sparkplug Lee quickly grabs the mic, knowing the response for this is going to be phenomenal... and it already is, as even the Dirt Doggies and Prophets fans are applauding this twist of fate.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, here are your winners... and _NEW_ IIWF Tag team champions... the Alphabet Boys! [The pop grows ever louder... and louder... and louder. Abie and Zed aren't totally sure what they've done, but they know it's good... and each man goes to claim the prize that is rightfully his, that they've been fighting all this time for. One half of the Elvis lamp, which they each hold up high and parade about the ring.] SR: How can you not like these guys, Dross? How can anyone not like these guys? TD: I don't know, Steve. But what I do know is that the Alphabet Boys' celebration is about to get a bit better... look who's coming out of the crowd to help them celebrate! [The Boys haven't seen it yet, but most of the crowd sure has... Ryudo Kenjinata, Hiroshi Kasai... collectively, Rising Sun Revolution... have got up from their front row seats, hopped over the retaining barrier, and are headed to the ring. As they are about to slide in, Abie and Zed see them, and just go nuts. Their heroes slip into the ring, smiles on their faces, and they offer their hands in congratulation... but the Boys are just too happy for that, and they both run forward to grab one of RSR in a huge bearhug! With that done, the four go about collecting all of the ABoys' paraphernalia... the dog, the hula hoop, some stray handfuls of sugar, and of course the broken bits of the Elvis lamp. Everything, indeed, except the tag titles, which are still laying in the ring as the Prophets stare on in disbelief. The four faces walk off down the aisle and into the sunset, Abie tossing bits of sugar in every direction as if it were rice at a wedding, and the fans just going nuts.] TD: The Alphabet Boys are your final IIWF Tag Team champions, but take nothing away from the Prophets. They are still, in my estimation, the greatest tag team I have seen grace an IIWF ring. SR: Damn straight, Dross. And the titles are still sitting there, waiting for the Prophets. Damn fitting, if you ask me. [Shadoe and Derek are unsure of what to do, so they look to Earl Alfonso... who just nods, as if to say "Go ahead". With that, the two eagerly go in to pick up the titles they held so proudly, as the fans pop loudly yet again for this incomparable duo. They roll out of the ring to join DDUA and the valets for a celebration of their own, heading quickly over to the announce table.] SR: Best damn tag team of all time, right there. [Suddenly, Marissa leans forward and grabs Steve Roberts' head, drawing it in to rub it across her quite ample cleavage, giving him a start to the new "Best weekend of his life", we're sure. She lets go after a long moment, but Pizzazz just steps right forward to replace her, pulling the Soundbite in to do some mountain climbing. After a long moment, and a memorable one for the Soundbite, Pizzazz pulls away, and the five head off up the aisle to an incredible reception, a send-off truly fitting a classic team.] SR: I take it back, Dross, I just got introduced to two better tag teams! Whooooooo! TD: Ahem, yes. Well, Steve Roberts, your fortune aside, we just saw an incredible match to end the tag team division forever... and I have to say, despite the result, both the Alphabet Boys and the Prophets of Rage came out winners. SR: I'm the real winner, because I never have to call another damn tag match again! And besides, this was pretty good for a tag match... not a gay guy in sight. TD: Well, it has been fantastic... it has settled the tag team titles forever. But wait until you see what's next -- that wild, wild "God of Chaos" match pitting the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi against "Sychosys" Joe Petrow. Hang on -- I believe we have some guests coming out here. [The lights fade a little as the familiar first notes of Qkumba Zoo's "The Child Inside" begin to echo through the building... the symbol for the Natural Predators is splayed in the middle of the ring as multi-hued laser lights circle the crowd, who begin to erupt for the popular tag team...as the chorus of "Neyho neyehe hiyo" begins in the song, so begins it in the crowd as the lights flare up, and the Predators, with Kuyler Greyson, walk towards the ring.] SR: Who the hell asked Moose and Squirrel to come out here, Dross? TD: Here come the former World Tag Team Champions, the Natural Predators, along with Kuyler Greyson, heading for the ring. [They shake hands with the fans in the aisle, thanking them for a wonderful stay in the IIWF... and stop near Josef Tadeuscz and his wife, Margareta, hugging them and flashing the 4-D sign to the crowd, to a HUGE pop. They step into the ring, amidst LOUD cheers... as the music dies down, and Kuyler takes the mic:] KG: Hello IIWF! [Big fan favourite pop!] You know... it feels like forever since we've been here... and pretty soon, we won't be able to hear your cheers again... SR: [over headset] Because they're being deported. TD: [over headset] They are not, Steve Roberts. KG: You know... it was about this time last year that the Natural Predators... a team of virtual unknowns... appeared on the scene here in the IIWF. And our start was not, how they say... the most impressive. Following our first pay-per-view, we had the stalwart distinction of owning all of two wins to our name, to go with four losses. But we're feeling much better now. [CROWD POP!] Now... a lot of you are asking what comes next for us... with the Natural Predators, a team that truly was part of the IIWF tapestry. A team that truly, truly BELONGED... in the IIWF. [LOUD CHEERS!] Will we go on in the "Other place?" [Other place boo pop!] No. [Some cheers...others silent.] When it comes down to it... the Natural Predators fit in there about as well as Eddy Ramos in a size small t-shirt. [Laughter pop!] Another place? Maybe... I mean, the fans... all around the world... have turned to us in hopes of seeing us after the IIWF closes its doors forever. Well... there's going to be one less to see. [Confusion pop] A little while back, my wife, Karen, gave birth to a beautiful baby girl... we named her Katherine... and with my older daughter, Lisanne, I have a family that is growing more and more every day. A family I want to be a part of now more than ever. Those of you who follow the "other place" know that Lau-Lau chicken Lau-Lau and I are going to face off in a singles match at the big PPV. It will also be my last match ever. [Stunned pop!] After that match ...I will retire completely from professional wrestling, and devote myself to the Network... and training young stars for the future... [Crowd gasp!] Michael? [Kuyler hands the mic to Michael, also known as the Grey Phoenix:] GP: It was nice to see the old faces... and meet some legends here... but what Kuyler said rings true. I won't be retiring... but I fully intend on taking a break very soon... for my upcoming marriage. [Marriage pop! Josef and Margareta smile on... as he knows exactly what he's talking about:] But hey... I won't be gone forever... you should well know that... the Phoenix always rises again. [POP! The Phoenix hands the mic to Bear:] B: And someone has to carry on the legacy... and nothing's gonna keep me down for long, you guys know that... keep watching. You never know where I'll end up. [Another pop. Kuy takes the mic back:] KG: So... on this last night... in honour of the IIWF... and our careers here... I ask that everyone join in... as we give a 4-D salute to our team-mates, Marty Warnett and Icehawk, in their matches tonight. [The three men do the 4-D salute... cheers, and a number of the crowd joining in.] And to Tim Dross, Larry Morton, Dave Bacon, Becky LaRue, and of course, the calm before the storm, Steve Roberts... we wish nothing but the best. [They salute them 4-D style. Crowd pop!] Ladies and gentlemen... today the IIWF ends... and the legend begins. God bless. [They hand the mic back to Sparky, Kuy shaking his hand, as do the other Preds, who make their way out of the ring, stopping at the broadcast table to shake hands with the announcers. Steve Roberts looks at Kuyler, hairy eyeball and all, as Kuyler extends his hand. Roberts slowly reaches out and shakes it... and the hands of the Predators... to a huge pop.] TD: That was a nice gesture, Steve... SR: Doesn't mean that I like them, Dross... but I'll miss them. Easy targets in this sport are a blessing sent from above, you dig me, baby dolls? TD: As usual, I have no idea what you're talking about, Steve Roberts. Folks, we'll get back to the ring in just a few minutes -- but before all that, one of the best reasons to watch the IIWF over the past two years, the lovely Becky LaRue, has one final guest for us in her Lair. Over to you, Becky. [The lights come up one last time on the familiar chaise longue and uncomfortable chair of "LaRue's Lair." A red eyed-snake rears and strikes on the video screen. Through the curtains steps the lithe form of the most extravagant woman in wrestling: Becky LaRue. She wears a polite but form-fitting gown of black sequins that costs more than Larry Morton earns in a year. She raises her elbow-length gloved hands above her head to soak in the chorus of cheers and applause. Slowly her hands lower and she seizes the neck of the dress... ripping it... rending it... shredding it down the front... dropping it at her ankles to reveal Becky, in all her glory... In skin tight black leather pants and a t-shirt that bears the phrase "#1 by default means you never beat the best".] BL: What did you think? That I'd be wearing a bathing suit? [Whoops from the more testosterone soaked!] BL: Welcome one last time to the lair, where our first victim will also be our last: Chris Quigley. [Moderate applause from the testosterone soaked] But first, the boys n the production department made up a little something special for the occasion. [The video screen lights up with the legend: "The Top Ten Reasons That Becky LaRue Is Like The IIWF" 10. Both have been around the world a few times. 9. Three man bouts were always popular. 8. Just 'cause you're big, it doesn't make you good. 7. It's all about getting push. 6. A lot of guys have been in the IIWF. 5. Chris Quigley didn't have much success. 4. At its best, there was a show every night. 3. The little guys never got much attention. 2. Oft imitated, never equalled. 1. It was hard to get in... but great when you did. Huge pop!] BL: Oh, you guys are sweet. [She wipes away a fake tear and peers into the production staff] Hey, you there, didn't you used to be a Vice President or something? Yeah, thought so. As much as I'd like this to be an all Becky PPV, that's one clause that doesn't exist in my contract. Here he is, the man you love to hate, Chris Quigley. [The "Quickstrike" logo spins on the videoscreen as Quigley enters from the back. Without undue actions, he takes the chair. Becky deliberately drapes herself across the chaise longue and blows kisses to the crowd. Finally she begins the job she was hired to do.] BL: I don't want to talk about the whole "I quit" thing. I don't want to talk about other feds. I don't want to talk about this new "bad-ass" attitude. I don't wanna hear about the whole dead parent thing. I just want to hear your opinions as one of the longer lived wrestlers in the IIWF. CQ: Fine. You've got five minutes. BL: You've been accused of being a "copy" of other wrestlers. Would you describe yourself as a cheap imitation of Dan Kauffman? CQ: The only thing I have in common with Kauffman is we're both great wrestlers. But I already proved that he isn't as good as me, and yet, he gets showered with praise while I hafta drown in a sea of insults. BL: I see that, at least, you finally have a firm grasp of yourself. I mean, a firm grasp of your position in the world, that is. Now then, imagine the IIWF had never existed. What about your world would be different? CQ: [rolls his eyes] I'd probably be a World Champion somewhere, I'd still be doing the rip-off gimmick, I wouldn't shiver every time someone says, "I Quit," I wouldn't be the butt of everyone's jokes, my family would be _alive_, I'd probably be married, and without the IIWF, I'd be miserable. Everything has a price, and the chance to compete in the IIWF cost me more than it's cost some people, but it's worth it. _Well_ worth it. BL: Oh, like the IIWF killed your family. Like Tim Dross snuck ino that airplane and tampered with the fuel line. [By Quigley's expression, Becky notes that perhaps she has croseed the line here.] On the subject of family, what the heck is up with the whole Manning family/Iron dungeon thing? Doesn't sound normal. Usually when sweaty men roll around with each other in dimly lit locations there is a cover charge. CQ: It's a wrestling school. It's the "Living Hell". Steve Manning, Sr. trained all of us down there. He had a hand in training _everyone_ at some point. He helped us develop technical skills, stamina, and a will to win. And yeah, I remember that you gave Steve Manning, Jr. a little test in stamina as well at the Golden Grapples... BL: That's another long story made short. Back to the ring... [Becky stops short, peering into the camera and shielding her eyes with her hand. She speaks to the floor director.] BL: What? Now? Here? Aren't we live right now? Okay, you're the boss, send him up. [Becky leans back, resigned. Quigley is a bit confused as a "Portland Pizza" delivery driver hesitantly walks onto the set. He produces a piece of paper from his pocket and hesitatingly reads from it.] PP: I've got an order here for 156 pizzas, all cheese, the blandest pies that we could make. Whoever ordered them said that I was to, um, deliver them, to a Mr. Quigley, um, like, here. Tonight. [He hands the receipt to Quigley who deliberately mashes it into a ball and flicks it at the young pizza boy.] PP: We'll just, um, put them backstage. In your dressing room. [His fifteen minutes done, the delivery boy stumbles back into oblivion.] BL: What? No tip? [Silence] In your opinion, after seeing him no-show at the D-Cup, and we haven't heard a word from him lately, is Simon Lebec the most over-rated wrestler in the game... or is he just the lamest title holder? CQ: Lebec is one of the best talkers in the game, but he's all style and no substance. It's in insult to pro wrestling that he holds a win over me, but I wrestled him a few weeks ago and beat him by submission. I'm tying up a lot of loose ends lately. And there's one big one to go... BL: Who is the mayor of Newfoundland? CQ: I don't speak "fool". Translate. BL: Forget it. Old jokes just ain't what they used to be. They say that your memory is the second thing to go, what will be you most lasting memory of the IIWF? CQ: Quitting in front of 50,000 people. You'd think it'd be beating Kauffman, or beating Watkins for the title, but I can't get the image of me giving up out of my mind. S'kinda sad, really. BL: And you meant to include me in that list too, right? CQ: No. I wonder why you even have a job here, then I remember... you're a slut. BL: Flattery won't get you anywhere, Quigless. So who, in your opinion... [Becky's sentence is cut off as a portly man wearing a "Joe Petrow says 'Duck You!'" t-shirt stumbles onto the set. He slobbers slightly and staggers in the way most obscenely drunk people do.] BL: Where's security?! DRUNK: Chrish... Chrish... Wherth my one dollar and twenty-two cents ya owe me. You ripped me off, man. You ripped me off. I ordered a Big Mac and friesth. I gave you five bucks and you stiffed me on the change. You don't detherve to work at the golden archeth. You dirty bathtard... [The crack security team is on the scene, dragging the drunken fan backstage amid rants of Quigley ripping off long time McDonald's customers.] BL: I didn't know you'd found gainful employment after leaving the fed. I hope we'll have no more interruptions. This is ruining my reputation. CQ: Like that's possible. BL: Listen here, boy... [Becky's last jab goes unfinished as she's again interrupted. This time a man in what appears to be the garb of an IIWF official walks through the set yelling loudly "Ring the bell! Ring the bell!"] BL: I don't need this. Okay. So Chris, who's missing from this final battle royal... and who should be here? CQ: The Mystery Entrant is probably J.W. Hardin, but if not, I think he _should_ be in there. BL: Oh, yes. Big, bad J.W. Darling of the Internet. Emasculated by a bunch of adoring teeenagers. CQ: Dan Kauffman shoulda been in here as well. And Steve Manning. I thought Manning did a damn good job once I left the IIWF, and he's not even on the final card. But he'll show up. You can count on that. He won't go out quietly. BL: What's worse to be known as: the man who couldn't beat Joe Petrow... or the man who couldn't beat Marty Warnett? CQ: Probably "the guy who never screwed Becky LaRue". It's a lonely club. But to answer your stupid question, I beat Warnett about four times before he beat me that one time. Nobody's perfect. As for Petrow, give me four more matches with him, and I'll beat him four times. I dominated him from start to finish, and it could've gone either way. BL: What would you have done differently in your career up to now? CQ: I wouldn't have quit at Snow Brawl. I'd still be in that Tree of Woe to this very day. I wouldn't have released that kneebar when Petrow grabbed the ropes. I wouldn't have joined the big leagues so early in my career, I woulda stayed in the smaller Federations and not made an ass of myself like I did. I wouldn't have used the name "Q-Man". And I wouldn't have spent my time emulating someone else, I woulda've let the real Chris Quigley loose long ago. BL: Perfect scenario. Who, besides you, should be the last people ever to wear the championship belts? CQ: Nobody. I'm the only one in the Eternal Rumble who _should_ win. Kowalski, Thunder, Petrow... it's been done to death. BL: For once I actually agree with Quigley. [She shudders] That's a feeling I won't soon forget. I'm thinking that Roberts ought to rush the ring and claim the title. [Things had been going too smoothly for too long. Again, another drunk fan, this time nattily dressed in a suit -- complete with a "Tim Dross Wear" faux-silk tie -- staggers onto the set. He tugs at the arm of the suit and waves it in front of Chris's face. Quigley looks almost inclined to cause the man damage.] MAN: See this? This is a "Quickstrike" brand active wear suit. It's guaranteed to stand up to anything and anyone. But see this? It fell apart in a submission hold! [As if on cue, security escorts the man backstage.] BL: One. More. Time. And. I'm. Out. Of. Here. VO: Won't happen again, Ms. LaRue. BL: Better not. What wrestling federation should have gone out of business instead of the IIWF? CQ: I dunno. There's some sort of extreme federation up in Philly that should really pack up its bags and go away. BL: Diplomatic. Damned diplomatic. The Intercontinental Title match has been billed as "pure wrestling." You bill yourself as a "pure wrestler." What are your thoughts on this well-deserved snub? CQ: One of many. I've developed a thick skin. Stuff doesn't bother me as much anymore. VO: Ms. LaRue? Phone call for you. BL: Oh, very well. Give it here. [A junior intern rushes a cell-phone on stage.] BL: This is Becky...Oh, hi, Marty. It's Marty Warnett, folks. Yeah. Hey, I'm kinda in the middle of interviewing Chris Quigley here. Yeah? Yeah, he got the "gifts" that you sent over. Yeah, Chris liked his presents... okay, Marty, I'll see you -- anything's more exciting than this. [She hangs up.] Marty Warnett. On the record, will you ever get any of the respect you think you deserve? CQ: Never. Nobody _should_ get the respect I _think_ I deserve. They'd have to hail me a King, for Christ's sakes. But I wouldn't mind more respect. I've been around here for a long time and I've accomplished too much in my career to be the butt of jokes and be called Chris Quit-ley. BL: "Quit-lay." Bwahahaha... snort. Now then, how bad are you going to miss me? CQ: I don't miss anyone. It's a weakness. BL: You never really liked Larry Morton, did you? CQ: I never liked you, or Morton, or Dross. Steve Roberts' only redeeming quality is that he says what's on his mind. He's a pussy when it comes to backing it up, but at least he has a tiny set of balls, instead of none at all. BL: Okay. Last time, last word from a wrestler ever on the Lair. What have you been dying to say? CQ: [thinks for a minute] I got an hour to kill. Let's go backstage. [There is a stunned moment as Becky stares at Chris in what could possibly be shock. She realises that he's serious and breaks out in laughter.] BL: "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley, ladies and gentlemen... [Big pop as Quigley stands, shrugging in Becky's direction, and heads off the stage. Becky unfurls herself from the chaise longue and stands on the front of the stage once more.] BL: And on that note, fans of all ages... I bid you farewell. This is Becky LaRue, handing you back to my colleagues -- for another couple of hours, at least -- Tim Dross and "Soundbite" Steve Roberts. [Big pop as "Foxy Lady" by Jimi Hendrix kicks in, Becky flicking her fiery hair over her shoulder and wiggling her behind seductively to whoops and catcalls from the crowd as she disappears behind the curtains on her stage. Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside.] TD: Folks, we'll be right back in a few moments with three more tremendous matches: Joe Petrow and the "Enigma" Takezo Musashi battle it out in a unique "God of Chaos" match, and the fates of both the Intercontinental Championship and the Cruiserweight Championship will be decided. Don't go away -- we'll be back after this message from our marketing department: [Slow fade as the Verve's searing anthem "Bittersweet Symphony" strikes up, over slow motion scenes of: Timothy N. Turner, debating on a "Meet the Press" -type show with a reactionary congressman... Becky LaRue, wearing a gaudy and tasteless get up while reading a script for "Biker Chick Bustout"... IIWF ring announcer Sparkplug Lee, surrounded by cars, a mansion, and fine clothes, reveals his winning Lotto ticket... Sergeant Major Bob Ivey, drilling new recruits at Ft. Carswell, Texas... "Icehawk" Matt Keto, helping a young gymnastics pupil with her dismount... Asst. DA Brenda Hawkings, now rapping a gavel and wearing judicial robes... Steve "The Fury" Kowalski, Skullpumping an unruly patron of the Amber Bug in his new role of bouncer, to a cheering sidewalk crowd...] SINGER: # 'Coz it's a bittersweet...symphony... # [Derek Rage, running sprints in practice gear during a Toronto Raptors tryout...] SINGER: # This life... # [The Macbeths, performing farm chores on their larger estate in Glenfinnan... Deathbringer, playing "Horsey" with a five-year-old on his back, in the yard of "'Bringer's Day Care", full of lively tots... The Night Patrol, sitting in the cruiser on a cold Texas day, chuckling and downing crullers... The screen fades to black, emblazoned with the IIWF logo...fades back to reveal IIWF President Daniel Spreadbury, dabbing his eyes with a Tottenham Hotspur scarf before placing it in a box of personal effects... Fade again to black in Old English Script:] The End Thank You [Fade.] +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I * I * W * F =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+ | President: Daniel Spreadbury | | iiwf@sisko.demon.co.uk | +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- http://www.sisko.demon.co.uk -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+