________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| | || | \ v v / | __| |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| ______ ____ ______ _______ ___ _______ ______ \ ____\/ __ \\ ___ \\ _____\\ | / /_____\\ ___ \ | | / / | || | \ \ | | | / / | | | \ \ | |__/_/ | || |__/ / |_____| | / /| |_____| |__/ / | ____/| | || __ /| _____/| |/ / | _____/| __ / | | | | | || | \ \| | | / | | | | \ \ | | | | / /| | \ \ | | / | | | | \ \ | | | |_/ / | | \ \|____ | / | |_____| | \ \ | | \___/ | | \ \____/|/ /______/| | \ \ | / | / \/ | / \/ |/ |/ |/ LIVE! + IIWF Coliseum + Saturday 1 August 1998 + LIVE! H + O + U + R T + H + R + E + E [Cut to a wide-angle shot of the roaring, cheering capacity crowd in the IIWF Coliseum, and many of the excited fans wave hands, home-made signs, and various IIWF merchandise at the camera as it pans across the multitudes, finally coming to rest on the immaculately-dressed Tim Dross and a reclining "Soundbite" Steve Roberts, who looks over the masses of fans behind him, and especially the more attractive female ones, through a rakish pair of dark sunglasses.] TD: Listen to this capacity crowd, Steve Roberts! The noise in this building is like nothing I have heard before in all my time spent here in the IIWF! This crowd has gathered here tonight to say goodbye to the Double Eye, and we are going out in finest style thus far! The action we have witnessed tonight on this last night of IIWF wrestling could stand up on its own as a top quality pay-per-view event, but we have only yet reached the halfway point of our broadcast! SR: What can you say, Dross-man! There's the IIWF, and then there's everybody else, baby dolls! That's the way it was, the way it is, and the way it always WILL be! Forever, baby! Just listen to these morons screaming themselves hoarse behind us, Dross! Look at those idiots waving their official "Man Of Steel" foam fingers, brought out and cleaned of their dust and mildew, just for tonight! Just look at all those nubile young gamines jumping up and down in those teeny-tiny "IIWF Forever" halter tops! So round... so firm... so fully packed... sweet merciful Jesus, Dross, it chokes me up. I'm sooooo gonna miss this. TD: [pause] They weren't selling "IIWF Forever" halter tops at the official IIWF souvenir stand here in the Coliseum, Steve. SR: I know, Dross. I made a killing out in the parking lot shilling those little numbers to the, shall we say, more "genetically gifted" members of our female audience. Hey, it can't hurt the buy-rate any, and you've gotta admire the workmanship that went into these beauties -- the deeply plunging bustline, the subtle support of the well-concealed underwire, the sturdy elastic of the spaghetti straps -- Kathie Lee was right, Dross, those little Malaysian kids in those factories really are master craftsmen. They'll be collectors' items for sure, and they're keepin' Poppa Soundbite flush. TD: The atrocities of child labour aside, Steve, you could get in a lot of trouble for using the IIWF logo on those... "garments" without the expressed permission of the President. SR: Yeah, yeah... hey, Danny-boy -- FIRE ME! Ha! You want to insult the almighty Soundbite with that pathetic joke of a severance check you sent me, you're gonna have to live with the consequences, baby dolls. I can't maintain the lifestyle I'm accustomed to on that meagre pittance! I gots to keep food on my table, I gots to keep a roof over my head, I _gots_ to keep de sultry Swedish flight attendants in me crib on a tight, strict, rotating schedule! I GOTS NEEDS, SPREADBURY! NEEEEEEEDS! [The crowd erupts behind Roberts in a raucous chant of "Shoot, Soundbite, Shoot!" Roberts bolts to his feet, whips off his sunglasses, and stares wild-eyed into the camera for long moments, looking completely deranged. Then, Roberts turns to the crowd and bows magnanimously before once again taking his seat beside Dross, who has his head in his hands.] SR: Thanks, morons. Now, cork it, will ya? TD: Good grief. Folks, it's been a truly incredible night of action in the IIWF Coliseum, and it can only get better with this next match! I'm talking about the "Last Man Standing" match between the flamboyant "Playboy" Ronnie D, and the hard-as-nails two-time IIWF World Champ, the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder! SR: Could have been the greatest tag team ever, Dross. TD: Whatever are you talking about, Steve Roberts? SR: You got the Lone Wolf, one of the toughest hombres north, south, east, aaaaaaand west of the Pecos, as manly a man as ever walked God's green earth, and then you got this hair permin', gold-lam sportin', Academy Award party hostin', oh-so-immaculately primped, waxed and oiled pansy. It's the textbook combination for a tag team, Dross -- the tough guy and the gay guy. Get 'em to kiss and make up, give Thunder a boat oar and Ronnie a bad bottle-blond buzz-cut, throw on the Gordon Lightfoot and stick 'em in the ring with the Harlequins. Lots of fun for the kiddies at home. TD: I noticed you conspicuously left out "feather boa twirling"... SR: Watch it, fat boy... TD: ...but the concept of Brody Thunder and Ronnie D working together as a tag team is a far-fetched one at best. If there is a stronger case of enmity between two wrestlers anywhere in the sport as there is between the Lone Wolf and the Playboy, I have yet to witness it, Steve Roberts. These two men just plain do not like each other, period. Twice these two have met in the past, and twice the "Playboy" has come out on the winning end of the battle. But tonight, Brody Thunder is facing Ronnie D on his home turf, and the "Lone Wolf" will be looking to go out of the IIWF on a winning note, at the expense of his bitter rival. These two men have a history of extremely violent altercations; in fact, in their last meeting, Ronnie D very nearly put out Brody Thunder's left eye. Thunder's vision is reportedly still not 100%, and in this "Last Man Standing" match, with Texas Death rules in effect, Thunder may very well be jeopardizing not only his vision, but his wrestling career. SR: Yeah, and if Ronnie breaks a nail, he may be jeopardizing his side career as a "private masseur", Dross. Some things just ain't meant to be around sharp, jagged edges, know what I mean? TD: [pause] No. SR: Ask Turner. TD: Whatever, Steve Roberts. As if this match wasn't exciting enough, folks, the special guest referee for this match will be none other that former IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, Steve "The Fury" Kowalski! Kowalski has kept a low profile since he dropped the title to Serge Annis at Birthday Bash II, and has been reported to be convalescing at his home in Newark, New Jersey following the nagging string of debilitating injuries which led ultimately to his defeat. It is my understanding that Kowalski is still not fully recovered from these injuries, in fact, he may never return to full health after the ordeal of his last few months in the IIWF. But the story of Steve "The Fury" Kowalski has always been one of perseverance and true-grit toughness, Steve Roberts, and I really doubt that there's anything that could keep the IIWF's Triple Crown winner away from the IIWF's swan song. SR: He'll be here, Dross-man, no question. Just try to imagine an IIWF pay-per-view event without the Fury. This is what Kowalski lives for, baby dolls, and there's no way he's gonna miss the biggest party in the Double Eye's history. He's gotta be one of the odds-on favourites in the big Battle Royal tonight, but before that, he gets to boss Brody Thunder around. The Fury just couldn't resist a chance to stick it to the cowboy one more time! TD: That will definitely be one of the big questions in this bout, Steve -- will Kowalski call a balanced match, or will he show a bias towards either wrestler? Neither Thunder or Ronnie D are high on Kowalski's list of bosom buddies, and it's a tough call to guess what the Fury is thinking at the best of times. At any rate, we are just about to find out! The crowd is on its feet here now in anticipation of this bout, and once again, it's almost getting too loud to think, let alone talk, so let's get up to the ring! ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| ..........................| || | \ v v / | __|.......................... |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| LAST MAN STANDING MATCH: "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder vs. "Playboy" Ronnie D ......................................................................... WRITER: Shawn Kilpatrick [Sparkplug Lee steps into the ring, to an incredible pop from the fans, who wildly cheer the hapless but loveable ring announcer. Lee waves to the cheering fans at ringside, blushing as he is winked at by several young girls in Soundbite-produced halter tops, and openly laughing at one fan who waves a "SAVE THE SPARKPLUG" placard. Lee waits for the tumultuous pop to die down, then produces the cards for the next match from his tuxedo breast pocket with a flourish -- and for once, without disastrous results. Sparky grins wistfully at the excited fans before raising the ring mic to speak.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is a special "Last Man Standing" Match! [Huge pop from the fans!] SL: The stipulations for the following match will be announced momentarily, but at this time, it is my great privilege to announce this contest's Special Guest Referee! [The crowd pops even louder, the anticipation building. Lee is forced to wait once again as the crowd noise overwhelms the Coliseum's PA, then continues with a smile.] SL: He hails from Newark, New Jersey... [The crowd explodes with a monster pop, and a resounding chant of "SKULL-PUMP! SKULL-PUMP! SKULL-PUMP!"] SL: He is a former IIWF Cruiserweight, Intercontinental, and World Heavyweight Champion, the only man in IIWF history to win the Triple Crown of singles titles... ["SKULL-PUMP! SKULL-PUMP! SKULL-PUMP!"] SL: He is the "New Jersey Nightmare"... STEVE "THE FURY" KOWALSKI! [Easily the loudest, wildest pop of the night so far EXPLODES from the sold-out Coliseum crowd, and any fans in the building who aren't yet standing leap to their feet as "Don't Fear The Reaper" blares from the PA, barely heard over the incredible din. The arena lights dim, and spotlights sweep across the bowl of the Coliseum, eventually training themselves at the head of the aisle as Steve "The Fury" Kowalski, in all his scruffy, cigar-chomping glory, steps through the curtain. Kowalski's green eyes gleam with pride as he gazes across the wildly popping crowd, soaking in the cheers that welcome him back to the IIWF for the final time. The Fury is dressed in battered blue jeans, cowboy boots, and his battered denim Harley-Davidson jacket, and underneath the jacket he is sporting a grubby white tank top that appears to have referee's stripes drawn on it in black marker! Cut back to ringside, where Steve Roberts stands at attention at the broadcast table and fires of a crisp military salute in the Fury's direction.] SL: God bless you, Fury! TD: And there he is folks, Steve "The Fury" Kowalski! It's a real shame that the millions of people around the world watching this on pay-per-view can't properly experience what it's like to be here in this building right now! The noise level of the crowd is unbelievable, as this Portland crowd welcomes the Fury home! [The Furies at ringside go absolutely insane as Kowalski slowly begins to make his way down the aisle to the ring, bowing down to Kowalski as he passes in the time-honoured "We're not worthy!" ritual. Kowalski is griming from ear to ear as a hail of empty Mooselips cans starts to rain into the aisle before him, providing a veritable carpet of aluminium for the Fury to walk on the last few yards to the ring. The pop from the crowd, incredibly, increases in volume as Kowalski steps through the ropes and into the ring, returning Roberts' salute and throwing a mock punch at Sparkplug before leaping onto the corner turnbuckles and punching both arms into the air, drinking in the cheers of the fans! This goes on for well over a minute before Kowalski jumps back down onto the mat, removes his jacket and flings it onto the timekeeper's table, revealing the crude, handmade referee's tank top to the delight of the crowd. Sparky watches Kowalski with a mixture of amusement and awe before raising the ring mic once again.] SL: And now, ladies and gentlemen, the stipulations for this match are as follows! This is a "Last Man Standing" match, with... [Sparky is abruptly cut off as Kowalski steps into the centre of the ring and grabs the microphone away from the announcer, to another big pop from the crowd!] SK: All right, everybody listen the [BLEEP] up! [Incredible pop from the crowd, and the "We're not worthy!" arms start from the Furies again.] SR: [over headset] We're [BLEEP]in' listenin', champ! Whooo! TD: [over headset] Good grief. SK: Yer "esteemed President" was bright enough to make yers truly the lawman in this little dance we're gonna have, so if ya don't mind, Sparky, I'm gonna lay down the law fer these morons, real plain an' simple! ["SKULL-PUMP! SKULL-PUMP! SKULL-PUMP!"] SK: Like the man said, this is a "Last Man Standing" match, which means that this shindig is gonna go on until one guy can't get up off the floor, just like they do it way down in Texas! There ain't gonna be no DQ's, there ain't gonna be no countouts, there ain't gonna be no pinfalls, and there sure as Hell ain't gonna be no tappin' out! [Pop from the crowd!] SK: When a man gets put down, I'm gonna count to ten, and if he doesn't get up, the match is over. Simple. It don't matter where the guy gets put down -- the ring, the aisle, the stands, the parkin' lot, hell, they can fight there way to the airport and catch the redeye to Tokyo fer all care, the match goes on until one guy's stays down for the count. An' no matter where they end up, yers truly's gonna be there every step o' the way. Now, before I give over to Sparky again, I got just one thing to say to our two "contestants" before they drag their sorry asses out here. This match is gonna be Hell, ladies, but if either of you two sweethearts decide to step out o' line in this shindig... ...yer gonna find out what too many idiots already know. That Hell hath no Fury... ...like ME! [The crowd explodes with a massive pop at this statement, and a cold, chilling grin spreads across the stubbled face of Steve Kowalski as he hands the microphone back to Sparkplug.] TD: Well, there you have it, folks! Steve "The Fury" Kowalski is back, and he seems to have every intention of calling this bout straight down the middle! While there are essentially no rules to enforce in this match, the Fury has made it crystal clear that he will not stand for any unnecessary nonsense from either participant! SR: The Fury's a good pick to ref this match, Dross. A fight like this one's gonna be as hard on the official as it will be on the wrestlers, and if anyone in the Double Eye's proven he can take his knocks and come back for more, it's the Fury, baby dolls. Of course, being stone cold crazy won't hurt Kowalski either. TD: Indeed. Let's get back to the ring... [Sparky stares at the former champ for long moments as the cheers rage on in the Coliseum, and then peers at his line-up cards once again as the Fury takes up a position in a neutral corner and the pop begins to subside a bit.] SL: Ahem... thank you, Mr. Kowalski. And now, to the participants of this match! Introducing first... [The lights in the IIWF dim to nothing, as the crowd gives a small cheer. Sparkplug Lee squints at the cue cards he holds in his hands:] SL: He stands at six feet, two inches. He weighs in at two-hundred fourteen pounds. Hailing from Your Daughter's Dreams... He's the star of several adult film classics. He's the man that has shot more women into adulthood than any other. He is, by his own admission, the marquee man, the showstopper, the main event, the big kahuna, the head honcho, the GOD of wrestling... [Sparkplug seems to be warming to this build-up, and takes a deep breath before concluding his announcement:] Ladies and gentlemen, the IIWF is proud to present the self-proclaimed Icon of the sport... "PLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAYYYYYYBOOOOOYYYYYYY" RONNIE DEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! [The crowd explodes in boos as gold spotlights pan throughout the darkened arena and "Sharp Dressed Man" by ZZ Top begins. At the entrance, gold lasers carve out several small "Playboy" Ronnie D logos along the aisle. On the big screen, the "Playboy" Ronnie D logo looms large. Suddenly, a huge bang resounds throughout the arena as two huge pillars of golden fire explode around the curtains. When the smoke has cleared, standing at the entrance is the figure of one "Playboy" Ronnie D. The crowd boos his extravagance, and he soaks it in, standing at the top of the aisle, smiling. Decked out in a silver chain-link vest and chaps, his blond hair flowing down just past his shoulders, he surveys the MONSTROUS crowd -- each and everyone of them, from the commonest of the common to the special invitees, booing him, screaming at him, the most hated man in the sport.] TD: There is the "Playboy" himself, the man known simply as Ronnie D, Steve Roberts. This man certainly carries with him one of the biggest egos in the sport, but it is all too easy to allow that to overshadow this man's incredible talent in the ring. The "Playboy's" technical abilities are matched by a real mean streak, making him a truly dangerous individual, as the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder has now found out on two previous occasions. SR: Let me tell you something, Dross -- this match ain't about fancy moves, it ain't about who's got the flashiest costume, hell, it ain't even about who's meaner. This match is about who the toughest sumbitch is, and that's why Brody Thunder's gonna be the last man standing when the dust settles. No _way_ is this prancin', sequin-wearin' nancy boy gonna outlast the "Lone Wolf", baby dolls. [Ronnie soon makes his way down the aisle, dancing and prancing, trying to ignore the objects being tossed his way. A cup of beer lands on the aisle behind Ronnie, skittering to the other side of the aisle. He enters the ring posing, and flexing, ignoring the cat calls. With another explosion, gold fireworks explode from all four ring posts as Ronnie removes his heavy vest and chaps. Underneath the chain-link, Ronnie sports black tights, with silver tiger stripes decorating them. His knee pads are black with a small silver Ronnie D logo on each, and his boots silver. The music fades away as the lights fade in, and the boos become much more audible as Ronnie slips into his corner.] SR: Jerk. TD: We're now awaiting the arrival of the "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder, and then this eagerly anticipated grudge match will be underway! Hold on a moment -- Ronnie D is calling Steve Kowalski over to his corner! What is this all about? SR: He's probably gonna ask Kowalski to make sure Brody doesn't hit him in the face, Dross. When Thunder gets through with him tonight, the "Playboy's" gonna make the Meatman look like Tom Cruise. [As the boos and catcalls from the crowd continue to fill the Coliseum, Ronnie D reaches into the waistband of his tights and produces a HUGE roll of money, which he then holds out to Kowalski! More boos from the crowd!] TD: I... I can't believe what I'm seeing, Steve Roberts. In plain view of both the capacity Coliseum crowd and an international pay-per-view audience of millions, "Playboy" Ronnie D is blatantly offering Steve Kowalski a bribe! This is outrageous! SR: Desperate times call for desperate measures, Dross. D knows he doesn't have karma on his side in this match, so it looks like he's gonna try to grease the rails a bit with some long green. Works for me -- hell, if ya got it, flaunt it -- but how's the Fury gonna take this? [The boos form the crowd reach fever pitch as Ronnie, doing his best "you're my pal, aren't you" routine, flashes his megawatt smile at Kowalski and proffers the thick roll of dollars at him once again. The Fury's eyes narrow and he sets his jaw, staring coldly at the flamboyant "Playboy" for long moments... and then, with a shrug, Kowalski takes the money from Ronnie and stuffs it into the pocket of his jeans! Huge confused pop from the crowd!] TD: I don't believe it, Steve! He took it! Steve "The Fury" Kowalski has _accepted_ "Playboy" Ronnie D's bribe! SR: And why the hell not, Dross? Kowalski may never wrestle again after tonight, after he busted his ass for Dictator Danny for years! That severance package we got was a [BLEEP]in' joke, and Kowalski doesn't have access to dirt-cheap Malaysian child labour like the Soundbite, so what else is he supposed to do? TD: How about calling a clean, unbiased match, for starters? SR: Screw that! It ain't about fair now, Dross-man, it's about SHOW ME THE MONEY! TD: Good grief. [The confident smile on the face of "Playboy" Ronnie D, as Kowalski steps back to the neutral corner, only serves to drive the crowd to boo him even louder. Sparkplug is forced to wait even longer for the noise to die down before he is able to continue.] SL: And his opponent... [The boos suddenly turn to wild cheers!] SL: He hails from "The Town Too Tough To Die," Tombstone, Arizona, he stands six foot two inches tall and weighs in at 267 pounds, and he is a former two-time IIWF World Heavyweight Champion! [A chant of "THUNDER! THUNDER! THUNDER!" starts up in the crowd which draws a derisive gesture from "Playboy" Ronnie D in the ring.] SL: Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome... ...the "LOOOONNNNNNE WOLF", BROOOOODDDDY THUUUUUUUNDEERRRRRR! [The crowd's wild popping is suddenly drowned out by an ear-splitting thunderclap which rumbles throughout the cavernous Coliseum, rattling the building from the seats to the rafters! All eyes swing to the wrestlers' entrance as the theme from "High Plains Drifter" begins to play over the P.A. and the spotlights hit the curtain once again, revealing the tall Arizonan, Brody Thunder, standing at the head of the aisle with a look of pure menace broadcasting from his face! Thunder glares down at "Playboy" Ronnie D, his one good eye sparkling with barely-contained rage, the other obscured by a black eyepatch. Thunder's hair has grown long since his protracted absence form the IIWF, falling in an unkempt black mass about his shoulders, and the immaculately cared for handlebar moustache is no partly obscured by several days' growth of rough, scraggly beard.] TD: There he is, folks! There is the "Lone Wolf" himself, the rugged native of Tombstone, Arizona, Brody Thunder! Listen to this crowd respond to the arrival of this man! Love him or hate him, Steve Roberts, Brody Thunder has proven himself to be one of the toughest, meanest, and downright craftiest veterans in the sport, and for that, he has to be respected! SR: No doubt about it, Dross, Thunder's as ornery and sneaky as they come. The Playboy's in a world of trouble, even if he managed to buy off the Fury. Brody's a man whose out for one thing tonight -- revenge, plain and simple. If Ronnie manages to walk out of this arena tonight under his own power, it'll be a friggin' miracle, Dross. [Thunder begins to storm down the aisle as the capacity crowd cheers him on, and we see that besides his usual ring attire of black cowboy hat, trunks, elbow pad and boots, he is also wearing what appears to be an official "Playboy" Ronnie D T-shirt! In the ring, Ronnie smiles as he recognises the logo on Thunder's shirt, but as he reaches ringside, Thunder pauses to glare up at the flamboyant superstar before turning around and showing Ronnie the back. The crowd explodes with a deafening pop as the video wall picks up the writing on the back of the shirt: "PLAYBOY" RONNIE D REST IN PIECES AUGUST 1, 1998 Ronnie just waves off Thunder with a scowl, but Thunder makes no move to enter the ring. Instead, he makes his way over to the timekeeper's table and picks up a microphone, as the crowd begins to quiet down slightly to hear what he has to say.] TD: [over headset] Brody Thunder apparently has a few words for Ronnie D before this match gets underway. SR: Maybe he's gonna ask Ronnie to give him his momma's address, so he'll know where to deliver the body... [Thunder's right eye narrows as he looks up and fixes his flinty, one-eyed gaze on the "Playboy"] BT: Hey, "D"... I hope ya ate well before this match, runt. See, I'd hate ta send ya ta Hell on an empty stomach! [The crowd lets loose with another big pop, and Ronnie responds with a derisive laugh, but in an instant, Ronnie D, Kowalski, and Sparkplug are diving for cover as steel chairs begin to rain into the ring! The fans are on their feet, popping wildly as at ringside, Brody Thunder begins grabbing chairs from the aisle and is madly flinging them into the ring at Ronnie! Sparky dives under the bottom rope, collapsing in a heap by the timekeeper's table, while in the ring, a grinning Kowalski calls for the bell to start the match while Ronnie frantically tries to dodge out of the way of the incoming chairs! Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: Brody Thunder has just gone absolutely insane, Steve Roberts! He's trying to pick off the "Playboy" with those steel chairs! The bell has gone, and already Brody Thunder is trying to seriously injure his bitter rival! SR: Ain't it great, Dross! We're gonna be seeing the red stuff pretty soon, count on it! Sic 'im, Brody! [Thunder maniacally lobs another chair into the ring, this flying just past the head of "Playboy" Ronnie D, and as the flashy star ducks away, Thunder takes advantage of the distraction to dive under the bottom rope, and in a flash, he bolts across the canvas, tackling Ronnie to the mat! Huge pop!] TD: Thunder's in the ring, and he has taken the "Playboy" down! We're off and running, folks, and who knows when it'll be over? SR: Not for a while, I hope! I wanna see some carnage, Dross! [Thunder has no time or wish to finesse Ronnie on the mat, and simply fires one fist after another into the side of Ronnie's head, causing the superstar to bellow in pain! Thunder teeth are bared, his right eye glinting with pure fury, as he hammers away at the skull of "Playboy" Ronnie D, who struggles desperately on the mat to escape! Kowalski just reclines against the ropes, taking in this scene as Ronnie finally escapes from Thunder's brutal onslaught by grabbing one of the several chairs lying in the ring and bringing it down square on the top of Thunder's head! Thunder reels from the blow and rolls off of Ronnie as the crowd responds with a loud heel pop!] TD: Clearly we will be seeing little in the way of actual wrestling in this match tonight, Steve Roberts! Both of these men are out for blood, and if this keeps up, we will be seeing a lot of it! SR: It's just like my Daddy always used to tell me, Dross -- he'd put me on his knee, ruffle my hair, and say "Stephanie, you'll always be a skirt-wearin' sissy boy if you don't put down those Malibu Barbies and start givin' those mean bullies at kindergarten a taste of cold, hard steel right in the teeth. Now, go get dressed, it's time to take you to Brownies." I never forgot what the old man told me that day -- I loved that man, Dross -- and look where I'm at today. TD: Why do I get the feeling that the next time I see you, Steve, it'll be on "Oprah"? SR: I've already been on Oprah, Dross. Best weekend of my life. [Thunder and Ronnie are both quick to rise to their feet, with Ronnie hanging on to the char that saved him from Thunder's initial attack. Thunder spits in Ronnie's direction as the furious "Playboy" beckons him to come on, and then the big cowboy reaches down and grabs a chair of his own! The crowd cheers as the two combatants begin to circle each other, chairs held out before them like swords in some medieval duel!] TD: Oh my. This doesn't look good, Steve. SR: May the force be with you, Brody! [The crowd explodes with a big pop as Thunder and Ronnie rush each other, swinging away with the chairs, and the CLANG as they block each others' swing reverberates throughout the Coliseum! The two men swing away again, and once again they block! Ronnie backs up slightly to take another shot, all the time that Thunder needs to suddenly fling the steel chair low to the mat, catching Ronnie D in the right knee before the "playboy" can move to deflect the attack! Huge pop from the fans, as Ronnie crumples to the mat, clutching at the damaged knee!] TD: What a shot from Thunder! Ronnie has had considerable problems with that right knee ever since Brody Thunder virtually destroyed it in one of their previous encounters, and Thunder looks to pick up where he left off! Ronnie could be in trouble early here, Steve Roberts! SR: You know what they say, Dross, an eye for an... ah, never mind. [Thunder charges at the downed "Playboy", his one eye wide with malice and his chair held high over his head as he rushes in to smash Ronnie in the head, but as soon as the big Arizonan get in range, Ronnie reaches up, grabs Thunder by the waistband of his tights, and with his one good leg, flips a surprised Brody Thunder over his head and sends him flying through the ropes to the outside! Big heel pop!] TD: "Playboy" Ronnie D with an incredible move! Ronnie D has sent Brody Thunder tumbling out of the ring! Steve Kowalski is dropping to the floor, and it looks like Thunder may have cracked the back of his head in the ring steps! SR: He ain't moving, Dross! Thunder might have cold-cocked himself out of the match! The Fury's putting the count on him! Aw, cripes, don't tell me the pansy's gonna win with a bull[BLEEP] move like that! [Thunder lies in a heap beside the apron as Steve Kowalski begins counting... 1... 2... 3... The crowd begins to chant "THUNDER! THUNDER! THUNDER!"... 4... 5... And suddenly, Thunder's arm flies up from the floor and swats away Kowalski's count! Incredible pop from the fans! The big cowboy begins to stir, and slowly rises to his feet, drawing his hand across the back of his skull as he straightens up. The hand comes away stained with bright crimson, but Thunder just glares at Kowalski, growling at the Fury.] BT: Don't count me out just _yet_, runt. I ain't nowhere NEAR bein' finished! [Thunder then turns his attention back to the ring, but as he turns around, he is sent sprawling to the floor again catching a soaring top-turnbuckle drop kick from "Playboy" Ronnie D square in the chest! Deafening heel pop! Kowalski skitters out of the way as both wrestlers pick themselves up off of the concrete floor, Ronnie limping slightly from his injured knee, and begins to close in on Thunder, approaching him from the cowboy's left side!] TD: Ronnie D with a truly spectacular move from the top rope to take down Thunder on the outside, and Thunder never even say that dropkick coming! SR: That bad eye of Brody's is gonna give him problems, Dross. Ronnie likes to keep moving all the time in the ring, and against a fast little pipsqueak like him, you've gotta have both eyes peeled. Thunder's extremely vulnerable on his left side, where he's totally blind, and the "Playboy's" gonna take advantage of that. [As if to support Roberts' comments, Ronnie dashes across the aisle and snaps Thunder's head back with a vicious kneelift. Thunder never saw the attack from his left, and he reels back and collapses against the steel crowd barrier! Blood begins to snake down the back of Thunder's neck, matting his hair as the deep cut on the back of his head opens up even wider. As the tall cowboy struggles to stand up again, lying across the top rail of the barrier, Ronnie picks up a chair from ringside and unfolds it, positioning it to the left of Thunder. The flashy superstar steps up onto the chair, unseen once again by the Arizonan, and he prepares to leap off at Thunder, holding his elbow ready to strike!] TD: Oh my... Ronnie D is going to attempt to elbowsmash Brody Thunder across that steel barrier! [The seething heel pop, though, alerts Thunder to the danger, and he cranes his head around just before Ronnie is about to leap off of the chair! With a sudden burst of speed, Thunder turns like a cornered tiger and sprints across the aisle, and before Ronnie can react, Thunder kicks the chair out from under him! Huge Thunder pop! Ronnie tumbles awkwardly to the floor, smacking the side of his head on the concrete, and Thunder is on him in a flash, jerking him up and immediately driving the "Playboy's" head into the floor with a Cattle Buster DDT! Incredible pop!] TD: What a devastating move from Brody Thunder! Ronnie D has seen his fortunes suddenly take a turn for the worse, and Thunder's going in for more! SR: No he's not, Dross! Kowalski's pushing Thunder away! [In the aisle, Ronnie D lies motionless on the floor as Thunder and Kowalski begin to argue, Thunder wanting to punish the "Playboy" some more, but Kowalski jabs a finger at the big cowboy and hollers, "Don't [BLEEP] with me, ace! I'M runnin' this show!" and begins applying the count to Ronnie D, who still hasn't moved!] TD: Well, I have to say, Steve, that Kowalski's decision to begin applying the count may be a bit premature here! The Cattle Buster DDT is certainly a potent manoeuvre, but both wrestlers are still relatively fresh, and a ten count is a lot of time to shake something like that off at this stage of the match. SR: Dross... Kowlaski's on the take! Accept it! Ronnie's gonna be getting a lot of breaks like this tonight, so you might as well get used to seeing it! TD: Perhaps Kowalski honestly feels that the Cattle Buster should be enough to put Ronnie D down for the count, and having been on the receiving end of one himself, I suppose he would know. At any rate, it's a moot point, as Ronnie D is now beginning to stir on the floor, and Kowalski breaks the count at six! Let's take you back to the action! [As Ronnie struggles to pull himself to his feet, climbing up the steel barrier on the other side of the aisle as he is jeered by the ringside fans, Brody Thunder begins to adjust the black elbowpad on his arm, and takes several steps back. The crowd sees this and begins to pop wildly, and Ronnie, shaking the last of the cobwebs from his skull, begins to look around frantically, as Thunder charges at him across the aisle, his padded arm outstretched! Ronnie sees the big cowboy charge, but cannot entirely avoid the huge lariat that catches him in the temple! The force of the blow is so great that the momentum carries both Ronnie D _and_ Brody Thunder over the rail of the crowd barrier... and both wrestlers land right in the middle of a large group of fans on the floor, momentarily disappearing from sight! Incredible pop from the crowd, and the ringside fans scream in horror as they try to avoid the two wrestlers!] TD: Oh my goodness! Brody Thunder just knocked both himself _and_ "Playboy" Ronnie D into the crowd! I can't see them, Steve! People are scattering all over the floor down there... we're going to have to bring in security before a riot breaks out... where are Thunder and Ronnie? SR: I see Thunder, Dross! Right there! Look! No sign of the pansy, though... maybe he got smart and headed for the exit in the rush! [Fans on the floor begins scrambling for the exits as Brody Thunder emerges from the crowd, looking around wildly through the screaming masses for some sign of "Playboy" Ronnie D, when suddenly, from a group of people behind him, Ronnie suddenly leaps on Thunder's back, jamming a long black object under the cowboy's chin!] TD: It's the "Playboy"! He's... is that an umbrella? Yes, Ronnie D has found someone's umbrella on the floor of the Coliseum, and he is blatantly choking Brody Thunder with it! [Thunder begins wheezing as Ronnie bears down on the choke with as much power as he can muster, but the size difference between the two men soon makes itself evident, and Thunder manages to throw the cruiser off of his back by bending low and bucking him over! Pop from the crowd, most of whom are watching the action on the video wall, as there is too much chaos in the stands to pick anybody out now! Screaming fans take cover as Thunder wrenches the umbrella from Ronnie's grip and whips it around like a golf club, catching Ronnie in the forehead and opening up a nasty cut across the "Playboy's" right eye! Huge Thunder pop! Thunder closes in on Ronnie, but gets jostled by fans trying to escape the chaotic scene, and he momentarily turns his blind side to the "Playboy". When Thunder turns back to Ronnie, ready to strike again with the umbrella, he is greeted with a fistful of greasy buttered popcorn, which "Playboy" Ronnie D viciously grinds into the good right eye of the "Lone Wolf"!] TD: Thunder gets a faceful of Coliseum popcorn, and Brody Thunder is screaming in pain, Steve Roberts! The man has enough problems with that badly damaged left eye of his, but Ronnie D seems to be out to blind Thunder in _both_ eyes now! That butter, salt and oil in the eyes has to be agonising for the "Lone Wolf"! SR: Not only that, but it's really bad for his cholesterol, Dross! [Thunder reels away, clutching at his eye as fans continue to run to and fro on the floor, trying to get out of the way of the vicious battle raging in their midst! Ronnie jumps at the "Lone Wolf' while his vision s still impaired, and the two men begin swinging wild lefts and rights at each other, brawling up one aisle and down the other, while the frightened fans flee in terror! The fight continues up the rows of seat, with Steve Kowalski, shaking his head in amusement and disbelief, follows the carnage as Ronnie finally manages to put Thunder down with a kick to the knees of the cowboy, and jumps up on the seats of the last row, to Thunder's left, waiting for the Arizonan to rise.] TD: This is absolute chaos! Closure or no, we're sure to be facing some lawsuits when all this is over! SR: Nothing like in-your-face entertainment, huh, Drossy? TD: This is bordering on ridiculous, Steve Roberts! Thunder is down, and Ronnie D is just waiting for him to rise... Ronnie D with a HUGE plancha dive on Thunder as he was getting up! What a move! Both men have now spilled over the back row of the lower bowl, and Brody Thunder and "Playboy" Ronnie D are now brawling in the mezzanine! SR: Where the hell are they going now, Dross? They disappeared down the hallway! Somebody get a camera back there! TD: Folks, this match has gone way beyond both the lines of public safety and of good taste, but we'll continue bringing it to you once we get a feed from our backstage area! Wait... have we got something? Folks, I've just been told we'll have a camera on the scene any moment now... what? Okay, we're going live to what I believe is the foyer of the IIWF Coliseum! Let's see what's happening! [The video wall flickers to life for the benefit of the cheering fans in the Coliseum's auditorium as the ringside camera shot switches abruptly to a moving shot somewhere out in the lower mezzanine of the Coliseum, as the cameraman sprints to capture the action on film. In the distance, we see the brawling figures of Thunder and Ronnie D, and as the camera gets closer, we see that Ronnie D has a heavy garbage can and is hammering Thunder across the back with it! Heel pop from the fans in the arena, as Ronnie brings the steel can down across Thunder's back with a loud CLANG, before lining him up and smashing Thunder flush on the temple! Thunder collapses like a ton of bricks against the counter of a nearby concession stand, and Ronnie backs away as Kowalski moves in to begin counting Thunder out!] TD: Brody Thunder is not in a good way, Steve Roberts! He has been split wide open by the repeated blows to the head he has suffered at the hands of "Playboy" Ronnie D, and now he is in danger of being counted out again! SR: What the hell is this, Dross? Ronnie only hit him with a garbage can... why is the Fury jumping on him with the count all of a sudden? He ain't gonna stay down for ten! TD: Ronnie D doesn't seem to be disputing the point, Steve. Perhaps he has faith in the "arrangement" he made with Kowalski before the match started. [Thunder lies on the floor and does not move as Kowalski begins to apply the count... 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... and Thunder begins to stir! Kowalski counts seven as Thunder begins to slowly get to his knees, and breaks off the count at eight as the "Lone Wolf" pulls himself unsteadily to his feet, his chest heaving as he rests momentarily against the concession counter with his back to the "Playboy". Ronnie grins, raises the trash can over his head, and charges at Thunder...] TD: Oh my goodness! [This time, it is Ronnie D's turn to reel back in pain as Brody Thunder suddenly whirls and unloads the contents of two squeeze bottles from the counter at point-blank range into the "Playboy's" face! Ronnie lets loose with a bloodcurdling shriek and drops the can to the marble floor, frantically trying to wipe away the vinegar and hot mustard that the big cowboy just shot into his eyes!] TD: Ronnie D is squirming on the floor in utter agony, Steve Roberts! Thunder sprayed those condiments directly into his eyes, and now it is the "Playboy" who's blind! SR: [mock English accent] I say, Ronnie... would you have any Grey Poupon? [Thunder rushes at Ronnie as the "Playboy" struggles to his feet, yellow mustard in his hair and dripping down his chest, and the "Lone Wolf" catches Ronnie in a fireman's carry, running him across the Coliseum foyer and bodyslamming him directly on top of a wheeled hot dog cart! Massive pop from the fans inside! Ronnie screams again, as the hot grill and bun steamer singe his back and legs, and he frantically squirms on the cart to avoid the heat!] TD: Oh my goodness. I simply can't watch any more of this. SR: Look, Dross! Ronnie's getting his buns steamed! TD: "Playboy" Ronnie D could suffer serious burns to his... uh, nether regions if he doesn't get off of that cart... and Brody Thunder is now _pushing_ the cart towards the main doors of the Coliseum! SR: He's picking up speed, Dross! And I don't hear the Wolf asking anyone to hold the door for him! Brace for impact, baby dolls! Whooo-hoo! [Ronnie D manages to squirm off of the hot plate on the cart, but he remains aboard, and through his stinging, tearing eyes, looks behind him and sees the grinning, wild-eyed visage of "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder behind him as he pushes the cart as fast as he is able! Ronnie looks around him in confusion, and his eyes grow wide with genuine fear, and he scrambles to cover his face, before...] TD: Oh, no... [There is an ear-splitting CRASH, and the Coliseum crowd erupts with a MONSTER pop as the hot dog cart, Brody Thunder, and Ronnie D smash through the plate glass double doors of the IIWF Coliseum and hurtle out into the arena's parking lot! Shattered glass scatters all over the pavement, and the camera manages to catch a last glimpse of Ronnie D, blood streaming from several lacerations on his chest and arms... and incredibly, Brody Thunder picks up speed behind him, still pushing the cart like a bat out of hell!] TD: Ronnie D has been cut up like a Christmas turkey from that impact with the glass doors of the Coliseum, Steve Roberts! And Thunder is still pushing that cart for all he is worth! They appear to be heading for... oh, he can't be serious! SR: Thunder's headed straight for the fountain, Dross! Ronnie's going in the drink! [Thunder cackles maliciously as he bears down on the marble fountain that graces the front of the Coliseum, hurtling towards the fixture at breakneck speed! Ronnie looks as if he's about to jump off the cart... and then, he turns around to face Thunder, pulls back a desperate right hand, and nails Brody Thunder right in his covered left eye! Thunder bellows in pain, and his hands go to his face to protect his damaged eye, but rather than letting him go, Ronnie D reaches out and grabs two big handfuls of the cowboy's long black hair! The crowd in the Coliseum collectively takes a deep breath, as we see Ronnie D, still aboard the hot dog cart hurtling towards the fountain, _dragging_ the "Lone Wolf" behind him!] TD: Ronnie D is not attempting to jump off that cart... and now he's pulling Thunder along behind him! Is he insane? SR: They're gonna hit, Dross! This is gonna hurt both of them huge! [As if on cue, the speeding cart slams with a sickening crunch into the side of the marble fountain! Incredible pop! Ronnie D is suddenly flung from the cart, and the cruiser sails through the air and splashes down a few feet away. Thunder, however, is suddenly slammed into the back of the cart, and both cart and Thunder are carried over the lip of the fountain! The "Lone Wolf" disappears in the spray as the heavy steel cart goes up on end, almost balances there for a split-second, and topples over into the fountain, sending a shower of water cascading into the parking lot!] TD: Good Lord! Both wrestlers were thrown into that fountain! Brody Thunder in particular may have been seriously injured, he slammed head-on into the back of that cart before it fell into the water! This is terrible! SR: Are you kiddin', Dross-man? This is great! That buy-rate must be soarin' through the roof by now! C'mon boys, lets jack up those ratings! TD: Steve... why on Earth do you care about the buy-rate? SR: Have I ever mentioned that little clause I have in my contract that gives me points on pay-per-view ratings, Dross? Why do you think I'm so gosh-darned outspoken all the time? TD: I'm green with envy, Steve Roberts. Steve "The Fury" Kowalski has now arrived on the scene, and Ronnie D and Brody Thunder have still not emerged from the fountain! [Kowalski reaches the scene of the accident, peering into the huge marble fountain, but can't seem to find a trace of either the "Playboy" or Thunder. The overturned hot dog cart lies nearly submerged in the water, its wheels lazily spinning, but here is still no trace of he two wrestlers. Kowalski looks genuinely puzzled, as swirling mist from the impact still hangs in the Portland night air, and then, Kowalski begins applying a ten-count to the fountain, with both hands!] TD: Steve Kowalski is counting _both_ wrestlers out! This is absurd! Those men could be unconscious in the water! They may both drown! SR: Yeah, but if only one of them drowns, the other guy wins the match! Give the Fury a break, Dross, he's in a tough situation here! TD: HE'S in a tough situation?! Honestly, Steve, I think it would be more prudent for... wait a minute, there they are! [Kowalski manages to count to five before a loud splashing noise erupts form the middle of the fountain, and through the spray, we can see Brody Thunder holding up "Playboy" Ronnie D in a huge tower suplex! Thunder takes a few steps backwards, leans back, and drops Ronnie out of the fountain, suplexing him onto the hard asphalt! Incredible pop from the fans in the Coliseum, every one of them inside glued to the video screen!] TD: I... I don't believe it! Brody Thunder is still going, Steve Roberts, and he has just suplexed "Playboy" Ronnie D out of the fountain! Both men are now down on the pavement in the parking lot, and you have to wonder now just how long these two men can keep going at this incredible pace! SR: Until one of them reaches the breaking point, Dross. Literally. [Outside, both Thunder and Ronnie are lying on the pavement, gasping for breath. The gash over Ronnie D's right eye has opened wider, and blood is flowing freely from the wound, as well as from the lacerations criss-crossing his chest and arms from the collision with the glass doors. Thunder looks no better, with his dark hair caked with blood, severe purple bruises across his chest and ribs from running into the back of the cart, and his black eyepatch is now missing, exposing his badly damaged left eye for all the world to see. The eye is badly swollen shut, and black stitches can be seen running all along the top of the eyelid. Kowalski stands over both men, waiting to see if either is able to get up, and after a few long moments, the Fury begins to apply the count once again... 1... 2... 3... 4...] TD: Kowalski is halfway through the count, and neither man has budged an inch, Steve! They may have beaten themselves into a draw! SR: No way, Dross! There's no way Thunder's gonna settle for a draw! He's gonna finish the pansy, even if he has to finish himself to do it! [6... 7... Slowly, Brody Thunder rolls over onto his stomach, and begins rising to his knees! Huge pop from the fans! A moment later, Ronnie D begins to do the same, the crowd responding with a loud heel pop, although many fans have begun to applaud both wrestlers for their sheer tenacity alone. Kowalski waves off the count at nine, as Thunder manages to rise to his feet, totters unsteadily over to Ronnie, and seizes the "Playboy" by the hair! The crowd cheers wildly as Thunder begins dragging Ronnie by the hair back towards the Coliseum, with Kowalski in hot pursuit!] TD: Brody Thunder looks dead on his feet, Steve, but he seems to be back in control of this bout, and it appears he wants to finish this match off back here in the Coliseum, in front of his home crowd! SR: Nah, he's gonna grab a big piece of that broken glass out there and geld the "Playboy", just like them horses he keeps out on his ranch in Arizona! Don't ever say the IIWF doesn't give the wrestling fan his moneys worth, baby dolls! TD: I seriously doubt that's what Thunder has in mind at this point in the match, Steve, although with everything else we've seen tonight, I honestly wouldn't be surprised. Thunder has reached the door now, and he is still dragging the "Playboy" along behind him by the hair! [Thunder reaches the shattered doors of the Coliseum, with Ronnie still in tow, but the disoriented "Playboy", looking down at the pavement, notices the myriad shards of sparkling glass lying in front of the threshold. Ronnie makes a grab for a decent-sized shard, and with a desperate lunge, drives the glass into Thunder's calf! Huge heel pop! Thunder bellows in pain, blood streaming from the fresh wound on his leg, and lets go of the "Playboy" as he works to remove the shard from his leg!] TD: Oh my goodness! Ronnie D just _stabbed_ Brody Thunder in the leg! SR: And we've got it on tape, Dross! Call the boys in blue! Ronnie D can't answer a ten-count if his locked up in the pokey! TD: Ronnie D doesn't even look like he knows where he is, Steve! That was a blind, desperate act on his part, and the "Playboy" seems to be running on pure instinct right now! [As Thunder pulls the glass shard out of his leg with a grunt, he is suddenly knocked flying across the concrete by a surging Ronnie D, who shoulderblocks the big cowboy down into the glass debris in front of the doors! Heel pop! Thunder is in real pain now as he rolls across the sharp bits of glass, and quickly leaps to his feet, several small pieces appearing to be stuck in his back. Streaks of crimson begin to run down Thunder's back, matching the dried courses of blood snaking down Ronnie's arms and torso, but Thunder has no time to deal with his lacerations, as he is once again sent sprawling through the front doors of the Coliseum and back into the foyer by a soaring dropkick from the "Playboy"! Pop!] TD: Ronnie D is pulling out all the stops now, Steve! I think he senses that Thunder may not have much left! SR: Either that, or he thinks he doesn't have the gas to go much longer, Dross! It's now or never for Ronnie D! He's gotta put Thunder away, and soon, or it's gonna be all over, baby blue! [Thunder slowly picks himself up off the marble floor of the Coliseum foyer, but before he can so much as rise to his knees, he is jerked up roughly by the hair! The look on Ronnie D's face is pure, absolute hatred as the "Playboy" proceeds to drag the 267-pound cowboy down the hallway towards the auditorium entrance!] TD: "Playboy" Ronnie D is turning the tables on his larger rival, and he is now dragging Brody Thunder to ringside by the hair! SR: Hey, since when did this Texas Death match turn into slap-fight at the junior prom, anyway? We want more blood! TD: Steve, I seriously doubt that either of these two men could spill any more blood tonight! Look at them, they're both an absolute mess! [As Dross and Roberts continue to comment, the lobby camera eventually loses Ronnie and Thunder as the "Playboy" drags the disoriented cowboy down a hallway and out of sight. The crowd begins to pop with anticipation, as they await the return of the two combatants.] TD: We've temporarily lost sight of Ronnie and Thunder, but we're told that they are approaching the auditorium entrance! Brody Thunder looks to be in rough shape, Steve Roberts, and Ronnie D may have taken advantage of a timely swing in momentum! If he can stay in control for just a bit longer, he may prove to be the victor in this match! SR: Easier said than done, Dross! Look! [Once again, the crowd explodes with a massive pop, as Brody Thunder and Ronnie D emerge from the wrestlers' entrance, throwing haymakers at each other! Neither man is making any effort to avoid the others' blows, and the two men are snarling at each other like wild animals as they rain blow after punishing blow on the other! The melee slowly begins to advance toward the ring, the crowd going absolutely crazy as the "Lone Wolf" and the "Playboy" continue to brawl away with wild abandon!] TD: Brody Thunder... Brody Thunder has found a second wind, Steve! Brody Thunder has managed to free himself from the clutches of "Playboy" Ronnie D, and now both men are hammering away at each other with everything they've got! This match isn't over yet, folks! SR: Good Lord, Dross, how much punishment can these guys take? Even the Fury's gotta be impressed with this show! [Kowalski is indeed standing at the head of the aisle, looking on in disbelief as Thunder and Ronnie continue to fire bombs at each other, and then, halfway down the aisle, the two men lock up! Thunder seizes Ronnie's head, and starts to run down the aisle, straight for the ring post! Ronnie tries to fight the cowboy's strength, digging in his heels, and then decides to change his tack, grabbing _Thunder's_ head, and sprinting for the corner as well, causing both wrestlers to hurtle headlong down the aisle!] TD: They're going to try to ram each other's head into the ring post! SR: Cool! We gots us a game of chicken, Dross! TD: The endgame is almost surely upon us now, folks! One of these men will most likely be victorious in just a few short moments... but which one? [The two men speed towards the unforgiving steel of the ring post, but before they hit, a shift in balance carries both men just wide of the post, and both Thunder and Ronnie hit the apron hard, tumbling under the ropes and back into the ring! Huge pop! The two men lie on the mat for a moment, not quite believing where they are, as Kowalski scrambles back into the ring as well, and then they start to slowly claw their way to their feet again, with audible groans. Thunder is the first on his feet, and he stumbles over to Ronnie D, who is still on his knees, and slowly pulls the flamboyant cruiser to his feet. Ronnie is unable to offer up much resistance as Thunder marshals his remaining strength and plants the "Playboy" into the mat with his Helldorado Express driver! Incredible pop! Thunder staggers away, punching an arm into the air as Kowalski quickly moves in to apply the count!] TD: Thunder hits the Helldorado, a move normally executed from the top rope, but under the circumstances, it just might be enough! Ronnie D is not moving after that manoeuvre -- Thunder may have got him! [Ronnie is absolutely motionless on the canvas as Kowalski continues his count... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... Thunder turns away from the centre of the ring, exhausted, and raises both arms to the crowd in a victory salute, the crowd popping madly, every single person in the Coliseum counting along with Steve "The Fury" Kowalski as on the mat, Ronnie D still lies without a hint of movement... 8...] SR: He's gonna get him, Dross! Thunder's gonna win! [9... ...and Kowalski stops the count! Huge heel pop! Thunder, who by now is standing on the bottom rope in the corner, his arms raised in victory as he waits for the ten-count, doesn't hear the number 10 escape the lips of Kowalski, and the heel pop immediately lets him know that something has gone wrong. Frustrated beyond belief, the battered cowboy drops from the turnbuckles, spins around angrily to give Kowalski a dressing-down... ...and walks straight into a vicious kick to the midsection from a resurgent "Playboy" Ronnie D, his eyes flashing with pure rage! The exhausted Ronnie D somehow finds the strength and quickness to seize hold of the doubled-over Thunder, plants his heels into the mat and heaves away with all his remaining power, and...] TD: RONNIEPLEX! RONNIEPLEX! "Playboy" Ronnie D just devastated "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder with his patented finisher! It is almost certainly over now, folks! "Playboy" Ronnie D has just connected with one of the most devastating moves in the sport, and it looks like it is all over! Look at the expression on Ronnie's face, he is absolutely exultant! [The crowd is stunned into silence for what seems like an eternity, and then an ear-splitting heel pop roars throughout the Coliseum as Ronnie begins to leap around the motionless form of Brody Thunder, clearly exited by this turn of events! The "Playboy's" face says it all, despite the horrific injuries and incredible fatigue he is experiencing -- Ronnie is grinning from ear to ear, and the strut begins to creep its way back into his gait as he motions to Steve Kowalski to come over and begin applying the count to Thunder!] SR: That son of a bitch... he was shamming, Dross! He got Thunder to drop his guard, and now the pansy's gonna win! It's a dark day for the IIWF, when one of our own gets embarrassed like this! Thank God we're closing, that's all I have to say! TD: I'm sure you don't mean that, Steve Roberts. However, the fact of the matter remains that, to date, no one has ever kicked out of the Ronnieplex. Brody Thunder's IIWF career will certainly finish with a mark in the loss column now, and that will surely bring the big cowboy to some difficult career decisions after tonight, as he will not take yet another loss to the "Playboy" lightly. [Kowalski stands over Thunder, looking for any sign of lucidity from the "Lone Wolf", but Thunder is clearly out like a light. Ronnie screams at Kowalski to start the count, and makes the "moolah" sign with his fingers in the Fury's face, reminding him of the bribe he took at the start of the match. Kowalski is clearly not pleased with Ronnie's arrogance towards him, his green eyes lighting up with resentment, but he shrugs and turns his attention back to Thunder, and begins laying the count on the unconscious cowboy... 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6...] SR: Aw, why bother, Dross? Thunder's gonna be down for a hundred count after that move! TD: Wait, Steve, WAIT! He moved! Thunder just moved his head! [The silent crowd begins to buzz as Thunder's head lolls on the canvas, and then, the "Lone Wolf" raises a hand to his head! The crowd buzz begins to get louder as Thunder's good eye flutters open, glancing around the rafters high above him as he struggles to focus! Ronnie D is absolutely shocked, his mouth hanging open in horror as he watches Thunder fight off the effects of the Ronnieplex! 7...] SR: C'mon, Thunder... TD: He might not have enough left to beat the count, Steve! Thunder is struggling to regain full consciousness, but will he be in time? [Thunder moves one of his legs now, and is struggling to roll himself over, still clutching at his head, which is pounding from the effects of the Ronnieplex. Ronnie D is apoplectic with frustration and anger, and he begins haranguing Kowalski from the neutral corner, trying to get the Fury to speed up the count! Ronnie glares at the Fury, making the "moolah" sign in his direction once again, but Kowalski just looks coolly across at the "Playboy", and continues to make the count on Thunder at the same deliberate pace! Ronnie ponds the ropes in a fit of rage as the crowd rises to his feet, cheering both Thunder and the Fury! 8...] TD: Look at the frustration of the face of "Playboy" Ronnie D, Steve Roberts! He thought he was a lock to win this match, by both catching Brody Thunder with the Ronnieplex and assuming that he had special referee Steve "The Fury" Kowalski in his pocket! But Kowalski apparently does not intend to call the match in Ronnie's favour, and now Brody Thunder may have a chance to escape this ten-count! SR: You know what they say about making assumptions, Dross? When you make an assumption, you make an "ass" out of "U" and "Sumption". I don't have a clue who "Sumption" is, but Ronnie's lookin' like the ass now! God bless you, Fury! [Thunder rolls over onto his stomach as Ronnie D turns away, hiding his eyes and clenching his fists on the top rope, not able to stand the tension! Thunder makes an attempt to rise to his hands and knees, slips, and collapses back to the mat! Disappointed pop! The crowd quiets down again as Thunder crawls to the ropes, wildly struggling to grab the bottom rope... 9...] SR: I can't look, Dross... [Thunder manages to snag the bottom rope, hauls himself over to the edge of the ring, and with a last burst of strength, pulls himself up to the second, and then the third, and then... TD: HE MADE IT! HE MADE IT! KOWALSKI WAVES OFF THE TEN COUNT! THUNDER IS STILL ALIVE! [The crowd erupts with the loudest pop of the evening as Brody Thunder, battered, bloodied and exhausted, leans against the turnbuckle pads in the corner, disoriented but still very much alive! Ronnie D turns at the crowd pop, sees Thunder in the corner, barely able to maintain his balance, and goes ballistic!] SR: Uh-oh, Ronnie's pissed! TD: "Playboy" Ronnie D is certainly not happy with Kowalski's maintaining that steady count, after he gave the special referee what appeared to be a substantial amount of money before this match! Ronnie apparently feels he has been cheated, and he is letting Steve Kowalski know it in no uncertain terms! [The "Playboy", seething with rage, immediately storms over to Kowalski and stops within inches of the Fury, stabbing a sharp finger into Kowalski's chest as he spits angry words at the former IIWF Champion.] RD: YOU IDIOT! WE HAD AN AGREEMENT! I GAVE YOU _MONEY!_ THAT WASN'T JUST A SIGN OF GOOD FAITH! I KNEW I NEVER SHOULD HAVE TRUSTED A DUMB HICK LIKE YOU! [SHOCKED pop from the crowd, as Ronnie D dresses down one of the most respected men in IIWF history on worldwide satellite television!] TD: Oh my. SR: He's dead, Dross. Ronnie's dead! Forget about the match now... by the time the Fury gets through with this punk, there won't be anything left to give a ten count to! [The crowd holds its breath, as Ronnie glares up defiantly at Steve Kowalski, almost begging the Fury to make a move! A thunderous chant of "SKULL-PUMP! SKULL-PUMP! SKULL-PUMP!" reverberates throughout the Coliseum as Kowalski puts his hands on his hips and looks around the capacity crowd, as if trying to decide whether or not he should take on the arrogant "Playboy" right then and there! Ronnie stirs the crowd up even more by beckoning to Kowalski to "bring it on", and the chant of "SKULL-PUMP! SKULL-PUMP! SKULL-PUMP!" increases to ear-splitting pitch!] SR: Oh, do us all a favour and Skullpump that little freak, Fury! [Kowalski stares back at Ronnie, and a wide toothy grin spreads across the Fury's stubbly face. The "Playboy" tenses, waiting for Kowalski to explode into action. Kowalski reaches out to Ronnie D as the crowd holds its collective breath... ...and points behind him. Confusion plays across the face of the "Playboy", not at all expecting this reaction from Kowalski, and then, slowly, through the exhaustion and the pain that is rioting in his brain, Ronnie D realises what Kowalski s pointing at... ...a fraction of a second too late. Ronnie spins away from Kowalski, desperately trying to get out of the way, but he is not fast enough to avoid the clutches of Brody Thunder, who drives a knee into Ronnie's midsection, driving the wind out of him before the "Lone Wolf" slaps on a reverse facelock, digs his heels into the mat, and letting loose with a piercing scream of both exertion and sheer agony, snaps "Playboy" Ronnie D into the air, holds him up in a vertical suplex, and then viciously drives the "Playboy's" head into the canvas with a ring-shaking DDT! Massive Thunder pop as the crowd leaps to its feet!] TD: WIDOWMAKER! WIDOWMAKER! Brody Thunder managed to sneak behind Ronnie D while he was busy chewing out the Fury, and Thunder has absolutely devastated the "Playboy" with his Widowmaker finisher! Ronnie never even saw it coming! SR: I was hoping for the Skullpump myself, Dross, but the Widowmaker ought to do just fine! [The noise in the Coliseum is nearly unbearable now, as Thunder collapses in utter exhaustion into a nearby corner, sitting down on the mat and reclining against the turnbuckle pads as Kowalski, barely containing his amusement, stands over the prone, stone-still form of "Playboy" Ronnie D and begins applying the count, the crowd counting along with the Fury as he raises his hand and brings it down over and over... 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8...] SR: He did it, Dross! He's got him! Thunder's got him! [9... Ronnie begins to groan audibly, and he manages to roll himself over onto his stomach, but try as he might, he does not have the strength or the presence of mind to fight up to his hands and knees before Kowalski counts... 10! Ding! Ding! Ding! THUNDEROUS POP FROM THE CROWD!] TD: HE DID IT! HE DID IT! THUNDER WINS! Brody Thunder is the Last Man Standing! What an incredible match! SR: I gotta hand it to both guys, Dross -- I haven't seen two guys go at each other like that in a long, long time! Only in the Double Eye, baby dolls! Way to go, Thunder! SL: Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner... ...the "Last Man Standing"... ...the "LOOOOONNNNNEEEE WOOOOLLLLLLFFFF", BRRRRROOOODDDDYYYY THUUUUUNNNNNDDDDEEERRRRR! [The huge pop for the "Lone Wolf" threatens to blow the roof off the Coliseum as Kowalski walks over to the corner where Thunder is seated, helps the exhausted cowboy to his feet, and raises his arm in victory! The capacity crowd, to a man, are on their feet as the thunderclap rumbles throughout the arena once again, just before the theme from "High Plains Drifter' begins to play over the PA. Thunder holds on to Kowalski for support, but eventually finds the strength to stand unaided, and he begins to slowly march around the ring, his arms raised to the sky, as the elation of the victory washes over him and powers him on! The chant of "THUNDER! THUNDER! THUNDER!" echoes all around the arena, as Brody Thunder, finally victorious against his bitterest of rivals, even manages to climb up onto a turnbuckle and bellow out to the crowd in celebration! Massive Thunder pop!] TD: The look on Brody Thunder's face says it all, Steve Roberts! After months of frustration, second-guessing, and yes, self-doubt, the "Lone Wolf" has finally triumphed over the flamboyant "Playboy", Ronnie D -- and triumphed in fine fashion, might I add! In fairness, Ronnie D proved himself to be a more than game adversary, and this could have been anybody's match, right down to the wire! In the end, it was both the incredible stamina and toughness of Brody Thunder, and the misplaced arrogance of the "Playboy" that resulted in victory for the "Lone Wolf" tonight! SR: Speaking of Ronnie, Dross, it looks like he's coming around... and looks who's waiting to have a little "morning chat" with him! Ha! [As Thunder celebrates on the turnbuckles, on the mat, Ronnie D is on his knees, shaking his head to clear his vision, his head throbbing from the effect of the Widowmaker. The "Playboy" looks up from the canvas to see a smirking Steve "The Fury" Kowalski standing over him, holding the thick wad of dollar bills in his hand! Huge Fury pop! The camera picks up the Fury's words as he glares down at Ronnie.] SK: So, ya thought ya could buy a win here tonight, did ya, "Playboy"? Thought ya could buy the Fury? Let me tell ya something, ace... the Fury ain't fer hire! [Big pop from the crowd!] I don't take orders from Spreadbury, I don't take orders from no sequin-wearin' spandex sissy-boy from the scrub leagues, and I sure as HELL don't take orders from _this_! [The crowd erupts with a huge pop as Kowalski tosses the wad of money to the mat in front of Ronnie, who just stares dejectedly at the bankroll before him. Kowalski continues to glare down at the battered cruiser, and draws his mouth into a derisive snarl.] SK: Mebbe you'll learn a little somethin' out of this... but I doubt it. The only way guys like you ever learn is if somebody hits you over the head. [With that, Kowalski, turns away from the "Playboy" and heads for the ropes. Behind him, Ronnie just shakes his head, and reaches for the wad of bills. As soon as he looks down, Kowalski suddenly turns back, rushes at Ronnie, and delivers a boot right into Ronnie D's ribs! Explosive pop!] TD: Oh my goodness! Steve Kowalski just attacked "Playboy" Ronnie D! SR: You just don't walk into Steve F'n Kowalski's house and try to make him look like a chump in front of his friends and family, Dross-man! Ronnie D's about to find out exactly why that is! School is is session, baby dolls! [Ronnie D sprawls across the mat, clutching his abdomen, and in a flash, Kowalski is upon him, jerking him up to his feet! Pop! Kowalski takes a moment to stare coldly into the eyes of the "Playboy" before he drives a knee into his gut, doubling Ronnie over, and then underhooks both arms! As the crowd explodes with another massive pop, Kowalski heaves Ronnie D into the air and plants him into the mat with a Skullpump! Incredible pop from the crowd, as Kowalski grins down at the stunned "Playboy", then steps through the ropes and heads up the aisle to the exit, to a chorus of "SKULL-PUMP! SKULL-PUMP! SKULL-PUMP!" from the wildly cheering fans!] SR: Here endeth the lesson, moron! See ya later tonight, Fury! TD: This is definitely not proving to be "Playboy" Ronnie D's night, folks. He has been battered, bruised, broken and bloodied, he has been Helldorado Expressed, Widowmakered, and now, at the hands of one Steve Kowalski, he has been Skullpumped. To his credit, Ronnie has proven to be an exceptionally resilient individual, but you know he is going to be hurting from this one for quite awhile! SR: Look at Thunder, Dross! He's going over to Ronnie now! Maybe we'll get to see a Thunderbolt from the "Lone Wolf" next! [As Ronnie rolls around on the mat, clutching at his head to try to calm the terrible pounding is his skull, Brody Thunder steps down from the turnbuckle and makes his way over to where the "Playboy" has begun to drag himself up to his feet by the ropes. Ronnie collapses against the turnbuckle pads, panting and squinting from the throbbing in his head, and slowly turns around to meet the cold, steely gaze of the "Lone Wolf"! Big Thunder pop!] TD: The match is over, but still, it appears that the bad blood between these two men is not yet over! Brody Thunder apparently feels he still has issues to settle with "Playboy" Ronnie D, and we may see yet another altercation between these two men right now! SR: Why not, Dross? In all the years the IIWF has been on the air, no one has ever been killed in the ring on live television! Let's go out in style, I say! Kill the pansy, Thunder! TD: Shush, Steve. Let's just see what happens... [The two men stare at each other for long moments, as the crowd quiets down, the tension between these two men almost physically visible as every single person in the Coliseum waits for the brawl to begin anew... ...and then, Ronnie D rolls his eyes, and extends his hand to Brody Thunder! Thunder looks at the proffered hand, suspecting a ruse, but Ronnie D never takes his eyes from Thunder's one working one, his expression as genuine as has ever been seen on the face of the "Playboy". Then, the "Lone Wolf" extends his own hand, and accepts Ronnie's handshake! Incredible pop from the crowd, as the two men warm to the handshake, and proceed to raise each other's arm in victory in the centre of the ring! Thunder and Ronnie stand like this for long moments, soaking in the tumultuous cheers of the crowd, before finally stepping through the ropes and proceeding up the aisle to the exit.] TD: How about that, Steve Roberts! "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder and "Playboy" Ronnie D, after months of enmity resulting in the knock-down, drag-out war we have just witnessed, have just buried the hatchet in front of a world-wide viewing audience! After all the bad blood, all the violence, all the downright atrocious actions that these two men have perpetrated on each other over the last few months, to end it all tonight with this extraordinary show of sportsmanship is truly an inspirational moment, not only for both Brody Thunder and Ronnie D, but for every single fan of the IIWF! What a moment for the history of the Double Eye! SR: What a load of crap, Dross. The truly inspirational moment in this match was when Steve F'n Kowalski, the greatest wrestler in IIWF history, _period_, gave that precious little nancy-boy his first lesson in IIWF 101 -- Why Loudmouth Arrogant Silky Boys Shouldn't Piss Off The Fury. Kowalski should have kept the money, though. The Fury obviously hasn't seen the IIWF's lame-assed severance package yet, Dross. TD: Be that as it may, Steve Roberts, before we go up to the ring for our next match, we have some special pre-recorded comments from the man who steered the good ship IIWF for a time last summer when the IIWF President was indisposed -- thanks to a chair shot by one Brody Thunder. I'm talking, of course, of former IIWF Vice-President, Steve Owens, who took time out of his busy schedule to send the following message: [Fade in on a tight shot of former IIWF Vice President Steve Owens. His face nearly fills the screen and he is wearing a white jacket in honour of the IIWF's final card. Owens smiles at the camera.] SO: Good evening, everyone! It's certainly a thrill to be able to share this momentous evening with you all -- even though I am unable to be at the IIWF Coliseum in person. It seems like just yesterday that a small group of us had a vision... a vision that would become what is now known as the International Internet Wrestling Federation. But don't think that the IIWF rose to prominence in the sport without a lot of blood, sweat and tears. Not the _administration's_ blood, sweat and tears, mind you, but the wrestlers who made the fed what it is. The staff, however, did put in many long hours to ensure that the world would enjoy what the Double Eye had to offer. [The shot zooms out slightly.] As this historic evening is now upon us, I'd like to take just a moment to reflect on some of the moments I best remember as vice president. Of course, producing three weekly update shows was not an easy task, but working with on- air and under-desk talent like Becky LaRue made it a pleasure. And that Barry Morton guy wasn't too bad, either. But combing out that dead rat Tim Dross wears on his head... that had to be the worst job. [The shot zooms out a bit more, showing that Owens' jacket does not have lapels. His voice rises.] Then, there was working with the wrestlers themselves. I had to order cases of Dan Kauffman's body wax because if he ever ran out... whoooo-boy! Deathbringer was always asking for those Cuban cigars... yeah, like those things grow on trees. I went to markets at 3 a.m. to buy as many as 40 five- pound bags of sugar for the Alphabet Boys and 40 boxes of Hostess Ho-Ho's for Jack Haley. That two-toothed high school dropout at the checkout would grin and say, "What'smatter, not gettin' enough sugar in ya diet?" And Creed... would it have killed him to wear a second glove? It was a marketing suggestion, dammit! [The shot zooms out even more to show that Owens' arms are crossed in front of him and the sleeves of the jacket extend to the back -- a straightjacket. Owens now begins to yell.] And Spreadbury! Don't even get me started! Two windows in his office! Two! That whole incident of stripping Joe Petrow of the title... a pure sham! That wasn't me! The voices were there... it was... THE CELL! THE VENUSIAN DEATH CELL! HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA! The aliens are already here, I tell you! They're here! Look, green spit! Ptoooooo! [Owens spits at the camera, then breaks into a run and jumps against a padded wall, falling onto his back on the floor. He flops around like a dying fish.] You'll never take me alive, Chris Quigley! You'll never... [Cut to static. Cut back to the announce table at ringside.] SR: Dictator Danny, take note -- the IIWF sucks 'em in, chews 'em up, and spits 'em out... That's you in a year, Mr. President. TD: We'd like to thank Mr. Owens for those comments, and hope that he makes a speedy recovery. Folks, just don't move a muscle, because we're coming right back at you with another high powered dosage of monumental wrestling mayhem. This one is sure to be a real treat for long time fans of the IIWF, Steve, as we take it right back to the `old school'. Four real powerhouses, four real veterans will be stepping up into the ring and brawling for it all. Chris Quigley. Otto Verhoeven. The Subway Psycho. Deathbringer. These are guys who have come to know each other very well over the years, and I'd venture to say that they've even come to respect each other a great deal, despite... SR: The hell they have. Maybe in a brief moment of weakness, stuck in some Mexican whorehouse at four in the morning after downing thirty seven tequila slammers, eyes glazed over with tears of self pity because "lil' Abner" won't respond to the ministrations of El Marimbo Machismo Bitch and the prime of their careers have floated down the bush league river of mediocrity, one or three of them might blubber to themselves, "Where did it all go wrong? I never really wanted to solve my problems with violence! I wanted to take that Welsh folk knitting course down at the Modern Communal Matriarchal College down in Phoenix and hang giant woolly peace signs around military establishments while singing Joni Mitchell songs. Deep inside, I loved those guys all along, and wrestling divided us like Moses getting busy on the Nile. Where is Moses? Where are my brothers of love?" TD: Steve Roberts... SR: But most of the time, they're overcome with a nasty, broiling hatred of one another, seething like four ageing cosmetics consultant bitches over a colleague's recent liposuction treatment whenever some internet asshole compiles a list of the greatest wrestlers of all time, and they find that they're ranked lower than the other three. Aside from all the feuds they've fought, aside from all the times they've ambushed and beat up on one another, the real reason Chris Quigley, Otto Verhoeven, Subway Psycho and Deathbringer all despise and resent one another, is because each feels that _he_ alone is the one man, the one wrestler that represents what the IIWF is all about, but the rest of the world will never see it that way while the other three guys are still around. That's why they're out to rip chunks out of one another, and that's why this match is gonna be great, despite the face that it involves a quitter, a has-been, an even bigger has-been, and a traitor to the Double Eye. TD: I'd suggest that is neither the most flattering nor the most appropriate resumé for these four great legends of the ring, Steve Roberts. Quigley, Verhoeven, Psycho and 'Bringer have three World titles and an Intercontinental title between them, and, perhaps more than any of their peers, their long and storied careers have been indelibly etched in IIWF history. Without further ado, we present to you, the Four Way Dance of Legends! ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| ..........................| || | \ v v / | __|.......................... |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| LEGENDS MATCH: Deathbringer vs. Quigley vs. Subway Psycho vs. Verhoeven ......................................................................... WRITER: Robert Davison [The camera pans out over the landscape of humanity in attendance for the greatest wrestling event of all times. Rival chants ring out and blend in jagged disharmony. Signs of all colours and depictions are held, arms straining, above crew cut, mohawked, afroed, mop topped, dreadlocked, long-haired, short-haired and no-haired heads. A Mexican wave is begun at the ringside seats, but, perhaps due to the roaring trade of the beer vendors, collapses in a clumsy mess half way up the Coliseum. Everywhere, the atmosphere is electric and dynamic, the wrestling crazed fans eager to wolf down every scrap of their very last meal of thick, rich, IIWF goodness. Sparkplug Lee steps up into the ring, and even the uninspiring presence of the diminutive ring announcer seems to provoke an amplified response.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen... [Several inebriated fans at ringside interrupt the proceedings with a heartfelt request to "Show us yer nipples!" but, thankfully, Sparkplug respectfully declines.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest will be a four-man elimination match to the finish! [Loud cheers for no reason in particular. Streamers begin to hit the ring.] RA: The stipulations are as follows: All four men will be legal in the ring simultaneously, with eliminations occurring via pinfall, countout, disqualification, or submission. The last man standing in the ring, will be declared the victor! [Loud cheers again, although a plaintive cry of "Well that's bleedin' obvious ain't it, yer twit!" is somehow carried above the clamour and into the sound mic.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the Four Way Dance of Legends! [The crowd pop shakes the building, this time mixed with cries of "Get on with it!"] RA: Introducing first... A man who has captured wrestling championships across the globe, including the IIWF's very own Intercontinental title; a thirteen year veteran of the ring wars, and one of the most recognisable and respected athletes in professional wrestling history... [As the introduction is made, the camera cuts backstage to the cold, bare concrete walls of the entrance tunnel. There stands Chris Quigley, eyes closed, head down, knuckled fist pressed hard against his forehead. His face is etched with deep concentration, his mind perhaps going over and over again for one last time, every situation possible in the match ahead. The camera closes in, and we see that Quigley's fist is clenched bone white to the knuckle; unconsciously, the historic import of the battle before him, and his own intense determination, making their presence felt.] RA: ...hailing from Corner Brook, Newfoundland, Canada, and presently residing in Chicago, Illinois; weighing in at 241 lbs... here is the one, the only, "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley! [The classic heavy rock riff of "For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)" by AC/DC thunders out across the Coliseum, the crowd immediately roaring into fervent response, yet still Chris Quigley stands, knuckle poised to forehead, consumed totally in his thoughts, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. A nearby technician taps him on the shoulder and points down to the entranceway, startling the former Intercontinental champion out of his reverie. With a couple of blinks and a glance around himself, Quigley begins his walk down the corridor, and into history...] TD: And here he comes. In all my years as a broadcast journalist, and I think the scene we have just witnessed stands testament, I have never seen an athlete, in any kind of sport, who cares so deeply, and with as much emotion and intensity, about accomplishing the very best he can, as this man, Chris Quigley. His drive and determination... it's just incredible. SR: Quitter. TD: Steve Roberts. SR: Quitter. [As Quigley steps through the entrance curtain, the crowd immediately greet him with a huge ovation. There are plenty of detractors out there too, to be sure -- jeers of derision, signs slandering his name, jibes of "Quitter" and "Whiner" -- but for every Chris Quigley hater, there are at least five devoted fans who refuse to question the resilience of their hero, and in the face of all the adversity, they cheer him now as they never have before. And Chris Quigley... his face is as if transformed. Jaw set in granite. Eyes spitting pure defiance... almost contempt. It is as if the entire core of Quigley's being is set against those who have spoken out against him during his career, called him over rated, called him a complainer, called him a loser; he exults in his denial of them all, his iron will undeterred. And his physical appearance, perhaps reflecting the darker mindset Quigley has felt in the wake of his crushing submission defeat at the hands of Joe Petrow at Ring Wars V, has taken on an almost thuggish cast. An extra slab of beef and muscle. His formerly tangled fringe now swept back from his face in spiked fashion. A tattoo of a crooked jack of spades marking his left shoulder. A tattoo of the skull and lightning rod Quickstrike logo marking his right.] TD: This is a man just itching to redeem himself in the eyes of the world, Steve Roberts. Quigley built his reputation on a never say die foundation, and now that the world has heard him whisper the words "I Quit" just once, that foundation has been shattered. SR: And sweet Satan in hell, Timbo, his punk ass ain't never gonna be the same again. All those tattoos he's drawn on himself, all those mean stares he's putting on the pencil neck morons in the stands... it's all a big front. Quigley is all shot up inside after Petrow made him squeal like a bitch at Ring Wars V; his psyche is so fragile he'd break down on his knees and cry if you so much as asked him to name one thing he has in common with Kunio Komatsu. After Otto Verhoeven gets done tearing out his rib cage bone by bone, the only direction Quigley will be going is into bed for a self imposed consoling session with Troy the Inflatable. TD: I don't know, Steve Roberts... that look in his eyes, it's just plain dangerous, and you just can't fake that kind of intensity. [Chris Quigley climbs up into the ring, pausing to test the strength of the ropes. He wastes no time in playing to the fans, instead limbering up in the corner, temperament a mixture of determination and impatience.] RA: Introducing the next competitor... A former heavyweight champion of the world, and exclusive progeny of the IIWF. He rose up from his home in the subterranean depths to become the very first hero of the IIWF ring, and he returns one last time to do battle for his fans... [As the introductions are made, the camera cuts, once again, away from the ring, and we find ourselves somewhere deep in the bowels of the Coliseum. Pipes twist along dripping, stained brick walls, venting slim hisses of steam. Out of the murk ahead comes the rapidly approaching figure of the Subway Psycho. He is a tall, somewhat lanky, yet still muscular man, adorned in faded grey wrestling tights, scrawled with black graffiti. Long, unkempt black hair straggles down his face in strings, at times almost entirely obscuring his pasty white face. The pallor of his skin is accentuated by the black face paint roughly smudged around his eyes and down his cheeks. The Psycho is moving at a tremendous pace in his shambling, yet oddly graceful gait, taking rapid turns through the miasma of tunnels until the viewer is left thoroughly directionless... although the Psycho appears as if he knows exactly where he is going.] SR: What the hell is that freak doing down there? I think he watched "Kissed the Girls" too many times and decided to make the plot a reality. TD: Why don't you shut up a minute and listen to the rest of the introduction? SR: Only a guy who has nothing better to do than hang around in underground tunnels all day would get bored enough to watch "Kiss the Girls" more than once... if ever. I can't believe they cast Mad Dog Watkins in the starring role. TD: That was Morgan Freeman, Steve. RA: Weighing in at 260lbs, and hailing from parts unknown, please give a big welcome for the true people's champion, please give a big welcome for... the Subway Psycho! [As if from out of nowhere, the Subway Psycho bursts through the entranceway and out into the arena as "Crazy Train" by Ozzy Osbourne thunders over the loudspeakers! The pop is loud and sustained, particularly from those fans wearing faded shirts bearing the old IIWF logo, and the younger fans all blacked up in their souvenir Subway Psycho face paint. Psycho pauses in the middle of the aisle, gazing about himself at the many familiar faces he has come to recognise in the Coliseum over the years, and he allows his usually grave countenance to soften briefly into a smile.] TD: What a heartfelt ovation for the Subway Psycho as the fans welcome him back to the IIWF, the federation he laid the foundation for. SR: Has-been. TD: Steve Roberts. The Subway Psycho could have walked into retirement years ago and his place in wrestling history would have still been assured. A true icon of the IIWF, Pyscho has stepped foot in rival rings on only the rarest of occasions. He was the second man to hold the IIWF Heavyweight championship, beating none other than the legendary J.W. Hardin for the big strap, and he was never pinned for that belt. SR: Also never contended for that belt ever again, and that's because his title reign was a total fluke. When the Subway Slinker wore the gold, our talent roster wasn't even a fifth as deep as it is today. Back then, we were just an upstart federation held together with a vision, a shoe string budget, and the broadcasting genius of yours truly. Apart from J.W. Hardin, we didn't have a single ass-kicker to call our own. TD: Casey James? Hakiro Matsuoko? Tony Starks? Dan Kauffman? All great champions and legends in their own right, and they all called the IIWF their home way back then. SR: Casey James? In those days he was still saluting Uncle Sam with the American Patriot and the rest of the Reagan Youth scout boys. Hakiro Matsuoko looked like a comer, but he wound up playing mentor to Ralph Macchio's purple crane in some teenage karate flick. Tony Starks? He couldn't even solve a drug addled bong sucker like Ike Sampson, and that's one fat slob who turned out to be a bigger flop than the Last Action Hero. Dan Kauffman... don't even talk to me about Dan Kauffman. That limp dick bailed on the wrestling world like Bambi from the Texas Chaisaw Massacre, and he still had the nerve to take himself twice as seriously as Chris Quitley. You're gonna have to do better than that, Timmy boy, if you wanna impress the Soundbite. [The Subway Psycho steps up between the ropes and into the ring. He climbs up onto the second turnbuckle and raises his fists to the heavens, turning the crowd up yet another notch. Chris Quigley just scowls at him from over in the opposite corner.] RA: And their opponent... Another former World Heavyweight Champion, and the number one placed wrestler in Europe. Undoubtedly, he ranks among the most intimidating athletes in professional sports today... [Once again, the camera cuts away to the dimly lit entrance tunnel as Sparkplug Lee makes the announcements. There, pacing impatiently to and fro like a caged beast, is the formidable, imposing presence of the "Butcher", Otto Verhoeven. Beads of moisture drip from the German's blunt, crew cut head, down his meat slab neck, and over his barrel chest. Otto's red wrestling tunic barely seems capable of containing his massive bulk, a physique that is neither fat nor clearly defined muscle, but somewhere in between, a brick solid strip of pure steel. Verhoeven bellows to himself in his native German tongue as he pounds his chest with a beefy forearm, psyching himself up for the match ahead; to this violent wrecking machine, not so much an athletic contest as it is a roadblock that must be smashed into dust and rubble. The curvaceous Nurse Heidi, Verhoeven's long time fiancée and confiding companion, stands back at a respectful distance... she has come to know the nature of this beast well, and the beast's eyes are beginning to bulge and glower with psychotic menace.] RA: ...He hails from Essen, Germany and weighs in at 346lbs; to some he is known as the "Teutonic Terror", to others he is known as the "German Juggernaut", but all have come to fear the man they call the "The Butcher" Otto Verhoeven! [The escalating deep chords of the chilling "Theme from Halloween" emit at ear splitting volume from the loudspeakers, and immediately, the entire Coliseum erupts into a deafening cavalcade of jeers. Verhoeven is unheeding of the antipathy ahead of him as he hawks up a gob of phlegm on the concrete floor and begins to lumber purposefully through the corridor and out into the aisle, Heidi following right by his side.] SR: That's the man, Tim Dross. That's the monster who's gonna tear through this match like a tornado through Texas. You can have your fujiwara armbar submissions, you can have your somersault hurricanranas, you can have your tales of the supernatural mojo wojo, what really hauls ass when you cut down to the bone is a hell psycho wrecking machine like the wrestling Kaiser here, and it's gonna be hell for Quitley and the Hardy boys on the bottom line from the bell on in. You talk about the Third Reich and the Fourth Reich, this guy is all the Reichs rolled into one and then some, and you can forget about Wilhelm the Third. It's gonna be like Lee Perry getting busy on Jason Nevins, the Wu Tang Clan throwing MC Hammer off the stage, and Darth Vader dicing Obi Wan Kenobi into nothin' but thin air. Bring it on, big daddy! TD: Verhoeven certainly looks as dangerous as ever, Steve Roberts, and if I was forced to pick a favourite from among these great superstars, I guess it would have to be him. But match strategy tends to fly out of the window when a guy like Verhoeven gets his blood boiling, and with two of his most hated rivals, Subway Psycho and Chris Quigley, staring across the ring at him, I don't think that's gonna take long to happen. That might just be the big man's undoing, Steve. [Verhoeven pauses at the foot of the aisle, smirking slightly to himself at the loathing directed at him from the American fans, before climbing up the steps, through the ropes, and into the ring. Sparkplug Lee is all set to make the last introduction, but Verhoeven rudely shoulders him aside, and the crowd collectively draw a sharp intake of breath, as the behemoth heads straight for... Chris Quigley!] TD: Oh my goodness... they're gonna go at it already! [Quigley stares dead ahead, determined not to back away from the rapidly advancing Butcher. Verhoeven strides right up and... lays a stinging slap across the cheek of his hated rival! The crowd are in an uproar!] SR: Hot damn! What an insult! [Chris Quigley is immediately flushed with rage, his reddened cheek deepening to scarlet, and he lunges at the Butcher with his fist cocked! The crowd pops loudly, but referee Earl Alfonso is already interjecting himself in the fray, waving his arms about furiously and threatening disqualification. Uncharacteristically, Chris Quigley, perhaps realising the consequences of his actions, keeps his head and backs down into his corner, awaiting the bell and his chance of retaliation. Verhoeven smirks and pumps his fists to the heavens, soaking up another chorus of heel heat. All the while, the Subway Psycho has been hunched up in his own corner, peering through his tangled hair at the brief altercation, watching... and waiting.] TD: Whoa! Clearly, none of the bad feelings these men hold for one another have subsided in the least. We were on the verge of witnessing a hellacious brawl between Quigley and Verhoeven, and the match has not even begun! SR: You see, Timbo? Verhoeven is not all beef and no brains; he can play the mind games too when he wants to. Quigley is all psyched out, and if he loses his cool enough, he might just go and get himself DQed. TD: What a heart rending finish that would be to Quigley's IIWF career, Steve Roberts. Quigley already got himself DQed in a previous match with Verhoeven, snapping before even one hold had been applied and bludgeoning the Butcher repeatedly with a steel chair. I doubt that he'd go so far as to repeat that little performance, but it just goes to show the depths of animosity these two men hold against one another. [The fans settle down slightly as Sparkplug Lee once again takes to the mic.] RA: Ahem... And last of all, allow me to introduce a truly unique individual, a one of a kind phenomenon, and perhaps the most dominant World Champion in IIWF history... [The camera cuts to backstage as the voice inflection of Sparkplug Lee rings out, and to a place the cameras have never before been... the dressing room of the Deathbringer. There, his presence like a draught of cold air, his towering back turned against us, stands the man from the dark side. The black cloth robe is already draped in place around his shoulders, the famous scythe laid ready against the wall, but the cowl and eye band mask, as yet, are not in place. And before the Deathbringer... there stands a mirror. As yet we do not see the creature's face, only the unruly black hair hanging like a shadow around his shoulders, for the Deathbringer's head is bowed in respect for this, the pre match ritual he has undergone time and time again, and until now, no man has witnessed. Slowly, his gloved hand reaches out, retrieving the mask and cowl from a nearby table. He looks up, and suddenly, there it is, his reflection in the mirror. For the very first time, we see the face of the Deathbringer... and it is the face of a man. His countenance is grave, appearing somehow neither young nor old, both wisdom and sorrow to be read in the care worn lines of his face. But those twin points of red, those chilling reminders of what this man is and claims to be, those burning, freakish eyes, remain. Abruptly, the moment is gone, the mask and cowl set in place, and the transformation complete. The mortal man behind the mark becomes, once again, the creature from the dark side. Deathbringer takes up his scythe, turns, and opening the door, begins his purposeful stride, for one last time, down the entrance tunnel.] RA: Hailing from the Dark Side, and weighing in at 320lbs, the immortal Deathbringer! [The spotlights abruptly flicker out, and an awed hush descends over the Coliseum. The trance like atmospherics of "Scythe, Rage and Rose" by Dark Tranquillity echo over the loudspeakers with eerie effect. A reddish glow is cast over the entranceway, and stepping out into it, is the Deathbringer. The crowd immediately launch into a tremendous mixed pop -- the demeanour of Deathbringer being such a complex and ever changing issue that it can be no other way -- some cheering fervently, others jeering vehemently, and more still, simply popping in awe. Deathbringer stalks down the aisle with deliberation, the lighting effects casting him in a red hue against the darkness, allowing his full, chilling presence enough time to sink in to every single fan in attendance, and more importantly, the three deadly opponents staring down at him from the ring.] TD: Truly one of the most unique and, it must be said, sinister individuals to ever set foot in a IIWF ring, Steve Roberts. SR: You have no idea how ridiculous you sound every time you describe Deathbringer as "unique", Dross man. TD: I really have no idea what you're talking about. This man claimed a dominant grip on the World title for over two months, a record-breaking reign back in those days, to be sure. Few men have held sway over the IIWF as main event calibre stars for as long as the Deathbringer, and none have such an impressive won / lost record against the finest competition you could hope to find. SR: Has been. TD: Please, Steve Roberts. [Deathbringer pauses at the foot of the aisle, the lights flickering back into life as he raises his fists to the heavens. A thrill goes through the crowd, both for the spectacular entrance of the Deathbringer, and the colossal confrontation just moments away from rocking the Coliseum. Deathbringer steps up between the ropes and into the ring, and immediately, Quigley, Verhoeven and Psycho emerge from their corners in confrontation, exchanging hardened glares. Referee Earl Alfonso steps up between the four legends to give them their pre match briefing; perhaps not such a wise choice, given the tempers and bad intentions rapidly building up inside these men.] EA: You know the stipulations, so let's keep it within the rules, gentlemen. When I call for the bell, I want a good, clean... [Alfonso is not given the opportunity to finish his sentence, as virtually simultaneously, the four legends all lunge at one another with bellows of rage. Alfonso ducks, startled, out of the fray, and shaking his head, calls for the bell. Ding! Ding! Ding! Deathbringer lays a heavy axe-handle blow over the shoulder of Subway Psycho, but the sewer dweller shrugs it off and unleashes a stinging chop across the Dark Destroyer's chest. Quigley demonstrates some hand speed with a rapid left / right combination to the face of Otto Verhoeven, but the "Butcher" comes forward regardless, thumping Quigley hard in the gut with a right uppercut. The crowd pops fervently, relishing the spectacle of four such highly respected competitors going all out to beat the crap out of each other. Psycho follows up his first shot with a whole succession of stinging chops, forcing Deathbringer back towards the ropes. Psycho sizes up Deathbringer's arm and hauls him in close for a final stunning chop, the resulting smack resounding across the arena and sending the Dark Destroyer flipping over the top rope! Huge pop from the fans!] TD: What a shot from the Subway Psycho! Absolutely devastating! SR: But Deathbringer managed to land on his feet, he didn't take much of a bump going over those ropes. TD: Keep your eye on the Subway Psycho! [As Deathbringer stares gravely up at his foe from the arena floor, the Subway Psycho slingshots himself clean over the ropes and into a plancha dive! Huge pop from the crowd, but one that quickly turns to shock and horror, as Deathbringer catches the flying Psycho in his open arms, staggers slightly under the impact, then turns and spikes the sewer dweller with brutal impact over the steel crowd barriers! Subway Psycho cries out in pain and clutches at his back, unable to regain his footing.] TD: Oh my goodness! That took the starch right out of Subway Psycho's offensive. What power from the Deathbringer! SR: And Otto Verhoeven is pummelling Quitley's abdomen into jelly up in the ring! [Meanwhile, Verhoeven has followed up his initial blow with a punishing body assault, driving left and right uppercuts into Quigley's gut, digging them right under the ribs. Each blow registers with a dull, resonating thud, battering Quigley back into the corner. Smirking slightly, Verhoeven drives in one last punishing rib cracker, and Quigley drops to his knees clutching his midsection, his face grimacing with pain as he struggles to draw in breath. Verhoeven draws the flat of his hand across his throat, signalling a quick, yet punishing end for Chris Quigley, drawing loud jeers from the fans. The Butcher drags his nemesis up by the hair, draws him in close, and levels him back into the corner with a short arm clothesline. Quigley hangs limp against the buckles, stunned and winded. Verhoeven backs up to the opposite corner, then, bellowing like a bull, charges across the ring, launching himself into an avalanche splash directly at Chris Quigley!] TD: Quigley rolls aside! Listen to the enthusiastic response from these fans! SR: That lucky little bastard! He should have been pulped into a spreadable sandwich paste! TD: Over three hundred pounds of solid beef just crashed into that corner! And Verhoeven is hurt, he's winded himself on those turnbuckles! [Verhoeven bellows out in pain and frustration, staggering back out of the corner clutching his bruised midsection. Quigley, meanwhile, is rolling up to his feet, and although he seems to be favouring his ribs slightly, he immediately leaps in behind his foe, wrapping his arm around the Butcher's neck, and bulldogging his head right into the mat! Huge Quigley pop! Meanwhile, down on the arena floor, Deathbringer has reached over the crowd barriers and dragged a groggy Subway Psycho out from amidst the fans and pressed him effortlessly up overhead. The ringside spectators pop in awe at the raw power of the Deathbringer, who staggers several paces around the ring, only to hurl the body of the Subway Psycho straight into the steel ring steps! Shocked pops emit from the crowd as Psycho crashes into the cold metal, bringing the structure tumbling down.] TD: What a wild brawl we have on our hands already, Steve Roberts. Clearly, these four men are ready to go all out, by whatever means necessary, to take home the victory. SR: It's like Winston Churchill going kamikaze on a medal hunt. The only thing that matters to these guys right now are the accolades that come with a victory at this, the wrestling card to end all wrestling cards. [Subway Psycho is sprawled out over the wreckage of the ring steps, groggily shaking his head. Deathbringer advances with bad intentions, pausing briefly to survey the battered carcass of his opponent. He reaches down to get a grip on the Psycho's hair... and is suddenly surprised by the Psycho, who, obviously not as groggy as he was putting on, hauls Deathbringer forward and cracks his head for a loop across the cold steel! Big pop as Deathbringer staggers back, saving himself from a fall only by grabbing a hold of the protective crowd barriers.] TD: Subway Psycho was playing possum! Surprising savvy from the sewer dweller. [Meanwhile, back in the ring, Quigley has dragged Verhoeven up to his feet and whipped him to the ropes. As the behemoth comes stampeding back on the rebound, Quigley dives in with a precision drop kick right to the knee. Verhoeven's legs are taken right out from under him, and he hits the canvas with a meaty thud. Quigley rolls aside and up to his feet, immediately diving atop of the Butcher. Perched upon Verhoeven's barrel chest, Quigley begins to pummel him in the head with a series of right-handed blows. At this point, Subway Psycho elects to return to the ring. He balances himself on the apron, then slingshots himself over the ropes, landing across the back of Quigley's neck in a legdrop position! The crowd pops as the three men sprawl haphazardly across the canvas. Deathbringer shakes off the cobwebs on the outside and heads back for the fray, climbing first up onto the apron, and then onto the top turnbuckle! The fans are poised in tense anticipation, as Deathbringer balances himself, and Subway Psycho makes it up to his feet. The Dark Destroyer takes a mighty leap off of his perch, bringing his fists down in a crushing double axe-handle attack across the Psycho's back, flooring him with powerful impact. Deathbringer turns his attentions to Otto Verhoeven, who struggles to regain his footing. The Dark Destroyer scoops him up for a bodyslam, but his strength fails him in this instance, and he can't get the big German all the way up. Verhoeven shifts his weight and takes Deathbringer down, sandwiching the man from the dark side between the mat and his own considerable bulk.] TD: What fast paced action! We've yet to see any of these men hold a significant advantage over their opponents. SR: In a match of this nature, you've gotta take extra care to watch your back, or you're gonna get whacked. You can't afford to sit it out in any rest holds or time outs, you've gotta move, move, move if you wanna keep up with the pace and stay on top of your game. [Quigley gets up, rubbing the back of his neck, and immediately moves to take advantage of Otto Verhoeven, who, repeatedly ramming the back of Deathbringer's head into the canvas, has his back turned towards him. Quigley locks on a basic sleeper, forcing Verhoeven to release his grip on Deathbringer and flail his arms wildly through the air, but Quigley in turn is surprised by a recovering Subway Psycho, who clinches him from behind and hauls him up through the air with a release German suplex. Quigley crash slides shoulders first across the mat. Big pop for Subway Psycho's flawless execution! Deathbringer and Verhoeven both scramble to clamber to their feet first, clawing at one another savagely on the way up. Both men gain their footing and begin to trade big heavy fists, the fans popping loudly for this out and out confrontation of power. Deathbringer scores with some early shots, but it is Verhoeven, the former heavyweight boxing contender, who is able to take control. Deathbringer is rocked with a left hook, right cross, left uppercut combination, and Verhoeven presses home the advantage by charging in with a flying knee lift, the impact sending Deathbringer reeling back against the ropes. Verhoeven screams out like a madman, and, his assault relentless, charges in once again, this time blasting Deathbringer's head off with a clothesline! His momentum is too much, however, and carries both men straight over the top rope and into a pile up on the arena floor! Huge pop for the dangerous bump!] SR: We witness once again the tremendous power of the Butcher, Tim Dross. This man is a human wrecking machine. Even a giant like Deathbringer can't withstand his offensive for long. Just devastating. TD: Undoubtedly, but stamina is also a factor in a match like this, and Verhoeven is expending all of his energy in one all out offensive. He's been fooled into beating himself in the past by the likes of Creed and Lord Byron; Verhoeven must take care to pace himself if he wants to be able to compete with an iron-man like Chris Quigley in the later stages of the bout. [Subway Psycho grabs Quigley by the hair and drags him up to his feet, nailing him with a couple of roundhouse punches before whipping him to the ropes. Quigley comes flying back on the rebound, right into the extending arm of the Subway Psycho, but luckily, Quigley had just enough presence of mind to stretch his arm out for a clothesline also, and both men are cut right down to the mat under the impact. All on fire, neither Quigley nor Subway Psycho spare any time to regain their wits, both kipping up to their feet. Quigley leaps into the air for a standing dropkick, and remarkably, Subway Psycho has the same idea! Their legs tangle impotently and any impact is negated, both men taken down to the mat once again. Psycho and Quigley get back up, a little slower this time. Subway Psycho takes a wild swing, but Quigley is able to catch his arm and take him down to the mat with a snappily executed armdrag. Quigley goes to shift to a wristlock, but Psycho kips up to his feet and hauls Quigley in close for a short arm clothesline. Quigley ducks under the blow, slips behind Psycho and clinches him around the waist for a belly to back suplex. Psycho manages to hold his weight down to the canvas, however, and blasts backwards with an elbow, catching Quigley a jarring blow to the temple and felling him to the canvas. The fans pop, breathlessly, after this montage of moves!] TD: What an even match up! Quigley, always the pre-eminent wrestlers' wrestler, and Subway Psycho really upping his game during that exchange. This is what wrestling's all about, using fast wits and even faster moves to disable your opponent. SR: Who gives a crap about those two fan pandering idiots? Look down on the arena floor where Otto Verhoeven and Deathbringer are putting dents into each other's heads with leaden fists. That's what you call a real fight. The difference between watching Quigley vs. Psycho and watching Verhoeven vs. Deathbringer is like the difference between sex and playing with yourself. TD: Steve Roberts. [Down on the arena floor, Deathbringer and Verhoeven have clambered up to their feet, fighting every inch of the way. Teeth rattling blows are exchanged, but it is the Butcher, once again, who is able to take advantage in this battle of fisticuffs. Deathbringer staggers and sways after a particularly solid overhand right, and Verhoeven takes the opportunity to seize hold of his arm and whip him around towards the crowd railings. Deathbringer still has enough presence of mind, however, to reverse the whip, and he sends Verhoeven careening face first into the steel ring post! Shocked pops resonate across the Coliseum as Verhoeven staggers away in a daze. His eyes cross, and he falls right across the announcing table, sending Steve Robert's open can of Mooselips and Tim Dross' bag of donuts flying. Roberts attempts to revive the Butcher's senses by dumping a pitcher of water over his head, but all Verhoeven can do is splutter.] SR: You're the bad mamma jamma, big man! Get back in there and start busting heads! TD: Nurse Heidi will be picking bits of Verhoeven's teeth out of the protective mats for a week after that shot to the ring post. [Deathbringer, rage burning deep in his reddened eyes, advances on the Butcher, laid out breathless across the announcing table. The Dark Destroyer wraps a vice like hand around the throat of Verhoeven, about to jerk-lift him clean into the air. But Verhoeven lunges out with his own hand and gouges Deathbringer right in the eyes, forcing him to release his grip and stagger blindly back. Verhoeven lashes out with his boot, catching Deathbringer a glancing blow across the chin, and then rolls off the table, adrenaline fuelled rage pumping through his veins. He hawks back in his throat and spits directly into Deathbringer's face, raising deafening jeers from the ringside fans. Seemingly revelling in the hatred directed at himself, Verhoeven follows up immediately with a mighty blow to Deathbringer's temple, sending the Dark Destroyer reeling back, clutching at the ring apron in order to keep his footing. Meanwhile, back in the ring, Subway Psycho has scooped up Chris Quigley and gorilla pressed him up overhead. Quigley peers startled down at the canvas, only to be deposited there split seconds later. Quigley comes down hard and awkwardly on his back, but immediately rolls over and begins crawling to the corner. Subway Psycho closes up the distance rapidly, seizing Quigley by the cross straps of his wrestling attire, hauling him up and thrusting him forward right into the turnbuckles. Psycho, believing Quigley to be winded, comes charging in from behind, but the former Intercontinental champion turns and hooks the sewer dweller's arm, utilising the leverage to flip him right over the top rope! Big crowd pop!] TD: Great wrestling again from Quigley. He knows his positioning in the ring at all times, and like a master, he counters everything that's thrown at him. SR: It's easy to counter moves from a weed like Subway Psycho, when they don't have any bad intentions behind them. But against a guy with real killer instinct, a genuine power-house like Otto Verhoeven, Quigley's gonna have a hell of time blocking those fists coming his way. Hell, Verhoeven hits so hard, he'll cut you down whether your guard's up or not. [Quigley adjusts his knee brace, taking the opportunity to grab a breather while the ring is cleared. Not for long, however, as Otto Verhoeven effortlessly scoops Deathbringer up and rolls his groggy carcass back underneath the bottom rope. Deathbringer gets to his feet, slowly, as he attempts to shake off the cobwebs. Verhoeven offers no respite, however, climbing up onto the apron, hunching up, and driving his broad shoulder through the ropes and into Deathbringer's midsection. Deathbringer staggers back, doubled up. Verhoeven smirks as he puts one meaty leg over the top rope and into the ring, but his arrogant expression is quickly wiped off as the crowd pops loudly, and Chris Quigley comes bounding off the opposite strands, leapfrogging right over the doubled up figure of Deathbringer and colliding with Verhoeven in a sensational vertical body press! Both men come crashing down to ringside, Verhoeven with no chance of landing properly after been struck in such a position, smacking his head hard against the arena floor. Quigley manages to absorb most of the impact of the bump by landing on top of his foe's considerable bulk, but his shoulder still strikes the floor pretty solidly. The fans are on their feet in a frenzy after Quigley's daring leap!] TD: Unbelievable! What daring from Chris Quigley! What agility! He leaped clean over Deathbringer _and_ the top rope! Even after all these years, Quigley can still surprise us. SR: The only thing I am surprised by is the fact that a punk like Quitley has got so far with no discernible talent other than being able to whinge more persistently than any wrestler on earth. [Verhoeven and Quigley are both laid out on the arena floor for the moment, the breath knocked from their bodies. Subway Psycho, however, slinks back underneath the bottom rope from the other side of the ring, up behind the Deathbringer. The man from the dark side, perhaps sensing his presence, whips around, and the two long time veterans measure up to one another. Subway Psycho lashes out with a tomahawk chop to the crown of Deathbringer's head, but the big man shrugs off the impact and stabs his fingers right into Psycho's throat. As the fan favourite gags from the painful strike, Deathbringer scoops him up and presses him up overhead. Down on the arena floor, Quigley and Verhoeven are staggering up to their feet, about to launch into one another once again, but Deathbringer takes a couple of steps over to the ropes, and, with a grunt of effort, hurls the Subway Psycho out of the ring and right down into their midst! Awed pop from the crowd for this awesome display of physicality, as the flying body of Subway Psycho brings Verhoeven and Quigley tumbling back down to the arena floor. Deathbringer raises his arms up to the heavens, and the resulting pop from his flock is deafening.] TD: Deathbringer cleans house! And here he comes again! [Unbelievably, the cheers inch up another notch, as Deathbringer bounds off the opposite strands and comes flying back through the ropes, splashing down on all three of his opponents with his full three hundred pound impact and creating a huge four man pile up on the outside! Sustained pop, as each athlete rolls about painfully on the arena floor, nursing the bruises they've sustained from their crazy bumps, unwilling, for the moment, to get up.] TD: That was six feet ten inches, three hundred plus pounds that just came crashing down to the arena floor, Steve Roberts! Can you believe that a man of Deathbringer's size could actually pull off a maneuver like that? SR: What a match this is turning out to be! I don't like most of these guys, fact is I wouldn't piss on a Quitley or a Subway Stinker if they were on fire, but I've gotta admit, all four of 'em are putting up a hell of a fight. TD: Why Steve Roberts, you surprise me. SR: But if you think this is a fight, Dross man, you should see one of Quigley and Troy's domestics some time. That poor, downtrodden inflatable guy damn near got to branding Quigley's ass with a hot iron when the three second Quickstriker refused to take his turn as bitch of the day. TD: Now _that_, did not surprise me. [The fans cheer raucously, each getting behind his or her particular favourite as the referee begins to count. Slowly, painfully, first Deathbringer, then in quick succession, Quigley, Verhoeven and the Subway Psycho clamber up to their feet... and straight into a four way brawl! Quigley puts a fist in Deathbringer's eye, who gouges furiously away at Subway Psycho's face. Otto Verhoeven boots the Subway Psycho hard in the midsection, but the sewer dweller, undeterred, clips him back with a headbutt. Quigley breaks away from the melee and pushes aside the timekeeper, seizing up a folding steel chair. Subway Psycho strikes Verhoeven hard between the eyes, just as Deathbringer knees him hard in the back, and the big German is staggered. Quigley lunges up behind and brings the chair crashing down hard over Verhoeven's head, denting the metal and dropping the Teutonic Terror like a stone to the arena floor. Subway Psycho struggles to wrest the chair away from Quigley, but the former Intercontinental champion manages to drive the edge into the sewer dweller's midsection, just hard enough to wind him momentarily. Quigley begins to raise the chair up for one more punishing strike, but Deathbringer brings up the big boot and smashes the chair right back into Quigley's face! Awed pop from the crowd as Quigley staggers and drops alongside his nemesis, Otto Verhoeven. Earl Alfonso's count is getting tight, forcing both Subway Psycho and Deathbringer to scramble for the ring.] TD: This match is getting right out of control! Quigley is flirting with a disqualification with that steel chair, and all four men are nearly counted out of the ring! SR: Rest easy, Dross-man. Nobody wants to see the Legends match end indecisively. It looks like Alfonso is turning a bit of a blind eye and allowing these guys go at it, giving them the chance to brawl it out of their systems. [Subway Psycho and Deathbringer clamber through the ropes and meet up in centre ring, immediately exchanging blows. Earl Alfonso reaches the count of nine. Otto Verhoeven reels violently, but manages to make it up onto the apron. The crowd pops anxiously as Quigley still staggers, disorientated, around ringside. Alfonso raises his hand, about to call for the ten-count... Quigley makes a blind grab, and luckily, it is in the right direction, hauling himself up onto the apron with split seconds to spare. A relieved pop goes up from all the "Quickstrike" fans in attendance as he beats the count. Verhoeven rolls underneath the bottom rope and charges into the fray, cutting the Subway Psycho down with a clothesline from behind. Chris Quigley is moments behind the big German, dropkicking Deathbringer full in the face and taking him down to the mat. Verhoeven wraps his meaty hands around the Subway Psycho's throat, choking him out even as he hoists the sewer dweller up into the air. Subway Psycho's feet dangle through space as Verhoeven effortlessly holds him aloft, crushing the very air out of his lungs. Earl Alfonso yells at Verhoeven to release the blatant choke hold, and the German Juggernaut responds by smashing Subway Psycho down into the mat with a pulverising chokeslam! A dismayed pop goes up from the fans. Verhoeven retains a grip on Psycho's throat with one hand, and signals in the air with his other... signals, for the Slaughterslam.] SR: This is it! That slimy sewer loving fruitcake is finished! Verhoeven has the clean lift, he's got him up in the air! TD: No! Subway Psycho lashes out with a boot below the belt! [Verhoeven yells in pain and anger as the Subway Psycho's boot connects with his lower abdominals, and he is forced to drop the people's champion in surprise. Psycho rolls aside clutching at his battered throat, while Verhoeven staggers back clutching his nether regions, his eyes watering with the agony. Meanwhile, Quigley grabs up the leg of the prone Deathbringer, and, placing his boot to the hamstring, stomps it back down to the canvas, putting strain and damage on the knee ligaments. Deathbringer rolls over clutching his leg in agony, but Quigley is already perched up on the second turnbuckles, launching himself off with a precision elbow across the sternum. Subway Psycho runs to the ropes, comes bounding off, and launches himself into Otto Verhoeven with a flying shoulder tackle! Verhoeven is floored under the impact, and the Subway Psycho is already running back to the ropes. He bounds off, and as Verhoeven staggers up to his feet, strikes with a second shoulder tackle! Big pop for Subway Psycho's agility! Verhoeven is dazed, but he drags himself up to a standing position nonetheless. Subway Psycho presses his luck and runs to the ropes for a third time. He bounds off and comes flying back at the Butcher, but Verhoeven plucks him right out of the air with astonishing power and timing! The Butcher bellows like a bull and converts the flying shoulder tackle attempt into a pulverising belly to belly suplex on the Subway Psycho!] TD: Otto Verhoeven and Subway Psycho made headlines when they feuded violently back in 1997, and now that they're clashing again, it's amazing to note that none of their bad intentions have subsided. SR: Verhoeven should be super keen to put some big time hurt on the Slinker, given his embarrassing loss in that third rail electrocution match all those months ago. That's one the Butcher would be pleased to wipe from the archive tapes. TD: No doubt, but it is a match that proves the calibre of the Subway Psycho to those of his critics without any sense of history. It was one of his finest moments. [Deathbringer begins to lurch up to his feet, but Quigley is there, aggressively, with a hard stomp to the head, knocking him back flat against the canvas. Quigley grabs Deathbringer's leg, and once again, stamps it into the canvas with his boot over the hamstring. A kneedrop to the inside of the knee follows. Chris Quigley, really working over the limb, sits on Deathbringer's back and stretches the leg back over his shoulder, grinding away at the ligaments. Deathbringer not one to display vulnerability, grimaces only slightly, though surely he must be in severe pain. He snatches for the ropes with one snaking arm, clenching the bottom strand and forcing the break. Quigley gives the limb an extra jerk before complying with Alfonso's call for the release.] TD: Chris Quigley, employing sound wrestling strategy, goes to work on Deathbringer's leg. That's what you want to do with a tall wrestler such as Deathbringer, keep him prone on the mat and render him incapable of getting up, that way he won't be able to take advantage of his superior height advantage. SR: That stuff is good enough strategy in a one on one match up, when you only have one opponent to focus on. But in a wild four-man fight like this, you just don't have the time to pick a body part and work on it. You've gotta keep striking and moving to avoid getting smacked down from behind. [Verhoeven gets up from the crushed body of Subway Psycho and begins to drive big stomps down into his chest and midsection, the sewer dweller shuddering under the impact of each blow. Satisfied that his foe is down on the mat to stay, Verhoeven runs to the ropes, bounds off with his three hundred pound bulk and comes careening down upon the Subway Psycho with a colossal big splash. Psycho's legs kick up into the air as the breath is knocked right out of his body, and the Butcher stays in position for the pin. Alfonso is rapidly on the case: 1 -- 2 -- Subway Psycho kicks out to a rousing pop from the fans! Otto Verhoeven gets back up to his feet, dragging the groggy Subway Psycho up with him as he goes. Verhoeven lashes out with a wild right hand, but it whistles over the Subway Psycho's head as the people's champion ducks and drives a shoulder hard into Verhoeven's gut! Staying inside his foe's guard, Psycho wraps his arms around Verhoeven's tree trunk midsection, hoisting him up into the air with a mighty expenditure of effort, then dumping him right into a spinebuster slam! Huge Psycho pop! Subway Psycho hooks the leg and rolls over Verhoeven's chest for the cover, Alfonso registering the count: 1 -- 2 -- Verhoeven kicks out to the disappointment of the fans! Verhoeven slaps the mat in frustration as both men leap to their feet. Verhoeven takes another wild swing, but Subway Psycho catches his arm and flips him down to the mat. Psycho wrings the arm quickly and painfully, then leaps and drops the leg across it. Verhoeven winces with the strain placed on his limb but nonetheless, lashes across with his free arm, clotheslining Psycho flat against the mat. Verhoeven is up and drops a big elbow, but Psycho has his wits about him and rolls aside, leaving the big German with nothing to strike but the mat, jarring his funny bone painfully! Big pop for the rapid succession of moves!] TD: What an even match between these two veterans! Verhoeven and Subway Psycho have come to know each other so well, it almost seems as if they can sense which move is gonna come at them next. SR: Maybe Verhoeven has spent too much time in the bush leagues, Dross-man. I expected a much more dominant performance from the German Juggernaut than this. [Chris Quigley drags Deathbringer up to his feet, the big man forced to pause as his leg nearly folds underneath him. Quigley is quick to take advantage of his opponent's momentary lapse, unleashing a series of short, compact punches to Deathbringer's head and midsection. As Deathbringer reels, stunned, from the assault, Quigley grabs him by the arm and whips him to the ropes. The towering figure of Deathbringer comes bounding back from the strands, Quigley taking a majestic leap up into the air, and scissoring the Dark Destroyer around the head with his legs! The crowd pops excitedly as Quigley attempts to take Deathbringer down, but as the man from the dark side is flipped right off of his feet, he manages to grab Quigley's legs and give them a good shove, twisting Quigley off balance and dropping the back of his head to the mat in a kind of loosely applied powerbomb. Both men lie breathless on the canvas for the moment, Deathbringer's shoulder smarting from the fall, his knee still tender from his opponent's ministrations; Quigley clutching the back of his head in a daze. There is nothing for it, however, but to launch back into the fray, and the two athletes are up on their feet simultaneously, both leaping up into a clothesline, shearing each other's heads off and cutting each other right back down to the mat! Big pop, as Quigley and Deathbringer just lie there dazed and breathless.] TD: And now it is Chris Quigley and Deathbringer who find themselves deadlocked! The pace of this match has been so accelerated, I almost feel exhausted just sitting here! SR: I'm not surprised. You get all out of breath and puffy faced just riding Hoss's wife for ninety seconds, Dross-man. Spurs janglin', cowboy hats topplin', corndogs rollin' all over the bed as Mary Lou hollers like a rancher rounding up cattle... that and treacle waffle day down at the Beaver Trap ain't gonna do your ol' ticker much good, buddy. TD: You know, if my brother were to actually tune into the show and take notice of what you're intimating here... [Subway Psycho springs to his feet and kicks Otto Verhoeven directly in the elbow, causing the big man to howl with rage as his funny bone is jarred even further. Verhoeven staggers up to his feet and away, but the Subway Psycho comes in from behind, clinches him around the waist, hoists him up into the air and brings him blasting down over the knee with an atomic drop! Chants of "Ass - Pump! Ass - Pump!" go up from the stands. Verhoeven hunches up and takes a few shuddering steps forward. Subway Psycho goes to press the advantage, but Verhoeven whips around and thumbs him right in the eye! AS Psycho scrabbles at his face in pain and surprise, Verhoeven grips him by the arm and goes for the Irish whip. Across the ring, unheeding, Chris Quigley unleashes a whip of his own, and both Subway Psycho and Deathbringer are sent careening into centre ring, where they collide head first with skull shattering impact! Psycho and 'Bringer drop like redwoods, stars surely flashing before their eyes. The accidental co-operation between Quigley and Verhoeven is quickly brought to a conclusion, however, as Quickstrike runs across the ring and dives at Verhoeven with a flying elbow smash, striking the big man right between the eyes! The crowd pops as Verhoeven sways drunkenly, exaggeratedly... Quigley doesn't waste time waiting for him to drop, instead grabbing him by the arm and whipping him to the ropes. Verhoeven bounds off the strands and comes stampeding back across the ring like a locomotive with no brakes, right into the outstretched elbow of Quigley, this shot catching him directly across the eye and cheek bone, and flooring him like a ton of bricks!] TD: Well, the match had become so deadlocked, we were just waiting for something to snap and one man to take the advantage, and right now, it looks like Quigley is about to steam ahead of the pack. Deathbringer and Subway Psycho are in no condition to get up right now, and Otto Verhoeven has just been pummelled in the face with two of the stiffest elbow shots I have ever seen. Interesting to note the favouring of more basic, old school style wrestling manoeuvres on the part of these men thus far, Steve Roberts. SR: Forget that! Verhoeven is busted open! Blood is streaming from the left eye of the Butcher, that last elbow shot was really a cracker. [Indeed, as Quigley drags Verhoeven up to his feet, it rapidly becomes apparent that a steady stream of blood flows down from his eye, and there is a nasty discoloured swelling already beginning to appear over his cheekbone, as if it had been cracked in. Quigley locks his hands around Verhoeven's trunks, grits his teeth, and blasts him into the mat with a lightning fast snap suplex. Quigley is on his feet again, all business, dragging Verhoeven up with him and unleashing a stinging chop across his chest. Verhoeven staggers, and Quigley quickly presses the advantage with a whole series of powerful chops, backing the big man into the corner. Verhoeven lolls breathlessly on the ropes as Quigley backs up several paces to the other side of the ring, then charges forward and nails Verhoeven to the turnbuckles with a stinger splash! Verhoeven staggers out of the corner, about to drop, but falling instead into the grasp of Quigley, who underhooks the Butcher's arms, and, straining mightily under the massive weight, hoists Verhoeven up for a tiger suplex. However, once Verhoeven is up into the air, Quigley drops and drives him down vertically, so that it is his head, and not his shoulders, that is driven into the mat with tremendous velocity! Super loud pop for the awe inspiring manoeuvre, as Verhoeven twitches spasmodically, otherwise comatose, down on the canvas!] TD: Oh my goodness! That sort of thing... it could cripple a wrestler for life! I've never seen such a dangerous looking mover before! That was... I believe Quigley just executed the very first tiger brainbuster in the sport's history! He's going for the cover, the crowd is apocalyptic... this is the end for Verhoeven, I'm sure. [Earl Alfonso methodically registers the count: 1 -- 2 -- ] TD: This is it. SR: No! No! No! No! No! TD: Three! Verhoeven is out! [The fans go crazy as the monster heel is finally vanquished! But something's up... Alfonso is shaking his head and pointing to the ropes, and there it is...] SR: Thank the honey covered nymphs of Aphrodite's chamber, Verhoeven has his foot on the ropes! TD: How in the heck? How did this man get his foot on the ropes after the gruel of this entire match, after a devastating manoeuvre like that! SR: He's a goddamn legend, that's how! The crazy, loveable, messed in the head, Teutonic gentleman. [Quigley shakes his head as he gets up, he can't believe it, but he knows Verhoeven well, and he's resigned himself to the fact of his pin evasion. He pauses briefly, catching his breath, the grind of the battle registering its toll. Meanwhile, Subway Psycho staggers dazedly up to his feet, a few moments ahead of the Deathbringer, both men clearly muddle-pated after their thunderous double noggin clash. Subway Psycho, nonetheless, launches himself into an assault, unleashing first a chop across the chest, then an axe-handle blow to the side of the head, then another chop to the head of the Deathbringer. The Dark Destroyer is battered back, incapable, for the moment, of offering any retaliation. A powerful savate kick to the chin deposits Deathbringer into the corner, and Subway Psycho pauses, exhausted, for a moment, as he prepares for what comes next. He advances to the corner, gripping Deathbringer by his ring attire and hoisting him up onto the top rope. Deathbringer lolls upon his perch, battered to the limits, his consciousness seemingly incapable of taking in what's happening around him. Subway Psycho backs up a few steps, then leaps gracefully into the air, clinching Deathbringer's head between his legs, arching back over, and driving the Dark Destroyer skull first into the mat with an astonishing hurricanrana! Mammoth pop for Subway Psycho's spectacular move!] TD: What agility from the Subway Psycho! I've never seen him pull a manoeuvre like that off before! Simply outstanding! SR: And Deathbringer is comatose, he's never gonna get up from that kind of impact! TD: They're bringing all the hot, dangerous moves out now Steve Roberts. Seemingly, anything less will never put these guys away. Subway Psycho is almost dropping from exhaustion himself, but he's going for the cover. SR: That's one... TD: He's got the two count... SR: That's thrrrreee... No! [The crowd erupts in a frenzy as Deathbringer kicks out of the pin attempt. But the man from the dark side is totally spent, and just remains prone on the mat. Subway Psycho wears not so much disbelief, but a look of resignation on his face, as he kneels on the canvas, head downcast, trying to figure out just what the hell he can do now to put his man away. Chris Quigley, meanwhile, advances on Otto Verhoeven, intent on putting his ruthless nemesis away once and for all. Verhoeven remains in the position he was left in, blood streaming profusely from his eye and splashing down his chest, his bruise now spread all down the left side of his face, a horrible, discoloured mess. Quigley resolves himself to the task set before him, and drags Verhoeven up to his feet, the big man swaying unsteadily in his grasp. Quigley goes to whip Verhoeven to the ropes, but suddenly, something seems to snap in the German Juggernaut, and alertness flashes in his eyes. With a mighty swing, Verhoeven reverses the momentum, and it is Quigley sent for the ride. Quickstrike bounds off the strands and comes charging back towards his foe, unable to apply the breaks, right into the waiting arms of Verhoeven, who, wrapping his mighty limbs about Quigley's midsection, hoists him up into the air, turns through one hundred and eighty degrees, and drops him throat first across the top rope! The crowd pops in shock and horror as Quigley springs back off the strand, falling to the mat and clutching at his damaged trachea.] TD: Unbelievable! From out of nowhere, Verhoeven's engine just roared back into life, and Quigley is hurt! He's struggling for breath, he looks like he's gonna black out! SR: Send for Troy, the man needs the kiss of life! But will Quigley permit his only beloved to sacrifice his vital air to save the match? More importantly, will Troy consent to his own deflation, his reduction to nothing but a stretch of flaccid rubber, for the man who has so long abused him? Can Troy's tormented love be that strong? [Subway Psycho drags himself up to his feet, seizing hold of Deathbringer as he goes. Subway Psycho pauses, then drives an overhand right into the head of the Dark Destroyer. Another overhand right, and another. Deathbringer lolls like a lifeless dummy as Subway Psycho winds up for the finishing blow. The powerful roundhouse right comes in... and is blocked! Huge pop, as Deathbringer catches the incoming fist with his own, draws his hand back, and blasts Subway Psycho full in the face with a palm thrust strike, flooring the sewer dweller in an instant! The pop from the Dark Destroyer's flock increases in momentum as he seizes Subway Psycho up by the hair, and drags him over to the corner. The people's champion is pummelled in the gut by a couple more shots, before Deathbringer hoists him up and positions him on the turnbuckles. Deathbringer climbs the ropes himself, grabbing the trunks, slinging a lifeless arm over his shoulder...] TD: Deathbringer is going for the superplex! This could prove devastating! He's got him up in the air, he's dropping him down... SR: That's no superplex, Dross man... [Indeed, the crowd leap from their seats in horror, as Subway Psycho and Deathbringer plummet to the canvas, the sewer dweller's head aligned vertically with the mat, his skull striking canvas with bone splintering, awe inspiring, velocity charged impact.] TD: Brainbuster superplex! Brainbuster superplex! Jesus Christ! How could anybody have the audacity to pull off such an incredible, foolhardy, career-ending move! SR: This is the Double Eye Double You Double You [BLEEP]n' Eff, Dross man. And this is forever. Hardcore to the mothu'[BLEEP]n' heart, baby dolls. [The fans are breathless, unbelieving of the events unfolding before their eyes, as Deathbringer exhaustedly rolls across the body of the Subway Psycho for the cover...] TD: This is it for the Subway Psycho, but what a brave fight the people's champion has given us tonight. [All eyes are riveted as Alfonso's hand slaps the mat: One... Two... Three!] TD: No! Subway Psycho slipped a foot over the bottom rope! Alfonso has seen it, the Subway Psycho is still in the match! SR: This is crazy, I can't bear to watch! [The pop that explodes from the fans shakes the very foundations of the Coliseum, a pop of awed surprise, a pop for the indubitable resiliency of the Subway Psycho, and a pop for the sheer breathless action of the match. Few fans remain on their seats now, and the heat barely dies down for a moment, each and every man, woman and child screaming their support for their particular favourite, all four men now, stretched out battered beyond the point of exhaustion down on the mat.] TD: What a match, Steve Roberts! The resiliency each of these men have displayed, it's simply incredible, and truly deserving of its title, the match of Legends. No matter who takes home the victory now, if indeed, the match continues past this point, each of these men will know that they've given it all they had, and the fans will remember them forever. SR: They've done it all, Tim Dross. They've wrestled old school, and they've wrestled new school. They've mixed it up down on the mat and they've taken it to the air. And with that last succession of moves, they've truly gone beyond the extreme. It's hard to comprehend just what these guys will try to put each other away with next. [Verhoeven, sweat and blood dripping down his body, rolls over and up to his feet, advancing on Chris Quigley. Quigley struggles up his knees and lashes out with an exhausted, ineffectual swipe at Verhoeven's midsection. Verhoeven shrugs off the weak blow, drags Quigley up by the hair, and flattens him with a short arm clothesline. Verhoeven, now, lumbering over to the top turnbuckles, leaving Quigley stretched out motionless behind him, and climbing up to a place he rarely ventures: the top rope. Verhoeven poises unsteadily, the crowd watching in disbelief, sure that the near three hundred and fifty pound Butcher could not possibly make an effective strike from such a risky position...] SR: Have you lost your mind, man? What the hell is the Butcher doing up there, Dross? Answer me, you useless fool! TD: Verhoeven is not so much a fish out of water right now as he is gigantic blue whale, Steve Roberts. I don't know what he has in mind. [Verhoeven's back is poised toward the ring. He crouches, then leaps, unbelievably, through the air, flipping near perfectly into a velocity charged moonsault! All three hundred plus pounds of iron flesh come careening down towards Chris Quigley, and directly into the Quickstrike's upraised knees. A mammoth pop erupts from the stands as Verhoeven groans and rolls aside, clutching his belly, his gravity and weight defying moonsault non the less impressive for the devastating backfire of its conclusion.] SR: Where the hell did Otto Verhoeven learn to moonsault like that? And where the hell does Quitley get off ruining one of the most beautiful acts of poetry I've ever witnessed? TD: One of the most surprising moves I have ever seen a man pull off, Steve Roberts, but I have little doubt it was Otto Verhoeven's last ditch effort, and it's paid off badly for him. [Deathbringer and Subway Psycho, meanwhile, are on their feet, the people's champion still in dreamland after sustaining that brutal brainbuster from the top rope, and lolling in the Dark Destroyer's grasp. Deathbringer now, with the Irish whip, sending the Subway Psycho to the ropes. The sewer dweller stumbles in exhaustion, however, and finds himself falling into a tangle in the strands.] TD: Subway Psycho is trapped in the ropes, now the Deathbringer can pound him at will! [Deathbringer backs up across the ring, giving himself enough space to charge the Subway Psycho with momentum. Deathbringer comes stampeding across the ring, but somewhere in the depths of Subway Psycho's consciousness, there lies that last ditch instinct of survival, and, using the ropes for leverage, kicks his legs up into the air, scissoring Deathbringer around the head, then flipping backwards, bringing both men tumbling over the top rope and to the outside with a desperate, sloppily executed hurricanrana! The crowd pop rocks the Coliseum once again, as the two warriors collapse in a heap out on the arena floor.] TD: The fight for survival continues! Subway Psycho will just not give it up! SR: Die! Die! Die you albinoid sewer stinking freak! Die! [Chris Quigley, meanwhile, drags himself up off the canvas, grabs a hold of Otto Verhoeven's legs, and flips over his head, locking him in the double leg pull pinning position. Earl Alfonso is forced to break his count out of Subway Psycho and Deathbringer to register the pinfall: One... Two... Two and a half...] TD: Verhoeven kicks out with split seconds to spare! [Quigley, exhaustion causing him to grimace, stinging sweat flowing freely into his eyes, wastes no more time, willing himself to keep going and put Verhoeven out once and for all. Quigley hauls Verhoeven up to his feet, hooks his leg, and expends the last of his strength in hoisting the German Juggernaut up, over, back first into the mat, and into a pinning combination with a fisherman's suplex. Alfonso, forgetting about Subway Psycho and Deathbringer for the moment, hits the mat and begins the count: One... Two... Three... Verhoeven kicks out with Alfonso's hand just millimetres from the mat!] TD: I can't believe it! Verhoeven is demonstrating the strength of ten lions here tonight. And Quigley must simply be beside himself with frustration, he just can't put the big man away! SR: The Juggernaut of Destruction rolls on relentlessly, Dross-man. Verhoeven is just unbeatable tonight. TD: Look at Quigley clutching his back! I think he's hurt! He put everything he had into getting Verhoeven up into that fisherman's suplex, and it looks like he's done his back in! SR: Shagging Troy in the Tree of Woe handstand position last night can't have helped his spine much either. TD: Steve Roberts. [Down on the arena floor, nothing left bodily to keep them going, just the twilight post-mortem will of the fighting spirit buried deep within their hearts, are the Deathbringer and the Subway Psycho, and they are staggering up to their feet. Both men survey one another grimly, exhaustion glazing over their eyes and making their vision blurry, yet their expressions remain resolute. There is but one thing left for it... to keep swinging until one man drops. And they are into it, blows coming in wild, looking as if they're taking five minutes to arrive, defences wide open, legs staggering upon the ground. But they keep swinging, and each blow registers like a bell toll on their careers. Back in the ring, Verhoeven stirs on the mat, and, panting with exhaustion, manages to make it to his knees. He stares across at Quigley, who struggles to regain his footing, but his back won't allow him. For all those watching could know, he might well be paralysed. The sight of his nemesis stretched out helpless before him seems to inject new life in the Butcher, and he clambers determinedly to his feet. A raging fire begins to smoulder in Verhoeven's eyes, and he reaches down and fastens one meaty throat around Quigley's neck. Already, Quigley's fans are beginning to turn away from the ring in dismay...] SR: You know what comes next, Drossy. TD: I know, and I don't think I can bear to watch. [Verhoeven grits his teeth, then jerk lifts Quigley by his throat clean into the air. The crowd looks on stunned, Quigley seeming to hang for an eternity in space, the eerie silence shattered as he is suddenly brought crashing down across the Butcher's extended knee. Quigley's mouth opens in a soundless scream as his carcass goes limp, and he is tossed aside like a broken twig by the monstrous Verhoeven. The crowd immediately erupts into a deafening level of heel heat.] SR: [revelling despite the negative response from the fans] Slaughterslam, baby dolls! Chris Quigley, your Troy-shagging days are well and truly over! TD: Oh my goodness! Otto Verhoeven may have snapped Chris Quigley's spine right in two! What a tragedy for Quigley to have to go out in this way! [Verhoeven stands tall and raises his fists to the heavens, his glow of sure triumph overcoming even his severe exhaustion.] SR: What's the matter? He's not going for the pin... TD: He's... Surely not another Slaughterslam... SR: No, he's locking on a submission! He's locking on the STF! He wants to see Chris Quigley humiliated beyond all measure! He wants to see him cry uncle all over again! TD: What a calamity! There is clearly no need for this, Chris Quigley is ripe for the pin as it is! [Subway Psycho and Deathbringer continue to go at it on the outside, seemingly unheeding of the drama being played out above them in the ring. Otto Verhoeven, indeed, has locked on an STF, his big arms wrapped tight around Quigley's extremities, placing immense pressure all down the spine of his hated foe, and it is locked on right in the centre of the ring... locked on, and Quigley has no place to go.] TD: Chris Quigley is trying to resist the hold! Is he crazy? With his spine already damaged like this, his career will surely be done for! Does he want to spend the rest of his days in a wheel chair as well? Alfonso should call for the bell, Quigley is finished! SR: This is great! The punk moron actually thinks he's gonna be able to fight it! The power of Otto Verhoeven applied on that STF... it's gotta be unbreakable! I don't know what I'd rather see most, Quigley crying like a bitch for it all to end all over again, just like he did when Petrow kicked his ass at Ring Wars, or watching his spine get snapped in two! TD: This is sick, Steve Roberts. [Chris Quigley is undergoing torture... His face is contorted into a grimace, his teeth clamping down so hard that blood seeps from his gums and down his lip. His back, stretched into unnatural positions by the bone rending power of Otto Verhoeven, must be one seething, boiling, river of pain in hell right about now. But seconds pass... Minutes pass... and still Chris Quigley has not cried uncle.] TD: Listen to these fans! They're not even rallying behind their hero, they're actually beseeching him to give it up for his own good! Chris Quigley's courage is beyond the admirable, Steve Roberts, but it will bring about his tragic end now, undoubtedly. [Many of Quigley's fans are quite simply unable to look at the ring, such is the intensity of the drama played out before them. Others are beseeching, begging for Chris Quigley to throw in the towel, hoping beyond hope that if he gives it up now, he'll still have a career to live later. Earl Alfonso is down on his hands and knees, staring into Quigley's eyes, waiting for him to say the word, perhaps even considering calling it all off for Quickstrike himself. The pain, it would appear now, is simply growing too much, and through gritted teeth, Quigley begins to open his mouth...] SR: He's gonna say it! Whoooo! Quitley is quitting all over again! Whooooo! [Quigley opens his mouth, and the word he screams out, is... "NOOOOOOOO!"] SR: He can't say that! TD: He just did, Steve Roberts! Chris Quigley has defied the odds and refused to quit, and I don't believe it... he's trying to break the STF! [Indeed, the rapidly fading eyes of Chris Quigley are now ablaze with fury and determination, and the crowd, sensing his momentum, begin to rally behind him as they never have before! Screaming, yelling, throwing their signs and souvenirs through the air with abandon, putting their collective will behind Chris Quigley's escape attempt! And there it is, like a key turning in a lock, Quigley arches his back seemingly past the breaking point, kicks out with his legs, and flips the massive bulk of Verhoeven clean out of the hold! The resulting pop of apoplepsy near shatters eardrums and tears the roof right off of the Coliseum!] TD: Chris Quigley escapes! Chris Quigley escapes! This is beyond belief! SR: [spluttering with rage] But... but... but... but... I tell you right now, I don't give a damn, I'm gonna go up into that ring right now and kick that punk's teeth right down his throat! TD: You'll remain right here, Steve Roberts. [Otto Verhoeven remains prone on the mat, stunned, either with sheer exhaustion or stricken dumb with surprise it is impossible to tell. Quigley just lies there also, panting with exhaustion, every fibre and cell in his body racked with agony and fatigue. But there is no time for rest, for the forgotten men are still out there, and they have broken off from their brawl, sensing their deadly opportunity.] TD: Subway Psycho and Deathbringer! They've been going at it tooth and nail down on the arena floor, but we but we barely noticed with all the drama going on in the ring! Here they come! [Subway Psycho climbs up onto the apron and scales the turnbuckles as fast as his present state of exhaustion enables him. He poises on the top rope, then leaps majestically through the air, the fans popping as he spins through one full revolution and comes crashing down upon Otto Verhoeven with a pulverising legdrop!] TD: There it is, the De-Railer somersault legdrop, the Subway Psycho's patented finisher! But will Otto Verhoeven be able to defy the odds just one more time and get out of the pinning predicament! SR: Wait a minute, wait a minute, here comes Deathbringer, he's dragging Chris Quigley up to his feet! [Deathbringer, entering from the other side of the ring, now has the sagging carcass of Chris Quigley in his grasp. He clinches the Quickstriker around the waist, gut wrenching him up into the air with impressive power, then dropping him into the mat with a velocity charged powerbomb. Another pop rocks the Coliseum!] SR: Gut-wrench powerbomb! Quigley is finished once and for all, he has to be! [Subway Psycho and Deathbringer go for their pinfalls almost simultaneously. The crowd collectively draw in their breaths, poised in tense anticipation, wondering anxiously if their expectations will be defied with yet another astonishing escape from certain defeat. Earl Alfonso's hand slaps the mat in slow motion: One... Two...] TD: Three! SR: They got them! TD: They're out! Quigley and Verhoeven are out! [Ding! Ding! Ding! Sparkplug Lee takes to the mic as both Deathbringer and the Subway Psycho retreat to their corners, dripping sweat, panting heavily, striving to muster up some small reserve of energy for the final test. Otto Verhoeven and Subway Psycho, however, just remain comatose on the canvas.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, Chris Quigley and Otto Verhoeven have been eliminated simultaneously! Therefore, the four-way dance of legends will be decided between the two remaining competitors, Subway Psycho, and Deathbringer! TD: It truly will be an old school finish to the match of legends, Steve Roberts, as the two men who were here right from the beginning battle it out for the ultimate legendary status! But let's not take anything away from Chris Quigley and Otto Verhoeven. They came out here and gave it everything they had and then some, and if anything, their performances have been more impressive than those of Deathbringer and the Subway Psycho. But it's just the nature of their hatred for one another that Chris Quigley and Otto Verhoeven couldn't help but go all out to destroy one another, and that's what cost them the match. SR: And now they're both gonna have to come out and do it all over again in the Battle Royal. It's a hard life for a wrestling man, Timbo. [A team of medics hurry down to ringside to escort Verhoeven and Quigley from the ring. Both men are so exhausted that they do not even have sufficient effort to express their disappointment over their eliminations. As the medics tend to the two brave warriors, it becomes apparent that their conditions are perhaps not as bad as the war they have just waged would seem to place them in, and that they will be fit, albeit in a bruised and fatigued state, for the battle royal still to come. Ding! Ding! Ding! The bell rings out once again, signalling that it is time for the Subway Psycho and Deathbringer to begin their final dance. Both men come out of their corner fast, their stamina depleted, looking for the quick finish.] TD: And here we go again, Subway Psycho and Deathbringer colliding in centre ring, grappling, and immediately going into a test of strength. One wonders how much these men can have left in the tank now, Steve Roberts. SR: I don't think this one is for much longer, Timbo. [The test of strength is short lived, as Deathbringer immediately wrenches the Subway Psycho's hands down, brings him in close, and hauls him up into the air for a vertical suplex out of the palm lock position! Big pop for Deathbringer's display of power, as Subway Psycho crashes down hard into the mat. Deathbringer is immediately in place for the cover: One... Two...] TD: Kickout by Subway Psycho! [Deathbringer is immediately back on the offensive, however, gripping Subway Psycho around the throat, hauling him up into the air, then twisting around and blasting him into the mat with a one eighty degree chokeslam! Another big pop rocks the Coliseum as the Psycho thuds into the canvas.] TD: Deathbringer with another pin attempt, this could be it. [One... Two... Thr... Another kickout by the Subway Psycho, this one with just split seconds to spare! The crowd heat increase by a notch once again, the pace of the bout accelerating. Deathbringer goes for the scoop slam, but Subway Psycho grabs him by the tights and rolls him up into a small package! Alfonso registers the count: One... Two... Thr... Deathbringer kicks out by a hair's breadth! Big pop!] TD: This is down to the nitty-gritty now. They're just gonna keep going for that elusive fall until one of them caves in. SR: I tell you what I'm gonna do, I'm gonna go out the back right now and cave in Chris Quigley's head with a shovel. TD: You'll remain right here to call the match, Steve Roberts. [Both men spring to their feet, Subway Psycho ducking under a clothesline attempt, clinching Deathbringer around the waist, then hoisting him up and over for a German suplex and bridge! Once again, Alfonso is quick to register the count: One... Two... Thr... Deathbringer rolls out of it! The fans are poised on the edge of their seats, biting their nails for each near fall, each seemingly so sure of cinching the victory.] TD: Both men are back to their feet, they're not giving an inch. Subway Psycho whipping Deathbringer to the ropes now... [Subway Psycho ducks his head down in preparation for a back body drop, but Deathbringer manages to put the breaks on, grab the people's champion around the waist, and blast him into the mat with a gut-wrench suplex! Deathbringer hooks the leg for the pin: One... Two... Thr... Yet again, the Subway Psycho manages to kick out! The heat building from the crowd is now incredible, each and every fan expecting the end to come at any moment.] TD: Unbelievable, the determination of these two men! But I can feel it coming, the end must be only moments away. SR: Well, I'm off to fetch myself a fresh can of Mooselips and maybe stop off to chat up a belly dancer or three on the way. TD: You'll remain right here, Steve Roberts. [Deathbringer is up to his feet first, scooping the people's champion up and into a tombstone piledriver position. The crowd pops loudly for the inevitable crunch... BANG! Deathbringer drops and drives the Subway Psycho's head into the canvas, the impact heard right around the Coliseum.] TD: That piledriver was surely the decider... SR: No! Deathbringer is dragging the Subway Psycho up once again! He wants to finish him off for certain! [Deathbringer holds the Subway Psycho in position, the sewer dweller's head now clearly lolling on the verge of unconsciousness. The Dark Destroyer clinches Subway Psycho by the tights, preparing to lift him up into a brainbuster...] SR: That crafty devil, he slipped out of it! TD: Subway Psycho now directly behind the Deathbringer, he's pushing him to the ropes! [Subway Psycho utilises the rope leverage to roll Deathbringer up into a cradle! The crowd pops as Alfonso drops to the mat and begins the count: One... Two...] TD: Deathbringer reverses, unbelievable! [Deathbringer now, holding the pinning position: One... Two...] TD: Re-reversal! Subway Psycho has Deathbringer back in the cradle! [Every fan in attendance is on his or her feet now, yelling, stamping their feet, anything to relieve the tension, as Alfonso counts afresh: One... Two... Three! Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: He got it! He got it! Subway Psycho has won the match! Subway Psycho has overcome the Deathbringer! He has triumphed in the Four Way Dance of Legends! SR: Where the hell is the Mooselips? What kind of way is this for the IIWF to treat its valued employees? The Soundbite has certain needs that must be pampered! I want a Mooselips, and I want it served in the hollowed-out skull of Chris Quigley, right now! [A huge, huge pop rocks the Coliseum as Subway Psycho leaps to his feet, pumping his fist in the air, unable to contain his victory grin. To the long time IIWF fans in attendance, it is as if a moment of nostalgia, long-cherished by a memory's photograph, has suddenly sprung to life, a reality once again. All across the Coliseum, there is a warm and fuzzy glow in the hearts of even the most jaded of wrestling fans, as the people's hero, after so much adversity, after his long and pronounced slump, has returned to victory and honours on his home turf. Sparkplug Lee takes the mic, and even he wears a look of Portland pride on his face.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner, via pinfall over the Deathbringer, the Subway Psycho! [The crowd pops joyfully once again, but a hush quickly descends, as the solemn, cold hearted figure of the Deathbringer, forgotten momentarily amid the victory festivities, takes to his feet, and stalks up behind the Subway Psycho. To within an inch of the victor's back, stands the towering figure of the Dark Destroyer, and his expression does not share the joy of the fans... instead, it burns with anger. Subway Psycho, perhaps feeling the cold draught of Deathbringer's breath on his neck, whips around, and a disconcerted expression abruptly colours his face. He backs away slightly, weary of the fearsome countenance of the Dark Destroyer, and an incoming strike. All goes to a hush in the Coliseum, as the fans wait anxiously to see what transpires...] TD: Oh my goodness! Subway Psycho has won the match, and Deathbringer doesn't look at all as if he's gonna be sportsmanlike about it! SR: Hit 'im! Hit 'im Deathbringer! Go on! Hit 'im! Ram yer fist down his throat! TD: Stop it, Steve Roberts. [Several tense moments pass, but suddenly Deathbringer drops to one knee and extends his hand, outstretched, palm open, to the Subway Psycho, in his time-honoured gesture of respect. Immediately, the fans explode into another Coliseum bursting pop, revelling in the spectacle of this, two equally revered IIWF for life veterans demonstrating their friendship. Subway Psycho's look of uncertainty is replaced with another wide grin, and gripping Deathbringer's hand, he draws the Dark Destroyer up to his feet and pumps his fist into the air. And there the two warriors stand, basking in the glory the fans heap upon them, no longer rivals but bonded friends forever... at least, until the battle royal ahead.] SR: Aw... A real kodak moment. Somebody please put a shotgun barrel to my head and blow my brains out all over the Coliseum right now, I want this display of obvious homo-eroticism to be my very last dying vision. TD: Show some respect, Steve Roberts! [Cut back to the broadcast table at ringside. Tim Dross dabs away the perspiration on his bald head with a handkerchief.] SR: You could fry an egg on that head, Dross. I take mine over easy. TD: You don't surprise me in the least, Steve Roberts. Folks, what incredible action we've seen here tonight... and the biggest match of all is still to come. Thirty men all battling it out for the ultimate prize, the honour of being named the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... _forever_. SR: It's the last chance saloon, Dross... and in less than two hours from now, there's going to be twenty-nine mighty disappointed guys in that locker room, knowing that they had their final shot at true greatness... and they couldn't grab that brass ring. TD: The Eternal Rumble is coming up in just a few minutes, but before that we have an important ceremony to conduct: here comes the IIWF President. [The crowd gives a polite round of applause as the IIWF President, the bespectacled Daniel Spreadbury, makes his way out into the aisle. He acknowledges their reaction with a nod of his head as he walks calmly down to the ring.] TD: Here is the man that has presided over this federation for more than two years -- and the man that tonight must ask the current IIWF World Heavyweight Champion, Serge Annis, to hand over the title he won just two months ago at Birthday Bash. [The IIWF President climbs the ringsteps and enters the squared circle, taking the microphone from announcer Sparkplug Lee with a smile.] TD: Before we get to this ceremony, let's take a look at the history of the most prestigious title in all of professional wrestling... the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship. Over to you, Larry. [A shot of the grand gold belt inscribed with "IIWF World Heavyweight Champion. The nameplate beneath it left blank for its final owner. The stentorian voice of Larry Morton narrates:] LM: It's always been about either breaking the rules...or making up your own. The IIWF World Heavyweight Championship has been the most coveted title in the sport of wrestling. Few men have ascended the sport high enough to grab the trophy which undisputedly claimed: I am the greatest. [The FIRST WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION: 18 May 1996.] LM: In the triangle match finale of Coronation Clash 1996, three men battled it out, three from a field of twenty-four. It all came down to the "Masked Outlaw" J.W. Hardin, Tony Starks, and Dan Kauffman. Hardin had beaten Scott "the Whine" Bloom in the first round, Hakiro Matsuoko in the second, and Tiger Claw in the semi-finals of the single-night tournament. With the members of "The Horsemen" -- Brad Kinder, Flare and Blackjack Haley -- suspended in a cage above the ring, Hardin beat Tony Starks with his belt, and then gave Dan "Flash" Kauffman no fewer than three Cattle Busters to take the title. [Video segues to a still frame of a Hardin standing mid-ring, the Subway Psycho clinging to his back. Morton's narration continues:] LM: In the main event of Ring Wars I, June 29 1996, the Subway Psycho pinned Hardin after a crucifix. The Horsemen turned on Hardin after the match, prompting Casey James and the Man of Steel -- known as the American Heroes -- to come to the rescue, only for Hardin to turn on them in a double cross, and _then_ turn on the Horsemen to join Josey Wales' Posse of the Drifters and The Crippler on the next edition of IIWF Saturday Night in the IIWF's first ever triple cross. [The all too familiar black screen. Title vacated, 20 July, 1996:] LM: Subway Psycho was stripped of the title after he was arrested for breaking and entering into the Syndicate's Dojo. As one strike in the year-long war between the Psycho and Syndicate member Tiger Claw, Mistress Sasha, the Psycho's companion and confidante, had been lured away by Brian Lau. Sasha's slapped rebuttal of the tunnel dweller hit him like a shot, but the fans stayed with him. Owing to his popularity... and that he had never lost the belt... The Psycho was dubbed the "People's Champion." The title would not remain empty long as yet another dark indiviudal stepped forward... In the main event of Midsummer Madness, from Madison Square Garden, the survivors of the evening's eight-man elimination tag matches teamed up in one final elimination match: Psycho, Kauffman, Deathbringer, and Billy Shakespeare vs. J.W. Hardin, Brad "Bodybag" Kinder, the Sandman, Tiger Claw, and Abie of the Alphabet Boys. It came down to Hardin vs. 'Bringer with Deathbringer eventually Tombstone-ing his way to a pinfall victory over Hardin to win the strap. [Big men collide on October 12, 1996:] LM: Ring Wars II's main event was advertised as Hardin vs. 'Bringer in a Coffin Match, but a "Battle Lines Battle Royal" preceding the pay-per-view saw Hardin, who was providing commentary for the battle royal, injured by a baseball bat strike from Tiger Claw, sparking rumours of a split within the allied "forces of darkness." Verhoeven was announced as the replacement challenger in the match, since he had won the Battle Royal. It was chaos during the match, as most of the IIWF roster, including Cadaver and Tiger Claw, made its presence felt. Eventually, Hardin came out through the crowd, and unnoticed, sneaked into the ring with a chair, clobbering Deathbringer, helping Verhoeven roll him into the casket... and the IIWF had a new World Champion. [David and Goliath.] LM: The first title change on "free TV" came on a broadcast of IIWF Saturday Night. The match was billed as Verhoeven defending against "Quickstrike" Chris Quigley, but Quigley was deemed too injured to compete, and the bout was initially declared a no contest. Verhoeven demanded opposition, however, so out came Dan Kauffman, who had been helping Quigley backstage... and Kauffman proceeded to defeat Verhoeven, with a little help from the Subway Psycho. This was the beginning of the bitter rivalry between Kauffman and Quigley that would culminate in the Submission Match at Ring Wars III. [The last change for a long time appears in bold letters imposed upon the large biceps of a wrestler...the wrestler named Casey "Blackheart" James.] LM: The first day of February 1997 saw Casey "Blackheart" James defeat Dan Kauffman. What was, at that point, the longest World title reign in IIWF history was cut short in controversial fashion by Casey James, who had been stalking Kauffman: visiting Syndicate reject Joe Latta -- who turned on Kauffman at Ring Wars I -- in hospital, beating up Kauffman's mentor Brandon Bennett, breaking into his house, terrorising his dog, and doing tasteless things in Kauffman's swimming pool. The title change came during a six-man match in which the Dark Disciples tag belts were also on the line against the Players' Club. After a wild match that saw Kauffman hurt and lose a lot of blood, Casey hit the Black Death spinebuster on the Champion to pin him for the title. [Blackness...vacated again.] LM: 21 June 1997: James had been under increasing pressure from fellow Syndicate member Brody Thunder to give the "Lone Wolf" a title shot, Thunder citing himself as the only reason James had managed to hold onto the title. The match was finally signed as a Lumberjack Match, with no less than twenty-eight wrestlers surrounding the ring. Guest referee Hugo Hugo disappeared into the lumberjacks, Earl Alfonso counted down James' shoulders, D'Amato counted down Thunder's shoulders, with Joe Petrow having played a part in both decisions. The match was declared a draw. Acting IIWF President Steve Owens stripped James of the title due to the controversial nature of the match... and put it up for grabs in a tournament at Coronation Clash, three weeks later. [Cut to clips captioned, "Coronation Clash: 12 July 1997":] That night Requiem fought his way through Luke Steele, Ronnie Paris, and Brody Thunder to meet Steve Kowalski -- who had fought Ike Sampson, Mad Dog Watkins, and "Sychosys" Joe Petrow. After a brutal match, Petrow stormed the ring and nailed Kowalski with the belt, allowing Requiem to pin the Fury, and Genesis' reign of terror in the IIWF began. [4 October 1997: a day that would live in infamy.] LM: Requiem had been using every under-hand tactic to hold onto the title through the summer, but had grown tired of the criticisms that he couldn't keep it on his own. He distanced himself from Genesis, and prepared to face his toughest challenge, Brody Thunder, who had allied himself with Steve Kowalski to get himself back into title contention. Throw into this mix the mysterious Masked Outlaw -- believed to be a psychotic Casey James, obsessed with his retired mentor, J.W. Hardin -- and the situation was highly volatile. For the match, Highwayman was to be handcuffed in one corner of the ring, and Otto Verhoeven, who had been denied the World title by an Outlaw attack, in the opposite corner, to keep an eye out for Casey James. During the match, Tiger Claw came out of the crowd and attacked Verhoeven and Highwayman, leaving them prone. Out came the Masked Outlaw, attacking Requiem... and Thunder hit a Cattle Buster for the pinfall victory! Thunder, Claw, the masked "James", and Kowalski celebrated in the ring after the match, until Casey James entered, and the Masked Outlaw was revealed to be, in fact, Hardin himself. Thunder turned on Kowalski -- double cross -- and joined with the Syndicate... but then levelled them all with the World title belt -- triple cross! -- and said that he will stand alone. [Video montage: Steve "The Fury" Kowalski defeating "Lone Wolf" Brody Thunder. "Thunder defeating Koalwski. Kowalski beating Thunder again.] LM: The belt became a two-man competition over the next three months, a test to see who could outlast whom. Kowalski took the upper hand December 27 in a three-way match with Serge Annis on a live edition of IIWF Saturday Night. Annis looked poised to take the belt when he was eliminated by the returning Mad Dog Watkins. Kowalski got the pin and the title... but Thunder battled back seven days later in an unscheduled parking lot brawl. Poutine Janois officiated the chaos that ended with Thunder hitting the Widowmaker on the concrete for the win. Three weeks later, the rubber match, inside a closed steel cage. Kowalski cemented his legend with an incredible win over Thunder in a cell match that saw just about everything... the cage being raised and nearly lowered back onto Kowalski's head, brawling outside the cell and up onto the roof, until eventually the entire structure collapsed under the strain of each man repeatedly executing his finishing move. Kowalski hit the final Skullpump, the cage collapsed... and out of the wreckage crawled the Fury, the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship belt in hand. Thunder was obliged to leave town for 60 days, due to his over-confident assertion that he would beat Kowalski again, and the Fury began his second reign as World champ. [The last exchange...] LM: On May 16, 1998, Serge Annis defeated Steve "the Fury" Kowalski during the main event of the IIWF's second anniversary celebration, Birthday Bash. Kowalski had seen off all comers for his title and sustained injury after injury -- particularly in bouts such as the Death in Darkness match against Shadoe Rage that headlined the Ring Wars V pay-per-view on March 21 from Wembley Stadium -- and it was clear that he shouldn't even compete in this match, which was to be refereed by Brody Thunder. Annis triumphed in a match which showed just why the Fury can truly be regarded as the fightingest IIWF Champion of all time, one last Epitomizer chokeslam proving too much for the New Jersey Nightmare. [Again the shot of the Championship belt:] LM: Tonight, without ever getting a chance to defend it, Serge Annis will surrender the belt, and on it will go the name of its last champion... the man who will hold it _forever_. [Cut back to ringside. The crowd noise dies, with the odd cat-call and whistle piercing the falling silence. Spreadbury pushes his glasses up his nose and raises the microphone to his lips:] DS: Ladies and gentlemen, I sincerely hope you've enjoyed IIWF Forever so far. [Huge pop from the capacity crowd in attendance. The President smiles and nods, raising a hand to ask for silence once more.] DS: Thank you. It would be remiss of me not to mention at this juncture all the hundreds of employees of this organisation -- the production staff, the technicians, the lighting and sound teams, the construction crew, the maintenance staff, the front office workers, and my esteemed colleagues up on the top floor of the IIWF Tower. Without these hordes of dedicated people, the IIWF would have remained just a dream in the minds of a few visionaries. But instead... here we are, celebrating the culmination of more than two years of the finest wrestling action _anywhere_ in the world. [Another appreciative pop from the twenty thousand fans.] DS: Now, ladies and gentlemen, at this time I ask you to join with me in welcoming the man known as the "Lethal Protector"... the man known as the "Epitome of Evil"... and the man known as the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... please welcome... SERGE ANNIS! [Suddenly, the lights across the IIWF Coliseum all drop and immerse the arena in darkness. The sound of a huge gong being struck is heard, followed by an intense drum beat. The crowd instantly gives a huge mixed pop, some fans cheering, and others showing their disatisfaction for the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion. Without warning, a series of pyrotechnic flames burst forth from the aisle. Big pop!] TD: Here he comes! Here comes the Champion! [Two red spotlights mounted on the floor of the staging to either side of the entranceway slowly lift their beams, casting the residual smoke from the pyros in swirls of crimson, as the heavy guitar riff of "Hands of Death" by Rob Zombie and Alice Cooper blasts over the PA. The aisleway is illuminated with the red crimson light... as Serge Annis walks out from behind the curtains, initially cast in silhouette by the intense glare of the scarlet spotlights. He steps out into the aisle, drawing even more heat from the crowd. Serge is dressed in his ring attire, obviously ready to participate in the Eternal Rumble. He is wearing a pair of black ring pants, with the word "FOREVER" written in bloody red lettering on his left leg, and his trademark red tear on his right one. Serge is wearing a pair of black boots, and black wrist-tape on his arms. A close-up catches Serge's icy blue, cold eyes, as he looks around the arena, regarding the sea of twenty thousand fans in attendance. Serge's short brown hair is cut down in his regular crew cut, but is dripping wet with a mixture of water, and perspiration. Serge stops at the head of the aisle, with his hands on his hips, and the IIWF World Heavyweight title belt strapped around his waist. Serge's cold eyes continue to look out at the crowd, as he takes in the feel of their cheers and disapproval.] TD: I find this truly amazing, Steve Roberts. The fans here in the IIWF Coliseum are completely split in their reactions towards Serge Annis. SR: Well, some people remember this guy as being the man who killed Wrestle Clean all the way back in May when he turned on Gregg Osterhout to win the World Championship. And others remember that Annis is the man that stole the title away from Steve "the Fury" Kowalski. TD: I don't think Serge would appreciate your use of the verb "to steal." SR: I believe you may be mistaking me for somebody who could give a damn, Dross. Annis ripped the title out of the clutches of a cripple... and if he's proud of that, he's even dumber than he looks. TD: Although I don't condone the way Serge took the title from Kowalski, I do personally believe that Serge has just as much right to strap that title around his waist as every other past IIWF World Champion. SR: You're putting Annis on the same page as greats like Steve Kowalski, Brody Thunder, and J.W. Hardin? I don't know what's up with you tonight, Dross. [Annis smirks for a mere second, and then continues on his trail down to the ring. Serge ignores all of the fans who try to reach out and clap his hand, as well as signs which say, "I don't respect Annis", "Anus who?", and "Annis fears competition". As the IIWF President watches on from inside the ring, Annis leaps up onto the ring apron and casually steps over the top rope. The IIWF World Champion walks into the centre of the ring, as overhead crimson spotlights swirl their focused beams around the ring, creating an eerie, bloody effect. Serge slowly bows his head down and extends his hands up to the air. Annis quickly slams them down to his sides, cueing the seven foot flames which ignite from each ringpost. Once the fire dies out, the lights return to normal, and Serge's music slowly fades out.] SR: Enough already. Hand over that belt, and let's get to the main event! [Serge Annis stands in the centre of the ring, staring over at the President of the IIWF, Daniel Spreadbury, who has backed away into a corner. Serge slowly extends his hand, and waves Spreadbury over. Slowly, reluctantly, the President makes his way to the centre of the ring.] TD: I wonder as to the nature of the relationship between Serge Annis and Daniel Spreadbury now, after Annis turned his back on Wrestle Clean. This man manipulated -- used -- the IIWF's administration to get his hands on that belt. SR: Knowing Annis, he probably thinks this whole event is just a set-up to rob him of the title. It's Osterhout's revenge or something. TD: Somehow I doubt that very much. [Annis stares at the IIWF President with cold eyes. Spreadbury notes how unhappy Serge looks, not that he ever is bursting with happiness. After several tense, and uneasy moments, with some members of the crowd chanting "Wrestle-Clean! Wrestle-Clean!", the bespectacled President slowly raises the microphone to his mouth.] DS: Ladies and gentlemen, it is my duty at this time to ask you, Serge Annis, to relinquish the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship belt. It is my duty to ask you to surrender that title, and allow it to be vacated ahead of tonight's main event, the Eternal Rumble. [Annis, hands on his hips, turns away in disgust. The crowd gives a huge pop as the IIWF President deliberately extends his hands, awaiting Serge to unfasten the IIWF World Heavyweight title from his waist, and lay it in his waiting arms.] TD: [over headset] Come on, Serge. Don't do anything stupid here. [Instead, Serge's icy, cold blue eyes stare out at the crowd for a moment, as he seemingly contemplates his actions. Serge slowly moves his hands down to the World title belt, but doesn't remove it. Instead, he slowly turns back to face the President, raises his hand up... and extends his middle finger right into Daniel Spreadbury's face!] TD: [over headset] Oh my! [The crowd pops loudly. The President blinks and his shoulders seem to visibly sag under the weight of the occasion. Pausing for the crowd's reaction to die down, he raises the microphone once more:] DS: Mr. Annis, please don't make this any harder than it already is. Please... just forfeit the title, and let's get on with it. [Serge Annis, towering over the suit-wearing IIWF President at a monstrous 6'8", continues to stare down at Spreadbury, and in defiance, he slowly shakes his head no. Once again, the crowd pops loudly.] TD: [over headset] I suppose this was only to be expected. Why on earth would Serge Annis be willing to give up the title in front of twenty thousand fans here in the Coliseum and millions watching live on pay-per-view? SR: [over headset] If I were Spreadbury right now, I would have hired a riot squad to get in there, and beat his head in until they could pry the title out of his greedy fingers. [Spreadbury looks more frustrated now, and speaks with a hint of anger.] DS: Come on, Serge, we talked about this. I told you this is how it would have to be. Remember? I gave you the number thirty spot... what more can I do? Now, please... let's just do this, and get on with the main event. [The President once again extends his hands, waiting for the IIWF World Championship belt to be handed over. Once more, Annis ignores him, taking a few steps backward and again turning his back on his boss. This visibly angers Spreadbury.] DS: Dammit, Serge! Either you forfeit the title right now, or I'll... I'll... I am still President of this company, Serge, even if it is one last night. I can still strip that title from you... and that's exactly what I'll do. [Big pop! Serge wheels around, staring at Spreadbury with fiery looks of hate. Dan flinches when he sees Annis spin, probably expecting an attack. Realising Serge hasn't moved, Dan speaks once again.] TD: [over headset] He's got that look in his eyes... DS: I tried to let you go out with dignity and class, Serge, but frankly your refusal to forfeit the title is... [At those words, Annis seemingly snaps. He lunges forward and grabs the IIWF President by his collar. The 6'8" Annis towers over Spreadbury, and speaks with obvious anger and resentment in his voice:] SA: Class and dignity? _Class_ and _dignity_?! SR: [over headset] He's snapped, Dross. Whoo-hoo! SA: You think surrendering the IIWF World Championship to you, before I get a single solitary chance to prove my worth as a holder of this belt, is a way to bow out with class and dignity? That's bull[BLEEP], and you know it! [The crowd is on its feet as Serge shouts into the President's face. Serge lets go of Spreadbury, and grabs the microphone out of his hands. As soon as Annis relinquishes his grip, the President steps back, and exits the ring, watching on from ringside in front of Roberts and Dross on the floor. Serge points to the aisle when he speaks.] SA: Everyone in the back is saying it! "Serge Annis isn't a real champion." "He didn't earn it." "All he did was get lucky and beat a cripple." And before that, it was "Serge is over-rated." "...Serge can't be champion..." "...Serge can't do it!" [Annis moves over to where Spreadbury stands at ringside, and stares down at him with hatred burning cold in his eyes.] SA: Well, I goddamn did it! And now people are trying to rob me of the respect and dignity that I damn well deserve! I don't think anyone's spilt more blood for this promotion than me. I've taken on any, and all comers, and I damn well earned the right to wear this World title around my waist. [Serge looks out to the crowd for a moment, as they are still popping loudly, with a mixed ovation.] SA: And now, the IIWF... _you_, _Mister_ President... want me to give this title up, before I even get the damn chance to defend it?! One title defence, to show to everyone that I didn't just beat a cripple. I didn't just get lucky. One title defence to show to the world... that I earned it?! I'm sorry, _Dan_, but that's not the way it works. Before this night is out, I'm going to make each and every one of those men in the back respect my abilities. I'll prove my worth to each and every one of them. TD: [over headset] Serge Annis' pursuit for respect has pushed him over the edge, folks. SR: [over headset] Annis had been over the edge for quite a long while before he ever darkened the Double Eye's doors, Dross-man. [Serge paces around the ring as he vents off the built-up anger. Spreadbury shouts out at Serge, "How do you expect to do that, Serge?" Annis picks up Dan's words, and retorts.] SA: How can I do that, you ask? I know... I'll wrestle in that Eternal Rumble! Then I'll show everyone! [Pop! The President nods his head in agreement, and smiles, believing that Serge has finally got the message.] SA: _WRONG_! There's only one way to do this, and Dan... I'll die before I let you stop me... [Serge walks over to the other side of the ring once again, and speaks to the direction of the aisleway, looking back at the curtains.] SA: That way is... to defend this IIWF World Heavyweight Championship... Right here... Right _now_! [The crowd erupts with a huge pop at the chance of seeing one final World title defence. Spreadbury sighs, shaking his head "no." Annis spies the President's reaction as it is relayed over the huge video wall at the head of the aisle. Annis wheels around again and jabs a finger in the direction of his boss.] SA: Shut up. Just shut up. I've hardly ever asked for anything from you. This is all that I want. After this, I'll give you the damn title, just let this happen... [Serge turns back to the aisleway.] SA: I know for a damn fact that there is a locker-room full of men back there that hate my guts. Men that think I don't deserve to be world champion. Men that don't think I can do it... Well... Why don't one of you step out here and into this ring, and we'll settle this the old-fashioned way... and settle it man to man. [With that, Serge tosses down the microphone, which hits the canvas with an audible thump, and gestures for anybody from the back to come out. The fans, still on their feet, begin various conflicting chants... "SKULL-PUMP! SKULL-PUMP!" meets "HAR-DIN! HAR-DIN!" meets "CREED! CREED!" meets "THUN-DER! THUN-DER!" meets "PET-ROW! PET-ROW!", and even smatterings of "KAUFF-MAN! KAUFF-MAN!" chants.] TD: Oh my, Steve Roberts. This crowd wants to see one final World title match... but who is going to accept Annis' challenge? SR: I'm going to go get my man Smooth, Dross. The Smooth could beat this punk with one hand tied behind his back! TD: You'll stay right there, Steve Roberts. The IIWF President is speaking with Sparkplug Lee... he's conferring with the timekeeper. I don't know that he's going to allow a match to... Oh my! [Dross is cut short by a huge, deafening pop from the fans as the arena is once more plunged into complete darkness, only the faint glow of the emergency exit signs dotted around the arena piercing the blackness. The pop soon dies away in sheer anticipation of the entrance of the challenger...] TD: Who is it going to be, Steve Roberts? Who is it going to be? [All eyes, all ears in the arena search for a sign of who will be making their way down the aisle... and then the video wall flashes with one word in huge, fifteen-feet high red lettering: ANYONE Huge, huge pop!] TD: Oh my! [Another word flashes onto the video wall: ANYWHERE The fans are on their feet, the noise absolutely deafening!] SR: Oh no! [The third word appears on the video wall, the fans now chanting along with the unmistakable catchphrase: ANYTIME And then the IIWF Coliseum is bathed in red light, the exultant fanfare of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" pumping out of the sound system, but barely audible above the simply deafening cheers of the capacity crowd... which are soon distilled into a chant, every fan in the arena, to a man, on his or her feet, blasting it out... "CREED! CREED! CREED! CREED! CREED!"] TD: It is! It is, Steve Roberts! [Huge banks of scarlet spotlights above the ring swirl over the crowd, their high-intensity red beams painting the arena in shades of the Book of Revelations' rivers of blood, a river of humanity all united in one action, in one emotion: "CREED! CREED! CREED! CREED! CREED!" The customary trail of spinning fists is projected onto the aisle, while Serge Annis simply stands in the squared circle, hands on hips, staring coldly up the aisle, the IIWF World Heavyweight title still glinting around his waist. The chants continue to build in intensity as the arching choral crescendo of the paean to freedom, to liberty, matches its grandeur. And then... ...Creed is there, striding purposefully down the aisle, his red trunks in stark contrast to the hard as rock ebony of his body. His left hand, clenched into a fist, bears his trademark red glove, and his left eye is covered by a red eyepatch. But gone are the kneebraces, the relics of his ACL injuries of 1997, the legacy of his war with the European Alliance and his persistence in wrestling injured regardless of his physical condition. Creed strides down the aisle, the members of the Creed Army, dressed in red and black and congregated on one side of the aisle, going absolutely bonkers as the red-gloved warrior makes his way to the ring.] TD: Here he is, Steve Roberts. Here is Creed -- the eleventh-ranked wrestler in the world, making his first IIWF appearance since last November, when he battled none other than Serge Annis and the Subway Psycho in the IIWF's first and only Barbed Wire Match at Ring Wars IV... and making his first appearance in the IIWF Coliseum for almost a year. SR: I can't believe it, Dross. Annis beat one cripple for the title, and now he's going to beat another cripple in his one and only defence of the damned belt. TD: Creed may be limited in the ring now by his injuries, Steve Roberts, but even firing at seventy, even fifty, per cent, the red-gloved warrior is one of the most dangerous opponents you could face. Annis won't be taking this challenge lightly -- and let's not forget that there is nothing... _nothing_ in this world that Creed desires than to lift that IIWF World Heavyweight Championship belt, and know that he has finally climbed that mountain and stands above the entire wrestling world. SR: Enough with the guff already, Dross. Hey, Creed -- Serge gonna kick yo' a-ass! [Creed arrives at the foot of the ringsteps, and climbs them without hesitation, the chants of "CREED! CREED! CREED!" still swirling around the ring as Creed ducks through the ropes and enters the squared circle. He walks directly towards Annis, his eyes fixed on the Champion all the time... and then side-steps him, continuing past Serge towards the opposite corner of the ring. He climbs to the middle turnbuckle, and thrusts his red glove towards the rafters. Twenty thousand fists in the crowd likewise punch the air. "CREED! CREED! CREED! CREED! CREED!" Annis slowly turns in the ring to face the red-gloved warrior, who still stands on the mid-buckle, his back to the Champion.] TD: There's quite the history between these two men, Steve Roberts. It was perhaps at Creed's expense that Serge Annis finally established himself as one of the true superstars in the sport, and it was at Annis' hands that Creed suffered that horrific injury to his left eye. [Creed finally dismounts the buckle, and slowly turns to face Annis as the lights rise and the music dies away. As the ring is illuminated once more, a new tattoo on Creed's left pectoral muscle -- to complement the word "HARDCORE" burned into the flesh of his right tricep -- becomes visible. In blood-red lettering, the tattoo reads, "IIWF FOREVER". Creed motions with his twitching left hand for a microphone, which is handed to him by a timid Sparkplug Lee, the announcer then scrambling to retreat from the ring, wary of getting caught in any cross-fire between Annis and Creed. The crowd hushes, awaiting the words of the red-gloved warrior:] CREED: You wanna know who the man be in the IIWF, Annis? [The chants start up once more: "CREED! CREED! CREED! CREED!"] You wanna know who the man be in the IIWF since the day he got here in 1996? ["CREED! CREED! CREED! CREED!"] You wanna know WHO BE THE DAMN MAN IN THE IIWF NOW AND FOREVER, SERGE ANNIS?! ["CREED! CREED! CREED! CREED!"] It me. NOW RING THE DAMN BELL AND LET ME SHOW YOU WHY! [Huge pop as Creed tosses the microphone out of the ring, and takes another step closer to Annis, his left, gloved hand twitching, almost as if to betray nervousness. At ringside, the IIWF President finally finishes his conference with the timekeeper, and referee Dave D'Amato jogs down the aisle, hopping into the ring.] TD: We have a referee, Steve Roberts -- I believe we are going to have a match here. We are going to have one last match for the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship! ________ ______ | || |\ \ /\ / /| __| ..........................| || | \ v v / | __|.......................... |_||_| \_/\_/ |_| IIWF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH: Serge Annis [c] vs. Creed ......................................................................... WRITER: Daniel Spreadbury [Spreadbury motions to Sparkplug Lee to enter the ring, and then takes a seat next to the timekeeper's table. Dave D'Amato, meanwhile, motions for Creed and Annis to move into separate corners of the ring. Both men oblige, backing away from one another but each keeping his gaze fixed on the other all the while. D'Amato asks Annis for the World Championship belt, and Annis obliges, still staring with cold intensity at the red-gloved warrior.] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, the following unscheduled contest has a fifteen-minute time limit, and... it is for the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship! [Huge, huge pop as D'Amato thrusts the finally relinquished belt above his head. Cameras flash all over the Coliseum as D'Amato spins slowly in the ring, displaying the title to all sides of the jam-packed arena. Finally, he hands the belt through the ropes to an attendant at ringside, who places it in the lap of the IIWF President.] RA: Introducing first, on my left, the challenger. He hails from Oakland, California... he weighs in at 276lbs, and he is a former Intercontinental Champion... he is... CREED! [Huge pop for Creed, who makes no further acknowledgement of the fans' presence, his gaze remaining firmly locked on the bulky frame of his opponent, who stands in the opposite corner.] RA: And introducing, on my right, the champion! He hails from Oakville, Ontario, Canada... he weighs in at 290lbs... he is the current IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... he is... the "EPITOME OF EVIL" SERGE ANNIS! [Another huge pop from the fans, who are now so heatedly anticipating this match that they would pop for anything. Sparkplug Lee ducks out of the ring, leaving Dave D'Amato to call Annis and Creed towards the centre of the ring. D'Amato can be heard to remind both men of the rules of the match... but before he can complete his speech, Annis blasts out at Creed with a meaty kick, catching him in the lower abdomen, and then jams a thumb right into Creed's right eye! D'Amato hurriedly signals for the bell... Ding! Ding! Ding!] TD: ...and we are underway! Annis attacking Creed before the bell -- and look at him go to work on Creed in there! Folks, the IIWF President has imposed a time limit of just fifteen minutes on this match... and Annis is starting things off at one heck of a pace! [With Creed momentarily stunned and blinded, Annis wastes no time, ducking behind the ebony athlete and diving at his right knee with a shoulderblock, cutting Creed down to the mat with force! Annis is immediately on his feet, Creed doing his best to roll out of harm's way, but the Canadian is upon him once more, stamping on Creed's right knee. Annis picks up Creed's right leg, and seems ready to grapevine it, when Creed lashes out with a hard kick, sending Annis back into the ropes. Big pop! Annis rushes Creed, attempting to drop an elbow on the knee... but Creed rolls out of the way! Big pop!] TD: And now Creed is back on his feet, Steve Roberts! He can't allow Annis to work on that knee for any great length of time -- without his lower-body strength, his leverage on some of those suplexes will be severely impaired. [Creed bounces against the ropes and meets Annis as he climbs back to his feet, flooring him immediately with a flying forearm! Huge pop! Both men are quickly back to their feet, Annis, enraged, charging at Creed again... and being tossed across the ring with a Mexican armdrag, Creed jumping and snapping Annis towards the ropes. Big pop! Annis is once again on his feet, rushing his opponent... who ducks under a clothesline attempt, turns on a dime, belts Annis in the stomach with a left-hand punch, hits him again, and again... and again, his left fist a blur of red leather as he bombards Annis' torso with a flurry of punches... until he finally puts Annis down on the canvas a third time with a swinging neckbreaker! Huge pop!] TD: Oh my! Creed with a textbook display of his torque-based offence here in the early going, Steve Roberts. Annis tried to slow him down right from the start -- but Creed has fired back, all guns blazing! [Both men are on their feet again. Annis throws a wild right hand, which Creed dodges, and grabs the Champion as his momentum carries him round, grabbing him by the waist and preparing to snap him over with a German suplex... but Annis raises his leg sharply behind him, catching Creed with a blatant low blow! D'Amato warns Annis, but the Champion pays no heed, immediately flooring the doubled-over Creed with a hard right-hand uppercut.] TD: Oh, come on, referee! That was a completely blatant low blow from Annis right there! SR: Dross, the ref's going to turn a blind eye -- no pun intended, ya red-gloved freak -- in this match. This is for all the marbles, baby dolls! TD: Annis now, straight back to that right knee of Creed. This is smart wrestling on his part. [Annis drops an elbow on the right knee of Creed, and then twists his ankle, scissoring the leg and attempting to extend the hamstring and strain the patella. Creed sits up to try and prise Annis off his weak knee, but is met by a slap to the face! Huge pop!] TD: Oh my! You could feel the impact of that slap all the way over here! And Creed is furious -- look at Creed, sitting up once more and wailing away at Annis with those fists! [The crowd roars as Creed pulls himself back into a sitting position once more and begins heaving hard rights and lefts at Annis, pummelling any part of the Champion within reach. Finally, the Canadian is forced to release Creed's leg in order to escape the rain of blows, and he pulls himself to his feet. While Creed rolls to his knees in the ring, Annis bounces off the ropes... and hits Creed with a dropkick to the face! Huge heel pop!] TD: Oh my goodness! Annis with a dropkick to the face of Creed... and I think he's busted open! I think Creed is busted open already! SR: Whoo-hoo! Looks like Annis just spread Creed's nose all the way across his face! [Creed is slow to move, his right hand probing his face and coming away with blood, which is now pouring from his nose. Annis, meanwhile, is straight back on his feet, and drags the disorientated Creed over to the side of the ring, laying his right leg over the bottom rope. Staring out into the rows of fans at ringside, Annis jumps up... and brings his full 290lbs weight down on the right knee of the red-gloved warrior! Creed cries out, almost in spite of himself, and Annis repeats the blow. Finally, Dave D'Amato forces Annis to break, and Creed begins to pull himself back to his feet using the ropes. The Champion grants the challenger no respite, however, and charges Creed from behind, lashing out at Creed's knee with a hard kick that sends him straight back to the canvas. Creed rolls out of the ring to the arena floor, and D'Amato attempts to keep Annis in the ring to allow Creed a few seconds to gather himself.] TD: Just look at Creed, Steve Roberts -- his nose is bleeding profusely, and I dare say the sharp pain in his face must be making him dizzy and disorientated. He doesn't look like he knows where he is. Whoa -- look out! SR: Holy smoke! [Annis suddenly pushes D'Amato out of the way, bounces off the ropes on the far side of the ring, and then... ...leaps clean over the ropes! Annis dives out of the ring with a sloppy plancha, unable to keep his body straight... and Creed dodges out of the way! Huge pop! Creed dodges out of the way, and Annis careens into the steel crowd barriers, almost crushing the legs of the fans in the front row! Huge, huge pop, as Creed drops to one knee, Annis motionless beside him.] TD: Oh my goodness, Steve Roberts! Have you ever seen Serge Annis execute such a suicidal manoeuvre? SR: Are you kidding, Dross?! The only way a guy like Annis flies is in a jumbo jet! That has to be the ugliest damned plancha dive I have seen in my life. TD: And Annis is _out_, Steve Roberts. Serge Annis has knocked himself clean out with that suicidal move -- he hit those steel barriers head first! [The fans now pick up the chant once more, "CREED! CREED! CREED!", as the red-gloved warrior drags himself back to a standing position, looking down on the still motionless form of Annis beneath him.] TD: This is where things get ugly, Steve Roberts. [Creed walks, visibly favouring his right knee, towards the timekeeper's table, and yanks the timekeeper off his chair, which he grabs and folds. Creed brandishes the chair, and the fans begin to cheer as Creed once more approaches the prone Champion.] SR: Creed's gonna smash Annis' skull in, Dross! We're gonna have brains all over! TD: Creed now, with that chair... no! No, Creed drops the chair! Creed drops the chair next to Annis... and now he picks him up! What's going on here? [Sure enough, Creed drags Annis to his feet and rolls him back into the ring under the bottom rope, D'Amato's count -- which had reached eight -- finally broken. Creed climbs, a little clumsily on account of his weakened right knee, up to the apron, and then steps back through the ropes himself.] TD: Creed wants to wrestle this match, Steve Roberts! Creed doesn't want to resort to hardcore tactics -- he wants to win this match in the ring! SR: Pansy-assed jerk. What about the Soundbite's needs, Dross? Where's the gore? Who's gonna be immolated out here for Poppa Soundbite? TD: You're a sick individual, Steve Roberts... and I can't believe this! Serge Annis is stirring! Creed is standing above Serge Annis, challenging him to stand -- and Annis is moving! [The crowd pops as Creed yells down at the Champion to get up -- and roar as Annis begins to move, rolling slowly towards the ropes, Creed standing back and allowing the monstrous Canadian to pull himself back to a vertical base using the ropes for leverage. Only when Annis turns back to face into the ring, his eyes alone betraying his grogginess, and takes a few steps towards his opponent... only then does Creed react, and belts Annis in the stomach with a hard kick, doubling him over. Creed hooks one arm, then the other... and heaves Annis into the air with a butterfly suplex, planting the Champion to the mat! Huge pop! Creed wastes no time in covering Annis, hooking the leg... D'Amato makes the count: 1 -- 2 -- and Annis gets a shoulder up! Pop!] TD: Oh my! What a suplex from Creed, and the red-gloved wrecking machine so nearly took the victory right there! SR: Close but no banana, Dross. Creed's going to have to do more than that to put Annis away. TD: Serge Annis is practically unconscious in there, Steve Roberts -- although all credit to him for kicking out! [With the fans once more chanting his name, Creed stands and pulls Annis to his feet, sending him for the ride into the far ropes. Creed snatches Annis out of the air by the waist, preparing to hit a spinebuster -- but Annis somehow manages to scissor Creed's head with his legs, and performs an extremely sloppy hurricanrana, dropping the red-gloved warrior hard on the base of his skull! Shocked pop from the crowd as both men lie motionless in the ring!] TD: Good grief, Steve Roberts! We're seeing moves out of Serge Annis that we've never seen before -- and I'm not surprised we've not seen them. I don't think I've ever seen a worse hurricanrana. SR: Joe Petrow, are you watching this? This guy is out-blowing you on his spots. TD: Creed came down awkwardly on his neck, Steve Roberts. Annis seems to be running scared here, prepared to take almost any risk in this match. [Annis slowly crawls over to Creed and makes the cover. D'Amato drops to the canvas: 1 -- Creed gets a shoulder up! Huge pop!] TD: Oh my! Only a one count, and Creed kicks out! This man will not be held down! [Annis immediately returns to Creed's weakened right knee, rolling to his feet and grabbing his opponent's leg, yanking it hard in an effort to tear the damaged ligaments. Annis drags the groggy Creed across the canvas on his back towards one of the corners, and positions the red-gloved warrior's legs on either side of the steel ringpost. The crowd gives a big heel pop as Annis rolls out of the ring and once more grabs Creed's leg.] TD: This could be the beginning of the end for Creed here, Steve Roberts! SR: Whoo-hoo! Wrap that leg, Serge! Wrap it good! [Annis does indeed heft Creed's powerful right leg with all his might, ramming the unbraced knee hard into the unforgiving steel. Again, Creed cries out involuntarily, the pain coursing through his body. Annis rams the leg a second time, and then grabs the chair earlier discarded by Creed. He measures... and then swings at Creed's leg! *CLANG!* Creed pulls his leg out of the way, and the steel chair bites nothing but ringpost. Annis is then sent careening backwards by a kick from Creed, the Champion tumbling backwards into the steel crowd barriers and his head hitting hard. Creed rolls out of the ring and once again grabs the steel chair. Annis sits slumped against the steel barriers, easy prey for a shot from the chair... Creed seems hesitant, the eager cheers of the fans encouraging him to blast the champion apparently unheard. A moment passes... and Creed drops the chair. There are a few jeers from the hardcore fans at ringside.] SR: What's the matter with you, ya freak? Do you want to win this match or not?! TD: Creed wants to win this match by _wrestling_, Steve Roberts. SR: Come on, Dross, what's the matter with a Greco-Roman Chair Shot? That's a good, honest-to-God amateur hold! TD: Good grief. Creed now dragging Annis back to his feet and... oh my! A hard right hand from Annis has Creed rocked! And another! [Annis does indeed have Creed staggered with an impressive rally of punches, and now he moves in to grab Creed's arm... and he whips him along the ringside enclosure -- sending the red-gloved challenger flying into the steel ringsteps, the top half of which is dislodged by the impact. Annis stalks after the bloody-faced challenger, picking up the chair as he goes. D'Amato leaves the ring and attempts to block Annis' passage, but receives a shove for his trouble.] TD: Oh my! Annis shoved an official -- and Dave D'Amato is down! SR: Referee down! This is always the best part, Dross! TD: You're disgusting, Steve Roberts. Annis now, with that chair... what's he going to... oh my! What impact! [The Coliseum resounds with the crack of chair against skull as Annis swings the chair like a baseball bat at the side of Creed's head, the red-gloved warrior having pulled himself to his knees on the arena floor.] TD: But Creed does not go down! Creed does not go down! Annis... Annis hits him again! [Annis brings the chair crashing down on the top of Creed's head, again halting the challenger's upward progress... but not detering him from his course for more than a couple of moments! The crowd is now beginning to get behind Creed once more, the chant rising in volume: "CREED! CREED! CREED! CREED!"] TD: Two chairshots, Steve Roberts -- two chairshots, and Creed will not go down! SR: That no-sellin' son of a... TD: You're going to get us into trouble, Steve Roberts. [Creed now fixes the bewildered Annis with his eyes, their wide, almost crazed stare all the more striking for its whiteness amidst his bloodied ebony face... and Creed beckons Annis to hit him again! Creed beckons Annis to hit him again... and the Champion obliges! Annis brings the chair down on the Oakland native's head once more... and still Creed stands! Huge pop! Creed now yells at Annis to hit him again, the red-gloved warrior moving ever closer to his opponent, and again, Annis brings the chair smacking down on Creed's head... and still Creed stands! "CREED! CREED! CREED! CREED!" Annis swings the chair yet again -- and this time, Creed raises his right hand, blocking the blow and swatting the chair away... this time, Creed grabs Serge Annis by the throat with his left glove, and... and... ...and with a primal scream, Creed hauls the 290lbs Champion into the air, and brings him down, crashing down with a chokeslam right through the Nicaraguan announcers' table! Huge, huge Creed pop!] SR: Jesus marimba, Dross! I didn't know we even _had_ a Nicaraguan announcers' table! TD: Well, we don't any more, Steve Roberts! Unbelievable! Simply unbelievable! Creed takes _four_ shots to the head with a steel chair, and he does not go down! Creed takes _four_ shots to the head with a steel chair... and he chokeslams the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion straight through a table! SR: I's almost dizzy with the sheer testosterone rush of it all, Dross-man! [There is wreckage outside the ring, equipment shorting out and sparking, a table left in little more than match-wood... and in the middle of it all lies Serge Annis, Creed on his hands and knees not far away, both men's chests heaving. Two distressed Nicaraguans jabber excitedly in the background... and one of them appears to be complaining about a splinter. Meanwhile, referee Dave D'Amato finally picks himself up and rolls slowly back into the ring, pulling himself to his feet and beginning to count both men out.] TD: Steve Roberts, ten minutes have now gone by -- and don't forget that the IIWF President imposed a fifteen-minute time limit on this match. SR: I don't think either of these guys is even going to make it back into the ring now, Dross. They're done out here. TD: I wouldn't be so sure, Steve! Just listen to these fans out here, these people are willing Annis and Creed to get up and continue this battle... D'Amato's count reaches four, and Creed rolls back into the ring! [Creed rolls into the ring to break the count, and immediately rolls straight back out again. Annis has begun to stir, and has clambered to his knees by the time Creed grabs him and shoves him roughly back into the squared circle. The red-gloved wrecking machine follows... and is met by a boot to the midsection from Serge Annis! Pop!] TD: Serge Annis is back on his feet, Steve Roberts! The Champion will not be denied -- he has been put through a table, but he is back on his feet! And he is stomping a mudhole right through the challenger here! [Annis drags Creed to his feet and hits him with a couple of stiff forearm shots to the jaw, each blow rocking the challenger backwards. Annis roughly grabs Creed's head and places it between his legs... he hoists the challenger up... and _drives_ him into the mat with a piledriver! Big heel pop!] TD: Annis with a piledriver... and the cover! He hooks the leg... we have one, we have two... but Creed kicks out! Creed kicks out! [Huge Creed pop as the challenger somehow gets a shoulder up, prompting Annis to yell in frustration at the official. The Champion again drags Creed to his feet, and again softens him up with a series of forearm shots, backing the challenger into one of the corners. Again, he roughly places Creed's head between his legs, and then turns, Creed still in position. He hoists Creed up into position for a second piledriver... and then manages to keep his balance as he climbs backwards up onto the first turnbuckle!] TD: Annis is on the first turnbuckle... and he has a foot on the second turnbuckle! Annis is on the second turnbuckle... what balance from this big man! And... oh my! [Annis leaps from the second turnbuckle, driving Creed's head into the canvas with even greater force. Huge heel pop! Creed is laid out, motionless, while Annis once more makes the cover. D'Amato is in position and begins the count: 1 -- 2... ...shoulder up! Huge, huge Creed pop!] TD: Steve Roberts, this young man just refuses to give up! Both men refuse to give up! What will it take to end this match? SR: Holy smoke, Dross -- Annis is going upstairs again! TD: Oh my goodness... Serge Annis is climbing to the top turnbuckle! [Annis begins the climb to the top rope, his back to the ring. The 6'8" monster looks decidely unsteady as he stands there, trying to retain his balance. Cameras flash all over the arena as Annis prepares for launch... and then he throws himself backwards, arching his back as far as possible, Annis arcing through the air, rotating through a complete somersault... ...and finding nothing but mat! Annis finding nothing but mat as Creed rolls out of the way! Huge pop!] TD: Moonsault! Annis misses the moonsault -- and nobody's home! SR: Hell, Dross, that was a better moonsault than the Fury's. TD: Serge Annis with another desperation move, another risky move that has not paid off for the champion... and according to my watch, now only two and a half minutes remain! Two and a half minutes remain on the clock for this match! [The fans once more begin to chant, "CREED! CREED! CREED!" as the red-gloved superstar, seemingly sensing that his window of opportunity is soon to close, hauls himself to his feet with some urgency. Creed drags the stunned and winded Annis upright, slings the champion's arm over his shoulder, and then snaps him over backwards! Big pop!] TD: Fisherman's suplex! And the bridge -- D'Amato makes the count... we have one... two... NO! Annis gets out! Annis gets out! SR: Unbe-friggin'-lievable, Dross! Annis kicked out! [Both men lie on the canvas, chests heaving, for the briefest of moments, and then Creed is upright again, Creed dragging Annis back to his feet, Creed spinning the Champion around and gripping him by the waist, Creed again throwing himself over backwards... Huge pop!] TD: Oh my! Release German suplex -- and Annis nearly sailed clear out of the ring! Creed again with the cover... Creed with the cover... We have one... two... NO! Foot on the ropes! [D'Amato motions excitedly to Creed that Annis has managed to raise his left leg and hook his foot over the bottom rope. Creed shows no emotion, simply pulling Annis to his feet again, slinging his arm over his shoulder once more, and... and Annis with the small cradle! Huge pop!] TD: Annis out of nowhere! The small package -- and he has him for one... for two... and Creed slips out! Creed slips out at the last moment -- and he is furious, Steve Roberts! [Creed almost seems to spring to his feet as he disentangles himself from his opponent, blasting a couple of kicks into Annis' sternum before yet again dragging him to his feet. Creed again attempts a suplex, this time a vertical suplex variant... blocked! Annis raises his leg, blocking the suplex attempt! Creed tries again... blocked again! Annis makes an attempt of his own... blocked! Another attempt... again, Creed blocks! Creed with another attempt... and this time Annis is up, Annis is up... and Annis slips out, Annis landing on his feet behind Creed! Pop! Creed wheels around...] TD: ...and Annis just about takes Creed's head off with a lariat! What impact! [Creed's head bounces hard off the canvas, and Annis stands, panting, above the challenger for a moment, snatching a precious lungful of air. Barely a moment has passed, however, before the Champion moves to drag Creed to his feet and back him towards one corner.] TD: There is just about a minute on the clock, folks! Time is running out for this match -- it's going to go to a draw! SR: No way, Dross -- no drawers, not tonight... unless the Soundbite is inside 'em, if you know what I'm sayin'. TD: Steve Roberts, what you're saying is of no importance at this point -- because Serge Annis is hoisting Creed up onto the top turnbuckle. Annis is going for a superplex! [Indeed, Creed is now straddling the top buckle, his head apparently lolling to one side, his back to the ring. Annis climbs up behind him, and as he stands on the mid-buckle, drags Creed to his feet, dragging the red-gloved wrecking machine to a standing position, Creed standing on the top turnbuckle and Annis just beneath him on the second buckle, slinging the challenger's arm over his shoulder, preparing to fall backwards and take Creed with him... ...but then Creed lashes out with an elbow! Creed catches Annis in the jaw with an elbow -- and the crowd goes berzerk as the red-gloved warrior gingerly turns himself through a half-turn on the top buckle, holding onto Annis all the while. Creed now stands, facing into the ring, with Annis before him.] TD: What's this, Steve Roberts?! We're running out of time -- there are only seconds on the clock! [Annis lashes out with a right hand -- blocked by Creed! Creed connects with a right of his own... with a left... and now Creed shoves Annis' head in between his legs... Creed locks his arms around Annis' waist... Creed poised on the top turnbuckle, cameras all over the arena flashing, the crowd roaring in anticipation!] TD: Oh my! It is! It's the Goodnight... [Creed's face contorts with the strain of wrenching Annis up by his gut, hoisting him up to the level of Creed's shoulders, his legs swinging wildly on either side of Creed's head from the torque of the move...] TD: ...Farewell... [And now Creed jumps, simultaneously plunging Serge Annis down, downwards towards the canvas, inexorably towards a crippling impact...] TD: ...Amen! [The two men crash to the canvas, the neck and base of the skull of Serge Annis slamming hard to the mat, and Creed hooks his own legs over Annis' shoulders, pushing forwards for all his might on the Champion's legs, covering Serge Annis... ...Dave D'Amato drops to the canvas... His hand hits the mat once. His hand hits the mat twice. His hand... hits the mat three times! Ding! Ding! Ding! The ringing of the bell pierces a sudden hushed silence... and then, it comes. Then, it begins. An explosion of noise, a deafening cheer of jubilation, and above it all rises one word, chanted by the thousands of fans lining the IIWF Coliseum: "CREED! CREED! CREED! CREED!"] TD: He did it! Creed has done it! Creed has done it, Steve Roberts! SR: I always knew he could do it, Dross. What is it he's done, again? TD: Steve Roberts, Creed has just pinned Serge Annis one, two, three in this ring right here tonight... and he has become the IIWF World Heavyweight Champion! SR: Are you crazy, Dross? That red-gloved punk kid the Heavyweight Champion of the World?! Give me a break! [In the ring, both Serge Annis and Creed lie motionless in the corner of the ring, their bodies dripping with sweat and wracked with exhaustion, their chests heaving. Dave D'Amato moves to the ropes, and motions to the IIWF President... who hands over the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship belt. D'Amato moves back towards Creed, who now pulls himself into a sitting position. The referee hands the belt to the red-gloved warrior, who regards the mass of gold and leather with a momentary shock, seemingly rooted to the spot... ...but then, amidst the cheers of the capacity crowd, Creed's spent energy seems to return in an instant, the young, ebony-bodied Oakland native returning to his feet, and climbing to the second turnbuckle once more. He takes another look at the belt... and then thrusts it joyously in the air as his music plays and the chant starts once more. Over this deafening cacophony come the words of Sparkplug Lee:] RA: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match, and _NEW_ IIWF World Heavyweight Champion... _CREEEEEEEEED_!! SR: Aw, nuts. [Tears stream down Creed's face as he points to the fans around the Coliseum, yelling out, "For You!...For You!...For You!..." and then he finally raises the belt to the sky, pointing up to the heavens, "For You..."] TD: A display of appreciation here from this incredible young man -- what a ride it has been for Creed. Just when it seemed the one goal that would make his sacrifices worthwhile was out of his reach forever... Creed has captured the IIWF World Heavyweight Championship -- and I, for one, am extremely happy for him. SR: I wish you a long and prosperous life together, Mrs. Creed. TD: What on earth are you talking about, Steve Roberts? [Creed finally climbs down from the turnbuckle and walks to the centre of the ring, kissing the belt, laying it flat on the canvas before him... ...and saying... "I'm going home." And then, without a glance back, Creed climbs out of the ring and, the mingled sounds of Beethoven and the thousands chanting his name ringing in his ears -- although perhaps no sound reverberating more than the words spoken by the ring announcer just moments earlier -- he walks up the aisle, through the curtain into the locker room area... and is gone. Cut to an aerial view of the ring, Dave D'Amato tending to the winded Serge Annis as the fans around the ring continue to chant: "CREED! CREED! CREED! CREED!" Over these scenes comes the voice of Tim Dross:] TD: Folks, it hardly seems possible, but there is _more_ to come! Our huge, history-making main event is right around the corner -- Creed may have just won the World Heavyweight Championship belt... but who will be the man who will claim it _forever_? Don't move one muscle! [The overhead shot zooms in towards the sparkling gold title belt laid carefully in the centre of the ring by Creed. The shot zooms until it can no longer focus and the screen is mingled with the colours of the belt. Fade.] +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= I * I * W * F =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=+ | President: Daniel Spreadbury | | iiwf@sisko.demon.co.uk | +=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- http://www.sisko.demon.co.uk -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+