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##                           ##
## Phoenix Valley Wrestling  ##
##       Burning Effect      ##
##           12.11.08        ##
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Presenting....

-> ???
-> Rob Cole
-> Action Packed
-> Joshua Curtis
-> Rick Marley
-> Ronan Benedict
-> Jokers Wild
-> Chase Williams
-> Prophets of Rage
-> Killing Machines
-> Will Geddings
-> Gibson Hayes
-> Stalker
-> Xavier Feyr
-> Justin Cruise
-> William Craven
-> Marcus Manson
-> Made Men
-> Tommy Ryder
-> Larry Gionet
-> The Mercenary


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	???
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The videotron comes to life, with dark, billowing clouds.  Music
starts up- "The Ride of the Valkyries" by Richard Wagner.  For a
moment, nothing can be seen but the billowing clouds.

After a moment, the screen is filled with yellow.  As it starts moving
back into the clouds, we see that the yellow is part of a letter- and
more letters are visible as it zooms out more and more.  When two
words fill the screen, it pauses.



"A Hero,"



The music fades out, the screen fades to black.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Rob Cole
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Rob Cole sits alone, covered in sweat and grime.  He slowly twists a
spool of barbed wire around a baseball bat, grinning sadistically as
his eyes reflect the glint of the candles set around him.  He licks
the sweat from his lip, swallows, and turns his hateful gaze to the
camera.]

RC: You don't have a name.  You are a number.  You are a victim, a
statistic, a camp counselor in a slasher flick.  You're a meat bag,
full of rubies and red red red... each one of you, no matter how fast
you might be.  No matter how big you think you are.  You're a shining
star, a beacon in the night, a signal flare to let me know just where
to find you, where to hurt you, and where to leave you bleeding and
broken. You are the satisfaction to my hunger... and I am so tired of
pretending to be something that I am not.

[Cole hoists the bat up and examines the steel, bringing the barbs
closer for inspection as he speaks.]

RC: Good or bad, hero or villain, there's a splash of red and a scream
of pain every time I walk down that aisle and someone limps away a
little less than what they were.  People like Caleb Foley... a kid who
wanted to be a hero, wanted to emulate his idol, and got everything he
could have wished for and so much more.  You wanted pain?  I gave it
to you.  You wanted the monster?  It's what you got.  I GAVE YOU WHAT
YOU WANTED!!!!  [chuckle] I gave you what you asked for.   Are you
going to thank me?  Are you going to appreciate my gift?  Don't get me
wrong, Caleb... I am certain that you are very very proud of the
beating you took.  You wear your bruises like a merit badge or
something, but it was still... A BEATING!!!!  A BEATING!!!! A
BEATING!!!!  Is that getting through your skull, Caleb?  You stood up
to the monster... you got cheered by the people... you showed courage
and bravery and you LOST!!!! History remembers George because he slew
the dragon... they don't list the names that fell before the brave
knight, kiddo.

[Cole lowers the bat, turning his attention to the camera once again.]

RC: Chrissy-fur... I don't mind the trial, kiddo.  I don't mind you
putting me in the ring with Livestock and Gutch, don't mind the odds
being stacked against me, don't mind any of it all that much at all.
You see, there really isn't anything, any one, or any team that's
going to stop me from carving up this whole company and drowning you
in blood. The more you feed me the more I grow, the more dangerous I
become, the more it takes to sate my appetite and satisfy my thirst!
I'm greedy, Chris... greedy for blood, greedy for flesh, greedy for
pain and misery and horror the likes of which you've only seen hints
of.  The only thing that seems a little lost on me is why you would do
this horrible thing to the two men that have been your friends.
WHY?!?!!!  You know what I'm going to do... they both know what I'm
going to do... they see it in the wire, they see it in the depths of
my eyes, and they smell the copper taste on the wind.  I'm going to
hurt your errand boys, Michaelson... I'm going to hurt them badly.

[Cole grins and leans down, drawing the straight razor from his
boot... he flips it open with one hand and licks the blade for a
moment.  He smiles and admires the gleam as he speaks.]

RC: And then all those rubies.... all those drops of rubies.  A battle
royal potluck buffet of blood just waiting to drip, to gush, to spout
like a gorey little fountain of horror.  Victims, one and all, come on
down and nibble at the golden bait... but when the hook rips you open,
when you're dragged out of the lake, when you come face to face with
the Beast... don't cry, don't complain, don't beg or plead or
crawl.... NOTHING!!!!  I will drink my fill, I will devour and gorge
myself on your pain, and I will prove that I am the Monster Beneath
the Bed.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Action Packed
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

"Killing Machines legends?  HA!"

[We open to Andy Action and Paul Packed the veteran tag team known as
Action Packed standing in the tall and proud after hearing the latest
news of their huge opportunity.]

[Action]: You hear this Paul?  We have ourselves another PVW match and
it's against some so-called legends, The Killing Machines.

[Packed]: It wouldn't be the first legendary tag team we have
defeated. And look at the bright side it could be our golden ticket
with a rematch with The Prophets.  They still stole away our chance at
winning the PVW tag team titles in the first place.

[Action]: If only we had more time to prepare for that tag team
gauntlet war.  The Prophets are lucky Action Packed didn't have the
same time they did to prepare otherwise we would have never lost those
golden straps to those two-bit hacks, The Wildcards.

[Packed]: Damn straight.

[Action]: While we are at it ...  We hear The Killing Machines have
their panties in a bunch worrying about Livestock and The Gutch.  Let
me remind you boys you have a match with _us_ this week.  We have
beaten more teams then times Jawaad closed two-bit organizations down.
We have wrestled _true_ legends like PVW's first tag team champions
Royal Family.  Facing you is going to be like taking candy from a
baby.

[Andy Action and Paul Packed have a laugh at that.]

[Packed]: Hey Andy did you see that goof, Overkill in the tag team
showcase match?  More like Roadkill!

[Andy Action drops to the floor holding his stomach he is laughing so
hard.]

[Packed]: And his big thug partner Demolisher?  More like Demolished
when we are done with him.

[Action]: When we are done we might even request a match with
Livestock and The Gutch to show these so-called legends how to take
care of business.  Perhaps you two were sitting at home getting fat
off Twinkies for too long.  It's obvious you returned to the PVW fat
and out of shape.  What you see in front of you are two top caliber
athletes.  We aren't clowns like Wildcards ...  We don't spend half
our days in a straight jacket like the Rage brothers ...  Paul Packed
is big and tough, but he isn't four  hundred pounds of goo ...  We are
prime time athletes.  The sight of us make the ladies faint and the
men glow with envy.

[Packed]: After the match and our hands are raised tall it'll be
Roadkill and Demolished glowing with envy come Heatwave.

[Action]: Damn straight partner.

[Packed]: So Fat and out of shape Machines bring your asses down to
that ring.  Hopefully the mile high air  won't have you bent over
sucking wind by the time you make it down the aisle way.  Andy and I
have been waiting for this opportunity.   We have been waiting
patiently for our chance.  We were robbed out of _our_ fair
opportunity.  We plan to take it out on you.

[Action]: When we are done all PVW tag teams should know we are
putting you on notice.

[Andy Action and Paul Packed walk off.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Joshua Curtis
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The scene opens up and a camera focuses on a picture of a young man
in his late teens: Battered, bloody and gashed with his hands raised
in the air by a referee and as the camera fixates on that a voice can
be heard in the background speaking...]

???: December 15th, 1999. That day was a day that wrestling fans
witness something that not many had ever seen. A young man took the
best that a human being could give him and more. The day that a
wrestler gushed like a geyser and nearly blacked out from blood loss
and had fans and referees begging him to stop. The problem was that
the kid refused to and quickly became a man on that day!

The young man proceeded to wrestle all over the world attaining
honours and feats in the industry at his young age but the beatings
his body took eventually caused him to walk away from a business as a
wrestler but through other wrestlers he managed and watched them
attain honours just like him. It was a brilliant day when he watched
his sister win a Women's title and even better when he got to watched
another young lady compete in a steel structure and put her body on
the line, but she felt she wasn't cut out for it and left for a little
while. Now she wrestles elsewhere with a young lady that he admires
and respects the hell out of because she believes in what I do.

Who is he?

[The camera pans back to see a young man standing in the middle of a
large living room with his arms folded wearing a blazer with the stars
and stripes down the front on one side and the Jack of England on the
other side while also wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans with
white socks and a look that could kill most mortal men on his face! He
stares into the camera and continues his speech...]

???: The name is Joshua Curtis and I was that young man that did a lot
for a little company and kissed no one's ass to do it. I didn't ever
ride in a big limo, fly in a jet or even have a big elaborate outfit
back then and even THIS by my standards is basic!

[Joshua uncrosses his arms and walks towards the kitchen and grabs a
soda before continuing...]

Joshua Curtis: Let me go ahead and let this out right now OK? I don't
have a super elaborate "OMG!" gimmick, my finisher is one that pays
homage to one of the best wrestler whom, at the time, hadn't won a
World Title and I occasionally shoot off at the mouth. [BLEEP] happens
and there's not a lot I can really do there for ya. I've taken a look
at the landscape of a fed and I noticed that apparently there are
people within the organization that are trying to become a cancerous
plague that festers on the inside and just eats away like something
that is ravenous.

I'm not going to watch that happen...not now...not ever!

Joshua Curtis: I maybe one of the last people to shoot off like this
but what I can see is that there's people within the company that see
what the "Network" is doing and not liking it. Are they saying it?
Maybe not, but you have to be deaf, thick or blind to not know about
it. I don't stand idly by and watch tradition get [BLEEP]ed on by
people that don't know what history and tradition means. You got young
guns that would love to be educated and vets that get it and that's a
bloody fact!

Network your stranglehold on Tradition and the business I work for,
live for and die for ends really soon and trust me if I have to go it
alone I will, but much like the Phoenix rises from the ashes so will
an uprising of people that care against you and I...I will be glad to
see that day!

[As Joshua takes a chug of his soda he walks upstairs and the camera
fades out]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Rick Marley
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The camera opens on a television screen showing the grisly images of
famous World War One battles...the Battle of Verdun, The Battle of
Champagne, the battle of Marne: men grimacing in trenches gripping
their rifles, furiously pulling gas masks over their helmets as thick
clouds of noxious agents roll towards them on the wind.

The camera pulls back to reveal WMI leader and recent chlorine gas
attack survivor "Showtime" Rick Marley.  The dark haired high flier
sits in his hotel room in an overstuffed recliner, a large bottle of
Evian spring water sitting on the table next to him and a remote held
lightly in his right hand.  Thumbing the 'pause' button, Marley leans
back in the chair, sighing loudly before looking over at the camera
and shaking his head, his face set in a mild frown.]

"Comeuppance...payback...poetic justice....

Trust me, I get it.

I keep hearing everywhere I go that people really want to see me get
my ass kicked up between my shoulder blades...that they're desperate
to see that cocky smile slapped off of my face...and that I basically
deserve anything that anyone decides to dish out to me.

It's not just what I've done to William Craven.

It's not what we did to Tyrone Parker.

Hell, I don't think it's even what I did to The Tucson Kid.

I'm pretty sure that it has more to do with what they're afraid I'm
going to do next.

You see, if the slobs out there lying on their couches and bordering
on immobility were honest with themselves for just one second, they'd
admit the fact that the fact that Widowmakers Incorporated is as
successful a group as this industry has in it right now is painful to
them.  The fact that a guy like me...too small...too short and not
strong enough...that a guy like that can step into the ring and leave
monsters like William Craven lying in a pool of his own blood...that a
guy like me can look into the camera and say that there is not one
active wrestler that can say they've beaten me in Phoenix Valley
Wrestling...they hate my success, because I did something that they
never could.

I bettered myself.

I'm not some tattooed green freak, half out of my mind with steroid
induced rage and so mentally unbalanced that I can barely get through
my day without getting locked into the institution that I so obviously
belong in.

I'm not some fresh faced rookie that everyone wants to get behind.

I'm not a returning hero from days gone by looking to remind the fat
slobs about how things were when they were young.

No way in hell."

[Marley comes to his feet, tossing the remote onto the chair he's just
vacated.]

"What I am is simple: I'm one of the best all around athletes in this
organization.  I'm a planner...a thinker.

Does that mean I"m smarter than everyone else around here?  Obviously
not.

But I'm driven.  I WILL win my first World Title here in PVW.

Even if I have to tear the place down to do it.

If Chris Michaelson thinks that putting me in a match with my brother
was supposed to upset me, well...I decided that the best way to deal
with that was to simply not have the match.  Xavier seemed to enjoy
himself in any case...but now Michaelson has decided that he'll up the
ante.  This time it's not going to be big brother, this time it's
going to be The Motor City Madman, William Craven himself, and he's
banning the rest of the Widowmakers from ringside."

[Marley looks irritated, not scared...his normal response when
confronted when matters turn to Craven...and then a slow smile creeps
across his face.]

"Bill, I told you, using that gas on me...I mean on US crossed a big
damned line, and we'd pay our debts.

It starts now, Billy boy.  You can take that to the bank."

[cut]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Ronan Benedict
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[White.  Sterile white, in fact.  A caption reads "Last week."  The
smell of various cleaning agents combined assaults the nostrils.  It's
your typical hospital room.  A TV sits high in the corner, muted as it
shows a rerun of Firefly.  A young blonde woman lays asleep in the
bed.  Her head is bandaged, and there are various cuts and bruises all
over her face - as well as a little dried blood that dripped from her
mouth.  Sitting nearby and facing her, in a not-so-comfortable chair,
is PVW newcomer Ronan Benedict.  He's dressed, as before, in a short-
sleeved black "War Hounds: Blood-Stained Extermination Tour" t-shirt,
faded blue jeans, and brown leather hiking boots on his feet.  A brown
leather jacket is drapped over the back of the chair.  Ronan sits with
one leg crossed over the other knee.  His hands are clasped over his
chest, and his head is bowed.  But his blue eyes never waver, looking
past the strands of dark red hair that dangle in his face, and focused
on the young blonde woman.  Slowly, her eyes begin to open.  But she
hasn't yet seen Ronan.]

W: [groggily] Wh... where am I?

[Ronan puts his foot down, and leans toward her a bit.]

RB: The hospital.  I brought you in a few hours ago.

[The fog in the woman's eyes begins to clear, as she's waking up a
little bit more.  She turns her head towards Ronan.]

W: Who are you?

[Ronan extends his hand and holds it just over the bed, so she can
reach it.]

RB: Name's Ronan Benedict.  You don't know me.

[She gazes at it briefly, at the taped up cuts all over it, but she
doesn't acknowledge the gesture.]

W: You're right, I don't.

[She tries to yell out, but is having a much harder problem at it than
she should.]

W: Nur-urse!

RB: Easy, easy.

W: I need to get out of here.  Don't got any insurance.

[Ronan shakes his head in reply.]

RB: Don't worry about it.  I took care of the bill.

[The woman's eyes widen a bit in surprise.]

W: Why?

RB: Ain't often people are good to you, huh?

[Smiling, Ronan leans back in his chair, crossing his legs again.]

RB: I wasn't about to let you bleed to death in that alley.  No
f[BLEEP]kin' way.

W: How did you do it, anyway?  I mean there were two of them.

RB: Three, actually.  And I fight professionally.

[That revelation seems to have soured the unnamed woman some more.]

W: Oh great, another one of those again.  Just my luck.  Let me
guess... you're real nice, until you get drunk.  Then you smack girls
around.  Sound about right?

[It's obvious she has some major trust issues.  Ronan shakes his head
though.]

RB: No, that ain't me.  Any scumbag who hits women deserves to get his
head smashed in.

[The woman isn't buying it though.]

W: Uh huh, I've heard that story before.  I bet you arranged that
beatdown so you could win me over.  How long have you been stalking
me?

[Yep, big-time trust issues.  Ronan shakes his head in denial again.]

RB: Never saw you before that night in the alley.  I don't even know
your name.

[The woman gets almost snappy now.]

W: You didn't ask, either.

RB: Yeah, well, I figured you'd tell me it if and when you were ready
to.

W: I don't know what you want, but you aren't getting it.  Go away.
Leave me the fuck alone.  Nurse!

[Without protest, Ronan rises to his feet.]

RB: I'll be out in the hall if you need anything.

W: _Go_ _away!_

[Finally, after being called a second time, the nurse enters room.]

N: How are you holding up Miss Ruger?

[But we don't hear "Miss Ruger's" response, as Ronan exits the room.
But no sooner than he does so, that two uniformed police officers
approach him.]

Officer 1: Mister Benedict?

[Ronan nods his head in acknowledgement.]

RB: Yeah, that's me.

[The second officer gazes down at Ronan's hands.  They're all cut up,
but apparently Ronan refused any bandaging.]

Officer 2: How did you cut your hands, Mister Benedict?

[He glances in at "Miss Ruger", at her bandaged, cut, and bruised
face.]

O2: Did you assault that poor young woman?

[Ronan is clearly shocked by this question.]

RB: No!

[He sighs, trying to compose himself.]

RB: Look, I know you guys are just being thorough, and that's good.
But I'm the guy who pulled her out of that mess and brought her here.
My hands are all f[BLEEP]ked up 'cause I was pounding on three piece
of sh[BLEEP]t scumbags' faces.

O1: Turn around, and put your hands behind your back.  We need to take
you down to the station for questioning.

[Sighing again, Ronan does as he's been instructed.  The officer in
turn puts a set of handcuffs on him, and makes sure they're tight.]

RB: I need to ask a favor though...

[The officers glance at one another briefly.]

O1: Don't worry, you'll get your phone call when we get to the
stagion.

[Ronan shakes his head.]

RB: No, it's not that.  Could you have somebody come here and stand
guard for her?

O2: Why, you think somebody's gonna' come in hurt her some more?

[Again Ronan shakes his head.]

RB: I hope not... but just in case.  They were pretty determined...

O2: This ain't the movies, kid.  Now come on, let's go.

[Assholes.  They lead Ronan away in the handcuffs.  Fade.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Jokers Wild
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Fade in to a weight room. No, not the one from the last Burning
Effect. This one looks more like someone's basement. Alongside the few
exercise equipment on one side of the room is a small workbench. One
half of Joker's Wild is working out on the equipment, the other is
hunched over the workbench. Guess who is doing what.]

HQ: Take a look at this beauty. Ain't it aweome?

[Harley Quinn O'Connor, dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans, AND face
paint, turns around and holds up a Christmas ornament. Only, he's
decorated it with fake snow and a black marker, so it has a clown face
on it, just like his own painted face.]

HQ: Jokers Wild Christmas ornaments, man! The fans will lap these
suckers up and we are SO going to make a killing. [Notices his partner
isn't paying attention] Hey, Joe . . . JOE!

ES: [Annoyed] What?

HQ: Christmas balls, man!

ES: Unless those balls of yours are going to help us deal with the
Made Men, I don't want any part of them . . . Why'd you have to go
pick a fight with Nick Wright, anyway?

HQ: Why not? We can handle them pretty much like we handle everyone
else . . .

ES: They're WMI, man. You don't just HANDLE THEM!

HQ: Hey. HEY! I was standing up for you, you know, after what Wright
said. I told you I'd always have your back, the least you could do is
thank me for it!

ES: Thank you? THANK YOU? What did he say, anyway, that was sooo bad?

HQ: I don't know if I can say it on camera, man. It had something to
do with the size of your . . .

ES: What, my dick? You picked a fight with him over a comment about my
[bleep]?

HQ: Well, and what he said about his own . . .

ES: What, are we like twelve here?

HQ:  And what he'd like to do with it . . .

ES: What?

HQ: You've got to promise you won't get mad, okay?

ES: Yeah, yeah, like I'd get mad over what some guy said.

HQ: Nonetheless, put down those bloody weights. I don't want you to
start tossing them or anything. I just had the whole place redone.

ES: Still looks like [bleep], but okay.

[He puts down the weights. Harley Quinn walks over and whispers
something in 'El Salvaje's' ear. Estrada goes red in the face and does
not look happy. He explodes.]

ES: OH NO! HE DID NOT! I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL HIM WHEN I GET MY
HANDS ON HIM. NOBODY SAYS THAT ABOUT MY SISTER. NOBODY SAYS NOTHING
ABOUT MY FAMILY . . .

[He gets up and storms out of the room, but not before O'Connor can
ask him one last question.]

HQ: Chill, man! Where are you going?

ES: I NEED TO BREAK SOMETHING, ANYTHING. DO YOU WANT ME TO DO IT IN
YOUR CRAP SHACK, [BLEEP]?

HQ: Well, no. Just don't get into trouble . . .

[Estrada leaves, as we hear the sound of a door slamming. Harley Quinn
looks on, slightly amused.]

HQ: Okay . . . [He shrugs] I don't know what the big deal is. You
should see his sister. Heck, I'd stick mine up that eighteen-year-old
ass . . . Anyway, balls!

[He goes back to the workbench and gets back to work, humming a happy
working holiday song as the shot fades to black.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Chase Williams
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[We've seen Chase Williams do a lot of things over the years, but who
could've imagined it would come to this?]

"So this is it. This is what Phoenix Valley Wrestling chooses to do
for the man that _carried_ this company to its early success? The man
that made Phoenix Valley Wrestling what it was until Bryan Young
killed it?

[He's not driving, not lifting, nor pacing, or seated in a chair, or
standing, stoic in front of a Phoenix Valley Wrestling banner. No, we
passed those points a long time ago...]

"And through it all, I've still been a company guy. I could've and
wanted to break every bone in the body of that thieving prostitute
Young, but I refrained. When I was not given the rematch I demanded,
and was rightfully owed, I could've and wanted to skin Dex Willingham.
But I didn't...

[He trails off as the camera finally opens inside the home of Chase
Williams. More specifically, the kitchen. what is he doing you might
still be asking yourself? Making an Ice Cream [beeping] Sundae. He
turns away from the monster multi-colored bowl of ice cream on the
counter in front of him and rifles through the refrigerator, returning
with A can of whip cream and a bottle of Hershey's syrup.]

"Fastforwarding a little, I now find myself at the mercy of a jealous
megalomaniac that thinks taking my name in vain and making jokes is a
good way to assert his authority. That little gift from the Wild Cards
will seem like a day at the beach when our business is done. Hide
behind whatever title you want you chicken[beep] bastard. I'm no ones
puppet Chrissy, and I'm not playing games. Keep pushing my buttons and
see what happens.

[He drenches his mountain of ice-creamy goodness with half the bottle
of chocolate syrup.]

"You think you're being cute with your little stunts, making the fans
happy with your spur of the moment stipulations. Its gonna backfire
though. I _will_ walk out of that battle royal the winner and the
Eighth seed in the tournament for my title. A tournament that I not
only deserve a automatic seed in, but at least a bye in the first
round as well. Instead I have to _earn_ nothing more than a mere spot
in this sham of a tournament for something I _never_ lost!"

[Now its whip cream time. The bottle ends up in a mini-mountain atop
the much larger mountain of ice cream.]

"While I'm on the subject, this battle royal? This _joke_... I hate to
be the bearer of bad news friends, but the fact is, that seed is mine.
Not Foley's, not Manson's, not Gomez'... _Mine!_ Its simple really.
For you see, I am the once and future _king_. Guys like Manson, while
scary to children and miscreants like El Hijo Del Sol, don't have the
same effect on a guy like me. I'm just as big, just as scary, and I
have to [beeping win. No remorse, no regard, no excuses. I will not be
denied that which is owed. Cole, while I admire your crusade, and oh
that is painful for me to say, we find ourselves in a similar
predicament. A jealous has been has been poking you with the same
sharp stick."

[A Giant spoon gets stuck into the top of the monstrous sundae.
Williams turns to the camera with a look of exasperation and
exhaustion.]

"Unfortunately for you thats as far as my empathy goes. If you get
into this battle royal, thats the end of the line for you. No way
around it. Your crusade gets in the way of mine and yours get
squashed. Plain and simple. The Monster Under the Bed gets
smoked again. I will also, for the record, shove that albino freak's
fireball up his very own ass, and just for kicks, I'll slap that runt
Foley around till my hand hurts, then slap him some more for making it
hurt before pissing all over his aspirations one more _time_."

[Mocking laughter]

"Its becoming a theme eh Caleb? My fist beats up your face. Rinse and
repeat. Seriously though, I don't mean to make light of the
deconstruction that these moist ass bitches having coming but I just
can't help myself. I mean, I understand why most of the guys got in,
but Jeremiah Page? Ronan Benedict? Are we letting the catering become
wrestlers now? How in the [beep] do nobodies like that belong in the
same ring, nay the same arena, as your uncrowned champion? Michaelson
again spits on and grinds the legacy _I_ built into the dirt  with his
filthy overrated boot heel!"

[He shakes his head in utter disgust for the PVW's resident chief. How
can one be so unhappy next to a ginormous ice cream sundae.]

"In the end it all amounts to nothing! Because I _am_ going to _win_
the battle royal and I _am_ going to get back the property that was
stolen from me by Bryan Young. But I digress, I don't want to beat a
dead horse. I do however want to get down on my Sundae. So get the
[beep] outta here.

[Fade]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Prophets of Rage
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Fade in:

There is Swingin' Dean Hayes standing before the PVW backdrop.  Before
the hard-working announcer/radio personality can say anything Shadoe
Rage storms onto the set.  The Kin of Rage Country isn't in a splendid
mood.  He wears a simple black T-shirt and jeans.  The T-shirt simply
reads: KING across the chest.]

SR: Tell me what happened out there last week?

SDH: You mean in that six-man match where Semi pinned you?

[Shdaoe's head rocks back on his shoulders as if he were struck on the
chin.  He blinks incredulously, too stunned to get angry.  Well, for a
moment anyway.  He quickly fixes that as he grabs Hayes' shirtfront.]

SR: Wrestling is a cerebral sport more than a physical one.  It's
chess.  All they had to do was protect the King!  I am the King.  And
they let me be checkmated.  They're supposed to know their roles and
support their king.  They are just pawns; I am the King.  And you're
supposed to lay down your life for your King.  It's just that simple.
If you want to be a champion and earn title shots you have to earn the
favour of your king.

SDH: But you weren't doing anything to help them.  You ducked their
tags several times.

SR: (snarling) Listen man, you listen to me, man.  I'm the King ...
their job was to protect me.  Their job was to prove to me that they
might be worthy of title shots.  But they failed and so now they get
nothing.  They are terrible pawns.  They don't get to be kings!
That's it.  No more questions!

[And with that Shadoe Rage exits stage left.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Killing Machines
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

(Scene opens to outside a large stonework mansion. An onscreen graphic
says "Montreal, Quebec", to let us know where the heck we are. A taxi
cab pulls up to the entrance of the mansion, and two large men exit,
both wearing appropriate winter attire. It's quite cold out up there,
this time of year, after all. As the two men turn towards each other,
we can tell through the jackets and snow caps that these are Overkill
and Demolisher, the Killing Machines.)

Overkill: Okay, "D", tell me again why the hell we're way up here in
this god forsaken hell hole...it's freaking cold out, and I think I
can't even feel my toes already!

Demolisher: 'Kill...you know exactly why we're here. It's meeting time
with the man.

Overkill: Yeah, yeah, yeah...I know. I just don't see why he couldn't
have come down to visit us...New York is down right tropical compared
to this arctic tundra right now. I don't even know what the
temperature is...damn celsius thermostats.

Demolisher: All right...you've made your point. He wanted us to see
his new place...we're being pals and coming to see him. Behave
yourself.

Overkill: Oh...I promise you nothing. Now, let's get inside already
before my nose freezes and breaks off...

Demolisher (shaking head): That's fine with me. You're not the only
one who's cold...

(Demolisher and Overkill walk up to the door and knock. They wait a
few seconds, and no one seems to answer.)

Overkill: He ain't home...how's that for hospitality? We fly up here,
then take a cab all the way outside the city...and he ain't here. What
a crock!

Demolisher: He's here Overkill, trust me.

Overkill: Yeah...trust you. You're the one who dragged me to this
place!

(Finally, after about ten more seconds, with Overkill stomping his
feet up and down in an effort to stay warm, the door opens. In the
entryway stands "Midnight" Jawaad Mahmood, manager of the tag team at
his doorway. Jawaad is dressed in a white t-shirt and aqua blue swin
trunks with a tropical pattern on them. He is wearing sun glasses and
sandals.)

Mahmood: Hey boys...come on in!

Overkill: What...the...hell.

Mahmood: Sorry for the delay in answering...I was just having a swim
in my indoor pool downstairs.

Demolisher: Go figure.

Overkill: You can swim up here? I would think all the water would be
frozen by now...

Mahmood: Hehe...you weren't waiting too long, were you?

Overkill: Only long enough to get lethal frostbite...

Demolisher: 'Kill, settle down. Enough.

Overkill: All right, all right...

Mahmood: Get those coats off, and let me get you something to drink...

Overkill: Now that sounds good.

(Overkill and Demolisher quickly enter the house and shed their winter
gear, then plop down on a large leather couch in the living room off
to the side of the main entrance. It is well decorated, and a large
flat screen TV can be seen in the background, hanging on the wall.
Mahmood comes back in with a couple beers in hand. Overkill snatches
one immediately and begins chugging it down.)

Mahmood: Uh...let me go and get you another...couple

Overkill (smiling slyly): Thanks!

Demolisher (whispering): Come on man, behave yourself, just a bit.

Overkill: Oh...after that plane ride, I'm going to drink this play
dry!

(Demolisher shakes his head, again, as Jawaad returns with a couple
more beers, and what appears to be an iced tea for himself. He kicks
of his sandals and sits down on a large recliner.)

Mahmood: Well, I'm glad you boys could come up here and see the new
place. I have to say I really am pleased with it.

Demolisher: Looks like you've done pretty well for yourself, Jawaad.
Congrats.

Mahmood: Well, with the NICW DVDs still selling well, it seemed like a
good time to take advantage of the depressed housing market. Anyway, I
can give you two the grand tour later. What we're here to do right now
is talk a bit of business.

Overkill: Right, business...say, where's our cut of those DVD sales?

Mahmood (slightly flustered): Uh...oh, don't worry, that's getting
taken care of...some legal stuff to go through...anyway, congrats on
your team winning that six man tag last week, Overkill.

Overkill: Congrats? You were there. So was Demolisher. You saw the
whole thing.

Mahmood: I know...but it was the first win for either of you, thus far
in your career resurgence.

Demolisher: Yeah, that's the thing...our return isn't exactly
generating a lot of buzz yet, you know? I kind of feel like we showed
up at Tradition II, got a nice pop, and that's been it.

Mahmood: Well...to get noticed, you have to win some tag team matches.

Demolisher: You haven't gotten us in any real tag team matches yet,
Jawaad. It's all been these six man affairs...which may be well and
good, but when you're looking across the ring, you want to see someone
you've actually been in some wars with, you know?

Overkill: Yeah...everyone knows I carried those ham & eggers to a
victory last week, but it was tough. They didn't want to do things my
way, but when they saw what I could do in that squared circle, they
fell in line pretty quick. They kept saying "Just tell us what to do,
Overkill...we'll follow you into hell itself. It's an honor to be
standing next to a real tag team legend like yourself! Thank you for
not beating the crap out of us like we deserve!"

(Demolisher looks over at Overkill. Overkill grins.)

Demolisher: Yeah...well, at least your team won, so that counts for
something. But...if anyone is even going to give a crap about the
return of the Killing Machines, you need to get us in some straight up
tag team matches, Jawaad, so we can kick ass and take some names
again. I don't think we're even seen as a threat to the PVW tag ranks
yet. It's like we're pretty much an after thought in the world of
P-V-W right now. That's not how it was supposed to go. You promised us
a lot of hype and promo time when we showed up. I thought we'd be
knocking on the door of the tag belts already.

Mahmood: That's all coming very soon, Demolisher. You guys are
worrying too much...relax...

Demolisher: Relax? You know we're on borrowed time at this point.
Everyone is already saying "Yeah, these guys are legends, but they're
over the hill...a couple has beens trying to stir the embers of a
dying career." Which is all a bunch of crap...but if we don't have any
wins to back up our talk, who's to say anything otherwise? It's on us
to prove all the doubters dead wrong. We've held gold before, we can
still do it again.

Overkill: Stir the embers? I'll stir them up! I'll show them why I'm
called Overkill! Maybe you should remember that they call you
Demolisher"! Not "Reminiscer!" Yeah, we've done a lot in the
past...we've won a bunch of tag titles. But I want gold around my
waist again! I want those PVW tag straps!

Demolisher: We both want that Overkill. But wanting and doing are two
different things. This isn't one of those leagues where title shots
are handed out based on who you know, despite what that network is
maybe trying to do. Title shots are earned. That's a reality we have
to overcome, and the only way to do that is to win some tag team
bouts...make them give us the shot we know we should have.

Overkill: You and your blasted logic...

Mahmood: Demolisher is right, Overkill. Championship matches are
earned. That's how it should be. Which is why you guys have your first
real tag team match of your return to pro wrestling this coming week
on Heatwave!

Demolisher: Yeah, we heard...

Mahmood: You're taking on Action Packed! It's going to be huge! The
Killing Machines vs Action Packed...a real battle for the ages! Think
of all the ratings. That will get those network heads talking!

Overkill: What's an Action Packed? Who are these guys?

Mahmood: Well, really, that's not that important...

Demolisher (staring at Mahmood): You don't even know who they are, do
you?

Mahmood: Well, what does it matter? You guys will handle them no
problem...

Overkill: We've got a match against two unknowns? We'll mop the floor
with 'em...

Demolisher: Come on Jawaad...we should at least know who we're facing.
Didn't you do any homework on them?

Mahmood: Quit worrying Demolisher...life is too short. You're going to
win, and you're going to remind everyone watching, and all the people
in that arena, of what the Killing Machines are capable of.

Overkill: That'll show those two...those two lawyers...that we mean
business.

Demolisher: Well, we definitely need to send a message to Livestock
and Gutch, that's a certainty.

Mahmood: Very good. So you're going to go to Heatwave, you're going to
beat these Action Packed dudes, and you're going to be one step closer
to a shot at the PVW Tag Team Championship. Now, who wants to go for a
swim!

Overkill: Yeah...that sounds good.

Demolisher: All right...but we're not done talking business...

Mahmood: All in due time, Demolisher. Relax...

(The three stand up, Demolisher looking slightly incredulous, while
Overkill polishes off his...probably fourth or fifth beer, but who's
counting? End of scene.)

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Will Geddings
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The scene opens to a shot of a dark corner. Sitting in the corner,
masked by the dark, is Will Geddings. Sitting to his left is a
connected IV machine. On his knee is an inside out wrestling mask,
gauze attached to the exposed inside.]

[Geds]: There's a certain...irony to this sort of thing happening to
me. For how many years have I stood as the standard bearer for
federation after federation and taken pride in the destruction I
caused? How many men have I disfigured? How many women have I
destroyed emotionally? And for what? Because I was asked to...

[Geds]: Seeing Cruise out there again...having a jolly time...it
reminded me of why I got into this game in the first place. It
reminded me of the thrill of competition just as competition. Not some
sick thrill in causing destruction. Not some cheap heat and pops. The
second Cruise-related Rebirth of Will Geddings...and then this...

[Geddings' right hand leaves the light and moves into the darkness,
presumably motioning towards his face.]

[Geds]: Is this supposed to be some sort of message from SSN? Toe the
line or suffer the consequences? Surely you can do better than this.
I'll heal...I promise you, I'll heal. Will you, Vandal? When I am
finished dealing with you, I think it's an issue that is very much in
doubt.

[Geds]: You came at me with a fireball. A quick, effective, and
utterly cowardly move. I should expect no less from one in the legal
profession.

[Geddings grabs the mask that is sitting on his knee]

[Geds]: I'll be there for the battle royal. And it's one that I fully
intend to win, in spite of all this. While I understand the general
point of a match of this nature: be heard, not seen...honestly, I
don't know if I can maintain that level of discipline here, Vandal.
You'll be there. I know it. I can still read.

[Geds]: ...In spite of your best efforts, Vandal, I can still
function. As your sitting in your office this week...as you're
devising whatever little plan you think will win you this match and
avoid me...understand my track record. Understand what I am capable
of. Understand that you and anyone who put you to this will -pay-.

[Geddings stands up and walks out of the shadows. His face is covered
by an all-to-familiar site.]

[Victory Lane/Geds]: This mask has always looked better on me,
anyways...Long Live the King.

[Scene fades]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Gibson Hayes
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Whoa! A PVW backdrop and Gibson Hayes is standing in front of it in
all his American Hero glory. Gibson is wearing a light blue Shetland
button vest with a red dress shirt and white tie to compliment his
charcoal dress pants. Gibson is waring his hair higher, a bit afro'd
for some reason. The black ancestry in his background is apparent...
and his Asian ancestry with his almond shaped eyes. Gibby paces a bit
but stops when he "notices" the camera.]

Gibson Hayes: History was made in November, ladies and gentlemen.

[Gibby stands tall and solemnly looks into the camera.]

November of 2008 will be forever thought of as the time when America
shed off its shameful past and anointed a worthy man with an important
task. As I spoke with that man he said to me: Gibson, you are the
last, best hope for America.

[America's Guardian takes a deep breath.]

Gibson Hayes: As I looked deep into those passionate brown eyes I knew
what this man said was true. I knew that it was my duty to safe guard
our nation and set her course right. And as I watched this man nod his
head in approval I felt a sense of responsibility that was only
previously a small voice in the back of my head. And as I accepted
this responsibility I felt renewed, I felt super charged. And then,
then I looked this great man straight in the eye and I said: "Self, I
know this and I will do everything I can to make sure these two titles
around my waist never leave because if I lose, America loses. If
America loses the world loses. If the world loses God loses. God
loves America and he'd hate to see America lose. Ergo I must keep
winning and keep the gold belts around my waist." And this man was
pleased. And America was pleased. And the world was pleased.

[Another serious nod from Hayes.]

Gibson Hayes: I don't really know much about this Johnny Styles guy.
He's called a stalker and that spells nothing but bad things in my
mind. Johnny Styles could be an alias for John Hinkley Junior for all
I know.

[A head shake.]

Gibson Hayes: Wouldn't that be convenient? First Johnny fails at
taking out Ronnie so now, in another sick attempt to de-lesbiafy Jodie
Foster, he tries to cripple the Last American Hero!

[A finger held up to make a point.]

A ploy by special interests, no doubt about it. Someone... or
someones, want Gibson Hayes out of the picture. Who could want
America's Only Hope waylay'd, shanghai'd, foreign bedevil'd,
assassinifie'd? Who?

[Gibson looks into that camera, eyes like drill bits.]

Gibson Hayes: Well America, I, Gibson Hayes, am no 'fraidy cat. I,
Gibson Hayes, am willing to put it all on the line out there for my
country. I am nothing if not a patriot. I shall not be swayed from my
duty as the guardian of America's virtue. Fear is not something that
can stop Gibson Hayes. If you namby-pamby terrorists who want Gibson
Hayes out of the way think that I, Gibson Hayes, will cower in fear
and run away you would be dead wrong.

[Shoulders squared, hips aligned and face dead solid serious, Gibson
Hayes is not backing down.]

Gibson Hayes: So bring on your slings and arrows, I will not be put
down by your force of arms. I, Gibson Hayes, am on a mission. My
shining city on a hill shall not burn quietly in that sparkling night!
This nation shall not perish from this earth, not while Gibson Hayes
draws breath! Gibson Hayes is making a stand.

[Fist pumping in the air, Gibby begins to pace and slap his right hand
into his left.]

Gibson Hayes: Gibson Hayes is also making a run to be in charge of
officiating so things are fair in PVW. We all know conspirators abound
in this den of thieves. There is no way I, America's Savior, can get a
fair fight when "special" interests seem to hold all of the officials
in their grip. Do not worry, fair Gibson Hayes acolytes. Gibson Hayes
has many things up his sleeve. For when your foe crosses the line you
are allowed to do all manner of things in order to even the playing
field.

[Hayes is wearing a hole in that floor with his back and forth
movement.]

Johnny "Hinkley-Foster/Stalker" Styles, I don't know you. I do know
you're probably a socialist. I do know you probably are hiding a
Saturday Night Special on your persons. You can try to strike me down
but I will stop you. I will use good old fashioned American
bullheadedness and over application of force to cripple your chances
of hurting America's Favored Son.

[Gibby adopts a rigid stance and salutes.]

I, Gibson Hayes, and my ward, America, will endure!

~The preceding message was paid for by the American Society for
Safety, Health, Obedience, Liberty and Education and generous
donations from viewers like you and was in no way paid for by Gibson
Hayes.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Stalker
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Compared to the lights and activity of Hollywood, neighboring
Koreatown is a ghost at this time of night.  A waxing gibbous casts a
soft glow on the barren street, giving it a calm feeling... or at
least it would, were it not for the a pulsing beat emanating from the
upper floor of the corner building.  The camera floats up, following
the sound and alternating lights coming from the window, then fades
out.

[...and back into the venue, revealing a sea of black -- from lace,
vinyl, leather to cloth, an assortment of fashion whose only common
trait seems to be a dark masqeurade.  A man wearing a Victorian-era
suit walks by, a feathered mask obscuring his features.  A woman
wearing, aside from barely visible shorts and strategically placed
tape, nothing but body paint in a swirling pattern.  Another, covered
from head to toe in what could be described as a pin-striped latex
evening gown.  On the nearby dance floor, swaying, stomping and
flailing are in equal attendance, as the finishing song transitions
neatly into Numb's "Blood."

[After the momentary distraction, the camera fades again, to the
rooftop patio.  Masked, facepainted, and hatted people have separated
into huddles for conversation, nearby warmth, or nicotine
addiction.  A surprising handful of people tower over the rest,
including one man whose laugh causes occasional dirty looks from
across the patio: the only proof of the occasion by Urban Legend's
Semi is his painted face, divided neatly down the nose half black,
half bone-white.  Also chatting with the group beside him, appear to
be the twins Nightstar and Nightfire, though it's hard to tell which
is which in matching Comedy & Tragedy masks.

[One more man stands quietly, listening to the group but standing a
bit off, as if waiting for something.  Fairly nondescript (given the
crowd) in a three-button suit, what's recognizable is his plain,
three-quarters face mask, a red stream of tears trailing out of each
eyehole... and the passive expression visible underneath.

[As if on cue, Stalker casually steps away from the group as they
continue, making his way to a divided off section of the patio.   He
stands with his arms crossed, staring across a railing at the
entryway, still occasionally accepting a latecomer.]

Stalker : History is in the making once again... another wrestling
organization rising to meet its potential, Geddings and Cruise
engaging in another convoluted course... and myself with another title
shot.

Stalker : For most, this would be a time of anticipation: an
opportunity for prestige, fame, and [he huffs] a slightly large
paycheck.  Hayes, of course, celebrates his dual title win with his
usual flair of "public service announcements" and general bile
towards anyone not... himself, actually.  Claiming to be an
All-American, while engaging in tactics that would make any Statesman
blanch.

Stalker : One would think it would be a pleasure to unseat this
travesty to a title called Heritage... but instead I find myself
slightly annoyed.

[He chuckles, shaking his head.]

Stalker : It's interesting that the announcement came that Hayes
would be facing "Stalker Johnny Styles."  Johnny Styles made his name
in singles matches, due to passion and devotion to wrestling no
matter what the odds, opponent, or location against the likes of
Geddings, Cruise, Madcap, Outlaw and Holmes... and gained singles
titles because of it.  A legacy to be proud of, for sure.

Stalker : But that... is not the Stalker.  [He leans against the
railing.]  The man under this mask is bred for the calculation that
tag team wrestling requires.   When to utilize your partner, when to
aid your partner, when to bide your time, and when -- Prophets -- the
right time is for revenge.  While Semi is large and agile enough to
adapt to any number of opponents, and Outlaw is simply...
self-motivated enough to charge into anything, this member of Urban
Legend is simply that, a part that completes the whole.

[He sighs, standing up straight.]

Stalker : While Gibson has demonstrated his contempt and disrespect
for both the titles he holds and the people he holds them for, it is
not the place of a tag team wrestler to take one of those titles from
him.

[He turns, beginning to walk back towards the rest of the crowd, then
stops, cocking his head.]

Stalker : However, I do have a suitable replacement in mind, which
you will have some time to prepare for at Heatwave.  And that
announcement, Hayes...

[An uncharacteristic smile is suddenly visible behind the mask.]

Stalker : ...will be paid for by nobody in particular.

[Seamelessly, the masked suit weaves his way back into the crowd,
disappearing.  The camera instead focuses on another figure.  With
short-cropped, brown hair set in disarray, the woman stares after the
retreating Stalker with a pensive look on her face.  The camera fades
out.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Xavier Feyr
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

    [The screen is black for a moment, before a an illuminated square
    appears on a dingy wall.  Accompanied by clicking/whirring sound
    in the background, like the sound of an old movie projector.]

*K-TK... K-TK... TKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKT*

     [A number 6 appears... a beep as it's wiped from the screen
     replaced by a 5... BEEP... 4... BEEP... 3... BEEP... 2... BEEP...
     1... the screen goes dark for a moment, and then changes to an
     African plain.  A herd of gazelles run in the background... the
     shot changes, and we see a herd of zebras grazing... the shot
     changes again, this time to a lion sitting perched on a large
     rock, resting as it surveys it's "kingdom"... another change, and
     we see a pack of hyenas eating the remnants of another animals
     kill... again the shot changes, this time to a coalition of
     cheetahs, watching the zebras and gazelles from a distance.  Then
     we here an icily familiar voice.]

FEYR:  It's a dangerous world out there...

     [From off-screen we here footsteps, and then see Xavier walk in
     front of the projected screen... the images projected onto his
     face creating an almost surreal image of animals on his skin.]

FEYR:  ...and make no mistake, PVW is little different from the wild,
at it's athletes are beast of one sort or another, much as they may
like to feign at... "civilization".

     [The word comes from Xavier's lips with almost a snort... as if
     the very idea of the word is an absurdity.  The scene changes
     back to the gazelles bounding across the plain gracefully.]

FEYR:  There are those that stride gracefully through the ranks, as
though they were on top of the world... thinking that they will
forever outrun the competition.  They never look back, always thinking
that no one can touch them as they blaze ahead... they never see their
fate coming...

     [The shot changes again, this time to the zebras grazing...]

FEYR:  There are those that simply enjoy the place they are in.  They
reap the benefits of what they've gained, above some, but beneath
others, never thinking to better their place any further.  Foolishly
content...

     [The shot changes yet again, this time the Lion sitting on the
     rock, looking out over the plain, as a lioness drags up a kill.
     The lion leaps down from the rock and growls, the lioness backing
     off and allowing the larger male to eat his fill...]

FEYR:  There are those who have already achieved greatness.  Sitting
upon their thrones, surveying all that they have done, they bask in
the glory of things past... yet they are little better than those who
stopped half-way.  Achieving that greatness, they do little to mantain
their place, relying on their fearsome reputations to cow those
beneath them.  They seek to do nothing more than they have already
done, their stories already written in their minds... they become
complacent and slothful, allowing others to do their dirty work for
them, never again testing their limits, thinking naively that they
will rule forever...

    [Now the shot changes to the hyenas, laughing as they eat the
    corpse of a dead gazelle.  Flies buzz around the days old corpse
    as the hyenas eat greedily.]

FEYR:  There are the scavengers... unable to do anything for
themselves, they ride on the coatails of others.  They cannot succeed
on their own, for their cowardice stifles their ambition.  So, they
merely eat the scraps from the tables of others. Never more than
existing in the shadows...

     [The shot changes a final time... this time to the cheetahs...
     one of whom is slowly creeping up towards the zebras that still
     remain unaware of their presence.]

FEYR:  And then there are the true predators... those that still have
the drive and ambition to continue the hunt... they do not run
endlessly, nor do they sit in contentment with their place.  They
watch... and wait for the right moment to strike.  For the hunt is not
merely the chace itself, but also looking for signs of weakness, and
of knowing when to strike... it is knowing EXACTLY the right moment to
bring down ones prey.

      [The cheetah stalks in until it is a mere 30 feet from one of
      the zebras... suddenly the zebra sees it and starts to run, and
      when it does so does the rest of the herd...]

FEYR:  Those that are content, do not remain aware, and so they are
brought down who still have the will to survive...

    [The cheetah easily catches up to the zebra and takes it down,
    latching it's jaws onto the zebras neck.  The zebra struggles for
    a few moments before it finally goes limp, as blood flows from
    it's neck.]

FEYR:  I've bided my time... I've chosen my moment... the hunt is on,
and soon I will bring down my prey.  We are all beasts heart, after
all...

     [The shot changes again to show the cheetah eating it's prey,
     it's face covered in blood as it rips the flesh apart.]

FEYR:  ...some of us are just better ones than others...

     [Xavier grins broadly as the  movie screen zooms in on the blood
     soaked cheetah... it's face now being projected onto Xavier's,
     with his catlike eyes, and the projectedimages of the cheetah's
     bloodsoaked maw over his face.]

FEYR:  ...survival of the fittest.

     [With that the screen cuts to a fault screen, accompanied by hum,
     as the film has reached it's end.  END SCENE]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Justin Cruise
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The PVW logo appears on the camera.  It slowly pulls back to shot the
PVW ring in an empty arena.  "The Blade" Justin Cruise stands in the
middle of the ring... he looks around..]

Cruise: It's been a long time...  I haven't had to stand in front of
this camera for a long time.  Well, at least not as myself...

[He rubs his hands together, almost uncomfortably.]

Cruise: For all intent purposes, this is Justin Cruise's big return to
the squared circle. Sure, I did some stuff under a mask, but this,
this  is different.  This is me.. This isn't Victory Lane.. This isn't
El  Outlaw Loco.  This is Justin Cruise.

[he pauses.]

Cruise: A lot of people are asking me why?  Why come back now, after
all this time?  And honestly I don't really have an answer.  Just
something I felt I needed to do, some unfinished business.  When I
left this business it wasn't the way I wanted to go out.  So maybe
that's what I'm looking for,  a little bit of redemption.

[He looks around the arena.]

Cruise: Now I've got the first seed in the upcoming title tournament.
I'm sure some people won't be happy with how it went down.  But lets
not forget, I didn't ask to be put in that match.  Christopher
Michaelson wanted to punish Rob Cole, and so I was given a chance.  I
bet I'll hear from Rob soon enough, and I'm sure the discussion will
be...   how shall I say this... pleasant.  But that'll be for another
day.  Right now, this week, I'm involved in a match with the other
seeds.  Larry Gionet, Xavier Feyr and myself on one side of the ring,
Randy Acorn, the Mercenary and Tommy Ryder on the other side.  Gotta
love how these random matches always seem to make the right mixture to
start a fire.

[Cruise chuckles.]

Cruise: I could sit here right now and talk about everyone involved
and point out their flaws and why I might think I'm better than them.
But ya know what, I'm the new guy here.  I haven't done anything to
prove myself in PVW, so we'll just wait and see what happens.  Yeah,
sure I got the submission in the number one seed match, but I have to
give an assist to Will Geddings and Chase Williams.  Had the two of
them made any effort to work together, I wouldn't be in the situation
I'm in right now.

[Cruise shrugs.]

Cruise:  I'm sure my opponents and partners will have more than a few
words for me and what they think of me.  But lets be honest here, most
of these guys don't know me, don't really know who I am.  So I don't
really know what they'll be basing themselves on.  I guess for some
it's easier to challenge the unknown..  All I can say is this.  When I
come into that ring, the guys who are with me, know they can trust me.
This I guarantee.  Regardless of what our situations may be, if
they're on my team, they're on my team, and anyone who's ever been on
my team can attest to this fact.  Either way, I'm sure after this
match, we'll all be very well acquainted.

[Cruise frowns.. ]

Cruise: Now, I have a last little thing to talk about.  And that would
be Chase Williams.  You didn't think I would let you guys cheat to win
did ya?  Come on Chase, you of all people should know better than
that. You shouldn't take these things personaly, but I guess you
simply couldn't help yourself..  You took your shot at me last week,
and you didn't miss.   And because of the... unexpected?  assistance
of Will Geddings, you only got one shot.  So, I guess you could say I
owe ya one.  And as for Will Geddings, don't worry "friend", I don't
think things will ever be done between us...  After all....

[Cruise smiles at the camera..]

Cruise: I made you famous...

[Fade to black..]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	William Craven
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Fade in slow on an interior scene of squalor.  Walking slowly, the
camera looks in on cell after cell in what looks to be a prison.  Beds
stand, stacked in pairs, 2 bunks to a cell.  As the viewers at home
look in on cell #3, the occupant of cell #4 makes himself known.]

WC: Rodney King!  Rodney King-SNAKE!!!

[A green arm swings out, slapping the hard concrete wall outside the
cell.  From stage right, a man steps, first passing then keeping pace
with the camera.  It's "Swingin'" Dean Hayes, and he moves
purposefully in the direction of cell #4.]

Hayes: Bill?  Bill, it's me, Dean Hayes.

[Keeping to the far side of the hall, Dean has his microphone out.
The occupant of the cell, naturally, is PVW's own green man, William
Craven.  Craven goes cockeyed, bemused at Hayes' presence, but not
entirely surprised.]

WC: Yes, yes, record everything, like a documentary filmmaker, but
never intervene, right?  Where's the justice?  Heh, RODNEY KING!

Hayes: Bill, I'm here to get you out!  Calm down.

[Gripping the bars to his cell, Bill speaks fervently.]

WC: A green man can't get a fair trial in Oregon, Dean.  Did you see
that crowd?  Not one other green face looking back at me.  Nothing but
a bunch of different earth tones...

[Zooming in on Bill's shirtless torso, the camera picks up every scar,
every tattoo laid over every scar, and every cut, bruise, and abrasion
over every tattoo.  Bill's a mess, crusty with dried blood that sticks
to him in clumps.  Wild-eyed, he has the look of one who's won a
battle but lost his mind.  As Bill speaks again, he reinforces this
impression.  He's utterly frantic, muscles bulging as he attempts to
force the bars to his cell, talking all the while.]

WC: Where's the justice, Dean?  All I did was set off a little bug
bomb.  Nobody ever got arrested for gassing cockroaches, did they?

Hayes: Bill, notwithstanding the utterly ... incredible nature of your
attack on WMI, how are you doing?  You took quite a beating at the
hands of Vandal Gomez, the police officers, I know, had to take some
extreme measures to bring you in--

WC: OH!  Oh, "extreme"?  You've not seen extreme, Dean.  Vandal?  Oh,
my dear old brother-in-law, doubtless carrying out the will of my ex-
wife, current sister-in-law ... heh.  Heheh.  Hello?  Jerry Springer?
I DON'T CARE ABOUT VANDAL!  Whatever grudge he bears me for abandoning
him in the Empire last millennium, whatever ill will his sister still
bears me, none of it matters when compared to finally finishing this
war with Rick Marley.

Rick ... we were on the same side once.  Once, in Detroit.  Did you
know that, Dean?

Hayes: I've heard rumors of an association...

WC: Yes, an association.  I thought, perhaps, a friendship, but Dean
... Marley feared me, even then.  Kept me close ... too close to hurt
him.  His fear began this, perpetuates it, and against my will! His
fear ... has cost me in the past.  Perhaps, perhaps I would hold high
my crown and sit upon the throne of madness already were it not for
his fear.  Now, I shall take the crown, heh, and sit on the throne,
and it is that which will bring him before me.  Failing that, I shall
do all that is within my power to change his fear to rage.

Hayes: So you're serious about taking the PVW World Title?

WC: Serious?  Dean ... before the much-lauded World War Organization
finally closed its doors, I was slated to face its champion.  That
opportunity was lost to me through no fault of my own.  I've never
been a world champion, Dean.  Never...

[Relaxing, Bill slumps against the bars of his cage.]

WC: Every year, people have wondered aloud "will this be William
Craven's year".  I dominated the scene in New Jersey in the final
years of the twentieth century, taking the ACWA Heavyweight
Championship on two occasions, holding it for ... I believe about six
months?  The second time, I won it only for pride, breaking for
the greener pastures of the Empire.  A contract offer from the
premiere organization of the day ... and all my contemporaries shouted
their jealousy...  How could I not try?  I took their North American
title, and I tried to run with it.  Instead, it ran me into the
ground.  Considered one of the top men in the industry ... I fell so
far, and stayed there for so long.

     Every attempt I made to fly once more ... foiled.  But not now,
     Dean ... not now...

[Swallowing hard, Dean Hayes speaks lowly, and glances at the camera
as Bill slumps ever lower against his cage, a concussion perhaps
setting in and making him sleepy.]

Hayes: Bill?  I have to tell you something, and you have to remain
calm.  The deputy here is under orders not to let you out, even though
Strickland Sports is bailing you out unless you stay _calm_.
Understand?

[Raising one eyebrow, Bill casts a single ice blue eye up to make
contact with PVW's intrepid interviewer.]

WC: Listening...

Hayes: You have to promise.

WC: I promise.  Now tell me.

Hayes: Okay, okay, but remember ... you promised.

[Swallowing again, Hayes looks more nervous than a man at the
gallows.]

Hayes: You've been given a match at the next PVW Heatwave...
     ...with Rick Marley...

[Bill raises up on his knees, sitting back on his heels.  His jaw goes
slack, and he goes into a near catatonic state.]

Hayes: That's as good as we can hope for.  Deputy?  Now's the time.
Thank you, sir.

[Looking up with unseeing eyes at the deputy, Bills lips peel back
into the shark-like grin that he's become associated with.  Stepping
into the picture, the deputy unlocks the door, which swings open.
Bill looks to camera, and starts to convulse.]

WC: Heh.  Heheh...

[His face twisting up into a mask of sinister glee, Bill works his jaw
around, exposing his split tongue, flopping around.]

WC: Rick...  Heh.  Marley?

[Squeezing his eyes shut, Bill focuses as best he can on the camera as
the lens zooms in on him.]

WC: Heh.  It gets worse, Rick.  Heheheh...

[Finally breaking down into hysterics, Bill grabs onto the camera with
both hands and gives a high-pitched, shrieking laugh that chills the
bones.  Cut quick to black.  End.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Marcus Manson
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

The interior of Marcus Manson's private gym in Pittsburgh was lit by
flourescent overhead lights. A wrestling ring sat in the center,
surrounded by black floor mats. The ring itself had red ropes with
black turnbuckles, a black ring apron, and a red canvas. The ring was
a holdover from his days with Ultimate- E-wrestling. Despite the fact
that he was no longer a member of any of the organizations, the ring
apron still had the UEW and Widowmakers Inc logos on it along with the
Circle of Death logo, which was larger than both and placed between
the other two.

A half dozen black steel chairs sat in a line on each side of the
ring. Display boxes lined the north wall, with various title belt
replicas in them. These include the UEW Ultimate Tag Team and
Television Championships, and the International Wrestling Society
American and Tag Team Belts.

Two men entered the gym through a pair of double doors. Marcus Manson
was wearing his wrestling attire, with a gym bag slung over his arm.
He wore shining black boots, with the letters MM in red, one M above
the other and set off to the left a bit. His tights were full length,
also black, and he wore red kneepads over them. Manson also wore a
black t-shirt. The shirt had a graphic of an Iron Fist on it, and
had the words "King of The Battle Royal" printed on it.

The man beside him had a blond flat-top haircut and goatee. He was a
bit shorter than Manson, standing six feet five inches. He wore faded
blue jeans, hiking boots, and a red t-shirt. This was Manson's
brother-in-law and former tag team partner in the Circle of Death,
Johnathan Regnigh.

"I can't believe you managed to find one of those things" Regnigh
said, indicating the t-shirt Manson was wearing.

"Didn't find it, saved it. I have a few things I saved from the UEW
days," Manson replied. "It's not important. What is important is
getting ready for this battle royal that PVW put me in."

Manson laughed and shook his head. "They booked me in a battle royal,
silly bastards."

Regnigh couldn't help but grin. "They didn't make those t-shirts for
nothing." Regnigh stopped and looked around. "Weren't there supposed
to be, uh, people here?"

"Either they're late, or they chickened out." Manson set his bag on
one of the chairs near the ring, pulling off his t-shirt and draped it
over the chair while pulling a bottle of water out of his bag. He
uncapped it and took a drink.

"So, two matches and you've already got a chance to qualify for the
Championship tournament, that's pretty impressive." Regnigh smirked.

"Oh, shut up. You've seen the show. El Hijo Del Sol is in the Battle
Royal too, so what does that say about the rest of the guys in it?"
Manson said.

"I hear this Rob Cole guy is someone to watch, though. Kind of reminds
me of you" Regnigh said.

Manson shrugged, "Except that he talks too damn much. Otherwise, it's
hard to say... I hear he was a goody-good up until recently, though.
He's definitely on my radar, and more than one person has said he's
the favorite to win. Assuming he qualifies, that is... but I think
they all underestimate me, Cole included." Manson paused and
placed his water bottle on the chair next to his bag, which he zipped
up.  "He's a brawler, but I'm a better brawler. I'd be willing to bet
I'm the stronger of the two of us as well. Plus, he's frigging
deranged. He's distracted with Caleb Foley at the moment, but on the
other hand he's not an idiot."

Manson shook his head. He pointed at the shirt draped over the chair
with his gym bag. "In any event, none of these guys have ever won a
fifty man Battle Royal. I have. They've also never been in the ring
with anyone like me. I've got tapes of matches with all the guys
involved, we'll watch them later."

Manson slid inside the ring as Regnigh climbed up onto the apron and
started checking the turnbuckles. "There's also quite a few UEW alumni
in PVW, huh? Even "Widowmakers 4.0"."

Manson bounced off the far ropes to test them but came to an abrupt
start. He rested his hands on his waist and shot Regnigh a look.
"Please, I'd hardly call them Widowmakers 4.0. Marley's got a reason
for calling his group Widowmakers Inc., but I haven't figured out what
it is, yet."

Regnigh arched an eyebrow quizzically. "I'm surprised he hasn't tried
recruiting you yet, would you join up if he did?"

Manson was about to answer but was cut off by the entrance of a half-
dozen men through the same doors he and Regnigh came through earlier.
Most wore wrestling gear, one wore a t-shirt and jeans. One of the men
was at least 7 feet tall. Regnigh hopped down from the ring apron and
walked over to meet them as Manson began running
the ropes again.

"Alright people, listen up!" Regnigh shouted to gain the attention of
the men who had entered the gym. "Your job today is to throw that
man," Regnigh pointed at Manson, "out of that ring. Here's the rules;
I'll send one of you in to start alone, and send the rest of you in at
certain intervals. If you manage to throw Marcus out of the ring you
get ten thousand dollars on top of the hundred you get just for
showing up."

Regnigh turned to Manson "You ready?" Manson gave Regnigh a nod, and
Johnathan turned back to the men before him. "Alright ladies, lets get
started. Sparky, you're up"

Regnigh sent the first man in and Manson dropped into a low crouch.
"Sparky" was smaller than Manson and tentatively moved towards him.
Manson circled as his opponent came closer and exploded out of the
crouch with a rising clothesline that took the smaller man off his
feet. He was quick to rise back up, however, and locked up with Marcus
as Regnigh sent a second man in.

"You're in, Killer."

Manson clubbed the smaller man on the back, dropping him to the mat
again, and caught Killer with a kick to the gut. The kick doubled him
over and Marcus grabbed the back of his head and slammed it into the
mat with a sit-out face-buster. Sparky was back on his feet and waist-
locked Manson from behind, rolling him backwards into a pinning
position.

"Did you forget this was a battle royal, Sparky?" Regnigh shouted to
the guy pinning Manson.

Manson broke the pin and somehow beat Sparky to his feet, dropping him
with another hard clothesline before lifting him by his hair and
chucking him over the top and to the outside. Regnigh sent a third man
in just as Manson backed Killer into the turnbuckles.

"Get in there, Tubby."

Manson threw an elbow into the face of Killer, still in the buckles,
and threw a kick sideways into Tubby's ample gut. He dropped Killer
with a hard fist and whipped Tubby into the far side, rebounding off
the ropes and hitting a big powerslam. Impressive, considering the
man's size. He hopped up and charged Killer who was once again getting
to his feet in the corner, hitting him with a hard shoulder to the
gut. He pressed him above his head and tossed him over the top rope as
Regnigh sent in two more wrestlers, a bald guy and the guy wearing
jeans.

"Baldy, Buckwheat, you're up!"

They both charged Marcus to attempt a double clothesline but Manson
sent both men sailing across the ring with a huge back body drop.
Killer locked up with Manson and hit a snap suplex. He laid into
Marcus with kicks to the ribs before moving to the turnbuckles. Baldy
and Buckwheat moved back over and pulled Manson up. The three of
them traded fists before Manson got the upper hand and hit Baldy with
a boot to the face, dropping him.

"Gigantor, get in there!"

Regnigh sent the seven footer in as Manson whipped Buckwheat into the
turnbuckle, sending Killer, who was still climbing them, sailing to
the floor. Sparky had recovered, and grabbed a chair, sliding back
into the ring.

"What the hell, Sparky!?" Regnigh shouted. Manson ducked a blow from
Gigantor, and caught Sparky out of the corner of his eye, ducking the
chair that was swinging towards his head, and backdropping him out of
the ring.

Manson grabbed the chair and blasted Gigantor in the gut with it,
doubling him over. He quickly wrapped his arm around the man's neck,
and dropped him with a Widowmaker, Magnus Colby's version of a Cutter,
which Manson had learned from him years ago.

"No DQ in a battle royal, big man" he said, laying a heavy kick
between the seven footer's legs for emphasis.

Regnigh slid in the ring and hit a flying clothesline on Baldy, and
dropped an elbow to his ribs. Buckwheat was flung to the ropes by
Manson, and rebounded into a spinebuster. Regnigh tossed Baldy out,
and slid out of the ring.

"Never discount outside interference, champ" Regnigh taunted.

Manson pulled Buckwheat to his feet, wrapping his left arm behind his
head and slamming his fist into his chest, dropping him with a heavy
heart punch. Clutching his chest, the man rolled out of the ring.

Gigantor was getting back to his feet and Manson met him with punches,
backing him into the ropes and sending him to the other side. He
followed right along and sent him over the top with a clothesline just
as the big man hit the ropes.

Regnigh slid back into the ring and shook his head.

"Hail to the king, baby" he said.

Manson laughed and rolled outside, grabbing his water bottle and
taking a swig. He took a moment to survey the damage he had wrought,
capping his bottle and tossing it back into the bag.

"Well, they weren't the guys I'll face on Heatwave, but I'll still
walk out with the tournament spot. No question." Manson said
confidently.

"Back to Phoenix?" Regnigh asked.

Manson nodded. "Back to Phoenix."

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Made Men
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Near Papago Park in Phoenix, AZ, a stand has sprung up offering
Christmas trees for sale.  Searching through the meager rows are
"Pokerface" Mark Masterson and Nick "Always" Wright, the tag team
known as The Made Men.]

MM: Christ, Nick, our plane leaves for Denver tonight!  Is it worth it
to get a tree NOW?  You'll be in your apartment for what, ten, fifteen
minutes tops?

NW: (scoffs) It's not always about practicality, Mark.  Sometimes,
it's about tradition, y'know?

[Nick pores over a tree.  It stands perhaps four feet tall and bends
mightily to the left.  Still, it looks like a godsend compared to the
firehazards that make up the rest of the row.  The Arizona climate,
even in December, is apparently not kind to these trees.]

MM: So your /tradition/ is to purchase a live tree and neglect it for
days on end?

NW: Hardly.  Man, were you sexually assaulted by an elf or something?
Where's your holiday spirit?  Two weeks until Christmas, and you're
here worrying about a stupid plane when your mind should be on
sleighs.

MM: That "stupid plane" will be taking us to Denver, where we've got
an actual tag team match to handle, remember?

NW: Yeah yeah... El Something Estrawhatever and the guy who ripped off
your schtick.

[Nick leads them into a second row of trees.  If possible, they seem
weaker and ... deader ... than the ones from the first row.

MM: It's not my [bleep]ing schtick, Nick.  It's just an unfortunate
coincidence that taking your work seriously comes loaded with a
playing card-related term.

[Masterson looks at a wide stick that is being passed off as a tree,
nonplussed.]

NW: Sure.  You mean business when you're in the ring.  Got that.  But
do you have to mean business every time we're out of the ring too?
OOOOOOOOooooooooooooooo!

[Wright spots a tree three rows over and skips -- literally -- over
toward it.  Masterson shakes his head and follows behind, slowly.]

MM: SOMEONE has to get us on a plane, Nick.  I'm not /skipping/ there.
 Besides, we need a plan.

NW: (from his knees, looking at the underside of his tree of interest)
For Joker's Wild?  Really? ... I mean ... Really?

MM: Really.

NW: ... But there's only two of them, right?

MM: ...

NW: OK then, two of them.  Not seeing the problem.  I am, however,
seeing this tree, and its desire to come back to my house.  I mean,
look!  It has almost all of its branches!  In the right spots even!

MM: If I help you load this thing, will we finally talk some business
on the flight?  90 minutes, that's all I ask.

NW: I can help you out now.  See, Joker's Wild is sort of like ...
(Nick grabs a nearby wilted, lifeless specimen of a tree) ... this
tree here.

[Masterson looks on, intrigued.  But intrigued the way you look at a
toddler with a fork near a light socket.]

NW: Strickland and the PVW are like this whole stand.  They put up
their tents and go on with the show, but for the most part, all
they've got to offer is ... (he shakes the Joker's Wild tree).  Limp.
Dying, or, if you're like Tyrone Parker or whatnot, dead.

[Nick sidles back to his chosen tree.]

NW: Now, we, we are the finest specimens in the heap.  Does that make
us perfect?  By no means!  But you don't have to be perfect to be
superior.  You just need to be better than everyone else.

[He leans down and points.]

NW: Thick trunk.  This sucker's got a lot of support helping him look
his best, be his best.  (Nick inhales and exhales deeply.)  Yeah...
this is the tree, you know what I'm saying.

MM: You know Nick, I think I actually do.

[Fade to black]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Tommy Ryder
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[As the camera fades in "The Phenom" Tommy Ryder and "Lady" Laurel
Levinger are sitting at home in their apartment.  Tommy has a worried
expression on his face.]

LL: Look Tommy, what's bothering you?  We agreed to do this PVW shoot,
but we can tell them to come back another time.

TR: No.  We need to do this.  I've had a lot on my mind and it's time
to get it out.

LL: Well if you want to talk, then you need to... well... talk.

TR: Laurel, I need to talk to you.

[Laurel gives Tommy a puzzled look, but motions him to continue.]

TR: You see, I've made it to the PVW Heavyweight Title tournament.
I'm starting to really make my mark here.  Since we first got here,
I've focused hard on the fans and climbing that ladder, but there's
something I need to know.

Laurel, I know we're together, but are we on the same page?

LL: What?

TR: What you did with Cosita.  What's up with that?  I was in a
qualifier match and out of nowhere you attack someone.  Not even
someone in the actual match, but his valet.  You weren't trying to
help me or even any odds.  There just wasn't any reason for it.

I need to know that when you come to ringside with me that it's just
that.  YOU are coming to ringside with ME and that you're not pushing
for some other agenda.

[Fire flares in Laurel's eyes.]

TR: Hear me out.  I've got a big six man match coming up.  Four of the
other wrestlers don't play by the rules and one of the guys that's
suppose to be my partner has standing orders to take me out if he gets
the chance.  How am I suppose to stay focused for that if I have to
worry that you're going to attack another valet or get involved with
something else?

We know that the Mercenary is going to be in the match and that means
the rest of WMI will probably be there too.  I need to know that you
are there for me and not some other reason.

[Laurel takes a long pause.]

LL: I've been there for you so far and even taken some blows because
I've been there for you.  But if you need to hear that I won't start
anything.  Fine, I'll stay out of it unless it's to directly help you.
But YOU need to remember.  I AM A WRESTLER.  We planned to come here
and make a name for BOTH of us and right now, this is the only way I
can.  I won't do anything that can cost you during a match, but that
doesn't mean that I won't find my chances.

TR: Laurel, we need to do this the right way.

LL: Trust me.  I'll do it the right way.  So now that we've had a
"talk" have you figured out what you're going to do in this match.
Four out of five wrestlers say they'd like to squash you.

[Now it was Tommy's turn to give Laurel an icy glare.]

TR: Sure I have.  I'm going to go out to that ring, climb between
those ropes and stand in that ring.  I don't care if I have to fight
all four of those guys.  The fans want to see the Phenom and that's
what I'll show them.  If I have to win that match by fighting off my
own partners in order to beat my opponents then so be it.  But you
know me well enough to know that I'll put it all on the line to win.

[We see a grin start to crack on Laurel's face as the camera fades.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Larry Gionet
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The camera pans into the backstage area of the Pepsi Center in Denver
Colorado. The nearly abandoned area inhabits a white backdrop with the
PVW logo in the center and in front of it stands the stiffest man in
Phoenix Valley Wrestling Larry Gionet. His stature shows determination
and focus.]

Larry Gionet:  Look at these eyes PVW.  I've seen more violence put
forth upon my fellow man that one could even imagine and I have
equally dished out my fair share of punishment in the name of
redemption in the name of saving.  These eyes have studied tape after
tape watching the men who came before me watching my opponents matches
day in and day out.  Dissecting each move cautiously , picking apart
their strength sand weaknesses.  Because you see no matter how long
you've been in this sport you never stop being a student of the game.
You either grow and prosper or you burn out and fade away.

[Gionet looks down for a moment taking in the peaceful silence of the
moment.  He pushes his dirty blond hair up exposing a scar above his
right eye just slightly above the brow.  The camera zooms in a little
closer at the souvenier of the war he fought last week at Heatwave in
the world title qualifier.]

LG:  You see this scar PVW?  This is proof positive that victory that
freedom doesn't come without price.  What, did you think I was making
it up like some fairy tale?  I said since day one I am the truth and
for many of you that truth is one hard pill to swallow.  But in the
end I know deep down through all the bleeding through all the bruising
through all the scarring the ends will justify the means because I
will have cemented my place as PVW World champion.  Call it legend all
you want call it bullshit until your throat is sore but you will find
out just like Craven did just like Mercenary did just like Benedict
did.

[The bushy brows of Larry Gionet slope down steeply with the scar
following suit.  The camera doesn't have to pan down any further to
know what is going through the mind and body of Gionet.  The very
tension can be felt like a bitterly cold gust of wind on a winter New
England night.]

LG:  The scar above my right eye will forever remind me of the war I
had last week to earn a spot at the elite 8 for the PVW World title.
What would have destroyed a normal man only made me push harder.  This
is a forever reminder that you tried to take me to the limit but I
stood triumphant.  Yeah Ronan you were stiff as hell I will grant you
that, but in the end you showed the world that you are no Larry
Gionet. Like a lion unleashed from its cage you hit me from every
angle ready to devour me whole,  but in the PVW ring THIS is my
jungle.

[Anger and bitterness transcends like a flash of lightning into a
sense of pride and joy with a flash of a sadistic smile that has
unsettled the hearts of wrestling fans and opponents alike for years
now.  The rubbing of hands by Gionet sound like a spark igniting into
flames.]

LG:  As far as my six man tag on Heatwave goes, let this be a
forewarning for you.  Feyr and Cruise we maybe standing side by side
in that ring against Ryder, Mercenary and Acorn be rest assure it is
one night only.  Because once that PVW World Title tournament starts
there will be no allies only enemies!  If you boys have not been
paying attention good enough, don't worry.  I will give you a new view
of your world yp close and personal.  This is by no means a threat,
it's a damn premonition.  The truth will hurt in more ways than you
can possibly imagine.

[Larry Gionet folds his arms together one overlapping the other as
they intersect. Like a panther stalking his prey in the night, Gionet
keeps his glaze solely on the camera with his icy blue eyes.  If not
for the slight movement of his lips, one would feel he were frozen in
the moment.]

LG:  Regarding the others in the last chance battle royal whomever
comes out on top and grabs that final seed savor it live for it die
for it.  Because in the end this moment in time will be all that you
have left.  Memories of what could have been.  A lifetime of asking
what if.  The PVW World title is like a carrot being dangled in
front of a rabbit's eyes and I will be the man preventing you from
grabbing it with all you have.  All your hopes and dreams have gotten
you this far.  Enlightenment is just a pinfall away.  Salvation is
within reach PVW the question is, will you take it?

[A controlled sigh escapes the malicious mouth of Larry Gionet.
Gionet clenches his hands into fists cracking his knuckles which sound
like the very spark that ignited earlier.  He walks off the set area
without warning only leaving the loud booming steps of his black boots
echoing throughout the arena as we fade to black.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	The Mercenary
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

(Scene opens. The Mercenary is seen seated on a really ratty looking
bed in a seedier than normal motel. The wallpaper is peeling off the
wall, at least where there is wallpaper. And even then its just barely
covering the cracks in the drywall. There is a single bare bulb
illuminating part of the room. Merc is hunched over a laptop computer,
hunting and pecking his way around the keyboard, and as he does so, he
is muttering away to himself as has become customary for him lately. )

Merc: ...(triumphantly hitting the enter key)..Ok.. so that takes care
of the last of X-mas shopping for everyone else....So...what about for
me?

(Merc clumsily works the touch-pad mouse controller thingy)

Merc: Ah... there we go...just what I was looking for...so..hm...
Ok... add to cart.... (struggles a bit more moving the pointer
around)...K... Proceed to check out.... (more struggling)... Payment
method...American Express...card number... (hunts around the keyboard
for the right numbers... backspacing a few times to make
corrections)....Got it...Name on Card... WMI....Heh... Thanx Rick...
at least for the card...If you would just give me the rest of my
payment for the Craven job, I wouldn't have to use the company credit
card for my personal shopping... Ah, what am I saying...I'd be using
the card anyways. Too bad I just about maxed it out shopping... Could
have got a better hotel...

(With that, Merc snaps the laptop closed and goes to lay back on the
bed... but before he can get his head on the pillow, he notices that
the PVW camera is there)

Merc: Oh... you're still here. Right... you want some comments about
the cluster-fork that is going to be the quote-unquote random six-man
match at the upcoming card. Heh... Gotta love those people who believe
this match was randomly put together...Just look at it... 2 members of
WMI in the same match, albeit, we're on opposite sides...heh. Some
coincidence. And throw in Tommy Ryder, one of WMI's peskiest little
annoyances?... Yeah, real random. He's not going to have any place
to run and hide... Xavier against him, and me on the same side. Heh...
We'll finally be able to put him away once and for all.

As for the rest of them? They would be best to remember just stay out
of the way. I've already put a beating on Gionet, so he already knows
better. Just too bad that the green freak Craven got the glory and the
pin. But we both ended up in the same place anyways, didn't we? Each
of us has a spot in the heavyweight tournament., where I'm sure we'll
meet again... Maybe even in the finals. Be a fitting place for us to
put an end to our feud, don't you think?

And Randy Acorn? Don't know much about his, except that he seems to be
SSN's golden boy right now. They probably put him in the match just to
get some screen time with the big boys.

Justin Cruise, well, I know even less about him. Somehow he weaseled
his way into the number 1 seed, but that means absolutely nothing.
Nada. Zip. Zilch. He showed he can work behind the scenes, but he's
shown very little, if anything, in the ring itself.

So, there you have it in a nutshell... My views on the match and my
opponents. So, since I've given you what you wanted, I think it's time
for you to be going.

(The camera turns away from Merc, and heads towards the door. But
before we fade to snow, we hear a cell phone ring. Merc answers and we
pick up his side of the conversation.)

Merc: Yello... Yeah, this is the Mercenary... Who's this?   Uh huh...
Ok... didn't expect to hear from you... Yeah, its for sale... Why?
Just a little short of cash right now... Just a sec.. Gotta take care
of something...

(And just then, a phone book goes whizzing past the lens as Merc tries
to speed up the cameraman's exit. Which he succeeds in doing, and we
finally fade to snow)