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##                           ##
## Phoenix Valley Wrestling  ##
##       Burning Effect      ##
##           01.07.10        ##
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Presenting....

-> Weinrib and Mubarak #1
-> Rick Marley
-> Jokers Wild
-> Chris Hartt
-> Dr. X
-> Prophets of Rage
-> Sinister
-> The Mercenary
-> Weinrib and Mubarak #2
-> Gibson Hayes
-> Caleb Foley
-> PAIN
-> Tommy Ryder
-> Larry Gionet
-> Perry Fontana
-> Weinrib and Mubarak #3
-> Hersher von Donkerhardt
-> Chris Hopper
-> Will Geddings
-> Danny Daniels
-> ???
-> Marcus Manson
-> Mike Cox
-> Dr. Mal Practice
-> Weinrib and Mubarak #4
-> Livestock and The Gutch
-> Xavier Feyr
-> Rob Cole & William Craven
-> Ohno Ow
-> Reverend Julian Caine
-> Spectre



<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
      Weinrib and Mubarak #1
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Fade in to a locker room.  Over in the corner, Max Weinrib is packing
up his duffel bag.  On the opposite side of the room, Salih Mubarak is
checking out his face in the mirror, a bag of ice in his left hand.]

Max:  We should become barbeque pitmasters!  We're heading to Memphis
soon, right? It'd be a shame not to check out some ribs while we're
down there.  Whaddya think?

Sal:  We should get more ice.  I think Made Men nearly broke my face
during that match.  [He touches a bruise near his jaw and winces.]
Damnit- I've got a date tonight!

Max:  What are you talking about?  Your face was always like that.
You're just noticing it now?

[He grins.]

Sal:  Die in a fire, Max.  [Moves away from the mirror and puts the
baggie of ice on his jaw.]  That Pokerface guy hits like a truck!  I
swear he almost knocked a tooth loose.  And now we get to face them
again.

Max:  Them... PAIN... Wild Cards...

Sal:  And not just in a four way tag match... A Rush Hour Rumble.
Where the last man standing gets a title shot against Perry Fontana.

[Max and Sal shoot each other a glance as the potential outcome -- and
potential reward -- dawns upon them.  They slowly smile and it's quiet
for a few seconds.  Then...]

Max:  ...course, we've still got that "unknown factor" working in our
favor here.  And from the looks of things, PAIN and the Wild Cards
seem more a bit distracted with each other.

Sal:  Understatement of the year.  [He shifts the bag of ice
slightly.]  If tonight was all Made Men could bring to the table, then
we've got them covered as well too.

Max:  Maybe you can thank Masterson for his touch-up job on your face.

[Sal just shoots his partner a black look.]

Max:  It builds character!

Sal:  You sound like an ancient codger telling his kids to take out
the garbage...

Max:  Speaking of the Prophets of Age, guess they didn't take up our
offer for their special seats.

Sal:  Nope- they were watching in the back.  I was surprised...

Max:  ... they didn't have the volume turned up to compensate for
hearing loss?

Sal:  You noticed that too?

Max:  At first.  But then I figured they had the closed captioning
turned on.

[Sal nods in agreement... which makes him wince again, and adjust the
bag of ice to the other side of his jaw.  Max's face twists in
sympathy.]

Max:  Ooh...yeah, that's gonna take a while to go down.  Look at it
this way though, if you can still eat solid foods and smile, you're
still ahead of the Prophets!

Sal:  Heh.  [Sal tries to grin wider -- and immediately regrets it.]
AH!  More ice!

[Fade out]

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

"The more things change, the more they stay the same."

[The shot fades up on a closeup of PVW superstar and WMI leader
"Showtime" Rick Marley.  The dark haired cruiserweight sits on a
locker room bench, his elbows on his knees and sweat dripping from his
hair.]

"WMI is taking care of business down in the ring (no matter what it
looked like), and who decides to show his oversized green face but
Billy Craven...

Bill Craven.

Again.

It's like one of those horror movies where the bad guy keeps coming
back loooooooong after it stopped being believable.

Hell.

Long after it stopped being interesting...

But this is your plan, is it, Cole?  This is the way you're gonna stop
me from taking what's mine from you?

By trotting out Bill Craven?

Honestly?

I don't know if you forgot or not, Cole, but here's a quick replay for
ya: already dealt with Craven.  We went fifteen rounds
and I was the one that come out the other end with his hand raised.

So what you get to do is step into the ring with me and Marcus Manson,
who gave you everything you could handle last week.

By your side you have the pleasure of taking a mentally unstable man
whose shoulders I left on the mat at the last pay per view."

[Marley rolls his eyes and shrugs.]

"It's getting to the point that I should just stop trying to
understand how the concussion-addled brains of some of these people
work...but
if you think it's a winning formula, more power to ya.  Personally, I
like to show up with a chance to win.

Or at least leave under my own power."

[Marley's face darkens as he stares into the camera lens, his eyebrows
knitting together.]

"I'm getting tired of waiting for what's mine, Cole...I've waited long
enough.

Hell...too long.

So time's up.  I'm taking what's mine.  This match is just another
link in the chain.

You can take that to the bank."

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

[The shot opens on Harley Quinn O'Connor, sans the black-and-white
clown facepaint. Instead, he is wearing a white, short-sleeved,
button-down shirt and a pair of dark jeans, and he is sitting in an
armchair or recliner of sorts.]

HQ: Livestock Zappa, Gutch Bartilucci, you want us to show you respect
before you grant us a shot at the tag team titles?

[The shot pulls back to reveal more of the living room, with a settee
and another recliner nearby. The other recliner is occupied by 'El
Savaje' Joseph Rizal Estrada, who is dressed in a black T-shirt and
blue jeans. A long-legged, curvaceous blond woman enters, carrying two
bottles of beer and a glass of wine. She hands a bottle of beer each
to the two men.]

HQ: Why should we show you rat bastard lawyers any respect? Thanks,
love. Let me tell you a little story . . .

[O'Connor motions for the woman to join him, as she sits herself on
his lap, glass of wine in hand.]

HQ: As we move into 2010, that makes it nearly ten years ago when I
got started in the business. I mean, really got started. It was in
some garbage fed, wrestling the hardcore style that was so popular
back then, because the kids thought it was oh-so-innovative. I did
some stupid things, got hurt a whole lot, and never really made
anything of my wrestling career. Hell, I had to take on some odd jobs
to make ends meet. Thankfully, not all the smarts had been knocked out
of this noggin, and with a few smart investments, I managed to put
together a nest egg for myself, married a beautiful woman, and I'm now
working for one of the biggest wrestling companies in the country,
Phoenix Valley Wrestling. And my partner, Joe Estrada here, and I? So
close to that tag team gold.

Now, I'm not telling you this as if that means I'm more deserving of
respect than you three corporate tools . . . No, like I said, it
hasn't really been much of a career. My point is, why the hell should
we show you anymore respect than you need, considering how you have
had the favor of the mighty Strickland Sports Network from Day One and
have weaseled and connived your way into the position you are in
today?

ES: You see, Zappa, Gutch, Bubba Hayes, we saw what you did, alongside
Alex Martinez, to Caleb Foley, Doc Holliday and Jason Keening. We
could have gone out there, but then, why should we when our point had
been made. And the point is, you three simply aren't good for this
industry. You aren't good for this fed. You aren't what the fans want
and you simply don't have the respect of the boys in the back. You
three network puppets are simply in it for your own selfish gains and
all you are good for is carrying Jessica Marshall's balls and
Martinez's ass.

HQ: See, where you saw rookies in Weinrib and Mubarak, we saw the
future of this sport. That's why we decided to give them a leg up over
you two no-good shills. This week, in Nashville, it is our honor to
team up with a man who DOES deserve our respect, Big Daddy Sin
himself, Sinister. Because that man? That man is good for wrestling.
That man is good for PVW.

ES: As for Danny Daniels? We have nothing against you. We don't think
you're quite the hero you think you are, but we recognize talent when
we see it. Some people might find you cocky for your age, but I know
there have been times when I've been cocky for my age, too. But, if
either of us find ourselves standing across the ring from you, expect
us to bring it. Now, you could fight us in a way that earns you our
respect and the recognition that you, too, are the future of this
sport, or you could stoop to the level of your partners for the night.

HQ: Either way, Jokers Wild and the Chi-Town Beast will bring the
fight like we always do. And you three fools can mock us and work the
comedy schtick all you want, and I know from fools because I've played
the fool one-too-many times in my career, but at the end of the day,
Jokers Wild will have the Last Laugh.

[The three of them raise their drinks as the shot fades to black.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
         Chris Hartt
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[In a small and empty church, Chris Hartt sits in a pew.]

Hartt: Welcome to my home away from home....away from home.  I love
being back in PVW and am hopeful to regain what I left behind.  I was
the first ever Rising Phoenix Heritage Champion and it was such a
great feeling.  Such a matter of importance to who I was and where I
was going at the time.  it validated what I'd done and the time I
spent getting there.  As much as I see great men in this company
trying their best to do the same, I know that I can hold that belt
with honor, prestige and pride.  Making sure that this company has
someone to hold up as a standard to what good men can do is what my
life is all about.

I also want to make sure that sacreligious, arrogant blowhards like
Chase Williams learn just what comes to those who tread roughshod over
another man's beliefs.  He is not a hand of God.  He isn't a servant
of the Christian faith and he's not a paragon of Christian belief.  He
and his fat, vile leash-tender, Julian Caine, are cancerous, evil men
who seek to ruin the lives of others and smear the good name of
faithful Christians.

But our faith is strong.  Our belief is not paper that you can tear
with your hands.  It's strong as steel and is worn like armor.  It
shields us from the onslaught of those who'd seek to do us harm, even
those from within.  Not everyone who says they believe acts in the
best possible manner, but it's easy to see just how false Chase
Williams and Julian Caine are.  It's my job to show them how wrong
they are and that there are consequences to their actions.

It's not just simply about beating him in a match.  It's not about
just holding a prestigious title and holding the cheers of the fans
behind me like a chorus of angels.  It's about standing strong in the
face of adversity, not caving in to the cowardly and crude, and
weathering the slings and arrows of the faithless who seek to ruin
those who are strong in their faith.

You can beat me and try and keep me down, but you will never win,
Chase.  Never.  I will always stand strong, no matter how much I may
hurt, no matter how my body may give out, my spirit will always rise
above yours and be forever blessed, while all you have is the hell
you've made for yourself.

It's a simple fact.

And as much as you can posture and brag, you will always be weak and
small, yelling loudly to cover the fact that you have no faith.

May God have mercy on your soul, because I won't!

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
             Dr. X
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Dr X is sitting in the locker room in Charlotte after Heatwave. Sweat
covers his body as he is unlacin his wrestling boots]

Dr. X: Another night, another wild match, and another near empty
locker room I return to.

[One boot comes off]

Dr. X: So Caleb, I've been informed that yet again we'll lock horns on
Heatwave but this time it'll be in a match with no rules at all.

[He lets out a small grunt as he pulls his other boot off]

Dr. X: I'm starting to get old. No Rules match hm? Why Caleb? Why do
you feel the need to have a match like this? Are you worried? Do you
feel that you can't go one on one with me again without having some
kind of crutch of being able to use the ropes or a chair or the bell
or something? Now you can say it's for whatever reasons you want, but
deep down - do you really think that's the truth? Hell you were out
making this challenge even before the wild tag match tonight. Somehow
I think you knew this bout tonight would turn out the way it did, I'll
give you that but...

[The wrestling veterinarian starts to remove the tape from his wrists]

Dr. X: But you see Caleb I think differently than you. Thank God I do,
but I do. We're going to have this match next week and yes it'll be a
no rules falls count anywhere blah blah blah match - BUT! Now listen
closely little Caleb, BUT unlike you - I'm not going to break any
rules.

[He chuckles]

Dr. X: That's right Caleb. I'm going to sit right here and I'm raising
my right hand to the world and everyone who cares and I'm making this
solemn vow - I will not break a single, solitary rule in this match.
If you get in the ropes kid, I'll break clean and step back. If you
get tossed outside, I'll hold the ropes open for you to come back into
the ring. You see kid, the fact is I don't need to use any chairs. I
don't need to break any rules, I don't need any kind of gimmicks to
beat you. All I need is my SKILL at wrestling. That's the kind of
confidence I have. But you?

[shakes his head]

Dr. X: It seems you've got that doubt in the back of your mind. You
did it once, I gave you that. But can you do it again? That's the
thought that's going on in the back of your mind, isn't it Caleb?
That's the thing that keeps creeping up to the front of your brain -
that's the thing that's making you give out a challenge like that. No
rules. Falls count anywhere. You're not sure you can beat me all on
your own.

You're need a crutch, you need some help - that's what you're
thinking, son. You don't want to let your fans down, you don't want
them to know that you aren't the wrestler they think you are. So you
toss out a challenge like this. That way when you get that chair, when
you pick up that ring bell, when you break all the rules the fans
expect you to uphold - it'll be allrightl. It'll be expected. Those
fans that buy those t-shirts you talk about, those fans that babble on
the PVW message boards about how great you are- they'll be expecting
you to do those things. It won't shock them. It won't sadden them.

[He tosses the tape away]

Dr. X: But you Caleb? You'll know the truth. You'll know why you
needed this match to be the way it is.  And you'll never tell them
why. Sad thing for you is - I know this too. And I just told them. And
that's why, Caleb. That's why I'm not going to do this thing the way
you want me to. I don't want you to run from the truth. I don't want
you to run from reality. That's all kids like you seem to do anymore.
No, Caleb. I want you to confront reality. I want you to realize the
way things are. And that's why, Caleb. That's why I'll stand here and
put my hand on a stack of bibles and promise you, promise the
fans, promise the world that Dr X will wrestle this match in Nashville
totally clean. And that's something that sadly you can't say as well
Caleb. See you there Kid, I'll be waiting for you.

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

[Fade in:

Before you stand the Prophets of Rage.  They are not a pair for fance
or schmance as it were.  Their backdrop is simple ... too simple.  It
is far too old school for the modern age.  There is nothing but a
backdrop with the simple logo PVW.  The Prophets don't need exotic
locales.  They eschew settings that overwhelm the senses and
distract from their message ... from their purpose.  The backdrop says
everything you need to know about the Prophets of Rage.  They are
professional wrestlers plying their trade as independent contractors
for the Phoenix Valley Wrestling federation. What else can do you need
to know?  Pay attention to the two men.  Pay attention to the woman in
the middle.  That gives you more than enough information about the
Prophets.  The man on the left of the screen must be an athlete.  You
can tell from the fact that he is tall and chiseled.  There is almost
none of the bulk that one sees on a professional wrestler who
spends too many days on the road, too many nights at the strip clubs.
Here is a man who finds his gym time every day.  His caramel-coloured
skin glistens with oil so that each muscle stands out.  He has the
look, this man does.  And he attracts the eye.  He must be the leader
of the team..  Off centre, he still attracts most of the attention.
We can tell he's flamboyant because he wears a single black fingerless
glove on his right hand that extends up to his elbow and his tights
are neon pink not the simple black that denotes most wrestling tough
guys now.  He must still believe that professional wrestlers are
larger than life.  You can see that from the detailed braiding in his
hair, the spectacular designer sunglasses that don't quite hide his
brilliant hazel eyes.  This is a man of action.  You know that
because he is moving even when he is still.  His body twitches.  He
shifts from foot to foot.  He's ready and willing to get into
action right now.  That is Shadoe Rage.

Here's what else you know watching the screen.  The woman in the
middle is simply stunning.  Her raven black hair is exquisitely styled
around her bare shoulders. Her navy dress sets off the emerald in her
eyes.  She wears evening gloves and smokes a cigarette in a long black
cigarette holder with an ease and grace that says this is not
affectation.  Given that she is so glamourous a woman and she stands
in the middle of two rough men, we can also glean that she herself
must be tough.  She would not be so delicate as to shrink into the
back.  No, she commands front and centre.  That is Pizzazz.

And finally we know the man in the back to the right of the screen
must stand there.  He must because he is too big for the foreground.
He seems comfortable with that.  He does not try to crowd the frame.
That suggests he is dangerous because he is calculating and confident.
That means he is more than a mindless brute.  That makes him dangerous
because any man that can combine confidence and intelligence with his
massive musculature is a man to be reckoned with.  That is Derek Rage.

It just takes a few glances at the screen to understand this about the
Prophets of Rage.  In fact, the single thing you need to observe about
the Prophets is the emptiness around their waists.  They are not the
best in the business right now.  And that is probably something they
are going to address.]

SHADOE: (eyes dancing) Freak out ... FREAK OUT!   Bushi Boys, we've
listened to you talk about perfection and your quest to maintain
perfection.  That's all well and good, but it's a fool's mission
because it has led you right through Rage Country, Population 3.

[He indicates his brother Derek Rage and then Pizzazz and finally
himself.]

SHADOE: You talked about perfection and discipline, but understand
something, you're dealing with angry forces of nature and there's
nothing all your discipline can do when it is time for you to survive
the storm.  It's nearly 2010 and the party that was the Prophets of
Rage's run through the PVW was brought to an abrupt end at Shattered
Dreams.  And now we're living in a nightmare.  I have no patience for
that.  I have no tolerance for that and I'm feeling a might bit
'angry.  Yeah, a might bit angry because it's time for our recession
to come to an end and for the party to continue in 2010 as we march
back to the top and take back our titles.

PIZZAZZ: Mes cheres, c'est pas personelle.  C'est seulement le menage
des affaires.  Vous trois, vous etes des insectes dans notres chemin.
Pour monter au sommet il faut que nous vous lancons en bas de
l'echelle.  C'est notre destin.  Nous n'avons pas d'egales.  Nous
n'avons pas de competitions.  Nous avons seulement nos desires,
nos veux et nos abilites.  Et ca c'est touts qui est necessaire pour
notre succes.

DEREK: What the lady said is that it is not personal, Bushi Boys.  You
may be fine wrestlers in your own right, but we have a date with
destiny.  We aspire to be more than ordinary wrestlers.  To watch
another team defile our titles is intolerable.  So we have begun our
death march to the top and the first victims of 2010 will be
the Bushi Boys.  This will set back relations between America and
Japan because we do not intend to leave you in a good state.  It isn't
your fault.

SHADOE: The time for talking is over.  Yeah, for too long the PVW has
been dominated by clowns.  By circus acts.  This isn't a home to
wrestlers any more.  It's a situation comedy.  Well, the Prophets are
coming to save the fans from this nightmare.  The Prophets are going
to return values to the ring: earnestness, training, competition,
dedication and hunger.  We're the new monsters in the closet
and we come from the land where the wild things are.  Bushi Boys,
Godzilla had nothing on us.  You're too small, too inexperienced and
too human right now.  Be prepared..  You are going to die ... in
darkness!

DEREK: Fade to black.

[And with those words the camera shot does just that.  Now you know,
the Prophets aren't coming to play.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
          Sinister
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The scene fades in to a still picture of the picturesque Nashville
Symphony Building.  It is night time and there are numerous men, women
and children moving about, engaging in conversation, laughter, picture
taking; the usual for a social gathering.  The camera moves around to
display the scene in full: people wearing very nice clothes such as
tuxedos, evening dresses and the like. Some men and women don hats and
canes while others opt for a slightly less formal appearance.  One man
in particular stands out amongst the crowd due simply to his height
and width, let alone the prominent scar upon his face. Yes, PVW knows
him as Sinister and he dons a very classy white tuxedo with a black
bowtie, black belt, black shoes and a white hat with black highlights.
Sinister is seen nodding respectfully to many people and smiling
sheepishly at children who make various comments about him.
Sinister tips his hat at a passing group of very attractive female
models who are very obviously there to draw attention to the event -
and themselves - to add to the flavor and color of this event.  The
PVW cameraman approaches Sinister and upon seeing the camera, Sinister
chuckles to himself while shaking his head slightly]

"Good lord, do you PVW camera folks ever get a break?  You even have
to cover us attending cultural events?  *he shrugs his shoulders
quickly* Well, I certainly hope you at least have a chance to eat some
of this fantastic food they're serving.  There's nothing like a well-
cooked Southern meal!  *he chuckles again while patting his stomach a
few times* If I'm not careful I'm going to lose any signs of my
workout regiment, and quickly. Also, there's nothing like a fine
southern bell! There's something different about the quality of beauty
some of the women here have.  I know you saw that group of models
earlier right?  Tell me they didn't steam that camera lens! *he laughs
loudly as do other people surrounding him, primarily men which should
come as no surprise* So, some of the folks watching this are wondering
why I'm dressed up in a tuxedo and actually look decent?  It's simple
really.  Despite what you may think of me, I am a man who appreciates
culture and beauty in its various forms and I'm very eclectic when it
comes to music."

[Sinister is interrupted by a young girl pulling on the right side of
his tuxedo jacket.  He looks down and smiles to the youngster, bending
down to speak with her]

Sin: "Yes my dear?"

Girl: *waving* "Hi"

Sin: *waving in return* Hi, how are you?"

Girl: "I'm well, thank you, and yourself?"

Sin: "I'm also well, thank you for asking."

Girl: "You're the tallest man I've ever seen!"

[There is group laughter from those surrounding this scene]

Sin: "Well I hope that's a good thing.  I guess I am pretty tall huh?
No worries though, I'm a nice guy, well, at least the majority of the
time."

[More group laughter]

Girl: "Can I sit on your shoulder for a minute?"

[Sinister looks around for any relative of this girl]

Sin: "I have to ask permission first honey. I don't want to offend
anyone."

Girl: "Oh, it's okay, just pick me up."

Sin: "I really should get permission first."

[A young woman steps forward shyly]

Woman: "She's my daughter and it's all right if you lift her.  She
asked me if we could meet you the moment she saw you."

Sin: "In that case, [he switches to his best stereotypical country
accent] let's take the elevator ride little darlin'!"

[This causes a loud round of guffaws as Sinister hoists the girl on
this right shoulder and her eyes grow as wide as saucers]

Girl: "Mommy, I can see everything!"

[More laughter]

Woman: "I would imagine you could honey."

Sin: [Using his normal Chicago accent] "Do you want to relax on my
shoulder while I speak for a little while? [The girl nods vigorously]
Well, since I can talk, let me switch you to the back of my neck so
you can be more comfortable. [He lightly lifts the girl and places her
on his thick neck muscles and she places both hands on the top of his
head, enjoying the view and attention] All right, let me get down to
business so I can enjoy the symphony that will be starting soon.
Danny Daniels, it seems the powers that be want us to take one another
apart a little bit before we really try to dismantle and maim one
another at the next pay-per-view, and that suits me just fine.  This
time around, however, we have accomplished tag team wrestlers on
either side of us. I have Jokers Wild, consisting of Harley Quinn
O'Connor and ‘El Salvaje' Joseph Rizal Estrada, on my side. Needless
to say, I dig their style because ‘El Salvaje' is lightning quick and
executes some crazy moves that I would never even think of
attempting…for obvious reasons. *he looks down quickly at his body and
suggests with his facial expression that he is just a little too large
to attempt leaping maneuvers* Harley O'Connor is built like a
linebacker and brings the strength and intensity to match.  I dig that
too because I'm all about focus and utilizing strength when the time
is right.  On the other side of the ring, you, Daniels, will team with
Livestock and The Gutch, consisting of Gutch Bartilucci and Livestock
Zappa. These two rather large individuals, particularly Mr.
Bartilucci, are also about bringing power and strength to the ring.
They are definitely taller than the gentlemen I am teaming with, but
that doesn't matter in this sport.  Besides, I stand taller and will
look down at them if that is of any importance, which is truly isn't."

[Sinister stops briefly and looks up to check upon the little girl
sitting atop his shoulders and neck]

Sin: "You okay up there sweetie?"

Girl: [nodding quickly] "All systems are go!" [More laughter]

Sin: "Oh man, I can tell you have a brother that plays video games."

Girl: "Mmmhmm!"

Sin: "Well there you go.  Now…[his gaze returns to the camera]
…standing six feet, six inches, or six feet, eleven inches, or
whatever doesn't decide the outcome of this match.  What does matter
is who is capable of working together the best to achieve the sought
after result. Obviously anyone who knows even one iota of PVW history
has seen that my left knee has been under severe attacks and has
suffered a lot of damage. So what? I have plenty of arsenal left even
with a damaged knee. Does it bother me or hinder me?  Of course, after
all I am human. However, I am very capable of unleashing my own brand
of punishment and damage and believe me gentlemen, you will have
first-hand experience. My partners in this match are extremely capable
of bringing their own style of wrestling to this match that will keep
all three of you trying to figure out if they're coming or going.
Trust me, there will be plenty of opportunities abound for me to get
my hands on you Daniels.  As of now, I have no personal vendetta with
Mr. Bartilucci and Mr. Zappa. I know what they are capable of and
though I don't agree with all of their tactics, I respect their
accomplishments. However, do understand one thing Livestock and Gutch.
Should you elect to follow the path that Mr. Daniels has and try
underhanded, sneaky and downright conniving tactics, well, then the
mood of the match will change and rather quickly."

[Sinister takes a deep breath and reaches up to pat the girl on her
back a few times.  She giggles and kicks her legs slightly while her
mother looks on, smiling]

Sin: "So, in conclusion, yes, I expect a full-on attack upon my left
knee…again…and on the other side of the equation, you gentlemen aren't
sure what to expect from Mr. Estrada, Mr. O' Connor and myself. This
should prove to be a rather interesting battle and I, for one, very
much look forward to seeing exactly how far I can push myself and my
teammates to unleash some ferocity in that ring.  Until then
gentlemen, enjoy the down time because you may learn to appreciate it
that much more once all is said and done."

[The pictures fades with Sinister walking towards the main doors while
the girl's mother walks next to him, engaging him and her daughter in
conversation]

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

(Scene opens to a shot of some brownish looking object with some black
parallel lines running across it. Slowly, the camera starts to pull
away, and we see a shiny silver object slicing into the brownish
looking stuff. As we pull even further out, we see that the silver
object is the blade of a steak knife, and it is slowly being
pulled out of what can be called a steak, as blood and other meat
juices seep out of the cut. Panning out further, we see some greenish
vegetable type matter, a whitish potato-looking mound, and more of the
bloody juices from the steak, pooling at the bottom of the plate.
Having seen enough of this lovely sight, the camera pulls out far
enough to see that the person using the knife and attempting to
eat this lovely meal is the one and only Mercenary. He's seated at the
counter of some non-descript greasy spoon diner, perched on a
naugahide covered stool. He puts the piece of meat in his mouth and
starts to chew on it, greasy juices dripping down his chin. He
struggles to chew it for a few seconds, and then swallows it down. He
wipes off his chin and addresses the camera).

Merc: Hey there. Thanks for coming out. There's a reason why I asked
for this interview to be conducted here. You see, I've been selected
to participate in the Blood Bowl match at Tradition IV, and the powers
that be have decided to have a preview match featuring myself and
three of the other participants in said match. Those participants,
like the steaks available in this joint, are of varying quality
and seasoning.

First off we have Chase Williams... Former champion, and as far as I
can tell, the youngest out of the bunch. So, I guess he could be
considered to be the filet mignon of steaks. Problem is, being young
and tender doesn't get you very far. You get cut and pulled apart
easily, the tender young meat being shredded by the dullest of blades.
And if done properly, there's a large pool of blood left behind.
You're chosen more often than most by the masses, but eventually,
there is just a greasy pool left behind.

Now, at the other end of the spectrum we have the tough as nails,
overcooked, shoe-leather tough T-bone steak that comes with the early
bird steak and eggs special. And in this little scenario, that would
equate to Tom Landis. You take the meat that's been sitting around the
longest, probably because its been all but forgotten about at the back
of the freezer, and because the chef doesn't want to just throw it
out, it gets slapped on the grill any ways, and served up. More often
than not, its going to be overcooked, no juices left in it at all. It
might take you awhile to cut a chunk off of it, and it'll be as dry as
hell, but eventually, it gets devoured. The big difference between
that steak and Landis though, is I'm afraid when I do get around to
cutting him open, all that's going to come out of the cut is a puff of
dry air and dust. Landis has got to be as ancient as you get in this
business, if not damned near mummified. Yeah, I hear a bunch of saying
that's the pot calling the kettle black, but he's got have me by
at least 10 years, if not more.

So, lastly, the brings me to someone I know all too well... Chris
Hopper. I'm not going to bore you by rehashing the long standing feud
between the two of us. If you really want to know all the gory
details, you can go back and watch any of the collections of matches
for just about any closed up federation there ever was. But in this
little comparison that I'm doing, I guess Hopper would be the daily
special, with all the fixings. It may be advertised as being the best
on the menu, having the big price tag to go along with it, but in a
place like this, you know that's not anywhere's close to being the
truth. Just because the chef says it comes from the leanest of cuts
and doesn't have an ounce of fat on it, you just know that under all
the parsley and other stuff used to make it look fancy, it's just
another piece of meat, being served up to the masses. You take
away all of the garnishes and cut into it, you see it's really got
more fat to it than any other.  No amount of advertising is going to
change that fact, even if it won't admit that to itself. And yes, it
bleeds just as much, if not more than the rest.

(Merc picks up his knife and fork and once more starts to cut into his
dinner)

Merc: So, in closing, in case any of you out there have failed to get
the point of this little discussion, let me spell it out for you...All
of my opponents for this match are nothing more than dead meat. That
is all there is to it.

(Fade to snow)

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
      Weinrib and Mubarak #2
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Fade in to see Salih Mubarak, leaning back in a chair, holding an ice
pack to his jaw as he talks to the camera.]

SM:  The thing about Max is... he's slow.  Not dumb type of slow, but
physically slow- methodical.  He's built like a bullet, for crying out
loud.  The only times I've ever seen him sprint is either at the
buffet or to the bathroom.

Now, as a tag team partner it makes a great contrast with me.  But if
and when we get down to us in the final two... I'm going to see him
coming a mile away.  So I'm expecting to win the match and get the
title shot against Fontana.

[Fade out]

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

[The reflection of a camera and the lathered up face of Gibson Hayes
are shown. The PVW American champion is shaving his stubble this time
around.]

Let's talk.

[Hayes begins to slowly shave using a straight razor. After removing
some facial hair, Hayes wipes the lather off the blade and begins to
clean it on a leather strap.]

For nearly two years, Gibson Hayes has done nothing but climb the PVW
hill. PVW is nothing without the constant rub of Gibson Hayes. I can
pull my weight and then some. Gibson Hayes is a five star, blue chip
game changer. I don't need to out wrestle someone to win because I can
out think, out fox and out game anyone in the wrestling world today.

Detson, I hope you are watching. You are going to be shown that Tyrone
and Warren will be joined by yet another Hayes in the "Making Detson
Our Victim" club. You can hide behind all those unsold copies of Joey
that you guest starred in and you can hide behind those Matthew Perry
sunglasses and your Friends re-enactment society but you are not
getting me on your terms. You have to wait in line.

[More shaving and more maintainace.]

I'd run over a terminal patient if it meant getting my way. America
needs someone who can get results and not bow to special interests.
America needs Gibson Hayes. I give old glory my sainted blood each and
every time I step into the ring. I am willing to make the hard
decisions, do the worst things imaginable and do the deals with the
underworld necessary to keep the Pax Americana running smoothly.

Sure, I trained under Tracy Hudson for a time. I trained with a few
other wrestlers so I would know how to deal with certain types later.
I trained under Hescher's mentor for a short period as well. I
understand what goes on in that head of von Dorkerhardt. He has a
blackness within him; he has something eating him from the
inside out. That bile that builds in his throat, that bitterness that
bubbles under the surface is his strength and his greatest fault.

[Gibson yawns.]

He is going into a game he cannot win. America's new future, me,
Gibson Hayes, knows HvD's dark secrets; I know is idols and I know his
shames. The deck is already stacked in my favor but Toddy J will make
sure Herscher will never get started. HvD wants to conquer America.
HvD wants to destroy this nation built on the broadback of Gibson
Hayes.

Look into my eyes. I will not let the Netherland Neanderthal walk all
over my lovely America. Herscher is just the second brick in the road
I am building with this PVW gauntlet. Others have tried to bring me
down and all they were left with was sand slipping through their
fingers. Gibson Hayes cannot be stopped. Gibson Hayes cannot
be contained. Gibson Hayes cannot be bested. Gibson Hayes cannot be
equalled.

PVW made a mistake putting some nobody named Kaning or Keshawn in
charge. If Gibson Hayes were commissioner, dirt like that foreign scab
von Dorkerhardt would be back in a breadline in Brussels or wherever
he is from. I am going to put HvD out of this league. He is going to
be shipped back to the old country with a copy of his precious "Will
to Power" just to show that Gibson Hayes has a heart.

[Hayes begins to finish up his shaving.]

2010 is yet another year in the reign of Hayes. 2008 was my climb,
2009 was my annointing, 2010 will be my iron grip on the throat of PVW
and the world. You voted for me and you will get what you deserve.

[Fade out.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
      Caleb Foley
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Fade into the locker room. It's dirty, grimy, and almost
unimaginable. A medium size man is sitting down in a fold out chair in
the middle of the room with a green towel covering his head, the man
appears to be drenched in sweat. He's wearing green mesh shorts and a
sleeveless white t-shirt, he sits up revealing it to be a "Phoenix
Valley Wrestling Son" T-shirt, making the man obvious, "The Celtic
Crippler" Caleb Foley leaves the towel on his head, and speaks in a
uncharacteristically dry tone.]

Caleb Foley: "Rookie ..."

"Cry Baby ..."

"Poster Boy..."

"Destroyed ..."

"Broken ..."

[Foley rips the towel off his head. His long red hair is soaked in
sweat and hanging freely everywhere, a deep gash on his nose and Caleb
just stares into the camera ...]

Caleb Foley: "All of those words have been mentioned in the same
sentence as my Phoenix Valley Wrestling career. And you know what? I
don't give a damn what you guys think I am not here to make friends in
the locker room ... I am here to do my job and that is to wrestle ...
My whole life I have been told I can't do this or I can't do that ...
And that stops here and now. If you don't like what I have to say
well I'm not a hard man to find ... So bring your lawyers... Your
corrupt networks ... Your hot looking wives or valets ... I dare you
attack me from behind or after the bell because not even the Hand of
God can SAVE YOU !!!"

[ Caleb is no longer sitting down on the folding chair and seems to
have a serious tone in his voice ...]

Caleb Foley: "One day you have this moment and everything just clicks.
You can do no wrong. Everything your peers and coaches have taught you
has finally made sense. And in that moment all the hard work, the long
days at the gym training, the bones you have broken, the blood you
have spilled inside the ring makes it that much more worth it. You
don't go though all the training and late nights for the fame, the
fortune or to get hot looking females banging at your hotel room door
at three o'clock in the morning. When you sign up to become a wrestler
you do it because you love what the business is all about. It doesn't
matter how big you are or who you know ... The rush you get when your
entrance music hits and your blood starts to flow throughout your body
while your walking down to the ring and then that ring bell finally
rings  ... It doesn't matter whether you being booed or cheered all
that matters is that you are living the dream of being a  professional
superstar ..."

[Caleb slams his fist against the locker in frustration as he begins
to speak ...]

Caleb Foley:  "So it looks like we meet again Doctor X. You are the so
called veteran who said he was gonna take me out to the woodshed and
beat respect into me. You also said you would put me out of my misery
and make my return extremely short. Doctor X, you come out here week
in and week out claiming to have known all the greats in this sport.
Doctor X, I really could care less who you know ... who trained you to
become a wrestler ... or who is the godfather of your child because
of none of that matters. The only thing you have done to get my
undivided attention is attack me twice after the bell has rung.  Well
I'm going to avenge both of those attacks when we meet in A MATCH THAT
HAS NO RULES ..."

Caleb Foley:  "You see, Doctor X, cocky attitudes and all that other
ego crap doesn't seem to mix well with me if you know what I mean. We
have many imitators but not many innovators. Our ancestors were
originated even the guys that came before you Doctor X were
originators. I'm here to teach you a lesson. A lesson in hard
times. You see ever veteran needs to be taught a lesson and when you
step into the ring with me I will teach you wrestling 101."

Caleb Foley: "Life can be cold ... it can throw you curve balls and
all sorts of things that can be bad. No matter what it throws at you
have only one option. And that option is to adapt and if you can't do
that then you will never evolve into the person you were meant to be.
You must get up each time and rise to the occasion. How many men can
honestly say they do just that? In the end it's not how many times you
fall down but it's how many times you get up. Do you think you can get
up every time, Doctor X? I have and will continue to do. I have
overcome so many obstacles in my short career thus far. For that I
have achieved glory. Doctor X, this could very well be your last
hurrah. If you win then that's good but we'll see what happens if
you lose? That's when will see if your a good wrestler or just a
phony.A great wrestler once told me if you want big rewards in life
you have to take even bigger risks ... So Doctor X get ready for a war
because this  match will not be for the weak of heart ... "

[The camera fades to black as Caleb Foley is seen walking out of the
locker room and he looks ready for a WAR ... ]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
            PAIN
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[SCENE: An examination room at the Kevorkian Institute of Painless
Medicine.

It looks fairly normal, actually.  Light blue walls, brown examination
table/bed/thing, a couple of chairs, greyish-blue counters, cabinets,
and sink, those medical posters showing different parts of the human
anatomy (and not like the posters showing human anatomy you probably
keep under your bed!), wipe dispensers, syringe waste containers, etc
etc.  If you've been to the doctor's office, you know what it looks
like.

Granted, YOUR doctor's examination room might not have a blowtorch
laying on the counter, or manacles built in to the examination table
complete with 'length adjustment' knobs reminiscent of a torture rack,
or a drill-press built into the ceiling.  That's because your doctor
is not well-prepared for all situations.  The doctor(s?) in the room
are, however.  Just ask them!

Dr. Mal Practice MD and (Dr.?) Ohno Ow are here.  Both of them are
seated on opposite sides of the examination table, and both are
wielding manilia folders filled with papers and stuff.  Mal, a massive
six-nine, three-hundred fourty pound man with a salt-and-pepper
flattop, bushy eyebrows, and a thin mustache, is to the left.  He's
wearing his pristine white labcoat, a light green button-up shirt
under that, and tan slacks.  On the right of the table, Ohno is not
looking so much like a doctor these days.  Should we still call him
Dr. Ow?  Wearing his black T-buttoned, silk shirt and sunglasses that
we have seen him in so much recently, (we can still see the strap of
his eyepatch wrapping around his head) though he seems to be all
business at the moment... or at least he's not talking on his
cellphone or ordering any lackies around to get him frivolous
things... at least not yet.]


Dr. Mal: Well, I apologize for my office not being available.  I had
to use the slow-moving table saw conveyor thing to perform a delicate
neural realignment on Meil... on a patient that just wouldn't shut
u... I mean wait.  Better that we meet in here for now.


Ohno:  That OKAY.  Violet still NEED office for au-di-tions in HOUR
an-y-way.


Dr. Mal: Fine, fine, though we'll need to get finished so we can head
out to catch the plane to Cedar Rapids tonight.  It leaves Syracuse at
about ten.


Ohno:  Why need SEE rab-bits?  And who Seera, and WHAT she ac-cuse?
WE have nother LAW suit?


Dr. Mal: No, no, Cedar Rapids.  Iowa.  We've got training to do for
this week.  One of us is going to get a shot at the Network
Championship, Ohno.  We actually need to train this time.


Ohno:  Network Cham-pi-on-ship?  Oh, yes, Fon-ta-na win LAST time.
Have ma-ny TV ap-pea-rance.  Yes, must WORK hard.


[Ohno takes out a pen and paper and starts scribbling something down
frantically.]


Dr. Mal: That's right.  Obviously, being Network Champion means you
get as much TV exposure as you want.  Why, he even had the pull to get
the Landis family Thanksgiving televised!  And the company even sent
him a troupe of bimbo cheerleaders, I think someone said they were all
from Marshall or something.  Now, if the Network would let Fontana get
THAT televised... just think of what we could do with that title!
Infomericals, mass marketing, distributing the truth to a nation
filled with the prescription-addicted masses just begging to open
their hearts (and by proxy wallets) to someone who could shed light
into their lives! What Gibson started, we could finish!


Ohno: [still writing] YES!  People of THIS country, LOOK to TV and see
light of OOOOOOHNOOOOOO, guiding LIVES.   NEED me to TELL what wear,
what mu- sic LISTEN too, not LIVE without MY movies, or KNOW la-test
OOOOOOOHNOOOOOOOO news. Must WORK quick-ly.


[Ohno writes faster.  Mal opens his mouth to add something, but Ohno
cuts him off.]


Ohno: Oth-er-wise, ac-cep-tance SPEECH not fi-nish on TIME.


Dr. Mal: Yes, well, you can write that on the plane.  We're going to
Iowa City to train for the match.


Ohno:  Hahaha, THAT good one.  On-ly OOOOOHNOOOOOOO suit-a-ble for
Net-work TV. E-ven LOOK others, they dis-qu-li-fy.  Too ug-ly FOR te-
le-vi-sion.


[Mal's eyebrows twitch in outrage at that comment.]


Dr. Mal: Now wait just a minute!  I'm a handsome man myself, and the
trusted face of postmodern medicine for millions if not billions if
not jillions of Practisites the world over!  One of us is going to get
that title shot, but we're going to have to train.  We've got to throw
six lumps of dead weight out of the ring first... and the Wild Cards
are going to be two of them, so we'll also have to review our case
study data from last week on the ongoing effort to physically re-mold
them into acceptable members of what passes for society!  Removing
their ambulatory function, for example, so they stop wandering out
into other people's business.  And then we have to deal with Fontana,
who has obviously read my best selling book!


[Mal pulls a book out of... nowhere!]


Dr. Mal: Painless Medicine The Mal Practice Way, Volume Seven... with
the brilliant chapter: Seven Secrets To Successful Home Amputations.
Perry Fontana has clearly purchased my book, and as such we need to be
very cautious as this kind of knowledge can be abused to do harm
instead of heal.  Such as that case last year of the guy in Istanbul
who read the chapter on Vestigal Organs And How You Can Use Them As
Storage Space.


Ohno:  No prob-lem.  I KUNG FU CHOP his APEN-DIX open just BE safe.


[Ow stops writing for a moment and lets loose the list, which now
unrolls to the floor...]


Ohno:  Think THIS good start?


Dr. Mal: Yes, yes it is.  Now, I've called ahead to an old friend at
the University Of Iowa, where I wrestled in college.  No doubt you
know that it is the finest wrestling program in the world, and there
we'll work on counter-wrestling until we've mastered anti-amputative
techniques that we can then blend into our revolutionary reflexive
trachea-massage therapy techniques and assure not only victory, but
that Perry will never vomit random French words onto the unwitting
public again!  Truly, humanitarian goals require preparation.


Ohno: [back to writing his list] Huh?  No TIME, wrestle-training.
NEED fo-cus BRING light of OOOOOOHNOOOOOOOOOO to Network Television.
For THAT, need fur-ther MASTER kung fu SKILLS.  No NEED help from ci-
ti-zen of 3rd WORLD coun-try like "I-oh-ya". [chuckles at the silly
thought]


[Mal glowers, and slaps down a photo from his folder.  It's yellowed
on the edges, but seems to be a team photo of some kind (we're a bit
far to see details).]


Dr. Mal: 1983, national champions.


[Mal slaps down a second photo.]


Dr. Mal: 1982, national champions.  Two-time national team
championship wrestler, Ohno.  That 'third-world-nation' is a STATE,
just like New York and California and Switzerland.  They wrestle there
because there's nothing else to DO in Iowa.  So they're really good at
it.  I know this because I grew up there.  You don't hear me talking
about Canton like it is a suburb of Cleveland.


Ohno:  Hey, NO use dir-ty words like Cleveland!


Dr. Mal: Would you have preferred I gone a bit northwest and said
Toled...


Ohno: [angrily cutting him off]  Don't EVER make THAT com-pa-ri-son!


[Ohno whips a photo out of his manila folder and slaps it down.  It is
an old black-and-white photo of boys in martial arts outfits.]


Ohno:  You WANT talk trai-ning!?  I TRAIN from child-hood, to BREAK
men with bare HANDS!


[Ow slaps down another, much stranger photo, showing a young Chinese
boy facing off against what looks like... a snake!?]


Ohno:  We LEARN by mimick WILD BEAST.  TO use what NA-tu-ral as
WEAPON.


[Once again, the Chinese man slaps down another photo, of what appears
to be the same boy, a bit older.  It's starting to look more like Ohno
now, but still doesn't have the eye-patch.  He's standing in front of
a mannequin of sorts, with various holes in it, and has a needle in
his hand carefully aiming for a specific spot.]


Ohno:  I LEARN pre-ci-sion in Chinese MEDICINE, knowing EXACTLY which
point.  To HEAL, or in-jure, or MAIM, or even KILL.

[Ohno slaps down a final photo of him in a Chinese military uniform.
This one is in faded color.  Though clearly a bit younger, we can tell
with certainty that this is Ohno Ow.  He is now wearing his eyepatch.]


Ohno:  Then serve in Red Army.  Lose EYE in figh-ting.  You talk
TRAINING.  Training WAS WHOLE LIFE, be-fore.  I al-rea-dy TRAINED.  I
forge IN REAL battle, not side hob-by in college.  It WHO I AM,
_ALWAYS_!


[Mal slaps another photo down on top of the ones Ohno has slapped
down.  It's his movie poster.]


Dr. Mal: Always?  Really?  Because it seems to me that the Ohno Ow YOU
are referring to took a powder three years ago and hasn't been back
since.  You talk about training like it's over.  Well guess what?  I
spent my whole life breathing.  I breathed when I was a child,
breathed throughout school, breathed in med school where, guess what,
I learned how to put people together and how to take them apart.
I breathed throughout a wrestling career, and so I guess I can just
stop now, can't I?


Ohno: [snarls] You WANT go back PLAY with college friends?  GO!  You
think they're FAKE wrest-ling so im-por-tant, then YOU train with
THEM.


Dr. Mal: You'll think it's real important when you pose for the
'paparazzi' and end up with a broken arm.  On the plus side,
pretending to be a snake will be a lot easier.  Oh, wait, you don't do
that anymore, I forgot.  You're an ACTOR now.  So I guess that makes
you the resident authority on _fake_.  Tell you what, have those
ninjas attack ME next time, and see how fake it is when they have to
scrub what's left of them out of the concrete.


[Mal stands up and collects his photos.]


Dr. Mal: So you want to go pretend to be animals, fine, lower yourself
on the food chain.  Last I recall, humanity was the dominant species.
When you decide to fight like one of US, let me know.


Ohno: [confused now] When we EVER wrestle like I-o-wan?


Dr. Mal: When have we ever wrestled like snakes, monkeys, cranes, Jack
Baldwin, tigers, or any other lower form of life?


Ohno:  I ALWAYS use Kung Fu.  You WANT call acting FAKE?  What happen
WHEN college "wrestler" [yes, he does the quotations with his hands]
hurt? EVERYTHING STOP. Maybe RUSH to ho-spi-tal.  Know what hap-pen in
Hong Kong movie when ACTOR or stuntman hurt?  Al-most NOTHING.  We do
QUICK patch-up, and he get UP and GO on. Even that 2-bit Jackie CHAN
con-ti-nue his HORRIBLE movie af-ter break LEG.  Just cover UP in-ju-
ry in SHOT, and keep GOING.  That how "FAKE" it is. That [points to
Mal's folder] is what FAKE.


Dr. Mal: So tell me.  How many kung fu guys have ever won a World
Title?  I seem to recall a Muay Thai guy winning one once... and
that's about it for Asian striking disciplines in wrestling.  But I
must be missing all these 'real' fighters beating wrestlers.


Ohno: [speaking slowly as if to a child] WE in P-V-W.  Not MIX mar-
tial ART.  Not I-o-wa am-a-teur wrest-ling.  We PRO-wrest-ling.


Dr. Mal: Excellent!  You just used the word 'wrestling' to describe
what we do.  I'm going to call that progress, and go catch my plane to
Cedar Rapids. Then we'll meet up on Damage Control, and you know what?
We'll settle this there.  If you win the Rumble, I will back you one-
hundred percent; and when Fontana locks on Amputation and you can't
get out because you don't know how, I'll make sure he doesn't break
your arm.  But if I win, I want you to be there and watch exactly what
wrestling is all about.


Ohno:  Have FUN with col-lege friends.  See YOU when I win Net-work
Title.


[Ohno collects his pictures and storms out of the room... as he does
Meili comes in.... well, hops in, as she's tied up from head to foot
with ropes.]


Meili:  Wo deng hen jiu, keshi hai meiyou jingbu. [I waited so long,
but still no surprise.]  [hops over to Mal] Xiang nide wanyi huaile.
Keshi you piaoliang yanhuo. [I think your toy is broken, but it has
pretty fireworks.] Pop! Cracka-cracka, crakca!  Wooow!


[Mal headdesks as we fade.]

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

[The door to Tommy Ryder and Laurel Levinger's apartment slams shut as
Levinger storms in.]

TR: Are you going to talk to me now?

LL: Talk to you?!  What good would it do?!

[Laurel paces back and forth across the room as Tommy gets out of his
seat to try and calm her down.]

LL: I went back home to my family because this is nuts Tommy.  Do you
have a death wish?!

You keep doing this.  Some one gets in trouble and there you are
running out there to put your neck on the line for who knows what
reason!

TR: Laurel, I'm doing this for us.

LL: No you're not!  Don't tell me it's for us and it's going to put
you on the map.  I'm tired of hearing it!

I thought you were finally getting back on track.  You gave Chase
Williams a hell of a match, the kind of match that says you're serious
about winning and then what do you do?  You run out to stop The
Spectre!  What were you thinking?!  The Spectre isn't JUST crazy.  He
gets off on hurting people.  Not beating them, not making them suffer.
He wants to break them down until they are nothing.

[Laurel grabs a glass and throws it at the wall, shattering it into
pieces.]

LL: When we first came to the PVW and saw the talent here, we both
said that The Spectre was THE guy that you didn't want to get on the
wrong side of and here you are!  Not only did you get on that wrong
side, you CHOSE to be there!

[Tommy just stands there in silence.  Neither agreeing or refuting
Laurel's statements.]

LL: Do you know when I think this might end?  At Heatwave!  You didn't
get in the way of some guy trying to send a message.  You got in the
way of a madman that is going to take his frustration out on you.  I
promise you that Spectre isn't thinking "How can I beat Ryder and make
him pay?"  He's thinking "How can I make Ryder's mother regret having
given him birth because he's in so much pain?"!

[There is a long moment of silence between the two.]

TR: You know what Laurel... I don't care.

[Fire shines in Levinger's eyes before Tommy raises a hand.]

TR: I know you're mad, but you've made your point and now it's time to
give me a chance to say what I need to say.

When we came here, it was all about the kid that wanted to prove
himself.  It was all about showing people that you can accomplish
whatever you set your gaze on.  You and I both know that isn't what
keeps me going.

[Laurel is just standing in silence.  Anyone that looked at her could
see that she is simmering, but some of the fire has left her eyes.]

TR: People have seen what I'm really about.  What I really believe.  I
will not sit by and watch while I can help, while I can make a
difference.  How often do you see people trying to go out there and do
what's right?

I don't care how beaten or broken my body gets.  I'll heal.  But to
sit back and watch, knowing that I could have gone out there and done
something about it... that would haunt me.  And you know it.

LL: This fight is different Tommy.

TR: Yes, it is.

LL: He's not looking to punish you.  He wants to see you suffer and
end you.

TR: I'm pretty sure that you're right.

LL: Then why go out to that match?  Forfeit the match.  I don't care
what the boys in the back think or even the fans.

TR: I'm not going to do that.  I'm going to go out there and do
everything that I can to beat him.  If we win, I can promise you that
we are going to get away from him before he can turn it around and get
some post match payback.

LL: And if you don't?

TR: Then try to drag me out of the ring before he can do too much
damage.

LL: I can't promise that I won't get involved this time.

TR: I still trust that you won't.

[The two quietly sit down together thinking about what's to come.]


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

[We pan backstage at the end of Heatwave. The locker room is deserted.
Wrestlers have left to go out on a night on the town, to go home with
their families but one man remains that man is PVW's Warrior Larry
Gionet. He sits on a steel cold bench slowly unwrapping the white
wrist tape as he begins to speak to the camera.].

Gionet: This business ... this profession It's everything I am. When I
leave the ring I begin refocusing to the next time I step back inside
it. My life is living for the squared circle and when my career is
over they will have to peel my broken body out of it.

[After throwing his wrist-tape on the floor he takes off his elbow
pads first on the left elbow then the right elbow. He throws them into
his duffel bag. BY the scrapes and bruises on his arms one can see he
had just entered a battle with Chris Hopper and emerged victorious but
not without a price.]

Gionet: A lot of people have called me cardboard ... A robot ... I've
been called a paper champion and everything else in the book. The
plain fact is I am all of that. I am a cardboard cut out of what a
wrestler is; techninal finesse, sheer brutality and a fighting spirit
next to none. I am programmed to walk to this ring and destroy
whomever is in my path so their shoulders stay to the mat for the 3
count or they tap out. If an injury happens I will persevere for that
is part of the game I choose to play.. There is no down time for me.
24 hours a day, 7 days a week.. 365 days a year ... I am what you see
inside this ring. I don't know how to be anything else... I can't.

[With Larry still in a focused mindset, he closes his eyes as he
clasps his hands togethre in a moment of prayer or meditation. He
gently rests his chin on his hands as his dirty blond chin gotee
drapes down his knuckles like a curtain blocking out the light of the
world.]

Gionet: So when Chris Hopper ... Perry Fontana .. or anyone else
begins their checklist of running down Larry Gionet. It bounces right
off me. The fact remains, it doesn't matter. It never has. Because
soon I am going to walk down that ring and I am going to do what I do
best. Do what has flowed through me my whole life. I am going to
annihilate my competition in the only place that I belong. The only
place I feel at home. Inside that ring.

[Larry Gionet stands up from his seated position and begins pacing
back and forth. He nods to himself as he strokes his chin goatee. He
closes his hands up into fists.  An aura of intense focus and
unmatched determination fills the air. He stops to look inside the
camera with his dark blyue eyes.]

Gionet: I have to ask you a question Fontana. Did you see what I did
to Chris hopper out there DID YOU?! I proved to that bastard that he
was nothing but hot air and I popped him down to size. I don't talk a
lot of hype I do my talking with these hands. You are without a shadow
of a doubt one of the best we have here in Phoenix Valley Wrestling.
That is why you are the Network champion. But I'll be damned if I
don't give you a run for your money and take home the Network
Championship. I am gonna do what I have been doing my entire career
and that is getting ready for a fight. Fontana you might be the
Network Champion but I am the Phoenix Valley Warrior. Win, lose or
draw no matter what the outcome is the one thing I can guarantee is I
will give it my all ...

[Larry bends down and grabs his duffle bag throwing it over his right
shoulder. Without a second to lose Gionet storms out of the locker
room slamming the door shut. The echo of the door closing follows the
distant footsteps of the PVW Warrior as we fade to black.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
      Perry Fontana
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Fade to a pixelated image of "The Everlasting" Perry Fontana, most of
his head covered by the hood of his trademark orange, red and gold
boxer's robe. Clearly, he is at home. Over one shoulder is an open
doorway in an indoor brick wall. Over the other, old movie posters of
"La Putain Respectueuse" and "Il Portiere di Notte," reek of
inveterate bachelorpadness. Three things stick out: Charlotte
Rambling's sexy hand-bra, the extraordinarily shiny Network
Championship nestled on the Italian French-Canadian's shoulder, and
Fontana's protruding Aaron Eckhart- style dimpled chin.

Sitting on a brown leather couch, "Il Eterno" leans down to the lap
top webcam that is recording this message.]

Fontana: So. Here I am, in the _serenity_ of my own home, enjoying the
_raw_ SANCTITY of my marriage - Vous suivez? - And the doorbell goes
off mid-way through, ringing relentlessly. Ringing, and _ringing_ and
RINGING until my beautiful wife she... Well I end up answering the
door, and some Fed-ex type _schmuck_ hands me THIS.

[Fontana suddenly brandishes an express delivery package out of which
he retrieves some documents.]

Fontana: It's from PVW. And here, I'm thinking "this must be some
_really_important_ stuff if they send it over by express courier. It
must be _EXTREMELY_ _important_ if it's worth interrupting my wife's
marital duty... it HAS to be... right?" The actual content of the
communique, however... fully _deflating_.

[Perry unfolds the letter before him, straightening the papers.]

Fontana: First, I'm treated to _YET_ANOTHER_ letter from the stupid
marketing department _begging_ me to get in touch with them about
creating a Perry "Le Phenix" Fontana t-shirt. _AGAIN!_

[Sternly, he points directly down to the laptop's camera.]

Fontana: I am _NOT_ going to start _shilling_ cheap t-shirts, posters,
bobbleheads or _dumb_ ACTION FIGURES, c'est clair? Apparently, a PVW
champion _HAS_ to have some kind of _product_ to PEDDLE to some
BRAINLESS FANS. Well _NOT_ ME!

[Beneath the hood of his robe, rounded crazy-eyes briefly appear then
disappear anew as another could of misty spittle floats down like a
soft snowfall.]

Fontana: I am on an _unstoppable_ journey, cousin, I am on a path I
shall never deviate from. Shortly, I will prove to be Quebec's best
wrestler, Canada's most accomplished fighter, and then, the very
_best_ in the WORLD! Aaah, OUAIS! Between training, making _ROMANTIC_
LOVE to my _beautiful_ *wife*, kicking some pathetiques p'tits cons,
_knocking_out_ the lucky ones and AMPUTATING THE REST... I don't have
any time to WASTE on _completely_ selling out like Masked Maniac does.
Cousin, I'm the _only_ man to cook and serve a spit and _phlegm_
BURGER to Death not once, _not_ TWICE, BUT SI-...

[Suddenly, in the doorway over Fontana's shoulder appears the
delicately beautiful Emily, wife of "Deathless" Perry Fontana and
little sister of "Hellraiser" Tom Landis.]

Emily: Playing poker again?

Fontana: Hm, what?

[As he turns to his wife, Perry's hood falls off, revealing his thick
black hair and overgrown muttonchops.]

Emily: I heard you screaming like you do when there are too many
reckless players at the table, so...

Fontana: Non, non, I'm not playing poker, I-

Emily: Good, so I'm not disturbing you, then. Listen, I had a t-shirt
idea for you.

Fontana: That again? Listen, Emilia...

Emily: You could have the usual black t-shirt, except one of the
sleeves is made of vermilion fabric, and there's a dotted white line
on it that says "Amputate here." That's be cool, right?

Fontana: Emilie, I don't do the t-sh-

Emily: Add a logo in the front and I think it could sell pretty well.
You have no idea how much money Tom made when the Naughty Bastard fans
decided buying Tom Landis t-shirts was the best way to annoy that
Slush guy. I don't know how much they made but I assume it was a lot.
Enough money that you can't turn down an opportunity like that,
especially since you never know how long a sports career can
last, and I'm studying French Literature. It's not like it was a very
profitable domain or something...

Fontana: I told you, I don't have any time to waste on those things.

Emily: Oh, that's ok. I've got some free time over the holidays so I
figured I'd work with the t-shirt people for you. That way you can
focus on your wrestling and not even give a thought to merchandising,
just like you wanted.

Fontana: But...

Emily: What's the name of your team with Tom, again?

Fontana: No, amore mio, Tom is my brother now, so I love him, but we
are _not_ a team. I'll be pretty busy defending the PVW Network Title
going forward, and I suppose Tom's will lose himself in the Blood Bowl
shuffle, but you know... it's all about little Kelsey.

Emily: Chelsea.

Fontana: Right. Anyways, Tom and I are not a team. It's just not in
the cards, mon amour.

Emily: All right. I'm sure he can still give you advice and stuff. Did
you record your apology yet?

Fontana: No. No, that's what-

Emily: I'll let you do that while I phone the PVW guys, then.

[Before he can retort, spunky Emily has already left, leaving Fontana
alone with his shimmering title belt and webcam.]

Fontana: ...

[He sighs.]

Fontana: Marriage... it's a lot like housebreaking a new pet. It takes
a while, cousin, but it's all about establishing who the _master_ is.

[The "Ultimate Armbar Innovator" stares blankly at a distant point
off-screen, then slowly pull the hood of his robe back over his head.
After a moment, he takes a deep breath, then resumes his diatribe.]

Fontana: Second, the friendly chaps of PVW inform me that the vexing
PVW Network Title must be defended as many times or more than other
PVW Championships such as the American title. Therefore, I am asked to
defend this _annoying_ ... THING _twice_ this week.

[Fontana's hand gently hovers over his belt's gleaming patina,
reverently caressing it's aura.]

Fontana: I _LOATHE_ this title. It's the bane of my existence, cousin.
I can't _wait_ to-

[Out of nowhere, Emily reappears.]

Emily: Say, Perry... while you're not busy... last night was the last
time you bring that belt to bed with us, ok? I still have a phoenix
tattooed into my skin I can't seem to get rid of.

Fontana: Err...

Emily: Did you tape your apology, yet?

Fontana: No. No I-

Emily: I'll let you get on it, then.

[Without another word, Ms. Fontana blows her husband a kiss and
perkily saunters off again, leaving her husband to contemplatively
meditate in silence.]

Fontana: I am the master. My house, my rules... *I* am the master.

[He inhales and exhales deeply, then continues.]

Fontana: So... I _hate_ this dumb title, cousin. Defending it, that's
what the problem is. Winning the title defenses isn't the issue, of
course. Whether it's a Rush Hour Rumble winner or Larry Gionet, I can
handle all comers. No matter how good they are, *_I_* am _better_,
aaah ouais! It matters not how many people you've beaten, or how many
titles you've previously held, _I_ reign SUPREME, AAAHH _OUAIS!_
The moment you step in that ring with me, cousin, I take _ownership_
of that arm. Might as well tattoo "Property of Perry Fontana" on it,
capice? One of two things will happen, cousin. You'll either get
_knocked_OUT_, or either you'll be _AMPUTATED_! AAAAHHH WAAAYYY!

[Spittle spews out of his mouth like water and steam out of a geyser.]

Fontana: No. The problem is that while I'm stuck *defending* this
_piece_of_TIN_, I'm not climbing the ladder rungs I should be steadily
climbing. I am the _fastest_ rising _wrestler_ of ALL TIME!! My path
has a steep upwards slant to it, _straight_ to the TOP, cousin! But
this _wretched_ TITLE...

[He gently caresses the air near the Network title's silvery surface.]

Fontana: This Network championship has me _stuck_ in a PLATEAU. I'd
love for someone to come along and _TAKE_ this awful thing away,
cousin, I _dream_ of it. Is this man Larry Gionet? That's a man with a
pedigree, that's a man with history, a man that _knows_ what it takes
to win championships, for he has done so in the past. He KNOWS what it
would take to _win_ *this* Network Title, cousin.

[His head slowly turns to the strap resting on his shoulder.]

Fontana: And that's precisely why he will _fail_. Because deep down,
he _KNOWS_ he doesn't have what it takes to _defeat_ _ME_! Aaah,
OUAIS!

[As more spittle floats down around him, Fontana continues in his
raspy, whispering voice.]

Fontana: So who could the chosen one be, then? Could he be a
_bonified_WINNER, like the man that shall have his hand raised in
triumph on Damage Control's Rush Hour RUMBLE? While winning multi-man
matches is practically a _prerequisite_ to becoming the PVW NETWORK
*CHAMPION*, this upcoming Rush Hour Rumble will come with a hefty
toll for the victor. It will cost the winner _his_ARM! AAAhhh ouais!

[A beat.]

Fontana: Better than costing an arm _and_ a leg, but I'm still
confident it was a price Masked Maniac would have preferred not to
pay. Yeah. Masked Maniac _deserved_ what he got, cousin. Frankly,
cousin, if I could reattach his arm _myself_ so I could AMPUTATE it
_again_, I WOULD!

[Suddenly, Emily Fontana reappears.]

Emily: Perry, baby, are you sure you're not playing poker? I was on
the phone with the PVW people and I kept hearing your muffled
screaming.

[Fontana recoils half in panic, like an embarrassed teenager caught
punishing his pickle. In a flash, he pulls off the hood of his robe as
he looks back towards his intruding wife.]

Fontana: Hmm, what? No. No, I...

Emily: Anyways, I'm meeting with the PVW designers tomorrow. Cool
right?

Fontana: Um, ouais... Ecoute, you don't have to-

Emily: Were you filming your apology, is that what the screaming was?

Fontana: No. I'm not going to be ap-

Emily: Because here's a hint. Screaming doesn't sound very apologetic.

Fontana: I'm not apologizing.

Emily: But PVW sent a letter asking you to, and they're right.

Fontana: No, amore mio, they're wrong. I'm not apologizing.

Emily: Yes, you are. Did you think I wouldn't hear about what you did?

Fontana: That's not...

Emily: I had some people tell me they got sick watching what you did
to this Maniac
guy.

Fontana: Franchement, mon amour, it's the kind of stuff that can
happen in wrestling. It's not my fault if my finisher is so potent, is
it?

Emily: It's not because I don't watch your wrestling show that I can't
hear about what happened, you know. I've been told you went out of
your way to make sure you injured him.

Fontana: But... mon amour, they're _lying_. I didn't mean to dislocate
his arm...

Emily: Maniac didn't deserve that.

Fontana: But...

Emily: Yeah, he told Tom about us before I was ready to tell him and
it lead to a bit of a situation. But that mild embarrassment is not
worth a broken arm.

Fontana: Disloc-

Emily: Whatever. You're apologizing, just like PVW asked you to.

Fontana: ...

[Fontana stares at his new wife with a stubborn, steely gaze. This is
met by a similarly determined stance of the Landis-variety.]

Emily: I know you're a passionate guy, and that when you want
something, you never quit, and you never give up, and you never stop
until you get it. That's how and why I fell in love with you. But
sometimes, you get carried away, I know you do. But I also love you
because I know that even if you get carried away, you do the right
thing in the end.

[Looks like Ms. Fontana still has a thing or two to learn about her
husband's nature.]

Fontana: ... FINE! Fine... Je m'excuserai, mia donna.

Emily: Good. And you'll mean it?

Fontana: ... Yeah.

Emily: Alright. Then I'll see you soon.

[She adds a suggestive wink.]

Emily: But no belt.

[And she's gone again. Fontana appears to be boiling with unspoken
rage. If this were a cartoon, steam would be streaming out of his
ears. Instead, his cheeks redden and his brown eyes bulge out below
his bushy, black, burrowing brows.]

Fontana: Ca n'va pas etre long que les _regles_ de cette relation vont
CHANGER, ma belle, CROIS-MOI!

[From another room, Emily retorts.]

Emily, off-camera: And do it in English.

Fontana: FINE! Just go draw your t-shirts, I'll take care of this.

[He deeply inhales again, regaining his composure, then looks straight
at the lens.]

Fontana: I'm sorry.

[And amazingly enough, he looks like he means it.]

Fontana: I'm sorry, Masked Maniac, really, I am. I said I didn't mean
to dislocate your arm, and that's true. That was a mistake, my friend,
I should not have dislocated it. Now, you'll be recovering with your
arm in a sling for a week or two, thinking a Network title shot will
be waiting for you when you return, filling you with hope as you
fervently rehab that arm, thinking you actually have a shot at
becoming the next Network champion, somewhere down the line. I'm sorry
about that. Truly, I am.

[He takes a breath, and continues in his trademark raspy whispers.]

Fontana: I gave you hope when, in fact, there is NO hope for _you_.
I'm sorry. You're a drunkard, a lifelong loser. You dream of becoming
the Network champion, but you don't have the skill, you don't have the
stamina, and you don't have the drive. Larry Gionet has an infinitely
better shot than you do, and he will _fail_, cousin, just like the
Rush Hour Rumble winner. And since they can't do it, you don't stand a
[BLEEP]ing chance. I shouldn't have hung you upside down from those
ring ropes, and I should not have dislocated your arm. I didn't mean
to dislocate it...

[A breath.]

Fontana: I meant to _fracture_ it. Like Greg Bull's. I meant to put
you out of commission for so long you'd take a renewed interest in
your ski mask business, because that's the only thing you ever
succeeded at in life. You've failed at wrestling, at parenthood, and
at life. But you have managed to create a surprisingly profitable
business, your sole success. And, being a good friend, I meant to
inspire you to return to that business' bosom, where

you belong.

[The Everlasting One looks down to the floor.]

Fontana: But instead, I gave you some hopes to hang to, and I'm sorry.

["Le Phenix" raises his head again, intently staring through the lens
with a piercing gaze, whispering so softly one must strain to clearly
hear all of the words he utters.]

Fontana: And if you come back to PVW, cousin, you'll realize these
false hopes are not what you hang to, but what you'll end up hanging
yourself with.

[He lovingly glances at the title belt on his shoulder, then bends
down to turn off his laptop.]


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
      Weinrib and Mubarak #3
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Fade in to see Max Weinrib.  He shoots a look to the left, then the
right.  Finally he leans in conspiratorially towards the camera.]

MW:  Not too many know this about Sal, but...he's ticklish.  And
that's not something you'd expect from a wrestler.  But according to
his sister, he's got this one spot and-- [He looks around again]  --
I've said too much.

[Max holds up his hands]

Don't get me wrong, there's no one better I'd want watching my back in
the ring! But another thing is, Sal's got this twitch in his eye.
That's why he likes to wear the sunglasses.  He thinks it hides it,
but it totally telegraphs what he's gonna do.  At least for me
anyways.  Poker, Madden, wrestling...doesn't matter.  That's
why when we're the last two in the ring, it's gonna be me taking on
Hannah Fontana afterwards!

[He shrugs.]

Sorry, buddy...

[Fade out]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
      Hersher von Donkerhardt
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

(Scene: a suburb somewhere outside of Phoenix, Arizona. We are
outside a small single level house , with white siding, and green trim
around the windows, completed by a small in the front and a one car
garage on the end. The camera focuses on and moves towards the brown
wooden door, with a christmas wreath on the front. A hand knocks on
the door 3 times. The door slowly opens and in front of the camera
stands Herscher von Donkerhardt, clad in black dress pants matching
shoes and a blue woolen sweater.


HvD: Do you know what time it is?

Off camera voice: 1:45, you said to be here for 2 o clock.

HvD: Exactly! YOU ARE 15 MINUTES TOO EARLY!!

Off camera voice: But i didn't want to be late i---

HvD: When i say meet me at my home at 2 o'clock, I mean 2 o'clock
EXACTLY!! I demand both punctuality and precision of those who work
with me! DO YOU KNOW WHAT I HAVE TO SAY TO YOU NEXT?!? Off camera
voice? Umm, you're fired?

HvD: Im going to look at you straight in the eye and tell you Vrolijk
kerstfeest , Merry Christmas!

(Herscher begins laughing quite loudly. The off camera voice tries to
force an uncomfortable laugh)

HvD: (stops laughing) It is Christmas time, so i will be lenient and
not have you fired, this time anyway. (glares at the camera). Now then
please come into my home.

(Herscher goes inside and the camera follows. We enter the living
room with red carpet light grey walls , a black leather couch and
coffee table, in in the corner a christmas tree, decorated with both
wooden decorations and silver glass balls, topped off with what
appears to be lit wax candles. On the coffee table is a tray filled
with slices of coffee cake and an urn presumably filled with coffee.
There are two cups on the table along with cups of cream and sugar.
Herscher fills the two cups and hands one to the person off camera.
Herscher sits down on the couch with his cup and begins to speak.)

HvD: My first Christmas in America has been quite an adjustment.
Here everyone is at home on the 25th opening presents with their
families. In the Netherlands we would spend this day in church.
Gifts were for children and they were handed out by Sinterklaas or
Saint Nicholas and his servant Black Peter. They would come by
steamship from Spain. We had no Santa Claus, no reindeer and no North
Pole. While there are similarities, Christmas in America is so
different from that in Holland. Christmas in Phoenix is even more
peculiar because there is no snow to speak of here. Christmas hasn't
really meant a lot to me,in quite a while. Sinterklaas doesn't come
to adults and i have no family left to celebrate this time with.

(Herscher takes a sip from his cup and places it on the table)

HvD: This one however is special, not only because it is in a new
country, but because for the first time in a long time, i have been
given a gift. It's not a gift from Santa or Sinterklaas or anyone
else, it is a gift from...myself.

(Herscher leans back and folds his arms. Herscher looks at the camera
with a sly grin.)

HvD: A little over a year ago, I was approached by a group of
Americans to wrestle for a promotion I had not heard of. I had made
a name for myself in the wrestling rings of Europe, and was eager to
prove myself on a different stage, a much bigger stage, a global
stage. They wanted to make inroads into the continent, and they
decided to do that with an all European matchup. So they hired me
and The "Glorious" Jokull Baldursson. He was a large and powerful man,
a man ,certain, to make an impact in PVW. In everyone's eyes ,
Baldursson was the best wrestler in Europe, and it was inevitable that
he would walk away the winner in our encounter. Everyone believed
that. It was expected a man of such size could not be beaten, at least
by me. So in Las Vegas, i took great pleasure in shattering everyone's
expectations by not only beating him but doing it by submission!

(Herscher reaches for his cup and takes another sip before putting
it down)

HvD: I had arrived, or so i thought. I felt a victory over such
formidable opponent would earn me instant respect in the promotion.
My next match was a match that would determine the top contender for
the American Championship. It was a match that saw me dominate my
competition. I had shown that i could conquer the best Europe had to
offer, and now i was showing i belonged in the ring with best of
America. I was one man away from a title shot. In only my second match
i was on the eve of championship glory! PVW and America was going to
take notice. Unfortunately, The Mercenary took notice and robbed me of
my chance. Not only did he interfere in my destiny, but he was
completely disrespectful towards me. I vowed to teach him some
respect.

(Herscher's expression turns more serious)

HvD: I knew teaching that respect wouldn't be easy. As time grew on
The Mercenary grew more disrespectful and I kept hearing that this
Mercenary was a legend, one of the toughest men in this sport. I
wasn't expected to do anything but give Mercenary little more than a
workout. The Mercenary was the clear favorite in everyone's eyes, and
everyone expected him to beat me. Once again i took great satisfaction
in beating Mercenary, in scramble matches, tag matches, and finally in
a one on one match in London.

(Herscher chuckles to himself as he takes another sip from his cup)

HvD: In my time in PVW, i have left a trail of bodies in my wake. I
have stood in the ring either with my shoulder held in victory, or
standing over an opponent who dared show me disrespect. Those who
underestimated me have had their assumptions challenged and those who
slighted me have paid a dear price. Now less than a year after
entering PVW, i finally have a title shot. This promotion has finally
stood up and took notice of me, I have finally been shown the respect
i have tried so hard to earn in that ring. My chance for glory is
here, the chance to show i am man of power. I finally have a chance to
show to all of PVW and the world the power that is in my very blood!

(Herscher slams his fist down on the table, shaking it and causing his
coffee to spill. )

HvD:( trying to regain his composure) Ahem, I will make the most of
this chance as I realize these chances don't come very often. I also
realize that this will not be an easy task as I will have to face
Gibson Hayes for that championship. Mr. Hayes is quite a force to be
reckoned with. He is a man that has held not one but two titles at the
same time. This man is not only the longest serving American Champion,
but has held a title longer than anyone in the history of PVW. This
man has time and time again, defied the odds and held on to his title.
Some believe the title can't be taken from him. Once again everyone is
expecting him to retain his belt in our match, should he still have
the belt during the time of our match. Taking this into account i
will, yet again,take great pleasure in shattering everyone's
expectations, by holding the American Title above my head after doing
what nobody else could do, beat Gibson Hayes. Ik ben Herscher von
Donkerhardt! Eer aan de krachtig! Vernietig de zwakke!

(Herscher picks up his cup and empties it out with a final sip.)

HvD: Well i'm finished with my coffee, how about you?

Off camera voice: Actually I have a little left in my cup and I –

HvD: --That is none of my concern, this interview is over so you
should leave. You should leave right now!

(Herscher stands up and points toward the door. A hand puts the
coffee cup back on the table, the camera fades out. End of scene)

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
      Chris Hopper
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The screen fades in to show the gorilla position. It is the spot
just before the entrance curtain that a wrestler stands in before he
walks out. It is dark and there are lights on outside of it, as we
can see creases of light shining through the curtain. It gives the
spot almost an ominous look. We hear the voice of "Too Cool" Chris
Hopper as the views fills the screen.]

Hopper V/O:  It's called the gorilla position and the name is more
than apt.

It is the place where last-second instructions or notices are given
before we go out to perform. Whether it be a slippery spot on the
canvas or an extremely unruly area of fans to avoid getting too close
to, the information is relayed to us before we step through the
curtain and into the fray.

I call it the gorilla position because it is where the most pressure
is thrust upon you.

[The screen shows Hopper walk out of the shadows to stand in the
gorilla position and turn to face the camera. Chris is wearing a
black Armani suit with a light-green shirt and an emerald-green tie.
His shoes click with every step, made even more pronounced by the
empty and quiet arena setting.]

Hopper:  For me there is always extra instructions. I'm not sure why,
to be honest. Maybe it is because I have been called one of the most
polarizing men in the history of wrestling. People never seem to be
lukewarm toward me; they either love me or hate me. Not that I care
because either one means dollar bills in my pocket and asses in the
seats.

Needless to say when I heard that some people had started banging the
drums about my comments, I wasn't surprised. When GLAAD started
chiming in with their incessant bitching, it wasn't news to me.
Conflict seems to follow me even when I'm not attempting for it. To
me, it was business as usual. I was going to walk out through this
curtain and to the ring to beat down Larry Gionet and end his little
bitch fit once and for all.

[Hopper points to the "gorilla position" that he stands next to at the
moment.]

Hopper:  Until I got right here...

This spot changed everything for that night. I was told to get
whatever licks I wanted to inflict on Larry, but that after awhile I
had lay down.

[Chris gets a confused look for a second to drive home the way it hit
him that night. Then he goes back to his normal countenance and
continues.]

Hopper:  That's right, I said they told me to lay down.

It turns out that the irony of calling a tough guy "Nancy" or any
reference to disco songs just doesn't fly with certain people. For
whatever reason they began a campaign to cry and whine about the fact
I "crossed a line" when it came to the kinds of things you could say
to put down an opponent. So Larry got his little victory and the
special interest group got their wish for me to lose.

Everybody should be happy now, right?

[Hopper pauses and just slowly shakes his head negatively to the
question.]

Hopper:  Well I'm *NOT* happy.

To be perfectly honest, I think being forced to lose a match because
some pillow biters got pissed off about something I said is pretty
damn pathetic.

[Chris pauses and glares at the camera crew.]

Hopper:  You have a problem with something I'm saying, skippy?

[silence...]

Hopper:  I didn't think so.

To me, this was just one more instance of the prevailing "wisdom" of
the current wrestling world. That is the feeling that you have to
dumb it down for kids and you have to lighten up because we don't
want to incur the wrath of anybody. That is fine, if you really want
to go that route and bastardize what you first believed was quality
wrestling, go for it.

But I've had it up to my eyeballs with this bullshit and it is about
time someone decided it was time to do what was right.

[The screen flips to show the empty arena and the entrance ramp as
Hopper walks through into the well-lit arena.]

Hopper:  That is why from the moment I walk through that curtain on
Heatwave, I'm at war.

I'm not at war with Gionet, I couldn't care less about that piece of
shit. I'm not at war with any individual at all. I'm not at war with
PVW in general, nor is it simply a desire to destroy any UEW or WWO
performer from my past. It is more vital than that. I'm at war with
something that is deeper than those trivial persons or organizations.
I'm at war with something that has a deeper root in wrestling than
ever before. My war is a much more righteous war...

It's a war of ideology.

[Hopper walks down the entrance aisle as he talks, not menacingly,
but almost like he is debating a topic.]

Hopper:  For years, I have watched those who are less talented get
ahead because they made back-room deals with the brokers of power in
management. I have watched guys who couldn't wrestle a three-star
match to save their lives wear titles that belonged to better, and
frankly, more talented people. The books are full of lists of
one-trick ponies who have held titles.

Larry Gionet was a 2-time SPW World Champ, but he is arguably the
biggest piece of cardboard wrestling has ever seen and most recently
benefited from a bunch of whiney bitches to get a cheap lay down from
me. J'ster and The Mercenary both wore the UEW Ultimate Title, yet
neither would be considered a true contender if you actually looked
at their skill and character on paper. Jason Keening is a talented
worker that has limited personality, but unlimited family and friend
connections. The list goes on and on and every one of these men on
the list have something in common...

Front office connections and political maneuvering.

[Chris climbs into the ring and stands to face the camera as he
speaks.]

Hopper:  There was a moment in time when standing inside this squared
circle meant athletic achievement. Those who could truly excel both
physically and with personality were allowed to rise above. In
today's wrestling world, that has been replaced by "saving face" in
finishes and always making the other guy look good...even when he's
*NOT* deserving of looking good. There are guys here who have public
personas of being generous and fan-friendly, but they go back to the
hotels and bang ring rats two at a time right before calling home to
check in with the wife and kids. They want you to think they are good
guys. They want your love and cheers.

We have other guys who act smarmy and want you to both love their
work, but hate their persona. Those bad guys we love to hate. They
are so evil that we get a chuckle out of their antics and actually
like seeing them succeed. But it is an act and many of them are not
what they act like in front of the cameras.

That is...except me.

[Hopper places his hands on his suit jacket lapels and yanks proudly
on his jacket to make it more fitting.]

Hopper:  I'm honest with you. I'll never lie to you about things of
utter importance. When I say something, it is because there is truth
behind it. When I claim I'm going to do something, you better damn
well know I'm going to do it. There is never any confusion about my
views, where I stand or what you can know to be true when it comes to
the "King of Cool."

Let me break it down one more time...

I don't care if you like me or not. I don't care if you hope I
succeed. I'm just as happy wrestling and taking people out in arenas
like this as I am a fully-packed venue. It doesn't matter to me
because I get paid no matter what. You walk up to me for an autograph
and I'll tell you to hit the road. I walk out of the arena every
night I perform and I have my five-star, perfect-ten woman waiting
for me at my hotel. I make no bones about the life I lead. I'm up
front about it.

And that is why everyone hates me...

[Hopper cracks a grin.]

Hopper:  ...and I dig that.

I relish it.

I love it.

It is because of my utter honesty that I have been railed against
backstage, prevented from success by many of those in my past and
feared of what I would do if given the top title. I'm sick of that
ideology that punishes the superior workers. I get challenged all the
time and when I answer back and accept...all I hear are crickets!

[Chris raises and eyebrow.]

Hopper:  Right Martinez?

You made a challenge in your comments elsewhere at a UEW reunion
show. You challenged me to a match to shut me up once and for all. I
accepted....and silence.

I came here to PVW, where you are the darling of the Strickland suits
and again threw down an acceptance to your little challenge....

Can you hear the chirping?

Truth is, you are as big a bitch as the sodomites that played
politics to help Gionet. You talk a big game, but if it really came
down to it, you run and hide. You cower behind the management that
has protected you in every place you have ever been. Chris Blue
practically adopted your ass in EMWC and protected you in every way
to make you his top star. UEW Presidents always had to pucker up to
your nutsack in order to keep you happy. So I guess it is no shock
that when a real man walks in and accepts your token "I'm a bad-ass,
come get some" challenge, you shrink.

Don't worry you aren't the only one. PVW is full of cowards and less
talented individuals.

[Hopper walks to a corner and leans into it a bit, placing his arms
out and grasping the top ropes on each side as he keeps speaking.]

Hopper:  That is why it is time to go to war against all that we have
known. For me, my war begins with Blood Bowl. It begins with a little
match against three other men with history. On Heatwave, Chase
Williams, The Mercenary and Tom Landis will find out what it is like
to be on the receiving end of my wrath. Each one will get a taste of
losing to a real wrestling legend.

Williams, I respect your fast start in the business and the fact you
have held the PVW World Title once already. However, young man,
remember that you won the title when the talent level was much lower
than what it is now. You may have helped usher in a new era of PVW,
but now you will find that doesn't mean much when big dogs like
myself get involved. You will someday get your shot to rule again,
but that shot won't be gained through me.

[Hopper cracks another grin.]

Hopper:  That brings me to Tom Landis. I know enough about you to
know that you aren't a viable threat. You are one of these guys fans
know eventually get pasted to the canvas no matter how hard he tries.
You have a history of it and Heatwave will bring yet another piece to
that lineage. I will make you a promise that in order for you to feel
most at home in this confrontation, I will personally see to it that
you eat "The U.E.W." and take the pinfall loss in this match.

I know, it's like Babe Ruth calling his shot, but I can't help myself.

[Hopper laughs a bit before continuing.]

Hopper:  Merc. We have a lot of history. We've been friends and
enemies. You may be the ONLY man I truly respect in this entire
league because you do things for payment and for no other reason. It
isn't personal for you. It isn't an ideological battle for you. You
get paid to do something and you do it.

I can respect that....it's honorable.

That being said, I remember the times you backstabbed me for money.
You walked away from "The Coalition" in UEW in order to try and
succeed on your own and left me without a stable. I always felt we
had a core amount of things in common, but it turns out you aren't as
scrupled as I am. For that, I'm going to make you wish you had stayed
in your little bunker. You aren't able to stop my advancing war on
the ideology because you aren't good enough. You can brawl, but in
the end I'll be standing victorious.

[Hopper nods for a second before continuing.]

Hopper:  Blood Bowl is upon us and I'm going to win it. I'm going to
take my first step toward winning a war against the entire world that
seems to have set itself against me and what I am about.

I've wrestled all over the world. I've performed with the best this
business had to offer and walked away with my arm raised in triumph.
One by one, PVW will see what is happening and that the ice age is
dawning. Consider yourself warned, PVW. You can throw anyone at me
you want and it won't change the ending. You can toss Marley,
Martinez, Keening, Merc, Holliday, or any old UEW guys at me and
nothing changes. You can have me battle Craven, Cole, Spectre, Hayes,
Foley, Landis, Geddings or Williams and it will only be a speed bump
to the ultimate end...

I will win Blood Bowl...

I will eradicate those who oppose my goals...

and I *will* be PVW World Heavyweight Champion.

[Chris pulls sunglasses out of his suit jacket and puts them on.]

Hopper:  This is only the beginning...

...and nobody will stop me.

[Hopper turns to exit the ring as the screen fades to black.]


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

[The scene opens to Will Geddings, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. The
shirt is noticeably puffed out around the chest, indicative of a heavy
wrap that is underneath his clothing. He does not appear to be
laboring to breathe as much as in the past, however.]

[Geds]: You guys got here just in time. I was heading to the pharmacy.
Old age plus busted lungs equals some expensive cocktail of drugs.
I've yet to bother with learning the names.

[Geds]: But you didn't come here for a discussion of my medical
habits, right? You're here for Xavier Feyr. For "Bloodlust". Fair
enough.

[Geddings looks around and finds a chair, taking a seat. The cameraman
appears to do the same, lowering the camera to face level with the
injured wrestler.]

[Geds]: I really don't have much to say to the widowmaker. He's
nothing but scum to me, a leech sucking on the blood of a group who
has yet to show they can accomplish thing one in the PVW. And yet
we're supposed to cower in their wake? Hand them some modicum of
respect? I've yet to hear one reason why.

[Geds]: And Feyr? Feyr's the runt. The busy-body. The one that they
hope will just be so...honored...to be a part of their little tandem
that he will go along and allow the other members to get the big
shots. Feyr's nothing more than Rick Marley's stepladder.

[Geds]: "Bloodlust"...oooooooh, creepy. I get it. He's hurting for
blood. At the thought of blood, his jock gets a bit tighter and he
blushes like a schoolgirl. Like I give a *censored*. What do you know
of blood, Feyr? Huh? You're a nobody. You're a nobody today, you'll be
one tomorrow. And it's not indicative of your talent, Feyr. No, not
indicative at all.

[Geddings takes a moment to slow himself down, noticing that he was
hitting an excited pace.]

[Geds]: You could be the next great thing, Xavier. Or you could be
another schmuck swallowed in the wake of some pissant organization. I
couldn't care less which way you go. The only thing I care about is
pinning you at Heatwave and getting on with what's left of my career.

[Geds]: If it's blood you want, Feyr, then I'm your huckleberry.
There's never been any doubt that I am willing to bleed out in that
ring. I've been close more than once. That's what makes me dangerous.
I'm hurt, I'm busted, and I'm close to done. The fact that this may be
my final match makes me a very powerful force. One willing to lay it
all on the line for a simple win. I don't think you have that same
passion, Feyr. I don't think you have that same drive.

[Geds]: And as long as you're the lint on Rick Marley's shaft, child,
you never will. Long Live the King.

[Scene fades]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
      Danny Daniels
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The camera pans in to see Danny "YOUR HERO" Daniels seated at a desk.
He's wearing his yellow t-shirt with YOUR HERO written in block
letters (now available on the PVW website!), the SUPREME wrestling
title is slung over his shoulders, and his wraparound shades are
lifted up on his forehead.  Instead, wire-rimmed reading glasses are
on his face, as Danny reads over some papers.  After a moment, he
looks up at the camera.]

D"YH"D:  GREETINGS...  And SALUTATIONS!  I'm Danny "YOUR HERO"
Daniels- a man so nice they named me twice- and as your SUPREME
champion- as well as YOUR HERO!- I have to spend a lot of time going
over the small details.

[Danny picks up the papers and shakes them at the camera]

D"YH"D:  For instance- in a short while I have a very important match
with Evil Sinestro!  When I win, I'll have 30 days to cure him of his
aura of evilness!   However, should his evil aura be too powerful for
even... ME! "YOUR HERO" Danny Daniels- a man so nice they named me
twice- then I lose the most super prestigious title in sports today,
the SUPREME World Title. For a match of this magnitude, the contract
must be reviewed carefully. For example...

[Danny 'ahems', then reads from one of the pages.]

D"YH"D:  'Evil Sinestro must bathe for at least twenty minutes within
two hours of his match, in hot water, to remove the STENCH of his
evilness.'

[Danny nods at the camera, then flips to another page to read some
more.]

D"YH"D:  'At no time is Evil Sinestro allowed to kick, maim, or hurt
puppy dogs one week before the match, as this is a known source of his
EVILNESS~!'

[Another nod]

D"YH"D:  Mind you, there are also stipulations that also affect me.
For instances...

'Danny "Your Hero" Daniels is not allowed to use the Wrath of God
during his match, no matter how much Evil Sinestro deserves it.'

[Danny nods sagely]

D"YH"D:  After looking over this contract, I highly approve.  however,
before signing, I'm asking my attorneys- Horshack and the Gooch- to
review it also.  With their keen insight into legalities, I know I'll
be covered completely.  In fact, we'll be celebrating by taking over
Evil Sinestro and his cronies later this week!

[Danny stands up, puts the papers in a manilla folder, and puts the
wraparound shades over the reading glasses.  He gives a finger wave to
the camera.]

D"YH"D:  TOODLES~!

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

[The scene: (if it could be called that) a closeup of a simple, time-
worn manila envelope on a desktop.  A pair of feminine hands reach in
from off screen and open the envelop, pulling out a file and a
Dictaphone.  Along the tab on the file we see the name "Fernandez,
Javier" as the file is opened to reveal a number of charts showing
brain scans among other things that the hand quickly flips through...
then articles bearing various headlines like "White Supremacist
Cleared in Rape Trial", "University Student Protest Turns Violent",
"Professor Arrested in Connection With Slayings", and "University
Professor Found Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity".]

[The file is set down on the table as one of the hands picks up the
Dictaphone and clicks it on... the voice on the recording speaks in a
calm, detached tone of voice.]

Voice:  My name is Dr. Javier Fernandez, and I have done terrible
things...

When we humans witness events such as I have wrought, they seek
reasons why; explanations that they pray will help them understand the
pain that has been caused, and to help them cope with those events.
We look back on the places that we have been and the things that we
have done, to see how our choices, that paths we have chosen to lead,
brought us to the place we now stand, in hopes of gaining some peace
with the state of things, or even what we are.  And so my would be
saviors have pressured me to keep this diary of sorts as part of
my treatment.

[The voice takes in a heavy sigh, as he begins to recount his tale.]

Voice:  I suppose that it would be best to start at the beginning, to
my earliest memories.  It is often the debate in the community of
psychologists as to whether one is influenced most by his upbringing
or some genetic factor. Nature vs. nurture.  Which is it that
determines the good or evil in all of us? For myself, I can only say
that I never thought as a child I was anything but normal.  It was the
rest of the world that seemed strange to me.  It is human nature,
after all, to think of what is familiar as the norm, and nothing could
be more familiar to us than ourselves.

My mother had died in child birth, her last act in this life was to
grant me my own.  Years later I was told how she bravely clung to life
so that her son could join this world.  I wonder, had she known what I
had become, would she have still wished so strongly for me to live?

An orphan from birth, I was raised by my mother's sister and her
husband, and later, their daughter, my cousin, my sister, Mariella.
To those who look to physical abuse to motivate my crimes, I'm afraid
that I must disappoint you, for my aunt and uncle were quite loving
foster parents, at least in my younger years, before the weight of the
world took its toll on my aunt, and I began to shake the bars of my
cage.

[A slight chuckle is heard over the Dictaphone.]

Ah, but I am getting ahead of myself.  As I said, in those days, I was
very much loved by them.  And though some others found my... unique...
features to be unsettling, my family felt no ill will towards the
bastard child they had taken in.  Though I would often come home from
school in tears from the names I was called, and the cuts and bruises
from the fights, my aunt was always there to comfort and console me.
We had little, a poor family in the "bario", but we had each other for
support through those difficult times.  My sister looked up to me,
never knowing me as anything but her brother, and I would have died to
protect her.  She would watch me studying or practicing boxing moves
or other exercises, and mimic my every move, like a faithful protege
hoping to one day be like her mentor.  My family, back then, was my
entire world... at least until that fateful day when my aunt's
greatest joy was taken from her...

[The voice turns more grim as his recount continues...]

I was in high school when it happened.  I remember that day I came
home to find police and crowds outside our apartment building.   It
was hardly an unusual sight in our neighborhood.  Drug busts, gang
wars, we pushed it to the back of our minds and kept as far from it as
we could, trying to create a haven from the violence.  Yet, as it
turns out, one can never truly escape such things, no matter how one
tries.

My uncle, had been shot... killed in the crossfire of a drug war.
I remember comforting my little sister at the funeral, clinging to me
as if afraid I too would leave... in retrospect, she may have been
right to fear that, though I did not know it at the time.

[The voice now, for the first time carries a sense of regret...]

After that, my aunt seemed to close off from the world, keeping us
both close, for fear we would be gunned down in the street.  With
nowhere else to go, I focused almost completely on my studies, in some
way working to pull us out of the life the we had been dealt by fate's
hand.

[Now pridefully...[

I had always been considered an unusually bright student, quickly
advancing beyond my classmates in school, and being moved up grades on
a few occasions. My uncle, had always encouraged this, seeing a bright
future for me...

[and then sour...]

...but my aunt changed after he died.  In fear, perhaps of losing all
she had left, she clung to us all the more tightly, refusing to let
go.  When the letters began coming in from the universities, offering
me chances that she and her husband had never had, I had expected her
to be overjoyed. Instead, she threw the letters away.  "This was our
place" she said.  When I protested, she accused me of thinking myself
better than them, and would hear nothing more of it.

As time passed, I began to realize that at some point, a cage had
closed around us, trapping us inside.  They say that those serving
time in prison too long become "comfortable in the cage".  Perhaps,
the death of my uncle, was the breaking point that turned my aunt to
that way of thinking.  She could see nothing else beyond the world
immediately around her, and would not allow myself or my little
sister, her daughter, to ever reach beyond that. To think otherwise
was to think myself better than those that had raised me in her mind
now.  As time passed, I grew to hate her for this... for I realized,
she was right... I WAS better than her.

[Bitterness now fills each word.]

I still remember her screaming at me as I packed my things, all of
what few belongings I had in this world.  If the choice was to stay
with her and never strive for anything better, or risk the winds of
fate in the world outside, then I had made my choice.  I would not be
doomed to their fate... to the fate of my uncle... to die in
obscurity, a mere statistic in some government bureau. The world would
know my name...

[The voice breaks slightly, as a hint of sadness comes through.]

As I stormed out the door, my aunt screaming for me to never come
back, I heard Mariella call out to me one last time... I stopped as
she clung to me, and returned her embrace one last time, before prying
loose her little hands and walking out the door one last time.  I
think, to this day, she has never forgiven me for leaving.

[The voice chuckles slightly one last time.]

And so I abandoned the only family I had ever had, to seek my own
fortune in this world.  They say that vanity is the root of all sin,
that it is the love of one's self that leads to all other evil deeds.
If so, then I suppose this was my first step on the dark road that has
been my life thus far.

*click*

[The tape clicks off, having reached the end, and an electronic voice
from the Dictaphone chimes in.]

Dictaphone:  End of recording. *BEEP*

[The hand holds the Dictaphone for a moment, before placing it back
down, as the scene fades to black.]

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


[The camera fades up to a backstage view from Heatwave, standing by is
"Swingin'" Dean Hayes.]

DH: Ladies and Gentlemen Heatwave is off the air, but I'm here
awaiting Marcus Manson's return to the locker room to see if we can
get some thoughts from The Misery Machine after tonight's World
Heavyweight Championship Match.

[As if on cue, Manson rounds the corner down the hall, and begins
stalking towards his locker room. Dean and the cameraman, either
stupid or extremely courageous, move
to meet him.]

DH: Marcus! Can you give us your thoughts after what happenedjust
minutes ago? Is your relationship with WMI as strained as it seems to
be?

[Manson stops and glares down at Dean and the camera man. Dean holds
the mic up for Manson, and Marcus calmly wraps hishand around the
microphone, taking it from Dean, and chucks it down the hallway behind
him.]

DH: Uhhh...

[Without a sound Manson reaches out and palms the camera lens, lifting
it off the cameraman's shoulder, and looking down into it. After a
moment, the overhead lights streak by as the camera hits the far wall
with a loud crunch, and we cut to snow.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
          Mike Cox
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The scene opens in the darkest corners of the arena. A shadow sits on
the hard concrete. Leather jacket covered arms resting on knees. The
camera turns so we now look down on Mike Cox from the front. His face
is covered with a black hoodie except for the his goatee covered chin.
Black jean shorts and black leather DOC's finish off his look. Mike
stares at the floor. His taped fists clenching and releasing as he
begins to speak.]

Cox: It seems that maybe we were destined to be rivals instead of
friends Scotty. It seems that no matter how hard we try, the road
always weaves to confrontation. I told you... [shakes head] no, i
promised you i would try my best to show you that way to your untapped
talent Scotty. All i wanted to do was ride along for the ride Scotty.
I told you and every one else that i was wrong about you. I thought
you were some snot nosed punk with no skill. Another college boy
alumni looking to make a buck. But you showed me otherwise Scotty. You
showed me your passion for this business and the sacrifices you were
willing to make to become a star.

[Mike looks up. His eyes bloodshot. A sad frown twitching on his
lips.]

Cox: You also helped me Scotty. I was heading down a dangerous, lonely
path. You accepted me as your friend. You allowed me the chance to
stand in your light. To watch as you rose to stardom. We even teamed
Scotty. And i believed right here [smacks his left breast] that we
would become the PVW tag team champions. I believed Scotty, that we
would be one of the best tag teams of all time.

[Mike slowly rises. He pulls the hoodie back from his face revealing
his new piercing that consist of a small stud just under his bottom
lip and an eyebrow ring in his right brow. Not only that, his chin
goatee his now long enough to be put in a tail. He shoves his hands
deep in his leather motorcycle jacket and sighs deeply.]

Cox: But once again fate didn't like that plan did they Scotty? It
seems every time Mikey feels like apart of a family, something from
above [looks up then looks at the floor as he shrugs] or below, always
seems to want to take it away.

I don't want to fight you Scotty. In a federation with many
superstars, you are the only friend I've got. With so many different
personalities, it seems you are the only person who knows what is
ticking up here [taps head].

But people seem to think our problems cannot be solved by simple
talking. They seem to think it's better that once again you and me
climb in the ring and dance one more time. Somebody in the PVW seems
to think that maybe Mike Cox shouldn't have any damn friends!

[Mike Cox looks at the floor once again. His black stringy hair
hanging over his face.]

Cox: I still want to team with you Scotty. I still believe that we are
destined to become one of the best tag teams ever. Every team has
their problems Scotty. Every team can't agree on everything all of the
time. I feel this to be just a small bump on the road to those tag
titles Scotty. Yes, i will walk down to that ring and once again
battle you. But prepared that wether i win or i lose, when that bell
rings and one of us is determined the winner, i will still shake your
hand and raise it high for the World to see.

Because wether you like me or not Scotty. I _still_ believe you were
destined to become a legend in this business. Wether you want to team
with me after this or not, i want you to know that no matter what
happens i will always have your back.

But more then that Scotty... i want you to know that you are the best
friend I've ever had.

[FTB]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
        Dr. Mal Practice
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[SCENE: The Dan Gable Wrestling Complex, in the University Of Iowa's
Carver-Hawkeye Arena.

This is the place where the nation's premier college wrestling program
trains.  Home of 22 national championships, the Iowa Hawkeyes
wrestling team is pretty much synonymous with excellence.  And today,
one of the men who was on several of those championship teams has come
back, some twenty-seven years after his last match for the Hawkeyes.
When you are a former letterman on the Iowa wrestling team, and a
program booster to boot, you can probably use their facilities to work
out... as Malus Herbert is doing today.

Well, he's probably not going to call himself Dr. Mal Practice MD
here.  That's not the name that's printed in their media guide.

Mal is going through counters with one of the trainers.  I really
don't know where they found a black-and-gold singlet his size, but
he's wearing one. He's all kinds of exhausted; his face is purple and
his massive barrel-chest (and sack-full-of-grain belly) is heaving
rather notably.  The trainer is a middle-aged bald man, with large
ears and grey eyes, wearing black workout pants and a "REAL WRESTLING"
T-Shirt in Iowa's color scheme.]


Trainer: Mal, you really need conditioning work more than you need
this.


Dr. Mal: Nonsense... *gasp*... I'm in... *pant*... peak
con*wheeze*dition.


Trainer: Uh-huh.  Didn't you compete at two hundred sixty pounds all
those years ago?


Dr. Mal: WASN'T _THAT_ *gasp* LONG AGO! *huff*


Trainer: 1983.  You graduated in 1983.


Dr. Mal: And *huff**puff* I'm not far from *cough**gasp* my old
wrestling *breathe* weight!


Trainer: Eighty pounds.  Most of it around the waist.


Dr. Mal: I need *pant* extra weight *huff* in the pros!


Trainer: That much extra weight?  Then put it up where it'd do you
some good.  You know, I still have no idea why you do this.


[The conversation is giving Mal a breather.  He's not quite as blown
up as he was a moment ago.]


Dr. Mal: Because... *breathe*... I have two matches on one show.
*huff*  And I don't *puff* wrestle a full schedule as it is *breathe*
because of my practice *pant*...


Trainer: And your age.


Dr. Mal: Well what do you want, Michael?  I know you guys are not real
keen on pro wrestling; I wasn't either until I tried it *breathe*
*breathe*  I refuse to stop doing what I like to do because some
arbitrary number tells me so!


Michael (the trainer's name): It's not about the money, is it?


Dr. Mal: I happen to like money.


Michael: You don't get enough as a doctor?


Dr. Mal: Do you have any idea what Medicare pays?  What Medicaid pays?
Some days, I don't even recoup cost.  Michael, this week I have a
chance to win a title.  That's a payday my retirement fund desperately
needs right now.  And the guy I have to go through to get it is a
hooker.


[Uh, oh.  That's jargon; Michael takes it the wrong way.]


Michael: They have a male prostitute as a wrestler?!


Dr. Mal: No.  Well, not yet.  Wait for it... I bet they'd run with
that idea up in Canada.  No, a "hooker" is a guy who is specially
trained to injure people.  He broke a guy's arm last week... not a
pretty break, either.  It was a glenoid fracture, right in the socket
area of the scapula.  That guy is gonna have serious shoulder
arthritis in his old age.


Michael: Ahhh, that's it.  That's why we've been working the counters.
If you're afraid he's going to injure you, why...


Dr. Mal: Not _afraid_.  I can handle Perry Fontana; he's good, but
I've beaten better men than him.


Michael: How long ago was the last time.  By yourself, I mean.
Without your Chinese friend.


Dr. Mal: ...that's not important.  What is important is the here and
now.  Here, I have a chance to be a champion again.  And now, I'm
going to sharpen my matwork to make it happen.


Michael: Didn't you say you had two matches?  What's the other one?


Dr. Mal: Oh, just the battle royal-like thing I have to win to get the
title match. That sort of thing I have a handle on.  Those eighty
extra pounds you mock are what we call an edge.


Michael: Sure, sure, then you're exhausted and the other guy breaks
your arm.  Mal, I'm not trying to put you down.  I'm not trying to be
Chicken Little here.  But you can't really be so hard up for money
that you'd kill yourself night after night with these young guys.
These strong guys.  You're 46.  Don't give me that crap that it's
about money.  I've heard stories about you and your ability to make a
buck.  They say you financed your senior year by selling backdoor Iowa
merch... you used to go take used football jerseys, you used to slap
the logo on dollar T- Shirts and sell 'em for ten.  I just have a
feeling that you make money one way or another.


Dr. Mal: Say... you haven't bought my latest book yet, have you?


Michael: Let's say I did and move on.  I want to know, right now, why
a forty-six year old man with a spare tire and a medical practice is
pro wrestling.  I want to know, because Coach Gable made every one of
his guys swear that they'd never go pro.  He made you swear it, too.


Dr. Mal: With all due respect, Coach Gable taught me a lot, but he
never paid my bills.  Never had med school loans to pay.  Never had
his license suspended by the AMA.  I went pro because I had to.  I
wrestled while I was in medical school because medical school costs an
arm and a leg; limbs I plan to keep.  I went back because I had to.


Michael: Bull$#!t.


Dr. Mal: Excuse me?


Michael: You heard me.  You could have bagged groceries like everyone
else.  You had a premed from Iowa and a doctorate from, what,
North*bleep*ingwestern? Bull$#!t, you couldn't have gotten a job.  You
hit guys over the head with BRICKS, Mal.  You smashed a kid in the
knee with a BALL PEIN HAMMER.  For money? Really?


Dr. Mal: What are you getting at?


Michael: Let me sum it up for you in one word.  INSANE.


[Did he just say what I think he said?]


Dr. Mal: I'M NOT CRAZY!


[Crap.  He did.  Mal turns violet and starts throttling his friend, to
the horror of everyone around.]


Dr. Mal: I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN YOU WERE IN LEAGUE WITH THE JEALOUS
WEASELS IN WASHINGTON!  THEY SENT YOU TO DESTROY MY CONFIDENCE AND
DENY ME MY NETWORK TITLE! THEY KNOW I WOULD USE THE NETWORK EXPOSURE
TO EXPOSE THEIR ATTEMPTS TO DESTROY HEALTH CARE AND REPLACE IT WITH
BIG BROTHER-PRESCRIBED PSYCHOTROPICS TO MAKE THE POPULACE PLIANT, AND
SURGICALLY-IMPLANTED TRACKERS AND RECORDING DEVICES!  BUT I... I...
oops.


[Mal sets Michael down, with a horribly sheepish look on his face.]


Dr. Mal: You, ah, really should know better...


Michael: ...dammit, Herbert, you LIKE your stupid character, don't
you?


[Did he just use the 'c' word?  Can he do that?!]


Dr. Mal: Character?!


Michael: You heard me!


Dr. Mal: Are you insinuating...


Michael: I'm insinuating that you're schizophrenic!  You go out and
hit people with bricks and hammers because it lets you escape your
life and your responsibilities. That's what I'm insinuating.  You
can't handle normal life.  That's why you joined the circus.  You
don't need it to make money; you do it because you like it.  I'm
insinuating that Malus Herbert and 'Dr. Mal Practice'... who the hell
talked you into that, anyway?


Dr. Mal: Some promoter or other, I don't even remember.


Michael: You're two different people, MalUS.  Not a guy and his
wrestling name.  Two different people in the same body, and you LIKE
it that way.  You've left accountability and responsibility at the
door, because you found a place where you can do whatever you want, be
whatever you want, rip people off, hit them with bricks, be a jerk to
everyone, and there's no consequences.  Like a ten-year-old's dream
world.  You're 46 going on 10; the biggest case of denial I've ever
seen or heard of.  You made up this wacky fantasy and then you BECAME
it. That's what I think.

Sorry if the truth hurt.


[Mal stops and glares at the trainer.  His longtime friend.  And
somewhere in there, some vestige of understanding bubbles up to the
surface.]


Dr. Mal: You know, I came here to work on technique.  Not for a
psychiatric evaluation.  I don't like to be told that I'm cr.... in...
that I have any sort of psychological disambiguity.  But if we're
going to go with the bitter ugly truth, then the bitter ugly truth
you'll get.


[With that, Mal reaches out one meaty hand, snatches Michael's T-
Shirt, and tears it clean off.  The trainer is outraged, but Practice
doesn't seem to give that any heed at all.]


Dr. Mal: You talk about 'real' wrestling, how the amateur freestyle
collegiate wrestling is the true sport, and we're a circus.  But for
the past eighty years, people just like you with your holier-than-thou
attitude have been spitting in the faces of guys trying to make a
living.  And you made MY sport a laughing-stock; the red-headed
stepchild of sports!  And how did that turn out for you, Michael?  MY
sport pulls in millions, while college after college has dropped
wrestling from the docket like it was going out of style.  Because it
DID.  MY sport has major pay-per-views with millions of buys; your
sport hasn't had a million viewers total combined in the last decade,
live, TV, you name it.  All of it put together.  MY sport is alive,
YOUR sport is dead.

Oh, sorry, did the truth hurt?

All those guys who came through those doors, do you know how many of
them walked out of here and DID anything with what they learned?  What
happens to this wrestling? They go out, and if they do everything
perfectly, they wrestle for a long enough to get to the Olympics, lose
to some terrorist from Iran, and then they basically start their lives
over at 30 with no money and no education.  Because athletes don't
come to college to major in finance or engineering, they come to major
in throwing footballs, dunking basketballs, or performing takedowns.
You know who bucked that trend?  ME.  I came, I learned, and to this
day I am representing what I learned here.  You don't like the bricks
and the hammers?  Then you weren't taught here what I was taught here.
Aggression, control, WINNING.  One leads to the other leads to the
other.  I'm a winner.  My name is in the media guide, and people
recognize it. Your name is in the media guide, and people glaze over
it like it was a ketchup stain.

Oh, sorry, did the truth hurt?

This week I have a chance to be a Network Champion.  Do you know what
that is?  It's a whole Network throwing their support behind you as a
face of the company.  That's money, fame, exposure, and all the things
noone else that walked through those doors will ever see.  That's me,
going out there, and showing that this school produces winners.  So
all these things you spit on?  These things make me the best
representative Iowa ever had.  Bigger than Gable.  Oh, he was the best
wrestler ever, of that I have no doubt.  Except for Strangler Lewis,
and Lou Thesz, and Karl Gotch, and the wrestlers who proved themselves
on this mat AND my ring.

Right now, there's a loopy French-Canadian who thinks he's immortal
running around serving as a representative for... what?  Random French
words and poutine.  I'm sure that somewhere up in the black hole
called Quebec, Warren Hayes is proud.  The rest of us need a Network
Champion that stands for something.  Do you know what I stand for,
Michael?  I stand for the betterment of mankind!  I stand for everyone
who looks at the soulless Illuminati ruling our lives, and flips it
the bird.  I stand for everyone who is sick and tired of the same old
sterilized-for- consumption crap being flung at us by people who want
everyone to walk the same, talk the same, look the same, and obey them
without question.  I stand for America; not the way it is, but the way
it SHOULD be!  That's why guys like me, Ohno, Gibson Hayes, and the
Spectre are cheated and robbed at every turn!  We don't ACCEPT
society; we CHANGE it.  This society is the land of the
traditionalists.  The land of the unimaginative.  The land of the
conformists.

It's your land, Michael.  You spit on me for refusing to conform?

That's exactly what they spit on George Washington and company for
two-hundred-fourty years ago.

Oh, sorry, did the truth hurt?


[Mal storms off the mat, scooping up a gym bag on the way out.]


Dr. Mal: I should have listened to Ohno.  Should never have left the
Institute without him.  HE understands.  HE gets it.  Todd gets it.
Violet gets it.  Even that semi-sapient twit Meili gets it!
Michael... I really am sorry that the truth hurts.  You were a good
friend; but you just don't understand the world I live in.
And that's why you will never understand me.

The doctor is out.


[Resentment now mixed with a twinge of regret, Malus Herbert exits the
building, walking away from both a friend and a friendship.  Michael
stares contemplatively after him, and we fade to black.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
      Weinrib and Mubarak #4
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Fade back in to see Max and Sal leaving the hotel, dressed in their
street clothes- Sal in his sunglasses, a red buttoned up shirt and tan
slacks, Max in jeans and a denim jacket- each carrying their duffel
bag and heading to Sal's car.]

Sal:  It's easy... we stick together, back each other up, stay on our
feet, and wait until we're the last two to go after each other.  Then
may the better man win.

[As Max puts his bag into the trunk Sal looks at the camera and points
to himself.]

Max:  It's all good.  No hard feelings going into this.  We've already
agreed that one of us will be down there to provide morale support
while the other is kicking Fontana's ass.

[As Sal puts his bag into the trunk, Max mouths to the camera
"...which will be me, kicking his ass..."]

Sal:  [Closing the trunk]  Here- you take first shift driving.
Memphis is a ways away, and I hit most of the driving last time.
It'll be good to be in an "every man for himself match"...

[As Max goes to unlock the car, Sal pantomimes strangling Max from
behind.  When Max unlocks the car, Sal is back to his normal
position.]

Sal:  ... it keeps us on our toes.

[Sal walks towards the other side of the car.  Max mimics firing a gun
at him.  When Sal reaches the door, Max is scratching the back of his
bald head. The two of them look at each other and slowly smile.
Again, there's a few moments of silence as both men contemplate
probable violence against the other.  Then...]

Max:  ...if I'm driving, I get to pick the station too!

Sal:  Like hell you do!

Max:  Driver picks the station, rider shuts his hole!  I'm not
listening to another four hours worth of Car Talk again!

[As both men climb into the car, still arguing, fade out.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
     Livestock and The Gutch
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Fade in from black.  Hard soled shoes click on concrete just outside
the door of an open locker room door.  Poking in, a masked head
surveys the room; stepping in, arm in a sling, it's the Masked Maniac!
Scratching his masked head with his un-injured arm, Maniac is clearly
looking for something or someone.]

MM: Guys?

[A voice replies, deep and sanguine, muffled by something.]

Gutch: Who you looking for, mac?

MM: Uh … you?

Gutch: What?  No way!

MM: Way?

[Shuffling is heard, and the bloated, tall and hair-mottled body of
Gutch Bartilucci lumbers out from a sauna off-camera.]

Gutch: Eh, Maniac, pal, Christ, finally.  What the hell you been doin'
all this time?  Tonight was when we was splattin' them dumbasses and
makin' our statement, man.  Just like back when we got it together the
first time.  Where were you?

[Pause.  Maniac looks Gutch up and down, possibly horrified in a way
that's hidden by his mask.  Wrapped in a towel, Gutch looks like a
bear crossbred with a fat guy. Grimacing, the big man's lower lip
comes frighteningly close to his brow.]

MM: Uh, well ... my arm got torn out of it's socket...

Gutch: Yeah?

MM: I was in the hospital overnight?

Gutch: Yeah?

MM: Is any of this ringing a bell?

Gutch: Not really.  'Stock!  Get out the shower!  Maniac's here!

Livestock (faintly): Seriously?

MM: No, uh, Gutch, we don't need for him to--

[In walks Livestock, golden hair glistening with moisture, shaven,
tanned body similarly barely hidden by a towel.  He looks on at Maniac
incredulously as he wraps his hair in a towel using the same twisted
turban method usually associated with long-haired women.]

Livestock: Huh.  Well, look what the newly sober cat dragged in.
Missed you at the beatdown, little buddy.  How's it going with that
Fontana situation? I understand you have a title match coming now?

MM: Well, yeah.  That's true.  But my arm got dislocated.

Livestock:  Luxated?  I thought I heard...  How bad?

MM: Well, they're gonna look me over again in a few days, but anywhere
from a week to a month.

Gutch: Ah, crap, a month!  Dude, we need another set of hands!  And
you need to hurry up and take that title!  Hate to side against a
fellow Italian, but gotta get the gold all wrapped up 'round here!  We
got the tag straps, Alex is totally gonna take the world title, and
you're gonna be Network champ.  Hell, we just need someone to take
that leftover belt … whattayacall, US Title.

MM: Heh, well, geez, you guys aren't making this easy.  See, I gotta
leave the PTB.

Livestock/Gutch: What!?

Gutch: Dude, we're just gettin' it together!  Why you leavin'!?

Livestock: Don't be stupid, Maniac.  You're getting better, but you
know you're not a strong enough competitor to make it on your own.

[At that, Maniac becomes somewhat animated, brown eyebrows knitting
through the eye holes of his mask.]

MM: Gah!  You're kidding!  You have to be kidding me.  You guys
haven't helped me once!

Gutch: Ah, well, we, of course...

Livestock: The way it works, see, Maniac, you have to understand...

Gutch: You're just the lowest man on the totem pole, see?

Livestock: Like the omega in a wolfpack.  You fetch food for the
Alpha, and you eat last.

MM: No.  No.  I've made up my mind.  I can't say why.  You guys want
to conquer the world with Alex Martinez, good for you.  I don't even
think he knows I exist.  And Livestock, you don't even like the guy!

Livestock: Who said that?

MM: You did!

Livestock: No I didn't.

MM: You all but challenged him to a match after pinning Will Geddings
in that six man two months ago!  It was broadcast over the network!

Gutch: Wow.  You got a really … really REALLY good memory now that you
quit drinkin'.

Livestock: Didn't happen.  We get along great.

MM: Gah!  I'm going solo.  We can still hang out or something, but I'm
sober now, and I'm really getting my *BLEEP*together.  It's time.

Gutch: Ah man, but you know what that means.

[Livestock rubs his temples, shaking his head.]

Livestock: Yes, I do, but I need to get dressed first.

MM: What?

Gutch: I got some Speedos on under this towel, so I'm good to go.

MM: Oh, I didn't need to hear that.

Livestock: Hold up.  I'll get a folding chair.  That's pretty
standard.

MM: What are you two talking about?

Gutch: The beatdown.

[Walking off frame, Livestock moves to his locker, letting everyone
know this by slamming it shut.]

MM: Beatdown!?

Gutch: Well yeah.  You don't leave a stable full of assholes without
gettin' beat stupid.  Where you been, man?  Heh, you been wrestlin'
for what?  20 years?

MM: Something … like that.  You can't beat me up!

Gutch: Watch us.  We're actually pretty damned good at beating people
up.  Usually more than one at a time.

MM: No, I mean, I'm already hurt.  Gutch, Perry Fontana practically
ripped my arm off.

Gutch: Yeah?

MM: Yeah!  His move is called "The Amputation".  It's this crazy
stepover armbar crossface thing, and he tied my legs up in the ropes
and practically had to jump off the apron to even get the move on me.
Remember?  I'm on the shelf for a month?

Gutch:  Eh ... I dunno.

MM: Seriously.  What if you crippled me?  I thought we were cool!

Gutch: I didn't think of that.  No, we're cool.

MM: We can do it another time, right?  It doesn't have to be right
now.

Gutch: That's cool.  You got my cell?

MM: Oh yeah.  Hey, gotta jet.  Tell Alex I said hi.  When he asks
"who?", tell him "Brody Thunder".

Gutch: Will do, man.  Hey, take care of that arm.

MM: Will do!  T.T.F.N.!

[Yup.  He actually said "TTFN".  People say that.  Jogging back into
the frame, dressed in just a pair of jeans and brandishing a chair,
comes Livestock.]

Livestock: Hey!  HEY!  Gutch, why'd you let him go?

Gutch: His arm's *BLEEPED* up.  Got a rain check.

Livestock: There are no rain checks for beatdowns, Gutch!  Crap.  We
still haven't gotten all our asshole cred back yet.

Gutch: Ah, sorry 'Stock.  Man ... uh, we could.  No.  No, uh...  Crap,
what now?

[Pause.  Both men get lost in deep thought for a moment.]

Livestock: Well, we still haven't put Dean Hayes in a locker.

Gutch: Ah, I dunno man.  He's such a little wuss.  I dunno if I wanna
do that.

Livestock: What's this want?  It's not like we're friends with the
guy.

Gutch: Well hell, I mean, where is he even?  He ain't here to stuff in
no locker, and I'm a lazy fat guy.  I ain't lookin' for him.

[Beat.  As if on cue, a familiar head pops into the room, much as with
Maniac before.]

Hayes: Livestock, Gutch, what's going on here?  I thought I heard my
name.  Say, that black guy you've been hanging out with isn't here, is
he?

[Silence in the room.  Dean looks a little nervous as the two big men
focus on him exclusively.  Finally, Livestock and Gutch look at each
other briefly, Gutch grimacing and Livestock grinning.]

Livestock: You're feeling better about it now, aren't you.

Gutch:  Yeah.  Guess I am.

Dean: I'm missing something, aren't I?

Gutch: Nah.

Livestock: Nothing a few hours in the box won't fix.

Gutch: C'mere, you dirty skinhead!

[Panic overtakes Dean as he recoils from the two big men, but is
quickly overtaken. Gutch bearhugs him up as Livestock opens a big
locker.  It's all over in a few seconds and Livestock and Gutch grab
their bags and leave the room only a few seconds later.]

Dean: This is such a cliché.  They made me a cliché.

[Fade to black.  Bye-bye now.]


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

[Darkness.  Unseeing, unknowing.  Then suddenly, a square of
light on a wall, as the clicking/rattling sound of an old school movie
projector is heard starting up and we see the frames moving slowly at
first...]

*TK-TK-TK-TKTKTKTKTKTKTKTKTK*

[...then speeding up, creating that illusion of motion.  A countdown
appear on the screen being wiped away by a clockwise rotating hand
witht the accompanying beeps... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1...]

[The projector comes fully to life, as the image of a a North
American forest is seen.  Evergreen trees fill the landscape, which is
now covered in snow. The projected image cuts between scenes, showing
a fox chase a rabbit through the snowy landscape, then a heard of deer
foraging for food in the winter, and finally, a pack of wolves
gathered around a large rock.  A white wolf stands on top of the rock,
almost like a king overlooking the others.  It is then that we see an
all too familiar figure, in a black trenchcoat with crimson hair,
steps in front of the image, it overlaying his face and clothes,
eaving the image distorted where he stands.  It is "Bloodlust" Xavier
Feyr.]

Xavier Feyr:  The wolves gather around their leader, the alpha of the
pack...

[Xavier speaks in an unusually calm tone, at least for him, he
seems somewhat distracted at the moment, as though contemplating his
own words and trying to sort out what it all means.]

XF:  ...whether to follow him, or revolt and overthrow him as weak,
all centers around him.  It is he they either follow out of respect
and fear, or try to become themselves, and it is through strength
alone that he is able to maintain his position.

[Another one of the wolves, a vicious looking back one, comes up
on the white wolf and attacks, striking, a few other wolves jump in,
but the white wold manages to fend them off.  The black and white
wolves are left alone circling each other, each bloodied and snarling
viciously.]

XF:  If even a sign of weakness is shown, another wolf may challenge.
The young upstart challenges the leader, seeking to bring him down and
show that he is now the alpha male of the pack.

[The wolves fight, wrestling each other to the ground snapping and
biting each other... but ultimately, the white wolf drives off the
dark upstart, who limps away on a wounded leg.  The white wolf, also
wounded, but still the victor, limps over to and ascends the rock
again, looking down over the other wolves, and letting out a howl.
The black wolf limps away from the pack in shame.]

XF:  The upstart, however, falls short.  He is not yet strong enough
to bring down his better, and so he wanders of alone, to keep his own
company for a time.  He may return to the pack in time, or strike out
alone, a lone wolf fighting for his survival, gaining greater strength
for the hunts and battles ahead.

[Another wolf approaches the black one, sniffing, only to have
the black wolf snarl and pounce on him, the wolf running off with a
whimper.  The other wolves keep back away and simply watch as he
wanders off.]

XF:  Wounded, none but the foolish dare approach him, lest he lash out
at them in vengeance for the harm inflicted upon his person.  The
responsibility of others for those injuries means nothing, for his
rage clouds everything, and he lashes out at all creatures of the
world until his rage is satiated.  The wise, simply give him wide
birth, or even keep out of sight entirely, lest they become victims of
his wrath.

[The scene then cuts to the deer, grazing on what little edible plant
life they can find, as well as males butting heads.  One dear,
however, moves along slower than the others.  It walks slowly,
apparently injured in some way.]

XF:  The deer do what they must to survive in this time of scarce
food.  In this time, the week are culled from the heard, falling
victim to starvation as well as predators.

[The projected scene cuts again, this time to show the black wolf
approaching the deer, watching from the trees.  It seems to be eying
them.]

XF:  Lacking the aid of his companions to bring down his prey, the
wolf looks for signs of weakness, the weak link in the herd to be
taken down as his prey.

[The scene again cuts to the wounded deer, and we see the wolf eying
it, and poising to strike.]

XF:  Mercy is no matter of concern to a hungry or wounded predator...
only satiating its hunger, for food, or revenge.  Seeing its chosen
prey, it readies to strike, for it will not give its prey the
slightest chance of escape.

[The wolf dashes out towards the wounded deer.  All the deer of the
herd turn and run, young and old alike, none showing any concern for
each other, simply fleeing for their own survival.  Xavier cracks a
smile.]

XF:  The deer do not think of their fellows.  To the contrary, they
think only of fleeing and living to see another day, and thus they
abandon the wounded to their fate, allowing them to be taken down and
devoured so that they themselves can escape and survive.

[The wounded deer does its best to run, but it is easily overtaken by
the wolf, who jumps and latches its jaws onto the deers neck, biting
in. It starts to break loose and gets up, again running, but its
injuries are too much, as it is easily overtaken again by the wolf and
brought down. The wolf begin ripping the deer apart in gruesome
fashion, the blood of the kill running down its lips.]

XF:  Though the injured one may fight valiantly, it is abandoned by
its uncaring fellows.  His brave struggle goes unappreciated by his
own kind, and in the jaws of the hungry wolf he finds no mercy or
remorse.  His valiant struggle is brought to an end, so that the wolf
continues to survive.

[The scene cuts again tot show the wolf wandering the snowy landscape.
Xavier stares at it on the screen with a wicked smile.]

XF:  And so the lone wolf continues on in his wanderings, perhaps back
to his pack or on his own; perhaps again seek the throne or some other
goal. Regardless, he knows it will all come down to the same test of
survival of the fittest.

[Xavier turns to the camera, almost perfectly matching the wolf as it
does the same, Xavier's maddening grin stretched across his face as
the projector cuts, returning us to darkness.  End.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
   Rob Cole & William Craven
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Late evening, and even the World Champion wraps himself in a warmer
jacket to ward off winter's chill.  Rob Cole gets to his car,
unlocking the trunk and tossing his bags in with a wince after his
match with Manson.  He's about to shut the trunk and pauses, spinning
quickly as he hauls the tire iron out and stares a short distance
away... where William Craven stands.

The bald, scarred freak with the green skin stands very still,
broad-brimmed hat dipping down low and his hands jammed into the
pockets of his ratty black trenchcoat.  Steam billows from his mouth
as he stifles a laugh at being noticed.]

RC: You're a little too big to go for the backstab bonus, Bill.  This
a social call, or you just testing the waters... maybe seeing how
close you can get before you snap my neck?

[Bill laughs aloud at this, exposing his sharpened teeth.]

WC: Heh.  A compliment?  Usually so boastful, and to state things so
suggests humility.  Could it be that you see your own human frailty
... but not mine?  I thought perhaps you might wish to speak on the
Widowmakers and the glory to be had in fighting them...

[Beat.  Sneering, Cole's tone is dismissive.]

RC: What do you want... a handshake?  You want me to strike pose with
you, soak in the roar of the crowd, and talk up the alliance of the
two most dangerous men in this company?  I'm not as dumb as you
think... if you're helping me, you're doing it because it suits you
and it gets you what you want.  Another sip from the Marley faucet,
maybe... but I'm not even going to pretend to understand you.  In a
lot of ways, we're a lot alike... but we've got entirely different
monsters in our head, Billy-boy.  Bookers want to put us together,
force the psychos to tag up against Marley and the Funky Bunch... Hey,
there's plenty of blood to go around.  But we're not friends.

WC: Ah, but what is a friend but someone whose views fit your own?

[Cole examines Craven... reaching back to shut the trunk door, but he
still holds the tire iron in his hand.  He smirks in disgust and
shakes his head...]

RC: Listen--

WC: No.  You are, in fact, among the most long-winded beings on the
face of the planet.  Let me be concise.  I see that you carry a tool
with you, and the look in your eye tells me that you wish to use it to
loosen the lugnuts in my head.  Perhaps you think this will make me
want to leave.  It makes me want to stay.

RC: ...

WC: Moreover, I have just finished a long campaign fighting an uphill
battle against a group of men who individually are a challenge.  The
one who has his crosshairs on you is the worst among them.  I do not
admit defeat lightly.  He defeated me...  His minions, Manson, Feyr,
Masterson and Wright are problems in suits of human skin and they
swarm like insects, overwhelming the unwary.  Just when you've put the
last one down ... the first one rises again to sting you...

[Beat.]

WC: I suppose that would be the "backstab bonus" you spoke of?

[Cole stands there.  He remains silent for another beat and then a
slow smile peels back the lips from his teeth.  He glares at Craven
and angles his head a little.]

RC: No, Billy.  You see, that was your mistake... you were so focused
on the glorified valet that you LET the others wear you down, break
off little pieces here and there, scatter you all over the place and
leave you a puddle of filth for Rick Marley. I watched you face
Marley, kiddo... (he continues on before Craven can respond.) NO!!!  I
watched you bow down to the numbers! You're one of the sickest,
toughest, and meanest men on this roster ... but you choked on the
baby food. You talked about how Marley was the "worst"? No, Bill...
the truth is that you never understood your enemy. You never really
knew what he wanted...

[Cole lifts the tire iron.]

RC: I'm long winded, huh?  Maybe that's because I don't need to wear
my monster on my skin... maybe he's wrapped up in my head? Words are
very special, Bill.  They really mean something.  It's not about slang
and catch-phrases... you will note that I rarely, if ever, utter a
single cuss word.  I don't need to.  I am angry, I am violent, I am
the human horror show, and I am the monster beneath the bed.  You want
another taste of Marley?  Take him.  You want to slap a hand to do it,
well that's just fine with me.  You and me against him and any one of
his buddies... personally, I'd like another shot at Manson, maybe even
Feyr. But we're not buddies, Craven... I don't trust you, I don't like
you, and the truth is that you honestly do scare me.

[Cole opens the drivers door, tossing the tire iron into the passenger
seat as he eyes William Craven. ]

RC: Now let me make this crystal. If you're thinking about trying to
turn Marley's title dance into a three-way triangle, don't even
bother. Marley would just wait for the two of us to do our worst, and
then he'd swoop in for the kill.  I'm not interested in making things
easier for him, so if you want a shot at this belt... well, then, you
come knocking on my door and you leave the punk out of this.  It's not
my job to make him a star... it's my job to beat him and send him to
the back of the line.  Maybe the two of you could restart your little
war after I'm done humiliating him, and maybe the two of you could
sell a few more tee-shirts while real monsters devour the peasants.
I'll see you at the next Heatwave, "Partner".

[Hopping behind the wheel of his car, Cole starts the engine quickly
and tears off out of the arena parking lot.  Bill stands there, hands
in his pockets, watching him go.  Bill then withdraws a stopwatch from
his pocket and hits a button on it.]

*click*

[Bill smirks, shaking his head.]

WC: Time to shave.  Heh.

[Bill pockets the watch again as the scene fades to black.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Ohno Ow
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The scene: The opening scene of Jurassic Park movie?  No, it can't
be... can it?  A number of Mexican, Cuban... well workers from some
Latin American country are gathered around a crane that is lowering a
large metal crate of the kind that is used to hold live, and generally
quite dangerous animals.  Suddenly the cage shakes and the laborers
panic for a moment as it almost falls from the crane.]

Worker1: [translated in subtitles from Spanish] Watch it!  This guy
will have our a**es if we screw up and let any of them out!

[Then suddenly from off screen, a voice rings out that sends chills
down the spines of all present, causing them all to give a collective
shudder.]

Meili:  NIIIIIHAAAAAOOOOO!

[As the illegal immi-I mean totally on the books, green card-holding
workers whose presence working here will certainly not lead any labor
unions to gift me with a pair of concrete shoes and drive me out to
the docks to pay Jimmy Hoffa a visit- cringe as a pretty Chinese girl
dressed in what looks like a US army uniform from the Vietnam era,
complete with helmet, comes skipping up onto the scene.]

Meili: [Seeing the cage/crate] Ooooooh!  Nimen you shenma? (Whatcha ya
got?)

[Meili skips over the cage that is just reaching the ground, and peers
in, reaching a hand out, but is stopped by another hand snatching hers
away just in time as something lashes out from the cage trying to grab
her, slamming against the cage bars.]

*CLANG!*

Meili:  Shenma?

[The camera pans out to show that it is in fact Ohno... sorry,
OOOOOOHNOOOOOOOO, who grabbed Meili's hand away from the cage.  Ohno
is wearing his now standard black, T-buttoned outift and sunglasses
that cover his eyepatch, though the strap is still visible wrapping
around his head.  Violet stands just a few steps behind him, wearing a
rather fashionable looking black and purple track suit, apparently
deciding she needed some appropriate outdoor clothes for this
occasion.  Her right hand is on her forehead, and her uncomfortable
expression indicates that she's already started to develop a migraine
for this RP.]

Ohno:  Be care-ful.  No TOUCH.

Meili:  What... they?

Violet: [rubbing her temples as she groans] A lawsuit waiting to
happen at best.

[The workers step back from the cage as it rattles again.  Ohno holds
out his hand in a demanding posture to one of the workers who promptly
hands him a cattle prod.]

Ohno:  To WIN Network Championship, must FIRST beat count-less op-po-
nent at once, all seeking SAME honor.  I best ALL eas-i-ly, but think
MANY con-ta- gi-ous.  So CAN'T take ANY chance.  Must train.

Violet: *sigh* And what do they [points towards the cage/crate] have
to do with this?

Meili:  YEAH!  Tell me, tell me!

Ohno:  To PREPARE must face most re-lent-less, mer-ci-less crea-ture
on EARTH.  The FOUL beast that never CEASE pur-suit...

[Suddenly the cage rattles again as the... people?  Yes, in fact,
people in tacky suits are inside the cage, shaking the bars as they
collectively cry out...]

Prisoner:  LET US OUT OF HERE!

Ohno:  PAPARAZZI!

[Ohno takes the cattle prod to one of the Paparazzi who falls to the
ground quivering like a fly that was just zapped.  A little bit of
smoke almost seems to rise off him.]

*BZZZZZZZ!*ZAP!*

Ohno:  Get back!

*BZZZZZZZZ!*

[The paparazzi, naturally jump back from the bars immediately, not
wanting to be electrocuted.]

Ohno:  You NO deserve LIVE!

Paparazzi:  AUGH!  Watch it!  What are you crazy!?

Violet:  Remind me again what they have to do with training for the
match?

[Ohno whistles, and another, much smaller crate is lowered, a snap of
his fingers and the workers come over and pry the lid off with a
crowbar, revealing it's contents to be... cameras?]

Ohno:  It sim-ple, Pa-pa-raz-zi must take pic-ture of ANY per-son even
re-mote-ly FAMOUS.  So THEY will TRY their best, GET me.

[At this Meili leaps onto Ohno and grabs onto him as if to hold him
back, which brings a smile to Ohno's face, and look of murderous rage
from Violet.]

Meili:  NO!  Dan-zher-rusi!

Ohno: [in a determined, very exaggerated tone] I KNOW, but I will sa-
cri-fice ANY-thing for my ART!

[At this Ohno raises a fist in the air triumphantly, with Meili
looking at him in awe, Violet continuing to seeth with rage, and the
workers of questionable legality looking on like "what the f*** is
going on here!?"]

Ohno:  Let us.. BEGIN!

[Ohno raises his hands, and the workers, rolling their eyes at Ohno's
over-dramatization flick a switch causing the cage to open.  The
paparazzi wander out looking confused for a moment, as Ohno motions
for Violet and Meili to stand back.  Meilie runs off quickly... Violet
just sighs and walks off shaking her head.]

Ohno:  If I CAN defeat ALL, without ONE flash, I am read-y.

Paparazzi1:  What is this guy talking about?

Paparazzi2:  I don't know, but this is a movie set, he must be some
kind of actor.

Paparazzi3:  Hey, cameras!

[All at once the paparazzi descend on the crate full of cameras like
vultures on a fresh kill and grab them.]

Paparazzi2:  Hey, I always wanted one of this model.

Paparazzi1: [whispers] Hey, if we get this guys picture we can use it
as evidence when we sue him.

Paparazzi2: [whispers back] Good idea.

[Ohno strides out into the midst of the paparazzi and assumes a kung
fu stance, the paparazzi raise their cameras all at once, when
suddenly Ohno lets out cry.]

Ohno:  HYAAAAAAAAAAA!

Paparzzi3:  What the he-*grrk!*

[Confused for a second by Ohno's odd behavior, the first paparazzi is
caught off guard by the kick he receives to the throat, as is the
second when Ohno snaps his food around and smacks him across the face
with it... and so it the third as the second one goes flying into
him.]

Paparazzi4:  Oh sh-*OOF1*

[A fourth is taken down as Ohno flings one of the already unconscious
ones into him.  As the paparazzi scatter, some one raises his camera
to try to snap a picture of Ohno, but Ohno sees him out of the corner
of his eye reaches out, grabbing the camera and twisting off the lens
and then ripping off the flash with the other in less than a second.]

Paparazzi5:  How... how did you do that?

Paparazzi6:  I don't know, but I got to get a picture of this!

[Unfortunately those are the words of doom, as Ohno hears that
one standing behind him and flips back catching him with a backwards
flipping kick to the head, his camera falling to the ground and
shattering.  Deciding to strike in a group, the remaining paparazzi
circle around Ohno as he springs back to his feet, but are quickly
taken down as Ohno does a spinning butterfly kick series that sends
paparazzi and cameras flying every which way.]

Paparazzi7:  Forget it!  This guys crazy!  I'm finding a new career!

[As this one tries to run, Ohno sticks his foot under a camera,and
with a single motion flips it up into the air, then kicks it so that
it flies and smacks the fleeing photographer right in the back of the
head.  Ohno stands breathing heavily for a few moments, a smile
forming on his face.]

Ohno:  I... I got them... I'm ready...

Meili:  XIAOXIN! [Look out!]

[But Ohno spoke too soon, as a lone paparazzi comes up on Ohno's
blindside with his camera ready.  Everything goes into slow motions.
As Ohno turns to where Meili is pointing, the camera flashes.]

*FLASH*

Ohno: [In that slow motion deep voice] NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Meili: [Also in slow motion]
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

[Ohno's hand goes up to cover his eye as one flash is followed by
another, and another, and ANOTHER, as he falls to the ground in slow
motion.]

*FLASH*FLASH*FLASH*

Ohno:  Theeeey GOOOOOT meeeeeeee!

Violet: [shaking her head and putting her face in her hands in slow
motion] Thiiiisssssssss iiiiiisssssssssss ssssssoooooooooo
ssssssssstuuuuuuuupiiiiiiiiiiiiid.

[Resuming normal time, Ohno hits the ground with a thud, and the
last remaining paparazzi leaps up in down victoriously.]

Paparazz:  I got him!  And... and I'm still alive!  WOOHOO!

*BZZZZZZ*ZAP!*

[He may or may not be after Meili tazered him.  Dropping the
tazer, Meili runs to check on her "hero".  Violet sighs and walks
over, stopping on of the workers for a moment before continuing on to
check on Ohno.]

Violet: [to laborer] Get a first aid kit, will you.

Ohno:  Ow.... my eye.  Ooooh, LOOK all pret-ty col-ors.

Meili: [Looking around] Zainar?  Wo ye yao kan! [Where, I want to see
too!]

[Putting a hand on Ohno's shoulder and looking into his eye which
is clearly still a bit dazed, Violet speaks to Ohno in a much more
caring voice now.]

Violet:  You okay?

Ohno:  No... I should WIN, but I CAUGHT at LAST mo-ment.  Can't af-
ford SECOND place.

Violet:  Hey, you almost got them all.  Just that last one, that snuck
up on you. You just didn't see him coming, that's all.

[Ohno thinks a moment on this, but shakes his head, pouting now,
almost like a child.]

Ohno:  No, I SHOULD have seen HIM.  Ne-ver happen be-fore.  Why now?
I alw...

[Ohno stops a moment, as if something has occurred to him, and
his head hangs for a moment.]

Violet: [squeezing Ohno's shoulder reasuringly] What?  What's wrong?

[Ohno, smiles in a kind of sad way for a moment, as if he has
just realized some ironic truth.]

Ohno:  I al-ways, SUC-CEED be-fore, because, I KNOW Mal watch MY back.

[And with that "Awe-shucks" moment, we fade to black as Violet,
Meili, and Ohno have a group hug... with Violet staring daggers at
Meili, of course. ;p]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
    Reverend Julian Caine
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[CUT to stained glass, bright colors.  The camera slowly zooms around
the masterful religious art.  It stops on David standing over Goliath
...  A voice is heard off screen, but it's a familiar voice ... The
good ol' Reverend Julian Caine.]

RJC: We all know the story ... The story of the mighty David.  The
only warrior in the village to grab that sling shot and take a stand.

[Slight pause.]

RJC: He had god's favor ... He became a powerful man and it all
started with that one moment of courage.  That one moment of truth.
That one moment face to face with the biggest ... the baddest ... the
meanest king of the mountain.

[The camera changes from the stained art glass to the honorable
Reverend.]

RJC: Some would say Chris Hartt is PVW's David ... Some would say the
underdog story of the Paladin rose from the ashes when PVW launched.
He captured the Rising Phoenix Championship and faced many men.
However he never had that chance to face Goliath.

[Caine shakes his head.]

RJC: No he never had to the chance to take on the _FIRST_ Blood Bowl
winner.  He never stood toe to toe with PVW's _FIRST_ Heavyweight
Champion.  No PVW's David never had God's favor and he never took that
opportunity.  Instead he took on the RJ Souza's ... The Christopher
Michaelson's ...  He enjoyed playing second fiddle to Goliath ...

[Caine smiles.]

RJC: Our story is quite different then the story of the true David and
Goliath.  You see Chris Hartt never gained that courage instead he
tucked his tail between his legs and ran.  And how ironic around the
time Blood Bowl returns ...  Around the time Chase Williams was
chosen to be the Hand of God ...  The prodigal son returns ...  And
what does he do?  He picks that sling shot up and decides he is going
to stand up to PVW's Goliath.

[The smile stays, but the Reverend begins chuckling.]

RJC: Hartt we know who you are.  We have seen your story.  You aren't
the warrior that slays Goliath.  You aren't the champion the people
can look too.  No you are just a jester parading around calling
himself a Paladin.  Chris Hartt your mouth might sound like David.
Your intentions may resemble him.  However your courage ...

your will ...

your abilities ...

your _heart_ ...

it just can't compete with PVW's Goliath.

PVW's _ONLY_ Blood Bowl winner.

PVW's first Heavyweight Champion.

The HAND OF GOD ...

Chase Williams.

[Fade.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Spectre
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The scene opens on the familiar sight The Spectre sitting on a dented
folding chair in the middle of a bare cinderblock room illuminated
only by a lightbulb hanging from a wire.]

"Pooooooor little Ryder..."

[The dreadlocked goth rose smoothly to his feet, a cold smile affixed
to his features as he began stalking around the room.]

"We mean just what we say...poor little Ryder...wanting so desperately
to end his life in bloody, painful, wailing agony that he decided to
interject himself into OUR business.

...

...

...

Clearly the act of a someone looking to commit a truly exotic form of
suicide.

...

Or could it be something more?

We continue to ponder this...to wonder if Ryder...if poor, poor little
Ryder could be that rarest of all entities:

A fledgeling hero..."

[Spectre stops for a moment, a broad grin spreading across his face,
but never reaching his eyes, partially obscured by
the cascade of black dreadlocks falling in front of it.]

"The thought is too delicious to hope for...could little Ryder have
decided that the way to prove to the mindless sheep of
PVW that they can hope.  That they can dream?

We pray this is the case...we have something else to teach them.

We will teach them that their heroes can bleed.

We showed them that little Brian Young could bleed.

We cast down friend Cole...showed them what he truly was...

Now, little Ryder...you will be our masterpiece.  Your body shall be
our orchestra and we shall write a symphony of pain
upon it.  Your suffering will be etched upon every fiber of your
being.

You suffering will be legendary, little Ryder.

We really have to thank you...this sort of opportunity simply doesn't
come along very often.

To destroy a hero...to lay low one of their golden gods.

It's time, little Ryder.

Fear the dark."