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##                           ##
## Phoenix Valley Wrestling  ##
##       Burning Effect      ##
##           07.09.09        ##
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Presenting....

-> Rob Cole
-> Alex Martinez and Jason Keening
-> Rob Magnum and Ron Houston
-> Jokers Wild
-> Masked Outlaw and Brian Young
-> Perry Fontana
-> Danny Daniels
-> Dr. X
-> Dark Soul
-> The Mercenary
-> Johnny Detson
-> Marcus Manson #1
-> Herscher von Donkerhart
-> Alex Martinez
-> Tommy Ryder
-> Made Men
-> Masked Maniac
-> Dr. Mal Practice, M.D.
-> Marcus Manson #2
-> Gibson Hayes
-> Xavier Feyr
-> Sinister
-> Tom Landis
-> William Craven
-> Doc Holliday
-> Livestock and The Gutch
-> Ohno Ow


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

[Rob Cole rocks back and forth, cradling the title close as he kneels
in the center of a training ring.  He pulls the title away, and looks
into the gleaming metal for a moment before he hugs it close again and
the camera continues to watch him as the big mans' sobs are choked off
with the occasional giggle.  He turns suddenly, looking off as his
face goes slack... and then turns again, rage twisting his features
before he suddenly drops back laughing!!!  The camera watches as Cole
rolls to his knees again and holds the title up... and then lowers it
down again.  He smiles, enchanted with the treasure he holds in his
hands.]

RC: Did you hear them?  They won't take you away from me... no, not
now. Not now that they see what it would do to them, what it would
cost them, what it would mean to this business... they realize what
you mean to them, and what you always meant to be for me.  You're the
shining glory I aspired to for so very long... the crowning
achievement of a dream that seemed so very broken, so very distant.
But I really did it... I won and I beat Chase Williams and so many
other people so that you're mine all mine.  And I proved a point,
too...

[Coles' face twists in disgust.]

RC: I'm not a puppet.  I'm not someone's little yap dog to jump and
catch and heel and beg... I'm the World Champion!  Zero Tolerance is a
joke and a sham, a pathetic excuse to stack the deck against someone
like me... like I should be ashamed of it?  I'm a bad wrestler,
Justin... I'm a horrible person, I do terrible things, and I still
hold the World Title and you couldn't tear it off my waist.  Listen to
me, Justin... you couldn't beat me with all your rules, you couldn't
beat me with all your talent, and you couldn't beat me with all your
fans cheering your name.  So I defended my title... I did it on my
insistence, I hoped it would be you, and I walked down that aisle to
do what it is I /do/ so very badly.

[Cole laughs, eyes wide as he stares into the camera... smiling.]

RC: You choked!!!

[Cole laughs some more, finding a morbid bit of humor in this joke.
He shakes his head and stands... allowing the title to drop at his
side as he speaks. Now... he seems oddly sad, almost pleading?]

RC: Who are you to judge me?  Who are any of you?  You wear a mask,
Justin... you wear a mask and you taunt me, attack me, humiliate me,
and you go after other people and... and... and?  And why?  Why are
you doing this to me, Justin?  I have tried so hard to be a good
person, to be a good father, a good husband... it's not my fault these
people want me to be a monster!!! This is your fault, for hiding in a
mask when you could have played the hero... you could have stopped so
much of what happened with Spectre and his victims, could have saved
that kid and his father, you could have done so much good if you had
just stood up and been counted.  You wouldn't do it, Justin... you
left it to someone like me, someone who didn't want the responsibility
or the pressure.  I know what it means to fight monsters, Justin...
I've done it so many times and it twists you up inside, turns you
inside out, makes you into something you hate, something you
despise.... WHY DID YOU DO IT TO ME?!?!!!

[Cole falls to his knees again, cradling the title again as he looks
off into the distance.  There are tears streaking down his filthy
cheeks... his eyes are red and bleary.]

RC: Now what have I become?  I just want someone to tell me who I
am... please?

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Alex Martinez and Jason Keening
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>


[The scene dissolves to black for a moment before fading in to an
interior shot from high up in the stands of a nearly empty arena.  Row
upon row of unoccupied seats look down upon a half-constructed ring in
the middle of the arena floor on which the PVW phoenix logo can
clearly be seen.  A half-dozen technicians lay out cables around the
ring while a trio of workers finish tightening the ring ropes.
Observing this scene of industrious activity is a large, lanky figure
whose long legs are draped over the back of the seat in front of him.
His features are hidden in shadow but from his recognizable profile,
this is clearly "The Last American Badass" Alex Martinez.  Martinez
merely sits and watches silently for a moment but his attention
is drawn to a nearby balcony where a squat, powerful figure emerges
followed by a pair of PVW security guards.  The shorter man is none
other than PVW's new Head of Security, Jason Keening, who points to
the catwalk high above the ring as he addresses the guards.]

JK: I want another sweep of that catwalk.  Who knows what kind of
tricks Baldwin's gotten up to.

[One of the guards objects.]

G#1: But, boss!  We just checked that out not more than an hour ago.
It's clean, I swear!

JK: You think it's clean.  But trust me, I worked with that man for a
while.  And Mal Practice is even worse!  Both of those overgrown
pranksters have a flair for this sort of thing and either one of them
could easily have snuck in here while no one was looking.  Sweep it
again... and be ready to do another sweep right before we go to air,
OK?

G#1: Sure thing, boss.

[The security guards leave and Keening places both hands on the
railing as he looks around the empty arena.  From where he is sitting,
Martinez shakes his head from side to side and chuckles in wry
amusement.  The noise carries and Keening looks over, his attention
turning in the direction of "The Last American Baddass".  Warily,
Keening walks over to a position several rows below where Martinez is
seated.]

JK: Alex.

[Martinez nods, his expression still hidden in shadows but his body
language demonstrating his amusement.]

AM: The one and only.

JK: Something strikes you as being funny?

AM: Yeah, watchin' you scurryin' around, checkin' for traps.  That's
funny as hell.  The Screamin' Drillbit, checkin' every nook and
cranny?  If it wouldn't ruin my image, I'd start laughin'.

[Keening chuckles himself.]

JK: You're right.  But someone's gotta check for hidden blimps, right?

[Martinez rolls his eyes.]

AM: Tell me about it!

[Keening hesitates for a moment.]

JK: Look... now that we've got a moment to talk... I'd... I'd kinda
like to clear the air.

["The Last American Badass" doesn't move but his body language
demonstrates the disappearance of his earlier amusement, replaced by a
watchful concentration.]

AM: What ain't clear on your end, Keenin'?

[Martinez pauses for a moment, staring at the shorter man intently.]

AM: Seems to me that there ain't much cause for confusion.  You made
your case in front of the whole roster... and I damn sure know
everythin' I said was clear as crystal.  They might've brought you in
here to save the day, Jason.  But don't go foolin' yourself into
thinkin' that in a million years, you got what it takes to keep me
from doin' whatever I damn well please, to whoever I damn well want to
do it to.

[This time it is Keening's turn to chuckle as he leans back and folds
his arms over his broad chest.]

JK: No, there's certainly no confusion on that score.  We both know
where we stand with this Zero Tolerance Policy.

AM: And here ya are, still talkin'.  So what's this "air" you want to
clear?

JK: You and I are never gonna be the best of friends, Alex.  Neither
one of us is gonna be on each other's Christmas card mailing list...

AM: You got a knack for statin' the obvious, my friend, tell me
somethin' I don't know.

JK: ...right.  But at the same time, despite our differences, we've
also been able to work together in the past.  Hell, my last match four
years ago was when you won the UWF Road To The Gold battle royal in
Memphis.  And before I got eliminated by Augustine, you might recall
that we were able to cooperate quite well.

AM: Yeah, I remember that.  You plannin' on comin' to the point
anytime soon?  There's some meetin' I'm supposed to be in.  I think
SSN is discussin' some bonus money I'm due.

JK: My point is that we don't have to like each other in order for us
to work together.  I'm not expecting you to like this Zero Tolerance
Policy any more than any of the rest.  But you're also not the kind of
guy I need to worry about sneaking up behind me and bashing me over
the head with a steel chair.  First off, you don't need no damned
chair and secondly, you're quite happy to let me see you coming.

[The subtle nod Martinez gives is an acknowledgement that the last
thing Keening said was going to be the next thing out of the giant's
mouth.]

JK: But while I might question your methods sometimes, Alex, the one
thing I'll never question is your professionalism.  Our personalities
might clash but I've said it publicly before and I'll say it again...
no matter how much I might disagree with some of your choices, I will
always respect your abilities as a wrestler.  You're a hell of a
wrestler, Alex, easily one of the best I've ever seen...

AM: And this is supposed to make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside?
You gonna ask me for a hug?  Maybe we can get out a guitar and sing a
song.

JK: No.  But I wanted you to know that while I'm the Head of Security
here, I'm gonna be keeping a very close eye on guys like Feyr and
Manson and Cole, guys who actually pose a threat to the fans and the
staff members.  You, on the other hand, usually reserve your acts of
violence for the other wrestlers.  I'm not giving you a free pass,
Alex.  But as far as I'm concerned, you and I don't need to have any
problems between us whatsoever so long as the line doesn't get
rossed.  And if does?  We'll deal with it like professionals.

AM: You done?

JK: Yeah, pretty much.  That's what I wanted to say.

AM: My turn now.

[Martinez gets out of his chair, and moves to stand in front of
Keening.  Though Martinez towers over Keening, the former Screaming
Drillbit doesn't budge an inch, nor does he flinch.  There's no give
in either man.]

AM: Lemme tell ya somethin' 'bout you and me... I remember that battle
royal.  But ya know what I remember more'n that?  I remember winnin'
that battle royal.  And ya know what's even clearer in my memory?
Winnin' the title off Daniels.  I also remember how, after that, you
ed off to parts unknown.  I remember how ya let yourself fade
into obscurity.  Just like all the rest.  While I stuck around.  While
I bled, while I suffered.

[Martinez pauses again for a brief moment.]

AM: You went home, Keenin'.  That's what I remember.

[Staring up at the bigger man, Keening merely nods in agreement.]

AM: You wanna talk 'bout bein' professional?  Lemme explain to you
what "professional" means to Alex Martinez... it means showin' up, day
after day, year after year.  It means bleedin'.  It means gettin' your
ass kicked.  It means kickin' ass.  It means winnin' by whatever means
are necessary.  It means doin' what ya gotta do, _every_   _single_
_time_.

["The Last American Badass" hooks his thumbs into the front pockets of
his jeans as he continues to stare down at the PVW Head of Security.]

AM: You got a job to do Keenin', and so do I.  I got hired for the
same reason ya did.  Because someone saw in me the potential to get
the job done.  But here's the difference.  Me?  I'm good money
spent... you're just wasted nickels.

[Martinez swipes a hand through his hair and his expression hardens as
he looks down into Keening's eyes.]

AM: See Keenin', when it comes to Alex Martinez.  He sticks around.
He stays long after any halfway sane man woulda packed it in.  The
Last American Badass stays until the job is done... that's what makes
me the only legend worth talkin' 'bout.  You... you run.  You leave.
You go home to your pretty little wife and your kids and you're happy
that you got out of it.  You're happy to live your life.

[Martinez smiles but the expression is far from being friendly.]

AM: We both got jobs to do, Jason.  And someday, you and I, we're
gonna butt heads.  And on that day, I'm gonna get what I want... and
you?  You're gonna leave.

[Martinez lets out a derisive snort.]

AM: And it ain't nothin' personal.  I'm tellin' ya this, one
"professional" to another.  Right now, you and I ain't got no reason
to cross.  You handle the jackasses like Feyr and Manson.  They're
more your speed.  But the next time you think 'bout gettin' in my
face, you remember that pretty wife of yours and those kids you like
playin' catch with.  And you remember that I ain't got nothin' like
that.  That there ain't nothin' waitin' for me to make me think of
greener pastures.  This is it for me, and ain't you or no one else
messin' this up for me.  And that's all I gotta say.  Now, if you
don't mind, I got some professional duties that are waitin' for me.

[Keening opens his mouth as if to respond... but then closes it
without saying a word as he nods upward at the bigger man.  Stepping
to one side, Keening moves clear of the path between Martinez and the
nearest exit.  Continuing to glare down at Keening, "The Last American
Badass" deliberately turns his back on him and walks away.  For his
part, Keening watches the giant leave until a voice from high above
interrupts his thoughts.]

V: Hey boss!  I think I found something up here!

[Keening stares at the entrance where Martinez disappeared for a
moment before turning his face up towards the catwalk.]

JK: I'll be right there!  Don't touch anything!!

[The PVW Head of Security glances at the exit once more before sighing
heavily.  From the catwalk above can be heard the sound of a distant
WOOMPF followed by loud coughing.  Keening's expression shifts from
serious to annoyed as he yells up toward the ceiling once more.]

JK: I thought I told you not to touch anything!!

[Turning on his heels, Keening walks away as the scene dissolves to
black.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
  Rob Magnum and Ron Houston
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Silence. Dead silence cloaked in a black screen. After a few moments,
the haunting clinking of piano keys can be heard playing "What Must Be
Done"  by Nick Cave & Warren Ellis. As the somber music ambles on
slowly, the black dissipates into the dark brown colors of The
Tarnished Star. Location: Purgatory, New Mexico. Sitting behind piano,
in an outfit consisting of a black t-shirt and blue jeans is...


The Athens Georgia Madman.


The East Coast Terror.


Ron Houston.


Ron continues to pluck away at the tune, his eyes never leaving the
piano as he begins to speak in a slow southern drawl.]


RH: So here we are... Purgatory, New Mexico... desolate wasteland...


[Houston pauses as he continues to play chord after chord.]


... home of the forgotten.


[The shot flickers amongst the weary faces, aged and wrinkled by a
cruel timeline that hasn't done them justice, before flickering back
to Houston.]


The abandoned...


[Another shot, this one focusing on the bartender, Maurice, his lips
creased at the corner as if a permanent frown has been sewn on.]


The damned...


[Another shot, this one of Tarnished Star owner, Rob Magnum. Magnum
sits behind a bottle of bourbon that's accompanied by a glass that
disappears in his massive right hand. His brown hair hangs worn over
his shoulders and slightly waves as he tilts the drink back and sips.
He rubs his free left hand across his worn, bearded face. A
face which has aged since his glory days... since his youth. Magnum
closes his eyes as if trying to remember something, but exactly what
we'll probably never know.]


... home of mah friend.


[Houston continues to plunk his big Athens fingers down, one after the
other across the keys of the piano.]


What he said a few days back is true, ya know... he don't care. He
don't care 'bout a single solitary thing. Despite mah best efforts...
despite hours upon hours spent 'tween me and him arguin' over this
very matter. It just ain't workin'... it ain't gettin' through like ah
expected it ta. Ah guess ah thought ah'd come out here and ah'd be
able ta bandage up whatever wounds mah friend had layin' within him.


Thought ah'd be able to exorcise a lifetime of regrets... mistakes
that mah friend made that he can't undo.


[Pause. Houston hits the next key... and the next... and the next.]


Thought ah'd walk through those doors and he'd _see_... he'd
_believe_... that things don't need ta stay the way they've been. Ta
see that a man don't have ta live with his regrets forever. Ta see
that sometimes it's alright ta forgive yerself from the wrongs that
ya've done. Even if other's won't afford ya the luxury.


[Houston pauses. His eyes closing as he continues to strike beautiful
note on top of beautiful note.]


But despite all his regrets... his wounds... his broken spirit...
despite it _all_... that there man is _still_ a _great_ man. Ain't no
amount of regrets... or wounds... or heartache, that can change the
fact that that there man... is still one of the best there's ever been
ta step 'tween those ropes. Ah think the record speaks fer itself on
that there matter.


And while he may have forgotten, or brushed aside, all of that. The
awards... the glory... the recognition... the fame.


Ah haven't.


Ah can see through the terminal darkness... through the shell... and
what ah see is a great big beautiful light at the end of the tunnel.


Ah see _redemption_.


Ah see one last run.


[Houston once again closes his eyes and breathes in a deep cavernous
breath.]


Ah close mah eyes and ah see it so clearly.


Ah see the rebirth of a legend.


The awakenin' of a _monster_.


One of the last of a dyin' breed... back fer one last run.


And while some might see this as a man walkin' slowly towards his own
funeral...


[Houston continues to pluck away.]


... ah see mah friend.


[The camera fades back to a somber Rob Magnum, tucked behind that same
glass that he purses his lips to allow in, as Houston's voice and the
piano melody can still be heard overhead. Magnum obviously oblivious
to his environment.]


Ah see a second chance.


Ah see a new future.


Ah see forgiveness.


[One final pause as Houston looks up for the first time... looking
across the Tarnished Star at the worn legend that sits slumped over
the bar, his heartache drowning in the bottom of the glass he
continues to drink from. Houston looks at the camera for the first
time.]


Even if he don't yet.


[Fade to black.]

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

[Cut to pre-recorded comments from Jokers Wild. In the studio set with
the Phoenix Valley Wrestling and the Strickland Sports Network logos
on the backdrop is Harley Quinn O'Connor, dressed in a black T-shirt,
dark blue jeans and a pair of sunglasses, instead of his usual black-
and-white face paint. O'Connor still has a grin on his face, though.
The thickly-built man of Southeast Asian descent with light brown
skin, dark-colored eyes, black closely-cropped hair, and a short tuft
of hair on his chin is his tag team partner, 'El Savaje' Joseph Rizal
Estrada. He is dressed for combat in a pair of black trunks and black
knee pads. His face betrays no emotion as he calmly begins.]

ES: Jokers Wild, back on Damage Control and this time, we don't have a
problem with that. Not only because we now see this show for what it's
worth, not only because we are in one heck of a match chock full of
the best of what the PVW tag team division has to offer, but also,
after the past two weeks, we realise just where Jokers Wild are right
now. See, we have been described recently as being on a tear. They say
that it is only a matter of time before Jokers Wild have a taste of
tag team gold. That we're right there, just reaching the top of the
tag team ranks . . .

HQ: I prefer the term champions-in-waiting, myself.

ES: And if it were up to you, Harley, we'd probably be waiting for a
VERY long time.

[Suddenly, Harley Quinn O'Connor does not look as pleased with
himself. The grin is wiped off his face, but he does not look too
displeased about it.]

ES: Because, I think the more appropriate term for us would be, well,
floundering. Don't take this the wrong way, pal, I know you are at
that point in your career where you are quite content to just let
things be, to just take things as they come, and you'll be fighting,
whether or not titles are involved . . .

HQ: Hey! I would never say no to the belts . . . But, yes, I'll do my
job, with or without the gold on the line.

ES: And that's really what it is to you, isn't it? A job. Because
you've got most of your life set outside of the sport. You've got your
house, a couple of cars, a lovely wife and you've got money set aside
from some of your other ventures, enough money to live on without
having to wrestle, which you still do because you like beating people
up. No offence, Harley, but I just don't think you're as hungry as I
am . . .

HQ: [Plainly] None taken, kid.

ES: Which is why, from now on, I'm stepping up and taking charge of
this team. While I appreciate that you have more experience than I do
and I know you'll have my back, I just know I'm too young and hungry
to sit around bidding my time and waiting for MY shot at glory. Which
is why, this week on Damage Control, I'll be representing Jokers Wild
in a six-man tag team match with five other men who probably do not
like Jokers Wild very much. To be fair, Jokers Wild have never crossed
path with neither the Wild Cards nor PAIN, so I don't really know what
Dr. Mal or Jack Baldwin think of us. Nonetheless, one's my team mate
and the other will be standing across the ring from us, and we've seen
enough matches to know what either men are capable of. Also standing
across the ring from us are Denis and Masterson. We've already beaten
Canadian Legacy and we've had run-ins with the Made Men, so I know
just where either of you gentlemen stand. Which brings me to my other
tag team partner, Derek Rage, the man who planted me with the Hand
of God and pinned me last week on Tradition III. See what that got
you, Derek? The question is; will we be able to get along, even if
just for one match? Honestly, I don't think anybody cares if we do.
Not you, and definitely not me, either. I plan to get in the ring and
do my thing and you can either get in my way or stay out of it. Either
way, I am not out there to make any more friends. Because, after this,
at Shattered Dreams, other than your tag team partner, there won't be
friends . . . There'll just be Unholy War!

[Cut.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
 Masked Outlaw and Brian Young
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[We open on a porch, where we can see Brian Youngis sitting in his
wheelchair.  He's soundly sleeping, recovering from so many wounds
from several weeks back. As he wakes, he does so with a start as he
stares ahead... The camera pans back, revealing that the Masked
Outlawis seated across the porch from Young, watching over the former
Champion. A snear forms across the lips of Brian Young.  A look of
distrust and distaste.  It's obvious Brian Young doesn't know who is
under the mask - but the one thing that is for sure it reminds him of
the person he spends every waking moment cursing ... hating ... and
dreaming about the day he can return the favor.]

BY: I have heard rumors that you returned ...

[Brian looks at the figure of the Masked Outlaw with a quizzical
glance.]

BY: But you seem to be a bit heavier than I remember ... You don't
reek of fear ... You don't move around with your tail between your
legs.  You lack a certain "style".  To put it blunt you aren't a
worthless coward. Who are you?

MO: I'm the shadow behind Rob Cole, at the moment... and I'm not Brian
Young.  Isn't that much obvious to you, 'Wildchild'?

BY: {chuckles} Not Brian Young ... not Brian Young ... No [bleep]
you're not Brian Young! Brian Young sits before you a cripple ... a
shell of his former self all because of the man you're the shadow
behind .. that BASTARD Rob Cole!

[Brian pushes himself to his feet, the pain evident in his eyes as he
tries to place his weight on his injured knee. Brian stands for a few
moments hobbling but he has to drop back into the wheelchair as the
pain becomes too much to bear.]

BY: Rob Cole has taken away my livelihood and you have the balls to
come and taunt me, taunt the world by telling them something they all
already knew ... that you're NOT The One Brian Young!

MO: Taunt you?  No, Brian... I have no interest in taunting you.  I am
here about you, though... you're healing, mending, and I heard you
were hitting the weights again.  It's a long road to recovery, and I
wanted to see where you were.  I wanted to see how a real hero holds
himself up after so much horror... so much pain...

[The quizzical look again crosses the face of Brian as he stares at
the Masked Outlaw. He begins to mutter under his breath.]

BY: {muttering} only two ...

[Brian stops muttering and takes a deep breath before he speaks
again.]

BY: A real hero? To who am I a hero? Caleb Foley? The child didn't
understand the life lesson I taught him ... the fans? They turned on
me the second that I showed Caleb what the world will actually do to
him. It chews you up and spits you out! A lesson I have learned over
and over my whole career ... career ... and thanks to Rob Cole I don't
have that anymore! Rob Cole shredded my knee and he ruined my life!
Right now I'm lucky if I can get off of the couch by myself! I can't
get up and walk ... I have to use this stupid ...

[Brian slams his fist into the arm of the wheelchair.]

BY: ... wheelchair to get around! Do you know how hard it is to take
your daughter to the movies in one these things?!?

[Brian Young pauses for a moment, the anger subsiding and a sadness
seems to overtake him. The Masked Outlaw sighs and lifts a finger to
his chin, the whole of his features covered by the black and silver
design of his intricate mask.  His voice is a hollow and mechanical
thing, helped along by the use of a strapped voice box... but one
would think he'd be mechanical without it.  He seems... devoid of
emotion.]

MO: I have no pity for you, Brian.  But I have less pity for the tears
of the monster that put you down... have you seen him?  Crying...
screaming... begging and pleading with Jason Keening, with Justin
Cruise, with The Spectre and the fans.  It would seem a sad state of
affairs... but we both know what he really is, don't we?  I want to
talk to you about that, Brian... I want to know what Rob Cole really
is to men like you, to men who carried that belt with pride!  Tell me
about his cowardice, his avarice, and all his pathetic little sins
that drove him to do what he did to you...

[The Masked Outlaw leans down, staring eye level with Brian Young.]

MO: Tell me... who is Rob Cole?

BY: Who is Rob Cole? You mean you don't know who the Monster the Under
the Bed is? You don't know the hardcore legend?

[Brian smirks for a brief second.]

BY: I expect you to call him a hardcore legend... At one time I would
have. But you see Rob Cole is a man who strikes fear into thousands
and yet truly is feared by no one but himself. Rob Cole wants to be a
wrestler ... no Rob Cole wants to be athlete but he became famous due
to the violence, the injuries, his blood lust ... and now Rob Cole
can't shake his hardcore stigma.  You want to know who Rob Cole truly
is?  He is nothing but a shell of the man I once respected.  Rob Cole
is nothing more then a snake that took advantage the situation and
capitalized on my injury.

[Brian pauses as he stares at the emotionless mask of the Masked
Outlaw.]

BY: That is who Rob Cole is.

[The masked wrestler rises and stares at Brian Young for a moment in
silence.  Without another word he turns and steps away from the porch,
leaving the wounded wrestler to his recovery and his thoughts.]

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

[The only thing visible on the screen are the words "Le Phénix,"
finely embroidered on the back of a shiny, orange, red, and gold
boxer's robe. Already, the PVW faithful will recognize this
accoutrement as belonging to "The Everlasting" Perry Fontana, and, as
usual, its hood is lifted onto the French-Canadian-Italian's head
while his back faces the camera. His strained right hand points at an
empty space just below his shoulder.]

PF: _THIS_ is where I came into Phoenix Valley Wrestling.

[Emphatically, he raises his arm and points at an unseen dot high
above.]

PF: _THAT_ is my destination.

[Slowly, he lowers his arm to point where he initially did. In a raspy
murmur, he continues...]

PF: Aaah ouais, this is where I came into PEE-VEE-DubbaYOU, and after
ripping Greg Bull's arm off, I now find myself...

[He raises his tense arm by about an inch.]

PF: ... here.

[Suddenly, he turns around, and his reddened face fills the screen.
Fontana's eyes are bulging, veins are popping on his forehead, his
neck muscles are strained and stretched, and spittle flies in every
direction.]

PF: THAT'S NOT HIGH ENOUGH!

[Calmly, he lowers his head, and now, the hood of his robe covers the
upper half of his face again. Only his thin lips, cleft chin, and
bushy muttonchops remain visible as he whispers.]

PF: But that's about to change, aaahh way. I just bought myself a
boarding-pass to the TOP, and I AIN'T FLYIN' COACH! It's called Ladder
Mania, cousin, and "Deathless" PERRY _FONTANA_ will. Be. There.

[A beat.]

PF: But first, we're talking Heatwave, and we're talking FIVE. MAN.
SCRAMBLE MATCH. Cousin, we're talking about four namby-pamby,
pantywaisted Milquetoasts and an IMMORTAL /DIVINITY/ in the very same
ring, fighting for a TICKET to SHATTERED DREAMS!

[Fontana flips off his hood, revealing his luxuriant black hair in all
its glory. With his sleeve, he deliberately wipes off some of the
spittle that has been accumulating on his protruding chin's beard
stubble. It becomes difficult to even hear his raspy whisperings.]

PF: I have pantsed Death in front of his sister's laughing girlfriends
not once, not twice, but SIX! TIMES!!! You see, cousin, when I broke
through the ice of Raglan Lake, near Pumivituq, when I broke through
the ice and _drowned_ ... Death said 'Damn. Damn it, Perry Fontana's
gonna do it again. He's gonna do it again, and the worst part is... my
sister's friends don't have the _slightest clue_ about shrinkage.'

[He smirks.]

PF: The girls pointed, they mocked, they laughed. And when the Inouk
fished my FROZEN _body_ out of Raglan Lake, then FAINTED when I opened
my eyes... They all knew they stood before an Immortal, cousin. Aaaah
waaay!

[Intently, he looks over his right shoulder as he hoarsely speaks.]

PF: On Heatwave, les enjeux sont grands.

[His eyes snap back to bore holes into the camera.]

PF: Cousin, I said the stakes are high, and you can bet that my scared
little opponents have been scrambling around their venerable elder,
Dr. X, seeking his wisdom for _only_ /he/ has _seen_ the MIGHT of "Il
Eterno." And like children gathering around their grand-papa's musky
Laz-E-Boy, Tom Ryder, Masked Maniac, and Michael Cox will ask Dr. X –
beg him – to tell them the tale of "The Phoenix," to tell them all
about the mystical hero Perry FONTANA! And if he is a man that can
learn a lesson – and many lessons must be learned to get a doctorate –
Dr. X will tell them this...

[As if on cue, the lights are dimmed. The scene seems lit only by a
fireplace, or perhaps a campfire, dim and flickering but warm and
cozy.]

PF: 'Children... there is no god in this universe. But if there was,
his name would be "The Everlasting" _Perry_ FONTANA! For he is the
immortal that gave Death a dirty swirlie not once, not twice, but SIX!
TIMES!! Children, I saw it first hand – I saw it with my own eyes. If
you value the use of your arms, you will get out of the man's way.'

[A pause.]

PF: And the wide-eyed children will inevitably ask... 'But nonno X,
nonno X, we can't possibly stay out of the man's way. We have a match
against this God. And we want to /win/ this match, for we want to
become the PVW NETWORK CHAMPION!' And if he is a man that can learn a
lesson – and this man is now a doctor, cousin – Dr. X will
wisely tell them this...

[Another pause.]

PF: 'Then, children, there is but one thing you can do. Get on your
knees, children, get on your wobbly little knees and pray to God –
Purr-RAY to PERRY _FONTANA_ - and BEG HIM to simply knock you out.
Because, children, Perry "Le Phénix" Fontana, knocks out the lucky
ones and AMPUTATES THE REST!'

[In a dark, ominous whisper, he adds.]

PF: ... 'Just ask Greg Bull.'

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


[The camera fades in to see Danny Daniels, standing in front of a
mirror and posing with the SUPREME World Title belt around his waist.
He turns, flexing his arms, and seems startled by the presence of the
cameras.]

D"YH"D:  Greetings!  And Salutations!  I'm the SUPREME World Champion,
Danny "YOUR HERO" Daniels- a man so nice they named me twice- and I'm
fresh off a tough but exhilarating title defense of my SUPREME World
Title against Mike Cox, "The Dude who stole my rug"!  Mike was an
outstanding opponent, his kleptomania aside, and he brought his A
game.  However, "YOUR HERO" has an A-plus-plus-plus.PLUS game that was
too difficult for the Dude to overcome!

[Danny gives a thumbs up gesture to the camera.]

D"YH"D:  The powers that be have decided to reward me for my hard work
by putting me in a tag team match this week.  Tragically, the good
people of Detroit won't be able to see a title defense.  But they will
see. ME!  "YOUR HERO", Danny Daniels- a man so nice they named me
twice.  So it's an honor for them.  Especially this one girl I met
last week.  She was a huge wrestling fan, and really wanted me, "YOUR
HERO" Danny Daniels- a man so nice they named me twice- to team up
with another wrestling favorite of hers.

[Danny walks over from the mirror to a card table chair and sits down,
carefully removing the SUPREME Title belt and setting it on his right
shoulder.]

D"YH"D:  She was singin'  "Don't turn around, uh-oh.Der Kommissar's in
town, uh-oh.  You're in his eye And you'll know why The more you live
The faster you will die."  Now, at first, I wasn't quite sure what she
meant.  Danny Daniels lives more than most people, and I'm not dying,
fast or slow.  But then I saw my match this week, and I realized that
my tag team partner is "DER KOMMISSAR", Herschal Von Walker!  OF
COURSE I'm in his eye- he needs me to help him win the match this
week!

[Danny shifts the title belt to his other shoulder]

D"YH"D:  He's been having problems with one of our opponents. one
Mister Marc Enery.  I don't know Marc at all.  He strikes me as a
rather low-key individual.  But he's in Der Kommissar's eye, and
that's not a place to be. Marc's tag team partner is a vile, evil
disgusting man- Sinestro.  You all remember how he destroyed the
career. nay, the life.  Of Jack Griffin!  And for that, he must pay!
Myself and Der Kommissar are going to thoroughly beat Marc and
Sinestro.  Because he's Der Komissar, and I'm not just a hero.
but "YOUR HERO"!  And the SUPREME World Champion.

[Danny gives the camera a finger wave.]

D"YH"D:  TOODLES~!

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

[Dr. X is walking out of the gym, a white mask over his face. A copy
of the Heatwave lineup in his hand.]

Dr. X: One week I'm a "newcomer", the next I'm a "superstar"?

[shakes his head and chuckles]

Dr. X: Only in wrestling....only in wrestling. Chicago was a blast and
now back to Detroit, hell it's been too long since I got back there
and those clubs in Windsor..ooohhh man Abby and I would cross that
tunnel and lookout!!! This time though it's going to be different.

[He tosses his gym bag into the car]

Dr. X: A five way scramble match. Now I will admit at first I thought
this was some kind of breakfast thing. But let's see we got Tommy
Ryder the Phenom. This kind of match will be right up his alley. He's
a great high flier, he's got a ton of awesome moves, but all those
moves can backfire in a heartbeat and he can crash and burn. Now let's
see who else is there...

[Looks at the lineup]

Dr. X: "The Dude You Relate Too" Mike Cox.

[He looks up]

Dr. X: The Dude You Relate Too. The Dude You Relate Too. The. Dude.
You. Relate. Too. What?  Shouldn't that be To and not Too? I'm not
even going to go on with him, it's making my head hurt.

The Masked Maniac. Two masked guys in a match like this? That could be
trouble.

[chuckles]

Dr. X: And then there's my good, dear friend and partner Perry
Fontana. Yeah we won the match last time out but we weren't exactly a
team. It was more like me standing in the corner watching you do this
arm bar, do that arm bar and you blast me during the match. Like I
said, we won the match but we weren't exactly a team. This time in
Detroit at least I'll be expecting to get hit..and this time I'm sure
as hell going to be hitting back.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Dark Soul
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Footsteps down a hall accompany darkness until the words "After
Heatwave..." show up.  A muttering voice also is heard, but whatever
is said, is impossible to decipher. Finally, the scene opens to the
quite lovely view of Candy Malone.  The camera walks steadily to try
to keep up with the beautiful blonde as she walks briskly down a
hallway of backstage dressing rooms.]

Ms. Malone:  "I'm going to kill him...no response?...what the hell...I
mean...he's just dead, that's all..."

[She continues to mutter until finally coming to a room that reads
"Dark Soul" on the door.  Beating her fist against the wall twice, she
does not wait for a response and grabs at the door handle
aggressively, firing open the door.]

Ms. Malone:  "What the hell is the matter with—"

[She stops as it is not Dark Soul she stumbles upon, but someone new.
Sitting in a chair and flipping through channels is a young woman in a
black halter top and a criminally short skirt, also black.  With
pigtails and black lipstick, one could compare her to Abby from the
show NCIS.  Her pale skin contrasts well with the black.  She turns
her head to the side and looks up at the new intruder.]

Ms. Malone:  "I'm sorry, usually I'm not this way, but just who in the
hell are you?"

[The mystery girl chuckles.]

Girl:  "Chrysanthemum."

Ms. Malone:  "I'm sorry, that's your name or what your flower shop
sells?"

[Again, she chuckles.]

Chrysanthemum:  "Oh, that Canadian wit does you wonders."

[Candy Malone seems ready to pounce on the new female, which I'm sure
everyone would want to see, but holds back.  Probably not sure how
strong she is and what information she may have.]

Ms. Malone:  "I'm sorry, we got off on the wrong foot.  I'm Dark
Soul's manager or valet and you know Dark how?"

Chrysanthemum:  "Oh, we sorta got married."

[Candy Malone's expression quickly changes to one of Larry the Cable
Guy trying to do calculus in his head.  There is a good chance she
will die of a brain hemorrhage.]

Ms. Malone:  "This is like one of those bad jokes to get me
sidetracked, right?  He knows I was pissed he basically hasn't even
cared for one moment PVW was starting back up.  That he had a match he
phoned in.  That he was more interested in knocking someone out on WII
than actually knocking someone out.  This is his little clever plan to
divert me from kicking his sorry ass all the way to the Pepsi
Coliseum."

[The Goth child shrugs her shoulders.]

Ms. Malone:  "You really are helpful.  I'm _so_ very happy you are
around.  Now, again, you are?"

Chrysanthemum:  "Mrs. Chris Werner?"

Ms. Malone:  "Ah, yes, did you hit your head?  I've known Dark a very,
very long time and I think, just a shot in the dark, I would know if
the dumbass got married."

Chrysanthemum:  "Apparently not."

Ms. Malone:  "Okay, I'm bored with you.  If you don't tell me who you
are, I'm getting security to take you back to whatever Anne Rice
convention you stumbled away from."

[She holds up her security badge giving her clearance to the backstage
area.]

Chrysanthemum:  "I think they will allow me to stay.  After all, my
husband kinda works for them."

Ms. Malone:  "Fine.  You are a member of the Dark Soul Fan Club, six
members big.  That's swell.  Can you tell me where your cult's leader
is?  You know, so that maybe I can knock some sense into him?  After
that, I'll find you a nice little mental specialist to try to deal
with an array of issues you obviously have.  Sound good?"

Chrysanthemum:  (chuckling before a smile breaks on her pale face)
"Oh, he's gone.  You know Chris, sometimes he just needs to drive and
clear his brain.  I'm here so that I could meet you, Candy.  You see,
Chris and I go way back, before you, before even Dark Soul.  By
chance, we met up last month while he was floundering.  Where were
you?  Probably at whatever doctor you see to keep that body.  And we
quickly decided that we needed one another.  So, we proved how much by
getting married."

Ms. Malone:  "So, you were really, really, really drunk.  Awesome.  He
can get that annulled really quick.  Listen, not to get all Queen Bee
on you, but this is my turf.  I could care less whatever tramp Dark's
banging to get his aggression out.  But when it comes to this
business, I am the voice of reason, the person he listens to, and the
most important person in his life.  If you accept it, we will get
along like a happy Lifetime movie, minus the lesbian vibe.  If
not...well, there will be a few...how you dark little Goths
say...problems.  Got it?"

[Chrysanthemum shows not one sign of being intimated by the angry
Canadian and instead laughs once more.  The first and only wife of
Dark Soul stands for the first time, a good couple of inches shorter
than Ms. Malone.]

Chrysanthemum:  "Very interesting, Candy.  Feeling threatened so
quickly?  I'm not here to rain on your parade or even push my way on
your turf.  I'm here because Chris needs me.  We're on the same team.
You might want to get used to it."

[Ms. Malone shows no sign of accepting that.]

Chrysanthemum:  "If not, you should understand one simple truth.  The
wife always wins.  If you fight me, I'll win.  If you beat me, I'll
win.  So we can either work together to help Chris decide how he
stands on this whole Rob Magnum thing or I'll help him decide.  Got
it?"

[The blonde grinds her teeth before responding.]

Ms. Malone:  "You look like a dead person."

[Chrysanthemum chuckles and nods toward her.]

Chrysanthemum:  "We'll get along famously.."

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

(Scene opens. We're in the aisle of some giant toy store, and we see
that the Mercenary is in a rather heated discussion with a sales
clerk.)

Merc: What do you mean that you don't have any Eeyores? Don't you
carry all the Winnie the Pooh characters?

SP: Sure we do... Here's Pooh... Kanga and Roo... and even Christopher
Robin... (points to each one as she names them)..

Merc: So then where is the donkey?

SP: Actually until you asked for him, I didn't even know that he was a
Pooh character.

Merc: Well, now you know. So, is there any chance that you'd have any
in the back storage?

SP: Kinda doubtful, but let me look it up on the computer inventory.

(the salesperson walks over to a nearby terminal, and starts punching
away on the keyboard). Hmm... we don't have any in stock... and there
aren't even any in the main warehouse in Jersey. Must not be that
popular.

Merc: Guess that's not a surprise. The other characters don't even
seem to like him. He just blabbers on in a stoned Euro-trash voice,
and they all ignore what he has to say anyways.

(the salesperson taps a few more keys and comes up with a pleasant
surprise)

SP: Ah ... Here we go... You mentioned he was Euro-trash, so I thought
I'd check our foreign stores... and there seems to be a lot of the
Eeyore donkeys being sold in the Netherlands...in fact, according to
the numbers, its the number one selling doll in the entire country.

Merc: Huh... Should expect that from a country where they legalize
drug abuse. Stoned people will buy anything.

SP: I could try to get you one... but it'll be kind of tough...They
are selling out as soon as they hit the shelves... and even if I could
get one, it would take a month or two to get here.

Merc: Damn... That's too bad... I don't have that long to wait. I was
hoping to have one for this week.

SP: Ah... Special occasion for someone special?

Merc: Uhm..no unless you mean special in the Olympic kind of way.

SP: Oh... Ok... Well, like you saw, we do have all of the other
characters. Would one of them do?

Merc: It won't have the same effect, but beggars can't be choosers...
I'll take one of the Piglets then.

SP: (takes one of the pink sweater wearing porkers off the shelf).
There you go sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?

Merc: Actually, there is. Do you have any replica Supreme Champion of
the World wrestling title belts? I didn't see any in the wrestling
belt section.

SP: That's because I don't believe that those are considered replica
belts. They would only be in that section if they were copies of a
real belt. The Supreme Champion belts are just cheap plastic toys. And
we can't even give them away.

Merc: Heh... K... I'll pick one up on my way out.

SP: Actually, I'll have one of the stockboys bring one to the till for
you.

Merc: Good idea... I wouldn't want any to see me picking one of them
up... Got a reputation to protect... And if you could have him wrap it
up first, that would be appreciated.

SP: Not a problem. Anything else?

Merc: Nah...That should do it. Just the pig and the belt...Thanks for
the help.

SP: My pleasure...

(The salesperson goes off to help a mother with a pair of unruly
twins, and Merc makes his way to the checkout... and we fade to snow.)

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Johnny Detson
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

V:  Let's clear up a few misconceptions, okay?

(The shot swoops in on our hero, Johnny Detson.  Detson just stands
there in front of a plain PVW backdrop wearing a white tee shirt that
reads "FREE GLEN PEEPS!" and a pair of black jeans.  Of course, his
trademark designer shades rest on the bridge of his nose.  He looks
straight faced at the camera and continues.)

Detson:  Because the last thing I would want is for you people to be
uneducated.

(Detson lowers his shades and winks at the camera.)

Detson:  First on the list, and even though it's been said already by
lesser people, I feel the need to share the sentiment.  I am not...
the good guy, nor am I a good guy.  I have no plans of donning the
white cowboy hat, and riding off into the sunset after the good deeds
I've done.  It's just not me, sorry to disappoint.

(Detson shrugs in an almost unapologetic way.)

Detson:  I mean it's bad enough that this place makes all new arrivals
buy this...

(Detson holds up a Webster's English to Doc Holliday Dictionary.  With
a cocky smirk he looks off camera while pointing to the book.)

Detson:  Has this joke been done before?

(Detson nods his head and he apparently gets instructions off camera.)

Detson:  No older than the fact that Holliday had to buy five of these
bad boys so he see over the dashboard.

(Bada-bing!!!  Even though his shades we can see our hero roll his
eyes as he tosses the book over his shoulder.)

Detson:  The point is kido's is that Johnstone, Inc. is not some big,
fat tub of blob evil conglomerate that I am trying to take down
because it's the right thing to do.  Well it's the right thing to do,
as in I'm doing right by me.

(Detson again, smirks at the camera.)

Detson:  So Landis did not get my help because I suddenly found
religion or the straight and narrow path.  Landis got my help because
at the present time our goals are the same.

(Detson nods in agreement with himself.)

Detson:  Another misconception that people might have is that this is
me rectifying some slight or miscarriage of justice done to me some
years ago by Hayes past.

(Detson shakes his head.)

Detson:  Again, those people would be wrong.  In fact, if it wasn't
for Tyrone Hayes, I wouldn't be here today.  Well here as in Phoenix
not here as in... well... here.  Ty gave me a call over a year ago to
boast about how great he was because he turned a nothing into a
something and that I should check it out.  And check it out I did, and
what I saw was Gibson "Tyclone" Hayes.

(Detson chuckles.)

Detson:  Now they say imitation is the best form of flattery, but I
say its compensation.  And if Tyclone Hayes over here is going to
blatantly rip me off, I want my just deserve.  And after Ty stopped
getting regularly paid, he agreed with me.

(Detson smirks.)

Detson:  So here I am, to right the wrongs perpetrated against me, or
to get justly compensated for it.  Enter Landis, who I might have
guided here and there, may have directed a certain manager away to
make a two on one affair a little more even.  Hell I may have even
saved Landis from a loss.

(Detson laughs.)

Detson:  The thing about Zero Tolerance is that you have to actually
care about the penalties for it to work.  I don't need to money; I can
always use a vacation, and hell it's not like there's no where else
that will hire me.

(Detson shrugs his shoulders innocently, smirking at the camera the
whole time.)

Detson:  And now, now Landis gets to face Tyclone which is what he
wanted, and I, I get the same result without putting in the effort or
the time.  That is what's called a win-win friends.

(Detson frowns.)

Detson:  Or it was until that jack-o Demon Shadow got involve.  Now
Shadow, you may think there is some fear some sense of trepidation on
the part of me over the stunt you pulled at Tradition, but that
couldn't be further from the truth.

(Our hero yanks off his shades and starts rubbing his forehead as he
glares down at the floor.)

Detson:  Now this may be hard for your five cent brain to grasp, but
you did exactly what I wanted you to do.

(Detson stops for a second before shaking his head.)

Detson:  Well more or less, my plan envisioned a lot less biting, but
irregardless.  You were the weapon that was supposed to plant Landis
six feet under, and see that's bad business for me.  I needed Landis
to win, to face Tyclone Hayes, you the exact opposite.  So last time I
looked you lost, DQ, submission, pinfall, you lost!  You lost your
cool like you always do and you lost the match.

(Detson shakes his head.)

Detson:  And that Friend Jack-o is not what they pay you to do.  Most
hired guns are so hired to pull the trigger, not fly off the handle.
Your way lost and my way won, which makes me... the better person!  So
excuse me if I take off running from the mad man as soon as the job's
done.  It's a winning mentality.

Detson:  So while you're off thinking of how crazy you can be or how
many people you can drop on their head remember this, at the end of
the day I am your better, not your equal.  I proved it at Tradition
and I'll prove it again until it sinks into your head and the heads of
all your pretty little voices.

(Detson laughs.)

Detson:  And we'll see who can take what.

(With that the camera fades to black.)

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Marcus Manson #1
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Marcus Manson sat on the top turnbuckle of the ring that was set up
in the center of his private gym in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The ring
had black ropes with red turnbuckle pads. The black ring apron had the
CoD logo between the old UEW and Widowmakers Inc logos. Since the last
time the ring was seen on camera, Manson has added the PVW Phoenix
logo to the ring apron as well. Manson himself wore his wrestling
gear, and his long black hair hung down, framing his face. After a
moment, he looked up at the camera and spoke.]

"Rob Magnum..."

[Manson began, pausing for a moment and shaking his head.]

"It isn't often that something catches my ear and demands my
attention.... but after Heatwave, Magnum, you demand my attention."

[Manson drops off the turnbuckle and steps through the ring ropes,
moving to the floor.]

"Magnum... you talk about memories. You mention Kolinski, Payne,
Matthews, Lester..."

[Manson half chuckles and smiles a little sadistic smile at the
mention of Mannifred Lester before continuing. ]

 "You mention Kamikaze and Styles... and you say that you miss them?"

[Manson, still moving, shakes his head.]

"Maybe you've taken one too many shots to the brain, Mags. This isn't
a business where you get attatched to people, or places... Your best
friend today might be your enemy tomorrow. People get fired... people
retire.... and people die."

[Manson grunts thoughtfully.]

"But, aside from the fact that you are, apparently, a weepy, emotional
sap... You talk about things you did, and the man you were, and the
man you thought you'd be... and that means nothing, Rob. Not now. Not
ever. Regrets will get you nowhere. And if you regret doing everything
you could to get to the top... well..."

[Manson comes to a stop in front of a display case mounted on the
wall, holding various Championship Belts. The UEW Ultimate Tag Team
Championships, the UEW Television Championship, and others hang inside
the case.]

"You're ashamed of what you did to be the best? And you dare to refer
to ANY championship as "worthless tin", then Rob... you don't deserve
to lace up a pair of damn boots."

[Manson holds up a finger.]

"If you aren't here for competition, get out.'

[Another finger.]

"If you aren't here to win titles, get out."

[A third.]

"If you aren't here to prove that you are the BEST in the world....
get out."

[A fourth.]

"If you aren't here to dominate everyone who steps in your way, no
matter the cost... get out."

[Manson scowls, and points a finger at the camera.]

"Magnum, if you're here to relive the past, to make up for your sins
in some way... If the only reason you're in PVW is to relive your
glory days, then don't waste your time. Don't waste the organization's
time, and most importantly, don't waste _MY_ time."

[Manson climbs back into the ring, the polished gold of the
championships in the display case on the wall in the background
glinting over his shoulder.]

"If you aren't here to show that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, you
stand head and shoulders above everyone else in the world as the best
in professional wrestling, then get the hell out of my ring..."

[Manson turns to exit the ring, but stops and looks back over his
shoulder at the camera.]

"And Rob.. if during this whole quest for salvation... redemption --
whatever you want to call it -- that you're on... If during this whole
thing you get in the way of me claiming MY title... I will ruin you.
Plain and simple."

[With that, Manson turns and steps out of the ring as we fade to
black.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
    Herscher von Donkerhart
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

(Scene: What appears to be a hotel room, rather what's left of a hotel
room. There are broken windows, mirrors, overturned tables, what is
left of wooden chairs strewn across the carpet. Hole are punched in
the walls everywhere and in the middle of all this is Herscher von
Donkerhardt, sitting on the floor in what appears to be a pose of
meditation. He is wearing only a pair of black dress pants and black
socks. He has his eyes closed. The camera zooms in on his face and
Herscher opens his eyes! He begins to speak in a hushed tone.)


HvD: Disrespect, this is the word that has come to sum up my time in
this promotion.  I am shown disrespect by The Mercenary. He still
chose to be disrespectful after  I beat him in the middle of the ring
in  the 4 way match. He could only win by taking advantage of the
chaos created by my "teammates" and cheated with  a school boy. I am
not even sure he was the legal man, but thanks to the (sigh) rommel
created by the mere presence of my tag team partners, I don't think
anyone else knew either.

(Herscher draws a long breath and exhales)

HvD:I am shown disrespect by the team I am booked with. I do my part
for the good of the team. I attempt to co ordinate my strategy with
theirs for our common goal. What do I get in return? I get addressed
by a fat man with the most violent and disgusting command of the
English language I have ever encountered. I am nearly hospitalized by
a large crazy man who thinks he's a doctor, and can only talk about
the people he believes are out to get him.  I am also forced to put up
with another insane man  and his equally insane wife who thinks he is
a both a doctor AND an actor! This man had  convinced himself that I
was to direct him in a movie! When working with people of such
delusion, disorganization, and.unforgivable tardiness, how is the
prospect of victory even remotely attainable?!?

(Herscher lowers his head and runs his hand through his hair, as an
act of frustration)

HvD(slowly raising his voice): Then there is the the disrespect I am
shown...... by the promotion. After the match I announced to all
within earshot that I would never again participate in a tag match!
Of course the promotion saw fit to make my next contest a tag team
match pitting me once again, against the Mercenary,  this time at the
very bottom of the card!!!

(Herscher's breathing intervals become shorter and more frequent. His
face is starting to redden and has become the picture of anger.)

HvD(now getting increasingly louder): But now I realize trying to
obtain respect from such people is foolhardy. Disrespect is the realm
of the disrespectful. When the time comes their actions will be
returned in kind. Also it is not the place of men of power to outright
look for respect, as in thier time, they dealt with those who did not
bow their heads in respect, by simply removing those heads
altogether!!!

(Hersher's face is beet red at this point. He is practically
screaming. The look of anger however has been replaced by an
inexplicable smile.)

HvD: Alas it is no longer the time of men of power. We are too
sensitive and too "civilized" for that. Men of power did not care
about such sensitivities, they did not care for those who dared to
struggle against them. In their time such men would march with their
armies against whoever was foolhardy enough to stand against them,
cutting these fools to pieces with their swords and barrage of arrows
leaving the few cowardly fugitives to be  trampled under the hoof of
rampaging  horsemen!

(Herscher now sports a smile that beams from ear to ear. As the mans
words get louder and more graphic, the smile grows and he appears to
be stifling back a fit of laughter.)

HvD: Men of power exacted a heavy price upon those who stood against
them. This price was also to be paid by the town and villages that
bore such insurrection! It was the duty ...the right of such men to
march through these places setting them ablaze, killing the residents
who dared escape! All who witnessed knew this was a punishment for
their deeds and a message to those who harbored hopes of doing the
same of what awaited them. It was only the women who had a chance for
mercy as they could only hope such men found them worthy to spend the
night with them or their troops, and not share the same fate as their
children and mothers who would be thrown down the wells, into set
fires or be ripped apart by rabid  hounds!

(Herscher has an almost glazed look in his piercing blue eyes)

Hvd: It was the  right of such men to do so as nobody was strong
enough to stand up to them! It was their duty to destroy anyone who
was. This was the way of things!

(The smiling near giggling expression of Herscher becomes more serious
now, the, scowel has returned.)

HvD: While the time of such men appears to have come and gone, My time
is here and now.  It is my destiny, my purpose to show the world that
such men of power still exist! Everything in my past, my upbringing,
my blood (puts his hand over his iron cross tattoo) compels me to
destroy all who stand against me!

HvD: This joke of a wrestler Mercenary dares to stand against me?! I
cant inflict upon him what I want, what is befitting a man of my
power, of my blood! What I can do is inflict upon him what I have
learned through many years in the rings of Europe and the streets of
Amsterdam. I can't destroy you or anyone you remotely hold dear in
conventional terms Mercenary, but I vow to unleash a fate upon you
that will have you begging to trade positions with the ones you
cherish the most!!! I am Herscher von Donkerhardt! LEVE HET BLOED VAN
DE MACHT! VERNEITIG ALLES WAT ZWAK IS!

(With that Herscher stops his rant and takes a series of long deep
breaths, in an attempt to return to his act of mediation. Fade to
black)

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Alex Martinez
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Sweat flies from his brow as his taped fist leaves a lasting
indentation on the punching bag. There's a wheezing sound, like a
whine  of protest, that comes from the deformed bag, and the camera
makes a quick half circle as the puncher looks up into the lens. His
dark hair is slick with sweat, plastered to his head. The long red
scar that runs diagonally down Alex Martinez' face is on full display
here, framed by his intense eyes and his angry scowl. The Last
American Badass, never the world's most cheerful man, looks less
pleased than usual today.]

AM: Maybe this is a joke.

[A hand, wrapped in white tape, runs through his hair.]

AM: Maybe I didn't seem scared enough of Keenin' and his little
threats to suspend me. Maybe I'm makin' SSN and PVW too much money.
And so maybe, some pinheaded genius got it in his head to play a
little joke on me.

Well, things is, I ain't laughin'.

[Martinez is silent for several beats, his expression hardening, to
emphasize his lack of mirth.]

AM: Not sure what's goin' on. Not sure why I keep drawin'... well,
let's just say that what I'm gettin' from PVW ain't exactly worthy of
a man that has my stature.

First it was a tag team match where I hadda show William Craven how to
do my move.

Then it was a glorified handicap match, where I had to take on two men
that are bed... uh, best buddies.

And now, I get to team up with Livestock and the Gutch...

[Martinez, despite his foul mood, smirks.]

AM: .... yeah, I got nothin'.

And I get to take on Justin Cruise, Will Geddings and the Mysterious
Masked Jackass. And all of that leads me to wonder just who it is who
thinks screwin' with Alex Martinez is such a good idea.

[His large hand closes into a fist, and he turns, driving it into the
punching bag, leaving another deformation along its surface.]

AM: Geddings, I guess you didn't learn last time. I guess you didn't
catch what happened to your buddy Gavin Cassel. Maybe you were too
busy gaspin' for air to see what I did to him.

If I were you, I'd make sure I caught the replay of Tradition. See, I
hurt Cassel in a way that's gonna stick with him forever. If he lives
to be ninety five years old, there'll be days when he wakes up and his
head just won't be right.

And that'll be because of me.

I hurt Cassel. And I'm comin' to hurt you. What I did to ya last time?
Droppin' ya down on your throat? That ain't nothin'. A smart man that
fights me and has enough of himself left to keep wrestlin', he don't
come back for more. But you, you're back. That takes a special kinda
stupid Geddings. You're back for a second crack at me. But I don't get
second chances.

But you can be damn sure that I'm gonna make sure that there ain't no
third time.

[Martinez punches the bag one more time before walking away. The
camera follows him to a bench, which the large man settles down on.]

AM: Teamin' with him is the Masked Outlaw. Now, I've run across a few
outlaws in my time. One of 'em is even here in PVW. Ain't none of 'em
ever been worth my time, and I'm guessin' the one behind a mask ain't
no different.

They tell me you're a mystery. They say you're enigmatic. I say I
don't give two squirts of piss 'bout any of that.

I'm a legend, and it ain't no mystery why.

You and your mystery, don't mean nothin' to me. Only mystery I'm
concerned with solvin' is how many of your vertebrae the Firebomb is
gonna crack. And in Detroit, that mystery will get a decisive answer,
so I sure as hell ain't sweatin' over you.

[Martinez begins to unwrap his fists.]

AM: And finally, roundin' out this collection of jackasses lookin' for
a trip to the ER is Justin Cruise.

Now Cruise, I'll be honest, I don't know squat 'bout you. Never met,
and I got nothin' personal against you. But thing is, I ain't a man
that needs a reason to hurt someone. You're in the match against me,
that's reason enough.

I'm here to win, and you're here to bleed, and that arrangement don't
require any more personal information than my bein' able to recognize
you when you stand across the ring from me.

[His fists unwrapped, Martinez looks down at the discarded white tape,
and then back up into the camera.]

People say that I'm on a mission from SSN. And its true, I'm gettin'
paid a whole lotta money to cripple people. But in Detroit, the only
message that'll be comin' is my own personal message. What's that
message, you ask? Well, it's a message I ain't had to give in a long
time, 'cuz I've spent years drillin' it into people's heads. But
someone is screwin' with me here, so I guess it bears repeatin'.

[Martinez stands, leaning forward and looking into the camera.]

AM: I ain't a man to be messed with. I ain't a man to be crossed. ‘Cuz
those that cross me, well, they all end up the same way. They get:

BURNED!!!

[Fade to Black.]

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

["Swingin" Dean Hayes is seated on a stool in the locker room.
Holding a mic and waiting for his signal.]

DH: Hey everyone, "Swingin" Dean Hayes here and I've tracked down a
couple of our stars here for an interview.  Please welcome "The
Phenom" Tommy Ryder and "Lady" Laurel Levinger.

[The two make their way in and have a seat on two other stools.
Neither look particularly happy.]

DH: So Tommy, let's get right to it.  How do you feel about your loss
at Tradition III?

LL: Why you...

[Laurel draws back to smack Dean, but Tommy grabs her wrist and just
shakes his head.]

TR: It's fine Laurel.  Dean, how would anyone feel?  This thing has
been going on between me and Nick for a long time and I lose the
biggest match we've had.  Not only did I lose, but I had to quit.  I
know I can beat Nick in that ring.  I just seem to have trouble
proving it.  People can say I was distracted or whatever reason that
they want for my loss.  BUT, I still lost and it's time for Nick and I
to move on.

DH: But wouldn't you like one more chance to prove you can beat him?

LL: Why Dean?  Why are you trying so hard to really stir this up?
The two of them have been in tag matches, an I quit match, War Games,
a parking lot brawl... What more do you want?  The only thing that
these two haven't had is a singles match with everyone barred from
ringside.  Which is oddly where Tommy would do the best.  What are you
hoping for?  A career vs career match?  I hate to give any credit to
Wright, but something like that would just be dumb.  They are both
starting out and only a fool would do something like that.  Tommy and
Nick will wrestle again someday, but until then you can stop pouring
gas on ashes.

[Dean's eyes are wide and his mouth is hanging slightly open.]

DH: Um, well then how about we talk about the five man scramble that
you're going to be in on Heatwave to try and get in the Ladder Mania
match for the network title?

LL: You mean the Network Title that he's...

[Again Tommy motions for Laurel to stop and she complies.]

TR: Dean, let's be honest.  I've had a lot going on outside of the PVW
lately and that's really hurt my focus.  Did it effect my most recent
match?  Well to be honest it had to.  It's time that I turned things
around and got back to doing what I'm good at... wrestling and proving
people wrong.

Laurel's complaint has been that I've been the number one contender
for the Network Title for a while and haven't had a shot...

[Laurel's facial expression says everything.  That is her opinion and
she isn't happy.]

TR: But, what she seems to forget is that I've been busy with other
things.  Well the other things are done for now and it's time for me
to get back on track and prove that I desire a shot at that title.
I've never asked to be handed anything and I don't plan to start now.

I had a stumbling block, but now I'm focused and my sights are set on
a prize that I WILL prove I am worthy of.

DH: Well that's all the time we have.  I would like to thank Tommy and
"Lady" Laurel for their time here tonight and I wish you all the luck
in your match.

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

[The screen is dark.  The voice of Nick "Always" Wright speaks.]
"If it's war they want..."

[A floodlight shoots into the sky, cutting the darkness in two.  Two
men are silhouetted against the beam.  The light angles toward the
camera, and the outlines of the men become blurred with pure white
light bleeding over their frames from behind.]

[The voice of "Pokerface" Mark Masterson speaks.]
"Then it's war they'll get."

[A front light illumniates both men so we can see The Made Men fully.
Both have a focused and determined air about them; typical for
Masterson, but something not often seen in Wright.  Their voices
continue to voice-over the tableau of the men standing.]

[Wright]
"One bump on the road is behind us.  Levinger and his girlfriend Ryder
have been put in their place."

[A smirk ever so briefly crosses the face of Wright before the focus
returns.]

[Masterson]
"Now we show PVW what it 'War is Hell' means."

[Wright]
"It means broken bodies..."

[Masterson]
"...shattered bones..."

[Wright]
"...blood on the battlefield..."

[Wright again deviates mildly from his intensity to stand up a little
straighter.  Masterson's focus has not wavered.]

[Masterson]
"...but most of all, it means that someone comes back a champion..."

[Wright]
"...and everyone else just doesn't come back."

[Masterson]
"Urban Legend, you're about to be just another casualty of war.  Rage,
Baldwin, Estrada: the same.  When we're done, there's going to be a
sad phone call and tears on the other end of the line."

[Wright]
"Because we're Widowmakers.  That's what we do."

[They both stalk off toward the camera, growing larger and larger
until they exit from the sides of the screen, at which point the
lights are cut and the screen goes dark once more.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Masked Maniac
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Black.  Gentle pan flute music whistles as a scene of serenity fades
in on the screen.  Sitting before a roaring fireplace, sipping from a
silver teaset, is the Masked Maniac.  Sitting upon the mantle above
the fireplace are photos depicting a black family.  Mind you, while
not much skin is visible on Maniac, what's visible is white.]

MM: Hello, and welcome to the Masked Maniac after school special about
retards.

[With that horrible, offensive foreshadowing, Maniac sets the stage.
The camera view widens to show the cast of that equally offensive
movie "The Ringer" surrounding our favorite masked goofwad.]

MM:  Today is a special day, and it's after school time (summer,
actually), and we're on TV, so...  Where was I?  Oh yeah.  You see,
retards are people too ... stupid people who wear diapers, or simply
drip feces out their pant legs.  Of course, there is the common
retard; "Retardus Domesticus".

[Removing a tea bag his cup, Maniac nonchalantly tosses it into the
fireplace where it explodes violently in an alcoholic blue fireball.
Maniac, naturally, doesn't even seem to notice.

Standing, Maniac takes a sip from his cup, and the camera follows him
as he walks over to a slouching young man.]

MM: Notice the weird, kinda ... puffy forehead.  It's like, uh, I
dunno, that Corky kid from Life Goes On.  Retardus Domesticus talks
kinda funny, moves in a gimpy way (in spite of being physically fine)
and in general makes you feel all queasy inside.

[Moving on.  Maniac approaches a drooling, safety goggled, helmeted
middle-aged giant of a ... okay, it's Gene Gaines acting mentally
deficient.]

MM: And here we have the Megatard.  Retardus Rex is an advanced form
that urinates from its mouth and nose and has a diet consisting mostly
of its own foot skin.

GG: ORANGE HELMET!

MM: Yes, yes my friend, your helmet is indeed orange.

GG: I have a gallon of soup!

[Making momentary eye contact with his oversized friend, Maniac
perhaps indicates that Gene's gone too far.]

GG: Barack Obama is a gay nazi who's killing America by making poor
people's lives better!

[...Or perhaps that he hasn't gone far enough.  Nope, a single buggy
eye shoots a sideways glance at the camera lens as Maniac grins
nervously.  Without another word, he goes to the next young man, or
rather, giant baby.  Yes, wearing a diaper and sucking on a large
pacifier, a big hairy fat guy shakes a rattle for the camera.
Inexplicably wearing the kind of face cage that keeps mental patients
from biting asylum workers, he makes continual flatulent sounds.  Hey,
that just might be Gutch Bartilucci.  He's big enough, and you can't
see his face, so why not!?]

MM: Then we, of course, have the "Retardus Fornicatus" or *BLEEP*tard.
A *BLEEP*tard is someone so retarded that nobody will ever *BLEEP*
them.  Ever.  They're constantly marinading in their own sewage, eat
human flesh, and watch nothing but DVR'ed episodes of American Idol.

Gutch?: Arglebargle!  Foofaraw!  PPPPPPPPPBBBTTT!!!  SANJAYA!

MM: Yes, excellent ... nice puddle of spittle there.  Now, finally,
the sub-dirt foundation of retardation.  In layman's terms, it's known
as the "Supermega*BLEEP*tard", and is so stupid as to not have a Latin
name in spite of its suspect Latino origins. To those in the know,
such as me, it has another name...

     "El Outlaw Loco"

[Aaand we have an Outlaw impersonator.  It appears to be “Mean” Ed
Green in a mask. He crosses his eyes and hugs himself while rocking
back and forth.]

EG: Señal.  Señal.  Señal...

[Shaking his head sadly, Maniac pats Ed on the shoulder ... then
shoves him over.]

EG: Señal?

MM: The lowest of the low, these creatures have no language, but
rather spout a random assortment of curses and the odd word of a dead
language.

EG: *BLEEP*, Señal.

MM: While they can get *BLEEPED*, it's only by LOLcats and the needle
holes in car tires.  These unfortunates somehow luck into things they
don't deserve, all the while looking like cartoon characters from some
sort of Anime made in Zimbabwe.

Oh, and they also grow bitchtits, or "moobs", in layman's terms.
Sadly, there is no role in our modern society for Outlaw Locos.
Carnivals no longer take freaks, attempts to put them to work at
McDonalds resulted in patrons being burned with hot grease and left to
their own devices they will certainly make a horrible army of half
LOLcat half Supermega*BLEEP*tards.

[Moving to the fireplace, Maniac picks up a fire poker, and thrusts it
into a flaming log.]

MM: Naturally, this leaves us, the God-fearing citizens of normality,
America only one recourse.

[Said flaming log is flung onto the carpeted floor, and within seconds
an inferno's going, fueled by shag and drywall, as Maniac exits the
room and locks it with an audible click.  The orange helmeted Gene
Gaines is the first to object.]

GG: Dude, what the *BLEEP*?

MM (muffled): The corporation owns you!

EG: We're gonna die, aren't we?

GG: I gotta find a better gig.

[Everyone moves to the door to try and rip it open.  Fade to black as
the sounds of panic and a crackling fire are heard.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
     Dr. Mal Practice, M.D.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The scene opens at the Kevorkian Institute Of Painless Medicine in
Auburn, New York.  An outside shot shows the two-story white
building... smallish yet modern-looking, with black tinted windows, in
a neighborhood that looks residential.  A nice green lawn, a small
parking lot in the rear, and a modest two-lane road going by... very
nice looking.

Then we go inside.

The cameraman walks through the front door, goes through a red-
carpeted waiting room where patients sit, reading year-old magazines
and listening to metallic-sounding Muzak, and opens a wood-paneled
door.  It's a sound-proof "airlock" of sorts... we then open the
second door...

...and a WAVE of screaming, crying, and machinery sounds hit the
listener all at once, like in a horror movie!  The camera goes down
the halls; the screaming, begging for mercy, and such continue off
camera.  We see a door at the end of the hall, with a nameplate on
it...

                        DR. MAL PRACTICE, M.D.

The cameraman opens the door, and we see a combination office-
examination room.  The wood-paneled walls are covered with medical
charts of all types and description. Machinery of all kinds are set
throughout this room... is that a table saw we see?!  On an
examination table?!

Then we see the desk.  It is brown-painted metal, and has papers all
over; an in-box, an out-box, a pen holder, a pencil holder, a
chainsaw... a CHAINSAW?!  And a power drill?!  And a syringe the size
and shape of a shotgun?!

Standing behind the desk is a man that many have seen, but few have
known.  Mal is very tall, with a powerful build.  He has a distinctive
salt-and-pepper flat-top hairdo, and a pencil-thin mustache.  Thick
black eyebrows are visible underneath a pizza-cutter shaped doctor's
headmirror.  A white lab coat is draped over his large frame.  The
larger half of PAIN is presently on the telephone, utterly oblivious
to the cameraman.]


Dr. Mal Practice M.D. (on the phone): Now look here, the surcharge was
to remove the abcess from your gall bladder.  It's not my fault that
you didn't tell me you were allergic to depleted uranium...  ...
...well of COURSE I used powdered depleted uranium in the sandblaster,
how else could I have scoured out the lead from your stomach lining?
...  ... well of COURSE there was lead in your stomach lining, I had
to add fifteen pounds of pressure to your stomach wall to wedge out
the caulk gun that got stuck in there when I was sealing the
intestinal contusions you caused when you twitched during surgery!
You know, you shouldn't twitch when your surgeon is using a roto-
rooter to clean out your intestinal tract. ...   ... well, I'm sorry
about that, but my anasthesiologist is in Los Angeles because he
thinks he's an actor.  But that's neither here nor there.  First we'll
have to schedule a surgery to take care of that rectal pain you're now
complaining of.  ...  ... hello?  Hello?


[Mal angrily slams down the phone, then pushes a button to activate
the intercom with his secretary.]


Dr. Mal: Marge, please bill Mr. Bell an additional six hundred dollars
for rescheduling his surgery.


Secretary: Yeah, yeah.  By the way, your four o'clock is there.


Dr. Mal: What?  It's only three-ten!


Secretary: Have you gotten the clock fixed since that slip-up with the
five-year old and his blood test?


[Mal straightens up, and turns his head slowly to the right, with that
sheepish expression of someone who just knows he's not going to like
what he sees.  Sure enough, there's still a turkey baster with a
bayonet attached to the front, jammed into his wall clock.  He then
does the same slow turn to see the camera, and sighs.]


Dr. Mal: Well, no problem.  Let me clean up and we can start filming.
By the way, you need to fix the red light on top of your camera, it's
malfunctioning.


[Mal reaches over to his desk, snatches a handkerchief, and tosses it
over the camera lens.  In the moment where we are blinded, we hear
rushed sounds of things clanking together, movement, and some
muttering.  The handkerchief falls off the camera, and we see the desk
again... only this time, the chainsaw, drill, and shotgun syringe are
gone!  In their place are an innocent-looking anatomy statue,
and a cartoonish model of the human heart.

Mal sits at the desk, with a totally innocent look on his face.  You
can almost see the halo over his head.]


Dr. Mal: Okay, start filming now...

Greetings once again to all my devoted Practisites!

It has been a long, long time since your good close personal friend
Dr. Mal has had a chance to speak directly to you, the people.  Thus
far in my tenure with Phoenix Valley Wrestling, I've not had an
opportunity to do much beyond attempt to collect a long overdue debt
from that thief Jack Baldwin, try to negotiate a deal with a refugee
from the North African dictatorship Holland, answer the vapid shallow
questions of a faux Hayes, and of course, attempt to reclaim the soul
of the most beloved humanitarian to come from China since Mao Tse-Tung
himself, the great Dr. Ohno Ow.  Unfortunately, the demonic forces of
the movie industry have brainwashed Ohno, turning him from his true
calling.

And really, this comes as no surprise.  Our many enemies are
threatened by the advances we have made in medical science; advances
that would take the massive influx of money away from the
pharmaceutical companies that try and drug our society into a stupor
without actually curing anything, and put it into our pocket...
WHOOPS, I mean, back into our economy which is in desperate need of
such a change. No doubt, when Jack Baldwin and Jason Keening cost Ohno
and myself the one million dollar match at the Partners In Crime tag
team touranment two years ago, that set off this whole horrible chain
of events that led to Ohno's downfall.

And we're supposed to be surprised that Keening just SUDDENLY happens
to show up in charge of "Zero Tolerance"?  I think not.


[Suddenly, a loud, piercing shriek is heard from the hallway; a scream
of pain akin to what you'd expect if someone had shoved an icepick
into someone's spine.  Mal's face darkens a bit, and he gets up from
his chair and wanders to the door.  He shouts down the hallway,
presumably to one of his procedure rooms.]


Dr. Mal: NOT NOW!  WAIT UNTIL I'M DONE WITH THESE PVW RUBES BEFORE YOU
USE THE ICEPICK!  YOU DON'T NEED TO STABILIZE THE SPINE UNTIL YOU'RE
READY TO USE THE BLOWTORCH ANYWAY!


[Mal shuts the door, and returns to his desk, his face resuming his
fake innocent gleam.]


Dr. Mal: We'll just edit that bit out.  Pick back up here.


[And then, a shriek of someone who sounds like they're having an
icepick removed from their spine.  Mal's face panics a it, but quickly
shifts right back into fake grin mode.]


Dr. Mal: No doubt that scream you just heard was coming from one of
the jealous weasels in Washington who now know that I am wise to their
tricks!  Obviously, the conspiracy that has been opposing me for
years, and which is now also targeting our American icon Gibson "Too
Good For Television" Hayes, has employed Keening to make sure that
muppet Jack Baldwin and his puppeteer Judd Marley (whose family lives
in shame because of him I might add) can keep me from reclaiming Ohno
Ow's sanity.  As we all know, I am the sanest man in PVW if not the
entire world, and given a healthy work environment, I can reach Ohno
and remind him of the great man he truly is.  However, that healthy
work environment cannot exist in a world run by Jason Keening. Nor can
it exist in a world where the Wild Cards are allowed to run amok,
targeting Ohno and myself and destroying our efforts to make the world
a healthier, better place.

You see, the pharmaceuticals that we as a culture are addicted to,
which are passed out like candy by so-called physicians who have never
actually cured anyone of anything in their lives... these drugs are
used by the givernment conspiracy to make the minds of the populace
supple, docile, and easily manipulated.  Case in point: Jack Baldwin.
Noone's mind is more supple, docile, and easily manipulated than his.
And you should see the pharmaceuticals he takes!  I mean, isn't it
obvious?  I guarantee those little packets of white powder he carries
around in his gym bag are not Sweet And Low.  And if the government
has it's way, your children will grow up to be just like him.  Easily
dominated sheep with no real minds of their own.

Now, that's a very bleak picture.  And you might ask me, "Dr. Mal, you
handsome genius visionary you, what can we possibly do to stop this?
How can we, the simple masses, possibly help heroes like yourself,
Gibson "The Only Real Champion" Hayes, and that champion of morality
Todd Johnstone against the insidious conspiracy that already holds us
all down with the System?  They have already established the status
quo, what can we possibly do to help?"  I am here to tell you, you CAN
make a difference!

Yes, you!


[With that, Mal reaches down behind his desk, and produces a hardcover
book.  A book with his face on the cover.]


Dr. Mal: My friends, in a day and age of fast travel, fast lifestyles,
fast food, and multiple new ailments and diseases that develop before
the typical unimaginative physicians can treat them... you need a
helping hand.  Stop paying those overpriced lobotomized rejects they
march out of med school... instead, send your money... I mean, put
your faith in ME, your friend Dr. Mal.  My innovative techniques can
cure anything from the common cold to a kidney stone to a broken
uvula.  And now you too can have the benefit of my knowledge!

That's right, now YOU can buy my SEVENTH EDITION book... Painless
Medicine the Mal Practice Way!  Learn all the secret techniques that
will save you a bundle by allowing you to perform your own physical
healing therapy at home!  And it's ONLY $89.95!  What a steal... I
mean... what a deal!  And all proceeds will go directly to the Ohno Ow
Sanity Reclamation Fund!  Yes, psychiatric rehabilitation is an
expensive process, and so is the legal battle to get Baldwin and
Keening to pay up the money they owe me.  My crack legal team is even
now attempting to get Keening deported to the Chippewa nation, or
whatever primitive Eskimo tribe he comes from, so that I can heal
Ohno's mind without the shackles of oppressive rules solely designed
to keep Ohno from having the experience of an actual wrestling match,
and thus jogging his memory.  Your generous donation will defray those
costs, and also pay for other psychological therapy, such as a stay at
an exclusive resor... WHOOPS, I mean state-of-the-art psychiatric
facility in the Bahamas.

Just call the number flashing at the bottom of your screen, operators
are standing by!

[A phone number flashes at the bottom of the screen, but I guess you
probably don't want to buy his book so I won't tell you what it is.
Anyway, Mal's secretary breaks through on the intercom.]


Secretary: Mal, the Mercenary is on line two.  Says your check didn't
clear, and until you pay up front he's not going to off the annoying
happy Chinese girl even if she did scribble all over his Haliburton
with pink Crayola during the match last Heatwave.


[Mal facepalms, and pulls the phone cord out of the wall.]


Dr. Mal: Uhhh... ha ha, that's some kooky off-the-wall humor from my
lovable octogenarian secretary who may even keep her job if you can
provde me with your generous, much-needed donations!  You'll have the
satisfaction of knowing that you contributed to removing a blight from
the face of humanity, and boy do I ever mean that.  Be sure and order
now, and you'll be able to keep up with the revolutionary theraputic
techniques that I will use to singlehandedly cure Baldwin and two
other random slobs off the street on this upcoming Heatwave!

The doctor is out!


[And mercifully, we fade.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Marcus Manson #2
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Marcus Manson: You've got to be kidding me...

[Manson is watching one of the LCD screens mounted on the far wall of
his gym in Pittsburgh. Tradition III is on the screen and Manson looks
to be reviewing the Benedict/Grimmson match. Manson still wears his
wrestling attire, but now usual has his shoulder length black hair
pulled back into a tight ponytail. Johnathan Regnigh is at his side,
wearing a black WMIpolo shirt and khaki shorts with black sandals.
His right arm is still in a heavy cast.]

Johnathan Regnigh: What do you mean?

Marcus Manson: Benedict. Is he a wrestler or a street fighter?

Regnigh: I think they prefer the term "Mixed Martial Artist" these
days. They're touchy. Like flight attendants.

[Manson turns his head to Regnigh and gives him a quizzical look.]

Manson: What the hell do Flight Attendants have to do with anything?

Regnigh: Well, in this instance, calling an MMAer a street fighter
would kinda be like calling a Flight Attendant a "Stewardess". They
get all huffy and then start crying and their mascara runs
everywhere... it's a mess.

Manson: Heh. Alright, let's see how this works. Should be no sweat.

[Manson turns and takes a step before sliding into the custom
wrestling ring he has in the center of his gym. A man of respectable
build standing about 6'4 waits there, decked out in muy-thai shorts, a
headguard, and the MMA-style gloves. He cocks his neck from side to
side, bouncing on the balls of his feet and swinging his arms,
loosening up. Manson bounces back against the ropes a few times before
meeting his sparring partner in the center of the ring.]

Regnigh: Ok.. so, uhm... [Regnigh checks a clipboard, flipping through
a few sheets of paper before coming to one with the dude's name on
it.] Uhh... Dakota? Really? Like, North and South? Did your parents
not like you?

[Dakota shoots Regnigh an unfavorable look, shaking his head.]

Dakota: Do you want me to come down there and break your other arm?
Regnigh: Hey! Come on now, I'm not the one who named you, it's your
parents you should be mad at. Anyway, looks like you've signed all the
proper release forms, and we're ready to go. Standard rules apply, no
low blows, no closed fists, et cetera. Get to it.

[Dakota nods and comes at Manson, circling around him. Manson goes for
a collar and elbow tie-up but Dakota dances away, taking a few shots,
one connecting with Manson's shoulder with a very audible smack.]

Regnigh: One point to Big D. Watch him Marc, he's quick for his size,
that's why I picked him. Benedict will be a little faster though.

[Manson growls and swings, but Dakota again dodges out of the way, and
plants a spinning backfist on Manson's back. Marcus takes a step
forward and spins, grabbing for D's wrist, but Dakota hits him with a
muy-thai kick to the ribs. As Dakota's kick hits, Manson cracks Dakota
across the face with a left hook. D staggers back a bit, and Manson
gets him in a front facelock.]

Regnigh: Uh oh, look out Big D!

[Manson cinches up on Dakota's head, weathering a storm of rights and
lefts pounding on his sides before raining down forearm shots on
Dakota's back.]

Manson: The key it seems, is once you have a hold of them... Don't...
let... go!

[Manson quickly throws D's arm over his shoulders and performs a ring-
shaking snap-suplex. heeding his own advice he doesn't let go, instead
floating over into a mount position and absolutely hammering down on
D's head with rights and lefts of his own.]

Regnigh: Watch those closed fists, Marc! One! Two! Three! Four!

[Manson pulls Dakota up by the headgear just as Regnigh reaches four,
and clubs D with a few more forearm shivers across the back. With D
doubled over, Marcus whips him into the ropes, pressing him high into
the air. As Dakota starts his descent, Manson catches him over his
shoulder and snaps him down to the mat with huge impact.]

Regnigh: Manson with the flap-jack spinebuster and the crowd goes
wild! Raaaaaaaaaah!

[Manson rolls his eyes as he picks Dakota back up. To his credit Big D
takes some shots at Manson but they don't have the impact they did at
the beginning of the sparring session. When Dakota fires off a right
hand shot, Manson grabs his wrist, twisting it behind his head and
nailing him with a Heart Punch that crumples the fighter to the mat.]

Regnigh; Stick a fork in Big D, because he is DONE!

[Manson covers Dakota, hooking a leg. Regnigh slaps the ring apron as
he counts.]

Regnigh: One! Two! Three! Ring the bell it's over!

[Manson slides out of the ring, grabbing a towel and wiping sweat from
his brow.]

Regnigh: Hey, didn't you say something about "No Sweat"?

[Manson jerks a thumb over his shoulder at D still writhing around in
the ring.]

Manson: That was his.

Regnigh: Riiiiight. So, what do you think?

Manson: Pfff. About Benedict? Piece of cake. C'mon, let's get lunch.

Regnigh: You're buying.

[Manson pops Regnigh on his good shoulder]

Manson: Don't make ME break your other arm.

[Fade.]

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

The statue of liberty pops up on the screen,

Voice Over: Tom Landis hates America.

An image of Tom Landis, being all hateful and junk.

V/O: Tom Landis hates that people that are not like him can find
opportunity in America.

Another photo of Landis but this time it is him photoshopped with
Byron Byron De La Beckwith at a "gentleman's club" meeting.

V/O: It kills Tom Landis to see his neighbor to the south's tolerance
and acceptance of those not from the "right" kind of people.

Tom Landis's head crudely glued onto David Duke's body.

V/O: Tom Landis isn't fighting Gibson Hayes only because Tom Landis
hates America. Tom Landis also hates Gibson for another reason. A
reason that can be boiled down to simple black and white answer.

The image of Landis with Doc Holliday from Tradition III. The camera
starts to zoom in on the image and the sounds of a march start playing
as the zoom gets closer and closer. Sounds of speeches, in German,
kick up and the image starts to rotate and little bits of flame
graphic now line the edges.

V/O: It kills Tom Landis to see Gibson Hayes and Big Bubba Hayes
succeed in a "black & white" world.

The previous image goes photo negative.

V/O: But you can help stop Tom Landis from destroying our land of
opportunity, liberty and freedom.

Quick cut to Tom Landis holding up a mosiaced title belt.

V/O Together, you and I can make sure no one mistakes Tom Landis for a
hero. Together we can all get behind a true American, a true hero, a
truely great human being.

Ta-da! Gibson Hayes is standing on some rocks in front of a forest
with a bald eagle on his right shoulder and the US flag waving behind
him. Gibson stares off to the right, looking all stoic and concerned.

V/O: Support Gibson Hayes. A vote, voice, and monetary donation to
Gibson Hayes is one for America. Show those no good "black & white"
folks from up north that we don't subscribe to their vision.

Cut to: Gibson Hayes "BELIEVE" poster. This poster shows Gibson
standing with his fists on his hips, looking towards the upper right
hand corner while the statue of liberty stands over his left shoulder
and an outline of the lower 48 states rests behind the two on a yellow
background with the word: BELIEVE underneath the image in simple white
letters.

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

Voice of Gibson Hayes: I'm Gibson Hayes and I know this message is
100% true!

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

[The scene opens on a forest at night.  By the time stamp in the
corner of the screen we can see that it is about 8PM on the 4th of
July.  The camera pans across the scene, unable to see anything
clearly through the dense forest on this dark night.  Nothing
that is, except for the occasinal pair of eyes glowing through the
trees.  Over the camera, we hear faint gorwling, and the camerman's
panicked breathing.  We see a hand, shaking nervously reach up,
switching the camera over to night vision, allowing us to see the
forms those eyes are attached to... they are the eyes of wolves
circling in the dark.  We hear an audible gasp from the cameraman, as
he swings the camera back and forth, confirming that they are closing
in from all around.]

Camerman: [whispering to himself] Sh[CENSORED]!


[Making a break for it, we see the camera moving quickly through the
woods, shaking as the camerman carries it over the rough terrain in a
sprint, not daring to put it down lest he lose the only thing that
allows him to see clearly.  We hear the sounds of his quickened steps
crunching leaves and snapping twigs beneath his feet, and then, in the
distance behind him, we hear the haunting sound of a wolf's howl.]

Wolf:  *HOWLS*


[Now in a panic, he begins running faster, the camera swinging back
and forth desperately looking for some sign of safety... and then it
fixes on something.  A sign of hope.  A glow up ahead of someone's
campfire.  In desperation, another howl resounding out behind him as
he runs.]

Wolves: [more this time] *HOWLS*

[With one last burst of energy, the light growing ever brighter as he
nears, he makes it to the source, the light now blinding through the
camera's night vision.  Suddenly the camera's view swings and falls
suddenly, as the cameraman lets out a yelp.]

Camerman:  Aaugh!


[Switching the camera back to normal vision, we suddenly find
ourselves staring a wolf directly in the eyes.  The camera pulls back
quickly, as we hear the sounds of the camerman scrambling back over
rocks and the hard earth.  The wolf now stands facing the camera, not
making a move in advance, the camera visibly shaking from the
camerman's terrified state.]

???: [amused] Hahahahahhaa!

[Turning towards the sound of the unexpected feminine laughter, we see
that we are in a clearing with a campfire, all the brush having been
cleared away from this spot... and sitting before the fire are none
other than "Bloodlust" Xavier Feyr and Lilith Pain.  Xavier sits,
wearing his trademark black trenchcoat, holding a stick with several
strips of meat which he is currently roasting of the fire, his eyes
distant as if something else is on his mind, paying no attention to
the wolf or the cameraman.  Lilith sits a little further back from the
fire, looking towards the camerman, covering her mouth in a fake
demure fashion as she giggles.]

Lilith:  About time you showed up.  Didn't we tell you to get here
before sundown? [mockingly] It's dangerous out here at night... you
might be eaten by wolves or something.

[In response to this the camera whips back to the wolf again, which is
now simply starig at the meat Xavier is cooking. It looks on hungrily
and starts to take a step forwards, but hesitates.  The camera then
whips back Lilith and Xavier who seem unconcerned about the wolf, then
back to the wolf again.  Lilith laughs again, apparently amused by the
camerman's unease.]

LP:  Oh, don't worry about him.  I can assure you that he's quite
tame.


[As if to make her point, Lilith reaches out and takes a small piece
of the meat Xavier is roasting over the fire, and holds it out towards
the wolf, clicking her tongue at it.]

LP: [As if beckoning a dog] Tik-tik-tik.  Here, boy!  Here boy!


[The wolf hesitates at first, looking at Xavier, but then walks
slowly over to Lilith and sniffs the meat.  Lilith holds it in the
palm of her hand, and the wolf licks it, and then proceeds to
literally eat right out of Lilith's hand.]

LP: [To the camera] See? [to the wolf, as she begins scratching behind
its ears] Good boy!  Good boy!

[The wolf licks it's lips, and then begins to rub against Lilith,
apparently enjoying what Lilith is doing.]

LP: [speaking to the camera as she continues to scratch the wolf's
ears] He's such a sweetheart now, isn't he?  He loves people now.  But
he wasn't like that when we found him, no.

[Lilith begins stroking the wolf's fur, and it begins rubbing against
her, apparently loving all the affection it's getting.]

LP:  He was young when we found him out here... but he was still wild.
He'd try to bite anyone that got close to him.  He was just like any
other wolf... a predator... a born killer.

Wolf: [panting]

LP:  People would have rightly feared him had he continued to grow up
in the wild... but we found him, caught in a trap, and I just had to
take him in.  It's fun to have playthings. [A slightly twisted smile
crosses Lilith's face] He resisted at first.  He was wild at heart.
He wanted to roam free, and hunt, and run with the pack, just like any
other wolf.  But over time, we grew on him.  He spent so much time
away from the wild that he forgot what it meant to be a wolf.  And
now, he's just like any other house pet.  Living only for the
affection of his masters.

[Lilith begins rubbing the wolf's around the ears, and the wolf begins
panting more loudly, even licking her face.]

LP: [speaking to the wolf like one would a small child] You're just
adorably pathetic now, aren't you?  Aren't you?  You're not even a
real wolf anymore?  No, you're not.  No, you're not!

[As Lilith continues playing with the wolf, that is still acting like
an overgrown puppy, Xavier pulls the last of the meat out of the fire.
He first gives a piece to the wolf, that sits down, and looks at
Xavier obediently as he hands another piece to Lilith, keeping the
last of it for himself.  The wolf never takes its eyes off Xavier,
until Xavier looks down into the wolf's eyes and gives it a quik sharp
nod, at which the wolf begins gorging itself on the meat it's been
given.]

LP: [to the camera, as she picks off some choice bits of meat with her
fingers, still staring at the wolf] You know... for the longest time,
we couldn't figure out what to call this little guy.  But then, after
Tradition III, Xavier came up with the perfect name for him....

[Lilith pauses moment, as she licks some of the juices of the meat
off her fingers.  She eyes the wolf for a moment that is now sittting
on the ground, licking what else it can get off the bone.]

LP: ...so now... we call him Holliday.  Isn't that just too perfect!

[At last Xavier breaks his silence, as he casually retrieves a few
beers from a cooler.]

Xavier Feyr:  Yes, indeed, it's the perfect name for him.  Because you
see, Doc, he's just like YOU.

[Xavier hand Lilith one of the beers, and takes a seat on a rock,
tossing one in the cameraman's direction, an unusually polite gesture
for the PVW madman.  One that the cameraman wisely does not discount
as he mumbles a quiet "thank you" and quickly opens the can and starts
drinking.]

XF:  Or at least, that is, he's just like you are now, old friend.
And I have to say it Doc... so far, I've been very VERY disappointed
in you.  Here you are, born a wolf in the wild.  A hunter... a KILLER.
A man who probably killed his own father, no less.  And yet, now you
stand, a docile pet of those pathetic human cattle.

[Xavier's eyes become distant again, as he speaks, as though
reflecting on some distant time.]

XF:  You ask me if I really think the better man won at Tradition
III... and all I can say Doc, is that the Doc Holliday I remember
could have won that match, with those same odds, BLINDFOLDED.  The
better man didn't win... the better man beat himself, when he put
showing off to those pathetic human cattle ahead, instead of focusing
on the kill.

[Xavier's expression darkens, still not focusin on the camera, and his
voice turns towards one of barely contained anger.]

XF:  You've always been a wolf in sheeps clothing, Doc.  You've kept
that thin facade going for year, and for a long time it made you
something far more dangerous.  But what I saw at Tradition III Doc was
different... you've been wearing that same disguise too long, my
friend.  You're still a wolf at heart, but one that's worn sheep's
clothing so long that he's forgotten who he really is.


[Xavier clutches the can in his hand, and we here it crunch, the foam
bursting out as Xavier's rage bubbles up to the surface.  The wolf
whimpers and slinks back from Xavier.]

XF:  You had him Doc... you had that pathetic joke Gibson Hayes beaten
int he middle of the ring, despite everything, and what did you do?
You  HESITATED.  You just had to show off to the sheep, didn't you?
You've let them tame you, Doc!  You're wolf, who thinks he's a sheep!
A leader among, sheep, but still a SHEEP!  You think that's what I
want to face, Doc?  You think that's a challenge for me? [pointing a
finger towards the wolf "Holliday"] I don't want this pathetic shadow
of what you are!


[Xavier springs to his feet and slings the can right into the fire,
the flames flickering, and dying down somewhat.  The cameraman seems
to almost fall backwards startled by the outburst, as Xavier screams,
almost foaming at the mouth, and "Holliday" cowers behind Lilith.]

XF: I want the REAL DOC HOLLIDAY!  I want the backstabbing, cut
throat, son of a b[CENSORED] that wouldn't think twice about maiming a
man for life if it got him ahead!  I want the Doc Holliday who was
willing to kill his own kin for he did to him!  I want the Doc
Holliday that turned Widowmakers, Inc. into the most feared group in
all of wrestling.  And you'd better be him by then, Doc!  Because
that's the only way you will ever EVER have a chance of surviving me!
YOU HEAR ME DOC!?  YOU HEAR ME!?

Wolf: *whimpers*

[Xavier breathes heavily for a few moments, before turning away... as
he does, mumbling his final words.]

XF:  You should know better than anyone, Doc... against me, it will be
nothing less than.... survival of the fittest.


[As Lilith comforts the still cowering wolf, Xavier stands, staring
off into the night, returning to his usual brooding, and the scene
fades mercifully to black.]

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

[The scene fades in to a shot of the Los Angeles Staples Center where
there are throngs of people surrounded by numerous law enforcement
officers. News reporters are seen throughout various locations around
the arena perimeter and the fortunate few who were selected to receive
tickets to actually attend the Michael Jackson memorial are being
ushered in by very tight security.  Various limousines, SUV’s,
motorcycles and people on foot are moving about in an attempt to
either get as close as possible, sign one of the very large cards with
Michael Jackson’s picture upon it, or just be around other fans who
are paying homage and respect to arguably the most popular entertainer
the world has known. As the PVW camera pans in amongst the activity, a
rather large individual is seen standing amongst the crowd and is
speaking with various people.  The man known to PVW as Sinister dons a
white short-sleeved shirt with a picture of Michael Jackson’s Thriller
album printed on it.  He is wearing black slacks and black dress shoes
as he takes in the environment]

[Sinister makes his way to one of the large boards where hundreds of
people have written an homage and he writes a paragraph of respect and
appreciation as well.  He passes his pen to a fan who looks on
anxiously and smiles widely.  The fan thanks Sinister and begins to
furiously write on the board.  The PVW camera zooms in on Sinister]

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen, I hope all of you are well.  This
is going to be a different style of diatribe today because of the
obvious circumstances. I know I should be completely focused on
wrestling matters but currently, a legend in my eyes whose music I was
raised on, has passed suddenly and sadly. I believe I owe it to Mr.
Jackson to be here and thank him the best way I can think because he
gave his life, literally, to music and to people. He and his family
transcended many “color lines” and as an African-American man, I can
appreciate all he did to try and defeat racial bigotry and
discrimination. He also gave millions to various charities around the
world who have benefited numerous children. All in all, he was
controversial, enigmatic, talented, blessed and could dance his little
ass off. He changed the world and I am going to pay my respects. Mark
Masterson and Danny Daniels, you’ll have to wait until I feel like
elaborating. Take care folks and appreciate what Michael did for the
world."

[The picture fades with a still shot of the bustling crowd outside of
the Staples Center]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Tom Landis
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Fade up, post-Tradition to a busy locker room. Tom Landis nurses the
bumps and bruises he's earned in his match against the Demon Shadow,
but nevertheless does it with a smile on his face.]

TL: So weeks of running have led you nowhere, Gibson Hayes. Thanks to
my special advisor, you can't escape destiny.

Now I know, Hayes. I've got you dead in my sights, and nothing short
of an act of god will keep me from beating you within an inch of your
life. I survived your Demon Shadow. Can you survive me?

[Fade.]

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

[Acoustic guitars strum, out of sync with one another, but harmonic in
their playing.  Drums join in, followed by a base, and the sound is
complete.  Fade from black, and a man stands in a ruined cityscape.
Caucasian, young in appearance and heavy with bulky muscle, he wears a
letter jacket from Michigan university.]

#I feel like there is no need for conversation.#
#Some questions are better left without reason.#

[Sad and plaintive, the music, "Burning Bright" by Shinedown frames
the scene, set in shades of gray, in a tone of sadness.  Wind kicks up
the papers that are strewn about on the street, and the man catches
one.  Cut to show the paper, and it depicts an etching of a pipe.
Beneath the illustration are the words, not in English: "Ceci
n'est pas une pipe."]

TOS (Text On Screen): “This is not a pipe.”

#And I would rather reveal myself than my situation.#
#Now and then I consider, my hesitation.#

[Cut back to the drab stillness, interrupted only by gusts of wind.
The man lets the paper fly free, and grimaces, his blue eyes lighting
up and standing in stark contrast to the rest of the scene.]

TOS: This is not Kansas...

#The more the light shines through me,#
#I pretend to close my eyes.#

[Looking around at his surroundings, the man runs a hand errantly
through his black hair, something on that hand smearing it gray.
Looking up, he finds himself overwhelmed by what he sees. The camera
swings wildly around to show him from behind, dwarfed by a gigantic
statue of a boxer's fist.]

TOS: This is not a fist...

#The more the dark consumes me,#
#I pretend I'm burning...#
#Burning bright.#

[Tearing up, the man looks about himself again as more of the gray
imagery dissolves.  Although he remains gray himself, the sky turns a
drab, polluted bluish hue, and the blurred images of a bustling
populace race by him.]

#I wonder if the things I did were just to be different.#
#To spare myself of the constant shame of my existence.#

TOS: This is not a young man...

[Tearing at his hair, the man first removes a single hand full, then
seems to tear his scalp off entirely, revealing green flesh and
horrendous scarring beneath.]

#And I would surely redeem myself in my desperation.#
#Here and now I'll express, my situation.#

TOS: This is not hair...

[Tossing aside the wig, the green man moves onto his face, removing a
thick layer of gray gunk and, seemingly, rubber, that previously had
hidden lines, wrinkles, scars and more, from view.  Beneath the fresh-
faced boy's facade, apparently, was hiding William Craven.]

#The more the light shines through me,#
#I pretend to close my eyes.#

TOS: This is not Oz...

#The more the dark consumes me,#
#I pretend I'm burning bright.#

[As the hook of the song hits, the world lights up with color, but
Bill remains mostly gray.  Tearing at his monochrome letter jacket,
Bill tosses it aside, and walks down the street.  Gritting his
perfect, square teeth, his eyes grow wide, and he reaches into his
mouth.  A second later, he's looking at a set of dentures, and
his signature "some'er teeth" are revealed; some are sharpened, some
are gone.]

TOS: These are not teeth...

#The more the light shines through me,#
#I pretend to close my eyes.#

[Somehow still shocked by the body parts he's losing, Bill is
awestruck by the dentures, then tosses them aside before rushing off
down the street.]

TOS: This is not reality...

#The more the dark consumes me,#
#I pretend I'm burning...#

[More clothing is cast aside, and Bill wears nothing more than a pair
of jeans and an undershirt.  His bare, green feet impact solidly upon
the cracked concrete of the sidewalk, and the people, who were
previously rocketing by in a surreal fashion, flash back into
normality, and part to let Bill pass, watching as he goes.]

TOS: This is not a hero...

#There's nothing ever wrong, but nothing's ever right!#
#Such a cruel contradiction.#

[Wrought iron posts and grating fairly fly by as Bill searches for the
door into a graveyard.  Finding it locked, Bill wrestles with a thick
chain briefly before using it as a step to vault over the gate.]

TOS: These are not people...

#I know I cross the lines.  It's not easy to define.#
#I am born to indecision.#

[Searching amid the gravestones, Bill seems to finally find what he
was searching for.  His green chest puffs with emotion as shock
crosses his face.  Momentarily, he looks to the camera with regret,
and turns, uncertainly, to leave.  Finally, he hurls himself down upon
a headstone atop which stands a smallish statue of the Archangel
Michael, sword in hand.]

TOS: This was not planned...

#There's always something new some path I'm supposed to choose!#
#With no particular rhyme or reason...!#

[Bill rocks back on his knees, throwing his arms out to the sides, his
head back, and screaming towards the heavens his deep-seated anguish.
Cut to show the engraving upon the headstone which reads...

"Here lies
William Henry Craven Sr.
A man, flawed, and haunted.
May he find the peace in heaven
that was denied him on Earth.”]

TOS: This is not grief...

This is closure...

#The more the light shines through me,#
#I pretend to close my eyes.#

[Leaning back, Bill nips back to his feet, but falters momentarily,
one knee giving out on him for a moment.  Confused, he hobbles
momentarily before forcing it to work the way he wants it to.]

TOS: This is not old age...

[The word "not" fades first, then the entire sentence.  Bill turns
away, walking towards the gate and looking out while holding the bars.
Cut to the outside to show Bill, from an angle, as if he were
trapped.]

TOS: This is not a prison...

#The more the dark consumes me,#
#I pretend I'm burning bright.#

[Looking around, Bill absorbs his surroundings, and his tears and
anguish turn into a smile.]

TOS: This is home...

#The more the light shines through me,#
#I pretend to close my eyes.#

[Bill sinks down to his knees in the graveyard as a worker arrives,
noting each camera as he draws near enough to see them, then recoils
at the sight of a half dressed green monster kneeling on the other
side of the gate.]

TOS: This is Detroit...

#The more the dark consumes me,#
#I pretend I'm burning...#

[The worker, an older black gentleman with kind eyes stares,
dumbfounded at Bill for a short moment.  A look of recognition
suddenly crosses his face and he hurriedly unlocks the gate and
removes the chain, grabbing Bill by the shoulder and shaking
him.]

#I feel like there is no need for conversation...#

[Fade slowly to black as Bill finally looks up at the worker.  The old
guy strains to help Bill up, and Bill, a quizzical look on his face,
cocks his head to one side, finally realizing who he's looking at as
everything finally goes dark.  End.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Doc Holliday
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[SCENE: A suburban neighborhood, somewhere in Arizona.

There is a brief pan down a street in a nice, quiet, upscale
neighborhood.  It's at the end of the street, up on a hill, that the
camera pan stops.  A cast-iron black gate separates these grounds from
the rest of the neighborhood, an intimidating fence which certainly
fits the homeowner's regard for trespassers.  This two-story Cape
Cod-style white house is unremarkable, except for the familiar name on
the mailbox... "HOLLIDAY".

The woman knocking at the front door is also familiar.  Strickland
Sports Network's own Jessica "Fatality" Marshall is here, and goodness
only knows why.  She doesn't seem utterly thrilled to be here, as she
pushes the doorbell.  A doorchime rings out the theme from 'Bonanza',
drawing a huge eyeroll from the former UWF executive, and current SSN
operative.  She starts muttering to herself as she waits for the door
to open.]


Jessica Marshall: Bonanza.  Are you kidding me?  Hurry up and answer
the door... I hate Arizona...


[The front door swings wildly outwards, and a flash of red hair and
steel swoops across the scene.  Jessica shrieks in surprise as a
slender woman with a dark red medium-shag hairstyle and a dark blue
blouse and skirt rushes her... with a large medieval dagger in her
hand!  This would be Shanna Aeris-Holliday, Doc's wife, and she sets
about trying to murder Fatality while shouting in her Irish accent.]


Shanna Aeris-Holliday: CAUGHT YE REDHANDED!  THOUGHT YE COULD SEDUCE
MY HUSBAND WHILE I WAS OUT OF TOWN, DID YE?  DIDNAE EXPECT ME TO...


[Shanna stops in mid-stab, and inspects Jessica more closely.]


SAH: Oh, sorry, wrong Marshall.


[She then turns and marches back in the house, leaving poor Fatality
backed up against the shrubbery in the front lawn, her eyes bulging as
if, well she'd just been attacked by a madwoman.]


JM: ...whaaa?


[Doc's baritone twang calls out from inside the house.]


DH: Well, ya gonna come in, or ya gonna pee inna bushes?


JM: ...too late for that.


[Jessica walks inside, after peering aorund the doorway to make sure
that Shanna wasn't lurking there waiting to stab her in the back as
she walked by.  The front room of Doc's house is more or less just a
walk-in area leading to all the other rooms of the house.  The
staircase leading to the second floor is here, straight ahead, and the
second floor hallway is actually a balcony that wraps around the far
and right sides of this room.  An open archway leads off to the left,
and there are two visible doors on the right side of the room, and a
hallway leading away under the stairs.  The Hollidays are bickering as
the camera enters.]


DH: Ah done tol' ya, ah ain't sleepin' with no Marshalls!  They's lak
female Keenings!  It'd jes' be creepy...


JM: *AHEM*


[Shanna inspects the source of the outraged AHEM, then turns back to
her husband.]


SAH: I see thae resemblance, luv, but that doesnae explain THIS!


[Shanna holds up a photograph.  We can't see it from here, but it
makes Jessica snicker.]


JM: That's a cardboard cutout Kyle Lee had made.  Everyone on the UWF
roster has a picture made with that, it's a running gag.


DH: Yeah, you oughta see th' othah one.


JM: Other one?  Wait, what other one?


DH: *ahem* So, whut brings ya ta Tucson on this fine summah day?


JM: There are no fine summer days in Tucson.  This is like Hell, only
hotter and with worse accents.  It's like Texas Lite.  The only reason
I'm here is because the office didn't want to send a man here to do
this, because they're afraid that he wouldn't come back in one piece.
They think you wouldn't hit a lady.


SAH: Not great joodges o' character, are they?


DH: Not really.  So whut're ya... ow!


[Jessica walks up and pokes Doc in the ribs.  Holliday is wearing a
Diamondbacks jersey and jeans... no reason to dress like the 1880's
when you're just staying around the house, after all... and his left
arm is heavily bandaged.  His face is still swollen, and he still has
bandages around his forehead.  A light fingerpoke from Jessica makes
him flinch.]


JM: Just as I thought.  You took off before you could be evaluated
after the match with Gibson Hayes.  You're injured, aren't you?


DH: Naw, this?  Ah git worse'n this havin' sex with mah wife.


SAH: He's a big baby, he is.


DH: It's jes a... ow!


[Now Jessica kicks him in the shin.  It isn't even a hard kick; you'd
kick harder testing a tire on a used car.  It makes Doc jump a bit.]


JM: Riiiight.  You're going to submit to a medical examination.  Or
we're going to send someone down here to administer it, and if you
make us do that, we're going to call in Dr. Herbert just out of spite.


DH: Woman, y'all let Xavier Feyr show up at Tradition an' change alla
rules of th' match howevah he wan'ned.  Whut'd ya expect was gonna
happen?  Th' man woulda let it go ta th' death if he thought he could
git away with it, an' mos' likely th' only reason he didn't do thet
anyway is on account of he wants ta fight me.  You ain't real familiar
with his history, is ya?


JM: I've done my research.  That's why we're booking the match you
demanded between yourself and Feyr.


DH: Of course.


JM: On Heatwave.  This week.


DH: ...


[Doc's expression goes from a calm, fairly bemused one to a cold
anger.  Even Shanna grows visibly nervous.  Jessica, however, is now
in her element: sticking it to someone.  She smiles the smile of
someone who knows no joy in her life save that of making other people
miserable.]


JM: You see, Doc, you don't just go out and make "statements of fact".
That's what you called it, right?  "Statements of fact" about what SSN
is going to do.  WE make statements of fact about what goes on in PVW.
Not you.  If there's anything we just will not tolerate, it's the
inmates thinking they can run the asylum.  You'll fight who we tell
you to, when we tell you to fight them.  And so, one show removed from
one of the worst beatings any human being has ever taken and walked
away from... you get to have your big epic showdown with big bad
Xavier Feyr.

And THAT is a statement of fact.


DH: ...


SAH: An' what was yoor brilliant plan tae make it back tae yoor car
alive, Miss Marshall?


JM: I, er, have Alex Martinez waiting out in the...


DH: He's workin' a show in Tacoma tanight.  Nice try.


JM: Now look, you wouldn't...


SAH: I would.


DH: Easy, Shanna.  So, this really whut ya want?  Put me in with Feyr,
knowin' he'd kill me in this condi-shin?


JM: More or less, yes.


[There's a brief pause, during which Jessica nervously eyes Holliday
and his knife-wielding ex-IRA-terrorist wife.  The uneasy pause is
finally broken by a cold, mirthless laugh.]


DH: Heh heh heh... y'all still don' know me.  Still don' know whut yer
signin' Xavier up fer.  Gonna git him hurt real bad, Marshall.


[Jessica's expression turns from "what the hell do I do now" to just
plain "what the hell".]


JM: Get... HIM hurt?


DH: Yer tryin' ta do whut cain't be done, Marshall.  Puttin' Doc
Holliday inna corner.  Ya know whut a desperado is?


JM: I'm not irrationally obsessed with the past, no.


DH: A desperado is whut it sounds lak.  A man so desperate he'll do
anythang.  He'll shoot ya, stab ya, blow up yer house, strangle yer
kids; he don' keer none.  Ah will not... WILL NOT be stopped now.  Ah
come ta PVW ta git mah hands on Rick Marley, an' ah will do jes' thet
come hell or high water.  Xavier's heah ta stop me, an' y'all
think ya kin jes' put him in with me, when ah cain't barely draw
breath, an' git shed o' me so easy?  Ya really think ah'm gonna allow
thet?


JM: I don't see as you have much choice.


DH: Ah got lots o' choices, Marshall.  Ah kin shoot ya, stab ya, blow
up yer house, strangle yer kids... know thet jes' as Xavier Feyr won
at Tradition, Doc Holliday will win at Heatwave.  Ah will find a way;
ah ain't no normal man whut gits pushed aroun' by suits an' rules an'
laws.  A desperado don' keer none about a suit: he does whut he needs
ta do an' damn anyone who don' like it.  You go sign thet match,
an' yer gonna push me ta goin' desperado.  Be warned.


JM: And then I will warn YOU... if you want to continue to be employed
by this com...


DH: Yer tryin' ta put me outta wrasslin' forever an' yer gonna
threaten mah job?  Look aroun', woman, this heah home is paid fer.  Ah
don' need no money.  Ya overplayed yer hand, jes' lak always happens
when networks an' lawyers try ta run wrasslin'.  Jes' lak this whole
Zero Tolerance thang done.  Overplayed her hand.  SSN is gittin'
famous fer this.  Ah jes' hope ya got enough sense ta avoid Xavier
aftah ya done set 'im up lak this.  He wan'ned a fair fight with me,
an' now he ain't gonna git one.  Bettah keep outta arms reach of 'im.
He knows damn well he's screwed six ways ta hell now.  He knows ah'll
do somethin' awful now thet ah got no choice but ta do somethin'
awful.  An' ya think AH'M th' one who should be skeered heah?


[Jessica answers this... by poking Doc in the ribs again.  And yes, he
flinches again.]


JM: Yes.  I do.


[And with that, she walks out of the house at a pace that could really
be caled 'running' if she weren't trying very, very hard to look like
walking.]


SAH: Whatever yoor thinkin', luv, it better be good.  Ye couldnae beat
thae Masked Maniac in that shape nao.


DH: Ah would so.  An' ah'll beat Feyr jes' th' same.  One way... or
another.


[And we cut.]

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

[The show is over, and two large men sit, despondent on a bench in a
locker room. Wearing abused 3-piece suits, sans the jacket and tie,
they can be immediately recognized as Livestock Zappa and Gutch
Bartilucci.  The balding wad of fat that walks like a man (Gutch) is
the first to speak.]

Gutch: Another shot down the toilet.

[His pretty boy compatriot with the tousled dirty blond hair
(Livestock) replies with equal low-key depression.]

Livestock: I just keep analyzing what happened in the match, and all I
can figure is that Urban Legend were just keeping us occupied ...
while those Rage guys beat down the weakest team in the match.

Gutch: What you tryin' to say?

Livestock: Collusion, Gutch.  Plain and simple.  I bet you anything
that there's a backstage deal between the Rages and 'Legend.  Next
thing you know it's Prophets of Rage taking on Urban Legend ...
again...

Gutch: Yeh, figures.  Lawyers on the outside again.

Zeke: What the *BLEEP* have I walked in on here?  Some prissy little
sewing circle with little girls makin' excuses why they aren't the
belle of the ball?

[In walks Broderick Ezekiel Craven, the other two's manager.  Zeke's
salt-and-red pepper beard bristles, as usual, with a life all its own.
His anger is palpable.]

Zeke: Y'know what I'm trying to figure out?  How is it that I, the man
who has been in PVW since day one, who, practically on my own, turned
it from a one-city league and into a national powerhouse on the verge
of becoming a world wide force, dominating the wrestling world, am
left handling the B squad in the stable ... THAT I CREATED!!!?

[Wow, one hell of a run on sentence there.  Livestock and Gutch
shuffle back and off their bench, recoiling from Zeke's anger as the
smaller man turns bright red, veins bulging and throbbing in his
forehead.]

Zeke: See, you guys have always talked a good game, but when it comes
down to it, you're not able to deliver at crunch time.  Gutch is fat,
but fat guys have always excelled in wrestling.  Livestock, I
appreciate your dedication to your conditioning, and the fact that
you've gotten Gutch toned to the point where his shoulders are no
longer narrower than his hips.  But still, your flaws outweigh your
merits.  And, ehhh, what else do I have to cling to?  The Masked
Maniac?  Here I am, towing the line for the corporation, and working
my ass off to make him a contender.

Hell, he's doing better than you are!  How do you think that makes me
look?

Gutch: Uh, pretty damned good...  I mean, you took a loser and somehow
he beat a champ ... uh...

[If looks could kill, Gutch would be on fire right now.]

Zeke: You guys are my bread and butter, Gutch.  I've talked you up,
again, from day one.  All the deals I brokered, with no damned credit
tossed my way.  I'm the one that got the international program going.
G-Pro's involvement with PVW?  Me.  I placed, and then had removed
that mentally deficient gimp Michaelson to and from the managerial
seat ... all so I could step in to that role.  So I could be the boss
around here, and what happens?

Livestock: Uhm, Jessica Marshall's ... the ... riiight.

Zeke: Yeah, and that...  I'm not going to say one bad word about the
lady, y'know? I wanted her and Martinez to come here, hammer home the
point that PVW is the real deal.  Nevertheless ... losing out like
that...

[Trailing off, Zeke collapses between his team.  Both Livestock and
Gutch stare forward, eyes wide, unsure of what to do next.]

Livestock: So Zeke, what're we gonna do different?

Gutch: Yeah, like, I mean, if it bothers you that much, what's next?

Zeke: Gentlemen, it isn't me, but you that need to do something...
You see, my backstage machinations are no longer having the effect
they once did.  I don't have the stroke I used to.  I wanted the
Phoenix to fly, and now, it doesn't need my help anymore, so I've been
cast aside.  The corporation?  They care about ratings.
Eventually, they'll let go of this “Zero Tolerance Policy” when they
REALIZE that I'm right ... and it's hurting ratings.  My job, right
now, is pushing papers, cracking the whip on you guys, and keeping
Masked Maniac on TV.  Strickland's got a hard on for him for SOME
ungodly reason Hrm, maybe I shouldn't say the big boss has a hard on
for another guy.  Might get back to him...

Livestock: Uh, okay, sounds good.  But, like, what dooo we dooo
differently?

Gutch: It's not situps, is it?  I mean, I keep trying to do those, but
it don't work, man!

Zeke: No, it's like this...  I'm a lawyer.  Me.  I'm wearing a suit
because I want to.  You guys need to drop it.

Livestock: Excuse me!?

Gutch: Yo, man, I can't give up the suit!  Only my tailor can make me
look this thin!

Livestock: We're lawyers too, you red-jowled chia pet!

Gutch: *BLEEP!*

[Livestock is immediately aware that he's made a mistake as Zeke
thrusts his hand into the big, pretty man's throat, pinching behind
his adam's apple, and seemingly paralyzing him.  Zeke's voice drops to
an evil whisper as he hisses loudly enough for both men to hear.]

Zeke: No, you're not.  You're wrestlers.  I file briefs, represent
company employees and PVW as a whole in court whereas you two haven't
done anything of the like in almost a year.  The suits are
restrictive, even with your tailors operating with the knowledge of
what you do, nothing that looks like a suit will ever let you move
correctly in that ring.

Livestock: Gurfx, ack!

Gutch: Uh, Zeke, what're you doin'?

Zeke: It's called the *BLEEPING* HAND OF GOD!  I choked
mother*BLEEPING* Simon Ezra with this grip!  Don't you EVER talk trash
to me again, prettyboy.  Understand?  I may not be the boss in PVW,
but I _am_ your boss...  Lose the suits, train in tights, wrestle in
tights, and for the love of Pete, the next time you get in that
ring, try to focus.

Gutch: Uh, Zeke, I think 'Stock might be about to go out, anh?

Zeke: Whoops.  Heh.  Sorry, didn't know this thing was loaded.

[Slumping against the locker behind him, Livestock holds his throat
while having a coughing fit.]

Gutch: Can we at least say that nobody else gets paid unless we do?

Zeke: Hm?  Oh, yeah, that's SOP for wrestlers.  Good stuff.  Heh.  I'm
so happy to get all that out, and now we're on the same page!  Haha!
Zap!

[Zeke walks off, stage right, as Livestock angrily turns to Gutch.]

Livestock: The hell, man!?  Why didn't you help me there!?

Gutch: You kiddin'?  Zeke's armed, man.  Always.  He already told me
how he'd take me down.  Stun gun to the brainstem.  Zap.  Dead.  I got
a wife and two kids to support, man.  Can't do it dead!

Livestock: Yeah, whatever fatty.  C'mon, we're hitting the gym.  I for
one am not getting choked out like that again.  C'mon.  Move!

[Shoving hard on his fat compatriot, Livestock shoos him out of the
room.  Both men grab their gym bags and vacate the premises.  Fade to
black.]

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

[Grainy black and white fault screen from an old projector shows, the
classic countdown ticking off on the screen... 3... 2... 1... and then
the opening notes of Al Jolson rendition of "California, Here I Come"
begin playing, though it sounds a bit staticky, almost like it's being
played on an almost prehisotric record player, or maybe even a
phonograph.  We now see a placard with words across the screen, just
like in the old silent movies, showing the title...]

Placard:  "Dr. Ow Goes to Hollywood"

[The scene switches to an obviously modern airpot, though the
footage is still incredbily grainy and choppy, and there is no sound
other than the somewhat staticy sounding music.  The shot then changes
back to the placard...]

Placard: "featuring"

## When the wintry winds starts blowing
## And the snow is starting in the fall

[The shot returns to outside the airport where we see Violet Yang
coming out of the airport pulling a small suitcase behind her by the
handle, and looking none to happy.]

Placard:  "Violet Yang"

## Then my eyes went westward knowing
## That's the place that i love best of all

[The shot again returns to Violet, and skipping out the door behind
her comes Meili wearing a loose flannel shirt, and camouflage cargo
pants, her hair spiking in all directions from enough hairspray to
resist gale force winds.  She practically jumps on Violet's back,
hooking an arm around her head in a hug that almost knocks Violet
over.]

Placard:  "and Yin Meili"

## California i've been blue
## Since i've been away from you

[As the shot returns to the airport again, Meili point out ahead in a
ridiculously exaggerated fashion almost like Buzzlight Year crying "to
infinity and beyond!", but there no sound... instead we see the
placard again, this time with a picture of Meili in the corner so we
know who said it.]

Placard: [Meili] Big sis!  Isn't it great?  We're in Hollywood!

## I can't wait 'till i get blowing
## Even now i'm starting in a call

[Violet says something, and the clutching at Meili's other arm, which
is still wrapped around her neck.  The yet again changes to the
placard with a picture of Violet this time.]

Placard: [Violet] C... Can't... b... breath!

[Meili lets go of Violet and looks at her sheepishly, shrugging her
arms as if to say "oops".  Violet just glares and shakes a fist at
her.  The placard come onto the screen yet again...]

Placard:  "And starring...

[The doors are flung open behind the two, and Ohno comes marching out
carrying a small duffel bag over his shoulder, his nose in the air,
and a classic, cheesy, Hollywood celebrity grin on his face...]

Placard:  ..."Oooooooooohnooooooooooo"

## California, Here I Come
## Right back where I started from

[Ohno strides forward confidently, head held high as if he were
walking down a red carpet.  He puts an arm around each girls shoulder
and says something, at one point doing that hand gesture he insists
people do when they say his name.]

Placard: [Ohno] Relax GIRLS... this trip be GREAT.  E-ve-ry di-rec-tor
in Hol-ly-wood want Oooooooooohnoooooooo in THEIR movie.  We FIND good
pro-du-cer, then HAVE FUN.

## where bowers of flowers
## bloom in the spring

[Meili jumps up and down clapping giddily...]

Meili:  YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!  We can go to Disneyland!  Let's go!

[Ohno runs off behind Meili, Violet puts a hand on her head and walks
after them slowly.  The scene changes to Ohno putting his hands in wet
concrete at what we assume to be the Hollywood Walk of Fame to leave
his handprints, as Meili claps and cheers.  A large hand taps Ohno on
the shoulder, and the shot pulls out to reveal a large, burly workman
glaring at Ohno.  They're standing at a road work site.  The workman
point to a sign that reads "Wet Cement, KEEP OFF".  Violet stands off
to the side with her face in her hands.]

## each morning at dawning
## birdies sing at everything

[The scene switches to Ohno in a studio, wearing a traditional kung fu
outfit, and striking a number of poses for the camera, as Meili looks
on ecstatically, and Violet sits in a director's-style chair looking
bored.  Then suddenly... Mickey Mouse!?  Yes, Mickey Mouse walks into
the shot, pointing at his watch.  The camera pulls back to reveal that
they're in a small booth with the title "Disney's Little Stars - Do it
yourself videos.  Mickey points to a sign firmly stating "Maximum of
20 minutes per customer."  Meili looks disappointed for a minute, then
holds out a Disney autograph book to Mickey who shrugs and signs
as Meili hugs the person in the mouse suit.... then Mickey pinches her
butt, which causes Ohno's eyes to almost bulge out of his head.  He
leaps across the room and kicks Mickey right through the glass,
setting off flashing lights.  Violet quickly gestures for them to make
a break for it, and they all run.]

## a sunkissed miss said,  "Don't be late!"
## that's why I can hardly wait

[The shot then changes to outside the gate at Hollywood Studios, where
Ohno, Violet, and Meili attempt to walk in, only to be stopped by the
guard raising a hand.  He holds up a clipboard and gestures towards
Ohno who looks over the list with him.  The guard shakes his head, and
Ohno shouts at him angrily while pointing at his watch.The guard
shrugs his hands and slides a big iron gate, which seems to come
completely out of nowhere, shut in front of them.  Ohno shakes the
bars and kicks them, prompting the guards to yell something.  In
response to which several more guards appear and chase the three
off.]

## open up that golden gate
## California, Here I Come

[The scene then shows the three standing outside the lot.  Ohno looks
around and sees a lamp post near the wall and fence surrounding the
compound.  He says something, pointing to the two girls and then up
over the wall.  Meili nods eagerly, as does Violet with a sigh.  The
two put their hands together and crouch, allowing Ohno to spring off
them towards the lampost, which he kicks off of, the momentum taking
him over the wall.  Meili does a double peace-sign.  Violet just leans
against the wall looking at her watch.]

## California, Here I Come (yeaaaaaah!)
## Right back where I started from

[We cut to the other side of the wall, where Ohno lands to find a
woman being held at gunpoing by a man in dark clothes.  Seeing the
gun, Ohno quikcly grabs it, and pulls off the back of it somehow, much
to the would be muggers surprise, then drops into a full splits
punching him the groing, and then shoots up with an open palm up under
the man's china, quickly followed by a spinning crescent kick that
smacks the man into the wall face first.  Ohno stands triumphantly and
does a victory-sign.]

## where bowers of flowers
## bloom in the spring

[Suddenly the woman smacks him upside the head with her purse...
REPEATEDLY.  Ohno covers his head and stumbles back confused and a man
with a megaphone come up and smacks him upside the head with it.  The
man points, and the camera pulls out to reveal he's pointing to a
camera.]

Placard: [man] You ruined our take, you idiot!

## each morning at dawning
## birdies sing at everything

[The scene returns to outside, where Violet appears to be counting
down as she looks at her watch... she then grabs Meili by the arm, who
looks a bit confused by this, as Violet directs her to move a few more
feet to the side.  As if on cue, Ohno comes flying over the wall and
lands almost face first on the sidewalk.  Violet and Meili cringe for
a moment, Meili reaching over slowly to touch Ohno... then he suddenly
springs up to his feet and acts as if nothing happened.]

## a sunkissed miss said,  "Don't be late!"
## that's why I can hardly wait (come on!)

[Meili applauses for a moment, but then is clunked in the side of the
head by a flying wad of paper.  The three look to the side and see the
people from the movie set Ohno disrupted running towards them wielding
production equipment like bludgeons.  The three collectively scream
and hug each other... then Violet realizes she's hugging Meili and
pushes her away, and the three start running for their lives.]

## open up (open up! open up!) that golden gate
## California, Here I Come

[The camera pans up to an overhead view of Ohno, Meili, and Violet
running down the street as the mob chases them and police cars come
tearing down the street from various directions.  We then cut the
placard one final time...]

Placard:  "The End"

[Cut to fault screen.]