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##                           ##
## Phoenix Valley Wrestling  ##
##       Burning Effect      ##
##           06.12.09        ##
##                           ##
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Presenting....

-> Rob Cole
-> Mike Cox
-> Danny Daniels
-> Dr. X
-> The Demon Shadow
-> Sinister
-> Alex Martinez
-> Prophets of Rage
-> Apache Blood
-> ???
-> Made Men
-> Justin Cruise
-> The Wild Cards
-> Will Geddings
-> Tommy Ryder
-> The Mercenary
-> Marcus Manson
-> Larry Gionet
-> Pain & HvD
-> Gibson Hayes
-> El Outlaw LOCO
-> Landis & Marshall
-> Reverend Julian Caine
-> William Craven and Dark Soul
-> Xavier Feyr
-> Perry Fontana
-> Rick Marley
-> Masked Maniac & William Craven
-> Danny Daniels #2
-> Zeke Craven
-> Masked Outlaw








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

[Rob Cole... close up, personal, and in his face!  He stares a hole
through the camera.  Covered in sweat and grime, the lights are too
dim to see the rest of the room... just him, staring harshly into the
camera.]

RC: I'm not the good guy.  I'm not the white knight.  I'm the filth
and the rot crawling out of the deepest pits, hungry for blood and
starved by hate and pain for way too long.


I've been haunted by the same nightmares for 20 years and it never
seems to go away for too long.  I don't know what to do about it,
because I don't like to sleep... especially not at night.  During the
day, I don't think I dream too much because I don't remember having
dreams when I sleep during the day... but at night, it all comes back
to me in a flood and I wind up staying up late for hours on end.  The
minutes just tick on by, seconds, moments, hours passing by and I
still can't sleep... I'm just staring into the darkness, waiting.

I know I'm broken, but I don't know how broken I really am.
Sometimes, I wonder if it's a ticking time bomb just getting ready to
explode... where I'm just going to lose it one day, lose touch with
who and what I am and disassociate myself with reality.  I wonder if
I've already done it in some ways.  I love my family so much, but I
look at all the monsters in this world and I wonder if I'm really AM
one beneath the surface... my wife says I'm angry all the time, my son
is afraid of me, and I'm even more frightened than either of them
realize.  And I'm just sick of no one hearing me, no one knowing how
much I'm screaming inside and wishing I was something else, anything
else. Am I really the monster I was always afraid I'd become?  Have I
become more than a tagline at the end of a promo?

You all think you know me, that you know who I am and what I'm all
about because you watch me for a few minutes a week... no one knows
who any of us really are.  You don't see us with our wives, our kids,
or our friends outside this hell... YOU DON'T SEE ME!!!!  And you
don't know me.  Recite my stats, talk about my matches, but you don't
know who I really really am... not even a little bit, not even a
shred.  But you hate me anyway, you call me a coward and you mock me
and you despise me.

I'm not the villain... not the simple definition you've decided to
label me with, making it easier for you to comprehend the terrible
things I've done.  I know it's not easy to understand, that it's
easier to see me in the perfect mold the promotional machine is
building around me.  The world is a complicated place and it's not up
to me to make it easier for you, ladies and gentlemen... boys and
girls... children of all ages...

I REFUSE TO MAKE IT EASY ON YOU!!!!!

[Rob Cole pauses... he sucks up his frustration and lifts the title
off his shoulder, staring intently into the metal reflection of him
within the belt.  He licks his lips and quirks a grin.]

RC: The PVW World Champion?  I have to /beg/ you for the respect that
comes with this belt... I have to crawl on hands and knees, I have to
scrape and claw and drag myself through the filth of your hate, the
pain of your disgust, and the horror you put my family through in
order to get a measure of common DIGNITY OUT OF YOU??!?!!!  And it's
never enough, no matter how much I give it is never ever enough and
you beg for more... you snatch, you grab, you bite, you swallow little
bits and chunks of me and you just keep asking for more.  MORE MORE
MORE!!!! Greedy little addicts, begging for scraps and another fix...
and I give it to you again and again and again.

And when I give it... when you swallow it up, let it flow down your
gullet and fester in guts that churn with hatred for me... you laugh
when they want to take away my prize!  YOU LAUGHED!!!!  And so Dexter
Willingham, he thinks I'm in the tank for his partner... a partner he
brought in, a partner he laid with for national exposure!  YOU DID
THIS!!!  I was happy to walk away, to join another company, to ply my
trade somewhere else...

BUT YOU WOULDN'T LET ME!!!!

[Cole turns his gaze to the camera... hate.]

RC: It's time for someone else to take a turn at feeding you.  I'll
give you his flesh... I'll slake your thirst with his blood... I will
shove his courage down the throats of each and every one of you!  You
will choke on him and you will spit him out and he will have drowned
in the stink and bile of your VOMIT!!!!  The PVW wants to take my
title?!?!! Heh... yeah, sure... you'll cheer when they yank this title
off my shoulder, when they foist it on a new Hero and all you people
cheer but then it'll start to sink in and no one will stop it.
Doubt... disgust... frustration... I'm not The Guy and because I'm not
going to let them post my face on Wheaties, they're going to take my
belt. That's the simple truth of it, kiddies... they're not going to
make anyone fight me for it, not after the way I nearly BROKE their
first Champ.  Not after the way I bled one man after the other out,
drained them dry, and then sent them packing... I'm the monster!

I know what you want me to do, Dex.  You want me to beg the SSN for
their help, for their endorsement, so that you can paint me as the
ultimate villain in a masterpiece of dramatic proportions... but they
don't want me, boss.  They don't want me any more than you do, even if
you do think I sold out and paid off some referee... you make me sick.

[Cole pulls his gaze away, staring again at his title before looking
back into the camera.  This time, however, his smile is genuine.]

RC: Jason Keening.  I know, you think you're doing your job and that
... Oh, forget this trying to talk smooth.  I'm going to gut you,
Jason. I'm going to rip into you with the edge of a broken table leg
and gouge your eyes out of your skull!!! DO YOU HEAR ME?!?!?!! I'm
going to... *CUT!*

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

[We open to a black screen. Several seconds pass then we hear the
manly sound of ...

Whimpering?

WTF?

Our screen finally comes to life. Laying on the couch, bruised and
battered is none other then 'The Dude You Relate Too' Mike Cox. The
youngster has ice bags lining his whole body. Welts on his hips, cuts
and bruises on his face, gauze wrapped around his head. Could The Dude
be playing this up just a little too much?

But even more pathetic is the fact an unknown older woman sits beside
him feeding him ice cream in between his whimpering. She gently rubs
his cheek. A little ice cream dribbles from the corner of his mouth
that the loving woman quickly wipes away with a napkin. Mike Cox looks
up at her with puppy eyes.]

Cox: Thanks ... Mom.

[Mike's mother soothingly tells him to 'Shhh..' as she rubs his face
and feeds him ice cream, a mixed expression of love and concern
written on her lightly wrinkled face. She finally asks the question
that has been bothering her since he got home...]

Mom: Who did this to you?

[Mike Cox looks up with terrified eyes, like he reliving the moment
all over again. His voice cracks as he mentions the name.]

Cox: Xavier.. [lips quiver as his eyes dart around the room.. making
sure he is not here.] Feyhr ...

[Mike's mom gently strokes his hair, making him relax. As she does so
another question dances on her lips.. she finally asks...]

Mom: Why would he do that?

[Mike looks up with terrified eyes. Looking at her like she should
already know the answer to that.]

Cox: Because he is mean bad man that is why! Xavier is all evil [grabs
at her shirt] You have to promise mommy that you will never let them
have me face him again! He kicked me, he punched me... he.. he..
kicked me and punched me some more. He was trying to kill me mommy..

[eyes fill with tears as has his voice trembles with the next words]

He was trying to end my life!

[Mike Cox is one emotional dude! Tears roll down his cheek as he
buries his face into his mom's chest, she hugs him lovingly, kissing
the top of his head and whispering in his ear trying to sooth him.]

Mom: Why don't you just quit then?

[Mike looks annoyed by this question as he releases himself from her
loving grasp. He wipes away the tears with the back of his hand.]

Cox: Cause you just can't quit mom. Everyone will think I'm a pu$$y.
You gotta take your lumps like a man. No whining, no complaining, no
crying and definitely no quitting..

You gotta pull up your shorts and take it on the chin. I SAVED PVW
from Curtis and they thank me by putting me in the ring with a maniac
like Xavier. He's a bully mom.. a bully! Not to mention my knee was
blown out, I had a HUGE gash on my knee as well. I could barely even
walk let alone wrestle, but they still made me climb in the ring and
compete.

[Is Mike Cox sulking? He leans back on the couch, arms folded over his
chest with his bottom lip stuck out in as pout. Are you kidding me?!
His mom eats it up, obvious concern and maybe a little pity on her
face. Mike you bastard, he just eats it up.]

Cox: But that's not even the half mom. I mean, I try at like
everything I do you know? I try my hardest and like PVW don't even see
that. I wrestled with a completely blown out knee mom, do you know how
much that hurts?

Mom: Of course dear, but you were walking on it fine yesterday.

[Mike waves her off.]

Cox: Well I'm just lucky it all popped back in place after the match.
The chances of that are very slim; the doctor said I was very lucky.

[You lying little pri... His mom nods in understanding. She can't be
buying this obvious pile of crap can she?]

Cox: But I'm kind of happy about my next match.

Mom: You're not fighting again are you?! Look at you Mikey! Bruised
and beat up, depressed.

Cox: [sounding brave] I'm a warrior mom. It' the 'code' of what I do.
No matter how badly beaten. No matter how badly wounded, you must
fight on. You go on till there is nothing less.. . then you push
yourself even farther. Shall no injury keep you down, shall no bruises
bring excuses. You stand and face whatever evil is put fourth
in front of you. It's the way a warrior like myself now lives mom.

Mom: I understand ... so why are you so happy about this next match?

Cox: Because I am facing a man who is so nice they named him twice!
That is why mom! Danny Daniels is like probably the biggest star in
PVW, maybe even the World! But he's nice, that's what he tells
everyone all the time. So I dontt have to worry about somebody trying
to kill me! I will go down to that ring, let him pin me then I'll see
if he wants to hang out after and play some X-Box you know?

Mom: Shouldn't you try and win the match honey?

[Flabbergasted]


Cox: Pfft... why? Danny Daniels is a SUPREME CHAMPION mom. That is
like the best ever on the Planet. Only super legends can hold a title
that important. He tells us all the time and I believe him. I heard
from this internet site that you have to actually like wrestle half
man-half lion type beasts to prove yourself even worthy of looking at
it!

Mom: Wow.. he sounds... Godly.

Mike shrugs matter-of-factly]

Cox: He probably is. He has his own dressing room and everything! He
doesn't even talk to us at all and he's so cool.. he can call us
whatever he wants and you can never EVER correct him, you just let it
be.

Mom: Well don't you think you should try even a little?

[Mike rolls his eyes.]

Cox: Well I will try hard mom, but it will make no difference. He is
the man so nice, they named him twice.. TWICE mom [shakes head.] I
can't compete with that, I just can't.

[His mom nods in understanding. She stands up and looks down at her
loving boy, who looks up at her with those, kid like eyes.]

Mom: Well you get some rest honey. You better be one hundred percent
if you are going to be facing such a great man.

[Mike nods and lies down on the couch. His mom tucks him in then walks
up the stairs from the basement. Her husband, Mike's father, waits for
her at the top of the stairs with concern.]

Dad: How is he?

[Mike's mom looks down the stairs with an annoyed look.]

Mom: He is about as normal as anybody else who got dropped on their
damn head to hard, that's how he is.. Let's go watch Wheel of Fortune.
Hopefully this whole 'wrestling' thing will pass.

[The two murmur to each other as they walk towards the living room. We
study Mike as he looks to be sleeping.. his eyes shoot open, a maniac
look in his eyes, the color of them now a deep gold. He smiles
deviously from under his blanket.]

Cox: We'll never quit ... [evil giggle] right Mikey.

[He nods to himself... smiling like a lunatic.]

[FADE]

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

[The camera fades in to the smiling visage of Danny "Your Hero"
Daniels.  Danny has the SUPREME title laying over his right shoulder
and wraparound sunglasses on his face.  He gives a finger wave to the
camera.]

D"YH"D:  Greeetings... and Salutations!  People come up to me all the
time and ask why I bother with Sinestro.  After all, I hold the most
prestigous title in wrestling- the SUPREME Championship- and with the
thousands of legitimate challengers, I'm spending my time dealing with
a man who might barely crack as one of the top dozen wrestlers from
his own high school.

Well, I was thinking about it, and I believe a parable would best
explain my reasons.  Let me tell you a story...

---------
'Patricia was a bank teller, and one day a giant frog hopped up to her
desk.  "Ms. Whack", the frog began, "My name is Kermit Jagger.  I'm
sure you know who my father is.  I'd like to borrow $30,000 from this
institution."

Well, Patricia wasn't sure, and responded that she needed to see some
collateral.  "No problem."  Kermit said, and pulled out a ceramic
elephant, about the size of a softball.  Patricia was even more
confused, and went to see the manager.  She explained the situation,
showed the manager the elephant, and asked what it was.  The manager
explained:

"It's a knick-nack, Patty Whack, so give the frog a loan.  His old
man's a Rolling Stone."'
---------

[Pause]

D"YH"D:  And I think that explains everything perfectly about
Sinestro.

[Danny nods]

D"YH"D:  TOODLES~!

[Danny walks away as the camera fades out]

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

[We cut to the back of an arena and see a man in a white mask holding
what seems to be the lineup for PVW's Tradition III. Beside him is a
well traveled gym bag and a pair of black boots, each of which have a
white X upon them. His right fist is wrapped in white tape. He looks
up at the camera]

Dr. X: Newcomer.

[Chuckles and gestures to the paper.]

Dr X: That's how those office boys referred to me, Newcomer. May 19,
1982. A national guard armory just outside of Johnson City, Tennessee.
That was the first time someone referred to me as a "newcomer".
Twenty-seven years later, everything that's old is new again it seems.

[He starts to put his boots on.]

Dr. X: Now let's get a few things straight right off the bat. Yes, I
said that date right. I had my first match in 1982. Now for non-math
majors out there that means I'm a TWENTY-SEVEN year veteran of this
great sport. I've seen a lot of guys come, and I've seen a lot of guys
go, but I'm still here. No, I don't do a lot of these flippy-do's that
a lot of these guys do these days. No, I don't need a bunch of pyro
and music blasting at all sorts of ear-shattering decibels.

[He finishes lacing up one boot.]

Dr. X: And I damn sure as hell don't appreciate being told I had to
"try out" in order to compete here. But that's another story for
another time. I look around the locker room here in Phoenix Valley
Wrestling and there's a lot of things that jump out at me. First?

[Ticks off on his fingers.]

Dr. X: Doc Holliday, Dr. Mal Practice MD, Dr Ohno Ow.

[shakes his head.]

Dr. X: Guess the medical field doesn't pay as much these days, huh?
Holliday I'm gonna give a pass to. Somehow I doubt he takes the Doctor
part of that name much mind and is just one of those guys who re-lives
the old west. So that leaves the other two clowns. I hate to tell you
this boys, but of the three of us?

Yeah, I'm willing to bet I'm the only one who actually has a medical
degree. Now I'm not going to lie and say something hip and cool like
I'm a gynecologist or something. No, I'm a licensed veternarian.

[He begins to put on his other boot.]

Dr. X: Now oddly enough, working with animals and competing inside
that squared circle aren't as different as some people might think.
Hell right here in PVW there's some guy named Livestock Zappa, a Greg
Bull, and then there's that Sinister.

[chuckles knowingly.]

Dr. X: Needless to say with that as my part time job I've had to walk
around a lot of road apples so I've had a lot of experience putting up
with other people's crap. That, too, comes in very handy here in the
sport of professional wrestling. But right now, let's talk about
Tradition. Chicago has a hell of a lot of tradition. I wrestled at the
old Comiskey Park for Eddie Einhorn. I wrestled at the old
International Amphitheatre for Verne Gagne and Dick the Bruiser. Now
I'm going to be wrestling at the Allstate Arena. Perry Fontana's going
to be my partner. "The Everlasting"? What the hell does that mean?
"The Everlasting" what? Hell the only everlasting thing I can think of
is that Everlasting Gobstopper from that "Willy Wonka" movie. I don't
exactly have a lot of faith in someone who has a nickname like that.

[snaps his fingers.]

Dr. X: Now that I think about it, I know what's everlasting. The
Everlasting Armbar! I hear you have a fetish for those things boy.I
don't know why you gotta have so many fancy armbars or armlocks or
hammerlocks or that when -

[He slams his taped fist into his other palm]

Dr. X: You just need a hard solid punch. No, I don't have some
Everlasting Bomb or some Apache Thunder Storm but what I do have is
the Heart Punch. It's not flashy, it's not fancy, it doesn't need some
damn sissy name. It's a punch! And I give you that punch boys, you'll
go down. When I drive this fist into your chest the shock is going to
go from the right ventricle to the left ventricle and then, by God,
you're going to go down to that mat! You're not going to be able to
function, you're going to be laying there wondering "is this it? am I
going to be able to get out of this ring? am I going to have any heart
damage?" and while you're laying there crumpled up like one of the
wounded animals I've worked on in the past - I'll hook your leg and
the referee will count to three.

[He again slams his fist into his palm.]

Dr. X: For twenty-seven years now it's been as simple as that. It's
effective, it's simple, and it's sent countless men to the hospital.
Greg Bull and Al Tonka, it's not going to be anything personal boys. \

I got a lotta respect for the Native American population. Hell Wahoo
and I closed down more bars than I can remember down in the Carolinas.
So no, it's not anything personal - it's just bad timing. You see
boys, the powers that be here in Phoenix Valley Wrestling decided to
put the four of us in this tag match and they just happened to put you
in there with me. It's just business. I don't give a damn what  color
a man's flesh is. It could be black, it could be white, it could be
red. The only color that matters to me?

[He takes some cash from his wallet.]

Dr. X: Is green. You boys are just the first who will go down to the
Doctor in PVW. It's nothing to feel bad about, hell one day you'll be
able to tell your kids about it. Twenty-seven years boys. I know all
the tricks. I know all the shortcuts. As long as Mr. Armbar plays his
role right we won't have any problems. But I have my doubts. He is
French Canadian after all. But starting in Chicago, you fans of PVW
will know what so many others have known for a long, long time now.
How do you spell wrestling? With an X.

[He turns showing the letter on the back of his mask.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	The Demon Shadow
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The scene opens on a closeup of the Demon Shadow's mask...empty and
sitting on a table in the middle of a dimly lit room.  A door opens,
spilling light across its surface for a moment before being secured
once again...a broad shouldered form moves cat-like and sits with the
mask between him and the camera...his face lost in the darkness...but
the silhouette...the broad chest...the dreadlocks falling down along
the shoulders...the dark clothing...make it apparent who it is.]

"Such speculation...so many demands for the identity of the man under
the Demon Shadow mask.  Like a pack of feral dogs worrying at a bone
with a scrap of meat remaining, the accusations fly thick and deep.

Could it be The Spectre?

Is it a Disciple of Nod?

Could it all be a ploy...perhaps the Demon Shadow is in fact Rob Cole
mimicking his old foe to confuse the opposition?

The only proper response that can be given to such speculation is the
simple fact that it does not MATTER who is under the Demon Shadow
mask...whoever the person is simply serves their role, bringing pain
and suffering to those deserving here in PVW.

Did Doc Holliday enjoy his victory over The Demon Shadow?

Unlikely.

The Demon Shadow is uninterested in winning petty battles for
meaningless accolades...it wants...no...it DEMANDS one thing and one
thing only.

It demands vengance.

It demands vengence for each time a person passes the blame for their
action on another.

It demands vengence for each time someone lies to defuse trouble
coming their way.

It demands vengence for the fact that each and every person watching
this interview is partially responsible for ruining the lives of
countless athletes...is complicit in the crippling of of men and women
who wanted nothing more than to reach for the flame of greatness, only
to be consumed by its heat...vengence for the likes of Tyrone Parker.
Vengence for the likes of The Tucson Kid.

Vengence for the marriages that were left broken from too much time
apart...

Vengence for the horror of the children of the competitors when their
fathers are unable to so much as pick them up at the age of 40.

Vengence...and retribution for them being a pack of bloodthirsty,
fickle sheep...

The Demon Shadow...the mask...demands Vengence.

The beneath it...that man simply wishes to see Tom Landis bleed."

[The scene fades out on deep, guttural laughter as the shadowy man
leans back in his chair and laughs into the darkness.]

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

[The scene fades in to a wide shot of U.S. Cellular Field, the home
baseball park for the Chicago White Sox.  The stadium is bustling with
activity which, recently, has not been the case.  There are numerous
black-and-white Sox uniforms on display as various fans shuffle to
their seats or file to bathrooms and various vendors. The camera
begins a slow zoom that displays more clarity in terms of people's
faces, clothing, food and beverage choices, etc. The camera then
shifts to a rather large individual who is making his way to his
assigned seat near the front row.  The camera pinpoints the individual
and yes, it is the man known to Phoenix Valley Wrestling as Sinister]

[Sinister dons a very large white Chicago White Sox jersey with black
pinstripes and large black letters. His thickly muscled torso is
accentuated by the short sleeves of the jersey as a few passersby who
recognize him speak pleasantly to him and shake his hand. A few kids
run up to Sinister and he grins sheepishly as he signs pieces of
paper, pictures and a couple of White Sox jerseys.  Some of the White
Sox players take the field and as they pass by Sinister, they raise
their right fist to him and he smiles widely, returning the gesture.
As people continue to file into the stadium and locate their seats,
the view switches to a view that is right next to Sinister]

"What's up PVW folks?  As you can see I'm here at the White Sox game
and I happened to catch this particular series intentionally. The
White Sox are playing the Detroit Tigers and I made a bet with my
brotha', The Professional, for a pretty good lump of money so I wanted
to be here personally for this.  [Sinister hesitates and looks around
quizzically for a moment] Hold on, am I allowed to speak about sports
betting?  Well, I'm not placing bets on any PVW events so I guess it's
cool. [He smiles coolly and continues] Anyway, after the Blackhawks
lost to the Wings in the NHL Playoffs, I figured this is at least one
way to get back in gear.  Right now the Bulls and Pistons are both
needing a lot of help, especially against Cleveland and LeBron.  Good
lord that kid is great! He's nearly my size and can do so many more
athletic feats than I ever could; not that I'm the greatest athlete
but damn, that's still extremely impressive."

[Some of the other fans surrounding Sinister voice their agreement
about LeBron and Sinister chuckles slightly.  A very young girl
approaches Sinister slowly and stands in front of him, staring up at
him in amazement. Even seated Sinister towers above the little girl.
He smiles warmly and leans down slowly to not frighten the girl. She
smiles shyly and raises her arms.  Sinister obliges by gently lifting
the girl into his arms. While holding her he looks around for her
parents. A beautiful young woman with long black hair smiles back and
indicates the girl is hers]

"Is it all right for me to hold her? I don't want to cause any
trouble."

[Some of the fans laugh gently and the young woman smiles and nods her
approval.  Sinister sighs in obvious relief then continues to speak as
the little girl simply smiles and stares at him]

"First off, I want to thank Landis and Dark Soul for allowing me to
team up with them to battle the pathetic excuse of a man named
Daniels, the apparently too good for his tag partners Hayes and the
formidable Scrayper. Needless to say my performance wasn't what I
wanted it to be but Landis and Dark Soul definitely made up for my
lack of results and we got the win. Daniels, there is a lot more that
I'd like to unleash upon your sorry carcass in terms of pain and
punishment but that will have to wait for now.  You continue living in
that fantasy world of yours where you're a great champion and then
I'll give you a very harsh dose of reality when that time comes. I do
give you a drop of respect for actually calling me out during that
match which shows me that you have some...[he looks at the little girl
in his arms and catches himself]...integrity. [A round of laughter is
heard from those surrounding Sinister as they figure out the word
integrity is not exactly the one he really wanted to use] Well, enough
about your for now.  Shifting focus, I have a new challenge presented
to me and I look forward to it.  Mr. 'Pokerface' Mark Masterson is up
next on my long list of challenges.  Masterson, I know you're a
capable wrestler and your track record proves such.  Undoubtedly
you'll be going after my good ol' reliable right knee and I implore
you to do so."

[The little girl leans down and very lightly pats Sinister's right
knee.  A few adults, including the girl's mother, say 'aaaawe' and
Sinister rubs the back of his head with his free hand]

"Thank you, sweetheart. Hopefully your little magic will help my knee
heal that much faster.  The WMI have definitely put a hitch in my
giddy-up as the old saying goes but that's all right.  God saw it so
fit as to grace me with a spare. [Sinister looks around slowly,
waiting for a reaction. When none is given he shrugs his shoulders]
Come on folks, that was a line from the movie '300'.  Man, get with it
folks.  Moving on, Masterson, I know that you will not stop short of
trying to cripple me. I want you to understand that this is a
situation that is old hat to me. You don't think that, because of my
physical stature, numerous people have targeted my legs and knees to
'chop down the oak tree' as the proverbial expression goes? While you
focus on trying to take out my 'wheels', don't overlook the fact that
one, I'm still very mobile, two, I'm very capable of a lot of damage
and most importantly, three, I'm looking to send a message of my own
to the league."

[Sinister shifts the little girl in his arms so she can rest the back
of her head against his massive chest.  He peers intently into the
camera and we now understand why he shifted the girl. He did not want
her to see his face look the way it does now]

"I'm a relative newcomer to this league but I've been in countless
battles.  Some of them have been planned while others were rather
sporadic and spontaneous. The bottom line of all of that is this.
I'm...still...here...and I'm still...very...dangerous. Masterson, I do
not envy you because there is tremendous focus I have on making this
match a statement. How do I make that statement? That's for me to know
and for you to find out...the hard way.  Masterson, make no mistake,
you will be...[unexpectedly the crowd joins in, yes, even the little
girl]...decimated! Sinister style!"

[Sinister, as well as the surrounding fans, thrust their right fists
skywards and he smiles proudly. An announcement is made over the P.A.
system asking everyone to please rise for the singing of the National
Anthem.  Sinister lifts the girl easily in his arms and stands at firm
attention as the singing begins]

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

[Its dark out on the street. Trash blows down the empty street like a
tumbleweed in the old west. He stands under a flickering street light.
People move out of their way to avoid the seven foot man in the
leather jacket. Anyone who happens to be caught in the gaze of the
Last American Badass quickly lowers his head and moves on, not wanting
to get a second glance from Alex Martinez. Everyone is afraid of him,
without Martinez ever having to say a word. The camera focuses in on
the scarred face of Alex Martinez. His dark hair is pulled back, his
thick arms are crossed over his chest. When he speaks, his voice is
low, but no less intense for its lack of volume. Here is a man that
commands attention, and is ignored at the other's peril.]

AM: One move....

That's what ya need to think about. It only took one move to put Chase
Williams down for the three count. One Firebomb, one time, and three
seconds later, I was the winner.

That jackass Craven, the guy you all cheer for, couldn't do in three
dozen what I did in one.

And lemme tell ya somethin' 'bout William Craven. Everyone likes to
cheer him. Everyone gets all happy when the lunatic is cut loose. But
I know William Craven, and I know him not just 'cuz he's been bitin'
my finisher, and doin' a piss poor job of it, for awhile.

I know him 'cuz I remember way back when. William Craven was a goof
then, and he's a bigger goof now. He's nothin' but another brain
damaged individual that can convince the two toothed rubes to cheer
for him. Nothin' but another geek willin' to bite the head off a
chicken.

Maybe Craven gets cheered, and maybe I get booed, but I get somethin'
he'll never have. I get genuine fear. I get genuine respect.

And thanks to SSN, I get paid too.

Ya see, ain't no one ever gonna pick Craven to represent anythin'.
Ain't no one out there who really wants William Craven. People will
tolerate him. But people will tolerate a whole lot. Trust me though,
no one is askin' for Craven.

But everyone is beggin' for Alex Martinez.

[There's a grin from Martinez, but the expression is short lived.]

AM: It took a lotta money and a lotta promises to bring the Last
American Badass to PVW. It took a lotta men who thought they had some
juice gettin' down on their knees and beggin' me to show up.

Because everyone knows, it ain't a show until I'm there.

But don't go thinkin' that all this money is makin' me go soft. Don't
go thinkin' that just because I am your corporate icon, that I'm any
less the brutal, ass kickin' monster that's been terrorizin' wrestlin'
for well over a decade.

And I can still get it done in one move.

Which brings me Gavin Cassel and Will Geddings.

[The derisive snort that escapes Martinez' lips should make his
feelings about these two men clear.]

AM: You two got some kinda alliance goin', or so I'm told. Is that
supposed to make me sweat? Is that supposed to make me worry? Lemme
explain somethin' to the both of ya...

What I can do to one man, I can do just as easily to two.

One Firebomb makes the ring shake, and puts a man into somethin'
resemblin' a coma. Two Firebombs makes men in the audience crap their
pants and puts more money in my pocket.

There's a reason SSN came callin'. There is a reason why I am the one,
true, legend in wrestlin'. And that reason is real damn simple: there
ain't a man alive who's ass I can't, and won't, kick.

You two are friends or allies, or whatever, and that's supposed to
make me sweat. Lemme explain to you. Friends are just people who get
in your way. Friends are just people who make you hesitate when it
comes to gettin' what you want.

I ain't got no friends 'cuz I got no need for 'em. I got Jessica
Marshall, and she makes sure I stay happy.

And that is all the friend I need.

[A hand runs through his dark hair.]

AM: They're callin' this Tradition. Well, I got a tradition of my own.
It goes like this – I show up, and I beat the hell outta everyone I
see. I show up, and the jackasses who ain't smart enough to get out of
my way wind up in traction, and then they wind up never bein' heard
from again. I show up, and all the gold is mine.

I show up, and all eyes are on me.

And lemme tell ya something. I don't see no reason why that Tradition
shouldn't continue.

Geddings, Cassel, I'm comin' for you. You two work out your little
alliance all you wan't. Go buy each other dinner, coordinate your
outfits, braid each other's hair, whatever it is that made you two
start makin' googly eyes at each other.

I'm comin' for ya. And you two will just be the latest object lesson.

It took one move to make Williams nothin' more than the latest victim.

I'm willin' to bet it ain't gonna take much more than that to finish
you two off. Come and prove me wrong boys.

But I already know that ain't gonna happen.

[Fade to Black.]

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

[Fade in:

The first image we see is an old-fashioned analog clock face.  The
hands are frozen at fifteen minutes to the hour exactly.  There is a
click and the second hand starts spinning rapidly around the dial,
dragging the minute hand inexorably towards 12 o'clock.

VO:  Tick tock tick tock tick tock.

[The shot pulls out to show the gold fob watch that was the
centerpiece of the shot.  Then the image pulls out even further to
show the Prophets of Rage.  Shadoe Rage holds the watch in his
extended left hand.  He tilts his head down and to the side, glancing
up the camera with a satisfied smirk on his face.  Derek Rage stands
sideways to his left, arms crossed.  He is dressed in an off-white
linen suit, the collar of his brown linen shirt open.  He tilts his
head back, lips pursed and eyes narrowed as he looks into the camera.]

SR: Tradition III, there's about to be a freak out!  Yeah, because the
count down is on.  15 minutes of fame, Urban Legend.  Fifteen minutes
of popularity and corny tired jokes left.  That's all you have left.
The doomsday clock is ticking down.  The Prophets of Rage are coming
back for our world titles and your reign will end in ignominy.  You
never should have been!  No, you never should have been champions.
You aren't champions and after Tradition III you will not be champions
one more time.

DR: I know you're trying to think of ways to save yourself.  I know
you're trying to think of ways to make a mockery of this match and
avoid getting yourself pinned.  Maybe some twist on the Zero Tolerance
policy to get yourselves disqualified or some such silly nonsense.
Maybe you think you can hide Outlaw under the ring or some other such
nonsense. All your tricks and gimmicks will not work.  That's the
beauty of Zero Tolerance.  It has brought us back in time to when you
had to be able to wrestle.

SR: And when you look at the field, Joker's Wild, Urban Legend, Gutch
and Livestock and the Prophets of Rage.  Well only one team stands out
there as true wrestlers in the ring.  And that's us.  Yeah, us.  YEAH,
IT'S US.  So you shine up those belts real nice, Stalker and Semi and
you get them ready to be given back to their rightful owners because
we're coming for you.  The countdown is on!

[Swingin' Dean Hayes rushes into the shot.]

SDH: I'm sorry, I'm running late.  I guess I lost track of the time.

SR: You're right, you are late.

SDH: (looking around until he finally spots the fob watch)  What did I
miss?  What's the prop this time?  A pocket watch?

SR: That's right.

[Shadoe begins to swing the watch back and forth in front of Hayes'
eyes.]

DR: The message was time is running out for the championship reign of
Urban Legend.

SR: And the Prophets of Rage are always on point and on message.

[He continues swinging the watch.  Dean's eyes begin to sag closed as
he attempts to follow the watch.  Just as he is about to fall asleep
on the job he is startled awake by the meaty thwack of Derek Rage's
hand on his shoulder.]

SDH: (shaking his head) Huh?  What?  Hello?

DR: Hayes, are you paying attention?  You are standing in the presence
of greatness.  Don't you dare disrespect it.

SDH: I'm sorry.

SR: (staring a hole through Dean's forehead with those insane eyes)
Swingin' Dean Hayes, you are in danger of creating a diplomatic
incident.  You stand in the presence of the Kings of Rage Country,
population two men one woman and soon to be two big shiny gold belts.
Stand up and be professional.  [He grabs Hayes' shirt collar.]  Be
professional, man.  Have some pride.

SDH: I'm sorry.

[The trio spend some time killing the interview by staring at each
other.  After a while the silence becomes uncomfortable.]

SR: You know, you are an interviewer.  Why don't you ask a question or
something.  Why don't you earn your keep?

SDH: (obviously unprepared) Ummm, well, where's Pizzazz?

DR: Pizzazz is out purchasing champagne for our coronation at
Tradition III.

SDH: (perking up) Champagne?  What kind?

SR: It doesn't matter.  It's not for us.  It's for our opponents to
drown their sorrows.  See, they may be adequate wrestlers but we are
wrestling gods.  Nobody does it better than us.  And we will prove
that at Tradition III.

DR: Any more relevant questions?

SDH: Well, have you addressed the possibility that Urban Legend can
keep the titles if they aren't pinned?

DR: You mean chicanery or stupidity on the part of our opponents?

SR: We consider every possibility.  We take the time ... [He spins to
face the hard camera, showing the watch, then turns back to Hayes] ...
to figure out every angle.  Our opponents all want the tag-team titles
so Urban Legend will try to run and stay out of the ring as much as
possible.  But that doesn't matter.  We'll just hurt the Jokers and
Livestock and Gutch until they are isolated inside the ring with no
where to run.  Urban Legend will not outsmart us.  And it's been
proven they cannot outwrestle us.  Have no fear.  We will prevail and
Urban Legend will fail.

SDH: I see.

SR: Let me ask you a question.  Why are you late?

SDH: (blushing) Ummm, well, you see ... there was this ... uh ....

DR: (nodding sagely) Groupie love can keep your mind off important
matters.

SR: That's the price of being merely mortal.  Well, you and your ring
rat love will get front row seats to see time run out on Urban Legend.
Tradition III, it is the Prophets time again!  Tick tock, Urban
Legend. Tick tock.

[Rage turns his back to Hayes and begins his natural slide out of the
camera.  He tosses the watch over his shoulder for Hayes to catch.
Hayes fumbles with the timepiece as Derek Rage smirks down at him and
stalks away.]

SDH: Well, the Prophets of Rage have made some bold statements here
today.  At Tradition III can they back them up?  Only time will tell.
This is Swingin' Dean Hayes throwing back to the studio.

[He examines the watch closely, holding it up to his ear.  He seems
startled.]

SDH: Wow, this is expensive.

[Glancing around furtively, he pockets the watch.

Fade out.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Apache Blood
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Scene opens to inside the Atrium Shopping Mall in Chicago, IL.
There is hustle and bustle everywhere as people shop at various
stores, spending as if it dulled the pain of these harsh
economic times. Maybe it's better to dull their pocket woes
with ill advised spending than to stand there nervously, almost
twitching with nervousness, like Greg Bull, half of PVW's
newest tag team Apache Blood, is doing.]

GB: Man... (Looks around).. Where is he?

[Greg looks around, looking for someone, as people pass by
shopping non-stop.]

GB: All this money changing hands..

[Greg shivers.]

GB: Oh to take part in some sweet, sweet gambling!

[He runs his hands over his face, trying to wipe away the
thought.]

GB: But I can't do that.. Not with Al around.. Somewhere!

[Bull looks around nervously again.]

GB: Where is that cousin? He was more reliable when he
was on the drink!

[Greg sighs and shakes his head.]

GB: ... Sweet, sweet gam-

Voice: COUSIN LOOK!

GB: EEEK!

[Greg jumps in startlement and turns to see his tag team
partner and cousin Al Tonka wearing a Chicago Blackhawks
jersey and holding on in his hands.]

GB: Man! Why'd you have to scare me like that cousin?

AT: Me sorry cousin but.. LOOK! They have merchandise
with us on it already!!

[Al pushes the jersey towards Greg who looks at it and
it's Native American cartoon icon and then back at the
beaming smile of his cousin.]

GB: Al.. That's not for us!

AT: (deflated) What? It.. It not for us?

GB: No.

AT: But.. (he looks at the jersey).. it has cartoons
of us on it! Look.. The feather.. the markings.. (he
turns it back towards Greg, smiling again).. IT LOOK
JUST LIKE US!!

GB: We don't wear any paint or markings on our faces!

AT: Hrmm.. Maybe it SSN's way of suggesting ideas to
us?!

GB: ... Al.. This jersey.. It's for a hockey team called
Chicago Blackhawks!

[Al looks at the jersey again and then back at his cousin
with a confused look.]

AT: Hockey? The game with ice and sticks?

[Greg nods his head.]

AT: Hrmm..

[Al looks up at Greg as if Greg was crazy.]

AT: Have you been gambling again cousin?

[Greg's eyes go wide with shock.]

GB: What?!

AT: You are talking crazy as if you fell off horse!

GB: No! No I have not been gambling!

AT: Then why you talk crazy? Hockey.. Ha Ha Ha! They not have
hockey team with our faces on it! Ha Ha Ha!

GB: Al it's not our faces..

AT: CLEARLY, Cousin, they ARE our faces! Can't you tell! Look
at the uncanny resemblance!

[Al pushes the jersey in Greg's face some more.]

AT: Oh My God Wrestling must have had bigger following than I
thought it did! They have hockey teams with our faces on it!

GB: We only wrestled ALL OVER THE WORLD for that company and..
Wait.. So now you agree that it is for a hockey team?

[Al ponders this for a moment.]

AT: Hockey sticks make good wrestling weapon!

[Greg hangs his head, defeated.. Utterly defeated.]

AT: I wish they get our faces on soccer jersey!

[Greg looks up confused.]

GB: Soccer?

[Al nods his head.]

AT: Yes cousin. The great sport of the original football!

GB: When did YOU get into... Soccer?!

AT: Last week I caught Kings Of Europe on TV at that hotel!

GB: Kings Of Europe? That sounds like some kind of.. Weird
foreign soap opera!

AT: Cousin.. You should know that even though we from the
original American peoples.. We looked at as foreigners in
country that was once ours to roam free with horses and
buffallo!

GB: Oh boy..

AT: Doing trade and sometimes battle with the various tribes
of Sasquatch..

GB: SASQUATCH?!

[Al nods his head.]

AT: Grandfather.. He tell story of how our ancestors scalped
many "Yellow Tops" in their day. And how many of our ancestors
were torn limb from limb by Sasquatch peoples!

[Greg hides his face with his hands.]

GB: Oh My God..

AT: But not all times with Sasquatch were full of violence
and scalping. Sometimes we traded goods such as animal
hides and beads with them.

[Al waves his arm around as if presenting the Atrium Mall
to Greg.]

AT: Much like this place!

GB: There were no shopping malls between our people and
Sasquatch Al!

AT: Not modern equivalent.. No.. But they DID do trade
cousin. And they DID do battle. Just imagine.. If they
had Kings Of Europe back then.. Apache and Sasquatch could
have resolved issues with soccer ball!

GB: ...

AT: Perhaps it get heated like when Glasgow Goalkeeper
William MacCloud punched Rome Legionaires defender
Alberto Rossi. But they get time out card of shame..

[Al looks at Greg with a stern look.]

AT: Red is color of shame cousin!

GB: Al... I know you are having a hard time being off the
drink..

AT: Me not NEED Fire Water cousin! I fight good without
fire water! All will FEAR!

GB: I know.. I know.. But now you're like becoming
addicted to anything you see on TV like.. like that
soccer stuff...

AT: Me not addicted cousin! I just can't wait to find out
who will be on top of standings! Follow all the stats!
Antonito Balsa is injured! This MAJOR sports story for
entire world cousin! We, true American peoples, should
embrace said news with sympathy and woe!

GB: What?! What are you going on about?

AT: Inury bad cousin! You should know! Remember when bad
man LOCO hung you over that balcony then dropped you to
the floor below?

GB: ... Do not mention the name of THAT guy..

AT: Yes.. THAT LOCO!

GB: GAH! Everyone hates that slogan Al!

AT: But.. It his slogan!

GB: We are NOT giving him any press man! We've got a
fight coming up on Tradition here in PVW now! Battles
with Russian Shoot Vampires and Lynch Mobs that take
off instead of finishing business.. All of that is in
the past man! Now.. NOW we have a fight in a top
company against two newcomers like ourselves!

AT: They have more of our people fighting here in PVW?
I thought perhaps we only Natives left in business..

GB: Our opponents are NOT Native American.. Well as far
as I know they aren't! But they're two singles guys,
thrown together, to fight us, former tag team champions,
in a debut match for the biggest company around!

[Al gets a serious look on his face.]

AT: They're hungry cousin. Hungry to make big splash and
what better place.. What better moment to do so than to
be two singles guys thrown together and overcome former
tag team champions!

[Al nods his head.]

AT: Yes.. They're hungry cousin.. But their hunger is
nothing compared with ours! We were forced out of
fighting business because of illness.. Addictions..
Now we are given opportunity to return.. For big stage..
We lost so much.. Now is chance to regain everything we
had before and more.. All under the eyes and stars of
heaven and skies!

[Al motions to the cieling with his hand.]

GB: Would've been more effective if said OUTSIDE as oppose
to inside this mall but.. I get what you're saying!

AT: Thrill of fight.. Need to compete and conquer and
claim victory.. These are the engines of our bellies
cousin! These will drive US to victory! Whatever our
opponents may bring.. Unknown quantities so far.. Whatever
damage they will on us.. We will endure, push through
and snatch victory away! They are two singular independent
hungry voices.. Ours is one COMBINED Roar of hunger for
battle and victory!

[Greg begins to look around nervously.]

GB: We don't have to do a movie solilquy here Al..

AT: Ancestors raised scalps in glory and victory! Adorned
their brave heads with feathers and conquered for glory
and victory and survival! For us survival is glory and
victory now! We must crush our opponents for the love of
the fight til we can't go anymore! Our ancestors died in
pursuit of these things.. We may die as well.. But we will
FIGHT til that end!

[Greg begins hiding his face as people stare in awkwardness
at Al's rant.]

AT: OUR PEOPLE WILL BE RESTORED IN THE GLORIOUS EYES OF
OUR ANCESTORS THROUGH THE VICTORY AND GLORY OF BLOOD THAT
REMAINS ACTIVE! Our Blood.. APACHE BLOOD!

[The awkwardness amplified by Al's SCREAMING is unbearable!]

GB: YEAH.. Yeah that is.. ah.. That is right cousin!

[Al seems to snap out of some trance.. Nodding his head.]

GB: Yeah..

[Greg grabs Al by his arm and starts pulling him away.]

GB: Yeah, ah.. Go Blackhawks! Yeah! That's the spirit!
We ah.. Really believe in the team!

[Now people look at them as if they're retarded jerks!]

GB: (whispering) We have GOT to leave Al!

AT: Leave? Do you have our jerseys?

GB: You're WEARING one Al and they're not our..

[Shakes his head.]

GB: Yes I have our jerseys! Let's go!

[Al turns back towards the crowd of confused shoppers.]

AT: Fear us opponents!

...

AT: FEAR!

[Greg yanks Al away and offscreen while shoppers shake their
heads in confusion then go back to blissful pain numbing
shopping. Scene fades.]

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

[Black screen, white text in the middle reading: Gibson Hayes' Vision
for America. A voice over occurs. The voice is a familiar one, however
it has been altered with a robotic affect possibly to hide the
identity.  Eerie music plays.]

V/O: Demon Shadow.

[Black and white shot is shown of The Spectre. A needle screeching
across a record is heard as the tone of the announcer's voice gets
less serious.]

V/O: The Spectre really?  Didn't this guy once brag that he could
wrestle a folding chair?

[Picture flashes of a folding chair.]

V/O: No?  Am I thinking of someone else?  Then find out who wrestles
folding chairs!

[Another picture flashes of Demon Shadow and brightly flashes on the
screen.  A cough and someone clearing his throat is heard as the music
picks up.]

V/O: Right, Demon Shadow, not Spectre.  Because Demon Spectre wrestles
with a mask.

[Demon Shadow's mask appears.]

V/O: And he's Japanese.

[A picture of Japan's flag.]

V/O: But wait, I thought Gibson Hayes loved America?

[Gibson Hayes is shown holding an American flag.]

V/O: If Gibson loves America so much, then why is he outsourcing his
labor from foreign markets?  That doesn't sound like he loves America,
it sounds like he supports NAFTA.  You know what NAFTA sounds like?
NAMBLA.

[No I'm not showing you a picture of NAMBLA go look it up.  Perverts.]

V/O: Gibson Hayes does not think he can get the job done with hard
woking Americans so he outsources his labor to places like Japan and
China, the America he believes in so much; he does not support with
his labor needs...

[Various pictures of unemployed, American people start filling up the
screen, one at a time, until the screen is filled with poverty.]

V/O: ...that's not the America I believe in, is it the America you
believe in?

[Video of gently waving America flag is seen over purple mountains
majesty.]

V/O: America doesn't need any more tricks. America doesn't need double
talk. America doesn't need Gibson Hayes.

[Gibson Hayes' head is now superimposed on a homeless person drinking
a fine vintage Bonne's Farm beverage.]

V/O: So say no to Gibson Hayes' idea of America shown by the company
he keeps! Gibson Hayes is not who he says he is and America needs and
demands the truth!

[A picture of Gibson Hayes holding the America Title in the center of
the ring is shown, slowly spinning in the middle of the screen with a
big purple X flashing across it.]

V/O: Gibson Hayes. Wrong for America. Wrong for the PVW.

~The preceding message was paid for by [CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED
CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED
CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED].~

[A horrible tape splicing comes in at the end with a video shot of
Gibson Hayes but the words and mouth movement don't seem to add up.]

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

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

[The Music Store, Chicago, Illinois.]

[Throngs of tween girls are screaming, jumping, and going plenty wild,
waving posters and placards.  It's a scene not unlike the rowdy mass
of a PVW taping, but instead, the crowd's energy is focused upon
getting a glimpse of and an autograph from the one and only Jonas
Brothers, who are having a meet and greet here at the musical
instrument establishment.]

[Standing a full head above everyone else toward the rear, bouncing
with the crowd, is Nick "Always" Wright.  He's clad in Jonas gear and
seems to be in the full throes of Jonas-mania.  Next to him, standing
taller still above the crowd, is his tag team partner "Pokerface" Mark
Masterson.  Dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans, he hangs his head in
shame as he pinches the bridge of his nose.]

MM: I'd say 'Remind me again why we're here', but really, I'm afraid
you'd tell me.

NW: KEEEEVVVVVINN!  JOOOOOOOOOOOEEEE!  NIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!  YOUR NAME
ROCKS!!!!

MM: I hope you realize this hurt me.  Like, really, physically,
nauseously hurts me.

NW: This is important to the plan, Mark!  [Turning back to the crowd]
JO-NAS!  JO-NAS!  JO-NAS!

MM: I refuse to accept that this will in any way help with Ryder.

NW: [Sighs] Man, I hate losing my spot in line, but it's not that
great... Here... [Wright takes Masterson by the arm and leads him out
of the crowd.]

MM: Tell me we're leaving.  PLEASE tell me we're leaving.

NW: Not until we talk to the JoBros.  They're KEY.

MM: JoBros?  Really, Nick?

NW: Listen, with the Zero Tolerance Policy, there's a really
impressive box that needs to be thought outside of.  And me, I'm
thinking 'Megastar Pop Group Jonas Brothers'.

MM: So this is an angle?  And you're NOT really one of THEM?  [He
motions to the teeming mass of tweens.]

NW: I respect them for their ethics, at least.  And you know Ryder
LOVES them, right?  How can he not?  The teenage girls parts he's got
in his trunks can't get enough Jonas.  He's making out with the
posters on his wall every night that Laurel gets to wear the penis,
and that means every night.  THAT'S the angle, Mark!  We use his love
of the Jonas Brothers against him!

MM: I'm not about to deny Ryder's girly streak, but really?

NW: Now, listen.  The Jonas Brothers are a Disney franchise.  Perfect
gentlemen, attainable but never attained.  This means that their Y
chromosomes are likely ready to burst out with a stunning agression
the likes of which the world has never seen.  We have a chance to
offer them an outlet for that agression, get the drop on Ryder, AND
have an airtight workaround for the Zero Tolerance Policy!  They can't
go after people who don't work for the PVW!

MM: Your plan is simultaneously brilliant in its craftsmanship and
totally insane in your choice of building blocks.

NW: Shut up and get in line!  This will never work if the JoBros have
packed up and moved on to their concert by the time we make it to the
front of the line!

MM: Tell you what, Nick: I'll go wait in the car.  If your plan works,
the Jonas Brothers will need to squeeze into the back seat; I'd better
go clean it up a bit.

NW: THAT'S the thinking I need!  Perfect!

MM: Yep, that's me.  Jonas Brothers mastermind, second only to your
greatness.

[Nick has turned to rejoin the crowd.]

NW: JONAS BROTHERS!  I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!

[Masterson walks away, head down, as the scene fades to black.]

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

[Cut to an empty ring.   A single spotlight shines down on a lone
wrestler standing in the middle of it.  The camera zooms in on the
number one contender Justin Cruise.  He rolls his head from side to
side, his eyes closed.]

Cruise: This is it.  Finally, an organization that realizes that
wrestling isn't all about barbwire, chairs, tables and thumbtacks.
The zero tolerance rule is one of the best things to come along
since.... well I can't really think of anything as good as this.

[He looks at the camera]

Cruise: Now I can do my job.  Now I can come out and actually wrestle
an opponent one on one in this very ring, without worrying about
outside interference, or having my opponent use a foreign object like
a goddamn railroad spike.

[Shakes head.]

Cruise: Of course because of Zero Tolerance, I wasn't able to get my
hands on Cole on Heatwave like I'd originally hoped to.  Seems the
higher ups realized that Cole orchestrated that attack on me a few
weeks ago, and they decided to suspend him from out tag match..  Took
them long enough to put two and two together..  But, all is being set
right.

Cruise: Because it turns out Rob wasn't very happy.  No, he didn't
like being told how to act.  So he demanded, not requested, DEMANDED
that he be allowed to defend his PVW Title.  And thankfully, someone
in the head office thought of me.  Looks like I will get my chance to
get my hands on Cole, and this time it's for all the marbles.   Rob
Cole.. Justin Cruise...  PVW World Championship.

[Cruise smiles.]

Cruise: A lot has been said of my return to PVW.  Some question my
methods, the hiding under the mask to get into the world title
tournament.  Others claim I'm only getting what I'm getting because of
who I am, and not for what I've done. And you know what, I don't
really care.  That's right Rob, I don't care what you think of me or
my methods.  Because while my methods to get my shots might've been a
little shady, once I'm in the ring, I'm honest.

[he paces the ring.]

Cruise: I think I've figured something out Rob.  I think I've figured
out why you are the way you are, and it's incredibly simple.  You're
just NOT that good.  You know that if you need to actually wrestle
someone, you won't come out on top.  You've spent year upon year upon
year of molding yourself into this hardcore icon, that you've
forgotten what it is you're actually doing..

[pause]

Cruise: Wrestling.

[pause]

Cruise: You've spent years relying on being dirty, and using whatever
you can to inflict pain upon your opponent that you've totally
forgotten the most important part of what we do.  And now, now you're
scared.  You're scared because you can't fall back into your old bag
of tricks to get the win.  You're actually going to have to wrestle
against your opponents.  Do you even remember HOW to do this?  I can't
imagine when you first worked your way up the ranks that you were on
the same path of destruction that you're on now.  You must've
occasionally pulled a greco roman take down out of your ass, or an arm
drag?  Right?  At some point, you had to have hip tossed someone, or a
belly to back suplex.. Right?  A figure-four?  A sharpshooter?  A BODY
SLAM?

Cruise: No?

[he shakes his head.]

Cruise: I can see why you're scared.  I understand now.  Because you
know that deep down, with the rules being applied, you simply can't
beat me.  If you can't swing a chair, or hit me with a ring bell, or
put me through a table, you can't beat me.  If you can't make me bleed
with a railroad spike, or a ballpoint pen, you can't beat me.

Cruise: So now I gotta ask.  With Zero Tolerance in effect.. What can
you do to beat me?

[He stops and stares at the camera.]

Cruise: We both know the answer...   Nothing...

[Fade to black.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	The Wild Cards
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The scene fades on on Black Jack Baldwin sitting at a long table,
piled high with stacks of papers of various colors.  The near seven
foot former Tag Team Champion is frowning, going through pile after
pile and making notes on a clip board as he goes.]

JB: Nope...no good...this one's out...nada here...no way...

[He continues ticking off negatives on the clip board as he
goes...walking right past his tag team partner, who's leaning against
the wall with a look of perplexed amazement on his face.]

JM: Jack...not that I'm not thrilled that you're finally applying
yourself, but what the hell is going on in here...I've never seen you
come anywhere near applying yourself.

[Baldwin glances briefly over at Judd, shaking his head as he
continues working.]

JB: No time to talk now...with Jason showing up, I need to check
through the prank files to make sure that we can still use some of
them under his version of Zero Tolerance.

JM: I'm thinking the liklihood of that is pretty minimal, Jack...this
IS Keening...he doesn't have a sense of humor of which he's aware...it
was amputated back when he was a little Drillbit...

[Baldwin shrugs, grinning at Judd.]

JB: Yeah, but he was my tag team partner...you know what that means.

JM: That now that he's free of you, he's even LESS likely to let you
off the hook?

JB: I'm hurt...here I was thinking that you'd be all complimentary and
junk.

JM: We've only been partners for a decade and some change...the first
time I get all complimentary and junk will be the first, baldy.

[Jack shrugs, leading Judd over to the files.]

JB: Look, Judd...we need to know what stunts we can pull without
having to pay out like a fat kid in a candy store...

JM: Charming imagery.

JB: Will our giant paint shaker schtick be allowed?

JM: My guess is no...

JB: Right...you GUESS, but you don't KNOW.  I've got something like
34,000 different pranks, gags, and cheats that we've either used or
planned...

JM: You keep a cheating file?!?!?!

JB: Honestly I'm surprised you don't...

[Judd walks around the table, shaking his head in barely contained
awe.]

JM: So you know what's on all of those.

JB: Most of 'em, yeah...that pile you're pointing at is "Stuff I can
hide in my pants and probably not get caught...right next to it is
stuff I CAN'T hide in my pants...

JM: "Bear Trap"...please don't tell me that you actually TRIED...

JB: You need to know your limits when it comes time for a match.

[Judd stares at him momentarily before shaking his head and moving to
another pile.]

JM: And this?

JB: Items to be dropped on the floor.

[Judd leafs through the pile, reading quietly to himself.]

JM: Mice...feral marmots...ball bearings...axle grease...fire ants...

...

You've got too much time on your hands.

JB: Try not enough!  How am I supposed to come up with a good cheat to
use in our match while I'm categorizing this stuff?

JM: Well, the office brass has told us that there'll be a meeting
where we can ask questions.

[Baldwin looks at Judd speculively.]

JB: Veeeeeery eeeenterestink.  We can FORCE him to tell us what we
can't do!  It's brilliant!

JM: I think the idea is to make sure that people know what's off
limits so they...y'know...don't do it.

JB: Yeah, but they lack vision.

JM: Or value their paychecks.

JB: Same thing.  The pack of whores!

[Judd stares at Jack for a moment, shaking his head and sighing.]

JM: Listen Jack...we've got a six man tag match that we need to prep
for...do you even know anything about our partner?

JB: Is it that invisible guy that Daniels beat up?

JM: ...

JB: IT IS, isn't it!

That'll be great!  He was hardcore!

JM: Uhhh...he's...erm...nope...he was...busy, Jack.

JB: Man...that's a shame.

JM: Well...that also answers my question...

JB: And opens the door for us to...dammit...I'm betting going Wild's
out under the new rules too, isn't it?

JM: 'Fraid so...

[Baldwin looks up at the ceiling, shaking his right fist, Stephen
Colbert style.]

JB: KEEEEENING!

[fade to black]

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

[The scene opens to Will Geddings, sitting on his bed with a pair of
jeans and a t-shirt on. A tv is on the dresser, the camera able to
tell that it is playing by the flickering lights being projected onto
the wall behind Geddings. Geddings' wrestling mask is covering his
face, the burns continuing to bother the superstar.]

[Geds]: It feels like it's been so long since I did one of these.
Feels like I've been away for months.

[Geddings shakes his head]

[Geds]: Probably a side effect of the pain killers and the rare loss.
Rick Marley beat me. Congratulations. Did he have to resort to his
typical short cuts? Well, yea. But that was to be suspected. That loss
is solely on my shoulders.

[Geds]: I said going into the match that Marley would be forced to
rely on methods that were outside of the bounds of fairplay. Marley
doesn't have the ability or the desire to when on his own merits
anymore. I knew it was coming. And I allowed it to happen.

[Geddings shakes his head]

[Geds]: This is the place in the interview where I would call Rick
Marley a joke, a hack, and a pissant. Those days have passed, I'm
afraid. As I've gotten older, it has become more and more apparent
that putting down the opposition is a move made by one who simply
doesn't have the ability to hack it around here. Rick Marley won that
match. Again...congratulations. It must be nice for a middle-tier
talent to taste a bit of the spotlight.

[Geddings can be seen smiling through the mouthhole of his mask]

[Geds]: Had to get one in. Onward and...downward. Well, that's unfair.
This is Alex Martinez, after all. One of the greatest athletes in the
sport. A man who talent is only outsized by his legend. Or so I've
heard. when a guy of this caliber comes into the league, one would
imagine that he would look at the talent amassed here and desire to
test his wrestling wares against some of the best in the world. Yet
here we have Alex...who walks in and immediate sucks on the teat of
SSN.

[Geds]: Why, Alex? Are the knees not as stout as they used to be? Does
your back ache when you attempt your precious little Firebomb? It
doesn't come as easy to chokeslam people anymore, does it Alex? Seven
feet tall, three hundred plus pounds...and you need help.

[Geddings leans his head back on the wall, looking at the television
for a bit, as if forgetting what he was doing. He continues to speak,
no longer looking at the camera.]

[Geds]: Look at me. A solid foot shorter than you. More than a hundred
pounds smaller. And yet, here I am, spitting on the beast. Why would I
do that? Have I lost what is left of my mind?

[Geddings turns back to the camera, a wry smile on his face]

[Geds]: No. See, here's the thing. SSN has shown that they are a "What
have you done for me lately" organization. Where's Vandal Gomez at
now, Alex? Hmm? You're value is limited to your ability to bark on
command. You've gone and put yourself in a precarious situation,
"Badass"...you are either incapable of being competitive on the level
required to be successful in PVW...or you're still the Alex Martinez
that people rave about. And if you're the latter, you won't like being
on the leash for too long. When you lash out, SSN will eliminate you.
You're ephemeral, Alex, and I am an evergreen. It's not that I've lost
my mind, mon ami, it's just that I understand both of our situations.

[Geds]: Plus, see, I've got help in this match. Someone with all the
talent in the world and confidence to go at it against the SSN
machine. Gavin Cassel is the next face of wrestling. Long after you
and I have hung them up, Alex, he will carry this organization into
the golden age. You and I, we're dinosaurs. He's the one who will
outlast SSN.

[Geds]: But that's just me going a bit senile. Ultimately, the only
thing that matters is Tradition III. They tell me you're one of the
great ones, Alex. But here's the thing...

[Geds]: I'm pretty good too. Long Live the King.

[Scene fades]

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

[The camera comes into focus and Tommy Ryder is walking in a park with
Laurel Levinger.]

TR: Here we are.  Tradition III is here and Nick Wright and I are in
an "I Quit" match.  Now before I really get into what I have to say to
Nick, I need to say something to his partner Mark Masterson.

Mark, I am sorry that I am going to hurt your wallet.  I realize that
a tag team makes money in tag team matches.  After Tradition III you
won't have a tag partner for a while Mark.  This thing between me and
your partner has gone on long enough and I need to put an end to it.
Mark, I will understand if you and the other members of the
Widowmakers want to punish me for this, and you will likely see it as
hurting your business, but remember this... Nick is the one that
decided to take it too far.  You guys beat the crap out of me, but he
attacked her.

[Laurel keeps looking away pursing her lips, but stays silent.  The
wind blows through the park slowly making the trees sway.  Tommy puts
his hand to his head rubbing his temple before he continues.]

TR: Nick, I'm done getting worked up about what I'm going to do to
you. Every time we have a match you find some way to get some one else
involved.  Not this time Nick.  New rules.  I'm sure that as arrogant
as you were on Heatwave that WMI has some plan for what's going to
happen to me.  You know Nick, maybe I have a plan too.

This ends at Tradition III Nick.  On Heatwave, you decide to play it
like you're the good guy.  Like I'm the one that is trying to take
shortcuts.  Nick, say what ever you want.  Paint what ever picture you
want.  At Tradition III the story of Nick Wright ends and the story of
The Phenom moves on.

[Tommy takes Laurel by the hand and walks off into the park as the
camera fades.]

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

(Scene opens to black. The sounds of people cheering and yelling,
mixed with ringing of bells and whistles can be heard. Then the lens
cap from the camera is removed and our eyes are assaulted by blinding,
blinking neon lights. The cameraman adjusts the light filter and we
see that we are inside a casino, and the place is packed. Waitresses
dressed in traditional Indian fare,are weaving in and out of the
throngs, drink trays held up high. We follow one particularly buxom
squaw as she makes her way towards the slot machines, a sort of
familiar green plastic bottle on her tray. And when she reaches her
destination, we see that she is delivering the drink to the one and
only Mercenary, who is seated at a farm based slot machine. Two pigs
and a tractor are shown on the screen, which as we all know, pays
nothing. He's just about to pull the slot's lever once again, when the
waitress speaks up)

Waitress: Here you go sir... One ice cold Fresca, just like you asked
for. Is there anything else I can get you.

Merc: (taking the drink and putting it in the cup holder on the side
of the machine). No, not right now, thanks.

(Then when he's taking one last look are her 'huge tracts of land', he
somehow notices her name tag, and sees that her name is Squatstoo P.
Keening)

Merc: Hey, just a minute... Am I reading that right? You're a Keening?

SPK: Yes, I am. Just like 90% of the employees here.

Merc: So, then you would be related to the Screeching Dilbert?

SPK: Screeching Dilbert? Uhm... Do you mean Screaming Drillbit?

Merc: Well, he goes by Jason most of the time...

SPK: Yeah, that's him.

Merc: So, how come he doesn't work here with the rest of the family?

SPK: Well, he used to work security. But last I heard, he had gone off
to try the wrestling business again.

Merc: Yeah, I know. He's made his way to Phoenix Valley Wrestling. So,
do you know why he left here? Seems like a pretty cushy job...

SPK: Apparently not. I heard he got tired of having little old ladies,
who'd lost their entire pension checks, beating the crap out of him
with their purses and walkers. Figured the wrestling ring was a safer
place to be.

Merc: Really? I heard he liked to be beaten by little old ladies. Paid
good money for it, too.

SPK:....

Merc: Eh, no matter. What he does in his personal life is his own
business. Oh... and one more question..

SPK: Yes?

Merc: This game that I'm playing... Why can't I get the big payout?

SPK: (looking at the game).. Well, to win on this one, you need to get
three mules. That's a guaranteed win.

Merc: Ah.. just like my upcoming match...I'm up against three
jackasses, and as far as I'm concerned, that's a guaranteed win as
well.

SPK: You mean the guys from TV that abuse themselves?

Merc: Umm... no. Those guys would never be let anywhere's near a
wrestling ring. I mean Dr. Mal Content, Dr. Yoko Ono and the Dutch
cheesehead, Hershey-squirt Donkeyhardon. Those three jackasses are
going the be in the ring with me and the Wildcards, one of the most
successful tag teams in the world. And since I'm still pissed off
about having to pay a fine to the PVW, they won't stand a chance. Got
a few frustrations to release on them.

SPK: So, if you're so upset about having to give away money to the
SPW, how come you're here throwing more away by playing the slots?

Merc: There's a big difference. Here, the money is being spent on my
terms, and there's a possibility of a return. What the PVW did was
just take the money from me for no reason. Big difference.

SPK: Ok... Well, I should get back to work. Don't want the little old
bats getting mad at me. Say 'Hi' to my cousin/nephew/step-brother for
me.

Merc: Sure, no problem. In fact, I'm sure I'll be seeing him real
soon.

(With that, SPK goes back to work, and Merc turns back to his slot
machine. He pulls the lever, and instantly the bells and lights on the
machine go off, as three mule heads appear, and pennies start pouring
out. Merc starts to collect his winnings, and we fade to snow)

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

[The scene cuts on, and the camera shakes furiously, making it hard to
see the setting of this particular piece. From off camera we hear the
voice of an irate Marcus Manson.]

Manson: Get that damn camera set up! Get a move on!

[The camera finally comes to rest in front of the PVW banner. Manson
is still off camera, however.]

Manson: Come on Dean, you're always looking for interviews aren't you?
Get over here!

[Manson, still wearing his ring gear, storms into frame, pulling Dean
Hayes by his collar. Dean almost stumbles into Manson, but stops
himself short. Manson is furious, pacing back and forth. Dean finally
gets a microphone and begins his interview.]

Hayes: Uh... Dean Hayes here backstage with Marcus Manson, who just
seconds ago had an intense physical altercation with Larry Gionet.
Marcus, what are your tho-

[Manson stops pacing, grabs the microphone and pulls it away from
Dean, holding it in front of his face and pointing at Hayes. His voice
is quiet, yet intense, when he speaks.]

Manson: You hold this microphone and don't say another damn word.

[Hayes blinks as Manson lifts the microphone higher and turns to the
camera. He is still sweating from his altercation with Gionet, and
rivulets of perspiration run through the wicked scar that cuts a line
from above the center of his right eye to his chin.]

Manson: Larry Gionet. You son of a bitch. Who in the hell do you think
you are? Not only did you ignore PVW's Zero Tolerance, you decided to
come down during my match, a match that I would have WON -- and you
dared to lay your hands on ME? Unacceptable. Not only do you involve
yourself in something that was none of your business, you attacked me
from BEHIND. Some "Warrior" you are. You fancy yourself the baddest
man in PVW. So what do you do? You come down to the ring after I've
been squaring off against two other men, and hit me with a move that
they say made you famous in PVW. And you know what? Despite the fact
that I traded blows with Merc and HvD for 10 minutes, despite the fact
that I had already been suplexed through the commentators' table...
despite all of that you know what I did when you hit the Rib Cracker?
I got right back up.

[Manson shakes his head.]

Toughest man in PVW my ass.

[Manson takes a deep breath and exhales through his nose.]

And now, in all likelihood, you're suspended, so I can't even get my
hand on you INSIDE the ring, much less outside of it. They told me
when I got here tonight that next week instead of going toe to toe
with Gionet, I'm teaming up with Feyr to take on Craven and Dark Soul
on the next Heatwave. Dark Soul.. I have nothing against you. Let's
hope it stays that way. But Craven...

[Manson pauses as he shifts gears, glaring hard into the camera.]

Earlier tonight William Craven claimed that he held a victory over me
"in one form or another." Bullshit.

[Manson closes his eyes, shakes his head and sighs.]

Oh, William. Your insanity used to be amusing. Kind of cute, even. But
now you're just irritating me. You have NEVER pinned me. You have
NEVER made me submit. Despite tonight's match, I am STILL UNDEFEATED
in PVW. Can you say the same? For that matter, can Larry Gionet say
the same? You have been a thorn in Widowmakers Inc's side from the day
I set foot in PVW. Aside from that, and aside from your inane claims
of holding a victory over me, I still owe you for what you did to the
only family I've got. You brutally beat down my brother-in-law with
your bokken, and if you think I'm going to stand idly by and not take
it out of your hide, you really ARE crazy. Bill, do yourself a favor
and skip the tag match just like you skipped the War of The Four.
Because at this point, I don't care how much Marley wants to get his
hands on you. Screw Holliday's "Code of the Old West". I WILL jump
Marley's claim. This isn't about titles, it isn't about pride or
egos... you made this personal. PVW is putting us in that ring
together on the 23rd, and come hell or high water I will do to you a
thousand times what you did to Johnathan Regnigh at War Games. You
have unleashed hell, William Craven. I will beat you. I will BREAK
you. And I will do it bare-fu[BEEP!]ing-handed.

[Dean Hayes eyes about pop out of their sockets.]

Manson: Gionet... Craven... hell, all of PVW... Can YOU handle the
Misery?

[Manson shoves the microphone away and stalks off frame. Fade to
black.]

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

[We fade into an abandoned fitness area at the arena post
Heatwave.Larry Gionet has just found out of his suspension due to his
attacks on Marcus Manson. While usually able to keep his composure he
is not in a right sstate of mind. To his right stands a red Everlast
heavy bag.]

Larry Gionet: Marcus Manson you want to prove that you are the
toughest SOB in Phoenix Valley Wrestling? You have to take me out to
do it! PVW you want to contain me? Keep me confined in my cage where I
can't unleash my fury on anybody that gets in my damn way?

[Larry unloads on the heavy bag with a right hook followed by a left
jab. The force of the blows causes dust to escape its resting place on
the leather fabric]

Throw every fine you want to my way. Lay down any suspension you want
PVW. Point being I WILL come back.

Smarter...

[Without warning, Gionet fires off a stiff left kick sending a booming
echo throughout the hollow halls.]

Stronger...

[Gionet continues the assault with a right kick to the middle of the
bag. The sound resonates louder as a small imprint of his size 12 boot
can be seen on the site of impact.]

And THAT much more dangerous...

[Larry without even flinching hits a left spin kick to the heavy bag.
The Bag moves back and forth as a result of the force thrown at it.
The dust seperates on both sides forming a cloud behind the
destruction]

Bruise up my ribs, bust up my nose. BLACKEN my eyes for all I care. I
will still get up from any punishment you dish out Maarcus. They don't
call me the toughest around this place FOR A TAGLINE!

I didn't lose scar tissue in that ring...

[Before he can even finish the sentence, Gionet gets in a fit of rage,
grabs the heavy bag in a clinch position. He hits a left followed by a
right knee strike. He pushes away to regain his composure as he paces
back and forth.]

I didn't break a few bones, I didn't dislocate my shoulder to let the
fate of my career lie in the hands of people not in the ring! Not some
board member not any official. When I come back and I promise you all
it is going to be REAAALLLL soon I will gain control back. Nobody will
have control of MY destiny but Larry Gionet. Egos will be destroyed,

[Larry lets out a vicious scream as he lands a back elbow.]

Ribs WILL be cracked!

[Gionet vents his built up aggression on the heavy bag with a back
fist.]

People WILL be bloodied!

[Gionet pounds hard into the heavy bag with a stiff headbutt. He turns
around facing the camera with sweat dripping down his face like a
waterfall mixed in with dust that was on the heavy bag.]

I won't stop until the respect I fought for all these years is mine
Manson. Once I am finished with you there will be no where to go but
up. You brought me to this place. If I have to live in my own personal
hell than I can't think of a better solution than for you to take you
down with me!

[Gionet holds up his taped fists letting out an angry sigh. He stares
into the cameras lesn with those piercing cold blue eyes. The heavy
bag swivels back and forth as dust surrounds the area slowly rising up
behind the toughest SOB in PVW. We fade to black.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Pain & HvD
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[We open to a hotel in Indianapolis.  Why Indianapolis?  Because PVW
is holding a house show there, which would make it a convienient place
for PVW wrestlers with devious plans to meet in secret to plot the
destruction of their enemies.

Not that most secret meetings have cameras around.  Clearly, this one
does, because, well, we're filming it.  In one of the small conference
rooms of the hotel, designed for business meetings, sits one of PVW's
rising stars: the Dutchman known as Herscher von Donkerhardt.
Herscher,clad in a black business suit, white shirt with red tie, is
sitting at a conference table reading a newspaper. A wrinkled brow
seems etched on his forehead as he reads. Herscher puts down what he
has been reading, finishes off the expresso he was drinking at looks
at his watch. Herscher's facial expression, rarelatively calm
expression for him, turns into a gnarled scowl as he begins to tap on
the table with his fingers.

Shortly after we open, another two figures enter the blue-and-grey
decorated room. Immediately distinctive in his white doctor's lab
coat, Dr. Mal Practice MD is the first to enter.  He wears a light
blue dress shirt and beige slacks under his coat, which doesn't look
too out of place aside from being an oddity: he is blending 'street
clothes' and to-ring attire.  He's even carrying his black doctor's
bag.  The huge, bulky Practice has a salt-and-pepper flattop, and the
salt is slowly starting to overtake the pepper at this point in his
life.  A big cheesy grin underneath his thin mustache just screams
"faceitousness".

Behind Mal is his manager, the ever-popular and always-tactful Todd
"The Rod" Johnstone.  The Rod is wearing a strobe light white suit
with an inflamed goiter red tie and dark alley assault black dress
shirt with his brown belt from Sears around his waist.]

Mal walks over to Herscher and extends a hand. Herscher, still
scowling, looks up at Mal. Instead of shaking Mal's hand, Herscher
folds his arms and stares at him coldly ]

Dr. Mal: Good morning, Mr. Van Donkerhimmel!  It's a pleasure to...

HvD: A pleasure to keep me waiting? You are late! I am a busy person
and my time is precious, too precious to be wasted on the lazy and
overly casual! We Dutch are punctual and such lateness is unforgivable
in my country! I have a mind to simply walk out and take leave of all
of you and this place! However, since we have been contracted to
participate in a match together, I  will entertain the prospect that
we can somehow work together and achieve victory. So I will hear you
gentlemen out, and see what (looking the "doctor" up and
down)....talents bring to this contest.

Dr. Mal: Yes, well, I suppose we are almost...

[Mal checks the clock on the wall.  It reads 11:30:52 AM.]

Dr. Mal: ...fifty-two seconds late.  But there's no need to split
hairs, except perhaps the hairs on our opponents' heads.  All in the
name of healing, of course!  I'm sure my partner will be along
momentarily...

Todd Johnstone: ...spoken like someone on heavy duty psychotropics.
Ow's about as likely to show up on time as a Keening is likely to be
an only child.

Dr. Mal: ...but I'm sure we can get started without him, since we
really just need to go over some basic plans.  We...

[Suddenly, Todd notices the camera. Johnstone swallows some spit and
begins coughing as he points a fat finger at the camera.]

TJ: I don't know what kind of stupid, Euroscum trick you're trying to
pull Donkeyschlong, but I ain't taking to it! This is unacceptable!
Why can't you cheese slurping pus buckets ever think! This is why no
one takes you seriously! Bringing a camera to a strategy session?
That's damned bush league. What in [TV EDIT]'s [TV EDIT] menstrual
secretions' waste puddle were you thinking you ignorant fluid
recepticle!

HvD:(Now red faced and staring directly at Todd with his piercing blue
eye). Would someone please tell the fat man with a sewage pipe of a
mouth, that I DID NOT bring these camera people with me. They were
already in the room when I entered. When I asked them what they were
doing here they told me .... THAT YOU HAD SENT THEM!

[A nasty, suspicious glare grows over Mal's face, as he reaches into
his coat pocket.]

Dr. Mal: So!  No doubt an emissary of the conspiracy, sent to document
our every move and report back to their corrupt Washington masters!
Or even worse, he could be an insurance salesman!  Fortunately, I
brought my scalpel in case I needed to surgically extract the truth
from someone.

[Mal pulls his scalpel... and by "scalpel" I mean "machete"... out of
the inside of his labcoat.  Even Herscher and Todd get wide-eyed at
that, and the cameraman backs away.  Fortunately, the next person to
interrupt the proceedings is...]

Meili: NIIIIIIIIIIIII HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOO! [HELLO!]

[Mal cringes and stops at the sound of the all too familiar,
incredibly Perky voice, clearly torn on who to go after with the
machete.]

Dr. Mal: Herschel, please avert your eyes.

HvD: Avert my eyes from what?  Nothing to see here.

Meili: Huh?

TJ: Just what in the hell is that putrid skank doing here? I thought
you killed her Mal! Criminey...

[Too late.  Ohno Ow enters the room next.  ]

Ohno Ow: [entering casually like he's just running a quick errand] Hi,
NICE see eve-ry-bo-dy. Sor-ry LATE.  Had GET pe-di-cures.

Meili: [holds up a sandaled foot to whow off her now rainbow painted
toe-nails] Keaide, dui ma? [Cute aren't they?]

Ohno: [takes his shoe off and shows his foot, which has disturbingly
been painted the same colors] Now match.

Mal: [horrified look] ...

OHno: Toddles, my MAN! [lightly "punches Todd in the gut, who then
grumbles a few profanities] OH!  GOOD!  Cameracrew alREady HERE!  Good
job. [puts a five dollar bill in what we assume to be the camermans
pocket] Good SEE you bud-dy.

[Ohno smacks Mal on the back, then sees the machete in Mal's hands,
and quirks an eyebrow.]


Ohno: What with... [suddenly looks angry] OH!  I know... those STUPEED
ZHUNAO [pig brain] se-cu-ri-ty LET NUH-ther in-sur-ance salesman in?
HOW many TIMES have tell them... no want clean MESS, keep TRASH out!
Maybe LIKE cleaning bloodpool...

[Herscher's patience for all of this has officially run out.  And he
wastes no time in expressing this.  Herscher, slams his fists down on
the table several times Herscher then stands up and throws his
espresso cup against the wall, shattering]

HvD: BY ALL THAT IS SACRED! WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE BEING PUT INTO
THIS... WARBOEL!  I can accept having to wrestle a man who call
himself a mercenary. But why, in the process, do I have to team up
with men who call themselves doctors?! I expected to be wrestling with
a tag team. It was my assumption tag teams were organized,
coordinated, and knew each others actions and thoughts as well as
their own. You two aren't on the same page, you barely speak the same
language! How am I expected to work with such an outfit when they
can't even keep track of who sent for a camera crew! (Herscher puts
his hands over his face letting out a big sigh)

HvD: I came here with the purpose of meeting with you
and creating a strategy to defeat our opponents and destroy our
respective enemies in the process. As long as I got my hands on the
Mercenary I could care less what you two did. MY goal is inflict pain,
subjugation, and complete humiliation upon the Mercenary for this show
of disrespect. In turn he will show me respect or make acts of
contrition for his lack thereof. He WILL show me this respect, even if
have to beat it out of him, painting the ring with his blood in the
process!

(Herscher loosens his tie as he begins to breathe very heavily)

HvD: I will have my my time with the Mercenary! I want him in the
ring! I NEED him in that ring!! However what I do not need  are any of
you! You are a complete farce of a team, and your mutual incompetence
is a more of a hinderance than anything else! Unless you ....doctors
bring anything to the table besides chaos and ineptitude, I wash my
hands of this match. I will wait for another chance to get my hands on
the Mercenary, a man who I will pay any price to get my hands on,
short of having to work with the likes of you!

[Mal and Ohno are perfectly calm.  It's not like they don't get this
sort of reaction all the time.  In fact, Ohno is now on his cellphone,
ignoring Herscher completely.  And Meili is playing with the knick-
knacks on the table, completely mesmerized by the perpetual-motion
beads that get put in corporate meeting rooms for absolutely no
reason.  Todd, however, seethes... and inevitably erupts.]

TJ: Listen you thriced damned relic of a eugenical homosexual fisting
coupling - I do not care what the hell you think or say. You want your
chance at Merc then you'd best fall into damned line before I make
sure you are nothing more than a picture perfect vision of the stain
your father should have left in your whore mother's hair instead of
wasting their sexual fluids and 9 months to bring to term a half-
witted lobotomized retard like yourself! The next time you want to
open that chasm of ignorance you call your mouth maybe you should
shove a severed rhino [TV EDIT] in there instead and choke it down
like you choked every other [TV EDIT] you came across during your
fantastic voyage from the sewers of Whogivesaflying[TV EDIT] to the
USA...

[Todd inches up to Herscher as he goes, which proves to be potentially
dangerous as the Dutchman makes an aggressive step towards the
danager.  He only gets one step, though, before a 6'9", 345 pound wall
interjects himself between the two.]

Dr. Mal: Todd, please calm down.  I'm sure Mr. Van Donkaschein...

HvD: Donkerhardt, domkop!

Dr. Mal: ...will be much more relaxed once he's perusing the
Mercenary's medical records and most recent examination details.

[Mal reaches into his bag and holds up a folder.  Herscher's eyes
bulge as he gazes at the contents of Mal's bag.]

HvD: Records? You have Records? I have been looking everywhere for any
kind of information I could use against him. How did you obtain these?

Dr. Mal: I am a doctor, Mr. Van... how about I just call you Herschel?

HvD: It's Herscher, Her-scher von Donkerhardt, Don-ker-hardt. Can you
not get anything right?

Dr. Mal: I can fill out the legal documents to have medical records
released to me.  And if you don't believe me, I brought yours, just to
prove it.  Is that good enough?

[Mal hands Herscher another file, which he peruses with interest.  In
the meantime, Ohno's cell phone conversation has ended and his
patience has now worn thin.]

Ohno:  So, now... I busy ACTOR, time MONEY.  This di-rec-tor or NOT?

TJ: Director?

Ohno: I not STUPEED.  Only pre-ten-tious EuroTRASH di-rec-tor have
name LIKE Her-shall want Do-kim-hard... that, or por-no STAR, but I no
DO ca-te-go-ry three... [under breath] unless I pick the actress...
SO, what part?

Meili: Oh, airen, ni shuocuole, ta jiao [Oh, hubby, you said it wrong,
he's called]] Har-shar van Dang-kar-har-de-te.

HvD: For the last time, its Herscher von Donkerhardt! How can men with
such stupid names manage to get mine wrong? Your names are a total
joke. Have you listened to what they sound like when said fast enough?
Have you noticed something strange about the shortened form of your
tag team name? Are you really one to criticize anybody about how
stupid their name sounds, Mr. Ohhhhh nooooo owwwwww?

Meili:  Cuole [wrong] OOOOOOOOOOHNOOOOOOOOOO. [Gets a stary eyed look
and raises a hand like she's reaching towards the sky]

[Herschel has no words to come back from this... he just stares at
Meili in disbelief that a human being can really be this vapid.  Ohno
seizes the opportunity to regain control of the conversation.]

Ohno: EH!  You want OOOOOOOOOHNOOOOOOOOOOO, be IN you MOVIE, you FALL
in line.  First, I want coffee baaaar, on set.  Beans FRESH ground.
Get instand... I KILL.  TWO!  All staff must call I
OOOOOOOOOOHNOOOOOOOOOOOO... or your high-NESS.  Both OKAY.  THREE...

Dr. Mal: ...uh, you know Ohno, Herschel here...

[Herscher has absolutely given up on correcting them.  He just shakes
his head with the infinite horror of a man who is surrounded by
idiots.]

Dr. Mal: ...he's a wrestler.  Just like us.  He is a director and a
wrestler.  And we'll be teaming with him on Heatwave so that he can
get a good look at you in action and decide whether you should get the
part!  You know that those tempremental Eurotra... uh, European
directors like to know exactly what they are getting before they cast
a part.  And really, would you ever let yourself be outdone by
amateurs like Jet Li, Chow Yung Fat, or Johnny Detson?

Ohno: WHAT!?  JET... LI!  RAAAAAAAAAAAH!  IT CONSPIRACY, BY JEAL-OUS
WEASEL BEIJING, AND RACIST, IN-TE-LEC-TU-AL-LY INFERIO JAPANESE, AND
US STATE DE-PART-MENT THAT MAKE UP STO-RY THAT "EVE-RY-ONE NEED VISA!
THEY WANT ONLY COMMIE PUPPET IN ACTION FILM!  STOP ME FROM HEAL-ING
HONG KONG FILM IN-DUS-TRY!  FIGHT SYSTEM!  DAMN M-er... Ahahahaha...
*ahem* Let, I, GREAT OOOOOOOOOOOHNOOOOOOOOOOO a-sure YOU, you will
SEE, I best there EVER been.  After you SEE, I in ACTION, you wor-ship
ground OOOOOOOOOOHNOOOOOOOOOOO walk on.

[At this point, Herscher's mind has just given up on PAIN entirely,
and he completely ignores Ohno.  The only reason he hasn't just left
is the records Mal holds in his hands, and the understanding that just
trying to take them from him isn't wise.  That is when the one
apparently-sane person in the room makes his move.]

TJ: Listen, Herschel. We have something you want and you happen to
hold a place of some small importance to our plans. A simple tete a
tete could solve our problems. The information you want falls in your
lap and the skulls we want caved in get wrecked. Everyone gets what
they want and everyone else gets a concussion or probably life
threatening injuries. Look, to sweeten the pot we'll make sure you
don't have to see PAIN until the match. Things are square and even
someone who wants to throat punch the old and infirm can see the
overwhelming positives.

HvD: Fine fine, whatever you want! just give me the records , the
separate locker room and I promise to show up for the match and do my
part. As long as I bathe in Mercenary's blood, I don't care what
happens, just as long as I never have to see or work with you crazy
people again!

[Uh, oh!  Herscher, didn't you do the research?!]

Dr. Mal: I'M NOT CRAZY!

[Nope. Mal spazzes out in a berserk rage, and he flings the records to
the table and swings wildly with the doctor's bag, smashing the framed
picture on the wall next to Herscher.  Cursing in Dutch, Herscher
ducks, grabs the files, and runs out of the room as Mal proceeds to
break stuff and rant.]

Dr. Mal: IT'S ALL A CONSPIRACY BETWEEN THOSE JEALOUS WEASELS IN
WASHINGTON AND THE TOP-SECRET CABAL RUNNING PVW!  THEY'VE UNLEASHED
THE KEENING GENE UPON US ALL IN AN ATTEMPT TO ELIMINATE ME, BUT I HAVE
THE CURE AND I WON'T LET THEM OVERTHROW CAPITALISM!  THEY WON'T
SILENCE ME THE WAY THEY SILENCED KEVORKIAN, THEY WON'T BURY MY MESSAGE
OF MERCY UNDER AN AVALNCHE OF RIDICULOUS RULES AND JACK BALDWIN'S
POSITIVE DRUG TEST RESULTS!  THEY WANT ZERO TOLERANCE; I'LL SHOW THEM
ZERO TOLERANCE WHEN I STUFF JUDD MARLEY'S LEGS UP HILLARY CLINTON'S
NOSE!  FIGHT THE SYSTEM!  DAMN THE MAN!

[And then... full stop.  Yeah, that rant did about ten
grand of damage to the meeting room.  Todd peeks out from underneath
the one table section that isn't overturned.  Ohno climbs down from
the chandelier onto which he had pulled himself for safety.  Meili...
is still mesmerized by the knick-knacks.  Mal sort of cringes, knowing
that he's just kicked himself in the pocketbook.]

TJ: Well he swallowed it like a hooker on the docks at shore leave. We
didn't have to make too many concessions and now we can focus on the
Wild Cards.

[This take on things snaps Mal from his sheepish, embarrassed
expression into a smug, satisfied one.]

Dr. Mal: Of course, ha ha, we had planned that all along.  Right,
Ohno?

Ohno:  Ri... wait, I NOT get to con-di-tion I PICK fe-male lead in
CON-TRACT... oh well, can NE-GO-TI-ATE after MATCH.

[Ohno goes running out the door after Herscher.]

Dr. Mal: ...right, then!  Let's go get started on our strategy.  After
all, we have a debt to collect...

Ohno: Aaaand CUT!  Okay, that WRAP!  Take FIVE eve-ry-bo-dy!

[Mal suddenly gets the expression of someone who has just remembered a
critical detail.]

Dr. Mal: What?  Wait... THE CAMERA WAS STILL HERE?!

[Mal turns in shock, and the cameraman is already beating a hasty
retreat.  We cut away...]

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

We open up with a 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.

[A simple set up: Gibson Hayes leaning back in a folding chair in a
navy blue suit with red tie and white shirt. Gibson is wearing his
American championship belt and is smoking a cigarette.]

Tradition III.

[Gibson brings his right hand, the one holding the cigarette, up to
his temple.]

PVW's longstanding supershow.

Legends are made and stars fade out on these big events.

[Gibson takes a long drag and exhales.]

This time, I, America's heart & soul: Gibson Hayes, will be lacing up
my boots and heading straight into the maw of the monster. A ravenous
and delluded monster that
believes its time in the sun is not yet up.

[Another huff and puff.]

Matthew "Doc" Holliday. He is a man so concerned with his own image
that he returned to the ring when his ill-equipped charge, no more
like toy, was broken by Rick Marley. Holliday is a man so driven by
his own irrational view of the world that he is nothing more than a
shinier tool that is being used by those in charge of PVW to attempt
to throw the Hayes Train off its tracks. Holliday is simply a means to
an end. Holliday is here to try and stop me. Holliday wants PVW to be
a bastion of foreign interests. But...

...Holliday wants to also have shiny gold statues of himself
everywhere to remind people he existed.

[Hayes hunches over.]

Holliday will claim he has nothing to prove or that he's the one in
the driver seat. That's far from the truth. He's just another dog
drooling over the treat I defend. America has chosen her champion and
Gibson Hayes is that champion. I am America's bright baby boy and it
is you who must beat me. You must set the tone and pace. Me? This is
my match to lose, not to win. Don't be fooled, though, because PVW
will do everything in its power to help me lose. I must endure and
must survive, that's a champion's creedo but you already know that
Doc.

[Standing up, Gibson runs his free left hand through the massive
amount of black hair contained on his head.]

How does America fit into this scenario? That came to me as I mulled
over just what PVW was doing to me once again. I once saw a vision of
the future. A beautiful glimpse into the beyond that would bring even
the most hard hearted to tears. I saw an America freed of its foreign
cancer. I saw an America where the dark hands of the puppeteers who
would sully my beautiful America with its slave labor and vile
illegal workers were chopped off and cast down into the dust. I saw a
PVW freed from the psychotic mauraders who break every rule, who
insult wrestling and turn a noble sport into nothing more than a blood
bath. I, America's last remaining patriot, saw my country freed from
secret compacts and alliances. I saw my country freed from egotistical
maniacs who cry over their "legacies". I saw my country freed from
self serving bullies who are three sheets to insanity. I saw my
country rise above foreign machinations and tryanny, rising from the
ashesand becoming whole again.

[Gibson's eyes shine, looking beyond to the glory he has seen in his
mind. However he soon casts his brown eyes down onto the floor.]

But that won't happen.

No, it won't happen.

It will not happen as long as you people keep swallowing every last
drop of lies people like Doc Holliday spew from their dirty, whore
mouths!

[This prompts Gibby to toss his cigarette behind him.]

Doc Holliday is nothing more than a whore! A dirty whore who was
brought in by PVW to try and eliminate me, America's last bastion of
truth, Gibson Hayes! Holliday claims he cared about the Tucson Kid.
Holliday did care about the Tucson Kid... but only because he cannot
face the truth that he is irrelevant! Your whorish days of glory are
no more, Holliday. Your past, your scarlet letter days will not do you
one lick of good. You cannot rest on your ill-gotten laurels, you must
face America's last, best hope of redemption, me, Gibson Hayes and you
must beat me. You cannot put the onus of action on me. The hopes and
dreams of the hooded and secretive backstage backstabbers rest on your
gimpy knees Holliday. You have been given this chance through nothing
more than tricks and smoke screens. You and I both know that without
the Mercenary's involvement in that battle royale you would not be in
this position. PVW has given you this chance. This is what you really
came back for because if you truly cared about your charge, if you had
really prepared him for this world as a wrestler instead of a symbol
of how big your ego's penis is, then you would have helped him after I
broke his psyche. Instead you just wrapped yourself up in an excuse
and went straight for Marley, whoring yourself out for a better
position in the new PVW.

[A huff comes from our American champion.]

You think of me as a lamb, Doc. However, deep in the corners of that
punch drunk head of yours you understand that is not true. You tell
yourself I am no threat because your sense of self is wrapped up in
being better than anyone. You cannot wrap your head around that I
understand this situation just as well, if not better, than you. I
know what it is like to be hunted, Holliday. I have held gold, Doc.
Matthew, I rewrote the trick book. Your ego and your pride will not
let you see the truth. Your short sighted comments show just how out
of touch you are with the world. I am the champion, the ball is in
your court. You must come to me. You are the slab of meat being tossed
into the lion's den. Despite the fact you've pulled the wool over the
eyes of the easily duped PVW faithful, I, America's bedrock of truth,
justice and liberty, me, Gibson Hayes, will make you work for
every last opportunity to beat me that you'll get in this match.

[Sitting back down, Gibson crosses his legs yawns.]

This is not about me, this is about you Doc. This is about what you
can do. The deck is stacked and you must cling to any foothold you can
find. Why? Because you know that you aren't in control. This is my
belt and this is my time. Yours is over Doc. Your legacy is broken,
busted up somewhere in Tucson. Meanwhile, America's future is bright
and shining. America's future rests on my shoulders and I'll be
damned if I'm going to let some used up fool stop us now.

The screen fades to a Gibson Hayes "BELIEVE" campaign poster.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	El Outlaw LOCO
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Phoenix Arizona - Corner of McDowell rd, and 5th avenue.   The scene,
the outside of Easley's Fun Shop.  The familiar black mask with the
pink pig pops up in front of the camera.  El Outlaw LOCO cocks his
head to the side, staring into the camera.]

LOCO:  Ahh.. Senior camera operator-o.  I see you have [senal]
followed me to this [senal] shop-o.

Camera guy: Uh, we came in the truck together.

[The camera pans over to the side to reveal a PVW branded mini van.]

Camera guy: You even planned on how to get the opening shot.

[LOCO's brow scrunching up is visible under his mask.]

LOCO: I am afraid my [senal] amigo, that you are [senal] el confused.
I have never [senal] laid my ojos on you before.  Perhaps you are
[senal] mistaking me with my [senal] idol-o OUTLAW!

Camera guy: I'm pretty sure it was you.  Remember you kept telling me
the story of how you single handedly won the PVW Tag Titles.

LOCO: I do remember my [senal] victoria to claim the PVW Tag titles,
but I do not [senal] remember you.  But this isn't [senal] improtante!
Let us discuss the [senal] happenings of the Pee-Vee-Double-Ew.

Camera guy: That's why I'm here.

LOCO: Did you know that they [senal] fined me pesos for apparently
violatingo the [senal] cero tolerance policia?  Are you aware of this
[senal] cero tolerance policia?  They took [senal] pesos off of my
cheque de pago!

Camera guy: Uh, that's bad I guess.

LOCO: It is just like the [senal] white man taking pesos away from us
[senal] hard working Mehicans!

[LOCO turns suddenly.]

LOCO: MEHICO!!

[he turns back to the camera.]

LOCO: I have many [senal] bambinos to support.

Camera guy: You have kids?!?

LOCO: Don't be silly.  I have [senal] bambinos!  And pinatas!

Camera guy: Wait what?

LOCO: Don't worry compadre.  El Outlaw LOCO is much [senal] smarter
than you.  Now come!  We must prepare for my [senal] opponent.   The
maniático enmascarado.

Camera guy: Huh, I think you actually spoke real spanish.

LOCO: Que?

Camera guy: Oh nothing.

LOCO: Si.

[He turns towards the door of the store.]

LOCO: I have spent many [senal] days studying-o my opponent, El masked
Maniaco.

Camera guy: Uh you called him The maniático enmascarado, like 2
seconds ago.

LOCO: Of course I [senal] did.  Aren't you [senal] listening?

[LOCO walks into the store, the camera close behind.  It pans around
revealing your average "fun" store, masks, costumes, novelties and gag
gifts galore.]

LOCO: You see, "The Enmascarado Masked Man" it a [senal] devious
person. For the longest [senal] time, he never [senal] spoke.  That
was [senal] annoying.  You know?

Camera guy: I could use a little quiet right now actually.

LOCO: And then, he became [senal] infatuated with my hero and yours,
the mighty [senal] champion, Outlaw.   He would [senal] do anything
the great and [senal] talented Outlaw would ask of him.  And [senal],
who could [senal] blame him.  Outlaw is a [senal] beacon of light in
this oscuro [senal] world that we live in.

Camera guy: He's a ray of sunshine.

LOCO: Si.  But then the [senal] great and might Outlaw departed.  Word
is his [senal] contract-o in Japan is [senal] keeping him from lucha
libre in any other [senal] federation.  Including PVW.

Camera guy: That's a shame.  What if he were to wear a mask and
wrestle under a terribly obvious alias?

LOCO: That would be a [senal] terrible thing for your héroe and mine.
He would never [senal] break the ruleos.  And so, with the [senal]
mighty Outlaw gone, Maniaco in a mask, has been [senal] drifting
around without a clue as to who he [senal] is.  Which is why he
[senal] finds himself involved in a match with the [senal] hero of
Mehico ..

[beat]

LOCO: --- MEHICO ---

[beat]

LOCO: El Outlaw LOCO.  The current [senal] PVW Mehican Champion and
the [senal] Tag team champion.  Last time, El Outlaw LOCO was [senal]
sorprendido when wrestling the Masked Enmascarada --

Camera guy: The Maked Masked?

[LOCO glares.]

LOCO: BECAUSE El Outlaw LOCO hadn't [senal] trained for him.  This
[senal] time though, El Outlaw LOCO is [senal] prepared.. OLE!

[He makes his way to the mask section of the store, where conviniently
a store employee happens to be stacking masks.]

LOCO: Amigo!  I am El Outlaw LOCO!

[The employee looks up confused.  LOCO looks at the employees
nametag.]

LOCO: Ah, me amigo Chad!  How you [senal] doing Chad?

Chad: Uh, fine?  What's with the camera.

[LOCO looks shocked.]

LOCO: You do not [senal] recognize El Outlaw LOCO?  The PVW Mehican
and PV Tag champion?

Chad: Sorry no.   Is there anything I can help you with ?

LOCO: Si senor. I have an important [senal] lucha libre against the
villanous [senal] maniático maniac.  He is a man of many [senal]
faces, and I have [senal] decided that you will be the [senal]
experto in all things "Mask" related.

Chad: Uhm, I just sell masks, I really can't tell you much more than
that.

[LOCO laughs.  He winks at the employee and gives him an elbow nudge
that sends him back three feet.]

LOCO: Of course you [senal] can't.  El Outlaw LOCO understands.  The
[senal] Maniac is your employero isn't he?  So he doesn't [senal] want
you helping me out ?  It's ok, I won't [senal] tell him about this.
Now, senor, what is his [senal] weak spot?  Is he like the mighty
[senal] King Hippo, and I must punzón in his [senal] estómago?  Or is
he more like the [senal] weakling Glass Joe, and I must hit him in his
[senal] jaw when he misses his [senal] uppercut?

Chad: Are you talking about PunchOut?

LOCO: El Outlaw LOCO does not [senal] speak of his sources.

Chad: But you're talking about PunchOut..  The video game..  Dude,
seriously?

LOCO: FINE!  You do not wish the [senal] help El Outlaw LOCO, then El
Outlaw LOCO shall [senal] leave!

[And with that LOCO turns around and storms out of the store.  The
camera guy offers a quick apology to the store employee before
following out.]

Camera guy:  Well I guess that was a bust.

LOCO: A bust?  No senor, El Outlaw LOCO now [senal] knows exactly what
he must [senal] do to win.

Camera guy: Really?

LOCO: Si.  Now, lets go get some [senal] food.  Do you enjoy [senal]
burritos?

[Fade to black.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Landis & Marshall
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Fade up to the backstage area, post-Heatwave.  The crew is busy at
work packing things up, coiling cables and other equipment.  And yet
in the middle of it all, a small raven-haired woman stands oblivious
to the whole thing, screaming at the top of her lungs into a
Blackberry Storm.]

JFM: NO!  First Epstein reappears and retires Luke, and now the
boyscout is suddenly back too?!?  This entire thing is a conspiracy to
drive me insane!

[Jessica "Fatality" Marshall, at her level-headed best.]

JFM: Zero Tolerance is rediculous!  But now to have Jason Keening, Mr.
Milquetoast himself, back and enforcing it, this is unacceptable!  You
better get looking over those documents!

Voice: Bad day, Jess?

[Fatality's concentration is instantly broken from her phone call, and
as her head snaps to the direction of the unwanted comment her eyes
narrow and darken.  Y'know, even more than they already were.]

JFM: [to phone] I'm sorry, I'll have to scream at you later.
Irritating family problem just came up. [she hangs up the phone, and
turns to the source] Well, if it isn't my darling brother-in-law.  I
figured sooner or later our paths would cross here in PVW.

[The camera pivots, to reveal the grinning visage of "Hellraiser" Tom
Landis.  To anybody who doesn't watch any wrestling but PVW, this is a
major surprise.]

HTL: Yeah, well it's no surprise.  You generally show up where you're
not wanted, to cause problems for people who don't deserve it.  Dallas
and Toronto kicked you out, so now you're here in Phoenix, huh?

JFM: Please, I _LEFT_ Dallas.  Besides, I don't recall you having too
many problems with the way I ran things down there.  And as far as
Toronto, ever since you got fired it's really none of your concern.

[Tom folds his arms as Fatality takes a slightly defensive stance.]

HTL: Is that the way you're spinning things now?  Well, I guess you've
gotten real good at spinning things.  Afterall, Winston and Kinsey
both used to spin you like a top from what I hear.

[A look of fury crosses Jessica's face, but only for a moment.  She
quickly composes herself.]

JFM: Look, don't you have somewhere to be?  Some shadowy garage to
meet strange men?

HTL: No, that's usually your method.  As far as my meeting earlier,
let's just say I've got a surprise in store for Gibson Hayes and his
entourage. The sides just got a little more evened up.  And I guess
the same could be said for the Willinghams.  Jason's arrival must
really be pissing you off.

JFM: Oh don't you worry about it, I've already got a team of lawyers
working around the clock to see what SSN can do about getting rid of
the new head of security.  I retired him once, I'll do it again.

HTL: Yeah, didn't you say the same thing about Kyle Lee?  How'd that
work out for you?

[Landis walks off with a grin on his face, leaving his sister-in-law
to rub her temples in frustration.  Left with no other comment to come
to mind...]

JFM: I HATE TOM LANDIS!

[Fade.]

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

[We open up to a stained glass window background.  One like you would
see in the finest of our innocent catholic churches. Standing in-front
is a man that appears to be in his mid forties.  Dark black hair with
a few streaks of gray, tailor-made white suit and a golden cross
hanging down from his chest.

We introduce to you Reverend Julian Caine.]

RJC: We have gathered here today to talk about the gift of the lord.
A gift so pure that the heavens opened and sang the gospel!

[Reverend Julian Caine's arms extend palms facing upwards as if they
are pulling the light down.]

RJC: Just like the holy message of god says ...

[Reverend Julian Caine raises the good book.]

RJC: "Let there be light"; and there was light.  Zero Tolerance has
been that light for the wrestling industry.  PVW has risen to the top
of the mountain and is a beacon of hope for this wicked world.

[Reverend Julian Caine nods.]

RJC: And wrestling's prodigal son has returned upon us.  He is here to
teach each and _every_ one of you how to fish.   By his leading
example we can all follow his lead and behead the evilness of
VIOLENCE!

[As Reverend Julian Caine said the word "violence" veins popped out of
his neck.]

RJC: That's right because we all know VIOLENCE is the message of the
... DEVIL!!!!!

[A powerful message indeed!]

RJC: Our savior bares the cross just like our great father's son.
Cleanse your ears ... Wash your minds ... Listen to the soul of Jason
Keening as he marches us through the parted seas.

[A young teenager comes from the right holding a collection plate.]

RJC: We _will_ make our way to Chicago my good people.  We will
continue to share the gospel with every sheep across the world.  Zero
Tolerance is a message from our grand and glorious father.  It's a
message that _can't_ be ignored.  However this gospel needs your
help.  Oh yes brothers and sisters it does.

[The collection plate is handed to Reverend Julian Caine.]

RJC: Give what you hearts tell you too.  Help claim your spot next to
our father in the after life as you support his voice.  This plate is
an extension of his word and will go a long way to continue to support
the gospel.  Help _ME_ defeat the DEVIL!!! Help Jason Keening defeat
the DEVIL!!!  Together with your generous offerings we will spread the
message of

ZERO TOLERANCE!

[Sweat begins to drip from the forehead of the good Reverend.]

RJC: We thank you brothers and sisters for your precious time.  We
look forward to your generous good will in helping the grand word of
god go so much further.  Remember Jason Keening supports Zero
Tolerance and so do we all.

[A deep breathe as he hands the young teenager the collections plate
back.]

RJC: I leave you with this final message in Romans 12:21 ...  Do not
be conquered by evil, but conquer evil with good.  And that is exactly
what Zero Tolerance is.

[The loud notes of a near by organ begins to blast as we fade.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
William Craven and Dark Soul
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Fade in on a McDonalds set up in the back of the Allstate Arena.
Standing there, at the counter, confronted with a pimply teenage wage
slave, is a large, green individual in sandals and a white athletic
shirt.  No, it's not the Incredible Hulk, it's William Craven.]

WC: Uhhh ... I don't get it.  Why can't my burger be raw?  Just,
y'know, don't cook it.

[Staring Bill straight in the eyes, perhaps a little freaked out at
the sight of a gigantic mass of tattooed scar tissue, the teen is
somewhere between intimidated and comatose.]

Worker: Sir, they come fully cooked.  We just put them under a heat
lamp.

[Cocking his head to one side, Craven leans in, putting his hands on
the counter. Meanwhile the man known as Dark Soul and his valet Candy
Malone walk in, taking the #4 position in the line behind Bill.]

DS: Okay, I'll buy, but you stay on the dollar menu.  I have been kind
of out of work for awhile and it's a recession.  Gotta watch our
expenses.

[Oblivious, Bill continues.]

WC: Well how about you just bring one of your cows out here and let me
go at it?

[Blink.  Examining Bill's sharpened teeth, the McDonalds employee
chooses to take Bill's nonsense seriously.]

Worker: We ... don't have cows?

WC: Then what are the burgers made out of?

Worker: Well, beef, but--

WC: And what animal is beef made from?

Worker: C ... cow?

WC: Right, so let's see that cow.

[Dark Soul notices Craven and begins to eye him peculiarly, his head
cocked to the side.]

DS: Having trouble with your order, Bill?  You see the big shiny
pictures of food with numbers?  You just pick one and they bring you
stuff for your money.  It's really neat and efficient.

WC: Hold on, Chris.  Sir, maybe you don't understand.  I ... Chris?

[Turning to face his former archenemy, the big, green, bald, scarred
(the list goes on) freak waves in a childish fashion, causing the
three other customers (including one behind Darky and Candy) in line
to back away fearfully.]

WC: And sweet, sweet Candy.  You here for some bleeding flesh as well?

[At the question, the Canadian bombshell looks as if she has to
prevent herself from vomiting, but the trooper that she is, a response
is soon formulated toward the man who probably still gives her
nightmares.]

Candy: Just a salad...

DS: That clearly is not on the dollar menu.  But either way, no, we're
not here for bleeding flesh, Bill.  That sounds like the beginning of
a "hundreds of people are sick after food poisoning" bit on the news,
not a yum-yum for my tummy thing.  Is that why you are harassing this
poor minimum wage worker?

[Agitated, an obese business man standing between Bill and Dark Soul
pipes up, angrily.]

Patron1: Hold on.  If the ... weirdo with the green skin graft isn't
going to order, then I'm next in line.  I'll take a number five, six,
a shamrock shake and a small diet coke.

[Beat.  The wage slave behind the counter stares at the business man
as the guy between him and Dark Soul leaves to find another place to
eat.]

WC: Chris ... are random fat fast food addicts covered by the Zero
Tolerance Policy?

[Dark Soul shrugs, a look of almost amusement on his face at the
actions of his former enemy from years past.]

DS: Going to have to talk to the new head honcho about all the
particulars.  Maybe we can also talk to him about a tag team name
since that little nugget of news was just a pleasant surprise to find
out.  What do you say, Bill?  Operation: Scorched Earth 2.0?

[Pursing his lips, raising an overly thick brow, Bill seems genuinely
intrigued.]

WC: Well, as long as we're burning things ... fat burns exceptionally
well.

Patron1: I ... you can't threaten me like that!  I bet you think
you're really tough, don't you!?

[Blink.  Blink.]

WC: Dunno ... I ... uh ... maybe.

[Blink.  Blink.  Turn towards wage slave.]

*SMASH!!!*

[Cash register, meet head.  Head; cash register.  The digital display
is destroyed instantly, and the rest of it is probably dead too, even
though it's not as obvious.  The wage slave flees his post, and the
fat business man backs away slowly.]

WC: I don't know!  You tell me!  Say ... are you a cow?  Moo?

[Aaand he runs away.]

WC: MMMMMOOOOOOOOO!!!

[Almost unfazed by the illogical show of Craven, or not that all that
surprised by it, Dark Soul releases a small chuckle.]

DS: Oh, Bill, that kind of action almost certainly will be frowned
upon by the higher ups.  Listen, how about we forget fast food
franchises for the moment and instead, I'll get you a steak, bloody as
hell, after our match with the Widowmakers duo.

[He goes the extra step by actually putting his hand on Craven's
shoulder, a surprising show of friendship, but not all that surprising
of a man who knows he needs Craven focused if he has a shot at
winning.]

WC: I need to pay for the cash register, don't I?

[Candy and Dark Soul exchange a look, then look back to Bill, Darky
giving a slight nod.  Heaving a powerful sigh, Bill reaches into a
pocket, withdraws several crumpled bills and tosses it over the
counter.]

WC: There ... that should cover it and more ... or just cover a
quarter pounder. Not sure if those were ones or thousands.  Steaks,
eh?  I do so love steaks...

[The trio turns to leave, and, breathing heavily, Bill turns to Candy
Malone.]

WC: So, uh, Candy ... you guys still swing, right?

Candy: We never did "swing", you just stalked me.  And I thought you
were trying to eat me!

WC: Right, right.  You were the one I was going to eat, Melissa was
... ooh.  Hehe. Heh.  I should stop talking.  Heh.

[Dark Soul winces as he sort of pushes Craven from the McDonalds,
albeit with Craven's blessing.  He laughs his hissing laugh as they
disappear from the camera's view and from behind the counter, the head
of the terrified wage slave appears.  End.]

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

[The scene opens on the backstage locker room.  By the black and white
footage, it appears that this is a security tape.  The date in the
corner read June 6th, 2009, which would make this a house show if
anything.  A few wrestlers are leaving the room, having already
changed into their gear, as refereee Jim Pearson walks in wearing his
street clothes, those being simple jeans and a white shirt.  As he
walks in going about his business, his eyes catch a glimpse of the
brightly wrapped package on the bench.  Curious, he walks over and
checks the tag which clearly read "TO:  Jim Pearson, FROM:  "A
friend""  Yes, in fact the words "A friend" are written in those ever
ominous quotation marks on the package.  He eyes it nervously for a
few moments, wondering what to do...]

JP: [shaking his head] Get a hold of yourself Jim... it's probably
nothing.

[Cautiously he lifts it up and shakes it gently, listening to it
wrattle, and then hearing another noise... an audible ticking sound]

*tick*tick*tick*tick*

JP: *gulp*

[Jim puts down the package shuddering nervously.]

JP: [still talking to himself] D-don't let him get to you... he's just
trying to scare you Jim.  That's all.  He won't try anything... at
least not yet.

[Of course, no one ever does the smart thing and calls the bomb squad
in these situations.  Instead, Jim takes a deep breath and reaches
over, pulling the ribbon on the package to untie the not.  Then, very
carefully unwraps the package, the sound of the rustling paper
actually echoing in the empty locker room, and the ticking seemingly
louder than before.]

*rustle*rustle*

*Tick*Tick*Tick*Tick*

[Having unwrapped the package to reveal a simple cardboard box, Jim
musters one last bit of courage as he wipes a bead of sweat from his
brow and lifts the lid.  As he looks inside the package the ticking
sound seems to rise to an almost deafening level.]

*TICK*TICK*TICK*TICK*TICK*

[Jim seems to stop breathing for a moment as he stares for a moment...
then breaths almost a sigh of relief as he reaches in and pulls out an
old fashioned watch on a chain.  He stares at it for a moment as it
swings gently from the breeze produced the air vents in the room...]

????:  Tick, tock, tick tock...

[Alarmed at the sudden voice, Jim Pearson spins around on the bench he
was seated on to see a figure leaning against the wall behind him,
obscured in the shadows, though we can just make out the long
trenchcoat he wears, as well as the mass of long, unkempt hair that
hangs over his face.  From experience, of course, we recognize the
voice as being the of "Bloodlust" Xavier Feyr.  Xavier steps from the
shadow, a twisted grin on his face that almost seems to suggest a cat
toying with a mouse trapped in it's paws.  Jim only sits silently in
shock for the moment, a look of terror on his face.]

Xavier Feyr:  ...tick, tock, tick, tock... can you hear it?  That's
the sound of time, Mr. Pearson... time, ticking away.  I see you've
received my gift.

JP: [staring at the watch for a moment unsure of what to say] W-why?

XF:  Oh, it's just a simple token is all.  I'm giving you the gift of
time, Jim... do you mind if I call you Jim? [smiles maliciously] Oh,
of course not.  You see Jim, time is the only thing you have left.
Just time, slowly ticking away, like the hands of that clock.  The
only problem is, you don't know how much you have.  When will time run
out for you?  Will it run out tomorrow?  Next week?

JP: [visibly shaking] So... so what?  You wait for Zero Tolerance to
be lifted and come after me... is... is that it?  Is it!?  HUH!?

XF:  HAHAHAHAHAAAA!  No, no, no, Jim... no. [patting Jim Pearson on
the head like one would a child while correcting him on an error]  I'm
afraid that would be too easy.  Zero Tolerance will end sooner or
later, but I won't come for you right away, no... that wouldn't be any
fun.  You see Jim, you aren't a predator... only another killer gets
that benefit.  No, you're simply prey.  Prey, that made the mistake of
getting in the way of the cat while he played with his latest kill.  I
won't be coming for you right away.  I'm gong to toy with you, just a
cat plays with a mouse.  Every moment, knowing that I can end your
misery at any time, yet allowing you to live, just for the continued
torment of knowing that you can't escape, that you are completely and
utterly helpless.  You'll live on for a time, continue you on with
life as normal, but always looking over your shoulder, wondering just
when the moment is coming.  Knowing that, no matter how it may seem,
 you still have not escaped my grasp.

JP: [mustering a bit of nerve] So that's it... your going to keep
stalking me, tormenting me, until it bores you... is that what you
want!?  I was just doing my job!  I have a family, damnit!

XF: [smiles and speaks as one does to a naive child when explaining
the facts of life] Jim, Jim, Jim... so naive... whatever will I do
with you? Raising your voice at me... such a shame... whatever would
your children think of that... I'm sure you've taught them better.
How old are they now?  Six and seven? Nine and ten? They were so young
in that photo you kept in your wallet, but it had to be a few years
old...

JP: [horrified] You... you wouldn't dare...

XF:  Wouldn't dare what?  Surely you don't think I would do anything
to your beloved family?  Perhaps I should pay your kids a visit, just
to show my good nature.  Why I could teach such fine young mines so
very many things.

[Xavier grins wickedly, and Jim Pearson's jaw drops in horror for
a moment... he sits shaking for a moment, and then his face turns red
as he bursts out in anger, screaming at Xavier.]

JP:  WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME DAMNIT!  WHAT!?  WHAT DO YOU WANT!?
WHAT IS IT!? TELL ME!?

[Finally, Jim breaks down, putting his face in his hands sobbing.]

JP: *sobs*  What do you want from me?

[At this Xavier calmly smiles walking around behind Jim and
placing both hands on his shoulders as he leans over to whisper to
him, as if comforting an old, dear friend.]

XF:  Nothing, Jim... I want you to do absolutely nothing...

JP: [raising his head slightly, his eyes unblinking] What... what do
you mean?

XF: [smiling] At Tradition III, Jim... I'm giving you the chance for a
clean slate... that I'll forgive you of all your sins agains me.  Let
bygones be bygones...  and all you have to do... is stay home.

JP: [thinks for a moment, and then speaks up nervously] S-someone is
going to be hurt because of this, aren't they?

XF: [patting JP on the back] Jim, my boy, someone always gets hurt in
this business.  It's the nature of this business, as you should well
know.  Survival of the fittest and all that.  Now who would you rather
be the ones in jeopardy... a couple of wolves... or a few sheep from
your own herd?

JP: [drooping his head, and nodding slowly] You... you win.  I'll do
as you've asked.

XF: [pats Jim on the back] That's the spirit.

[Xavier calmly walks towards the door, his footsteps echoing
through the empty room.]

XF:  It's been good talking with you Jim.  I hope you'll enjoy your
night off.

[And with that Xavier exits the room, leaving Jim Pearson alone
again in the locker room, staring down at the tickng hands of the
watch.]

*tick*tick*tick*tick*

[Fade to black.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Perry Fontana #2
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[A man appears on screen, alone, back towards the camera.

His head, arms and torso are covered by a silky, coruscating, red,
orange and gold hooded boxer's robe, the words "Le Phénix" finely
embedded in dark rhinestones across his shoulders.

He speaks in deep, raspy whispers.]

Man: My name will soon be the only name you need remember, cousin.
They call me "Canada's Own," "La fierté du Québec," and "Figlio
favorito dell'Italia." They call me "The Ultimate Armbar Innovator,"
"Le Phénix," and "il Eterno."

[He turns around, and though his colorful hood hides most of his face,
we can see the tip of his nose, his thin lips and clenched teeth,
hints of facial hair. His protruding dimpled chin juts out as he
suddenly screams.]

Man: MY NAME IS PERRY FONTANA! AAAH WAAAYYY!

[Just as quickly, as he rocks from one foot to the other, he forces
his audience to lean close as he continues in whispers.]

PF: My name is "the Everlasting" Perry Fontana, cousin, and that will
soon be the only name you'll need to know. Do they call me "the
Everlasting" because of my astounding stamina? Could be, cousin, could
be. Do they call me "the Everlasting" because of my relentless
offense? Could be. DO _they_ call me "the Everlasting" because ladies
know "le Phénix" can entertain them from dusk 'till dawn? Could be,
could be. Do they call me "the Everlasting" because I'm the man that
beat death like a redheaded stepchild not once, not twice, but SIX!
_TIMES_!

[He takes a moment to wipe the spittle from the stubble on his chin.]

PF: Si. Oui. Yes, that sounds just about right. Cousin, you know
"Deathless" Perry Fontana will soon be the only name you need to know,
because "EL FÉNIX" HAS FLOWN DOWN TO PHOENIX! [He twirls in the air,
his arms imitating wings. Whispering, he adds:]

PF: Then flown back up north to Chicago.

[A beat.]

PF: I landed at O'Hare, and I ain't leaving until it's clear to one
and all that I AM THE BEST! AAAH WAAAYYY!

[With that last sudden burst, he tilts his head back, which allows the
hood to slip off his head, revealing a luxuriant head of dark hair. He
deliberately lowers his head again to intensely gaze at the camera.
This man, Perry Fontana, owns a thin face with sunken cheekbones and
penetrating dark brown eyes. But his lush hair and large muttonchops
instantly remind the audience of the X-Men's Wolverine. Not Hugh
Jackman, though.]

PF: You see, cousin, something happened, and I just knew I had to
migrate south. I said _something_ DISASTROUS! After yet another
victory in my former territory, cousin, I magnanimously consented to
grant a few autographs when some daring little peon shoved a photo of
moi in my face. Obviously, it was a thing of beauty and splendor. It
came from a magazine called "Les Stars de la Lutte." Yeah, I said it
came from a magazine called "the Stars of Wrestling." The publication
boasted rankings of the best wrestlers in Quebec, the best of Canada,
and the World's best. Oooh, everyone loves rankings! But that's when I
realized something was TERRIBLY WRONG! OWE WEEEE!

[He takes a moment to wipe more spittle from his chin, his robe
parting as he does, revealing tufts of dark chest hair.]

PF: I looked at the magazine, cousin, and saw that the glorious name
of "the Everlasting" Perry Fontana was missing in the world rankings.
It should have been a given. PERRY FONTANA IS THE BEST! I said Perry
Fontana is number one. But not in this cheap magazine. A glaring
omission, easily explained by incompetence. I consulted the Canadian
top 10, and realized the name Perry Fontana was missing there as well.
Another glaring mistake. And when I turned the page to the Québec top
5...

[Tensely, he shakes his head from side to side, slowly turning red
like a volcano on the verge of erupting.]

PF: PERRY "LE PHÉNIX" FONTANA WAS FOURTH! Fourth. I said
FOOOOUUUURRTHH! And cousin, below my picture, a little caption dared
to say that "Perry Fontana is good, but he needs to leave La Belle
Province and make his mark by facing stiffer, more prestigious
international competition." I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! THE NERVE! Eye. Say.
Die. Can. Ought. Bell. Eve. It.

[Irate, he spits over his shoulder.]

PF: A wise man told me Perry, IF YOU WANT TO BE THE BEST, you've got
to broaden your horizons. Learn other styles of combat, and add those
techniques to your arsenal. So I did.

[A pause.]

PF: Then, the wise man told me Perry, if you want to be THE BEST, you
have to start at the beginning. You can't be your country's best if
you can't be your town's best, and you can't be the best in the world
if you're not the best at home. So I left Japan and got back to
Montreal to wrestle. Soon enough, I reigned over the Province
like the benevolent, rightful emperor I am.

[He looks up, then his cold, furious gaze returns to the camera,
trembling with intensity.]

PF: Yet, in that uppity little publication, who was ranked number one?
Some scum named Justin Cruise, ranked number one, turning all sorts of
heads down in Phoenix. Yeah, I know who that turncoat is, I just
thought he had shriveled up and died.

[It's getting quite clear that Perry Fontana comes in three settings;
loud, louder, and hoarse whispers.]

PF: So the wise man told me Perry, if you want to be the best, you now
have to leave home. Again. SO I DID! I ripped off the wise man's arm
first because he was getting nerves but, tabarnak, I did.

PF: But now "the Everlasting" Perry Fontana has come to Phoenix Valley
Wrestling, cousin, and the heads will be turning. I said the heads
will be turning, and they'll be turning from the likes of Justin
Cruise, or the likes of Apache Blood, to the likes of the man that
conquered death NOT ONCE, not twice, BUT SIX TIMES! OOOH WAAAYYY!

[With a crazed look in his eyes, he emphatically holds out his hands,
like he's flashing gang signs, palms facing inwards. Both thumbs pin
down the little fingers so that only a total of six digits remain
exposed.]

PF: Yes, SIX TIMES! I am the man that defeated death so often they
know he's deathless, everlasting, IMMORTAL! Rest assured you won't be
seeing these broad shoulders of mine pinned to a mat anytime soon.
That's a fact Apache Blood will waste little time acknowledging if
they're not complete lackwits. Knowing I can't be felled, they'll soon
target the mysterious Dr. X, a man so mysterious I have yet to meet
him.

[A pause.]

PF: Though I did visit Parts Unknown once. I might have fathered a few
piccoli bastardi over there, cousin, if you catch my drift. But when
Bull and Tonka realize they'd only lose a limb in a futile attempt to
best "IL ETERNO," they're bound to mark the man who is as mysterious
as he is scholarly, and as such, I do hope for his sake that this
doctorate of his is in wrestling. All of the other doctors I've ever
met only ever uncomprehendingly stared at me in baffled shock,
uselessly muttering things like: "This is impossible. YOU SHOULD BE
DEAD."

[He shakes his head.]

PF: IMMORTALS DON'T NEED NO DOCTORS, cousin. Apache Blood will tap out
regardless. Don't matter if they're two or twenty in that corner,
hanging on to that little string for dear life, it only takes one of
them to tap with one arm as the other is removed. Don't matter if
they're two or two hundred, they'll all learn to fear the name of
_Perry_ FONTANA! Aaaah way.

[If "Oh wee" is French Canada's "Oh yes," "Ah way," is it's "Ah yeah."
Fontana inhales deeply, still staring through the lens, unblinking.]

PF: Soon, cousin, Perry Fontana will be the ONLY NAME anyone will need
to know, and my name will be as EVERLASTING as my body. While Apache
Blood doesn't exactly live up to that standard, I will face "stiffer,
more prestigious international competition," and prove beyond a shadow
of a doubt that PERRY FONTANA IS A GOD AMONG MEN! AAAH WEEEE!

[Spittle flies everywhere as the man screams. It's also getting quite
clear that Perry Fontana comes in two modes: raving, and rambling.]

PF: Cousin, I don't care if your name is Tonka, Bull, Sinister,
Landis, Cole, Benedict, Holliday OR WHAT! These names are only the
stepping stones I'll need to step on in order to prove ONCE AND FOR
ALL that Perry Fontana is the best of all time. The ONLY NAME Phoenix
- or Chicago for that matter - will EVER need to remember, cousin, is
mine.

[With both hands, he grabs his red, orange and gold hood and flips it
back over his head, once again hiding most of his face. Then, with
this last, trembling, throaty whisper, the image fades.]

PF: Aaaaah waaaaayyy.

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

"You keep lining 'em up, I'll keep knocking 'em down..."

[The scene opens on a panoramic shot of the United Arena in Chicago,
the PVW ring dominating the middle of the sea of chairs that have been
set up for the show. Row upon row of the steel and plastic seats stand
in silent vigil over the violence set to explode within the squared
confines...to drink in the blood that will be spilt on the
canvas...and on that canvas currently stands WMI Captain and PVW
wrestler "Showtime" Rick Marley currently wears an electric blue silk
button up shirt, black dress pants and black dress shoes. a pair of
sunglasses are tucked into his belt, and his travel bag rests easily
on his right shoulder.

Dropping the bag, Marley moves into the ring between the second and
third ropes, looking around in the ring with a slight smile.]

"That's really the entire point of this entire industry...the
repetitive beat downs that you hand out to guys week in and week out.
Each individual match is like a sprint in racing...you give it
everything you have, leave yourself spent and bloodied, and you walk
away with a win...

But over the long term, this business is most obviously like a
marathon...grueling and brutal, if you aren't prepared for the long
haul, you have no business even lacing up your boots...if you don't
know where you're going, all you've done is found a high profile way
for you to commit suicide."

[A distant, familiar, gravelly voice is heard to shout "YEAH!"  Marley
seems to flinch, almost imperceptibly, then continues.  Moving to the
far ropes, Marley leans against them, testing their give before
nodding to himself and continuing his wandering circuit around the
ring.]

"And that's the thing I've always wondered about my opponent for
Tradition...

Chase Williams is a lot of things: He's the first PVW Heavyweight
Champion. He's a dangerous technical wrestler. He's a submission
expert. He's SSN's Golden Boy...except when he's not.

But mostly what Chase Williams is is simple.

Chase Williams is yesterday's news."

["Ouch!" goes the disembodied voice.  Marley pauses to let the words
echo throughout the empty arena for a moment before smiling coldly at
the camera.]

"Oh I know...he outweighs me by more than 100 pounds...Zero Tolerance
means minimal help from Widowmakers Inc...he'll tear my arm out of
it's socket...

I guess all of those things could actually happen...but I wouldn't put
any money on it...Chase is just going through the death spasms of his
career at this point...He held the belt...he lost the belt...and now
he doesn't even merit enough interest from the people at home for him
to get a re-match for the belt.

When Brian Young waffled that Irish brat with the chair, he not only
killed Foley's career, he killed Williams' relevance...hell, while he
held the belt, people still were more interested in what I was going
to do to William Craven next than they were in whatever nonsense he
was spouting..."

["True!" shouts that distant, mysterious voice.  Marley still
perseveres, only half turning in the general direction of the sound.]

"The words may hurt, but even the Conceited Bastard knows they're
true...otherwise he'd have gotten his shot."

[Marley moves to the turnbuckle, then hops up, sitting with his feet
on the second rope as he faces the camera with the same cold grin.]

"You see, love me or hate me, the fans WATCH me, Chase. They want to
know what WMI will do...they need to know what I'll say. They're
desperate to see if some half brain dead vegetable will finally manage
to catch up to me and see if he can give me the butt kicking that they
so desperately want to bear witness to.

Between that and my Called Shot, I'm everything that you USED to
be...and everything that you still wish you could be...so at our match
at Tradition, be ready Chase. Bring out your A game...hit your big
moves. Talk a bunch of sh[BLEEP] about me. I'm not some Irish teenager
that's gonna cry because the thought of molesting my father's corpse
turns you on."

[Marley looks up at the lights for a moment, then back at the camera,
apparently not finished.]

"Chase's big argument that he's more of a driving force in PVW is the
fact that he held gold...and I can't deny him that...but I CAN point
out that while he was holding gold, my word was law.  When I made a
promise, it happened. Tyrone Parker? Gone. Merc? Tossed out like the
garbage he is. Widowmakers Incorporated put PVW back on the map,
Chase. If it weren't for us...for ME, your ass would be opening bingo
halls in Peoria and drinking NyQuil for a buzz.

So enjoy your moment in the sun, 'champ'. Drag yourself down to the
ring and you can see what happens when you're in a match with a
grownup...not a cripple...not some delusional spike toting lunatic...a
professional.

And you can take that to the bank."

[fade]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Masked Maniac & William Craven
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Cut to show a strange, masked man in a dark blue suit, viewed from
behind. Rubbernecking to look back at the camera as he moves down a
concrete hallway, he shows off the gigantic "SSN" logo in white on his
blue-masked face.]

MM: Hey, Masked Maniac here filling in for the chicken *BLEEP* Dean
Hayes.  I was told that William Craven is in the arena for ... some
reason, and for some reason I'm supposed to interview him.  Uhm ...
whatever, I say.  As the #1 interviewer in PVW, I go where the action
... and maybe I _am_ where the action is.

[Rounding the corner, Maniac finds a second story balcony filled with
empty seats overlooking the already constructed PVW ring.  Maniac
pauses, noting the big, green nutjob leaning over the railing and
looking at a man who speaks in the ring, several cameras focused on
him.]

MM: Hey, Bill ... is that Rick Marley?

[Half turning to look at Maniac, Bill looks annoyed, but not
surprised.]

WC: Yes ... why?  Are you here to take in the show as well?

MM: Show?

WC: Yes, it's "Showtime".  Heh.  Get it?

MM: "Showtime" Rick Marley?

WC: YEAH!

[Pause.  Bill chuckles as he turns back to look down at Rick, who
looks around for a moment, then continues talking.  His voice is faint
in the distance but Bill, apparently, can hear him perfectly well.]

MM: So ... you and Rick are having a truce or something?  Is that what
I'm getting?

WC: I suppose you could say that.  Rick was convinced I would kill him
in the ring ... and given the choice between death and cowardice, the
man would have fled the business in a heartbeat.

[Pause.]

WC: Where's Dean?  This is the second time you've darkened my
proverbial doorstep with a microphone and camera man in tow.

MM: What?  Hayes?  He's still scared of you or something...  Says
you're like demon possessed or something.

WC: Ah.  Well.  Good for him.  Pardon me for a moment.

[Leaning out over the railing, Bill shouts again.]

WC: OUCH!  Hah.  Oh, I wouldn't want to be Chase Williams on Heatwave.

MM: Why not?

WC: What?  You can't hear?  Rick is ripping the man's reputation to
shreds. Brilliant.  That's my buddy...

MM: So you wouldn't want to have a match with Rick Marley on Heatwave?

[Blink blink.  Bill's eyes widen, and his upper lip curls into a
snarl, baring his sharpened teeth.]

WC: What did you just say?

MM: Nothing, it just sounds like you said you were afraid of Rick
Marley...

[Leaping up from his seat, Bill grabs Maniac by the collar, and also
by the mask!]

MM: MMPH!

WC: Thats.  Not.  TRUE!

MM: Mmph!  Rph!

WC: What?

[Maniac gently presses back the hand that pulls his mask mufflingly
tight.  Bill slowly releases it, but retains his grip on Maniac's
collar as well as a scowling expression.]

MM: I was just going to ask you about your tag match with Dark Soul!

[Okay, now Bill releases his grip on Maniac.]

WC: What of it, logo-face?  What do you care?

MM: I'm the interviewer, remember?  C'mon, be kind to your fellow
masked wrestler.

WC: Fellow?

MM: Yeah, y'know ... you were Major Damage.  You still wear the gas
mask to the ring.  We're like brothers.

[A low rumbling growl escapes Bill's gravelly throat.]

MM: Okay, anyway...  Dark Soul's like, one of the only guys who has a
clean pinfall win over you, right?  And you kinda tormented him back
in the day, stuff like that, and he was champ with you as challenger,
but you never had your match...

By the way, you hear I'm getting a Network Title shot?  Sweet, huh?  I
could be champion of the network ... and I already have their logo for
a face!  Sweet...

[Bill's scowl deepens, and he actually darkens to a deeper, duller
shade of green.]

MM: Oh, sorry, is that a sore spot ... 'cause you've never gotten any
title shot in PVW?  And I'm getting one?  And you're not?

[Slowly, Bill creeps towards Maniac, who backs away with equal lack of
speed.]

MM: Hey, I know it sucks, I mean, you've got a good record around
here, right?  I mean, why not you, right?  But it could be ... worse?

WC: Oh, don't worry.  It gets worse.  It gets worse!

MM: Guess I set myself up for that one!  Yipe!

[Flee!  Maniac's out the door and down the hall in a heartbeat, Craven
in tow.  The camera watches them go, then swings back around to look
down at the ring.  Marley's gone, and the crew that had been filming
him is dispersing.  End.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Danny Daniels #2
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[The camera fades in to see Danny Daniels, "Your Hero", carefully
polishing the Supreme Title on some old newspapers.  He's wearing the
yellow YOUR HERO t-shirt and wraparound sunglasses over his blonde
hair. He is vigorously rubbing the polish onto the belt and speaks
without looking up at the camera.]

D"YH"D:  Greetings...  And Salutations!

Last week was another glorious week in the life of "Your Hero", Danny
Daniels- a man so nice they named me twice!  In fact, it was such a
good week that it felt like it went on for months!

And this week, I have another important match!  My opponent is...

[Danny pauses and thinks]

Is...

[He raches over and grabs a PVW Program.]

D"YH"D:  ... is Mike Cox!

[He got the name right?]

D"YH"D:  Now, it's a non-title match for the SUPREME World title.  But
that doesn't mean I can rest on my laurels.  I'm sure Mike wants to
prove himself to the world, and a victory over me- Danny "YOUR
UNDEFEATED HERO" Daniels- a man so nice they named me twice- would be
a giant stepping stone for his career, as well as a guarantee that he
WOULD get a title shot in the future.

[Danny takes another rag and begins removing the polish from the
belt.]

D"YH"D:  I didn't become the SUPREME World Champion- THE single most
pretigious title in wrestling- by resting on my laurels.  So at
Heatwave, I'm going to have Mike... Mike...

[Danny pauses, then looks at the program again, reading out loud.]

D"YH"D:  Mike Cox, "The Dude You Can Relate To".  He'll be tough, but
he'll...

[Danny pauses again]

D"YH"D:  Dude?

[Danny thinks for a moment as he polishes his belt some more.]

D"YH"D:  Dude.

[Some more thoughtful rubbing.]

D"YH"D:  Dude... I think he MIGHT be the man that stole my rug!  I
remember a 'Dude' stealing my rug from me when I was defending my
SUPREME  world title!  Yes, it must be you!  In cahoots with that evil
Sinestro!

[Danny stands up, shaking his head.]

D"YH"D:  Your thieving ways are going to have punished, Dude!  NO ONE
Steals the rug from "YOUR HERO", Danny Daniels- a man so nice they
named  me twice...

[Danny holds the belt in front of the cameras]

D"YH"D:  ... and Your SUPREME World Champion!!!

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Zeke Craven
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Cut to a concrete hallway in the PVW offices located in Phoenix.
It's Gibson Hayes' chief of security "Big" Bubba Hayes approaching the
door to Broderick Ezekiel Craven's office.  He carries an extremely
fancy, expensive-looking briefcase that really, really doesn't match
his attire in any fashion whatsoever.]

*THOOM!* *THOOM!* *THOOM!*

[Wow.  He's either knocking or just trying to knock the door down.
The intention's not immediately clear, as Bubba never looks all that
friendly, and especially not when hitting something.]

Zeke: Yes, yes I'm coming.  Please don't remove the door from it's
hinges.

[Door swings open, a gigantic red beard with a guy attached to it
stands, fiery green eyes surrounded by creased skin glowering
outwards.]

Zeke: I swear, you may not have paperwork in your role around here,
but some of us... oh ... were you ... the one interested ... in my old
ring gear?

[Bubba thrusts a briefcase into Zeke's chest) Boss said to give you
this briefcase. It's made of some animals and junk. Rhinos and koalas
and *BLEEP* like that.]

Zeke: Oh ... oh my.  Yes.  Rhino skin exterior!  Ivory handle!

[Opening the case, Zeke looks inside.]

Zeke: Oh, mother of pearl inlay interior.  Yes, yes this will do
indeed!

Bubba: Oh, and see that little thing stickin' out of the side, that's
some fancy condor bone shank for re'ul fancy prisons. Ya gotta hold
your pinky out or some junk when you using it.

Zeke: Hm?  Looks like a ceremonial dagger of some sort.  Interesting.
No, wait ... letter opener.

[Gingerly, Zeke closes the case with the love that a father would lay
his infant child down to sleep.]

Zeke: Okay, and, ooo-here we go.  The merchandise, a unique parcel if
ever there was one.

[A neatly folded bundle of brown burlap cloth is produced, and Zeke
thrusts it into Bubba's hands.  The big man looks down at it,
incredulously, perhaps not fully understanding what he holds.]

Zeke: Okay, here you are.  The symbol, if you didn't know, is a cross
in a star of David in a circle.  Ignore the sevens and sixes, as I ...
don't exactly remember what they mean, necessarilyl  Nothing good, I
think.  Now, the devices themselves, uhm, Livestock looked them over
himself last night.  He took some machine oil to them, and said that
the CO2 cartridges are full now.  Ah, and the gas jets (unrelated to
the CO2 firing mechanism) need to be set up in the corners of the ring
you won't be occupying.  If you get caught in the gas, you'll get
shocked too. Oh, and make sure ... you're wearing something underneath
the taser's straps. Okay?  Hey, thanks for the case.  Later!

[Door slams shut.  Zeke and two others can be heard to frantically
"oooo" and "awww" over the case.  Yes, it's Livestock and the Gutch.
Fade to black.]

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
	Masked Outlaw
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

[Distorted video again, and the Masked Outlaw sits in a stairwell.  He
clasps both hands before him, holding a rusty old straight razor and
regarding it in silence for a full moment before he lifts his head a
little, addressing the camera with that warped voice.]

MO: Hello again, Rob.  I hate to kick dirt on a grave, but I can't
seem to help it.  You've wrapped yourself in a prison, "kiddo"...
trapped yourself in the title and you've allowed them to use it
against you. They hold it over you, Rob... they taunt you with it,
tease you, and they keep you chained like a yapping dog who's lost his
bite.  All you did, all you sacrificed... what does it all mean, Rob?
WHAT?!?!!

[The Outlaw chuckles and shakes his head.]

MO: I guess we all know who you are now.  The pathetic shadow of
everything you used to be.  It's like they say... about Payback?  I
think you know how it used to go.

[Fade to black.]