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Brought to you by the Strickland Sports network.
Presenting....
-> The Spectre [CWA SHOWCASE PROMO]
-> William Craven [CWA SHOWCASE PROMO]
-> Rob Cole & Chris Hartt
-> Made Men
-> ???
-> Eric Williams
-> Derek Rage
-> Rick Marley
-> Jack Baldwin
-> Chase Williams
-> The Spectre
-> The Mercenary
-> Mike Castillo
-> Will Geddings
-> Eric Williams
-> Brian Young
-> Jeremiah Page
-> Rob Cole
-> Larry Gionet
-> Caleb Foley
-> The Tucson Kid
-> Chris Hartt
-> Randy Acorn
-> Outlaw
-> Gibson Hayes
-> Rob Magnum & Tommy Ryder
-> Stalker
-> Chase Williams
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
The Spectre [CWA SHOWCASE PROMO]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[The camera cuts to the loading docks at the arena. Gone is the ebb
and flow of humanity. The bright lights shine only dimly here, and
the roar of the crowd is swallowed by the weight of the darkness
pressing in from the outside as it attempts to snuff out the small
islands of illumination living in its bosom.
Seated against one wall, atop a stack of pallets is PVW's resident
goth madman, The Spectre. The black-dreadlocked ghoul is wearing a
tattered black trenchcoat over a black tank top, cutoff jeans and
black combat boots as he stares into the night, perched like a modern
day gargoyle atop the cast offs an orgy of capitalism.]
"A new day, a new city, a new audience...but still, the dance remains
the same. We have been selected to come here...ambassadors of
violence...ministers of carnage...sent by Phoenix Valley Wrestling to
introduce ourselves to the people here to see their heroes do battle
with the most vile monsters that CWA has to offer..."
[The camera comes in tight on Spectre's face as he begins to grin
evilly.]
"We assure you...they have nothing on us.
And to show you precisely what we're capable of, PVW has sent none
other than William Craven as our hand picked foe. Little William:
once he was an avatar of destruction. The very personification of the
horror that can be unleashed during a war. People quaked at his
approach and his passing was marked by a trail of broken
opponents...sadly, he is but a pale shadow of his former self.
His obsession with the demons from his past, his desire for
redemption, his association with lesser men...all of these have
contributed to the fall from grace that Little William has faced. His
desire to live our his life in well-deserved anonymity has been taken
from him, leaving a scared child, desperate for approval and craving
friendship."
[The grin vanishes as Spectre's face goes blank.]
"Little William, you will find none of those things in the ring with
us. We don't care what drove you to scar yourself. It doesn't matter
to us what horrors you witnessed in the armed forces. It holds no
sway that your brother stole your wife.
The facts are as simple as they are incontrovertible: the Beast cares
not a whit for your psychosis. In the Dark, your tattoos mean no more
than your ex wife.
Little William, you had the potential to become something great...but
you've lost your way. We are incredibly disappointed in you, Little
William...and we do not take disappointment well, so you will be given
another chance. The man that is William craven will join us within
the crucible of the Rules of Rebirth, and what emerges on the other
side will be something different.
It will be something that has been shown what it could have become.
It will be something that will have been given two options: it will
have learned to tap into its Beast and to unleash its savagery...
or it will have learned to fear the dark."
[cut]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
William Craven [CWA SHOWCASE PROMO]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[Open up on a green field dotted with white flecks. Leathery and
patterned with deep blue-green lines, it contracts, strangely, then
raises slightly, bringing a series of scars and a red-rimmed ice-blue
eye with a slit-pupil into clear view. That's right, it's a shaved
head, tattooed with a scale pattern, and covered in old wounds.
A voice issues forth, presumably from this head, creaking, popping
and breaking in a fashion that suggests premature aging.]
WC: Hello, CWA. It's lovely to meet you, I'm sure. My name ... is
William Craven. After all these years I do hope that you've at least
heard of me. How painful it would be to be lost again to anonymity,
my sacrifices made in vain for an uncaring audience...
[Chuckling, mirthlessly, then squinting, then standing, Craven forces
the cameraman to scramble in order to keep up. The extreme close-up
is abandoned as the camera rapidly zooms out, the view wobbling as the
green man, green all over from head to toe, begins to pace before a
CWA drop-cloth, breaking all the barriers of the set in which he
stands.]
WC: But I digress. You see, my purpose here, in your esteemed league,
is to show your fans what they're missing. In Phoenix Valley, a
league now flush with new growth, reaching a world-wide audience on
television if not yet in person, we have myself ... and the Spectre.
[Stopping, looking down, Bill finally allows the camera to focus on
him properly. Bare to the waist, Bill is indeed patterned with green
scale tattoos. Below the waist, he's just wearing a pair of camo-
patterned vinyl slacks, no shoes. Giving a razor-edged grimace, he
flicks his split tongue through the gaps left by his missing teeth,
and focuses full on the viewer at home.]
WC: Why, oh why would PVW send myself, a mean, green monster machine
alongside the dark and dreary, pale and nasty Spectre? Our
similarities, after all, far outweigh our differences...
Naturally, they would need a villain ... and a hero. Well, CWA,
here's the scary part...
I'm the hero...
[Rubbing his craggy, green face, Bill looks weary. Maybe it's because
of the plane ride from Nevada, or maybe it's just because he's getting
on in years. His brow furrowing, Bill grits his pointed teeth.]
WC: Since 1997, I have been the murderer of men, and the killer of
careers, the bald, scarred freak that filled the seats, now the green
man, and through it all I have been the most feared among my peers.
Before that, I had been a student, a thug, an athlete, a soldier,
and a combatant in the dark corners of the world where men
disappear, not even a eulogy to mark their passing.
Now, I face a gothic sadist whose career, if not his ferocity,
rivals mine. The Spectre is a man I understand well, for in a
way, we have lived very similar lives. I truly believe that both
of us, left to our own devices, would have lived the lives of
normal men, but our sickness cost us family, our minds, and our
reputations. Now, our sickness has become our strength, as
California is about to witness, first hand...
[Turning, half from the camera, Bill strokes the backdrop behind him,
rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger.]
WC: For the Spectre, I suppose, PVW could have chosen worse. True,
when facing one another we seem two sides of the same coin, but I see
Spectre as being more like me when I was young. Shallow, smaller,
playing games with others without any understanding of their
consequences. This match, this "Rebirth" match, takes me back to the
turn of the century, to the Empire ... to EMWC.
There, then, as here and now, it seems the powers that be wish to
blend my own talents with others of similar, branding it
"hardcore" and praying for success. Yes, I had my success in
EMWC, my first dance upon the world stage, but ultimately, this
blending does nothing but ruin the contrast. Without contrast,
there is bland sameness, and even the darkest shadow may be light,
surrounded as it is by like.
So, I suppose, I must find another way...
[Turning away from the backdrop, William focuses on the camera,
seemingly trying to glare a hole through it.]
WC: CWA, I know not your true nature, but know this; whatever you have
seen, it is nothing as compared to what I bring. In a world such as
this, my world, when ropes form borders and the voice of the people
serves as life-force to their gods, then speaking out against the
universe in which we stand seems true madness.
For more than a decade, I have spoken truth to madness, and given
it a voice. My words, such as they are, give precious little
insight to my inner turmoil, and so ... I must demonstrate now ...
what rage I feel...
[Shuddering, Craven looks around himself, searching for a proper
outlet for what seems to be an impotent rage.]
WC: You think you know violence? YOU KNOW NOTHING!!!
[Finally, settling again on the backdrop, William grabs it by the "C"
and the "A" and jerks down, violently, dislodging it from the cinder
block wall.]
WC: The people who believe these letters hold meaning have never
witnessed what we bring, what I bring into this world. When this
night is complete, the CWA will be abandoned in favor of a superior
brand, and so the Phoenix Valley will reign supreme, and I will reign
supreme over Phoenix Valley!
[Biting the center and pulling, Bill rips the backdrop in three
pieces, his rage building to a fever pitch.]
WC: It gets worse!
[Reaching out, William rips down a lighting pole, sending sparks
everywhere as its bulb shatters into a million pieces.]
WC: IT GETS WORSE!
[Finally, a wrestling cliche. Bill shrieks into the camera, his voice
raising to almost a falsetto pitch--]
WC: IT! GETS! WOOORRRSSSEEE!!!
[--and kicks the camera straight in the lens. Cut to black.]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Rob Cole & Chris Hartt
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[The weights crash down as the door to the gym opens and Chris Hartt
steps inside, his eyes burning with fury as he walks over to the bench
press and hauls the weight off the chest of his future opponent at
Heatwave. Rob Cole sits up, covered in sweat and gasping for breath
as he glances up at The Paladin and then snatches a towel from the
floor... wiping his face as Hartt speaks.]
Hartt: I've put up with a lot of your newfound attitude, but right
now, this is really lighting a fire to the last straw. Tell me what
the hell's going on. Why are you doing these things. Why am I in a
tag match *against* you next week? Why are you tagging with that
miserable puke, Geddings? That jackass attacks audience members and
plays innocent of any wrong-doing! How can you even abide that crap?
It's disrespectful to the business!
[Cole tosses the towel away, keeping his eyes averted from the face of
Chris Hartt for a moment. He takes a deep breath and lets it out with
a sigh, shaking his head as he stands and starts to walk away from
Hartt.]
Hartt: DON'T turn your back on me! I know we're not buddies, but
there's respect between us. Enough to give me a straight answer on
this!
[Cole pauses, eyes going dark for a moment before he turns to face the
man who tried to help pull him back from the brink only a few weeks
ago. Rob Cole licks his lips, and offers a cold smile.]
Cole: Yeah, Chris... I'm going to walk down that aisle and I'm going
to tag with a guy who brutally assaulted some innocent fan right in
front of his son. I'm going help this guy brutalize both you and this
company's great blue chip hope, and I will be looking to rend you limb
from bloody limb! I'm a thief in the night, I'm a monster beneath the
bed, I'm a scumbag piece of filth... you're only just now starting to
understand all that? I told you who I was... I TOLD YOU MONTHS AGO!!!!
I didn't want your friendship... I didn't want you to be my buddy... I
never asked you to play Jiminy Cricket and turn me into a real boy,
kiddo. I told you to stay away, but you keep showing up... time and
again, almost like you see something more. Is this going to be what
it takes to show you who I am?!?!!! IS IT?!?!!!
Hartt: So that's it? I just can't believe this. You, Mr. Enigma
Wrapped in a Mystery and Cloaked in a Riddle, the guy who shows such
love and emotion to his family can so easily turn traitor on
everything good and strong in the world and just add to the hate and
misery. Are you really so blind to the hatred and violence you
contribute to? You have a chance to be something better than this,
man. You could make such a difference. How do you expect your family
to even look at you with pride over who you are and what you do when
you so easily give in to hate and negativity like this?
[Cole shakes his head, lowering his gaze as he considers Hartt's
words... he finally looks up, straight into the eyes of the Paladin
and steps forward.]
Cole: Alright, Jimminy... alright. This is what you want? So be
it... when we step down that aisle, when we face each other in that
ring, I am going to show you that I really am the horrible thing that
goes bump in the night. I'm going to gouge your eyes, Chris... I'm
going to punch you, drive my knee in your skull, twist your ligaments,
and I am going to walk out there with every intention of leaving you a
bloody mess. You and that little piece of filth... you both want to
damn me and condemn me for taking that belt? Here's your chance to
take it back, deliver it to the golden boy hero, and be the brave
heroes this company so desperately needs. Awww? Am I hitting a
nerve? Thought I'd crumble right before you, beg you forgiveness, try
to explain myself, do something brave and heroic to turn it all
around? THIS IS WHO AND WHAT I AM!!!!
[Cole spins, turning his back on Hartt... ]
Hartt: Then there's nothing left. You're your own man, but I only
hope you can live with the consequences. I won't bother you anymore,
since you don't need Jiminy Cricket trying to guide you. From here
out, the only time you'll ever see me is in that ring, fully ready to
kick your ass and not shed one tear over it.
Good luck to you. You'll need it more than you know.
[Cole remains silent, his back to the Paladin. Hartt shakes his head
in disgust and finally turns to walk out the door. Rob Cole looks
back and watches Hartt leave... his face twisting in confusion as he
looks down at his fingers. The camera continues to watch Cole as he
walks a few steps over, reaches into his bag, and pulls out his
wallet. He opens it for a moment and sits down heavily, lowering the
it to his lap as he covers his eyes with his palm and shudders just a
slight bit.]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Made Men
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[The locker room at the 52nd Street Armory. It is minutes after the
Made Men have lost their match to the Wild Cards.]
[The door bursts open with tremendous force, kicked in by "Pokerface"
Mark Masterson. Usually subdued, his anger is obvious, especially if
you're a door.]
MM: (fuming) ... God... DAMMIT!
[Masterson punches a dent in a locker on the far wall. He then clears
a bench of gym bags, sending them hurtling back toward the door, where
we see Nick "Always" Wright entering the locker room, only barely
dodging the flying bags.]
MM: {BEEP}ers! Can't get a damn win on us, and they have to FAKE it!
FAKE IT! They had NOTHING on us, rat bastards, and they took what
should've been OURS!
NW: (also -- literally -- hopping mad at the loss) Damn straight!
(Masterson whips his head to Wright. Fire is in his eyes)
MM: And YOU.... (He pauses. Nick looks confused). You and your head
had best get back right the hell here by my side.
(Wright bottles up the anger and stares his partner down.)
NW: And what do you mean by that? I was there the whole match,
remember? I landed every hit exactly like we planned.
MM: I mean that you and your lovesick brain obviously cost us out
there, if only at the very end. How many times is a move like
catching something an opponent just used to fake an attack going to
cost us the match? I just want to know so I can plan my calendar out
and know when to show back up when you're finally ready to WIN again,
Nick.
NW: I was there -- THERE, in the ring, in the MOMENT -- for the whole
match. You would've caught the damn thing too, Mark! Who I woo
didn't make a difference just now, and it won't make a difference
later!
MM: You're WRONG, Nick. It made every difference out there. We've
seen enough that {beep} like that shouldn't have even been TRIED on
us, let alone WORK. Now The Great Pretenders get to keep the title
that should've been OURS, if not for your brain being on Laurel. We
had a SHOT, Nick, and it slipped by, and right now, whatever --
WHATEVER -- could have possibly gotten in the way is right in my
crosshairs.
NW: So that's it? We get cheated out of the titles, and you're not
looking at the Wild Cards? At the dumbass referee? You think I
wasn't there at ringside tonight, and that somehow I've got part of
the blame here. (Nick turns and takes two steps away, hand on his
hips.) ... (He turns back.) Fine. That's fine.
[Wright steps right up to Masterson, displaying a stoic face that is
normally reserved for his partner's use. He looks the larger man in
the eye.]
NW: Screw you, Mark. I know what I did out there, and I know where
my head was. And if your head was too busy wondering where mine was,
then maybe it wasn't me that blinked out there.
[The stare at each other in silence for a few moments. Wright breaks
the silence.]
NW: See you later, Mark.
[He exits the locker room. Masterson continues to stare at the empty
doorway as the scene fades to black.]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
???
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
------------------------------------
Courtesy of www.theworldwillbleed.com
???
------------------------------------
[Black.]
V/O: Some say the world will end in fire...
[This handheld camera has a very distinct style as it turns on. The
picture quality is not one you would be too proud of, but still good
enough to pass for a YouTube video.]
V/O: ...some say in ice.
[There is a solid metal jailhouse style door, complete with the small
window and a vertical bars. The camera zooms forth to see just what
is on the other side of the door. A white padded room can be seen
between two of the bars that block up the edges of the screen.
Sitting in the corner is a man wearing a typical white straitjacket
with long stringy hair hiding the eyes of his face, but not the
menacing smile on his lips.]
MAN: From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor
fire.
[As he turns his head, the side of his face has the scars of someone
who played with fire a bit too much and paid the price for it. He
continues to smile.]
MAN: Gravy? On meatloaf? This isn't Tuesday. The dark man is whispered
to me that this something much better than fire coming.
[The man's head twitches quickly to the side as if to refocus his dark
memories.]
MAN: They only wanted to see the fire... they only wanted to see what
it would do to that house. It's coming. Oh, beautiful fire.
The dark man told me so. It's coming.
[The man rocks and pulls at his straitjacket a little bit.]
MAN: The fire burnt too quick, way too quick. Not slow enough, he
said, make it bleed first. Way too quick the fire burnt. The dark
man said make it bleed first.
It's coming so-
[The man pauses and looks around to listen the many voices probably
whispering into his ears.]
MAN: Yes, way too quick. Make them all feel it first, make them all
anguish in it. Only way is to bleed. Meatloaf... with gravy? Maybe
it is Tuesday after all. It's coming.
Burn it all... burnt the meatloaf... burnt it all.
Whispered into my ear, said the sweetest things. The dark man
whispered.
[The man twists his head to the side showing that his ear has been
burnt off for the most part and the scarring has covered what would
have been left. The man again rocks in place and pulls at his
straitjacket.]
MAN: It's coming, make the world bleed.
Then die.
[He pauses and the twitchy camera begins to pull away from the iron
bars in the little window beyond the door. The man continues to pull
at his straitjacket inside the padded cell.]
MAN: Some say the world will end in fire... some say in ice.
[As if on repeat, the man continues as the camera fades.]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Eric Williams
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[Pre-Fade-In]
Dex Willingham: Are you sure you can do this? It's a lot of pressure
to be consistently funny, every week.
[Fade In]
(The scene is in the Owner of PVW's office. Mr. Dex Willingham –
wearing a gaudy, fist-sized ring on his finger, wearing a brand-new
tuxedo, and seated in a gigantic golden throne – sits at the head of a
long, oak rectangular table – lined with diamonds and adorned by pure
gold caricatures – that seems to stretch for miles, with men in brand-
new suits placed every 5 feet until it reaches Eric Williams, dressed
in his wrestling attire and seated in a very uncomfortable-looking
wooden folding chair at the foot of the table, talking into an
intercom box that relays his words down to Willingham at the opposite
end of the table.)
Williams: Absolutely, Mr. Willingham. I'm more than capable.
Willingham: Well, before I can officially approve, I need to see a
small sample of what your act is going to entail.
Williams: Oh, it'll be great! Mostly observational stand-up comedy!
(Willingham gives a warm smile as he seems to make a gesture with his
hand toward Eric. It's difficult to tell from the distance.)
Willingham: Please, I need a sample. Give me one of your jokes.
Williams: Alright-alright... so there's this horse, right? It walks
into a bar, and the bartender says -
"Hey, this seems like a sh**ty joke!"
(Silence.)
Willingham: I fail to see the comedic value of a bartender uttering
obscenities to a horse.
Williams: Well, that's not the point, it's-
Willingham: And furthermore, the premise is convoluted. Why would a
bartender even allow a horse into his place of work? Are you aware of
how many health-codes that would violate? The sheer dollar-amount of
the fines – and nevermind the potential for lawsuits – would be
massive and completely inexcusable to any employer. He'd be terminated
immediately!
Williams: But-uh-I...
Willingham: Mr. Williams, I think I speak for this entire board when I
say that your proposal to become a comedic act on this show is
irrevocably denied.
Men In Suits (In Chorus): Here Here!
(A loud pounding sound is heard from Willingham's end of the table, as
he hammers a stamp down on a piece of paper. The camera zooms in, from
Eric's position – which takes awhile – and it shows a big red
"REJECTION" stamp on a form titled "Form To Request A Form To Have A
Comedic Sideshow On Burning Effect, Form 12-A.")
Willingham: Mr. Williams, I would like to congratulate you.
(Eric seems thrown off for a moment, then presses the "Talk" button on
the intercom.)
Williams: I-uh... for what, sir?
Willingham: For being the 2nd biggest waste of time we've ever had.
Williams: What's the first?
Willingham: David Rheaume came in to give us his resume about two
weeks ago.
Williams: Ah, that'd do it. So... Is he still begging for a job?
Willingham: ... Yup.
(An awkward silence sets in.)
Willingham: So... I think that's about it. You're excused, Mr.
Williams.
(Williams stands up and leaves through the same, giant, golden double-
doors that he used to enter the room. Small Mexican children run up
with rags and some sort of spraying-solution to remove his hand-
marks.)
Willingham: Ah, it's good to be the king.
(Cut to Williams leaving the skyscraper that is PVW headquarters,
where the city streets are full of hustling businessmen – all of them
ignoring a man in a black t-shirt and torn up denim jeans, with brown
hair that goes to his shoulders who is huddled against the side of the
building with a sign reading "Will Wrestle For Food." Eric is the only
person who approaches him.)
Williams: Hey there, you know how to wrestle?! Can you give me a few
pointers? I can pay you-
(The man jumps to his feet, clearly excited.)
Man: Really?! My name is David Rheaume, former EWWF tag champ and-
Williams: Ah... nevermind... I think I'll be better off on my own.
(Rheaume wraps his arms around Williams' legs.)
Rheaume: Please? Please? I'm broke, I'm homeless, and I need money!
Williams: No... I really don't think that'd be a good PR move for me.
Rheaume: But I've held TWO titles!
Williams: And how long have you been working in this business?
Rheaume: Ah... well... ten years?
Williams: Yeah, point-and-case. Sorry.
Rheaume: But... I need it! Have you no compassion for a grown man who
has to beg for a job?
Williams: You're right...
Rheaume: So you'll take me in?!
Williams: NO.
(Williams kicks Rheaume aside, and keeps walking down the sidewalk.)
Williams: Christ, that's the 10th time this week. He just doesn't know
when to quit.
Let's see... the arena is about two blocks away from here...
[Fade To Black.]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Derek Rage
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[Fade in:
The shot opens up backstage on a ruined table. Two sets of feet walk
towards the camera. One set is shod in simple worn penny loafers.
The cuffs of grey slacks breaks twice at the man's ankles. The other
set of shoes are large, immaculate Prada boots with rubberised, molded
soles in the palest camel tan. An uncuffed buff linen pant leg breaks
once over the boots. The camera pans up from the wreckage to reveal
Screaming Dean Hayes and Derek Rage. The big man of the Prophets of
Rage is dressed in a chocolate brown dress shirt open at the collar
and with the sleeves rolled up. He wears gold-rimmed sunglasses and a
smug expression.]
DR: Do you know what this is, Hayes?
SDH: A broken table.
DR: It is not just any broken table. It is _the_ broken table. It
is a symbol of the first shot in the upcoming war between the
Wildcards and the Prophets of Rage. The Prophets shot first and we
did not miss. Judd Marley's head went right through this table. And
he won't ever be the same again, Hayes.
SDH: That was one of the most despicable acts I've ever seen. You and
your brother should be locked up for that assault.
DR: (smiling) Maybe we should, but I have a feeling that all that's
going to happen is that we're going to be rewarded, Hayes. We're
going to be rewarded with two big shiny gold belts. The Wildcards won
them because they pushed the envelope. They pushed the issue with the
Royal Family. They got in the driver's seat and they kept control.
Well, we're not the Royal Family and we're not stupid. We've seen
what it takes to get to the top of the PVW mountain and trust me, the
World Tag Team titles will fall. We've already dictated the tone of
the conflict. We've already sent the message. The Wildcards are
hunted men. They will never be safe. But they will be sorry. They
will be sorry they stole those belts from us in the first place. Yes
they will.
SDH: Well on Heatwave "Black" Jack Baldwin is going to be looking for
a little revenge against you. I can't wait to see him teach you a
little humility.
[The boldness of Dean's words strikes Derek as funny. He raises his
eyebrows towards the incensed PVW announcer.]
DR: I understand that you're part of the old guard, my friend. I know
you believe that the good fight must always be fought.
[Dean nods his head in approval.]
DR: Times have changed. See, because the champions were not worthy of
the belts. They just got lucky. They managed to sign a contract
before the rightful contenders could. That's it. They just got
lucky. Well, we showed them that they won't win twice. So now Black
Jack wants me in one-on-one competition to seek revenge for his
partner? Bad mistake, Black Jack. See, this is a match of equals.
You can't catch me quickly like a small man could. You and I are
about the same size, the same weight. I'm a little bigger both ways,
but it's close enough. So this comes down to styles. This comes down
to intangibles. This comes down to desire and ability. Baldwin, I
will see you fail. I have more hunger and drive than you. I have
more natural ability. I'm a King with an ace in the hole. That's 21.
Try to beat me, Black Jack and you'll go bust. That's exactly what
will happen at Heatwave. You're down a card already and behind in the
count. You think you're better than the Intelligent Thug?
[Derek Rage pauses to slip his glasses to the top of his head so he
can look right into the camera.]
DR: Trust me, you're not.
[When he says that he stares defiantly at Swinging Dean Hayes before
he walks out of the shot. Hayes stares after him for a moment and
then wipes his brow. He looks down at the table.]
SDH: Ladies and gentlemen, however this one turns out it won't be one
to miss. Back to you, PVW.
[Fade out]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Rick Marley
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[The scene opens on a simple scene. "Showtime" Rick Marley standing in
front of a black banner with a large red spider with "Widomakers Inc."
emblazoned in gothic script below. The expression on the dark haired
Widomaker's face is the personification of calm as he stares into the
camera for a moment before speaking...all the while betraying no sign
of emotion.]
"I suppose I should start by congratulating the Tucson Kid...
That's right, you heard me correctly...I said congratulating.
It's not every day someone like him manages to put a loss on the
record sheets for someone like me. I took my eye off of the ball, and
in the process, it cost me...it cost me the match...it cost me my
undefeated record in PVW, and it cost me...
Well, we'll come back to that, because obsessing over the past won't
help me for this week.
Next up we've got another multi-man match...this time a Two Minute
Drill style rumble...me and eleven other guys that quite frankly don't
matter.
I'm not saying it for effect...and it's not ego run amok.
In the grand scheme of things, they don't matter.
Storyteller...another in the long line of lunatics that the
Willinghams have signed to compete here...this one is super-sized
though. He's big, he's bad, and he's got two guys at ringside that
are for rent. Easy enough.
Mike Castillo...he's made some noise since he got here...he knocked
off Miguel Quesada (not to the extent that Merc is gonna knock him off
this week...but it's something), but "The Natural" is quite simply out
of his league.
Eric Williams...sorry, but his redemption revolves around getting his
kids back. While it's a sweet story, if you put your family first in
this business, you end up last. I figured that out all by myself, and
I'm sure my brother will agree with me.
The Spectre...it'll take more than spooky entrance music and referring
to yourself in the plural form to get into my head. Freak Number Two
for this match
RJ Souza...the guy lost 436 straight matches to Chris Hartt. How good
can he be?
Randy Acorn...he's done a lot in other organizations...back during the
Clinton Administration, if I'm not mistaken. I hate to be the one to
rain on your parade Randy, but since then, The Patriots have gotten
good, the Arizona Cardinals still stink, and you...well Randy...you're
ancient history.
El Hijo del Sol...Senor, Sir, sé luchadores, y tomará más que un nuevo
sistema del movimiento para impresionarme.
Chase Williams...PVW's first champ...and someone that didn't get
pinned to lose his belt. Chase, you straight up got screwed...by the
brass upstairs, by Brian Young, and by that pest Foley...oddly enough,
you're ALMOST relevant in this match...but the fact is that Wellingham
banished you to the undercard, and this match won't get you out.
Vandal Gomez...I've never lost a match to fireball throwing albinos to
my knowledge, and I don't intend to start now.
Outlaw...PVW's nod to equal access for the mentally handicapped has no
business in the same ring with me. It takes more than cutting jokes
in a Burger King to impress me...or dressing up as various other guys
in the company. Grow up, take your meds, and get back where you
belong: behind the concession stand.
William Craven."
[Marley pauses and shakes his head before continuing.]
"Well Bill, you may finally get your wish...you and me in a ring
where you think you can do all sorts of horrible, horrible things to
me. The only problem is that you don't really know WHAT to do anymore
do you? That single-ness of purpose that defined you before...gone.
That terrifying drive and viciousness that you wore like a badge?
Replaced by a man that sneaks candy into the movie theater.
Hardly the stuff of legend.
And here I go, into the mix with a chance to put another notch on my
belt. The Human Highlight Reel...Mr. Heatwave...PVW's One True
Icon...and to gain redemption for that loss.
I've GOT the Called Shot. I don't NEED to go the route that so many
other guys will...use this for a title shot.
That's already taken care of.
I'll warn you now, Kid, WHEN, not if I win this match, it'll be you
and me...no disqualifications.
I offered you congratulations before...but that's just for now.
Next time, it's condolences for whatever group of defectives that
you've scraped together to act like your family.
Take it to the bank."
[fade to black]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Jack Baldwin
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[The scene opens on a replay of last Heatwave...
[Derek Rage has taken Jack Baldwin down and is just choking him as
Pizzazz has grabbed a table from under the ring. Shadoe continues to
pound away on the head of Judd Marley with stiff right hands. Pizzazz
begins to set up the table as Shadoe pulls Judd to his feet ...]
FH: SUPLEX ONTO THE FLOOR! And now Shadoe pulls Judd to his feet and
tosses him onto the table.
CL: What is Shadoe thinking as he gets up there with Judd ...
"_____CCCCRRRRAAAAASSSSHHHHH______"
CL: PILEDRIVER THROUGH THE TABLE! Judd Marley was just driven to the
cement floor through that table!
FH: And here comes PVW Security!
CL: TOO LATE! THE PROPHETS OF RAGE HAVE DONE THEIR DAMAGE!
And then it pauses...and rewinds...and the piledriver is played again.
And again.
And again.
Finally the camera pulls back to reveal Black Jack Baldwin standing in
front of the TV with a remote in his hand and a look of seething anger
on his features. The normally jovial big man clearly has bad
intentions as he watches replay after replay of his partner being
piledrived through the table.]
"I've been in this business for a long time now. Me and Judd have
walked down that aisle more times than I can count...been through a
ton of wars against guys that belong in a prison more than a wrestling
ring. We've taken on some of the biggest names in the history of this
business: from The Outlaws to Fire and Ice, to The Explosion, to The
Bishonen, to Partners in Crime...we've been out there running wild for
better than ten years.
So let me explain something to the Rage brothers: The stunt you pulled
last week ain't nothing new. We've weathered worse attacks from
better men and walked out the other side laughing."
[Baldwin replays the piledriver once again, his jaw set and his eyes
aglow with fury.]
"So what about this last cry for attention from these boys has me so
pissed?
I can't really tell you, to be honest. The Prophets didn't do
anything new or inventive....don't get me wrong, getting a piledriver
through a table hurts like hell...and Judd's really sore right
now...but he's had worse.
Maybe it was watching Shadoe and Derek celebrate with overpriced
champagne before hand that set my teeth on edge.
Maybe it was the idea that those two morons feel like they put one
over on us.
Maybe it's the fact that once again someone has tried to put an end to
The Wild Cards out of a feeling of entitlement or jelousy."
[Baldwin reaches offscreen and brings back the PVW tag team
championship belt, resting it on his right shoulder.]
"And its all for this.
You boys think you're entitled to these belts because you knocked
around a couple of teams that ain't around anymore? You think that
bullying guys that're flipping burgers right now puts you at the top
of the tag division here? You think we've got something that belongs
to you?
Bring it.
I'm sick to death of second rate tag team hacks like the two of you
trying to make a name off of a sneak attack on a better team. Being
in the same ring with us won't make you as good as us...and I hate to
break it to you, but no matter what you do, you'll never BE The Wild
Cards.
You'll just be some team that got beat by The Wild Cards.
So go ahead...get with your hoochie little Pizzaz, drink your
champagne, smoke your cigars, talk about brining the belts back to
Rage Country. When it's all said and done and the ref calls the
winner, you'll know what it's like to have someone run wild on you.
And you can go back to being second rate."
[The camera zooms in on the screen again as Baldwin replays the
piledriver one last time as the camera fades to black.]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Chase Williams
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
"This must be some kind of [beeping] joke."
[Exasperation is all to evident in the once and future kings voice as
he climbs out of a white stretch limo.]
"They push, and they push, and now... this?"
[Chase Williams is staring blankly into the blackberry in his palm.]
"A [beeping] battle royal? With a list of never-will-be's that reads
more like a rejection list from the Special Olympics? _If_, and I
stress if, I show up, you can send the other chumps back to the locker
room and call this [beeping] farce off. Don't worry though _second_
tier.
[A smirk]
"The Acorn's, Marley's, and Outlaw's of the world can fight over less
than nothing. When it becomes the winner gets a shot at that fake
bitch of a champion, I'll make all eleven of you dumb[beeps] fit in
the same [beeping] bag."
[Beat]
"Speaking of the One... I'm only gonna say this. I [beeping] warned
you to leave that [beeping] overbloated colostomy bag Cole to me. You
just couldn't do it though could 'ya. Grow eyes in the back of your
head _scrub._"
[An evil smile. You have to wonder what he could possibly have planned
for that bunghole bitchface stinker farce of a champion!!!! Wait and
see kids, wait and see....]
"_Now_... As I was saying, you eleven telethon rejects had better hope
and pray to whatever action figures you like so much, that I don't
decide to start choking some bitches just to make a statement."
[He shakes his head.]
"I'm sick of it. For six [beeping] months I carried this god forsaken
flea market on my back and made the name PVW more than mere letters on
a [beeping] banner. Piss on that because Bryan [beeping] Young can't
get over himself long enough for me to slaughter that mother[beeper]
Cole. Then do whatever you want to him. But pretty pretty [beeping]
princess Brian Young has to get cute and stick his moist little ass
where it didn't belong. Now he's not only stolen _my_ title, but also
tainted what would have been the execution of the Monster Under the
Bed."
[An aggressive step towards the camera.]
"Acorn... Storyteller.... Castillo... Outlaw... Souza... Gomez...
Marley... Craven... Eric Williams... Del Sol... As the minutes pass I
realize perhaps I have been a little hasty. Perhaps this "opportunity"
that has been presented has much much more potential than I first
realized realized. What better way to send a little note to Dexy and
the boys upstairs that I want my rematch, than by relieving Phoenix
Valley of some... employees."
[A sick smile]
"And don't think I forgot about you you dreadlocked freak. You act
like I've been lucky that you haven't come looking for me? Don't make
me laugh. You should be on your knees in your studio apartment praying
to the [beeping] devil that _I_ don't come looking for _you_. Your
spooky act corporal casper, has been done, redone, and redone. Hell I
even used it for a spell early in my career. Fact is, you couldn't
even beat Cole. That in itself tarnishes whats in store for you emo
boy, because You did have me fooled into thinking you where worth a
carton of smokes until 'ya couldn't even beat Rob Cole. You're gonna
have a lot to cry about real soon Darko. You can [beeping] trust me on
that."
[A slow roll of his neck elicits several audible pops]
"I'm the last person you should've backed into a corner Phoenix
Valley, because I won't go down, I'll take down this entire [beeping]
federation. And you'll have no one to blame but yourselves. You'll see
what happens."
[He turns away from the camera.]
"And you can take it up with Dex.'
[He walks away as the scene fades.]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
The Spectre
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[The scene opens on a closeup of a neon sign advertising "XXX Peep
shows! Live Girls!" It's blinking red neon harshly dragging
everything around it down to its decadent level. The camera pans
towards the corner, the zooms in on the alley behind the strip joint,
the blinking red light revealing a large, dark figure leaning against
the wall. As the camera moves closer, the shadowy figure stands and
steps forward slightly, allowing The Spectre's grim visage to be more
readily seen.
The dreadlocked goth wears his normal out-of-ring attire: tattered
black trenchcoat over top of a black tank top and black jeans with doc
marten combat boots to round out the ensemble. Glancing over his
shoulder at the sign, Spectre smiles humorlessly at the camera.]
"Desire will do odd things to people...we've witnessed it many times
before. Whether the wanton desires of the flesh push a man or woman
to betray the person that profess to love...whether the desire for
accolades pushes a supposed hero to betray his friend and student in
order to win a championship belt...whether desire for revenge pushes
someone to act in a way that is ordinarily contrary to their ideals,
we have seen all of these things...
We have seen them, and we understand them.
Desire is what pushes men and women...it is the driving force in their
lives, whether they admit it or no.
Because desire proves to you that you're alive. Desire shows you that
your blood still races. Desire makes your interminable lives have
some brief moment of excitement...of anticipation.
It is this belief in the overwhelming prod that is desire that has
prompted the powers that be here in PVW to arrange this contest that
we find ourselves in this week: A contest that honestly holds no sway
over us."
[Stepping forward once again, Spectre shrugs, his face completely
apathetic.]
"Do no misunderstand us...desire rules us just as certainly as anyone
else...but our desires run deeper than the instant gratification that
can be meted out in a victory such as this...for we have already
chosen our opponent...and stipulations mean very little to us. The
Rules of Rebirth are in effect for each and every one of our matches
from this point forward...whether they are intended to be or not.
Chris Hartt will find himself in the ring with us to answer for his
crimes, just as we have promised...he will have his many character
flaws exposed for all of his mindless fans to see...their idol shall
be laid low, and their hero revealed for the selfish, grasping
creature he is.
But the contest that we have been entered into?
It simply does not enter into the equation...so we will enter the
ring, and we will provide a baptism in pain for any foolish enough to
cross our path in that ring...and likely quite a few who seek to avoid
us.
And by the end of the evening, all shall know what it truly means to
fear the dark."
[fade]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
The Mercenary
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
(Scene opens to a close up shot of a big, black Mexican cock-a-roach
scuttling along pavement. The camera continues to follow it, but then
it disappears under a glass door. Camera pans up and we see through
the glass that we are at some fast food restaurant as evidenced by the
scuffed linoleum flooring, plastic chairs and tables and the
overweight patrons stuffing their faces. The camera then is spun
around and we see that the Mercenary is making his way to the entrance
from the parking lot. He seems to be in a hurry, as he storms through
the door and makes his way up to the counter, pushing past anyone and
everyone who was waiting in line.)
Clerk: Hi there. Welcome to Taco Bell... May I take your order?
Merc: You sure can... I've been suffering from a bad case of
constipation lately, and I heard this is the best place to find a
cure. What do you recommend?
Clerk: Well, honestly, and off the record, just about anything on the
menu will clean you out. You've got your Chimmi-chonga, burritos,
taco, quesadilla...
Merc: Quesadilla? Aren't they made of old chicken meat and are highly
overrated? Just like the wrestler they were named after...Miguel
Quesadilla?
Clerk: I don't think so....
Merc: Well, for the purpose of this rp, just agree with me on this
one.
Clerk: Uhm...ok, if you say so.
Merc: Well, then I don't really want one of those... Gonna get of
enough at the next PVW show. Uhm... Do you have anything that doesn't
contain Chihuahua?
Clerk: Well, I don't think that the Mexi-fries have any...
Merc: K... Give me 3 orders of them, extra greasy....
Clerk: Would you like anything else with that?
Merc: Do I look suicidal to you? I just want to clean my system out...
Anything more will probably permanently dehydrate me.
Clerk: Good call... So, that comes to $1.98. Will that be to stay or
go?
Merc: Hopefully, to go of course.
Clerk: (hands Merc a paper sack with the greasy potato bits) Of
course. Well, hope you have a nice day and everything works out for
you.
Merc: Yeah, I hope things work their way out too.
(Merc grabs the bag and heads back outside, and just as he goes
through the door, we hear an audible crunch. And of course, when the
camera shows what happened, we see that the roach from the opening
shot is now a squirming mass of guts and blood. Not wanting to disgust
the viewers any longer, we fade to snow)
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Mike Castillo
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[ The scene shifts to a completely black environment, where a single
light coming from somewhere illuminates the sole subject in the room
-- "The Natural" Mike Castillo. A large grin is smeared across his
face as he slightly nods, acknowledging the camera. His stylishly
messy and gelled hair gleams in the beam, but the pensive look on his
chiseled face doesn't give away much. One thing is for sure, he is
seated in a backwards-facing chair, dressed to the nines in a charcoal
gray pinstriped suit, with blue oxford shirt and black silk necktie.
After giving us time to take this all in, he shifts his head, and
speaks.]
MC: Tradition... what in the [bleep] does that word mean anyway?
I'll tell ya, I'm an educated man. Maybe more so than every thick-
skulled, slack-jawed, knuckle-dragging Neanderthal on this damn PVW
roster. That said, I know that some will say it's a "giving up,
delivering up, surrendering" of ideals through generations. Hmmm,
fitting ain't it?
[ He nods, as if conceding a point.]
MC: In just one week, I'll be exercising my will upon eleven pieces of
trash en route to earning a berth... at "Tradition".
[ He smiles sympathetically towards the viewer, but the smile
disappears as if there's a catch to it.]
MC: For weeks now I've played the role of spoiler. Ruining Miguel
Quesada's triumphant return home -- raining on the victory parade of
Eric Williams -- and coming soon...
... Crushing, smashing and destroying the hopes and title dreams of
eleven so-called "warriors".
It'll all be foreplay for me, as I get in gear for my grand moment at
"Tradition II". It'll be there that I truly force a hand-picked
opponent to... "give up, deliver up and surrender" -- TO ME!
[ He pauses, looking down with a smirk.]
MC: You see, PVW, I'm a creature of plotting, planning and performing.
This is all part of the plan.
In the end, you _WILL_ risk it all to rid yourself of me, and that...
that, will be where our paths come to an abrupt and chaotic collision,
PVW. So to Dex Willingham, I beg of you, send me your biggest, your
baddest, your toughest, your most "hardcore" competitors on this
roster.
TEST ME! Throw whatever you can at me, throw it all at "The Natural"
and see that no matter who it is...
... I'll crush them all!
One by one.
One snapped ligament after one fractured kneecap.
One broken carcass after another.
And then, and only then, when all the fliers are crippled and all the
strong men are neutralized -- Will PVW _REALLY_ understand what truth
I spoke of when they look back at this video.
[ He shifts to a tone that's almost admiring. Almost.]
MC: Some of the guys here are tough, and they _will_ come to fight --
good. I want them to come with a look of determination in their eyes
and a fire in their heart.
[ He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly as a twinkle in his icy blue
eyes throws you off his evil demeanor, more misdirection.]
MC: Just remember, Reynolds -- you have nothing to fear...but me.
Over the next few weeks and months, you will learn pain, you will
learn embarrassment -- and above all -- you _WILL_ learn loss. This is
the beginning of the next chapter in PVW's history...
[ Castillo chuckles to himself.]
MC: I'll se you all in the ring, be sure to pack a lunch, kiddies --
it's be a LONG lesson on... "Tradition"...
[ We focus on the mischievous grin on his face. Then the light that
was illuminating "The Natural" Mike Castillo in this dark, dark room
-- dims out, and the screen goes black.]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Will Geddings
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[The scene opens to Will Geddings emerging from a local restaurant. It
appears that PVW has caught him as he finished his evening meal.
Geddings is wearing jeans and a t-shirt and, shockingly, doesn't seem
the least bit perturbed to have the PVW crew approach him during his
"personal" time.]
[Geds]: Not even you guys can bother me this week. Not even the
meddling PVW media can affect me. I'm riding high. I feel
like...like...like a weight has just been lifted right off of my
shoulders and dropped in the dumpster.
[Geds]: The rubber match. You all saw it, right? You saw him tap,
right? It was without dispute. A fair, middle of the ring win for me.
And I gotta tell you, today...today I feel great. Now I can get on to
more pressing matters.
[Geddings motions to the side and has the camera crew follow him. He
takes a seat on a nearby bench.]
[Geds]: Let's start with this Victory Lane nonsense. so there are more
than one? Oh noooooooooooo...not more than one Victory Lane! However
will I continue on? I mean...geez...I better hire some extra
protection, right, to protect me from this new threat.
[Geds]: Can't we just move on? Can't Brian Young just admit that it's
him, longing for an opportunity to experience life as I see it.
Longing for a chance to be loved by the millions of PVW fans that tune
in to my segments every week? If Brian Young wants a match, all he has
to do is call. That's the least I can do, ya know, for family.
[Geddings smiles]
[Geds]: Speaking of family, Caleb Foley. The orphaned Irishman.
Somehow you have weaseled yourself back into title contention. Maybe
you are a force to be dealt with, Foley. I mean, to continuously find
whatever loophole or backdoor it is you find to keep getting
shots...that makes you dangerous in my book. Pretty soon, you'll
probably have a team of lawyers telling us all that you actually beat
chase Williams and Brian Young. That would be the only way you could
tack a victory onto your record, wouldn't it?
[Geds]: But here's the thing, mon ami. I, too, am a force to be dealt
with. It's starting to apepar, though, that you might not realize
that. That you're too busy bitching at Young or begging for Cole's
scraps and not quite busy enough focusing on the task at hand. Maybe
you should take a moment...a second from your busy day of bickering
with whatever siblings you have over the half drank bottle of Guinness
pappy left ya...maybe ya should think about exactly what you face at
Boiling Point.
[Geddings smiles]
[Geds]: If you don't beat me, Caleb...if you can't pin me or make me
submit...then you won't be sniffing your third title shot until I see
fit. Does that worry you, Caleb? The fact that I have more World
Titles under my belt than you have years...does it make you wonder
what I might do? Would I eschew my title shot just to screw with you?
I think we both know the answer to that. Let's be honest,
though...your place isn't the P-V-W...it's the P-U-B. Maybe there, you
are worthwhile.
[Geds]: Now, dear PVW audience...and I hope you see what I'm doing
here, because I think it's very, very clever. I'm using segue after
segue. See...I just used P-U-B...which spells pub, Chriss Hartt. And
now, I am gonna talk about my good friend Rob Cole.
[The smile suddenly leaves Geddings' face]
[Geds]: Oh Cole. It's like the different verse of the same song. You
harp on and on and on about how dangerous you are, right? You tell us
about being the monster and how you hurt people...sometimes ya can
control it, sometimes ya can't. Now we have your kids with ya, we have
ya drinking here, there, and everywhere. Is this what you've become,
Rob? Is this what I made you?
[Geds]: How many men have you destroyed, Cole? I know it's an
impressive number. I've never been one to not give the Devil his due.
If not physically, you have mentally and/or emotionally just broken
down man after man...I can admire it, mon ami. I can appreciate your
work. But at the end of the day, you have to look across the PVW...you
look either into that ring or at that newsletter or at the Main Event
billing and you see what has to be your greatest fear...a man that you
have not been able to dispose of. A man who is above your petty
threats. A man that doesn't have scruples...you see me, Cole.
[Geds]: We've been together for years, friend. We've been at each
other's throats and this little dance seems unwilling to come to an
end. I'm starting to rather enjoy it. Nothing builds a man's ego more
than seeing others fall where only he succeeds.
[Geds]: You'll never be able to get rid of me, Cole. And you know it.
[A small bit of hair falls over Geddings' face, he quickly wipes it
away. Almost as quickly, a smile returns to his face.]
[Geds]: Finally...and I'm sorry I don't have a segue this time, but
really...who cares? It's Chris Hartt. The Paladin. He's defending the
"honor" of PVW. Is that right? Are you joking?
[Geds]: How can you claim that there is honor in any federation who
has Brian Young cheating to gain a Heavyweight title and somehow you
maintaining your strap for this long? There is no honor in
PVW...nothing worth defending. But if it helps you sleep at night to
attempt to bring the fight to me, so be it. I think you'll find that I
am, quite simply, above you, Hartt. That you cannot hold a candle to
me on my worst day.
[Geds]: This tag team farce...I know what is expected of me. I'm
expected to not come out until midway through, run in, and clean
house. The sort of domination that is only fair to expect from me.
Here's the thing, though...Hartt is worthless. Foley's dad can't get
far enough away from him. And Cole...well...I've just missed you so
much, Rob.
[Geds]: Why would I not show up for this match? Such a tactic is for
someone who doesn't want to compete. Quite the contrary, I can't wait
for this. Long live the King.
[Scene fades]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Eric Williams
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[Fade In]
(Eric Williams stands in the empty locker room, backstage, still in
his wrestling gear. He's looking at a brown folding chair with his
name on it. He is heard sighing as his sight traverses the chair's
steel frame.)
Williams: Again, I find myself in the awkward position to having to
face multiple opponents when my style is suited for 1-on-1. It almost
seems like management has doomed me to forever be the underdog.
I don't take the term "Underdog" as any form of compliment. To me, it
means "Most Expected To Lose." And I have no intention of living up to
a title like that.
What happened to the good old days of this sport, before promoters had
to resort to gimmicks like this? Since when was it not good enough for
two men to engage each other in the ring? This isn't the Wrestling I
remember as a child. This isn't even wrestling. It's turned into a
cluster of fists and weapons. A confounding flurry that rarely holds
any consistency. In fact, the only consistency is that someone will
cheat, and someone will steal the win at the end of matches like
these.
With so many variables, it's almost guaranteed that the best man won't
win. Because the best man refuses to cheat, he will always fall to the
average wrestlers who have to cheat just to even their odds.
So the best man is faced with an interesting choice. Either he forever
dooms himself to mid-level pay, and mid-level showings on the
television and PPV shows, and never garners any attention for himself,
or he gives in to mediocrity by taking up a chair to his opponents, or
pulling the ropes during a pinfall – and potentially earns himself a
top-spot in the rankings, and pay.
I have been put into a match that I am predestined to lose. I've
watched the tapes of my matches, over-and-over again, and found only
one consistency with anyone who wins: cheating.
So, really, if I want to get ahead, I have no choice.
[Fade to black.]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Brian Young
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[The camera opens to complete darkness. After a few moments of silence
the voice of the PVW Heavyweight Champion Brian Young begins to
speak.]
Young: The boogie man, evil clowns, the dark and the monster under
your bed ... throughout your childhood those were your only fears ...
you never ever had to worry about fearing yourself or the
repercussions of your actions. This past Heatwave I once again saw the
beast that resides in my soul ... a beast that some here in the PVW
have claimed I try to ignore or even repressed into the recesses of my
mind. But Chase, one a multitude of occasions I have told everyone
that I know what lies in my soul, what I am actually capable of doing
when it is necessary. Once again everyone witnessed the darkness in my
soul ... but again no one seems to realize that I only did it because
IT WAS NECESSARY! Rob Cole stole from me ... Rob Cole had taken away
my driving force in the PVW ... MY PVW Heavyweight Championship!
[The lights suddenly flash on in the apartment and Brian Young is seen
sitting in a leather chair. He is wearing a plain black t-shirt and
pair of blue jeans. Brian rubs his neatly trimmed beard with his right
hand as he sits motionless for a few moments. As Brian begins to speak
again a sense of anger can be heard in his voice.]
Young: He stole the image of the champion from the CHAMPION! I told
Rob Cole, Chase Williams, Caleb Foley and everyone else I would do
what I needed to do to recover MY BELT! Yet, instead of crossing the
line I showed remorse ... you see Rob, I didn't break your ankle, I
didn't try to end your lively hood as so many before me have ... Rob,
all I did was bruise you ... I gave you a reminder ... a reminder of
how you disrespected me and the championship!
[Brian sighs as he leans forward in the chair.]
Young: Yes a reminder of the disrespect your antics, your thievery has
brought to the PVW Heavyweight Championship. You took THE MOST
PRESTIGIOUS belt in wrestling today and turned it into a two dollar
whore! Now when you look into the mirror every morning you have a
constant reminder of what your greed has done to the PVW and ME! But
Rob ... it's almost over soon very soon MY TITLE will be back in my
possession and we can get past this ... this misunderstanding.
[Brian smiles calmly at the camera.]
Young: I told you I was a forgiving man. A man with only the noblest
of intentions in mind ... unlike the lies and damnation that you have
prophesied since the moment I step into the PVW ring. And at Heatwave
I shall continue with my noble intentions as I defend my PVW
Heavyweight Championship against Larry Gionet. Larry Gionet, a man
with a storied past, a man who is a former champion in other
federations ... Larry at Heatwave you will become infamous in the PVW
...
[Brian smirks.]
Young: As you shall fail in your attempt at MY TITLE! Larry ... thus
far you've destroyed everybody who has stepped in your path. The
upcoming Shayne Grissom, who everyone is claiming is the next big
thing in this sport ... well he's is at home watching this in Phoenix
right now. You are big... mean... and stiff ... in the back all you
hear is how you are an up and coming threat in the PVW, a man who is
just waiting for his shot to become champion ... Larry Gionet you are
the perfect test for me ... in a few ways you're like Rob Cole ... no
nonsense, brutal, a former champion ... a man who is at the cross
roads of his career. I know you realize that this might be your last
opportunity at glory ...
[Brian pauses as he looks at the camera.]
Young: I hate to tell you Larry ... your chance at glory is not coming
at my expense! I'm NOT SHAYNE GRISSOM ... I'M NOT GOING TO ROLL OVER
AND DIE! You see Larry, I've had my ribs broken by bigger men, I've
seperated my shoulders, I've bleed pints of blood, and not once has a
doctor been able to stop me from wrestling! Larry the PVW TITLE is MY
LIFEBLOOD ...
IT'S
WHO
I
AM!
[A determined Brian Young pauses for a long moment as he once again
leans back in the leather chair.]
Young: Larry ... bring your A game to Heatwave ... My Legacy is
hungry.
[Fade to black.]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Jeremiah Page
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
We open on a portly blond English gentleman in his mid-fifties,
dressed impeccably in a tailor-made suit, pacing nervously back and
forth. He stops to look at his watch and then begins to pace once
again. We are left watching him for a minute or two, until from out
of the locker room comes Jeremiah Page, carrying a duffel bag, and
wearing a pair of black jeans and a light green plain tee shirt.
Man: Thank God, I thought I lost you.
(Page stops and looks around and then straight at the man.)
Page: I'm sorry, you talking to me.
Man: You are... um... Jeremiah Page?
(Page nods.)
Man: Then you are exactly the chap I'm looking for! I'm Sir Eton-
Hogg, Strickland Sports Network.
(Page looks spectical.)
Hogg: The Network sent me over here tonight just as soon as they
could given you rapid rise to the top and seeing how you have a title
shot next week, correct that, OUR title next week. They thought a
little introductory course on the way things are run would be in
order.
Page: Ah, I see...
(Page rolls his eyes and looks around as to not make eye contact.
Finally, not having any other choice he looks directly at Hogg and
sighs.)
Page: Sorry, pal, not interested.
Hogg: Not?
(Page cuts him off.)
Page: ...interested.
(Page starts to walk as Sir Eton-Hogg gets wide-eyed with surprised
and perhaps a little bit of fear. He quickly runs after Page and cuts
him off.)
Hogg: My dear lad, I don't think you given this idea a lot of
thought. Perhaps a few run downs of my credentials to show you I'm on
the up and up as they say here.
Page: I really don't think...
(Determined Hogg cuts him off.)
Hogg: Over the past year, I myself have been in charge of many new
ground breaking ideas for SSN. I was behind the Saturday morning
special MotorCross Watersports...
Page: MotorCross Watersports? That... sounds... impossible.
(Hogg looks down at the floor.)
Hogg: Yes, most unfortunate what happen to those riders, but live and
learn that's what I always say.
(Hogg looks up with a smile but Page is already gone. Hogg runs down
the hall after him again.)
Hogg: Mr. Page! Mr. Page!
(Page sighs and stops once again, this time a little more frustrated.)
Hogg: Mr. Page, my more successful ventures came in the field of
musical entertainment a little under eight years ago for Polymer
Records.
Page: Never heard of it.
Hogg: Well no points lost for lack of good taste son. Of course at
Polymer we had numerous hits, none more successful than Ultimate
Thrasher's Ten Greatest Hits! Here I brought a copy for your
listening pleasure.
(Hogg reaches inside his suit and pulls out a CD handing it to Page.
Page takes it and looks it over. He looks back up at Hogg with a
strange look.)
Page: This only has two songs on it.
(Again Hogg looks down at the floor.)
Hogg: Yes, most unfortunate what happened to that bloke. Drank
himself into a coma last I heard.
(Hogg looks up again and this time Page is gone. Hogg looks around
but can't find him anywhere.)
Hogg: Oh this is not good.
(Hogg reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
Placing one in his mouth and the pack back in his pocket, Hogg
searches his jacket for his lighter. Reaching to the inside breast
pocket he pulls out a silver zippo. Cupping his hand he flicks the
lighter and the fire burst out of it.)
Hogg: Not good at all.
(Eton-Hogg takes a long hard drag from the cigarette but exhale a
cloud full of smoke. He places the lighter back in his pocket and
then takes another hard drag. He exhales as a large security guard
comes up behind him.)
Security: You can't smoke that in here.
Hogg: Oh dear.
(With that we fade to black.)
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Rob Cole
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[His face is a pulped mess of bruising and his jaw is swollen badly
enough to keep it shut. One eye squints from beneath a deep bruise,
discolored yellow and purple in uneven splotches. Rob Cole winces as
the medic pulls something from his arm, dropping it in a metallic bowl
with a small echo of metal. The staples that kept his wound shut have
become twisted from the wrenched beating of his opponents focused
attack.]
Cole: I want you all to keep watching. This is what my career boils
down to! You see, after I spend ten or twenty minutes in the ring with
someone who wants to end my ability to breathe... this is where I go,
this is what I do, this is how I get ready to go home for a night of
uncomfortable rest. No sleep... not tonight... I have another
concussion, so you don't get to sleep or you might not wake up in the
morning. I go home, I flip on the television, maybe thrown in a DVD,
and I stay awake until the morning... and then I go see another
doctor, take some aspirin, and I go over the tapes and I watch myself
get beaten and broken and shattered and left for dead in the center of
the ring. Does that sound like fun to you? Wheee! Does it sound like
I'm having a blast?!?!! WHEEE!!!!
You think I'm laughing because it hurts?!?!!! Because I love the
pain?!?!! I know how it happened, clear as a bell... Chase Williams
dragged me from pillar to post, the referee got himself knocked out,
and I drove the former champion's skull to the mat with the Cast Out
Powerbomb. He's the meanest bastard I've ever had to face... meanest
and one of the toughest, running neck and neck with some truly
legendary figures from my past. Chase Williams isn't just the hype...
he's the real deal and we brought a damned war to that ring. I held
him down for one. I held him down for Two. I held him down... but
nobody counted three and Brian Young turned our battle into a mockery.
A joke!!!
[Cole laughs hysterically, shaking his head before tears start to flow
from his eyes... he takes a deep, shuddering breath and he looks down
at his trembling hand. He gasps as the medic pulls another staple
free, and gets to work with butterfly bandages on his arm.]
Cole: Oh, I'm laughing... it's funny and tragic at the same time. I'm
laughing because if I don't laugh, I might break. I'm laughing
because I took his belt... and that makes me a bad man, in case you
weren't keeping track of events. I'm the bad guy, the evil villain,
the monster beneath the bed, and I do bad things to people. I'M THE
BAD GUY!!!!!! Not Brian Young... no no no, not the golden boy, the
One, the hero. Never claimed he was?
NEVER CLAIMED IT?!?!!!!
He made a career out of being the hero... he made a career out of
bleeding for the fans, fighting for the fans, and basking in the glow
of their cheers. I'm supposed to be the rotten filth... the wretch,
the louse, the creeping, crawling horror. You see it in Hartt's eyes
when he says my name... you see it in Foley... I'm the bad man, now.
I'm a rotten apple at the foot of the tree.... Bitter, sickening, and
worm-eaten.
THIS IS WHAT I AM?!?!!!
[Cole chuckles a little and leans his head back and stares up toward
the heavens before bringing a smile down to the camera once again.]
Cole: So they come in here a few minutes ago and they say they'll give
me a shot at the guys who want to drag me through the filth. Hartt
and Foley, both at the same time... two heroes against the monster and
a man whose been catching the attention of every two bit hustler in a
suit! Flyking, flygod, flyboy, fly on a pile of garbage... Will
Geddings walks out there and slaps a fan around and gets him noticed
at long long last. CONGRATULATIONS!!!!! Eat up the success you
earned on a fathers' broken hope and a his little kids tears, you
rotten piece of trash! My partner?!?!! MY PARTNER??!!! This is
what the PVW thinks of me?!?!!!
[Cole shuts his eyes from the rushing thoughts in his head, shut tight
despite the painful swelling. Tears flow down the side of his face, a
little more blood pulses from his arm and the medic quickly wipes it
away. Cole pulls his arm back and screams!!! He stops after a moment
and looks dead into the camera. He raises both arms and claps...
slowly. One pounding smash of palms after another.]
Cole: Bravo, 'champ'... congratulations. You raised the stakes and
changed the game, turned this into something beautiful and very
deadly. You couldn't come out like a man, couldn't come out and cross
the line when I drew it in the sand, and you couldn't stand up and
face me like a warrior. You waited until I was beaten with
exhaustion, worn out, and broken down. Sniveling coward, do you
remember when you were brave? Afraid of the monster now... he had a
plan, so devious and deadly. He had a noose of barbed wire hidden in
his sleeves, like magic hocus pocus... watch me pull a razor out of my
hat.
[And, though no hats are available, Rob does draw a straight razor
from his back pocket... flicking it open with a twist of his wrist, he
licks the blade and swallows before smiling a little sickly.]
Cole: Everyone is a man of their word. You said you'd do what was
necessary and you did it, earning yourself a shiny little belt in the
process. Caleb said he'd get you that belt, and sure enough he came
down and took what you couldn't. Williams did his damnedest to put me
out of my misery, utterly and completely. Oh, but I'm a man of my
word, too... what word should I give, kiddo? Should I promise to take
your blood? Easily kept. Should I promise to rip your skin? Too
easy, too simple, too boring. But you need to know that I am a man of
my word... a man of violence, pain, horror, blood, and a monster when
all gets said and done.
[Cole chuckles darkly, shaking his head a little before he
continues...]
Cole: I've done worse than what I'll do. I'll tag with a man I hate,
a piece of filth, a fly on crap. I'll take on two men who vilify me,
I'll justify their faith in my corruption, and I'll give everyone the
monster that they crave. This is all that I am, a monster beneath the
bed and a hungry beast born in blood and horror. It's so very
important to be who we are expected to be... to keep our word, to live
up to our promise, and to drown in other peoples' expectations.
NOW SHUT THIS CAMERA OFF!!!!!
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Larry Gionet
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
6:00 PM Stoughton, Massachusetts. 2 days before Heatwave...
[The camera pans into a home made gym. Nothing particularly eye
catching. Cement surrounds the floor and walls as a light bulb
flickers on and off. To the right of the light bulb is an old red
Everlast punching bag he used in his former boxing days. A black
leather padded bench stays in a corner on the left as a steel bar runs
a good few feet near the ceiling being occupied by one Larry Gionet.]
Larry Gionet: Love...
[Gionet inhales then exhales pushing up executing a pull up.]
peace...
[Larry continues the rotation as he nears the end of his set.]
Order. This is what generations past wanted out of society. Where
people looked out for their fellow man to make it a better world for
all of us. Then something came around to crash their world.
[Larry Gionet drops down on both feet straight as a cat. The force of
his landing echoes through out the hollow basement. He turns to his
left facing the weight bench but not making eye contact with the
camera's lens. Although his physical presence is not seen, his
silhouette is apparent as he begins to shadow box. While his days as a
boxing are long gone, he keeps this exercise for his cat like
reflexes.]
Greed and corruption.
[Larry hits a two left jab combination followed by a right hook
controlling his movement.]
It became how much money you could attain and how much power could be
gained. Not by working together but by stepping over your fellow man
to get there. A materialistic world where instant gratification has
been etched into the fabric of society. People want what they can't
have. What they gain they are far too afraid to lose.
[Gionet turns to his right side drilling the punching bag with two
right kicks followed by a fierce left roundhouse kick.]
Brian Young, PVW World Champion.
[Gionet turns around for the first time in this segment, showing his
fierce cold blue eyes. Sweat drips from the ends of his dirty blond
locks like icicles melting from the tips of a house in winter. Without
saying a word, he drops down with his arms a few inches apart and the
front of his feet on the bench performing high angle pushups. In his
zone, he intensly inhales then exhales staring into the camera as he
comes back up from the motion.]
There appears to be some misconceptions and confusion on how you won
that very title. I've been there I know what it's like to be
misunderstood. But understand this Young, at Heat Wave in the main
event when we lock horns for that World Championship that you hold so
dear to you, I promise you will be in the toughest fight of your life.
Yeah I know that term gets thrown around a lot. Although unlike loud
mouths I can back it up. My win-loss record speaks for itself here in
PVW. My path of destruction speaks volumes. My actions speak
multitudes higher than any words I can speak. Just ask Shayne
Grissom. I will do everything humanly possible to take home the PVW
World Title just LIKE you did! If by some slew of interference
happens and my shoulders are pinned to the mat, I promise you will
feel the pain surge through your body even before you hit that locker
room. While the bruises and fractures may heal scars will remain
reminding you that you nearly lost it all in a heartbeat, just like
you can't literally hold onto your championship until someone steals
it from you!
[Larry's face is marred with sweat looking like a plastic mask some
wear for Halloween. Unlike the others, Gionet is the real deal. His
determination proves he wants to be the best in the world. He bends
down and takes a gulp from his water bottle. He stays on that ground
level arching both legs at an angleand laying back on the cold hard
concrete preparing to do situps.]
Didn't I tell you Shayne?
[Gionet grits his teeth as he pulls forward with his hands behind his
head in sit up position.]
Didn't I WARN YOU GRISSOM?! While you were too busy trying to conjure
up your next witty jab at me maybe you should have been heeding my
words. Instead of thinking 2 steps ahead perhaps you should have been
thinking about today. You are just like Brian Young's proverbial
angel on his shoulder, the torn in his side Caleb Foley. You are a
rookie to this sport. You are nothing but young and immature. You
turn the clocks 10 to 20 years down the line Shayne and nobody is
going to remember your name. But hell what do I know right? A twelve
year veteran of the mat wars. I've been in more battles
and paid the price more times than I would like to recall Grissom.
Due to your arrogance you're body still aches. Due to your ego
inflated pride PVW sent you home.
[Gionet shakes his head back and forth as the sweat flings off him
like a dog drying itself off after a bath. He begins to breathe
heavier as this workout has taken a toll on him physically. Despite
the fatigue, he is still mentally sharp. He grabs the water bottle
again taking another big gulp keeping himself hydrated. The fire in
his eyes burn brightly as he burns a hole in the camera with his
menacing glare.]
For once in your ignorant life listen to the words I speak. I want
you to sit at home and contemplate the consequences you created for
yourself. I want o see your eyes glued to the TV at Heatwave when I
pick our world champion apart piece by piece. You better thank the
man upstairs that it's not you suffering the beat down Brian Young is
to receive this week. Take solace in the fact that YOU have the
chance to shape your future kid. How much more can your broken body
physically take a few days, a week? It's only a matter of time until
it delves deep into your psyche destroying you mentally to the core.
So if you choose to come back you would be a mere skeleton of your
former self. A distant memory of what you dreamed to be what you
yourself felt you were destined to become.
[Gionet stands up as the camera stays at an angle looking up at him.
As if looking down at the world destroyed by society's "I" attitudes.
As if looking down at those who fight their entire lives to do the
right thing. As moisture builds up within his chin goatee, Gionet
looks into the camera with such scorn at a rival in Shayne Grissom who
put the weight of the world on his shoulders.]
For your own sake stay home. Not everyone can to be David fighting
Goliath. You don't have to be PVW's to be Rocky Balboa and have that
one fight left in him to prove he is a man. It is better to burn out
than fade away Grissom. It's not about how or why, it's all about do
or die.
[Larry's looks to his right off into the distance. In a meditative
state he keeps himself physically and mentally focused for the
toughest match in his PVW career. He exhales any burden on his soul
through his nose like a breeze hovering over the horizon. A wind of
change seeking out to change the very landscape of PVW as we know it
with Shayne Grissom or without whether he is loved or hated. As the
light bulb swings back and forth we fade to black.]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Caleb Foley
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[The camera fades in and you see a still shot of the Phoenix Valley
Wrestling World Heavyweight Title hanging in the locker room on the
shelf. The camera zooms in and you can see every little detail of the
World Title even down to the name of Brian Young on the nameplate. All
of a sudden a familiar voice is heard in the background...]
V/O: Beautiful isn't it?
[The camera turns around and you see that wild red haired superstar
"The Fighting Irishman" Caleb Foley. Caleb has on a Black and red
Phoenix Valley Wrestling T-shirt on with a pair of black cargo
shorts...]
Caleb Foley: "So I kept up my end of the bargain I got the World Title
back for my friend Brian Young. So Brian you want this title that bad
then meet me in the ring at the beginning of Heatwave and I will hand
you back the World Title. But Brian I want you to realize something. I
want you take a good look at Chase Williams. I want you to realize
that he had it all just over a month ago and look what has happened to
him. Chase isn't the COnceited Bastard we once grew to HATE. He took
everything for granted. He thought being the World Heavyweight
Champion would never end. Chase is a gifted athlete but since he lost
the title he hasn't been the same. Realize Brian what you had to do to
win the title. You had to do everything in your power to win the match
and you did exactly what you said you would. You needed this title to
cement your LEGACY but don't get to COCKY because just remember PRIDE
comes before the FALL..."
[Foley walks over to the World Title and grabs it for the camera...]
Caleb Foley: "THis is what every man in the entire federations wants
to hold one day. Everyone wants to be THE CHAMPION. Robert Cole a man
who many fear because he calls himself a MONSTER. A man who has ended
careers ... The same man who defeated Spectre in one of the most
insane matches to date thus far. Rob I know how bad you want this
title ... how hard you have worked ... how much blood you have shed in
your entire career. Cole but you know what that doesn't matter. It
doesn't matter what you have done in your past the only thing that
matters is NOW! Cole you call yourself A MONSTER UNDER YOUR BED ... I
also recall you one day calling me A BABY. Well this BABY isn't afraid
of MONSTERS ... So bring your all your mind games you want. I have
overcome so much in my career thus far. Try wrestling for a jammed
packed show just two days after your father has passed away from a
terrible illness. Try looking up to someone your entire career and
then find out he is nothing but everyone else in this business. Cole
you think you have had it tough try farming from sunrise to sunset.
Rob you claim to be the best well I am not asking you but rather
telling you to bring the MONSTER to the ring and we will see just how
bad you really are..."
[Caleb pauses for a brief moment and then looks at the World Title. He
just stares at the title as he begins to talk...]
Caleb Foley: "Will "F'ing" Geddings has come back ... The FlyKing has
graced us with his presence here in PVW. Will also thinks he is the
next PVW World Champion. What exactly did Will Geddings do under the
mask of OmniFly. What he played some minded games with the team of
Urban Legend. Yeah we know your past Will. I know the countless number
of titles you have held but like I told Rob none of that matters. The
only thing that matters is what you do once that bell rings. So you
want to come out and interrupt me when Dex Willingham is talking to
me. What it wasn't good enough to just wrestle your match against
Victory Lane. No good forbid Will Geddings doesn't get his fifteen
minutes of fame on every freakin' show. Will you want this title then
your going to have to go through men like William Craven ... Rick
Marley ... Chase Williams ... heck even your own partner in your match
Rob Cole. So I wonder how much Cole can trust you or you can trust
Rob."
"I want you guys to wonder everytime you are in the ring. Everytime
your partner has that opportunity to break up that pinfall or
submission and they wait just that extra second before they break it
up. Then everytime you try to make that tag and you fall just inches
short of making the tag to your partner. Just think about it. Two
legends like yourself on one team against two up and comers like Chris
Hartt and myself. Everything says this should be a no brainer but I
think otherwise. I honestly don't think you two guys can go the whole
match without an arguement or even hitting one another. But if you
guys think otherwise than I dare you to prove me wrong..."
[With those words the camera fades to static as Caleb Foley is still
holding the PVW World Heavyweight Title...]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
The Tucson Kid
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[We cut to the Arizona desert... the Mojave, to be specific. Light
brush, cacti, Joshua trees, and rocky outcroppings fill our view, as
the camera takes a quick pan of the horizon to establish the setting
before focusing on the subject of this segment, the Tucson Kid.
Tucson is clad in jeans, and his tan leather poncho. He's wearing a
pair of dark sunglasses, because on a bright desert afternoon, he
needs them. The lanky young man with the dark brown mullet and thin
beard and mustache waves the camera in close, and the camera operator
obliges with a closeup.]
Tucson Kid: Today, I'm gonna tell ya the difference between a dragon
and a snake.
Look right there.
[The Kid points down, and the camera view pans over about thirty feet
to show us a bull snake. The huge snake is yellowish with some brown
and black blotching over its scaly surface. It's slithering slowly
across the rocky ground, finally reaching a dark crevasse in the rock
and lounging there.]
TK: Now that there is a snake. It's lowdown, it goes around on its
belly, and it likes to hide out while the sun is up. I don't really
remember what the Latin name for that snake is, but lets call it the
Rickus Marleyus. It has a lot in common with Marley... he probably
doesn't much feel like showing his face these days either.
Last Heatwave, I showed everyone what a snake Marley was. I got in
his head, and he proceeded to get as lowdown as he could. But one
thing about a snake... they don't match up well against a man. He
found that out when I pinned him in the middle of the ring last week.
But that was LAST week. I'm done with Rick Marley, and now hopefully
we've all seen he's nothing to fear. Now I got to talk about this
week... and a dragon.
Zoom that camera over there.
[We go from the snake, over about fifty feet away where a Gila Monster
is walking across the way. The Gila Monster is a bulky, sausage-
shaped lizard with a long fatty tail. It's scales have the appearance
of black, pink, orange, and yellow beads, laid down in intricate
patterns. It is presently hunting for food.]
TK: That Gila Monster is one of the few species of dragon in the
world*. Unlike a snake, it can stand on it's own feet. Unlike a
snake, it don't have to hide from nobody or nothin'. Unlike a snake,
it deserves respect. The wise keep their distance from a dragon.
[* - Tucson's not much of a biologist. Sue him. :-)
The camera pans back over to where he is, and his wild eyes focus on
the lens.]
TK: Some fool told me, "Kid, you got a break this week, the Dragon
Kid's an easier match than Rick Marley." I guess if by 'easier', you
mean I might have a one-on-one fight instead of havin' to dodge a
bunch of thugs and goons, that might be so. But a dragon don't need
no damn help. He don't need to cheat. He ain't a snake. I tell you
what, you go wrestle that bull snake, then go wrestle that Gila
Monster, and when they let you out of County General, you tell me
which was easier.
Some other fool told me, "Oh, how boring, two guys that fight by the
rules, there's no story." I guess when some jerk tries to rob people
of their livelihood, that's interesting and a story, but when two guys
fight to get in line for title shots, it's boring. You want a story?
The winner of this match gets paid and gets in line to get paid more.
The loser of this match has to set back and wait for another chance to
jump in that title scene. Last I checked, this was a sport, not a
novella. We're young, we're hungry, and we got our eyes on gold. If
that bores you, you probably need medication.
So I hear these things, and I get tired of talk real quick. Tucson
Kid, Dragon Kid, on Heatwave. We are the ones who will take this
sport into the next decade... and we ain't lookin' to wait two years
to get started. Believe that.
[Tucson points at the camera to punctuate his last point, and we cut.]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Chris Hartt
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[Chris Hartt sits alone in his darkened bedroom.]
Hartt: So much has been going on, I can barely cope with it all.
After facing RJ Souza and losing a good friend, I have to watch as
Brian Young cheats to with PVW title, Rob Cole steals it from him and
now, I get jumped by the Spectre during my big announcement.
Spectre dares to call me a false hero. He's a damned Hot Topic
reject. What does that Emo Mime know? He claims that I was at fault
for RJ and Destiny breaking up! I don't believe that for one bit! RJ
was suffering from a mental breakdown and found some peace with Paul
Sandler. Destiny came to me for help. And that's all I did. Nothing
more. All I tried to do was be her friend. I tried to be RJ's as
well, but he was too far gone! He hated me and blamed me for his
problems.
Now, I have Spectre after me, trying to take up the job Souza couldn't
finish.
But I won't be afraid. His tripe is lost on me. I have other issues
to deal with right now, but some day soon, I'll go knocking on
Spectre's door, then his pasty white noggin.
I have a tag match against Cole and Geddings. Caleb Foley and I are
set to take on those two jackasses. Cole can stuff his so-called
"noble" action. Stealing the belt is just wrong, no matter how you
feel about who actually holds the belt. I can't wait to get my hands
on Geddings, though. There's nowhere to run, now. You're not facing a
simple audience member who can't defend himself. I'm gonna make it my
personal goal to give you a beating like you've never had ever before.
You WILL not run away from me and you WILL pay for your arrogance!
Bank on it, douchebag!
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Randy Acorn
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[Scene opens upon an office, the view coming from behind the chair of
whoever's office this is. Plaques and certificates adorn the walls of
the office along with a SSN banner hanging above the doorway. The door
below is shut and the blinds are also pulled shut. Sitting behind the
other side of the desk is PVW's resident Bad Boy, Randy Acorn.]
[Acorn looks very neat and tidy, dressed in a midnight blue suit as
his black tie is revealed against the backdrop of a white shirt
underneath it. Acorn's hair is slicked back and his emerald green eyes
glimmer as the reflection of the sunshine through the window in front
of him bounces off of them. Slightly emerging above the towering seat
of a person we cannot see is a billow of smoke, dancing like a snake
under the influence of a charmer, all the way to the ceiling. Acorn
looks on as the person, a man, begins to speak]
Man: So Randy, it seems that we're off to a good start with your
position in PVW. I don't need to tell you how important it is that you
make a statement, not just for yourself, but for Strickland Sports. We
don't want the fans of PVW to get the idea that we're the ones that
don't know what we're doing. We only deal with the best and you came
with one hell of a resume; a resume that seems rather justified from
what I've seen so far.
[Acorn nods]
RA: I told you when I signed on that you were going to get a hundred
percent from me. Most will never call me a trustworthy friend, but no
one can ever say that I'm not a man of my word.
[The man in the chair laughs lightly]
Man: That remains to be seen but I like how you're going about it so
far. There are many things we have set out to accomplish and we can't
afford to fall short on any of them. You're leading the charge so we
can do nothing but trust you at this point. Hell, we pay you enough
money to build another roster opposite of the one Willingham has built
up, and you seem like a man whose trust can be measured in dollars and
cents.
[Again Acorn nods]
RA: You're right about that. This life's too short to not make as much
money as you can. Don't worry though, you're money is being well
spent. Much more so than Willingham's is.
[A stream of smoke is blown upwards]
Man: This match you have coming up; this match could be very crucial
to our cause. A called shot and whatever and whoever you want. Gibson
Hayes, Chris Hartt, or Brian Young. You could go after any of these
men and they couldn't do a damn thing about it. If we can find a way
to leverage one of the titles away from Willingham sooner than later,
he may have no choice but to take drastic measures. And that man
doesn't seem to me to be a guy who knows what to do when the deck's
stacked against him. Are you a gamblin' man Randy?
RA: My whole life's been a gamble.
Man: Good, then you understand the concept of a good bluff and a bad
bluff. Willingham likes to get up on stage, puff his chest out, and
look a lot tougher than he is. The man couldn't bluff a blind woman
let alone a man with any common sense. Like you I've lived my life
through one gamble after another. Hell, it was a gamble to get
involved with Willingham and PVW, but with the boom in the wrestling
business, it seemed like a good one. Of course after six months and no
money coming in, I'm starting to wonder if maybe Willingham drew us in
with the best bluff of his sad little existence to secure a spot for
himself in the industry. The man clearly knows nothing about the
business side of things but he sure loves to be in the spotlight.
That's why we brought you in Randy. You're the man who's going to make
sure we're holding the best hand at the end of the night; you're our
ace up the sleeve.
[Acorn smiles]
RA: I'm pretty sure the cards are already out on the table sir. If
Willingham's been bluffing this whole time, he knows damn well that
he's been called on it by now. He was dropping his chips in one by one
until you came along and pushed all in by signing me. When you signed
me sir, you not only called his bluff, but you broke his heart. Not
just the heart of a man, but the heart of the fan that still lies
within him. You see, when he was trying to sign me seven months ago,
Dex expressed to me that _I_ was the one who he turned on the
television to watch. That _I_ was the one who made him travel a
thousand miles just to catch a wrestling match. To this day, if you
take a look inside his office, there's a picture of me with my UWF
World Championship strapped to my waist. The man's a fanboy and
fanboy's can never run a business effectively. I don't do business
with fanboy's; I do business with businessmen.
[A arm extends and smashes a cigar into an ashtray sitting on the
desk]
Man: Then we are on the same page, not that I ever had my doubts. I
was wondering Randy, how do you plan on taking care of that other man
who seems to have taken an interest in you? R.J. Souza and his
loverboy Paul Sandler.
[Acorn offers a smile; this time a menacing type of smile]
RA: Don't worry about that, it will be taken care of. Souza still has
a problem with more over an apparently unresolved issue in another
wrestling organization. I guess he's tired of me using him to clean my
boots off on the way to the top. No worries though; he has Sandler
these to pick his teeth up off the mat for him, so he'll be as alright
as alright can be.
[The man chuckles]
Man: As alright as alright can be; I like that. Are you going to be
alright Randy? We're instilled a lot of trust in you to accomplish our
goals, and we've set you up with all the necessary tools to make these
things happen. You know that we do not take kindly to failure, so we
expect nothing but the best from you. After all, you did say that
you're the best.
[Acorn places his arm on the table and uses it to lean slightly out of
his chair and over the table]
RA: I am the best. It's only a matter of time before the guys around
here figure that out, but by then, it will be too damn late. Is there
anything else?
Man: No Randy, I think we've discussed what needed discussing.
[Acorn nods and stands out of the chair. He wipes his hands across his
suit in a "dust-off" motion and then directs his attention towards the
man]
RA: Sir, you have no reason not to believe I won't accomplish what
we've set out to do. There comes a time when s[BLEEP]t has to be done
right, and you hired the man that does s[BLEEP]t right. I'll be in for
the meeting after Heatwave. Until then, sleep easy and enjoy the
benefits of the Era of Acorn.
[Acorn turns to leave as the screen fades out]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Outlaw
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[Cut to odd comfy couches. Outlaw is seated on one side of the couch,
wearing a headset and holding an xbox controller in his hands.]
Outlaw: [bleep] that. Stupid [bleep] mission.
[He drops the controller down in frustration. Sighing deeply, he
picks it back up, and resumes playing.
[On cue, Semi comes into the shot. He glances at the television and
groans.]
Semi: If anyone in this world shouldn't be playing Grand Theft Auto,
it's you.
Outlaw: What the [bleep] is that supposed to mean?
Semi: You've got enuff problems seperating fact from fiction. All we
need know is for you to get yerself arrested for stealing some poor
saps car.
Outlaw: I wouldn't [bleep] steal someone's [bleep] car.
Semi: Well that's a relief --
Outaw: Someone's [bleep] motorcycle though. That's [bleep] cool.
Semi: No. Not Cool.
Outlaw: But --
Semi: NOT Cool. Say it with me. NOT cool.
[Outlaw gives up.]
Outlaw: Not [bleep] cool.
[Semi eases himself down on the couch next to his former tag partner.
He glances a piece of paper on the table]
Semi: What's that?
Outlaw: Dunno, it came from [bleep] PVW.
Semi: So of course you didn't read it.
Outlaw: Naturally.
Semi: Naturally.
[He reaches over and grabs the paper, scanning it quickly.]
Outlaw: This [bleep] mission is [bleep] impossible.
Semi: [without looking up] I'm sure it's not.
Outlaw: Is [bleep] too.
Semi: Is not.
Outlaw: Is [bleep] too.
Semi: Fine, yer right. It's impossible.
Outlaw: [bleep] told you so.
[Semi bursts out laughing.]
Outlaw: What's so [bleep] funny.
Semi: Ya really didn't look at this at all ?
Outlaw: Nope.
Semi: PVW Is implementing a wellness policy. They're gonna do some
mental health screening.
Outlaw: About [bleep] time. Some of the guys around here are [bleep]
insane. Have you [bleep] seen these [bleep] guys?
Semi: Your name was mentioned.
[Outlaw drops the controller his jaw dropping.]
Outlaw: What?
Semi: Apparently you're one of the crazies.
Outlaw: I am not [bleep] crazy. I'm... misunderstood.
Semi: Nah, we understand ya fine. Even with all the censors blocking
out half of what you say.
Outlaw: Why the [bleep] would they be concerned about my [bleep]
mental health?
Semi: Do ya not remember your incident with Dex Willingham last week?
Or stealing the PVW Heavyweight title, or pretty much every
conversation you've had since being in PVW?
Outlaw: You [bleep] lost me.
Semi: Exactly.
[Outlaw grabs the paper from Semi's hand. Semi grabs the xbox
controller.]
Outlaw: This can't [bleep] be right. I need to [bleep] call my
[bleep] agent.
Semi: Ya don't have an agent. Justin handles all of your contracts.
Outlaw: Business Manager?
Semi: Same thing.
Outlaw: This is a [bleep] travesty. Is this why I had the [bleep]
week off? They want me to [bleep] get some mental rest?
Semi: Mental rest? Does that exist.
Outlaw: It [bleep] must. I [bleep] knew it, it's a [bleep] conspiracy
to keep me down. It's the glass [bleep] ceiling.
Semi: And who exactly would be keeping you down ?
Outlaw: I don't [bleep] know. But I'm sure somebody is trying to
[bleep] keep me down. Am I on the [bleep] card this week?
Semi: Scroll down compadre.
[Outlaw scrolls down the page with his finger.]
Outlaw: Holy [bleep] hell. They've [bleep] put me in a [bleep] 11 on
1 handicap match?
Semi: Uh, no.
Outlaw: You obviously didn't [bleep] read this.
Semi: Yep, It's 12 guys in the ring, everyone for himself.
Outlaw: I don't think you [bleep] read between the [bleep] lines.
It's the [bleep] glass ceiling keeping me down. Did you not see my
[bleep] match at End Game? All the [bleep] guys in the match attacked
me at once. It's a [bleep] conspiracy against me.
Semi: Or it coulda been the fact you attacked all of them the week
before the card? did ya think about that?
Outlaw: I still [bleep] say it wasn't me.
Semi: Of course it wasn't.
Outlaw: Why is it I keep getting put in these [bleep] matches? Blood
bowl, Tournament at tradition, called shot.
[Semi shrugs]
Outlaw: [bleep]. How am I supposed to [bleep] train against 11
[bleep] guys?
Semi: With your method of training? Impossible.
[Outlaw pauses in thought. Semi continues playing the game on the
TV.]
Outlaw: I've [bleep] got it. I'm going to get all the [bleep] jobbers
together, and they can all [bleep] pretend to be the [bleep] guys in
the [bleep] match.
Semi: Uh, ya did that already.
Outlaw: [bleep]! really?
Semi: uh huh.
Outlaw: Well, I suppose I could [bleep] find a different [bleep]
research subject for all [bleep] eleven opponents.
[Semi and Outlaw pause.]
Semi: Sounds like a lot of work.
Outlaw: Yeah.. [bleep] that.
Semi: Yeah.
Outlaw: Well I got [bleep] nothing then.
Semi: And this is different from any other week?
[Outlaw shrugs.]
Outlaw: I suppose I could hit the [bleep] gym.
[Semi hits pause on his controller and turns to Outlaw.]
Outlaw: Just [bleep] kidding. What the [bleep] am I gonna do in the
[bleep] gym.
Semi: Scared me there for a minute.
[He puts down the controller]
Semi: Finished the mission.
Outlaw: How the [bleep]?
[Semi shrugs.]
Semi: So now what?
Outlaw: I suppose we could just spend the [bleep] day playing video
games.
Semi: That'd work. Soul Calibur?
Outlaw: Only if I can be [bleep] Yoda.
Semi: sure.
[Outlaw gets up to change the game.]
Semi: Ya know. Maybe we should get out more and do stuff. Ya know,
with people.
Outlaw: [shrugging] I've got a [bleep] girlfriend. What's your
[bleep] excuse?
Semi: I don't think I've ever been as ashamed as I am right at this
moment.
Outlaw: Sucks to [bleep] be you.
[Fade to black.]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Gibson Hayes
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[Standing behind a podium with a US flag draped behind him is none
other than Gibson Hayes. His reddish-black hair is cut into a
mid-length conservative due, parted on the right and finely managed.
Gibby is wearing a blue suit with red tie with diagonal strips going
towards the right. Gibson has a pleasant look on his face.]
Gibson Hayes: I must admit that it is nice seeing a poor piece of
trash like Jeremiah Page can rise up out of the muck, can rise up out
of the septic tank, can rise up out of the shackles that poor genes
and upbringing have delivered unto him. Truly Jeremiah Page is an
American that can be looked up to and down upon by those of us that
have earned the right, like me: Gibson Hayes!
[Gibson points at himself, his face beaming with "humble" pride.]
GH: You see this country was founded on the principal that those
blessed with superior intellect, sports acumen and wealth were to lord
over those with less of those attributes.
[One of those "did you know" nods is done by Gibby.]
GH: Did you know that originally the 3/5ths compromise was to be
extended to all persons who did not meet certain annual income
benchmarks? I think if our founding fathers made one mistake, besides
allowing foreigners the ability to become citizens, it was to do away
with that addition to the compromise. Just think what this would mean
to people like Page or that welfare cheat Eric Williams! Both of them
could look at themselves in the mirrors! No longer would they be
catestrophic failures but they would be living to their 3/5ths
potential! Those men could hold their heads up high, during their
gruel breaks of course, and say to themselves: I am not a horrible,
miserable and smelly failure, I am just living up to my 3/5th's
potential!
[A fist pump shows Gibson is behind failures failing.]
GH: See? I have a heart! I have compassion for my fellow Amer... well
for other things that could be Americans in a few more millennia if
evolution goes perfectly. Most other people would look at Jeremiah
Page and see a tick suckling on the butt of America, leeching money
and resources and air away from good, honest, hard working Americans.
But not I, not Gibson Hayes. I understand that you cannot help but be
a loser. I understand you cannot help but fail. It is not you but your
genes... well, okay, it is you but it isn't your fault!
[Palms facing upward and hands thrust out beyond the podium, Gibson is
trying to make the "3/5ths" people understand their sucking is just
natural.]
GH: ...well, actually, it is your fault. But that's okay! America has
given you the right to suck! I applaud you, Jeremiah, on exercising
your God and American given right to be terrible at what you do! So
what if children will laugh at you in the street? So what if the
destitute will take up a collection to help you pay for plastic
surgery after I utterly humiliate you on this next Heatwave in order
for you to be able to start a new, insignificant life somewhere else?
It's your choice! You choose to suck! You choose to be ugly, smelly
and... okay, so maybe those are almost entirely out of your control
but you choose not to bathe and to not brush your teeth. However,
there is one thing you are unable to change.
[A solemn nod and look from Hayes.]
GH: That one thing you cannot change is that I, Gibson Hayes, am
better than you. Since I am better than you it stands to reason that I
will beat you on Heatwave. I am sorry Jeremiah but by managing to
stink the least from those guys you fought with for this title shot
you have just condemned yourself to being show just how low on the
ladder you are in this nation. Some people, me being a perfect
example, are gifted with things well beyond your limited ability to
understand or even gaze upon. For reasons well beyond your
understanding I am simply better than you in every single way.
[Shrugging his shoulders, Gibson moves on.]
That is why I, Gibson Hayes, am running for Chief Executive Official
in Charge of Fairness and Balance in Officiating and Decision Making,
or CEOCFBODM. As you all know PVW is in dire need of someone to be its
moral compass. PVW needs a man like me, Gibson Hayes, to guide its
rudder from choppy, unfriendly waters into the gorgeous harbor of
Liberty in the nation of the Free and Brave. I, Gibson Hayes, am the
man to do this but men like Jeremiah Page or beasts like the Dragon
Kid or midgets like the Tucson Kid, they would try to have you believe
lies and untruths. Do not be swayed. Do not be fooled. Do not be
cajoled. For I, Gibson Hayes, am the last true American and you need
me. My country needs me. The world needs me. Thank you.
[Trusting his hands out over his head, Gibson makes the victory sign
as we fade to a billowing American flag.]
~The preceding message was paid for by the American Society for
Safety, Health, Obedience, Liberty and Education and generous
donations from viewers like you and was in no way paid for by Gibson
Hayes.~
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Rob Magnum & Tommy Ryder
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[The camera shows us a picture of the locker room. As the camera
moves are the corner the voices of "The Phenom" Tommy Ryder and "Lady"
Laurel Levinger can be heard.]
LL: I'm just saying that we need to work on a few of your moves and
one part of your strategy.
TR: And which part is it that you think needs work?
LL: Let's just say that it looked like the Mercenary had that dropkick
to the knee pretty well scouted.
TR: Alright, I'll give you that one.
LL: I'm not saying that you need a total overhaul, just tweaking.
TR: Okay. Well since We're talking about things that need changing,
would you like to tell me why you still have those flowers that Nick
Wright gave you?
[At this point, Ryder starts to look very agitated.]
LL: Tommy, don't get worked up. A girl always likes to get flowers
and the candies weren't that great anyway.
TR: You ate them?!
LL: Well yea, it was an expensive brand. And I can tell you that
price doesn't equal quality.
TR: This guy is trying to get you to leave me for him and you're
enjoying it! He tries to meddle in all of my big matches and you're
encouraging him to keep trying!
LL: It's not what you think and besides, you get another chance at him
in a tag match on Heatwave.
[A deep voice can be heard from off camera. The voice is instantly
recognizable to wrestling fans the world over.]
RM: Flowers.
Candies.
Bitterness.
Jealousy.
How High School Melodrama of you both. You know.. since I joined PVW
I've had a difficult time figuring out if I'm in a _wrestling_
federation.. or an episode of Degrassi Junior High.
[The voice drifts closer as the figure moves in front of the camera.
He goes by so many names, but we'll stick with the most common one.
The Man of No Worries himself. Rob Magnum. Rob is cloaked in a
sleeveless white "Southern Comfort" t-shirt and a pair of standard
blue jeans. He runs his hand through his long brown hair and stares
down at Laurel.]
Sup, gorgeous.
[Rob turns towards Ryder and nods his head.]
Hey kid, how's it going? Looks like your focus is leaving something to
lack.
TR: Focusing? Trust me, I'm focused alright. Nick Wright is going to
find out what an "explosion" of offense is.
RM: How cute.
[Magnum chuckles and turns towards Laurel.]
An "explosion" of offense he says.
[Magnum's voice abruptly flattens.]
Listen up, kid. I don't care what kind of issues you have with Nick
Wright. I don't care if he's hitting on Laurel, your mother, your
father, your brother, your niece, your nephew or your dog Balto.
I don't care about _any_ of it.
Because I'm going to hit you with some knowledge, son.
None. Of. It. Matters.
That's right, none of it. Because in the grand scheme of things. In
the infinite glory of time, it's all irrelevant in the long run. It's
a _speck_. A flicker of time. An event of such irrelevance that I
can't believe I've wasted the greater part of ten seconds talking
about it.
Let sleeping dogs lie and move on. And if you can't, then you mine as
well go out there and lay down for 'em, because you're as good as
useless to me and this match if you don't.
TR: What?! I'm not going to "lay down" for anybody!
RM: Well that's _exactly_ what you're going to do if you continue to
have the stroke, the _ego_, to think that this is some rubber match
between Nick Wright and Tommy Ryder.
There's more to this than some pety revenge, kid. I'm not here to sift
through your problems, or hash out your and your girlfriend's affairs.
No pun intended. I'm not Dr. Phil. I'm no 7'1 368 pound beast of a man
who kicks asses and fixes relationship. I'm not going to sit you both
down in front of pilled up housewives and fix things for you in front
of the world. Screw Dr. Phil and screw your problems.
This match is _us_ verse _them_. Not _you_ verse them.
TR: Maybe you're right.
[Magnum smirks, looking over at Laurel again.]
RM: Maybe I'm right he says.
[Rob reaches a big paw out and smacks the shoulder of Tommy Ryder
playfully.]
Aren't you just the cutest thing, kid? I swear Laurel, you better hold
onto this one. Flowers and Candies or no flowers and candies. This
'uns a keeper.
[Magnum's voice grows a little more stern.]
But seriously, kid. If we're done with our little Degrassi Junior High
moment, we need to discuss our gameplan for the Made Men.
[Ryder begins to visibly calm down.]
TR: Alright, so what to you have in mind?
[Magnum glances out of the corner of his eye to the camera, obviously
having noticed it earlier.]
RM: We'll talk about that a bit later. When we have a little bit
more.. privacy.
Why don't ya finish up here with this camera crew, kid. Then we can
get to work.
[Rob points at the camera as Tommy notices it for the first time.
Magnum makes a quick "go on" motion with his arms.]
TR: I think I do.
TR: Made Men, what has Marley gotten you into this time? Let's see, I
think that you're in a tag match with one man that's beaten you in a
two on two match and another that's beaten you in a three on three.
Oh wait, what am I thinking, you're going to bring insurance with you
to the ring.
TR: Nick Wright, Mark Masterson, bring that insurance with you. For
that matter go back home to your mother's house, go through the closet
and bring some security blankets! Look who my partner is. Neither of
you could stand up to Rob Magnum in a singles match, and Nick we both
know that you don't have the guts to step in the ring with me one on
one. How long have I been asking for that match now? You carry on
about how you're courting Laurel, but you're not man enough to step up
and accept my challenge?
[Ryder's eyes begin to narrow as he speaks.]
TR: I'm starting to think that the only way I can get my hands on you
will be in tag matches. Well, a man has to do what a man has to do.
And sometimes that's give a little boy the beating that he deserves.
Made Men, the game has been raised a level. Do you really think that
you've made that step up or have you already accepted that you're
going down... again? I hope that some of the insurance you bring is
health insurance.
[Rob, Tommy and Laurel turn to leave the locker room for the practice
ring, but just before Laurel walks through the door she looks back at
the flowers from Nick Wright and smiles.]
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Stalker
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
[The camera fades in to a dimly lit room, framed not so much by its
walls but by a barely visible set of four comfortable-looking couches
in varying stages of disrepair and fading.
[The camera centers on the nightstand in the center, which is also...
not exactly ornate, with a solid cherry finish. The only interesting
part is what rests on the desk -- a black face mask with red faux-
tears trickling from the eyelets, the icon of Urban Legend's Stalker.]
Voice : If there's one lament I have, it's that I heal slowly.
[The camera pans out a bit, taking in the entire room... and the
figure sitting at the far end of the line. The dirty white cast
encasing most of his left arm contrasts with almost everything else,
including his own attire: black slacks and boots, and a forest green,
short-sleeved turtleneck. Shoulder-length hair is tied back in a
loose tail, leaving Johnny Styles' dark eyes to stare evenly into the
camera as it moves to center in.]
Stalker : The last time I was... broken, I'd made a vow to let my
actions dictate my message, silent until the ones responsible were
treated in kind.
[He shakes his head slightly, glancing at his arm.]
Stalker : Of course, that didn't happen. The Royal Family is nothing
if not evasive; even now they've used a single loss as an excuse to
bow out "with grace..." or more likely to prevent more losses at the
hands of their betters.
[He raises his good hand in dismissal.]
Stalker : While I heal from this... renewed injury, I thought of doing
the same -- I've been to hospital and home, watching the little dramas
that have surfaced and festered over the past few weeks. I've watched
the Prophets make their usual boasts, attempting to claim what isn't
theirs, while leaving behind an only wounded animal as their trophy.
[He chuckles.] But again I'm getting off topic; they'll be dealt with
in time.
Stalker : While my body heals, I do still have an outlet -- my mind
and my voice. And I think, until I can be... physical again, my voice
will have to do: the Stalker, "Unmasked," giving a somewhat distant
view of things. For now.
[Slowly, he stands, using his right arm to hoist himself up. He
smiles in what would be a genuine smile if not for the fact that his
eyes haven't changed.]
Stalker : Which brings me to my first topic -- Welcome back, Will.
[He bows slightly.] While I'd like to take credit for... jogging your
memory, anyone perceptive could've noticed you were waiting to come
back.
[The "smile" fades; Stalker frowns thoughtfully.]
Stalker : I'm not quite sure how to react this recent development,
though. A further trip down -- pardon the pun -- Victory Lane.
Should I watch as a complete unknown elevates himself at your expense?
Should I be amused as our third, less than grounded partner continues
to mock for its own sake? Should I be shocked as a face from our
mutual past marks his return with these mind games? [Pause.] Or am I
risking our own game by reacting at all? Two Lanes, two Legends--
Voice : Yeah... if they chopped me off at the knees, maybe.
[Stalker eyes past the camera, gracing the off-screen Semi with a
bland look, then shrugs.]
Stalker : It's interesting, to say the least. If a few matches could
find you losing the mantle of the OmniFly, will these games make you
start wearing masks again? [He smirks.] I doubt it. But at least
you can't say life is dull at the moment.
Stalker : And we'll be watching every moment.
[The camera clicks off.]
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Chase Williams
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[The back is broad, and tanned to perfection, with a tattoo that reads
"Williams" in Olde English script.]
"Hows the head..._champ?_"
[The last word is spit through clenched teeth.]
"Sooner or later bitchboy, I will have whats rightfully mine.
Fortunately for you, this is not the night your card gets pulled and I
expose you as the complete farce you so obviously are. Take notes
though scrub, because I will be crushing the hopes and dreams of the
lesser, much like I will do with you when someone finally forces you
to be a man."
[He smirks as he wraps one brick like fist in black athletic tape.]
"Tonight is about destruction. Disappointment. Embarassment. I've been
forcefed these same things lately and being such a giving guy, I wanna
give some back."
[The smirk becomes a sneer.]
"Randy Acorn... The Bad Boy? Say hello to the bad _man._ Don't think
because you're a worthless peon that doesn't deserve to breathe my
air, doesn't mean I missed your little comments about me. I heard it
all. We'll see how tough you talk with broken teeth... For you to even
speak my name. To even think of such things... I'm gonna backhand you
like you've been begging for it all your life. You're a sickening
insect. Worthless. Its like being run down by the Ring Crew."
[Ouch...]
But I digress. We could sit here all night and discuss your virtues
Acorn, and while I know you'd love nothing more than that because the
man you want to be is finally acknowledging you, but the fact is that
_relevant_ people like myself have better things to do. I will leave
you with the promise that your exposure as nothing more than a
_fourth_ rate Chase Williams is coming shortly."
[He finishes one fist, and begins working on the other.]
"Now.... The really only leaves one other thing of importance I was
going to talk about today, that being the Emo Sideshow Bob.
[You hear Chase chuckling as he disappears off camera for a moment.
Suddenly, all is dark. You can hear Williams moving about the room,
but cannot see him.]
"Look at me. I can hide in the dark!......
oooooooooooooooooooohhhhh!!!"
[Ghost noises? Heh. There is a moment of blindness as a small flame
flickers to life, and the sparse light gives Chase's head a
disembodied floating quality. In his scariest voice, he speaks
somberly.]
"Friend Casper. We that live in the darkness and feast on the sorrows
of lost souls can no longer sit idly by as you claim allegiance yet
continue to embarass us. Your actions have at best been girl-scoutish
in quality. We can no longer suffer the indignity you force feed us
with your pathetic attempts at appeasement. The Monster under the Bed
stood against you, and still his vital organs remain inside his
bloated carcass. Now he who has been wronged stands before you, and
your chance at redemtion yet again will not come. For we realize
Friend Spooky, that we can not expect the pathetic failure that you
are to even dream of standing against him!!"
[He makes a few scary faces just before the lighter goes out and the
room is once again plunged into darkness. A few seconds pass and
shuffling noises are heard once again, before glory be, light returns.
Chase walks back in front of the camera and sits on a bench.]
"You see boogey man? _anybody_ can hide in the dark, stop showering,
and make scary antiquated false prophecies. We've seen you try your
game with boys Spectre, but tonight you've got the measuring stick."
[Beat.]
"I know why you stay in the dark. You hide from the world, behind your
little facade, so they can't see how glaring your shortcomings are.
Tonight though, I drag your pale ass kicking and screaming into the
[beep] light and expose you."
[The glare is deadly serious.]
"Now get the [beep] outta here."
[Fade.]
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