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** Phoenix Valley Wrestling Presents  **
**            SHOWCASE                **
**            08.20.11                **
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-> Rob Cole
-> Prophets of Rage
-> Chris Hartt
-> The Mercenary
-> Tyson Cain
-> Danny Daniels
-> The Berserkers
-> Spectre
-> AsH
-> Johnny Detson
-> Sammy Knight
-> Max and Sal
-> Perry Fontana
-> Christopher Black
-> Marcus Manson
-> Uncle Frank
-> Hersher von Donkerhardt
-> Nevermind
-> The Heat
-> Mike Bisignano
-> Gibson Hayes
-> Senor Cloak Dos


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Rob Cole
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[*Static fades into pounding fists as they crash into a bag. Dust and
powder fall in their wake, the impact driving knuckles deep into the
canvas!]

V/O: You promised worse. You promised horror. You promised pain. But
you're not really a man of your word, Bill. I feel like I'm crawling
out from beneath the wreckage, toward the light. I am taking the first
uneasy steps toward redemption, toward being the man I want to be.

[Feet strike the concrete. As the camera pans up, moving along with
the runner, sweat continues to pour from his chest and soak his hooded
sweatshirt. His ankles and wrists are wrapped with light weights. His
long hair is pulled back in a top knot and we can see the strain of
his jog on his features. His own voice provides the narrative
throughout the video.]

V/O: Maybe I'm the only one who feels it coming? William Craven wants
to believe that he's beaten me over and over again... he wants to
pretend that he's destroyed me. I don't think William has ever really
had to face me, though. He's always picked at the table scraps of a
distracted Cole, a wounded psycho, and the battered remnants of what
other men have dragged through ten miles of bad road. Just little
nibbles of the rotting carcass on the side of the road. He was always
a bit part player ... the weapon in the hand of someone better. He
played a mind game with me, had me doubting myself, and that left me
open for all the bleeding... the scarring. It left me open to lose my
title. It left me open to lose my confidence. And it left me open to a
masked coward. But things have changed in the past few weeks... maybe
I'm the only one who feels it.

[Cole in the familiar gym, the free weights crashing as he dead lifts
and then drops them back to their bar. His body lunges up, hauling his
arms over his head.  Then he drops it down with a controlled drive to
the waiting bar. Up it goes again. Then down. His muscles strain, his
features red from the exertion and his pale scars are bright against
the flesh.]

V/O: Here I am. I'm not hiding out in some desert, I'm not talking to
voices in the dark, and I'm not doing the dirty deeds for anyone else.
I'm preparing myself for the physicality of this match, for the raw
brutality of it. No disqualification? No count out? This is scary
stuff, Bill; real scary. Maybe I am in way over my head. You see, I
wasn't born a monster... I don't have the genetic advantages of Billy-
boy Craven. I lift these weights and I bring them crashing down, I run
until my lungs are burning, and I increase the endurance that my body
can handle. I get it used to the punishment. I learn to tune out the
pain and bury it beneath the will, to stand up despite the horror, to
just keep fighting no matter what tries to take me down. I learn to
laugh.

I have held the PVW World Championship, I've beaten legends,
and I've tossed plenty of fake little poseurs over that top rope
before. I have beaten some of the worst nightmares. I have destroyed
some of the greatest heroes.

I am also better than William Craven.

[Rob Cole straddles the bench press, his body hunched from the effort
and exertion. He curls single weights up, wincing with the strain of
it. He licks his lips and there is no longer a voice over. He just
looks up, smiling a little sadistically as he regards the camera. He's
excited, nearly giddy. His wolfish grin is hungry for the moment.]

RC: You're no "hero", Billy. The scales, the forked tongue, and all
those little scary stories about knights and dragons... you're not
even the hero of your own story. Even as you stood across the ring
from a man everyone else hated... they only cheered you because of how
much that man was hated. They never... ever... really ... cheered for
you. Now, maybe I'm being cheered for the same reason... maybe they
just hate you a little more, maybe they still wouldn't spit on me if I
was on fire... but you know something? It doesn't bother me. It's
never mattered nearly as much to me as it seems to mean to you. The
recognition, the accolades, I used to take it a little too seriously
but I learned it doesn't really matter. There are two people who do
cheer for me... FOR me. They don't really hate you, Bill... my son
still wants you to finish your story. My wife wishes you would just
leave us alone. But my family isn't jeering you or hating you or
feeling one way or the other about who you are. They don't hate you,
Bill. They're also not afraid of you anymore, either. You are out of
sight and out of mind. Because I am standing in between you... and
they know that I won't go down. Two people believe in me, Bill...
that's so much more than you can possibly understand.

[Cole chuckles a bit and shakes his head.]

RC: I wondered if you sent that masked man to interfere in my
business... and then I realized the truth. You didn't send him... he
sent you. He is someone I've wronged or someone who wants to build a
name for himself and he decided to use you and get to me. And you did
your job, Billy... you beat me down, you tried to break me, you hurt
me, and then you went looking for approval and found the sick little
masked man licking his chops and hoping for table scraps. He held me
down, William... you weren't there and you probably were heeled like a
good little doggy. You probably watched on the monitor, you probably
gazed on as someone else tried to pour themselves into my brain and
take your place. Poor little Billy Guff. Nobody believes in you,
anymore.

*black*

****************************************
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Prophets of Rage
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****************************************

[Fade in:

The usual PVW backdrop has a Bristol board sign taped over it.  The
white stiff paper reads:


"PVW

IS

RAGE

COUNTRY"

The rest of the scene is blank, for now.  Then Derek Rage enters stage
right to frame the right side of the sign.  He is dressed in his black
and purple wrestling tights.  His skin is oiled so that the camera
light reflects beautifully off his black, muscular skin.  He simply
swells with muscles.  His looks is somewhat bemused.  He is a handsome
man, plain and simple.  His moustache and goatee are neatly-trimmed
and faded into his skin.  His hair is immaculately manicured into a
short Caesar-style cut.  He never looks perturbed.  Half a grin lifts
the left-hand corner of his mouth, but his dark eyes reveal no mirth.
He leans his right shoulder against the wall, too cool for the promo.
Too cool for the room.

From stage left comes Shadoe Rage.  He is visibly shaking as he
clutches an old vinyl record in his left hand.  His dreadlocked hair
bounces, sending the fuchsia and gold-coloured beads tied into it
bouncing.  He stares out at the lens with his kohl-lined eyes.  The
bright hazel irises pop with madness.  Unlike his brother, his facial
hair is scruffy, not trimmed neatly, as if he took scissors to it
himself or yanked hanks of it out with his hands.  His teeth are bared
in a perpetual snarl.  His pale gold skin gleams under the lights and
his pink sleeveless T-shirt is soaked through with what looks like a
mix of sweat and oil.  Intensity and madness grip him .  There is
nothing spare about his lean musculature.

And finally, up from the centre of the screen rises Pizzazz Elysee.
The raven-haired beauty is stunning.  Only close inspection can show
some of the signs of age, but they are graceful and beautiful marks.
Her green eyes set off her jet black hair and her porcelain skin.  Her
lips exude hunger and are an almost obscene shade of red.  She is
dressed in a clingy black dress that leaves just enough to the fertile
imagination while tempting the eyes with its near sheerness under the
lights, begging you to wish for just a few more watts of power and
maybe a few millimetres of skin.

SNAP!

The sound of vinyl being cracked snaps you out of your inspection of
Pizzazz.  There is only attention on Shadoe Rage now. ]

SR: Broken records.  That's what PVW's tag-team division has become.
Broken records.  Max and Sal, Livestock and Gutch, the Heat ...
they're all the same.  Second rate ... sophomoric comedy acts.  Bad
impressions are their bread and butter and everybody laps it up like
its milk. Where's the originality?  Hmmm, all the Murphys in the
internet chat rooms want to complain about the Prophets of Rage but
we're not one-note comedians.  We're geniuses.  We play symphonies of
violence! Odes of mayhem!  Arias of excellence!  Not flat repeated
jokes.  We don't degrade tag-team wrestling.  It's a dying art as it
is.

DR: Sure, the people want to call us dinosaurs.  That doesn't bother
us.  They say we never change moods, we never change tones?  They
don't pay close enough attention.  The Prophets wear a lot of
different hats and we play subtle variations on a key.  But we're not
stuck in a rut.  Unless you're talking about our competition.  Then
that argument holds true.  Why?  Because we're never faced with stiff
competition.  We've been bored to death by the same old same old.  Max
and Sal joking about how long we've been a team, teams like the Heat
making a mockery of professional wrestling with idiotic accents, silly
costumes and general buffoonery.  And us?  Well, there's a reason
we've been the gatekeepers of the PVW tag-team division even being
only half interested.  We still remember that the name above the
marquee reads wrestling.  And we aren't in college any more.  The time
to be juvenile has passed.

SR: Are you listening, Arvelle?  We don't care how loud your mouth is
because you're just talking loud and saying nothing.  And if you have
nothing to say we have nothing to listen to.  All the people out there
have nothing to listen to except white noise.  White noise puts you to
sleep.  Just like Pizzazz is going to put you to sleep when we step in
the ring at Tradition VI.

P: Le PVW est un havre de chauvinisme.  Les gens en arrière, les
pouvoirs en place, déteste l'idée d'une femme monter sur le ring pour
affronter un homme.  Ils croient que la femme n'a aucune chance contre
un homme.  Ils détestent que leur promotion rival a une femme qui est
la championne.  Eh bien, tant pis, car a la Tradition VI, Pizzazz
Elysee va monter les escaliers sur le ring pour concourir encore.

[She holds up her hand, slapping the palm of her right hand.]

P: Il a été trop longtemps que je n'ai été donne libre cours a faire
ce que je voulais dans le cercle carre.  Arvelle, je vais aimer te
frapper avec la main de l'haine.

SR: And that means it's you and me, Paco.  Francisco Gabriel
Maximillien Isadore Osorio Magnon, it takes more than a mouthful of
Spanish names to be a premier wrestler.  It takes dedication.  It
takes years of devotion to a craft.  That's why we're the most
decorated tag-team of this or any other generation.  You're just
another run of the mill lightweight leaper.  Spend more time naming
your moves something funny for the announcers than perfecting your
craft.  See, a bunch of daft disguises, we've seen that already.
There's nothing separating you from Max and Sal.  There's nothing
separating you from Weinrib and Mubarak.  There's nothing separating
you from Livestock and Gutch.  Lot of mouth, but nothing to say.

DR: Don't worry, we're going to give you something to say.  We're
going to make it really easy on you to say something at the end of our
match at Tradition VI.  You're going to say: The Prophets are Better.

SR: No tricks.  No gimmicks!  And your little filly on the outside
will be no factor whatsoever.  Trust me when I say that!  She will be
no factor.  Tradition VI the Prophets start cleaning out the division
again and returning tag-team wrestling to what it was meant to be.  A
contest of contrasting styles, fluidity and team work.  Not who can
make the lamer joke.  Our reputations, our pride, our history is
invested in this division.  And I won't let you degrade it.

[Rage seems to settle down for a moment.]

SR: Big D, will you let anybody degrade it?

DR: No I won't.

SR: Pizzazz?

P: Non, je ne vais pas.

SR: There you have it, HEAT.  At Tradition, your tired act dies ... in
darkness!

DR: Fade to black.

[And with that the Prophets make their political statement and
reinforce their image.  Will the declaration be enough?  We shall soon
see.  At Tradition to be exact.  Like Derek Rage said, the camera
fades to black.]

****************************************
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Chris Hartt
****************************************
****************************************

[A darkened room, dimly lit by a red-orange light. Sitting by himself
in the dark is Chris Hartt.]

I'm not perfect. I have faith and believed in ideals. I carry myself
as I hoped other would do.

That didn't last.

I suffered the slings and arrows of others' opinions. I let it slide
off of my back. But having someone step in my way, cause disruption,
interfere with my life, my business, all because he thought I had
overlooked him for being a homeless bum, that's just too hard to
ignore.

I still believe. I still have faith. But for now, I have to live with
the sin of my own wrath. I can't turn the other cheek and I won't go
quietly into that good night. I'm going to get my hands on the man
responsible for all of this and make him pay.

I'm not out to wrestle him. I'm not out to prove that I'm better than
him, in the ring or out. All I want to do is hurt him.  All I want to
do is make him suffer for what he's done to me. And I'll make sure he
never forgets who he's messed with.

I won't stop until I manage to tear him apart. Nothing can make me
stop.

Right now, I'm a nitro-fueled engine of destruction. I won't stop
until I've managed to tear through everything ahead of me and burn it
all in my wake.  I got one direction and if you get in my path, you
will go down.  I promise you.

So, when I get to Tradition 6 and face Perry Fontana in a one on one
match, all I can say is 'Please forgive me'. I know you've been going
through your own emotional struggles and on any other day, I'd welcome
the challenge to face you to prove who's the better technician.  But
right now, I'm making sure that the trail I blaze sets fire wherever I
go and not give a damn about who's in my way.  The fact that this time
it's you is just the unfortunate situation we have to bear.

I don't doubt you'll bring a serious fight to this match, but can you
really hope to deter me?  Do you think you're gonna be the one to slow
me down, let alone stop me? If you do, you're a better man than I am
and I don;t envy where you'll be when that's over.

I got no reason to stop, yet, and this match'll only be another
proving of that point.

Be ready, Fontana. I know I will.

[Hartt raises a bar glass and downs a gold liquid, draining the glass
completely.  Hartt puts the glass down, tosses a $10 on the bar, now
visible in the dim light, and Hartt makes his way past the brightly
burning neon bar sign that reads 'No Mercy Bar & Grill'.]

****************************************
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The Mercenary
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(Scene opens. The Mercenary is at a phone booth [yes, he managed to
find one that works, let alone exists], and picks up the receiver. He
punches in a 10 digit number, so you know its a long distance call.)

Merc: Hi there... Is this C.H.O.W.?... What's that? Oh right... I
forgot you don't to have the institute referred to by its initials...
something about how it seems demeaning to the residents... uh huh...
uh huh... (exasperated)... Ok.. Fine... I'll start again... Is this
the Chicago Home for Old Wrestlers?...There, was that better?... Well,
I'll use whatever attitude I want, since I will be making a huge
donation in the very near future for you to look after a very close
friend of mine... Yes, that's right... I am the one that made the
reservation for one Mr. Epstein.... Uhm... no, there isn't a definite
arrival date set for him yet, but rest assured, it will be very
soon... Uh huh... Yes.. Ok... No... Thank you again... I just wanted
to make sure that his room was still being held. No... you have a good
night... (hangs up the phone).

Merc: Cranky old bitty. Sounds like she should be in a room there
herself, not being the head nurse, but whatever... only the best for
my best bud. Now then, as for you...

(steps out of the booth and turns towards the camera, with a
threatening move, but eases off)

... You know that I normally can't stand you sneaky camera guys
sneaking up on me, listening in on conversations that you shouldn't be
party to, but this time I wanted you to hear what was going on. Or
more specifically, I wanted your viewers, and one in particular, to
hear what I was saying.

Alex, I hope you're watching this. I want you to know what your future
hold for you. Or at least the future that I have in mind for you. I've
said it before, but I'm going to say it one more time...I'm doing this
to save you. As you heard, I've got a nice cushy, luxurious place all
set up and reserved for you. There are others out there, my current
employer being one of them, who would rather see you living out the
rest of your days laying in bed, plaster casts from your toes to your
chin. And I really don't want to see that. Believe me, I honestly
don't. You don't deserve that.

And now, I'm getting the feeling that there are others out there who
don't want to see that either. For instance, the matchmakers for the
PVW. They realized that there is no way that the two of us aren't
going to meet up and try to tear each other apart. So, they're trying
to keep it under control, by putting us in a tag match. They're hoping
that our partners will be able to cut down on the amount of time that
the two of us will have against each other. Who knows? They could be
right. But then again, considering how well we know each other's
strengths and weaknesses, it won't take long for either one of us to
hurt the other. So, maybe it wasn't such a bright idea on their part.

Now then I would be remiss if I didn't at least mention the other two
men involved in this match. Tom Landis, your partner, is very similar
to you Alex, in that both of you shouldn't be in the ring anymore. But
neither of you is going to quit until you're either crippled for life
or sleeping in a pine box. It's sad, really. As for my partner, Tyson
Cain, well, sorry kid, I really don't know much about you. Looks like
you're trying to make a name for yourself by targeting a veteran of
the sport, so you'll probably be focused on him, like I'm going to be
focused on Epstein. And you'll be good to remember that. Epstein is
mine, and mine alone. Stay out of my way, and we'll all be better for
it.

(Merc turns from the camera and starts to walk away. After a couple of
steps he turns back for one last statement)

Merc: Well, except for Alex, but that goes without saying.

(Fade to snow)

****************************************
****************************************
Tyson Cain
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****************************************

[The image fades in or wrestling action figures. No, we aren't
kidding. The large thumb and fingers holding them in place obviously
belong to someone far too old to be playing with these dolls...]

Voice:  ...Uh...They're action figures, dammit!

[We're sorry....action figures.]

Voice:  Exactly.

[Our mistake.]

Voice:  Its OK.

[Anyway, The figures are very intricate and the latest in PVW
releases. Here we see Tom Landis figurine and The Mercenary.]

Merc figure:  (in a very deep, husky voice)  Tom, your partner just
doesn't seem right to me.

Landis figure:  (in a very effeminate voice)  Oh silly Merc, I just
love you big guys with those covers on your head.

Merc figure:  Hey aren't you married.

Landis figure:  Technically, but aren't we all married to the ring.
The steel of the poles, the wrapping on the hard wire that surrounds
us as we dance the dance of athletic entertainment.

[The hand makes the Merc figure slap the Landis figure.]

Merc figure:  Shut up you sniveling twit! My God, you get allowed to
return by the doctors and you sound like some oversexed pole dancer or
something.

Landis figure:  I'm sorry...

Merc figure:  Your partner, well he has some problems doesn't he?

Landis figure:  It's possible. He doesn't fully understand who he is
most of the time.

Merc figure:  Many have that problem.

Landis figure:  Not me...but I do need to make sure he and I are on
the same page.

[The Merc figure disappears and a much older figurine appears. One not
quite as large as the others and with obvious wear and tear. It is a
man with a gold outfit and a gold mask on his face.]

Landis figure:  Alex really?

Gold figure:  What?

Landis figure:  Why the outfit?

Gold figure:  I'm the GOLDEN FLASH!

Landis figure:  Good Lord!

Gold figure:  Yes!  The Golden Flash is here to rid the PVW of evil!

Landis figure:  Take that crap off!

[The hands remove the eye covering and the figures head is that of
Alex Epstein.]

Landis figure:  That's more like it.

Epstein figure:  I feel so naked!

[The eye covering returns.]

Epstein figure:  There! It is the most frightening thing to think that
a veteran of mu stature could be exposed by a rookie like Tyson Cain.
He is just so amazing and skilled.

Landis figure:  And handsome!

Epstein figure:  Easy big boy!  That isn't what I'm talking about. I
just think he can expose me for being a fraud!  He can expose me for
being generally boring and transparently mediocre.

[The camera's view sees eyes appear and the view pans out to show
Tyson Cain squatting with the figures as he plays. He stops playing
and stands up, holding the Landis and Epstein figures in his hands. He
raises the Epstein figure to his face and starts talking.]

Cain:  Yes Alex, you are right. On every count. You are pathetically
mediocre and weak.

[Finally, Tyson turns his head to face the camera with a serious scowl
on his face.]

Cain:  And it has to burn you up inside. It always has, hasn't it? If
I were you, I'd have a serious case of jealousy going on.

[He holds the golden Epstein figure up again.]

Cain:  This figure fits you so well, Alex. It is smaller than the
others for a reason. You can claim it is because it is a decade-old
toy piece and the scale used to create toys today is vastly different
and more complex.

Because you are smaller in all the areas that matter.

You are not the big money guy, not the most talented guy and you
aren't even the most charismatic guy that ever stepped into the ring.
But that is not the greatest reason the figure's size mirrors you...

[Cain smirks.]

Cain:  It is because you are ALWAYS overshadowed by somebody better.

[Tyson laughs a bit before continuing.]

Cain:  Don't get me wrong Al, you have skills and the staying power of
a shit-kicking mule. But in the end, you are never "the man" and you
know it.

Don't believe me?

[Tyson acts like he is counting as he speaks.]

Cain:  You have been overshadowed at every turn. Alex Martinez, Jason
Keening....hell, even Merc suddenly backstabbing you made you the
second figure in that storyline! In every instance, and believe me
this is FAR from the end of the list of people that overshadowed you
in your career, you are the straight man. You are second fiddle.

And you deserve better than that.

You deserve to be the lead, especially when you are teamed with a
backwoods, sister-humping, inbred-living, piece of Canadian bacon like
Tom Landis!

[Cain looks at the golden figure again.]

Cain:  Yes, you really do. Let me tell you why!

[He returns his glance toward the camera.]

Cain:  It is because when you stack up against Martinez, Keening and
all the rest of them, you are obviously the second fiddle based on
their stature in the business. I'm a rookie, I can understand that
kind of situation, believe me.

But this time you are paired with Tom Landis!

You ought to be the STAR of the team on Shockwave!  You ought to be
the lynchpin! Yet here you are playing second fiddle!

[He shakes his head.]

Cain:  Have you no marbles in your sack, man?

[He looks at the golden figure for a second.]

Cain:  I guess not.

[He tosses it away and stays eerily focused on the camera.]

Cain:  So they give you a partner without the manhood to show he is
better than you. And they finally put us in the ring at the same time.

I could go cliche and talk about how it isn't you that I hate, but
what you represent. I could discuss the fact you represent the
nepotistic tendencies of this business and how you didn't truly earn
the status that even your ragged partner has earned. I could talk
about you sucking at the power tit your entire career to get the
cherry spots on the card.

I could discuss all of that with passion and fervor...

[Cain suddenly bursts into a maniacal laughter for several seconds and
just as suddenly....stops and goes back to talking.]

Cain:  But I can't. The real reason is that I DO hate you.

I hate you for all of those reasons and more.

I never said it was rational, just a fact of life. Your time has come
and it is my desire to make sure that you are put out to pasture. It
is my job to make sure that every poor Canadian that calls upon your
revered name with praise finally sees the pathetic rat you are.

[Tyson flips the little table over and continues.]

Cain:  Don't worry. I'm not out to hurt you on Shockwave. I'm not out
to end our rivalry before it can begin. What would be the fun in that?
Consider Shockwave your audition.

[Tyson smirks again.]

Cain:  This is going to be a long, slow, arduous dance, my friend. I'm
going to tear you apart a piece at a time. I'm going to rip up your
body and terrorize your mind.

This is going to be a dance, Tom.

[Tyson gives an evil glance.]

Cain:  I hope you can keep up with my lead.

[The screen fades as Cain walks away.]

****************************************
****************************************
Danny Daniels
****************************************
****************************************

[The camera fades in to see Danny "YOUR HERO" Daniels.  Danny's looked
better- he hasn't appeared to shaved in several days, his sunglasses
are on top of his forehead, his blonde hair appear disheveled, his
"YOUR HERO" yellow t-shirt is slightly torn- and there's no SUPREME
title belt around his waist.  He's standing in front of a door.  When
he begins speaking, it's more lethargic than normal.]

D"YH"D:  greetings... and... salutations.  I'm "your hero" Danny
Daniels, a man so nice they named me twice- and I'm tired.

[Danny shakes his head]

D"YH"D:  Perhaps I overextended myself.  Being the SUPREME champion
always takes a physical. mental, and emotional toll.  Adding the
burden of running for PVW President may have been too much- a bridge
too far- and yes, even "your hero" can fall.  The reign of Danny
Daniels, the 94th SUPREME champion, has ended.  The reign of Johnny
Detson, the 95th SUPREME champion, has begun.

[A pause... and then Danny actually starts chuckling.]

D"YH"D:  Perhaps now you'll see the burdens of being a champion,
Johnny... the constant threats from all sides.  Defending against "The
Masked Rainbow Badass Unicorn".  Against Jack Griffin.  Against
Pollyanna Sweetbottom- do _not_ let that name lull you into a sense of
arrogance- many a foe has made that mistake, Johnny.  And of course, a
rematch against me.  I think you'll find that while I was a very good
champion, I was even a MORE ferocious challenger.

[Danny starts picking up energy.]

D"YH"D:  Am I upset?  Yes, of course.  [He nods towards the door
behind him]  I just spent forty minutes tearing that hotel room to
pieces.   People will wonder just how I got a fire engine up to a
fifth floor hotel room- but where there's a will, there's a way.  And
Johnny... I WILL get my SUPREME title back.  And I WILL defeat you to
become the PVW President.  The people has seen the ugly soul of the
man in the office- and they have flinched, once they realized the true
ugliness of your soul.

[Danny raises a finger]

D"YH"D:  At Tradition Six, I WILL lay down the facts about your
corrupt reign.  When you give me my rematch, I WILL regain the SUPREME
Title.  And on election day, I WILL take your PVW Presidency...

[Danny reaches up and pulls his sunglasses over his face.]

D"YH"D:  Toodles...

[Danny walks off... the camera fades...


...


...


... and fades back in as the apartment door opens, and the two men and
two women who make up the Greek Yuppie Chorus enter the hallway.  For
some reason, they are all wearing fireman jackets and hats.  They
begin singing to the tune of the Doors' hit song]

GYC:  #You know Johnny would be untrue
You know that Detson is a liar
Now that he's the SUPREME champion
The siutation's that much dire
You've taken Danny and you've lit a fire
You've taken Danny and you've lit a fire
Now Danny will beat you down to the... wire#

[They walk back into the apartment (where there's a red flashing light
coming from the room), and we fade to black]

****************************************
****************************************
The Berserkers
****************************************
****************************************

(Camera zooms in on the glorious PVW Phoenix designed across the plain
white backdrop.  Emerging from left and right are the two painted
intimidating force of natures known to the PVW world as, Doom and
Wolf.  The two men stand with black t-shirts that read: "The PVW tag
team gateway".  Wolf is the first to speak.)

Wolf: Phoenix Valley ...

For months now we have gone out there and stood toe-to-toe with
whatever names the PVW brass have decided to send to the ring with the
Berserkers.  For months now we have cut through tag team after tag
team like a hot knife and butter.  Action Packed ... Baltic Avenue ...
These teams offered no challenge to Doom and myself.  We stood here
begging to be tested.  We pleaded for the opportunity to step inside
the ring with legends like Prophets of Rage.  Instead we were told to
be patient.  We were instructed that we look better dominating tag
teams inside the ring.  That it was ...

(Wolf holds up both hands doing the "Quotes" gesture.)

Wolf: Good for business.

(Both men laugh.)

Wolf: Well let me tell you what is good for Berserker business ...  We
have traveled the globe looking for the best tag teams in the world.
We have defeated each and every team that was sent down that aisle
way.  We have been cheered by thousands ... And boo'd by just as many.
We have sent more men to Hades then the electric chair. And low and
behold on Shockwave we have ourselves another tag team looking to make
a name for themselves, Sex Appeal.

(Wolf gives a "Should I care" playful shrug.)

Wolf: First off who has more Sex Appeal then Doom and I?

(More laughs.)

Wolf: Second of all ...  Alex Adams 1990 called and they wanted to
know if anyone still gave a damn about you.  I kindly told them that
the PVW fans sat there wondering who the hell you were.  It took Max
and Sal coming down to the ring make them wake back up.  Alex Adams
your name used to carry street cred.  In this industry it came with
respect.  Then you hung around too long.  And you became a has-been.
You didn't learn the simple fact that age isn't kind to legends.  You
became a joke ... And now your two cronies are the punch line.

Doom: Marty Powell ...

Shane Lucas ...

(Doom snarls.)

Doom: We were backstage at Heatwave.  We saw your grand entrance front
and center.  We weren't impressed ... You both came off like two lap
dogs trying to impress their master.  And it looked like you two were
all but defeated when Heat showed up to gift wrap you a victory.  Are
we suppose to be impressed?  Does that make you relevant?  Wait ...
You want a pat on the back?

(Doom holds out his giant hands and begins clapping for Sex Appeal.)

Doom: There you go.  Apparently you two are suppose to be somebodies
... A tag team that dominated Texas or something a handful of years
ago.  And a sexy name like Alex Adams was stamped across your
foreheads in an attempt to make us care again.  Here is a little bit
of free advice.  Come out to the ring ... Show us what you got ... And
make us care.   Until then you two aren't nothing but flashy names
attempting to keep a job.  The only problem is we are the grim reaper
to your career.  Just ask Baltic Avenue when you try to make a
statement at the expense of the Berserkers.  Just ask the Prophets of
Rage who continue to dodge us each and every week.  And finally ask
the PVW brass ... Who knows that it's bad for business to let each and
every one of their tag teams get sent straight down to Hades!

(Wolf cuts right back in.)

Wolf: Sex Appeal it's go time!  We do our talking inside the ring.  We
have been called forces of nature.  The fear inside the PVW.  The
cancer of tag team divisions.  We destroy everyone we step inside the
ring with and come Shockwave you two will be no different.  And when
it's all said and done ... Alex Adams will have to tuck his tail
between his legs and hide back into wrestling obscurity.

Doom: It's a bitch being washed up Double-A.

Wolf: And your boys Marty Powell and Shane Lucas ... Well they are
about to feel the - BOOM!

Doom: BOOM!

Wolf: BOOM!

(And we fade to black.)

****************************************
****************************************
Spectre
****************************************
****************************************

[The scene opens on a panning shot of downtown Los
Angeles...specifically the famed intersection of Florence Avenue and
Normandie in South Central, the site of the infamous Reginald Denny
beating.  The sun sits low in the sky, turning purple through the hazy
Los Angeles smog.

Standing on the near corner is the familiar figure of PVW's resident
madman, The Spectre.   The dreadlocked goth stands with his hands
stuffed into the pockets of his tattered black trench coat as his
strange pale eyes watch people go about their daily lives.]

"We are unimpressed." he announced flatly as he began to walk.

[The camera keeps pace, staying in front of him as his unhurried
strides slowly...relentlessly ate up pavement.]

"We keep hearing from little Sammy about his home.  About the visceral
nature of the men and women that eke out a meager existence within the
confines of these fabled streets.  He prattles on and on about the
true predators that live here, about the crucible that is the
neighborhood of his youth that tempered him into the man he is now.

This is a hard neighborhood, and it produces hard men."

[Spectre stops, looking around, then shakes his head.]

"While such tales make take in the more gullible, we have seen nothing
that gives us pause.  Fear of the urban poor holds no particular place
within our breast.  This collection of sheep contains the same
hopes...dreams...fears...weaknesses...vices and victories.

You think coming from this place makes you a danger, tarnished little
Knight?  You think the monsters that live here help armor you against
the likes of us?  We're not here to take your money and push drugs to
your siblings.

We're not here to fire blindly from a car as it drives by, too
frightened to peel back our teeth and wade into the thick of battle.

We stand waiting, little Knight...we stand waiting for you to fulfill
the promise you made to all of the people watching you on
television...to all of the people depending on you in the stands...we
wait for you to slay the Beast."

[Spectre smiles mirthlessly.]

"Be honest, little Knight: The most you can hope for is to survive,
crawling broken and bloodied from the ring.  Whether or not you manage
a 'win' in the ring against us, there can be no victory for you,
little Knight...because from the beginning, you've embraced what we've
said and made it your own.  You've lowered yourself into the depths of
depravity and wallowed in the muck with The Spectre.

The match is unimportant...you see, we've already won.

So now little Knight...you will climb into the ring with friend Marcus
and us...and you will once again embrace all that is negative within
you.  Channeling your fear...your rage...your uncertainty...your
jealousy...channeling those things and using them to fuel you.  To
make you strong.

Friend Marcus understands.  We find him a true delight and look
forward to once again providing a baptism in pain...but you, little
Knight?

Before the bell sounds, you've already lost everything.

Fear the dark, little Knight...for the sun has already set upon you."

[fade to black]

****************************************
****************************************
AsH
****************************************
****************************************

#Sunny Day#
#Sweepin' the clouds away#
#On my way to where the air is sweet#

#Can you tell me how to get,#
#How to get to Sesame Street#

[Camera opens on AsH walking down Sesame Street. You read that
correctly. He's wearing his red "iCON" t-shirt and a pair of black
cargo shorts over FORM shoes. His black hair is gelled out in every
direction and the smile on his face is large as ever. Along side him
are Grover, Telly, and Big Bird. The slight cauliflower ear and
scarring along his brow line seems to stand out especially compared to
the furry shag carpets that are the puppets]

#Come and play#
#Everything's A-OK#
#Friendly neighbors there#
#That's where we meet#

#Can you tell me how to get#
#How to get to Sesame Street#

[AsH and the assortment of monsters stop a the porch and start talking
as the mikes cue up and the music dies down]

Telly: Say, Mr. AsH, you sure are nice.

Grover: YES! I would have thought you were going to be quite scary.

AsH: Why's that, gents?

Big Bird: You're so big and muscled and have a scars.

AsH: Well, I guess that just shows you that you can't judge people by
their looks!

[From behind them, Oscar the Grouch pops out of his trashcan behind
them. AsH smiles as he turns around to address the new puppet]

Oscar: This guy? Big? Please. You should see the group of gorillas he
works with. Make him look like a just a corn kernel in a big pile of
poop.

AsH: Whoa, there, smelly guy. Seems a little inappropriate for a kid's
show.

Oscar: How would you know appropriate? Humping women's legs and
generally making a mockery of yourself and the sport.

AsH: Hey, man. How do you know this? You got a TV down in your
trashcan? How good is your reception?

Oscar: Good enough to see that you definitely didn't get better with
age. While guys like Doc Holliday and Rick Marley and Rob Cole were
improving like wine, you were aging like cheese. Older, stinkier, and
generally unappealing to anyone who got near.

[AsH cracks his neck]

Grover: Oscar, why----

[AsH puts his hand up to the other puppets]

AsH: What's your problem, smelly?

Telly: We don't call names on Sesame Street---

[AsH turns back quickly and points into Telly's face]

AsH: Listen, you're an ancillary puppet and nobody likes you. Hell, if
it wasn't for the fact that Elmo can BARELY speak English, and you
translate for him, no one would even know who you are.

[Telly gasps and holds a puppeted hand to his mouth]

AsH: And you, Oscar. no one likes you either. You're the bad element
on a fictionally happy street. You're supposed to be edgy and add
conflict, but all you do is flop out of that stupid trashcan, say
something that you hope will hurt someone's feelings, talk about how
much you love trash, and slam that lid down again.

Oscar: And you? You're comic relief at best. Hell, your championship
shot is a joke and everyone knows it. You're fodder, man. You're
fodder so a TRUE athlete, Gibson Hayes, can have a former world
champion on his list of victims. You're a novelty.

AsH: I'm a novelty? You're here to make kids accept the idea of a
homeless guy on their street!

[AsH points a finger into his green face]

AsH: And what an example you're setting. Teaching these kids to think
all homeless guys ENJOY eating and rolling in trash, are super grumpy
and will insult you at any given opportunity, and generally should be
avoided at all costs. You're prejudice in a green shag carpet.

Oscar: After nearly 40 years, I'm still around, as good as ever. You?
You're a has been that never really was. You have World Championships
in leagues that don't exist or don't matter. Congratulations, it's
like being king of a mole hill. Do you go around touting the merits of
your Xbox Live Gamescore?

AsH: Spoken like a true never-will-be. You are and always will be the
best of a bad situation. Someone had found some shag carpet that was
thrown out in the 70s after an orgy that had a lot of bad aims. You're
a chaffing, smelly, spoiled milk covered jizz rag.

[AsH slams the lid down on Oscar's head with his twitching fingers
stuck on the edge]

AsH: You're a preschooler's first bad guy, man. And that's fine for
you, but if you want to start with a man who's put down more falsely
evil freaks than you've eaten fish-heads... you better be prepared for
the consequences.

[AsH sits down on the lid and looks at the other muppets]

AsH: Here's today's lesson, brought to you by the letters F and U. It
doesn't matter a lick what people say or think. Telly, I hope you
didn't get too insulted, by the way. I just needed to shut you up
while I took care of the vagrant.

But people can talk and they can gossip and they can post and say
whatever they want. It's a free damn country, so you gotta know that
it's coming. You gotta know that even as you brush your teeth in the
morning, the slings and arrows are being loaded up and aimed at you.
And for me, people don't believe for a second that I've got a chance
to bring down Gibson Hayes. They don't believe that the Bright Future
and Better Tomorrow will still be possible, long after my shoulders
touch the mat for a three count.

They think that this broken down, funny old ring vet is there simply
to fill a gap.

And that's a good thing, kids.

Because they're selling me short again, and that's fantastic. You'd
think after an entire career of wins that I didn't have a shot at
winning, people would stop underselling me. But alas, my size, my
demeanor, and the fact that I'm not putting people on stretchers every
week makes people think it's all just a fluke.

Well, my career's been a fluke so far. So what's to say it won't
happen one more time?

[The camera fades and the tape is probably immediately burned
afterwards, with no children having been harmed by watching it. Role
model, my ass]

****************************************
****************************************
Johnny Detson
****************************************
****************************************

Voice:  It is true that I am great...

(We open on the scene of our President and CEO, Johnny Detson in his
executive office.  There the executive leans against his mahogany desk
wearing an expensive three piece suit.  Around his waist is the newly
acquired Supreme Title which he pats and then shows his huge
politician smile.)

Detson:  I mean SUPREMELY great!

(His smile morphs into a cocky smirk.)

Detson:  And now Mr. Daniels truly sees that that I, Johnny Detson,
President and CEO, Mr. Called Shot, multiple Mid-Year Award winner,
and all around nice guy... AND NOW the greatest living Supreme
Champion of all time, truly am his better.  Now Mr. Daniels can
finally see that his resurrection and treason will result not in him
overtaking me as President and CEO,  but with him losing everything
that he holds dear.

(Detson laughs and shakes his head.  He removes the Supreme Title and
looks at it as he continues to talk.)

Detson:  Make no mistake about it Mr. Daniels, I hustled you.  I gave
you something that means nothing, a Presidential debate against me
when there is not nor will there be any election for my lifetime
position, and I took from you the thing you value the most.

(Detson laughs again and drops the title on his desk.)

Detson:  Not because I wanted the title... oh no, the design and
prestige of the title leave a lot to be desired.  No, I simply did it
because I could.  My superior...

(Detson stops and shakes a finger in front of the camera.)

Detson:  My SUPREME technical skill was too much for you to overcome,
more than anyone can overcome, and that is why I will always be
triumphant.  It is why I am the Called Shot winner, why I am the soon
to be Heavyweight Champion, and why I am now YOUR Supreme Champion.
Some might even say I am really YOUR HERO, not just someone Mr.
Daniels can admire but someone that everyone can aspire to be, just
like Mr. Daniels does.

(Detson nods in agreement.)

Detson:  This farce of a debate will probably not even happen now; Mr.
Daniels is so deflated now I doubt that he will even appear.  I have
taken his title, taken his pride and taken his hope.  Truly now he
sees that he will never have the cunning, the high intellectual skill
or the fortitude to ever successfully run this company as I, Johnny
Detson, President and CEO, have.  Truly now he sees the capable hands
that this company is in.  He sees all the awards and honors that I
have secured this company, the level that it has risen too, and the
person who deserves the most credit for its success.

(Detson points a finger at himself and smirks.)

Detson:  In fact I need not even prepare for this debate because it
has been obvious to the entire wrestling community that I have all the
answers anyway, so they will just naturally come to me.  I have
created a successful business model that every wrestling community now
has tried to duplicate.  With every other place the talent and the
executives come and go, and throughout it all the only constant has
been Johnny Detson, President and CEO.

(Detson again nods in agreement with himself.)

Detson:   The bottom line in all of this and the lesson that needs to
be learned is that YOU, Mr. Daniels, have lost.  To a better man, no
one can argue that, but you have lost all the same.  The only thing,
the honorable thing, for you to do now is concede defeat and move on
with your life.  You will never be the executive that I am, and you
never were as good a Supreme Champion as I am right now.   You will
always have a place with my Company as I have stated I care about all
that fall under my employ so fear not my retribution because when
people think of Johnny Detson, President and CEO, they think of
honor... integrity... and compassion.   I might still even be a little
flattered that your single greatest ambition so far has to be just
like me.

(Detson flashes his cocky smirk.)

Detson:  Unfortunately Mr. Daniels last Heatwave proved that you are
NOT just like me.  I am a winner, an award winner, a highly
successful, highly paid executive, a Called Shot winner, a challenger
to the greatest title in the wrestling world, and generally adored by
millions.  And you?

(Detson grabs the Supreme Title.)

Detson:  You're a former champion and a pretender to the throne.  A
farce Mr. Daniels, and should you decide to appear at Tradition, will
only be exposed more.  Not really much of a comparison is it?  Here I
sit, on top of the wrestling world, and there you are looking up AT
ME, wishing you could be just like me.  And I know, it's not fair, but
then again no one said life was.

(Detson laughs and holds up the Supreme Title in the air.)

Detson:  Because in life there are the "have's" and the "have nots."
Mr. Daniels you "have not" the Supreme Title, while I, Johnny Detson,
President and CEO "have" the Supreme Title.  YOUR TITLE.  Making me
now YOUR HERO.

(Detson laughs and shakes his head, finally just shrugs his
shoulders.)

Detson:  Like I said, I know, it's just not fair.

(With that the scene fades to black.)

****************************************
****************************************
Sammy Knight
****************************************
****************************************

[Fade in.]

"Tradition becomes our security, and when the mind is secure, it is in
decay."

[...A concrete wall of sorts is shown in the background.  Simple.
Plain.  Yet obviously strong.  A small light begins to flicker on the
wall when suddenly a series of 5 pictures are shown slowly coming into
focus.  The myriad of pictures cover the wall in a collage-like
manner.  Off-screen, the voice of PVW's newest Phoenix, Sammy Knight
can be heard...]

"We are constantly being defined by traditions; traditions that are
destined to be broken."

[...In the first photograph you're able see a woman in her late-teens
is
lying on plastic covered couch.  Chocolate skinned.  Unmoving, it is
difficult to tell whether or not she is awake, sleep, or even possibly
dead.  A baby bump can be seen bulging out from underneath his wife
beater.  An absolute stunning woman at one point, it's obvious that
this is not one of her better days.  A rubber contraption of sorts is
tied tightly around her forearm, just below the elbow.  The band's
tightness makes it so you can see the woman's veins.  In her opposite
hand, you see a needle of sorts...]

"Born to a mother who developed a tradition for crack-cocaine highs, I
grew accustomed to seeing her in comparable positions.  As time went
on though, my mother fed me less, bathed me less and played with me
less.  I don't ever think she loved me less.  I just think that she
wasn't _ABLE_ to love me.  There's a difference.  It's a difference
that haunted me for many years.  The tradition of addiction had seized
control of her mind, body, and soul.  When they took me away and
placed me in a foster home, these were some of the only images that I
remembered about my mother."

[...In the second picture you see a 5-year-old child, Sammy Knight,
sitting on an older man's lap.  The man, who is wearing a red
wifebeater and some khaki pants, clutches a firearms of sorts in his
hand, pointing it towards the camera.  Next to the man's feet, resting
on the ground, is a half-drank 40 oz. of liquor while his other hand
holds marijuana blunt.  A red bandana, tradition of the streets, is
hanging from the pocket of the man.  There are a couple of men around
the father and son duo, each other posing for the camera by throwing
up some sort of gang sign with their hands...]

"We do what our parents do don't we?  When our father brings us to a
baseball game, we go.  When our father brings us to church, we go.
When our father brings us to school, we go.  And if our father brings
us to a dice game at the crack house, _WE GO_.  At that point in my
life, I didn't have a choice.  As a result, I celebrated an immature
tradition in my brain for far too long, one that I didn't eradicate
until I was much older.  A tradition that caused me, my family, and
others a great deal of pain.  With that being said, my father _WAS_ my
role model and he embedded within me the traditions of drugs, alcohol
and gang culture.  The criminal tradition within me was birthed and
supported at a very young age."

[...The third picture shows a young Sammy Knight is shown once again.
All joy has been erased from his face as he is now anchored by fear
and torment, as opposed to hope and joy.  He looks skinnier, almost
emaciated.  There are numerous scars on his body -- ranging from
scratches, to scabs, to deep contusions.  His clothes are tattered,
dirty, and don't fit him.  He is sitting on a small bad, knees
clutched tightly to his chest.  As he looks into that camera, you
notice remnants of tears on his face...]

"Another unfortunate tradition to which I fell victim was that of
violent sexual abuse.  My foster mother loved molesting me; a
tradition she often liked to do after her husband left for work.
After she was done, she wouldn't leave me alone.  She made me dress
and take that picture.  All I wanted to do was get to school to get
away from her.  She had other ideas though.  She used to tell me that
I would go to school late.  I quickly learned to hate it when she said
that."

[...The final two pictures are shown side-by-side:  one of an
adolescent, shirtless Sammy Knight wearing a pair of prison issued
pants standing in the middle of a prison yard.  In one hand, he is
holding a large bundle of cash while in the other hand he is holding a
marijuana blunt, posing for the camera.  One red bandana is hanging
from his pocket while another one is tied tightly around his head.
The second picture is of Knight testifying at his homicide trial;
wearing his orange prison jumpsuit while his hands and feet are
shackled.  Much like Meursault in Camus' L'Etranger, Knight is
ambivalent, apathetic, indifferent.  No longer the innocent toddler or
the victimized child, Sammy Knight has grown into a menace...]

"There came a time when I had to make a choice.  At that time in my
life, my choice was either to bang, or be swallowed.  Growing up on
the West Side of Compton, we weren't given many choices, many
opportunities.  We didn't have college traditions on my block.  We had
the tradition of gangbanging.  Of crime.  I'm not trying to excuse it,
I'm simply giving you the truth.  If I didn't bang, I would've been
dead.  And while I realized that gangbanging would ultimately lead to
death or jail; and the latter it did, it gave me an opportunity to
live for the moment.  And that's all I wanted.  But I had done too
much to go back.  Had too much blood on my hands to ignore.  And as a
result, I discovered the tradition of incarceration."

[...Suddenly Knight himself appears in front of the wall in front of
this collage of photos from the album of his life.  Images continue to
shine through him as he's wearing a pair of black Dickies' shorts, and
a black pair of Air Force 1s.  Shirtless, his muscular physique is
painted with street scriptures in the form of tattoos...]

"But this is a different type of tradition we're talking about."

[He pauses.]

"Or is it?"

[Another pause.]

"Phoenix Valley Wrestling presentsTradition Six.  Spectre versus
Marcus Manson versus Sammy Knight.  It is here.  _THAT_ moment.
_THAT_ moment where two legends in this great sport of ours have the
opportunity to put down and put out a young upstart from Compton."

[Knight lets out a small smirk.]

"What more could I ask for in my first _BIG_ PVW moment?"

[Knight continues to smile at the camera, a hint of reflection peeking
out behind his brown eyes.]

"The rollercoaster of my life has led me to this _EXACT_ moment.  And
as you look at the pictures behind me, you see exactly how the odds
have been stacked against me my entire life.  I've been battling
traditions since my conception; traditions of addiction, molestation,
violence and incarceration.  And at Tradition Six, I find myself face-
to-face with the traditions of two of the best wrestlers _EVER_ to
step foot inside a Phoenix Valley squared circle.  Not only am I
facing 2 of the most dangerous men in this locker room, but I'm facing
them alone.  And to be honest?

I wouldn't have it any other way."

[Knight's voice is calm and deliberate as he carefully chooses his
words.]

"Spectre.  Manson.  I've listened intently to your words since my
debut in Phoenix Valley.  And while you two share disdain towards one
another, you find yourselves surprisingly united in a mission:  to get
rid of someone whom you both consider nothing more than a undeserving
underling.  In a sense, it's flattering; flattering that two of _THE_
biggest names in this promotion and industry's history have decided
that Sammy Knight is not worth a God-damned thing and that his
existence in this company is no longer needed.

[Knight nods his head in a form of agreement.]

"I can understand that.  I can."

[More nodding.]

"You see, I _UNDERSTAND_ that you both have had great success in your
past wrestling endeavors.  I _UNDERSTAND_ that you've both chased and
achieved personal glory.  I _UNDERSTAND_ that you both have refused to
back down to anyone. And I _UNDERSTAND_ that you want to protect the
tradition of Phoenix Valley against the likes of a Sammy Knight.

I got it.  Loud and clear.

I've heard the threats.  I've heard my detractors discredit my
experience in other promotions.  I've heard the doubts.  And I guess
you two are nothing more than a lynch mob, except you've put down the
pitchforks and lighted torches and exchanged them for trenchcoats and
wrestling boots.  But I ask you both this:  Have you ever a faced a
man like Sammy Knight?"

[Knight pauses as if expecting an answer in return.]

"Manson.  The Misery Machine.  Part of the Widowmakers. Husband to
Corin.  Tortured soul."

[Beat.]

"This really wasn't even supposed to involve you was it?"

[Knight shakes his head with a negative connotation.]

"In my debut match against you, my words of empathy hit you.  Hard.
And your rage ensued.  Well you know what they say--methinks though
doth protest too much."

[Hamlet meets Compton.]

"Tradition is important to you.  It was at Tradition Two where you, an
industry legend, made your PVW debut; impressively destroying El Hijo
Del Sol.  You grabbed the microphone in victory and promptly told
everyone in the locker room that a new chapter was beginning.

And it did.

Because ever since that day, you've continued to be an absolute
monster here.  You've battered foes and fought friends.  You've been a
force.  You've left of body count of countless men, widows of sorts,
who have tasted the immense pain of your Heart Punch.

And you never quit.  You're relentless.

[Candor and honesty coming from every word out of Knight's mouth.]

"Tradition is important to you.  You have a way of doing things.  A
way of looking at your life, your world, your career and ultimately
your painful loss.  And it apparently frustrated you when a man like
myself simply offered you a different lens through which to look.  And
you can take this however you want, but my intention was never to
offend you.

Rather to aid.

But you showed exactly where you stood on that issue of reconciliation
last Heatwave.  You saw my character that night in Long Beach.  And I
saw yours.  When we had an opportunity to mend a relationship and
stand in unity you turned on me.

A deliberate attack."

[Knight nods in understanding.]

"And that leaves us where we are today.  Enemies.  Opponents.  You, a
one man wrecking machine.  Me, a direct attack on the traditions of
both your life and career.  And that's fine Manson.  But at Tradition
Six in San Diego, you're not facing some 'run-of-the-mill' son of the
sun; you're facing a son of a bitch named Sammy Knight.

And that's quite a difference."

[Knight pauses for a moment to re-gather his thoughts, staring
confidently into the camera; the images from earlier still on his body
and against the wall.  He collects his thoughts as he directs his
attention to his other monster of an opponent.]

"Spectre.  The Goth.  The Devil.  The Icon of Evil in Phoenix Valley."

[Knight takes a few steps closer to the camera, his face illuminated
ever so slightly more.]

"The dreadlocks.  The blue eyes.  The pale skin.  The trenchcoat.  The
Doc Martens."

[...]

"The thumping.  The lights.  The destruction."

[...]

"The trails of carnage and blood that you have effectively left every
match that you've ever been involved in. You aren't just a bogeyman.
You are _THE_ bogeyman.  You are the manifestation of the traditions
of evil that lurk in the hearts of _EVERY_ man.

Myself included.

Check my resume.  Because I've fought monsters.  And I've slayed those
monsters.  But I've never faced a monster _QUITE_ like you Spectre.
In this game, there is simply no one like you.

No one.  And I mean that earnestly.

So what more can be said about the man, who in two of this
organization's most brutal battles, nearly ended the career of Rob
Cole not once, but _TWICE_?"

[The former gangster pauses, shaking his head with a sense of
disbelief.]

"Plenty."

[...]

"Tradition is important to you.  You see, you would've loved my
mother.  You would've befriended my father.  You would've been proud
of my foster mother.  Hell, there was a time when you would've been
smitten with what Sammy Knight was all about.

But I can't let you have that pleasure anymore.  Not with me at
least."

[He pauses, the inflection in his voice a little more animated than
before.]

"You've promised me a baptism of pain.  You've called me a sacrificial
lamb.  You've created a plan to break and re-birth me.  But Spectre
you've forgotten one thing:  _YOU ARE NOT GOD_.

You are human.  And you bleed.  Just like Manson.  Just like myself."

[Knight nods his head, his pace picking up slightly.]

"But unlike you, I don't pretend be impervious to fear.  That was your
projection.  Because you see Spectre, I have fears.  And while I
respect the violence that you're capable of, I don't fear you.  And I
don't fear the violence.  I've felt the burning sensation of my
insides as bullets have riddled my body on two occasions.  And
Spectre, there is nothing more painful than that."

[...]

"But I know that pain you are bringing to this match.  You see, I
expect to barely be able to walk out of that ring.  I expect to wake
up the next day needing massive pain killers just to be able to hug my
son.  Hell, I plan on losing extraordinary amounts of blood, forever
staining that mat in San Diego.

But I will not lose myself.

Not to you.

Because I've already been you."

[Another step forward.]

"Tradition is important to you.  You see, I've walked alongside the
traditions of evil that motivate you.  I've seen the Devil face-to-
face and at times I've even done his bidding.  Because I know what
it's like to find the darkest depravity of the human existence.  I
know what it's like to succumb to nihilistic thoughts of life and
death.  And ultimately I know what it's like to be responsible for
ending another man's life.

Do you?"

[The newcomer's brown eyes pierce through the camera as if to say, "I
don't think you do."]

"So please be careful with your words Spectre.  Because I pray to God
that you remember what happened the last time you threatened a man's
child.  Because I don't want to go back to jail.  But I will."

[The last phrase is spoken through a clenched jaw of sorts.  Knight
pauses again to focus on the duality of his two upcoming opponents.]

"At the end of the day, I'm not here for your approval Spectre.  Or
yours Manson.  And I understand exactly what it is.  It's like a
ladder that I'm taking one rung at a time.  And after Tradition Six,
everyone will see that Sammy Knight can handle two steps at a time.
That everything that hasn't killed me has only made me stronger;
sadistic legends like the both of you included."

[He takes a moment to look back at the pictures behind him.]

"Criticize me for my past.  Chastise me for my actions.  Crucify me
for my small measures of success.  And I ask you this, why?

What does my life have to do with either one of yours?"

[He holds his hands out.]

"Because I've found a peace with my past regrets?  Because I've looked
evil in the face and ultimately came out victorious?"

[Knight shakes his head.]

"I understand your need to maintain your traditions; your desire to
push your misery on others, your need to find other cowards who share
your fear of darkness.  But I don't know if either one of you have
ever faced an individual like me:  Nihilistic.  Deprived.  Violent.
Dangerous.  Driven.  Because you cannot paint me with the brush of
simplicity.

I'm too complex for that.

And you can't dumb me down under the umbrella of a hero.

Because I'm not one."

[Knight shakes his head in yet another negative manner.]

"You're soon to be stepping into the ring with a father battling for
his own flesh, his own blood, his own _TRADITION_.  You see, this
ain't about me.  My mission is for the kids in these streets.  And
it's a mission that has yet to be accomplished."

[He looks back into the camera.]

"My life is my struggle.  Wrestling is nothing new.  Overcoming
insurmountable obstacles is written in my DNA.  Survival is as regular
as my beating heart.  Shattering traditions is my calling card.  And
while you have every right to question whether or not _I_ am ready for
you, the question that I have is this:

Are you _BOTH_ ready for me?"

[Knight looks one last time at the camera.]

"Spectre, Manson, I've faced countless traditions in my life;
traditions that have done nothing but lead me to a painful reality of
hell on earth.  Some of the traditions were placed upon me by others,
others chosen by myself.

Regardless, I refuse to be defined by them."

[...]

"I refuse to allow my mind to decay in complacency.  It is for those
reasons alone I've broken the shackles of previous traditions.  I
survived a birth to an addicted mother.  I navigated the bullet
riddled streets of Compton and survived.  I lived through an 18 month
prison bid.  After being told that I wouldn't last 1 week in this
business, not only did I survive, but I worked my ass off to become a
champion; which includes an unparalleled reign.  I defeated legends
that I wasn't supposed to, been to places I previously wasn't allowed.

And in breaking those, I created my _OWN_ traditions."

[Knight pounds his left fist into an open right palm.]

"But they weren't good enough for me.  So I shattered them."

[...]

"So here am I.  In a new place to live.  With new notions to exceed.
New opinions to change.  And ultimately new traditions to break."

[...]

"So, f[censor]k you and your traditions."

[Beat.]

"I am Sammy Knight.  Accept no imitations."

[Fade to black.]

****************************************
****************************************
Max and Sal
****************************************
****************************************

[Fade in to see a close up of Max and Sal.  Max appears to be ready to
break out in giggles, while Sal has his arms crossed and does NOT look
happy.  Max turns to the camera.]



Max:  Hi- Max and PA... I mean, Max and Sal here.



Sal:  Shut it.



Max:  Sal is a little upset after last week.



Sal:  PACO does _not_ look like me.



Max:  [holding up his hands to 'frame' Sal]  I don't know... with the
wig...



Sal:  Shut it.



Max:  And you both have that same 'used car salesman' look about you.



Sal:  Shut.  It.



Max:  An-



Sal:  CHANGING SUBJECTS...



[The camera pans out to see Max and Sal are standing in a room full
of... stuff.  Oversized coffee tables, brightly painted bookshelves,
giant teddy bears, clowns, an Iron Maiden, what appears to be a
torture rack, a makeshift guillotine... Sal looks around.]



Sal:  Where the hell did we get all of this stuff?



Max:  E-Bay is my very good friend.  Hi everyone, and welcome to
"Uncle Frank's Playhouse".  Like Uncle Frank, we believe in a Bright
and Better Tomorrow...



Sal:  A world where we have tag team champions that can both actually
wear the belts around their waists...



Max:  A world where the titles aren't coated in cheap aftershave or
fried chicken grease.



Sal:  And a world where the phrases "lawyers" and "PVW Tag Team
Champions" are never in the same sentence.



Max:  Also, we believe in a world where Gabriel Whitecross can pay
back Uncle Frank for Frankie's cowardly attack on him.


Sal: [holding up a hand]  Wait, while we're sure Uncle Frank is the
second coming of John Wayne Gacy, our beef is with Livestock and the
Gutch.  Why did we get all these kiddy props again?

Max:  Do you really want to be surrounded by a bunch of law books
instead?

Sal:  Point.

Max:  Besides...  [He picks up one of the teddy bears and gives it a
squeeze]  ...my niece Miriam's turning three in a couple of weeks and
I figured some of these could be her birthday presents.

Sal:  Awww.  That's sweet.  [He points to the iron maiden.]  Even
that?

Max:  No, I'm keeping that.  I might turn it into a coat rack.

Sal:  Livestock and the Gutch have started working with Gibson Hayes,
Uncle Frank, and Tod Johnstone- or as well like to call them,
"Lawyers, Thugs, and Dummies."  But with a rather angry Englishman on
our side and wanting to get Uncle Frank, and Gibson Hayes dealing with
AsH, we figure that leaves Livestock and the Gutch 2 on 2 with us.

Max:  And in the past, that's lead to a win for us.

Sal:  Past performance is NOT a guarantee of future performance...

Max:  But that's the smart way to bet.

Sal:  So Livestock... Gutch... bring your rather psychotic pal to
Tradition Six.  And we'll keep up our own Tradition of beating you.

[Max uses his hands to 'frame' Sal again.]

Max:  You know, if you put on a fake tan...

[Sal grabs the teddy bear and whacks Max across the head as the camera
fades to black.]

****************************************
****************************************
Perry Fontana
****************************************
****************************************

[The image on the screen appears dated; two sports journalists debate
in French, at their announcers desk, in front of screaming fans. In
that crowd, the men sport sweatpants, mustaches and mullets, the women
have big, hair-sprayed coifs and shoulder pads. The colors aren't
quite right either, and not just because of the fluorescent garments
people wear. Everything the camera films seems ever so slightly out of
focus, even the burly wrestler that paces the ring, known to
knowledgeable wrestling historians as the hated Kevin "the Butcher"
Hartman.

Cheesy UHF TV graphics spelling "Combat des titans '87" swoops in on
screen. The words "Championnat Provincial" slide in, followed by
"Kevin 'the Butcher' Hartman vs. 'Mr. Fantastique' Luc Fontana."

When the graphics dissolve, the image returns to the action, and when
"I'm Alive" by Electric Light Orchestra booms in the old Montreal
Forum, the large crowd in attendance goes completely nuts! "Mr.
Fantastic" Luke Fontana steps out of the curtain like a Bizarro World
Perry Fontana, championship belt fastened around his waist, raising a
muscular arm out to the rafters as the other swoops horizontally,
pointing to the euphoric fans. "Mr. Fantastic" smiles, spins on
himself and, like some charismatic Adonis, stomps down the aisle
towards the ring, slapping hands with his rabid supporters, the flesh
and blood incarnation of a larger than life hero.]

Commentator 1 [subtitled]: (Boy, do these fans ever love Mr.
Fantastic, Paul!)

Commentator 2 [subtitled]: (I don't get it, Etienne. Why do they cheer
for this home wrecker? The man stole his own brother's main squeeze!)

Etienne: (They're happily married, now. That's ancient history!)

Paul: (Ancient? That was last year!)

Etienne: (Fontana's the Provincial Champion, now... and if his
momentum keeps building up like this, he'll become the Heavyweight
World Champion before the end of the decade!)

Paul: (If he survives "the Butcher!")

[Luke Fontana, confident, strong, and smiling, circles the ring,
interacting with the fans, until he stops next to a beautiful
chestnut-haired woman among the ringside fans, cradling an infant in
her arms.]

Etienne: (And there they are, his baby boy and his beautiful wife
Anne-Marie!)

Paul: (Jezebel!)

Etienne: (That boy will grow up to be just like his father, one day!)

[Anne-Marie smiles, Luke Fontana grins, and he leans in to kiss his
loving wife on the cheek as the fans cheer, for they seem to know all
about the perfect young couple's story.]

Paul: (And become the vilest monster in wrestling? You're scaring me!)

["Mr. Fantastic" turns to look at his opponent in the ring, a menacing
sneer now on his face.]

Etienne: (Well I know who should be scared, now... it's Hartman!)

Paul: (No way! He's not called "the Butcher" for nothing!)

[Suddenly, the image freezes, distorted lines crisscrossing the
screen. Then, the footage speeds backwards. The camera leaves the TV
screen on which the old wrestling tape is rewound, and swivels around
to film the man who was watching it. Cloaked by the hood of his flame-
colored boxer's robe, Perry "Le Phenix" Fontana sighs, purses his
lips... and presses 'play'.]

Etienne: (...his beautiful wife Anne-Marie!)

Paul: (Jezebel!)

Etienne: (That boy will grow up to be just like his father, one day!)

[Anne-Marie lovingly smiles, Luke Fontana grins, and right before he
leans in for a kiss... the footage is slowed down to slow motion. Luke
leans over the steel guardrail and for a fraction of a moment, Anne-
Marie, baby in her arms, recoils in fear. The image frozen on the
screen, one that could only be seen by freezing the video... it
doesn't lie.

The Deathless One massages his closed eyelids with his index and
thumb. He imperceptibly groans and rewinds the tape again.]

Etienne: (That boy will grow up to be just like his father, one day!)

["Mr. Fantastic" kisses his wife, and the fans cheer. He looks down at
the baby and sneers.]

Paul: (And become the vilest monster in wrestling? You're scaring me!)

[Baby Perry starts to cry. Still sneering, Luke Fontana turns his gaze
to his opponent in the ring, and the camera cuts to another angle.]

Etienne: (Well I know who should be scared, now... it's Hartman!)

Paul: (No way! He's not-...)

[The image is frozen again. In his chair, Perry frowns. There's a
menacing feeling of deja vu in the air. He slowly shakes his head,
closes his eyes, and sighs while rewinding the tape once more.

When he opens his eyes again, Perry retrieves a small photograph from
the folds of his robe. The threat of repeated history looming over
him, he looks at the infant on the photograph, then at the infant on
the screen... then to a black and white photograph of Emily that has
not been seen since Tradition IV.

A painful sigh escapes.]

Etienne: (That boy will grow up to be just like his father, one day!)

Paul: (And become the vilest monster in wrestling? You're scaring me!)

Etienne: (Well I know who should be scared, now... it's Hartt-...)

[The footage is frozen once more, before it all fades to black.]

****************************************
****************************************
Christopher Black
****************************************
****************************************

[Fade in, to what appears to be a dining room.  On the table, a
sumptuous feast is laid out on fine china and crystal -- roast goose,
red cabbage braised in wine, roasted fingerling potatoes and, perhaps
a touch odd, a bowl of fresh fruit.  A carving knife and fork lays at
the ready by the side of the bird.

At the head of the table sits the guest of honour.  Clad in his
trademark battered black leather jacket, black t-shirt and jeans, the
PVW Television Champion "Bad Wolf" Christopher Black has what can only
be described as a grin of ravenous pleasure on his angular face.
Behind him, the Television belt is casually draped over the back of
his chair as if it was an afterthought.]

CB:  The Bad Wolf's finally figured ya out, Dos...

[Black picks up the carving knife and looks over the blade.  He
carefully touches the edge with a fingertip, then jerks it back.  He
nods in satisfaction at the sharpness, a small streak of blood now
forming on his tip.]

CB: Took him a while, he'll admit that.  When it comes to who's the
predator an' who's the prey, the Bad Wolf almost forgot one _little_
detail.  But last Heatwave... [Black suddenly squeezes his eyes as a
shudder courses through his body in vile remembrance]  Ohhh, last
Heatwave, the Bad Wolf knows what you _really_ are.

You're nothin' but a bloody parasite, Dos.

[A low chuckle escapes the Bad Wolf.  His blue eyes snap back open,
holding now a keen and icy insight.]

CB:  O'Connor...see, he's got the right idea.  He's proud o' milkin'
ya dry, gettin' fat off all your efforts!  He embraces bein' a damn
leech.  But you...you're too chicken[BLEEP] to admit that's what ya
are.  Ya claim you're somethin' wholesome an' good...

[Black plucks an apple from the fruit bowl and skillfully begins to
peel the skin away with the carving knife.]

CB:  ...underneath, you're soft.  Underneath, you're a liar.  Ya feed
on the gullible.  The weak -- an' the sick.

[A savage bark of laughter erupts from the Wolf, the edges of his grin
now slick with depraved enjoyment.  He sets the apple down on the
table and cuts it in half.  Black picks up one of the halves where a
brownish bruise can clearly be seen -- a mark of infestation.  With
the tip of the knife, Black soon pries out a grub from the apple.]

CB:  But ya don't cull 'em the way they SHOULD be culled!  You lead
'em on, give 'em false hope.  An' all the while ya just suck on 'em
like a bleedin' tick, lettin' your taint spread.  In the end, ya just
leave those poor dumb sods as withered, broken husks, but they're
still holdin' on!  Still desperate for all those poisoned promises you
won't keep...

[Another sick chuckle from Black as he shakes his head.]

CB:  Oh, that's cruel, mate!  All them sick little girls ya drag
around...that's all you can manage to feed from.  Ya let them keep
wallowin' in their weakness!   You're not capable -- not STRONG --
enough to give them the mercy o' truth.    That in the end, it's
better for the weak to just DIE.

Come Tradition, it's more than just defendin' the Wolf's gold from a
parasite.  For the sake o' survival o' the fittest, tearin' you to
bits...

[The Bad Wolf drops the grub back down on the table.  His eyes wide
with intense glee, he presses down on it with the flat of the knife,
letting it pop into a disgusting mass of pus-yellow guts.]

CB:  ...is just the kindest thing the Wolf can do.

[Fade to black.]

****************************************
****************************************
Marcus Manson
****************************************
****************************************

[The camera opens on Marcus Manson, somewhere in a sauna in a gym in
SoCal. He sits back, arms spread across the back of the bench he sits
on, head bowed slightly and covered with a white towel. He also has a
white towel wrapped around his waist. He does not look up before
speaking.]

Ah, Knight. You shoulda hit him with the chair.

[Manson chuckles to himself.]

Hell, you probably should have hit both of us with the chair.

Ever since End Game people have been singing the praises of good Sammy
Knight and his arrival in Phoenix Valley Wrestling. I have heard
things that have made me unbelievably sick.

He's a shining example of what we should all strive to be. A White
Knight, if you will pardon the pun. Some kind of hero for all of us.
Someone we should strive to be like.

[Manson pauses.]

Right.

An ex-con who doesn't know how to wrap it up before he sticks his dick
in whatever groupie ended up spewing forth the little living accessory
he calls his son. I know that your kid is a fashion statement, Knight.
Don't think you're fooling anyone. You think because you follow some
sort of unwritten guideline that it makes you a "good Dad" and wipes
your slate clean?

"Look at what a good Dad I am! I've taught my son the difference
between right and wrong so he won't turn out like me. Hopefully that
will distract you all long enough so that you overlook the fact that I
fully admit that I am a MURDERER."

[Manson pulls the towel off his head, leaning forward, resting his
forearms across his knees and looking directly into the camera now.]

I will not go quietly, Knight. I am going to tear you and Spectre
both, limb from limb. I will feel the reverberation from each thud as
my fists pound down onto your back, your ribs vibrating like tuning
forks from the impact.

[Manson's grin gets a little more sadistic with each second.]

I will feel muscle and sinew tear away from bone, and I will feel
those bones snap in my hands. I will split your flesh and watch as you
bleed out onto the canvas. Fitting, that our battleground is lined
with canvas, because I will use your own blood as the pigment to paint
that canvas, and assure my victory.

[Manson leans back again, pausing.]

Knight, I do have to thank you, though. Thank you for reminding me
about what really matters. What I really enjoy about being a
professional wrestler.

[Manson scowls, focused.]

Hurting people. I still plan to bring home My World Championship, but
I'm going to make sure that I take the time to really enjoy hurting
everyone on my way there. Kind of like I did to Will Geddings.

Like I did to Larry Gionet when I proved that I was the Toughest man
in all of PVW, and not him. Like when I showed El Hijo del Sol how
foolish it was to step in the ring with me.

Like I showed William Craven, Doc Holliday, Sinister, Tommy Ryder and
Merc at War Games.

But Sammy doesn't deserve all the credit. Spectre, you helped too. The
Rebirth is a fitting name for the move that you gave me two weeks in a
row because in a way, I am reborn. Like a Phoenix rising from the
ashes, your rebirth cracked the shell and allowed the inner fire to
slip out and consume the cocoon that was holding me back.

Ironically, you woke me up. Both of you.

I let poltics cloud what was really important. I let the Widowmakers
distract me from what was best for me, why I'm here and why I love
this business.

I came here to here to hurt people, and I came here to make money and
win titles while doing it.

Spectre, I don't want to sound like a broken record but it is
important for you to realize that your spooky shit... Does. Not.
Scare. ME.

[Manson jabs his thumb into his own chest as he speaks.]

I am not some bed wetting 5 year old with a night light in every
outlet.

I am bigger, badder, and scarier than you are and deep down, you know
it.

Ask Will Geddings. Ask El Hijo del Sol.

Ask Rob Cole who the Monster Under The Bed fears.

Ask anyone in that locker room who the last person they want to get
int he ring with is, and the answer will be Marcus Manson.

[Manson stands and moves closer to the camera.]

At Tradition Six, I will make my return to tradition. I'm going back
to my roots, and I will show Sammy Knight, Spectre, everyone in the
building and watching at home that night, that no one is safe.

Fear the dark?

I don't think so.

Spectre and Sammy Knight need to Fear ME.

[Fade.]

****************************************
****************************************
Uncle Frank
****************************************
****************************************

[Cut to a city street outside an apartment building. It's certainly
not a particularly swanky neighborhood, but it's no slum either.
Approaching from down the street is a fairly tall, muscular man with
unkempt dirty blond hair, red-blond stubble on his face an an
unpleasant grin. Frank Knight. Uncle Frank. Frank is dressed in
regular clothes. A weatherbeaten brown leather jacket, blue jeans and
a white T-shirt with "A Bright Future and Better Tomorrow" printed on
the frint, the letters colored in the pattern of the US flag. In his
right hand he's carrying a bag of groceries. As he approaches the
camera Frank speaks with that overly cheerful tone of voice we've come
to expect from him.]

FK: Uncle Frank is home. Yes, yes he is.

[He turns and heads up the stairs to the front door.]

FK: Mr. Gibson Hayes told Uncle Frank he would put him up at his
estate so Uncle Frank didn't have to go all the way back to Chicago,
but Uncle Frank had to go home. Even when Mr. Gibson Hayes expressed
concern that Uncle Frank might forget to make it back to California in
time for Tradition. Uncle Frank appreciates Mr. Gibson Hayes' concern.
If Uncle Frank doesn't come back in time he would have let down Mr.
Gutch and Mr. Livestock and Mr. Johnstone and Mr. Gibson Hayes. And
that would be rude. Uncle Frank understands this, but what Uncle Frank
must do could not be done anywhere else. Gibson Hayes doesn't
understand this... Can't understand... Only Uncle Frank can
understand. Uncle Frank had to go home. Uncle Frank needed to go home.
So four days ago Uncle Frank came home.

[He opens the door and enters the hallway, starting to climb the
stairs with the camera in tow.]

FK: Uncle Frank had to go home because Uncle Frank had to understand.
Needed to understand. And the only place Uncle Frank could really
understand was here. Home.

[We finally leave the stairs and Frank walks down a hallway past a
couple of apartments until he reaches what is, apparently, the door to
his own home. Getting a set of keys out of his pocket he unlocks the
door and enters, the camera close behind.

The room is dark. Far too dark in fact for the middle of the day. The
windows must be covered by some heavy curtains or something to get the
room this dark. The sudden sound of the grocery back being dropped
unceremoniously on the floor with a thumb and the sound of a glass
bottle of some sort shattering down in the bottom of it draws the
attention of the camera just before Frank turns on the lights. Four
grocery bags, including the one Frank was carrying, lie heaped in a
corner, the food inside them ignored. and left to spoil. As the camera
pans around we see that the room is covered in photos, newspaper
clippings and even fan art found on the internet and printed out.
Every surface is absolutely covered, The windows, the table, chairs
and even the couch. Not a square inch has been left unpapered and the
subject of these images is the same in each and every one. Gabriel
Whitecross. A Gabriel Whitecross whose normally serious expression has
had a big smile drawn upon it with black marker on each and every
image!

Uncle Frank turns around in the middle of the room, looking at the
camera with a look of predatory hunger on his smiling face.]

FK: Uncle Frank understands now. Uncle Frank knows, Gabriel. Uncle
Frank knows.

[Pause.]

FK: It'll be fun, Gabriel. Trust your Uncle Frank.

[And fade out.]

****************************************
****************************************
Hersher von Donkerhardt
****************************************
****************************************

(scene: What looks to be in an empty staged, housed in what some sort
of playhouse. in the center of the stage stands Herscher von
Donkerhardt, underneath a spotlight. Herscher is wearing his trademark
grey armani suit, with black dress shoes, white shirt and orange tie.
Draped over his shoulder is the PVW American title)

HvD: At Tradition 6 I face Nevermind and once again defend my PVW
American Title. I should have faced Nevermind earlier but someone got
in my way. Someone prevented me from wrestling until now, out of
"concern" for my health. This someone, a Perry Fontana, wants this
title for himself. Perry Fontana already thinks he owns this title,
which is why he is trying to control me, not because of any concern
for my health, but because he sees me a place holder for what he
thinks is already his. He doesn't want anything happening to the place
holder because that will spoil his opportunity to officially claim
that which is his, at least in his head.

(Hersher puts his head down, looking at the stage beneath him.)

So he tries to control and limit my movements and my actions like some
puppet on a string. Fontana, the puppeteer, would have me reduced to a
bit player in a play orchestrated to bring about two things. The first
thing is of course my downfall and loss of the PVW American title that
I have worked so hard to earn and defend. The second to serve as the
coronation of Fontana to confer upon him the title of American
champion as a well a title he covets even more, more than maybe even
the world title itself, the title of the greatest technical wrestler
in the world today. There are some who claim Fontana is the best
technical wrestler in the world, some of whom believe it almost as
much Fontana does, if that´s possible. Fontana has a good case, given
his matches and accomplishments throughout his career in PVW and
elsewhere, there´s no denying he has a valid claim. The problem is the
extent to which he believes he is the best. This man has redefined
egotism, fuelled in part by his success and his survival of several
near death experiences,from which he has chosen to adopt the moniker,
deathless one. This man needs this match with me, he needs it to
validate his claims to be the best. Anybody can call themselves the
best or a legend, and Fontana may be one of the best at doing so.
However its when others call you the same, then these claims no longer
ring so hollow. For that to happen he must defeat the best, if not in
his eyes, then the eyes of others, and that appears to be me.

(Herscher looks up at the camera and smirks)

You will get your chance to face me, Fontana, since its what your
little play has been building up to. However there's going to be some
changes to the outcome. Your puppet is under a new choreography and
the puppet has a new role in an entirely new play. This play is about
a puppet who tires of his puppeteer, moving to accommodate his whims.
The puppet fights back and tears his strings, allowing him to move of
his own will and direction. The puppet celebrates his emancipation, by
using the devices that controlled him to ultimately liberate as he
uses his strings of bondage to choke his former puppeteer to death.
This play has yet to be staged, but its already been cast. i? going to
play my part and your going to play yours, puppeteer. If you want to
know what direction the play will take i suggest you watch its dress
rehearsal at Tradition 6, when your understudy Nevermind has the
privilege of playing your part, whether he wants to or not.

(Herscher lets out a small chuckle, as he walks off the stage and out
of frame. Fade to black.)

****************************************
****************************************
Nevermind
****************************************
****************************************

[A cold rain falls.  The sound of cars splashing through water can be
heard in the background as the camera moves down a dark, wet alley.
We can hear the camera-man slosh through puddles and see drops of rain
splatter against the camera's lens as it reaches the end of the alley.
Seated on the wet pavement, his back against the cold, wet brick is
Nevermind:  The King of Nothing.  He wears the faded flannel normally
tied around his waist over his usual hole filled t-shirt, and  huddled
on either side of him, shivering in the cold are a thin woman with
dirty blonde hair, and a pudgy girl with a mousy brown rat's nest atop
her head.  They hold a soaked piece of cardboard over their heads to
keep most of the rain off of themselves and the large man seated
between them.  Nevermind himself seems to pay no mind to the cold and
the rain.  He merely looks up into the camera between the greasy, wet
strands of hair hanging down over his face and begins to speak in a
gravelly voice.]

It never ceases to amaze me just how little people listen or pay
attention.  Chris Hartt, do you see me smiling?  Have you ever seen me
laugh?  I find nothing about what I've done to you amusing, Hartt.
The truth is, I find nothing amusing but that's beside the point.
What you fail to realize, Paladin, is I haven't done these things to
you because I enjoyed them.  I did them because they were necessary.
I take no joy in exposing you to the world for what you really are.  I
have to do it.  Just like I have to expose all the pathetic losers in
PVW.  Only when people see you for what you truly are, will they open
their eyes to the reality of the world around them.  Until then,
they'll continue to live with the delusion that all this stuff
matters.  The more guys like you convince them to believe in things
that don't even exist, the crappier this world becomes.  All I've done
is show them that everything you say you stand for is nothing but a
pack of lies.  All I've done is expose the real you.  You see, Chris,
not even you buy what you're selling anymore.  I've given you plenty
of chances to stand up for the right thing and prove that you're not a
big lie, but you've failed to do so every time.  Am I satisfied?  Yes.
But happy?  Well, I'll never be happy, Chris.

But you can take comfort in one thing, Hartt.  No matter how much you
disappoint yourself and all the people who once thought you stood for
something, you'll still never be as big a joke as the guy you have to
wrestle at Tradition in San Diego.  You'll never be as idiotic and
meaningless as Perry Fontana.  Fontana, I told you that you couldn't
keep me from getting my match with Donkerhardt.  Now I guess you see
that for yourself.  Maybe now you see that no matter how hard you try
to be relevant, you'll never be anything more than some clown doing a
piss poor Pepe LePew imitation.  You say you want to show the world
that you're the greatest submission wrestler in the world?  I say the
only thing you've shown the world is precisely how full of crap you
are.  Like I said, if you really wanted to show the world that all you
care about is proving you're a better wrestler than Donkerhardt, you
wouldn't even want the match to be for a title.  Of course, there's no
way Herscher's going to still have American Championship by the time
you two finally get around to having your match.  So you might
actually get to prove it after all.  But let me tell you this right
now Perry.  If you really, truly want to make sure that Donkerhardt is
in top condition, you'll keep your nose out of my match.  If you so
much as show up in the arena during my match with Donkerhardt, I won't
take it out on you.

I'll take it out on him.

I'll mess him up so bad there's no way in Hell he'll even be able to
show up for a match with you, let alone be in tip-top shape.  Of
course, a lame ass like you would probably just show up at the
hospital, lock him into a hold while he's still in his body cast, and
then call yourself the greatest in the world.  That's what you're
going to have to do if you get involved in my business, Pepe.  But
don't feel too bad.  You and Hartt can always say your match is to
prove who's the most pathetic guy in PVW.  I have a feeling no matter
which of you wins, it would be just as valid.

As for Donkerhardt himself, well, you picked a lousy time to get
healthy, Herscher.  Apparently you didn't pay the doctor enough to
keep you out of action for just one more week.  Donkerhardt, you'd
better forget all about Pepe Fontana, at least for now.  You're going
to have your hands more than full dealing with me.  Not that it will
matter.  I'm going to take your title Herscher.  It doesn't matter
what you, Pepe, or Hartt say or do, I'm going to beat you.  While
you're trying to make me submit, I'll be beating you into a bloody
pulp.  You'll have a hard time locking any hold on me when I pull your
arms out of their sockets.  And even if by some chance you manage to
get me in some hold or other, I'll never submit.  You can't hurt me.
The kind of pain you can inflict, is nothing.  Real life, now that's
pain, Herscher.  And just like all the other guys in PVW, it's a pain
you can't deal with.  All of you spend all your time pretending to be
someone or something you're not in the pathetic hope that you won't
have to feel that pain.  But I embrace it, Herscher.  I don't hide
from it.  That pain is a part of me.  A part you're going to be very
well acquainted with by the time it's all said and done.  I'm reality
Herscher.  And just like Hartt and Fontana, you can't deal with
reality. But when I get that American title from you, it will be a
reality that you, and all the PVW will have to deal with.  And when
that cold, hard rain of reality is falling all around you, you'll
either drown, or learn to...

never mind...

[Nevermind looks back down, hanging his head as the downpour continues
to drench him under his cardboard square.  The camera begins to back
away as the two women on either side of him shiver and nestle closer
to the uncaring man between them in the vain attempt to keep warm,
before the scene finally fades to black.]

****************************************
****************************************
The Heat
****************************************
****************************************

[A very soft and feminine voice comes over the speakers as we see a
makeshift sign coming into view.]

FW-D: Hello people in TV land and welcome to The Heat talkshow!
Today's guests are the true gateway to the tag team division in PVW...
welcome THE HEAT!

[A sharpie'd sign reading THE HEAT with red scribbles around it shows
up then leaves and we see Arvelle "MAGIC" Lafayette hanging with PACO
and Maxime. The trio are dressed as if they are street basketball
players. Arvelle is wearing a Kurt Rambis jersey by the way.]

AML: Hello all you wonderful HEAT-aphiles! Today me and the boys...

*cough from offstage*

AML: ...and amazing lady are going to discuss what it is to be
winners.

[HOORAY!]

AML: You see, Pharoahs of Age, being a winner means taking life by the
horns! It means being old enough to do bad things but young and sexy
enough not to care! You three are the old guard, self soiled and way
too aged to be anything but in an antique shop! Meanwhile this here
group, right here, the beautiful ones all in your camera, we're the
current! We're hip, we're happening, we're the HEAT!

[Arvelle tries to dribble... and fails. In fact, he trips and falls. A
bad edit makes it look like he is suddenly standing up.]

AML: Ya see, bet ya'll can't do nothing like that because your walkers
would get in the way! You two Rage brothers and your French
maid/whore/grandmother/Idontknoworcare signed a contract your wrinkly
old butts can't cash. You willingly said: give us the HEAT! We wanna
match up against the Oiled Adonis of OXACA and the Miami Pound
Machine! And then, just to seal the deal, you wanted to have the MAGIC
one himself not only slap you silly Sallies but also your great granny
too? What is wrong with you?

Just look at how athletic I am!

[Arvelle makes for the rim and a poor cut shows the HEAT setting up a
ladder and Arvelle falling off the ladder a couple of times before
PACO, in a wig and horrible reflective red suit, does a slam dunk.
Arvelle is in that same suit as we do another cut.]

AML: See that? That's what you're going up against! You signed the
contract and now you gotta pay the piper! We'll see you at T VI,
suckers! The HEAT is on and the HEAT IS OUT!

[Fade.]

****************************************
****************************************
Mike Bisignano
****************************************
****************************************

[Backstage at the Valley View Casino Center -- we cut to inside of the
dressing room of "The Biz" Mike Bisignano. He's sitting on a sofa
reading the latest issue of Wrestling World Weekly while JDM is
standing up. Biz is wearing a pair of expensive wool dress pants and a
white dress shirt with black dress shoes. JDM is sporting various
clothes and what not and is balancing a small phone as he leans up
against the wall, James Dean style.  The Super Agent to the Stars is
wondering why Biz is wearing wool pants in August as he chats away on
his goldfiche.]

JDM: So I says to Mabel; I says-

Biz (interrupting): Jeffrey... do you ever bother to stop and hear
yourself sometimes? If I didn't know better, I'd say you love the
sound of your own voice over anything else in this world.

[Jeffrey cups the phone in derision at this holistic invasion of
privacy.]

JDM: Talking to myself is the only way to get decent conversation
around here.  Speaking of which, we've decided that I shall not be
accompanying you to the ring tonight.  Trial and error.. and besides,
you don't want any excuses when you win.

Biz: Well then, Mister Marsh... as nice as that sounds, allow me to
put it eloquently so you'll understand it. This night is _your_
biggest trial of faith in our relationship. I expect to leave this
building tonight with the winner's share of the purse and not have it
fall into the scabby hands of that IRA wannabe, Caleb Foley. And what
I expect from you is to make sure that happens. Whoever your "friend"
is, get him on the horn and tell him he better make his presence felt
before the night is through or you can consider yourself off of my
Christmas list.

JDM:  I'm Jewish ya schmuck.

[The Biz looks at JDM puzzled as to what one has to do with another.]

Biz: Then you should have no problem working that magic of yours and
earning your ten percent. And while you're at it, tell those bastards
at SSN that this will be the LAST Shockwave The Biz will be working on
if they want The Biz to be in their company at all.

JDM:  No more B-Show for the Champ!

[He does a little flip of the hand from his forehead.]

JDM: Biz, all this stressing, my friend... just wait and look, watch,
and feel.  All this, this stress- it's bad for the aura.  You get your
mind right, and let JDM Superstar handle that- and you just sit here
and quit losing your hair.  What are you, like 33?

[Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" starts blasting on JDM's cell phone.  He
holds a hand up to The Biz, walking backwards.]

JDM:  I got this. I have it, don't worry Mike?  It's taken care of.
JDM Enterprises, Consider yourself enlightened.  Mike, you just focus
on how you're gonna spend all that cash bonus!  Yeh, yes.. anyhow
where was I?  ...So I says to Mabel I says.

[JDM exits the room. The Biz continues to flip through the pages of
the magazine and stops on an article. His eyebrows raise as he begins
to read it to himself. After a moment or so, he lowers the magazine on
to his lap, gets up from the couch and walks over to the mirror.]

Biz: Caleb Foley isn't the only one with a change of attitude.
Something tells me that if I'm gonna walk out tonight a winner, big
changes need to go down on this side of the mat as well.

[He runs his fingers along his shirt and through his hair]

Biz: And I know exactly where to start.

[And back to ringside]

****************************************
****************************************
Gibson Hayes
****************************************
****************************************

[The camera is looking up at a stage. Several large spotlights
illuminate that stage and instead of a curtain a large blue flag with
white center circle and interlocking red GH prevent folks from looking
behind the man who is standing front and center: Gibson Hayes. Dressed
in his dark blue suit with red tie and white shirt, Gibson looks down
towards the camera.]

We are on the eve of Tradition VI. There is no need for Arabic
numerals for this showcase of talent and there is no need to explain
to the loyal PVW fans as to why each and every Tradition showcase is
important in the grand scheme of Phoenix Valley Wrestling.

[Hayes appears to be calm as he says his peace.]

I, Gibson Hayes, am making my 5th Tradition supercard appearance on T-
VI. Consider this: no other wrestler on the PVW roster has appeared in
as many Tradition cards as Gibson Hayes. No other PVW wrestler has
appeared on more Tradition shows. No other PVW wrestler has appeared
on as many consecutive shows as Gibson Hayes. Let those facts sink in.
Mull them over; roll them around in your mind. Then, after you have
grasp those thoughts and understand them think about this:

[Letting things sink in time goes here.]

Gibson Hayes has never lost at Tradition.

[Hayes's right hand shoots out and he is holding up all his fingers
and his thumb.]

Five trips, five wins. Sure, you may say Doc Holliday had his shoulder
up at Tradition V, but we all know that's not true. The PVW brass
couldn't allow Doc to be humiliated by Gibson Hayes in two straight
Tradition match ups. Do you think They like knowing that Doc "Never
Loses" Holliday is 0-3 against Gibson Hayes? Do they like knowing that
Herscher von Donkerhardt is a broken man after barely being able to
snake by Gibson Hayes? Do they like having to hitch their wagons to
America's Most Favored Son and the Last, Best Hope for a Bright Future
and Better Tomorrow?

[Gibson shakes his head, and smiles.]

You better damn well believe they love that fact. Gibson Hayes is the
one shining beacon of hope that many of them clung to in the dark
hours of irrelevant champions such as Brian Young, Rob Cole, Chase
Williams and Rick Marley. All of those guys have one thing in common:
they aren't PVW. Each and every one of them is an outsider. Those men
are interlopers - biding their time and padding their resumes and bank
accounts caring not one whit for Phoenix Valley Wrestling or America.

[The champion is now pacing back and forth.]

So, AsH, what are you? Are you a man who's left, what was it again?
The pit of hell? Is that any way to think of a place that crowned you
its champion? Are you so above it all, lost in your own little fantasy
world where your entire set of behaviors will simply be glossed over?
Acting the fool to entertain the yokels, getting high all the time and
talking to your breakfast cereal? Sure, it's cute, dare I say it's
entertaining. I know entertaining, though. I was trained by
entertaining and have been very entertaining. You know the problem
with being entertaining?

[Pause.]

Eventually you have to get down to brass tacks and all those little
quips and digs fall by the wayside because you're too busy grinding
your bootheel into whomever tries to usurp your position. Yet, AsH,
you aren't used to actually having to be on the offensive, are you?
You're the plucky underdog; the guy taking a stand; Mr. Not Serious;
el perdedor to some but always able to rise to a challenge.

But this isn't just any challenge, AsH.

You're used to being the smaller, faster man in a fight. You are more
familiar with surviving. Take hellacious blows, savage beatings and an
incredible amount of punishment but come out on top because you will
not quit. This time is different.

This time you must be the one to deliver those blows, that beating and
dish out that punishment. Then, and only then, can you even take one
step to securing the prize so many have lusted for but never come
close to attaining.

[Hayes beings to pace.]

AsH, you do not know who you are facing. I am not phased by little
gimmicks or tricks, hell, I resort to them myself. This is your
ultimate test - can you go toe to toe with someone who won't get
frustated with your behavior, who'll just keep asking you to come at
them? Can you go from human punching bag to actual predator? I don't
think you can, AsH. You are so used to playing the sympathy card,
getting whipped within an inch of your life that you do not know how
to finish the job. You have to beat me, AsH. Not just win the match
but BEAT - ME. In that ring. You can't out run me, you can't out smart
me - you have to beat me.

[Hayes turns around... but then looks over his shoulder.]

...and you have to beat the system.

[LIGHTS GO OFF AND IT IS OVER!]

****************************************
****************************************
Senor Cloak Dos
****************************************
****************************************

[The scene opens to a hallway in a hospital. We see an open door but
it's very dark inside, too dark to see anything inside. We hear some
beeping from inside. A figure slowly walks out of the darkness and
into the hallway. We recognize him as the father of Josie, the young
masked fan of PVW's luchadore sensation Senor Cloak Dos. His face
tells a tale of despair being and anxiety. He looks around, as if
waiting for something. After a few moments a slight relief seems to
come over his face and he pokes his head back into the door.]

Josie's Father: He's here!

[He stands by the door with a brave smile on his face as foot steps
approach.]

Josie's Father: Thank you so much for coming!

[A handshake is extended to the Mexican man who walks up to him. The
Mexican is very lean yet muscular and is wearing a dark gray suit that
seems slightly too large for him with a white button up shirt and a
black tie. He also has a black luchadore mask covering his head with
cherry colored eye visors that prevent us from seeing his eyes and a
cherry colored "SCII" on his forehead. It is obviously Senor Cloak
Dos.]

SCD: My apologies. There was alot of traffic, the bus took a while to
get here.

Josie's Father: I understand. Thank you so much for again taking time
out of your busy schedule to see my daughter. I know that she just
spent time with you but as her condition has gotten even worse since
then all she keeps asking for is to see you.

SCD: I am happy to help in any way that I can.

Josie's Father: Please, come in.

[The men nod at each other and the luchadore walks into the room with
the father following behind him. We continue to just see the doorway
but we hear them.]

SCD: Hola!

*KOFF*

[We hear coughing and then a familiar but very weak voice.]

Josie: Mister Cloak Two!

SCD: Hola amiga! How are you today?

Josie: I'm fine. Don't worry about me, Mister Cloak Two. I.. *KOFF*
I'm sorry they wouldn't let me wear my mask in here.

SCD: You are so bonita, amiga, you do not need any masks. And you do
not need a mask to show me your support. You just rest and do what
your parents and the doctors say. Soon you will be...

*SOBS*

[We hear a woman crying.]

SCD: All.. better.

*KOFF*

SCD: Lo siento. I apologize.

Josie: Don't be sorry, Mister Cloak Two. My Mom keeps crying but then
she tells me she is fine. I think maybe she is sick and needs to see a
doctor too.

[We hear laughter, a sad laughter.]

Josie's Mother's Voice: I'm fine honey.

Josie: See? She keeps doing that.

[We hear a bit more sad laughter.]

SCD: I am sure everything is fine, amiga.

*KOFF*

SCD: You just rest and take it easy. I am sorry about all the
upsetness with Senor Black at Heatwave. I should not have left you
alone.

Josie: You had to help Mister AsH from those bad men! Tha- *KOFF*

[A coughing fit ensues. After a while it settles down.]

SCD: Amiga, you need to rest. I apologize for working you up so much.
You get some rest now an-

Josie: No! I.. *KOFF* I have to tell you something before you fight
Mister Black!

SCD: OK, amiga. Take your time though.

Josie: I.. I don't think I will be able to watch your fight with..
*Sniff*.. Mister Black.. *Sniff*

SCD: That is alright, amiga. There is no reason to cry about that.

Josie: But.. *sniff*.. I'm scared.

SCD: Scared?

*SOBS*

[We hear Josie's mother crying again.]

Josie's Father's Voice: Excuse us a moment.

SCD: No problem, Senor.

[Josie's Father comes walking out of the room with his arms around
Josie's Mother who is covering her face as she cries. They walk just
offscreen.]

Josie: Are you sure my Mom is ok?

SCD: Si, amiga. Your parents are just very concerned for you, as am I!

Josie: But I'm concerned for you, Mister Cloak Two. I'm scared that..
That..

*KOFF*

SCD: It's OK, amiga. Do not be worried about me. You just res-

Josie: But.. If I am not there you will be missing support and.. You
said we give you the power to fight..

SCD: Amiga, you do give me power. You have done so much for me and
others at the Phoenix Valley! We carry it in our hearts. You do not
need to be there or watch to give us that power, you have given it to
us already.

Josie: But.. I.. I think I won't be here at all Mister Cloak Two.

SCD: Do not talk like that, amiga. If you listen to your parents and
your doctors..

Josie: Mister Cloak Two, I'm scared I won't be here or anywhere by the
time you fight Mister Black. That is why.. *KOFF*

SCD: Shhh. Do not say such things, amiga.

Josie: That's why.. You have to promise me something.

SCD: Si, whatever you want. Just rest for a moment..

Josie: Do you still have the mask with the flower sticker I put on it?

SCD: Por su puesto, amiga! Of course I do.

Josie: You have to promise me.. Promise that you will wear it when you
fight Mister Black.

SCD: I promise you, amiga, I will wear it.

Josie: Thank you. I'm scared if you don't wear it.. You won't win.

SCD: Josie, I promise you I will wear the mask.

Josie: That was what I wanted to tell you. If you wear the mask.. Even
if I am not here...

SCD: Shhh.

Josie: Then you won't be missing my support..

SCD: I told you, amiga, we carry your support already. You just rest
and stop saying these things about not being here.

Josie: I'm sleepy.

SCD: You need rest, amiga. Sleep is good. You get some sleep.

Josie: I will.. Oh! Mister Cloak Two.. *KOFF* I .. *KOFF*.. I almost
forgot!

SCD: Get some rest, do not worry about anything else but feeling
better.

Josie: Your Dad gave me those tickets for Disney..

[We hear the luchadore laugh a little.]

SCD: Si, Padre Sin. He is a good man. I am sorry I was not in the
building to help him at the end of Heatwave.

Josie: I don't think I will be able to go to Disney, Mister Cloak Two.
Could you give them to.. *KOFF* .. Your Dad and tell him.. I'm sorry.

SCD: Amiga, I can give them back to Padre Sin for you but he will just
give them back to you because you will get better and..

*KOFF*

SCD: But enough of all of that, amiga. No more getting excited and
worked up, OK? You get some sleep and rest.

Josie: Alright, Mister Cloak Two. Thank you for seeing me again.

SCD: No, amiga, Thank You for everything. You just get rest, OK?

Josie: OK. Goodbye Mister Cloak Two.

SCD: Goodbye Josie.

[A few moments of silence pass by and then the luchadore appears at
the door and Josie's parents walk up to him.]

SCD: .. Is there nothing that can be done?

[Josie's mother breaks into tears again. Josie's father holds his wife
and does his best to stay strong for everyone.]

Josie's Father: .. Pray. Pray for her to have peace.

[Though we can not see Cloak's face his body seems to buckle a bit at
this. Josie's mother wipes away her tears for the moment and shakes
the luchadore's hand.]

Josies' Mother: Thank you so much. It meant so much for her to meet
you all these times. We could never..

[The tears begin again and Dos nods his head and pats her hand.]

SCD: Thank you. She has helped so many of us in PVW.

[Her mother nods her head and walks back into the room. Josie's father
gives a handshake and SCD nods his head to him.]

Josie's Father: Pray for her to be at peace.

[Dos nods his head again. Josie's father then walks back inside the
room. The masked man straightens up and slowly walks off screen but
then moments later the camera moves past the door, following the
direction Cloak walked off in. It stops at a bench where the luchadore
sits, his masked head in his hands and he is crying. Sobbing openly
until he notices the camera. He motions with his hand for the camera
to go away and it does but we still hear the luchadore crying as the
scene fades.]