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** Phoenix Valley Wrestling Presents  **
**            SHOWCASE                **
**            12.21.11                **
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-> The Berserkers
-> The Biz
-> Tracy Hudson
-> Rob Cole
-> Legacy
-> Adrian Freeman
-> The Spectre
-> Danny Daniels
-> Talion
-> Lineage
-> Kevin Quartermann
-> Chris Hartt
-> Livestock and The Gutch
-> Heath Dawson
-> Hayes & HvD
-> Christopher Black
-> Derek Weaver
-> Nevermind
-> Larry Gionet
-> Johnny Detson
-> Marcus Manson
-> Gold Rush
-> Cow and Chicken
-> Chance Holiday
-> Perry Fontana
-> Uncle Frank
-> Max and Sal
-> Heath Dawson & Erich Seiger
-> Masked Man
-> Gibson Hayes
-> Sinister & Senor Cloak Dos
-> William Craven


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

(Portland Oregon ... Waiting at the airport in dreary winter weather
stand the ASLL tag team champions, Doom and Wolf ... the Berserkers.
The two Chicago natives are dressed in black leather jackets with
their usual face paint on.

Yes, they do wear their face paint on the planes for anyone who was
wondering that at home!)

Wolf: It feels like a nice evening in Chicago out here.  The wind is
whirling through as the planes take off.  And, we just received a call
telling us we are Idaho bound.

Shockwave ... _BERSERKERS_ SHOW.

We have dominated ... We have earned our stripes ... Last week HOPE
continued to show the world that they are cowards.  A loss is no doubt
a loss.  However, I think the world saw what went down.  There is no
use crying over it.  Instead we will get our revenge.

(Doom cuts in.)

Doom: HOPE ... Shame on us.  We knew your game.  We knew there was no
way in hell you could stand toe-to-toe with the three of us.  And, we
had things all set to be over ... THEN BOOM.

We turned our backs for one second.

That one split second ...

(Doom Snarls.)

Wolf: We will have another shot my friend.  However, let's focus on
Boise.  In the Shockwave Main Event ... We have a shot of a life time.
 It's why we came here.  It's why we wear this paint!

(Wolf pats his partner on the shoulder.)

Wolf: Max and Sal ... You two have been two guys we have looked at as
the measuring stick for quite some time.  While, we dropped opponents
down to the mat, match-after-match across sea's.  We would sign on the
gossip-rag sites and watch footage on you two.  You two ... were the
reason we wanted to come to the PVW.

Now ... in a dream scenario ... title versus title ...  It doesn't get
that much bigger then this.  No, the top two tag teams in the world.
In the end only one of us will have our hands raised.

Then, Doom and I will extend our hands ... and shake a worthy
opponents hand ... after a hard fought match.

Doom: Max and Sal ... You two have our respect.  However, we share a
common goal.  We _both_ want to wear the PVW gold.  We _both_ want to
be known as the top tag team in the PVW.

(Doom slowly nods his head.)

Doom: Right now that is you guys.  You earned those with battle scars.
 We aren't hear to take the coward way out.  We aren't here to cheat
you out of that hard work.

No, we are here to look you in the eyes.  Trade respect ... then when
that bell rings ... Respectfully send you both down to Hades.

(Camera backs away showing both men in full scale now.)

Wolf: Max and Sal ... We wish you a healthy trip to Boise.  You two
are a big reason why we are here.  You have our respect and best of
wishes in a hard fought healthy match.  However, like the rest of our
opponents when it's all said and done.  You two will feel the - BOOM!

Doom: BOOM!

Wolf: BOOM!

(Fade.)

****************************************
****************************************
The Biz
****************************************
****************************************

[Backstage at the last Heatwave event (you know, the one held in
Portland, Oregon) - we find The Biz sitting in the locker room wiping
pond scum from his face and hair with a white towel. He drops the
towel to the ground as he looks right into the camera and begins to
speak.]

Biz: Frogs are nasty creatures which makes me think whoever was behind
that little stunt tonight is just the same... a nasty ing
creature. Then again, they did choose _my_ match to make a statement
so whoever you are, you do have an ounce of good taste and respect
coming from me.

But that's all you get.

I don't care if you're Kermit the Frog or Mister Toad or that god
awful amphibian from the WB... you know the one who sings and
dances... I _DARE_ you to try that stunt again. Only this time I
promise you I won't be shaking off the effects of Marcus Manson's body
odor.

[He pauses for a moment and shudders at the mere thought of Manson's
stench]

Biz: Man that guy can put someone on their back with only the lift of
an arm. Woo!

[Another pause]

Biz: But enough about frog boy and the stanky wonder. It seems yours
truly has a date with our newly dubbed President, Danny Daniels,
coming up in a few weeks. Let me tell ya, I've had my fair share of
matches with nutjobs but Daniels, you truly take the cake. I mean who
in their right mind would walk around with a fake title and then on
top of that, compete against someone else for a fictitious role.

At least in my day, I "earned" my stripes by taking out the
competition through any means necessary.

I will give you credit though, Daniels... anyone who can leave Johnny
Detson in the shape he seems to be in nowadays has to be doing
_something_ right. After all, Detson _IS_ a man who one time lost to a
boot... or at least that's the rumor I hear going around the locker
room night in and night out.

But I'm no Johnny Detson. My days of walking around with a silver
spoon in my mouth are through. The only thing I care about is beating
people up and picking up my share of the purse on the way out the
door. So when you mess with either of those two things, you're messing
with my livelihood.

So in the interest of making things all the more fun...well for me, at
least... how about you use that "Presidental Power" of yours and throw
in a little something to sweeten the pot for our match? Maybe a title
shot of the winner's choosing, seeing as that person will be me.

[The Biz stands up]

Biz: After all, this company could use a champion that stands on his
own and doesn't bow down to any master.

Which brings me to you, Sinister. You can walk around acting like some
sort of "General" but The Biz... he doesn't buy it one bit. I know
that when push comes to shove, you'll do just that... shove some of
your followers in front of you and let them take the brunt of the
punishment while you sit back and take all the credit. But keep up
your charade and let the sheeple flock behind you.

Because The Biz answers to no one.

And soon, everyone will see just that.

[Fade out]

****************************************
****************************************
Tracy Hudson
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****************************************

[Scene cuts in to an anonymous hotel room. More to the point, we are
in a hotel bathroom. Even MORE to the point, judging from the wrappers
on the soap and other toiletries, we are in a Best Western hotel
bathroom. So much for anonymity eh?

Sitting upon the toilet is our "hero" (no, not YOUR hero...that's
somebody else entirely), Tracy Hudson. Thankfully for all of you
watching at home, Hudson has his faded blue jeans firmly around his
waist and the toilet lid is down. Maybe next time you can watch him
poo. As he sits, he is chatting animatedly on a cell phone, while
fumbling with a black plastic box sitting in his lap. He has a wide
smile on his face and a happy gleam in his eyes...or is that his
spectacles? Anyways, let's listen in, shall we?]

HUDSON: [On phone] Yep. I just got in to Boise now. [Nods] Oh yeah!
I'm in my hotel room and everything. So, what did you do today, hmm?

[Hudson finally opens the plastic box as he talks, revealing...a set
of hair clippers? Yep. That's certainly what it looks like. He uncoils
the power cord from around the clippers and sets them down on the
counter next to the sink.]

HUDSON: [Still on the phone] Oh, you spent the day with Uncle Danny,
did you? And what did...OH MY GOD! He took you to Bodyworlds? SWEET!
Honey, I am SO jealous. Well...

[Hudson strokes his chin in seeming contemplation. He finally stares
right into the camera and holds up a finger, indicating for the crew
to give him a minute.]

HUDSON: Well let's see...I have to do an interview for the PVW guys.
Yeah. They're here now. I'm sorry...couldn't hear ya. Oh! Who am I
fighting? Let's see...I'm fighting Livestock. No, not Da Cow God...

[Moo.]

HUDSON: ...though he's here too. Yep. So's the chicken man. You want
me to get their autograph for you? And a picture? Well, sure I can do
that, kiddo! I just need to ask them during the show sometime, if I
can find them. But yeah, I promise.

[One more glance to the camera from Hudson, with a sheepish shrug.]

HUDSON: Okay. Listen, Lina. I have to go, okay? Yeah, I have to do an
interview now. Alright, hon. You be good now. You know...do your
homework, brush your teeth, and all that. Tell Mommy I'll call her
later tonight, yeah? Yep! Love you too, kiddo. G'night, doll.

[Hudson ends the call and stands up, placing the phone in the front
left pocket of his jeans. FINALLY, he gets down to the business of
talking to the viewers.]

HUDSON: Sorry about that. I promised my little girl I'd call her as
soon as I got settled in. Soooooooo...where to start, hmm? Where to
start...

[Hudson smiles widely, a "Ah-HA!" look flashing across his face.]

HUDSON: So...I'm sure you all have a plethora of questions for me. So
let's start with the obvious- What's with these here? [motions over to
the hair clippers] Well, I'm guessing you already know what those are
for. Next question would be- Why are you going to shave your head?
Well...that may take a bit more time to explain, but here goes.

[Hudson's eyes scrunch up underneath the lenses of his glasses, before
nodding slightly to himself.]

HUDSON: The last time I tried to come back in this company, I was
trying to recapture something that wasn't there anymore. I had the
flashy hair, the fancy intro lighting, the pyro, all of it. And well,
the four or five Tracy Hudson fans still out there know how well that
worked out for me, since I re-retired after all that.

So, we flash forward to earlier this year. And this guy, Hunter Fox,
calls me up out of the blue. Says he owns the rights to the company
that made me a cult hero back in the day. He says he wants me to come
back. So I say yes, and sign on the dotted line. Then, while waiting
for that to work out, I get a call from someplace called the IPWC.
They tell me they want me to come work for them again.

And I did that. I came back. Wrestled in some damn fine matches too if
you ask me.

But they wound up shutting down in a few months. Not to worry though.
Very next thing that happens is none other than Ryan F'n Delaney
himself calls me up, and says he wants me aboard a startup he's
running outta Pittsburgh.

Long story short, DERP shuts down too...

..wait. What is this all about again?

CAMERAMAN: Um...why are you cutting your hair?

HUDSON: YES! Yes, that's it. I knew there was a point to this. So
we're just gonna get to it- When I got the offer to come back, I grew
this out...

[Hudson undoes the ponytail behind his head, allowing a thick mop of
fraying, faded blue hair to fall close to his shoulders.]

HUDSON: And I tried to be something I wasn't anymore. Just like the
first time I came to PVW a few years ago. I tried to be my gimmick. I
played the role I'd done for so long now. And the whole time I'm doing
this, I get this nagging feeling I can't shake. And at the time I
couldn't put words to what I was feeling. But you know who did? Some
guy I was fighting in IPWC. He said I was cheating myself...

[Hudson now stares down, away from the camera.]

HUDSON: That I beat myself nine years before, in my last WWO match.
And he was right.

[Hudson looks back at the camera and smiles softly, though his jaw is
quite tight with anger.]

HUDSON: Don't get me wrong- it still pisses me off that he was callous
enough to bring my history up like that. And if I ever see the guy
again, I just may do horrible, horrible things to both him and his
parents for breeding. Nevertheless, he was right.

But no more. Never again...

Which brings us to you, Livestock Zappa.

[Hudson fumbles inside the box once again, this time pulling out and
comparing various guides for the clippers. As he does this, he
continues to talk, not looking at the camera as he sets the clippers
up for use.]

HUDSON: You know, Zappa...I know what's happening with your partner.
Diabetes can be a horrible thing to live with. I know. It killed my
own dad two or so weeks ago. And even before that, he was a shell of
himself. From almost three hundred pounds to a buck twenty-five. An
amputated leg. Constant infections, nerve damage, gangrene....hell,
you name it. I just wanted to say this first and foremost, Zappa- I
get a sense of what you must be feeling, and for that I'm truly sorry.

But having said that...

...I am gonna kick your ass.

[Hudson removes his shirt, revealing a torso covered in various scars
and abrasions from over twenty years of getting the crap knoced out of
him for fun and profit. He absently flicks one of his nipple piercings
and traces a line down the Y-Incision suture tattooed down his chest.
In his other hand are the clippers.]

HUDSON: I don't say this as a boast. This is a fact...

[He now removes his glasses, folds them, and sets them on the
counter.]

HUDSON: ...Because I _have_ to win. If you lose, you have a shot of at
least making things work with your partner. I lose?

Hell! If I lose, I get a one-way ticket back to the Rose City to sit
and wait for another chance that may never come again.

So that's the end of it- no more tricks. No more shortcuts. No
gimmicks.

Just you.

Just me.

Oh, and as for the last question you all must be asking: No. Cutting
my hair will most certainly _not_ take away my power. Why would any of
you think that anyway?

[Hudson turns on the clippers. The buzz is heard as he raises it up to
his head. As the camera fades out, we can see the first of what will
be many locks of long blue hair falling into the sink...]

****************************************
****************************************
Rob Cole
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****************************************

[His head bowed, brows furrowed as he stares at the microphone in his
right hand. There's a little bit of shaking in that hand and the
former World Champion is forced to take a large breath, the struggle
to still his hand is obvious and he turns to regard the PVW banner
behind him. He lifts his left hand and smoothes one of the wrinkles,
swallowing before he turns to face the camera. Rob Cole is a little
paler than normal, his eyes seem a little more sunken.]

RC: Here I am. It's not a place I want to be... it's not a place I
looked forward to over the years, a place where I feel comfortable, or
a place where I think my best work is about to blast open the doors
and gain me the respect I've always wanted. I have struggled to be
something in this business... to be a champion, to be a hero, to be a
villain, to be 'something' worth while. And I found some degree of ...
notoriety... as the "monster". A few weeks ago... William Craven came
out to that ring and we wrestled in barbed wire and we shed our blood
and that... that... that filth-ridden piece of crap took away the
notoriety I had earned and I will never again refer to myself as the
"monster beneath the bed". So all you people sitting at home, planning
to attend an arena show.... *sad chuckle* buy up all that tee-shirt
merchandise because I'm not renewing my contract to sell those shirts
or bumper stickers. The Monster Beneath the Bed is gone... he's dead.

[Cole stares down at his hand... it's already started to tremble and a
look of disgust crosses his face before he takes another deep breath
and struggles to control that shaking hand. There is frustration in
his features... and his voice is a little smaller as he speaks without
thinking... ]

RC: ... why won't it stop shaking... ? *clears throat* I...

[He sucks in his breath and turns a vicious glare toward the camera...
He speaks through anger, frustration, and the struggle to maintain
control of himself.]

RC: What am I supposed to be now? The "former" world champion? I'm
sorry I can't make people laugh... I'm sorry I'm not what you people
want me to be, what you people have asked me to be, and I'm dang sorry
that my personal life has been put on display over and over and over
for you people to dissect and tear apart. I'm sorry that my wife is
recovering from a split face... that William Craven threatened her and
my son in order to get me in that ring. I'm sorry that I can't be the
Hero daring to bring a virtual war to the latest stable to threaten
everyone who enters that ring...

I'm sorry that I'm going to step in the ring with Larry Gionet one
more time, that I'm going to face the "PVW Warrior" in some sort of an
attempt to either cash in on his rise or cash out on my fall. I
deserve better than this... and, quite frankly, Larry Gionet deserves
better than this. But it doesn't matter...

[Cole suddenly sucks in a breath and closes his eyes... and tears
start to fall. He clears his throat and continues to speak with his
eyes closed.]

RC: Whatever happened yesterday will never matter ... because the only
thing that's important is what you to do today. What you give, what
you offer, what you sacrifice... yesterday is done and gone and you
only have today. And they only want today.

[Eyes open.... Red... bleary... and he shakes his head, swallowing.]

RC: Cyric doesn't matter anymore. Paul Styles doesn't matter.
Hiroyoshi Takeda does not matter. The AWMC doesn't matter and neither
does ILOC or the old UEW of 1996 through '97. My stint with the Motor
City Madman... the matches with Craddock... none of it matters. And
when you look back at my history right here... right here in this
ring, in this company, with everyone who has come and gone and some
who came back again....

NONE OF IT MATTERS!!!

[Cole takes a moment... breathing. He laughs a little... with
disgust.]

RC: None of it matters... because it doesn't matter if you face Larry
Gionet a few weeks earlier and then a few weeks later, because he's a
younger name and a warrior and a guy who has gotten back his killer
instinct. You wear a guy like Cole out... you break him down and
that's when you keep throwing Gionet in the ring with him. And what
about Larry? He's a guy that wants to build his name on the bodies of
fallen "legends"... as if being a "Legend" meant absolutely anything
to the people who run this company.

Larry Gionet is a rising star and Rob Cole is a former champion... the
only one who lacks the dignity to bow out when his prime has passed
him by, the only one who needs to continue putting food on his
family's table and won't just give in because of it, and the only one
we know we can use in order to build the future. Rob Cole is the
past... the death match trash man. The man who... who can't stop his
... his hand from shaking...

[Cole lowers his gaze once more... he takes another breath and turns
his gaze to the camera again.]

RC: Sorry... this isn't the aggressive little psycho promo you were
hoping for, was it? This isn't the "monster" preparing to rise once
again.... Well, that's because I don't feel much like a monster these
days. I'm still dizzy... still out of sorts... trying to work through
this mess of emotions inside of me and trying to come to grips with
the drama of it all. And, no... it's not easy to recognize the fact
that people have lost faith in you, that you've lost faith in
yourself, and that things aren't ever going to be quite the same way
again.

So, Larry Gionet, you probably deserve something better for this
match... you probably deserve a "legend" preparing for war, a man
wanting to rise to the challenge, but all you're getting is what you
see.

My little masked admirer.... He wants me to suffer? I would need to
"care" in order to suffer, genius... I would need to have something
you could take away! What are you going to do?!?!! HUH?!?!?!!  Attack
me from behind for the... what? For the thousandth time in my career?
I've been hit with chairs, piledriven on concrete, and I just faced
two thundermelters in a row... you could cut me, scrape me, bash my
head in.... BASH MY HEAD IN.... BASH MY HEAD IN.... and it wouldn't
make a bit of difference! I've seen it all before.... Everything you
could do to me, everything you could be to me, everything.... I've
seen it all before!

I've done it all! Done it and had it done... Oh, you have no idea how
much I've suffered and bled for this sport! You coward... you pathetic
coward. You want to hide your face and pretend this is some sort of a
big deal?!?!!

[Cole's fury begins to return... and so does his trembling. But he
doesn't even try to control it now... he just clenches both fists
around the microphone and lowers his head to speak into it, shoulders
trembling as he speaks. Voice pitching a little high from the
tension... cracking beneath the strain.]

RC: And Larry Gionet... I was saying that you don't deserve this. I
was saying that you deserved better and I meant it... because I have
never EVER claimed to be the best professional wrestler in the
business. Even when I held that belt... when I went after that belt...
when I cashed in on being a "monster" and I had everyone scared and
frightened and I became a legend the boast of being the "best" never
once entered my vocabulary. Because, Larry Gionet...

I have always been the WORST!!!

And you don't deserve that, Larry... you don't deserve someone at
their worst, someone who revels in being the worst, some one who
simply stops caring about whatever happens in that ring and just
brings the fight that they have in them.But that's what you asked
for... when you laid out your open challenge, when you put yourself
out there. This is what you asked for. And you're facing a middle aged
brawler... a man who simply doesn't care about what he has to do in
that ring, a man who doesn't care about who he has to face, and a man
who simply doesn't care if he suffers or not. You're facing a man who
has been rejected... a man who called himself an "Outcast" because
1996 was a year of men "Made in America", a year of British loyalists
waving their flags, a year where truckers held belts and beautiful
Barbies led heroes and villains to the ring and a guy like me just
didn't quite fit in.

You deserve better than this, Larry... you deserve to keep on climbing
that ladder and making a name for yourself.

[Coles' eyes flash up... tears flowing freely. And there is a hunger
and an anger in there... ]

RC: But you want this, don't you? It's another chance to guzzle at the
bleeding freak. It's another opportunity to build your name and your
legacy. Will it satisfy ya'? Is there too much blood or not enough? Is
this going to be enough for you? And on Shockwave... I'm going to give
you your fill.

*fade*

****************************************
****************************************
Legacy
****************************************
****************************************

[Open to Tommy Von Braun and Sterling Von Braun sitting in metal
folding chairs.  There's a wood-panel wall behind the two of them.
Tommy's wearing a pair of blue jeans, tennis shoes, a green "Rocket
City Wrestling Academy" t-shirt, and an Alabama Crimson Tide baseball
cap.  Sterling's wearing some slim-fit designer jeans, a blue t-shirt
with "So snarky, I'm hip" written on the front in white, a pair of
Sketchers shoes, and enough hair product to be considered a fire
hazard.

Alex Wallace is standing in front of them.  Wallace, a pair of khaki
pants, blue golf-shirt, and loafers pretty much completes his attire.
Wallace has his back to the camera.  Tommy has his elbows on his knees
and is leaned forward, paying attention.  Sterling is has his right
arm around resting on the back of Tommy's chair.  His left ankle is
crossed over his right knee, and he's leaned back in his seat.]

AW:  You two got a win against the Midnight Thrillers.

[Sterling cheeses for his manager and pats Tommy on his right
shoulder.]

AW:  Two rookies beat two rookies, and now you're king of the world,
Sterling?  What if that had been a seasoned team who had been together
for the better part of a decade?  What would happen?  Same result?

[Sterling nods.]

AW:  You're wrong.

[Sterling sighs heavily and rolls his eyes.  Tommy casually backhands
Sterling's right shoulder.]

AW:  Save the attitude, kid.  Your next task is another Desert
graduate team called Awe Inspiring.  We've got this match coming up on
Shockwave.  Show me you learned.  Prove it to me out there.  One more
win, and the two of you can speak during promos.

[Sterling reaches into his left pocket, pulling out a folded up piece
of paper.  He hands it to Wallace.  Tommy sighs and shakes his head at
his partner.]

AW:  What's this?

[Wallace unfolds the paper and reads it.  He smirks and nods his
head.]

AW:  Cute.  "We can't talk, but you never said anything about a note."

[Walace finishes reading the note.  He promptly crumples it up and
then throws it at Sterling's head.  Sterling reacts a bit too late and
the crumpled paper bounces off his head and lands in his partner's
lap.  Sterling looks surprised, not expecting that response.]

AW:  That's exactly what I think about that idea.  Remember the rules?

[Both members nod.]

AW:  After five wins, I consider your ideas.  But... if that's what
you want.  Fine.

[Sterling's surprise turns into a smile and a nod.  Tommy uncrumples
the note and reads it.]

AW:  I'll get you a match.  And this is the deal.  You lose, you
follow my rules.  You win?  You still follow my rules.

[We fade out.]

****************************************
****************************************
Adrian Freeman
****************************************
****************************************

[A busy business district.  There's probably one like it in every
town: full of tall buildings that seem endless from the ground, their
glass windows reflecting the blinding sun, and thousands of near-
identical men in suits dashing around trying to save their fortunes.
It's not Wall Street, but it's close enough.  Adrian Freeman is
sitting on a bench watching the businessmen run by.  He's dressed to
the nines in a suave suit and tie left over from the Southern
Syndicate days, and a big black pair of douchebag sunglasses.  As
usual, he's smirking at the camera.]

AF: Pro wrestling is a business.  People like to ignore that and
pretend it's something bigger -- a proving ground for their
masculinity, a modern-day Colisseum, or some similarly pretentious
nonsense.  But in the end, it's all about business -- paying something
you have to get something you want.

Supreme Wright wants a rematch.  That's very nice for him.  I want a
lot of things.  I want a new car, a mansion and the PVW World
Heavyweight Title.  But there's a difference between wanting something
and deserving it, and between deserving it and having it.  Supreme,
you can't just bully your way to a match with me.  You have to make it
worth my while.  You have to _pay_ for it.  And we'll see if you're
willing to pay enough.

[A few young go-getters walk by, yakking about marketing and
expansion.]

AF: Did you think for a moment there you would get a chance in this
six-man match?  That what you desire would just be handed to you for
free?  It's not that simple.  As soon as I saw the listings I got on
the phone with PVW and did some business of my own, just to make sure
you wouldn't get your hands on me in the match.  Sorry, but it's not
going to be that easy.

As for the match itself... I'm sure the three of you are fine
wrestlers if a bit dull, but think about who you're facing.  You're
facing the best technical wrestler in PVW in myself, a monster in
Chance Holliday who was the first one to expose Supreme Wright for the
hypocrite he really is, and a veteran in Kevin Quartermann who learned
long ago how this business really works.  All three of us have been
doing this for years, and quite successfully.  You three just don't
have the experience to know what to do with us.  Maybe in a few years
from now this might be an even match-up.  Maybe.

But for now?  It's business time, and one of you is going to end up
broke.

[Freeman takes the sunglasses up and stares intensely into the camera.
His cold blue eyes manage to transmute annoyance to intimidation.  And
with that, we fade to black.]

****************************************
****************************************
The Spectre
****************************************
****************************************

[The scene opens on a simple PVW backdrop with The Spectre standing in
front of it.  The dreadlocked goth grappler looks calmly into the
camera lens, a flat, expressionless gaze, a lot like how he might
regard a bug before deciding if it required crushing.

After a moment, he takes a breath...]

"We really have nothing more to say."

[Nodding, Wrestling's Devil continues.]

"You see, we despise repetition: Redundancy is the safe harbor for
little minds...those who lack the drive, desire and ability to enforce
their upon their surroundings.  The posturing...the constant verbal
barrage that passes for thought and discourse leaves us weary.

We remain a creature of action.

We remain driven...guided by the singular principal to which we've
remained dedicated for all this time."

[He pauses, licking his lips.]

"Some declare us mad.

Others declare us evil

Others still simply avoid us, as if we carried one of the biblical
plagues with us.

For our part?  We play our role.  We perform our function.  Whether
loved or hated we remain as we ever were.

It seems that some have taken our statements about the need for HOPE
as a sign that we have had some sort of change of heart...that we will
somehow wear a white hat and ride to the rescue of the downtrodden.

Absurd.

We are not now, nor shall we ever be a hero...such is not our purpose.

Instead, we will be the crucible that will temper the heroes to stand
against HOPE...but first?  First we must clear the path for those
heroes.  We must isolate them...make them strong enough to perform
their role...no matter how sinister our opposition, we will
prevail...because deep down, everyone knows to fear the dark."

[fade]

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

[The camera fades in to see a small cubicle.  It's a standard sized
one, complete with desk, computer, chair- the usual equipment.  Seated
in the chair, feet on the desk, is PVW President Danny Daniels.  He's
on the phone, speaking amiably]

D"YH"D:  So you're in Tokyo tonight, facing the Masked Rainbow Badass
Unicorn?  OUTSTANDING!  Best of luck, Jack- and Ariogoto, Mister
Roboto!  TOODLES~!

[Danny hangs up the phone and waves at the camera.]

D"YH"D:  Greetings and Salutations!  I was just on the phone with the
SUPREME Champion, Jack Griffin!  Ever since he won the title, we've
been bonding!  It's fantastic!  He's on an international tour at the
moment.

[Danny puts his feet down and stands up.]

D"YH"D:  Now, I've been a busy little beaver myself.  As PVW
President, I'm proud to announce that our charitable efforts were
warmly received!  And I can promise you that, as PVW President, that
was just one of the MANY changes I have planned for in PVW!  You're
Welcomed!

[Danny flashes a beaming grin.]

D"YH"D:  People are excited about PVW!  In fact, Chance Holiday was so
excited, he thought he has a second match, running down to ringside.
Unfortunately, he ran down during the middle of another match-
specifcally, my match with Andrew Freemason!  Now, while normally I
fine outside interference, I realize that Chance was just so super-
duper excited to be fighting in PVW that his emotions just overcame
him!

[Danny raises a finger]

D"YH"D:  Not to worry.  I called his father, former PVW star Doc
Holliday- though Doc has two "L" is his name, and his young son Chance
has only one- that must be a Texas thing.  Regardless, I chatted with
Doc for a few hours, and he promised that he'd lecture Chance on
proper wrestling etiquette.  Great job, little buckaroo!

[Danny gives a couple of "Thumbs Up" before continuing.]

D"YH"D:  Now, this week I'm facing "The Bees".  I think it's
outstanding that he's reaching out to our insect friends.  In fact, I
welcome working with the Apiary Community into PVW.  I'm sure that
"The Bees" and I will have a FANTASTIC match!  But you're not getting
my honey, sonny, no matter how dangerous your sting might be!  In
fact...

[Danny picks up a yellow post-it note and re-reads it.]

D"YH"D:  "The Bees" has said that he used to be the Dragon Kid.  So
"The Bees" is actually a young dragon...

[Danny pauses, lost in thought on the implications... then snaps his
fingers.]

D"YH"D:  That makes PERFECT SENSE!  See you in the ring, "Bees"!

[Danny looks down into a dayplanner, turns it upside down, and his
eyes widen.]

D"YH"D  Well, What do you know?  I have a 3:30 meeting with the
referees!  One of them has a proposal about bringing straightjackets
for managers- we're researching the costs.  But such is the life of
Your Hero- and Your PVW President- Danny Daniels!  TOODLES~!

[Danny picks up the dayplanner and walks out as the camera fades out]

****************************************
****************************************
Talion
****************************************
****************************************

"I have been where you are, Christopher."

[The view fades up to show Talion standing in a black trench coat in
what is obviously rainy, windy conditions. The area around him is
pitch black, except for the overhead spotlight that gives just enough
light to see his features. Talion's mask is difficult to see, except
for the bright white outlines around the eyes, nose and mouth holes.
He motions to himself with his thumb.]

"You're filled with rage. It strains at you to get out and is so
engulfing that you can't escape it."

[Talion puts his hand down and turns to better face the camera, the
wind still whipping against him and making audio a little strained.]

"You aren't sure where it began really. you just know that everything
feels like an injustice against you. Each human contact feels like
someone else pushing you down. The anger wells up and you have to take
it out on someone to make it seem natural.

"You realize that is why you attacked Hartt, right?

"The anger inside you boiled and you picked a fight in order to
relieve it."

[Talion nods silently for a few seconds.]

"It leads nowhere you want to go. It leads to a life of solitude and
loneliness, feeding the beast of your anger so much that you turn
against even those who would support you at your darkest hour. It
takes control to where you say and do things you never knew you had
the capacity to perform. And if you let it continue its hold on you...

"It leads you here."

[Flood lights suddenly turn on and we see Talion standing in a
rainstorm at a graveyard. He is standing next to a large tombstone
that simply says the word "BLACK" on it. Talion is not speaking to let
the entire view really sink in for the viewers, and hopefully, for
Black as well.]

"Why do you think I wear this?"

[He motions to his mask.]

"It isn't because I enjoy it and it isn't because it protects my
facial features."

[He cracks his neck to the side and adjusts his trench coat in the
windy, rainy conditions.]

"It is because I allowed my anger to burn me up and it took everything
I held dear with it...including my family, my career and my very self-
respect.

"I would save you that pain, Christopher. I would save you the utter
disgrace of where your actions are heading. You should let go of your
anger and begin to see what is truly important around you. I can
assure you Mr. Hartt did nothing to garner that type of directed
anger."

[He looks up at the clouds and then back toward the camera.]

"You can say I am on a mission of mercy. I am already doomed to walk a
period of time under this shroud in order to do what I love to do. You
still have a chance to change your ways. You still have an opportunity
to make good where I failed in the past. You are not lost...

yet.

I consider you a worthy opponent, but most of all I see the potential
in you to be more than just the annoying guy with an accent who picks
fights to stay relevant. I want you to focus on what is truly
important when we step inside that ring.

[Talion again uses his thumb to motion toward himself.]

"Me."

{His hand is lowered again.]

"Not because I am so great and powerful and not because of my size
advantage. I want you to prove you can be more than a punk thug. Prove
that, and you still have a chance at redemption. You will be able to
look at yourself in the mirror and be happy with what you see, which
would be an improvement over what you see now...

right, Christopher?"

[Talion takes a step toward the camera, his footsteps seeping into the
wet ground near the grave marker.].

"When we meet, I plan on giving you everything I have to give and plan
on walking out with a victory that I can share with the fans.
Something they can be proud of because  they have also seen the best
you have to give as well.

It is an uphill battle for me in PVW, and I hope you come ready to do
your worst...

[The camera pans in close to show only Talion's wet mask.]

"...because I will do mine.  May the best man win."

[The flood lights die out and blackness fills the screen as we hear
the wind and rain for a few seconds. Then it is utter silence as the
scene ends.]

****************************************
****************************************
Lineage
****************************************
****************************************

[Scene: We open on a shot of a hotel room. It is obviously a vast an
expensive location, with plush, blue leather seats and a glass table
dominating the current shot. On the two-seated couch sits "Royal"
Randall Vermeer, dressed in torn designer jeans and a purple polo
short, a can of Rockstar on the table before him. His right hand is
covered with a golden MMA-glove. A dull, thudding rhythm can be heard
but we are not aware of the source. A frown is etched onto his angular
face.]

RV: Ah, the cameras. Come to get some footage of your heroes, have
you? What is this, TMZ? Sports Illustrated?

Off-camera voice: It's just for Burning Effect, the PVW preview show.

[Randall presses his hands against his temples, careful not to touch
his faux-hawk.]

RV: PVW, yes. It is all messed up, anyways. We were supposed to _win_
our debut, you see? I was going for an undefeated streak, a golden
road of glory that would lead straight to a title victory ... and
beyond.

[He slowly shakes his head in frustration.]

RV: But I know who is to blame for this. The cowboy and the old guy.
Gold Rush, they call themselves. More like Sh[BLEEP] Ru[BLEEP] ...

[Vermeer hesitates for a moment, having lost his train of thought. The
faint thudding noise in the background continues.]

RV: I mean ... I mean ... here I am, bringing in the best thing the
PVW tag-team division has ever seen and I myself have to take care of
getting a match in the first place and then Regnigh and Wilson show up
anyways. This is not how a sport is supposed to go. You do not see
Arsenal London running onto the pitch when Man United and Chelsea are
playing, do you?

[He takes an angry swig out of the Rockstar can.]

RV: Do you see? Gold Rush should have accepted that we took their
spot. _I_ deserved it. Just like I deserved that victory. How will
this stain on our records look on my career retrospective?

(In a deep, movie trailer-esque voice:) "Lineage, the greatest tag-
team ever formed, started their awesome and standards-defining era of
domination with ... a loss."

I hate that. And how am I supposed to create a legend when I have to
watch over my shoulder, worrying that those rabid fools of Gold Rush
ruin everything again? I _demand_ safety from these proles!

Finally, we are stuck fighting two losers next. Cow and Chicken. Pfft,
yeah right. Michaelson seems to believe we need an easy victory to
establish ourselves in PVW right now.

But we will defy expectations and go above and beyond a plain
humiliation of our opponents, because that is what a Vermeer is born
to do. We will show our fans exactly what Lineage ... what my pedigree
of excellence ... stands for.

[A sneer creeps onto his face.]

RC: I hear that the chicken-boy considers himself some kind of high-
flyer? Doesn't he know that poultry are a flightless species? This
should be a warning to him ... he should not try to overshadow _my_
exhibition with his amateur hour stunts. Nobody wants to put that mask
on a t-shirt or a PPV poster. What is up with his mask, anyways? How
ugly does he have to be if the mask in the image of a gutted fowl is
considered an improvement?

As far as his partner goes who had the nerve to put his stinking mitts
on me during the three-way ... a man who wants to be like cattle, like
the dumbest, slowest most pathetic animal I can imagine ... he will
pay for his insolence.

[He stands up and shouts over to his tag-team partner.]

RV: You hear me, Kruger? You will break the fat one down to itty bitty
little pieces! You will stretch him out with your holds and  bars and
locks and rock his three chins with your European Uppercuts until
"moo" turns into "no, please"!

[Vermeer raises his right hand above his head and slowly clenches it
into a fist as he lowers the head to his face again in a pose that
seems well rehearsed.

The camera pans to the side and we finally see Alexander Kruger. He is
wearing a plain red t-shirt and black track pants and is busy jumping
rope, obviously the source of the thuds. He easily manipulates the
rope like a lasso, whipping it around his body in figure-eight
motions, and then flying it under his legs. His wrists move as much as
his legs, in an elliptical fashion, like a rower uses his paddles. His
torso looks rather motionless, as if standing and vibrating. He is
sweating profusely, the perspiration dropping off his crew cut and
flowing down his neck. His lips are moving silently but otherwise he
shows no reaction as Randall continues to address him.]

RV: And when he is all bloody and broken and torn up I will finish him
off with the Midas Touch. The PVW faithful have waited far too long to
witness me delivering that coup de grace.

[Since Kruger just continues doing his exercise the camera focuses on
Randall again.]

RV: After Heatwave is done I will have had my revenge on that
oversized beefhead Moo, I will have had my first victory and I will
have the fans chanting the name of my ... lineage.

Vermeer. Vermeer. Vermeer.

Vermeer!

VERMEER!

[Fade to black as he continues bellowing his name into the camera.]

****************************************
****************************************
Kevin Quartermann
****************************************
****************************************

[We cut to a very non-descript location: it's the corner of a room.
Off-white block-style walls and a steel chair are the only non-
character things present.  Amazingly, this is a rare case of a steel
chair being used for its intended purpose, as seated in the chair is
Kevin Quartermann.

A tall young man with an average build and short brown hair,
Quartermann is leaning back in the chair with a relaxed posture.  The
newly-minted roster member is wearing red track pants and a white 'NO
FEAR' T-Shirt.  His cleanshaven face is a bit sweaty, revealing that
he's either worked out or had a match recently.

Kevin speaks in a moderate-pitched voice.  He has quite a tendency to
ramble, so if you don't like run-on sentences or sentence fragments,
you may not like the transcription.  He occasionally laughs under his
breath, and his volume and pace goes up or down depending on the
topic.]

KQ: So they tell me I'm in, and to introduce myself.

Kevin Quartermann.  I fight for a living.  How do you do?

[He leans forward, hands clasped in front, looking down at the floor
briefly to collect his thoughts before continuing.]

KQ: So, here's my story.  Six years ago, I got a big break, golden
ticket, only I was a dumb stupid kid who didn't appreciate anything
and proceeded to piss it all away by being the whiniest ingrate this
side of James Harrison.  I cried about the 'glass ceiling' while
installing my own personal glass ceiling by antagonizing everyone,
refusing matches, making my own matches, and trying to play God over
my own career.  Spit on the people who try to help you, bury everyone
you can see, yeah, that's a recipe for greatness... and I was the
greatest wrestling superstar ever to end up jobless and living under a
bridge in San Bernadino.  Well... THAT bridge, anyway.

Ya know, some kids... some kids, they grow up quick, they know what
they're doin' in life, and by age 16 they could go out and do or be
anything they want.  Some kids, they gotta get out in the world and
take their lumps a bit, and I think most people are this way, but they
figure it out as they go along.  And some kids, they won't grow up
until life drags them kicking and screaming through hell and back.
And that's what it took for me.  I got to looking at the Welfare
check, and it struck me that I could either cling to this, do what I
needed to get everyone else to get me by, or I could wake up and take
control of myself.

So I did.  And I never thought I'd come back to wrestling, thought
that ship had sailed, but times got tough so I asked around.  They
gave me one chance.  One shot to get it right.  If I blow this one,
it's back to the bridge.

You'll have to excuse me if I'm just a little bit desperate to win,
then.

I don't know what these others are fightin' for, and I really don't
care.  Everyone knows what this match is.  You got six guys, young
guys, hungry, throw 'em all in one place and see who wants it the
most.  We all been places, we all know how this goes... ain't no
rookies in the ring here.  They're already playin' up that whoever
gets the fall is gonna move up the rankings, so you can forget about
this bein' a tag team match.  This is gonna be every man for himself,
and I'm sure my alleged partners have some inane threats for their
alleged partners.  See, I don't like to have my intelligence insulted.
We all know what this match is all about.  They want carnage, they
want ratings, and they want us to fight each other over this.  And
it's gonna happen.  On both sides.  So what we have is a battle royal
in disguise, and it'll all come down to who wants it the most.

[With that, Kevin sits up straight, his demanor suddenly becoming very
serious.]

KQ: So any of you lot gonna be livin' under a bridge if you don't make
it in PVW?

[He pauses, ostensiably to let his opponents answer the question.  He
starts again, more animated this time.]

KQ: They told me ta go in this thing and make an impact.  Brother,
what they're gonna get is an impact, and I ain't real picky on whose
face it gets made.  The only question left is which one of you is
gonna be the poor soul who forgot to buckle his seat belt before he
took that last turn down the wrong side of the interstate.

[With that final statement, Kevin gets up and heads offscreen... we
cut away.]

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

[Backstage of the arena. Being tended to by doctors is The Paladin
Chris Hartt. A medical tech finishes his last bit of checkup and
offers some last minute advice. Hartt thanks him as he steps away.
Holding an

icebag wrapped in a towel, Hartt addresses the camera.]

Hartt: I don't know why it happened, but my chances against Gibson
Hayes were weakened, thanks to Christopher Black.

I did my best and gave Hayes one hell of a fight, but it should have
been so much more. Luckily, Hayes had his HOPE buddies there to do
what he couldn't do on his own...save his weasely ass.

It's gonna come around again soon, Hayes. I'll get my chance at that
title and then I'll be one hundred percent. Then you'll see just how
much of a threat I am to your title reign.

But right now, I have to address the reason I wasn't one hundred
percent. Christopher Black atacked me before the match. Poor wolfie
didn't like being reminded of his loss to Senor Cloak Dos. Don't look
at

the fact that his smug ass deserved to be laid out over his actions
over Josie. Dos just exacted revenge for her.

So because I just remind him of the truth, he throws me into a cement
wall. Well, I'm still here, Black. The job's not done. I'm getting my
payback on you. I don't care where I have to go or who I have to go

through. I'm taking you down, Black. You're nothing but a schoolyard
bully. You pushed down the wrong kid. I won't cower and pretend you
are The Big Bad Wolf. You can huff, puff and blow the house

down. I'll still be standing there, ready to face you. Ready to bring
you a fight you haven't seen from anybody, yet.

[Another medical tech comes toward Hartt saying something.]

Hartt:  NO! Get out of here!  I'm fine and I'm not done!  BEAT IT!!

[The room quickly clears out, as Hartt stands and steps closer to the
camera.]

Hartt:  There is nowhere you're gonna go to get away from me.  Hide
behind whoever you want, Black. I'll go through them like a hot knife
and keep going till I've run through you. I hope you're ready for Hell

because I've made a few calls and the worst of it is ready for you!

[Hartt whips the towel into the camera and shoves it aside as distant
voices can be heard calling for the Paladin to calm down.]


****************************************
****************************************
Livestock and The Gutch
****************************************
****************************************

[Shockwave is ended and, as is often the case the cameras have
continued to roll.  Sitting on a bench, leaning heavily on his black
leggings is the pretty, blond big man known as Livestock Zappa.
'Stock, as he's often called, is looking a little down.  Shaking his
head he's looking just a bit down and out in an odd echo of last week
when his tag team partner Gutch Bartilucci made his big revelation.
    Speaking of the big, fat monster with the oversized head, there he
    is!  Dressed in loose-fit stretch jeans, white T-shirt and a blue
    blazer, the big man is looking about as classy as he ever does
    nowadays.  The cane's a nice touch.  'Cane?' you ask?  Yes, just
    like when his femur had been fractured Gutch is favoring his right
    leg.  Beat.  Two beats.  Gutch speaks.]

Gutch: 'Stock?

Livestock: Yeah Gutch?

[Pause.  Gutch gives a shifty look.]

Gutch: Oh, uh, wasn't sure you saw me.

Livestock: Got you in my peripherals.  You're hard to miss.

[Raising his head, doing his best to look cheerful, Livestock's face
emotes on several levels finally settling on frustration.]

Livestock: Oh son of a bitch!  Gutch, why are you using that cane
again!?

Gutch: What!?  My leg hurts.

Livestock: You didn't need it this morning.  Did you call the doctor?
Did you check your glucose?

Gutch: Yeah yeah, I'm on it, believe me.

Livestock: You'd better be because I'm not gonna be the one to explain
to Rosa why her husband's foot had to be chopped off!

[Oh yeah; if you missed the memo Gutch has recently been diagnosed
with stage 1 diabetes.]

Gutch: Dude, it's just a flareup from the injury earlier this year.
It's, uh, why I wasn't at ringside earlier...

[Looking sidelong at Gutch, then rising and putting his hands on his
hips, Livestock seems restive.]

Livestock: Well I'm glad there's a reason anyway.

Gutch: Look, bud, I would've been there if I could.  My leg was just
acting up and I felt all tired.   What was I gonna do?  Yawn on the
guy?

Livestock: I don't know, Gutch.  Emotional support?

Gutch: C'mon man, you're stronger than this.  You don't need me.
Hell, you won the tag straps with another guy, remember?  Ohno?

Livestock: Maybe we shouldn't discuss that piece of recent history...

Gutch: Eh, it's all good.  It's related.  I mean I was hurt.  You were
ready to move on then what's the difference now?

['Stock snaps to, taking a step towards his fat counterpart.  Gutch
doesn't flinch although that just might be fatigue from his illness.]

Livestock: What are you driving at, Gutch?  You are not quitting!

Gutch: Yeah yeah, I'm not!  It's all good, bud.  I just meant that you
ain't the codependant type!  You don't need me at ringside every time
and you don't need to sweat what's goin' on with me neither.

Livestock: Okay, so fine, does that mean you'll be there next week?
Let's have a tag match, huh, start climbing the ranks again?

Gutch: What?  You mean our rematch for the titles right?

[Livestock palms his face and becomes more agitated.]

Livestock: No, Gutch!  Our rematch clause actually expired after 30
days.  While you were out we were dropped from contention.

[Jaw drop for Gutch who sputters a bit.]

Gutch: Buh, nah, what!?  Since when is that a rule!?

Livestock: Since our contract was tailor-made by Todd Johnstone.  So
are you going to be there beside me next week or not?

Gutch: Yeah, yeah ... I'll be there ... at ringside...

Livestock: Oh...?

Gutch: Look man, the matches are gonna be made in a few days and I
probably won't be cleared to wrestle for a couple weeks yet.  So, so
until I figure out my new body chemistry I'm just gonna have to be in
a support role or somethin'.

Livestock: Fine.  Just ... take it easy, okay?  Stay on the diet.  For
the team.

Gutch: Yeah, yeah man.  Of course.

[Gutch puts a hand on Livestock's shoulder and there's a soft moment
between the two big men.  Suddenly a third voice breaks the silence.]

Bubba: Yo Gulchie, c'mon man, that buffet only got 'bout another hour
and a half left 'fore it closes.

[In walks 'Big Bubba' Hayes, titanic film-negative counterpart to
Gutch.  Bubba wears a jacket that matches Gutch's and the pair might
actually remind people of the two 'Wild and Crazy Guys' from the
classic SNL sketches with their general appearance.]

Bubba: Oh it's the Cowman.  How you doin' Cowman?  Still racist?

Livestock: Oh.  It's Bubba.  Why am I not surprised?

Gutch: 'Stock, c'mon.

Bubba: Yeah Cowman, don't be hatin'.  I know you wanna trim up my man
Gulch here but real man's gotta eat!  Man o' color ain't supposed to
be skinny.  Baby gots back and she wants a man who's got it too.

Livestock: I don't know where to begin.  Ah, uh, you know Gutch isn't
black right?

Bubba: Shut up fool, I got eyes.  He ain't no African prince but he
ain't no Aryan like yo' ass neither.

Livestock: I don't know that I qualify as a--

Bubba: WHATEVER MOTHER*BLEEPER*!

[Blink blink blink.  Livestock looks at Gutch who smiles sheepishly
and shrugs.]

Livestock: I feel like there's a reference in there somewhere.  More
importantly ... you know his name is Gutch right?  Not "Gulch"?

Bubba: I know more than you man.  This guy, the way he puts it away,
it's like the food's fallin' down in somethin' deep like a gulch.

[Eyebrows raise and Livestock turns back to his tag partner.]

Livestock: So let me see if I have this straight; you blew me off
during my match and now you're blowing me off for Bubba?

Gutch: Aw geez.

Livestock: No, no.  We got screwed, half ruined by Todd Johnstone, who
this guy still works for--

Bubba: I work for Gibson, cracka!

Livestock: WHATEVER!  That's not the point.  Gutch.  You need to think
this through, man.  I'm not sure if Bubba's your friend or what but I
think at this point we both know that HOPE is the enemy.

Bubba: Cowman--

Livestock: Not.  Now.  Bubba.

[Hey, that sounds like pure rage from Livestock.  Bubba might actually
be taken aback a little.]

Bubba: Naw man, naw.  This is positive.

[Bubba gets very near to Livestock, a slight smile crossing his face
that looks forced.  Let's face it; the man doesn't smile much.
There's a chance it's painful for him.]

Bubba: I don't hate you, man.  My man Gulch here speaks real high of
you, got me?

Livestock: Yes.  I understand what you're saying.  I just don't know
if I believe--

Bubba: I just hate your stupid ghost face.  Ha-ha!  C'mon Gulch,
unlimited steak be callin'!

[At that big fat #2 departs the scene.]

Livestock: Okay, so, go.

Gutch: Ah, don't be mad, 'Stock.

Livestock: Hey, it's all good "Gulch".  Go ahead, sleep with the
enemy.  Eat yourself to death.  Whatever...

[Gutch shuffles as best he can on his cane, clearly uncomfortable.]

Gutch: 'Stock...

[Le sigh from the pretty boy.]

Livestock: You're a grown man.  Just ... act like one.  Eat like an
adult.  Keep your condition in mind.  We'll ' discuss Bubba later.

Gutch: Whoo!  Thanks 'Stock, you're the best!

[Gutch hustles out of the room.]

Gutch: Whoo-ow-hoo-ow!

[Aaand he's gone--almost.]

Livestock: Best enabler maybe.

[As Gutch exits he almost butts heads with newcomer to PVW and the guy
who just beat Livestock a little while ago; Talion.]

Talion: Excuse me, Mr. Zappa & Mr. Bartilucci, I'm sorry for
interrupting your conversation...

Gutch: Hey, it's the new guy!  How's it goin' new guy?

Livestock: What is it rook?

[Talion looks at Gutch.]

Talion: I'm not exactly sure what you are going through, but I wanted
to offer my sincerest well wishes for a recovery.

[Gutch nods as Talion turns to focus on Livestock.]

Gutch: Ah yeah, okay, sweet.  Thanks.  I am going through ' a buffet!
Nice meetin' ya byebye now!  Ow!  Ow!

[And Gutch is finally gone.  Livestock turns his attention to Talion
as well, sighing slightly.]

Talion: I also wanted to tell you, sir, that I appreciated our contest
tonight and it was an honor to have the opportunity to face you in the
ring. I really respect you--

[Livestock cuts him off.]

Livestock: Hey, that's great.  Look, you want to show me how much you
respect me?  Try going somewhere in this business.  Make it so my loss
to you actually means something. The worst thing you could do right
now is to just get beat straight out of the league. It'd look bad on
me...

[It's hard to read Talion through his mask but his tone is one of
surprise and pleasure.]

Talion: I'll do my best!

Livestock: Hey, that's all I ask.

[Beat.  Suddenly another presence fills the room.  A pall falls, if
you will, as the greasy sneering face of Todd Johnstone draws the
attention of both men.  When he speaks it's with the slimy charm of
the biblical serpent.]

Johnstone: Hope I'm not interrupting anything.

Livestock: The hell—what is this?  Grand Central Station!?

Johnstone: Mister Zappa ... how about a little privacy here.  We don't
need green ears knowing our business.

[Tense silence as Talion looks back and forth between Livestock and
Johnstone as the pair lock eyes.  Without Looking up Livestock
addresses Talion through clenched teeth.]

Livestock: Tell you what rook, you can buy me a beer at the hotel bar
later on.  Meanwhile I have matters to discuss with this scumbag.

Talion: Anytime. I'll see you then.

[And the young powerhouse departs the scene.  Livestock continues to
stare daggers through Johnstone who glances after Talion then back to
his angry former charge.]

Johnstone: Interesting company you're keeping; if you were smart you
would've erased that kid the second he walked in here.  I know you're
capable.

Livestock: Do you have a point for being here?  Or do you just like
tempting the fates?

Johnstone: Ohhh ... don't start talking trash with me, boy; you don't
have the pipes.

[GLARE from Livestock.]

Johnstone: Fine!  You wanna know why I'm here?  I'm here because
Livestock _and_ the Gutch is done, you got that?  Look at that fat
anvil you've had dangling around your neck!  He's a tripod living on
borrowed time!  He's  and there's nothing anybody can do
about that.

Livestock: He's fine!  He just needs to stick to a diet and he _will_!

Johnstone: He won't.  The only diet he knows is see food.  If he sees
it he'll eat it and hell, I doubt it really needs to be food for him
to eat it.  I'm here to offer you a chance to escape mediocrity; to be
the singles star you know you can be.

[Half turning away and then back Livestock is incredulous.]

Livestock: You're crazy!  You have literally taken leave of your
senses!

Johnstone: I know more than you think, son.

Livestock: Don't call me son you disingenuous little gutter snake.

Johnstone: Fine.  _Livestock_, the guy with the goofy, -up
first name that people assume is nothing but a stage name.  You have
the potential to be a star and you're squandering it with that tubby
.  That's why you just worked a singles match!  That's also
why you're facing off against Tracy Hudson next week!

Livestock: What?  Another singles match?  It's already set?  How is it
already set!?

Johnstone: It's set because I set it.  You beat Hudson in his return
match then you're back in HOPE; simple as that.

Livestock: I'll beat that twice-crippled midget but I'll do it for me
not you.  W-wait ... wait how the _hell_ are you able to do all this?
Why w--wait, wait Bubba shows up and drags Gutch off then you show up
to headhunt me back into HOPE?  Is that what I'm hearing?  Do I have
my facts straight here?

Johnstone: HOPE needs _closers_, Livestock.  We need men who have the
potential to be champions.  Every man with a belt, that's the goal.
You were Tag Champ with two different partner.  You are the strong
link in your team.  HOPE needs no weak links, do you understand?

Livestock: Oh!  Oh-ho!  I get it!  I understand now!  You _never_
wanted Livestock and the Gutch!  You never wanted us as a team!  You
tricked Zeke!  This is nothing but sabotage!

Johnstone: So what if it is!?  You can't dispute the facts Livestock!
You carried Gutch to gold!  You carried Ohno Ow to gold!  When the
time came we cast PAIN aside to bring you aboard but you and that fat
bastard are attached at the hip!  I did what needed to be done to make
HOPE as strong as it could be.  It's a sweet deal; double money, we'll
pair you up with Weaver or ... maybe Frank, you'll take the Tag Titles
again.  Four times champion, Livestock.  Nobody's ever done that!

Livestock: Nobody's been a 3-time tag champ, Johnstone!  Just me.

Johnstone: I'm not hearing a yes.

Livestock: That's because there's no damned way!  You think I need
you?  Is that it?  You're crazy.

[Advancing on Johnstone, Livestock backs the sleazy manager up.]

Johnstone: You got a lot more fire than I remember Livestock!

Livestock: Yeah, yeah fire.  The fire to not fall back into line with
your lackeys.  You think I don't get why you gather these main event-
level guys in a group?  The more tough guys you got backing Gibson up
the fewer challengers he has jockeying for position.  Donkerhardt
beats him and suddenly he's on board.  Frank looks dangerous but
manipulatible so bring him in and he's not only eliminated as a threat
but he counteracts guys like Cole, Spectre and Craven!  Am I getting
close?

Johnstone: Don't burn a bridge here Livestock!  I'm thinking about
your best interests!

Livestock: You're thinking about Gibson Hayes.

[At that Johnstone finally cracks.]

Johnstone: So what if I am!?  What's good for Hayes is good for
America is good for _you_!  You can't turn down an invite to be a part
of the future Livestock.  This is a chance for you to be something
special

Livestock: I am special!  You're proving that already!  I'm Chase
Williams on his best day with a face only a blind man could hate.
Blind chicks still dig me, Todd.  I have the charisma, the skill, the
size and every other tool that a man needs to succeed in this
business.  I have more tools than Gibson Hayes and I think you know
that.
    So maybe I should go after Gibson myself, huh?  Better yet maybe I
    should just cut him off at the knees.  How's that sound?  Y'know
    what the best way to do that is?  Beating you senseless...

Johnstone: What?  Wait, get back you little    You're
throwing away your future!

Livestock: Nope.  Just throwing you ... down an elevator shaft.  Sound
like fun?

Johnstone: 

[Scrambling, almost falling, Johnstone runs out of the locker room.
Livestock jogs up to the door and stops rather than pursuing
Johnstone.  Chuckling he shakes his head.]

Livestock: Wow, that really worked out well.  I thought he might call
my bluff there ... this building doesn't even have any elevators.

[Strolling back towards his bench the rejuvenated Livestock grabs his
bag up.  Still laughing he turns to leave as the scene fades to
black.]

****************************************
****************************************
Heath Dawson
****************************************
****************************************

[SCENE: The lockerroom of the Rose Quarter Arena, home to the defunct
Rip City Wrestling run by Daniel Spreadbury. Heatwave has long since
gone off the air, and janitors and other maintenance engineers do
their best to clean up the gigantic mess that follows PVW, scrubbing,
mopping, sweeping up the remnants of a long night. In the locker room
itself sits Heath Dawson, dressed in the truly bummed out look of
cutoff camo pants, gray Stellar Construction Group shirt and
presumably some form of footwear. Dawson sits in the corner of the
room, next to the last locker and speaks.]

HD: If you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything.

[Dawson stares off into the distance, almost wistfully.]

HD: By a large margin, that was the most popular quote in my senior
yearbook from high school. Everybody wanted to jump on the train and
sound all meaningful, when what they really wanted to say was, "Sucky
sucky long time." Or, "Rick James, bitch!"

Not me though.

[Heath shakes his head, honest.]

HD: My senior quote was, "the dude abides."

[It's true.]

HD: And there's a lot of people 'round these parts who are making
themselves _real_ busy making sure that they stand up for something.
So they don't fall for anything. A lot of people throwin' out words
like hero and savior around here, a lot of people who want _you_ to
know...

[Dawson points at the camera.]

HD: ...just how concerned they are for the welfare and betterment of
others. It's like we got a bunch of social workers in spandex, up in
here. Or in masks, as it were.

Me?

Not so much.

I've spent enough time tryin' to be the knight in shining armor to
find out that it doesn't get ya anywhere. Worryin' about others over
yourself is a fool's errand, made for people with a burnin' desire in
their heart to be loved and accepted.

I've been loved and I've been accepted. I just haven't been
successful.

[Dawson picks up a piece of paper from the floor and crumbles it up,
then flicks it out of the shot.]

HD: My only concern is bein' true to _myself_ and makin' sure that I
can live with _myself_. So when I see a friend get coldcocked by some
jackass in neon green camo, well, what kinda friend would I be if I
didn't lend a hand?

When my tag team partner's manager is gettin' harassed by two of the
lowest, dirtiest pieces of trash in the area, well, what kinda partner
would I be if I didn't step in? A bad partner, is the answer. A bad
friend, is the answer.

Someone who doesn't watch out for his own interests, is the answer.
And at this point, that's something I can't afford to be.

Spectre and Black...

[Heath points to the camera with his forefinger and thumb cocked like
a gun.]

HD: ...it was real. I heard someone around here sayin' that our match
was an initiation or somethin' into PVW. I'm fairly sure I passed. An'
I know I didn't win the match, but the sound of my knuckles poundin'
on your skull tells me that I didn't lose either. An' if there's any
other self made tough guys who wanna test out the new guy, it ain't
but a phone call away.

Freeman, Holiday, Quartermann, I guess that means your digits just
came up on caller ID.

[Heath pulls a white piece of paper out of the locker and holds it up,
the gold PVW letterhead twinkling at the camera.]

HD: They told me it was a new guy showcase, but I'm smarter than that.
I can see through the bulls[BLEEP!]. They wanna find out who is gonna
sink and who is gonna swim. Rather than take the time and effort to
see who has it individually, it's one big law of the jungle match.

Only the strong survive. Smoke 'em if ya got 'em. Why have muscles if
you're not gonna flex 'em, that type o' thing.

That's what I was _made_ for. Us three on one side, you three on the
other, winners take all. I'd love to say how much you piss me off, and
why I hate your guts and condemn ya to the deepest darkest pits of
eternal damnation. Freeman, Holiday, Quartermann, you sons of bitches,
beware the fiery hand of God, and all that s[BLEEP!].

[Dawson stops and shakes his head.]

HD: But I'm not. I won't. I don't even know you guys. But what's clear
is that you three stand between where I am now, and where I want to
be. And that's all the reason I need to bring the pain on Heatwave.
You guys are the hurdle between me and a spot in PVW, maybe a chance
to get on the fast track and actually do something worthwhile.

Some people jump over hurdles, some people go around hurdles, I run
right through them. You three are on the tracks, and this train is
coming through... which brings me to the _other_ most popular quote in
my senior yearbook.

"Move bitch, get out the way."

[Dawson smiles, but does not give off a very humorous feeling.[

HD: Don't say I didn't warn ya.

[Dawson stands up with his bag and looks to leave, when the camera
swings abruptly to the doorway, where an interested Jessica Marshall
slow claps.]

JFM: Nice, Dawson, very impressive. You're an impressive guy.

[Cut to Dawson, who stands non-plussed.]

HD: Yeah, I know. I'm him. Can I f[BLEEP]in' help you?

JFM: I actually have a business proposition for you. If you're
interested.

[Marshall takes a small envelope out of her pocket and tosses it to
Dawson, who catches the  envelope and opens it up, and then takes a
small stack of bills out.]

JFM: That's just a snippet of what I can earn you. Like I said, if
you're interested.

[Dawson takes the cash and pockets it.]

HD: I'm listening.

[Out.]

****************************************
****************************************
Hayes & HvD
****************************************
****************************************

[A well varnished oak table is what the shot is focused on. As the
camera zooms out the audience sees a tray with two small cappuccino
cups and a few biscotti. Panning up shows us the faces of Gibson Hayes
and Herscher von Donkerhardt. Hayes is seated while Herscher appears
to have just arrived. ]

GH: Mr. von Donkerhardt

HvD: Hayes; I'm told you wished to see me.

[Hayes is, as always, wearing an impeccably pressed navy blue suit
with crimson tie and lily white shirt. Gibson's hair is, as usual, in
an afro.]

GH: Indeed. Please, have a seat and help yourself to some
cappuccino... or espresso if you'd like - I'm not sure which you
prefer since I'm not well versed in the Netherlands despite spending a
bit of time in your home country.

HvD: In the Netherlands we help ourselves to a bit of everything -
from fine art and classic literature to soft drugs and hardcore porn;
the latter is more to the liking of the American tourists than the
average citizen. You'd know that if you had stayed a bit longer before
you suddenly had to leave.

[Hayes takes a sip of his coffee.]

GH: Right - if I had wanted a tour of your country I'd have stayed
there instead of getting on with my career. Let's cut through the crap
and get right down to it - unlike our mentors we cannot stand one
another.

HvD: Can't stand one another is a nice way to put it Mister Hayes.
It's taking everything i have not to throw up in your sight or lunge
over the table after you. I don't see a fork here - pity. I like
forks; you remember how well I could use one.

[Herscher stares at Gibson as he takes a sip from his coffee. Gibson
puts down his and dabs his lip with a napkin.]

GH: Delightful. We don't even respect one another as competitors but I
sure as hell respect your ability to hurt people. I know first hand
just how much of a bastard you can be... and it is that kind of
bastard that HOPE needs to secure our place above the rest of the
rabble.

HvD: That means a lot coming from another bastard himself. You're the
type of bastard who not only gets what he wants but knows how to keep
it. I'll bust any number of heads and break as many arms as
necessary... so long as it means keeping this title. All services come
at a cost, and now you know mine.

[Hayes returns Herscher's stare.]

GH: Just as long as you uphold your end of the bargain Todd and I will
use every hook and crook to make sure that belt stays around your
waist. Agreed?

HvD: Agreed, I will break as many ankles and dislocate as many
shoulders as is needed so you will retain your prize, so that a may
retain mine..

[As Herscher gets up to leave, Gibson releases a short cough.]

GH: Oh, and Herscher, I know you want your chance at me again. I know
you want to take the World championship off my waist as you took the
American Title from me. I hold no illusions that my fellow members of
HOPE aren't just as hungry and ruthless as I am. Just remember to
uphold your end and you'll get your chance.

HvD: (lets out a small chuckle): I didn't think it was a secret at all
that i would love to strip you of another title. I would love a chance
with you in the main event and prove to the world that my claim to
being the  best technical wrestler in the world today isn't a hollow
one. On that day we will meet and you will lose again. But that day
has not yet come so let us not talk about it any further.

[Hayes sips some of his beverage and smirks as Herscher exits.]

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

[Fade in on a darkened hotel room.  No lamps appear to be turned on
and the curtains are drawn shut with only the faintest cracks of the
grey winter sky peeking through.  But there is a slight fluorescent
flicker of sorts and sounds can be heard.

Cautiously turning the corner, the first figure to come into view is a
standing Jacob Rose.  Holding a tumbler filled with ice and liquid
courage, the large Londoner glances uneasily at the camera's
intrusion, then his gaze drifts off to the side.  Following Rose's
gaze, we see the source of the sounds and light -- the television is
on.  And slouched back in a chair in front of it is "Bad Wolf"
Christopher Black, remote control lying off to the side.  Off-camera,
ice rattles against glass from Jacob.

Either not noticing or not caring about the camera, Black's expression
is blank.  Unreadable.  On the screen currently playing is the debut
promo of Talion from last Showcase, but it may as well be mere
background noise with the way Black stonily stares, looking at it
without actually watching it.

Until it reaches a certain comment.]

Talion VO: Have you ever faced an animal that has been wounded and
backed into a corner?

[Now THAT elicits a reaction -- a sharp snort of derision as the eyes
of the Bad Wolf widen slightly in disbelief.]

Talion VO:  It is invigorating. It is dangerous. It has all the drama
required to be worth watching. The man facing the beast must be
prepared to die inorder to possibly survive the animal's atta--

CB:  [muttering] ...ain't a [bleep]in' Attenborough special...

[In irritation, Black punches a button on the remote, cutting off the
naive romanticism of the so-called laws of nature his next opponent
was espousing.  The lank Englishman queues up the options on the DVR,
calling up not Shockwave and Talion's match against Livestock, but
rather Heatwave...

...and specifically fast-forwarding to another supposed perpetrator of
divine retribution in "Paladin" Chris Hartt versus Gibson Hayes.
Black straightens up in his seat, his blue eyes now alert.]

CL VO:  The Avenger!  He's gonna lock on that crossface chickenwing
submission!

[The nostrils of the Wolf flare as he takes it all in, studying Hartt
carefully on screen, every heartbreaking near-pin, every counter-
assault on the PVW World Champion.  Black's own fists clench, the
knuckles still scarred but finally healing.  The rasps of breath are
the only sounds he makes.

And his pale eyes are wide with craving.

The camera pans back to Jacob, taking one last swallow of his drink
and watching his client carefully.  The soft-spoken Londoner says
nothing, nervously hesitant to shatter what passes for peace,
eggshell-fragile as it is.  As the camera fades out, the final moments
are of Black watching himself attack Hartt again in that last brawl.
He rewinds...



...again...



...again...



...again...]

****************************************
****************************************
Derek Weaver
****************************************
****************************************

[An old and tattered photo, yellowed with age is the focal center of
the screen. A beautiful woman with chestnut hair and an easy smile
holds a young girl with similar hair and an air of true happiness.
Both wearing sundresses, it is a perfect example of how good life
could be.

How good life was...

As the camera pans back, Derek Weaver is kneeling before a box of
photos, mementos, and various keepsakes. The box itself looks old, but
kept well away from any damage. Truly cared for, this may be the only
belonging completely safe from the rage of wrestling's most dangerous
unknown entity]

DW: This is the last time I'll see you for a while...

[Derek runs a thumb over the photo again and presses it to his
forehead, eyes closed tightly]

I don't think I'm the man that I've striven to be for so long. I don't
think that I'm living up to my own example. I think... I've failed
myself.

[Derek's eyes open]

No. I don't think. I know.

[Derek stops and pulls the photo away from his head, looking at it
again]

I've become something that I despised. I've allowed myself to rely on
the strength of others. I've allowed myself to be debased by the use
of weaponry. I've allowed myself to squash the warrior spirit... to
squash the last pieces of the man I thought you could be proud of.

My honor... is no longer mine.

[Derek puts the photo in the box carefully, his fingers lingering on
the edges]

Professional wrestling is a silly thing, but it seems to be the last
career I could ever carry. A violent temper, a history of anti-social
behavior and an international criminal record tend to dissuade
employers from hiring the man with scar tissues over his eyebrows and
a boxer's nose.

But with no promotion willing to let me in a cage again, it seems to
be my last resort to keep from withering away and falling into the
bottle again. And that would be killing myself... an action I promised
you both that I would not do... no matter how badly I hurt.

So I made promises to both of you... to do it my way. To be a monster,
but one who understood the difference between honor and true horror.
To embrace reality and truth... to accept that the real world stole
you two from me and left me with a shell of a soul, and a pit where my
heart should be.

And until recently, I kept that promise.

But lately... I've been shattering. I'm not "the Heretic" that stood
up against the lunacy of big pyro, and clowns in facepaint fighting
each other for a chance to hawk their merchandise. I'm not longer the
man who stood flagrantly in the face of banal maneuvers requiring
bouncing off of taught strands to add any effectiveness.

I'm... something less.

[Derek presses the heels of both palms into his eyes and leans over,
pained by his own admissions]

I'm not the Heretic anymore... I'm... I'm the Pariah.

The world still fears me, and the message I spread. I'm still a
dangerous man in and out of the ring.

But I've lost my code. And subjected myself to a solitary lifestyle,
shunned by any who would otherwise wish to help.

I'm the Pariah... and because of it, I can't see you for a while. I...
I need to put away these memories until I am, again, the man you
deserved me to be.

I can't look at you... until I can look at myself.

[The camera fades as Derek slowly places the top over the box and
lovingly presses it closed]

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

[A soggy mixture of rain and snow falls from a grey sky.  Far in the
distance, partially obscured by the dull grey sky is the tall
structure known as the Space Needle revealing the location to be
Seattle, Washington.  Despite the foul weather, a group of people
stand out in a vacant lot.  Most of them are huddled around  fifty
gallon drums with small fires flickering inside them.  A few children
in ratty coats clutch tightly to their parents legs, trying to keep
warm.  Trails of tears and snot run down their faces and co-mingle
with the precipitation.  A filthy couch is placed in the center of the
lot, flanked on either side by another fifty gallon drum with flames
licking about inside.  Seated on the soggy couch, apparently oblivious
to the dampness and cold is the man known as the King of Nothing –
Nevermind.  On either side of him, a woman buries herself into his
side to escape the cold.   The woman on his right has her head and
face totally obscured by the hood on the sweatshirt she's wearing,
while the black hair of the chubby woman on his left hangs limply to
the shoulders of her soaked turquoise top.   He wears his usual black
shirt and kilt, with an old, faded flannel over the t-shirt.  His
greasy black hair is drenched and hangs over his face.  His beard is
soaked and a few drops of water fall off it onto his chest.  Instead
of his garbage crown, however, a filthy red Santa hat with a drooping
white ball on the end is on his head.  He looks into the camera with
an utter lack of emotion as the rain and snow mix fall all around
him.]

Merry Christmas.

Granted, this probably isn't the merriest of places to be.  I'm sure
if you all had your way, you wouldn't be seeing anything like this so
close to the holidays.  I mean, why would you want to be reminded of
reality, when you are so desperately trying to surround yourself with
the fantasy of Christmas.  A few weeks out of the year, you try to
live the kind of lives that you think make you better people so you
can spend the other 50 being the selfish scum you really are.  Only
most of you can't even do that right.  You think that putting a few
bucks in the red pot outside the Wal-mart is giving, even as your
spending the rest of your holiday taking.  Look around me.  This is
Christmas.  It's nothing but a day like all the rest.

Just another day full of misery.

Which brings me to the true matter at hand.  Manson, it seems that PVW
wants everyone to think that we have some long, involved history with
one another.  It's true that we were in the same stable way back when,
but to be honest, I don't actually recall you _doing_ anything.
Nothing that seemed to really matter, anyway.  Probably the most I've
really ever had to do with you was not quite a year ago when we were
forced to be a tag team together.   If you remember, Marcus, I told
you then that you didn't have to worry about me.

Well, you can worry now.

Manson, I know you're fond of asking people if they can handle the
misery.  Well, look around at these people.  Do you think they can
handle it?  The kind of misery you dish out is brief and fleeting.
It's nothing compared to the misery of eating garbage and sleeping in
a rain-filled gutter.  The misery you deal in is nothing.  I deal in
misery too, Marcus, but the scars I create go deeper and last even
longer.  I don't break bones.  I break spirits.

These people didn't really have any control over their situation
Manson, but I _chose_ this.  I left wrestling to eat out of dumpsters
and sleep on concrete for 10 years.  That's a type of misery you
simply can't contemplate.  But it meant nothing to me.  Just like the
pain and suffering you _think_ you can cause me means nothing.
Manson, you want to know if I can handle the misery?  I don't have to
handle it.  All I have to do is... never mind...

[Nevermind pulls the santa hat down over his eyes and leans back into
the couch.  He folds his arms across his massive chest as the two
women beside him shiver and try to nuzzle up closer to him in the
attempt to retain some body heat.  The camera fades to black slowly as
the rain and snow continue to fall.]

****************************************
****************************************
Larry Gionet
****************************************
****************************************

[We pan to the outside of Julia Davis Park in Boise Idaho.  The Park
has few occupants as people are rushing getting last minute Christmas
gifts. To the right corner we see a large Christmas tree decorated
with silver tinsel and ornaments with a star on top.   We look further
down to see  a wooden bench where Larry Gionet sits.]

Larry Gionet:  Reaching this time of year, we tend to look back at the
year that was.  Where we look back at our failures and our successes.
Safe to say I had quite a 2011.  I walked in it the PVW Television
Champion only to lose it back in February.  Going down in defeat only
lead and losing that title only lead me more and more to losing and
forgetting who I was.  As a wise man once said it's not how you start
but how you close.

[Larry Gionet rubs his hands together trying to keep himself warm.  He
fixes his skull cap as some of his black hair hangs from outside.  He
looks down at the hardened pavement as if reflecting on what has gone
by.]

LG:  I had a few detours and took a few wrong turns, but in the end it
all worked out for me.  For the first time in a long time I finally
got to show Phoenix Valley Wrestling who I was.  It was about showing
the wrestling world that I was a man of truth.  I knew Caleb Foley was
nothing but a cancer inecting PVW from the inside.  The golden boy of
PVW was blinding each and everyone of you with false hope and I had to
be the one to finish it.

[Larry Gionet looks up at the Christmas tree that is glistening when
the sun hits it at the right angle.  He begins to laugh maniacally to
himself.  The cold weather makes his breath visible as he exhales.
People walk past him and give him looks.  He gives them no attention
as he looks back into the camera.]

LG:  And safe to say I am getting my Christmas gift early.  I get my
hands on you Rob Cole.  I remember what you used to be and what you
have now become.  You were one of the most dominant PVW world
champions this promotion ever saw swatting men left and right.  People
ran for the hills at the very sight of you.  Now it is you that is
running.  The monster under the bed huh?  That is a life that has long
passed you by Cole.

[Larry Gionet looks up holding his chin in a psuedo thoughtful pose
before beaming an evil smile to the camera with those piercing blue
eyes.]

LG:  It is clear that you have been broken and battered by William
Craven  at Boiling Point 2. It is painfully obvious that x has messed
you up mentally.  The only thing left for me to do is to finish the
job.  I am a man of my word and my track record speaks for itself.
2011 will not end in a bang but an explosion.  It's not about how or
why, It's all about do or die!

[Larry Gionet stares into the camera as he inhales before inhaling
through his nose.  The condensation of the exhaled breathing looks
like smoke coming out of a bull in a china shop ready to destroy
everything in its path. We then fade to black.]

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

The scene opens to a bright, white light.  It looks as though the
light is moving slightly back and forth, but as it is so bright, it
blocks all other views from the camera.

Slowly the light gets pulled away revealing an older gentleman in a
white coat holding a pen light in his hand.  He clicks the back of it
and the light disappears.  The camera moves out and we see we are in
some sort of training room or medical station.  Sitting on the medical
bed is Johnny Detson still dressed in his black hooded sweatshirt and
jeans from Heatwave, still unshaven.

The doctor places the pen light in his coat pocket and pulls out
another pen.  He begins to study a clipboard, flipping through a
couple of pages before finding his place and jotting down a few
things.  A frown forms on the doctor's face.

DR:  Not one for following medical advice are you?

(Detson glares up at the doctor and opens his mouth to reply only
nothing comes out.  He quickly looks down and lets out a sigh.)

DR:  You suffered a concussion and your ankle is in bad shape.  You
searched for any doctor to clear you to compete and you couldn't find
one.   You weren't cleared for your match, but you go down there
anyway and decide to start a fight?

(The doctor shakes his head and writes down a couple more things.)

DR:  Didn't think you had an answer for that.  Now I've seen the
tests, the concussion isn't the worry right now; in fact I'd say you'd
be clear if that were the only thing.

(Detson just looks up at the doctor, staring a hole through him, as he
knows where this is going.)

DR:  It's the ankle that remains the concern.  I don't know if I'm
comfortable yet releasing you to compete...

(The doctor flips through a couple more pages, trailing off with his
statement.)

DR:  ...but a fat lot of good that's going to do if you're just going
to
waltz on down to fight every time you want to.  You people amaze me!
How and why would you go down there when no medical professional would
clear you?  EVEN THE LESS THAN PROFESSIONAL ONES!  No one clears you
and you ignore all sound medical advice and go down there!  What
possible explanation could you have?  You're going to have to come
back in a week, let me see the secretary and see when we can squeeze
you in.

(With that the doctor leave the room, the door closing in the
background, telling us he's left.  Detson just leans back on his
elbows not moving from the bed and looks back.  With effort not to
move his body he reaches back over his head and pulls from the pillow
his metal briefcase.  Holding it in his hands he just stares at it as
if it has some sort of power and/or answers.)

[Answers.  Everybody wants answers.  Do you even have an answer or is
it just something you're supposed to do?  Answers turn into reasons,
reasons turn into motives, until everything is so overanalyzed and
drawn out that the thing itself because played out and boring.  You
did it, it's done.  That's all there really is to it.  Move forward or
move out of the way. ]

(Detson looks up and around the room.  Although there's no one there
he half expects someone to be standing there.  Checking around the
room twice he looks back down at his case.)

[Clichés.   Almost as necessary as answers.  It's almost fickle how
people can be.  For months upon months they just want you to shut up
and now they can't wait for you to say something.  How do you feel?
What are you doing?  What's your thinking?  What's your plan?
Why...why...why...why?]

(Again Detson looks up, lost in his thoughts, he examines the room
expecting someone to be there, or thinking they have entered and
overheard something when no one is talking.  Detson stares at the door
for a moment and then looks back down.)

[Why?  Ask why to their why.  They don't need a reason, they want a
reason.  They want the reason because they can't have it, or it hasn't
been offered to them.  Can relevancy be a reason?  Not one said out
loud, but if it truly is the only thing can it be enough?  Will it
work?  Are you?]

(Detson looks panic stricken up from his thoughts.  He jerks his head
quickly to the left and right before looking back down.)

[Well are you?  You've been, once before, you have.  What five
minutes, five hours, five days?  Hardly.  They're right about you, or
are they?  Well this proves it once and for all.  Force or fluke.  A
betting man would definitely say...]

(The door creaks open.  The doctor walks in looks down at his
clipboard.)

DR:  Okay Mr. Detson, just see Nancy up front and she'll schedule you
for next week.  In the meantime, if it means anything to you, elevate
it, and it will work out in the end.

(The doctor goes to leave closing the door behind him.  He stops
suddenly and turns around.)

DR:  You know, you might want to take that out of there, you don't
want it to go numb.

(The door closes shut.)

[Numb?]

(The sound of something emerging from water is heard and Detson looks
down at his wet, shriveled foot which until now had been submerged in
ice out of the camera's view.)

[Numb?]

(Detson stares down at his foot and grimaces as he gently moves it
from side to side.  He starts to pat it down with a towel.)

[Numb.]

(Detson stops and just stares down at his ankle, but not really.  Just
stares out into space.  He shakes his head slightly; his shoulders
rise up and then down as he lets out a sigh.)

Detson:  I can't feel a thing.

(With that the camera fades to black.)

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

[The scene is black. Nothing. After about 5 seconds of black, there is
a spark. A match flares to life, revealing the figure of Marcus
Manson. Manson is cast in stark shadows as he reaches down to light
two red candles that sit before him. Over a simple black t-shirt he
wears his decades-old beaten leather trench coat. His shoulder length
black hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail. After lighting the
candles he shakes out the match, setting it aside.

A few seconds pass. That turns into five. The candles flicker and
shadows play upon the scar that runs from above the center of Manson's
right eye to his chin.

Ten seconds. Silence still.

At roughly the thirteen second mark, Manson speaks, but does not move
otherwise.]

Manson: If you listen to the press release, then Nevermind is the King
of Nothing. And I am driven by Misery. That's partially correct.

I am driven by Misery, but I don't think Nevermind cares about
nothing.

Some of the men regarded as the vilest individuals to have stepped
into a wrestling ring have wives and families that they love and care
about.

There's a nutcase by the name of Frank Knight who talks to the TV
Title Belt as if the damn thing can understand him. He rambles on and
on about some Bright Future and Better Tomorrow... because somewhere
in that rattled skull of his, he cares.

There's William Craven. A man who has tatooed himself green, split his
tounge, and filed his teeth into fangs. Bleeding half to death and
near passing out, he still tried to head to the ring at the end of
Boiling Point and confront HOPE. Because he cares.

Nevermind. You're a coward.

You try to care about Nothing because caring about Nothing is easy.

Caring about Nothing gets you nowhere.

Caring about Nothing is useless.

I don't buy it.

[Manson pauses. He leans on the table before him that the candles sit
upon, palms down, fingers spread. His head is bowed and he stares at
the empty space on the table between the candles. Another 5 seconds of
silence pass before he speaks again.]

Thanks to Sammy Knight thinking he was pretty clever, it's no real
secret that 15 years ago my wife was murdered.

[Pause]

Everyone cares about something, Nevermind. Even me.

I learned that Misery is Strength.

I embraced it. Made it part of myself. Let it fuel me and drive me to
bigger and better things.

You might say... To A Brighter Future and a Better Tomorrow.

[The big man smirks to himself.]

It made me Ultimate Tag Team Champion. It made me UEW World Television
Champion.
Soon, it will make me Phoenix Valley's World Television Champion, and
soon, World Heavyweight Champion.

At Heatwave, Nevermind, I'm going to show the world that you do care
about something. That you care about yourself. That you care about
your own well being. I'm going to hurt you. I am going to make you cry
out for mercy. You're going to beg me to stop hurting you. And when
you do, I will show the entire world that Chris Hartt isn't the real
hypocrite, Nevermind. You are.

[Manson Blows out the candles on the table, and all is cast in
darkness again and the screen is filled with Nothing.]

****************************************
****************************************
Gold Rush
****************************************
****************************************

[The scene cuts in to a shakey sprint down a hallway. There are loud
bangs coming out of one of the locker rooms and the camera peeks in
the door to see what's going on.

Beau Wilson kicks a locker, denting the already dented door. Wilson is
a 6'3" 235 pound high flyer. He still wears his wrestling gear, even
though the team didn't debut on Shockwave as planned. Said gear is
blue trunks with "Cowboy" scripted on the back in silver, along with
kneepads, elbowpads and boots, all white. Jonathan Regnigh leans back
against the lockers on the opposite side, arms crossed over his chest
as he observes his tag team partner working out his frustrations.
Regnigh is also in his wrestling gear. The 6'5 275 powerhouse wears
black trunks with "High Roller" in script on the back in gold. His
pads and boots are black as well. His boots have two red dice on the
sides, and someone rolled a lucky 7.

Wilson spins and grips the bench between the lockers, getting ready to
flip it over.]

Regnigh: Uh, pretty sure that's bolted down.

[The high flyer huffs, grunting, but yeah, the bench isn't going
anywhere.]

Regnigh: Yup. Bolted down.

[The rookie gets mad again and spins, punching another locker door.]

Regnigh: Alright, cut it out before you break your hand.

[The Last Cowboy shakes out his bruised hand, and catches sight of the
camera filming his outburst.]

Wilson: Oh, you have got to be kidding me...

[The young man from Florida starts heading straight for the
cameraman.]

Regnigh: Woah! Ok, time out!

[The veteran from Pittsburgh grabs his partner by the shoulder and
spins him around to face him.]

Regnigh: Goosfraba. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me. Look--Look at
me.

[Beau pushes his partner aways and crosses his arms over his chest,
but doesn't move back towards the camera. He lets out a huff and turns
back to Regnigh.]

Regnigh: Firstly, that? [Regnigh points right at the camera.] Get used
to it. They are EVERYWHERE. That dude is just doing his job. He may be
5'5, weigh 300 pounds and have asthma-

Cameraman: HEY!

Regnigh: -but dammit he LOVES professional wrestling just as much as
we do. And he is just doing his job. Just like us. He's just doing
what he's told to do to make his paycheck and take care of his family.
Never take out your frustrations on the crew. That's what those
Lineage clowns Kruger and Vorhees do. That's not how we do things,
clear?

[After a moment, the rookie nods.]

Wilson: I hear ya.

[Beau's partner nods back, satisfied.]

Regnigh: Secondly, it could be worse.

[Wilson's eyes bug out.]

Wilson: DUDE! I got myself locked in an effing Broom Closet!

Regnigh: Happens to the best of us.

[Wilson gives Regnigh and incredulous look.]

Regnigh: William Craven, Rob Magnum, and Tuscon Kid all got locked in
the same locker room silmutaneously, back when they were chasing
Marley and WMI. Happens to pretty much everyone at least once in their
careers.

Wilson: Yeah, but that's still not a broom closet!

[Jonathan shrugs.]

Regnigh: Could be worse.

Wilson: How?

Regnigh: Remember I told you about my buddy Jason Mittan?

Wilson: Yeah.

Regnigh: He lost a wrestling match to a three subject notebook.

[Beat.]

Wilson: Get the f[beep] outta here.

[Regnigh raises his hand.]

Regnigh: Hand to God.He was mock-wrestling a notebook in one of our
friends houses in high school and he fell down the steps. Pretty much
knocked himself out. The notebook landed on top of him.

[Beat. Regnigh shrugs.]

Regnigh: So I counted to 3.

Wilson: DUDE!

Regnigh: What? His shoulders were down!

[Wilson takes a deep breath. Regnigh crosses his arms and leans back
against the wall.]

Wilson: Still. Sucks.

Regnigh: Yeah, it's a bummer. But look. We'll wait for the lineup, and
head to Shockwave or Heatwave next week and then we'll make our debut,
and we will show everyone that Gold Rush is the team of tomorrow.

Wilson: Alright... [Wilson sighs.] I'm... I'm sorry I ruined our debut
tonight.

[Regnigh waves his hand dismissively.]

Regnigh: Forget about it. It's Pro Wrestling. These kind of things
happen. Although...

[The High Roller pushes away from the wall, He pulls on a hoodie and
zips it up. He also grabs his bag from under the bench, tossing Wilson
his as well.]

Regnigh: I am curious about one thing.

Wilson: What's that?

Regnigh: How, exactly, did they get you in that broom closet.

[Beau looks right into the camera. He pauses for a moment.]

Wilson: Uhm. I'll tell you later.

[As the two push past the camera man and walk down the hall, the scene
fades.]

****************************************
****************************************
Cow and Chicken
****************************************
****************************************

[We open to a cow.]

[Just kidding.  Thankfully that's not actually the case this week.
No, this week we open... to the interior of a Chick-Fil-A.]

DCGM:  Eet mor chikin.

[Sigh.]

EPL:  Moo?  Why did that referee make us lose last week?

[Da Cow God...]

DCGM:  Moo.

[...looks up from his delicious chicken sandwich, his long black-and-
white hair framing his face as he takes another bite of his sandwich
and muffles from his now-full mouth.]

DCGM:  Because you got pinned, little one.

[Loco stares at him, not fully understanding the answer.]

EPL:  But you didn't tag me in.

[Moo shakes his head.]

DCGM:  It is what it is, young chicken.

[Loco frowns.]

EPL:  But that's not fair.

DCGM:  Neither is life.  Here in the Phoenix Valley, evil will most
certainly not be playing by the rules.  In such a chaotic environment,
it is easy for the referee to lose track of the situation.

[Loco ponders this for a moment, allowing Moo the time to gorge on
another bite of that damned sandwich.]

EPL:  So, um... what are we going to do then?

[Moo finishes his bite, then shrugs.]

DCGM:  We shall go to Heatwave next week, and defeat the team
responsible for creating that chaos.

[Loco perks up a bit.]

EPL:  We get to fight the big nasty biker dudes?

[Da Cow... er, Moo shakes his head.]

DCGM:  I do not think they ride motorcycles, little one.  But
regardless, our opponents will be our other opponents that night, then
men whom Mister Regnigh and his rarely-clothed friend chased away.

EPL:  Yeah, they seemed pretty evil.

DCGM:  Indeed.

EPL:  Why did they chase Mister Reggie and the man in the cowboy hat
away?

DCGM:  Perhaps we should ask them ourselves?

EPL:  Do you think they'll give us an honest answer?

[Moo stares at Loco.]

[Loco stares back at Moo.]

[Moo stares at Loco.]

[Loco stares at Moo.]

[OK, get on with it guys.]

DCGM:  Not likely.

[Loco frowns.]

DCGM:  Mister Vermeer will no doubt have something planned for us this
week as well, young chicken.  We must stay on our toes and be ready
for anything...

[Loco jumps up from his chair, and pulls off a surprisingly near-
flawless Michael Jackson toe stand.  This does not at all phase "Da
Cow God"...]

DCGM:  Moo.

[... but the sight of a man wearing a mask doing this in the middle of
a Chick-Fil-A certainly draws the attention of the other patrons of
the restaurant.]

DCGM:  Not now.  At Heatwave.

EPL:  Oh.  Sorry.

[Loco returns to his seat, a look of disappointment on his face.]

DCGM:  I believe I have the perfect way for you to prepare your mind
in advance though, little one.

EPL:  Yeah?

[Moo nods.  We fade to black.]

[Then we fade back from our darkness, to the interior... of a Baskin
Robbins.]

EPL:  ICE CREAM!!!

[Loco literally dives over the counter, scaring the bejesus out of the
clerk working the scoops.  Get us out of here before this gets ugly,
please.]

****************************************
****************************************
Chance Holiday
****************************************
****************************************

[Another dark corner in the filthy streets of San Francisco. Another
flickering street light. Another dark alley. And once more, "Shadow
Stalker" Chance Holiday inhabits the darkness. Dressed in black,
sitting with one knee bent upwards, his head slowly lifts as he looks
into the camera. Head tilts to the side, revealing the pale face, the
sunken eyes, the emotionless, cold face.]

CH: The words were spoken, and the promise kept. The Phoenix fell.
Many believed my words were those of a braggart. But you see now, I
speak the truth of a prophet. Believe my words from here on out. The
dark times are upon you PVW. A shadow falls.

A shadow called Chance Holiday.

[Eyes narrow dangerously.]

CH: Danny Daniels. You are not my hero. You are not anything to me,
but an annoyance. I give you one opportunity to pass from my sight. I
allow you the ability to avoid the pain that comes from my attention.
But challenge me again, attempt to interrupt me just one more time?
And blood will flow.

I promise you, cross me, and you'll find yourself regretting the
decision. Then you will find yourself unable to do anything at all.

But enough of Daniels. My attention turns now to five men. Three of
them against me, two of them ostensibly on my side.

Heath Dawson, Eric Seiger. I know little of you, I admit. But I have
seen your actions, and I can see your weaknesses. Rest assured, I do
not need to know much of you to know how to destroy you. And destroy
you I will.

Go ask Phoenix if you don't believe me. But be warned? He will hardly
be in a state to answer you coherently. But in his broken body and in
his frightened demeanor, you'll have an answer.

I may not know much of Dawson or Seiger. But Supreme Wright? Oh, I
know you well. Better than you know yourself.

Which brings me, inevitably, to my teammates.

Kevin Quartermann and Adrian Freeman.

[Black hair has fallen once more over his eyes as he speaks their
names.]

CH: Quartermann. You're a bold man. Your actions have earned you a
place in PVW. But all you have is an opportunity. An opportunity you
can act upon, or you can squander.

Quartermann, I can show you the way. I can teach you things. I can
help you secure your place here, in PVW. I can show you the true path.
You need only do two things. The first is pull your weight in this
match. The second?

Follow me.

[A chuckle passes Holiday's lips.]

CH: And Freeman? I know what you want. You want Supreme Wright. You
may believe you hold an advantage over him now. But you've done
nothing but create the situation for your own downfall. You believe
you have outsmarted Wright. But what you have done is stifle him,
frustrate him. You've ensured that the beast will explode.

I can teach you the secrets of Supreme Wright. I can give you the keys
to his downfall. I have studied him. I know him, and I know how he can
be undone. Do you wish to know? Then heed the words I spoke to
Quartermann. The same terms apply to you.

It comes down to a very simple thing. In this match, we are paired
together. I can give the pair of you what you want. You need only
answer a single question.

Are you two prepared to make a deal with the devil?

[Holiday exhales.]

CH: I await your answer. Though the choice is simple. Rise with me, or
fall like the others.

In Seattle, we will find out the answer. I look forward to it.

[As Holiday lowers his head, we fade to black.]

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

[Fade in to a spacious but sterile hotel room.  A black haired man,
back turned to the camera, watches the snowflakes fluttering down over
the city.]

Fontana: By now, I would have imagined most people would know what I'm
about.

My tastes are simple.  I like to rip arms off FIRST, ask questions
later.  But doctors stubbornly keep me away from what I love to do.
My arm is still trapped in this sling, immobilized until the torn
tissue mends.

[Back still turned, he motions towards his left arm.]

Fontana: And me?  I grow restless, yeah.  And no, the irony that I've
become the injured wrestler HvD once was isn't lost on me, cousin.
It's just that I don't care about irony right now.

[He shakes his head.]

Fontana: I don't care about HOPE as a group, and I don't care whether
PVW likes me or hates me.

[The Everlasting One raises his right hand and presses it against the
glass.]

Fontana: Recently, a kid asked me if I was a good guy or not.  People
even asked me if I'd kick some bad guy butt the way "Mr. Fantastic"
Luke Fontana used to do.

[Finally, the King of Armbars turns around, black eyes burning with
the a long-held grudge, on the embers of childhood betrayals.]

Fontana: Anyone who expects me to pander to the masses the way my two-
faced father used to will be sorely dissapointed.  I'll never bootlick
the public or pretend to be a man I'm not just to shill some extra
merch.

[Loathing suddenly turns into a quick smirk.]

Fontana: But if they want to see me rip some arms off, that can be
arranged, aaaah ouais!

The PVW fans'll have me as I am, warts and all.  And what they do is
up to them.  It's called free will.

[Raising his eyebrows, the Deathless One runs his thumb over his bushy
friendly-muttonchops.]

Fontana: If some cheer because they relate with my plight, fine.  If
they hiss because they hate Italians or something, that's on them.
And if they cheer just because they want to see a meatball get hurt,
that's just fine by me.

I'll be upfront... I'm not a nice person.  I'm self-centered and
short-tempered.  I'm nowhere close to being a model citizen, husband
or father.  And while I've gained a new perspective on all the
injuries I've caused... I still can't promise I won't end more careers
in the future.

[It's not a threat, nor a promise, just a probability uttered with
disquieting aloofness.]

Fontana: Am I good?  Am I evil?  ... I don't care.

[Perry nods.]

Fontana: I'm the man with the _armbars_.

[Perhaps knowing that cliches are so often steeped in truth, he
smiles.]

Fontana: Black, white... shades of gray?  [A vigorous shake of the
head.]  Forget that, cousin.

I'm _red_!

Red like passion and rage, ouais!  Red the way Craven is green, and
HvD is yellow.

[He cocks his head, knowingly smirks.]

Fontana: I guess that means I'm no white knight.  I'm not the cowboy
in the white hat that'll chase down desperados like HOPE.

[A nonchalantly dismissive wave of the hand.]

Fontana: Men lacking in confidence that band together to feel safer is
nothing new.  In fact, it's happened before in the PVW.  So I don't
care about HOPE as a group.  I only really care about myself, ouais,
myself and what *I* want.

[Perry shrugs, as if to say the ugly truth is out there, but that's
the way things are... deal with it.]

Fontana: What I want...

[Well, now comes the business end of this ugly stick.]

Fontana: What I want is to beat the _yellow_ out of Herscher von
Donkerhardt.

[Another smile... but a vengeful, sadistic one.]

Fontana: What I _want_ is to let Derek Weaver find out what I do to
sell-outs first-hand.

[A frown]

Fontana: Obviously... [He aims his bandaged and immobilized arm
towards the camera] ... that won't happen tomorrow.

But when it _does_ happens, it won't matter if PVW rallies behind some
great leader, and it won't matter if they all wave little white flags
instead.  ...Just like it won't matter if HOPE doubles or triples in
size.

[The King of Armbars turns his sights back onto the cityscape beyond
his hotel window, turning his back on the camera again.]

Fontana: In the end, none of those things will stop me from getting
what I want.

[As Fontana looks out in serene confidence, the image zooms out and
fades.]

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

[Cut to a closeup of the PVW Television Championship beltlying on a
table.  It has been in better shape in the past, partially wrapped in
bandages as it is, thanks to a close encounter of the abrasive kind
with a sheet of sandpaper, and locked in what can only be described as
a protective case made of metal and plexiglass with the straps coming
out through slits in the side of the case, allowing the belt to be
worn even while in the box.

A second passes.  Two.  Five...]

Uncle Frank [From off-camera]:  Uncle Frank is sorry.

[Pause.  The camera is still focused on the belt.]

UF: Uncle Frank needs to apologize.

[Oookay.  Still no change in the scenery.]

UF:  Uncle Frank needs to apologize for putting an innocent at risk
last Shockwave.

[What innocent?  He certainly didn't threaten any fans or anything of
the sort.]

UF:  Uncle Frank was caught up in the moment.  Uncle Frank was so very
excited.  Uncle Frank didn't think.

[Pause.]

UF:  So Uncle Frank hit Sinister.  Evil, evil, malicious, bad
Sinister.  He hit him with the innocent belt, and for that Uncle Frank
is so very sorry.

[Wait for it.]

UF:  Uncle Frank could have hurt the belt!  Even with the measures
Uncle Frank has taken to protect it the shock of impact could have
further damaged it.  Worsened existing injuries.  The belt didn't
deserbve that.  The belt relies on Uncle Frank for protection, and
Uncle Frank failed it.  It will not happen again.

[Another pause.]

UF:  Instead Uncle Frank should have hit Evil Sinister with a chair.
Or the stairs.  Or a commentator, because those are inanimate objects.
They cannot feel pain.

[And suddenly the voice gets all cheerful again.  The camera is still
on the belt though.]

UF:  Still, all's well that ends well.  That's what Uncle Frank always
says.  And it ended well.  HOPE stood triumphant showing everyone the
path to A Bright Future and A Better Tomorrow, and Marcus Manson
stalked down to the ring to help his fellow conspirators against all
that is right and good.  Evil, bad, mean, malicious Marcus showed his
true colors for all to see again.  There can be no doubt in anyone's
mind that HOPE is the only defense against such a malicious influence
in the PVW.  In fact, Uncle Frank has it on good authority that Marcus
Manson is the Axis of Evil which all bad things in the PVW revolve
around.  It can all be traced back to Marcus Manson.  All of it!

[A serious tone creeps into Frank's voice.]

UF:  And like all purveyors of evil and selfishness Marcus is sending
another of his Minions of maliciousness against Uncle Frank.  His
thugs, Sinister and the Berserkers, failed.  Now he sends someone who
revels in bad intentions.  Someone who has no human emotions.  Someone
who has no redeeming qualities.

[Pause.]

UF:  Someone called Spectre.  A name which strikes fear in the hearts
of all good people.

[Another pause.]

UF:  A man so violent.  So vicious.  So irredeemably evil he fits
right in next to Marcus Manson.

[A chuckle.]

UF:  A man diametrically opposed to everything your Uncle Frank stands
for.

[And another pause for dramatic effect.]

UF:  Uncle Frank is very happy about this.  Uncle Frank thinks it will
be a lot of fun.  Uncle Frank will teach Spectre how much fun it could
be.  Uncle Frank will free Spectre from Marcus' influence.

[The camera finally pans around to reveal that we've been looking at
the belt from Frank's point of view.  Frank himself is standing right
by the table, grinning that wide, malicious grin of his, his blue eyes
practically shining with anticipation. His voice drops to a whisper.]

UF:  Trust your Uncle Frank, Spectre.  Trust him to know what's best
for you.

[And cut.]

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

[The camera fades in to see a living room.  Seated on a recliner is
Max Weinrib, and lounging on a couch is Salih Mubarak.  Sal is
flipping through channels as Max snaps his fingers!]

Max:  We should become rodeo clowns!

[Sal pauses in mid-channel flip and looks at his partner.]

Sal:  Um... we're already the PVW Tag Team champions.  That's pretty
time consuming.

Max:  Details...

Max VO:  ...but admittedly, very important ones.  As Sal and I were
now medically cleared to get back into the ring, we had no intention
of resting on our laurels.  Still, not everyone had that fortunate
news...

[Another channel change, this time to the Tran-Siberian Orchestra
singing "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen".  Sal looks chagrined into the
camera.]

Sal:  Recently, someone went on Twitter and made a crass joke about
the weight of one Gutch Bartulucci.

Sal VO:  And I should know, because that person... was me.

Sal:  Well, the joke seemed funny- until the next day, when Gutch
revealed that he has diabetes and might have to retire.

[Max sits up, holding up a finger]

Max:  You know, I do want to point out that we both have chair-sized
dents in our skulls- not to mention blood loss- thanks to Gutch.  I'm
not really sure best wishes are the appropriate response here.

[Pause.  Then, both Max and Sal shrug]

Max:  Ah, hell- it's the holiday season.  Get well soon, Gutch.

[Another channel change, this time landing on classic black and white
Godzilla in mid-rampage on Tokyo.]

Sal VO:  Considering everything that had happened on Boiling Point and
last Heatwave, Max and I realized that we owed both PVW and the fans
to give it our all.  In these dark times, they deserved to see actual
fighting champions.

Max VO: And what better way to test our mettle than to go up against
other champions themselves?  Namely, the one and only Berserkers from
ASLL!

Max:  How long do you think it takes them to put on all that face
paint?

[Sal shoots Max a look, then shakes his head.]

Max:  C'mon, it's a fair question!

Sal VO:  While Max was considering fashion, I was looking forward to
the match.  Two teams the fans liked, champions versus champions, in
an epic battle to determine the better team.  There was only one teeny
tiny problem...

[Another channel change- now, a PVW match showing the Berserkers
fighting HOPE.  Max and Sal stand in front of the TV, Sal open-
mouthed.]

Sal:  Have you SEEN these guys?  People hear "fan favorites versus fan
favorites" and think technical encounter.  Wolf and Doom run through
brick walls for fun!

Max:  Technically, we're not brick walls.

Sal:  And this changes the physics how?

[Another flip of the channel, this time to an episode of
'Mythbusters', where the boys are testing the one about bug bombs
blowing up a house.]

JH:  Jamie want big boom.

Max VO:  Sal, as usual, was missing the big picture here.  This was
the challenge that we as PVW Tag Team Champions needed!  More
importantly, we had taken out Hayes' first salvo in Livestock and the
Gutch.  Meanwhile, Doom and Wolf had stood up against guys like Uncle
Frank and Derek Weaver.  In other words, between our two teams, we had
already proven that there is hope against HOPE.

Sal VO:  And perhaps Max was right.  After all, it should be a great
match!  Besides, we had speed, we had experience, we had know-how,
we...

[The TV changed channels again- this time, to "Star Wars- A New Hope",
JUST as the Death Star explodes.  Sal watches and sighs.]

Sal:  We're Doomed.  Or Wolved.  Or whatever you call it when the
Berserkers rip our arms off.  Sure, they'll apologize afterwards and
help us look for the missing fingers.  But that doesn't help much,
does it?

Max VO:  Mental note, for 2012, make sure my next tag partner isn't so
cynical.  Also, make sure my passport is up to date in case we're
defending two sets of belts.

Sal VO:  You sure we can't go back to the rodeo clown idea?

[And then there's that cheerful sound of someone getting smacked off-
camera.  Fade out, on a shot of the TV now showing a crackling Yule
log on fire.]

****************************************
****************************************
Heath Dawson & Erich Seiger
****************************************
****************************************

[The camera opens backstage in the PVW locker room.  Heatwave has come
and gone, another action-packed show that will have the fans talking
all week.  This time out, however, the talking will be done by two
people.

One of them sits on a wooden bench.  The silver cane that's become her
trademark rests between her legs, tip on the ground, hands folder
firmly over the top.  The redhead's lips are pursed, eyes roaming
aimlessly as she stares around the locker room, trying to collect her
thoughts.

Opposite of where she sits, on another wooden bench is her charge.
Black hair cut very short, he still wears his red-and-black wrestling
siglet.  One massive hand holds a bag of ice to the back of his head.
As opposed to the roaming eyes of the redhead, he stares straight
ahead, his gaze focused on nothing in particular.

For the first few seconds, all we hear is that low buzzing sound that
comes with videotaped silence...]

DL: Well.  Tonight could have gone better.

["Der Kreuzritter" Erich Seiger turns his head to look at his manager,
Dallas Lawson.  After a moment, the German giant nods his head once,
in a firm, quick motion]

ES: Ja.

DL: Don't get me wrong, Erich.  You did great tonight.  You went out
there against two of the PVW's biggest boogeymen and hung with them.
A lot of people out there thought you and Heath Dawson would be
nothing more than lambs for the slaughter to Spectre and Christopher
Black.  The two of them weren't out there looking for a match this
evening.  They weren't even looking for a fight, Erich. The two of
them were out there looking for blood.  And you didn't give it to
them.

[Lawson leans over, and gently pats Seiger on the knee, a small smile
on her face]

DL: Instead, you gave it right back to them.  It might not have been
the match-up we had trained all week for...hell, consider it a
learning experience.  When it comes to professional wrestling, you
wrestle the match you have, not the match you trained for.

[Pause]

DL: Ok, that one needs a bit of work.  But there's some wisdom in
there, I promise.

[Erich's reply is heavily accented, spoker with great care and
deliberation, spoken almost phonetically]

ES: I was supposed to have a match, Dallas.  This was a brawl.

DL: I know, Erich.  Don't worry, I'm going to make sure you have a
match next week on Heatwave.  You came to the PVW wanting to prove
your greatness, to show off your talents and make your trainers proud.
I'm sure Victor Frost will get a kick out of tonight's footage once he
sees it.  But, the way to prove your greatness?  Titles.
Championships.  And to get those, you need matches.  Not brawls.  You
need victories, not footage that will make it into an opening montage
because Black slammed your head off the turnbuckles once.

[Seiger's response?  With a stern look on his face, he holds up two
fingers]

DL: Hey, at least you weren't fighting Danny Daniels.  He'd still be
slamming you into the turnbuckles if he had his way.

ES: I want Black.  Or Spectre.

DL: Yeah, well...unless you have a match against one of those guys
need week, do NOT allow yourself to get distracted.

[The cane comes off the floor, and Dallas uses it for emphesis as she
speaks, holding the top portion of the shaft firmly]

DL: Your focus, Erich, will be on whoever PVW puts you in the ring
against next week.  If they put you in there with Christopher Black or
the Spectre, then Heaven help either of them.  If they put you in
there with Uncle Frank, then you don't think thought ONE about Black
or Spectre, because it's all going to be about Frank.  Or Sinister.
Or Gibson Hayes.  Or even Cow and Chicken.  Do NOT let what happened
tonight distract you.  Focusing on the guy outside the ring gives the
advantage to the guy in the ring, and that's who you beat...

[Both Sieger and Lawson snap their head up as the door open loudly.
The camera swings to the door and finds Heath Dawson filling it.]

HD: Sound advice, Miss Lawson. But here's something else you might
wanna consider.

Moral victories don't buy the groceries, big fella.

[Dawson slaps Sieger on the shoulder, which gets a wary eye from the
big German, and sits down on a nearby bench, about four or five feet
away from Seiger and across from Dallas.]

HD: Had to get a janitor to let me in, so I kinda sorta heard your
whole conversation. Sorry about that, I guess.

[Sieger has no reaction, just staring at Dawson, Lawson shrugs it
away, not too concerned.]

DL: At least it shows someone pays attention around here.

HD: Don't know if you got the memo, or the message, but we're already
booked next week on Heatwave. Teaming up. Again. With Supreme Wright.

DL: Wright?  Wow.  The executives work fast around here.  I...

[Just then, a buzzing noise is heard.  Dallas reaches into her pocket
and checks her Smartphone.  After a moment, she nods]

DL: Well, that's an interesting bunch to go up against.  Freeman,
Chance Holiday and that guy Quartermann. Now, Heath, you and Wright,
we're boys from years gone by, right?

HD: Right.  Forget about that for a second.  Let's talk about why I
came here. Erich, we need to stick together. I know exactly where
you're coming from. You wanna show the world how bad you are, you want
to do things your way and make a name for yourself. Just like everyone
else who ever entered the business.

Take it from someone who is on take two, who listened to all the hype
and ended up out on his ass, with a vacancy sign on my wallet.

[Dawson points a finger at the bigger man, and looks directly at him.]

HD: No one's going to take it easy on us. No one's going to give us a
damn thing. Don't waste your time standing in line, holding your hand
out and waiting your turn. Nothing will come of it, except maybe your
arm getting tired.

You see something, go get it. I don't know how things work over there
in the motherland, but here in the land of the free and the home of
the Whopper, I was always told one thing as a young athlete.

If you want something, go get it. Don't ask for permission and don't
ask for forgiveness.

Take what you want, give nothing back.

[Lawson chuckles.]

DL: Quoting the noted philosopher Captain Jack Sparrow, Heath?

[Dawson shrugs, non-apologetic.]

HD: With all the other f[BLEEP!]in' cartoons running around here,
might as well quote one that made money.

[After a moment, Lawson nods firmly, conceding the point]

HD: Point being, big fella, if it's Black and Spectre you want, asking
isn't the way to go. Force PVW to put you in that match. Take those
big hamhock hands ya got there, and put 'em to good use.

Put Adrian Freeman through the mat.

Help Chance Holiday make the transition from s[BLEEP!]stain to grease
stain on the mat. Put Kevin Quartermann, take him and- put him over...

[Dawson trails off, searching for something to say. After a moment, he
just gives up.  It's Seiger who fills the void]

ES: You did not mention Quartermann.

HD: I dunno. I thought that dude was in catering up until two hours
ago. Anyhow, I think I've said my piece here. You've got someone who's
giving ya sound advice, cuz, she knows what she's talking about.

But no one in PVW is gonna come tell you it's your time to shine. No
one's gonna say, "It's your time now, Erich." Take it from someone who
waited to hear that, and ended up unemployed.

Get your shovel, get to diggin' an' start makin' your own way. An'
since we're on the same side of the ring on Heatwave, we might as well
do it together. Miss Lawson, will this suit your master plan?

DL: Heath, I'm not one for grand master plans.  But you're talking
about coming in here and saying the truth without mincing
words...salty language aside, I think we could work something out.
Right, Erich?

[Sieger's response is short, to the point, and says it all]

ES: Ja.

****************************************
****************************************
Masked Man
****************************************
****************************************

[Slowly a grainy image begins to form and it is that of a mask, a
matte black number with a reflective black "X" catching the light
shining behind the camera, hides every detail of his face.]

X: Robert ... Robert ... Robert ... do you honestly believe that I am
here just for a mere simple pin?

[The masked man pauses and the image flickers slightly.]

X: A simple pin ...

[A loud cackle comes forth from the masked man.]

X: A PIN! A [BLEEP]ING PIN!

[The masked man just stares into the camera and as he does so the
image flickers once again.]

X: Robert, I told you I wanted to see you suffer and slowly it is
happening. Look at yourself Robert ... it's all falling apart around
you ... you're wife was split open ... your child's nightmares keep
you up at night ... and you yourself, Robert, look at you now.

You can only stare at your hands as they shake uncontrollably ... and
you wonder why ... why it won't stop ... no matter how hard you try
... no matter how many times you try to force them to stop, they just
won't. I have a question for you have you tried sitting on them yet,
Robert? Hoping that the additional weight will keep them from moving
... sadly though all that does is hide them from your sight.

[Static flashes across the screen for a brief second. But the voice of
the masked man can still be heard.]

X: I speak from experience Robert, I know how it feels to stare at
your hands and wonder why, wonder what I did to deserve this horror.
And not once could I come up with an answer! I was so desperate for an
answer I asked hundreds of people and not a single one of them could
tell me what I did wrong! So I was forced to sit there and watch ...
watch each tremor, each individual twitch and wonder when my answer
would come.

[The static passes and the masked man is staring directly into the
camera.]

X: Then one morning I awoke and had an epiphany ... I did NOT deserve
the tremors, Robert ... YOU DESERVED THEM! Robert, you were the
reasons I was having them! It was because of you I was forced to watch
my body slowly die!

[Once again the masked man pauses and his slow breathing can be
heard.]

X: Robert, the physical pain that you felt as the barbed wire ripped
bits of flesh and bone is nothing compared to what you will feel. The
emotional pain you felt as your wife's blood flowed forth from her
face is nothing compared to what you will feel. Robert, you say you
have no more tears ... I DO NOT WANT YOUR TEARS! You say there's no
more blood ... I DO NOT WANT YOUR BLOOD! You say there is nothing more
I can take from you ...

[The masked man begins to laugh.]

X: Robert, you have no idea how much more I can take from you! You
WILL SUFFER LIKE I DID! Oh yes, Robert, you will suffer and I will
cherish each and every single moment of it.

[The image flickers a few times before it suddenly goes black.]

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

[Walking. That is what we see Gibson Hayes doing. Instead of being
dressed in one of his suits Hayes is dressed in a baby blue jogging
suit with crimson stripes (which is probably a custom job because that
color scheme is awful).  Why are we following the champion as he
leisurely walks the halls of his compound? Because it makes for an
easily described setting.]

New challenger - same result.

[A shrug of the shoulders from Hayes.]
Hartt, you did your best. After all the things people have said about
you; after all the times people have forgotten about you and after all
the times you came up wanting - you left everything you had in that
ring.

[A smirk crosses Gibson's face.]

Too bad you came up short.

You can console yourself with the thought that maybe you would have
locked in the Avenger. You can find a place to be safe in the cold
comfort of what if. You can use this as a platform to tell all those
who've doubted you that you came (forefinger and thumb mere
millimeters away) *THIS* close to doing the unthinkable - beating
Gibson Hayes. Go on, Chris, give yourself a hand. You deserve it
considering everything that has gone on in PVW. Take a little bit of
time and give yourself the pat on the back you have earned.

[Golf clap!]

Because that's the only thing you can take away from that match.

[No more golf clapping folks!]

You did surprise me, Chris and you did take the fight right to me. I
underestimated you; maybe I was looking past you and towards the next
man on the dance card. You almost made me pay dearly for that little
lapse in concentration; I can't deny you that Hartt. Yet, if we are
being completely truthful we must admit to ourselves the one
underlying, unspoken truth: you never had a chance to take my World
Title.

And before you think I'm belittling you... well, moreso than normal, I
am being dead honest with you Chrissy. See, the way the world works is
that those who are on top make the rules. Those rules are set to make
sure we stay on top. Whether it be by pinning you, making you submit,
taking a count out or getting a disqualification - you were not going
to come out of that match with the title.

[A matter of fact little shoulder roll from the champion as he has
stopped walking.]

I can face the fact I was sloppy and that I did not take you for the
threat you actually are, Chris. For that, I am sorry. I apologize,
Gibson, for almost letting me down. The Last, Best Hope for a Bright
Future and Better Tomorrow learns from his mistakes. In fact, all you
did was make me a *BETTER* champion. Each challenger I swat down, each
time I step out of that ring with that belt still strapped around my
waist makes it just *THAT* much harder to beat me the next time
around. So thank you, Chris, you've just made the next man's job that
much harder.

[Hayes bows... if you can call a curtsy a bow. He's kind of a prick.]

However, just to show there are no hard feelings, I'm going to give
you a free lesson. If you get another chance at PVW's standard don't
go thinking you have a fair shake. The situation is in my favor and
that's terribly unfair... but that's how the game is played.

You and the rest of those idiots who lap up the audience's barking
like succor in a tempest should know by now that the game is rigged in
my favor. To beat me you have to be willing to be *WORSE* than I am.
You have to be willing to go against the very rules you love to adhere
to for nothing more than a few cheers and "atta boys" from the
faceless wallets in the crowd. You have to be very, very dumb to keep
ramming your head against the brick wall of the establishment. The
entire thing is rigged and no one in their right mind would think
otherwise. The situation itself holds people back; they know they have
something they can lose. Whether it be their position as "lockerroom
leader", their title or their namesake. Those are the ties that help
keep the PVW World Championship around my waist.

[Hayes looks down, then up.]

...but then you have Johnny Detson.

[Heavy exhale from the World Champion.]

He has nothing to lose. He came in thinking that because he knows
Tyrone, that he managed to sell his soul to trick Tyrone that he could
help Tom Landis beat me, The Last Best Hope for a Bright Future and
Better Tomorrow and America's shining golden child who shall lead the
nation back to its pedestal - Gibson Hayes. I threw fire in Landis's
face and made his wife cry. Then, just to spike the ball on JD, I took
his career in PVW. I played Herscher, made him so angry at me he
played my patsy.

[SMILE GIBSON; you dick.]

...but I made the mistake of specifying "Blockbuster" Johnny Detson.
PVW goes bankrupt and needs anything they can get. Instead of just
giving me the ball and saying: deliver us from utter irrelevance
Gibson, they let Detson back in and even have him go off on being
"President and CEO" Detson. 101 shows up and makes waves.
Unfortunately, life has a way of pinning you to the mat under its boot
and Johnny lost everything - again.

[Hayes bites his lip, since he's thinking.]

Unlike the rest of you, Detson has nothing to lose. That's why he has
to be put down harder, crushed underneath the boot heel of HOPE. It is
because Johnny has nothing more to risk, nothing more to chance and
everything to gain it gives him the freedom to leave nothing behind;
to leave nothing in reserve. Detson is too dangerous to leave alone.
He'll either be brought in line or broken, but I hate the amount of
effort it'll take to make sure Detson stays down. Yet, we gotta do
what we gotta do. Hope's all you have left Johnny. Hope is your only
friend, JD.

HOPE is your last chance Johnny... it is also what you cannot escape.

****************************************
****************************************
Sinister & Senor Cloak Dos
****************************************
****************************************

[The scene fades in to Sinister's locker room where the "Chi-Town
Beast" dons his standard wrestling gear and is currently sitting on
the floor and stretching in the side-splits, facing a long bench, and
rests his arms atop the bench while breathing slowly. His thickly
muscled back is towards the camera and he speaks while remaining in
this position]

Sin: Good evening ladies and gents, I hope all of you are well. Pardon
my rudeness by not facing the camera at this moment but this is a
stretch that I need to hold for a while. The hips just aren't what
they used to be but they're not that bad either.

[He momentarily chuckles then takes a deep breath and slowly exhales,
his thick upper body rising and falling steadily with the breathing]

Sin: Tonight is going to be one hell of a night folks. My little
brotha', Senor Cloak Dos, and yours truly will step into battle
against Donkerhardt and Craven, two men whom I'm beginning to know a
bit better than I'd like to, honestly, but hey, that's the way this
business progresses. Whenever Craven is involved in a match no one
really knows what may happen, but tonight is even more-so a mystery of
sorts.

[He pushes himself away from the bench and lies with his back on the
floor, stretching his right leg as close to his face as possible with
his right knee bent. He grunts slightly as his right knee bends
completely as he holds the stretch]

Sin: Craven, this blood feud between you and Cole has gone way beyond
the realms of personal quite honestly. It's my opinion that you didn't
mean to strike Mrs. Cole during that sickening fight but nonetheless,
she is injured and Cole is incensed, to say the least. The man is
bordering on insanity and you know you pushed him there, which may
have been your goal all along. That push, however, has cost you quite
a bit as well, hasn't it Craven? All of us saw you muttering
incoherently and needing to be tended to by EMT's. All of us saw the
amount of blood spilled by both you and Cole and you both required
a transfusion.

[He lowers his right leg and lifts his left to his chest, stretching
his bent left knee very close to his chin]

Sin: Thus far we've seen Donkerhardt partake in actions that weren't
considered something he would normally do, but when it comes to the
pursuit of championships, and greed, many men have been changed in
what they believe is the right approach towards success. HOPE is a
faction that insults the very integrity I believe in and tonight,
Donkerhardt will be able to inform his compatriots that I am very
serious, and focused, upon disbanding HOPE by the means I deem
necessary.

[A knock on the door causes both Sinister and the camera to focus in
that direction. We see Senor Cloak Dos, with his black mask that
covers his head with cherry colored eye visors that prevent us from
seeing his eyes and cherry colored "SCII" on the forehead wearing a
faded yellow t-shirt and ugly brown jogging pants and tennis shoes,
walk into the room.]

SCD: Hola, Padre Sin! How are you doing?

Sin: Hey little brotha', I'm all right - all things considered - and
yourself?

[The luchadore goes to give the lockerroom leader a hug but the big
man is in the middle of his stretches.]

Sin: Sorry Cloak, let me finish this last stretch...

[Sinister pulls a bit more on his left leg, exhales then stands up,
giving Senor Cloak Dos a hug]

SCD: Padre Sin, we are set to do battle against Senor Herscher of the
HOPE and Senor Craven on Heatwave. I want you to know that I am ready
to follow you into battle against the HOPE. They injured our
amigo, Senor AsH, and I have promised to seek justice for him!
Though...

[The luchadore hangs his head a bit..]

SCD: Senor Spectre says that I am not ready to do such a thing...

[Dos almost seems to shiver a bit thinking about the goth madman.
Sinister shakes his head slowly and presses the end of his nose
between his right index finger and thumb]

Sin: Listen Cloak, Spectre says a lot of things but that doesn't mean
they're true. [Lowers his hand] Everyone in this business has an
opinion about who should do what, when, and how. You've proven
yourself time and time again against various odds while you've been in
the PVW and no one can take that away from you. Spectre is an usual
cat, to say the least, but you do what you feel is right and damn what
everyone else says, myself included. Why are you allowing Spectre to
even bother you this much?

SCD: No se, Padre Sin.. Senor Spectre, I..

[Cloak runs a nervous hand over his masked head.]

SCD: Can I tell you something, Padre Sin?

Sin: [Raises his eyebrows curiously] Of course, you can tell me
whatever's on your mind man.

[The luchadore nods his head.]

SCD: Senor Spectre, he scares me. I can not show it when it is in
front of the young ones but inside [Dos touches his chest] it is like
rabbits scrambling against a cage wall from a grabbing hand. Is this
normal?

[Sinister looks over Senor Cloak Dos slowly, taking in his full form
before exhaling and running his left hand over his bald head]

Sin: Dos, let's be honest here. Anyone with a pulse has some type of
fear in life, be it early or later, they experience something they're
truly afraid of. However...[he gently pounds his chest with his right
fist]...to get past it in your heart, you not only have to face your
fear but overcome it. I admit Spectre can unnerve a lot of people
because his uniqueness is awkward, to say the least. I've come across
a lot of folks who aren't quite right in the head and he can
definitely hang with them anytime of the week.

[Sinister chuckles slightly and pats Dos on the left shoulder with his
right hand]

Sin: It's up to you, little brotha', to overcome the fear that Spectre
causes you to feel. No one else can tell you how to do it though, this
is something that you have to figure out on your own. Just remember,
whatever support you need, I've got your back.

[The luchadore nods his head.]

SCD: Gracias, Padre Sin! You have lit a fire in my chest to face this
fear inside!

Sin: I'm glad I was able to help you find that internal inferno
brotha'!

[The big man from Chicago and the luchadore from Parts Unknown slap
hands together and nod their heads.]

SCD: Let us go discuss the match! I look forward to doing battle with
HOPE under your charge, Padre Sin! For Senor AsH, for Phoenix Valley
Wrestling and for all the good fans!

Sin: Now let's get ready to show Craven and Donkherhardt what we're
all about!

[The duo walk offscreen as the scene fades.]

****************************************
****************************************
William Craven
****************************************
****************************************

[Fade in on an interior view of an office.  The spartan, no-nonsense
space is occupied mostly by a massive hardwood desk (is that real
mahogany?) and that desk is occupied mostly by Dex Willingham.
    PVW's founder and owner scribbles away at this and that scrap of
    paper, taking notes, poring over contracts and seemingly trying to
    make sense of about a ream worth of documents when a rapping comes
    at the door.]

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

[Perhaps rapping is the wrong word.  The doorknob is turned violently,
making a grating sound as it's moved past it's normal turning radius.]

WC: Set your thugs upon me will you, gestapo?  Philistine!

Betty: I'm sorry mister Willingham!  I tried to stop him but ... well,
just look at him!

[Looking up from his papers Dex sighs deeply.  His visitor, a 300-plus
beast of a man whose skin is dyed permanently black, is William
Craven.  His hapless secretary moves constantly; a bird feigning a
broken wing to draw a predator away from it's nest.]

DW: Betty, please, just calm down.  He's ... well, not harmless, but
I'm sure Bill is just here to discuss business.  Go ahead back to your
desk please.

Betty: Oh, oh okay mister Willingham.

[Pause.  Betty looks to Craven who is still bandaged in places from
his war with Robert Cole weeks ago, to the door, and back to Craven.]

Betty: Should I call a contractor about the door?  The doorknob seems
to be detached on the inside I think.

DW: Would you?

Betty: Right away.

[Departing, Betty leaves Willingham to share an uncomfortable silence
with Bill as he stands, breathing heavy and moving his head around
rapidly as if scanning for potential threats.]

DW: Bill?

[No response.  Craven rubs his craggy face, the scratch of white hair
almost too long to be called stubble is heard.]

DW: Bill would you have a seat please?

[Starting slightly, Bill refocuses on his employer.  Looking around
himself he takes two seconds longer than an average man to notice the
hardwood guest chair two steps to his right.]

DW: Okay.  So ... what's the issue?

[A small peep escapes Bill as he freezes for a second, then scoots
forward to put his elbows on Willingham's desk.]

WC: The issue?  The issue!?  Do I really need to spell it out!?

DW: A little spelling would be nice.  I'm sure the details are all
there but, as you may or may not know, I have over a hundred employees
whose concerns are also my concerns.  They let me hear about it on a
near daily basis.

WC: You play at detachment, yes?  Maybe you think to put me off my
guard?

DW: Your guard?

[Dex shoves the papers aside and he leans forward to match Bill's
posture.  Perhaps once formidable, the paunchy older man looks feeble
contrasted against the gigantic Craven.]

DW: It would be nice if you'd open up a little, Bill.  The very fact
that you're here puts you about ten notches above, say, Spectre.  You
know that guy has it in his contract that his first name is never to
be uttered?  His proxy wrote it straight into the fine print.  Not
that it matters but I can't remember ever having a real conversation
with him.
    Coffee?

[Reaching behind himself, Dex fills a styrofoam cup with black liquid
from a rather fancy looking machine.]

DW: Keurig coffee brewer.  Couldn't live without it.  There was a day
when Betty brought me all my burned bean water but I'm an impatient
man who doesn't particularly like being waited on.  The girl's just
lucky I need a full-time call screener or she might be out a job.
    Keeps the machine stocked though, I'll give her that much.  Nice
    to know the rack's always got packets.  How about I make you a bit
    of decaf?

[Craven hunches slightly in his chair, averting his eyes in the manner
of a petulant teenager.]

DW: Okay, you're a health nut ... of sorts, so I can't say I'm
surprised that coffee isn't your bag.  You're calmer at least.  Care
to share what's on your mind now?

[Drifting back in an overly dramatic way, Craven locks eyes with
Willingham.]

WC: I want a title shot.

DW: Okay.

[Pause.  Dex takes a sip of coffee, sets the cup aside, folds his
hands over his mouth and nose, points fingers up and thumbs out and
slowly lowers both hands together.]

DW: So pitch me why you deserve one ... and go.

[Point at Craven, pretend to fire both guns.  Craven's face twists up
in what would be a low simmer for his temper.]

WC: Pitch?  Are you serious?  Four years, since day one I've been with
this company!  Undying loyalty, filling the arenas with fans who want
to bear witness to the violence that is William Craven!  Never once
have I had a single chance to vie for the crown nor even the lesser
championships.  I helped build this company!

DW: Lots of people helped build this company.

WC: My contribution was greater!

DW: Which contribution?  The one where you terrified children and beat
up their mothers?  Do you think I don't watch my own show?

[Pregnant pause.  Craven's voice drops from low shout to almost
whisper.]

WC: That's not what happened.

DW: Then set me straight, Bill.  I'm not in the business of rewarding
what people are calling the worst villain in wrestling history.  And
that's with Gibson Hayes, the jerk you're asking for a shot at, in the
mix.

WC: I found the child.  I safeguarded him.

DW: Okay.  Bottom line the kid was involved in a way that was
inappropriate.

WC: He shouldn't have even been backstage.

DW: We're on the road.  A boy can't see his father?

WC: Ut, I, ... I just didn't want him to be lost.

DW: Okay, fine, let's say I believe you.  There were two charges
there, Bill.

WC: Yllana...

DW: Yes, Yllana, who had to sign a contract to be as involved as she
was towards the end of your little ... arglebargle with her husband.
She had to be stitched up pretty extensively after eating that edged
baseball bat you call a prop.

WC: She was caught in the crossfire.

DW: Crossfire.  Is that your explanation?  It was you that approached
her, you that filled her head with the notion that her whole family
might be in danger.  You were the catalyst; the instigator.

WC: Misdirection!

DW: Come again?

[Bill raises up on the balls of his feet, pointing with a sly look at
his boss.]

WC: You ... you are changing the subject.  You've redirected me
towards another topic that you know bothers me.  So this is how Dexter
Willingham maintains control over his domain...

[Sarcastic clapping from Dex.]

DW: Well done, bravo Craven.  You've got it all figured out right?
Look, it's like this.

[Dex leans further forward, a serious expression forming lines around
his eyes and mouth.]

DW: You're a proven talent but you cause too much collateral damage.
It's really hard for me to reward someone who does nothing but cause
trouble.  You're too self-aware to simply shuffle off your offenses by
saying "he doesn't know what he's doing" Bill.  If you really can't
control your temper, your ... inner beast or whatever it is, then
maybe you need to accept your role in the company.

WC: So I bleed ... and do everything I can to make your product the
best it can be and this is how I'm thanked?

DW: Craven, dammit, you used chlorine gas on some guys and talked a
rookie kid into holding the doors shut.  You ... you chased after one
guy who _obviously_ didn't want a piece of you for two *BLEEPING*
years until he finally gave you the match ... then _IMMEDIATELY_
joined forces with him!  And the Meatgrinder.  Holy crap don't get me
started on that one!  The bills!  The money spent to treat you and
Manson and repair all that equipment!  That damned thing, made
according to your blueprints I might add, weighed over a ton!  Someone
could've been crushed to death!

WC: People will talk about the Meatgrinder for years to come!

DW: For the wrong reasons, Bill!

WC: The glory is mine, Dexter!

DW: What glory?  My God, how can you still spew the same garbage to me
that you use on the meatheads in the locker room?  Glory?  You beat
the crap out of people for a living.  You, especially, with that
stiff-as-hell style of yours.  It's just lucky we're able to get
enough people to keep you busy every week.

WC: I want what's coming to me--

DW: You mean a pink slip!?

WC: --and I won't take no for an answer!

[Both men rise to their feet, adversarial as they glare daggers across
the giant desk.]

DW: I can see your serious Bill but so am I.  How about a compromise?

WC: A compromise?

DW: Meet me half way.

WC: What is your offer?  Hm?  A TV Title shot?  Maybe a courtesy entry
into the next Blood Bowl?  Damn me with faint praise, fearless leader,
please let me prove myself to you once again.  Winning tournaments and
sending legends limping home apparently isn't enough.

DW: Stop.  Just stop.  You need to impress me, Bill.  Not by taking it
outside the ring, not by assaulting officials and sure as hell not by
going all ultraviolence and trying to end someone's career.  Find
something.  Prove to me you're not just some mindless wrecking machine
and then maybe, just maybe, I'll give you that spot on the roster
you've been wanting since day one.  Not #2 contender ... but #1 with a
bullet.

[Silence pervades for a moment.  Craven stands, shaking his head
slightly at Willingham and turning to leave.]

DW: That's it?  Not even going to consider it?

WC: Quite the contrary, Dexter.  I'm leaving to make preparations.
You want to see what William Craven can do without leaving piles of
bodies in his wake?  I'm going to show you...

[And Craven exits the room.  That's it.  Wiping his sweaty brow, Dex
leans out over his desk to be sure he's gone.  Wait for it, 3, 2, 1...
Dex hits a button on an intercom on his desk.]

DW: Betty?  Has William Craven gone?

Betty: Yes Mr. Willingham.

DW: Okay, okay good.

[Dex looks around himself, seemingly distracted.]

DW: So ... why do I feel worried?

[Cut.  End.]