****************************************
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** Phoenix Valley Wrestling Presents  **
**            SHOWCASE                **
**            06.21.11                **
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-> Gibson Hayes
-> Rob Cole
-> AsH
-> The Berserkers
-> Danny Daniels
-> Tyson Cain
-> Mike Bisignano
-> Max and Sal
-> Jaime Roberts
-> The Renegades
-> Marcus Manson #1
-> Senor Cloak Dos
-> Team Tomorrow
-> Caleb Foley
-> Prophets of Rage
-> Christopher Black
-> ???
-> Chris Hartt
-> Sinister
-> Nevermind
-> Perry Fontana
-> Larry Gionet
-> Marcus Manson #2
-> Sammy Knight
-> Spectre
-> William Craven



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

[The back of a large sedan holds two men. One of them is in a suit
that can only be described as atrocious (it is literally vomit green
with oil slick black stripes). The other is in a blue suit with red
tie and white shirt.]

Todd Johnstone: Damn it, we're going to be late.

Gibson Hayes: Why is it so important to be on time with this guy? I
spoke to him over the phone and he seems to believe me when I talk
about saving America and being the last hope for a bright tomorrow.

[Todd looks at his watch then pulls out a cellular, then another four
emerge from his suit.]

TJ: Look, kid, I got a lot to juggle to make sure you keep that belt.
You've been hunted before but now, now everyone is after you. We got
Livestock and Gutch in our corner but they're not exactly a safety
net. I gotta watch out for them too. It's not gonna be easy and I'll
be damned if I'm not going to get an insurance policy.

GH: I get the insurance thing but who's Frank Knight?

[Johnstone is furiously texting while mumbling something over another
phone and glancing at the two other phones in front of him.]

TJ: Uncle Frank, that's what he likes to be called. You think Spectre
was bad, well, at least Spectre has an agenda. Uncle Frank he's...
off. He's a gifted technician, one of the best I've seen. Fontana, von
Donkeycrap, they're good, possibly better at the actual application of
holds but what sets Frank apart is that he doesn't care. Franky will
merrily snap someone's arm in two out of joy or anger or just because
it is Tuesday. Spectre, he wants people to be miserable. Frank... I
don't know what the hell he wants. He's... yeah.

GH: Okay, so he's a bomb. Got it. Well, it looks like I will have to
make sure Uncle Frank and I understand each other; or at least make
him understand he needs to make sure I stay safe. We can't have
America's only hope being hurt or having his podium taken away from
him now, can we?

[Todd is only half listening when he seems to get very angry.]

TJ: What do you mean Frank is gone? What the hell did you do you
stupid stick jockey? Spare me the god damned details and find him!
Evelyn, turn this car around! Frank ain't at the airport any more; we
gotta get to him before he breaks a guy's neck for jaywalking or
breathing!

GH: Interesting...

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

[Battered, bruised, and beaten; Rob Cole stands in front of the PVW
banner dressed in a teeshirt and jeans. His swollen features are
obscured behind a pair of dark shades and we can see a fresh bandage
taped to his forehead. He takes a deep breath before speaking. His
eyes are set in a fury.]

RC: It gets worse." You come after me, you come after my son, and all
along you talk about how it's going to get "worse". You talk about the
blood, you talk about the pain, and you talk about everything you had
to sacrifice and ... for a long time, I couldn't see the bigger
picture.

For a long time, I honestly believed in the hype and the horror
surrounding your name and I was afraid. The fear of you... the fear of
how far you were willing to go, what you could do to me, what you
could do to the people I love... the fear of you crippled me these
past few months. I didn't think it could get any "worse" than that...
but then you went out and you found my son. You told your story, you
made your threat, and that was when I turned in my tracks and decided
tomeet you head on.

That was when the myths and the legends were peeled back and
everything you really were became...

[Cole chuckles a bit and shakes his head in disgust. That last word
brought a smile to his face, though not in the least bit kind.]

RC: I have had everything you ever wanted. I started out in a rinky
dink promotion as a camera operator... that's all I ever really wanted
to do. I was dragged into the ring by my throat... and I had my life
raked over barbed wire, broken glass, and my wounds were salted and I
did terrible things and I've been a victim and a hero and everything
in between. For the past fifteen years I have won titles and fought
bloody wars... sometimes I deserved what I got, other times I didn't.
But nothing ever came as a gift for me, Bill... life is hard. Marriage
is work. Fatherhood is work. I wasn't born a giant. Pain is real for
me. It's real for my family. It's real for most everyone in that
audience; it is the reality of our mortality!

[Cole furrows his brows in frustration.]

RC: I have never tried to walk away from that ring out of fear until
you decided to set your sights on me... a man who uses gas, a man who
uses families, and a man who has discarded every semblance of normalcy
from his appearance. I walked away from you. I believed in what you
had wrapped yourself up in... but the problem is that you believed it,
too. You thought you really were what you were advertising, Billy-
board.

And you couldn't let me walk away... and you came at me... and the
mask you wear, the fake anger and the blame were peeled away by the
end of our match. The world saw you for the man... for the wrestler...
that you kept insisting you weren't. We are what we are, William
Craven. I know it's not over... because you promised it would get
worse.

[Cole chuckles and raises his head now.]

RC: But we have to go back to the beginning right now, don't we? In
the beginning? There was darkness, there was light, there was life,
and there was a day to rest after everything else got made... and
there were jackals.

Packs of the creatures just circling the bodies of the fallen, picking
at whatever meat was left on the bone when the bigger monsters ate
their fill. That was the beginning and now it's going to be the end...
because I'm not going to let this go! Senor Cloak Dos...

I don't even know what you were thinking or why you decided to speak
up, why you decided to stand at ringside when all was said and done
with your own match...

I don't know and I don't care! What I do know is that you decided to
say something... to do something... and it doesn't set right with me!

[Cole shakes his head, his features going pale with frustration... he
reaches up to tug at his ear.]

RC: You know what, though? I actually thought you were different...
I'm an idiot, but I thought you were the real deal. Genuine! My six
year old boy... we bought the entire Senor Cloak Dos mask collection,
he has a poster of you in his room, and ... action figures, tee-
shirts...

Daddy is /just/ some guy in the ring, but Senor Cloak Dos is a super-
hero! And I had no problem with that, Senor... I had my own idols when
I grew up and if my son could find a good hero to emulate than that's
just great. And now? My son thinks it's a mistake... he wants to know
if you're going to be a bad guy, wants to know if I can make his hero
be nice again... what kind of crap is that, Senor?!?!!!

Do you have any idea ... my son wants me to save you? I couldn't save
myself when it counted... but men like you, men like Chris Hartt...
you guys are supposed to be heroes. I can't even stand the sight of
you right now... I think you might have even broken my own heart a
little, Luchadore. You make me sick.

[Cole puts his hands on his hips and lowers his gaze. He takes a deep
breath and licks his lips wolfishly, a hungry smile peeling the flesh
back from his teeth.]

RC: That's why I asked for this match... to settle this issue before
it becomes something more than it needs to be. I'm already soaked in
Bill Craven hate, the last thing I need is a Luchadore flying at me
from every direction.

So I went to the office and I demanded this match... I want to look
you in the eyes and I want to know why you found it necessary to
harass me after my match. I want to know why you decided to pick a
fight with me. And then? I'm going to show you why it was such a
terrible... horrible... and foolish... mistake.

I've said it before, mi amigo... "Do not taunt happy fun ball."

*Fade to black*

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

[Camera opens on AsH cringing as he walks, gingerly, through his
bedroom. This could probably be best explained by the fact that he's
glowing red from a sunburn, from, one can only assume, 3 inches from
the sun. Much like a cartoon trying to sneak up on another sleeping
cartoon, legs wide and arms away from his sides, he gets to his the
edge of his tub and carefully straightens up. Removing a large bottle
of Aloe Vera from the cabinet and opens the top. He proceeds to squirt
it directly into the tub, which upon further inspection, is nearly
FULL of the green gel. AsH cringes again and grunts. He puts his
thumbs into the bands of his shorts and attempts to pull them down...
only to IMMEDIATELY regret the decision]

AsH: It feels... like... I had sex with a bonfire.

...and I definitely didn't wear protection.

[AsH furrows his eyebrow at his own poorly worded sentence and
proceeds to simply step into the tub, shorts still on and grumble as
he finally gets chin deep into the goop. He puts a handful on his face
and looks back to the camera, every bit as visually appealing as
Slimer]

AsH: I gotta get healthy. Er. Healthier. I know that I may still look
like a cherry tomato, but as long as I don't tap out to a slap, things
should go just fine.

[AsH leans back again, resting his head on the edge of the tub]

AsH: And Tyson Cain, the rookie of the year, gets his biiiiig wish.
His chance to put me down and put me down hard. Get that big...uh,
ish... name to put on his resume' and move forward. Probably like a
kid on Christmas Eve, now, going over it in his head. Thinking over
and over about just HOW he's gonna use this gift first. Wondering what
it will feel like.

Well kid, lemme spoil the surprise for you. It's gonna hurt like a
stubbed toe, feel like you dropped trou in your high school gym class,
and make you regret ever wishing for it in the first place. You see,
unlike Christmas, THIS Santa is an irritated and vindictive prick. And
you've been working your DAMNDEST to get to the top of his naughty
list for some time.

[AsH rubs a few globs off of his eyebrows and looks down at his red
hands]

AsH: It's been a while, coming kid. Just like this sunburn, you've
been all, the hell, over me. Painful at times. Annoying at others. But
I can still manage. Been getting around well enough and strange as it
may seem, it's good to have sometimes. Reminds you of how much you
take for granted. How bad things COULD be.

It reminds me that annoying little shits like YOU are transitional.
You come in, make some noise, and leave just as quickly... and no one
will ever remember your name.

You want to be a big deal? You want to be a legend? You want to be an
Icon, the big wig, and call yourself the SHOWSTOPPER?! Please, Child.

I was a big deal, when deals weren't cut.

I was a legend when legends were still just tall tales.

I was an Icon before it was Iconic, the big wig when people still had
their hair, and I STOPPED THE SHOWS BEFORE THE SHOWS EVER STOPPED!

[AsH puts a big glob back on his face]

AsH: You wanna play in the major leagues with the big dogs, Cain? You
bring your bad attitude, your head full of naive dreams and 'big
plans' for the future... and you see how long they last, how long YOU
last, when you're finally one on one with the Icon.

I'll make an AsH-hole out of you yet, Tyson.

[AsH mumbles something about "may even buy you a t-shirt" as he slips
down into the aloe and the camera fades]

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

BOOM!!!  BOOM!!!  BOOM!!!

(We open with the loud shouting of an over-excited voice.  And we see
two side by side wrestlers.  Both very well defined in black wrestling
pants.  Red and Black face paint designs fulfill across both men's
faces that make up the freshly signed tag team called, The
Berserkers.)

Wolf: We have wrestled the globe in the hunt for the greatest tag
teams in the world.  We have faced the best teams Mexico and Japan has
to offer.  Meanwhile all we have heard about are teams like the Wild
Cards, the Prophets of Rage, Livestock and The Gutch, PAIN, and Max
and Sal.  This little sleeping giant of tag team wrestling haven.  So
we smashed as many skulls as we could and we finally talked a PVW
scout into checking us out.  And a few months later here we are with
our first match in the PVW!

(Wolf snarls at the camera as he continues to talk ... okay partially
shout.)

Wolf: And our first match is against some fresh meat straight out of
wrestling school.  A few greenhorns named Dylan Douglas and Michael
Perfect.  Let me tell you two punks something.  Doom and myself we
have been through it all.  We have faced men of all walks of life.
And we didn't travel all this way to take out a few greenhorns
straight out of wrestling school.  But we know the game all too well.
We have to prove ourselves and it takes a first step.  And here in the
valley of tag team wrestling we are ready to beat the best.

(The shorter but more muscular of the two, Doom chimes in.)

Doom: I have heard they call the Prophets of Rage the gateway to the
tag team division.  Well that sounds like a good place to start.  You
see were never much for being intimidated.  The Prophets come with a
resume that even Jesus Christ himself would admire.  They have beaten
nearly everyone that has meant a darn in the tag team wrestling world.
 They are a former PVW tag team champion.  So it sounds like a good
place to point the bullseye.

(Wolf nods in agreement as Doom continues.)

Doom: Once we take care of these two rookies.  Show the PVW what the
Berserkers are all about.  We want the Prophets to know that we are
headed their way.  We want to test this so called gateway of the tag
team division.  Our goal is to be the best and that begins by taking
out the best.  Shadoe and Derek Rage you can bet that two pair of
eye's will be watching on Heatwave.  And when your little dispute with
the Renegades is over.  You have two bad mothers in the back ready to
stand face-to-face and make a name for themselves and it starts by
taking out the biggest and the baddest in the league.

(Wolf cuts right in.)

Wolf: Prophets get ready to feel the hurt.

Doom: Get ready to feel the pain.

Wolf: Get ready to feel the

BOOM!!!  BOOM!!!  BOOM!!!

(Fade.)

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

[The camera fades in to a room.  In the background is a small
blackboard, with the words "DAYS SINCE LAST NINJA ATTACK:  13" in
chalk.  Standing in front and to the left of the blackboard is Danny
"YOUR HERO" Daniels.  He's dressed in his usual outfit- yellow t-shirt
with YOUR HERO written in block letters, black shorts, wraparound
sunglasses, and the SUPREME title wrapped around his waist.  He gives
the camera a finger wave.]

D"YH"D:  Greetings and Salutations!  I'm "YOUR HERO" Danny Daniels, a
man so nice they named me twice!  Called Shot was a mixed blessing for
"YOUR HERO".  Neither myself nor my partner in Danhood, Dan Flores,
was able to earn the Called Shot.  On the other hand, we have managed
to successfully repel the ninja attacks that have been plaguing PVW.
And this has given me time to contemplate...

[Danny tilts his head upward, in a pose like "The Thinker".]

D"YH"D:  As "YOUR HERO", I fought off ninjas.  I have attempted to
convert EVIL SINESTRO~! into GOOD SINESTRO~!.  I have defended the
SUPREME Title against the likes of Jack Griffin in an epic six-star
encounter.  But I realize that, like a candle burning at both ends, I
may flame out too soon.  And I feel that I have more to give PVW than
epic title defenses.  Certainly, I am not just A HERO, but "YOUR
HERO"... but [raises an eyebrow]  Can I be an even BETTER HERO?

[Danny nods deeply in thought]

D"YH"D:  I shall ponder upon this some more.  In the meantime, this
week, I am in a tag team encounter.  Myself and Gabe Whitecross
against a pair of cowboys- Gabby Hayes and Johnny Stetson.  Cowboys
have always been tough wrestlers, but I'm certain myself and
Whitecross can handle them.  After all, in the epic encounters of
ninjas versus cowboys, the cowboys put up a tough fight, but the
ninjas would win.  We've already beaten the ninjas, so the cowboys
should be finished quickly!

[Danny nods sagely]

D"YH"D:  So first, let me and Whitecross handle the cowboys, then I
will ponder how I, Danny "YOUR HERO" Daniels- a man so nice they named
me twice- can elevate the PVW to even greater heights.

[Another finger wave.]

D"YH"D:  TOODLES~!

[Danny stands up and walks out of the room, the camera following him
until he closes the door behind him.  The camera pivots back to the
blackboard, but finds the Greek Yuppie Chorus, sipping wine and
standing in front of the blackboard.  The begin singing...

((To the tune of "Southern Cross" by Crosby, Stills, and Nash)):


When Danny tags with WhiteCross for the first time
You understand now why they'll win this way.
'Cause the truth is Hayes and Detson have no chance at all
Because Our Hero makes a promise - The promise of a comin' day

[Fade out]

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

[The screen fades up to show the regular interview area for PVW
broadcasting. We hear voices approaching, but can't figure out who
they are until finally one steps in front of the stationary camera
set-up. It is "Showstopper" Tyson Cain, wearing a green silk, button-
down shirt and a black pair of pants. His sunglasses folded and
hanging from the gold chain around his neck. Tyson looks unhappy as he
holds a piece of paper in his hands.]

Cain:  SUGGESTIONS?!?!

[He stares toward the camera, obviously pointing his glare towards
someone behind the vantage point.]

Cain:  You guys really think you can give me something that tells me
what to say in this moment?

[We hear the muffled reply.]

Tech:  Well we wanted to give you a chance to make  your comments more
pointed since  you are no longer in a massive gimmick angle with six
other men. This way you are pointed toward the one opponent you have
at Heatwave.

Cain:  I understand why you THINK you want to do this, but I can't
believe you actually think I would follow them?

Tech:  But...

[Tyson throws the papers at the camera.]

Cain:  No buts, junior. I'm my own man and nobody is telling me what
will come out of my mouth when I start talking.

Tech:  Suit yourself.

Cain:  I did. Now I suggest you get outta here before I take a notion
to walk over there and ram my foot up your ass!

[As Tyson stares in that direction, we hear scuttlebutt in the
background and a door opening and shutting.]

Cain:  Those idiots were starting to give me a migraine.

[Tyson grabs a chair and takes a seat in the camera's viewing area. He
takes a deep breath and finally starts talking again.]

Cain:  Just for a minute, I'm going to throw all that garbage out and
just talk to the one man that needs to hear what I have to say right
now... AsH.

[Tyson adjusts a little and actually looks calm and reserved, like he
is almost in total "off-camera" mode or something.]

Cain:  Looks like it has finally come right down to where I knew it
always would, my man.

You and me.

Tyson Cain and AsH, one-on-one in the middle of the squared circle
slugging it out for a shot at greatness.

[Cain seems to relish the idea of this match and gets a slight grin as
he speaks.]

Cain:  They didn't want me to come out here and just speak man-to-man
toward you. They wanted me to come out and trash talk you, demean your
name, talk bad about your Momma and all that stuff because I guess
that is how they think I should be.

[A pause as the grin disappears and Tyson winks as he says his next
line.]

Cain:  But you and I know better, don't we.

[The grin returns.]

Cain:  AsH, I've been thinking and I realized something...

I realized that we are actually a lot alike in many ways. You look
down  the path of what has led us to this match and you will find many
pieces that seem identical. It really is true.

[Tyson nods slowly before continuing.]

Cain:  I look at everything you accomplished before walking in here
and it is impressive. It really is. Your titles in that other
federation are staggering and show you have a large amount of skill.
This is something anyone can see who watches video tapes and has even
an ounce of understanding for what we do.

But I know the flip side of that success haunted you, AsH.

You spent years performing in that dog and pony show. You gave them
your blood, your sweat and your tears and all you got for it was the
cheers of people. The leader of that rag-tag band of misfits out there
treated you like dirt behind your back, all the while claiming to love
you like a father to your face. You went out and got the fans to love
you, but always wondered if your success wasn't really because of the
man pulling the strings in the office. And maybe...just maybe...you
just happened to be the favorite toy he had for his sandbox.

[Tyson gives a warm, affirming look toward the camera and aren't we
all just curious as to why in the hell he is acting so nice right
now?]

Cain:  You had no choice. They called you an icon and made you a hall
of famer in their little group, while they began using you for all you
had left. They starts sucking you dry and forcing you to take your
talents and use them to make others look good and not yourself. It
couldn't have been an easy decision to leave, AsH, but it was the only
decision you had.

You had to know for yourself...

Am I that good, or am I only good because AJ liked me so damn much?

You have a lot left in your tank, old man. I know because I've been in
the ring with you since you got here and know you can still go. And I
have to admit something...

[A very pregnant pause...]

Cain:  I respect the hell out of you for doing things your way and
showing what you had left inside.

[Tyson just nods as he pauses to give what he said some effect, then
he stops nodding and continues.]

Cain:  I understand you in many ways. My father was a wrestler. I grew
up around the business. My training came from guys my father knew
during his career. My first jobs came from promoters who did my Dad a
favor.

[Tyson seems in a daze as he speaks, as if the narrative takes control
of him.]

Cain:  Night after night I went and did what was asked of me never
knowing if I could truly succeed on my own. It always seemed like they
wanted me to be "Sniper Jr" and not myself. I'd win or I'd lose, but
the result was always the same...lots of congratulatory pats on the
back for how well I did, even when I botched something up or got
caught in the wrong spot.

I knew then, what you found out later...at some point, I have to
branch away and win or lose on my own merit and not those who have
helped me get started.

Can I truly be me and be a success?

[Tyson stands up and keeps talking.]

Cain:  Yes AsH, we are very similar in that regard...but it also means
one other thing...

[The cocky look in Tyson's eye returns.]

Cain:  You must be damn stupid to realize what you needed to do so
late in your career. You let that leech suck you dry for YEARS before
you walked away and took things more into your own hands. Sure these
fans may love you for being who you are, but in the end they will clap
for whomever they are forced fed to clap for. It is the way the
business works.

Because of that I knew my direction...

[Tyson cracks his neck and looks imposing.]

Cain:  When you come from Pittsburgh, you come from a town made of
steel.

Most people don't get what that means. They think it is some dumbass
slogan like Chicago being the "City of Big Shoulders" or Paris as the
"City of Lights"...but it isn't.

It is who we are in every aspect of our lives.

[Tyson rips open his shirt and buttons go flying. His body is ripped
with muscle.]

Cain:  It is in every ounce of our being. When we work, we aren't
afraid of hard labor and difficult tasks. When the wind of life blows
against us and tries to take us down, we stand strong and tough, not
budging an inch. Our bodies and minds are steel...

...and so is our will.

Nobody is a hard-headed as a Pittsburgh man. We set our mind to
something, we get to it and God help anybody who tries to stop us.

[Tyson does some small scale, slight movements to flex his pecs and
muscles as he speaks.]

Cain:  I couldn't allow others to dictate what would happen to me in
this life. It was MY life and not theirs. I may have been Jessee
Williams' son, but I wasn't "Sniper Jr" in any form. I walked out and
did it on my own terms. And I know I have succeeded because of one
indisputable fact...

I'm right here.

[The cocky grin is back again as the flexing stops.]

Cain:  I made it to the mountain top when it comes to places to ply my
trade. I got here on my own merit...and AsH...you got here based on
the merit AJ handed you.

You didn't do it completely on your own.

I respect you trying to prove yourself apart from him and his little
circus, but respect only goes so far.

[Tyson puts on the sunglasses.]

Cain:  And that is where the will of a true man of steel comes into
play. AsH, you may think you have a shot in hell...but you don't. I'm
walking into Heatwave and I'm going to show you why I am not the most
loved man in the PVW. I'm going to show you why I am the most feared
entity the PVW has to offer.

It isn't because I'm the biggest man on the roster.

It isn't because I have a history of extreme fighting or crazy match
stipulation victories that make me inherently dangerous.

It is because of my overall presence. I'm the most feared because I am
the total package or intelligence, athleticism, skills and arrogance
that the wrestling world has ever known.

[Tyson smiles in a cocky manner.]

Cain:  And at Heatwave, you learn the rest of my story. You learn why
my show is just getting started and that I am...

the jaw dropper...

the big pappa...

the showstopper...

[He drops the shades to reveal his eyes over the top of them as the
camera zooms in fast to just his face.]

Cain:  And you see why your show is all but over.

[The screen pans back to the regular view as Cain walks away and yells
over his shoulder...]

Cain:  Somebody call a fat lady, because she's on in five.....

[Fade to black.]

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

[Fade up on the beige exterior of the Meritage Resort in Napa,
California.  White stone pillars decorate a lush rolling expanse of
green trimmed grass.  The extraordinary Napa and Sonoma vineyards
spread out across the hills to the back under a panoramic view of
white fluffy clouds in a blue breezy sky. Dissolve into the inside of
the luxury resort hotel - a beige and yellow hall with red velvet
furniture and beige to alabaster white futons, the rich teak table
laid out with an expanse of specially made gourmet plantain chips,
seventeen kinds of cheese, and of course only the best samples of
Napa's famous sweet red and white wines.  Long hanging lights add
ambiance yet the man in the center, staring out to the sprawling hills
of green rows in the distance, is focused instead on something beyond
the atmosphere of wealth and privilege.]

Biz: Everywhere I go all I hear are people saying "Oh my god, I can't
believe The Biz would do such a thing to Tommy Ryder" or "I hope he
gets what he deserves for his actions" and I just don't get it. WHY is
everyone mad at _ME_ when all I was doing was trying to make Tommy
Ryder a better person.

And wouldn't you believe it... at End Game, I _finally_ saw a spark in
Tommy Ryder.  And we all know where there's a spark, there's likely to
be fire. Unfortunately for Tommy, it ended up in his face. So really
if there's anyone to blame, it's Tommy himself... for being such a hot
head, that is.

[The Biz has a chuckle over his play on words]

Biz: Hopefully while he's sitting at home, he can think about what
happened and after his recovery he will be a new man.. a better man..
a man who may just be able to get the job done once and for all.

Until then, I suppose I have to bide my time with guys like Chris
Hartt.

Chris, they call you "The Paladin" ... a heroic champion ... a paragon
of chivalry.

Well I hope you took a good hard look at what I did to Tommy Ryder
because chivalry is dead in my book. And as for being heroic, that
crap gets you nowhere in this world. It clearly didn't get you the
Called Shot opportunity and it most certainly left you face down in
the mat at the hands of a guy like Larry Gionet. I can only hope you
shed that good guy visage and show up not as "The Paladin" but as "The
Malefactor" because there's truth in words and you've got loser
written all over you.

Nobody in this run-down company sees it but me and that's alright
because they are clearly not as enlightened as yours truly. Which is
why I decided to bring in a friend of mine who knows a little
something about "enlightenment".

[He turns to someone off-camera]

Biz: Ain't that right?

[In walks Jeffrey Dylan Marsh AKA "JDM Superstar" sporting white hemp
pants and neru shirt, a glass of red wine cabernet sauvignon in his
hand.  A calm look works across the face of the tanned, blonde agent
to the stars; a laptop under his arm as he raises the crystal glass,
almost saluting the camera.]

JDM:  Ah ah ah, correction, "Isn't that right?"  Now.  Screaming Eagle
Cabernet.  2007.  Fifteen hundred a bottle, and the best cabernet in
the world. Care to try a taste?

Biz:  The best, you say? I wouldn't settle for anything less.

[JDM approaches the red teak counter and reaching behind procures a
second crystal glass.  He takes up the dark bottle and hands the cork
to The Biz.  JDM Superstar places his crystal on the counter and pours
them both a half a glass.  Swirling his a few times, to let the
alcohol spread, he lifts it up and takes a drink.  The Biz doing the
same.]

JDM:  Ah, and the first now awakens the palate.  You see, my good
friend The Biz has been in PVW for quite some time, in that
godforsaken hellhole that is Arizona.  However, the Lord has smiled on
him and sent him on vacation; a brief exodus from the land of forest
fires and polluted sand and has seen fit to send him to my care.  A
temporary escape from the torture that is midcard languishing; and not
a moment's respite too soon.  It was all I could do to reintroduce him
to the finer things in life; namely a sojourn in California's Napa
Valley.  Wine country.

[The Biz takes a sip from his glass and then raises it high as he
speaks]

Biz: And how grateful I am to finally be back in the company of
someone who knows a thing or two about luxury. You'd think for a
company with Johnny Detson as the President, PVW would spend a little
bit more time and attention to it's 'accomodations'. Maybe Johnny D
can use that Called Shot of his and call up some REAL talent to grace
the locker room so I wouldn't feel like such a big fish in a small
pond all the time.

 [JDM raises his glass, this time he slowly tips the edge to let the
 taste savor in, completely coating his tongue...]

JDM:  The second taste is not the most important; in fact it energizes
the tastebuds, awakening every single molecule as to what's yet to
come... and that is my good friend, the main event.  Congratulations.
And to Chris Hartt, you see while I am sure that you are not a worthy
opponent, it matters not because under my guidance, under my tutelage,
The Biz is finally where he deserves to be.  Not curtain jerking some
pregame show.  Not scraping for minutes in the ring like some first
year rookie.  No... he's earning the price of the gate, finally, a
percentage of all ticket prices and surely, the winner's purse, for he
is, was, and always shall be better than any so-called "main eventer"
in PVW today.

[The Biz smirks as JDM takes the crystal up for the last time, and
smiling, he drinks it in deeply.  The taste comes alive as the
Superstar embraces the moment, an exquisite moment in a series of
perfect moments that are just as sure to come as they have followed
one another all his entire life.]

JDM:  And the coup de tat will be when The Biz gets his hand raised
inside that very ring, on the road, and of course anywhere else from
here on now.  You see then, and only then, will PVW realize and
understand that true greatness is really here.  They will be saved
from their road warrior heroes and their aging journeymen champions.
From their decrepit veteran weekend warriors and their stale and
corpse filled upper card.  For now The Biz has finally arrived and it
is time for him to show each and every one of you exactly what a
wrestler, an athlete, and a Superstar of his caliber is all about.

[The Biz puts his glass down and walks around the room, checking out
his surroundings as he speaks]

Biz: No longer am I content to pay my dues.  No longer will I settle
for the opening spot against less than worthy "talent", and I use that
word in full sarcastic flair, that have no business even being in the
wrestling ring; let alone earning a higher purse than me.

[JDM gets closer to the camera]

JDM: You see Mike Bisignano, which none of you have earned the right
to call him by his Christian name, is as I know him, The Biz.  And
why? Because he is the business of today.  He is smarter, wiser,
richer, and yes even crazy enough to do things that none of you are
even capable to dream to do.  He is not content to simply pay his dues
and "earn it" like the mantra of you poor, uneducated plebians.  This
is the man who won his first World Championship by faking his own
death. How many of you can say they've had the intelligence to do
that?  He has brought whole companies to their knees!  He has taken
the aspirations of men, perhaps men even more physically gifted than
him, stolen their limelight, and robbed them of their thunder because
he is _the_ master in this mental game of chess.

[The Biz just continues to sip from his glass of wine as JDM Superstar
pontificates]

JDM: Chris Hartt... I'm sure you train, say your prayers, and eat your
vitamins no doubt like every goody two shoes in PVW.  I'm sure you
give it your all every time you step foot into that ring.  I'm sure
you even think you have a chance in this match.  But make no mistake
about it.  I am JDM Superstar.  Super agent to the stars and I do not
represent losers.  And The Biz, he is no loser.  Don't you see?  We
cannot afford to lose this main event.  We will not afford to lose
this main event.  You may be a champion of the people, but the lower
class people in this country are poor, suffer an unemployment rate of
FORTEEN POINT SIX percent, and have proven incapable of governing
themselves.  They don't know what the good life is, they cannot feed
their families, and they will never have half the luck or prosperity
that The Biz and I enjoy each and every single day.

Biz: You may very well be the champion of these people, Chris, but if
so you are a horrible one. JDM and I... WE represent what the people
should strive to be.  YOU represent what they actually are.  And yet
you really do believe that hard work and due diligence pays off and
trust me, you will be just as disappointed as those people are in
their inferior little lives when they have to break another promise to
their kids, when they have to settle for another miserable paycheck,
if they even have jobs at all.

JDM: So keep it up, and while you stand there and that bell rings we
welcome you to give it a hundred percent.  But even on his worst day,
this man's  hundred percent is ten times to yours.  He is a genius
with a mind for this business like I have never before seen and surely
has never been seen in the PVW before.  But enough bravado and
communication, lest we tip our hat as to what our gameplan shall be.
That is for you all to learn, embrace, appreciate, and enjoy as
finally, your main eventer has arrived.  A real paladin, and a true
champion to be emulated, admired, and feared.

Biz: Ha ha ha ha ha ha, Chris Hartt, I almost feel sorry for you...

(pause)

Almost.

[JDM takes his glass and clinks it with The Biz's as they have a good
laugh. The camera zooms out through the balcony and tilts down the
side of the hotel to show it's expansiveness. And FADE]

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

[The cameras fade in to see Max Weinrib and Salih Mubarak in a living
room.  Sal is seated in a recliner while Max in seated on a couch, his
legs on top of a coffee table.  Neither speaks for a moment before Max
snaps his fingers.]

Max:  We should become wine connoisseurs!

Sal VO:  Perhaps we should.  Apparently, we were the only people in
America who couldn't beat the Heat this past week.  Sure, it had taken
them four people and a trophy across the head to get the win- but the
record books would still show, for now until eternity, that the Heat
had beaten us at End Game in 2011.

[Cut to Max and Sal, standing outside, in front of a campfire.  Max
grabs a folder that reads 'PVW END GAME RESULTS' and tosses it into
the fire, with Sal nodding sagely.]

Max VO:  At least, the records books _HAD_ shown that.

Sal VO:  But PVW was heading to California for a while.  We needed a
distraction.  And since we weren't scheduled for the next Heatwave --
not to mention to shut Max up -- we decided to look into the vineyards
of California while we were out there.

Max VO:  All I was saying is that if Francis Ford Coppola and the
Grateful Dead could put out wine, how hard could it be?

[Cut to Max perusing a map while Sal drives.]

Max:  California gets plenty of sun, which is one of the reasons the
soil is so perfect for the gra...

Sal VO:  You ever meet one of those people who gets into a subject,
feels the need to learn everything about it, then feels the need to
TELL you every. single. thing. they ever found out?  That's Max.  I
decided to distract myself with music...

[Sal turns out on the radio.  Out starts blaring Ferry Corsten's
"Fire".  Sal changes the station, and it turns into Judas Priest's
"Breaking the Law".  Sal grumbles and snaps off the radio.]

Sal VO:  I then decided that was a bad idea.

Max VO:  I could tell that End Game was still troubling Sal, so I
decided to get his mind thinking elsewhere by educating him about the
finer points of Stockton, California.

Max:  Huh.  Says here that Stockton is home to the annual asparagus
festival!  Supposedly, asparagus pairs quite nicely with Chardonnay,
off-setting its natural bitterness.  [pause]  Or was that Merlot?

[Sal rolls his eyes and just grips the steering wheel harder.]

Sal VO:  At the rate Max was going, I was going to need a drink after
all of this.  Make that several.  Thank god, we finally found the
vineyard.  But then we found out we actually had to pick grapes.  That
caused some difficulties.

[The sun is beating down hard.  Max has on a big straw hat to protect
his big bald head while Sal puts on his sunglasses.  Both men are
being eyed with suspicion by the migrant vineyard workers.]

Migrant Worker #1: [translated]  (They better not be stealing our
jobs!)

[Max notices the glares and waves to the workers.]

Max:  It's all right, guys!  We're wrestlers from PVW- You know,
Phoenix?  Arizona?

Migrant Worker #2: [translated]  (Arizona?!?)

[The glares from the workers harden, and Max and Sal gulp visibly.]

Sal VO:  With that little fiasco out of the way, we grabbed our grapes
and then went to the next step- which apparently involved stomping...

[Cut to Max and Sal standing in front of a vat.]

Sal:  No.  Uh-uh.  No way am I stomping in three feet of grape mush-
and then drinking it.

Max VO:  Sal was being obstinate.  But fortunately, I knew how to
persuade the man.

[Cut to Max getting a picture of Arvelle "MAGIC" Lafeyette and tossing
it into the vat.  Sal hops into the mat and begins stomping on it- and
the grapes.]

Sal VO:  After working out some much needed frustration,  next came
the boring part--

Max VO:  [cutting in, interrupting]  Boring?!  How can you call this
boring?  The fermentation process!  This is science in action!  Yeast
cells feeding on sugar and multiplying, producing carbon dioxide gas
and alcohol!  The very building blocks of wine itself--

[In a dark wine cellar, Sal looks at the wine vat, then his watch,
then taps his foot impatiently.]

Sal VO: Yes, yes...gas and booze.  Apparently, wine shared the same
building blocks as Livestock and the Gutch.  I could only hope that
our end product was much more palatable than anything that came out of
the tag champions.

[Sal stops and sniffs the air.  Another sniff, and a disgusted look
crosses his face.  A grinning Max walks over, holding a plate of...]

Max:  Asparagus!  Picked right off the plants and steamed up!  Go
ahead and have some- I've got plenty more!

Sal VO:  Unfortunately, that answer was 'no.'

[As Max taps the cask, Sal sighs, but then a shrewd look crosses his
face.]

Sal:  Tell you what, Max.  Since this was your idea, it's only fitting
that you be the first to enjoy the fruits of our labors.

Max:  But--

Sal:  No, no, I insist!  Drink up, buddy...you've earned this.

[With a shrug, Max pours himself a glass, raises it to his lips, takes
a sip...and the shot freezes on his bugged-out look of disgust.]

Max VO:  All right, maybe there was more to wine making than I first
thought.

Sal  VO:  On the other hand, we now weren't going to run out of drain
cleaner any time soon.

[Fade to black]

****************************************
****************************************
Jaime Roberts
****************************************
****************************************

[We're in a well-appointed gym. The camera focuses on a man with a
long dark ponytail, clad in just a pair of blue shorts. He's clearly
just finished a workout; sweat is dripping off him as he towels
himself dry. Those of you with long memories may recognise him as
Jaime Roberts, formerly known as The Sex Pistol. He looks at the
camera and smiles.]

JR: Time to introduce myself to the PVW fans, I guess. Some of you may
remember me. Going back ten years or so, I was a fairly big deal. Not
a major star - never at the level of a guy like William Craven or
Gibson Hayes, say - but I had a few titles, competed at Wrestlebowl
and Master of the Ring. I had a pretty good career.

Then, about five years ago, my beautiful manager Claire Maynard did me
the honour of becoming my beautiful wife. We found out she was
expecting a pair of twin daughters, and I decided the wrestling ring
was no place to be for a guy with two babies. I called it quits, and
thought that would be the last time the world saw me.

[He shrugs.]

I never was good at giving stuff up. It was fine for the first couple
of years - as you can see from looking around my gym here, we're not
exactly lacking for money.

[The cameraman obliges with a quick shot of the rest of the gym, which
is clearly rather impressive for a private facility.]

And then, I got bored. I tried a little mixed martial arts for a
while, and I could've been worse. Could've been a lot better, to be
fair. But for a rookie, I did okay. But there was something bugging
me.

Like I said, I had a bit of success back in the day. I had a few
titles, I was fairly well-known. But I did it all by cheating. Well,
there may have been one or two matches I won fairly, but I doubt it,
to be honest. Low blows, sneak attacks, foreign objects - you name it,
I used it. And with Claire as a manager - much as I still love that
girl, she's always looked on rules as more like guidelines.

At the time, that never bothered me. I may not have been winning
cleanly, but I was still winning. And then twelve months or so ago, I
thought about what it would be like when my two little girls grew up.
About how, if they wanted to see me wrestle, I'd be limited to
choosing between the match where Claire slipped me some brass knuckles
for the victory, the one where my associate Tommy Creighton softened
my opponent up with a wrench pre-match, or a few hundred similar ones.

[He looks embarrassed.]

And when you're trying to bring your kids up to do the right thing,
that doesn't seem the best footage to show them. So, I decided to give
it one last run. To try and make a name for myself without the dirty
tactics. As it happened, a friend of mine called Nick Demola was
opening a fed called 3DW. I let him talk me into joining - and
somehow, I won the World title.

[A grimace.]

Now, that was probably the biggest thrill of my career so far, but as
Caleb Foley will tell you, 3DW wasn't the most family-friendly of
federations. I think when I saw a baseball bat and a staple gun in my
first match, I should've realised that it probably wasn't the greatest
place to get footage to show my little girls. The things I do for my
friends...

Anyway, with 3DW on hiatus, I figured perhaps it was time to try
somewhere new. This time, perhaps I can really give my girls something
to be proud of.

Let's hope so.

[Cut.]

****************************************
****************************************
The Renegades
****************************************
****************************************

[CLLLICK!]

[Standing in front of a black and orange PVW banner are the twin
brothers Houlihan, Devin and JD, known to the wrestling world as the
Renegades!!! JD's wearing blue jean shorts with a blue and white polo.
His hair neatly styled, and kept rather short.  Devin's wearing green
cargo shorts, with a The Dead Spring '09 tour shirt on, purple in
color.  And, again achieving the goal of making sure he's 'different
than JD", Devin's hair has now grown to shoulder length, but is pulled
back in a pony tail in this heat.  The brothers stand shoulder to
shoulder, arms crossed their chests, attempting to form a serious look
on their face.  Uncle Sid stands behind them, right in the middle,
heading turning as the brothers take turns talking.]

DEVIN: The last time we met, _Prophets_....

[The way he said 'Prophets'... just has this... mocking tone to it.]

JD: ...It was one for the ages! The _true_ talent of the Pee Vee
Dubbya tag division was on display.  It was a _classic_ tag team
match, filled with back and forth action, with big, high impact spots
sprinkled throughout.  The crowd was on the _EDGE_ of their seats,
just _dying_ to see what would keep one of us down for good.  And,
shit, what did?

DEVIN:  What ended it was two bit ing
PUNKS sticking their nose in our business! They were upset that they
were being upstaged... They couldn't' _handle_ the idea that people
were digging us and _NOT_ them.  They had that insecurity complex, ya
know?

JD: Shit, _EVERYONE_ knows! They are all hardcore fans! They tuned
into the pre-show! They saw the ass whooping the Corazones received!

DEVIN: You bet they did! UP HIGH NUKKA!

[The two high five and laugh, total geeked they walked away the
victors at End Game 2.  Uncle Sid just shakes his head in dismay.]

JD: But with all seriousness, _Prophets_ , we cannot be anymore pleased with circle of events that have
once again placed you across the ring from us.  I _know_ how angry and
upset you were last time when you thought you had the match in hand
but God had different ideas.  I _know_ how many times you told
yourself that UNLESS you were tripped up... that _IF_ the Corazones
didn't interject themselves... that _SOMEHOW_ things would have ended
up different!!!

[JD smiles widens, as Devin giggles, skipping a beat before speaking.]

DEVIN: Stop _dreaming_ fellas! Y'ins ain the _Prophets_ of old! Y'ins
ain't the same team that carried this company on yer backs! No way, no
_how_! I dunno what happened... I dunno _why_ you've lost a step.  It
doesn't matter to me.  I don't pay attention to bullshit like that! We
don't focus on your _resume_! We don't catalog the _talent_ you've
beaten! We _understand_ y'ins been to the top of the mountain
before...

JD: ...tut we _also_ understand that now... Y'ins on your way back
_DOWN_!  Now, that doesn't guarantee us anything.  Not by a
long shot.  We know who and what we are tangling with.  You saw that
last time, _Prophets_.... We weren't intimated.  We weren't scared or
hesitant.  We came out, right out of the _damn_ gate and hit y'ins
straight in the face.  You know _WHY_?

DEVIN: Because we understand, probably more than _ANYONE_, that one
any given night, if the circumstances are right and God smiles down
upon you, victory _can_ come your way! It can seem like an impossible
battle, filled with insurmountable odds.  But with enough
determination  one can _NEVER_ say _NEVER_! J

JD:  Tis why despite believing full heartily in our ability
to defeat you on Heatwave, we certainly aren't turning down the
intensity now.  We ain't taking the foot of the pedal. No way.  The
regime _stays_ the same.  The preparation _stays_ the same.  And while some us might not really _see_ the
importance, it is that type of _dedication_ that shows up and proves
the difference when the end is near!

DEVIN: That's why, _Prophets_, no matter how hard y'ins push, we push
_harder_.  No matter how intense you make it, we take it to the _next_
_level_.  'Tis just what we do...  But like my brutha man
said there, knowing all that don't change a damn thing because it's
been proven time and time again, you can talk _ALLLLL_ you want, but
if you fail to show up when push comes to shove? You fall flat on your
_FACE_, making an ass outta yo'self!

JD: Thus, to end this _majestic_ and _intellectual_ piece of classic
Renegades footage....

DEVIN: ...all we can really say is one thing, _Prophets_.

[Brothers look at each other.... and....]

JD and DEVIN: _SMELL_ YA LATER~!

[Fade Out.]

****************************************
****************************************
Marcus Manson #1
****************************************
****************************************

[There was a bright flash of white, and Marcus Manson was down.]

ONE!

[Manson instinctively tried to lift his shoulders, but there was a
weight over top of him that working against him.]

TWO!

[HvD hooked Manson's leg, but Marcus was dazed and realized what was
happened as the cobwebs started to clear. Manson tried to kick, but it
was too late, the referee's hand was already on its way back down to
the mat.]

THREE!

[DING! DING! DING! The roar of the crowd almost drown out the ring
announcer as the weight was lifted and Manson rolled over to his belly
and out to the floor of the arena.

It took a moment but he finally got to his knees, and saw his opponent
standing in the ring, heavily leaning on the ring ropes for support.
He clenched his jaw, scowling and began the long walk to the locker
room, his hand on the back of his head, the crowd noise muffled, like
someone had stuffed cotton in his ears.

A member of the backstage crew offered Manson a bottle of water but he
simply slapped it away, without saying a word, which sent the crew
member scurrying. Dean Hayes approached and asked something about a
special interview for the DVD but Manson didn't even make eye contact
and just walked through Dean and the camera man to the locker room.

The ring girls had neatly folded his trench coat and set it on the
bench in front of his locker. He picked up a folded white card off the
coat and crumpled it, tossing it aside. He didn't even have to look at
it to know what it said.

"Marcus,

Good Luck tonight!

Thanks for entertaining all the fans, even though you're generally
pretty mean.

But, they've gotta have someone to boo, right?
-Amber :)"

Manson grasped his coat in one hand, and his gym bag in the other and
immediately made his way towards the garage. On his way he had to pass
through the staging area for the sports medicine doctor.]

Medical Staff: Mr. Manson, excuse me, but where are you going?

[Manson didn't answer, but kept walking.]

Staff: Marcus, you can't leave without letting me screen you for a
concussion! Somebody stop that man!

[Someone was foolish enough to try, and stepped in Manson's path. Only
briefly breaking stride, Marcus grabbed the man by his shirt and threw
him behind him, onto a table covered with guaze and stitching and
medical tape, all of which went flying to the floor. Manson walked on,
exiting the building.

Manson opened the door of his car and threw his gear into the
passenger's seat. He hopped in and started the car, speeding out of
the parking lot before the event was even over. It was a long drive to
California. As he pulled onto the highway his phone rang. He didn't
have to look at the ID to see that it was his old tag-team partner,
but he did anyway.

"Regnigh Cell" it read. He jabbed the ignore button and sent it to
voicemail, jamming down the accelerator. It was a long drive to
California.]

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

[Scene opens to a bus station in Stockton, California. A bus pulls up
and after a few moments a stream of people come hobbling out. The long
journey no doubt taking it's toll on the weary passengers. One of them
is a Mexican man wearing a black mask that covers his head with cherry
colored eye visors and a cherry colored "SCII" on the forehead. PVW
fans recognize him as the young luchadore Senor Cloak Dos. Cloak is
wearing a light blue button up shirt with short sleeves, an ugly
orange tie, an uglier maroon pair of slacks and brown dress shoes. His
body language gives us the impression the journey is not the only
thing that has taken a toll on him as he seems to be moving with alot
of difficulty. Cloak carries his travel bag with quite a bit of
straining and walks a bit until he is stopped by a young boy who
stands in front of him pointing a finger at the young high flyer.]

SCD: ...

Boy: ...

SCD: Hola!

Boy: What happened to you Mister Cloak Two?!

SCD: Ah.. Well I fought in a very dangerous match that left me kind of
tired and then this... bad man.. A rudo as we would say in my
country.. This man from England attacked me backstage before I could
fight for the Television Championship and I went to the hospital.

[The boy shakes his head, still pointing his finger at the masked
man.]

Boy: No! I didn't mean that!

[Cloak rubs his masked chin then nods his head.]

SCD: Ah! I am on this bus because at the airport they want me to take
off my mask and I can not take off my mask unless I were to lose it in
an apuestas match. So I had to take this long bus ride which was not
very pleasant when you have suffered a brutal beating from a rudo from
England.

[The boy shakes his head even more vigorously and jabs his finger with
strong conviction towards the masked warrior.]

Boy: No! I'm not talking about that!

[Dos rubs the top of his masked head and shrugs his shoulder.]

SCD: Then.. What do you want to know about?

Boy: Why did you yell at Mister Rob Cole?!

[The young luchadore's shoulders slump down.]

SCD: Why does everyone keep asking me this? Look my little amigo..

Boy: I'm not your friend! You yelled at Mister Rob Cole!

SCD: But.. I did not yell at Roberto Cole!

Boy: You did!

SCD: As I have told everyone on the bus and around Phoenix and
anywhere else I go and am confronted by this.. I was in the hospital!
There was no way I could have yelled at Senor Cole, nor would I have
any reason to!

Boy: I saw it! I saw it! You yelled at him! I thought you were a
superhero but you're just a fake! A fake just like the first one!

SCD: Que?!

Boy: My Daddy says your father was a fake and a phony!

SCD: Ah.. Senor Original is not my REAL padre, thank goodness...

Boy: YOUR DADDY WAS A FAKE AND YOU'RE A FAKE AND I HATE YOU!

[The boy kicks Cloak's shin and takes off running as the young
luchadore hops on one foot and rubs his shin.]

SCD: Madre Dios! Why will no one listen to me? I did not yell at Senor
Cole! I did not!

[A caucasian man with long brown hair and an unshaven face wearing a
PVW t-shirt and blue jeans walks up next to the young luchadore while
pulling a very large travel bag. Cloak turns to him.]

SCD: Oh hi Mark!

[The man sighs.]

Mark: Don't get me mixed up in your business man.

SCD: Que?

Mark: I hung out near you at those other stops and all those people
mad about you yelling at Cole..

SCD: But I didn't...

Mark: I don't want any more people mad at me because I'm with you!

SCD: You still haven't told me why you have such a large travel bag,
amigo.

Mark: ... It's that damned Pete Hernandez! I lost a bet and have to
carry stuff for him!

SCD: Oh..

Mark: Bah! More kids are coming this way, I'm leaving!

SCD: But..

Mark: You're on your own!

[Utterly defeated and feeling fatigue and pain in his body, Cloak can
only hang his sad masked head as more angry children, led by the boy
who accosted him earlier, run towards him. He straightens himself up
and tries to put a brave front and he greets the angry children
with..]

SCD: Hola, amigos!

[His cheerful voice is soon drowned with boos and angry child voices
but his cheerful demeanor continues as the scene fades out.]

****************************************
****************************************
Team Tomorrow
****************************************
****************************************

MGA: What time is it?

DD: It's already Tomorrow, BITCH! TEAM TOMORROW!

MGA: ...What the hell?!

DD: What, don't like it?

MGA: "It's already Tomorrow?" What the hell is that?

DD: Our new catchphrase.

MGA: Haven't even had a match yet and you're already spouting
catchphrases. What the hell is the matter with you?

DD: You forgot the "bitch" part.

MGA: Oh yeah, forgot about that piece of verbal gold. Really the
linchpin that held that work of art together. Truly, Drake, you've
outdone yourself.

DD: Eat me, Marc.

["The One Man Dynasty" Drake Dresden and his partner, Marc Gabriel
Alraune, collectively known as Team Tomorrow, walk into view on the
streets of Lake Havasu, AZ. Drake is wearing an "FBI: Female Body
Inspector" t-shirt and khaki cargo shorts with flip-flops while MGA is
going shirtless, with board shorts and flip flops, with a sweatband
holding back his golden blonde hair from his face. Both men are in
great shape, and for pro wrestlers... very young. Drake doesn't look
like he can legally get a beer on his own and MGA looks like he'd get
carded before even walking into a liquor store]

MGA: And there we go again with "Eat Me." This isn't the 80's, man.
Not even a hipster 90's. Hell, we've gone past the 2000's and we're
nearly in the teens of this new century.

DD: How would I even be spouting catchphrases from the 80's if I was
born in 91?

MGA: Don't ask me... you homeschooled kids are mental midgets.

DD: Hey, Eff you, I nailed the SATs and ACTs. You're lucky you spelled
your name right.

MGA: Yeah, but I don't go around talking about being "Wild and Crazy
Guys!"

DD: ONE TIME!!!

[MGA chuckles and punches him in the arm]

MGA: Just screwing with you, kid.

DD: I'm not a kid, you're only a year and a half older than I am.
Think you're SUCH a badass because you can buy beer now.

MGA: That and I'm just better than you. And besides that, who got us a
job in PVW? Who got us a match up against a former world tag champion?
And who's gonna lead us to victory?

DD: Mom?

MGA: No, not your mom, dammit! ME! She just filled out your paperwork
because you don't even know your social security number.

DD: I don't even know why I need to know that. I'm not old enough for
social security yet.

[MGA stops walking and puts his hands to his eyes, taking a deep
breath]

MGA: It's like talking to a monkey.

DD: And if this upcoming match is so important, why are we just
walking around Havasu? Should we be in the gym and training? I feel
itchy when I'm not training. Especially with an important match coming
up. Bugs me... makes my teeth feel wiggly.

MGA: No, that's the 40 packets of pixie sticks you had for breakfast.

DD: Dippin' Sticks.

MGA: Potato, Po-tah-to. You're all hyped up on sugar and nervous
because you're away from home. Get used to it, Drake. You don't live
with your parents anymore. You're on the road with a wrestling
company. And you may've been sh*t-hot amateur wrestler, but in this
company... they're gonna hit you with chairs and spike you on your
head. We're gonna travel from town to town throughout multiple
territories and make our bones the hard way.

DD: Again, I bring up the point about not training.

MGA: We put in 5 hours a day as it is. You're risking over training.
And the last thing I need is you gassing out there when you're in
front of a huge crowd and broadcast across the country. With your
complete lack of independence, I'm somewhat worried that the second
the spotlight hits you, you're going to lock up like a deer on the
freeway.

[Drake stops in place and puts a hand to Marc's chest]

DD: Alright, enough of this. Am I young? Sure as shit... am I
inexperienced in pro wrestling? Sure. Only had 3 matches. But do I
crack under pressure? I'm a national high school and junior college
wrestling champion. I've spent more time in the spotlight than anyone
my age rightly should. I'm USED to the pressure. Hell, I won my first
tournament at five, man. FIVE. So you thinking that I'm going to lock
up just because we're in a ring and facing a former champion. That
just shows how ignorant YOU are.

MGA: Alright, alright. You're ready. But just start... I dunno...
acting more like an adult. Don't complain so much, just roll with the
punches. Relax and let things come to you. Think about what you're
going to say BEFORE you say it.

DD: She shouldn't have slapped me.

MGA: Not was I was talking about, but asking a woman if the carpet
matches her pubes was probably not your finest moment.

DD: It's a classic pick up line.

MGA: You screwed it up so bad that you're lucky she didn't kick your
teeth out.

DD: Anyways, what time is it?

MGA: IT'S ALREADY TOMORROW, BITCH!

DD: HEY! I thought you said you didn't like it!

MGA: I don't, I was hoping you'd realize how stupid that sounded...

[The camera fades as both men walk further down the street, aimlessly
talking about anything that comes to mind.]

****************************************
****************************************
Caleb Foley
****************************************
****************************************

[The camera fades in to a very simple scene. You are outside inside a
park and the day is very nice outside. You see a lot of people outside
enjoying the beautiful day. About fifteen feet from you sitting on a
park bench is none other than "The Celtic Crippler" Caleb Foley. Caleb
has on a pair of blue denim shorts with a white wife beater shirt on.
Foley seems to be enjoying the sunny day as he begins to speak...]

Caleb Foley: So End Game has come and gone ... The Called Shot Match
happened ... And guess what I didn't win? No shock there right ...

[Caleb looks into the camera as if he is in his own little world.]

Caleb Foley: Let's face it no one expected me to win the match.
Everyone saw Johnny Detson as the front runner to win the match and he
did just that. He didn't choke like me. Detson let's face it he has it
all. He is a millionaire ... has a very sucessful organization ... has
the wrestling talent to beat anyone ... he is the face of Phoenix
Valley Wrestling ...I am just an after thought ... Just another guy
who got off to a really hot start here and then disappeared into
obscurity.

[Foley pauses for a brief moment.]

Caleb Foley: When my name gets mentioned now all you get is a bunch of
snickers. Face it what everyone said would happen did happen. It might
not have happened as quickly as everyone thought it would but I could
not compete with the great talent here in the Phoenix Valley. All the
critics were right about me. So the way I look at it I have three
options here either I can accept defeat and play the hand given to me
... or I can retire ... or I can get my butt back to the gym and get
back to basics.

[Caleb stands up and begins to pace back and forth.]

Caleb Foley: Decisions ... Decisions ... What should I do?!? I am
gonna learn how to adapt. The gym is going to be my home away from
home. Whenever I am not sleeping, eating or competing I will be inside
of it training. I am going to dig deep and when I feel I can not learn
anymore I am gonna still dig deeper to find just how much I can push
myself.

[People are walking by staring at Foley like he is some sort of crazy
person.]

Caleb Foley: I'm a big dreamer. BIG dreamer. I have a lot of plans for
my future, and feel a lot of excitement and motivation when thinking
about my future. You see I am still very young and I have to find a
way to get this chip off my shoulder. I have to remind myself that
everything happens for a reason. There has to be a reason why I can
NEVER win that one BIG match.

[Foley is still pacing back and forth almost as if he is a father
expecting his first born son.]

Caleb Foley: The only thing missing is the motivation when it's
actually time to act on something. I used to wonder if this meant that
I really only liked or wanted these things in theory, but later
couldn't shake the feeling, the rush, and the chills I got when going
down to the ring. But not to worry I think I found my problem. Why The
Celtic Crippler name is always dropped in the same sentence as a choke
artist. Anxiety. This is usually the core of all my issues. I'm a
serious over-thinker. And since I constantly overthink I then psych
myself out. I then get nervous about missing my opportunity. Now sure
all my critics have some my chance has come and gone a long time ago
but deep down in my gut I know I WAS meant to do this for a living.

[Caleb takes a deep breathe...]

Caleb Foley: No longer will I be my own worst enemy when I step inside
that ring. It is time for a change and that change starts at Heatwave.
Nevermind, you are a very mysertious guy and not much is known about
you. You have made it a point to stick you nose in my business every
since debuting here.

[Foley points towards the camera as he continues to speak ...]

Caleb Foley: Nevermind, I put the blame on you for a lot of things
that happened to me in the last few months. Besides Detson you were a
thorn in my side. You caused so much tension between Chris Hartt,
Larry Gionet and myself. I do not know how you did it but you made my
good friend Larry Gionet snap. You brought out a side of Gionet that I
have never seen before. I am sure you are quite pleased with all the
chaos and havoc you caused in your short career here so far.

[Caleb is no longer pointing at the camera. He turns his back towards
the camera as he continues to speak...]

Caleb Foley: Nevermind, the time for talking is over. The time for all
your mind games and disappearing acts is over. This Heatwave I am
gonna show you a side of The Celtic Crippler that has NEVER been seen
before. Just remember you have no one to blame for what happens to you
but yourself. You might of started this battle but I am gonna END it
this Heatwave ...

[The camera fades to black...]

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

[The Prophets of Rage.  They are a bizarre team.  Dominant and yet
vulnerable at the same time.

There's Shadoe on one side of the screen.  He is Captain Weird with
his black-lined eyes and wild hair and outlandish getups.  For so many
years he has been considered the heart and soul of the Prophets, the
one that draws the fans, the man with the charisma and the death-
defying moves, but outside of the Prophets he has never tasted great
success.  For all his greatness in the ring, it has only translated
into a few titles.  He is not bigger than the Prophets, even if he is
the more outgoing member.

And then there's Derek.  He has all the tools to really dominate
wrestling.  Size, intelligence, power and skill, but he refuses to be
an attraction.  He sticks with the Prophets and doesn't really pursue
the wealth and opportunity of singles wrestling.

Individually the Prophets could be so much more individually but they
have remained a collective unit.  The question has always been one of
motivation?  How do they keep finding it after so many years after so
many battles?

Well, there's always the new faces.  New faces like the Houlihan
brothers of the Renegades.

The Houlihans, J.D. and Devin, already have a win over the Prophets
when the interference of Los Corazones cost the Prophets a pinfall
loss. That loss still burns at the Prophets' hearts.  But does the
fire burn as hot as it once did?  Is the will still there for
dominance?

The once mighty tag-team was not featured on the last PVW pay-per-
view. They have not been challenging for the PVW titles in recent
weeks and they had been mired in a long losing streak.  Had hungrier,
better competitors finally caught up with them?

Well, at the End Game pre-show it didn't seem to be so and the
Prophets seemed to catch some of the old magic in an old-school
physically punishing match.  Can the Prophets deliver again against
the Renegades? The Houlihans are big brutes, well over 260 lbs each.
And they deliver punishing manoeuvres.  The Prophets have long been
known for their ability to both absorb and dish out punishment, but
can they keep up with the Renegades who clearly desire to be top
contenders for the PVW tag-team titles.

History has proven that it is never safe to bet against the Prophets.
They have fought wars.  They have won battles and lost battles, but
generally, whatever they set their heart to, they get.  It doesn't
seem that the team that regularly put tag-teams to pasture in the
PVW's earlier days has softened so much.  It seems more likely that
the suffering and the close loses have forged them even stronger in
the crucible.  But there is only one way to find out.

Tune in and watch the show.  It promises to be good.

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

[The screen is black.  A caption pops up reading "AMATEUR FOOTAGE
TAKEN OF THE FOUNTAIN ROOM AT VINCENT ON CAMELBACK RESTAURANT APPROX.
TWO HOURS AFTER END GAME'S PRESHOW".

Fade in on a grainy, shaking shot, probably from a camera phone.
There is a huge glass door dividing this empty private dining room
where our nameless aspiring cameraman is positioned from the so-called
"Fountain Room", well named as there is an ornate stone fountain by
the far wall.  A smaller dining room, but no less private, only three
of the chairs are currently occupied.  The shot zooms in to get a
better look, swerving away from the waiter who's blocking the view
walking away from the table of interest.  We can quickly see the
waiter biting back a look of distaste at one particular patron's (lack
of) manners and decorum, trying to remain professional.  Such is the
life of one dependent on tips, even in an upscale restaurant like
this.

Panning back quickly, we now see the source of the waiter's anxiety.
Black hair closely cropped into a butch buzz cut; lean, angular
features; hawkish nose and cold blue eyes, newly crowned PVW
Television Champion "Bad Wolf" Christopher Black is indulging in a
victory feast.  The Englishman tears into the blood-red rare rack of
roasted lamb with his bare hands, gnawing it off the bone in a manner
that disturbingly fits his chosen moniker.  There's not even the
barest illusion of good grace as Black lets out a small belch, then
takes a draught from the bottle of fifty year old Macallan, wiping his
mouth with the back of his hand afterwards.

Meanwhile, his financial advisor Jacob Rose just unenthusiastically
picks at his roasted half of chicken, not even close to the frenzied
relish of his client.  Between the two men is the third occupant at
the table.   The due prize itself, the gold Television belt is draped
crookedly over the back of the chair as if it was more prisoner of war
than guest of honour.  Suddenly, a slight buzzing sound is heard.
Rose frowns, then pulls out a cell phone.  He gets up from the table
with Black paying him no heed...

...and the camera carefully follows Jacob to the lobby.]

JR:  [attention focused on the phone]  ...the fine was anticipated,
yes.  Yes, expect it paid within the next day or so.  [He sighs,
shaking his head.]  I'll tell him, of course, but I'm afraid that
there will be no apology forthcoming from Mister Black.  [Pause.]
May...may I inquire about the status of Senor Cloak Dos?

[Jacob's eyes widen slightly at whatever news he's receiving.  He
flinches.]

JR:  [tight voice]  I...I see.  [Again, he shakes his head.]  No, that
will be all, thank you -- and I'm sorry.

[The footage cuts off.]

****************************************
****************************************
???
****************************************
****************************************

[The scene is what appears to be a small, private airfield.  Basically
a long strip of concrete in the middle of nowhere with a chainlink
fence surrounding the facility and a couple of hangars and some office
buildings at one end.  A couple of small single engine places are
parked by the hangars and a small private jet has just finished taxing
to a halt, the hatch opening and steps swinging down to allow a tall
and broadshouldered, muscular caucasian man in blue jeans and a plain,
blue T-shirt to step out and down to the ground.  He grunts as he
drops a sportsbag on the tarmac and looks up at the sky, yawning
audibly.  The angle of the camera is so that we can't see his face,
and he is whistling something as he steps out of the plane and into
the stiflingly hot air outside, the midday sun beating mercilessly on
the open field.  Shortly after the pilot steps out of the plane as
well looking at his former passenger who is standing with his back
towards him and the camera.]

Man: "Tomorrow will be a better and brighter day."
Pilot: "Pardon?"

Man:  "Tomorrow will be a better and brighter day.  That's what he
said.  On the phone.  When he sent me the contract."

Pilot:  "Oh, right.  Yeah, well.  It's the kinda thing he'd say, I
guess."

Man:  "And he was right.  Oh so very right.  The day is brighter.  The
day is better than yesterday."

[There's a pause, neither man saying anything for several seconds as
they gaze across the airfield.  The empty airfield.  The deserted
airfield.  Baking in the summer heat.  The pilot leans against his
plane and then the other man speaks with a puzzled tone to his voice.]

Man:  "The lack of a car waiting is a bit of an unexpected twist to an
otherwise fine day in the heart of America, however."

Pilot:  "I'm sure they'll be here.  Probably stuck in traffic.  He got
you the contract with the company, right?"

Man:  "Indeed."

Pilot:  "And he rented a plane to get you all the way here from
Chicago without you having to pay a dime, right?"

Man:  "Oh yes, he did that.  Yes he did."

[The man's voice sounds quite cheerful now.  He seems quite chipper,
but there's something wrong about it.  As if that's only a facade.  A
thin covering of cheer.  The pilot seems to notice, looking a bit
askance at his former passenger.]

Pilot:  "I mean, it's not like you had people beating down your door.
Heck, I thought you were retired myself.  Last time I saw you in the
ring was...  What...  Five?  Six years ago?"

Man:  "Oh yesss."

[The word is drawn out into a hiss of air through clenched teeth and
his voice as the man continues takes on an almost dream-like, monotone
quality.]

Man:  "Portland.  House show at The Schoolhouse.  Front row seats.
Lovely young lady as your companion.  Daughter?  Too young to be a
romantic interest, unless you've been a very bad and naughty boy doing
wrong and immoral things.  You booed, if memory serves.  Shouted some
rather nasty comments.  Some hurtful, inconsiderate comments."

[The pilot visibly flinches at the man's words and backs away.]

Pilot:  "How did...  There's no way you could remember...  I mean,
you're right, and I was there with my daughter, but you can't
possibly...  Lucky guess, right?"

[The man turns to face the pilot and the camera, revealing his face at
last.  His blue eyes practically sparkels with glee and the malicious
grin is practically ear to ear.  From the medium length dirty-blonde
and dishevelled hair framing his face to the red-blonde stubble on his
chin and cheeks and all the way to that particular look on his face
Frank Knight looks as if he stepped right out of 2006 without having
passed through the intervening years.]

Knight:  "Oh, it wasn't a guess.  You see, Uncle Frank pays attention
to his surroundings.  Uncle Frank has an excellent memory.  Do you
have an excellent memory, Mr. Aviator Man?  Do you remember what
hurtful and nasty names you called Uncle Frank as he entertained and
educated all his little friends in the audience?"

Pilot:  "Stay away from me, man!  You're nuts!  It was just a
wrestling show!"

[A cold chuckle from the wrestler makes the pilot take another step
back.]

Knight:  "Have you learned nothing from watching Uncle Frank all those
years ago?  Have you learned nothing about how doing bad things makes
bad things happen in return?  Did Uncle Frank fail in instilling this
knowledge in you?  Are you telling Uncle Frank that the lesson has not
been completed?"

[The pilot turns and bolts for the buildings next to the hangar,
leaving a grinning Knight behind.]

Knight:  "It would seem Uncle Frank's lesson was well received after
all.  And now it would appear Uncle Frank must wait for his ride."

[Pause.  Frown.  Tapping of the foot.  Twiddling of the thumbs.  A
full fifteen seconds manages to pass before his patience apparently is
at its end.]

Knight:  "Waiting is boring.  Uncle Frank is bored.  What is needed
here is decisive action.  A take charge attitude.  A positive approach
to a less than optimal situation.  Uncle Frank..."

[He shoulders the bag he brought with him out of the plane and starts
off towards the gates of the airfield.]

Knight:  "...shall walk.  There are ever so many new friends to meet
and greet, and no time to waste.  In fact, it would be downright rude
of Uncle Frank to make them wait to say hi, which they must all be
dying to do."

[Pause.]

Knight:  "Or at the very least writhing in an appropriate amount of
agony."

[And we fade out as Frank walks off from the camera, whistling The
Who's old tune "Behind Blue Eyes"]

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


[Chris Hartt sits on the steps of a Gothic cathedral. People
entrenched in their busy day walk by.  Hartt watched people come and
go.]

"I'm not even gonna begin to say how rough things have been lately.
We've all seen it. I've had to live with it. Every day.  I've made
promise. I've set vows. I've spoken with the strength of my
convictions, all to go out and be proven wrong at every step.

How many others would admit that?  How many would explain away every
loss and make it seem like nothing really was wrong?

Not me.

I didn't live up to what I'd said I'd do. I tried.  Again and again.
I've been a disappointment and all I can do is keep trying. I will
never give up as long as I can keep trying. I've seen the fed
rankings.  I don't even rate right now.  I went from one of the best
records to one of the worst in only a month or two. But do wins and
losses make a great wrestler?  Do titles and accolades make you
better?  All it comes down to is what you can do in that ring. Being a
great wrestler means you can deliver a strong and entertaining match.
Flash and dazzle never lasts as much as good wrestling.

I know that there are many people who watch PVW who are done with me
or just don't feel that I'm worth the attention.  All I can say is
"I'm sorry I turned you off. I will make things better."

But, I'm not here to beg anyone to pay attention or be my friend.  I'm
here to be the best I can be in competition. And I will prove that
again and again until everyone knows it.

This week, I face Mike Bisignano. The Biz is a brawler and a tough
competitor.  I'll make sure that Mike knows he's facing one of the
best technical wrestlers today. There will be no doubt that he cannot
out-wrestle me.

And from here, I'll go on to prove that very same point to the rest of
the roster.

Be prepared to be amazed."

****************************************
****************************************
Sinister
****************************************
****************************************

[The scene fades into a still shot of the man known to PVW as Sinister
sitting in a large black chair, his face a picture of aggravation and
battle. Sinister dons a short-sleeved black shirt, a pair of dark blue
jeans and black leather shoes. The room in which the chair resides
that Sinister currently uses has a view of various well-constructed,
beautifully landscaped homes and a man-made lake. It is nighttime and
lights dote the scene, an indication that this is a peaceful area for
the various residents nearby]

[The look in Sinister's eyes indicate a man who is obviously quite
displeased though his breathing is deep and steady. He rubs his chin
in thought a few times with his right hand before lowering it into his
lap along with his left. He inhales and exhales deeply before
speaking]

"Well, well, well. It seems true character in the face of adversity
always rears its head, be it bold and beautiful, or cunning and
appalling. The PVW witnessed the desperation, conniving, serpent-like
manner of one Christopher Black, and for him it earned him the PVW
Network Title. For Cloak Dos, it earned extensive damage to an already
damaged body and for me it earned the loss of said title as well as
some bumps and bruises. People ask if I'm disappointed. The answer is:
absolutely. Why? Not because I lost the title, no, but because I
should have expected nothing more of you, Black. I actually had the
audacity to think that you would battle me like a MAN...instead of
some sorry ass cheap-shot artist who simply can NOT get it done
against me, face to face, like a TRUE warrior!"

[The expected rise of anger begins to set in on Sinister and it is
very apparent in his large, burning dark brown eyes. His nostrils
flare and his thick chest begins to rise and fall at a faster rate as
he balls his right fist and holds it in front of the camera for a few
seconds.  He then visibly calms, opens his right hand, sets it back in
his lap, shakes his head then eases back against the chair]

"Naturally you're going to say that I'm not worthy of a championship,
or I'm not capable of defeating you, outthinking you or what not.  You
may think and say what you wish because that's your human right, but
know this Black. [He extends his left index finger] You may obviously
expect certain consequences of your actions, and trust me when I say
that they'll be unavoidable. Numerous pairs of eyes have just fallen
upon you and though you think you're ready, you may be in for one hell
of a surprise at just what lengths people will go through to wear a
title in this federation, Black. The situation between you and I is
just unfolding but for now, enjoy your time in the limelight, for it
will be short. If you don't believe me, then try me."

[He cracks his knuckles loudly then rolls his neck in a circle slowly,
numerous popping sounds easily heard within the room. He steeples his
fingers]

"Now the focus falls upon a familiar foe. Larry Gionet, a man that I
defeated for the title I just lost. Gionet is also a very capable and
very dangerous man, when he wants to be.  I have no doubts there are
thoughts of him exacting some type of revenge upon me for my victory
over him, but then again, maybe it's more than that. It seems to me
Mr. Gionet  has other things on his mind but I can't say for certain.
As for me, people may wonder if I will pursue the Network Television
Title, another title, or a specific person. Here is a simple answer. I
will do what I feel is necessary for me to have various individuals
suffer consequences I see fit for their actions because I am SICK and
TIRED...of certain individuals taking it upon themselves to take easy
ways out or other underhanded crap!"

[Again Sinister's anger begins to rise and he does little to withhold
it]

"So Gionet, we shall see how deeply you despise me, and I perhaps
you'll learn something about me as well. For everyone else who is
writing me off and calling me various names, if I were you I would
tread very carefully because I am now amongst those who hunt. I'm no
longer the hunted and I will embrace the opportunity to continue down
the path I feel is right for me.  Those who cross the path I choose to
lay before me, well, as I said, consequences shall follow.  Good
evening."

[The picture fades as Sinister peers intensely into the camera]

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

[The scene opens upon a dumpster in a back alley.  Standing outside
the large, green metal bin is a thin woman in discarded jeans and a
faded, dirty t-shirt with long dirty blonde hair.  A rustling sound
emanates from the dumpster, and a short, chubby girl with disheveled
black hair emerges from inside.  She hands several white Styrofoam
take out containers to the blonde, and then ducks back down inside the
dumpster to resume digging.  The blonde opens the top container a
crack and takes a whiff, which causes her to recoil slightly and close
the container tightly.  Into the squallid scene strides the man known
as "The King of Nothing" to PVW fans – Nevermind.  He walks up to the
blonde and takes one of the white foam containers from her.  He opens
the container, looks inside, and pulls out what appears to be the
remnants of some sort of sandwich.  He takes a sniff of the discarded
food, shrugs his massive shoulders and proceeds to scarf down the
dripping sandwich.  After polishing off the garbage sandwich in a few
big bites, he throws the empty container back into the dumpster and
slaps his hands together as if knocking dirt off of them.  The girl in
the dumpster pokes her head back up out of the metal bin and looks at
him.  He stares at her for a moment before signaling her to continue
her foraging, and turns to face the camera.]

Well, End Game has come and gone, and with it, the "Called Shot" match
that was such a big deal.  Obviously, I didn't win the match, but then
again, I didn't really want to.  If I had, you can bet that I'd be Mr.
Called Shot right now, not that horse's ass Detson.  I prefer my
current title anyway.  Although to be honest I do have some
competition when it comes to being "The King of Nothing."  I'd say,
right now, I may be running a close second to Chris Hartt when it
comes to that distinction.  I say that, because Hartt seems to have
even less going for him than I do.  The difference is, I choose
nothing, whereas Hartt has no choice.  After all, what does Hartt have
going for him?  He has no title, no fans, not even any friends.  And
you know what else Hartt doesn't have?  My interest.  I didn't win the
Called Shot at End Game, for one reason, because I didn't want to.  I
did exactly what I wanted to do in that match.  I hurt a bunch of
jerks and I made sure that Chris Hartt didn't have a snowball's chance
in Hell of winning.  Now that I've shown Hartt exactly what happens to
hypocrites, I'm done with him.

But it seems I'm not quite finished with another of my Called Shot
opponents, Caleb Foley.  Foley, the fact that you're willing to get
back into the ring with me after the beating I gave you at End Game
shows you're not very smart, but then again, I never figured you for a
brainiac to begin with.  You already showed me that much with your
little "speech" right before End Game.  You always give one hundred
percent, Caleb?  So you're the guy, huh?  You have any idea how many
wrestlers claim to give one hundred percent in all their matches?  You
have any idea how many guys I've wrestled that gave one hundred
percent and lost anyway?   I'd say about one hundred percent of them.
Give or take a few.  There's nothing special about giving one hundred
percent in your matches, Foley.  Then again, there's nothing special
about you, either.

But here's a little something to think about, Foley.  You know how
many of my matches I've given one hundred percent in?  None.  You
can't commit to something that means nothing to you. So think about
it.  I'm pretty much just as high on the PVW ladder as you, without
even trying.  I don't need one hundred percent to beat you, Foley.  I
don't need eighty, seventy five, sixty three or even fifty percent to
do that.  If pressed, I'd say it may take, oh let's say, eighteen
point three percent.  I'm feeling generous.  But I tell you what, when
I face you in Stockton, I'll give twenty five percent.  That ought to
be enough to squash you like the potato bug you are.  But regardless
of how much I put into our match, I can promise you one thing, you're
going to leave it all in the ring, and by all, I mean your blood,
sweat, tears and even the contents of your bladder and bowels. I just
wouldn't want to have to wrestle the match following ours.  It might
be a little messy.

[The dirty blonde girl taps Nevermind on the shoulder, and hands him
another white foam container.  He opens it up, reaches inside and
pulls out what appears to be a handful of spaghetti covered in sauce.
He shoves the discarded pasta into his mouth and chews, sauce and
pasta sticking in his matted beard.  He swallows the mouthful as he
looks into the camera and resumes talking, spitting particles of food
onto the camera's lens.]

Oh, and Hartt, before I forget you completely, let me give you one
last piece of advice.  If you're actually stupid enough to want to get
back into the ring with me again, just put it out of your mind.  I
have nothing further to prove by beating you.  Just go back to doing
nothing like you've been doing the past 6 months I've been here.  My
advice is to do what I've already done, and just never mind...

The King of Nothing puts another handful of food into his mouth and
turns towards the dumpster where the pudgy dark-haired girl is
attempting to climb back out.  He stands there and watches as her
blonde companion tries to help her down but the both end up falling
and sprawled on the pavement.  Dropping more white take out containers
in the process.  Nevermind reaches down, picks up one of the
containers and begins to eat out of it as he walks off, and the camera
fades to black.]


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

[The arrhythmic footsteps of an old man and the tapping of his cane
echo in the corridor as Uncle Jack Fontana hobbles towards the
infirmary door. From within, an all too recognizable voice booms...]

Fontana [off-screen]: ...had to be made, and some risks had to be
taken, but in the end, cousin, _our_ LOVE _conquered_ *ALL*! We _WON_,
isn't that right, babe?

Man [off-screen]: Hey man, chill. Just lay back over there. I can't
stitch you up if you're all jittery like this.

Fontana [off-screen]: I don't _need_ stitches, aaah OUAIS!

Man [off-screen]: I reckon you'll need at least twenty of 'em, man.
And we didn't even get to that nose, yet!

[Uncle Jack's wrinkled hand grabs the doorknob, but he twists, he
looks over his shoulder to give the camera a conspiratorial nod.  Only
then does the salt and pepper haired former wrestler push the door
open.]

Fontana: You were so beautiful, so _strong_... words could never
convey how much I love you, mon amour.

[Face, shoulders, chest and muttonchops caked with blood, the
Everlasting One is laid across a medical table, his muscular arm
extended outwards to caress the hands of his shellshocked wife,
sitting. As a medic leans over to begin the process of sewing up some
stitches on her husband's head, she sits quietly, immobile, staring
blankly ahead.]

Fontana: ...we _WON_!

Uncle Jack: (You won, hunh?)

[Old Giacomo Fontana speaks a blend of French and Italian with his
nephew, but the PVW crew is kind enough to provide subtitles.]

Uncle Jack: (All you won is the honour of becoming the most despised
monster this place has spawned.  Otherwise, you didn't win
_anything_.)

Fontana: (Tara threw the towel, aaaah yeah, and we _won_. Love
_prevailed_.)

Uncle Jack: (I beat your father in Maple Leaf Gardens.  I twisted him
like a pretzel and beat him bloody.)

Fontana: (Yeah, I know. Biggest victory of your career. You can stop
living in the past, now, old man.)

Uncle Jack: (Biggest victory?  It was my greatest defeat. Maybe you're
still too young to understand... I proved I was the better wrestler,
but Anne-Marie ran back to him anyhow...)

Fontana: MY MOTHER WAS A _SAINT_!

[Giacomo Fontana somberly nods.]

Uncle Jack: (I was the better wrestler... but Lucio proved he was the
better man.)

Fontana: (I'm not him, and I'm certainly not you.)

Uncle Jack: (The why do you keep repeating the same mistakes we made
before you?)

Fontana: (Listen, old man.  Not only did I prove I'm the better
wrestler, aaaah yeah, tonight, Emily and I proved our LOVE is
_stronger_! YEAH!)

Medic: Hey, man! Stop gesticulating like this, you're making my job
difficult! It's non stop sewing, over here. Can't believe you haven't
passed out from blood loss, yet...

Uncle Jack: Duh boy, e's not normal. 'E get crush, he drown, 'e shots,
'e burn, he choke... an' he stills 'ere.  A few cut won't be stop him.

Fontana: I win. Aaaah ouais, even against Death, I _win_.

Medic: Well, whatever, man. Open wounds still bleed regardless, so
stop moving around.

["Le Phenix" groans and frowns.]

Fontana: (Point is, mio zio... My beautiful wife isn't running back to
Tom. The heartless bastards all abandoned her and left like a pathetic
pack of sore losers!)

[Emily tilts her head downwards, still quite pale even while color is
coming back to her face.]

Medic: Twenty seven. Twenty seven damned stitches.

Fontana: Are you paid by the stitch?

Medic: No.

Fontana: Stop bragging about it, then. I'm talking to my uncle.

Medic: And you can stop moving, man. We have to deal with that broken
nose, now.

[The Everlasting One mostly ignores the man in order to resume his
conversation.]

Fontana: (You see, mio zio, after surviving the _test_, aaaaah yeah,
Emily and I will lay upon the furs before the fireplace, laced in each
other's arms forever knowing what true love tastes like.)

Emily [Murmuring]: No.

[Her voice is such a faint whisper that no one seems convinced they've
actually heard her speak. Il Eterno tries to turn his head, but the
medic grabs his nose and forcibly sets it straight.]

"___CRUNK___"

FONTANA: OWWW! Did... Did you say something, mon amour?

Emily: I said no.

[She raises her head high in order to look straight at her husband.]

Emily: You've always resented the your father because he loved his
fans and his championships more than his own son...

Fontana: Right, but...

Emily: I need a man who will put his family first.

Fontana: Ouais! La _famiglia_ prima vene, exactly!

Emily: You, Perry, are like your father.

Fontana: I am _nothing_ like that man!

Emily: To you, wrestling and victory come first.

Fontana: But I _win_ for my family, for _us_, for YOU!

[She shakes her head.]

Emily: Maybe you're obsessed with winning to prove you're better than
your father was, or maybe you just do it for victory's sake, who
knows. But when you tell yourself you're doing it for anyone but you
alone, you're just lying to yourself.

[Fontana tries to squirm away, but the medic just pushes his head back
to plant a gauze covered metal sheath on his face.]

Emily: You've always been kind to me, you've always been tender...
Until you shoved me in Tommy's way.

Fontana: That? Come on, babe! Tom would _never_ hit you. There was no
actual danger, Emilia.

Emily: If that's what you think, we can't raise a child together
unless you change your mind, Perry. _You_ have to change. I couldn't
do it, Tom couldn't do it, Jack couldn't do it... the only person that
could possibly do it is you.

...Maybe.

[She gets to her feet, waving off Perry's hand as he reaches out to
her.]

Emily: I'm leaving.

Fontana: Where to? They _abandoned_ you!

[Emily bites her lip, and raises her eyes towards old Jacques Fontana.
He silently nods in return.]

Fontana: Oh... Oh, you traitorous old bastard!

Emily: I'm leaving you, but I'm still wearing this...

[She points to the wedding ring on her finger.]

Emily: ...because I know there's a good man in there, somewhere,
Perry. I know, because that's the man I married... the man I love so
much...

[She sighs, and shakes her head.]

Emily: But it's up to you. One day, if you're ready to be a real
husband, a real father... maybe... but now?

I'm leaving.

[She dodges around the old man and the cameraman, and slips out the
door.  The Everlasting One seems angry... and completely confused...]

Fontana: ...What? But... I LOVE YOU!

Uncle Jack: (No doubt about it, now. You definitely won.)

Fontana: Shut up. ...EMILY!

Uncle Jack: (The referee raised my hand in Maple Leaf Gar-)

Fontana: Shut up!

[The old man sagely nods.]

Uncle Jack: (Tom is the one that walked out of the ring with a greater
sense of what matters most in life, he's the one who walked out of
Phoenix with the love and support of his wife, daughter, and family.
...Do you still think you won?)

Fontana: SHUT UP!

[Uncle Jack smirks, then hobbles out after his niece-in-law. Gauze and
medical tape in the middle of his colorless face, Perry slips off the
table, his seeking, grasping hands trembling and shaking.]

Fontana: What's going on?...

[As his knees buckle, he grabs the medic's shoulder.]

Fontana: You drugged me!

Medic: Stop moving, man. I didn't give you anything.

Fontana: No, no... you sapped my strength... you drugged me, I can
feel it...

[The Everlasting One crumbles to his knees, folds over on the cement
floor...]

Medic: No man, I didn't drug you. That's just what it feels like when
you've lost everything.

[The medic steps out and joins the cameraman out of the room, closing
the door behind him.]

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

[The camera pans to the weight room of Boston Sports Club in Boston
Massachusetts.  It is deserted with it being a sunday. While people
are relaxing enjoying a day off of work watching the idiiot box, in
stands Larry Gionet by a punching bag.  His semi-spiked black hair is
messed up from an intense workout he has been through. He wears a
white PVW tank top and blue Adidas workout shorts and black sneakers.
He almost does not see the camera man as he is lost in his own world
of concentration.]

Larry Gionet:  So the weeks leading up to End Game 2 all I ever heard
was Larry Gionet is boring, Larry Gionet isn't this exciting wrestler.
A funny thing happneed after End Game 2 went off the air.  I didn't
hear heckling from the fans at ringside, I didn't see an ounce of
sarcism on the the faces of the PVW roster.  Everyone had a look of
shell shock.  As if I didn't have the balls to bring brutality to new
heights.  As if I didn't have it in me to be one of the baddest men in
Phoenix Valley History.  Who the HELL is boring now HUH!?  Sending
Chris Hartt neck frist through that table as pieces of wood shattered
within him. Watching the blood flow from Caleb Foley knowing it came
from a steel chair and my bare hands.  I have never felt so alive in
my life!

[With such violent thoughts swimming in his head, Larry Gionet
decimates the punching bag with a left jab followed by a right hook.
He connects with not one spin kick by a second spin kick.  This range
of movement causes him to stare into the camera's direction. He laughs
to himself as he warms himself up more as if getting ready for the
fight of his life.]

LG:  That burst of adrenaline that pumped through my veins.it felt
like a new birth a baptism of fire!  It was what pushed me further
when I went sailing from the ladder and to the cold floor below.  When
you sick bastards wanted to see my brains splattered in that arena I
made damn sure NONE of you would get that satisfaction from me.  I was
within a hairs chance of being Mr. Called Shot.  Yeah maybe I don't
have the luxury of cashing in a World Title shot anytime I want for a
year but after End Game 2 concluded there is no way I will be denied
much longer!

[Larry Gionet gragbs the steel bar performing a set of chin ups. Never
leaving the camera's sight he stares a hole with his menacing blue
eyes.  His determined demeanor and his fierce focus shows he is
capable of anything he sets out to do.He drops down as his feet hit
the floor setting off an echo throughout the vacated gym.]

LG:  At Heatwave I face off with an old foe.  I take on the big man
Sinister.  Yeah last time we fought, you were able to take something
that I worked my ass off for the PVW Television title.  You only took
that championship from me because Nevermind wanted to get involved. A
true champion would have asked for a restart. Yeah I get it I'm not a
liked man in PVW but at least I am an honest one.  You take your
cheers Sinister and see where it gets you. You take that stupid pride
of yours and see where you end up!  All you had to do was go out like
a man during your match against Christopher Black.  Your own blatant
selfishness cost you your TV title in the end instead of living to
fight another day you tried to stick it out until your knee gave out
on you.

[Larry Gionet sits down on a chrome workout bench as he does some
stretching which shows his toned biceps and triceps..  Sweat pours
from his head after such an intense workout. He smiles with evil
intent in his eyes.  A droplet of sweat trickles down his nose and
onto the mat splattering on the floor below.]

LG:  At Heatwave I plan to take you out on crutches NO a wheelchair
first class to the emergency room. Maybe then when you are sitting in
your hospital bed nursing your wounded knee and your wounded pride
perhaps then you will finally see things through.  Perhaps you will
realize then that admiration from the fans won't pay your medical
bills.  Perhaps you will realize then that the hero doesn't always get
the girl in the end.  That some heroes don't die legends but die in
shallow graves.  At Heatwave I will slay the dragon of ignorance that
burns within you once and for all.  In the end I won't get the praise
from the PVW faithful nor the comradery of my brothers in the
lockerroom and I wouldn't want it any other way!

[Larry Gionet gets up with a little swagger in his step pleased with
himself. He walks over to the locker and pulls out a towel in which he
wipes himself off with. He slams the locker shut and begins to walk
away.  Before he does he stops short and stares at the camera smiles a
mischievous smile and throws the sweaty towel at the camera forcing
him to fade to black.]

****************************************
****************************************
Marcus Manson #2
****************************************
****************************************

[The day after End Game, Marcus Manson pulled his black Charger up
outside a truck stop/bar and grill. He pushed the door open with one
big hand and stepped inside, taking off his sunglasses. After a moment
he took a booth in the corner and picked up a menu. A waitress came up
to him. her name tag said her name was Sandy.]

Sandy: Getcha sumthin ta drink, hun?

Manson: Water.

Sandy: Sure thang. Be right back.

[Manson grunted and continued reading the menu. The waitress came back
with Manson's water and took his order for a steak and baked potato.
Manson sipped at his water while he waited for his food, occasionally
checking the sports scores on the tvs hanging from the ceiling. A
conversation at the bar got more boisterous to the point of being hard
not to over hear.]

Man 1: I'm tellin ya, that's the guy!

Man 2: Aw, yer full of it. What would he be doin in this neck o' the
woods?

Man 3: Don't they got them wrasslin shows all over the country? Maybe
there's one in Nevada or here in California.

Man 1: Right! I'm tellin ya, my boy's big into that wrestlin' shit,
and we was watching the pay-per-view last night and that's the big guy
who lost last night. Manson or somethin.

Man 2: Like, Charles Manson? The murderer?

Man 1: No, you nit-wit, not like the murderer. Where's yer head? Look,
this guy got beat by some German guy half a foot shorter and nearly a
hunnerd pounds lighter than him.

[The man turned and half got off of his bar stool, calling over to
Manson.]

Man 1: Ain't that right son? Ain't you that Manson guy what lost last
night to that Dutch guy?

[Manson ignored the man and just sipped his water.]

Man 2: Don't look like he wants to talk to you, Roy.

Man 1: Well he best change his mind or I'll beat him like the little
German guy did last night!

Man 3: I'd pay ta see that!

[Manson continued ignoring the men, but "Roy" wasn't having it and
hopped off his bar stool, heading over towards Manson's table.]

Man 1: Come on, big guy - don't wanna answer a simple question? You
afraid i'm gonna hurt you like that German guy did?

[The man's hand grasped Manson's shoulder, and that's when hell broke
loose. Manson reached up and grabbed the man by the throat, getting
out of the booth and backing him up against the bar. One of the man's
friends smashed a bar stool over Manson's back, but it didn't do much
more than annoy him. Manson slammed the first man's head off the bar,
and smashed the second with a right cross that sent him crumbling. The
first man recovered and smashed Manson across the back with a forearm,
but Marcus grabbed him by the hair and the belt and whipped him
through one of the big glass windows on the front of the restaurant.
The third man never made it off his bar stool, just turned wide eyed
back to the bartender and sipped his beer. The waitress had decided to
play it safe and had already put Manson's steak dinner into a
styrofoam container in case he decided not to stick around after the
incident. Manson slammed a handful of fifty dollar bills on the bar
and grabbed the to-go box before turning to leave.]

Manson: Keep the change.

[On his way out, Manson laid a kick into the first man's gut for good
measure.]

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

"The miserable have no other medicine but hope."

[The camera opens tightly into none other than Sammy Knight.  One of
Phoenix Valley Wrestling's newest signees stares in your direction
with a genuine look of concern written across his face.  Sitting in
what appears to be a bedroom of sorts, the former West Side Piru gang
member's hair is neatly corn-rowed into an intricate design.  Paying
homage to his city, the adage "Birthing a New Compton" is proudly
displayed in white lettering across his black t-shirt.]

"I don't think you get it."

[Over Knight's left shoulder is a doorway.  Hanging from the doorway
is one of those miniature Nerf basketball hoops.

A child's room?

Over Knight's right shoulder appears to be a desk.  There are open
text books, notebooks and an iPod spread sloppily across the desk.

A student?

Above the desk stands a shelf.  On the shelf is various memorabilia.
A few trophies.  A Sammy Knight action figure.  However, the camera
chooses to focus on the various pictures.  One picture shows Knight
and his teenage son at what appears to be Darrion's 8th grade
graduation.  Another picture is Darrion in his basketball uniform
holding up the obligatory "Number 1."  A final picture is that of
Darrion and his mother.

Ah, the room of Darrion Knight.]

"Even though I can never _FULLY_ understand exactly how you feel, I
can empathize with you, your loss, your emotions of rage, your feeling
of misery.  I really can."

[Knight leans in intensely.]

"You see man; I know what it's like to fear looking into that bathroom
mirror every morning.  Or to dread walking by a store-window because
you don't want to see your reflection.

Yes, a reflection.

You know exactly what the hell I'm talking about man.  The reflection
of a life once had."

[Knight's brilliant brown eyes stir with honesty.]

"The reflection that isn't really a reflection at all, but more-so a
painful reminder of a past event.  A constant reminder of the
individual that you _USED_ to be.  Or a distinct memory of an
individual who _USED_ to be here.  Vivid pictures and memories that
life, and your brain, won't let you forget.

After all, how could you forget?  She was everything to you."

[Knight, almost as if he's about to be interrupted, aggressively
points his finger outward and offers an earnest plea.]

"Please."

[Sternness comes across his voice.]

"Don't interrupt.  Just listen right now."

[The father pauses, taking a moment to re-gather his thoughts.]

"Like yourself.  I've been plagued by the company of misery.  I've too
have been afflicted with the mental disease of doubt and rage that the
situation provides.  You see man, you're not alone.  And for what it's
worth, I'm sorry.

I truly am."

[Pause.]

"You lost the most important woman in your life.  Taken from you in a
matter of seconds.  Everything changed that Halloween in a blink of
your eye.  Maybe you didn't get a chance to say good-bye.  And maybe
deep down you blame yourself.  I know those emotions all too well."

[Intrigue and curiosity soon cover Knight's face.]

"Anger...?

Guilt...?

Revenge...?

Remorse...?"

[He pauses, awaiting some response.  No answer.  Knight continues.]

"I've lost so many people in my life I've simply stopped counting.
Hell, the homie Brandon just passed last Thursday.  And he was a good
kid.  Not like me."

[Knight let's out a half-breath of uneasy laughter, momentarily
looking away.]

"Went to sleep and never woke up.  College boy.  Loyola Marymount.
Honor Roll.  All that shit.  The Lord took him.  And left me.

For what?"

[The laughter erased.  Knight's last two words forced through a tunnel
of emotions.]

"Maybe you're thinking the same thing."

[Beat.]

"Why _NOT_ take you instead?"

[Beat.]

"Only prayer can answer that."

[Knight leans forward, extending his arms and lifting up his palms in
an inquisitive manner.]

"Have...you...prayed about it?"

[More silence.  No response.]

"Because I've learned..."

[Knight nods his head in a positive affirmation of sorts.]

"...I've learned that when life takes a loved one, we can't fight it.
We can't change it.  We can't take it back.  Because that's God's
time, His plan."

[Pause.]

"You can feel however the hell you want to feel.  Go ahead and be
angry if you want.  Go be mad at the world.  Parade around the world
as some 'misery machine.'  But for all your fights, for all your rage,
for all your misery, there is _NO_ amount of inflicted pain that will
change what happened to her on that Halloween.

_NOTHING_."

[Knight stands up, almost looking down now.]

"And I say that not because I'm heartless, but because I've felt that
way.  I've been mad at the world.  Mad at my mother for her addiction.
Mad at my foster parents for abuse.  Mad at a kid for wearing a blue
pair of shoes."

[The pace of his dialect begins to momentarily pick up.]

"You see, I _WAS_ that nigga who wasn't supposed to make it to the age
of eighteen.  You should know that.  Sammy Knight was supposed to be a
statistic.  Just another Black gangster left for dead in the Compton
streets.  I was supposed to be _THAT_ kid.  You know the type; the d-
boy on the corner in the baggy white t-shirt whom society avoids.
Whom teachers ignore.  Whom the system is designed to lock-away."

[Knight pauses to let that description sink in.]

"Yeah.  _EXACTLY_.

_THAT_ was me.  _FULL_ of misery.  Hopelessness.  Nihilistic as fuck.
Talk about a misery machine."

[The tone of his voice continues to get more excited, quicker paced,
and a little louder.]

"And I _HAD_ excuses.  Hell, I still do.  It was always easy for me to
blame others.  Easy for me to point fingers at every person who had
ever done me wrong.

Who continues to do me wrong.

But you know what?"

[Pause.]

"I _HAD_ to change.  I had a son."

[Knight calms down slightly.  He sits down and a smile sneaks out.]

"And _NONE_ of that other shit mattered anymore.  It wasn't about _MY_
misery, or a lack of hope, or disheartenment.  It was about the now
and my future.  _HOPE_.  Change.  And that leads us to where we are
today."

[Another pause.]

"You can adapt.  Let go and let God.  Or you can continue to be
shackled by a past that _YOU_ have no control over.  Shackles that
lead to the exact behavior that you've consistently demonstrated since
her loss.

And you're a better man than that.  I _KNOW_ you are."

[True concern from the lips of the former champion.  He stands up as
the camera starts to pull back slightly.]

"You feel me?"

[The camera pulls back more to reveal Darrion himself sitting on the
edge of his bed.  Still wearing his school uniform, the currently
troubled young man is the spitting image of his father.  Looking down
at the ground between his feet the younger Knight nods and responds.]

"Yeah, Pops."

[The elder Knight kneels down and puts a hand on his son's shoulder.]
"You know I'm really sorry about your mother.  She loved you very
much."

[Darrion nods again.]

"I know."

[Knight stands up, looks down at his son.]

"I love you."

[Darrion looks up.]

"Love you too."

[The elder Knight places the chair back at his son's desk and slowly
walks out of the room, the camera following him.  After giving one
last glance towards his teenage son, he shuts the door and pauses,
seemingly caught in a moment of deep thought.  He then turns towards
the camera.]

"Mr. Manson.  We are defined by our choices.  By our reactions to the
challenges of life's tests.  And Sammy Knight?

I'm a survivor."

[He pauses.]

"The streets of Compton.  Prison.  Politics of the industry.
Fatherhood."

[Beat.]

"I refuse to let past losses, past failures dictate _MY_ present
demeanor.  Because I will, like always, stand triumphant."

[Beat.]

"And that's not me taking anything away from your career.  Your
accolades.  Your time in UEW, or PVW.  The Widowmakers.  Your wife.
That's just...the truth."

[Once again, Knight's brown eyes pierce the camera.]

"This isn't just about my return to wrestling.  It's far more reaching
than that.  It's about my fans; fans who have stood by me when they
didn't have to.  Fans that I owe essentially everything I have to.
Hell, as always it's about him."

[Knight points non-chalantly to the door behind him.]

"And his life.  But it's also about change.  And you're looking at
Phoenix Valley's _NEXT_ cashier."

[Beat.]

"This is Sammy Knight."

[Beat.]

"Accept no imitations."

[Fade to black.]

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

"A hero?"

[The voice cuts in from the darkness...low and full of menace.]

"Do you really want a hero?"

[The shot fades in on the pale blue eyes of The Spectre.  The
dreadlocked madman's face dominates the screen in an extreme close up
as he stares expressionlessly into the lens.]

"It's been some time since we heard the cheers of the hopeful in the
crowd as another sacrificial lamb is lead into the squared circle to
face us...too long.  We'd forgotten the heady drug that their vitriol
is to us.  We'd forgotten how the false bravado from the fatally
flawed heroes encouraged us...how their cries of agony motivated
us...how their pain drove us to greater depths of depravity.

In short, we missed you as much as you missed us."

[The slightest of smiles creeps onto The Specter's pale face.]

"The soul to face a baptism of pain is Sammy Knight.  Hero to
thousands.  He claims to have taken a life...and claims that this
makes him uniquely suited to face us.  After all, men such as he are
impervious to fear...impervious to doubt...impervious to reflection.
He feels that we are an anathema...something to be destroyed and
unceremoniously removed from this organization.  A plague upon PVW's
house, if you will.

Little Samuel has no idea what he's signed up for.

At one time we were willing to allow our story to unfold organically.
Titles held no interest for us...pursued by self-angrandizing fools
out to prove their worth by striving to obtain an external symbol of
their supremacy, they served only as a trapping of child-like
innocence.  We scoffed at their necessity and paid them no mind.

No longer.

Our assessment about those belts rings true.  However, the importance
assigned to them elevates their worth in our eyes...elevates it
sufficiently to make us desire to take them...to hold them...and to
deny them to those who would base their self worth on such a thing.

Those such as little Samuel."

[Spectre's smile fades as a slight sneer appears, the left side of his
lip curling up.]

"So: Title holders in PVW...you have been warned.  We will come from
them...one at a time.  We will break you, and we will take them from
you.  Little Samuel, you have the misfortune of simply being the first
stepping stone on our road.  We hold you not particular ill will, but
you will still end up broken and Reborn.

Fear the dark, little Samuel."

[Fade]

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


[It would be understandable for the viewer to squint as the slow fade
from black stops short; a murky, grainy image showing  near nothing
upon the television screen.  A slanting beam of light from a nearby
doorway does little to reveal the contents of the scene beyond a few
pipes running along the ceiling and the curving edge of a green head.
   You read right ... "green".]

WC: He stood up.  He didn't crumble.  Crushed him so many times.  Why
not this time?

[The head turning, William Craven's ice blue left eye shows large upon
the screen.  He's nearer than we believed.]

WC: I wanted to keep hurting him but he almost won.  He almost won
without truly beating me.  Just like in the title tournament.  No
battle where both men walk away can be called a true victory.  The
solution escapes me, what--

??: So the game has changed a little?  What's the big deal, Bill?

[The one eye going wide, Craven glances around, unable to get a view
of the disembodied voice.]

WC: This was the day I bury him completely.  Not an hour ago.  Before
millions of people, was his swan song ... but Robert Cole would not
SING!

??: And?  Singing is sweet and that man, that man is sour.  Very sour.
He's like a rancid nut, Bill.  Tough on the outside but on the inside
he's rotted and soft.  You cracked the shell once now all you have to
do is finish breaking it to bits.

[Scowling, Bill seems to twitch as the other voice talks.  It's almost
as if he, himself, were speaking both parts.  While both voices are
rough, Bill's is deeper, almost bass while the other is a more typical
baritone approaching tenor.]

WC: I want to.  I do!  He was broken ... how did he recover?

??: You scared him off.  He overcame his fear.  Obviously he wasn't so
hurt as you thought.  You said it yourself.  He was going to run away
and come back when you forgot about him.

WC: That can't happen.

??: Of course it can't.  Unfortunately Cole is like a catfish.  He
tends to swim at the bottom and he's covered in barbs.  You did the
right thing tonight, Bill.  You beat him again.  Yes he walked out but
you left with your hand raised in victory.  Which is worth more?
Extracting another drop of blood or preventing him from gaining
momentum?

[Still twitching, Bill's face, or the portion of it that can be seen,
goes slack.]

WC: I ... I don't know.

??: If you're going to have complete victory you can't let him have an
inch.  You didn't squash him like a bug today, but he didn't win.  You
won.  If you don't squash him tomorrow, big deal, so long as he
doesn't get a foothold.  No foothold, he can't push back.  Downward
spiral, Bill, think about it.

WC: Entropy...

??: Just like you preach sometimes to the boys in the back.  Yes,
entropy, Nihilism and this ... hopeless world view that lets you do
what
you do.  Think about that, keep it in mind and USE it!

[Jumping, Bill's eye squeezes shut.]

??: Use it on Rob Cole!  Do unto him what was done to me, only WORSE!
Can you do that for me?  Can you do this one last favor!?

[Opening slowly, Craven's eye has a serene look about it.  The apple
of his cheek rises; the faint indication of an unseen and shark-
toothed grin.]

WC: Yes my friend.  Of course.  Of course ... it gets worse...

[Walking forward, Bill hits the door, swinging it wide and
illuminating what is, apparently, the boiler room of the Veteran's
Memorial Colisseum.  A polarized image, the room fails to reveal any
other occupants to the viewers at home.  Fade to black.]