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** Phoenix Valley Wrestling Presents  **
**            SHOWCASE                **
**            10.04.11                **
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-> Rob Cole
-> Max and Sal
-> Supreme Wright
-> Perry Fontana
-> AsH
-> Masked Maniac
-> William Craven
-> The Berserkers
-> The Spectre
-> Senor Cloak Dos & Jacob Rose
-> The Mercenary
-> Larry Gionet
-> Prophets of Rage
-> Chris Hartt
-> Uncle Frank
-> Daniels, AsH, & Cole
-> Gibson Hayes
-> Caleb Foley

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Rob Cole
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[Two figures stand in front of the PVW banner... one keeps his eyes
downcast as the smaller woman watches him with a twisted smile. She
traces her finger along the scar beneath his jaw, and then turns to
face the camera. The former world Champion doesn't even glance up as
the woman speaks.]

YC: He's a little pouty today, isn't he? Phoenix Valley asked us both
to stand here tonight to speak about the events of this past
Heatwave... specifically, to speak about my attack on poor broken
Craven and the blood he's lost, the pride gone shattered, and whether
or not my husband was a part of it. They see this situation as
'alarming'... not the threats against me, against my six year old son,
but the brutal attack of a woman who stands 5 feet 4 inches tall and
weighs in at a little more than one third... don't ever ask a woman
her weight, poor boys.

They want an explanation... oh, let's see? He spent months tracking
down my husband... he used me and my son... oh, and he finally capped
it off by threatening us after my husband beat him.

[Cole turns to glare at the camera, his brows furrowed as his wife
continues... giggling... ]

YC: Oh no no no... not beat him. No... you see, Craven's been beaten
before. No! My husband put him in the camel clutch, harkening back to
the days of a by-gone era when the Iron Sheik defeated Bob Backlund,
he trapped his legs over the bottom rope, he yanked back on that chin,
and he forced William Craven to TAP... TAP.... TAP!!! And people say
the next match is a rubber match... oooh, how exciting?!?!!!

RUBBER MATCH?!?!?!!

[Cole finally steps forward, taking a breath... he places a finger on
her lips, silencing the woman before he turns to face the camera. He
shakes his head in disgust... ]

RC: What are we going to do, William? This isn't a debate... there's
no funny advertisements or comical catch-phrases between us. You seem
to be under the mistaken impression that I might still believe the
fiction or your life... that I believe in the monster, the man who
feels no pain, and that I might still be afraid of you somewhere deep
inside.

You're desperate for it, Craven. And while you scramble for some sort
of purchase, some sort of direction; I've already washed the blood
away and rinsed the filth of you down the sink. But you want one more
go-round... one more chance to prove you're the sickest looney in the
cage.

[Cole cricks his neck. He pulls off his teeshirt, revealing the road
map of scar tissue around his torso.]

RC: Barbed wire ripped my the flesh off my chest... shattered glass,
thumbtacks, and nails have been driven into my back and my chest and
my stomach, there was a moment where I actually stopped breathing in
that ring and my heart stopped and the wanted to pronounce me dead!

I TOOK A SHOT IN MY HEART!!!

Adrenaline from a needle designed to puncture the chest wall... Tell
me again about the torture of your career?!?!?!!

I buried a prematurely carried thing in a graveyard back in New York ,
watched my wife leave with another man, and watched my entire life
spin out of control... would I ever serve an enemy as a stipulation???

I did it out of GRIEF, you sanctimonious jerk!!! And when he wiped out
everyone that could challenge him, when he was on top of the world, I
turned and became the challenger who would eventually step out from
beneath his shadow... don't flap your lips unless you know what you're
talking about, William! It gets worse?

I can't begin to imagine how terrible life has been for you... over
and over again, you come within only a few feet of glory, only to have
it ripped out of your hands. Just like this upcoming heatwave! You
have the opportunity to earn a shot at the gold waist trinket, but you
won'r get it. You're not good enough, Craven... you'll get yourself
disqualified in your hunt for me, you'll make a mistake, and you'll be
taken out of the running and set back to the locker room. You're
pathetic!

[Cole shakes his head in disgust and turns away from the camera as
Yllana steps forward.]

YC: You have no idea, Billy. None!

*Fade to Black*

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

[The camera fades in to see Salih Mubarak seated in the backstage
area, reading some papers.  His face looks crestfallen.  Sal's
voiceover can be heard.]

Sal VO:  We like wrestling.  We really like wrestling in PVW.  But
sometimes...

Sal:  [Reading] "The PVW TAG TEAM TITLES will be on the line in a Tag
Team Triangle rules ... when what can be argued as the three top tag
teams in the PVW - THE HEAT, MAX AND SAL, and LIVESTOCK AND THE GUTCH
step inside the ring just a few shows before BOILING POINT. Can the
landscape of the Tag Team Division take a huge change in power so
close to Boiling Point?"

[Sal sighs]

Sal VO:  Sometimes- being in PVW sucks.

Sal:  OK- title match.  We like title matches.  And Max and I like
taking on Livestock and the Gutch.  And we really like facing HEAT.
But facing them... together... at the same time.

Sal VO:  The only thing HEAT and the Tag team champions had in common
was how much they hated us.  It seemed like they'd be bonding over
that.  Of course, while I worried about our future, Max was more
concerned about his recent past.

[Cut to Max walking in, with a half dozen ice packs wrapped around his
waist.  He moves gingerly into the scene.]

Max  VO:  You know, for someone so concerned with "A Bright Future and
a Better Tomorrow", you'd think groin shots would be off the table.
Do you know many phone calls I've had to field from my mom who's now
worried that I can't give her future grandkids?!

Max:  [easing into a seat with a groan]  ...do we have any more
ice...?

Max VO:  Of course, my partner was quick to show his concern for my
well-being.

Sal:  [ignoring Max, focusing on the memo]  We're screwed.  Livestock.
Gutch.  Baptiste.  PACO.  [pause]  Bubba.  Johnstone.  Arvelle.
Florine.  [pause]  And just for fun, let's say Hayes and Uncle Frank
returns to nutpunch you again.  That's 10- count them- 10 people who
just don't like us.

[pause]

Sal:  And we're such friendly people, too.

Sal VO:  I was deep in morose over the possibility.  But, thanks to
the icepacks and several happy pills, my partner stopped complaining-
and started hallucinating.

[Max, still with the icepacks around his waist, pulls out a whiteboard
on wheels into the room.  There are various names written onto it.]

Max:  Eureka!  I have the solution to all our woes!

Sal: You have Jewel Staite and Gina Torres' phone numbers?

Max:  Eureka!  I have the solution to almost all our woes!  [He starts
wiping the whiteboard off.  Quickly seen is "WEEK THREE QB ELI MANN--"
before it's erased.  Max then begins to write down the various
entourages of their next opponents as if they were a series of
equations.]  Behold...THE GRAND    JERKFACE REPULSION THEORY!

[Max writes down "#1- INFIGHTING".  Max sets down the marker and
explains.]


Max:  Livestock, Gutch, PACO, Baptiste... all these guys want of piece
of us.  But none of them have ever learned to share.  They'll all be
arguing who gets to beat us up first- if we step back, they'll start
fighting amongst themselves and leave us scott-free!

Sal: So, your theory is that they hate us so much they'll be too busy
hating us to fight us?

Max:  EXACTLY!

Sal VO:  Did I mention the large quantity of medicines Max had taken
ever since Uncle Frank stomped him in the groin?  However, behind the
drug-induced haze was the gem of an idea...

[Sal writes "#2- TITLES"]

Sal:  Now, this isn't just for the right to beat us up.  It's also for
the tag team titles.  Livestock and Gutch are desperate to hold onto
the belts- HEAT are just as desperate to win the titles.  Both sides
are going to lose focus trying to win the belts to worry about winning
the match.

Max VO:  This then led to another very important kernel of my theory
-- the number of people at ringside, the concerns about HOPE and the
Prophets of Rage, the locations of the moons of Jupiter.

[Max picks up the marker, and writes...

"#3- ENTOURAGES"

He looks over to Sal, who nods thoughtfully.]

Sal:  We know from firsthand experience that Arvelle.

Max: Never.

Sal:  Shuts.

Max:  Up.

Sal:   However, Todd Johnstone LOVES hogging the spotlight and unlike
a pissy Frenchwoman, isn't one to give it up so easily.

Max:  Not to mention, their bodyguards!  Sure, Bubba looks like he has
the size advantage, but never count Florine and her ample assets out,
especially in the brains department.

[Max takes up the marker and starts writing again...

"#4- NO LONG PASSING GAME"

Cue the facepalm from Sal.]

Sal VO: It was at this point that I realized either Max needed to cut
back on the meds -- or start sharing them.

Max VO:  We're going to be in Oakland.  It's a key factor to remember!

[Sal grabs the marker from Max and quickly erases Point 4.  He
replaces it with...

"#4- WE'RE BETTER"

He pauses, then underlines it.  Twice.  Max nods eagerly as Sal sets
down the marker,  looks into the camera and shrugs.]

Sal:  Well... they aren't.

[Max and Sal walk off as the camera fades to black.]

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Supreme Wright
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[A voice.]

"The best in the world."

[We fade into a shot of an African-American male, seated on a bench
inside a dark, empty gym. Behind him, a makeshift wrestling ring can
be clearly seen, along with various pieces of exercise equipment,
including free weights, exercise bikes, and a weightlifting machine.
He looks as if he's just completed his workout, hunched over with a
towel covering his head, breathing heavy and dripping with sweat. As
the camera focuses on that shot, the voiceover continues.]

"Ever since I was a little rugrat growing up in Louisiana, that's all
I ever wanted to be."

[The man lifts his head, revealing the face of PVW's "mega prospect"
and newest signee...Supreme Wright. His hair is pulled back into tight
cornrows, snaking in an intricate design and his face is distinguished
by a rather manly, full-growth beard. He glares into the camera with
an expressionless look.]

"Yeah, I've won awards and I've been a champion..."

[Cut to archival footage from IPW, where we see Supreme Wright
tripping up The Polar Bear Stud and locking him into the "Supremacy",
his version of an inverted Texas cloverleaf. With the hold still
applied, Wright drops down and bodyscissors The Stud, just inches away
from the ropes, causing the bigger competitor to tapout and securing
Wright his first-ever world title.]

"...but I realize that in Phoenix Valley Wrestling, those
accomplishments don't mean a dang thing."

[We then cut to a shot of Wright inside the gym, methodically
performing one-armed push-ups. His face is drenched with sweat and the
strain on his body is apparent, but Wright just looks straight ahead,
pushing on.]

"Here, I see men that've wrestled longer, been greater and done so
much more than I ever have. To them, someone like me probably ain't
even a blip on the radar."

[The scene flashes to a shot of Wright still in the gym, doing a rapid
set of crunches on an elevated incline. He does this seemingly
endlessly and mechanically, never slowing his pace and stoically
looking straight ahead. The look of determination on his face is
fierce, almost like a man possessed.]

"It just reminds me that I've still got a long ways to go before I
amount to anything in this sport. It tells me that I've got a heck of
a lot of work to do before I can even think of being called the
greatest."

[We fade into a shot of Wright, up at the crack of dawn at a local
high school football field, running up and down a row of bleachers.]

"To men like Gibson Hayes, Rob Cole, Gabriel Whitecross...heck, even
Tetsuo Kimura...I must look like just another overhyped, young buck
flappin' his gums. But inside that ring? I guarantee that if any one
steps into it with me, they'll know _exactly_ who I am."

[Cut to a shot inside that wrestling ring we saw earlier. We see
Wright training with a series of unnamed sparring partners. Wright is
relentless, punishing his sparring partners with fierce takedowns and
stretching them mercilessly. The voiceover then ends, as we cut back
to Wright in the present, now leaning against the ring, with his arms
folded across his chest.]

SW: The funny thing is...I wasn't supposed to debut yet.

[A chuckle.]

SW: The front office wanted to hype me up. Have Mr. Lester and Mr.
Hoyle talk me up big  and make it seem like I was something *really*
special. Give me an entrance with so many bright lights and big
explosions, that it'd make Sammy Knight's debut look like a little kid
waving around a sparkler on the 4th of July.

[He leans in towards the camera.]

SW: And I said "No."

[Smirk.]

SW: If Phoenix Valley Wrestling wanted to convince the people that
Supreme Wright was so dang great and amazing, all they had to do was
one simple thing.

[That smirk turns into a huge grin.]

SW: Put me inside a wrestling ring.

[He looks down and shakes his head..]

SW: 'Cause I ain't gonna' win hearts and minds with pyrotechnics. I
ain't gonna' sway public opinion by spoonfeeding the people with nice,
big helpings of hype. All that flash and all that hootin' and
hollerin' doesn't hold a candle to what I can accompish if they just
gave me an opponent...and an opportunity to let loose that beast in my
heart.

[Supreme taps a finger to his chest.]

SW: But I can imagine what a man like Mr. Kimura must be thinking
right now. He's gotta' be laughing. Probably got no idea who the heck
I am. Hearing this mess coming outta' my mouth, a proud man like Mr.
Kimura'll probably get offended. He'll puff out his chest, look at me
like some sorta' insignificant threat and DARE this big-headed fool to
come right at him and give him the sort of competiton that he
desperately wants.

[A slightly sinister grin forms on his face.]

SW: I promise you that he'll get all that and MORE.

[His eyes grow wide, as the prospect of battle spurs him on.]

SW: 'Cause what Mr. Kimura needs to understand...is that I ain't here
just to show the world that I can "compete" with the best.

[He stares right into the camera, that glare in his eyes never as
serious as they are now.]

SW: I'm here to show the world that I _am_ the best.

[Fade out.]

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

[Perry "le Phenix" Fontana sits on the front steps of 19th century
Church, framed by its four, thick Corinthian columns. The air is gray,
a steady drizzle of light rain showers over the Everlasting One who,
for once, isn't wearing his flame-colored boxer's robe. Instead, it's
the hood of a waxed rain-coat that covers his head, the kind usually
associated with fishermen.]

Fontana: Everything went according to plan... almost.

Sure, the Dutchman wasn't willing to cooperate. He _bled_, but he
didn't suffer any injury, didn't aggravate lingering aches. And thanks
to the bloodshed, they've decided to give him some time off to fully
recuperate.

Come Boiling Point, Herscher von Donkerhardt will be healthy and able
to defend his hard-earned title to the very BEST of his ability, aaaah
ouais!

[The King of Armbars smirks, then shakes his head.]

Fontana: Of course, there was a _cost_, a toll to be paid in steel. I
took the blow, cousin, and I'd do it again, and _again_, and AGAIN!

[He massages his shoulder.]

Fontana: While the bruised flesh was painfully _tender_ for a while,
after a few days, the teeth-shaped wounds healed, and the bruises
vanished, leaving me with everything I _wanted_... everything but ONE
_THING_, ouais!

[He peels off the hood of his dark raincoat, exposing his luxuriant
black hair and gigantic muttonchops to the gloomy weather.]

Fontana: Finally, I was on the brink of facing a Spectre that came to
play. For the first time, he looked _angry, he finally looked WORTHY
of _opposing_ me. But by the time he got to the ring with you, Sammy
Knight, all the _passion_ he had built up was essentially gone. I
don't know exactly what it is you did, cousin, but you stopped a good
fight from happening. I was expecting to get the _best_ of Spectre,
and I DIDN'T _get_ it, no!

[In spite of the preposterous size of his muttonchops, it's always the
intensity of his almost-crazed-but-not-quite gaze that strikes the
most.]

Fontana: One could say I'm _owed_ a match against the very best, but
all I'm facing is you, cousin. I don't mean to shrug off your
abilities, Sammy, but until you give me a true hard-fought match at
Heatwave, I can't tell if you're the real McCoy or not.

[A scoff.]

Fontana: Who knows? Perhaps you're almost good enough to keep up with
me. We come from very _different_ worlds, but there are similarities.

[The Deathless One grimly nods, wipes the water off his face with the
palm of his hand.]

Fontana: Right here, in front of this church, it's where... [a deep
breath]...

[He points to somewhere in front of him, and the camera swivels to
show Perry's own view. Across the street, young trees with yellowing
autumn leaves line a series of water fountains that lead all the way
to a sinuous six-lane bridge, a landmark known to Montrealers as the
Jacques Cartier Bridge.]

Fontana: ... Across the street over there... they made a park out of
it three years ago, but it used to be a building. Two stories high,
seemingly innocuous... was actually the Rock Machines headquarters.
They were "allegedly" involved in gangsterism, warring with the
Banditos, also "allegedly" accused of the same crimes.

Justice may be swift in the US, but up North, investigations last for
_decades_, and who the heck knows if a damned trial will even take
place? I suppose _some_ of us learn to handle things on our own, up
here.

[The camera turns back to Fontana, who meditatively combs his jet-
black hair back with his fingers.]

Fontana: Still, that street, next to that pothole over there... it's
where my mother and I were shot to death. Well, _she_ died. Drew her
last breath right in front of me.

[An eyebrow jerks upwards.]

Fontana: I just thought she'd fainted. Tried to ask if she was OK, but
I suddenly was face first on the pavement, too. There was no pain,
really, yet I couldn't breathe, felt dizzy...

[He licks his thin lips.]

Fontana: ...Then I saw her eyes. The open eyes that... don't _see_
anything.

[Il Eterno lowers his head, slowly pulls the hood of his raincoat back
over his head.]

Fontana: When I woke up afterwards, I was in the morgue. For the third
time in my life... I'd been declared dead.

Believe me when I tell you that I didn't care, at the time.

Je voulais seulement maman...

[As he bites his lower lip, the dimple of his chin almost disappears.
He takes a deep breath, and his tone changes, the drizzle washing the
melancholy away.]

Fontana: I don't know what the shooting did for _you_, Sammy, but I
can tell you what it did for me. As an orphaned and angry eleven year
old, they shipped me off to my Uncle's. For the first few months, my
bed became the wrestling mats of his training pit. School became
increasingly more difficult... I couldn't focus, fought too much...
the Pit became my sole source of solace.

[He cocks his hooded head.]

Fontana: Old Jacques, he'd teach me every day, along with his older
pupils. He stretched them for hours daily, tortured them until they
realized wrestling wasn't in their blood. He'd stretch me for hours,
too... but I never gave up. That pain, at least, I could understand
where it came from. That pain, I knew how to deal with. I guess it's
where I fell in love with physical pain, cousin.

[The King of Armbars gets to his feet, wiping the accumulated rain out
of the wrinkles of his raincoat.]

Fontana: Now, I'll freely admit that I never wasted my time listening
to you babble at the PVW cameras, so I'll _forgive_ you if you didn't
listen to anything I've just told you. I certainly won't be listening
to you address every point one by one and dissect them like you're
captain of the high-school _debate_ team, so you'll be _wasting_ your
time if you do. Nobody cares if I say you're from the Hills instead of
Compton. That ain't what wrestling's about.

However, I _did_ watch the tapes. You don't have a style of your own.
A wrestling jack-ass-of-all-trades, master of NONE. Still, You've
already won your share of gold... just remember that what happens in
other federations and what happens in PVW are two different things.

PVW is where _former_ World Champions come to find out if their reigns
were LEGIT. Some have come and gone, and others will make their debut
after Boiling Point. Phoenix Valley Wrestling is crawling with fallen
champions, men who were considered the world's BEST in their former
federations, yet can't step up to the plate and win the PVW Television
Title when the _real_ COMPETITION begins, OUAIS!

The kind of former champions I've beaten far too often, really.

[One by one, the Everlasting One marches down the Church's steps.]

Fontana: Are you one of those, Sammy, or can you prove to be the real
deal? I didn't get the _best_ of Spectre, so I better be geting the
BEST out of _you_! Ouais, you're undeniably the underdog, here,
cousin...

[Close to the camera, Perry shakes his head.]

Fontana: ...but that doesn't mean you don't have what it takes.

[As the camera remains static, le Phenix turns his back and starts
walking away. Over the sound of passing cars, we hear his final
words.]

Fontana: It only means you need to _prove_ that you do.

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

[Camera opens on AsH, elbows on his knees and leaning forward from a
black leather chair. He's sporting a mouse over his right eye and a
few bruises visible along his forehead, neck and shoulders. He's
wearing a wifebeater and a pair of blue and white Aero pajama pants
along with a pair of sandals, and looks as though he may have been
resting for the entire time since the last match]

AsH [his voice dry and almost raspy]: It is not the critic who counts;
not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the
doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the
man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and
sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short
again and again, because there is no effort without error and
shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows
great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy
cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high
achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while
daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and
timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

[AsH clears his throat and shakes his head, his trademark smirk coming
through]

AsH: It's something I've lived almost my entire career by... knowing
that because I fought, and I lost... that I was truly the better man.
Those slings and arrows come a'flyin' when you lose. People come outta
that woodwork to tell me that I never shoulda been there in the first
place.

And maybe they're right.

But look what happens with a little positive thought. People get
proved wrong. Your place gets established quickly.

And those who doubted you before, will start throwing everything they
have at keeping you where you were supposed to be in the first place.

[AsH smiles]

AsH: And that includes throwing psychopaths, thyroid mutations and
would-be athletes with MANUFACTURED Redbull addictions. That's right,
I said it. You're fishing off my pier, 'Stock. And you know it.
Pssssh, Redbull. You're full of Bull, alright.

But the point is, look at the man the critics are screaming about now.
Look at the state of things. Gibson Hayes, is not only sending the
troops at me en masse, but he's manufacturing opponents. And I think
the walls are going to start closing in sooner than he thinks. Using
the masked maniac to stave off another shot from the man people assume
is obsessed with pokemon. The man people think hasn't evolved since
the 90's era poor spelling. The man considered both a has been and a
never was.

This man is now public enemy number 1... and it's only makin' me
stronger.

[AsH begins to lean back, showing a bit of wear on his bruised
muscles]

AsH: Its bringing me back, Gibby. To the days of complete beatings and
still coming out on top. To the days when I was in the hunt for the
gold, for some reason or the other.

For the days of chasing an opponent who truly is my better. Taking
away every avenue of escape, every excuse, everywhere he could run to
ground. I take away every possible reason he could have to deny me. I
force him to face me, man to man.

And I beat him.

And the world finds someone else that I couldn't possible beat.

[AsH's smile fades to only the half-cocked smirk]

AsH: And people have already asked if I'm crazy for requesting this
week's match. Spectre, Detson, and Craven? Surely, I've gone mad
asking for the three most monsterous, dastardly, and dangerous men on
the roster be teamed up and step in the ring with them. And my allies
are considered... unreliable at best. [AsH chuckles] I've faced longer
odds, gentlemen.

Ever have sushi at a pizza place?

[Again, AsH smiles]

AsH: It's no mistake that I cultivate a conception that I'm outgunned
and I'm outmatched. Frankly, people who take me seriously and prepare
as they should generally put me away without a second thought. I'm no
impressive physical specimen. I'm no wrestling savant. I don't even
have a lot of spring in my step anymore after a few dozen knee
surgeries.

But I am the hardest working, toughest, and most resilient son of a
bitch you're ever going to come across. And if you, for a single
second, thing that those three attributes don't measure up without the
natural talent to stack upon?

Well, you're just another loss waiting to get in line with the rest of
them.

[AsH nods at this and slowly, painfully raises his arms to lean behind
his head]

AsH: Because hard work will always beat talent... when talent refuses
to work hard.

[With that, the camera fades]

****************************************
****************************************
Masked Maniac
****************************************
****************************************

[Aaaawwww ... Yeah ... We open up to the funky sound of music for the
soul as we fade into the famous hoes crib ... The Masked Hoooooootel.
With disco lights circling all around we catch a glimpse of the Maniac
of soul ... The Masked Bro with a fro ... The Masked Maniac.

He stands back to camera, with his wild black fro tightly snug ontop
of his flat black mask.  He turns slightly and with one click of the
thumb pauses the sweet sounds of love ... and hits the g-button ... oh
yeaaah the button of soul ... the answer machine voice messages.]

[Female voice ... of course]

"Hey you masked stud you ... It's been 14 hours and I haven't talked
to you.  Please call me back?"

[The Masked love machine turns nodding and gives the camera a big
thumbs up.]

[Another Female voice ...]

"How's the little masked guy doing?  Did you get some more pills --"

[The ladies man quickly hits the skip button then turns back towards
the camera and gives a thumbs down.]

[Finally a male's voice ...  Sort of quiet and hard to hear, but we
can understand it since we are meant to understand it.]

"Masked Bro ... It's your pal, Blue D!  I see you were awarded a title
shot.  I just wanted to call and wish you good luck.  I am going to
try to make it out to Cali ... but you know how it is being a Masked
Bro and all ... Anyway's good luck!"

[Masked Maniac stops his messages and turns towards the camera with
his silk playboy rope ... thankfully closed up this time.  I guess he
got the memo that kids do watch!]

MM: Now you know why the Media calls me ... Masked Hugh!

[...]

MM: Gibson Hayes ... your time at being the top Soul Tiger is up ...
The message is loud and clear.  I have been molded and crafted since a
young age to lead ...  When I was looking for a job fresh out of
wrestling school ... I was given this great honor to wear the mask.

[The fro'd mask man nods.]

MM: And every since that moment ... It was like a Cinderella story!
The slipper fit and my pumpkin of a life turned into a horse drawn
carriage.

[The Masked Man moon walks backwards to his leather couch where he
suavely sits down like he is Hugh Hefner.]

MM: Let me ask you something ... Gibson.

[Maniac extends his arms as he leans back.]

MM: Do you have a song customly made for you by the awesome band ...
Droner?

[Masked Maniac pauses as if he is waiting for a response.]

MM: What's that?  Well I have not just one ... but _TWO_!  Have you
wrestled down in the ASLL in honor of the PVW?   How many Gibson Hayes
t-shirts have sold?

[Masked Maniac nods confidently.]

MM: And my fro-bro ... Let me ask you a question ... How many hoes
does that maskless fro get?

[Masked Maniac makes a zero with his right hand.]

MM: That's right while you may be the PVW World Champion ... It has
become obvious that it's my destiny ... And thanks to my Masked
Brother from another Mother .... Blue Diamond.  I am here with a
chance of a life time ... A shot of a life time ... A chance for
destiny.

[Masked Maniac slowly stands up.]

MM: And on Heatwave I will be unveiling my secret weapon ... The MMK!
What's that you ask?  It's only the most deadly kick in all of
professional wrestling ... A kick only a Masked Bro ...

[Masked Maniac holds up one finger.]

MM: _WITH_ a fro can master.  You see Gibson Hayes attempted to learn
it many years ago.  And I have to give him some credit.  He has
knocked a few UNMASKED bros out with it.  The only problem is ...
Gibson Hayes is just a bro with a fro.

[Did you get all that?]

MM: That's right ... Come Heatwave I will arrive to Oakland.  With my
secret weapon ready to complete destiny.   Ready to spin in the air
with soul ... As this foot!

[Masked Maniac points to his right boot.]

MM: Knocks Gibson Hayes out.  And I will then become the second bro
with a fro ... but the FIRST Masked Bro with a fro to become the first
... ever ... PVW World Heavyweight Champion.

Because, you gotta be slick to hit that kick ...

You gotta have soul to get on a roll ...

and the hoes ... love a Masked Bro ... especially with a fro!

[And with that ... thankfully we fade.]

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

[Scene; interior view, a neglected nursery.  Initially the screen is
filled with nothing more than a framed portrait of a young couple
holding a toddler boy.  The woman, a slight and raven-haired girl with
pale skin and Latin features holds the child in a seated position,
facing the camera.  Towering over her, the dark-haired man cradles
them both, and his ice-blue eyes are perhaps the only thing remaining
to mark him as a 20-something-old William Craven.]

WC: "Years pass as clouds riding a nor'easter in from the Atlantic
while seconds tick by with plodding slowness; a type of torture.
Wanderlust grips me and I find these walls a prison more fast than the
concrete walls that surrounded me in the brig following my assault on
a superior officer."

[Pan over to show Craven himself, seated on the floor, reading from a
weathered composition book.  His green-tattooed face is streaked from
eye to chin and he looks haggard in a pair of ragged army camo slacks
and a white A-shirt.  Behind Bill is a mass of clutter and old
furniture.  It appears that the wider scene is, in fact, an attic.]

WC: "Clearly Lydia senses my ennui.  For some months she celebrated my
return from Kuwait and, though the benefits she enjoyed were no longer
evident, she nevertheless enjoys my presence.  Though the large
apartment she and our little boy shared in Battlecreek has been taken
away, my mother and Frank have welcomed us into their home, forming a
new kind of family unit that supplants the Nuclear.  Such joyous
redemption from my shame as an American patriot cast out of the only
fraternity in which I truly felt at home ... why do I feel the need to
fly free?"

[Turning pages in an exploratory fashion, Bill looks to camera several
times, grimacing and shaking his head.  Finding his place, he blinks
several times before speaking again.]

WC: "The deed is done.  I already regret it.  I fear that Lydia will
never take me back.  Already the door to my childhood home is closed
to me even as my wife and son reside within.  My mother will not speak
to me.  I'm sleeping on Brody's couch.   Between classes, he
entertains the notion of taking time off from law school to accompany
me; to see Asia.  Americans of my size are said to be in high demand
in the deathmatch circuit.  I don't speak the language but Brody
studied Mandarin extensively while attaining his Bachelors Degree
which may be enough.  All the profits from my fights will be sent back
to Detroit to care for little Billy ... so why can't I shake the
thought that I am, truly, the worst of men?

[More flipping as Bill finds his place.  While most men have at least
mixed feelings when reminiscing, Bill seems to know nothing but pain.]

WC: "Our flight from Bangkok was dicey.  The man with the broken neck
had a lot of friends and, unfortunately, most of them were armed.  He
was such a powerful specimen, and skilled, that I, for the first time
since arriving on the continent, felt a grain of fear.  One lucky kick
to the base of the skull and he fell, quite conscious but unable to
move and hardly able to breathe.  Tackling the odds-taker I ran off
with my winnings and made for a junk bound for Cambodia.  With luck
we'll find a flight to China or, preferably 'though unlikely, an
airport large enough to send Brody and I to the 'States with minimal
layover.

Ironically this, the first to fit the name, was intended to be my last
deathmatch in any event.  A courier reached us in our squalid room
bearing a letter from Lydia and ... a document requesting signature.
She's filing for divorce..."

[Pausing, Craven's grizzled face goes cold.  Gripping his face, he
strokes downward, dragging his wrinkles and scars into an
unconvincingly smooth plane of green before retaking a two-handed grip
on what is, apparently, his journal.]

WC: "Love of my life, a gentle soul who saw some good in a bullying
jock who walked into college on an athletic scholarship; she now she
seeks her freedom.  I must stop this.  My tour in the middle east, cut
short as it was, lasted almost two years.  My tour of Asia lasted a
few days shy of a year.  Why is this different?  She must understand
that what I did I did for her and our son.  Her tersely phrased letter
made clear that she sees my flight from the 'States as the selfish
move of an unstable man.  There must be something I can do to change
her mind.  Otherwise, truly, the darkest days are yet to come..."

[Finally, Craven closes his journal.  Glowering at the camera it's
clear that this foray into the past has bothered him dearly.]

WC: Reflecting on my own life I see the dimmest parallels between
myself and my quarry.  Hindsight shows me that I, indeed, did not
deserve the love of the lovely Lydia Gomez.  Robert Cole, if it were
not already evident, does not deserve the warrior queen he has somehow
tricked into marrying him.  Robert ... if you were the "Monster Under
the Bed" it was only because Yllana refused to let you under the
covers.  Robert, I do not know by what sorcery you hold that Goddess
of war in your sway but I assure you that she will eventually break
free.

Her fury is hot as the sun, her beauty as bright and, Robert ... she
hits harder than you do.

[Hey, Bill just smiled for the first time this segment.  It's unseemly
and shark-like.]

WC: It is as if Paris parlayed his possession of the Golden Apple into
a wedding day with the fair Goddess of Heroes, Athena, and, on
receiving the apple she, inexplicably, remained.  The veil will be
lifted one way or another, Robert, and Yllana's involvement is the
first step.  After all ... if you had this situation so well in hand
then why did she have to get involved?

[Sneer.]

WC: It gets worse, Robert...

[Fade...]

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

(SCENE: PVW Backdrop ... nothing special about it.  However, the two
men standing infront of the back drop is another story.  The angry,
menacing, and intimidating painted up Wolf and Doom.)

Wolf: Well ... It's about that time isn't it Doom!

(Wolf slaps Doom hard across the back giving a loud - TWAAAAP sound.)

Wolf: It appears things are starting to get a little knee deep around
here.  So we knew that there were going to be some sort of Carnival
games when Masked Maniac and his band of freaks came dancing out to
clown tunes ...  The only problem is we didn't know that no-good
coward Devin would be one of them.

(Wolf and Doom both glare into the camera.)

Wolf: Devin ...  I guess Doom and I must have gotten your attention.
What was it the paint?  Was it the loud sounds of every tag team we
have faced hitting the mat face first?  Was it the acceptance that the
Berserkers are the gateway of the PVW tag team division?

(Wolf snarls into the camera.)

Wolf: Whatever it was you just wrote a check you can't cash.  Now, I
know you have been having a hissy fit with your twin sister ... but
why in the world you thought tossing out a mask and parading down to
get mixed up in Zerk-business is besides me.

(Doom cuts in.)

Doom: For weeks we have been calling out the Rage brothers ... Instead
we have attracted a Houlihan sister.  Unlike my partner over there ...
I don't care why you did it ... Just the point that you did it.

(A smile forms across Doom's face.)

Doom: I have been waiting ... I have been pleading ... For someone to
grow a pair and come down to the ring and stand toe-to-toe with us.
Now, I would have never guessed it would of been barbie over there ...
But hey we already dropped one worthless  on her skull.  What's
the harm in doing it again?

Wolf: Forgive my partner ... Sometimes he doesn't dress up what he
says sometimes.

Doom: There is no disguise here.  Devin, you will always know exactly
what I think about you.  And you proved to be nothing but a worthless
little punk.  You want to face a man?  You want to make a statement?
Then step inside that ring and look me in the eyes.  And give me a
chance to answer as a man ... otherwise you aren't nothing but a
coward.

(Venom coming from Doom's mouth.)

Wolf: This week my partner and I aren't scheduled with a match.  No
... but we will be in the arena.  You see we are headed to Oak-Town
and we are going to be hunting for a Renegade.  Devin, if you have any
balls left in that dress of yours ... You will come out from the back
and you will answer for the crimes you made.  You see Doom and I ...
We don't hold trial.

(Wolf now grins.)

Wolf: No ... We are the judge ... jury ... and executioner.  And
Devin, you are _GUILTY_!

(Both men's smile fade and they snarl into the camera.)

Wolf: Next week ... It's not BOOM time ...

Doom: It's find that son of a  and send his ass to HADES time!

(Fade to black.)

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

[The scene fades in on a dimly lit locker room.  The florescent
lightbulbs flicker overhead, the slight buzzing noise the emit echoing
eerily through the room.  The camera moves from left to right rolling
smoothly until it gets to the sixth row of lockers, where it finds The
Spectre sitting on the bench, his pale eyes shining out from under his
dark dreadlocks.  The powerfully-built goth leans forward, his elbows
resting on his knees as steam drifts slowly from his skin and his
breath mists with each exhalation.]

"For those wondering, we remain unamused...and unsated."

[The madman slowly blinks, taking a deep, shuddering breath, then
exhaling once again.]

"We did precisely what we said we would in our last match...and there
is more to come.  It seems that our appearance...our actions in the
ring and our words have been insufficient to drive home the point that
we are not to be trifled with...

It seems that we have been unclear in this fact.

That it has somehow escaped from the attention of certain individuals.

Insanity is no excuse...delusion is no excuse.

We have left a trail of bodies in our wake as we've moved through PVW.
 No one can claim to have stood in within the ring with us and have
come out unscathed.

Friend Cole's experience with us was so severe it changed the course
of his life for the next two years...even now he struggles with the
darkness that was revealed inside of him.

Still not enough?

Does our idiosyncratic speech amuse you?  Make it appear as if we are
less threatening?

The last event, we left people lying in their own blood.

Next time, will will do the same.

PVW as a whole has been warned: You will all bleed.

You will all suffer until we take what we desire...leaving you all to
fear the dark."

[fade]

****************************************
****************************************
Senor Cloak Dos & Jacob Rose
****************************************
****************************************

[Scene opens to a black screen with some white text that reads..]

"Backstage at the last Heatwave"

[The black gives way to the hallways backstage at the Selland Arena in
Fresno, California. We hear a pair of footsteps coming around a corner
and voices.]

"Please leave me alone, Senor Rose."

[Rounding the corner is a sweaty small Mexican man wearing black
tights with cherry colored boots and wrist tape and a black luchadore
mask with cherry colored eye visors that prevent us from seeing his
eyes and a cherry colored "SCII" on the forehead. The man is also
carrying the PVW Television championship and everyone at home knows
right away it is Senor Cloak Dos.]

SCD: I-I'm busy.

[Following the luchadore is the tall figure of Jacob Rose.  While
well-dressed as always, the Londoner looks near desperate with his
hands outstretched in a pleading manner.]

JR:  Mister Cloak Dos--

[Cloak keeps on walking while nervously looking for some way to escape
the well dressed man attempting to speak to him.]

SCD: I have to ah.. Find my things and get going. Please excuse me,
Senor Rose.

JR: --please, just a moment of your time!

[The luchadore looks around almost frantically. Surely there has to be
a way out of this situation somehow!]

JR:  About Tradition...about what happened to your mask--

[His head slumps over, he can't get out of this conversation. Dos
sighs then turns around to face Rose.]

SCD: Senor Rose.. I have not accused anyone specifically of stealing
that mask or of causing distraction to set up the theft of the mask.

[Rose flinches at that.]

JR:  I swear, I had nothing to do with it!  I don't--

SCD: (interrupting Rose) I only hope that whomever has the mask..
WHOMEVER.. That they return it so the Phoenix Children's Hospital can
have it for their memorial display. However that message gets to
whomever has the mask I just hope it gets to them.

[Jacob slowly nods at that.  He swallows.]

JR:  [after a couple of seconds]  Mister Black has never been a
gracious loser.  Or a gracious winner for that matter.  I thought --
if he _was_ responsible for the theft -- I thought he would have shown
up during your match with Mister Bisignano tonight.  Try to ransom
your mask for a rematch.  Isn't that how it usually goes?  [A small,
yet sad and bewildered laugh escapes Jacob.]  Even though, I'm sure he
already would have been entitled to a Television title rematch through
proper channels.  I wanted to see it for myself.  But Mister Black
didn't appear...

[He shakes his head, looking lost.]

JR:  I have _no_ idea what is going on, Mister Cloak Dos.  I wish I
did, but there it is.  I hope to God your prayers are answered and you
get your mask back for the hospital.  [He turns away and starts
walking.]  And I'm sorry for troubling you further...

[The luchadore sighs again, then nods his head and gives a small
wave.]

SCD: Gracias, Senor Rose. Adios.

[Dos watches Rose walk out of sight then he shakes his head and walks
offscreen. The corridor is clear now of both men, but after a few
silent moments a shadow of an eavesdropper to their conversation falls
at the corner of the intersection.  Almost casually, the owner of that
shadow turns the corner to reveal himself -- "Bad Wolf" Christopher
Black.

Almost on instinct, the cameraman takes an immediate, jolted step back
as if the lanky Englishman might go after him.  With blue eyes cold
and bright, the Bad Wolf just slowly smiles, exposing the barest trace
of teeth.  Then, as casually as he appeared, Black turns around and
walks back from whatever hidden den he came from.

And the only sound heard is the low, pitiless chuckle of the Bad
Wolf.]

****************************************
****************************************
The Mercenary
****************************************
****************************************

(Scene opens. The Mercenary is sitting at a card table, rifling a deck
of cards.)

Merc: So, I see I'm going to be involved in yet another match with
Epstein and Manson. What's it going to be this time boys? Whist?
Pinochle? Four handed bridge? Eh, who am I kidding... I know neither
of you is capable of playing anything more complicated than 'Go Fish'.
Even then, I don't think you two jokers could ever figure out how to
win at that children's game.

And yeah, I know Tom Landis is also involved in the match as well, so
I might as well include him in the card analogy too. So, let's call
him the trey. But isn't a deuce lower in value than a trey, you might
ask? In most games, yes that would be true. But sometimes it's deuces
wild, making them matter once in awhile. But this is not one of those
times. Landis, as far as I'm concerned, you're just in the match as
fodder to fill out the hand. But ultimately, you'll just be thrown
into the discard pile and forgotten about.

Epstein... Manson... you want to play games? Fine we'll play games.
But you're both going to learn just who the games master is.

(Merc tosses the cards into the air, and we fade to snow)

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

[The camera pans to a dark alley in the dead of the night.The moon
hovers over the horizon with stars sparkling in the sky.  The pathway
has traces of puddles from rain taht came down earlier in Oakland
California.  In the center stands Larry Gionet with his black hair,
sporting a black leather jacket. With the whether getting slightly
cooler he is wearing blue jeans and white Nike sneakers.  He looks
into the camera with an intense look in his blue piercing eyes.]

Larry Gionet:  So here we are in Oakland California. Where the Black
Hole resides of the Raider nation.  Where men like Jack Tatum "The
Assasin". Ted Hendricks "The Mad Stork" Otis Sistrunk are heralded as
heroes and idols by their followers who lust for blood who wait for
the snaps of bones cracking.  None of these men will hold a candle to
the pain and torment I unleash on Caleb Foley on Heatwave.  So to all
you fans who get off on violence like heroine addicts get off by the
needle, this sure as hell isn't out of the generosity of my own heart.
This is simply an action that must be done.  For years I had to hear
fans and the office sing the prasies of the PVW golden boy Caleb
Foley.  When I was dropping people on their necks. snatching victory
after victory title after title I didn't hear no stinking angels
trumpeting from heaven for my success?!

[Larry Gionet looks up to the heavens with disgust.  With disdain in
his demeanor he lifts up his nostroils before spitting violently into
teh puddles  creating a ripple effect in the small waterway.  He puts
his right hand across his black hair straightening it out oh so
slightly.  His hands begin to shake as his anger and frustration start
to get the best of the PVW Warrior.  He cups his left hand over his
right to stop the shaking.]

Larry Gionet:  THIS is why he must be stopped once and for all. I will
be damned if after he is gone the people are still talking about him
like he is God's gift to Phoenix Valley Wrestling.  To all his
supporters, don't expect this heartfelt farewell for their hero.  If I
have anything to say about it, he will leave the ring in a pool of his
own blood unable to even stand on his own power.  I want his vision to
fade and all the oxygen suck right out of his body.  Where you can be
carried out by paramedics as you can sink further and further into
your own black hole.  And once you get sucked in you can never come
out. Consumed by regrets, buried with secrets and knowing once and for
all that you never could compare to Larry Gionet.

[For the first time all evening, Larry Gionet begins to smile.  A
sadistic snarl to be more precise.  He looks to the full moon and
closes his eyes as if waiting for something.  Waiting for a
transformation to take place.  As if waiting to unleash the beast that
has been inside of him and is screaming to come out.  As if planning
to finally take out everything that has gone wrong in his PVW career
and take it out on Caleb Foley once and for all.].

Larry Gionet:  Committed to excellence a slogan these people live and
die by.  I am committed to making no action unwated, no stone unturned
in that squarted circle Foley.  Whther you ultimately end up with a
concusion like George tskinsgon gave to Lynn Swann or end up with a
broke jaw like Ike Lessitar giving to Joe Namath I am committed to
giving you the worst ass kicking you have ever received in your
career.  If that isn't committed to excellence I don't know what is.
When you lay trapped in your hospital room hooked up to a respirator
maybe you will see that bright light at the end of hte tunnel. Maybe
you will see your father on the other side and will have to admit that
you were a failure.  That you couldn't live up to his expectations of
being a wrestler, of being a man.  Then I wll rise up from the shadows
and into the beaming light of glory and you will be nothing but a
footnote in the anals of history. in the end darkness falls on us all.

[Larry Gionet laughs to himself as he strokes his black chin gotee. He
looks up as the stars shine brightly along the night sky.  He drops
down into a small puddle destroying its base as it splinters off into
smaller puddles.  He walks down teh alley with his hands in his jacket
pockets.  As he walks further and further from the camera's vision we
see the full moon in clear view as we fade to black.]

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

[Fade in:

The scene fades in on Shadoe Rage, standing before a backdrop with the
Prophets of Rage insignia, a purple silhouette of the brothers with
Pizzazz standing between them, an arm on each of their shoulders.
Shadoe looks a little tired. His kohl-lined eyes are drawn tight. The
brilliant hazel eyes look a little dull.  He wears a plain white
sleeveless T-shirt.  His mane of dreadlocks are tied back into a
pineapple fall at the top of his head.  He looks off camera for a
moment before he turns back to the camera.  He raises his hand and
opens his mouth, drawing a deep breath to speak.]

SR: ....

[He falters, not saying a word as Derek Rage blocks out the camera.
He clamps his hand over his older brother's mouth.  The look in his
eye forces Shadoe to cede the mark and give the camera entirely to the
7'2, 325 lbs Rage.

Derek turns to the camera.  Instead of the customary suit he too is
wearing a sleeveless T-shirt in powder blue.  Oil soaks through the
fabric as it coats his muscular body.  He runs a hand through short,
unbrushed hair.  A hemlock mix of emotions flows over his face.]

DR: The wrestling world has the nerve to talk about how nobody's heard
from the Prophets of Rage since Tradition VI.  You know what I have to
say to you?  Go to Hell!

[The short sharp violence of his voice is shocking.]

DR: I care about a lot more things than the PVW right now.  I care
about a lot more things than the Prophets of Rage and tag-team
wrestling.  HEAT, Berserkers, Rock and Roll whoever, Max, Sal,
Weinrib, Mubarak, you can all go to Hell as far as I'm concerned
because I'm done with the lot of you.

[What the hell is going on?  The normally cool, calm Rage brother has
snapped.]

DR: I've been up and down these roads for so long I lost the fire to
compete.  See, that losing streak we went through when my brother was
pulling his hair out?  That's because I didn't care.  I didn't care
about matches or titles or winning.  I was just collecting a cheque.

[Derek snorts derisively.]

DR: Why?  Because this place bored me.  The tag-teams are all the
same, useless comedy act after useless comedy act.  No difference
between Max and Sal, HEAT or Weinrib and Mubarak.  And the promoters
wanted us to be the gateway team.  The team that never got a shot at
the title, but the only professional team that could put these idiots
through their paces, make 'em look good, whatever.  And I played the
company man.  It didn't matter to me.  The dudes in the back could say
what they wanted.  They could think they were the best in the world,
the coolest.  They could crumble under their own self importance.  It
didn't make a difference to me.  Until this promotion decided to
disrespect Pizzazz.

[Derek is frothing at the mouth.  His chest heaves.]

DR: HEAT, Berserkers, whoever couldn't beat us fair so you attack
Pizzazz?  You stab me in the heart for all that I've given the PVW.

Well  all y'all.  you.  you.   you.

[He jabs his finger at the camera, making it jump.]

DR: Now you done made me mad.  The most beautiful woman in the world
and you try to ruin her?

[Pizzazz comes out to the camera.  Her face is hidden behind a face
mask.  The mask is made of gold.  Beneath it is plaster and straps to
hold it in place.  She touches her face gingerly as Derek folds her
into his arms.]

DR: YOU DID THIS PVW!  All to get over your next comedy act?  This is
how you repay my service?  This is how you reward the job I did here?

Well, not no more.  PVW you're just not worth it.

[Fade out]

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

[The scene opens up inside of the modest apartment of Chris Hartt. He
sits on a couch, dressed in a simple jeans and t-shirt. His forehead
is covered with a heavy bandage. In his hands is the hastily cobbled
metal crown that Nevermind placed on his head. As he turns it in his
hands, the worn, dented and dirty metal clunks together in spots.]

Hartt: Once again, Nevermind, you completely miss the point. You trot
your filthy ass out to the ring with rented females who probably
regretted taking the bag of returnable bottles you offered them for
their time, and you show off your back-alley art project, calling me
the new King of Nothing because you say I don't stand for anything.
You couldn't be more wrong.

It's because of what I stand for that I wanted to get you into a ring
and face me properly. You refused.  You jump me from behind and still
avoid facing me in an honest fashion. You shrug your shoulders and
smirk, letting colonies of lice and filth fall off your beard just so
you can show everyone that you don't give a crap about anything.  Easy
to have nothing to answer for when you deny you ever did anything.
You claim that I threw away everything I was simply because you
interfered in my matches.

Wrong again.

I may have lost sight in my own values, but all I wanted was the
chance to face you down one on one., but you won't meet me where you
can't manipulate things for your own advantage. You're all about
protecting yourself because then everyone would know the truth. If you
walked out there and stood before me, ready to take me on in a match,
but then the horrible truth comes out.  You can't match up to me. You
can't handle what I can bring to a fight, so you duck, bob and weave
out of the way. You refuse to admit I'm better than you and if you
never face me, that'll never be proven. But the truth still exists and
until you step up and try to prove me wrong, that is what will be, now
and forever.

I said I wanted to fight you. I said I wanted to hurt you. I was
willing to go to any length to get at you because you are a coward and
a backstabber. You'll never come at me straight ahead because there's
too much chance you'll get caught and beaten down so hard you'll never
get up again.

But, I will be ready for you at Heatwave. I'll be there and I'm going
to get an answer from you. I want a match against you. You're going to
face me, one on one and we will take each other to the end of our
limits. Of course, yours will only last two and a half minutes, so
those girls said, but we'll still make it memorable.

Try and swerve me. Try and avoid me. I know you will, but the night
will not end until you do face me. You can have your jankety Tinker
Toy crown back. I'm sure you're missing it greatly. I bear the scars
from it to remind me that it was there.  The seven staples in my
forehead continue to tell me the story of what happened. It almost
seems generous, you, the man with nothing and a strong pretense that
he's happy over it, giving me a token of gratitude. If I didn't want
to drown you in disinfectant and shave you bald, I'd almost be
grateful.

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

[Cut to Gibson Hayes' estate.  More specifically the part of it made
available to one Frank Knight, Uncle Frank, as Hayes' and Johnstone's
less than perfectly stable thug.  Todd Johnstone enters the room
dressed as horribly as ever and actually breathes a sigh of relief as
he finds Frank here, watching some kind of program on the TV.]

TJ:  Frank!  There you are!  Good to see you've settled in and gotten
comfortable.  No more running off to your Chicago apartment between
shows now, right?

[Frank just nods absentmindedly, not taking his eyes off whatever is
on the TV.]

TJ:  Good!  Good!  Listen, Frank...

FK: Uncle Frank.

[The interruption puts Todd off a bit, and for a moment he looks kinda
annoyed, but he recovers quickly enough.]

TJ: Uncle Frank, of course.    Listen, Uncle Frank, you have a big
match coming up on Shockwave. An important match, not only for you
personally and your career here in the PVW, but important for HOPE!
Frank, you have a Television title match against that little jumping
bean, Senor Cloak Dos.

[Another barely interested nod from Knight.]

TJ:  Listen to me, Frank...  Uncle Frank.  This is important!  I WANT
that title in the hands of HOPE!  Having every one of you hold a title
sends the right message to the chumps out there!  So it is of
paramount importance that you...

[And Uncle Frank actually waves Todd off as if telling him to be
quiet. Meanwhile his eyes never leave the TV which we still can't see
the screen of.]

TJ:  Hey!  Are you listening to me?  You need to be listening to what
I'm telling you, Uncle Frank.

]No reaction.]

TJ:  Okay, enough is enough!  What the hell is so important you're
ignoring me?

[Still not taking his eyes off the screen Knight actually responds
this time.]

FK:  Uncle Frank is looking for Gabriel Whitecross.  He could strike
at A Bright Future and A Better Tomorrow at any time.

TJ:  You're looking for Whitecross.  In the TV?

[Johnstone walks around the TV, the camera following him, and we can
finally see what's on the screen.  It's basically what amounts to a
screensaver with lots of fish swimming back and forth.]

TJ:  This...  Needs some explanation.

[And the grin is suddenly back on Uncle Frank's face.]

FK:  Uncle Frank is looking for Gabriel.  Gabriel is British.  Britain
is an island.  Islands are surrounded by water.  Fish live in water.
Ergo the fish might know what Gabriel is planning and where he is, and
since fish aren't very smart, sooner or later they're gonna slip up
and reveal what they know.

TJ:  Right...  No.  No, no, no.  Focus, Frank!  FOCUS!

[And Todd actually turns off the TV!  Frank blinks.  He stares at the
black screen.  Then stares at the remote in Todd's hand.  And then he
stands up, facing Johnstone and suddenly the word "looming" seems very
appropriate as a description of what he's doing as he looks down at
the smaller man. Johnstone, however, seems to have been ready for
this.]

TJ:  Whitecross is not what's important to a bright future right now.
The TV title is!

[Knight was actually starting to growl, but just like that he's all
smiles and curious interest again.]

FK:  More important than Gabriel?

TJ:  Think about it!  TV was invented by America!  And now the TV
title is held by a foreigner!  A Mexican!  That's a bigger threat to a
bright future and a better tomorrow than an Englishman.  So what I
want from you, Uncle Frank, is to take that title and show that there
is HOPE for it yet!  This is important, Frank.  You have to actually
win the title, okay?  This isn't about hurting Cloak.  This isn't
about destroying him.  This isn't about enjoying yourself.  It's about
taking the title and bringing it where it belongs.  Can you do that
for me, Uncle Frank?  Can you do that for Gibson Hayes?  Can you do
that for a bright future and a better tomorrow?

[And that was exactly the right button to push, because Frank suddenly
looks downright determined!]

FK:  Uncle Frank can.  Uncle Frank can and Uncle Frank will!  Uncle
Frank will bring home the shiny TV belt.  Besides, Uncle Frank likes
Mr. Dos.  Mr. Dos seems like a nifty person, just like Uncle Frank.
Uncle Frank is going to have lots and lots of fun with Mr. Dos.  And
then all of Uncle Frank's wonderful colleagues will be eager to play
with Uncle Frank so they can see the shiny title as well.  That would
be lots and lots of fun too.

[He pauses, grabs the remote and turns the TV on again.  Back to the
fishy screensaver.]

TJ:  Wait!  What?  Why are you turning that crap back on?

[The look Knight shoots Johnstone at that question speaks volumes as
to how obvious Frank thinks his reason is for wanting to watch a bunch
of fish on a TV screen .]

FK:  Because Uncle Frank wants to find out what happens next, of
course.  It was just getting exciting.

[And we fade out.]

****************************************
****************************************
Daniels, AsH, & Cole
****************************************
****************************************

[He lifts his arm with a wince, the doctor helping him with a gingerly
touch of the tricep. He furrows his brows and slowly lowers the arm
before feeling around the rotator cuff and stepping back to make a
note in the chart. Cole watches him in silence before turning his
attention toward the door. He furrows his brows and shakes his head as
he turns to regard the doctor.]

RC: I get the picture. you might want to get out of here. Things are
bound to get weird.

D"YH"D:  GREETINGS AND SALUTATIONS!

[Bursting through the door is Danny "YOUR HERO" Daniels, wearing his
yellow t-shirt, wraparopund sunglasses, wrestling tights, and a top
hat.  He grins widely as he walks over and puts a "VOTE FOR DANIELS"
ribbon on the chest of the doctor, then sits down right next to Rob
Cole.]

D"YH"D:  My name is Danny Daniels.  I'm "YOUR HERO"- and your next PVW
President!  I've stopped by here to make sure that my health care plan
is working as intended.  [Danny looks directly into the camera]  Bob
here is suffering from the wrath of crossing William Craven, a known
associate of the god-tyrant Johnny Detson himself.  Together, we're
working with sOoT to take on Craven, Detson, and some Ghost-Fellow.

[Turning back to Cole, grinning widely]

D"YH"D:  How are you doing, Bobby?

[Cole continues to sit, pulling on his teeshirt with a wince as he's
forced to move the arm. He doesn't really react to much that's being
said around him before he suddenly turns to face Danny Daniels. He
angles his head a little bit, furrowing his brows in confusion.]

RC: Did you say. you were my hero?

D"YH"D:  Indeed I did!

AsH: Some hero. Where was your health care plan when I was busy seeing
cartoon characters and having conversations with ethereal fourth
dimensional versions of myself?

[The camera pans over and shows AsH standing in the doorway, his
ever-present smirk plastered on his face and hair gelled this way and
that. In a red "iCON" t-shirt and black pants, AsH looks ready to go]

AsH: Come now, children. Shouldn't we be busy bonding or building a
sense of mutual trust... or swapping blood and stories? Even bloody
stories?

RC: Look. the three of you barge in here when I'm seeing the staff
doctor, you start rambling, and going on and on.

[Three?]

RC: Wait a minute.

[Cole suddenly moves, as though slamming some. one . against the wall!
He lifts. ???  His eyes blazing with fury, he shakes his head.]

RC: You're not Jack Griffin!!! I know Jack, and you're not Jack!!!
Sinister scar along the left side of an almost identical set of
features. but you have a goatee! You're a damn dirty imposter. that
damn evil identical cousin to Jack Griffin, the "Evil" Jake Griffin!
Didn't the both of you notice that he was an imposter?!?!?!!!

Me and Jake here. we go back! We go WAY back, don't we Jake? Back when
we were rookies in Japan. back before Detroit, before Retro, before
all the drama. Back before you grew your damn goatee. We were buddies.
training together, running circles around the track, and we vowed to
see the world. You told me all about your cousin and now here you are,
trying to take his place!

[Cole drops . whatever. with a look of sneering disgust. He turns to
face AsH. ]

AsH: Relax there, Concussion-pants. I've had a few shots to the 'ole
dome myself, had a few hallucinations, too. Lord knows those are fun.
But you gotta remember this, Cole-train: don't attack the other old
guy in the room.

[AsH motions to Daniels, who seems to be looking past Cole at the
wall]

ESPECIALLY when there's a young, fresh, obnoxiously dressed yet oddly
charismatic, while still annoying and smelling vaguely of Axe
Deodorant and desperation... guy.

RC: What?

[AsH points to Daniels outright]

AsH: Him. Attack him, if necessary. I mean, ideally you'll attack no
one but our opponents and possibly that guy who sold me on the idea of
buying shirts a size too small. But if not them, then him. Then the
camera guy. And then him again. And THEN me, if necessary.

[Danny continues to look at the wall.]

D"YH"D: (more muttering to himself)  Huh- he looks taller than I
remember.

[Shaking hismelf out of his reverie, Danny looks at AsH and Cole.]

D"YH"D:  Gentlemen, Gentlemen!  [He points at the wall]  You, too.
[Back to Cole and AsH]  We cannot have this discord!  Don't you
realize that our opponents are counting on us to fight amongst each
other?  We need to work together to overcome our foes- to defeat the
viciousness of Willie Craven... the fear of the Ghost-Spectre... the
cunning of the God-Tyrant Detson.  Only by using the magic of
FRIENDSHIP can we overcome them!

RC: You're going to do the Care Bear Stare, aren't you?

[Danny holds out his arms wide towards AsH and Cole]

D"YH"D:  Group hug?

[Cole stands for a moment. and then opens his arms wide, and wraps
them around Daniels?!?!!  He turns his body slightly and opens one arm
to allow AsH to join in the love. AsH simply stands at arms length,
looking at them oddly]

AsH: Thanks, but I generally reserve my daily limit of male contact to
the matches. I'm right there in the middle of that sweating armpit on
neck huddle, though fellas. In spirit.

RC: Don't worry, Guys! I won't attack either of you. I won't leave you
lying in a puddle of your own blood, your skulls cracked, your flesh
ripped open and precious life fluids leaking to the canvas beneath my
feet! No cutting. or biting. or ANY of that nonsense. You guys can
trust me! NAY!!! You can COUNT on me!!!

AsH: Wow, that is by far the most encouraging thing I've heard all
day. Right after the doctor told me "It probably isn't fatal." Oh, and
the wife saying "Don't worry, it happens to everyone!"

[He turns his head to look at Danny, conspiratorially stage
whispering. ]

RC: He's wearing lifts in his boots! That's why he looks taller. So!
Enough lollygagging around. it's time for us to get ready to face
those three guys, to take a stand! For truth! For Justice! For the
American Way of Life!

AsH: FOR REDBULL!

[AsH raises his arm up to find both Cole and Danny looking at HIM
oddly now.]

AsH: What? Too far?

[Danny raises an eyebrow and unfurls a poster that reads "VOTE FOR
DANIELS"  He holds it in front of the lens, covering up the entire
screen and hiding all of the wrestlers, including himself.  Voices can
be heard just as the camera fades to black.]

D"YH"D:  TOODLES~!

AsH: Is there a third party choice?

RC: Are we supposed to be voting on something?

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

[A very fancy door with a brass name plate on is what we are treated
to but there is barely any time to read the name on the door before it
opens. Quickly making his way through the door is PVW World Champion
Gibson Hayes. Hayes is all suited up and his afro is in full effect...
but he looks angry. An intrepid microphone is thrust into his face.]

Voice of Reporter: Gibson, just why were you meeting with the
championship committee?

[Hayes ignores the question and keeps on walking. The camera and
reporter follow but all we see is a gray suited arm of the reporter.]

VoR: Gibson... Gibson!

[Hayes continues to stomp off but after more pestering, finally turns
around.]

GH: You want to know why I am upset? A little pissant like the Masked
Maniac gets a title shot? Give me a break. Talk about a waste of time.
You can quote me on that and good day!

[Hayes stomps off again and the camera fades out.]

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

[Caleb Foley close up ... stern look sits across the face of the
Irishman as he prepares for his battle with his former best friend,
Larry Gionet.]

CF: The time for talking is over.  For the past three years I have
traveled under the PVW banner.   There has been ups ... and there has
been downs.   In the end I have always held my head up high and stood
for the tradition and honor that PVW has sold to our great fans.

[An unusual calmness in the voice of the Celtic Crippler.]

CF: Larry Gionet ... You and I we have been through a lot together.
We shared a lot of war stories as we shared a car through the highways
of Arizona.  We made a pact that no matter what happened in this
business we would always stay true to ourselves.

[Foley pauses and looks down for a moment then back up at the camera.]

CF: Over the past few months I haven't stayed true to the fans,
myself, or you Larry Gionet.

[Foley shakes his head.]

CF: It's true ... You did stab me in the back and toss our friendship
away.  However, Brian Young tried to teach me a valuable lesson all
those years ago.  In this business in all boils down to one thing.

The story you leave behind.

[The Celtic Crippler takes a deep breathe.]

CF: And over the past few months ... that chapter hasn't been one that
I am proud of.  Larry, the day you stabbed us in the back it killed
something in me.  It put out a fire and every since that day I have
struggled to find it.  The, Fighting Irishman that stood toe to toe
with Chase Williams ... Who battled Dr. X, Johnny Detson, Spectre, and
every other PVW superstar that the powers that be placed beside my
name.

That man has been lost.

[Pause.]

CF: So this Shockwave ... Win or lose ... it will be the last match
_this_ Caleb Foley wrestles.  I vow to not return until that fire
burns again.  My peers, the fans, and the PVW deserve more.

[Camera works it's way back as we see a full shot of the PVW son.]

CF: I have stood for the Phoenix and given everything I have had for
three years.  The past few months I have forgotten what it was ... and
I apologize for that.   Larry, you and I we will finally settle the
score.  And if this is the last match I will ever wrestle ... then it
will go down as the final chapter in a man who has made the Phoenix
his life.

Thank you for an amazing three years.

[Fade.]