[GLCW] Latenight - 5.30.99

[Andy Wilczak]

['Iron' Mike Calhoun paces anxiously on the Latenight set, a Discordiacs
baseball cap perched on his head. He looks at his watch again, puffing his
cheeks out as he exhales. Calhoun is dressed casually, too casual for this
to be a live taping. Clad in a pair of plaid Bermuda shorts, a GLCW golf
shirt and sandals - he looks more like a beach bum than a sports announcer.
Grabbing a can of Brisk off the Latenight desk, he barks to the
stagehands.]

MC: Where the hell is Stewart? The front office said two o'clock and I ...
AYE YI YI.

[The camera swings about, focusing quickly on the blonde bombshell
introduced on last week's edition of Latenight - Theresa Tigarelli. If one
listened closely, one would hear a dozen jaws dropping in one synchronized
motion.

Theresa bounds onto the set in a pair of tight, vinyl tiger striped shorts
and a tiny black tank top, which leave very little to the imagination. On
her feet are a pair of shiny, black Doc Martens. She is sans socks, and the
camera pans down her right leg, where a tattoo rings her ankle. It's
tribal pattern very reminiscent of tiger stripes.

Waving to the stunned and gaping Calhoun, she giggles and makes her way
nimbly over various lengths of cable and equipment to him. He on the other
hand, simply gawks at her - his eyes fixed on, well you know.]

TT: Hi! Sorry I'm late. I was at the 12 Oaks Mall ... ever been there?
I found this little shoe store - they had the sweetest pair of tiger
striped stillettos. Six inch heels. Gawd - I might even wear them tomorrow
.. um, Mr. Calhoun? Hello?

[Her brow furrows as she steps before him, snapping her fingers.]

TT: 'Iron' Mike? Hello? HELLLLL-OOOO?!

[Shaking his head, Calhoun blinks ... staring at her for a moment longer
before speaking.]

MC: I ... um ... I ... yi ...yi

[Giggling, Theresa rolls her eyes and grins.]

TT: It's okay. I'm used to it. Be a waste of fifteen thousand dollars if
nobody looked, ya know? By the way ...I'm Theresa, but most folks call me
Tyger. Sasha said you'd be more than happy to show me the ropes today.
Maybe let me do the Latenight rundown with you as a warm-up for tomorrow.
You don't mind, do you?

MC: Nuh.

TT: Great! So, where do we sit? Behind the desk? Neat. I'll be Jeff for
this afternoon. How's that? You can treat me just like you'd treat him,
and you won't be nervous. Cool beans?

[Calhoun nods, his gaze following her as Tyger sashays behind the desk, and
slides into Stewart's chair.]

TT: I'm waaaaaiting.

[A whimpering moan escapes 'Iron' Mike as he tugs at his collar, then joins
her behind the desk. Swallowing hard, he points to the monitor directly
before them - ]

MC: That's our teleprompter. Just in case we need to um, be reminded of
what to say. Behind us is the bigscreen, where we run the clips. Just do
what I do.

TT: [a puzzled look] You want me to stare at _your_ chest?

[Calhoun blushes a deep shade of crimson as he clips his mic to his shirt,
glancing to see Theresa do the same - the tiny mic perched precariously
over the neckline of her tank top, just above her amazing cleavage.
Shaking out her curls, she licks her lips and wriggles - then looks into
the camera. Calhoun takes a deep breath and begins.]

MC: We've got three 'Four Way Dances' ...

TT: I did a four way dance once, for these IBM executives? Never believe
what they say about computer geeks. Me, Amber, Lace and Angeline made about
a thousand dollars each in tips that night. Do you have any idea how easy
it is to lose a Pentium chip in your cleavage?

MC: Oh God ... [he wipes the back of his hand over his forehead] Let's
hear from the Thunderbirds.

:##:#::::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------
#:::#:::#:::#:# DAZED & CONFUSED -vs- NECROS & HALLOWEEN
#:#:#:::#:::### -vs-
#:#:#:::#:::### PERFECTION -vs- THE THUNDERBIRDS
:##:###::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------

[We open to that of a plain black GLCW banner. Standing in front of the
banner is "Live Wire" Austyn Ayce, one half of the Thunderbirds. His long
blonde hair hangs over his black leather vest. Replete with white tee shirt
underneath, blue jeans, and rattlesnake-skin cowboy boots...

He holds a large poster board. On the poster is a picture of a grey and
white stripped cat. Quite realistic looking. Austyn points at the picture,
in a casual manner.

Now, walking from off-camera is that of Austyn's brother, and the other
half of the T-Birds, "Biggun" AJ Ayce. Clad in a Lynyrd Skynyrd tee shirt,
blue jeans, and black harness boots. He too holds a poster... his consists
of the Rolling Stones emblem. You know - the mouth with the tongue. Yeah,
that's the one. AJ points at the tongue, in an equally casual manner.]

AJ: Still don't get it?...

AA: Joey, wanna help us out?

[Walking from off-camera now is that of the T-Birds manager, "Mr. Big" Joey
McGee. A rather skinny fellow, with a plaid sportscoat, and neon green
pants. Very odd, to say the least. In his hand is that of a black marker.
On Austyn's poster, he writes "CAT". Yeah, that one was obvious... On AJ's,
he writes "Tongue", and draws a little arrow up to the tongue.]

AJ: Perfection, Necros & Halloween, Dazed & Confused... do ya' get it?

AA: ... cat... tongue... get it?

AJ: Tee hee.

[Austyn, AJ, and Joey all walk off-camera. As we slowly fade away, you can
hear Austyn in the back...]

AA: I don't think they got it...

[Fade to black.]

[---]

[Theresa claps her hands gleefully, grinning from ear to ear. Calhoun
forces himself not to look over as she squeals.]

TT: Cat ... got ... your ... tongue! I got it!! [she looks to where he
shakes his head] No? How about ...

[She leans and whispers in his ear, whatever she said causing Calhoun to
turn bright red. He hurriedly points to the teleprompter.]

MC: Yours. Perfection.

TT: [giggles and whispers] Thanks.

[---]

[GLCW Centre -- Ann Arbor, Michigan.

The picture opens up inside the empty GLCW arena, where is just twenty four
hours, GLCW Latenight shall take place. The camera focuses on the ring
where two men are standing, side by side, arms crossed, just looking around
the fabulous arena.

Quickly, the men are identified as Rod Stevens and Rick Marshall, two men
who make up the team of Perfection. Both men continue to look
around the arena as the camera slowly focuses in on the two men, until both
men can just be fitted on the screen.]

RS: "What a compromise. What a transformation."

[Stevens then moves forward and leans over the top rope, staring forth down
the aisleway, whilst Rick Marshall also moves forward and hops
onto the turn-buckle.]

RS: "Two months ago, me and Rick were still back in Denver, Colorado,
living from pay-check to pay-check, nothing to look forward to, and
battling things out in the Denver Wrestling Corporation. Competing
against un-trained 'superstars', being paid minute wages and living
in a state of poverty, we could have expected nothing like this.

As I stand here now, looking around this *fabulous* Great Lakes
Championship Wrestling arena, preparing to compete on the same
night as names such as Dave Diamond, Alex Reaver, Derek Mota
and Luke Steele, it just makes me realize how *lucky* I am to have
it all. To have the change, the cash, the opportunity.

It was always a dream of mine. As a child, wrestling was all that I
would watch. I was always fighting for fun with my friends. I was
captain of the school wrestling team. But I *never*, *never* could
imagine anything like this. The phrase, 'a dream come true' is one
that is over-used in this day and age, but for me, it's reality."

[Stevens runs a hard through his hair, and strokes his chin, as Rick
Marshall now starts to speak:]

RM: "The same can be said for me. It's a dream come true. It's more
than I, than Rod could *ever* have imagined. But now, it's reality,
and it's down to us to make the most of it. Believe me, we won't
be over-awed by it all. It's a lot to take in, but that won't in
any
way work against it. When we step into the GLCW ring, we'll be
giving one hundred percent enthusiasm, effort and ability.

There may be more established stars in the GLCW than us, but
I'm sure that *nobody* wants to suceed more than we do. We've
came along way, we've won the first leg, but should we prove to
be incapable of capitilizing on this marvellous opportunity, then
we have been wasting our time since day one.

But I'm confident that won't be the case. Because if we weren't
up to scratch, if we weren't GLCW standard, then Andj Wilczack
wouldn't have signed us to his federation. The fact is though, he
did, and we've here to prove a point. We've here to show that we
*do* belong amongst the best. Caliban and Brandon currently
hold the GLCW Tag Team Championships, and they remain our
ultimate aim. But ... there's a long way to go before we get to
that level."

[Rick Marshall now hops off the turn-buckle and he starts to pace to the
otherside of the turn-buckle, and he bounces off the ropes, as Rod
Stevens once again speaks:]

RS: "This Monday Night, on GLCW All Stars, we shall make our
debut with the federation. We've been thrown right into the deep
end, with little chance to prepare, into the biggest match of our
careers, against three of the top tag teams here in Great Lakes
Championship Wrestling.

This week, we'll step into the ring against the Thunderbirds,
against Dazed and Confused, against Necros and Halloween.
Right here in this very arena, we'll enter the match with a point
to prove. With the determination to suceed, and confidence to
match it.

The competition will be tough, but not impossible. Thunderbirds,
we've already beaten you over in Maple Leaf Wrestling, and we
are prepared to do it again. We've shocked you once, guys, we
shocked the entire world when we defeated you back then, and
the result gave us great pleasure. The feeling we got when we
scored such a big victory shall spur us on, guys, and we are
looking for a repeat result this Monday night."

[Both men now step between the ring ropes, and they climb down the steps,
one after another. They then step over the guard-rail, and into
the front row.]

RM: "This Monday, the fans will flood into the GLCW Centre. They
will each be out to witness what is bound to be a fabulous night's
action. The fans in these seats will be close to the action, close
enough to smell the blood, to taste the atmosphere, to view the
fear.

Hopefully, they will be here to witness a victory for Perfection,
and it's in our own hands whether or not we can do that. We've
already spoken about the Thunderbirds. As for the other two
teams, we don't know much about you. But homework shall be
done on you both, and you can bet we'll be ready for you.

On Monday Night, it'll be a All-Stars to remember for fans, old
and young alike, all over the world. Hopefully, it'll be the start
of a long and successful era for us, and a victory would be a
great start. We're not arrogant, we recognize the fact that we
are in for a long, tough match. But we'll be ready. And we will
*not* go down without a fight.

Guaranteed."

[Fade]

[---]

MC: Strong words from Perfection. These guys are determined to make a name
for themselves here in the GLCW. What do you think, Tyger?

TT: I'm thinking these guys are fighting Monday night, right? [she grins]
Intensity is a must in this business, but do they have what it takes to
back up such talk? That's the real question.

[Calhoun looks at her, almost as if in shock.]

MC: Um, yeah. Okay - up next, some ramblings from Dazed & Confused.

[---]

[The scene slowly fades in. The screen is consumed by a massive cloud of
smoke. The whirling gray streaks don't last long, however. The view
quickly fades to black. This is once again though, only for a short
moment. Soon, accompanying the black screen is a message written in white
text. It is as follows: "Dazed and Confused: Burnin' the competition."
Slowly, the scene shifts once more. As Busta Rhymes's "Fire It Up" plays
softly in the background, the camera comes across a back alley. Upon
further inspection it can be noted that the location is behind a Rite-Aid
pharmacy. In the back alley are three men. Chad Nowell, and Zigmund
Marley collectively known as Dazed and Confused are as present, as is their
so-called adviser Jimi Kendrix. As is a tradition with the trio, their
hands are blurred due to the
objects they contain. Emanating from the objects are thick clouds of
smoke. The camera begins to zoom toward the upper body of the three men,
and the blurred objects are slowly cut out of the field of view. Chad
Nowell takes one last deep exhale of smoke and then breaks the silence.]

Chad Nowell: "Ahhhh...yeahh....whoa...okay...hey."

Jimi Kendrix: Whoa baby ... on Monday fellas do you realize what we get ta
do?

Zigmund Marley: Whoa ... jah, I dunno ...

Chad Nowell: We get to light one up and wait for another GLCW paycheck
without work! Wee...

Jimi Kendrix: Naw baby, Monday it's a 4-way smokin' good time with
Perfection, The Thunderbirds and Necros & Halloween!

Chad Nowell: Whoa, hahaha...with names like that, you know what this means:
more stoners!

Zigmund Marley: Jah, ya mean we gots ta wrestle, for the first time in
GLCW? Which hemp pants am I gonna wear?

Chad Nowell: Dude, I told you not to wear hemp pants, they get smoked by
our cat or Jimi...or whoever..me..

Jimi Kendrix: Dudes, match, Thunderbirds, Perfection, Halloween, Necros?

Chad Nowell: Dude, we had a hard enough time doing that introduction piece,
how are you going to expect us to talk about these cats?

Zigmund Marley: Jah man, who are they anyway?

Jimi Kendrix: Well, see dat's the thing dude, I dunno. But we'll be ready
to burn 'em on Monday.

Chad Nowell: Hahaha! Good one, Jimi...how many did you smoke to come up
with that one?!

Zigmund Marley: Well actually ...

[Jimi smacks the large Jamaican born grappler.]

Jimi Kendrix: Dude, I don't even remember!

Zigmund Marley: But I do ...

[Jimi once again slaps Marley.]

Jimi Kendrix: Man, the stuff they get in Jamaica, must be REALLY strong.

[By this time, Nowell has nodded off. Jimi nudges him, but Chad responds by
taking down his manager to the sidewalk with an armbar.]

Chad Nowell: I TOLD YOU TO GET OFF ME MAN!!

Jimi Kendrix: See, dudes, now you're ready for the match!

Zigmund Marley: Wait, wha' ya mean dude?

Jimi Kendrix: Zig dude, are you _always_ like this?

Zigmund Marley: Wait, wha' ya mean dude?

Jimi Kendrix: Ya know what dudes, forget it! Let's just go burn another
one and tell some Owen stories.

Zigmund Marley: Who's Owen?

Chad Nowell: Yeah, who's Owen? Is there something you aren't tellin' us
Jimi dude?

[Fade out.]

[---]

[Theresa looks to Calhoun, then into the camera - her angelic face showing
a hint of confusion.]

TT: Was that like, a 'don't do drugs' commercial? I was looking for the
egg part, but maybe I missed it in all that smoke.

MC: Moving right along. Our second Four Way Dance should prove to be a
barn burner. Four men that aren't fooling around, well ... okay, three are
serious. One is well, you'll see. Tyger?

[Squinting at the teleprompter, Theresa reads the name ...]

TT: 'Firestarter' Adrian Trust. Oooh, 'Firestarter' ... cool name.

:##:#::::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------
#:::#:::#:::#:# JOHNATHAN MORDENHEIM -vs- JIN TAO
#:#:#:::#:::### -vs-
#:#:#:::#:::### ADRIAN TRUST -vs- SEAN McKINNON
:##:###::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------

[A large, brick apartment building in downtown Modesto, California. The
camera captures it from a low angle, and slow tightens in on it before
dissolving into the interior of one specific apartment.

The kitchen is in an astonishing state of disarray as the camera pans
around it in a circle. The massive pile of dishes in the sink is
_literally_ four feet high. The plastic countertop has burn marks at
regular intervals across its white surface. The coffee pot is nothing but a
plastic base with jagged glass sticking up off of it. On the obviously
overused gas stove, three deformed metal forks and a twisted spoon are
shoved into one of the four burned and currently melting metallic grills.

Finally, the shot pans around to the metal and plastic kitchen table...
where Adrian Trust sits, fiddling with some hidden object, passing it
between his hands. His short, dark braids bob around his pale face, looking
down toward the instrument. Trust is dressed in a faded black T-shirt as he
begins to speak, his voice very quiet and very calm.]

AT: G... L... C... W...

[Pause, as he nods.]

AT: Adrian Trust. Pleased to meet you.

I'm the new guy here. There's no big name behind this face. Many would even
say there's not very much talent behind these words. I've got no huge
reputation throughout pro wrestling. No glorious history of dozens of
titles. No catchy tag line.

But, I don't need any of those things. I've got something better... some
thing...

[Trust lets that thought trail off, looking down at the as-yet-unseen tool
in his hands.]

AT: This week... GLCW All Stars of Wrestling. A dark match. Well, I don't
care much for the dark... let's see if we can...

[He smiles. The grin looks almost... violent.]

AT: ... light it up a little.

[He twirls the little tool in his left hand, between his fingers, but
doesn't reveal it enough for anyone to really decipher just what it is.]

AT: Yes, I think that'd be a good idea. I'll see what I can do. But that's
for later. That's for Monday. There's more pressing matters to discuss here
and now.

Like my three opponents.

[The object is carried over to his right hand now.]

AT: All of my opponents... all of them, without exception, hide behind
facets and aspects of their personalities. They have shields and protective
barriers to save them from their enemies. And these barriers work... for
the most part... and to a certain extent.

[He begins crawling his fingers up the side of the little piece of what
appears to be metal in his hands.]

AT: Take Johnathon Mordenheim, for example. The dangerous Hungarian.
Former SCRA star, taught by a veritable legend in this sport. Loads of
talent to carry him to greatness.

Yet, he hides behind his homophobia. He hides behind his... phobia. He
hides behind his fears. But that can be a good thing. In many cases, we
fear what we have a right to fear... danger. Fear can be our savior, our
hero, our shelter. Fear can save us. It can be good to hide behind your
fears.

[Switching it back over his his left hand, an intricate little design is
seen on the object for a split second before it disappears behind his
finger again.]

AT: Sean McKinnon. The cocky bad guy. A stereotype. But a popular one. A
good one. He hides behind his arrogance. He throws around his catch phrases
and nicknames like they were free samples of penny candy. But his entire
career, his existance in GLCW, in professional wrestling even, is based
solely on his arrogance.

And arrogance, too, is a shield. It protects us from ourselves. And from
others. It disallows anyone to get a psychological advantage over us. And,
in fact, gives _us_ a distinct psychological advantage over our opponents.

[He pulls what looks to be some sort of hinged cover off of the object and
lets it snap back into place with a small, but audible "click!" before
giving the object back to his right hand.]

AT: Jin Tao. Master of the ancient martial art... Tai Chi. A man of
knowledge and discipline. Much in the same way as the previous cases, he
hides behind a wall. His knowledge. He uses it to win all his wars. Again,
it's not a bad thing. Anyone who has the luxury to use his knowledge as a
defense is a lucky man in my book.

[The object goes tumbling back into his left hand, the previously heard
cover finally seen: a smooth, reflective silver piece.]

AT: But some things... some things your fears cannot shelter you from.
Some things your arrogance cannot shield you from. Some things your
knowledge cannot protect you from.

Some things... like me... like... fire.

[That ominous warning given, he opens his hands, revealing our mystery
object to be a silver Zippo lighter with an intricate design etched into
its sides. In a blur, he flips it upright and into his right hand, lighting
it so that a blue and orange flame grows eagerly out of the top of it.

The camera begins to tighten now... not on the flame, but on Adrian Trust's
eyes. Prominent momentarily are the pale blue irises... but soon, their
flare is overtaken by the deep, dark midnight blackness of the man's
pupils... and the deadly flame that is reflecting in them as if they were
mirrors.

Fade to black.]

[---]

TT: Whoah! This guy is hot!

MC: Just like Jeff ... bad cliches. Trust is mentally disturbed if you
ask me. What do they call those sickos? Oh yeah ... pyromaniacs. Just
what we need.

TT: Mikey, it can never be tooo hot. [she winks at the camera]

MC: Whew! [he reaches for his Brisk and gulps it down] Okay. Another
entrant in this four way is none other than The Dark Noble, Jonathan
Mordenheim.

TT: He used to be in the SCRA, the Canadian fed, right? Real sexy, kinda
mysterious. Oooh ... [she bounces in her seat as she tries to remember
something]

MC: Um, Tyger ...

[Theresa blinks, coming to an abrupt halt.]

TT: Yes Mike?

[Calhoun smiles slyly into the camera ... then winks.]

MC: Nevermind. Here's Mordenheim.

[---]

[The camera opens on a shot of a high back chair sitting in front of a
roaring fireplace. The light coming from the fire is the only
illumination in the room, outlining the chair...and the figure sitting in
said chair, his feet up on a footrest in front of him. His fingers are
steepled in front of him, and the figure looks into the camera intently
with his fog grey eyes

Johnathan Mordenheim sits quietly for a few seconds, before speaking]

JM: This is the welcome I get.

[Mordenheim sighs, brushing some of his stringy black hair back from his
face before continuing to speak]

JM: I come into the GLCW...and right away, what happens? I am
uncermoniously shoved into a matchup...a dark match, none the less. A
match untelevised, done for the sole purpose of calming the live crowd. So
therefore, the Dark Noble, the best technical wrestler this side of Lord
Byron...is in a match with four other carrion feeders, the lowest of the
low on the card.

This...is...unacceptable.

Johnathan Mordenheim did not come to the GLCW to be lumped in with the
curtain jerkers in wrestling's version of bread and circuses to cull the
masses. And I most certainly did not come here to wrestle this pitiful
group of talent called the GLCW roster.

Victor Frost? I whipped Otto Verhoeven like a mongrel, and I hardly think
Frost could provide me much of a challenge.

Eddie Van Gibson? Do not make me laugh.

Wugdullah the Bully? Does the fact this fork waving madman is allowed to
wrestle not speak volumes on this federation?

T.J. Callaghan? A disgraced man looking for one last shot, and one
federation desperate enough to take Irish trash like him in.

Nyx Dunne? A woman wrestling in a man's sport. Need I say more?

I am here in GLCW for one purpose, and for one purpose only. To finish the
crusade I started months ago.

Wilczak...listen to me, and listen carefully. Tim Turner has a date with
the Path of Ash...and you will deliver him to me.

You will.

[Mordenheim lowers his head, as we fade to black]

[---]

TT: Yeesh. He scares me. I've got goosebumps ... look, Mike. [she leans to
him]

MC: [mutters] Thank you, God. [then louder] He's another impressive
newcomer to the GLCW ...

TT: Who is it? [straining to see the name on the teleprompter]

MC: Shhh ... watch.

[---]

[Uninformed. The GLCW 'Late Nite' program begins to fade into the inside of
the Great Lakes Championship Wrestling Centre, in Ann Arbor, Michigan,
where the up & coming "All-stars of Wrestling" will be taking place. Inside
of the arena, nothing is taking place except for the constructing of the
GLCW ring, guard rails, stage designs, etc.

The camera sweeps along the empty seats of the GLCW Centre Arena, as
suddenly, we notice one mysterious individual sitting within the bleacher
confines. We pan sharply towards that direction, as we zoom to get a closer
view of this one individual. Obviously a man, which is noticed by the
traits and features of this person, who's attired in an unusual fashion.

Wearing no upper body clothing or apparel which reveals this man's slightly
chiseled complexion. Only dressed in a pair of off whitish sabu like pants,
which are embroidered with a serpent on the right pant leg, in the colors
purple, green, and gold. The wrists of the man are also wrapped up in the
sharpest of white, tape. His mid-length hair is also dripping with water,
as it hangs past his ear lopes.

All of a sudden, the man turns away his focus from the construction of the
ring, to the camera who is studying him slowly. He grins, as he begins to
speak.]

V/O: It's beautiful isn't it? The construction of the battle grounds, for
my first ever GLCW onslaught. A debut, in other words.

As I sit here thinking of what my future foresees, I see nothing but the
pride & honor of hard earned success. For others, I see greed & fear.

[This man shakes his head in disgust.]

V/O: When will the civilized living, learn that fear leads to hate. Hate
leads resent. And resent leads to death. I myself, am not afraid of success
or anything else of that nature. Something many 'Hot Shots' are afraid of,
but just do not have the compassion to express this.

I am here to show you all what love for the living can do for you. That
hate is strong within us all, but being able to contain it is just that
much stronger. I have now spoken to you all about my beliefs, now let me
speak to you all about what my future holds. For myself, & for the GLCW
'in trust.'

But first, I am must formally introduce myself.

[Quick Pause.]

V/O: I, I am the apprentice of the 'Tai Chi Chuan' revolution. I am the
descendent of all that epitome's the principle of rectitude. I am the
savant of the most beloved 'Spirit Warrior' in all of the Japanese Lands.
I, am the 'Spirit Warrior.' Jin Tao.

"Now it is known, for you must not forget, I am the name of good & must
banish dark & regret. For life is not life without a meaning. Death is not
the meaning of life, this is the reason for my deeming. I am here for these
simple reasons, I shall exile all of this meaningless treason's.. "

Johnathon Mordenheim, "Firestarter" Adrian Trust, "The Master" Sean
McKinnon.. Monday Night starts the dawn of a new indicative.

[Now the identified, 'Spirit Warrior' Jin Tao, still calmly sits in his
seat as he continues to speak.]

JT: You three are my first opponents in the most controversial of
organizations, The GLCW. As that ring is being built, I can just see us
four battling for our beliefs and our morals. For what we believe is right,
and for what we trust in our hearts.

All three of you men, I just previously mentioned, have all rights to
become victor in our matchup. You have all rights to own 'High Claim' of
your choice. The thing is, who wants this more? Who can work hard enough to
pursue their life long goals? Is it me..

Is it Adrian Trust? Is it Jonathon Mordenheim.. Is it Sean McKinnon?

[A look of confident confusion appears on the face of Jin Tao.]

JT: Will there even be a winner? All of this get's you thinking, and
already, I have thought of this all. And already, I can foretell the
future. My predictions though, lie under my hat and under my hat they will
stay.

The night of June 1st, 1999 will remain historical in the heart of myself
and I can only hope, in the hearts of my opponents. I just hope they care
enough about this as myself. That is the only thing that will lead you to
victory. Your heart, your mind & your soul.

The key elements to success..

[Tao takes a quick breathe of air & continues.]

JT: Let it be known.. For I shall be born. Learn to respect. Learn to
forgive. 'Tis' the only way, I was taught to live.

[The camera picks up Tao's final comments as it swings back to get a final
fade shot of the construction of the GLCW ring.]

[Fade out.]

[---]

TT: Jin Tao ... Wow! That was deep.

MC: [rolls his eyes as he looks at Theresa] Yeah, so deep the guy shoulda
worn wading boots. Time for the Master ... hehehehe. Tell the folks who's
next, Tygerrrr.

TT: Another SCRA aluminus - 'The Master' Sean McKinnon.

MC: 'Aluminus' ... I'm impressed. Brains, too. Come to Poppa!

[---]

[The camera opens onto a desolate street, somewhere in American's vast
urban landscape. The sky is a dark, overcast gray color, and the scene is
dominated by a steady fall of thick drops of rain. The heavy, staccato like
rhythm of rainfall fills the otherwise silent void. . As the clip-clop
cadences continues, the camera moves languidly through the rain-swept
streets. Slowly, dark city scene emerges. A skyline, dominated by looming
skyscrapers, almost gothic in their design, dirty streets upon which
debris sails along guided by a chilling wind, almost in mockery of
tumbleweeds in the classic western setting. And from this new frontier
scene, this dark, gritty urban wilderness, a man comes to the screen,
leaning against a moldy brick wall, and resting directly below a sign that
says "Sal's Pawn Shop."

Our first glimpse of the man is his unruly mess of bright red hair. His
hair screams through the camera, like some crimson beacon, making this man
stand out amidst the dirty back drop of the cityscape. His hair is left
loose, to fall in front of his eyes and down his back in a motley tangle.
The man sports a five day old stubble, the same red color of his hair.
Despite the overall dark cast to the scene, this figure's eyes are covered
by a pair of dark sunglasses, obscuring his eyes from direct vision. He
wears a black leather jacket, zippered up in front, and a pair of brown
pants. The collar of his jacket is lifted up, to protect his neck from the
wind and rain. The man's arms are crossed in front of his chest, and there
strange sort of grin plastered across his face, the sort of grin that comes
only from the deliriously happy, or the just plain delirious. Reaching up,
the man pulls his sunglasses down, and the camera zooms in to focus tightly
upon his crystal blue eyes. And it is those eyes, and the garish red hair
that clue viewers in to this man's identity. This grungy, dirty man is
former SCRA, supersta... er... talen... no... that is he was a "wrestler"
none other than, "The Master" Sean McKinnon... who has apparently undergone
very severe changes.]

SM: I'm bbaa-accccckkkk!!!!

Didja miss me? I know you did... after all, I am the carrot topped
crippler... the red headed messiah, the only guy who matters. And oh
yeah... all the women want my phone number. How could you not miss me...
I'm...

[McKinnon pauses at this, and his face loses its grin. His expression is
grim now, and quite demented.]

SM: I'm none of that... And I never was. I'm Sean McKinnon... I used to
be a wrestler, but lately, I've been homeless. I've been wandering around,
trying to do something. Why have I been doing this? Because Alex Grey
never returned my phone calls? What the hell is wrong with you Grey?
[McKinnon is screaming by now] WHY HAVEN'T YOU CONTACTED ME?

Not that it matters now... I've found you. Oh sure, you changed your last
name to something completely unpronouncable, and changed the name of your
organization. But I found you dammit! And I am back, and this time, I
ain't leaving until you tell me why you just threw me out on the street!!
Maybe I wasn't that great, but you could have at least told me I was
fired!!!!

[McKinnon sits down now, and lowers his head, taking a very deep breath.
When his head is lifted again, he is smiling, and his dementia seems to
have been forgotten. In fact, now the red headed vagrant seems almost
placid.]

SM: Here I am in GLCW. Let me just say how happy I am to be wrestling for
this fine organization. I can already tell that my stay will be
fruitful. I mean, the front office is all great, the wrestlers are all
great, and best of all, I can finally afford to pay my rent. And what a
leader we have! I may not be able to say his last name yet, but at least
Mr. W returns my phone calls... unlike other people who will remain
nameless...

[McKinnon starts to get worked up at that, but calms himself quickly.]

SM: And it looks like I am being thrown right into the thick of things.
Already, on my debut, I get a four way dance. I get to fight Jonathan
Mordenheim, "Spirit Warrior" Jin Tao, and "Firestarter" Adrian Trust.
Pretty big match...

[Time for another quicksilver personality change, as McKinnon's face grows
cold. His pale blue eyes seem to turn to ice crystals, as he speaks in a
low voice.]

SM: Each of you will fall. None of you will survive the four way match.
Now is my time for redemption, and you three fools will not be able to stop
me. There is nothing you can do, because there is nothing I will allow
you to do. You do not understand who, or what you face in Sean McKinnon.
Sometimes, even I do not understand myself.

I feel sorry for all of you. All three of you are being thrown to the
lions this time. All three of you are going to become sacrificial lambs. I
am not the biggest, nor the strongest... but I am the hungriest. And what
is it I hunger for? Quite simply... for your blood. I am the Master, and
you are all nothing more than my underlings. I have the skills and the
knowledge you can only hope to possess...

Jin Tao... the Spirit Warrior? I know nothing of you in all honesty, but I
do not need to. I need not have ever heard of you to know that you will
fall before me. Why not? Because I know who you are not. You are not
Sean McKinnon. You are not possessed of my skill or my grace. You do not
know what it is like to sink to the absolute depths of the Abyss, and you
do not know what it is like to have to fight and claw your way back to the
surface. But I do Jin Tao... I do.

I perform that struggle on a daily basis. Some call me a madman, but they
simply do not understand the reality that is my life. They do not
understand the demons that haunt me. But you Jin Tao, you will understand.
You want to call yourself Spirit Warrior? Then perhaps I will let you
catch a glimpse of my spirit. A spirit that only becomes stronger each
time it is broken. With each fragmentation of my soul... the whole only
gains might. A paradox perhaps, but you should know by now that there is
no overcoming a paradox.

And then there is the Firestarter. Adrian, trust me when I tell you that
no fool named after a Drew Barrymore movie can hold a candle to me. A
Firestarter? It seems to me then that my task is simple. I need only
extinguish you. What could be easier than putting an end to you? I doubt
there are simpler tasks. I look forward to our meeting my friend... but I
look forward more to the aftermath, when you've been broken, the same way I
am broken. Of course, I doubt you will be able to recover as well as I
have.

And then, last and certainly least, there is Mordenheim. The Dark Noble,
if I am not mistaken. A face I recognize from another place and time. A
place and time that has created the reality that I exist in every second of
every day. Mordenheim... you are beneath my notice. You are, as far as I
am concerned, a relic of a bygone era. The other place is now nothing more
than a pile of ashes, from which, like the phoenix, I have emerged...

[McKinnon's serious, intense façade melts away with another devilish grin,
as a stray thought enters the tangled mind of The Master.]

SM: But I will say this about you John-Boy. I know why you hate Tim Turner
so much. Wanna know why?

[The camera zooms in close to McKinnon's demented face, as his fits of
laughter blare into the audience's ears.]

SM: Its just like when I was in second grade, and little Susie Jenkins
would put gum in my hair because she liked me. You are always kicking Tim
Turner's butt because you are afraid to admit how cute you think it is.
That's right Johnny, you're living in the closet. Your own latent... shall
we say, tendencies, are manifesting themselves as aggressive acts.

I can just see it now... Johnny is holding Tim in a sufficiently
subtextual hold, maybe a leg scissors or something, as he says "I'm gonna
kill you Turner! I have to kill you... because I kinda wanna take you out
Friday night... no wait, I am going to beat you.... hey, are you into that
kind of thing, because I am a bit curious..."

[McKinnon falls down on the street in a fit of maniacal laughter, kicking
in the air, and rolling around. He laughs incessantly for an uncomfortably
long period of time, before finally composing himself enough to speak
again.]

SM: So in conclusion... there is no chance that I can lose the four way.
Now, if only I could get Grey to return my phone calls...

[As McKinnon turns around to walk towards a pay phone, the camera,
thankfully, fades to black]

[---]

[Theresa spins about in her seat, looking at Calhoun with a very perplexed
expression. Biting at her lower lip, she takes a deeeeep breath and then
speaks.]

TT: He's a redhead.

[She nods, then leans forward to read the teleprompter again, saying
nothing further. Calhoun stares at her, as if waiting ....]

TT: It says Station Identification. What kind of name is that?

[Calhoun turns to the camera with a deadpan expression. There are chuckles
heard offstage.]

TT: What? What's so funny??

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

GLCW Presents: Overdrive
Monday, June 7th, 1999
L-I-V-E LIVE! From the GLCW Centre in Ann Arbor, MI

*- Singles Action! -*
Nyx Dunne -vs- T.J. "Kid" Callaghan

!!! MORE MATCHES TO BE ANNOUNCED !!!

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

:##:#::::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------
#:::#:::#:::#:#
#:#:#:::#:::### CHAMBERS -vs- WOLFEN
#:#:#:::#:::###
:##:###::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------

TT: Um, Mike ... why is that guy out there making that motion with his
hand?

[The camera cuts to one of the crew, who is rolling his hand as if to say,
'go on'.]

MC: There's no tape to show for the Chambers/Wolfen match, we ran something
last week, [he begins to speak in a sing song voice] so we go on to the
_next_ match-up. Get it? [he rolls his hand] Roll on? Go on?

TT: [she makes her right hand into an 'L' symbol and holds it up to her
forehead] You don't date much, do you?

Our third and last Four Way Dance features all GLCW regulars, first up ...
Tristan 'Hinky' Cuthbert. [she giggles] Oooh, Sasha's little corn nut.
Hehehe

MC: She really called him that? Tell me you're lying.

[Cut to the bigscreen as the two begin whispering.]

:##:#::::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------
#:::#:::#:::#:# TRISTAN CUTHBERT -vs- CHRIS JOHNSON
#:#:#:::#:::### -vs-
#:#:#:::#:::### JOHNATHAN SHAKESPEARE -vs- JOEY COCKTAILS
:##:###::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------

[Tristan Cuthbert and the mysterious woman that he met on Overdrive are
sitting after the show in a health-food restaurant near GLCW Arena. As
Tristan pokes at his tofu (Even though he is very scrupulous about not
being seen anywhere with alcohol or drugs of any kind, he is a carnivore
still), the lady is jabbering on.]

???: You know, Tristan, I've never liked that Glenn Hudson. I ran into
him once in Texas, the drunken punk tried to pick up on me, so I pancaked
him.

TC: Wait a minute. Maybe that's where I saw you. Did you beat him up a
lot in Laredo?

???: That was I. Siobhan Whitcomb, insane groupie-turned-wrestler by Ryan
Powell to boost his ratings. It would have worked, as apparently the
"Let's see a beautiful woman kick some guy's ass" crowd is quite large. I
mean, look at Nyx Dunne. She stole my idea.

TC: So, wait, you just ran out unannounced to attack Wugdullah for the
heck of it? Not that I like the guy, but you see, we have a mission around
here.

SW: Mission? And who's we?

TC: Coot and I. It is our goal to make sure that Sasha Ellison becomes
president of this company. By doing that, we are kind of trying to lower
the current ratings. By being a general nuisance without the cojones to
back it up, we make viewers turn to LWC or whatever else is on in droves.

SW: So, this is basically a blow for women everywhere? I'm impressed by
your political awareness.

TC: Well, that, and we want her to move the place to Vegas, which needs a
lot more cleaning up than Ann Arbor. And have I mentioned that you have
the best legs I've ever seen?

SW: Coming from you, that actually sounds sincere, Tristan. Almost.
Thank <national gym chain that doesn't sponsor GLCW>. I've had to work out
a lot since I never know when Cambodia will call me back. I love Cambodia.
I free child slaves each time I win a match over there. Peasants name
their daughters after me.

TC: You know, I can see anyone wanting to name a child after a radiant
beauty such as yourself, but the thought of a bunch of Cambodian kids named
Siobhan running around . . . That would be like if Phoung suddenly became a
popular name in Ireland.

SW: I must admit, it's unusual, but cute. I love being a national hero.

And are we seeing any action next week?

TC: Well, I face Johnathan Shakespeare, Chris Johnson and Joey Cocktails
on the live opener. My first match on real TV and not Mt. Hood Access
Cable. I haven't seen much of this Johnson, but he seems to be good.

SW: He's got skills.

TC: And Shakespeare ought to be laughed out of town. I mean, doesn't he
know that someone else once did this bit much better?

SW: Well, not that much better. Billy wasn't that good. I wonder if he
enjoys selling pencils.

TC: Probably so, they say that's a good job for the blind. All I know is
if I have to face the Bard, I might as well bust some Edward Albee on his
ass. I've been trying to finish one of his plays for weeks.

SW: I have the Cliffs Notes, I think.

TC: That could work. And then my final opponent, a disgrace to this
sport.

Joey Cocktails. A freaking bartender. I don't care if he did get his
Bachelor of Mixology from the Brian Bell Correspondence School of
Wrestling, he should not be here.

Why is he here? Because one Mr. Andj Wilczak thinks the whole bartender
bit and encouraging alcohol use by our children is funny. Andj Wilczak is,
obviously, a moral degenerate who is in desperate need of sterilization
before he pollutes Sasha's womb with a retarded child.

Very simply, Joey Cocktails, you are an offense to our crusade, next to
which Derek Mota looks like a great American.

SW: He's Canadian.

TC: Exactly. That is why Joey Cocktails will be wiped off the face of the
earth. He can save himself, though. Give up the demon rum and join us,
Joey. You'll be glad you did.

SW: I love an idealist.

[Smooch. Fade.]

[---]

TT: Some women think a _little_ bit too much of themselves ... dontcha
think? Nyx Dunne stole her idea? Ohh puh...leeeze. That's like saying
Joan of Arch stole her whole schtick from Tinkerbell. Get real! Chaaaa
..

[Calhoun blinks]

MC: Um, Tyger? Hun? This is about Cuthbert. Remember?

TT: Oh ... yeah. He's a jerk, too. [she shrugs]

MC: Oh...kaaay. Let's hear from Chris Johnson.

[---]

[Fade in from black.]

[We are once again treated by Chris Johnson, this time in Ann Arbor,
Michigan. The location of the next GLCW All-Stars of Wrestling looks like
anything _but_ a wrestling area, as the premesis at the Matthaei Botanical
Gardens, where several little children run around, either being chsed by
their parents to playing a childish game of tag outside. A fountain flows
in the middle of the grass area, where certain students from the University
of Michigan sit, studying, doing homework or reading.]

[The garden itself is dazzling, with flowers of many different colors
beginning to bloom. Red, blue, violent, pink, white and yellow flowers of
all kinds; roses, daffadills, violets and others are around. The
sprinklers, of course, are focused around the garden, though just sending
off a refreshing mist to everyone around them. One bench close to the
camera intrigues us, as GLCW's Chris Johnson is seated, his head back with
his sunglasses on, just enjoying an all-around great day.]

[This afternoon, Chris is attired in a pair of Mecca, blue shorts hanging
over his knees, with a "King of Harts... Blue Blazer... We all love you,
Owen" shirt on, black with pink letters and a picture of a former great
wrestler on the front. His black Oakley sunglasses cover his eyes from
visibility, until Chris jerks his head forward, staring right at the
camera.]

CJ: "You know, it's days like this when I thank God that I decided to
become a wrestler. Look around. There aren't too many professions where
an employee can work his ass off for two or three days a week, do a little
training here and there, and enjoy afternoons all around Michigan. I've
taken this profession for granted, but this sure has made me think long and
hard.

Watching Overdrive yesterday, highlited by the Wugdullah the Bully and
Tommy James match made me think about GLCW from two perspectives. I
thought about my stand in Great Lakes Championship Wrestling, and I thought
about the talent and devotion put into this federation. Yesterday, Mr.
Wilczak gave the fans exactly what they wanted, and that was a small show,
full of great wrestling action with little chit chat on the side.

I witnessed Blackout, a guy I have had no thought about, go into the ring
with two of the best men in this sport today. Not only did Blackout have
to face Xavier Lee Jackson, a man re-known by simply his name all around
the world, but he faced probably my biggest idol in wrestling today... "The
Heatseeker" Derek Mota. Instead of whining or saying he was screwed out of
proper match stipulations, Blackout headed into the squared circle and gave
it everything he had. He was up against _two_ of Andj's boys, and he still
was nearly the victor of that match up.

And here I am..."

[Johnson shakes his head, disgusted with his actions as of late in GLCW.
He puts his index finger up against his chest and continues.]

CJ: "Here I am, complaining how I am not getting enough air time on
All-Stars of Wrestling or Overdrive, and meanwhile, a guy like Blackout is
wrestling a Texas Tornado match with two of the toughest men in this sport.
Or, for another prime example, take the Cruiserweight champion and the man
leading my circuit right now, "Mr. Workrate" Tommy James.

I will admit a few things today, and the fact that Tommy _is_ "Mr.
Workrate", is one of them. I watched that match last week Tommy, when you
faced Eddie van Gibson in the main event. I have to hand it to you, even
though you had Cocktails on your heels, you still held your own, and then
went out the next week and dominated a match up with Wugdullah the Bully.

And me, I complain that I don't get enough action. Well... f[BLEEP]k me.
I am just raging on and on about how I don't get enough spotlight, and
people like James and Blackout are shedding blood by the seconds. They
gets their asses kicked, or not, but they do something about it. They may
not like the way things are going on, but they do something about it.

Well, All-Stars of Wrestling will do one thing for me, and that's for
sure..."

[Johnson nods his head affirmatively then scratches his neck before
continuing on with his statement.]

CJ: "I will be stepping into that ring with three _very_ talented
wrestlers, and it is finally mt time to shine. It's not time for me to
continue whining and complaining about air time, because I have been given
the chance. Now, I could look past this match and say that if I get my
hand raised that night, that I will be in the spotlight at The Midsummer
Classic, but it's not the truth.

I am in the preliminary stages here in GLCW, and this is will be a test for
me. So far, "The Raging Alcoholic" Bunga Bunga and Nate Avera have not
shown a challenge, but three capable men will, most definitely. And I
won't say much about how I will easily defeat them, because, to be honest,
I might not. For the first time in my career, probably, I am not sure of
the outcome of a match I am going into.

Maybe this is a good thing, or maybe it isn't, but never the less, I feel
nervous. I may not be as confident as before, but I sure as hell am much
more alert and aware of the situation. This is a new Chris Johnson. No
more "Cataclysmic" moves or no more showboating.

Come Monday, May 31st in Ann Arbor, Michigan, corrections will be made. I
just came off a stint in another location, and right now, I am anxious to
get back on track. GLCW has been good to me thus far, but I owe a hell of
alot more. I owe a good, consistent effort out there, and maybe pick up a
trick or two from "Mr. Workrate", if you catch my drift.

Maybe it was better that Andj and Sasha put me up against lesser opponents
to begin with, so that I would get used to the new territory of Great Lakes
Championship Wrestling. Avera was a minor test and this will be a bigger
one, no doubt. I have alot of potential, says the scouts and head hunters,
and this may be my turn to shine.

Over 20,000 fans will be waiting for some good action once that event
starts, and they're going to get the pleasure to see a good, four way
Cruiserweight contest, with possibly the winner attaining more than just a
victory. This match could decide the future of the GLCW Cruiserweight
circuit, and I am not putting my mind past that. I want this one... I want
this one bad."

[Johnson leans over to his side, shuffling through a nap sack of his, which
is seated on the bench, right beside him. He pulls out a black band, with
two letters written in pink on the band... "O H".]

CJ: "It's time that Chris Johnson pulls his own weight around the GLCW, and
I have certain people that I owe it to. Shakespeare, Cuthbert,
Cocktails... school is in."

[Johnson nods his head affirmatively then grasps the band once more, before
the scene fades out, zooming out of the Matthaei Botanical Gardens, before
completely fading to black.]

[---]

TT: Mmmm ... I'm impressed. Mike?

MC: I'm pissed, where the hell is that Joey Cocktail's clip? [he rummages
under the desk, leaving his seat to wander offstage]

TT: Um ... well ... [she leans over to squint at the teleprompter, giving
the camera quite a cleavage shot, then sits back down - grinning] Tag Team
Action next. The Wild Boys versus The Roughnecks! Yeah!

:##:#::::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------
#:::#:::#:::#:#
#:#:#:::#:::### THE WILD BOYS -vs- THE ROUGHNECKS
#:#:#:::#:::###
:##:###::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------

[The camera opens on a soccer field. From the position the camera is set
up in, focussing on the mid-field, the area appears deserted, but
off-screen the sounds of grunting can be heard. After a few moments what
looks like a telephone pole comes flying into view, landing on one end and
the sounds of applause erupt from just off the camera's view. The camera
quickly pans over to show The Roughnecks, Tommy Morton and Bobby Johnson,
among a group of other competitors and a small audience. A large banner is
flying in the background that reads "Denver 1st Annual Strongman
Competition". The Roughnecks nod at the camera and move away from the
crowd so it's a little quieter. Morton flashes a quick grin at the camera,
then just shakes his head.]

TM: "Well now... It looks like we went and got the poor ol' Gremlin all
upset at us. Oh boo-hoo... poor wittle Gwemlin got beaten like the
retarded bastard child that everyone assumes he is. The Roughnecks got a
measure of revenge against Gremlin and now... ooh how scary... he's going
to try and get back at us now. Well, take a look Gremlin..."

[The camera zooms in on the Roughnecks, who hold their hands out. Both
men's hands are steady as the proverbial rock.]

".... as you can see, we're just shakin'."

[The camera pulls back again and both Roughnecks are just grinning
arrogantly.]

TM: "Gremlin, you want to come after The Roughnecks? Fine with us. You
don't care about us? Fine with us. Guess what? We don't give a crap about
you either. You could have had a successful run here in the GLCW, but
no.... you had to stick your nose in our business. That kind of thing just
don't go over well with us. You take a swing at us.. we take one back at
you. You want to take things up a notch, we'll take 'em up two notches.
You want a battle? We'll give you a [BLEEP}ing war! Tell him about it
Bobby."

BJ: "GREMLIN! You wanna threaten US? You wanna threaten The Roughnecks?
The old saying goes, "Don't sing it, bring it" and that's pretty damn
appropriate right here, boy! You say you'll come after us and we won't
know when or where? We don't give a damn. You just better sit the hell
down and take a few minutes to think it over, jerky. You better just get a
few doses of that electric shock therapy so you can get that little pebble
you call a brain into gear and realize that you can get a shot in at us
again... and we'll get another shot in at you.... and just take a look at
the two biggest, meanest, nastiest,strongest men in the sport today and
realize that messing with us means your ass is grass!"

[Morton nods at his partner, slapping him on the back.]

TM: "You hit the nail on the head there, Bobby. You can get yourself a
partner Gremlin... you can come after us one at a time... it don't matter
one bit. You think we're gonna be scared of a mental midget like you? Tell
you what boy... why don't you get yourself and all your little "voices" and
we'll make it a handicapped match. You being the handicapped one that is.
And when you're laying up in the hospital with your Nurse Bosom or Hello
Nurse or whatever, maybe you should just take that time off to think about
the way you [BLEEP]ed up when you messed with your betters."

BJ: "Speaking of being someone's betters, we should talk about the Wild
Boys, Tommy. After all, we already proved once that we are their
superiors, right man?"

[Again, Tommy nods approvingly at his partner. Bobby grins wickedly at the
camera as Morton takes a step forward, pointing a finger at the camera.]

TM: "Damn straight we did. Wild Boys, we're gonna guess that you're
lookin' for a shot at redemption or some kind of thing like that. Hey,
more power to you.... but even with that more power, you ain't gonna have
enough to get by us. We're gonna beat you again, same way we did the first
time around It ain't even anything personal... we don't have anything
against you guys, y'know? We want the GLCW tag team title shot is all, and
we're damn well gonna get it. If that means we gotta steamroll over you
two _boys_ then that's the way it's gonna be. Ain't that right Bobby?"

BJ: "Hell, you know it's right Tommy. I mean, yeah... we got these MSW
pieces of tin, and they don't mean jack. The GLCW tag titles are where
it's at, and they're gonna be over our shoulders real soon, y'know? Not
like they could fit around our waists in any case, right? The problem,
Wild Boys, is that you're an obstacle in our path, and we're not about to
go around you... and whenever someone throws up an obstacle in our way, we
just bust right through it. See.. it's kinda right in your name. The
_Wild _Boys_. Now to me, that says Undisciplined Kids just spelled out a
bit different. Well, the Roughnecks ain't some sloppy catch-as-catch-can
kids... we're take-no-prisoners, bust-a-few heads, smash-things-around
_MEN_ and that's gonna be a big problem for you two Boys."

[It appears that Tommy Morton is about to say something else, when a light
beeping sound is heard. Morton unhooks his beeper from the pocket of his
shorts and takes a quick look at the message. Bobby Johnson peers over to
see what's going on, and Morton just nods again.]

TM: "Come on Bobby... we got a call to place."

[Without another word, The Roughnecks turn and walk away from the camera.
When it becomes obvious they're not coming back, the camera FADES TO
BLACK.]

[---]

TT: Okay ... that was the Roughnecks. Ex-Marines. Gotta love 'em. [she
salutes]

Well, it seems Mike needed a bathroom break. [she holds up the Brisk can]
When you get to be his age, fluids during the day can be a problem. He
oughta try Depends, lots of older stars use them. Really. [she pauses]
Can someone please get Mike.

[Cut to the bigscreen where the title of the next match scrolls past.
Theresa rises, tugging at her shorts as she begins an impromptu series of
stretches, raising a collective groan from the crew. Rolling her
shoulders, she bends backwards ... her tiny tank top hitching up to reveal
the double gold rings in her navel. Calhoun has just reappeared, tape in
hand ... but drops it as Theresa stands and smiles at him.]

MC: I'm uh ... I'm ... we're, um ... back. Yeah. In Singles Action -
Wugdullah the Bully faces the 'Rocket Man' Timothy N. Turner.

TT: [sliding into her seat again] Turner is a doll! The festive ones
always are. It's so unfair.

MC: Festive?

TT: Roll tape. [she giggles] I've always wanted to say that.

:##:#::::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------
#:::#:::#:::#:# WUGDULLAH THE BULLY
#:#:#:::#:::### -vs-
#:#:#:::#:::### "ROCKET MAN" TIMOTHY N. TURNER
:##:###::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------

[The camera crew catches up with Timothy Turner as he is entering his
locker room after the recent Overdrive show. Jeff Stewart seems very
anxious to speak with him.]

JS: Tim! Tim Turner!

TNT: Can I help you in some way?

JS: Can we get some comments on what happened tonight?

TNT: O'kay. It is simple. I all but handed Wug the Cruiserweight title and
he dropped the ball. This makes my match on All-stars a waste of my time.
Oh well. I see I have been granted top contender status so I will get James
eventually...

JS: No, Tim. What about Mordenheim?

[Turner's face darkens]

TNT: What about him?

JS: Didn't you hear his comments earlier in the show?

TNT: I just got here before the James/Wugdullah match. What did he say?

JS: He had some...comments...about your lifestyle and about your brother's
headstone. Here. Let me get you a copy of the tape and you can watch it in
your dressing room.

[Cut to outside Turner's dressing room door. The door is shut but loud
noises can be heard from inside. A caption reads "TEN MINUTES LATER".
Suddenly the door flings open and Turner charges out. His face is contorted
with anger and hatred.]

TNT: Mordenheim! You are the lowest form of scum to ever walk the earth!
Your prehistoric attitudes have no place in the modern world! I will
personally rip your heart out and hand it beating back to you! That is, if
you have a heart! Enjoy your jewelry, you bastard, because I'm sure Tom
will approve of what I do with it when I catch up to you! I'm going to
shove it so far up your ass that it will make it hard for you to breathe!

[Turner starts to storm off but stops for one last shot.]

TNT: Don't think for a second that you will get away with this you
Neanderthal! Our ranks are legion and we will end your existence!

[Fade]

[---]

TT: I remember now! Mordy, that's what they called him in the SCRA ... he
stole a chunk of Turner's brother's tombstone. Gawd, it was awful. Turner
about went ballistic.

MC: Guess that's why they call him 'Rocket Man', eh? Hehehehe

[Giving him the 'L' sign again, Theresa huffs and shakes her pretty
platinum head.]

TT: Gee, NOT!!

MC: Wug's next ... [he grins at Theresa] Fork you, Tyger. Hehehe

TT: Not on your knife, Mikey. [she giggles]

[We open to one of the many corridors that make up the Great Labyrinth of
Ann Arbor. The stone wall is attached to a door which sits happily below a
sign reading "GENTLEMEN", which leans lazily against the universal picture
of a non-Scottish man. We hear a "What the..?!" and a shriek just before
the door suddenly flies open. A chunky-looking guy wearing a eye-calming
plaid shirt and wearing a baseball cap with some kind of sporting logo on
it charges out. As quickly as he can with a pair of jeans around his
ankles, of course. The camera follows the distressed man as he hobbles down
the corridor, turns a corner, and departs our lives. And now back to the
door. Standing in the doorway is a post-forked Wugdullah the Bully,
obviously busy working off a little steam. Still in his wrestling attire,
he holds the
match fork up for all to see. One prong is painfully bent, and the secret
as to who's buttocks caused this to occur will probably be taken to
Wugdullah's grave. He glances at us for a moment. Although disappointed,
one corner of his mouth creeps up into a smile.]

Wugdullah: I just have one question for you, Mr. Workrate..

[The Bully points the fork camerawards.]

Wugdullah: Was it good for you?

[He deftly flicks the fork around his fingers then brings his hand up to
one side of his head. The fork now rests above his ear.]

Wugdullah: Y'know, you're only putting off the inevitable by beating me
again and again. There's no stopping Fate, and Fate wants me to jam a piece
of metal so far up your clacker that it'll give a new meaning to the term
"forked tongue".

[Ahem. Wugdullah glances over his shoulder towards his hind area. Right
about now would be an ideal time for a girl holding a wisk brush to arrive,
but no such luck.]

Wugdullah: Hmm.. in the meantime, the show has to go on. Just long enough
for you to feel safe, Tom. Hey, I still owe Gibson a poking. Plus there's a
few other people begging for a prod. I'm bound to find something to occupy
the time with. Then there's a match scheduled against Turner.

[The disappointment vanishes as the doors of opportunity swing wide open.
Happy times.]

Wugdullah: _Then_ there's the match schedule against _Turner!_ .. Timothy
N. Turner.. or, as I wrote on a wall back in there [gestures towards the
facilities], Tinky-Winky Turner. Tee Dubbya Tee. And I could go on, but I
have innuendo to spout.

[He cracks each knuckle of his left hand one at a time before continuing.]

Wugdullah: If you didn't believe in Fate before, you must do now. I mean,
c'mon. A guy like me and a guy like Turner.. A match made in heaven.. Think
of the _buyrate_! Think of the _merchandise_! Think of the _jokes_!

[For the sake of completeness, he does the same thing with his right hand
too, and yes, that was quote fodder.]

Wugdullah: Turner.. I saw you swinging your rod at Tom on Overdrive. If you
hadn't come out, I wouldn't have thought of calling you TWT and
subsequently not lost concentration by laughing. I would've been the
Cruiserweight Champ, you silly little thing, but your hatred of me was just
too strong for you to not get involved.

[The dark stormclouds of a frown suddenly gather. Aside from being dropped
on a fork, he might not be too thrilled about coming out of the last match
as someone other than the winner.]

Wugdullah: And it's because you want to _be me_ in _so_ many ways.

[Dum dadum-dum.. Dum dadum-dum-dummmmm.]

Wugdullah: Apart from Mordy, who are you enemies with? That's right - the
Discordiacs.. Enemies, or so it appears from the surface.. But..

[The Bully jabs a thumb at himself excitedly.]

Wugdullah: _I_ am the one who had Mota on the end of my fork when he bent
over in front of me.. _I_ am the one who cradled Mox in his arms and
carried him away to safety last Halloween.. _I_ am the one who plays
Tetrinet with Luke Steele every Friday night.

[He shakes his head, disappointed with the following truth-]

Wugdullah: All these things that you crave so badly, yet will never
achieve.

[A solemn moment passes, before a sigh escapes the youngster's lungs.]

Wugdullah: I'm afraid these baggy pants have already been filled. And I'm
definitely not taking them off as a personal favour to you. The best you
can hope for is a fork in the butt. And the best defence you can hope for
is to just stand there, say "uh oh!" and hope the moment passes without
much blood loss. Sorry.

[Wugdullah the Bully marches out of the doorway with a new purpose, rounds
the same corner the nameless victim (~!) fled around, and vanishes from our
sight. Fade.]

[---]

TT: I knew a guy once with a fetish for kitchen utensils. [she gets quiet,
as if lost in thought] He did this thing with a spatula ...

[Calhoun leans forward, hanging on her every word ... his eyes glazed over.
Theresa glances at him, and pushes him back in his seat.]

TT: You need a life.

MC: That hurt. [he glances at the teleprompter] T.J. 'Kid' Callaghan
versus The Gremlin.

:##:#::::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------
#:::#:::#:::#:#
#:#:#:::#:::### T.J. "KID" CALLAGHAN -vs- THE GREMLIN
#:#:#:::#:::###
:##:###::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------

[The camera fades in on the Gremlin, who is currently sitting at a bar
partaking of a few alcoholic beverages. He's dressed in his usual attire,
which is a black t-shirt and blue jeans. His eyes dart back from the TV,
which is playing Rollerjam, and his glass, which is half empty. He speaks
after a few moments.]

Grem: Half empty or half full?

Bartender: What?

Grem: Is the glass half empty or half full?

Bartender: I think a better question would be... do you want another?

Grem: Oh hell yeah... damn, I wish I just didn't say that.

[The Gremlin downs the rest of his drink, and idly drums his thumbs on the
bar, waiting.]

Grem: You're witnessing the Gremlin at his second best... interacting with
a few of the locals and getting nice and loaded. Good thing I can walk
home from here... but anyway, in just a short amount of time I'll be back
in a ring doing what I do best... beating the hell out of somebody and
drooling like the psycho that I might be. You see, the question of my
sanity always comes up... and to be honest with all of you, I really don't
know what the hell I am any more. Am I crazy, or is my logic just that
much more advanced than everyone else's, which makes people call me
crazy... I never could tell.

[Gremlin's drink is placed down in front of him, and the wrestler takes a
sip before continuing.]

Grem: Tasty... anyway, coming soon to a ring near you will be The Gremlin
versus T.J. "Kid" Callaghan, and if you were paying attention last week I
said a mouthful about my opponent, and I really don't feel like repeating
myself. So, I'll just explain why I have to beat the Kid this week, and
hopefully you won't flip the channel. If you do, I hope you're watching
lesbo porn right now.

And with that, let's go into the three reasons why I have to beat the Kid
this week on All Stars of Wrestling.

[A gulp of the drink this time, and Grem continues...]

Grem: Number one, I need more momentum, mofo. I'm in the position to keep
running in this fed, or I can hit a big ass wall this week if my shoulders
get pinned. In this situation, I wanna run. No walls for me, no way...
and in the event I do hit a wall, I'm gonna beat somebody's ass on
Overdrive next week. It might be yours... so pray that I win.

[One more gulp, and Ol' Gremmy Grem keeps on talking.]

Grem: Number two... I hate losing. Sure, I hardly ever get crushed unless
I'm just retarded that week, but losing sucks a fat one in general. Since I
hate losing, the only other option is winning... or blowing up a
McDonalds... and I just happen to be all out of C4.

[Grem shrugs, opting to chug the rest of the drink. He wipes his mouth off
and grins sheepishly, continuing.]

Grem: And here comes a straight buzz... but, I'm not done, as I have to
explain reason number three as to why I must win this week.

[Grem raises an eyebrow, thinking...]

Grem: See reasons number one and two... and if ya don't like it, f[BEEP!]
off. What did you expect, something thought provoking and some other
educational term I can't think of? If you did, it would be an example of
your jackassery. Go watch the Discovery Channel, you scary b[BEEP!].

And with that, I'm getting more loaded, which means you should get the hell
outta here... like, pronto.

[Fade to black...]

[---]

TT: Nice mouth. [shakes her head]

MC: Watch yourself, little lady ... or the Grem's gonna dish out a little
'ass whuppery' on you. [he grins and turns to the camera, whispering] ...
and I'd pay bigtime to see that. Grem, you listening?

TT: This next guy's a boxer, right? Red was telling me about him ... won
a medal in the Olympics. He lost it, something like that. That sucks. I
lost a bracelet once at Six Flags Great Adventure, you know ... in New
Jersey? We searched that whole park. Nothing. I know
how he must've felt.

[Yet another deadpan look from Calhoun.]

[---]

[Fade in on a dank and dreary gym -- the kind that makes you glad you don't
have smell-o-vision. A repetitious (but quite rhythmic)
"thwack-thwack-thwack" is heard as the shot pans around the large brick and
mortar room.

Thwack-thwack-thwack.

A deserted ring with various dried stains on the apron sits in the middle
of the room.

Thwack-thwack-thwack.

A collection of black steel weight discs are stacked against one wall. A
weight bench stands like a sentinel in front of them.

Thwack-thwack-thwack.

A speed bag hangs lifeless in a corner.

Thwack-thwack-thwack.

As the shot continues to pan, a heavy bag is seen dancing at the blows of a
solitary figure -- T.J. "Kid" Callaghan. Sweat glistens off the big
Irishman's bare upper body as he eyes the bag, then leads with a quick
right hand and hammers home a rapid combination against the leather bag.

Thwack-thwack-thwack.

Callaghan dances back a step and prepares to throw another right hand when
he notices the camera. He speaks matter-of-factly in his low, familiar
brogue.]

TJC: So Victor Frost thinks I know all the answers? Maybe I do. But
that's the simple part.

[Pausing for only a second, Callaghan turns and hammers a final right cross
into the leather bag, the loud thwack echoing around the dark gym.]

TJC: It's the questions that keep changing.

[Callaghan rolls his neck and turns back toward the camera.]

TJC: If Blackout had a problem with Frost, that's their problem. Actually,
with Blackout running from the GLCW, it's only Frost's problem now. So
Victor, if you're watching, I'll be ready for a rematch when you are. Until
then, just stay out of my matters... and keep trying to find the elusive
answer to your own question, ""Who was the first man Victor Frost defeated
in GLCW?"

[Callaghan smirks.]

TJC: Because none of us is getting any younger.

[He grabs a nearby towel and wipes his face before tossing the towel over
his shoulder.]

TJC: This week, I am faced with but one question: Who is this Gremlin? On
the surface, he is obviously a crude miscreant with little command of the
English language or his own... [Callaghan pauses briefly before deciding on
the proper words] ...cranial flatulence. In short, he is an embarrassment
to himself and the GLCW and I've no doubt that the devil will swallow him
sideways when he dies.

[Callaghan again wipes the towel across his face,]

TJC: However, since our friend The Gremlin appears to be so obsessed by
names... I will admit that his own name is not meaningless to me. The
Irish are no strangers to creatures of myth and folklore -- the Cluricaun,
the Ganconagh, the Fear Darrig, the Dullahan, the Leanhaun Shee, the Fear
Gorta, the Banshee, and the Fear Sidhe. Each has a different story -- an
'ultimate goal' to use Gremlin's words. But in the end, each exists only
in storybooks and tall tales spoken by the elderly.

Like the Gremlin, they frighten only the wee children.

Like the Gremlin, they are only legendary until dawn breaks.

But I find Gremlin to be much more like another creature from Irish legends
-- the leprechaun. He is a creature who thrives on mischief, running
around with an inflated sense of self-worth and convinced that he is the
master of a great treasure. In the safety of the hills, he beckons the wee
ones to believe in him: "Come away, o human child, to the waters and the
wild, with a fairy hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping, than
you can understand."

But when the sun rises, the leprechaun is nothing but a myth.

[Callaghan removes the towel from his shoulder and folds it as he speaks.]

TJC: The sun will shine on your myth tomorrow, Gremlin. Bring your
gimmick. Bring your anger. Bring your attitude. And if you hope to have
any chance of beating Thomas Joseph Callaghan, you'd be well advised to
bring any friends you may have. Because I don't believe in gremlins... and
I certainly don't believe in you.

[He tosses the towel aside.]

TJC: You claim that you don't have a problem with me? Let's see how you
feel tomorrow night.

[Callaghan lets his scowl settle on the camera for a moment before turning
away. Fade.]

[---]

MC: Callaghan's gonna eat those words tomorrow night.

TT: Huh?

MC: I said ... [he looks at her, then waves a hand in front of her face]
What the hell is it with women and redheads, anyway?

Okay, pay attention. The main event is gonna be announced next. Then we
do 'Off the Record'. Comprende, little senorita? Watch and learn.

:##:#::::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------
#:::#:::#:::#:# CALIBAN & LUKE STEELE
#:#:#:::#:::### -vs- TOMMY JAMES & CHASE BRANDON
#:#:#:::#:::### -vs- XAVIER LEE JACKSON & DAVE DIAMOND
:##:###::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------

[One restaurant table.

A half empty pitcher of draft beer.

One longhaired blond caucasian, talking animatedly.

One massive bald African American, sitting calmly, listening to the other
with detached amusement.

Yep... brothers-in-law Xavier Lee Jackson and "The Hollywood Heartthrob"
are discussing their upcoming tag team match... and it's not going well.]

DD: Look, the only reason I haven't told Wilczak to shove this match
straight up his ass is because of Lindsay. She seems to think that if we
wrestle together, we'll become "buddies" or something... well, you know as
well as I do that ain't ever going to happen, but it's too late for me to
pull out of this match now, so what do you say? Can I count on you or
what?

[Xavier Lee taps the table with his index finger as he speaks]

XJ: Lissun Dave. Xavier Lee can't really help the fact that Lindsey picked
a hot-toddy-playboy-frillin' man to marry.......

[...slow headshake..]

XJ: ....'n ol Xavier Lee agrees wit' yo' skinny ass on one thing.....

[Xavier Lee leans across the table for emphasis as Dave Diamond eyes the
big man keenly]

XJ:....we *ain't* gonna be f[bleepin'] friends. 'N the question that Xavier
Lee has for *you*, Mistuh Dave is this.......

[....XJ gestures accordingly....]

XJ: ....are *you* gonna punk *Xavier Lee's* ass when he ain't lookin'?

[Xavier Lee leans back and folds his arms waiting for a response as Diamond
takes a sip of beer. Diamond sets the glass down on the table and leans
forward towards XJ, almost whispering.]

DD: Don't worry brother-in-law... if and when the time comes for me to take
you out, I promise I'll do it face to face.

[Diamond smiles and sits back, grabbing the pitcher and refilling his
glass.]

DD: I suppose you expect me to pick up the tab for this little meeting too,
huh?

[Xavier Lee finishes his glass of beer; stands up and leans over the table
propping himself on the table with his hands. Xavier Lee offers a playful
grin...]

XJ: Damn straight Xavier Lee expects you to pay....you're the rich
playboy, 'member?

[Diamond and Jackson stare at one another for a moment, then Jackson turns,
puts on a pair of sunglasses and exits the restaurant, leaving Diamond with
the bill and the rest of the beer.]

DD: [muttering] Always was a cheapskate.

[Never one to let beer go to waste, Diamond begins to work on finishing off
the pitcher.]

[Fade to black]

[---]

MC: That was our rei ...

TT: That was 'The Hollywood Heartthrob' Dave Diamond and his
'brother-in-law' Xavier Lee Jackson. Mr. Diamond is the current Great
Lakes champion. He's ...

MC: Yeah, yeah, yeah. He's gorgeous and Xavier Lee is one of Andj's boys.
Right?

TT: Well, actually ...

MC: Well, actually - Diamond's waaaaaaaaay over the hill and needs to take
his Geritol ever day. I can see him hawking used cars. And Lee? He needs
'Hooked on Phonics'. Damn! Don't get me started ...

[Theresa just blinks, glancing off camera nervously - then smiling as she
looks back at Calhoun.]

TT: We've got something from Luke Steele and Caliban.

MC: [mutters] Great, just what I need - the Freak joins the Discordiacs.

[---]

[Scene: all engulfing blackness. For the first few seconds, the only sound
is no sound at all, a silent void. Then abruptly, a light switches on,
from an unknown source. In the light we can see smoke billowing around,
and the direction shifts slightly, revealing a face.

It is the face of none other than Caliban, half of the GLCW Tag Team
Champions. Caliban looks somewhat shaken as he's forced to blink at the
brightness of the light, and as he squints constantly, a voice can be
heard.]

Voice: So you wanna be a Discordiac, eh mon ami?

[Caliban speaks, his voice shaking a little.]

Cali: Well, yeah! Let's see...one of the most influential groups in
wrestling history? Who wouldn't want that kind of power and fame?

Voice: And what do you think you possess that makes you so truly... uh...
darn it, I can't see the cards without any light guys!

[The first voice is now unmistakeably that of the 'Mysterious' Man in Blue.
The second is also instantly recognizable.]

Luke Steele: Oh dammit Dick, I thought you said you could see in the dark?

MMiB: I assumed I could!

[The lights come up a little bit more, to the point where we can see the
silhouettes of Steele and the MMiB. Caliban is still under the hot lights,
sweating bullets.]

LS: Alright 'Ban, you know why we've got you here. Why should we let you
team up with us on All Stars?

Cali: Remember when you first came into GLCW, Luke? You and I tagged up.
I'm not one to make loyalties easily. But I -felt- something there
Luke. I felt like I could trust you, like I could belong. I think I belong
with you and the rest of the Discordiacs. I mean after all, anarchy is my
specialty.

[Caliban smiles uncomfortably as The Mysterious Man In Blue starts to pace
back and forth, wringing his hands.]

MMiB: Oh man, I just don't know... should we trust him Lukey? What's his
deal? What's he after?

[He begins to rise in volume, and speaks quicker.]

I mean how does he plan to help you out in that main event? MON DIEU!

[Steele grabs the MMiB and starts to shake him by the shoulders.]

LS: Dick, Dick snap out of it! DICK!

Cali: I know you guys wanted to have a little sit-down powwow kinda deal,
but when you mentioned the hot lights and smoky room, I didn't think you
meant it literally! So come on already...I'm being honest here, aren't I?

LS: Hold up, money. What's your deal with the Discordiacs? Why did you
contact us?

Cali: Okay, okay. I know I haven't had my life story spelled out on
national tv like a lotta guys around here, so I'll be honest. Before I
came to GLCW, I did a few things in retrospect I probably shouldn't have
done. I assaulted the security chief of the federation I was
in...on a live pay-per-view. He wound up with broken ribs, I wound up with
a stint in Leavenworth for aggravated assault. I met a few
guys in there who knew yer boy Moxy...they knew him real good. Told me ALL
the stories. You remember Snake, right Mox?

[Caliban grins slightly as the MMiB does a flawless double-take]

MMiB: NOT THE SOAP OLYMPICS! WAAAAAAAAAAAAARDEN!

LS: This isn't going well at all. 'Ban, see you on All Stars. Cut the
camera, now!

[We get a few last second glimpses as the MMiB curls up into the fetal
position before fading totally out.]

[---]

MC: DISCORDIACS RULE! They'll never let that Freak in.

TT: Who's the guy in the mask?

MC: That my dear, is the Mysterious Man in Blue. Mastermind behind the
Discordiacs. Genius of the GLCW's most elite stable. Moxy is God!

TT: The guy in the Underoos with the mask. God?! Get a life!

MC: Bite your tongue, girlie! Moxy is revered in these parts. You
probably like the Freak.

TT: Freak? Oh, you mean Caliban. He's ...

MC: [cutting her off] Who cares?! Up next, Chase Brandon.

[---]

[Midnight, approximately. The scene is a room in a disheveled Michigan
apartment. The floor looks rather unstable -- the wooden planks are
cracked, and rusty nails protrude from many of them. Trash and other
assorted items have been swept to either side of the room, forming two
immense walls of garbage. The window has been unlatched, and the wind blows
at the makeshift curtains without relent. In the middle of this
room is a green cot, on which is a recumbent Chase Brandon. His arms are
folded behind his head as he stares off into space, as if deep in
thought. Without acknowledging the presence of the camera, he speaks. ]

CB: Jus' a couple minutes ago I decided I'd go for the traditional approach
to this interview. I mean, that's proabably the only thing I
haven't tried yet.

[Brandon runs his hand through his greasy hair, which dangles over the cot.
]

CB: Well, here I am. Comin' off another _huge_ loss, this time to Derek
Mota. But after the first few dozen, ya get used to 'em.

Caliban ... I think you made it clear earlier in the month that our
partnership is/was strictly business. Fine, I probably woulda gone
for that. But you chose to make your grievances with me public domain ...
an' that didn't sit real pretty wi'me. Still, I could forgive ya for that.

Although ... I can't find it within myself t'forgive ya for the way that
you said it. Ya made me feel ... feel like the puppy that little
Timmy didn't want when mommy took him to the pound. The one in the corner,
the one that poured his tiny puppy heart out to ya for a good
home. He pleaded with ya to take him to your quaint little suburban
household.

That puppy ... he didn't have the prettiest fur, didn't have the purest
bloodline. Maybe its ear was a little messed up. Was missing a
leg or two ... or three. Hell, it was just a damn body squirmin' around on
the grille of a cage. Point is you left it all alone, Timmy. Simply 'cause
it wasn't what this fucked-up society considers as ... as "normal."

All alone. Once again, I'm left to fend for myself. Something I wish I
wasn't so familiar with.

[Brandon closes his eyes and sighs, then sits up. ]

CB: At first, I thought you were different from the rest of this damn
world, Caliban. I was wrong, as usual. Could spit out some pretty obscene
stuff in your direction right about now, buddy -- but no words could truly
express the contempt I have for you. Maybe actions will ... but we'll find
that out soon enough.

Tommy James -- perk up, soldier ... s'not like you got paired up with Dave
Diamond.

I guess you could say that there's a small chunk of history 'tween us.
After all, I gave that Cruiserweight Title to ya. Remember? In
one of those grossly overdone three-way matches? Tommy, if it wasn't for me
gettin' busted open like a pinata and bein' put on the business end of a
Tupac Bomb, you wouldn't be champ. You owe your success to me. Ya also owe
twenty bucks to me, James. Been over a month, I don't wanna have to wait
much longer.

Anyways, I want to put the past behind us ... and the future in front of
us. 'Cause if we did it the other way around, it wouldn't make
much sense, y'know?

[Chase scratches the thin carpet of stubble on his chin. ]

CB: S'all I gotta say.

[Brandon shrugs his shoulders and lies back down on his cot, his back
facing the camera. He curls up in a manner almost resembling the fetal
position, and fidgets a bit before finally getting comfortable. ]

[Fade to black.]

[---]

TT: Isn't he the guy that assaulted Red? The guy stalking that chick
Natalie from 'The Facts of Life', right? That's the guy Nicky whacked with
a golf club?

MC: Yeah.

TT: Whatta jerk.

[Calhoun grins, and wiggles his eyebrows at the camera.]

MC: That's my girl. Hehehehe

[He turns to her and points to the teleprompter.]

MC: Here's where we do 'Off the Record'. Clips from guys not involved in
the upcoming card, but still wanting to make sure folks don't forget'em.
You ready?

TT: 'Off the Record'

MC: First up, we're gonna show folks what happened in the ring after the
last All Stars - when Victor Frost attacked Blackout. Another loser, might
I add.

TT: Red kinda digs him, you know. And this Frost guy ... did you know
that German men [she pauses, glancing to Calhoun who is once again hanging
on every word] Nevermind.

##:#::::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------
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#:#:#:::#:::### OFF THE RECORD
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:##:###::##:#:# ---------------------------------------------------

[Fade to black.

Fade back in. Frost manages to put the straitjacket on the barely
struggling Blackout. He motions for the ring announcer to hand
him a microphone and Dave Ritter complies.]

VF: ALL HAIL THE _KIIIIIIINNNNNG_!

[Another huge heel pop for the German who has once again that smug smile on
his face as he looks down on Blackout who is slowly
regaining his conscience.]

VF: Ah, look who we have here. The demented, stinking, freaky schizo who
had the _audacity_, the insane, senseless idea, to ruin my
in-ring debut here in GLCW.

[He stomps on Blackout once.]

VF: Do you know how much that cost me, schizo? How much credibility, behind
the scenes power _and_ merchandise sales you flushed down
the toilet when you spoiled what should have been perfect?

[Another stomp, this one more vicious.]

VF: You little bastard prevented me from building up a good and healthy
"undefeated" streak and managed to make a mockery out of my first televised
match here. And why? [Stomp.] Why? [Stomp.] Why didn't you hit Kiddo with
that goddamn chair?

[Frost continues to stomp on Blackout but the bound man actually gets to
his knees even with the barrage of Victor's attack. He manages to get to
his feet ... but is helpless in the straitjacket. Frost kicks him in the
gut and drops him with a jumping DDT easily.]

JS: This is sickening. Where is the security?

MC: Who knows? Who cares?

[Frost picks up the mic again as he looks down at Blackout with contempt
obvious on his face.]

VF: Of course, I know the reason for your attack. Kiddo plainly outclassed
you in your match and how bad would you have looked if
I had dispatched the "Irish Failure" as easily as I was about to do? So,
your jealousy and _petty_ fear made you give in to your schizo
side and blindside me in a crime that makes the Rodney King incident look
like a child's prank.

Your punishment? Come next week, I am going to beat your brains out of your
head. If you think this here is humiliating, cuckoo boy, think
_again_. Next week, "Violent" Victor Frost ... the _top_ star here in GLCW,
will make you ...

[He takes a step back and makes a sweeping motion.]

VF: ... and all of you people, see why _I_ deserve to be the most
respected, the most adored and the _highest_ paid athlete in this
whole promotion ...

[A points a threatening finger at his prone enemy.]

VF: ... and all you can look forward to is a wheelchair and a padded cell
up in hills, where the fresh air might do you good ... or not.

[He pulls a cigarette and a match out of his jacket, then leans down and
runs the match across the face of the squirming Blackout to light
it. He then slowly walks away, as the crowd starts again to boo him.]

[---]

[Both Theresa and Calhoun sit there, speechless. Theresa speaks first,
more of a whisper.]

TT: Gawd, they'd love this guy down at the S&M Cafe in the Village. You
know, a guy offered me $500 once to pull his pants down in the middle of
the cafe and spank his bare bottom with a Fruit Roll-Up. Weird.

MC: Five hundred dollars?

TT: Twisted, ain't it? [she peers at the teleprompter] Oooh ... here's
Nyx Dunne. You know, the woman that stole 'Hinky's gal pal's idea.

[---]

[Sunlight sparkles off peaceful turquoise waves which lap gently at
pristine white sands. Three large black mastiffs trot along the
shoreline, the largest of the trio turning to level its dark gaze at the
camera ... its lips curling to reveal a hint of ivory canines.]

*Ooompf!*

[There is a blur of color as the camera swings about suddenly - focusing on
the dark form that sails over the top rope of what appears to be a
makeshift wrestling ring, landing in the sand below with a muffled...]

*THUD*

[That sound is followed by a low, growling voice off camera.]

VOICE: Rule number one -- don't never turn your back to an opponent. I
thought Mister Bojangles woulda taught ya that by now.

[Rolling onto her knees, Nyx Dunne lifts her head - tossing back her long
braid as her cobalt eyes narrow as if in response to the words being
spoken. With fluid ease, she is back on her feet... a light dusting of
sand covering her right side as well as both her shins and hands. Dunne's
well sculpted body is bare, save for the black halter and thong she wears,
her dusky flesh glistening with a fine sheen of perspiration.

Approaching the ring, Nyx places one bare foot on the apron while grabbing
the top rope. The camera pans over her body as she pulls
herself onto the apron ring, the muscles in her legs and arms ripple
smoothly. Nyx is suddenly knocked violently from the apron and her body
grazes the camera as she falls backward with an audible...]

*Ooompf*

[Again Nyx is knocked into the sand, this time landing on her rump. Resting
on her elbows, a low hiss escapes through clenched teeth as she
digs her fingers into the white sands... frustration etched into her exotic
features. The large mastiff has come to her side, its rumbling
growl audible as it lifts its massive head to stare into the ring.

A shadow slowly looms over both woman and beast. The shot pans up to show
the massive cowboy J.W. Hardin -- Nyx's "companion" -- leaning with his
large forearms against the top rope, his dark eyes fixed on Nyx. Wearing
only black jeans and boots, Hardin's sweaty black hair hangs in his face as
the edge of his mouth almost forms a grin.]

JWH: Rule number two -- ain't nobody gettin' back in the ring that easy. If
Underhill'd ever had to work fer a livin' instead o' making you
support his kinfolk, mebbe he coulda shared some o' that wisdom with ya.

[This time Dunne gets to her feet and rushes the ropes - only to be met by
the big man as she makes another attempt to climb onto the apron. Jumping
back, she glares up at him... her body visibly tensing as she begins to
stalking the squared circle. All the while, Nyx's gaze is locked onto
Hardin's.

As she moves, we are treated to the idyllic setting in the background --
lush, tropical foliage on one side, a breathtaking view of the Caribbean on
the other. The shot stops briefly on a fourth mastiff -- the largest yet
-- sitting apart from the others. The dog's stare is set on Hardin, who is
busy watching Nyx navigate the perimeter of the ring.]

JWH: Rule number three -- ya only got 10 seconds to get back in the ring.
'Course, I don't reckon ol' Sambo can count that high or ya'd known that,
too.

[The game of cat-and-mouse ends as Nyx exhibits a burst of speed toward a
corner and lithely slides under the bottom rope. In a serpentine
motion, she rises to her feet and turns... only to be smothered in a
bearhug by Hardin. The dark cowboy's arms bulge as he continues to tighten
the painful embrace.]

JWH: Rule number four -- sometimes yer better off breakin' rule number
three.

[Hardin winks at Nyx and falls backward, turning the move into a release
German suplex. Showing amazing dexterity, Nyx turns herself in midair and
manages to break her fall with a quick roll upon impact. She is quickly to
her feet and surprises Hardin, sweeping his legs away as he attempts to
rise. Seeing this, the solitary mastiff, which obviously is closest to
Hardin, stands and takes a step toward the ring. Nyx quickly straddles the
fallen cowboy's chest and pushes her forearm against his throat, her face
dropping less than an inch from his. A knowing grin curls on her lips as
she speaks, her voice a seductive hiss.]

ND: Since when do _you_ follow rules?

[A guttural growl rises from the solo mastiff and a stream of saliva drools
from the dog's mouth. Perhaps instinctively, Nyx turns her head to the
beast and bares her teeth, emitting an even more menacing growl at the
animal. The mastiff's ears prick forwards, its eyes dart quickly from
Dunne to Hardin, as if unsure. Nyx breaks her stare, looking back down, and
barely has time to see Hardin's forehead rise and butt her, knocking her to
the side.]

JWH: Rule number five -- never growl at my damn dog.

[Shaking off the cobwebs, Dunne rises and seemingly staggers back - only to
jump up and attempt to deliver a standing drop kick onto Hardin. With a
sardonic smirk, the big man sidesteps her and leans backward against the
turnbuckle. He watches as Nyx falls into the ropes, faltering for a few
seconds in their elasticity - unable to regain her footing right away.]

JWH: Dammit, Nyx, ya ain't gonna kill a rattlesnake if ya wait to take aim.

[Turning to face him, Nyx moves to the center of the ring - placing her
hands on her hips. Her outward cool is betrayed only by the steady
drumming of her fingertips against the ornate scarring on her hips. There
is a measured pause as she lets her gaze drift past Hardin to the
waters beyond. Her voice is devoid of all emotion - purposely.]

ND: Explain.

[Hardin runs a hand across his forehead, wiping the sweaty hair from his
face.]

JWH: That legsweep... I never saw it comin'. Now the dropkick? Hell, I
coulda told ya that was comin' 'fore ya got in the air. There's two things
ya gotta remember. First, never let nobody know what's comin' next.
Second, always keep yer concentration on one thing...

[Hardin looks at Nyx, whose gaze remains steadfast on the horizon.]

JWH: ...the man yer gonna beat. Ya ain't gonna step between the ropes and
beat many wrestlers with them kicks. [He pulls the top rope and
releases it, letting it snap forward.] This ain't no death pit. Ya got
the skills to make the transition to the ring, but ya sure as hell ain't
made much progress. I reckon Underhill's just too busy chasin' his own
agenda to teach ya proper-like. Or maybe he's afraid yer gonna take even
more o' his spotlight.

[Hardin's stare remains on Nyx, gauging her reaction. The dark beauty
lowers her head then turns. Raising her head slightly, she fixes him with
her cobalt gaze. Nodding slowly, Dunne lowers her hands, palms outward -
almost diplomatically - and steps forward.]

ND: Hardin. This is not about Samuel, regardless of what _you_ might
believe. I am responsible for my success or failure in the ring. No he.
That onus is on me alone. [she pauses] From this moment on, I would prefer
you limit your criticisms regarding my lack of progress to me and only me.
Agreed?

[Hardin's expression does not change as he also steps forward until there
are mere inches between the two. Nyx does not move, though the
mastiffs are now pacing - their unease quite noticeable.]

JWH: No. He's the reason ya went to that fed in the first place... but ya
wasn't ready and _he_ didn't do nothin' to improve yer skills.
Whether ya believe it or not, that's the truth. Ya don't want me to
mention ol' Sambo again? Fine. But I guaran-damn-tee ya one thing,
if I ever run into that lil' sumbitch again, it ain't gonna be a matter o'
kin, but it will be a matter of blood. And that there onus -- or whatever
the hell ya called it -- is on _me_ alone.

[Visibly tense, Nyx draws a breath. She suddenly, and unexpectedly, runs
toward the opposite ropes, rebounding at Hardin with a flying cross body
block. Hardin stands his ground, catching the lighter Nyx and flipping her
in his arms before violently tossing her backward over the top rope in a
modified Outlaw's Curse suplex. An audible gasp escapes Nyx as she lands
back-first on the sand. Hardin stares down at her from the ring.]

JWH: Ya want my advice?

[Hardin steps through the ropes and jumps beside Nyx as the big mastiff
trots to his side.]

JWH: Get used to losin'.

[The camera stays on the big man as he walks towards the shoreline, then
swings back 'round - catching Dunne as gets to her feet. A pained grunt
follows as the statuesque beauty straightens, then winces as she rolls her
shoulders. Ignoring the camera, she sets off after Hardin. Closing the
gap between them with only a few long strides, Nyx falls into place beside
him... neither of the two looking at the other as they continue on.

Dunne places her hands against the small of her back as they walk, arching
her back carefully - her voice heard as the shot begins to fade.]

ND: That move ... what do you call it?

[Fade.]

[---]

MC: That's our 'Couple of the Month' folks! [the crew laughs] Damn!
Seems things aren't so peaceful in the Islands these days, eh mon?

TT: That was J.W. Hardin! Wow! He could throw me down into the sand
anyday!

MC: I don't like to brag, but me and ole Jay Dubbya go way back. How
about you and me going out to Metro Beach, and I'll show you that move.
Hmmm? Whaddya say? [he grins]

TT: I'd rather chew glass. [she smiles sweetly in return]

MC: Vixen.

TT: Idiot.

MC: Another newcomer to the GLCW, let's hear from Larry Garton.

[---]

[Lights come up in a hotel room. Just a standard hotel room. From off
screen is a spluttering and the sound of cursing in a foreign language. A
door opens, showing a bathroom, and stepping out, wiping his mouth, is a
handsome Portuguese man with dyed red hair, wearing a black silk shirt and
navy blue dress pants. His hair is well groomed, gelled in place, as he
looks to the cameraman, a look of disgust on his face]

LG: When I asked you to excuse me for a moment, I never imagined it would
be because of a revolted reaction. How is it that you Americans can drink
such swill and call it "water"? I tell you this, I would not feign to have
my CLOTHES washed in that....urine...let alone my body.

Detroit.

[a look of distaste spreads on his face]

Why in Dio's name, Detroit? When Boston, or Chicago, or San Francisco at
least make the effort to mimic their betters, to have at least an AIR of
class, instead I am bound for Detroit...to debut in the GLCW.

And don't think THAT hasn't been a disappointment too.

[looks over toward the window, opening it...then coughing and closing it]

One city in dire need of anti-perspirant.

Why, you ask, has the GLCW disappointed me? Well, in simplest terms, the
competitors here are by no means worthy of my presence. Let us take a look
together, shall we?

Look at the "handsome men." Tell me which of these men acts with any amount
of decorum, of class, of breeding.

Look at the former street scum, the feral child, even the admitted
murderer. It speaks REAMS of the American legal system that this man is on
the streets after public knowledge of his crimes. Let alone that he holds
any amount of a fan base in a respectable federation.

There is even a man who speaks in "Thee's" and "Thou's" and calls himself
Shakespeare. After hearing him speak, to draw a comparison to a man who,
much like our own Jose Saramago, is considered to me a master of his
tongue...

"Doth, like poisoned mineral, gnaw at my inwards..."

[pause...half smile]

Iago, "Othello", Act II, Scene i. It pays to have a well rounded education.
Else, you stand on equal terms only with the street trash below.

And speaking of which...do you realize a young urban woman, laden both with
gaudy necklaces and the bestial grunting of a bastardized Engish said to
me...

"Yo, pretty boy, us ni**az is goin' out tonight...You all want to hang wif
me an' my crew?"

[shakes his head]

After asking Brock to translate what..."Serenity"...

[laughs]

...had said, I politely declined. Her response?

"Wassa matta, ni**a? Think you an' yo' honkie friend're too good for us?"

[pauses...looking down, then up]

Yes. I do. Neanderthals.

I took the effort in my education to learn not one, but four languages,
which I can speak in varying levels of fluency. I have no respect for
someone who cannot master their own tongue, making a childish mockery of
it, and then expect "ebonics" to be recognized as a legitimate dialect.

I grew up in a major city, like this...cesspool here. But where you have
allowed your past to sink into the muck, I have revelled in the history,
the life, not only of my home city, but also the country from which I hail.

Which of you has seen a sunset in the Algarve? Romanced a showgirl in
Cascaix? Summered in Funchal, wintered in Sintra?

Have you any knowledge of Prince Henry the Navigator, or is Lisbon to you,
at best, a mockery of the lyrics to a Barenaked Ladies song?

[he moves to the bed, sitting down]

Uncouth barbarians.

Still, there is little that can be done with only words. The Great Lakes
Championship Wrestling Federation will profit from having someone with a
touch of class about. And since it seems only the most undeserving of men
recgnize who the most beautiful American women are...

[smiles]

Ah, yes, you wonder how I can so easily switch from critique to
praise...it's simply, truly.

It's not difficult to select what is aesthetically pleasing on an
individual level. Which is why, despite the recognition that the "national
treasure" or Leonardo DiCaprio looks like a villain from a poorly drawn
Japanese animation, an utter lack of talent can propel a lab rat to
superstardom.

What Americans do better than anyone in the world is find beauty within the
most mediocre of places. They elevate that which is average...or worse...to
a level of attractiveness. Highly specialized attractiveness, yes, but
nonetheless....whether it be the inarticulate street trash in a faux
leopard fur wrap and hot pants, or the 15 year old tomboy at her first
school dance in a dress.

But you overlook the truly beautiful for this.

And you need someone to re-educate you.

So, at each show, try your best to look ready to meet me. I will select one
beauty each night to stand beside me, and receive my just reward for who
they are...

[smiles]

Believe me, I don't think "Earl of Earl Jones Ford" could offer anything
better....

[turns on the television...thn turns back to the cameraman]

That should be enough for now.

["Jerry Springer" appears on the set, with a hooting and hollering
audience]

Dio....is there no one in the forsaken country who can speak
intelligently...?

[Flips through the channels as the lights fade]

[---]

MC: I think someone's bitter.

TT: I agree.

MC: I'm scared.

[The show's producer brings Calhoun a piece of white paper, whispering a
few words to him as he points to the teleprompter. Calhoun nods.]

MC: Why don't you run the letter up on the bigscreen? Let the audience
read it for themselves as Jeff reads it aloud? He's better with these
_official_ things. [a murmuring off camera] Right. See how it looks, we
can mention it to him later.

[Both Theresa and Calhoun turn to watch the bigscreen as a letter begins to
scroll upon it. Calhoun speaks into his mic, very *announcer-ishly*.]

MC: The following is a letter written by "Bullywug" Glenn Hudson, refuting
Tommy James' allegations that Hudson is Wugdullah the Bully.

[---]

To the fans and employees of the GLCW,

I would like to thank Mr. Wilczak and the rest of the Great Lakes
Championship Wrestling Crew for allowing me the opportunity to speak to you
all. It's unfortunate that we belong to an industry where a televised
face-to-face exchange of opinions is usually preceded by a contract
signing, but I am more than satisfied with the generosity I have received
in response to my request to write this open letter.

It's no secret that the professional-wrestling industry has more than its
pleasant share of backstage spitefulness. Everyone seems to have an opinion
of everyone else nowadays, and it is a shame when these backstage issues
come to light in front of the fans during a production. We are all supposed
to be professionals, keeping whatever comments we may have regarding the
business side of things actually confined to the business. Fortunately,
this kind of garbage has been more or less wiped out within the two
wrestling promotions that I am under the employment of, those being the
Longhorn Wrestling Council, with whom GLCW has had a working relationship
with in the past, and the Great Plains Wrestling Alliance. Imagine my
surprise upon reading some transcripts taken from a recent GLCW show.
Certain comments
were made by someone whom I have not worked alongside with for the better
part of the year. There is a little buzzword in this industry with which I
am sure most wrestling fans are familiar. It is "shoot", and the comments
made by Tommy James during a recent edition of Latenight definitely fall
under this category. The GLCW's internal control procedures are not my
responsibility, but when myself and my professional credibility are the
point of scrutiny, it cannot be ignored.

I am well aware of a certain individual on the GLCW payroll who has had
some association made towards myself. In fact, I was aware of this
individual subsequent to his involvement with GLCW. It has not been until
recently that serious attention has been made, however, in light of events
that have occurred. Many people seem to take as gospel the suggestion that
he and I are in fact one in the same. Again, these allegations have not
been of much concern until the very public and very unprofessional actions
of Mr. James. Unfortunately, this has not been the first time that Mr.
James has aired his opinions inappropriately, either on individuals or
pro-wrestling as a whole. I am personally at a loss as to why I was a
target of his surprising hostility. I am equally at a loss as to where he
gathered his information concerning my status in the LWC, as the version
portrayed by Mr. James was, to put it kindly, creative.

While my own professional reputation is hardly at risk by this incident, a
bigger issue has been raised, that of the current state of professional
wrestling. While many purists thumb their nose at the wrestling of today,
in favour of the circa 1974 version. However, we are not 25 years ago.
Times change whether we are ready or not. But even if dubious finishes
sometimes take place and wacky gimmicks are sometimes run, there is no
solid grounds for claiming that those involved are less talented or
dedicated than a competitor in a pair of black trunks who can slap on a
mean armlock and then systematically wear an opponent down over the course
of half an hour. It boils down to incredibly wishful thinking on Mr. James'
part, and young athletes and entertainers such as Wugdullah the Bully have
to bear the brunt
of those with their heads in the sand.

In closing, I ask for each and every one of you to simply enjoy Wugdullah
the Bully for the show he puts on. For what he does rather than who he is
supposed to be outside working hours. The daily grind of being a
professional-wrestler must be hard enough without the added pressure of
being forced into someone else's chokeslammin', tombstonin' monster of a
shadow. Tom, if you have a problem with professional wrestling in today's
America, go to Japan. If you have a problem with myself, go to South
Laredo. Either option would demonstrate a lot more spine than attacking
people either struggling to try something different for the sake of
entertainment or who are tied to other promotions and can hardly drop
everything to adequately deal with it.

Yours Wuggedly,

Glenn Hudson

[---]

[The bigscreen flashes the GLCW logo on it as Calhoun and the Latenight
producer converse.]

MC: Looks good, guy. Jeff'll do the voice over, lend some credibility to
the piece. What do you think, Tyger?

TT: Um, the letter scrolled by too fast. [she blushes and fidgets with
her mic] Sorry.

MC: Oh-kaaay. Our last piece was submitted only this morning, I'm told.
Seems Ms. Dunne isn't having a particularly good week, first problems on
the home front - now learning that her tag team partner, Samuel Underhill
is leaving the GLCW. Our heroine is doomed, Tyger.
Roll it.

[---]

[Rays of sunlight filter through the lush, tropical foliage that has been
carefully landscaped about Samuel Underhill's villa, lending an air of
'home' to his estate. Bursts of red and violet line the stone walk - as
'Birds of Paradise' stand tall, their colorful blooms just opening in the
heat that has been blanketing Michigan for the past week.

A solitary camera follows the sinuous form of Nyx Dunne, who has yet to
acknowledge its presence. Viewers are treated to a rare glimpse of Dunne,
whose curves are draped in a simple sheath of crimson and ivory batik, Soft
leather sandals lend a supple curve to her long legs. Carnelian and silver
beads adorn both wrists and slender throat. Her long braids are pulled
back and up, the camera afforded an unobscured shot of her bare back and
the ornate scarring that decorates her shoulder blades.

The cameraman clears his throat, just as Nyx steps to the door.]

CAMERAMAN: Pardon me. Ms. Dunne? Is it true Samuel Underhill is leaving
the GLCW? Rumor has it ...

[Dunne turns just as the door is opened by a young - rather attractive
woman, who stands there, a hint of a frown marring her dark features as she
sees Nyx. Beside her appears an older woman, who whispers something in
patois, pulling wide the door - waiting.]

CAMERAMAN - Ms. Du...

[Mild annoyance shows in Nyx's exotic features, though she does acknowledge
him.]

ND: I was chastised some time ago for likening your kind to carrion crow,
but in retrospect I do believe my choice of adjectives was apropos, non?

[There is a slight lift in her right brow as she levels her gaze at the
intrusive press member. Without another word, she turns and draws near to
the door ... setting her bag down as she exchanges pleasantries with the
older woman, who takes Dunne's hand as she inclines her head respectfully.
Nyx enters the villa, her bag and the cameraman left waiting at the door
with the young woman, who scowls after her ... then turns her attentions to
the camera that attempts to follow.

The front room of the house is furnished in the same sparse fashion we've
come to expect from the other rooms we've seen- an African tribal mask,
most likely hand-carved of a native wood, hangs on one wall, a simple,
understated watercolor painting of the open sea depending from a nail on
the opposing wall. A pair of rattan chairs and a small futon couch complete
the furnishings in this room, a sort of makeshift sitting room.

The older woman leans into the younger one and whispers a few harsh words,
nodding to the cameraman and shaking her head. Pointing to Nyx's bag, she
then follows after Underhill's cousin. Peeved, the younger female takes
hold of Nyx's bag and jerks it from the ground,
glancing after the figures retreating into the house -a sly smile on her
lips. Leaning back against the heavy wood door, she ushers in the
cameraman, grinning smugly as the man wastes no time in making his way
through the villa.

They continue through another door and down a hallway, painted the same
neutral off-white that most of the walls we've seen here are, and also
bearing the same stucco-like surface texture. As we travel down it, we see
first a kitchen off to one side... then what appears to be a music room to
the other... a large, deep mahogany-colored cello resting in a stand, bow
laid on the cross beam.

Now, another wide doorway, on the same side as the first, revealing a
spacious, elegantly appointed dining room- heirloom-looking table, a pair
of intricately wrought silver candelabra sitting upon it, and two chairs
antique chairs, oddly side by side at one end of the massive table... the
other chairs pushed back against the wall. And then we've gone past,
entering into what is clearly a solarium.]

WOMAN: He be a'waitin, Madamoiselle.

[It is here the older woman pauses, taking her leave of Nyx. Dunne stands
in the middle of the solarium - as if hesitant, the camera behind her
panning the fabulous blooms and greenery that flourish in abundance beneath
the beveled skylights. The younger woman stays the cameraman, pointing the
the doorway beyond. Bright shadows waver against the light walls, seeming
to swirl and flow. It's then that a familiar voice is heard. Deep and
melodious... yet subdued, rich with sadness and regret.]

SU: [from the pool room] Nyx... dear Nyx... please... come in.

[There's a moment of stillness following the breaking of the uneasy
quiet... and Nyx continues on, absently reaching to her left to
stroke a single, brilliant red hibiscus flower. As she leaves the solarium
- the camera resumes its pursuit. A harsh whispering is caught on audio,
causing the camera to swing about - in time to see the older Jamaican woman
snagging the arm of the younger one, their heated exchange fading into the
recesses of the house.]

ND: Samuel.

[They're on either side of the pool now... the gently rippling water
somehow both symbolizing and accentuating the distance between them.
Nyx stands to one side, all pretense of stoicism gone, her normally
predatory expression replaced by a look combined of so many things... so
much hurt, so much sadness, a hint of anger, a hint of betrayal and
underneath it all, a profound sense of loss - visible chiefly in her eyes -
but poignant and painful, nonetheless.]

[Samuel sits on his haunches on the far side of the pool, dressing in a
rather low-key, subdued fashion- t-shirt, jeans, sneakers... quite
un-Underhill, if you will. His multi-hued dreadlocks are unrestricted by
any bindings, hanging free around his face... but glisten slightly, as if
damp. He trails his fingers through the waters of the pool once more, and
then looks up at Nyx, his face no less revealing than hers. The corners of
his widish mouth are turned down in a sad frown, and his brilliant green
eyes somehow seem... less bright, less captivating, at the moment. There's
none of his usual mirth or malignance... no sign of the jester _or_ the
devil that live entwined in his soul. There's simply a man. A tired,
saddened man. He exhales from deep within... a weary, heavy-hearted
sigh... and speaks.]

SU: I trust you enjoyed your visit to the islands, cousin?

[He's dancing around the issue. Nyx stares into the depths of the pool
before meeting his gaze - asking simply...]

ND: Why?

[Samuel returns his eyes to the pool, seemingly unable to meet hers and
waves his hand slowly, sending another series of ripples through the pool.
But does not answer.]

ND: Samuel ... I need to understand.

[Nyx pauses, watching him intently - again she asks the question, though
this time with more urgency.]

ND: Why?

[He looks up again, and the sadness now has a counterpoint in his eyes.
Pain. He slowly licks his lips in what would definitely seem to be a
nervous manner... and speaks.]

SU: Nyx...

[He sighs again.]

SU: What should I say, Nyx? That I find myself in a situation I do not
understand... backed into a corner I know only one way out of? That I am
in a sort of trouble, Nyx?

[Samuel laughs briefly, laughs without smiling... laughter rooted deep in
bitterness.]

SU: Me... in trouble. Samuel Underhill... so charming, so mysterious,
alluring and seductive... caught in that most dangerous of webs.

[He rises, shaking free the shimmering water droplets from his hand as he
does.]

SU: I do not precisely know what to say, Nyx... I am not sure how to
explain it.

[Nyx says nothing, instead she paces the length of the pool - her footfalls
silent on the white tiles. Slowly her arms raise, and cross beneath her
breasts - her fingers caressing her elbows. It is obvious she is thinking,
her expressions shifting quickly, like sands in an hourglass. When she
speaks, the words are tinged with anger and sadness.]

ND: Old habits never die, do they Samuel? [pause] Would I be correct in
assuming there is a woman involved?

[Her back to him now, Dunne remains where she is at the opposite end of the
pool ... waiting. After a long moment of thought, Samuel speaks.]

SU: In as much as you have said... yes, Nyx. You are correct. But it goes
_deeper_ than that. Further. This is not the old habit you think it to
be... would that it were.

[His look down at the pool, and he slowly, sadly shakes his head.]

SU: [more quietly] Would that it were...

[Shaking her head, she turns back ... watching him once more.]

ND: Then what is it? What are you hiding? [she begins to retrace her
steps, coming to stand across the water from him] What ... or who, takes
you away this time? Hmmm?

[A faint ghost of Underhill's old smile appears on his face... he appears
to actually be amused, in a sad sort of way.]

SU: And why do you ask, Nyx? Seeking to jump to my defense, frighten off
this poor, defenseless girl who sends me where I must go?

[He slowly shakes his head.]

SU: It would not work, dear Nyx... and even if there were a way to make it
so, I would not condone it. It would hurt far worse to see her know the
truth, and I would avoid that particular rejection if I could.

[Steeling herself against the onslaught of emotions that threaten to break
free at this moment, Dunne narrows her eyes and fixes her gaze on her
cousin. Nodding to herself more than he, her lips twist into a most
sardonic smirk, enhancing her dark beauty even moreso. The words, though
spoken eloquently - are razor sharp.]

ND: So you run away ... yet again.

[His broad shoulders shrug, and he closes his eyes for a moment.]

SU: Yes... I suppose I do. I run away, Nyx. Again.

[He opens his eyes and looks at her... and it seems clear that what he
said, and what he considered saying, were not at all the same thing.]

SU: It is better this way... if I did not believe that, then I would not be
leaving.

ND: Better?

[He nods.]

SU: Yes, Nyx. Better.

[She looks past him now, somewhere else ... somewhere far from where they
are. This time her words are soft, pained ... final.]

ND: Then so be it.

[He walks slowly around the pool and right up to her, looking down the
scant two inches into her eyes.]

SU: I am so sorry, Nyx... far sorrier than you could ever imagine.

[His eyes actually seem shiny for a moment... probably a trick of the
lighting... and he reaches up to her, gently running the back of his index
finger along the line of her jaw.]

SU: [almost whispering] So sorry...

[And with that, he turns rather abruptly and walks out of the room, a
distinctly lost look on his face for the brief moment it takes him to
disappear into the solarium... and beyond.

A soft, shuddered sigh of resignation is heard as Nyx closes her eyes.
When she opens them again, they glisten... perhaps it is the reflection
from the water, perhaps not. No matter though, just as quickly as it came
- replaced with a cold, stare. When she finally speaks, it is to the room
at large.]

ND: I hope she is worth it.

[That said, Dunne too, takes her leave - ignoring the cameraman that
scurries to get out of her way.]

[Fade.]

[---]

MC: The plot thickens. Nyx Dunne on her own, with no partner to back her
up. Let's see if she can continue running with the big dogs, as they say.

*SNIFF SNIFF*

MC: What the ...? [he looks at Theresa, who is sniffling, tears welling
in her big blue eyes] What's wrong with you?

TT: It's ... just ... so ... sad. [she blows her nose loudly in a
Kleenex] I can't help it, I'm a romantic at heart. Have you no feelings?

MC: THAT'S IT! CUT!!! CUT!!! CUT!!!

TT: What? What's wrong?

[Fade to black.]