<UWF> Saturday Night Rampage (hour 1)
Cygnia
Miracle
Whip pulls up. Yup, the crew we call Amity is arriving to SNR in
style.
"Supervixen" Ami Tran steps out in a tight black strap-less dress with
matching heels. Rage exits next wearing a demin jean suit and Yankees
ballcap. Spice comes out in a white tee, blue jeans and tan boots.
Lastly walks out the new Cruiserweight Champion, the newly
self-proclaimed "Bastard Legend" One-Winged Angel.
What did you think he ego shrunk?
1WA is wearing a white Amity bandana, black suit and white shirt, and
black dress shoes. He carries the cruiser title belt over this right
shoulder and his rose-shaped cane in his left hand. Angel closes the
back door, taps the Hummer and it drives off.]
1WA: Well. Last week wasn't a complete loss.
[Spice gives him a puzzled look.]
Spice: Did you check the win-loss record?
1WA: Yeah, but put it in perspective. Ami can beat Sonya any day of
the week so taking that title will be easy. You two were stuck with a
couple of skirts Atlas couldn't carry. And my win.
[The "Bastard Legend" looks down at his title belt.]
1WA: Well, that was just golden. All I do is retire titles.
Tran: Don't you kinda have to beat Kinsey to really retire it.
1WA: Details, details. Now, we all know what we have going tonight.
Ami,
well you know who've got to ring in, right?
Tran: Right.
1WA: Fellas, you've got some scouting to do.
Rage: Got it.
1WA: And Spice, don't get drunk and pick up another harrassment
lawsuit.
We've still got another year of supplying Greece with beer to cover
last
time.
Spice: But ain't the Frats retired?
1WA: Yeah, and if you had to watch the Illuminatti and Pride, wouldn't
you drink more?
Spice: Point taken.
1WA: And you know me. As we are here in the land of the Jiggaman, I'm
gonna have to reintroduce myself to our World Champ.
Spice: He can't run from this pimpin'!
1WA: Yeah, but he's kinda of an ugly ho.
[The foursome laugh.]
1WA: We're in New York tonight. So if there's anytime to do it big,
this
is it. Let's get it.
[Amity makes their way toward the arena doors and the camera fades
out,
dissolving into the opening credits...]
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04-28-07
Hour
One
[Wrestling shows love exterior shots of New York City, and SNR is no
exception. The viewers are treated to a view of the bustling cab- and
pedestrian-lined streets. Seventh Avenue is awash with bright lights,
huge billboards, and endless skyscrapers. The city that never sleeps
living up to its moniker in true style, the incomparable and
self-proclaimed "Capital of the World" in constant fast-paced motion.
Well, that was before the incomparable and self-proclaimed "Center of
the
Universe" came to town.
A wall of taxis begin to swerve and slam on their brakes in unison.
Pedestrians, usually with an iron will and who routinely win games of
chicken with on-coming traffic, jump back onto the closest corner and
gasp in horror. Even a few mounted police officers hold on for dear
life
as their horses get startled by a red blur skidding down 34th Street
with
tires screeching and a driver yelling at the top of his lungs having
the
time of his life. The camera struggles to keep up with the Murcielago
Roadster as it finally breaks out of the skid on the other side of
Seventh Avenue and darts into a tunnel leading under the World's Most
Famous Arena.
As planned, another camera is there waiting.
The 2007-model Lamborghini and replacement 22nd-birthday present
finally
comes to rest right in the center of busy Pennsylvania Station, in a
spot
that already has been created on the marble floor and reserved for
"The
UWF's Greatest Champion" by many well-trained and beefy business
associates who keep the hordes of commuters a very safe distance away.
Out of the sportscar leaps the dark blue Armani-clad and ebullient
reigning Television champion. After beeping the numerous car alarms
for
good measure, a dozen associates take their posts and surround the car
for the remainder of the show. Another dozen-or-so create a bubble and
protect their boss as he makes his way up the stairs to Madison Square
Garden. The cameraman follows behind like a good puppydog.
The stairway leads to paths that become progressively darker, kinda
like
the Knicks' season. Finally, just past a pile of dirty, second-rate
hockey jerseys and old, worn-out equipment, comes a beacon of light
that
hasn't been seen in this building for quite a long time. A bright sign
in
gold neon next to a pair of closed double-doors that proudly
proclaims:
TREY'S LOUNGE.
As the associates make their way to various security locations
throughout
the premises, their employer and host of the wildest party to have hit
New York City since the last time he was in town finally turns to face
the camera. If the sign wasn't enough, a blinding thousand-megawatt
Trillion Dollar Trey DaMann Smile! lights up the building even more.
The thumping beats of excessively loud dance music emanating from
behind
the doors, trickle of foam coming out from underneath, and occasional
squeal from a barely-dressed socialite provide wonderful background
ambiance for the important message (sure...) about to be delivered by
the
third-generation legend-in-the-making. Trey flashes his baby blues to
everyone watching at home or in the arena, runs his hands through his
short black hair, and makes certain that he looks absolutely perfect
before addressing his masses.]
TD: The Star...Of The Show...c'mon people, you know this one...
[A very gamely NYC crowd start to boo him with particular venom,
wanting
nothing less than to drown out the blatherings of their least-favorite
self-important ass. Trey, as usual, doesn't even seem to notice.]
TD: ....Has Arrived!
[Nobody gets a chant of "ASS-HOLE" going like New York City fans.]
TD: And once again, my millions of sycophants now have reason to watch
what was until now, probably a particularly awful display of subpar
wrestling and entertainment skill. But in addition to seeing the
standard-bearer for an entire industry and greatest champion not only
of
today but in the entire history of the UWF, the DaMarks of the world
have
something else to look forward to that can help them forget everything
they've already had to suffer through earlier tonight.
[Don't lie. You know the anticipation is killing you.]
TD: That is the new UWF championship belt I began the process of
creating
months ago when I won the title in dominating fashion.
[Trey looks up to the ceiling, undoubtedly seeing himself
press-slamming
Tumaffi with one hand and forcing Brett Greene to tap out to an armbar
with the other while Luke Kinsey, Alex Martinez, and Scott Daniels are
all cowering under the ring apron in fear. It must be wonderful living
in
his world.]
TD: The total cost of this belt was well over $3 million. No tin. No
gold. It's entirely made of platinum. It's decorated with dozens of
rare
jewels from around the world. It has a diamond-encrusted faceplate
that
reads "Trey DaMann." No cost was spared. The finest championship belt
this sport has ever seen, of course to honor the finest champion this
sport has ever seen.
[He begins to slowly unbutton his jacket to reveal the multi-million
dollar prize paid for with his own money. It's got more bling than it
knows what to do with. Trey's name, in huge letters spelled out with
diamonds, sparkles across in the center.]
TD: Now I understand that being who I am, having my family's
championship
lineage, and the recognition of my place as the most dominant and
greatest UWF champion kinda puts a bulls-eye on my back. Everyone's
going
to come from all around to test themselves against the very best that
this or any generation has ever seen. The first man being someone
named
Juan Vasquez.
[Trey slowly rolls his eyes and shakes his head.]
TD: So Juan, you're challenging me for the championship. You have the
opportunity to take everything I hold dear away from me later tonight.
In
light of this, you're probably wondering why I haven't yet set you on
fire, run you over with my car, or sent a group of my associates to
repeatedly beat the hell out of you throughout the show. Perhaps you
have
noticed that I am allowing you to show up for the match tonight and
not
just watch me on television winning by forfeit as you get numerous
blood
transfusions in the ER. Of course you know I can, and I have, and I
still
could. But no, don't worry. I'm not going to do any of that to you.
[Trey, obnoxious grin all over his face, leans into the camera Mr.
Rogers-style.]
TD: You probably want to know why, don't you?
[Trey nods up and down, as if he's giving Vasquez the answer. His
smile
grows.]
TD: It's because you're irrelevant.
[DaMann begins to chuckle to himself.]
TD: Yeah, I heard you came in a while back thinking you were someone
big.
Like you've actually accomplished something in this sport. Won a few
titles. Beat a few names that a few people have heard of. You thought,
and probably still think, that what you did was special. Somehow set
you
apart. Like you were going to do more for the UWF and its roster than
vice versa. How you were going to do that while feuding with Samantha
Daniels is beyond me.
[Trey exaggeratedly covers his open mouth with his hand, all the while
with a sarcastic "Oh no I didn't" expression on his face.]
TD: Now me? What you thought you were.....well, that's what _I_ am.
You
wanna talk special? You wanna talk accomplishments?
[DaMann licks his lips in anticipation. You know he won't miss out on
an
opportunity to brag about himself.]
TD: How about going undefeated my first two years here in the UWF? I
heard that a bunch of guys are talking about trying to go one year
without losing. Sorry for blowing your spot guys, but I've done that
twice in a row now. How about winning a championship and becoming the
role model for all other champions around here? I mean, I am a
title-holder who hasn't lost a match recently and someone who doesn't
need weapons and restraining devices to win them. All I rely on to
stay
a
dominating champion is an unbelievable amount of God-given talent. How
about being so amazing as a champion that a suitable contender
couldn't
be found for eight straight months? Well, I'm still waiting for one,
but
I guess the new Powers-That-Wannabe want to showcase my skills every
now
and again. I can live with that as long as it doesn't cut into my
movie
schedule. How about beating names that _everybody_ has heard of? How
about winning _major_ titles? How about being at the very top of this
profession at age 22? How about having the hottest cars, the hottest
toys, the hottest women, and so on, and so on, and so on?
[DaMann's smile starts to fade, replaced by a more serious look. It
somehow seems just as natural.]
TD: I'm sorry Juan, but you just don't compare in any way, shape, or
form. You're just not worth putting the effort in to beating you
before
the match. You're not going to be much of a challenge during the match
either, no matter what or who you think you are. You're not important,
you're not relevant, and you're just not good enough to win. I'm going
to
look good tonight, just like I do every night, and it's going to be at
your expense.
[Trey turns around and looks longingly at the celebration going on in
his
locker room without him.]
TD: That's the truth you have to realize, Juan. You're not a big deal
and
you're not really worth my time. I'm only going to put in enough
effort
out there with you to win convincingly and make my fans happy. After
that, I'll continue my meteoric rise and you'll go back to obscurity.
The
only thing left to be determined is how much of my party I'm willing
to
miss....
[Another Trillion Dollar Trey DaMann Smile!]
TD: And that is reason to celebrate.
[Trey spins around and opens the double doors to a loud cheer as the
scene fades back to ringside.
The scene fades into a shot of Juan Vasquez, dressed more like he's
ready
to shoot a round of golf with Tiger Woods than going bell-to-bell
and straight to hell with Trey DaMann. He clutches a golf club in his
right hand, walking at a brisk pace as various people hanging around
backstage give him a few strange looks. Looking straight ahead and
shoving everyone out of his way, Juan begins talking to the camera.
JV: I'm late.
[He glances down at his watch.]
JV: Really late.
[A sigh.]
JV: Guess I sorta' lost track of time.
[He smiles an apology.]
JV: I get a call from one of the suits in the front office raising
holy
hell telling me that I should've been in the arena like yesterday and
here we are. I don't think I got enough time to change into my gear,
but
that's alright...I guess. I mean, I still look pretty good as is,
right?
[Juan brushes by several people, using his golf club to clear a path.]
JV: When you've been wrestling at the top o' the card for God knows
how
many years, you kinda' take all your free time for granted. Silly me
for
assuming that I had an hour or two to work on my golf swing.
[He picks up the pace, beginning to lightly jog down the hall as the
camera tries to keep up with him.]
JV: Main event after main event after main event. Arenas and stadiums
soldout throughout the world 'cause people just wanna' get a glimpse
of
me but suddenly I'm all up in mid-card programming.
[He makes a turn around a corner and finds himself face-to-face with
the
refreshment area. He stops and takes a second to look over the food
spread . Almost as if he's forgotten that he's pressed for time, Juan
grabs something off the table, turning back to the camera gnawing on a
cookie.]
JV: I'm not bitter or anything, but there ain't no way I can be happy
'bout this.
[He takes a seat on the edge of the table, looking pretty damn
disgruntled despite his words.]
JV: When the UWF came a'knockin' at Juan's door, they promised me
fame.
They promised fortune. They promised me world titles. They promised me
riches beyond my wildest dreams. They promised me the goddamn world if
all I did was take that pen and sign on the dotted line. It was kinda'
endearing if you saw how desperate they were.
[He smiles...almost. Kinda hard to grin when you're chewing.]
JV: Well, I already had fame. I already had fortune. I already had
more
world titles than I knew what to do with. And hell, I was already rich
beyond my wildest dreams. What the hell else could they promise me
that
I
couldn't get anywhere else? What'd they have to offer me 'sides "Luke
Kinsey's salary + $1?"
[Juan wipes the crumbs from his mouth, flicking them back onto the
table
cloth. Real classy there, Juan.]
JV: They promised me competition.
[A slight frown appears on his face.]
JV: It worked for awhile...I guess. But I ain't exactly been happy
with
the quality of my opposition, lately. Hell, I'll be honest. I ain't
been
happy about my situation here for awhile, now.
[He gets off the table, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt and
resting his 9-iron on his right shoulder.]
JV: Now, no offense to Trey DaMann...
[A pause.]
JV: ...well, actually I don't give a s[bleep] if he's offended.
[He shrugs.]
JV: But he ain't exactly what I envisioned when they promised me
"competition."
[The look of indifference on Juan's face screams, "Yeah, I just said
that. Gonna' do something about it?"]
JV: Sure, he's got a nice, shiny, "insignificant in my eyes" title
'round
his waist and the extra nice distinction of bein' the idiot that damn
near cost all of us our jobs, but lets be realistic here. While this
might be 'bout ten steps forward in the career of Trey DaMann...
[He raises his left arm and uses his index and middle fingers to
pantomime legs moving forward.]
JV: ...this s[bleep] is 'bout twenty steps back for the career of Juan
Vasquez.
[He abruptly drops his arm back back down to his side.]
JV: What this is people, is a slap in the goddamn face.
[He's serious, too. The look on his face is one of a man that's not
amused at the direction of his career.]
JV: What the UWF is telling me is that I've outlived my usefulness.
[Juan lowers his head and tightens his grip on the handle of his golf
club.]
JV: What they're telling me is that I'm no longer a marquee name.
[He raises it into the air...]
JV: WHAT THEY'RE TELLING ME IS THAT I'M A WORTHLESS PIECE OF CRAP
THAT'S
GOTTA' WRESTLE A MOTHERF[bleep]IN' NEVER-WAS LIKE TREY DAMANN...
[...and thinks better of ruining the food spread, lowering his arm.]
JV: ...and that just ain't acceptable.
[...]
JV: That just ain't acceptable.
[At that moment, the sounds of "Conceited Bastard" can be heard
playing
inside the Garden. Juan turns his head to the direction of the music,
not
looking particularly enthused. Turning his gaze back to the camera,
Juan
smirks and gives a wink to the camera, before running off into the
direction of the curtains to make a fashionably late entrance. Fade
out.]
____ ___ __ _____________
| | \/ \ / \_ _____/
S | | /\ \/\/ /| __) SATURDAY NIGHT RAMPAGE
N | | / \ / | \--------------------------
R |______/ \__/\ / \___ / Writer: Mike Beeby
\/ \/
FOR THE UNIFIED TELEVISION CHAMPIONSHIP:
Trey DaMann[c] versus Juan Vasquez
-------------------------------------------------------
[As "Conceited Bastard" continues, the crowd lets out a wild pop.]
DH: The first match of the evening is scheduled for one fall and is
for
the Unified Television Championship! Introducing first, from Los
Angeles, California, weighing in at two hundred and thirty-eight
pounds...
JUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN VAAAAAASQUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEEEZ!
[And all eyes turn in anticipation to the entrance portal, but after a
few seconds, Vasquez still doesn't appear.]
SS: What, did he get lost on the way out here?
DR: We just saw him backstage, not exactly dressed in the proper gear.
Maybe he stopped by the locker room to change first?
[The crowd murmurs with the music playing right through, and Debs
shrugs
her shoulders before repeating the earlier announcement.
DH: Introducing... from Los Angeles, California, weighing in at two
hundred and thirty-eight pounds...
JUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN VAAAAAASQUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEEEZ!
[And now suddenly, we see Juan Vasquez burst through the curtains,
dressed in clothing...not fit for wrestling. His attire consists of a
powder blue argyle sweater vest, a white dress-shirt underneath,
khakis,
and spiked golf shoes. In his hand, he holds what appears to be a
9-iron.
Racing down to the ring, Juan slides in underneath the bottom rope
gets
to his feet, and bending over and placing a hand over his heart to
catch
his breath.]
AM: Juan Vasquez doesn't look like he's prepared for a wrestling match
tonight.
SS: But hey, at least he's dressed nice.
[Standing up straight, he takes one deep breath and tosses the golf
club
out of the ring, before throwing his arms out and yelling, "I MADE
IT!"
However, there's still one problem, which the referee points out to
Juan.]
DR: Is he making him take off his shoes?
AM: Well, you can't wrestle with spikes.
SS: Pffft. This is what's wrong with sports today. Spoiled and
pampered
athletes afraid of a little contact! So what of Juan could potentially
maim or cripple someone with a simple kick? I'd say reward him for
such
innovation!
AM: Uh...yeah.
[Now barefoot, but ready to go, Juan settles in a neutral corner,
waiting
for his opponent. The lights suddenly go out, and a gold spotlight
hits
the stage area while "Lovin' Every Minute Of It" blares over the
speakers. His customary shower of gold fireworks falling down from
the
rafters, a large figure emerges from behind the curtain.]
DH: And the champion! From Southern California, weighing in at two
hundred and sixty-five pounds...
TREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!
[Trey DaMann raises his outstretched arms towards the uppermost
corners
of the arena, looks directly above to the sky, then slowly tilts his
head
forward....revealing the Trillion Dollar Trey DaMann Smile! Walls of
sparks continue to fall to the ground behind him as he makes his slow,
methodical walk to the ring. Trey clutches the title belt in his
hands
and never looks anyone else in the eye as he makes his way. Vasquez
stands in the corner, barefoot and watching DaMann with disdain.]
DR: No love lost from the competitors here, Juan made it pretty clear
a
few minute ago that he doesn't exactly see DaMann as much competition.
And let's face it, DaMann doesn't really consider anybody to be
suitable
competition.
SS: Well, just what's he done lately to earn a title shot?
[Trey starts the match off with a stomp of Juan's bare foot,
immediately
drawing boos from the crowd for such a cheap tactic. Once the bell
rings, and after the official start to the match he grabs Juan with a
side headlock. Juan tries to escape and throws DaMann into the ropes,
but gets thrown to the mat with a return shoulderblock. DaMann waits
for
Vasquez to rise again and hits a clothesline, one that sends his
opponent
to the far corner to regroup.]
SS: And he wonders why he's not considered a marquee player anymore.
DR: I'm a little surprised myself to see Vasquez on the receiving end
like this, especially when it's pretty obvious Trey is holding back on
his offense.
AM: Holding back like it's the 1980's.
[Trey climbs the turnbuckle and starts to deliver mounted punches to
Juan's skull, but Vasquez breaks free midway through a ten count and
pulls DaMann down, kicks him in the back of the knee and delivers a
standing dropkick that smashes the champion's face right into the
second
turnbuckle. It's Trey's turn to regroup as he rolls around and sits
in
the corner, and Juan begins to stomp away until the champion blocks a
kick and knocks Vasquez off of his feet. DaMann rises up and grabs
Juan
with a front facelock, delivering knees to the stomach and whips him
into
the ropes for another clothesline. Juan rolls to the side of the ring
and out to the floor, clearly to break the flow of the match.]
DR: A bit of a respite for Vasquez, I wonder if this is ring rust
that's
slowing the former champion down. Afterall, we haven't seen him in
action for quite some time now.
SS: Stop giving him excuses. He's lost whatever so-called 'magic' he
had.
[DaMann grabs Juan as he steps through the ropes and hooks a facelock.
With his foe stretched out across the ropes Trey delivers several
pounding sledgehammer shots across the back before dropping him and
letting Vasquez hit the mat. He goes for a quick cover: 1 -- 2 --
Kickout!]
AM: Alright, I don't know what's going on here but neither of these
two
seem interested in even being here. DaMann's acting like this is all
beneath him, and god only knows what's going through Juan Vasquez's
mind.
[DaMann rolls to his feet and grabs Vasquez again, pulling on the
sweater
vest and yanking him up into a front chancery. Trey goes for the
Trillion Dollar DDT...only Juan shifts weight in mid-lift and lands
behind him. He spins Trey around and cracks him across the face with
his
right cross punch. The sell is slightly comical, as Trey himself is
spun
around by the force of the blow and falls to the canvas in almost slow
motion, flat on his face. Juan apparently hurts his hand punching Trey
as
hard as humanly possible in the face, cursing audibly as he tries to
shake the feeling back into it.
A few seconds later, Juan runs and dives on top of DaMann with a
senton
backsplash.]
DR: Tommy Stephens-Style Senton! Here's a cover! ONE! TWO!
THR-NO!
SS: Hey, either of you know who this Tommy Stevens guy is?
AM: Nope.
DR: Doesn't ring a bell.
[Just a few hundredths of a second away from losing his title snaps
Trey
out of his delusions, and he scampers to the corner and stares at Juan
as
if he's got 17 heads. Eyes bugged out, jaw dropped, Trey cowers in
the
corner with Juan rolling nimbly back to his feet.]
AM: Well looks like someone just got woken up from his daydream.
DR: Juan with a step-up enzuigiri kick to the head! Down goes DaMann!
[With the match now firmly back into his control, Juan gets a bit
cockier, nudging a lifeless Trey with the toe of his... well, toes.
He
looks out into the audience and shrugs... before stomping him in the
back
of the head. Apparently Trey was faking death, because as soon as his
face is compressed under Juan's boot, he howls in pain, rolling on the
canvas and clutching his now bloodied, possibly broken nose. With
Trey
rolling around in pain, Juan takes the opportunity to grab Trey and
rub
his face into the canvas. Just being a bully now, Vasquez rises back
to
his feet and the crowd cheers loudly.]
AM: Uh oh. Happy learned how to putt.
SS: I've always hated that movie.
[Vasquez yanks Trey to his feet and sets him up in the corner, but
soon
propels him across the ring with a cross-corner whip and follows up
almost immediately with a jumping knee-strike into the back of Trey's
head. He staggers around and walks right into a Rydeen Bomb to the
canvas, but Trey rolls to the outside apron before Juan can try a
cover.
He gets back to his feet, still quite dazed but manages to block
Juan's
attack with a neck snap on the top rope, and slingshots back into the
ring with a bodypress rolling right on top of Vasquez. He hooks the
tights and tries for the cover: 1 -- 2 -- Shoulder up!
Both men slowly get back up, Trey using a sudden elbow to the mouth to
soften up Vasquez and whips him into the ropes, sidesteps an attempted
spear and off the rebound catches Vasquez with a fireman's carry into
a
flapjack. DaMann tries to hook a leg, but only gets a two count off
of
the impact. Trey pulls him up and swings with an elbow, but Vasquez
ducks it and tries to hit an expoder suplex. Trey uses an elbowsmash
and
hits a gutbuster, before driving Juan into the mat with a quick
powerbomb. DaMann again hooks the leg: 1 -- 2 -- Juan gets a hand on
the
rope to break the count.]
DR: The champion DaMann seems more interested in just saving the title
and ending the match now, perhaps more of a sense of urgency?
AM: That's a safe bet.
[Trey grabs Vasquez by the hair and yanks him to a standing position
again, his face showing a flash of anger now. A whip to the ropes and
Trey prepares to hit a backdrop, but instead Juan surprises him with a
running straight kick to the top of his head.
Juan backs a dazed and confused Trey into a corner and peppers him
with
a steady stream of right hands, that slowly speed up until his arm
becomes a blur. Eventually, Trey slowly begins to slump, until he's
finally dropped seated in the corner, propped up only by the
turnbuckle.
At this point, Juan drives a few knees into Trey's face, before making
a
slow trot out of the corner and to the opposite side of the ring. With
a
head full of steam, he runs straight at Trey... and baseball slides
him
right in the family jewels. This is just getting nasty.
Juan drags him out of the corner and quickly flips over into a pin
attempt: 1 -- 2 -- Kickout!]
AM: One second off of crowning a new Television Champion! That'll
make
Trey sit up and take notice.
[DaMann crawls to the ropes and starts to pull himself up, Vasquez
taking
time to methodically continue the assault with knees to the kidneys.
Trey groans in pain and the challenger bends over to pick DaMann right
back up, but is instead greeted by a thumb to the eye. A handful of
hair
is more than enough for Trey to send his opponent crashing to the
outside
of the ring, giving himself a bit of a breather.]
DR: Trey DaMann finally able to break the momentum of the challenger,
one
way or another.
AM: Serves him right for taking the match so lightly in the beginning.
[DaMann rolls to the outside of the ring to join Juan and an immediate
kick to the side of the head keeps things in his control. Trey
batters
Juan around the ringside area, ramming him into various things. He
sets
Juan's head against the ringpost, intending to punt him in the skull,
but
Juan evades at the last second, dropping onto his back and lifting his
leg into the air, catching Trey right in the groin. He then lifts Trey
up
for what appears to be a back suplex, only to ram him face/crotch-
first
into the ringpost! Juan's clearly out of control now, and the crowd
cheers heavily as DaMann is on the cusp of getting what's coming to
him.]
SS: I don't care what he's done, that's just not cool!
DR: Vasquez back to his feet... he's going for the golf club! MY GOD,
VASQUEZ HAS THAT CLUB AS A WEAPON!
[He grabs his golf club and swings... and just narrowly misses. He
swings
again, only to be restrained by... well, a bevy of security personnel.
In response, Trey grabs the nearest object to himself, a steel chair,
and
likewise tries to swing at Vasquez. The security forces manage to
intercept the chair as well, as the bell rings on account of the
referee
throwing the match out.]
DR: Well thank goodness security was right on the ball tonight, the
last
thing the UWF needs is another near murder on live TV again.
AM: It's kind of funny, Juan basically tries to kill Trey because he
got
UWF kicked off TV, but he almost manages to do the same thing. Ironic,
ain't it?
DR: We'll be back with the next match in a moment.
[Backstage.]
VO - "November 2004."
[The crowd begins to pop, a mixture of heel and surprise, as standing
there is none other than "Modern Messiah" Setzer Van Strife. Clearly,
Van
Strife isn't there to compete, clad in a black Armani suit with a
white
shirt and royal blue tie, but the point is that he's _here_. No
trademark
sunglasses. No cocky smirk. No arrogant demeanor. Just him.]
SVS - "That's the last time I was in the ring, the last time I thought
I'd step foot in front of a camera like this. I'd just won a match in
some two-bit promotion against some two-bit hack, and I sat backstage
wondering what the hell I was doing there. I'd been all over the
world,
had faced some of the best in the business, and was a big
superstar..."
[A pause.]
SVS - "...even if in my own mind."
[He paces for a moment, collecting his thoughts.]
SVS - "I was 25 years old, had been wrestling for seven years, and had
become a joke of my former self. The Lynch Mob was long gone. Hostile
Takeover was just a memory. Allies and enemies alike were retiring one
by
one, and I sat there wondering if it was time for me to do the same.
And
right there, in my 'epiphany' moment, I decided my own early fate.
What was left for me to achieve? I'd been to the 'spotlight' places,
wrestled the 'spotlight' wrestlers, and even won my share of titles.
The
'new breed' of wrestler wasn't up to my standard, so why would I waste
my
time and further injure myself? It didn't make sense to me.
So I left it all right there."
[He finally addresses the camera.]
SVS - "I've had a great deal of success since then. I've opened and
headed up one of the most successful wrestling schools in Chicago. I
have
become CEO of Lynch Mob Productions, which is on the verge of becoming
the 'next big thing' in the movie industry. But I digress... this
isn't
about my resume; it's about why I'm standing here tonight.
I honestly thought the drive to compete left. I've made a surprise
appearance here and there, done some managerial work for a few of my
students to help their careers, but other than that it's been all
behind
the scenes work. But lately, something has been eating at me. And a
few
weeks ago, it all came to a head, the reason I'm like this."
[Another pause.]
SVS - "As I was helping one of my graduates find a place to wrestle,
I'd
heard from one of my contacts that the UWF was in some kind of
trouble.
I'd managed to track down a copy of Night of Champions, and seeing
that
lit some kind of fire deep inside me... no pun intended."
[For the first time, the cocky smirk appears. The crowd boos.]
SVS - "Then I come to find out that Alex Martinez, a guy I came up
with,
is the World Champion. Granted, things have changed since the show,
but
that's neither here nor there. I sat back and wondered to myself 'What
makes _him_ so special? What got _him_ to that point?'
And _that_ is what fueled my fire, what brought me back to the UWF."
[He turns full attention towards the camera.]
SVS - "I don't expect a hero's welcome. I don't expect an immediate
ticket to the spotlight. I'm sure I'm not well liked by anyone here.
I'm
sure the executives don't care for me because of my last stint,
wrestlers
don't care for me because I didn't do some lavish redebut, and fans
don't
care for me because, let's face it, I'm a big prick.
Do I care about any of them? Let me rephrase... have I _ever_ cared?"
[Van Strife shakes his head.]
SVS - "Nope."
[The cocky smirk appears once again.]
SVS - "So here I am, UWF. Back once again to raise some hell. I don't
have Devon Case and Simon Bach at my side. I don't have a guaranteed
rivalry with Sabbath. It's just me. I won't stop until I have what I
want, and I'll stop at _nothing_ to get it. So bring it on, UWF. If a
guy
like Alex Martinez can live in the limelight, I can do the same."
[Van Strife bows his head, his hands folded, ready for a catchphrase.]
SVS - "That, friends, is the word according to the 'Modern Messiah.'"
[Fade.]
DR: I don't believe it, Setzer Van Strife is back in the UWF! Of all
things I never thought I'd see, that has to rank up there.
[The screen becomes a deep blue background. While not bright, it is
certainly not rich. Maybe if it WAS bright it'd be blinding. If there
were small animals jumping out of magic balls and fighting one
another,
Japanese children would be having epileptic seizures. But that is a
whole
other segment that we just don't have time to address. After all this
is
a paid spot. Just read the text that's atop this deep blue, rich but
not
bright, background.]
THE FOLLOWING IS A PAID MESSAGE BY THE MBC.
[There is a pause. Dramatic effect and all that. Then the MBC part of
the
text expands to read...]
METROPLEX BROADCAST CONSULTING
[So now that you've had the chance to read the above text, the
disclaimer
pops up.]
*Not associated with Metroplex Bridge Cleaning*
[Now with THAT out of the way, the deep blue fades away, leading us to
an
office. It'd be rather presidential if it wasn't for the card table
used
as a desk or the various cleaning products sitting on shelves behind
it.
But it's not the area that matters. It's the man. THE man. But more
than
a man. A bastard. THE bastard. You get the idea.]
KL: My fellow North Americans. Hello to my friends in the United
States.
Howdy to my compadres in Canada eh. Hola, mi amigos y mi amigas en
Mexico.
[This of course would be former UWF World Champion and former owner
and
president of the MBC, "The Doomsayer" Kyle Lee. Presently he is the..
owner and president of the MBC. Think about it and it'll make sense.
Trust me.]
KL: It's good to be in front of you again here in the comfort of my
new
office. Sure, it may not look like much. To be completely honest, it's
not. All it really is, is a supply closet with a few things moved out.
My
assistant Allison Chambers, whom many of you saw several shows ago,
has
the better of the desks outside. I can deal with a table that's a
little
lopsided. There are tools to correct that sort of thing.
[He reaches over and lifts up his walking cane and twirls it around a
few
times before setting it back down.]
KL: Most importantly, I wanted to stress my open door policy. Anyone
who
wishes to come to see me to seek advice or even to shoot the [MEEP],
they're welcome to come. And perhaps in this odd little makeshift
office
you'll see that many things come with humble beginnings. What is a
supply
closet today, could be a corner office with a window and wet bar
tomorrow. Think about it. Trust me.
[A voice from off screen calls in.]
AC: Boss, you need to get to the point. You're being wordy again.
[Lee only smiles.]
KL: Thank you Allison. It's a wonder she's single.
AC: I heard that!
KL: I kid because I love. Anyways, as many of you may remember, I
spoke
to you all last week about "Inspiration". This week, I wanted to speak
to
you about "Motivation." Now I'm sure some of you may think that
they're
the same thing. Not quite. Similar yes, but different. Strictly
defined,
"inspiration" is the power of moving the intellect or emotions. That
in
itself is fine, but what then once you're inspired? You need
"motivation"
which is the need or desire that causes a person to act. See the
difference?
[Lee leans back in his chair, crossing his fingers behind his head.
Very
Ferris Bueller like.]
KL: Maybe, maybe not. For some things, there isn't a difference. You
may
take a look around and be inspired by the beauty of life. It may give
you
all sorts of ideas for painting or sculpture. But it may not
necessarily
motivate you to pick up that brush or that chisel. The same thing
applies
to our wonderful industry. You may be inspired by those that come
before
you. You may aspire to get the gold. But is that enough to motivate
you
to do something about it? Its about emotion and action ladies and
gentlemen. They go so hand in hand that you may not even see the
difference.
For me, the people are what inspire me. The cheers, the yells, the
screams. All get me worked up. But even with the best of intent, there
are days that I just can't get out of bed. I just want to lie there
all
day. But I know I can count on a motivating factor. Usually It's a
redhead with a pitchfork or butcher knife. I tell you, there's nothing
scarier than a woman wanting blood for no reason other than to get
your
lazy ass in gear.
AC: She's probably going to kill you for saying that.
KL: She's probably going to kill me for a lot of things. Have I ever
told
you running for your life is better than a treadmill?
AC: Endlessly.
KL: Keep that in mind. And the same to you my good people. Repetition
is
the part of any good lesson. Buckle down and look for both your
"Inspiration" and "Motivation". Trust me friends. In the end, all of
this
will make sense.
[Lee leans back in his chair and smiles as the camera fades.]
SS: Does he get more senile as the years pass, or is it all the pain
medication?
AM: Shut up, Sam.
[Cut to backstage. Moe Owens is standing with "The All-Around Athlete"
Laura Davis, who is dressed in a pair of black sweats and an Indiana
State University T-shirt.]
MO: Laura Davis, you are not scheduled to be wrestling tonight. What
brings you here?
[Laura gives Moe a look that seems to say "what kind of a question is
that."]
MO: Um... I...
LD: Owens, stop your stammering if you want an answer.
[She turns to the camera.]
LD: Seems as though the words I had for the UWF women's division
didn't
sit well with its current champion. Seems as though she felt the need
to
go to bat for a division that's been plagued with
less-than-satisfactory
talent for many years.
Well, it's time to dish out what the truth really is... and that's
been,
ever since Browne became the champion, just look at who they've been
trotting out to face her since then.
Starting with the former champion... you think people remember Donna
Tetreault for her wrestling? No, they remember her for being the first
woman Brian McKenzie ever laid.
[She wrinkles her nose and rolls her eyes.]
LD: Some champion to be defeating, indeed. And then who ends up being
the first people getting trotted out as challengers?
Tara Marshall? The last remains of the Bod Squad, need I say more.
Moira Faith? Freak of nature, and that's all I have to say there.
You want the truth, Browne? I'll give it to you... you were, at one
time,
one of the greats.
But here... you've been accepting the mediocrity, the beauty queens,
the
lunatics, the lessers that they've been trotting out.
[She folds her arms.]
LD: And by accepting that mediocrity, you are just bringing yourself
down
to that level of mediocrity.
And I'm here to change that... to bring to the UWF women's division a
real wrestler... a real athlete... somebody who can actually provide
the
champion with a real test.
MO: That sounds like you are challenging Sierra Browne... and so soon
upon your arrival.
[Laura turns to Moe.]
LD: Challenge? Owens, my challenge I first made was to any women's
wrestler who thought she could handle me. It was answered and she
failed.
The way I see it, Browne is the one challenging me.
Now, I understand how things work... the UWF brass says you have to
prove
yourself. I can accept that... in fact, I live for that.
[She turns back to the camera.]
LD: So to the entire women's division, I'll give it to you straight...
I
have an open contract for the next Rampage. Any one of you who is up
for
it... sign it.
And as for you, Browne... nothing would please me more to get you in
that
ring, but you know how it is with championship committees.
But if you want me that badly... you threw the challenge. Knock down
the
doors of those committees and tell them you want me in that ring. And
then I'll show you and the UWF just who is worthy of representing
women's
wrestling.
[She hooks a thumb to herself.]
LD: Me.
[Fade out.
The upper levels of Madison Square Garden. Or more specifically, by
the
skyboxes. Two men step up to a door with a window in it.
"Smiling Pitbull" Jacen Benedict.
"Preying Wolf" Ronan Benedict.
The War Hounds, still waiting for their in-ring debut.]
JB: You sure this is the one?
[Ronan nods in the affirmative.]
RB: Yeah, Don said she's been here all night.
[Jacen's dressed in a short-sleeved black t-shirt with an assortment
of
American flag-wrapped skulls on it with razor wire surrounding them,
blue
denim jeans, and hiking boots on his feet. Along with the spiked
flail
and chains on the back of his partially shaved head - and around
either
side of his neck, and a second, much smaller tattoo is visible on the
inside of his right forearm. His physique is thick, but there is
still
some muscle definition.
Ronan on the other hand, sports a plain white wifebeater, blue denim
jeans, and black boots on his feet. A small tattoo is barely visible
on
the back of his neck beneath shoulder-length straight hair that's
slightly wavy near the ends. A second, larger tattoo is also visible
on
his right shoulder. Unlike his brother, Ronan's physique is much more
defined, and lacks Jacen's thickness.]
JB: Well, let's hope he's right.
RB: Think we should knock?
[Jacen looks at his brother sideways.]
JB: Think she'd answer?
[Ronan ponders that for a second.]
RB: Good point.
[Jacen opens the door and both men step inside. As they let their
eyes
adjust to the sudden darkness that consumes the room, the two men also
try to scan their surroundings in search of their sister.]
JB: F[BLEEP]k, dead end again. She ain't here.
[There's a small movement from behind the two, and off slightly to the
side. What appears to be a piece of metal catches light from the
hallway, reflecting it into the lens as a woman's voice chimes in -
cold,
ominous, and _deadly_.]
V: Or maybe she is.
["Poison Bliss" Myra Benedict.
[It's at this time that our own eyes adjust, picking out Myra's
features
and clothing amidst the gloom. Well, and the arena's many lights send
rays of illumination randomly into the room. Myra's dressed for
battle,
sporting her maroon sports bra, matching medium-length shorts, black
knee
pads, and maroon wrestling boots with black laces. She rounds out her
gear with the usual black elbow pad on her left elbow, and maroon
fingerless gloves on both hands. As always, her wavy, dark brown hair
with red highlights falls down around her shoulders, framing her
scarred
face. And in her right hand, she holds a small knife to Jacen's neck.
He realizes it instantly, but doesn't try to get out of harm's way, or
even appear worried for that matter.]
PBMB: So now that I have both of your attention - and Jacen's life in
my
hands, will you beg for mercy?
RB: We didn't come here to play human chess, Myra.
[She chuckles at the reference.]
PBMB: And yet here you are, and placed in Check by one simple move.
How
ironic. But our dear older brother still hasn't answered my question.
[She pulls her blade closer to his skin, her tone menacing.]
PBMB: Will you plea for mercy, Jacen?
[She brings the knife to his flesh, even drawing a little blood. Yet
Jacen doesn't even flinch. When he speaks, there's no fear whatsoever
in
his voice.]
JB: [firmly] No, never.
[So she draws the blade across his skin a bit more, drawing more
blood.
But not cutting anywhere near deep enough to cause concern. And
again,
Jacen doesn't even flinch.]
PBMB: Are you sure?
[Jacen remains perfectly calm.]
JB: Positive. In fact, I know you won't follow through on your
threat.
[Myra chuckles, a note of genuine curiosity in her voice.]
PBMB: What makes you so sure, hmmm?
JB: You forget something, Myra. There was a time when you, me, and
Ronan
were inseparable. Nothing was gonna' stop us. And sure that piece of
sh[BLEEP]t Kisler turned you against us, and made you into a
sociopathic
bitch...
[Myra instinctively repositions her arm to make a deep cut, but
doesn't
start it just yet.]
JB: But like it or not, you're still our sister. Which means
regardless
of what changes Kisler's made, you'll never have it in you to take
Ronan's or my life. Or even Sonya's, for that matter. We all know
that
deep down inside, past all the Bloodhorn bullsh[BLEEP]t, you're not
that
kinda' person.
[All the while, Ronan's nodding his head in agreement.]
RB: He's right. You had a golden opportunity to finish me off after
my
first fight with Kisler. He was even encouraging you to. But
instead,
you let me get away.
[Myra rolls her eyes.]
PBMB: You took advantage of a brief distraction, Ronan. Nothing more.
[She circles around to face Jacen, keeping her knife in a threatening
position.]
PBMB: And your theory is flawed, albeit amusing, Jacen. Darrin is a
master at his craft. It may take time, but ultimately, no-one can
withstand his methods of corruption. Once corruption is
accomplished...
everything the person once was, everything _weak_...
[She smirks fiendishly.]
PBMB: Is gone forever.
[Not saying another word, she retracts her knife hand from Jacen's
throat, and sets the blade aside. Jacen and Ronan glance at eachother
and nod in a moment of silent understanding of what just happened.
Myra
notices it, but doesn't press the issue. Either they were right all
along - and she knows it, or she's leading them on.]
RB: That may be true, but Jacen, Sonya, and I will never give up
trying
to prove you wrong.
[Jacen nods.]
JB: Besides, Kisler's taken our sister away from us. And we'll do
whatever it takes to get you back. Even if it kills us.
[Myra's signature fiendish smirk returns to her lips once more.]
PBMB: That's easy. Join me in Bloodhorn.
[Taking a step towards his sister, Ronan shakes his head no.]
RB: Been there. Done that. Didn't work.
[Myra folds her arms across her chest.]
PBMB: Then I guess you're out of options. Pity that. You both would
prove to be invaluable additions in our cause to attain Absolution.
But
for now, I must prepare for little Sammy Daniels. Who knows, she
might
be more receptive.
JB: Alright, we'll leave you be. Just think about what we said, okay?
[But Myra isn't responding, already deep in thought strategizing about
her approaching match. The War Hounds make their exit and close the
door
behind them, sending the skybox back into darkness. Fade back to the
arena, as Samantha Daniels is in the process of making her entrance to
the ring.]
DR: Coming up in the next bout, Myra Benedict returns to singles
competition after several months of the tag team scene to face
Samantha
Daniels.
AM: Moira Faith's departure came as a shock to everyone in the
company,
but I think Myra might have been caught off guard more than anyone
else.
But she's more than capable of being a huge threat in the singles
division now.
DR: And Samantha is sure to be chomping at the bit for some action,
after
Donna Tetreault prevented her from taking part in the match to crown
the
first ever Women's North American Champion.
SS: As far as I'm concerned, Sammie's got a long way to go to try and
restore her family's reputation. Lord knows her father doesn't have
what
it takes anymore. Sad days for the Daniels family.
AM: We'll see about that after this match.
____ ___ __ _____________
| | \/ \ / \_ _____/
S | | /\ \/\/ /| __) SATURDAY NIGHT RAMPAGE
N | | / \ / | \--------------------------
R |______/ \__/\ / \___ / Writer: Mike Beeby
\/ \/
WOMEN'S DIVISION MATCH:
"Poison Bliss" Myra Benedict versus Samantha Daniels
-------------------------------------------------------
DH: The following contest is scheduled for one fall. Already in the
ring
at this time, from Minneapolis, Minnesota...
SAAAAAAAAAAMMANTHAAAAAAAAA DAAAAAAANIIIIIEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLSSS!
[Samantha raises an arm to the crowd in appreciation, then the lights
dim
to almost pitch dark as a deep, low horn is heard, ushering in the
fast
paced introductory riff of My Dying Bride's "She Is The Dark". The
deep
horn returns as the introductory riff ends.]
DH: ...And now, hailing from Grand Rapids, Michigan, weighing in at
one
hundred and forty-six pounds...
"POOOOOOISOOOOON BLIIIIISS" MYYYYYYYYYYYYRAAAA BEEEEEENNNNNNNNEDICT!
[The curtains ruffle as the main guitar riff of "She Is The Dark"
kicks
in. "Poison Bliss" Myra Benedict steps through the curtains and onto
the
stage, arousing a heel pop from the crowd. She wears a maroon sports
bra, a black elbow pad on her left arm, and maroon fingerless gloves
on
both hands. She also wears medium length, maroon shorts. As well,
Myra
wears black knee pads and maroon wrestling boots. She stands
motionless
on the stage, ignoring the crowd as dark eyes stare at the ring.
She slowly turns and starts down to the ring, the look of total
concentration on her face as she mentally prepares herself for the
approaching battle. She doesn't swing her arms, doesn't flirt or
taunt
the crowd in any way. Upon getting to the ring she tests the ropes
several times before stepping over the second rope and into the ring.
Her music fades away as Samantha watches her from the opposite side of
the ring.
The bell rings and the two wrestlers lock up in the center of the
ring,
with a clear collar-to-elbow lock that Samantha actually controls for
the
first few moments, until a sweep of the leg allows Myra to take her
opponent down. Samantha comes back to her feet and Myra again motions
for the lock-up, so Daniels adjusts her strategy somewhat and avoids a
seond legsweep with a short jump that she turns into a hammerlock
behind
Myra's back. Benedict responds with an elbow to the jaw and a
reversal
of the hammerlock, before a kick to the back of the knee puts Sammie
on
the mat once more.]
DR: The experience of Benedict is certainly playing into things in the
early-going here, Samantha Daniels back on her feet again and here we
go
with another lockup.
AM: Monkeyflip by Samantha, that surprised Myra!
[Her grip still applied on Benedict, Samantha rolls backwards so that
she's now sitting on her chest with a pin attempt. 1 -- 2 -- Myra
bridges out, bucking Daniels off and breaking the grasp. Benedict
tries
a blind backwards kick to the head and misses by just a few inches,
and
Samantha is able to take her down again with a scissors lock on the
thigh. Both women rolls to their feet at around the same time, and
newfound confidence is apparent on the face of Daniels. They start to
lock up yet again, but the kid gloves are off now and Myra blasts
Samantha with a front kick square in the chest that backs her right up
to
the corner and allows for a running European uppercut that rattles her
cage. Myra pulls her from the corner and hits a head-and-arm suplex
before rolling over for the cover: 1 -- 2 -- Kickout by Samantha!]
SS: No more Miss Nice Guy, Sammie. You better have your working shoes
on
or Benedict'll kick your head off of your shoulders.
DR: Myra grabs Daniels by the head, pair of elbows by Samantha lets
her
escape though. Standing dropkick by Daniels, and Myra to the corner.
Here she comes again, running clothesline in the corner... no! Myra
with
a back kick, caught Samantha right on the hip!
[Daniels clutches at her side, but Myra is like a surgeon with quick,
precise elbows right to the weakened area. After a pair of quick
slaps
designed to surprise more than hurt, Myra kneels with both of her
knees
planted right on Samantha's hipbone and uses her arms to try and bend
Daniels into a U shape. Rocking onto her back she's able to elevate
Sammie off the mat, and she struggles to shut out the pain as the ref
asks her repeatedly. She finally escapes, after coming close to a
submission and grabs the nearest rope to help her return to her feet.
Myra is right back on her with a knife-edge chop dangerously close to
the
throat, then whips her across the ring.]
DR: Samantha tries another dropkick, Myra just walks out of the way!
[Daniels, having crashed and burned, slaps the mat in anger as she
returns to her feet, only to be caught in a vice-like grip that Myra
turns into a double chicken-wing. She tries to lift Daniels up but
Sammie counters by struggling and breaks free, turns around and belts
her
with a spinning kick to the stomach. Off the ropes comes Samantha
with
a
flying forearm, but Myra counters the speed by half catching Daniels
and
spiking her into the mat with a NASTY STO! The crowd groans after the
impact, and the lifeless body of Daniels lies looking up at the
lights.]
SS: Call it a day, folks. That young girl is DONE.
DR: Benedict trying for the cover here, hooks a leg...
ONE!
TWO!
THREE- NO! I don't believe it, Daniels kicks out!
AM: No way! Maybe she has some of her father's instincts afterall,
because that would've knocked a normal person out cold.
[Samantha slowly sits up, but Myra hooks a seated full nelson to
prevent
her from rising up. Daniels struggles and tries to roll onto her
side,
but Myra releases half of the nelson and belts her in the previously
targetted hip again. Daniels rolls onto her stomach now as Myra
completely lets go, and drops a knee into the back of her neck.
Benedict gets up first and roughly drags Samantha by the hair to the
corner, then pulls her up and tries a short-arm clothesline. Samantha
is
alert enough to duck however and with sudden impact she manages to hit
a
german suplex on Myra! Samantha bridges into a pin: 1 -- 2 --
Kickout!
And suddenly, the Unitron flares up into life and the New York crowd
bursts into boos as they spy just who's up there: namely, the Queen
of
the Bastards herself, Donna Tetreault. Donna dressed rather oddly for
the occasion, wearing a mortar board, a scholar's black robes and
wielding a pointer. She clears her throat in an exaggerated fashion.]
DT: [affecting a "posh" British accent] Good evening, ladies and
gentlemen and welcome to the educational portion of tonight's
festivities. Tonight, we will be examining the characteristics of
the subspecies known as "cuniculus inscius"...
[A picture of Samantha Daniels flashes up on the overhead projector
behind her.]
DT: ...more commonly known as the Dumb Bunny.
[Heel pop! Sammie turns back towards the Unitron and gets hit by a
vicious uppercut from Benedict for her troubles, sending the young
rookie
staggering back towards the ropes.]
AM: Oh, this is totally uncalled for! Donna Tetreault has no right to
continue to harass Samantha Daniels like this!
SS: Harassment? Please, Red...this is just Donna providing an
educational service for young Sammie out of the goodness of her heart.
DT: Now, the cuniculus inscius shares similar physical traits with its
sister subspecies, most notably with the puella mixta impossibilis,
the
moecha putida and the saltatrix tonsa. Note the vapid smile, the
unnatural perky breasts and the sad, shining eyes.
[Donna taps the projection with her pointer] Of particular interest,
pay
close attention to the overly mascaraed lashes here. Like the eyes
are
being attacked by tarantulas almost. A camoflauge trick perhaps?
We're
not certain...
[She shakes her head sadly.]
DT: ...still, it is a trait practically useless in the wild. But
don't
take my word for it. [Donna gestures down towards the ring, a slight
smirk now on her face.] Just see for yourself how truly out of her
element this poor pathetic creature is...
[The Unitron clicks off, and Myra drags a slow-moving Samantha back to
her feet and starts to lift her off the mat into a fireman's carry.
Daniels suddenly tries to fight back with two sharp elbows to the side
of
the head and then slides down into a sunset flip: 1 -- 2 -- KICKOUT!
Myra escapes and goes right for the throat of Samantha, but Sammie is
able to block a knee strike and knots Benedict up into a bow-and-arrow
style hold. It doesn't last however, but it does buy her enough time
to
get up before Myra, who takes another kick to the head to soften
Poison
Bliss up. Suddenly, Daniels unleashes a mighty roar as she storms at
Myra, backing her right into the corner and following up with a
succession of elbows until the referee has to physically separate her.
Not appreciating the advice from the ref, she may argue with him
opening
herself up a boot from Myra.]
DR: Samantha reaching down for a bevy of elbows, perhaps we gave up on
the rookie a little too soon. She's been on the receiving end of
quite
an attack, but at the same time she's still in this match.
[Myra hits the short-arm clothesline this time and turns it into
short-arm scissors, but Samantha grabs the ropes and forces her way
free.
Myra rises to her knees but Sammie drops her with a quick legdrop, and
grabs a leg for the pin: 1 -- 2 -- Foot on the ropes, and Myra tries
to
roll out of the ring. Samantha stops her with a handful of hair
though
and drags her back through the ropes, small packages her for another
pin!
1!
2!
Kickout! They both return to their feet and Myra strikes with a hard
chop, but Samantha returns fire just as fiercely. They hook arms and
each try to whip the other across the ring and Myra comes rebounding
back
at Samantha who ducks a heel kick. Daniels pulls her down into an
inside
cradle: 1 -- 2 -- Reversal by Myra: 1 -- 2 -- Samantha escapes and
goes
for a lateral press: 1 -- 2 -- Kickout by Benedict, and she quickly
grabs
Samantha's legs and rolls her over: 1 -- 2 -- Another reversal, by
Sammie, who not only tries for the cover but this time has a handful
of
tights as well! 1 -- 2 -- KICKOUT!]
DR: An incredible flurry of covers, wow!
SS: Yeah but what do you think of Daddy's Little Girl now? I saw that
handful of tights there, don't tell me you didn't.
[The stalemate results in both women trying to lunge forward, and
Samantha manages to get in position for yet another pin attempt: 1 --
2
-- not even a hand on the ropes is enough to keep Myra from kicking
out!
Heel pop!]
AM: Sammie's reaching into her father's bag of tricks, it would seem.
DR: I'd say she's trying to prove something to Donna Tetreault, that
she's willing to do whatever necessary to win.
[Samantha manages to clip Myra from behind to take her down, and heads
for the turnbuckles, proceeding to climb slowly while favoring her
hip.
Myra doesn't stay down however, picking herself up and soon she stops
Daniels with a pair of quick shots to the stomach and then pulls her
head
down to smash against the turnbuckle. With Samantha dazed, Myra
climbs
to the second turnbuckle and grasps Daniels for an eventual head spike
head and arm superplex into the canvas! Myra rolls on top for the pin
attempt: 1 -- 2 -- But a foot on the rope stops the count! POP!]
AM: Oh my god, was that ever close!
SS: Just a matter of time though, Sweet Sammie has to be close to the
end
of her rope.
[Benedict rises, grabbing Samantha and attempting to place her in a
triangle choke but Daniels gamely tries countering. A spinning
backfist
rocks Sammie and leaves her practically out on her feet against the
ropes, as the crowd is clearly behind Samantha as Myra sets up for the
killshot.]
DR: And it looks like we might be seeing the Shadow's Bane coming
right
up, or maybe the Purge of Innocence?
AM: Here she comes...
[Sammie D spins around in time to avoid what is indeed the Purge of
Innocence and instead blasts Myra with a boot of her own, into the
stomach that doubles Benedict up and sets her up for...]
DR: THE PRIDE BREAKE- What?!?
[The Unitron suddenly flashes back on, where Donna Tetreault (still in
her scholar get-up) stands. She taps the projection of Daniels and
clears her throat exaggeratedly again. Daniels tosses Myra to the mat
and again stares at the screen, apparently not having learned her
lesson
before.]
DT: ...of course, there are a few misguided defenders and apologists
of
the cuniculus inscius, claiming that what it lacks in actual skills
and
experience, it makes up for it in that most vaguest of terms: "Heart".
Now, while such defenders are only trying to be kind, what exactly do
they mean by "heart"? Sheer determination? Love? The ability to rip
the beating organ out of your enemy's chest ala "Indiana Jones and the
Temple of Doom"?
SS: I loved that flick. Best of the trilogy.
AM: She's distracting Samantha Daniels again! C'mon, Sammie...you're
so
close, you've got to ignore Donna!
DR: Daniels trying to lift Benedict now...powerbo--NO! Countered into
a
back drop by Myra!
[Up on the Unitron, Donna just smirks.]
DT: Now, some may say that I'm being unnecessarily cruel towards the
cuniculus inscius. That the Dumb Bunny has much to offer in terms of
potential talent.
[Her smirk twists into a bastardly grin.]
DT: To which I must repsond "Tough [MEEP]." We need only look at
another
so-called "sports prodigy" in Michelle Wie, a young woman who is
constantly coddled with sponsors' exemptions in tournaments, only to
find
out that when push comes to shove, the expectations fall painfully
short.
So it is the same with Miss Daniels, the sponsors' exemptions replaced
by
the status of her being Daddy's Little Girl. Trying desperately to
coast
on undeserved family reputation...
...and only choking on the weight of it all each and every time.
[And just as Donna finishes up, Benedict delivers a stinging heel kick
to
the base of Samantha's neck and she crumples right into a rollup by
Myra.
1!
2!
3!]
DH: Here is your winner... MYYYYYYRAAAAA
BENNNEEEEEEEEDIIIIIIIIIIIIIICT!
["She Is The Dark" comes over the PA system and Myra rolls from the
ring
matter-of-factly, not waiting for the official to raise her arm in
victory as she heads right up the aisle. Back in the ring, Samantha
rolls to her knees, with one hand on the back of her aching neck as
the
other one pounds the mat in frustration. Nevertheless the crowd
cheers
for the second generation wrestler even if it offers her no comfort.]
DR: A rookie mistake by Samantha leads to the victory by Poison Bliss
tonight. But the mark of a good wrestler is someone who can learn
from
these mistakes.
SS: And obviously she can't, she fell for the same thing twice in the
match. What are the odds she's adopted?
AM: SAM!
SS: Come on! She obviously doesn't have an ounce of Daniels blood in
her!
[A few more tense moments roll by, until Daniels rolls from the ring
and
heads to the back with an angered look still on her face.]
DR: Well up next is the first UWF match for one of the most
anticipated
newcomers we've ever had, a man we met last week in John Shock. And
it
wasn't a great first impression he gave to one Jessica "Fatality"
Marshall, who ended up wearing some of the trademark tobacco chew
Shock
is fond of.
SS: He's going to pay dearly for it, he's got Madison J. Valentine in
the
ring tonight. Oh yeah, and that drunk from Ireland too.
AM: I'm amazed we don't have an international television deal with a
host
like you.
DR: Moe Owens is standing by with Mr. Shock.
[Cut backstage to Moe Owens who is with the newest member of the UWF,
John Shock. The Texan wears his cowboy hat, a white vest and black
wrestling trunks and boots.]
MO: John Shock, tonight you make your debut with the Universal
Wrestling
Federation. The first question I have to ask you is what prompted you
to
come to UWF.
[John tips his hat up slightly.]
JS: Moe, I came ta the You-Dubya-Eff fer the same reason I go anywhere
else... ta find the best comp'tition I can find. And b'lieve me, it
don't
git any bettah than the You-Dubya Eff.
MO: You already crossed paths with Jessica Marshall... you are aware
of
the type of trouble she can cause?
JS: Trouble? I think what ya got ta undahstand is that if ya try ta
cause
trouble with me, I'm gonna give ya trouble right back. Now, I'll admit
what I did last Rampage wasn't 'zactly very gen'lemenly of me, but
like
I
said... that Marshall girl sure ain't no lady.
MO: Yet tonight you'll be in a match with one of her proteges, Madison
J.
Valentine.
JS: [nodding] I've seen what Em-Jay-Vee can do and I know jist how
good
he can be. That bein' said, if he's castin' his lot with this Marshall
girl, that may be his biz'ness, but it's also his loss. And jist like
anybody else I'd face in that ring, he'll learn that I ain't the guy
ya
wanna start trouble with.
MO: What about Michael Reilly? He could end up being the wild card in
this match.
JS: Wild card, ya say... I'll be honest, I don't know much 'bout
Reilly.
I jist hope he realizes that I didn't come ta Rampage t'night ta
dis'point myself. I damn well plan on makin' a good impression and
lettin' ev'ryone in the You-Dubya-Eff know...
[His eyes narrow.]
JS: That I ain't 'bout ta back down.
And that will be all, Moe.
[Fade out.
Washing ambulances outside the Emergency Department at the Ottawa
Hospital, Madison J. Valentine grimaces, removes his rubber gloves and
wipes his hands on a dirty orange boiler suit before signing an
autograph
for a fan in a Senators jersey. Then, discreetly elbowing him out of
the
shot, MJV scowls at the closing camera.]
VALENTINE: Well.
[He gestures at his attire and the grimy ambulance parked behind him.]
VALENTINE: Scott Daniels, I hope you're proud.
I should be in New York City right now. I should be reviewing the
tape
of a glorious homecoming victory over a shadow of a former World
Champion, and looking ahead to making Kinsey sweat on the fortune of
the
title reign he's spent years talking up.
[A rueful shake of the head.]
VALENTINE: Instead I'm in Ottawa, swabbing ambulances for my
indiscretions at the orders of the Canadian Justice System, and all
that's waiting for me in NYC is the ignominy of rubbing shoulders with
the likes of John Shock and Michael Reilly.
So I hope you're proud, Scott Daniels.
[He spits and adjusts his hairnet.]
VALENTINE: Another success. Another triumph. Another younger rival
identified and eliminated before he has the opportunity to shove you
aside at long, long last.
[Bitterly, he bears his teeth in a smile.]
VALENTINE: So I hope you enjoy it. While you can.
You may have humiliated me in my own hometown, but you haven't buried
me
yet.
[One, dark eye, Valentine winks closed.]
VALENTINE: Do me a favour, Scott, and check out my match in Madison
Square Garden. Watch me wrestle a man, John Shock, who's been lauded
from one side of the country to the other for looking good against
Corey
Hart and HERO Ishikawa.
If you think you're dealing with one in me who'll keep within his
predetermined limits and leave the bigger guys to fight it out for the
bigger prizes, then I suggest you get a good look at him. Because I
am,
and I always have been, a different proposition.
[He whitens his knuckles around the handle of the mop.]
VALENTINE: I've made a career of refusing to let bigger, stronger,
more
important men have everything all their own way, of refusing to be
passed
over or disposed of. I've spent eight years blazing a trail up to the
front door of superstars like "Hotspot" Scott, where the likes of John
Shock have been too weak or too cowardly to follow.
So if you think you're going to be able to keep me where you want me
for
long..?
[Savagely, he jams the pouring mop against the side of the greasy
ambulance. An observer, a voice, off-camera, doesn't take kindly to
the
rough treatment.]
AUTHORITY: Hey! Watch the vehicle, there, MJV.
[He scowls, and turns it, slowly, towards the camera.]
VALENTINE: I suggest you think again.
[And as he returns to serving his community, fade to black.]
____ ___ __ _____________
| | \/ \ / \_ _____/
S | | /\ \/\/ /| __) SATURDAY NIGHT RAMPAGE
N | | / \ / | \--------------------------
R |______/ \__/\ / \___ / Writer: Mike Beeby
\/ \/
THREE-WAY DANCE:
John Shock versus Madison J. Valentine
versus "Skullcracker" Michael Reilly
-------------------------------------------------------
[The soothing accapella voice of an Irish tenor rings through the
arena.
A waving Irish flag appears on the jumbotron.]
# Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling #
# From glen to glen, and down the mountain side #
# The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying #
# 'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide. #
[BANG!]
[An explosion at the top of the ramp paves the way for "The Skull
Cracker" Michael Reilly, who doesn't appear, the music transforms to
Flogging Molly's "Devil's Dance Floor."]
AM: Another no-show...fantastic...
SS: It can never be easy with this guy.
[Ty comes speeding down the ramp, the pits of his yellow dress shirt
drench with sweat. ]
DR: Ty seems quite flustered.
SS: Yeah. Even his bluetooth is sweating.
[Ty runs up to the ring, signaling to the ref to "Hold on" before
running
back up the ramp.]
DR: We still have two more introductions before the ref starts the ten
count, so we'll see if Ty can round up his fighter.
[Backstage. Ty runs through the backstage area, opening every door he
passes.
In-ring. With no sign of Reilly, the ref begins his ten count.]
REF: ONE!
[Backstage. Ty, worn out, on the brink of retreat, hear's a pair of
giggling voices in a near by closet, one male, one female. Ty leans
against the door, listens.]
MALE VOICE(muffled): Yer doin' real nice work there, ya are. Nice'n
slow
takin' 'em off. Thems are Calvin Klein's, ya know? Paid a pretty price
for 'em over at the shoppin' center, I did.
[The obvious Irish lilt of "The Skullcracker" Michael Reilly. Ty slams
open the door, blocking the camera from seeing what's inside.]
TY: THE MATCH IS STARTING!
MR: What match?
TY: IT STARTING! THEY'RE COUNTING DOWN!
MR: Why d'ya always have to be tellin' me this stuff at the last
minutes?
A little notice would be grand every once in awhile.
[In ring. The ref continues counting.]
REF: THREE!
[Backstage.]
TY: We're both walking a very fine line right now. I need this job. I
have a very expensive apartment! THERE'S NO TIME TO LOSE!
MR: Alright. You got to at least be lettin' me throw my Calvin Klein's
back on,
TY: NO TIME! GO!
[Ty reaches in the closet, drags Michael Reilly into camera view. He's
wearing an Irish flag G-string and nothing else.]
DR: Oh my.
SS: Yeah, this...this is not good television.
They dash towards the ring, off camera. Out from the closet, a
bombshell
blonde emerges. Though naked, she covers herself with her clothes.]
[In-ring.]
REF: FIVE!
[Backstage. Ty and Michael run through the backstage area. Ty falls
over, Michael turns back around to help him up, giving the world a
clear
look at the back end of his g-string.]
DR: Oh my.
SS: That is the whitest ass I've ever seen.
AM: Well, he is Irish.
[In-Ring.]
REF: SEVEN!
EIGHT!
[Michael Reilly appears at the top of the ramp. The crowd pops with
laughter, as he dashes to the ring.]
REF: NINE
[He slides under the rope, just in time. He smiles and waves to all
the
fans, unshaken by his lack of a uniform, confusing the crowd's
laughter
for encouragement. Ty collapses next to the ring, exhausted.]
"Gunter glieben glauten globen"
[The words signal the start of Def Leppard's "Rock Of Ages" kicking
over the PA system. The first part of the song continues to pick up as
a
lone spotlight hits the entranceway.]
# Alright #
# I got something to say #
# It's better to burn out... heh #
# Than fade away #
DH: And the second participant! From Dalhart, Texas, making his UWF
debut tonight, weighing in at two hundred pounds even...
JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHNNNNNNNNNNNNNN SHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOCK!
[And the former bullfighter, John Shock, is there, standing in the
entranceway, hands on his hips, a big, white cowboy hat on his head,
and
also wearing a black vest with "John Shock" printed on the back in
white
lettering, a pair of black wrestling trunks with "Shock" on the back
in
white lettering and white wrestling boots. He has short, dirty-blonde
hair, blue eyes and a thick mustache.
Shock tips his hat up slightly, a slight smile on his face, and then
he
makes his way down the aisle and to the ring, reaching out to give a
high-five to a fan here and there. As he reaches the ring, he takes a
big
leap, getting up on the ring apron, where he grabs the top rope,
vaults
over it into the ring, then removes his hat and tips it to the crowd.
He turns over his hat to a ringside attendant, then removes his vest
and
does the same.]
# Holy Calamity! Scream Insanity! #
[Heel pop!]
AM: Fresh from scrubbing ambulances in Ottawa, it's Em Jiggy Vee!
SS: What a travesty! That a city could treat one of its own heroes
like
that!
AM: A hero who beat up an ambulance trying to attack an injured man?
Sure.
[Valentine emerges from behind the curtain, leading Jessica "Fatality"
Marshall by the wrist. She pouts and drags her feet; he smirks and
heckles at her ear, with a cordless microphone brandished in his free
hand. He gestures to cut the music.]
DR: Looks like Em Jiggy Vee has something to say before this one.
AM: Hrm. Good to see his run-in with the law taught him some real
humility.
[Twisting her arm, Valentine compels JFM to set eyes on John Shock in
the
ring.]
VALENTINE: Ok, Jessica, now. Look again: that man there.
[She breaks away from his grip, her cursing not picked up by the
microphone.]
VALENTINE: That man there... last week, if I'm not mistaken, you tried
to
recruit.
That man there, you offered a share in the empire that will take over
this company.
[He bites his tongue and shakes his head.
Shock chews tobacco idly in the ring, barely even paying attention.]
VALENTINE: Jessica, I know you've been out of the managing game a
while...
[She shoots him a filthy look.]
VALENTINE: But seriously. That kind of thing, you should _think_
about
first.
If you're planning to conquer the world, you don't arm yourself with a
slingshot.
And if you're planning to conquer the UWF...
[He narrows one eye at Shock.]
VALENTINE: ... you don't enlist an insipid ex-bullfighter who can't
walk
the walk.
[Collective intake of breath in Madison Square Garden.]
DR: Oh my.
SS: I believe the phrase they would use on the street involves a "punk
card".
AR: You're so with it, Sam.
VALENTINE: So what I do to him tonight won't be to teach him to keep
his
bodily fluids to himself where the ladies are concerned -- it'll be to
teach him to realize when to accept stupid offers that shouldn't even
be
made to him in the first place...
And it'll be about teaching you to be a little more considered with
your
generosity.
[He puts a hand on her shoulder, that she shrugs off.]
VALENTINE: Now watch closely.
[He drops the microphone and marches towards the ring, with Shock
holding
the ropes open for him. Fatality watches him go and follows at a
distance, scowling. Trailing behind both of them quietly, but
defiantly,
is Colby Greene.]
DR: Well the match is ready to begin, but suddenly the odds have
shifted
heavily to Valentine's favor.
AM: You had to figure they'd have some sort of trick up their sleeve.
[Shock backs up as Valentine steps through the ropes, and finally gets
a
good look at Michael Reilly in all his g-stringed glory. To say he's
not
impressed is an understatement, as soon the official signals for the
bell
and we're off. Shock tries to go after Valentine but is cut off by
Reilly who tries to tackle Valentine first. MJV is clearly disgusted
with Reilly's attire and brushes him off, knocking him through the
ropes
to the floor. Now Shock and Valentine connect, as MJV is caught with
a
standing huracanrana takedown and then hits a standing moonsault
immediately after. The surprise is enough to get a two count before
Madison kicks out, and Shock keeps up the pressure by a snap suplex.]
DR: Shock in his debut match here and he's taking it to Fatality's
charge, Valentine looking to roll out of the ring but here comes
Reilly
again.
AM: That made him change directions in a hurry.
SS: Can you blame him?
[Reilly tries to grab Valentine with a rear waistlock, but Em Jiggy
Vee
will have no part of it and scurries free... right into a spinning
heel
kick from Shock. He pops up again and goes after Reilly this time,
the
Texan grabbing him with a Japanese armdrag takedown which flings him
through the ropes to the floor again.]
AM: I'm not sure Shock wants any more part of him than Valentine did,
quite frankly.
DR: Shock turns around, Valentine ready however with a running back
elbow
and the newcomer hits the deck.
[Shock tries to get back on his feet and Valentine grabs him by the
head
and arm, trying to set up for a suplex but Reilly again returns to the
ring and now comes up from behind and slugs Valentine in the back of
the
head. He releases Shock because of this and MJV is trapped with a
rear
choke, before getting irish whipped into the far ropes and caught with
a
backdrop. Shock rolls back up and hits Reilly with a standing
dropkick,
then tries to come off the ropes but is tripped up by Colby Greene,
drawing the ire of the native of Dalhart, Texas. Shock points at
Greene
which leaves him open to a running lariat by Reilly, pitching him over
the ropes to the outside. A bow from the Irishman draws groans from
the
crowd, moreso for those getting a view of the near full moon, but
Reilly
gets caught with a running double knee to the spine from Valentine
that
knocks him over the top rope to the floor as well, landing dangerously
close to Fatality.]
AM: Bottoms up, sis.
DR: Valentine taking the moment to celebrate as he's the only one left
in
the ring, but that won't last very long. Here's Shock again, quickly
scaling the turnbuckles but Madison cuts him off with a gut shot.
Superplex by the Canadian? Shock's trying to block it.
[With Fatality distracting the referee, Greene reaches up and grabs
Shock's leg. John reaches down to try and free himself and as a
result
is launched off the top rope with an overhead superplex by Em Jiggy
Vee.
He lands hard and rolls onto his stomach immediately, and Valentine
applies his patented bodyscissors rear naked choke hold.]
SS: MADMISSION!
DR: My god, can Valentine force John Shock to tap out to the
Madmission
right here?!?
AM: If he does, what a feather in his cap!
SS: What a lousy introduction for Shock, you mean.
DR: Wait, Reilly's back in... THE REILLY LOCK SLAPPED ON VALENTINE!
[The crowd roars with delight as MJV is caught in Michael Reilly's
reverse anklelock hold even as he continues to apply the Madmission to
Shock. The g-string clad wrestler wrenches back on Valentine's ankle,
and winds up getting too close to Shock's arms and as a result Reilly
is
soon caught in a sleeperhold!
The tri-submission situation is quickly thwarted by the official
though
who breaks it all up, separating the three and Valentine throws
himself
out of the corner as Shock suddenly flips in with a rolling Koppou
kick.
The Texan gets strung upside down and MJV secures him in the Tree of
Woe,
sliding outside the ring and dragging on his chin. He yells: "You're
nothing special!" Reilly nails both men with a baseball slide
dropkick,
knocking them both senseless as the Skull Cracker stands tall.]
AM: Reilly is really proving to be the spoiler here. If you can look
past the rediculous lack of getup, he's not doing too bad tonight.
[Shock is slow to get back to his feet and Reilly begins to punch away
on
him before he can get up fully, then hits a side backbreaker to try
and
cover him: 1 -- 2 -- Kickout! Valentine returns to the ring and grabs
Reilly by the head, trying to dump him out of the ring again. As the
ref
concerns himself with that, it's just long enough for Greene to reach
through the ropes and swat at Shock again. This time Shock spins
around
and doesn't hesitate before launching through the ropes with a
dropkick
right into Colby Greene's face! Shock and Greene tear into one
another
on the floor as in the ring Reilly and Valentine square off.]
DR: Hold it, we've already got two fights going on now and now look
who's
on his way out! Scott "Hotspot" Daniels!
[The pops rise as Hotspot saunters out from the locker rooms carrying
a
bar stool. Valentine freezes in the middle of a neckbreaker and
shouts
at Daniels, who laughs and waves as he sets the stool up in the mouth
of
the aisleway and opts to watch from afar.
Shock returns to the ring after leaving Colby dazed, and springboards
in
with a shoulderblock that smashes Valentine into the corner. Shock
springs up and grabs Reilly, laying him out with the Shock Treatment
and
tries for the cover: 1 -- 2 -- Kickout! Reilly rolls to the side of
the
ring as Shock tries to repeat his earlier success with a huracanrana
on
MJV. But this time it backfires as Em Jiggy Vee blocks a second
attempt
and instead twangs him across the top rope with a hotshot, staggering
Shock and leaving him open to a devastating superkick!]
DR: Valentine with the Silver Bullet! Shock is down, but Valentine's
not
going for a cover? Why on earth not?
[MJV heads to the top rope instead as Fatality applauds, but before he
can launch himself Reilly surprises Valentine and grabs him with a
crossed-arms powerbomb drop off the ropes that stuns the Ottawa
native.
Reilly now starts to mount the ropes, much to the chagrin of pretty
much
anyone with good eyesight.]
SS: Good god, can someone PLEASE give him a pair of pants to wear?
Shorts? A kilt for all I care? Anything!
DR: Daniels hasn't made a move for the ring at all, but he's certainly
keeping a close eye on Valentine.
AM: Yeah and so far he's got to be liking what he's seeing.
[Reilly, not that familiar with aerial wrestling, tries to steady
himself
but takes long enough to allow Madison back to his feet. And he
crotches
Reilly... quite blatantly, too... before climbing up and executing a
huge
pump-handle superplex to the mat! HEEL POP! Valentine goes for the
cover:
1! Shock meanwhile rolls to the outside and jumps up.
2! The newcomer leaps off the top rope, and springboards back into
the
ring with a shooting star press that draws a HUGE pop from the crowd!]
DR: THE SHOCK WAVE! JOHN SHOCK'S SIGNATURE MANEUVER! Here's the
cover
on Valentine!
ONE!
TWO!
THR- NO! Reilly managed to shove Shock off of Valentine, but he's not
in
much better shape right here!
[Shock gets back to his feet as Colby attempts to climb into the ring
altogether now and is instead greeted with a forearm that clubs him
back
to the floor. Reilly tries to set up for the Kilkenny Kracker with
Shock's back turned but John manages to counter right through and
shoves
Reilly off, leaps quickly to the middle turnbuckle and hits a
turnaround
pump splash into Reilly: 1 -- 2 -- 3!]
DR: He got him! John Shock wins his very first UWF contest! Uh oh,
but
here comes Valentine and Greene now!
DH: Here is your winner...
JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHNNNNNNNNN SSSSSSSSHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCK!
["Rock of Ages" hits the PA system but it doesn't last very long, as
Fatality's twosome go to work on dismantling Shock. John tries to
fight
back valiantly...]
DR: Shock just spat a wad of chew right into Colby Greene's face!
He's
blinded, and a takedown by Shock! But here comes Valentine again!
[...and is soon overtaken by the numbers, Greene hitting a powerslam
to
leave Shock flat on his back for Valentine to come off the top rope
with
a flying senton splash.
As this is going on, a mighty roar from the crowd as help arrives in
the
form of Alex Kidd! Kidd, clad in street clothes, runs out from the
back
and down past Scott Daniels to the ring, diving headfirst into the
ring
and tackling Greene by the feet. Hotspot turns and grabs the
barstool,
heading to the locker rooms after shaking his head at the mess going
on
in the ring.]
AM: Now the odds are a bit more even! Alex is here to save John
Shock,
and get him some of Fatality's weapons! I don't think he cares which
one
he goes after, whichever one of them was under the mask that assaulted
him is his target.
DR: Alex cleaning house as Reilly heads for the hills...
WHAT THE HELL? MASKED MAN JUMPING THE RAIL!
AM: BUT... But I thought it was Greene or Valentine?!? Who the hell
is
THAT?!?
[The man covered head to toe in black including a mask that conceals
all
features, slides into the ring and clips Alex Kidd's knee out from
behind, dropping the three-time heavyweight champion and turning the
tide. Colby and Valentine continue to pound away on Shock, hoisting
him
up into a standing position in the corner so he can watch as they
deliver
repeated punches to the stomach. The masked man applies a scorpion
deathlock to Kidd for a few moments, then releases it and runs over to
join in on the fun with Shock. The three men leave both fan favorites
lying facedown in the ring and Jessica Marshall applauds them from
ringside.]
AM: Dammit, don't tell me she's got another thug under her employment
now! It was bad enough with the first two, what on earth sort of
power
does she have over them?
SS: What, the boobs aren't a big enough giveaway?
[SLAP!]
DR: Fans, we've got to take a quick break, but we'll be back in just a
couple of minutes with hour two of this huge night of action!
[Fade to black.]