<UWF> Saturday Night Rampage - 3-18-06 Hour One
Cygnia
Social Distortion's "Crown Of Thorns" begins to play over top of
footage
of recent UWF actions...]
# Pretty much been alone now, #
# For almost five years #
# I could always find a way, #
# To hide these bitter tears #
[Jason Keening scoops Chris Douglas up across his shoulder and hits a
running powerslam... Donna Tetreault and Stephanie Harper collide in
midair with a simultaneous leaping bodypress... Daniel Kidd rams Ryu
Osawa shoulder-first into the ringpost...]
# And still I am waiting, #
# And wishing somehow #
# I wish I knew then, #
# What I know now #
[Simon O'Neal returns, and throws Brian McKenzie into a locker room and
slams the door shut... From BFTM, Rick Marley and Jacob Drake come
crashing through a large display window...]
# It's no bed of roses, #
# It ain't no crown of thorns #
# Better than lonely, #
# I've been there before #
[Scott Daniels grabs Alex Martinez by the head and drops him with a DDT
in the middle of the ring... Angel is speared by Sonya Benedict causing
both to fall through the ropes... A bloody Chad Grimsson rakes
Caliban's
face across the mesh of the DiH cage...]
# Gotta bad reputation,
# For playing with love #
# Gonna play again now,
# And beat the odds above #
[Trey DaMann waltzes down the aisle with a smug, defiant look across
his
face as he's booed from all angles... Derek Martin viciously elbows
Brett
Greene in the face, drawing a hint of blood...]
# And still I am waiting,
# And wishing somehow #
# I wish I knew then, #
# What I know now #
[The Prophets of Rage take out Ravnos Romani with a double
clothesline...
Papa Legba piledrives Michael Augustine on the cement floor... The Wind
Walkers stand on opposite turnbuckles and pump their fists...]
# Its no bed of roses, #
# It ain't no crown of thorns #
# Better than lonely, #
# I've been there before #
[Brian Von Braun hurls a trademark fireball, and it catches Olivia
Michaels flush in the face... Alex Extreme, covered in his own blood,
stands in the center of the ring...]
# Are you tired of being alone? #
# Or have you fallen out of love? #
# Do you care enough about yourself? #
# I have worn your crown of thorns #
[Luke Kinsey wraps a steel chair around the skull of Jamie Underwood
and
stands triumphant over him... Sierra Browne connects with a superkick
across the jaw of Tigress... Alex Martinez delivers the Firebomb
Chokeslam to bring home the world championship...
And dissolve through to the opening graphics...]
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| ___ \ ______ | \ / || _ \ ______ _____ _____
\ \__| \ / ___ || \/ || | \ \ / ___ | / ___ \ | ___|
\ __ // /___| || |\ /| || |_/ // /___| | / / /_/ | |_
\ \ \ \ \ ___ || | \/ |_|| __/ \ ___ || | ___ | _|
\_\ \ \ \ \ | ||_| | | \ \ | || | |_ || |_______
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\_____/ 03-18-2006
Hour One
[Dissolve through the graphics into a wide shot inside venerable
Madison
Square Garden as the capacity crowd comes to its collective feet as the
usual frenetic opening takes place, fireworks booming overhead and
showering the crowd with the usual flashes of light, colored spotlights
swirling all around them and the vocal audience letting the world know
that the UWF is back on the air and they couldn't be happier about it.
From some of the quick cuts, we take notice of a few cosmetic changes
to
the Rampage set again. The Unitron, still a good two stories tall, sits
on the arena floor without an elevated stage area or rampway, instead
the
entrance portal sits to the left of the giant screen. The portal itself
is made up of a series of steel beams, with a smaller video screen in
the
center of it and the gorilla position just off to the right side and
out
of view.
New to the set is a special interview area inside of the arena. An
elevated platform sits on the floor to the right of the Unitron, made
of
metal and a good three feet off the floor. Black dasher boards still
line the aisleway and enclose the ringside area itself, and the
announce
position remains down at ringside as well. The ringposts are colored
red, and the black turnbuckles and dark blue ropes contrast against the
slate grey canvas. The ring apron is black and features UWF and SNR
logos on opposite sides.]
DR: For the first time in several months... Welcome to Saturday Night
Rampage! Tonight we make our return in one of the most historic venues
in the world, Madison Square Garden right here in New York City!
[Cut down to ringside at the announce position. David Rogers, Amy
Marshall and Sam Steeley are in their usual order at the table, Amy in
between with Dave to the left and Sam to the right. Dave is dressed as
usual in a polo shirt with the UWF logo on the pocket and khaki pants,
Amy in a purple tank top and denim jeans, and Sam of course is wearing
his trust leather jacket over top of a Pride t-shirt and bluejeans.]
DR: Good evening ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the show! I'm David
Rogers, alongside Amy Marshall and Sam Steeley, and tonight promises to
be another amazing program. While it may have occured several months
ago, the events of Gold Rush 2005 are still fresh in the minds of many
people.
AM: In case you've been living under a rock, we have a new heavyweight
champion of the world, and it's not a member of the Pride. Alex
Martinez, the Last American Badass, took Scott Daniels _down_ at Gold
Rush, and ended Hotspot's iron grip on the belt.
SS: Yeah but heavy hangs the head that wears the crown, and Martinez
had
a fat head to begin with. It's only a matter of time before a worthy
challenger steps up and proves what a fluke it was for Martinez to win.
DR: Well that is something that's been swirling all week here in New
York, President Byers has promised tonight to name a number one
contender
to the new champion's title. And from what I've been hearing from my
inside sources
AM: Heavy hangs the head that wears the crown? What, you're trying to
quote Shakespeare now?
SS: No, Limp Bizket.
AM: I should have known.
# I've paid my dues #
# Time after time... #
[It's a horribly cheesy, but incredibly effective, way to introduce
them.
And MSG is on its feet as Queen's "We Are The Champions" blares over
the
loudspeakers. The crowd roars, everyone joining their voices to the
anthem, singing in the triumphant men making their way to the ring.]
DR: Well we're not going to waste time here, the Last American Badass
is
on his way out to the ring to celebrate the championship gold he won
back
at Gold Rush, and he's not alone.
[The first man out is the seven foot tall monster, and new world
champion, Alex Martinez. For once, the Last American Badass is all
smiles, as even he feels the need to celebrate. He stops and throws his
head back, smiling and laughing as the cheers ring in his ears. Wearing
a black t-shirt, jeans, leather biker boots, he looks as he always
looks,
except for one thing. The gold belt, the world title, is around his
waist, and is partially hidden by his black leather jacket. But there's
no hiding the belt's golden gleam as the lights bounce off of it. The
belt rests easily around his waist, but as he makes his way down the
aisle, he pulls it off and holds it up in a fist, showing it to the
appreciative audience. After an uncharacteristic bit of showing off,
Martinez rests the belt over his shoulder and continues moving to the
ring.
For a change, the Mercenary is not following the rest of the group, not
watching for sneak attacks from the back like he usually does. This
time
he is behind the new world champ, but still just as cautious as he ever
is. He is dressed in his familiar attire... the camouflage pants, black
t-shirt, black boots and mirrored shades. The only thing out of the
norm,
is that he is now sporting the now infamous bandoliers that he
presented
to the Grimssons for their Descent into Hell match. He checks out the
crowd as he comes down the aisle, just as a precaution, knowing full
well
that there is no one stupid enough to make any attempt at attacking
this
group.
Following Martinez and the Mercenary are the tag team champions, Erik
and
Chad Grimsson, the Sons of Cacophony. Chad wears a pair of ripped and
faded blue jeans, black leather chaps, a wifebeater with a red anarchy
sign spraypainted on the front, and black engineer boots. Erik wears a
pair of ripped and faded black jeans, a black "Judas Priest-
Painkiller"
longsleeve t-shirt, and black Nike amateur wrestling shoes. Both Erik
and
Chad wear their UWF World Tag Team Title belts over their shoulders as
they slap hands with as many fans as they can. Bringing up the rear of
the group is "Mr. Excitement" Alex Extreme. Extreme, wearing his
trademark Ray Ban wafer shades, a purple sportcoat, a black dress
t-shirt, and some blue jeans, walks a little further behind the
celebratory group. He stops for a moment and shakes a few hands, gives
a
few autographs, then follows the others to the ring.
Martinez motions for a microphone, and begins to speak.]
AM: Ya know somethin'. For the most part, I'm a cynical guy. I'm pissed
off all the time, and I like to hurt people. And hell, it ain't no
mystery that I got one of the worst attitudes of anyone you'll ever
meet.
[The crowd pops in agreement, and Martinez grins, adjusting the belt on
his shoulder as he does so.]
AM: But moments like these, standin' in the ring with my friends,
lookin'
not only at the gold on my shoulder, but the gold on Chad's and Erik's
shoulders, knowin' that at Gold Rush, we all came out on top..
[Another huge pop interrupts the world champion.]
AM: Well hell, for the moment at least, ya ain't gonna find no cynicism
from me. I say tonight, we celebrate!
These belts, those victories. They mean we're the best. And when you're
the best, well, ain't no point in bein' pissed off, is there?
I did what I said I was gonna do. I went out there, and I won this
world
title. When no one thought I could do it. When everyone said my time
was over. When no one was bettin' on me, I did what I knew I could do.
And that's how it is for all of us. All of us have been counted out.
All
of us have been given up on. All of us have been written off. And ya
know what?
[Martinez grins again.]
AM: Here we are, wearin' gold, and everyone else? They're just cryin'
like the little bitches they are!
[Those words get a great reaction, both inside and outside of the
ring.]
AM: But I ain't the only guy out here with gold. Why don't you tell 'em
somethin', champ?
[Martinez now hands the microphone over to Chad.]
Chad: You know, just about everyone told Erik and me that it couldn't
be
done. They said we were crazy. They even told us that our careers were
on
borrowed time. And how did we respond?
[Erik grabs the microphone.]
Erik: We gave everyone of them the finger and didn't back down! And we
came out on top, just like we said we would!
[HUGE POP!]
Chad: It certainly wasn't easy. Hell, I don't know if I can think of
anything more difficult. But we knew that we could do it, and with
Merc's
help, we pulled it off. And we even got these back.
[Chad taps his title belt to a huge pop from the crowd.]
Erik: And with Alex winning the world title, I mean dude, that was just
icing on the cake for the whole night. Even with a fractured sternum
and
cracked ribs, nothing was keeping me or Chad from coming down to that
ring to celebrate.
Chad: Damn right! From the beginning, when we first started running
with
Extreme, we had a feeling great things were going to happen. And at
Gold
Rush, when Martinez pinned Daniels, we knew we were right.
Erik: But you all haven't seen anything yet. Gold Rush was the start,
not
the peak. We're just getting warmed up, and with the momentum we've
built
up, we're really going to make some heads roll now.
[Martinez motions to Erik, asking for the mic one more time.]
AM: You two said it. And just so we're clear on a few things.
[For the first time tonight, The Last American Badass looks serious.]
AM: While I hold it, this belt is gonna be defended as often as they
let
me. This belt ain't no trophy. This belt means I'm the best, but the
only way to show it is to fight for it. So anyone who wants a shot at
this thing?
All you gotta do is put your name on the dotted line. And make sure
your
insurance is all paid up.
Anytime, anywhere, anyway you want it.
You just try and take this thing from me!
[Another thunderous pop for all the champions, and then, silence, as
the
sound of a woman's cackling laughter interrupts the proceedings, and
soom
we launch into Boomkat's "The Wreckoning" to a loud heel pop!]
AM: Oh come on! Can't we go one show without having to see my sister
come out here to ruin things?
[Everyone standing in the ring takes up a bit of a defensive stance as
the inimitable Jessica Marshall emerges from the locker rooms dressed
in
a black sheer skirt and top, a red bra slightly visible underneath and
a
green sash tied off at her hips. Considering the upbeat mood of her
usual foes, Jessica seems rather chipper herself. Time to worry.]
DR: Could this be the big announcement?
AM: Not if its coming from my sister.
SS: I think she's about to put some title holders in their place!
[Marshall waits for the crowd to die down.]
JFM: I just wanted to be the first to come out and congratulate all of
you on your title wins. You really have come far since you all came to
the UWF.
[She pauses for a moment.]
JFM: Oh wait, that's right, one of you doesn't have a title.
[The camera cuts to a close up on Alex Extreme for a moment.]
SS: Tell it like it is Jessica!
DR: Extreme hasn't even flinched.
AM: Once again my sister takes a great moment and trashes it.
[The shot cuts back to Jessica Marshall with a big smile on her face.]
JFM: Oh wait you do have something to celebrate don't you Alex?
Chad: Damn right he does. He won his match, despite everything you
stacked up against him.
Erik: That's right. So why don't you just make yourself scarce,
broadzilla, and let him enjoy it.
JFM: Now there you two go again. All I was say was that in 1996, Alex
Extreme debuted in Montreal.
[She pauses for a moment.]
JFM: I just figured that he'd want his ten year anniversary present.
[The fans cheer loudly...but Chad and Erik both look alarmed by this,
sensing that this can't be good.]
DR: Listen to these fans. Its amazing to think Alex Extreme's been
around
that long.
SS: A present? I've been with this company forever and I didn't get a
present!
AM: Something doesn't seem right.
[The camera cuts back to Jessica Marshall who is being handed a piece
of
paper and a pen by a UWF roadie.]
JFM: Now because you've not faced down Jason Keening in that I quit
match, I couldn't give you a shot at the UWF title.
[The fans boo loudly as the camera cuts back to Extreme looking out at
Marshall.]
JFM: But, in honor of ten great years I've put together a dream match
for
you here tonight on Rampage.
[The fans cheer even louder.]
AM: Okay something is very wrong. Jessica is being way too nice here.
SS: Let me guess, Alex Extreme versus a still full of Jack Daniels.
DR: Makes me wonder who Jessica has in mind.
SS: Probably half the stripping population of Las Vegas.
[The camera cuts back to Marshall.]
JFM: Tonight in this very ring, "Mr.Excitement" Alex Extreme faces for
the first time ever...
"THE EPITOME OF EVIL" SERGE ANNIS!
[The arena explodes in cheers. The camera cuts to Extreme who suddenly
seems more than a bit shaken.]
AM: I knew it!
DR: Extreme looks like he's sick!
SS: He's going to wish he was sick. Serge is going to destroy him!
JFM: Oh and boys? Since this is my present to Alex, I've gotten the
board
of directors approval to fire anyone who interferes or even comes near
ringside until the match is over. Congratulations "Mr.Excitement"--may
this event mark the beginning of the next ten years!
[There is outrage inside and outside of the ring. But soon, inside the
ring, words of encouragement begin, and Alex Martinez slaps Alex
Extreme
on the shoulder, telling him that things will be fine. And yet, how can
it be?]
DR: I don't believe this announcement! Right here in Madison Square
Garden it'll be Alex Extreme taking on Serge Annis! This is monumental!
SS: This place already ended Dan Kauffman's career four years ago, now
it's gonna end Extreme's! This is great!
DR: Fans, we'll be right back with our first match of the night. But
before we go, here's a look at one of the newcomers looking to make his
way to the UWF in the very near future. "The Skullkracker" Michael
Reilly...
[A giant mob of Kilkenny citizens have gathered at the Life o' Reilly
Pub. Music, dancing, drinking; the wild bunch of Irish men and women
gather around the epicenter of the celebration: "The Skull Cracker"
Michael Reilly. Dressed in a sand wash pair of Levi jeans, a long
sleeve
Eddie Bauer flannel, and a pair of black Doc Marten steel-toed boots;
Reilly downs the pint of dark beer and slams the mug onto the bar. The
glass breaks causing everyone to exhale a drunken cheer. Reilly laughs
and climbs on top of the bar. He jigs as the onlookers accompany him
with
a chorus of "A Nation Once Again." The pub owner hands Reilly another
beer and he raises it as they bring the song to a broadway finish.]
REILLY- "Alright. Alright, now. If y'could suppress yer drunken urges
and
lend me a listen 'fore I crack someone, I'd very much appreciate it."
[They patrons laugh. Then shush each other.]
REILLY- "It does a heart good, it does. Hearin' that ole song, again. I
tell ya, it does be takin' on a new meanin' today. A Nation Once Again.
Jaysus, my sense of nostalgia begins to kick my in the arse as I stand
here, lookin' a'tall yer ugly faces..."
[He smiles. Quiet laughter.]
REILLY- "Seein' all it is that I'm leavin' behind. Not forever, I mean.
Just fer a while. You can't leave behind what's stuck in yer heart. I
mean that. I do. Yer all there. I my heart, I mean. Johnny, we've been
friends since we first were walkin'. I remember chasin' skirt in high
school, never gettin' my end in, and feelin' very much foolish. A poor
virgin. But you, Johnny, you were always there, and no matter how hard
it
was for me to find a pretty girl, I could always take comfort in the
fact
that it was much harder for you. Ugly bastard. Just foolin', Johnny.
Through the hard times you were there. I thanked God everyday for that.
Murph. Dear Murph. You and yer three testicles..."
[Everyone laughs. Murph raises his glass.]
REILLY- "It's true! I've seen 'em! Maybe if we get a few more in'm;
he'll
have a showcase or somethin'. Truly blessed, he is! Three balls. Or,
maybe I'm the one truly blessed. After all, everytime that third ball
of
his scared off some poor young girl, who'd be there with two normal
balls
to ensure that proper fornication ensued. Me, that's who. God bless ya,
Murph!"
MURPH- "And you the same, you miserable feck!"
[Everyone laughs. Reilly smiles.]
REILLY- "You know, ever since my mam died, and since my Dad did run
off,
I've found a home here in Kilkenny's Life o'Reilly Pub. You've been my
family. You've seen my success, and you've supported me. You've kept me
good and drunk after many a night of gettin' the shite kicked outta me.
And you've also kept me drunk after bashin' some poor boy's face in.
Good
times and bad times, I've had. But you're there. Like Johnny. And like
Murph. And like Murph's three testicles. You're there. Ah, shit. I'm
wasted."
[Everyone cheers.]
REILLY- "I leave tomorrow in mornin' fer New York, and from there, who
knows. I could end up anywhere. Yes, sir. I'll be missin' this ole
shite
house. More than you know."
[Donny, a little Irish kid, pushes through the mob to the front.]
DONNY- "Mister Skull Cracker. Why can't you just stay here? Yer my
hero,
you are."
[Reilly smiles. He sits on the end of the bar and lifts the kid up onto
his lap.]
REILLY- "That's a fair question, Donny. And yer kind remark is very
much
appreciated. Unfortunately, that which I seek can not be found here in
Ireland, or Europe for that matter. It just isn't fair anymore. I can't
keep beatin' up these poor boys. I have to go where the fight is, and
at
the moment, that place is America."
DONNY- "Daddy says yer just doin' it fer the money."
REILLY- "Well, yer Daddy won't be sayin' much of anything when I cause
his brains to be leakin' out onto the floor. Now, get off my lap, you
little feck."
[He drops Donny.]
REILLY- "Whenever I get to America. Whenever I find the prize that I'm
searchin' for. Know that everything I do, all I stand for, it is all
for
you. This pub. Kilkenny. Ireland. This nation once again. This is my
heart. This is what will be keepin' me alive, it will. Whenever I crack
some poor feck's skull, and it looks like I'm stone face unaffected,
know
that I'm actually thinkin'...this is fer you Johnny, or Murph, or
whoever
it is I may be thinkin' about at the time. This is for you! And this is
for Ireland!"
[Everyone cheers and drinks more beer.]
REILLY- "So, raise a pint and wish me well. Cause I'll be off to
America
in the mornin'. God keep Ireland."
[He downs the beer. Back to the arena, a wide shot.]
SS: I kinda like that guy's style, even if he is Irish. I'd like to buy
him a drink.
AM: Open-minded to the end, I see. You're pretty free and easy with the
cash these days, aren't you?
SS: Well, I-
[SLAP!]
AM: That's for paying off Wells at Cupid's Revenge.
DR: Well be right back with the opening contest this evening, but first
we've got comments from one of the participants.
BVB: Miguel Quesada?
[There's a scoff as we open to the backstage area. "Hot Stuff" Brian
Von
Braun is in the Illuminati locker room area ('cause all the big
alliances
get their own locker rooms!) finishing taping up his wrists.]
BVB: So lemme get this straight. "Tha Rocket City Badboy" is gonna have
ta take on Miguel Quesada in a tournament fer tha Cruiserweight belt?
[BVB shakes his head.]
BVB: Ol' "Hot Stuff" ain't a cruiserweight. Ol' BVB don't give a damn
'bout a cruiserweight belt. Does that matter ta these people?
[He shakes his head.]
BVB: Nope. That's all right. That's okay. I'm use ta this sorta
treatment now. I know how tha good ol' UWF works. Ya see, they take who
they like an' put up top. Then they put this glass ceilin' below 'em
and
toss tha rest of us peanuts in hopes we ain't gonna complain too much.
[BVB looks at the camera.]
BVB: Did I complain last time?
[He shakes his head.]
BVB: Nah. Ol' "Hot Stuff" set tha UWF on fire to burn through that
glass ceilin' an' put everyone on alert. It ain't gonna be any
different
this time 'round neither. I'm gonna shoot ta tha top of this trash heap
again. Ain't no one gonna stop me.
[He motions to the camera.]
BVB: So go ahead an' throw tha new heroes of tha UWF at me. Y'all'll
watch 'em burn jus' like ya did before. Y'all'll watch 'em all jus'
like
ya did before. It ain't jus' me versus tha UWF.
[He shakes his head.]
BVB: Ya've gotta deal with tha Illumati. Wanna know somethin' scary?
We've already got a "Loose Cannon."
[He hooks a thumb at himself.]
BVB: I'm tha crazy motherf[BEEP]er.
[He hooks a thumb at himself again.]
BVB: I'm tha pyromaniac who don't give a damn 'bout settin' anything or
anyone on fire. I want ya ta understand that, Miguel. I don't want ya
comin' ta tha ring thinkin' we're gonna shake hands an' have a good
match. I want ya ta come at me with bloodlust in your eyes. Ain't no
man ever made me feel fear, Miguel.
[He points to the camera.]
BVB: I want ya ta be tha first to attempt to do that. I wanna be
scared,
Miguel. Tha Rocket City Badboy wants ta look 'cross that ring at
someone
he knows ain't tha usual UWF crap. Ya gonna do that fer me? 'Cause ya
can bet ya're ass I'm gonna be doin' tha same.
[BVB gets a wild look in his eye.]
BVB: I ain't lookin' ta jus' win tonight, Miguel. I'm lookin' ta win
an'
hurt ya fer good. People always talkin' 'bout not shootin' tha
messenger. Tonight? Ya're tha message.
[Fade out.]
____ ___ __ _____________
| | \/ \ / \_ _____/
S | | /\ \/\/ /| __) SATURDAY NIGHT RAMPAGE
N | | / \ / | \.........................
R |______/ \__/\ / \___ / Writer: Bob Morris
\/ \/
CRUISERWEIGHT INVITATIONAL TOURNAMENT QUARTER-FINALS:
"Hot Stuff" Brian Von Braun vs. Miguel Quesada
......................................................
DH: The following contest is a quarterfinal match in the cruiserweight
tournament and it is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first...
["Number One" by Nelly plays over the PA system to a crowd pop!]
DH: Hailing from Miami, Florida, and weighing two hundred and twenty
five
pounds, here is "SMOOTH AS SILK"
MIIIGGGUUUEELLL QUESSSSSAAAAAADDDAAAAA!
[And Miguel Quesada emerges from the back, dressed in a long sleeved
fishnet shirt with nothing underneath it and black cargo jean pants.]
DR: Quesada appears to have recovered from his match against Tumaffi at
Gold Rush quite nicely.
SS: On the surface, yes, but considering the beating he took, he's
still
got to be feeling the effects.
AM: That could be, but we'll find out for sure in this match.
[Quesada slides under the ring ropes and takes his place in the
corner.]
DH: And now, his opponent...
[Stuck Mojo's "Southern Pride" comes over the PA system as the crowd
starts to boo. "Hot Stuff" Brian Von Braun emerges from the entrance
portal and stops at the top of the aisle. Brian's ring attire consists
of bi-colored, long lycra tights. The outer portion of the tights is
black. It starts at the waist and runs down the legs. The inner portion
is green, mainly being the groin and rear portion. The rear reads "Hot
Stuff" across it in black. Brian also sports kneepads with the pad
portion being green and the rest being black. He also wears black boots
with a green stripe running up the back of each boot. He also sports
black elbowpads and black wrist tape. A black, open shirt, with green
bands around the sleeve openings, completes the attire.]
DH: Standing five feet, nine inches tall and weighing in at two-hundred
and fifteen pounds. He hails from Huntsville, Alabama. Here is "HOT
STUFF"
BRIIIIIIIIIIIIIAN VOOOOOOOOOON BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAUN!
DR: And here he is... the man who spent the last few months
masquerading
as L. Dan Dee.
SS: Which is Spanish for The Dandy.
AM: What in the world are you talking about?
SS: Eh, just a little insider info.
DR: I won't ask anymore.
[Brian Von Braun walks to the right side a bit and jaws with the fans,
acting like he's about to hop the guardrail to fight them. He heads
back
towards the aisle and jaws with a few fans on the left side, behind the
guardrail. He motions like he's gonna backhand one of them. He doesn't,
but he does stand there with a smug look planted firmly on his face and
swaps insults with the fans. He points to one fan in particular and
lobs
one last insult before starting down the aisle as the lyrics to the
song
kick in. After a few steps, he raises both arms, fists clenched, into
the air. He continues down the aisle and gets to the ringside area. He
uses the steps to get to the ring apron and then steps into the ring
between the top and middle rope. He moves to one turnbuckle and climbs
to the second one and raises both arms in the air.]
# I've got that southern pride #
# I've got my southern pride #
# Share my southern pride; let it shine #
# I've got my southern pride, oh #
# I've got my southern pride, oh yeah #
# Share my southern pride; let it shine #
[Brian Von Braun steps off the turnbuckle and turns in mid-air, both
arms
still raised in the air. He lowers his arms and takes off his shirt,
tossing it to the ringside attendant. He gives a chesire-like grin to
everyone who's looking at him. He says something while doing his
characteristic double-thumb hook at himself. His music cuts off.]
DR: Von Braun appears very confident, but he's facing a ring veteran
who
no doubt has come prepared.
SS: Yeah, he had plenty of time to prepare while in that hospital bed
after his Gold Rush match.
AM: You are such a comedian, Sam.
[The bell rings and both men circle each other, Von Braun diving for
the
legs, but Quesada sidesteps his opponent, then swiftly kicks Von Braun
in
the face as he tries to get back to his feet. Moving forward, Quesada
grabs Von Braun in a front facelock, but BVB is able to push Quesada
back
into the corner.
The referee calls for the break, and Quesada appears willing to comply,
only to suddenly lash out with a pair of forearms across BVB's back,
causing Von Braun to fall to his knees.]
DR: Quesada showing he is as willing to bend the rules as Von Braun is.
AM: Quesada with a kneelift to Von Braun! I'm wondering if Brian wasn't
expecting Quesada to play fast and loose with the rules.
SS: He's just toying with him, that's all.
[Quesada pulls BVB forward into the front facelock again, and Von Braun
again pushes forward, slowing forcing Quesada back into the corner. As
Quesada slowly releases the hold, BVB reacts quickly, dropping to his
knees and grabbing Quesada by his left leg. He is then able to get to
his
feet, holding Quesada by his left leg as Quesada swings his arms at
Brian, but the Illuminati member uses his leg to sweep Quesada's right
leg from under him and send him to the canvas.
Von Braun then begins to drop a series of elbows to Quesada's left leg,
but as he goes for a stepover toehold, Quesada is able to kick BVB off
into the ropes. Von Braun attempts to connect with an elbowdrop to the
chest on the rebound, but Quesada quickly rolls out of the way. Quesada
rises to his feet and stomps on BVB, before reaching down to drag him
off
the canvas and whip him into the ropes, and a back body drop sends BVB
crashing to the canvas! POP!]
DR: Cover by Quesada!
ONE...
No, a one count only!
SS: Now come on... who in the world would think you could get a three
count on Brian Von Braun like that, especially this early in the match?
AM: Quesada may just be trying to frustrate Brian.
[Both men get to their feet, and Brian goes for a punch, only for
Quesada
to block it and fire off a punch of his own. Two more punches follow,
which force BVB back into the corner, and after Quesada delivers an
elbow
to the face, he grabs Von Braun and whips him into the opposite corner.
But when Quesada follows up with a charge, BVB moves out of the way.
Quesada hits the corner hard, and Von Braun quickly leaps forward to
chop
block the left knee! Quesada drops to one knee, and Brian kicks him in
the back of the head, then grabs him by the hair and yanks him straight
down to the canvas! HEEL POP!]
DR: Von Braun has Quesada down... he's going after that left leg again!
AM: Like him or not, Brian Von Braun is clearly sticking to a gameplan.
[BVB takes the left leg of Quesada and again drops a series of elbows
on
it, then momentarily stops to kick Quesada in the face, before turning
his attentions back to the leg. He cinches Quesada's left leg into a
kneebar, falling back to the canvas and pulling back on the leg,
looking
for the submission.
Quesada flails on the mat, refusing to give in, and is able to roll
toward the ropes after a few seconds, grabbing the bottom strand. The
referee reaches the count of four before BVB breaks the hold, however,
and now the Illuminati member takes the opportunity to stomp away on
the
downed Quesada, forcing his opponent to roll outside the ring.]
SS: That's not where you want to be when you are going against Brian
Von
Braun.
DR: Quesada didn't have much choice, though, and now the referee is
warning Brian about his tactics.
[Brian pushes past the official and goes over to the side of the ring
to
go after Quesada, but Quesada grabs BVB by the legs and drags him
underneath the bottom rope. He stuns Von Braun with a series of
punches,
and as BVB swings a fist of his own, Quesada ducks and goes behind his
opponent, then catches him with three left jabs before rushing forward
with a short clothesline with his right arm! POP!]
DR: That's Quesada's Catch Me If You Can combo! And Von Braun is down!
AM: He's got Von Braun... throws him back into the ring!
[Quesada then rolls into the ring after his opponent, and as both men
get
to their feet, Quesada fires off a quick chop, then an Irish whip sends
BVB into the ropes. Quesada leaps to catch Von Braun square in the face
with a dropkick, then goes for the cover.
ONE...
TWO...
Von Braun kicks out at two! Quesada brings Von Braun back to his feet,
going for a suplex, but it's blocked and reversed by BVB, who sits up
to
catch his breath, before turning his attentions back to Quesada.
Von Braun grabs the left leg of Quesada again, unleashing a series of
kicks to the knee, but as he attempts the spinning toe hold again,
Quesada is again able to kick him away, this time sending Von Braun
through the ropes!
As BVB pulls himself to his feet, Quesada rolls to his and grabs the
top
strand, leaping over the ropes for a pescado attempt...
...but hits nothing but the mats below as BVB is able to leap out of
the
way! HEEL POP!]
DR: Quesada took a chance and paid for it!
AM: And it looks like his left knee took the brunt of the fall!
[Quesada clutches his left leg and falls victim to another series of
stomps by Von Braun, who then drags his opponent up and shoves him
under
the ropes, then rolls back into the ring to break the count, only to
roll
back outside, grabbing Quesada's leg as he does.
And that's when BVB drags Quesada to the corner, ignoring the referee's
warnings as he now has Quesada spread-eagled along the ringpost,
holding
the left leg...
___CLANK!___
...and driving the left leg straight into the ringpost!
___CLANK!___
Then doing it a second time!
___CLANK!___
And then doing it a third time before the referee rolls out of the ring
and orders BVB to stop the tactic! HEEL POP!]
DR: A vicious assault by Brian Von Braun!
AM: It's about time the referee got in there to stop that!
SS: What, you expected Brian to play nice? Not in this lifetime!
[After the referee warns BVB he'll throw him out of the match if he
continues the assault, the Illuminati member sneers at the offical
before
returning to the ring. Quesada clutches his leg in pain as BVB grabs
that
left leg and vicious kicks away at the knee! He then drapes Quesada's
leg
across the bottom rope, then grabs the top strand, leaping into the air
and bringing his weight right down across the leg! HEEL POP!
BVB just smirks as he turns back to Quesada, kicking him twice in the
face before grabbing the left leg again. Draping it across the bottom
rope, Von Braun looks to drop his weight across the leg again...
...but this time, he only hits the canvas as Quesada is able to move
out
of the way! BVB slowly gets to his feet, going after Quesada as his
opponent is now on his knees and manages to drive a shot right into Von
Braun's midsection. Quesada pulls himself to his feet, limping
noticeably, and slaps on a headlock, going for an apparent bulldog...
...but Von Braun is able to block Quesada from running forward, then
reaches down, grabbing Quesada by the left leg and dropping him
straight
down with a kneebreaker! HEEL POP!]
DR: Von Braun grabbing the leg... he's going for the Von Braun Leglock!
AM: Countered! Inside cradle by Quesada!
ONE...
TWO...
No, kickout by Von Braun!
DR: And Von Braun is up first... kick right to the nose!
SS: That'll teach you to show up Von Braun.
[A trickle of blood can now be seen running from Quesada's nose as BVB
drags his opponent off the canvas, doubling him over with a kneelift,
then grabbing him around the waist and leaping up, driving Quesada into
the canvas with his version of the Rydeen bomb, the Von Braun Bomb!
HEEL
POP!
But BVB does not go for the cover, instead slapping a chokehold on the
mat as Quesada struggles!]
AM: Come on! There's no reason why Brian couldn't have gone for the
cover!
SS: Sure there is... he's not finished with him yet.
[The referee warns BVB to break the choke, but Von Braun works the
count
to five before releasing the hold. He grabs Quesada by the left leg
again, but Quesada is able to swing his right leg up wildly, managing
to
catch Von Braun in the face.
As the Illuminati member staggers backward, Quesada pulls himself to
his
knees. He fires another shot to the midsection as Von Braun goes after
him, then is able to get to his feet, poking BVB in the eyes to stop
him
in his tracks. He then Irish whips BVB into the ropes and leaps for a
dropkick...
...but crashes to the mat as Von Braun has the presence of mind to grab
the ropes and avoid the attempted dropkick!]
DR: Quesada missed! And Von Braun is going right after the leg again!
AM: The Von Braun Leglock! He has it applied!
SS: And that's gonna do it for Quesada.
AM: He hasn't tapped out yet!
[Quesada struggles valiantly on the mat as Von Braun applies the
pressure
to the figure-four leglock the Von Braun family made famous, and
Quesada
starts to inches himself closer to the ropes...
...and is just a few inches away...
...but that's when Von Braun, having presence of mind, releases the
hold,
then grabs Quesada by the leg. This time, Von Braun drops his leg right
across Quesada's injured leg, before re-applying the Von Braun Leglock
in
the center of the ring!]
DR: Brian Von Braun has that hold applied tightly! Can Quesada get to
the
ropes again?
[Quesada again struggles on the mat, reaching for the ropes but finding
them nowhere near to be grabbed...
...and after nearly a minute in the hold, Quesada has no choice but to
tap out! HEEL POP!]
SS: Like I said earlier... that's gonna do it for Quesada!
AM: Von Braun has won the match... he won't release the hold! Come on!
[The referee yells at BVB to break the hold and has to issue the usual
five count, Von Braun working it until just before the official hits
the
count of five before releasing the hold.]
DH: Here is your winner... "HOT STUFF"
BRIIIIIIIIIIIIIAN VOOOOOOOOOON BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAUN!
[BVB gets to his feet, then nails Quesada with a quick kick to the knee
for good measure, before turning to the crowd and triumphantly raising
his arms, grinning and cackling, before exiting the ring.]
DR: Brian Von Braun moves on in the tournament, and Quesada is hurt!
SS: Hope he made sure that hospital bed remained reserved for him.
AM: SAM!
DR: Quesada holding that knee... he's going to need some help.
[A pair of EMTs come down to ringside, assisting Quesada as he rolls to
the ropes, unable to stand. They assist Quesada out of the ring and
help
him back up the aisle.]
DR: Well a spirited opening contest tonight, as Brian Von Braun moves
on
in the tournament into the semi-finals. But this crowd is still buzzing
over the announcement made by Fatality at the start of this show, that
tonight Alex Extreme will go one on one against Serge Annis!
SS: C'mon, it's a present! You heard Jessica, it's his ten year
anniversary present.
AM: I think that's a gift he could do without.
DR: You know, speaking of anniversaries tonight happens to be the eve
of
the UWF's official tenth anniversary. It was ten years ago tomorrow
that
the first event in this company's history, Open Season, was held.
SS: Hey Dave, we've been working together for ten years! How's that
make
you feel?
DR: Tired.
[The camera cuts to Moe Owens with mic in hand. The camera zooms out
revealing Alex Extreme rapidly walking through the backstage area as
Owens cuts him off.]
MO: Alex, tonight you face Serge Annis and...
AE: Not right now.
[The visibly shaken Extreme tries to leave only to be cut off by Owens
again.]
MO: But Alex su...
[Extreme grabs Owens slamming him against the wall!]
AE: GOD DAMN IT, I SAID NOT NOW!
[Extreme flings Owens to the floor then continues on.]
MO: Alex Extreme, definitely not in a good mood this evening. Back to
you guys.
[Cut back to the arena.]
DR: Thanks Moe, it does appear that the announcement of tonight's
surprising main event has given Alex Extreme something to think about.
SS: Yeah. A last will and testament.
[The arena is bathed in blackness. The purple spotlight hits the
curtains. Chopin's "Death March" begins its dirge as the curtains part
and out walk the Misfits and the Prophets of Rage. Despite the sombre
theme music they are all in a cheery mood. Gold shines on waists and
shoulders. Marissa, Dalbello, Derek, Pizzazz, Indigo ... they are on
top of the world. Shadoe Rage, however, seems on his own. He is not
his usual, flamboyant and flourishing self. He walks to the ring,
dressed in his wrestling gear, the title belt over his shoulder. But as
the rest of his family climbs into the ring, he hesitates. He hands his
belt to Marissa before he turns into the crowd and hops over the
railing.
He takes a seat in the crowd and chooses to brood there. Derek regards
him quizzically, but there is too much celebrating to be done. Purple
and black balloons fall from the rafters, gathering around the Prophets
feet as Pizzazz and Derek, Dalbello and Marissa celebrate by dancing
around the ring and showing off their championship belts. Indigo films
the proceedings. Finally Derek Rage takes the microphone and addresses
the crowd.]
DR: Never before has there been such a consolidation of power, has
there?
Let me see, the tag team champions ... the Prophets of Rage ... the tag
team champions ... the Misfits. I look to my left. [He stares at the
championship belt around Dalbello's waist.] I see gold. I look to my
right. [He makes a show of turning his head to witness Marissa's gold
laden shoulder and waist.] I see gold. And there's nothing you bastards
can do about it!
[The crowd boos.]
DR: There's no more Hands of Death. You know what that means? There's
no more scary violent tag team. [He makes the scary fingers gesture.]
There's only room for a dominant tag-team. A world championship caliber
team. A measuring stick team. The greatest team in the history of the
business.
[Shadoe is not saying anything because he is brooding in the seats.
Normally this would be his time to chime in in that unique strangled
rasp
of his, but he is silent, sullen. So, Derek, has to make due.]
DR: Make way for the Prophets of Rage! Tonight, the Age of Rage retakes
the stage. Tonight, the wrestling family that no one respected shows
the
world that we are not to be trifled with. See, the Hands of Death
signed
their own death warrants when they "lured" us out of retirement. Yeah,
they beat us in our first pay-per-view match back together as a team.
But we gave them everything they could handle and that was after three
years of kicking back and enjoying retirement. See, that dog collar
match gave the Hands a false sense of pride. It gave them a false sense
of security. At their best they beat us at our okay. And they just got
by us. That filled their heads so big they went on to challenged the
Sons of Cacophony. Well, Serge, Caliban, you just weren't long term
title material. And you just weren't good enough to get by them and now
you're gone ... ruined. Why? Because you thought you had to be the best
because you beat the best on their bad day. Wrong.
[Derek nods as the crowd begins to boo his arrogance.]
DR: Oh yeah, oh yeah ... it's true. Check your boys the Romanis. They
thought they got lucky challenging the losers. And they were the
champions. They wanted the Prophets of Rage. They got off on cheating
us ... they got off on the attention they got matched up against the
known best team in the world. Well, what did that get them? You saw
what happened at Gold Rush. Sorry Leslie, but there was no gypsy love
for you that night ....
[Dalbello is all laughter as she says ....]
Dalbello: Don't go there!
DR: Oh but I am ... And speaking of taking it there, tonight, Shadoe
and
I, I mean, tonight we go at two men with a giant cock!
Dalbello: Oh, please. Don't go there!
DR: And we are going to feast in style on those two men, Lady D. Zazzy,
you are going to dine with us, right?
P: Mais oui, mon amour.
DR: [smiling] And we all know how much you ladies love eating cock.
MM: Oooh, don't go there.
[The male part of the crowd cheers for Pizzazz as she gets the devilish
grin and nibbles on her pinky that suggests not only are the crap
double
entendres funny ... they are more than true.]
Dalbello: No, let's go there. [She waggles her eyebrows. The men in the
crowd get happy again.]
DR: Oh yeah, Ryu, Bonn, we're gonna go there. We're gonna take you
there. See, because the Prophets have been on a mission of respect. We
have been on a quest to get our due. We hear about Benedicts, Keenings,
Marshalls ... we hear about Tigers and flying Spaniards. We heard some
mess about some gypsies that were supposed to be the ish. Guess they
put
an article in the sentence where it didn't belong.
MM: Dumb it down for them, D.
DR: [looking at the crowd like they're stupid babies] It means they
were
ish ... not _the_ ish.
[Some in the crowd go "Ooooooh."]
DR: Now that we're on the same page, let me flip the script.
[Huh? This is too much slang.]
DR: It means I'm going to move on and change the subject.
[Oh.]
DR: Because we ain't no transitional champions. What we are are world
champions uncrowned. What we are and always will be are the best in the
business. What we are is out of retirement, out of patience and in the
spotlight and in demand. So, Don't Go There, is just the first of our
victims. But Grimmsons, hey, you might have just gone through war with
the Hands ... but now you've actually got to wrestle talent. We're
coming for you, too. We're coming for everybody. The Angel of Death and
the Intelligent Hoodlum are on the warpath. But, enough about us for
right now. Let me talk about something else.
[He turns to Marissa Monet with the microphone.]
DR: I understand that you are not completely happy with the results of
Gold Rush. Would you care to elaborate?
MM: At Gold Rush, it was shown what anybody trained by Medusa and
Dalbello Rage could do. It showed that we are championship material.
The only problem was that Sierra Browne was trained by Medusa and
Dalbello Rage. And that bitch kept her gold.
DR: Lady D, how does that make you feel?
Dalbello: It feels like I had to take a bite of a big [beep] sandwich.
DR: You mean like me that time.
[The Rage crew laughs at the in-joke.]
Dalbello: Nina, you could've just gone at Sierra and beaten that trick
down. But no, you couldn't do it. You had to go kick my girl in the
chest. Now, normally I would have just laid down for you to take on
Sierra, but bitch please. The Misfits owe you some get back for what
you
did. And now that that's up in the air, I'm gonna put a hurting on you.
See these belts ... remember the championship pedigree. I've been doing
this and winning these longer than you've been wrestling. We aren't in
Japan now. You won't beat me in North America. Not any more. I've got
your number, sweetie. And you ain't number one. That's me.
[She jabs her thumb at her chest.]
DR: But talks about Sierra aside ... [stage whispering] Her sister's
right over there. What are the Misfits going to do?
Dalbello: You know, we're not used to being the second best tag-team in
a
promotion. But it looks like we are since you two came back to the
business. So we're going to give you a run for your money. I say the
Misfits are the greatest tag-team in history. PERIOD. Yeah, we've had
a lot of members but the team is still dominant. Let's say that we put
out an open contract for any team of ditzes willing to take us on.
MM: Hmmm, I like that. Fresh meat without the fuss. But you know how
soft this women's roster is. Are there any good teams out there?
Dalbello: Of course not, but still, we've got to defend the belts
against
somebody. No point just putting them in the trophy case now. So ladies,
whatever ovaries you can find, use 'em up and sort yourselves out.
We're
waiting here for you. This is a brand new day. The Rage name will be
respected, bitches. And we will take that respect out of your asses one
flabby ounce at a time, get me?
DR: Indigo, are you getting all this on film?
[Indigo nods and gives the thumbs up sign from behind the camera.]
DR: Hallelujah! Because when the people go to the records to wonder
what
happened, how did the beloved UWF come under the control of the
greatest
family ever to lace up their boots, I want them to see this tape. I
want
them to see this tape and understand. You will respect us. You will
recognise our name. You will recognise our history and you will fear
us.
See, we're not some gimmick team. We're not some fad. We're back.
We're bad. The Intelligent Hoodlum. The Angel of Death.
[Derek Rage looks down at his brother who is still sitting huddled in
his
seat shrouded in his quiet unquiet. Annoyance flickers across Derek's
face.]
DR: The time for talk is finished. Misfits, Indigo, Pizzazz ... let's
go.
[Chopin's "Death March" signals the Misfits and the Prophets cue to
leave. As they depart, holding their arms up in the air and challenging
the crowd, Shadoe Rage remains in his seat. He stares after his family
and holds his head, knuckling his temples in something close to agony.]
AM: Alright, Shadoe Rage has never been the most stable of guys but
he's
just flat out lost his marbles now. What's his problem?
DR: I wouldn't even begin to hazard a guess, but the Prophets will be
in
action later tonight against Don't Go There, assuming Shadoe can pull
himself from that ringside seat to to the ring.
[Cut to an office. Currently sitting behind her desk is one Jessica
"Fatality" Marshall. Flanked behind her are a pair of muscled private
security men. Fairly attractive too, because really, why should
basing a job more on looks than skill be only the province of horndog
men?
Jessica glares briefly at the camera before fixing said glare on the
three entities standing in front of her.]
VO: Bok?!
[OK, make that four entities. Don't Go There, AKA "Nighthawk" Michael
Bonn and "Hentai" Ryu Osawa, their manager Virginia St. Ursula and
Ryu's
loyal cock Trice are all in the office looking rather perturbed right
now. Let's face it, Fatality has that effect on one's mood.
Cue JFM glaring at the camera again.]
VSU: So what's this all about, Jessica? If this is some attempt to take
away or alter Michael and Ryu's title shot, save your breath. Becky
Byers approved already as is -- no changes.
JFM: [smirking] You know, I don't agree with Becks on a number of
things,
but in one case, I think I will follow her example. [A beat.] You will
refer to me as Ms. Marshall from now on.
BONN: Get to the point.
JFM: [to Michael, condescendingly] Easy there, fella... [turning back
to
VSU] No, Ginny, this does not involve me taking away your children's
precious precious title shot. Merely that since we're past Gold Rush,
there are a few...concerns...that need to be addressed beforehand.
Ryu: Oh, this should be good... Everyone pack enough lip balm for the
butt-kissing Jess is expecting us to lay down to try to get into her
good
graces? I'm fresh out!
Trice: BKAWK!
[*giggle* Fatality shoot Ryu and Trice a dirty look, but then the smirk
returns.]
JFM: Due to the growing threat it poses, that creature [she points at
Trice] is hereby BANNED from any and all UWF events! This includes all
Rampages, Meltdowns, pay per views AND house shows!
Ryu: WHAT?!
Trice: BAWWWWK?! [flutters frantically]
VSU: Hold on here...I'll admit Ryu's pet is a little silly at times,
but
it hasn't harmed anyone! It's a rooster, not an 800 pound tiger. Just
what kind of a "threat" are you talking about?!
JFM: [grinning smugly now] Why, avian flu, of course! By rights I
should
probably have the lot of you quarantined, but since I don't want to
deal
with the red tape, I'm doing the next best thing. It's your own funeral
if you want to keep constanly exposing yourself to that thing, but I
will
NOT let you put the rest of the UWF staff and roster at risk!
BONN: Like you're actually concerened about anyone else's welfare.
Trice: Bok! Bok-bawk-BKAWK~!
[The now-controversial cock flutters onto Jessica's desk. Puffing
himself up, Trice looks ready for some pecking action as JFM
exaggeratedly recoils in horror from the bird. Taking the not-so-subtle
cue, one of the security guards reaches out rather roughly for the
rooster, but Ryu is able to pull his pet back protectively in time.]
JFM: I hear that anyone has gotten so much as a sniffle, I'll see to it
that that vermin is destroyed personally!
Trice: BOK!
Ryu: [glaring] I always knew you wanted your hands on my cock, Jess,
but
this is ridiculous!
[Yeah, Jessica. This is low even for you!]
JFM: Next on the agenda ...the use of non-authorized personnel handling
official UWF equipment.
[At that, she looks straight at the camera...
...
...hey, wait a minute! Me?!]
Ryu: Whoa! No way are you taking my cameraperson away! Besides, she's
union AND part of my contract--
JFM: --and technically still only an MBC operative. See, the paperwork
authorizing that transfer of employment from MBC to the UWF somehow had
been misplaced during the change of ownership in Dallas.
[Jessica shakes her head mockingly.]
JFM: I guess I should have been better organized during my tenure
there,
but things got lost, what can I say?
VSU: We'll file for an exemption.
JFM: Denied! Besides, there's a certain lack of respect and
professionalism in her work that shouldn't be associated with the UWF
product. So, Herbert will be taking over your camera duties from now
on!
[She nods at one of the guards] Wilson, will you please escort the
non-authorized personnel out of my office and tell Herbert that he can
begin immediately?
[As one of the brutes makes his way over the the camera... Hey,
wait--No!
Hands off! *slap*]
Trice: Bawwwwwk!
JFM: Take that filthy bird out while you're at it as well, Wilson...
and
please let me know if you feel sick afterwards.
[Feathers and a bit of frizzy hair flies as the camera shakes. After a
moment or two of static, the camera shot slowly focus back into
position:
Jessica Marshall standing proud, VSU and Bonn off to the side looking
upset and Osawa struck dumb with shock at the change of events.]
VSU: We're not going to let this stand, Jessica. I'll be getting in
touch with Becky Byers about all of this!
JFM: And you're certainly welcome to try, but I'm afraid you're going
to
be rather busy for the next few weeks, Virginia...
BONN: [eyes narrowing] Just what are you getting at?!
JFM: It's really simple actually. See, I've been going over the numbers
and according to what I feel is the UWF's most important demographic,
they don't want to see non-wrestling tired has-beens wasting airtime
anymore! So, I'm just following the numbers... Point blank, Virginia no
longer will be accompanying either or both of you to any of your
matches
or interviews on UWF television.
VSU: [glaring] If this is some backhanded asinine way of trying to fire
me--!
JFM: I'm not firing you, Virginia...far from it. I just feel that
your..."talents" can be better put to use elsewhere in UWF. Namely,
promotions! So, you're being sent to Parma to help with the opening of
a
used car dealership. They've been asking for a "big name" in the UWF
for
a while now and I figure the time was right to help them out. Your
managerial duties are still there...but it's now off-camera. I mean,
you
DO do things as a manager other than attempt to look pretty and
youthful,
right?
VSU: You smug self-righteous bitch... I'll--
JFM: And it's effective immediately! Philips, please escort Ms St.
Ursula out of the building so that she can catch her bus to Ohio in
time.
In fact, you're being sent to quite a number of these "promotional
events"...I hope you kept your calendar open.
[Philips dutifully steps up to do his job, but the
Nighthawk stubbornly plants himself in front of his
manager. Jessica's eyes light up at a possible
confrontation as both men eye each other with
prospective violence.]
VSU: Michael, don't! She just wants the drama...and she's not worth it.
I'll go...for now.
[Still glaring, Bonn reluctantly steps aside and VSU allows herself to
be
herded out of the office. Jessica just smirks. Ryu, meanwhile, has
shaken off the inital shock.]
Ryu: What's your game, Jess? You can't just be pissed that we got a
title shot!
JFM: [ignoring Ryu] Hmmm...my office is still in one piece. Pity. A
couple of years ago, you wouldn't have stood for something like that,
Michael. Of course, a couple of years ago, you wouldn't have thrown
your
lot in with the idiots. You've gotten soft...
[She fixes an icy glare on Bonn.]
JFM: Did you REALLY think that I'd just forget that you tried to cross
me
at Rise To Power?! You of all people should have know that you do NOT
[BLEEP] with me and expect to get away with it! It doesn't matter
how long it takes...I get mine back... You want to play nice with all
the joking and mockery an idiot like Osawa brings to the table and
pretend you're an actual tag team?! Fine, you've got it. Your brain
trust is gone. You two are stuck with each other -- ONLY with each
other!
And I can think of no worse punishment than that.
[Jessica sneers.]
JFM: Good luck with your title match tonight, boys!
[All the while as Jessica has been speaking, Ryu's eyes have darted
back
and forth between her and Bonn, as if expecting his partner to snap at
any second at her words. The tension is still clearly evident in
Bonn's tense muscles and clenched jaw as he just matches Marshall's
stare
with one of his own.]
Ryu: Mike, you OK? You heard what Ginny said... this [MEEP] ain't worth
the drama!
[The Nighthawk opens his mouth to utter just two words.]
BONN: You're wrong.
[Jessica snorts softly in dismay.]
JFM: Get out of my office...
[Cut back to the arena.]
AM: Of all the low, underhanded things my sister has done... that was
totally unprovoked! She's banned Trice, Virginia and DGT's personal
camera woman for no good reason.
SS: No good reason? Didn't you listen, Amy? Avian flu! We're living in
an era of widespread disease, and that thing's like the Typhoid Mary of
it. Besides, if that camera jockey needs some money I'm sure I could
put
her to work.
AM: For what? You're already down twenty grand to Wells, where are you
getting this cash flow?
[And here we are in the living room of the average North American
middle-class family. Wood floors, modest decor, a couch, nothing too
fancy... except for that fourty-two inch high definition flatscreen
plasma television. Three children, ages eight through twelve, are
seated
on the couch, watching cartoon violence with blank expressions on their
faces.
We then get a TV commercial-like voice over. The voice is kind of
familiar, though. Very deep.]
Familiar Voice-Over: Are your children watching too much television?
[A commercial hits, and the children's expressions turn to panic, until
one of them finds the remote and changes it to another channel
featuring
cartoon violence. The paniced looks melt away to blank, pacified
expressions again.]
V-O: Are they completely unresponsive to external stimuli?
[Someone off-camera throws a rock at one of the childrens' heads. The
child says 'ow' and rubs his head, but he's still blankly staring at
the
television.]
V-O: Are you concerned that they may be rotting their brains, absorbed
in
a fantasy world that is slowly consuming them?
[The children continue to sit there like zombies, as the familiar deep
voice sums up.]
V-O: The answer is simple: TUMAFFI DECLARES THAT YOU SHOULD _BEAT_ THEM
MORE OFTEN, YOU UTTER FOOLS!
COME HERE, YOU WRETCHED LITTLE MAINLANDER RATS!
RRRRRRRRRRHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
[The sudden emergence of a four-hundred pound Samoan monstrosity come
to
clobber them shocks the children back to reality! They scream and flee
in terror, scattering in all directions as Tumaffi wildly swings at
them!
The children escape any way they can, through the front and back doors,
and one climbing out of a window, as Tumaffi bellows in violent rage!
Once they are gone, the bellowing stops, and the monster just chuckles.
Wearing while flowing silk clothing with floral designs, it is hard to
make out Tumaffi's face due to his massive black mane of hair, but he
seems to be smiling.]
Tumaffi: Now you see? Your soft and weak mainland ways continue to
engender future generations of soft and weak mainlanders. But the
threat
of imminent interminable violence forced the children into making
split-second decisions and acting upon them with great immediacy. This
is how the islands produce the most capable and powerful men alive, men
for whom no danger is too great, for what is more dangerous than they?
Men such as the great Tumaffi, who once again proved at Gold Rush that
all who dare to oppose me shall be destroyed! Learn these lessons well,
parents, and perhaps your children will some day attain a modicum of
respectability.
But until that day arrives, you and your future generations will
continue
to be ground into soft and weak bags of flesh unworthy of breath by
your
useless contrivances. And foremost among these, the television.
[Tumaffi regards the plasma TV with disdain.]
Tumaffi: Hear now the wisdom of Tumaffi! For it is decreed by the
nominal authority of the Universal Wrestling Federation that I, the
awe-inspiring Tumaffi, should do battle against Marcus Nuit for the
World
Television Championship. A championship representing this. [gestures at
the TV] A championship won and lost in battle represents the medium
responsible for the wasting away of mainland society. Tumaffi could
spend hours elaborating on the ironic folly of this, laying out in
great
detail the intricate nuances of the philosophical allegories presented
by
this. Tumaffi could do that. However, Tumaffi feels that this would
waste valuable time best spent tearing the limbs of his oppositions
from
their torsos and then dropping the torsos from great heights, that they
may be dashed to innumerable bloody pieces on the earth below. Then
Tumaffi will feast on great quanities of raw meat and be home in time
to
watch Iron Chef.
Therefore, Tumaffi will skip the elaborate explanations and declare
that
Marcus Nuit is the perfect World Television Champion. What better man
to
celebrate the media of mindlessness than a man incapable of decisive
speech or action? What better representative of the technological
downfall of mainlander civiliaztion than a cowardly man who only gained
this supposed honor by besting a mere woman in combat? It amuses the
great Tumaffi that Marcus Nuit should be the champion of television.
Yet it is to be inferred that this bumbling mainlander has clearly
committed some grave affront to someone in the UWF office, for now his
total destruction is at hand. Will the proud Tumaffi stay his hand
merely because this is the Television Champion, and television is for
the
weak? I tell you, this will not be! Tumaffi will prove that Marcus Nuit
is the Master of Meltdown when he strikes him so hard in the face that
his eyeballs will dissolve into puddles of retinal fluid! But be not
mistaken, Tumaffi is nothing if not magnanimous; Tumaffi will leave
enough left of Nuit's lung structure intact so that he will still be
able
to breathe "Um". That way, he can continue to hold what passes for
normal conversation for him.
And then, when Tumaffi is the World Television Champion, he shall
rename
the title to the World Stop Watching Television Because Your Brains Are
Rotting And You're Idiotic Enough As It Is Championship! And from that
moment on, television will no longer be an idol for mainlanders to
worship! Tumaffi will lead the crusade to destroy all television!
TELEVISION IS FOR THE WEAK!
[Tumaffi punctuates his point by headbutting the fourty-two inch high
definition flatscreen plasma television. The screen shatters to very
expensive bits, many of which cling to Tumaffi's cascading hair.]
Tumaffi: NOW TUNE IN TO RAMPAGE AND WATCH TUMAFFI OVERWHELM HIS
INSIGNIFICANT OPPOSITION AND WIN THE WORLD STOP WATCHING TELEVISION
BECAUSE YOUR BRAINS ARE ROTTING AND YOU'RE IDIOTIC ENOUGH AS IT IS
CHAMPIONSHIP! TUMAFFI COMMANDS YOU!
[And with that last bit of Tumaffi-logic, the front door opens and a
couple walk in, stopping in shock at the sight of a four-hundred pound
Samoan who has just headbutted their expensive HDTV to fragments,
standing where their three children were supposed to be. The woman
shrieks and faints as the man runs out and screams for the police.]
Tumaffi: Tumaffi suddenly suspects that he has been given the wrong
address to the house that UWF programming officials had rented for this
segment. At least Tumaffi now understands why there were three children
instead of the one that they had supposedly hired. On the bright side,
it has been almost four days since Tumaffi has had to singlehandedly
annihilate a police force due to such misunderstandings, and it is good
to stay in fighting condition. Tumaffi does wonder, however, why the
Frats never seem to have this problem. Such is life.
[Tumaffi makes his exit as we fade.]
DR: Marcus Nuit has held the Unified Television Championship for an
impressive stretch now, but this might be the biggest challenge he's
ever
faced. No pun intended. Let's get to the ring.
____ ___ __ _____________
| | \/ \ / \_ _____/
S | | /\ \/\/ /| __) SATURDAY NIGHT RAMPAGE
N | | / \ / | \.........................
R |______/ \__/\ / \___ / Writer: Mike Beeby
\/ \/
FOR THE UNIFIED TELEVISION CHAMPIONSHIP:
Marcus Nuit[c] versus Tumaffi
......................................................
DH: The following contest is scheduled for one fall and is for the
Unified Television Championship! Introducing first, the challenger...
[A single deep bass drum beats... BOOM. Then again, a little louder.
And again. With the sound of rain in the background, the drum beats
resound throughout the arena, like the approaching footsteps of some
terrible monster. Upon their climax, the crackling BOOM of a
thunderbolt
is heard over the PA, and a single, blindingly-bright, jagged electric
flash flares from the wall nearest the arena entrance!
As the big screen shows scenic panoramas of an island during a storm,
hollow-sounding drumbeats and reedy-toned woodwinds form an ominous
tune
(amongst the backdrop of the thunderstorm) over the PA, as the behemoth
form of Tumaffi steps forth from the curtain to the sounds of a loud
heel
pop from the crowd, quite a few of whom are just cheering for the big
lug. The monstrous Samoan pays the fans little mind as he marches down
the aisle. A mountain of muscle and fat, the dark-toned Tumaffi has
massive shoulders, thick limbs, and a big round gut. His hair is nearly
as mountainous as his physique, as he sports a wild black mane that
would
make a lion envious! His long, cascading hair and beard seem connected
in a way that leaves little visible determining point as to where one
ends and the other begins. So hairy is the man that it is difficult to
make out his brown-eyed, big-nosed face.]
DH: Coming down the aisle, from the Island of Samoa, weighing in at
four
hundred and five pounds...
TUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMAFFFFFFFFFFIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!
[Clad in a loose flowing black silk robe with a dark-colored floral
design, Tumaffi strides up the ring steps and onto the apron. He wrings
his taped hands expectantly, before stepping through the ropes to
another
mixed pop. Shedding his robe to reveal full-length black trunks with
metallic copper outlined patterns on it (depicting a beachfront storm),
and taped bare feet, Tumaffi sneers at the fans before extending his
arms
out to his sides in a proud, defiant "what do you think of this?"
gesture. Bellowing at the top of his lungs, Tumaffi decrees his
defiance
of any that would dare oppose him.]
AM: Since Gold Rush, Tumaffi seems to have gotten himself quite a
little
cheering section.
SS: It's the car crash factor. You can't look away even though it's a
hideous mess.
["I Hate" by A Breed Apart plays over the PA as "Stateside Sensation"
Marcus Nuit comes out the entrance to a large pop from the audience.]
DH: And the champion! He hails from Dover, Delaware, and weighs in at
two hundred and twelve pounds, the current Unified Television
Champion...
"THE STATEWWIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIDE SENSATIIIIOOONNNNNN"
MAAAAAAAARRRRRRCUUUUUUUUUUSSSS NNNNNNNNNNUUUUUUUUUIIIIIIT!
[Nuit walks down to the ring, wide grin on his face and confidence ever
growing, wearing his normal attire of his black and red trunks, boots,
and shin guards. The championship belt he wears over his shoulder, and
then raises it once he climbs up on the apron. Nuit slingshots himself
into the ring and raising his arms as he lands to a crowd pop, and a
furrowed eyebrow from his challenger.]
AM: You weren't kidding about his biggest challenge, Dave. Tumaffi
weighs almost twice as much as Nuit, and that's no exaggeration.
DR: There's the bell, and Marcus Nuit carefully trying to figure out
how
to land the first shot without being swatted away like a bug.
[Once the bell sounds the crowd begins to cheer, as Tumaffi dares Nuit
to
come at him and the champion makes a move, only to think better of it
and
stay a good few feet out of Tumaffi's reach. Eventually as he circles
Tumaffi, he lunges in and tries to blast him with a forearm but Tumaffi
absorbs it and shoves right back, Nuit stumbling back into the corner.
Tumaffi comes at him and tries an avalanche but gets sidestepped, and
Nuit immediately jumps to the middle turnbuckle and hits an enzuigiri
back into the base of Tumaffi's neck. It rattles the big man but isn't
enough to put him down, still it allows Nuit to hit a dropkick next and
Tumaffi falls back into the very same corner.]
DR: The hit-and-run strategy seems to be working so far for Marcus
Nuit,
though he's got to be careful not to rely on it too heavily or he might
suffer the same fate as Miguel Quesada.
SS: Hey, as moronic as he is, at least Nuit doesn't have to worry about
being brained with a cage door.
AM: Unless Tumaffi has one in his waistband.
[Nuit runs towards his opponent and leaps, plants both feet in his
chest
and backflips with a bicycle kick to land deftly on his feet again,
which
draws an impressed pop from the MSG crowd. Tumaffi staggers from the
corner, lumbering back and forth but stays upright. Nuit tries to run
and catch him with a flying leg lariat...
...and gets caught and promptly thrown to the mat. THUMP!]
SS: It's over.
AM: A bit premature, isn't it?
SS: Not since I starting taking these pil- nevermind.
DR: Tumaffi with Nuit by the scruff of the neck, short arm clothesline-
no! Nuit ducks underneath, crucufix...
[THUUUUUUMP!]
SAMOAN DROP! MY GOD, MARCUS NUIT MUST FEEL LIKE A PANCAKE NOW!
[Tumaffi keeps hold of Nuit's leg...
1!
2!
Kick out!]
DR: That's four hundred pounds on top of him, and still he was able to
kick out! Incredible!
AM: Four hundred pounds on top of him? Sounds like a regular Saturday
night for Fatality.
[Tumaffi is up first, and Nuit rolls to the side of the ring and tries
to
catch his breath. The challenger grabs him instead and hauls him right
back to his feet, clinching him in for a belly-to-belly suplex but
Marcus
begins to unleash a series of closed fists that leave Tumaffi unable to
grasp the smaller man and Nuit tries to apply a surfboard on him.
Tumaffi is able to power out of it easily however and again knocks Nuit
to the corner, but the resilient champion comes right back and nails a
rolling savate kick. A flying forearm continues to rattle Tumaffi, and
Nuit begins to ride the wave of cheers from the crowd and heads to the
top rope.]
DR: Nuit goes up high, flying huracanrana- Uh oh, Tumaffi caught him...
POWERBOMB!
[Nuit bounces a foot off the mat from the impact, and rolls to the
outside apron for a short respite. Tumaffi comes after him again and
grabs him by the head, tries to heave Nuit over the ropes as well but
the
champion counters with a dropkick that knocks Tumaffi off of his feet
and
unfortunately for Nuit causes him to slam into the side of the apron
before hitting the ground himself.]
SS: Damn, that had to hurt.
DR: The Statewide Sensation with a nasty spill to the outside, however
he
did manage to bring the giant to the mat with him.
[Nuit crawls to his feet and rolls back into the ring as Tumaffi sits
up,
but a diving dropkick to the chin puts the 400 pounder flat on his back
again. Nuit follows up with an Asai moonsault and hooks a massive
leg...
1!
2!
Kickout!
Tumaffi sits up again, this time stunning the champ with a meaty elbow
to
the stomach and then as he rises grabs Marcus around the throat with
both
hands. Nuit fires back with a hard shot to the head, but that only
causes Tumaffi to bellow with anger and crack his own forehead into
Nuit's with frightening force.]
SS: Knockout!
DR: Sweet mother of god, that headbutt may just have put Marcus Nuit
out
cold!
AM: With a skull like that, I think Tumaffi could knock a cow out if he
wanted to.
[Tumaffi drags a heavily dazed Marcus back to his feet again and grabs
him by the throat, but as he lifts up for a chokeslam Nuit again wraps
his legs around Tumaffi's neck and this time manages to huracanrana him
into the mat with another loud THUMP!
HUGE POP!]
DR: Nuit proving time and time again how resilient he is, another
cover!
ONE!
TWO!
Tumaffi with a kick out!
[Once more the big guy gets to his feet, but this time he grabs the
television title as Nuit goes to the top rope. He jumps down as Tumaffi
dangles the belt in front of him, then drops it to the mat and puts a
foot on top of it as Nuit begins to freak out!]
AM: Uh oh, Tumaffi's stolen the belt, and it's playing severe mind
games
with Marcus!
DR: It's been his obsession and his driving force for so long, Tumaffi
obviously knows this and is willing to do whatever it takes to put Nuit
off- LARIAT! He caught Nuit as he tried to grab that belt, and now
Tumaffi has him with a chokehold...
NO, CHOKESLAM!
[Tumaffi drives Nuit into the canvas and manages to land on top
afterwards, grabs him and pulls him back to his feet and executes
another
lariat, jumps into the air and comes down on top of Nuit with a
gigantic
splash!]
DR: The Polynesian Burial! Tumaffi with a cover!
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
[Tumaffi rolls off of Nuit and sits up as the official hands the
Television Championship to the referee.]
DH: Here is your winner... and NNNNEEEEEEEEWWW TELEVISION CHAMPION...
TUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAFFIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!
DR: We have a new champion crowned here at MSG! Tumaffi has defeated
Marcus Nuit and become the new television champion!
SS: That thing's gonna need extensions to fit around his waist.
[Once getting to his feet and taking the belt, Tumaffi lumbers over to
Debs and taps her on the shoulder. After an animated exchange Henshall
shakes her head and begins to address the crowd once again.]
DH: Ladies and gentlemen, I have been instructed to amend my previous
announcement. Your winner, and WORLD STOP WATCHING TELEVISION BECAUSE
IT'S ROTTING YOUR BRAINS AND YOU'RE IDIOTIC ENOUGH AS IT IS CHAMPION...
TUMAFFIIIIIIIIIIIII!
[Tumaffi raises the title over his head in one meaty fist, and then
exits
the ring as Nuit solemnly heads up the aisle to the back. Tumaffi stops
by the announcers on his way out, and points at Amy.]
AM: What do you want?
["TUMAFFI COMMANDS YOU TO SHINE MY BELT, AS IS THE RESPONSIBILITY OF
YOUR
GENDER."]
AM: You're out of your mind! I'm not shining that belt up for you!
[Amy shakes her head vigorously and Tumaffi ponders whether to pursue
the
issue further. After a couple of seconds staring down the redhead, he
shrugs and lumbers on back to the locker room. Though if one looks hard
enough, it almost appears that there's a bit of a skip to Tumaffi's
step.]
DR: Fans, we've already seen one title change hands tonight, and
there's
another title match coming right up. We'll be right back, but first
let's go to comments from a man who showed up at Gold Rush and will
make
his debut in a UWF ring next hour, the world famous-
SS: -infamous.
DR: -Juan Vasquez.
[The shot opens up backstage, inside a makeshift office. There's a
couple
of plants and random pieces of furniture to make the room look
presentable, but for the most part it's empty. The gold nameplate atop
the desk clearly reads "Jessica Marshall", but Fatality's nowhere to be
found.
The camera swings around the desk however and pans downward, where we
see
UWF's referee extraordinaire and oh yeah, he's a wrestler too!...Juan
Vasquez, hiding underneath the desk. The Latino Ubermensch is dressed
in
a black-and-white Adidas tracksuit, with his fists taped up and his
wrestling boots tied, bow and all. He's rocking out to his ipod, text
messaging God knows who in the meanwhile.
Suddenly, he freezes, slowly removing his headphones and turning his
head
to find himself staring down the lens of the camera. Startled for about
a
split-second, Juan puts a hand to his chest and breathes a sigh of
relief, before regaining his senses. He turns back to the camera with
bright, cheery smile on his face.]
JV: I know what you're thinkin'..."Why the hell this is fool sitting
under a table?" Weeell...
[He trails off slightly, before giving us a grin.]
JV: ...Luke said the little lady wouldn't mind.
[Juan gives an exaggerated wink and gives us the "A-okay!"]
JV: Ya' see, rumor has it, Scott Daniels wasn't too happy about the job
I
did as a referee and is 'bout *this* close to putting a bounty on my
head
and sending his private ninja army after me.
[For a man with an army of ninjas after him, Juan doesn't seem to look
all that concerned.]
JV: But still, that ain't the reason I'm hiding under this desk.
[A slight shudder.]
JV: I just really wasn't comfortable with the way that Irons kid was
staring at my ass.
[Juan gives us the ol' shifty eyes.]
JV: Now, I know this ain't exactly the most glamorous location for a
world famous, ridiculously handsome man with a level of talent that's
somewhere in the "Oh-my-gawd. Ho-lee s[bleep]. What- the-f[bleep]!"
range
of greatness, to be at...but Becky told me that hiding underneath *her*
desk was sexual harassment just waitin' to happen.
[He shrugs.]
JV: I guess some girls just can't keep their hands to themselves.
[Wink, wink.]
JV: But I'm really disappointed with how everything's gone down. I
mean,
I could've swore that me and Scotty would've been the best o' friends.
We
got so much in common!
[Juan begins to count them off...]
JV: He's been a world champion...
[He voice booms with pride!]
..._I've_ been a world champion!
[That huge, beaming smile on Juan's face pretty much tells you how
proud
he is about that particular achievement.]
JV: He wants to permanently cripple Alex Martinez...
[A nanosecond of hesitation.]
..._I_ want to permanently cripple Alex Martinez!
[The gasp of shock from the arena crowd can be heard faintly in the
background. Juan cringes a bit.]
JV: Hey, you can't say I'm not honest.
[He shrugs an apology.]
JV: He uses and abuses his daughter...
[Uh-oh.]
...*I* wanna' use and abuse his daughter!
[Whaaa!? As soon as the words leave his mouth, Juan slaps himself in
the
forehead. That was something better kept to himself. He lowers his head
in shame, leaving us with some awkward silence.]
JV: ...
[Really awkward silence.]
JV: *Cough*
[Finally, in the tiniest of squeaks, Juan breaks the silence.]
JV: I didn't really mean that.
[He wavers on that just a little.]
JV: ...probably.
[So there!]
JV: But my sick, deviant tendencies aside, I know that the threat of
Samantha breeding the next generation of Vasquezes, ain't the reason I
got the Pride breathin' down my neck. Normally, you'd think a man like
Scott would totally be my BFF. But life doesn't work that way, folks.
We
got silly things like jealousy, insecurity, and Derek Martin's huge
man-crush on Scott gettin' in the way.
[A shrug, because love can't be denied.]
JV: I've spent my entire life fightin' and strugglin' against
impossible
odds to show the world that I'm every bit as great as everyone knows I
am. So beating just one legend ain't enough. Winning one title isn't
gonna' define me. Havin' one magical year in my career outta' damn near
a
decade of work just ain't gonna' cut it. I need to face each and every
last person out there capable of putting on a pair of boots and
steppin'
between the ropes. Meet them face-to-face in a ring, defeat'em in that
*oh-so-stylish* fashion as I only can, and prove that without a shadow
of
a doubt...I'm the better man.
[He crawls out from underneath the desk and stares right into the
camera
with a dead serious look.]
JV: And that's exactly why the Pride's got their eyes all on me.
[A slight blush, because he's just *sooo* flattered...]
JV: I'm a threat.
[He sits up, leaning back against the desk for support.]
JV: This just ain't about subpar refereein' and a couple of seductive
looks from daddy's little girl. It's about the fact that I might very
well go through every single last one of'em, from Scotty high up on his
ivory tower...all the way down to adorable, little Kari Stevens as I
march my way towards achievin' even greater heights of immortality.
[Juan cracks his knuckles, because it's a tough guy sort of thing to
do.]
JV: So, maybe beatin' Derek to a bloody pulp won't do anything to
endear
me to the Pride, but I suppose that's just the way it's gotta' be.
[He looks around his surroundings, frowning slightly. Not exactly the
most machismo of locations, but you take what you can get...]
JV: Sure, maybe to some of you fine folks of the UWF, I'm just some
loudmouth sitting underneath a desk, but I'm much, much more than that,
people. No matter how much of an egotistical ass I might appear to be,
no
matter how many random acts o' inappropriate ass-grabbin' I'll find
myself commitin', at the end of the day...I'm still Juan Vasquez.
The greatest goddamn wrestler walkin' the face o' planet Earth.
[Juan reaches for his headphones...]
JV: And that's all they is...
[...pausing momentarily to give us one wink and grin...]
JV: ...to it.
[...before placing them back in his ears, apparently done with us. Fade
out.
The scene returns to the arena, where Moe Owens stands, microphone in
hand. Situated behind him is a desk with a small stack of papers.]
DR: Welcome back, fans, and we're gearing up for a very important
contract signing here.
MO: Fans, there have been two teams in the UWF who have attacked and
terrorized one another for months. Now, it's time for them to face one
another and settle this feud once and for all. I'd like to introduce
the
first team, Leanna and Lolita Love... The Love Sisters!
[The crowd cheers as "Like A Feather" by Nikka Costa plays, heralding
the
arrival of the Love Sisters. Leanna and Lolita simultaneously step from
behind the curtains, both taking a moment to take a glance at the
crowd.
Leanna wears a sleeveless, cream-colored, mock neck top and black
slacks.
She also wears a pair of black heels, her long blonde hair curled.
Meanwhile, Lolita wears a cream-colored, turtleneck sweater and black,
pleated skirt. She also wears a pair of black boots and her long,
blonde
hair is styled in a ponytail.]
[The two women descend the ramp and make their way down the aisle.
Their
expressions are grim and their gazes are focused on the ring, neither
responding to the outstretched hands of the fans. The two sisters climb
the stairs and slide through the ropes, entering the ring.]
AM: And the Love Sisters do not look happy today.
SS: Would you be, after having your cat stolen and then ass kicked by
the
Kindred?
MO: Welcome, ladies.
[Neither woman pays Owens much attention, their eyes immediately moving
to the entrance ramp, both glaring hatefully.]
MO: And their opponents for this upcoming match....accompanied by Caine
Tainer...they are Moira Faith and Myra Benedict...The Kindred!
[The lights dim down to near pitch black, leaving enough on to douse
the
arena in a rich maroon. The slow, dark sounds of Killswitch Engage's
instrumental "One Last Sunset" cue up, resulting in huge heel pops from
the crowd as Moira Faith and "Poison Bliss" Myra Benedict step out of
the
entrance portal, Caine Tainer just a step behind them.
Myra's dressed in a sleeveless black "Taste of Poison" t-shirt, blue
denim jeans, and black boots on her feet. Her wavy, dark brown hair
with
red highlights falls down around her shoulders, framing her face, a few
strands of hair dangling over the dark scar down her left cheek.
Moira is dressed in her ring gear. It seems more revealing than it
actually is, a full body, skin tight, jump suit covers most of her.
There
are cutouts over the shoulders and between the legs, but she wears
white
bikini-style wrestling trunks over the top of the outfit. There's even
a
small strip of black pretending to be a skirt. Her silky black hair is
pulled back into a tight bun exposing her pale almond colored face.
Freshly scarred by Lolita Love and her sword.
The two Kindred members make their way down the aisle, eyes locked with
their enemies inside the ring. The crowd continues to express its
hatred
for these two, as they reach ringside. From behind, Caine grabs Moira
by
the hair and yanks her backwards against himself. Still holding her
back, he starts kissing her before shoving her forward toward the ring.
Myra follows this cue, and the two women slide into the ring
simultaneously, rising to their feet in an instant. Both women's eyes
still remain locked on the Loves, a fiendish smirk creasing Myra's
lips.]
MO: Welcome, Moira...Myra...Caine.
DR: You can practically feel the tension in the ring! If things
continue
like this, we could see both of these teams come to blows right now!
SS: Naw. The Loves aren't that stupid.
[Lolita places her hands on her hips, sneering at the trio. She makes a
move towards them when Leanna places a hand in front of her, stopping
her. Lolita looks at her older sister with a puzzled expression but
Leanna shakes her head, mouthing "not now". Lolita sighs and
reluctantly
nods in agreement. All too aware of the tension, Moe knows it's best to
get things over with.]
MO: I would like to thank both of you for coming out here for this
contract signing. I'm sure that all of the fans are quite familiar with
the history between all four of you. First, there was the kidnapping of
Lolita's cat and then the attack and torture of Lolita herself.
[Heel pop. Moe flashes a sympathetic glance towards Lolita, who flashes
red with rage.]
MO: Then, there was the attack on Moira by both Leanna and Lolita.
[Face pop.]
MO: Now, both teams will finally face one another. Tonight, we...
[Moe is cut off by a "wait a second, Moe" from Leanna.]
MO: Leanna, you have something to say?
[The older Love nods and Moe hands her his microphone. Leanna looks the
trio over with disgust.]
Leanna: This match has indeed been a long time coming, ladies. We've
put
one another through Hell and I can only imagine what's going to happen,
when we finally step in the ring. One on one. In fact, my sister and I
are very much looking forward to it. But first, there's some business
we
need to discuss.
AM: Business? What could Leanna be talking about?
SS: She probably wants to forfeit.
Leanna: You can name the stipulations. Any type or kind of match that
you
two twisted bitches can come up with. But my sister and I have two
conditions. First, that idiot [she gestures towards Caine] is banned
from
ringside.
[Face pop.]
SS: Hey, they can't ask to do that!
DR: They just did.
AM: And it's a smart move, if you ask me.
Leanna: Second, whether win or lose, the cat comes back with us.
SS: Moira and Myra haven't skinned that thing yet?
Leanna: What do you say? Ready to make things interesting?
[With that, Leanna tosses the microphone at The Kindred members. Both
Loves stand ready, arms folded across their chests, eyes locked with
their enemies. Caine deftly snatches the microphone out of the air in
front of Myra. She in turn glares at him, her eyes narrowing.]
Caine: So? You figured out we still have the furball. I guess you
deserve
a little more credit that I gave you. We'll gladly give you the ca-
[Moira stomps her foot, face scrunching up in a scowl and yanks on
Caine's arm. He sighs and looks at her, lips curling in a snarl. They
argue off mic, rapidly, too fast for errant lip reading to make it out.
As they do Myra snakes the microphone out of Caine's grip. Caine
growls,
but gives up.]
PBMB: So we get to name the match, hmmm?
[Her voice drops a few degrees, growing icier.]
PBMB: I like the sound of that.
[She chuckles, all too pleased with that idea.]
PBMB: You want Caine banned from ringside in return?
[She nods, accepting the Loves' request.]
PBMB: I think we can live with that.
[Off to her side, Caine turns her way and yells "What?!"]
PBMB: But let's discuss this match of ours. I think Lolita will enjoy
it
almost as much as us.
[Heel pop! Myra smirks.]
PBMB: To win, _both_ members of a team have to be bleeding before
pinfalls or submissions ever count. It's as simple as that.
AM: Haven't these two psychos caused _enough_ bloodshed already? Now
they want _more_?
SS: It's a brilliant idea by two brilliant women. I like it.
[But before the Loves can accept or decline, Myra continues.]
PBMB: As for the cat, I don't think Moira's so easily willing to just
_give_ it back to you.
[Turning to her partner, Myra hands over the mic.]
MOIRA: You gave us our choice of stipulation and we'll keep Caine out
of
the match. That seems like a fair trade to me. If we just GIVE you back
Mr. Claws, what do you give to us? You have NOTHING left to give us.
[Moira scowls.]
MOIRA: However...
[Caine smiles. The architect of what Moira is about offer the Love
sisters.]
MOIRA: We've discussed it and... Decided we want you to hold NOTHING
back
in this match. We want you to TRY your best to beat us at our own
game...
If we just GIVE you the cat, you might just walk away in the middle of
the match when it gets to be too much for you to handle.
[Moira's condescending voice is dripping with contempt.]
MOIRA: So if you want your precious pet back,... You have to BEAT us
for
it. Plain and simple.
[Moira frowns, unhappy with the "decision," but she's all ready
accepted
it. Leanna gestures for the microphone, when Lolita steps in front of
her, spitting out the word "fine" loud enough for the mic to pick up.
Leanna flashes a concerned look her sister's way but doesn't protest.]
SS: That dizzy blonde has no idea what she just got herself into.
[Owens steps forward with a new microphone in hand.]
MO: You've heard it here, folks. The stipulations of this match have
verbally been agreed upon. Not only will Caine Tainer be banned from
ringside but Lolita's cat, Mr. Boo Boo, will be awarded to the winners.
and the match will be fought under the conditions that both team
members
must bleed before there can be a winner.
AM: I don't know if Lolita should have been so quick to respond. This
plays right into the Kindred's hands.
SS: You say that like it's a bad thing.
MO: Now, it's time to sign the contract and make this official.
[Leanna and Lolita make their way to the stack of papers on the table.
Leanna's first to grab a pen, scribbling her name on the contract. She
passes the pen to Lolita, who does the same. Both women tense as Lolita
then places the pen on the table, allowing the Kindred to step forward.
They do so one at a time. First Myra and then Moira. Caine holds his
hand
out to Myra and the still live microphone is passed his way. As Moira
Faith dots the I and crosses the T in her last name Caine cackles.
Moira
steps back until she's leaning against Caine and begins to giggle
darkly.
Smirking fiendishly, Myra shares in on the fun with an icy chuckle.
Caine gathers himself to speak.]
CAINE: We've won all ready. If you can beat us at our own game... We're
that much closer to looking into the mirror and seeing you. We'll make
a
mirror of the World! THEN SHATTER IT!
[Killswitch Engage's "One Last Sunset" cues up again, and all three
Kindred members make their exit, eyes once again locked on the Loves.
As
their enemies leave, Lolita again makes a move as if she is going to
follow but Leanna grabs her by the arm. The younger Love turns to her
sister to protest but Leanna shakes her head. Instead, the Love Sisters
remain in the ring, watching closely as the Kindred make their exit.
They pass by Shadoe Rage, still sitting in the crowd, and look warily
at
him but manage to leave without incident.]
DR: Well, it looks like these two teams are finally going to do battle
but I have to wonder if maybe the Loves have given the Kindred exactly
what they wanted.
SS: Of course, they have. These dizzy broads are going to be toast.
AM: I don't know about that. After everything Moira and Myra have done
to
the Love Sisters and the looks on the faces of Lolita and Leanna, I
have
to wonder just who has walked into whose trap here.
[The scene fades on the glaring faces of the Loves.
We cut to... a generic UWF interview backdrop! Yay!
And standing here are two men who made their presence felt at Gold
Rush... even if noone really knew it at the time. Ha! Such are the
mysterious mysteries of LUCHA LIBRE! And such are the secretive ways
of... the EL DAN DEES!
Two El Dan Dees are standing here. It is likely, if you were paying
attention to Gold Rush, that neither of them is Brian Von Braun.
Unless,
of course, one of them IS Brian Von Braun. Then you'd be really
confused, wouldn't you? Ha! Such are the mysterious mysteries of LUCHA
LIBRE! And such are... wait, we've been over this already.
So, now one of the El Dan Dees begins speaking, moving rather
animatedly
to convey whatever it is he's trying to convey. He is helpfully dubbed
by an English-speaking voice-over person.]
EL DAN DEE #2: SO! You have (pause) insult my honor! Prepare
(pause) to die! (pause) Huah!
EL DAN DEE #3: Uhh, hey. That's the Hong Kong Action Cinema script
we're
dubbing next. We're supposed to be dubbing this promo for that
wrestling
league.
EL DAN DEE #2: Oh, yes. Sorry about that. *ahem* SO! UWF!
Ahahahahaha! (pause) Hahaha! It is I, El Dan Dee Number Two, along
with my partner El Dan Dee Number Three!
EL DAN DEE #3: Waitwaitwait. I thought I was Number Two and you were
Number Three!
EL DAN DEE #2: What? Not this again!
EL DAN DEE #3: We discussed this! I am El Dan Dee Two and YOU are El
Dan
Dee Three! I mean, it's bad enough that you got your shoulder in front
of me in our team eight-by-ten glossy promotional photograph, but now
you
stick me with the worse number, too?
EL DAN DEE #2(?): But look at my trunks! They have the roman numeral
number two on them! And your trunks have the number... hey, you tore
the
third I off of that thing! That's cheating! RUDO! RUDO!
RUUUUUDDDDDOOO!
EL DAN DEE #3(?): Take that back! You're the rudo here... EL DAN DEE
THREE!
EL DAN DEE #2? #3?: What?! You have insult my honor! Prepare to die!
EL DAN DEE #3? #2?: Wait, they had that same line in THIS script, too?
EL DAN DEE #2? #3?: Isn't this line in about every script we do? I
think it must be in the dub-over scriptwriters contract that "you have
insult my honor, prepare to die" has to be in every script. Last week I
was dubbing over a show about interior decorating, and it was on there.
[The voices are no longer matching who is speaking, as the El Dan Dees
make threating gestures as they speak, like throat slashing and the
"break you" sign, apparently making many threats to whomever they are
addressing.]
EL DAN DEE #whichever: Well, maybe if it was Martha Stewart, that might
make sense, then, because she's always talking like that to her
production crew.
EL DAN DEE #whichever: Oh, yes, I heard. Hey, is this recorder still
running? Oh! We'll pick it up a little later here.
[And now we sync back up with the El Dan Dee rant, already in
progress.]
EL DAN DEE #whichever: ...AND THAT IS WHAT WE PLAN TO DO! AHAHA! Now
that we have told you all, you have no excuse!
EL DAN DEE #whichever: Now begone, gringo camera operator person! The
El
Dan Dees... wait, did this just say "the El Dan Dees"?
[What a highly professional voice-over crew we have.]
EL DAN DEE #whichever: Yes, it's like saying "the La Majstral Cradle".
Redundant articles are popular in wrestling. Not to mention that they
just left "gringo" in Spanish and couldn't bother to translate it. Uh,
what does "gringo" mean, anyway?
EL DAN DEE #whichever: I think it's something that non-Spanish speaking
writers throw in there to sound authentic. I bet these guys don't even
speak Spanish. Hey, we gotta get back to the script!
EL DAN DEE #whichever: *ahem* ...AND THAT IS HOW I, EL DAN DEE TWO
(withsomeminorassistancefrommypartnerElDanDeeThree) WILL ELIMINATE ALL
OF
THE ENEMIES OF THE ILLUMINATI! AHAHAHAHA!
EL DAN DEE #whichever: Yes, El Dan Dee Three, that is exactly what I
was
going to say.
EL DAN DEE #whichever: Enough of this bickering over the fact that I am
Two and you are Three! We challenge anyone who would oppose the
Illuminati! In the grand tradition of the El Dan Dees, we will leave no
enemy left standing! Quickly, El Dan Dee Three... use the catchphrase!
EL DAN DEE #whichever: LUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCHHHAAAAAAAAAA!
[And that's it, we fade. But we do get one more voice.]
Voice-over Guy: I must say, though. That IS a swank catchphrase.
[End.]
DR: Whoever's under those masks may have been the deciding factor in
the
decision at Gold Rush in the eight man tag team match. The Illuminati
won, but when the odds were actually six on four it's not a surprise.
SS: Geez, you're just determined not to give Luke Kinsey and the
Illuminati their just due, are you? Face it, the guy's a world class
talent! And if it hadn't been for that jackass Underwood, that match
would have ended a lot sooner than it did.
DR: Let's get to the ring.
____ ___ __ _____________
| | \/ \ / \_ _____/
S | | /\ \/\/ /| __) SATURDAY NIGHT RAMPAGE
N | | / \ / | \.........................
R |______/ \__/\ / \___ / Writer: Mike Beeby
\/ \/
FOR THE NORTH AMERICAN TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP:
The Prophets of Rage[c] versus Don't Go There
......................................................
DH: The following contest is scheduled for one fall, and is for the
North
American Tag Team Championship! Introducing first, the challengers!
["Siroi Yami no Naka" by Shakkazombie starts up over the loudspeakers,
a
quirky yet catchy enough Japanese number with a good beat. At the sight
of "Hentai" Ryu Osawa coming down, the crowd begins to pop as the
usually-grinning man from Sapporo slaps a few hands here and there, but
is generally much less upbeat than normal. And following behind however
is an even more angry looking "Nighthawk" Michael Bonn.]
DH: Weighing in at a combined weight of four hundred and thirty one
pounds, the team of "Nighthawk" Michael Bonn and "Hentai" Ryu Osawa!
They are...
DON'T GOOOOOOO THEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRREEEE!
[Bonn's face says it all, he's not happy given Fatality's orders
earlier
tonight and he's fixing to take it out on his opponents. Ryu rolls into
the ring as Bonn steps through the ropes, and the houselights go down
and
the ring is bathed in an eerie purple light, casting a sickly shadow
over
the world.]
DH: And now, the champions!
[A bell tolls in the distance and the "Death March" begins to play.
Marissa Monet steps through the curtains first, looking around for
Shadoe
and finding him still in his seat at ringside. Derek and Pizzazz come
bursting through the curtains next, and come down the aisle towards the
ring as Marissa heads over to Shadoe to try and coax him to come out of
the crowd.]
AM: Well this may not be much of a match if Shadoe's just going to sit
there the whole time.
DR: This does seem to cast a shadow over the contest, no pun intended.
[Bonn marches up to Derek Rage and points a finger into his chest as
the
referee calls for the bell right away, and despite the big difference
in
size the two begin to unleash lefts and rights on one another. Rage
manages to overpower Bonn and send him to the corner with a bigtime
shoulderblock, but the Nighthawk escapes from the corner after
sidestepping a charge. A tag to Ryu brings him in with a springboard
dropkick, and after that he tries to go for the leg only to be caught
with a kneelift that drives Osawa a couple of feet into the air.
On the outside, Marissa stands by Shadoe and continues to try and reach
him, but the near-catatonic Shadoe makes no move to get back to the
ring.]
DR: Well the quick tagging by Don't Go There is going to wear down
Derek
Rage sooner or later, unless he can score a quick knockout early on.
AM: Ryu got caught, the bodypress got turned into a catch and release
suplex!
[Osawa bounces off the canvas as Bonn yells at him for the tag, but Ryu
can't quite reach it as Derek grabs him by the leg and pulls him back
to
the center of the ring. Lifting him up for a head and arm suplex next
Ryu tries to fight and escape it, but Derek drops him throat-first
across
the top rope instead. Dazed, Osawa is caught with a running clothesline
and sent crashing to the outside...
...which prompts Bonn to run in and pitch Rage over the ropes to the
outside as well, and then hurls himself out of the ring with a twisting
plancha dive!]
DR: The Nighthawk flies! Rage wasn't able to block that one, and he's
been wiped out by the former cruiserweight champion!
AM: Don't Go There better be careful, with Pizzazz and Marissa Monet on
the outside of the ring who knows what they'll try to pull.
[Bonn gets back to his feet first, and keeps on Derek Rage while Ryu
picks himself back up and soon DGT are able to send their opponent into
the side of the ring with a double irish whip. They roll into the ring
to beat the count and Rage barely makes it in as well, getting
subjected
to repeated legdrops to the back of the head. He fights back to his
feet
and Bonn and Ryu each grab an arm and try to whip him to the ropes, but
Derek powers out and smashes the tag partners together instead, then
mows
them down with clotheslines at the same time. Derek grabs Ryu by the
head, but Osawa strikes with an enzuigiri to the back of the head and
rattles the tag team champion. Bonn follows up with a DDT to put Derek
on the canvas, and as Ryu climbs to the top rope Bonn soon joins him,
each balancing carefully in the same corner...
...and then as the crowd pops huge they leap off with a tag team senton
bomb across the chest of Derek Rage!]
DR: MY GOD! DOUBLE SENTON, RAGE MIGHT HAVE A COLLAPSED CHEST!
[Bonn hooks a leg...
1!
2!
KICKOUT! Derek sits up...
...at the same time that Tom Landis and Dan Kidd rush into the ring and
hurl themselves at Bonn and Osawa to a huge round of boos!]
DR: NO! Dammit, the Cornerstones are taking it to Don't Go There and
this match just got thrown out by the referee!
AM: Leave it to those idiots to ruin a perfectly good match!
[Landis grabs Bonn and begins to pepper him with shots as Dan kicks Ryu
to the outside apron and off to the floor. As the two teams trade
shots,
Derek gets back to his feet and after a couple of moments shrugs and
exits the ring. Collecting his title belt, he and Pizzazz head to the
back and soon Marissa is finally able to coax Shadoe from the crowd and
leads him backstage as well. Security runs down to the ring to break up
the fight between the two teams, but as they're being led up the aisle
Bonn manages to break free from the grasp of the security guards and
leaps into another brawl with Landis.]
DR: Good lord, it's broken down! We'll be back, but we've got to get
this mess sorted out!
[Open to an office, somewhere backstage in the arena. The small room is
nicely appointed, with a leather sofa and potted plant on one end, a
desk
with a computer at another, and only a small mountain of paperwork to
deal with sitting on one part of that desk. Pacing back and forth in
front of the desk is your boss and mine, Becky Byers. Byers has a sour
look on her face, as if she's got more issues to deal with than she has
time to deal with them. But, there's something more there. Something's
really annoying her... no, wait, there's a sense of dread. She's about
to
deal with something particularly odious, I'd guess. But what?
As she paces, the door opens, and in steps in the UWF's own Svengali,
Bod
Squad consort John DeWolfe.]
JDW: You asked to see me, boss lady?
[Byers shudders noticeably at the sound of DeWolfe's voice. The sour
expression in her face is now more noticeable. It's like the face you
make when, while taking out the garbage, you catch a whiff of a
particularly pungent bit of last week's half-finished spaghetti dinner.
If DeWolfe notices the scorn, though, he doesn't show it.]
BB: Yes, yes I did.
You see, I have a problem, a particularly annoying and persistent
little
problem that just won't go away. And you're the only man that can solve
it for me.
[DeWolfe's eyes go wide, and his formerly neutral expression becomes
joyful.]
JDW: Hot diggity! I knew this day was coming! I can be ready in just a
second!
[And with that, DeWolfe starts to fiddle with his belt, quickly undoing
the buckle and preparing to take it off while starting to untuck his
shirt with his other hand. Byers quickly notices this reaction...]
BB: What... What the Hell do you think you're doing?
JDW: Aw, don't worry your pretty head about things anymore. Johnny will
take care of all your problems soon. You just lie back and think of
England. You've got a problem...
...and I got the solution right here.
[There's no time for a sour face now, so Byers just goes straight to
the
indignant rage.]
BB: PUT YOUR PANTS BACK ON, GOD DAMN IT! Crikes, this is even more
annoying than when Joey~! tried to put the moves on me.
[aside] Twice.
[to DeWolfe] It's NOT that kind of problem. It's about business.
JDW: [smirking], Oh, I'm all about business, Becks.
BB: Shut up and listen.
[Deciding discretion is the better part of continued employment,
DeWolfe
does shut up, and listens while he re-buckles his belt and otherwise
puts
himself back together.]
BB: Here's the problem. Back at Brawl from the Mall, you got a cheap
pin
on Lisa Drake. Now, that sort of thing happens all the time in our
business. I wish it didn't, but it does. Not a huge deal in my eyes.
But
Lisa... she can't get over it. Not after the way you treated her, and
the
whole Women's Division. In a lot of ways, it's hard to blame her. Now,
she's been calling me, sending me e-mails, she's even been in this very
office earlier tonight, always asking... for a rematch.
It's a fair request, and one I'd normally grant her. The only problem
is... you're technically not on the UWF's active roster, which means
every time I book you, you have to sign off on it. You'll recall the
form
you signed to participate in that six person tag? All I need is for you
to sign another one of those forms, you can give Lisa Drake her
rematch,
she can beat you, and I won't have to deal with either of you for
weeks.
Everybody wins.
JDW: Everybody?
BB: Well, obviously I assume you'd lose the match, but you'll get the
make an ass of yourself publicly, which seems to be what you enjoy
doing,
so I'd count you as a winner too. In any event, I have one of the forms
right over here...
[Byers points over to the small mountain of paperwork on her desk]
...so, can we take care of this right now? I'd like to get back to the
non-DeWolfe related parts of my job.
JDW: Wow... I knew you were uptight, but damn... you should have taken
me
up on my offer earlier. You really DO need to get laid.
BB: Sigh.
I don't have time to respond to your crap, DeWolfe. Just sign the form,
and I can get back to work, and you can go back to... whatever it is
that
you do.
JDW: No.
BB: No?!!?
JDW: No. Not unless I get something in return.
BB: [clearly fed up] I'm not sleeping with you. Not if you were the
last
man on Earth.
JDW: Oh, no, it's not that....
BB: Besides, don't you have a girlfriend anyway? How is Brianna? She
seems not to be on the same page with you Bod Squadders any more...
JDW: Look, I don't want to talk about that. What I do want to talk
about... is quid pro quo. You scratch my back...
BB: DAMNIT, I'M NOT SLEEPING WITH YOU!
JDW: Metaphor, Becks, metaphor. You scratch my METAPHORICAL back, I
scratch yours. You're a businesswoman, I'm a businessman, we can cut a
deal.
[Byers shakes her head in frustration. This is clearly a more
intractable
problem than she expected. She seems to be running things over in her
head for a second, and then she turns to DeWolfe, a look of slight
surprise on her face mixed with clear annoyance.]
BB: I can't believe I'm doing this, but... what do you want? I'll hear
you out.
[DeWolfe smirks. He's done this before, you know, wearing down a
woman's
defenses until she acquiesces out of sheer frustration. It's kind of
his
thing.]
JDW: It's simple, Byers. What I want... is power. What I want... is a
chance to benefit the UWF, the reshape the Women's Division in my
image,
and to make it a valuable profit center for this company. So I'll work
your little rematch... if you make me the Vice President in charge of
the
Women's Division.
BB: HA!
JDW: It wasn't a joke. I have the experience... I've been a Vice
President before in the UWF. Hell, I was President of the UWF before!
BB: And every time, you ran yourself and whatever pet project you had
into the ground. No, DeWolfe, I won't make you a Vice President. No
chance in hell.
[DeWolfe pouts, putting on a surprisingly childish air. Well, maybe not
that surprising.]
JDW: Then I won't agree to the rematch.
BB: Well, maybe if you'd make a reasonable demand, I could help you
out.
But being a VP... just to work one match? It's an annoying problem, but
I'd rather put up with Lisa Drake complaining than with you having any
booking control.
JDW: Well... how about one match? Just let me create one match in the
Women's Division. All I've been saying is that talented women like Tara
Marshall are being held back in your regime... so just let me book one
match to prove it to you.
BB: Oh no... I don't want to see whatever disgusting sexist display you
have planned. No jell-o wrestling, no pools full of mud... not worth my
time, DeWolfe.
[DeWolfe laughs bitterly.]
JDW: Those WOULD be good ideas... but it's not what I'm planning. I
just
want a simple chance to prove that Tara is the dominant force in
women's
wrestling. I want... a number one contender's battle royal.
BB: No, no, no, there's....
[Byers pauses, as she had just been automatically saying no by this
point. She considers the offer, and her face softens just slightly.]
BB: A battle royal? That's not a bad idea... and that's all you want?
JDW: Becky, I just want a fair shot for Tara. I want a match where the
best woman will win. I want a battle royal, with a guaranteed title
shot
for the winner. Once Tara wins, and gets her title shot... then, I'll
work your stupid rematch.
BB: You know what... that's actually fair. Your terms are acceptable.
Next week on Rampage, you can put together a number one contender's
battle royal. Now, for the love of all that is good and holy, would you
PLEASE sign the release form?
[While saying that, Byers is pushing a clipboard towards DeWolfe. On
the
board is the form in question, along with a pen. DeWolfe takes it,
still
smirking the whole time, grabs the pen from its resting slot in the
hole
on the clip, and dashes off his signature. Byers audibly exhales with
relief once the deed is done, and quickly grabs the clipboard back.
DeWolfe, still holding the pen, just shrugs and puts it in his pocket,
and then gets up to leave.]
JDW: See you later, Becks.
BB: [under her breath] Not if I see you first...
[And with that, DeWolfe walks briskly out of the room. Well... almost
out
of the room. You see, as he's about to make his last step out into the
hallway and out of frame, he turns around, pokes his head back in, and
addresses Byers again.]
JDW: Oh... one last thing I forgot to mention. This battle royal...
it'll
be open to every woman in the company. You know, give everyone a fair
shot. Not just wrestlers, either... announcers, managers... heck, even
you could participate if you wanted to.
[Byers has sat down at her desk and moved on to other work, and is
barely
paying attention to DeWolfe at this point.]
BB: What? Oh, yes, that sounds interesting.... fine, whatever.
[DeWolfe really smiles now.]
JDW: Oh, and, one other thing. This battle royal... it's not just a
normal battle royal... no, I'm booking it as... a Bikini Battle Royal!
[We hear a pop, a distinctly deep voiced male pop, from the arena
proper
when DeWolfe says that. Byers doesn't register what he's said right
away,
and when she looks up in confusion, DeWolfe is already gone.]
BB: A... bikini battle royal? And DeWolfe's in charge of it?
[Byers looks particularly crestfallen.]
BB: Dear God... what have I agreed to?
[Backstage at Rampage. A young woman makes her way down the hall.
"Twilight Angel" Sonya Benedict.
She's dressed in somewhat modified ring gear: the usual turquoise
sports
bra with black patterns, and fishnets on her arms & upper torso
(leaving
her abs exposed) for starters. But instead of the old black wrestling
tights with turquoise stripes, Sonya now wears a solid turquoise denim
skirt over matching shorts. She rounds out her gear with black kneepads
and boots, with turquoise laces on the boots. Her long black hair
(still
sporting the small pink streak) falls freely down her back.
She's about to open the can of Fanta in her hand when someone
off-screen
calls her name.]
V: Sonya?
[She turns toward the voice as Moe Owens comes into view.]
SB: Hey Moe.
MO: Mind if I get a few words with you before your match?
[SB: Yeah, why not?
[Moe clears his throat, adjusts his tie, here we go.]
MO: While Gold Rush proved to be a great night of action, one question
is
on everyone's mind... why? Why agree to an I Quit Match with Angel?
[Sonya chuckles.]
SB: Actually Moe, it was _me_ that asked for a match with her.
Difference is I would've much rather had it at Gold Rush itself, than
wait until now.
[Not quite the answer he was looking for.]
MO: But... why an I Quit Match? Normally only those who have at least
some knowledge of technical wrestling agree to that kind of contest.
And
no offense, Sonya, but you're not even on the radar when it comes to
that
style. So why agree to a match where you know Angel has a very distinct
advantage even from the get-go?
SB: Because it doesn't matter what kind of match this is, Moe. I get my
hands on Angel with no rules but one...
To win, your opponent's gotta' say "I quit".
And that's just fine with me. Because it doesn't matter what I have to
do. One way or another, Angel leave with a hard lesson learned...
You don't _f[BLEEP]k_ with me and get away with it.
[Sonya sets her can of Fanta down on a nearby table and folds her arms
across her chest.]
SB: But you know Moe, you're absolutely right...
[She nods.]
SB: I'm hopeless on the mat. Don't know a single submission. And I
wouldn't even know how to try one. However... there's still a lot I
_can_ bring to this fight. The I quit rule may not really be up my
alley, but you know what? That's fine. Because other than that [holds
up her index finger] one rule...
All bets are off...
Everything's fair game...
And that fact _is_ to my liking.
MO: I admire your conviction. But you will also have to contend with
the
possibility that Angel will fall back on using that technical and
submissions style against you. How do you plan to defend against that
likelihood?
SB: There is no plan, Moe. Because no matter what, if Angel gets me
down
on the mat, I have no hope whatsoever of countering it. But for people
like me, there's still ways out of that kind of situation. It's just a
matter of me figuring out what works best as the match progresses.
MO: Very well. Moving on to more personal matters, for months now Angel
has claimed you have the "Darkness" in you, and her proof of that is
repeated attacks you've allegedly carried out on her. And while I've
discussed this with you in the past, what are your current thoughts on
the matter?
[Sonya's eyes narrow a bit, her frustration obviously rising again at
the
recollection of Angel's repeated mindgames.]
SB: You know what Moe? Maybe she's right.
[...?! Moe's eyes widen in surprise.]
MO: Pardon me?
[What he said. Sonya nods.]
SB: Maybe her darkness does run in my family... in _me_. If what she
wants is for me to accept it, fine. But what I'd like to know is...
How's she going to deal with the consequences?
MO: And about the attacks?
[Sonya's arms unfold, her body tensing up a bit.]
SB: There's no denying what I've done to her, Moe. You've seen with
your
own eyes. If I attack somebody, I don't hide it.
_Ever_.
MO: Fair enough. Any final comments going into your match?
[Another nod from Sonya.]
SB: If I have to bleed Angel dry to get her to quit...
I'll do it.
If I have to break everybone in her body to beat her...
[Her voice harshens.]
SB: There will be _no_ hesitation.
Whatever it takes to shut Angel up once and for all, Moe...
I'll find it...
I'll use it...
And when all's said and done, I'll make that bitch eat her own words as
she yells out in pain...
_"I quit!"_
MO: Well I think that should be enough. Thank you Sonya for this
interview..
[Sonya just nods in response as she reaches to the table for her Fanta.
But comes up empty-handed. So she looks over towards the table.
And the can of soda isn't there. And now something's caught Moe's eye
as
he gazes over Sonya's shoulder.]
MO: Looks like somebody wants to talk to you.
[Sonya glances back at Moe, then follows his gaze and turns around to
find another woman a mere foot away from her.
Slowly, a cruel smile spreads across Angst's face as her eyes meet
Sonya
Benedict's. Angst, like always, is dressed for competition; baggy,
"night" camouflage shorts, black kneepads, black Doc Martin boots and a
powdered blue Drew Brees jersey. Her blonde hair hangs loose and wild
in
her face. With a satisfied "hiss" she pops open the can of Fanta with
black nailed fingers, before taking a slow sip]
A: Mmmm. How delicious. [Angst's fingernails tap on the side of the
can] I'm so glad everything you needed to know you learned in
kindergarten, Sonya. Sharing is _such_ a cardinal virtue, after all.
And cardinal virtues are the bricks on the path to heaven, aren't they?
[Her gaze fixed on the can in Angst's hand, Sonya's eyes narrow once
again.]
SB: They also taught you to _ask_ before taking something that wasn't
yours in kindergarten.
Though I suppose you missed school that day, right?
[The wicked smile never fades from Angst's lips and she giggles
malevolently for the briefest of moments]
A: Mmmm. Such a delightful use of sarcasm, how _adult_ you sound,
hiding your displeasure behind such biting remarks. Now tell me, Sonya,
are you going to be victorious this evening? Are you going to make your
opponent suffer? [Another sip, another cruel giggle] Or are you just
going to win? Just go far enough but not all the way? How disappointing
_that_ would be.
[Sonya sighs, obviously getting frustrated again.]
SB: "All the way?" I suppose you want me to embrace Angel's "Darkness"
too.
[She rolls her eyes.]
SB: Since when did you lot start coming out of the woodwork? First
Myra,
then Angel, and now you.
I'll deal with Myra on my own time.
And Angel will find out what I'm _really_ all about tonight.
As for you? You're just going to have to wait your turn.
[Angst's smile widens]
A: Patience is another cardinal virtue, Sonya. And little Sammy is oh,
so willing to wait for the _right_ moment. So go play with your friend
and have that heart to heart with your cousin you've been putting off.
Family is _so_ important. Where would you be without them, after all?
[Sonya nods.]
SB: Yes it is. Though something tells me you don't know the first thing
about family.
[...]
SB: But aside from my Fanta, what exactly is it you want?
[Angst twirls the can in her hand and leans forward, shrinking the
space
between herself and Sonya]
A: Little Sammy knows _all_ about family. All about how mommy drank and
drank. All about how daddy made little Sammy his little princess, the
keeper of all his secrets... [Angst sets the now half empty can down]
...
but enough reminiscing. You had a question, didn't you? Something you
wanted to know?
[Sonya rolls her eyes and folds her arms across her chest, forcing a
little space between them once again.]
SB: [more harshly now] _What_ is it you want? Just to make me late for
this match with Angel?
[Angst giggles wickedly]
A: No, no. Little Sammy doesn't care about your itsy bitsy match with
Angel. After all, win or lose it won't change things for you. Win or
lose, Sonya. You, me, _we_ have a future.
[The lights flicker for the briefest of moments. When proper lighting
returns, Angst is gone. Cut back to the arena.]
DR: Well, Don't Go There and the Cornerstones have been separated and
taken backstage, but from what I understand Fatality has attempted to
have Ryu and Michael tossed from the building.
SS: That's fair.
AM: The hell it is! She's trying to make their lives a living hell, and
it's because she's still bitter that Bonn helped to bring about her
downfall back at Rise To Power.
SS: Like I said, it's fair.
[Since we last saw the ring, a lush, dark green carpet has been laid
out
over the mat. The set-up crew has obviously been busy, as they've also
brought some furniture into the ring - a small, cheap looking end
table,
and three office chairs on wheels. On the table is a small display of
books - we quickly get a closeup of one, enough to see the smiling
face
of Brett Greene on the cover. It is, in fact, his recently released
autobiography, "It Ain't Easy Being Greene - a Life in the Ring."
Available now at better book stores near you. Call today!
Ahem. Sorry about that.
That's not all the ring crew's set up. Attached to each of the
turnbuckles is a sign, three of them cardboard and reading simply
"Welcome to the Greene Room" in green lettering on a blue background.
The
fourth sign, just above the turnbuckle closest to the announce team, is
a
small neon sign similar to one you might find in a TV or radio studio.
It
is lit up, and it reads simply
"ON AIR"
In the centre of the ring stands Brett Greene, dressed up to business
casual standards in a solid, salmon coloured shirt, a light brown
sports
jacket which is left open, and a nice looking pair of white khakis..
Greene smiles, in a way that might be described as cocky if someone
less
likable were doing it, and raises the mic to speak.]
BG: MADISON... SQUARE... GARDEN!
[Big name recognition pop! Greene only gives the rabid Manhattan fans a
brief moment to die down before he speaks again.]
BG: NEW... YORK... CITY!
[Well, that doesn't help to calm the crowd down, as again they cheer
loudly just for hearing the name of their own city. Greene mocking puts
his hands up, and motions as if to ask the crowd to quiet down, but
he's
in too good a mood to seriously mean it, so she soaks up the cheers for
a
few more seconds before going on.]
BG: Now, you'd expect me to be in a bad mood. After Derek Martin damn
near re-retired me at Gold Rush, after he took so much blood out of me
I
had to wonder if he worked for the Red Cross, you'd figure I'd be one
pissed off son of a gun. And you woulda been right... if you'd caught
me
the night of the show.
But I'm alright now. Why?
Because I'm Brett F'n Greene!
And this is Saturday Night F'n Rampage, live from New York F'n City!
And on this day... in this city... here in the Greene Room... THE SHOW
WILL GO
ON!
[It would seem that the New Yorkers in attendance either like to see an
upbeat Brett Greene, like to hear their city referenced, or both, as
once
more the crowd is expertly milked for a loud face pop. Greene once
again
plays up to it, walking over to one side of the ring and thrusting the
microphone out, egging on that section of the crowd to cheer louder. He
acts dissatisfied with the results, then moves to his right and tries
again with those fans. They pop just a little bit louder when asked to,
and Greene nods and gives a thumbs up gesture in that direction, before
walking back towards the centre of the ring.]
BG: Now, as much fun as it'd be for me to just stand out here and talk
about myself for this whole segment, I do have a guest to introduce.
Like
me, he got himself into a big match at Gold Rush, and unfortunately
like
me he came up just a lil' bit short. And also, like I used to be, this
man is an undeniable young talent and one of the rising stars in our
business. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome tonight's guest on the
Greene Room...
TREY DAMANN!
[All the lights in the arena immediately shut off, with the exception
of
one solitary gold spotlight that focuses on the entranceway. A few
ear-piercing shrieks break the silence before a loud synthesizer chord
echoes throughout the building...the soon-to-be most well-known first
note in UWF history, that of "Lovin' Every Minute of It" by Loverboy.
A continuous wall of gold sparks falls from the base of the Unitron to
the floor as the music goes full blast. Upon hearing the first words
spoken in the song, the pyro ceases and bathed in gold spotlight is a
large
figure with his arms spread wide and head tilted towards the sky.
Dozens
of gold spotlights light the way down the aisle and to the ring.
This individual is positively glowing as he emerges, slowly lowering
his
head to reveal the trademark TRILLION DOLLAR TREY DAMANN SMILE!
Clad in a navy blue and gold-pinstriped Armani suit, spit-shined
wingtips, diamond-encrusted Tour d'Ile watch, and ultra-smug demeanor,
the third-generation wrestler pauses to bask in the ambiance of the
World's Most Famous Arena. His appreciation for New York isn't mutual,
however, as the fans enthusiastically boo his very presence. But it
doesn't matter to the 6'5", 265 pound soon-to-be
uber-super-mega-giganto-star of UWF, as his confident blue eyes lead
him
on his slow walk to the ring. Gold light illuminates him as he climbs
the
stairs, steps through the ropes, and flashes his trademarked SMILE! to
the 20,000 strong. After one more chorus, the music fades but his
obnoxious grin doesn't. Before the lights return to normal, Trey
already
has a microphone in his hand.]
TD: THE STAR.....OF THE SHOW......HAS ARRIVED!
[New York City fans are so much quicker to curse him than anyone else.
Perhaps it's his unabashed love for the West Coast, or maybe the fact
that he hasn't even noticed Brett Greene standing by the ropes waiting
for him.]
TD: Well, I'd like to welcome myself, the rightful UWF World
Heavyweight
champion, to the first post-Pay-Per-View broadcast of Saturday Night
Rampage, or as I would like to call it, Trey DaMann Saves Another
Entire
UWF Show Single-Handedly Because He Helps The Fans To Forget All The
Crap
They Had To Suffer Through Before And Will Have To Watch After.
[Trey needs a moment to recover after that mouthful. Over on the other
side of the ring, Brett just shakes his head disapprovingly and
continues
to wait.]
TD: Clearly, the Powers-That-Wannabe in the UWF know what they're doing
by putting their biggest star on their biggest stage, albeit in the
second-biggest city. They also knew what they were doing at Gold Rush
by
bringing in a whole slew of new wrestlers. Undoubtedly, this was
because
they knew I was far-and-away superior to everyone else on the roster
going into Gold Rush. But while that is still the case, at least the
newbies may have some sliver of hope in thinking that they won't be
completely and totally embarrassed by me in the ring.
[Trey turns towards the locker room area, still oblivious to Brett
Greene
waiting for him on the other side of the ring.]
TD: So to the newest UWF wrestlers, Madison....um, Avenue or
whatever.......Juan Gonzales......and Colby...uhhhh, Colby...Colby
Jack,
welcome to the UWF and I will be kicking all of your asses soon enough!
And perhaps maybe all at once.
[Trey begins to chuckle as he turns around to look at all the fans he
has
been neglecting to this point. He finally makes eye contact with Brett
Greene and gives him a "What are you doing here?" look. But then he
continues yapping to the fans.]
TD: I'm sorry, but what idiot names their kid "Colby Jack?" My God,
people can really be so stupid!
[Trey quickly turns back to Brett Greene, looking at him like he's a
ghost. That, or an unwanted trespasser during his airtime. He looks at
him with his mouth agape. Through all of this Greene waits, his facial
expression one of mild annoyance. At length, he speaks.]
BG: Can we begin here?
[A surprised DaMann does a deer-in-the-headlights double take. He can't
believe someone has spoken to him in such an... impertinent way.]
TD: Who are you? What are you doing in my ring? (looking down) Why is
there shag carpeting? And furniture? I don't know what you want to
begin,
but it better end with you taking all of this crap out of here with
you.
All this green décor does not show off my eyes. Of course you know the
people tune in to see my baby blue eyes!
[Greene chuckles a bit, unimpressed with the ego on the young DaMann,
then forges ahead with the interview.]
BG: Now Trey, you've made a lot of noise since joining the UWF about
wantin' a shot at the World Title, about how you oughta be in the main
event...
[DaMann quickly interrupts.]
TD: Absolutely, and I'm glad you agree! Aaah, it all makes perfect
sense
now! Coming off the heels of missing out on my UWF World Heavyweight
title shot in Los Angeles, the Powers-That-Wannabe will try to make it
up
to me in New York by sending out some washed-up, broken-down,
long-retired, never-accomplished-much road agent to personally award me
my main event title shot at the next UWF Pay-Per-View spectacular.
About
damn time. Do you know how long I've been waiting? Don't you know it's
rude to keep someone waiting?
[This time, Greene does not laugh off DaMann's hubris so easily. He
grimaces noticeably, and then we can see him force that reaction back
to
return to a more professional demeanor. When he speaks again, though,
his
voice has an irritated edge to it.]
BG: Would ya please let me finish my question here?
TD: Question? The only question should be in what color ink will I sign
the contract or what will I wear the night of my championship victory.
Unless you're doing this in order to appear on my upcoming Best of Trey
DaMann DVD release during one of the bonus special attraction features.
If so, good thinking. I'll take care of this.
[Trey begins to circle around the ring with a huge smile covering
nearly
his entire face. His trademarked mile-a-minute hyperspeak begins in
3...2....1...]
TD: Of course it feels great to be one short match away from becoming
the
youngest World Champion of all time. It's hard to say how this title
reign will compare to the hundreds of others I will accumulate over my
already-legendary career...I mean, obviously the first one will always
have
a special place in my heart, but each one will be special to me in its
own way. You know, my father once said something very profound about
how
it felt to win the big belt for the twenty-third time. I'll always
remember this, he said...
BG: My God, are you still talkin'? Son, I don't know why you think
you're
out here, but allow me to pop a pin in that balloon full a' delusions
you
got there. I am not here to award you a title shot, to crown you
champion, or to hold you up over the bow of a boat and let you call
yerself the "King of the World"! You're here to do an interview. And do
I
have to remind you that the name of the show is the "Greene Room", not
"Trey DaMann Can't Keep His Damn Mouth Closed"!
[DaMann is clearly not accustomed to being spoken to so bluntly, as he
almost jumps up in shock and quickly has a pained look on his face. The
jeering of the crowd does nothing to help the slight to Trey's rather
healthy ego, either. DaMann tries to sputter out a response... ]
TD: ...I...um...no...How dare you!!!
[... but Greene is quick to cut him off.]
BG: ONCE AGAIN... this is my show, we play by my rules, and you answer
my
questions. So as I said... keep your damn mouth closed while I ask my
first
question!
[DaMann is not usually one to take orders, but Brett Greene's imposing
presence is enough to keep him silent for now. Yes, he's pouting rather
demonstratively, but he's doing it silently, and that's good enough for
Brett.]
BG: As I was sayin', you've made a lot of noise about title shot this,
main event that, talking about what you deserve, what you're entitled
to.
My question is... what, exactly, have you DONE to deserve any of those
things?
[An incredulous DaMann just stares at Greene, his eyes practically
popping out of his head, deeply resenting the way he is being treated.
Trey does not speak into his microphone yet, but we can see him mouth a
response back to Brett, saying "I'm Trey DaMann and I don't have to do
anything!" in a resentful tone. Brett exhales audibly through his nose,
and then points towards the mic in Trey's hand at his side.]
BG: Use that little piece of technology there, son. The people'll hear
you much better that way.
[DaMann does as suggested, but not without shooting a death glare at
Greene.]
TD: If you don't know what _I'VE_ done, then you haven't been paying
attention. Besides, what have _YOU_ ever done? I mean, you've probably
never main evented a Pay-Per-View, never been the biggest star in the
sport, and never been UWF World Heavyweight champion. I come from the
greatest wrestling family in history. I am the franchise player of this
entire sport. UWF's biggest star and only proven meal ticket. Don't you
know none of these people would be here, paying your pathetic little
salary I should add, if it weren't for my very appearance on this show?
BG: See, I still ain't heard about your accomplishments. Oh, I've heard
about what you plan to do, I've heard about how great you think you
are,
and I've heard you got a famous name. So you're a young, confident kid,
and you got some natural talent and a great name. That got you here,
that
opened doors. But all you've done is opened that front door, and
suddenly
you're talkin' about livin' in the dang penthouse.
Let me tell you a story...
[DaMann interjects.]
TD: If the Alzheimer's doesn't stop you.
[Greene ignores the sarcasm, and plows on.]
BG: About five years ago, my nephew was in the same place you are now.
Maybe you heard of him... young man by the name of Colby Greene?
[The crowd has, as they pop loudly at the mention of the younger
Greene.
Apparently New York is home to quite a few RCW fans. DaMann seems
confused and unimpressed, however.]
TD: Can't say I care much, but who's that?
BG: I ain't surprised. Given where your head's at, I doubt you know
'bout
much that goes on outside your own ass.
[Snap! DaMann again looks enraged, and he balls up his hands into fists
which Greene seems not to notice. The fans quickly pick up on the
comment, at first cheering and laughing. Several of them start up a
chant
that rapidly picks up steam.]
ASSSSSSS-HOLE! ASSSSSSS-HOLE!
ASSSSSSS-HOLE! ASSSSSSS-HOLE!
ASSSSSSS-HOLE! ASSSSSSS-HOLE!
BG: You hear that, son? They're callin' you an asshole. Now, let me
explain why. You see, five years ago, Colby had about what you got now.
He had dreams. He had a good deal of natural, God-given talent. He was
in
great shape. He had a famous last name. And he knew jack shit 'bout
wrestling. So I helped train him, up to the point where he didn't look
lost in the ring. And at that point, he coulda done two things with his
young career.
He coulda done what you do each and every time I've seen ya on TV. He
coulda flaunted the Greene name around, he coulda whined about the
shots
he deserved, he coulda coasted on what genetics gave him. Hell, I love
the kid, and if he'd asked me too, I'da moved heaven and earth to get
him
a job, to get him opportunities. In short, he coulda taken the easy
path.
But Colby didn't wanna do that. Colby wanted to pay his dues, like
everyone else does. Colby wanted to set his own path. So he went out,
got
a job on his own, and worked his ass off. He took a lot of lumps at
first. He lost a lot of matches his first few months. Everyone does, of
course. It's the way this business works. But you know what happened?
After all that hard work, after all that training and fighting to
define
himself outside of the Greene shadow... Colby went out and won himself
the
River City Championship. He did that his way. He made himself a
champion.
What's more important, he made himself a man, a man I can be damn proud
of.
So my next question is... why the hell aren't you doin' that?
[During the story, Trey was noticeably losing interest, and towards the
very end pretended to be asleep with his head on the top turnbuckle.
Once
Greene finished, Trey rubbed his eyes as if just waking up, wiped the
drool off his lips, and pantomimes a huge obnoxiously-fake yawn. Greene
has to look away in disgust as DaMann stretches out his arms.]
TD: I'm sure that would make a wonderful Lifetime Movie Of The Week.
Maybe Fred Savage could star in it. Me? What you described is not a
road
I have to take. I am Trey DaMann and I am above all that. Better than
that. The world is mine because it is my birthright. People like me are
given what we deserve because we deserve it.
BG: You want "what you deserve", huh?
TD: And it's about time you realized that.
[Greene winks conspiratorially to the crowd, but DaMann seems not to
notice.]
BG: You want the kind of treatment you have comin' to you, huh?
[Trey gets up in his face and glares at Brett, finger pointing right at
him.]
TD: Every last bit of it!
[Greene shrugs.]
BG: All right, you asked for it...
[And with that, he suddenly pops DaMann in the face with his free hand!
Trey is stunned for a second, which allows Brett time to throw his mic
to
the side, freeing up both hands for a barrage of punches that has the
younger man reeling. Soon, Trey is back against the ropes, so Brett
takes
a big step back, then leans in to hit a huge clothesline that sends
DaMann up and over the top rope. The crowd roars in approval as the
cocky
Californian lands flat on his back on the floor below!]
AM: Hah! Trey DaMann has just been treated with all the respect he
deserves!
SS: This is just wrong, Red. I don't know why you glory in this... a
classy
guy like Trey, being manhandled by a washed-up Brett Greene?
DR: Washed up?
SS: Well, keep in mind a washed up Pridesman is still worth three or
four
regular wrestlers. But yes, washed up.
[Greene doesn't look washed up right now, as he holds court in the
ring,
playing to the cheers of the crowd as a furious DaMann gets back to his
feet on the outside. Trey looks up to the ring in anger, and seems to
be
considering getting back in, but backs off quickly when Greene takes a
step in that direction. Finally, Trey throws up his hands and storms to
the back, fuming and muttering under his breath. Fade to black.]