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                           American Wrestling Alliance
                                 Proudly Presents
                         AWA Saturday Night Wrestling

                            Live from the Thrillerdome
                                  Atlanta, Georgia
                                  August 1st, 2009
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[As we fade in, we hear the closing theme to the Andy Griffith show as
the shot starts to fade.  It is replaced by footage marked "TWO WEEKS
AGO!" with Marcus Broussard speaking at ringside with Gordon Myers and
Bucky Wilde.]

MB:  The doctor can go to hell, Gordon!  I spent too much time away from
the ring last year and I'm not about to go through that again.  The last
time I checked... I'm still a former National Champion.  I'm still the
first man to wear that title around his waist.  And I'm still the man to
beat in this company if you want to try and make a name for yourself.

[Broussard pauses, looking at Gordon.]

MB:  And Gordon, I'm _damn_ sure still the man who will not rest until
that National Title belt is back around my waist.  You can put whoever
you want in my path.  Dufresne, Freeman, Sudakov, Bright, Pure X, Ron
Houston... even my old friend Adam Rogers again if you want... I'm going
to go through each and every one of them until that title belt is back
around this waist.  And there's not a single person in that locker room
that can stop-

[Broussard stops mid-sentence as he and Myers both turn their attention
to their right, where we now see "Hotshot" Stevie Scott, "Gold Bomber"
Gary Bright, and "Agent To The Stars" Ben Waterson all enter the picture
while the crowd expresses their continued displeasure with the
newly-former trio.

Stevie, still clad in his suit and sunglasses, laughs and motions for
Myers to bring the mic his way.]

HSS: Hang on, hang on, hang on.  Did I hear you say...that you want
_this_?!

[Stevie points to the AWA National Title that is laying across his right
shoulder.  He pauses for a moment and begins laughing again.]

HSS: Brother, you can't even lift your arm above your head.  What makes
you think that you're worthy to step into the ring with me, huh?  What
makes you think you're worthy to challenge for this belt?

<CUT!>

MB:  You can tell everyone else that you're the man now.  Tell Waterson,
tell this over-grown oaf...

[Bright tries to step forward but Stevie and Waterson hold him back.]

MB:  Tell all these people how you're the man.  Hell, if you tell enough
people, some of them might even start to believe you.But there's one
person who won't believe you, Hotshot... and you're lookin' at him.

[Big cheer!]

MB:  So, you go back in that locker room, find the bathroom mirror, and
ask out loud... "Mirror Mirror on the wall, who's the baddest man of
them all?"

You ask, Hotshot... but don't be surprised when that mirror lets you
know that the baddest man isn't the man in the mirror.

[Broussard smirks.]

MB:  It's the man staring you dead in the eye right now.

[Huge cheer!]

MB:  And it's the man telling you that in two weeks time in Atlanta,
Georgia... I want to be the first man to challenge you for _my_ National
Title belt!

[ENORMOUS CHEER!  Stevie Scott looks shocked at the idea, visibly
shaking his head to refuse when suddenly Ben Waterson, surprisingly
quiet this whole time, grabs Stevie by the shoulder and pulls him back
for a conference.  Bright also leans in.  After a brief conversation,
Stevie nods and turns back to Broussard, still a bit unsettled.]

HSS: OK... OK, big man... you want a title shot in Atlanta?

[Stevie looks back at Waterson again, obviously a bit unsure of this
answer.]

HSS:  You've got it!

[HUGE POP!  And the footage fades as we go to the sounds of "One More
Saturday Night" by the Grateful Dead.

A large white map of the United States fills the screen as the music
plays.  The shot zooms through the map, different states "popping up"
into view as we race past them.  As we pull back from the map, it no
longer is white but rather made up of the Stars and Stripes.

The map goes into a spin, spinning round and round as we zoom all the
way into it, dissolving into a few slow motion shots of animated men
battling in a red, white, and blue ring.  The animation runs through
various wrestling moves from an atomic drop to a bodyslam to a
piledriver.

And as the blue animaniac applies a clawhold on the white animaniac, we
freeze and the AWA logo fills the screen.

After a moment, we fade away from the cheaply done intro to the interior
of the Thrillerdome in Atlanta, Georgia, where over five thousand
fans have jammed into the building for more AWA action.  The camera pans
over the roaring crowd as the music continues to play.

We dissolve to the ringside area where a small table has been
strategically placed next to the ring.  In front of it, stand our two
announcers.

One is clad in a dark navy suit, white dress shirt, and red and white
striped tie.  He sports nicely-styled salt and pepper hair and a
well-groomed moustache.  He grips a wireless mic in his hand, grinning
widely at the camera.  In his late-50's and the epitome of
professionalism, this man is Gordon Myers.

By his side is... well, somewhat a bit more flashy.  With a mic in one
hand and a glitter covered briefcase in the other, this man is paunchy
to say the least.  He's got a decent sized gut pushing at the buttons on
his lime green dress shirt underneath an eye-burning yellow jacket.  His
black hair is tousled in all directions like he hasn't run a comb
through it in his life.  He's in his late 30's... he's former manager
"Big Bucks" Bucky Wilde.]

GM:  Good evening, fans, and welcome to another edition of AWA Saturday
Night Wrestling featuring all the stars of the American Wrestling
Alliance, _the_ major league of professional wrestling.  Bucky Wilde, we
are LIVE in Atlanta, Georgia for one of the biggest Saturday Night
Wrestlings I can recall.  In tonight's Main Event, the National Title
will be on the line with the champion, "Hotshot" Stevie Scott, defending
the gold against the former champion Marcus Broussard!

BW:  It's the reason that over five thousand people are in this building
tonight, daddy.  Well, plus the chance to see me!

GM:  I'd imagine we can also credit the chance to see hometown hero
Sweet Daddy Williams in action as well unfortunately, Mr. Williams has
been out of touch with the AWA for the past two weeks and we do not
expect him to be in the building tonight.  But make no mistake, we have
one of the most star-studded shows in recent memory to present to you
tonight.  Tumaffi will be in action.  Ron Houston will be in action.

BW:  The Right Proper Thugs are here tonight as well as Shane Destiny!

GM:  Plus much, much more including more news on Labor Day weekend and
No Escape!  But that'll come later.  For now... hold on one second,
fans... what are YOU doing out here?

[The object of Myers' (and the crowd's) scorn is "Agent To The Stars"
Ben Waterson, very well-dressed and beaming at the jeering fans, who has
joined the announcers at ringside.]

ATTSBW:  Atlanta, Georgia!  How the heck are ya?

[More boos!  Waterson feigns a look of concern.]

ATTSBW:  I don't understand.  Why would the people of Atlanta, Georgia
boo me?  Why would they show me such disrespect, Gordon Myers?

GM:  Perhaps it's because of what you did to their hometown hero Sweet
Daddy Williams!

[Big cheer that says "Yeah!  That's the reason!"  Waterson smirks at the
jeers, nodding his head.]

ATTSBW:  Ah yes.  I see, I see.  Well, Gordon Myers, perhaps you can
take a moment out of your busy schedule to explain to these MORONS...

[The boos intensify.]

ATTSBW:  ...exactly why it was necessary to do what was done to the...
Sweet Daddy.

[Waterson cringes as he says the Atlanta fan favorite's name.]

GM:  Why don't you explain it yourself?

ATTSBW:  Happy to, my friend.  The fact is... Sweet Daddy Williams had a
choice.  Just like every single member of the professional wrestling
world has a choice.  This alliance... this corporation... this titan of
industry is cutting through the wrestling world like a knife through
warm butter, Gordon.  And at this stage, you can either step aside or
you get the cutting edge of that knife through your heart.

[Waterson smirks.]

ATTSBW:  Sweet Daddy Williams... he had a choice.  He could have shaken
Stevie Scott's hand at Death Or Glory.  He could have kept on riding
that gravy train.  He could have stepped aside and we would have spared
him for what he did for Stevie all those months ago.

But he stood up... he got in our way... and now...

[Another toothy grin.]

ATTSBW:  Where is he now, Gordon?  Where?

[Gordon starts to respond.]

ATTSBW:  Nowhere!  He's nowhere being a nobody!  AHAHAHAH!

[Waterson's cackle draws the ire of the crowd.]

ATTSBW:  The same thing is going to happen to Broussard later tonight. 
He's stood up... he's gotten in our way... and later tonight, Stevie's
gonna bury a harpoon right in the heart of the Shark.

But I'm not out here to talk about Marcus Broussard.  And I'm DEFINITELY
not out here to talk about Sweet Daddy Williams.

[More boos!]

GM:  Then why are you here?

ATTSBW:  I'm here to talk about our business plan.  I'm here to talk
about... expansion.

GM:  What in the world-

[Waterson waves him off.]

ATTSBW:  I wouldn't expect you to understand, Gordon.  Judging by your
clothes, I'd say you're not exactly a man of keen business sense.  But
to those of us who are, the key to growing your business is expansion.

Two weeks ago, our business expanded with the addition of the "Gold
Bomber" Gary Bright, the strongest man in the AWA to our group.

But we do not intend to stop there.

[The crowd buzzes with interest.]

GM:  You mean to say you're adding someone else to your-

ATTSBW:  Patience, Gordon.  Patience.  That addition will not come
tonight.  It will not come tomorrow.  But eventually, it will come and
when it does, the entire wrestling world will be rocked to the core just
like they were when Stevie and I joined forces back at Death Or Glory.

GM:  Is there anyone you-

[Waterson waves him off again.]

ATTSBW:  Don't believe for a second that I'd give you the opportunity to
engage in some... inside trading... Gordon.  You'll find out with the
rest of the world.  Now, if you'll excuse me... I've got some business
to attend to.

[With that, Waterson walks away from the announce duo...

...and takes a seat at ringside, pulling an iPhone from his pocket as he
looks up at the ring.]

GM:  Well, fans, apparently Mr. Waterson has decided to stay out here
for our next match... perhaps doing some scouting for this expansion
that he's talking about.  So, let's go up to the ring for our first
match featuring...

[Myers suddenly looks concerned.]

GM:  Ron Houston?

[With Myers and Bucky exchanging a surprised look, we cut to the ring
where ring announcer Melissa Cannon is standing.]

MC:  The following contest is scheduled for one fall with a ten minute
time limit.  Introducing first, already in the ring at this time, from
Baton Rouge, Louisiana... weighing in at 240 pounds... Jack Moss!

[Not much of a reaction for the slick-haired veteran.]

MC:  And his opponent... from Athens, Georgia...

[Big cheer for the home state fan favorite!]

MC:  Weighing in at 286 pounds... he is a former National Champion...

The Athens, Georgia Madman...

RONNNNNN HOUUUUUUUSTON!

[Beck's "Farewell Ride" starts up to another big cheer from the AWA
crowd as the Athens, Georgia Madman makes his presence felt.  He marches
through the curtain, throwing a fist up in the air to the crowd before
making his way down the aisle.]

GM:  Just five weeks away from his big matchup with Pure X - a
confrontation of two men who are looking to march up the Top 10 and earn
a shot at the National Champion whomever that may be.

BW:  It's Stevie Scott.

GM:  I know that.  I just meant that after tonight-

BW:  It'll still be Stevie Scott.

GM:  Perhaps.  But by the time that either Houston or Pure X get their
shot at the title, it might be-

BW:  Stevie Scott?

GM:  I give up.

[Houston climbs up the ringsteps, quickly removing his leather
trenchcoat and tossing it over the ropes to a ringside attendant...

...and then steps back as the veteran Moss charges him, swinging wildly
as the referee rings the bell to start the match!]

GM:  Here we go!

[Moss corners Houston in a hurry, throwing blow after blow to the
midsection of the East Coast Terror, trying to take the wind out of his
sails.]

GM:  Jack Moss is all over the big man, rights and lefts to the gut.

[Grabbing Houston by the wrist, he fires the big man across the ring to
the opposite corner...

...where Houston immediately comes charging back out, nearly taking
Moss' head off his shoulders with a running lariat!]

GM:  OHHHH!

BW:  Even I have to admit that was a heck of a shot, Gordo.

GM:  I think this match might be over right there.

[But Houston shakes his head, pulling Moss up by the hair, shoving him
back to the corner.  With a roar, the big man lets loose with a series
of rights and lefts of his own, rocking the body of the veteran...

...then slowly backs halfway across the ring before charging back in,
throwing a big boot up into the chin of his opponent!]

GM:  Ohh!  Big kick on the money!

[And as Moss staggers out, Houston hoists him across his shoulders in a
fireman's carry lift.  He turns slowly once, showing him off to the
crowd before executing a quick spin...

...and hurling Moss up and off his shoulders, sending him crashing down
facefirst to the canvas!]

GM:  FADE!  TO!  BLACK!

[Houston drops down, flipping Moss onto his back as he applies a lateral
press.]

GM:  One.  Two.  Three.  That's it.


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


[Houston rolls off his downed opponent, nodding to the cheering crowd
before stepping through the ropes.]

GM:  And at this time, it looks like we're about to be joined here at
ringside by Ron Houston.  Again, Ron is getting ready for a big showdown
at No Escape with Pure X.  Ron, your thoughts on that big matchup.

[Before Houston can even get a word in, the man known as Pure X strides
out to the broadcast booth, walking past Bucky Wilde and intercepting
the microphone.]

PX: Pardon me, Myers...

[Pure X slowly turns his head to look in Ron Houston's direction as the
crowd buzzes with some boos for Houston's next opponent.]

PX: Houston...

[Pure X squints his eyes towards his would be opponent at No Escape.
Houston goes to grab away the mic towards his direction, but Pure X puts
his hands up to stop the Athens, GA native.]

PX: Hey, hold on, ok? I didn't take offense when you came out during my
time here last show, so a little respect?

[Pure X steps towards Houston - and the mic - abruptly cuts off
Houston.]

PX: A little professionalism, even?

[Houston shakes his head, but allows for X to continue. Seeing the
all-clear sign, X steps back, more at ease.]

PX: Let me just clear something up, ok? I never meant to disrespect you.
You've done some... things in this sport. You've stuck around for a
while and finally fought your way from obscurity to get a shot at the
AWA National Title. 

[Some of the fans boo, catching the tinge of the backhanded compliment.]

PX: I can respect that, that you fought your way to your title shot. You
did earn it last year... 

[Pure X nods... then stares at Houston with determination as he repeats
himself.]

PX: LAST year. LAST year you also dropped the title as soon as you got
it. LAST year you also got injured, making a poor decision and not
protecting yourself and your title reign.

[The partisan crowd heavily boos at these remarks, causing Pure X to
pause in a bothered way. He looks around at the crowd and waits for the
noise to die down.]

PX: Now you talked about where I was last year, right? While you were
fighting here, where was I? I was out in St. Louis, having "Match of the
Year" grade bouts until circumstances beyond MY control forced me to sit
and watch. 

[Pure X inches a bit closer to Houston, intensity in his voice rising.]

PX: And while I was on the sidelines, I was perfecting my craft. Working
hard... To make sure that I was that good enough to never have to be
reckless in that ring. Never even need to have to resort to taking
risks. And never having my momentum stopped by something like an injury.

[Pure X pauses again as he narrows his eyes towards Houston for a
moment... before ultimately stepping back, throwing his arms up.]

PX: That's where I was last year and that's why I feel strong enough to
say... That I'm not worried one bit about facing you.

[The boos from the crowd blast throughout the arena as Houston mouths
something to X. Once again, Pure X holds his hands up - defensively - to
try to calm the situation.]

PX: Hold on! Hold on!

[The continues to boo, causing X to shake his head and AGAIN again put
his arms up to try to calm the pro-Houston crowd.]

PX: Please, let me... Let me just explain!

[The crowd subsides a bit, seeing that X is earnest to get his word in.]

PX: Look, like I've said before, I'm not here to make enemies - not with
you, Houston. Not with anyone. BUT I'm not here to make friends, either.
You want to get angry at what I perceive as the truth? That's on you.
But let me just get this one thing straight. When I'm in that ring, it's
all business to me.

[X nods.]

PX: I leave all this pettiness, animosity, and drama behind and just
focus. If you can't do that - if you, a grown man with many - MANY -
more years on this Earth than I, can't separate your emotions from your
job? Don't be surprised to find yourself -

[X claps his right hand onto the announcer's desk.]

PX: Tapping to me.

[Pure X steps to Houston and the two lock in a stare down...

...and then we fade to black.

After a moment, we fade back up on a very long shot of the exterior of a
pretty dingy looking building.]

"Have you ever dreamed of fame?"

[Cut a little closer.]

"Of glory?"

[A little closer.]

"Of your friends and family seeing you on television?"

[And just a little closer, revealing a red, white, and blue sign that
reads "AWA Combat Corner."]

"Well, now you can make all your dreams come true by signing up today at
the AWA Combat Corner - the official training school for the American
Wrestling Alliance!"

[We cut to the interior of the building where we can see lots of
standard gym equipment surrounding a very basic wrestling ring.  There
are people lifting weights, running on treadmills, and of course,
working out in the ring.]

"With the very best trainers in the business, the AWA Combat Corner is
the most-equipped training facility to get you in shape and get you in
the ring in the shortest amount of time!"

[Cut into the ring where Todd Michaelson is barking out instructions.]

"With former World Champion Todd Michaelson leading the classes, you can
guarantee that you will be prepared for in-ring action upon graduation
and with the AWA expanding by the day, you will have a place to work on
Day One!"

[Two young students are grappling on the canvas.]

"So, stop by the Combat Corner today... call our offices... visit our
website... and let them know that you want to be the next AWA Superstar!
 You want to be the future of the business!

You want to wrestle!"

[Fade to a graphic that has all the info on the AWA Combat Corner.  We
freeze there for a moment...

...and then back up on footage marked "EARLIER TODAY!"  We fade in to an
office. There is a dark brown wooden desk and sitting behind it, on a
black leather swivel chair is a bespectacled Asian man with light brown
skin and black, closely-cropped hair. Despite the office surroundings,
he is much more casually dressed in a dark blue jacket over a black
T-shirt. He is also wearing a pair of blue jeans and brown dress shoes,
which we can see since he has his feet propped up on the desk. On the
shelf behind him, a katana is on display, while hanging on the walls are
landscape watercolor and ink paintings and scrolls with Japanese
calligraphy. The man gives a slight smile and a nod of his head as he
starts to speak.]

M: Hello. My name is Louis Matsui, chairman of the Matsui Corporation,
and I am here to introduce you to Matsui CorporationÕs latest and first
talent acquisition. 

This young man comes to us straight from Japan and he will be known to
the rest of the world as MAMMOTH Mizusawa, in honor of his birthplace.
When you see him, you will know why have bestowed upon him the name,
MAMMOTH.

[Matsui beckons with his finger to someone off-camera. In walks the
towering figure of MAMMOTH Mizusawa, as the camera zooms out to fit
his immense frame in the shot. Mizusawa is wearing a black suit, white
shirt and red tie over his thick frame. He has short, black hair and
is clean-shaven. The camera zooms in on his unsmiling face as Louis
Matsui continues.]

LM: Yes, take a look at that face. That expression is one that can only
be described as stone-faced. A face that is testament to this young
manÕs grit and determination.

[The camera zooms out as Mizusawa holds his clenched fist out in front
of him.]

LM: Hands of stone . . . When a man the size of MAMMOTH Mizusawa hits
you, you will feel it to your bones. In fact, it isnÕt just his hands
that are rock hard. I am not talking about some Greek Adonis, chiselled
out of marble. I am talking about a block of granite blasted straight
out of the EarthÕs surface. I am talking about being forged and tempered
in a volcanic furnace deep underground and emerging stronger than ever,
molten rock and lava cooled to hardness, SUCH is this young manÕs
training. And beneath it all, the stone cold heart of a killer. 

Granted, the Matsui Corporation is NOT in the business of murder, but
when I let loose the force that is MAMMOTH Mizusawa, there will be
complete and utter destruction of any who stands in his way. When
opponents find themselves standing across him in the ring, they will get
that feeling that they are pretty much STUCK between a ROCK and a hard
place. Now, to push the metaphor further, let me just say that this man
will be the CORNERSTONE of the Matsui Corporation in its bid to make an
indelible mark on professional wrestling. Today I introduce the world to
MAMMOTH Mizusawa, but soon, he will need no introduction. On behalf of
the Matsui Corporation, I thank you and we look forward to doing
business with you.

[The shot fades out on a smiling Louis Matsui, while behind him,
standing with arms folded, MAMMOTH Mizusawa simply glares into the
camera...

...and then back up on the ring where Melissa Cannon is standing.]

MC:  The following contest is scheduled for one fall with a ten minute
time limit.  Already in the ring at this time... weighing in at 205
pounds from Savannah, Georgia... George Steen!

[The scrawny Steen pumps a fist to a cheer from the Georgia crowd.]

MC:  And his opponent...

[Tomoyasu HoteiÕs ŅBattle Without Honor or HumanityÓ starts to play
over the arena speakers.  Louis Matsui emerges with a smirk from the
entranceway.]

MC:  Hailing from Tokyo, Japan; weighing in at 420 pounds and being
accompanied to the ring by LOUIS MATSUI, 

He is MAMMOTH... MIZUSAWA!

[The curtain parts to reveal the scowling seven-footer, MAMMOTH
Mizusawa, dressed in a black singlet, black knee pads and a pair of
black boots. Matsui points with his thumb over his shoulders at
Mizusawa, who raises both his arms in the air. Both men start to make
their way down the aisle.]

GM:  Good grief, Bucky!  Look at the size of this monster!

BW:  I can't see him!  It's pitch black in here - I think he just
eclipsed the sun!

GM:  Seven feet tall... four hundred and twenty pounds... the landscape
of the entire AWA may have just changed with the arrival of this
monster!

[As Matsui walks to the ring, he pays little attention to the fans
sitting on either side of the aisle, although he is still smirking.  The
towering Mizusawa, on the other hand, walks slowly behind his manager,
glaring at the crowd.

Reaching the ringside area, MAMMOTH Mizusawa grabs the top rope and
pulls himself onto the ring apron, then steps over the ropes and into
the ring. He heads to his corner, where he is joined by Matsui, who has
climbed onto the ring apron but staying on the outside. As the music
starts to fade, he is giving some instructions to Mizusawa, before
climbing back down to the ringside area and leaving his charge in the
ring to await the start of the match.]

BW:  Poor George Steen.  I hope his affairs are in order.

[The bell rings causing two very different reactions.  George Steen
remains in the corner, looking across the ring and up up up at the seven
footer who slowly strides to the middle of the ring.  He points a finger
of warning in Steen's direction before waving him forward.]

GM:  It looks like Mizusawa wants the fight to come to him.

BW:  At 420 pounds, it's kinda tiring to run across the ring a lot. 
It's probably a good idea to stand in one place and fight.

[Steen steps away from the corner, barely an arm's reach away.  The
referee waves him to the middle but Steen doesn't seem so eager,
sidestepping along the ropes as he continues to stare at his gargantuan
competition.]

GM:  Steen is not rushing into this...

BW:  He's just delaying the inevitable, daddy.

GM:  Perhaps but-

[Steen steps away from the ropes and gets just a bit too close as
Mizusawa reaches out with his massive left hand, wrapping it around the
throat of Steen.  The youngster flails at the beefy arm, trying to
battle out...

...but a giant one-handed choke lift hurls Steen through the air and
down to the canvas.  Louis Matsui stands outside the ring, clapping
wildly for his charge.]

GM:  Steen was thrown across the ring like a ragdoll!

[Steen rolls across the ring, climbing to his feet in the corner...

...where a rushing shoulder tackle crushes him against the turnbuckles!]

GM:  OHHH!  FOUR TWENTY IN THE CORNER!!

[Steen's arms are draped over the ropes, trying to stay on his feet as
Mizusawa winds up with a huge right arm...

...and SMASHES the clubbing blow down across the back of the head,
knocking Steen down flat on his stomach.]

GM:  Good grief!  What a shot by Mizusawa!

[Outside the ring, Matsui shouts instructions of "DROP IT!"  With a nod,
Mizusawa uses his boot to roll the prone Steen out to the middle of the
ring before falling back to the ropes, rebounding back...

...and lifting his right leg in the air, dropping it down across the
upper chest of Steen in a crushing legdrop!]

GM:  That's it.  Ring the bell.

[A cackling Matsui claps his hands with joy as Mizusawa stays seated on
the mat, his huge leg draped over the chest.]

GM:  One.  Two.  Thr-

[Just before the three count falls, an order from Matsui has MAMMOTH
Mizusawa roll to the side.  The crowd jeers and an irate referee gets in
the face of the seven footer who ignores him as he climbs to his feet. 
A glance at Matsui shows him doing something resembling a
"raise-the-roof" gesture.  A nod from Mizusawa has him reach down,
grabbing Steen by the throat, and hauling his dead weight up to a
vertical base.]

GM:  Sheer power on display as he picks this guy up from flat on his
back... look out!

[The crowd gasps as Mizusawa hoists the 205 pounder up with ease in a
military press where he holds... and holds... and holds... and holds...
until a "NOW!" from Matsui has him swing Steen into a vertical position,
swinging him down towards the canvas...

...and sitting out with a spinebuster slam!]

GM:  OHHHHH!

BW:  It's called the MAMMOTH Slam!

[The referee dives to the mat as Mizusawa throws one hand down on the
torso of a motionless Steen.]

GM:  There it is... a one, a two, and a three.


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


MC:  Here is your winner... MAMMOTH MIZUUUUSAAAWAAA!

[The crowd jeers the announcement as Louis Matsui climbs into the ring,
joining his seven foot client inside the ring and raising his arm in
victory.]

GM:  An impressive debut here on Saturday Night Wrestling for MAMMOTH
Mizusawa, Bucky.

BW:  It sure was.  And I can't wait to see him tear through some of the
goody two shoes around here like Vasquez and Rogers and... well, you get
the idea.

GM:  It will definitely be interesting to see him against some of the
top flight competition here in the AWA.  I've got a couple people...
maybe one... in particular that I'd REALLY enjoy seeing throw down with
him.  Speaking of throw downs, fans, we've got some big ones scheduled
for Labor Day weekend when the AWA presents No Escape!  Right now, let's
head back to the No Escape Control Center with our own Jason Dane!

[We cut away from Mizusawa and Matsui celebrating inside the ring to a
funky looking No Escape graphic with "CONTROL CENTER" typed out in bold
font underneath it.  The graphic dissolves to a makeshift studio setting
where Jason Dane is seated behind a desk shuffling some paperwork.]

JD:  Thanks, guys!  And we are just about five weeks away from the AWA's
next big event.  September 7th in the Greensboro Coliseum for No Escape!

[A big logo splashes on the screen with the exact same info that Jason
just revealed.]

JD:  Two weeks ago, we announced two big matches for the show with Pure
X continuing his run through the Top 10 contenders as he takes on the
former National Champion, Ron Houston.  Also, in the first ever
one-on-one steel cage match in the AWA's history, we will see Juan
Vasquez and Raphael Rhodes settle their rivalry in the most dangerous
match in professional wrestling! 

But moments ago, the Championship Committee handed me THIS...

[Dane holds up an envelope.]

JD:  Within this envelope is the next match that I can announce for No
Escape...

[Dane tears open the envelope and reads the piece of paper inside.]

JD:  This should come as no surprise after what went down two weeks ago
but now it is official... 

In a $50,000 Challenge...

TUMAFFI versus SHANE DESTINY!

[Dane grins widely.]

JD:  What a match that'll be, fans, and No Escape just keeps getting
better and better.  I'll be back with another edition of the Control
Center later tonight with even more matches to announce but until then,
let's take a look at these words from the "Catch Thug" Raphael Rhodes!

[We crossfade into a room with a black backdrop and a steel mesh wall.
In between the two is Raphael Rhodes, head freshly shaved.  In his left
hand, he holds a head of cabbage.]

RR: When I was a kid in England, I got into my fair share of fights.
Comes with bein' the son - and grandson - of a famous telly wrestler.  I
can't count a single week as a kid when I didn't get into a fight.  But
there was this one fight that really stands out to me as we sit here
today, Juan Vasquez.  The schoolyard just put in a new mesh fence to
keep stray dogs from runnin' in and attackin' the lads after what
happened to a nine-year-old gettin' his index and middle fingers bitten
off.  Mesh just like this... sharp barbs peppered throughout, too.

[Rhodes puts his fingers through the mesh with his right hand, gripping
the steel.]

RR: A few of my mates were playin' football... sorry, you uncivilized
Yanks call it "soccer", right?  We were playin' football and enjoyin'
the game when some other lads from the school broke up our game and
started knockin' us about.  Seems my father beat one of their favorites
and they wanted to take it out on me.  So they dragged me over to that
mesh, and I ain't goin' to say I won that fight, because then I'd be
fibbin'.  I may be a good fighter but these odds weren't in my favor.
But... let's just say that a head... 

[Rhodes slams the cabbage against the mesh, grinding it into the steel
as the cabbage shreds with ease.]

RR: ... don't stand much of a chance when it's bein' rubbed against
industrial grade steel.  I know about what it's like to go head on with
one of these, Juan.  I know the pain and the torture a man feels when
his skin is bein' scraped off his head.  I know the screams... because I
made them myself once, and I ain't never forgot the feelin'.  And maybe,
deep down, before you got soft, you knew what it was like too.  When
they lock us inside this cage, Juan, that part of you that got locked
away when you became an international star better find it's way back
into your heart.

[Rhodes finishes grinding the cabbage, tossing the remains to the
floor.]

RR: Because I didn't forget what it feels like... and I'll send you to
the graveyard before I let you do it to me.

[Rhodes points at the floor, the camera panning down to see the pile of
shredded cabbage on the other side of the fence.]

RR: Step into this cage with a soft heart, and that's what you can
expect your head to feel like on Labor Day, Juan.  I promise you this.

[And we fade out to a shot of Jason Dane and Mark Stegglet in an
apparently moving car.]

JD:  Hey, AWA fans - so much of our lives are now spent on-the-go,
wouldn't you love to be able to keep track of your favorite AWA
superstars when you're away from home?

MS:  I know I would, Jason!  And I'd also love to have a place to put
out all those rumors we hear during the week that never make AWA
Saturday Night Wrestling.

JD:  You've got that right.  Wouldn't it be great if we could combine
both of those ideas into one?

[Suddenly, a giant graphic of an iPhone appears between them!]

JD & MS:  NOW WE CAN!

[A voiceover takes over - thank God.]

VO:  Starting today, you can download AWA Access - a great new
application for your iPhone where you can get all the AWA news, rumors,
and happenings before the rest of the world.  And don't forget to check
out the "exclusive" section for matches that never aired!  AWA Access -
coming to an iPhone near you!

[Fade back to black...

...and then back up to the ring, where Melissa Cannon is standing with a
freckled, tanned, and slightly pudgy man wearing jeans and no shirt.]

MC: The following match is scheduled for one fall.  Introducing first,
from Atlanta, Georgia, James McCade!

[The shirtless man Š presumably McCade, presumably a wrestler Š raises
his arms.  The Atlanta crowd cheers a bit for their native son.  Then
ŅTry HonestyÓ hits and Adrian Freeman storms through the curtain, blue
smoke billowing behind him.  Callisto Dufrense follows, wearing a powder
blue t-shirt and jeans, both of which are purposefully tight to show off
his body to the ladies.  Freeman is dressed for a match.]

MC: And introducing his opponent... from Sydney, Australia... being
accompanied to the ring by his tag team partner Calisto Dufresne...

"SUBZERO" AAAAAADRIAN FREEEEEEMAN!

[The crowd explodes in boos for the introduction of the technician.]

GM: Here comes a man who iss one half of the #1 contenders to the AWA
National Tag Team Titles as well as #1 on the singles Top 10.  He's come
a long, long way in his time here in the AWA, Bucky.

BW:  He's the #1 contender yet we have to sit through Broussard getting
a shot at the title tonight instead of him?  Explain that!

GM: The Championship Committee probably figures he has enough on his
plate with the upcoming tag title match with KentuckyÕs Pride on a date
still to be determined.  HeÕll be teaming with the man he earned 3
points in the tag team division with, the man that is accompanying him
to ringside, Callisto Dufrense.

BW: Man, I canÕt wait until we have respectable champions in the tag
division, just like we currently do in singles.

GM: Would you stop?

[Freeman slides into the ring.  James McCade moves forward, looking to
attack immediately, but Freeman waves him off and gets a mic from
ringside.  The crowd is booing before he even starts to speak.]

AF: Before this little grappling display gets underway, I thought the
good people of Atlanta might like to know how it came about.  Wait,
sorry, that was a figure of speech.  There are no good people in
Atlanta.

[BOOOOO!]

AF: So as I was saying, last night I was planning on coasting this week,
waiting until Callisto and I got the title shot we earned.  But then I
attended a small wrestling... well, I guess you can call it wrestling...
show here in Atlanta.  It was really just a slightly organized bar
brawl, to be honest.  But this man, the great James McCade, came out on
top.  So I decided to give olÕ Jimmy here a shot in the big leagues,
against the greatest technical wrestler in the AWA.

Now why donÕt we get to know Mr. McCade.  James, would you consider
yourself... a redneck.

[Freeman points the mic at his opponent, who steps forward with a big
wide grin on his face.]

JM: AhÕm just a good olÕ Southern boy, and proud of it.

[Pop!]

AF: I see.  And what do you think about our illustrious tag team
champions, KentuckyÕs Pride?

JM: AhÕm a big fan.  IÕve been watchinÕ City Jack since he was rasslinÕ
down in Grand Isle, and that manÕs about as tough as we breed Ōem down
here the South.  No offense, Mister Freeman, but ah wouldnÕt put money
on you.

[If Adrian is offended, he doesnÕt show it.]

AF: So here you have it.  The typical KentuckyÕs Pride fan, or as I like
to call them, Pride Paraders.  Ignorant, overweight, generally
worthless, and proud of it.  The wasteland Americans call the south
strive to be the stupidest part of the nation... which is a bit like
throwing a game in the Special Olympics.

[The crowd is booing heavily.  Jack McCade is obviously as angry as they
are and yells something about not being dumb.]

AF: WhatÕs that?  YouÕre not dumb?  Well then... how about a general
knowledge question that any American should have learned in fourth
grade?  What is the capital of, oh I donÕt know, Kentucky?

[The crowd jeers Freeman's arrogance as he holds the mic out to McCade.]

GM: I donÕt know what point of all this is, other than delaying the
actual match.  If he was going to have a quiz show, he could have at
least told us.

BW:  Quit stalling.  The redneck's out of lifelines.

[McCade obviously knows the answer and leans forward to say it.  Freeman
offers up the mic... abd uses it to clobber him in the head, sending him
down to the canvas.  MAJOR HEEL POP!]

AF: See, thatÕs what I mean... dumber than your farm animals.

[Freeman tosses away the microphone as the bell rings and grabs the
rising Jack McCade, holding his head down with one hand so that Freeman
can pummel him with the other.  Adrian grabs ahold of McCadeÕs head and
arms and bowls him into hte corner, connecting arm to steel ringpost.]

BW: Ha ha ha!  What a sucker!

GM: Honestly, why does Adrian Freeman need to do this?  No matter how
much I donÕt like the guy, heÕs at least talented enough that he doesnÕt
have to use cheap shots to beat the likes of Jack McCade.

BW:  What cheap shot?  All I saw was a brilliant strategy.

[Freeman wraps McCadeÕs arm around the ringpost and then runs along the
apron before driving a boot into it, sandwhiching the arm between foot
and steel.  McCade winces in pain.  Freeman drags his opponent out to
center ring and hits him with a belly-to-back suplex that implants his
neck firmly in the mat.  He twists his opponentÕs arm into a kimura
submission hold.]

GM: Freeman is obviously targeting the arm of Jack McCade here... and if
you want to know how effective that can be, just ask Marcus Broussard.

[McCade grits his teeth, but refuses to submit.  Freeman just shrugs and
stands up to grab his legs, obviously looking to turn him over into his
signature submission the Deep Freeze.  The crowd is booing pre-emptively
until McCade pulls back his foot and kicks Freeman in the chest, pushing
him backwards.  Jack McCade scrambles to his feet and connects with a
big haymaker to the chin of Adrian Freeman, followed by a left to the
body.]

ŅU-S-A!Ó
ŅU-S-A!Ó
ŅU-S-A!Ó

BW: Wait, now this hillbilly is the new champion for America?  HeÕs a
poor replacement for Stevie Scott, if you ask me.

GM: Well, if he keeps throwing punches like that we could have a huge
upset on our hands.

[Freeman catches the next punch, thrown with the right arm heÕs worked
over and twists it.  Anguish crosses McCadeÕs face, moreso when Freeman
drops down to the mat, driving the straightened out arm into the canvas.
 He quickly transitions into an armbar that has McCade tapping out
within seconds.]

MC: The winner by submission... Adrian Freeman!

BW: What a brilliant victory!  Freeman defeats a regional champion, and
he doesnÕt even have to use the Deep Freeze to do it.

GM: Regional champion... Adrian Freeman just brought this guy from a bar
in to make him look good.

BW: Quiet, I think heÕs about to speak to us.

[Freeman and Dufrense make their way over to the commentatorÕs table.
Bucky Wilde rushes to the interview.]

BW: Adrian Freeman, any words after your dominant victory?

AF: What you just saw is whatÕs going to happen to every inbred hick
that gets in the ring with us, including KentuckyÕs Pride.  And every
time you people are going to boo and jeer, but thereÕs never anything
you can do about it.

CD: WeÕve got the three points.  WeÕve got the tools to beat you.  Now
all we need is a date.  Championship Commitee, get on it.  Remember, the
sooner you make the match the sooner you donÕt have those two jokes
smearing fried chicken grease on your belts.

[With that said, Dufrense and Freeman walk away from the announce desk
as ŅTry HonestyÓ plays again.]

BW:  They're completely right, Gordo!  They've got the points, they've
got the skills - when do they get the title shot?  Dufresne and Freeman
are going to step up to the plate and FINALLY snatch those belts off the
waists of Kentucky's Pride when they get their chance.  I want to see
it, the world wants to see it, make it happen, Committee!

GM:  Well, I don't know if the world wants to see that but I'm sure they
want to see the match.  City Jack and Tin Can Rust have been looking
forward to defending the titles against-

[The music starts and the crowd begins to boo wildly as "Dirty Punk" by
the Clash starts up.]

GM:  As far as I know, they're not scheduled to be out here right now
but you know what music means, Bucky. 

BW:  Oh you know I do, Gordo. 

[And so does the crowd, because they strike up the age-old chant of
"USA... USA...USA" as the Right Proper Thugs stands at the head of the
aisle.  Barrett Topps and Marcus Moore stand behind Lady Victoria
Pembroke-Burton, who looks down her nose at the jeering audience.]

BW:  The Right Proper Thugs!  And more importantly, their manager, Lady
Victoria Pembroke-Burton.  Finally, a classy lady here in the AWA.

[Lady Pembroke-Burton takes that moment to spit a wad of chew into the
crowd while she leads her team towards the ring.  While her men are
wearing their usual ring gear, she's gone with a new look for the night,
dressed in black leather pants with slits up the sides, a red latex
corset with white skulls emblazoned upon it, and fishnet gloves that go
three-quarters of the way up her arms.  Her hair is pulled up into
several different braids, and she's got a thick chain around her neck as
if it were a necklace.]

GM:  Yes, very classy indeed.  The Right Proper Thugs are scheduled to
be in action a little later tonight but they're apparently coming down a
bit early.  Thankfully they'll be in action against legitimate opponents
tonight, not the farce they put on last month when they wrestled "Uncle
Sam" and "Abraham Lincoln" and....

BW:  ...and it looks like they're coming this way.

[Indeed they are.  The Right Proper Thugs take up position on either
side of the announcing table as Lady Victoria Pembroke-Burton climbs up
on the table (no mean feat wearing stiletto boots like she does),
squatting down so she can get in Gordon Myers' face as he takes the
extra microphone.]

VPB:  So... you're the git who apologized for us last time yeah? 

GM:  I apologized for the way you-

VPG:  Shut it!  We don't need you to apologize for us, you wanker.  We
don't have nothing to be apologizing for, got it?  You bloody gits, you
need to be the ones apologizing to us for the shabby treatment we been
receiving since we got here.  Well we got all your attention now, don't
we?

[Victoria stands up, glaring out at the crowd, jabbing an accusatory
finger at the lot of them.]

VPG:  Oh right.. you keep up your little chant.  USA..USA... how
original.  None of you are worth a toss.  You want to take the mickey
out of us?  Then we'll bloody well take out the whole damn country if we
want, yeah.  You bloody thick-headed yanks, you think you're what...
superior?  Better?  Let me tell you something straight, mates... you're
not.  You're a bunch of utter-

[Gordon snatches the mic away.]

GM:  I'm not about to let you talk about our fans that way!  I won't-

[Victoria looks down at Gordon again, clenching her fingers into a fist
which quiets the play-by-play man.]

VGP:  And you.  You come out here and you apologize for what we done?
What gives you the right, you utter and complete wanker.  We came here
to compete, and what happens?  We get ignored.  So what do we do?  We go
out and shill out our own money so we can actually wrestle, and just
because they happen to be dressed up as two American iconic gits, you
get down on us?  You're lucky I don't have Barrett and Marcus give you
the right proper mugging you deserve.

GM:  Now wait just a minute...

VGP:  I said SHUT IT!  SHUT IT SHUT IT SHUT IT!  You can go back to
talking when we're done, but until then you sit there and you shut it.
Because if you think we're afraid to put hands on an announcer, then you
consider that we haven't been getting the matches we want.  So if we
need to set up our own match again, then I don't see no reason why we
shouldn't just take you out right now and if we get fired, well....
well, it wouldn't be our first time having to go on the dole would it.

[A visibly nervous Gordon Myers sits back in his chair, clearly biting
his tongue because it does seem likely that the Right Proper Thugs would
be willing to beat up an announcer... or anyone else for that matter. 
In fact, Barrett Topps and Marcus Moore have moved in a bit closer,
making Bucky Wilde shift his chair closer to Gordon Myers.]

VGP:  But that won't be necessary tonight, yeah?  I think we understand
each other now, yeah?  You do what you do, Gordon, and you call the
matches.  Don't go apologizing for us and maybe we'll just get on like
houses, right?

[Victoria nods to her men, who moves back around the announcers table
and help her down.  They're just about to walk away when they stop and
Marcus takes the mic.]

MM:  The only thing we got to apologize for is letting those two
American wankers walk away on their own power.  Breaking their legs,
that's how we shouldadone.  But... we can correct that mistake tonight.

[Moore tosses down the mic.  Topps just laughs and makes a slow,
thumb-dragging motion across his neck as he looks back at Gordon Myers.]

GM:  ... we'll be right back.  Go to a commercial.

[We fade from an agitated-looking Gordon Myers to black...

...and then back up on a white screen.  The voice of Gordon Myers is
heard.]

"The AWA took 2008 by storm - breaking the mold of a modern wrestling
promotion.  And now, in 2009, we look to be hotter than ever.

But what if... you missed the beginning?"

[Red text appears on the screen.]

"AWA: YEAR ONE!"

[The text spins out of view to be replaced by a series of still photos
showing action from the first year of AWA action.]

"Witness highlights from the first AWA Saturday Night Wrestling.

See the very first AWA Rumble.

Highlights from Memorial Day Mayhem, The Last Stampede, Thanksgiving
weekend, and much, much more.

Plus, full matches including the 2008 Match of the Year - WarGames!

All of this fantastic AWA action will be available exclusively on DVD
and iTunes!  Check your local stores for details!"

[And with that, we fade to black...

...and then back up on the ring where Melissa Cannon is standing.]

MC:  The following contest is scheduled for one fall with a ten minute
time limit.  Introducing first... already in the ring at this time...
from Tocula, Mexico... at 210 pounds... Tito Sanchez!

[Sanchez raises a fist to some cheers.]

MC:  And his opponent...

["True Faith" by New Order starts up to a big shower of boos from the
AWA crowd.]

MC:  Hailing from Southern Pines, North Carolina... weighing in at 252
pounds...

SHAAAAAAANE DESSSSTINY!

[Destiny walks through the curtain with a purpose, certainly looking for
a fight.  He's in good shape but not overly muscled as he marches
towards the ring where young Sanchez is waiting.]

GM:  And here comes a man with a date with a big, big Samoan coming up
in just about five weeks' time.  We heard it announced earlier tonight -
the $50,000 Challenge Match between Destiny and Tumaffi will be one of
the headline matches at No Escape in his home state of North Carolina!

BW:  I can't wait for that one.  You know, I was always a big Tumaffi
fan but now he's gone soft... just like that big fat gut of his... and I
think Destiny's going to show the world just how weak Tumaffi is these
days.

GM:  Soft?  Weak?  You'd better hope Tumaffi's not listening in the
back.

BW:  What?  They don't have TVs in the locker room, do they?

[Destiny dives headfirst under the bottom rope, climbing to his feet and
sprinting towards a surprised Sanchez, connecting with a running forearm
that knocks him back against the buckles.]

GM:  Ohh!  What a shot from Destiny!

[Teeing off in the corner, Destiny unleashes chop after chop after chop
to the rapidly-reddening chest of Tito Sanchez.  He grabs the wrist of
the Mexican, firing him across the ring...

...where a running clothesline rocks him up against the buckles.]

BW:  You think Tumaffi can compete with this?

[Leaning on Sanchez in the corner, Destiny snaps off a forearm to the
jaw that buckles his knees.  A hard chop follows close behind, snapping
his head backwards.]

BW:  Those chops are gonna have a nice big target on Labor Day in
Greensboro, daddy!

GM:  I'm not saying Shane Destiny's not an outstanding competitor,
Bucky, but Tumaffi is a walking force of nature!

[Grabbing Sanchez by the back of the head, Destiny slams his skull into
the bridge of the nose, knocking Sanchez down to his knees on the mat.]

GM:  Headbutt!  Right on target!

[With a handful of hair, Destiny spins Sanchez around, resting his jaw
on the middle turnbuckle.  He grabs both of Sanchez' arms by the wrist,
pulling them back as he brings his foot up to the back of Sanchez'
head...

...and DRIVES his foot down, SMASHING Sanchez' face on the bottom buckle
to the jeers of the crowd!]

GM:  OHHHHH!

BW:  I don't even know what to call that!

GM:  I'd call it the end of the night for Tito Sanchez but I don't think
Destiny's done with him yet. 

[Destiny steps up on the middle rope, taunting the jeering crowd,
drawing even more boos from them as gestures at the downed Sanchez. 
Hopping down off the buckles, Destiny drops an elbow across the back of
Sanchez' head.]

GM:  Destiny just sitting on the canvas - I think he almost enjoys the
boos of these fans.

BW:  I think he thrives off them hating him.

GM:  You may be right.

[Getting back to his feet, Destiny tugs Sanchez off the mat by the back
of the trunks.  He laces his arms between the legs of his opponent,
hoising him into the air, and dumping him down on the back of the head
with a teardrop suplex.]

GM:  Ohhh!  That'll do it!

[Destiny rolls into a lateral press, reaching back to hook a leg as the
referee drops down to count.]

GM:  One!  Two!  And there's the three!


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


MC:  Your winner of the match... SHAAAAAANE DESTINY!

[The crowd jeers the announcement as a glaring Destiny looks out over
them, shaking his head before stepping through the ropes, dropping down
to the floor where Gordon Myers and Bucky Wilde rise to meet him.]

SD: How about that, huh?  How's that for someone washed up?

[Destiny slams his hand on the announce table, startling Gordon Myers,
and then points at the camera.]

SD: Tumaffi, you pin your ears back, and you listen to me.  You want to
make jokes about my personal life, huh?  You want to make your little
snide remarks to make these people cheer for you, and you think it's
going to get under my skin.  Well, you may have these miscreants in the
palm of your hand, Tumaffi, but let me make one thing crystal clear...
you'll _never_ get under my skin.  

I carry myself with dignity and class, something that you wouldn't
understand without consulting a dictionary, and even then, I'm not even
sure you'd understand it.  I'm a proud, honorable man, Tumaffi, but
those accusations that you make... pathetic isn't even the proper word
for you.

[Destiny wipes sweat from his brow.]

SD: You think you're so suave, don't you?  It seems like every single
week, you change to try and fit the times.  You wanted these people to
believe you were this savage beast for how long, Tumaffi?  Now you want
to come out here, and you want to talk about lawyers, and pre-nuptial
agreements, and you want to try and damage _my_ character.  Everyone
sitting here, and everyone watching at home has known for years that I
am what I say I am.  

I've never tried to pretend to be anything but the best wrestler walking
the face of the planet.  My credentials speak for themselves, so I don't
need to boast about every minor, niggling accomplishment.  I don't need
to beat my chest and run down a list of people that even the most savvy
wrestling fan would need to do some Internet searches to even find who
you're talking about.

[Destiny pauses.]

SD: Let me break the news to you, Tumaffi... twenty-five thousand
dollars for someone like _you_ to get a match with _me_ is a bargain.
Promoters around the world beg me to come and wrestle for more money
than everyone in this building makes in a half-year's worth of work, and
you... 

[Destiny points to Bucky Wilde, who has a "who, me?" expression on his
face.]

SD: ... know full well that's the truth.  I don't need the money to pay
off my ex-wife, because she's well taken care of.  I don't even need the
money to take care of myself because, unlike some professional
wrestlers, I actually know how to handle money.  But I know that the
allure of twenty-five thousand dollars in your pocket _and_ the ability
to add the name of Shane Destiny to your list of conquered foes was too
great.  

You fell into my trap, Tumaffi.  I've beaten men stronger than you...
meaner than you... tougher than you... and downright _better_ than you. 
And I don't need to make things up to make people think I'm great,
because everybody has seen how good I am on pay-per-views, DVDs, and on
television all around the globe.  I don't have to lie to impress people,
because there is plain and simple evidence to prove how great I am.

[Destiny scoffs.]

SD: So you keep beating your chest and tell people hollow lies of how
great and rich you are, and how you're great at every single sport, and
I'm sure that you're a fantastic chess player too.  Tell them about how
you can play the piano on the level of some of the great musicians of
the world!  Why not mention all those times you've beaten top basketball
stars in one-on-one?  And you're a champion race car driver, a box
office smash at the movies, and a political genius with the solution to
the recession hiding somewhere in that mangy mess you call your head,
right?  

You can make up anything in the world you want, but it's not going to
change one simple fact, Tumaffi... when you get in the ring with Shane
Destiny, you _lose_.

[Destiny walks away, leaving Myers and Wilde behind.]

GM:  Shane Destiny with some VERY strong words for Tumaffi who will be
in action later tonight as well.  But as much as he wants to talk, you
have to think there's the slightest bit of trepidation about taking on
the massive Samoan at No Escape in just five weeks' time.

BW:  You think Shane Destiny is scared of Tumaffi?

GM:  Maybe not scared but he's gotta be nervous.  

BW:  Why don't we bring him back here and ask him about it?

GM:  Let's not.  Fans, let's go backstage where Jason Dane is standing
by with Jackson Ross!

[Cut to the locker room area where Jason Dane is indeed standing by with
Jackson Ross.  The "Thunderbolt" is in street clothes - a pair of jeans
and a blue t-shirt.]

JD:  Thanks, Gordon.  Jackson Ross, you're not scheduled to compete here
tonight but with what went down two weeks ago, everyone was waiting to
see you here tonight.  For those unaware, two weeks ago, Colt Patterson
came out and offered you a spot in Unfinished Business with he and Scott
Pain.  

[Ross nods.]

JD:  You told him you needed to think about it.  Have you made a
decision?

[Ross looks conflicted.]

JR:  Jason, I just don't know what to do.  

[Ross holds out his right hand.]

JR:  On one hand, it's a tremendous offer.  I mean, Colt Patterson and
Scott Pain are legends in this business.  They helped pave the way for
the men who paved the way for me.  Mr. Patterson held the World Title
THREE times... not many can say that.  I would learn a ton from both of
them, I know I would.

JD:  But...?

JR:  But I didn't get into this business to be someone's sidekick, you
know?  I've got goals of my own... and yeah, wearing the National Tag
Team Titles at some point is one of them but... I'm just not sure...

[Suddenly, Colt Patterson emerges from off-camera, approaching the duo.]

JD:  Colt Patterson!  Welcome to-

[Patterson cuts Dane off.]

CP:  Kid, I understand where you're coming from.  You're young... you're
hungry... you've got your entire career ahead of you.  You're not sure
you want to saddle yourself with two old fossils who-

JR:  Mr. Patterson, it's not like that at all.  I have nothing but
respect for you and Scott.  I have nothing but-

CP:  Then make a decision, kid.  It's that simple.  If you've got
nothing but respect for Scott and I, then you'll make a decision... the
right decision... and join Unfinished Business.

[Ross looks unsure, staring down at the floor while Patterson glares at
him expectantly.]

CP:  You know what?  I'm sorry.

[Jackson looks up at him, confused.]

CP:  This wasn't fair of me to do.  You said you needed time and here I
am, putting you on the spot.  That's not the right way to start a
partnership.

[Patterson shakes his head.]

CP:  Kid, you take as much time as you need.  Seriously.  When you've
made a decision, you let us know.

[And with that, Colt Patterson walks away, leaving a surprised Jackson
Ross and Jason Dane behind.]

JD:  Well, fans... this situation isn't settled... yet.  We'll be right
back after this break!

[With Ross and Dane looking confused, we fade to black...

...and then back up.  It's a shot of a few kids standing outside of a
classroom.  A fourth kid walks up to them, carrying his backpack over
his shoulder.]

4th Kid:  Hey guys... wait til you see what I got from AWAShop.com!

[He whips open the backpack and produces...

...a JUAN VASQUEZ BOBBLEHEAD!]

"Whoa!"

"Wow!"

"That rocks!"

"I want one... now!"

[The 4th kid looks pleased with himself...

...until a fifth kid walks up.]

5th Kid:  Juan Vasquez, huh?  That's not bad... but check this out!

[The 5th kid opens his backpack and reveals...

...a CITY JACK BOBBLEHEAD!]

"WHOA!"

"WOWER!"

"THAT ROCKS MORE!"

"I WANT ONE... NOW!"

[The fifth kid looks proud as the fourth kid looks sad at his Vasquez
bobblehead and we fade to black.

And then fade back up on the ringside area where the commentators are
now joined by the members of Rough N Ready. Dave Cooper is dressed in a
white button down shirt and a pair of khakis, Eric Matthew Somers wears
one of those nifty AWA T-shirts that are on sale now along with blue
jeans, while their manager, Sarah Sharpe, is dressed in blue jeans,
white shirt and leather jacket, her arm still in the sling.]

GM: We would like to welcome Rough N Ready to tonight's show... Eric
Matthew Somers, you emerged victorious at Death or Glory against one
half of the Bishop Boys, Duane Henry... what did you believe was the key
to that victory?

[Eric has a serious look on his face, not the slight grin we are
generally accustomed to seeing.]

EMS: Gordon, what it comes down to is that Duane Henry didn't listen
very well... yeah, I sound like a broken record when I say I live for
beating people up... and at Death or Glory, that is exactly what
happened.

GM: Well, we do know that, prior to the show, your manager Sarah Sharpe
had suggested that Dave Cooper be the first man to take the match in
this pair of singles matches.

EMS: And can you blame her for suggesting that? As much as I couldn't
wait to get my hands on them Bishop Boys, Dave wanted them in the worst
way. And wouldn't you want to be the first to get your hands on those
who were responsible for what happened to your own wife? Now, don't get
me wrong... Sarah is my friend and she, Dave and I go way back... but I
know Dave well enough that he's going to stand up for the woman in his
life.

BW: If the woman in his life would get to the kitchen and make people a
sammich like...

[Bucky does not get to finish his sentence, as he immediately backpedals
as Eric advances on him. Dave puts his arm up in front of Eric.]

DC: He's not worth the trouble, Eric... hell, that man only wishes he
could get any woman in his life, much less get one who will make him a
sammich.

[That remark didn't make Bucky happy.]

DC: Now, Gordon, I'll admit that I was the one champing at the bit to
get my hands on the Bishop Boys... and maybe I was being a bit selfish
in wanting to be the first one to have a shot at those punks.

EMS: And like I said, Dave... I can't blame you for that.

DC: [nodding at his partner] And I'm glad you understand... but there's
something else that I should have kept in mind before I was the one to
be taking the first match.

GM: And what would that be, Dave?

DC: You see, Gordon, there was a brief time period in which my partner
here was active in the wrestling world as an accomplished singles
wrestler... and while I had my share of success in the singles ranks
some time ago, there was a point when Eric was still doing it, but I had
chosen to step away from the wrestling business. And believe me, it took
a while to shake off the ring rust... and while there will be those who
will make fun of the fact that I'm up there in years, I'm not gonna lie
to you... at my age, it took me plenty of time to shake off that ring
rust.

GM: But you and Eric have been quite successful in the tag team ranks
since your arrival in AWA.

DC: Gordon, the key words are the tag team ranks... Eric isn't that far
removed from the days in which he was competing as a singles wrestler,
but the days when I competed in those ranks are much further in the
past. So while Eric was fairly well prepared for what was to come in a
singles match... but in my case, it would have been a larger adjustment.

GM: But now you do have to prepare for your singles match... and you
will be facing Cletus Lee in the near future.

DC: [nodding] And Gordon, that's why, next Saturday Night, I'm going to
be stepping into the ring for a singles match. I need to give myself a
chance to work out a few of the kinks still in me, get myself a little
used to what it's like to be on your own in that ring, and thus be
better prepared for whenever it is that I do wrestle Cletus Lee.

BW: {now stepping forward again] But what makes you think one singles
match is going to be enough to prepare you?

DC: [turning to Bucky] That's actually a good point, Bucky... one
singles match may not be enough, so I do intend to continue with those
singles matches until the time comes for me and Cletus Lee to square
off. But regardless of how many matches I get before that time comes, I
can promise you this... if Duane Henry thought Eric put the hurting on
him, that's nothing compared to what I will have in store for Cletus
Lee.

[With that, Rough N Ready departs the commentator's position.]

GM:  Dave Cooper, in singles action in two weeks' time!  Fans, let's go
up to the ring for our next match!

[Cut to the ring where Melissa Cannon is standing.]

MC:  The following contest is a tag team match scheduled for one fall
with a twenty minute time limit.  Introducing first... stepping into the
ring at this time... from Nashville, Tennessee... at a combined weight
of 455 pounds... the team of Michael Rivera and Willie Bane!

[A small amount of cheers for the Tennessee natives.]

MC:  And their opponents...

#Gonna be a dirty punk
Gonna rock your neighborhood#

[The crowd boos as the angry lyrics of The Clash stream out of the sound
system and the Right Proper Thugs step into the aisle.  Leading the way
is Lady Victoria Pembroke-Burton, her brunette hair coifed to perfection
and dressed in the same outfit we saw earlier.  Behind her are the Right
Proper Thugs dressed in their usual ring attire:  Barrett in dark blue
wrestling shorts with the English flag in the center of the waist.  He
wears calf-length dark blue wrestling boots, along with matching
kneepads and elbowpads.  His partner, Marcus Moore's attire consists of
ripped, faded denim shorts that hang down just a bit past his knees.  He
wears well-worn Doc Marten workboots, and his hands are covered with
dirty, faded fingerless gloves.]

MC:  From the United Kingdom... at a total combined weight of 535
pounds... being accompanied to the ring by their manager Lady Victoria
Pembroke-Burton...

Barrett Topps and Marcus Moore...

THE RIGHT PROPER THUGS!

[Lady Victoria leads her team down the aisle, sneering at the audience
and slapping away any hands reaching out towards her.  Moore and Topps
look like they're ready and willing to just climb over the security
barricades to brawl with the fans, but content themselves with spitting
into the crowd before they climb into the ring, holding the ring ropes
open for Lady Victoria, allowing her to climb into the ring.  She slips
between the bottom and middle ropes, wiggling her leather-clad bottom a
bit, just to tease the fans, although it seems Moore gets a bit of
enjoyment from it by the lewd grin he gets when she does that entrance.]

BW:  Look at that, Gordo!

GM:  I saw it.

BW:  I know you're getting up there in years but that has to clear the
cobwebs way Down South even for you.

GM:  Would you stop?

BW:  You still bitter she threatened to pop you one earlier?  I wish
she'd pop me one.  And that Plain Jane Sarah Sharpe thinks that she's
the cat's meow?  Pleeeease!

[Lady Victoria exits the ring, leaving her men behind as they turn to
face their outsized opponents...

...and then charge across the ring as the bell rings.  A running forearm
smash by Topps sends Rivera falling through the ropes to the floor,
leaving Willie Bane throwing wild right hands at both of the oncoming
Thugs.]

GM:  This has quickly turned into a two on one situation, Bucky!

BW:  These two have been on a mission to redeem themselves since losing
in embarassing fashion to Unfinished Business several weeks ago. 
They're taking it out on anyone they can get their hands on.

GM:   Double whip by the Thugs...

[As Bane rebounds, they execute a big double hiptoss, hurling Bane
through the air before he crashes down on the canvas with much impact. 
A few stomps by Moore follow up, knocking him to the apron.  Moore
reaches over the ropes, dragging Bane off the apron by the hair, pulling
him up...]

GM:  It looks like he's gonna bring in Bane the hard way, Bucky.

BW:  I don't know if the Thugs know any other way to do things.

[With Lady Victoria shouting her approval from the floor, Moore hoists
Bane easily into the air in a vertical suplex...

...and then pivots around, falling forward in a front-layout suplex,
right down across the bent knee of Barrett Topps!]

GM:  OHHHHH!

BW:  Oh my god!  I've never even SEEN that!  A gourdbuster type suplex
on Topps' knee!  That'll crack a rib, break a rib, snap a sternum - who
knows?

GM:  I think they could finish this young man off right now if they
wanted to.

BW:  But they don't want to.  This is about sending a message.

[Moore steps out to the apron, leaving Topps inside the ring with young
Willie Bane.  He drags Bane off the mat, smirking as the youngster gasps
for air...

...and slaps him hard across the face, knocking him back against the
ropes.]

GM:  Willie Bane needs to get out of there.  His partner Michael Rivera
is back up on the apron, looking for a tag...

[With Bane gasping for wind, Topps takes the opportunity to wrap his
hands around the throat of the young man.]

GM:  That's a choke!  Come on, referee!

[Topps sneers at the referee before breaking at four.  He buries a knee
into the gut of Topps before grabbing him by the wrist, firing him
across the ring.  The rebounding Bane catches a boot in the gut before
Topps hits the adjacent ropes, bouncing back with a hard kneelift that
snaps Bane back down to the mat.]

GM:  The kneelift connects and Willie Bane is having some trouble in the
early moments of this one.

[With Bane flat on his back, Topps drives a clenched fist down between
the eyes, chuckling as Bane rolls back and forth, clutching his head in
pain.]

GM:  Barrett Topps is certainly enjoying this.

BW:  So is Lady Victoria.  Look at the grin on her face.

[Topps pushes down on the upper body of Bane, forcing him to stop
moving...

...and slugs him between the eyes with another clenched fist!]

GM:  Oh, come on!

[Smirking at the jeering crowd, Topps pulls Bane off the mat by the
hair, dragging him towards the corner where he slaps the hand of Marcus
Moore.]

GM:  And there's a tag.  Moore makes his way into the match - legally -
for the first time.

[Topps grabs a loose half nelson, just keeping Bane from falling as
Moore hits the ropes, connecting with a running kick to the ribcage of
Bane who slumps down to his knees.]

GM:  Topps is out, Moore is in...

[The referee warns Moore to stay off the hair as the Brit grabs two
hands full of the young man's hair, tugging him up to his feet.]

GM:  Moore winds up that right hand - right between the eyes!  Jeez! 
These two are nothing but bar room brawlers and street thugs, Bucky!

BW:  The name didn't tip you off?

[With Bane down on the mat, Moore balls up his fist, threatening the
protesting official...

...and then drops the fist down into the midsection of Bane.  Across the
ring, Michael Rivera cringes, screaming for his partner to make the
tag.]

GM:  Michael Rivera is trying to encourage his partner to get across the
ring to tag him in.  

BW:  Brave man.

GM:  He certainly is.

[Moore drags Bane off the mat again, sneering at Rivera who is slapping
the buckle, trying to inspire his partner.  Moore reaches up, slapping
the hand of Barrett Topps who steps in and hops up on the middle rope as
Moore fires Bane to the ropes, catching the rebounding youngster in a
side slam position, spinning around with him...

...and bringing him down across the knee in a backbreaker just before
Topps leaps off the middle rope, smashing down with an elbowdrop across
the throat of Bane!]

GM:  Ohhhh!

BW:  Bane's done.

GM:  He's been done since the opening seconds of this one but this time,
it might finally be over.

[Topps throws himself on the downed Bane as the referee drops down to
count.]

GM:  One.  Two.  Thr- oh, come on!

[The crowd jeers as Topps pulls Bane up with a double handful of hair,
climbing to his feet...

...and dragging Bane across the ring towards the other corner, hurling
him into the buckles where Michael Rivera tags himself into the match.]

GM:  In comes Rivera...

[Full of energy, Rivera throws rights and lefts as quickly as he can to
the frame of Barrett Topps.  A hard boot to the tattoo of "Lancashire"
across the stomach of Topps doubles him up and allows Rivera to grab a
handful of faux-hawk, leaping up with a faceslam to the cheers of the
crowd!]

GM:  Oh yeah!  Michael Rivera smashed him to the mat!

[Springing to his feet, Rivera pumps his fist as he races across the
ring...

...and manages to connect with a dropkick that knocks Moore off the
apron to the floor to the cheers of the crowd!]

GM:  Down goes Marcus Moore!  And Lady Victoria doesn't look so happy
now, Bucky!

BW:  You think that's a good thing?  She may come back over here, Gordo!

GM:  Let's hope not.

[With Topps wobbled, Rivera pulls him from a kneeling position, throwing
right hand after right hand to put him back in the buckles.]

GM:  Topps is in the corner... Rivera to the middle rope...

[Rivera lets loose a yell as he buries punches to the skull of Barrett
Topps from his spot on the middle rope.  With Rivera battering Topps,
Lady Victoria climbs up on the apron, protesting the use of a clenched
fist...

...and sliding her cane into the ring without the referee seeing where
Marcus Moore gladly retrieves it, winding up...]

GM:  NO!


"OHHHHHHHHH!"


[The crowd groans as Moore slams the cane down across the back of
Rivera, quickly hurling the cane to the floor and slipping under the
falling Rivera...

...DRIVING him down to the mat with a powerbomb as a stunned Barrett
Topps steps up to the top rope, leaping off with a flying splash!]

GM:  Big splash off the top!

BW:  They call that a Right Proper Mugging, daddy!

GM:  One!  Two!  Three!


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


GM:  What a miscarriage of justice that was!

BW:  What are you talking about? 

GM:  First, there was the cane... then the illegal doubleteam... they
stole this one.  Michael Rivera was fired up and was all over them and
they stole this one right away from him.

BW:  Bah.  If they wanted to, they could've ended this match five
minutes ago.  Rivera just got lucky with his flurry of offense.  This
match was over whenever the Thugs wanted it to be over.

GM:  Give me a break.  These guys make me sick.  Fans, let's go to a
break.  Don't go away.

[The camera holds on Victoria holding her men's arms high in the air
before fading to black.

After a moment, we fade back up on a very long shot of the exterior of a
pretty dingy looking building.]

"Have you ever dreamed of fame?"

[Cut a little closer.]

"Of glory?"

[A little closer.]

"Of your friends and family seeing you on television?"

[And just a little closer, revealing a red, white, and blue sign that
reads "AWA Combat Corner."]

"Well, now you can make all your dreams come true by signing up today at
the AWA Combat Corner - the official training school for the American
Wrestling Alliance!"

[We cut to the interior of the building where we can see lots of
standard gym equipment surrounding a very basic wrestling ring.  There
are people lifting weights, running on treadmills, and of course,
working out in the ring.]

"With the very best trainers in the business, the AWA Combat Corner is
the most-equipped training facility to get you in shape and get you in
the ring in the shortest amount of time!"

[Cut into the ring where Todd Michaelson is barking out instructions.]

"With former World Champion Todd Michaelson leading the classes, you can
guarantee that you will be prepared for in-ring action upon graduation
and with the AWA expanding by the day, you will have a place to work on
Day One!"

[Two young students are grappling on the canvas.]

"So, stop by the Combat Corner today... call our offices... visit our
website... and let them know that you want to be the next AWA Superstar!
 You want to be the future of the business!

You want to wrestle!"

[Fade to a graphic that has all the info on the AWA Combat Corner.  We
freeze there for a moment...

...and come up to a scary sight, a wide-eyed Tumaffi who is apparently
standing in front of our announcers who are nowhere in sight.]

"Shane Destiny!  Likely you had to sleep in the arena because your
ex-wife took your home, so you are within the sound of my voice! Tumaffi
does not bear threats of violence for you tonight.  It doubtless no
longer matters to you whether your limbs function normally, since your
life lies in fragments at your feet anyway.  

Tumaffi does not bear claims of superiority, since that will be
empirically proven in due time.  Tumaffi does not even bear a warning as
to your ultimate fate, since you have already sealed it by your lack of
wisdom and childlike social skills.

No... Tumaffi only comes to bear a reminder:

You have thirty-six days left.  Make peace with whatever you hold dear."

[And with that, he throws down the mic and enters the squared circle
where Melissa Cannon quickly vacates as Tumaffi barrels across towards a
masked man.]

GM:  Look out!

[The masked man wisely and quickly sidesteps, allowing Tumaffi to smash
into the buckles.]

GM:  The competitor known as Dr. Z just got out of the way!  He didn't
even get a chance to be introduced!

[Dr. Z hits a pair of left hands before burying his masked skull into
the massive midsection of Tumaffi with a battering ram style headbutt.]

GM:  Ohh!  Right to the gut!

BW:  Talk about a soft spot.

GM:  Dr. Z with another right hand...

[Grabbing Tumaffi by his wild hair, Dr. Z rears his head back...

...and SLAMS his skull into Tumaffi's, a blow that sends Z falling
backwards.]

GM:  Ohh!  

BW:  You moron!  You don't headbutt Tumaffi!

[Dr. Z stumbles to his feet...

...and gets grabbed around the throat of Tumaffi who hoists him high in
the air, DRIVING him down to the mat with a thunderous chokeslam.]

GM:  Good grief!

BW:  Destiny must have gotten under Tumaffi's skin earlier.  Tumaffi's
in a bad, bad mood tonight and I'd hate to be-

GM:  LEGDROP!

[The mammoth leg smashes down on the chest of Dr. Z, Tumaffi merely
sitting on the mat as the refeee drops down to count.]

GM:  One.  Two.  Three.  That's it.


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


MC:  Your winner of the match... TUUUUUMAAAAAFFI!

[Tumaffi pushes back to his feet, one arm raised as he looks out over
the crowd and shouts two words.]

"THIRTY-SIX DAYS!"

[The crowd roars in response.]

GM:  Well, I guess we know what's on the mind of Tumaffi, Bucky.  He has
a date... with Destiny.

BW:  How long have you been waiting to use that one?

GM:  Fans, at this time, we are about to be joined at ringside by some
very special guests... the National Tag Team Champions...

BW:  Seriously?  Do we have to?

GM:  Tin Can Rust... City Jack... Kentucky's Pride!

[The fans start to cheer loudly as the AWA National Tag Team Champions,
Kentucky's Pride, stride towards the broadcast area. They're both
dressed in street clothes - City Jack in a pair of blue jeans and a
black "Kentucky Derby '94" T-shirt; Tin Can Rust in jeans and an
untucked button down shirt. The two shake some nearby fans' hands - Jack
moreso than Rust - before arriving towards Myers & Wilde.]

CJ: Gordon Myers, Bucky Wilde...

[Jack nods to Wilde, to which Bucky rolls his eyes.]

GM: City Jack, Tin Can Rust. I know you wanted to come out here today
and address the fans and the people at home about your injury from Death
or Glory?

CJ: Well, lookit Mr. Myers - I done caught one hell of a fist to the eye
not once, not twice, but a whole bunch o' times on the 4th of July. Now,
I fought through it and me and the Ruster here retained our titles...

[City Jack pauses, shaking his head for a moment.]

CJ: But I'd be lyin' a big one if I didn't say I wasn't hurt none. My
eye felt like someone stuck a hot poker right through it. So I went to
that there eye doctor the very next day to get it all checked and the
like. Now I say...

[City Jack holds his right hand up.]

CJ: The good news of it all was that I didn't get nothing majorly
damaged. My sight's not im-paired and nothin' broke up here in my
lookers. But there's some bad news, Mr. Myers...

[The crowd gets a hush over them at the word of bad news from the grim
looking City Jack.]

CJ: Bad news is... I'm one tired sob of a man after all them
appointments!

[The crowd cheers as City Jack grows a wide smile on his face. Even Tin
Can Rust cracks a quick grin.]

GM: So everything's fine?

CJ: Well, now, seriously? That there doctor told me that, for my own
best interest, you know? I should lay off a bit, maybe take it a little
easy and all. He said it was bruised or something like... I don't...
Well, I don't remember, but I think it he said that say, today? Gettin'
in that there ring?

[City Jack shakes his head.]

CJ: No sir. And I know that Tin Can here's itchin' to get back in that
ring. And me too - we're both wantin' to make sure to prove that these
here AWA National Tag Titles are the best in the land. But from what my
doctor was tellin' me, this ain't like a broken leg or thumb or
somethin'.

[Jack wags his finger.]

CJ: This here's somethin' on the line of permanent... One bad hit here
or there and it ain't recoverin' time. There's no sittin' out and comin'
back. It would be retiring time. And, Mr. Myers? This here old sob ain't
even picturin' no sitting on the porch retirement.

GM: So when can you come back to action?

CJ: Good question - see, I know doctors and I know them's a cautious
bunch. They like to say things five, ten times worse than they are -
"just to make sure", they tell ya. So I think by the next show, should
be a month since that wicked shot from Patterson. I should be good to
go.

[The crowd's cheers at the return date quickly turn to jeers as Adrian
Freeman and Calisto Dufresne emerge from the locker room area, quickly
making their way down to ringside.  Tin Can Rust pushes his partner
back, putting his body between he and their on-coming rivals.  Dufresne
lifts his hands in protest as TCR balls up his fists for battle.]

CD:  Easy there, old timer.  We're not out here for that.

[Rust doesn't seem to believe him, staying at the ready.]

CD:  We're out here for one reason and one reason only.  We're here to
congratulate you.

[The crowd buzzes with confusion as Dufresne nods.]

CD:  Seriously.  When we heard that City Jack had his eye hurt at Death
Or Glory, we were very concerned.  I mean... sure, we would be more than
happy to beat the tar out of someone else to take our rightful place as
the National Tag Team Champions...

[Boos!]

CD:  But it wouldn't be the same.  We want to beat you two for the
titles... the way it should be.  And that's what these fans want to see
too... and I know that you guys are all about doing things for the fans,
right?

[The fans cheer as City Jack nods his head.]

CD:  So, since you're all about the fans, I think it's time you do
something else... for the fans.  According to the Championship
Committee, Adrian and myself are next in line for a shot at those tag
team titles around your... plump... waists.

[Dufresne chuckles.]

CD:  But they refused to make a match for them until they knew the
condition of Jack's eye.  Well, I think the whole world knows that
condition now... including us.

[Dufresne smirks at Freeman who nods his head.]

CD:  It seems like the AWA has another big show coming up in about five
weeks, boys.  This one's called No Escape.

[The Louisiana native smirks.]

CD:  How appropriate.  Because the way I see it, the two of you have
been running, ducking, climbing, hiding, and doing anything you could to
get away from us for over a year now.  But on September 7th... in the
Greensboro Coliseum...

[Dramatic pause!]

CD:  There will be... No Escape... for you.

[Dufresne and Freeman exchange a high five before walking away from the
announce position.]

GM:  Well, guys... you heard it.  Dufresne and Freeman are looking to
cash in their shot at the National Tag Team Titles and they're looking
to do it at No Escape!

[City Jack and Tin Can Rust look at one another for a moment and then
exchange a nod before Rust grabs the mic.]

TCR:  Let's hook 'em up.

[And with that, the crowd ERUPTS into cheers as Kentucky's Pride walks
away from the broadcast position.]

BW:  Is that a yes?

GM:  I think so!  Fans, don't go away - we'll be right back!

[The camera fades away from Gordon and Bucky.

After a moment, we fade back up on a shot of Jason Dane and Mark
Stegglet in an apparently moving car.]

JD:  Hey, AWA fans - so much of our lives are now spent on-the-go,
wouldn't you love to be able to keep track of your favorite AWA
superstars when you're away from home?

MS:  I know I would, Jason!  And I'd also love to have a place to put
out all those rumors we hear during the week that never make AWA
Saturday Night Wrestling.

JD:  You've got that right.  Wouldn't it be great if we could combine
both of those ideas into one?

[Suddenly, a giant graphic of an iPhone appears between them!]

JD & MS:  NOW WE CAN!

[A voiceover takes over - thank God.]

VO:  Starting today, you can download AWA Access - a great new
application for your iPhone where you can get all the AWA news, rumors,
and happenings before the rest of the world.  And don't forget to check
out the "exclusive" section for matches that never aired!  AWA Access -
coming to an iPhone near you!

[Fade back to black...

...and then back up to live action with Gordon and Bucky at ringside.]

GM:  Welcome back, fans!  It's been an exciting night of action here in
Atlanta, Georgia, and we've still got our huge Main Event still to come
with Marcus Broussard challenging Stevie Scott for the AWA National
Title and-

[Gordon abruptly pauses, listening to an earpiece in his right ear.]

GM:  Hold on, I'm being told that Mark Stegglet has tracked down Cousin
Bo backstage. Maybe we can get his reaction to Dave Cooper's comments.
Mark?

[Cut to Mark, looking to the left of the camera. Mark looks quickly at
the camera.]

MS: Thanks, Gordon. I've learned that Bo and his cousins are headed this
way. And I'm indeed going to try and ask Bo what his thoughts are on-

[Mark stops and looks back to the left.]

MS: Here they come right now. Mr. Allen! Excuse me, Mr. Allen!

[Cousin Bo quickly walks into the camera's view. However, he doesn't
stop, so Mark and the cameraman follow him.]

MS: If I could just get a few quick words rega-

CB: Not now, Stegglet, we've got business to attend to. I got Cletus Lee
a match, and we're not gonna wait another two weeks to do it.

MS: But what about-

CB: Stegglet, if you value your health, I'd get out of the way right
about now.

MS: Huh?

[Mark stops in confusion, and turns around just in time to see the
gargantuan figure of Cletus Lee Bishop right in his path.]

MS: Sweet fancy Moses!

[Mark quickly gets out of the way. Cletus Lee strides right through, not
even acknowledging Mark's presence. Mark watches as they go.]

MS: Man, that was close. Well, so much for that. Back to you, guys.

[Cut back to Gordon and a bemused Bucky.]

BW: Don't any of these guys know by now how to interview Bo?

GM: Considering how difficult it is to get in a word when he talks, we
might as well just hand him the mic and stand to the side.

BW: Hey, now you're getting the hang of it, Gordo!

GM: Er, right. Let's go to Melissa for the introductions.

[Cut to Melissa.]

MC: This next match is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first,
already in the ring at this time, from Savannah, Georgia...

[Pop for the mention of the state.]

MC: ...weighing in tonight at 217 lbs, Mike O'Connor!

[A man in a green and white singlet with white boots raises his arms and
nods in appreciation to the crowd.]

MC: And his opponent...

["Trashville" by Hank Williams III starts up to immediate boos from the
fans.]

MC: ...accompanied to the ring by Cousin Bo, from Kingsland, Arkansas,
and weighing in at 328 lbs., this is CLETUS LEEEEEEEEEEEEE BISHOP!

[Bo immediately appears, and instead of smiling as usual, he looks
hurried. He turns back to the entryway, and points to his watch. Cletus
Lee Bishop hurriedly catches up, cutting a path right towards the ring,
paying no attention to the fans whatsoever. His eyes are locked right on
Mike O'Connor.]

BW: Nice knowing you, kid. Hope your trainer received his money in
advance, 'cause he ain't gonna have a student much longer, daddy.

GM: Wow, that look on Cletus Lee's face is one of sheer determination.
This young man has some guts, I'll give him that.

BW: Yeah, and pretty soon this building's gonna be covered in them.

[Cletus Lee strides over the top rope, and breaks his focus just enough
to threateningly point at the timekeeper, who immediately rings the bell
out of fear. "Trashville" has just barely started to fade out when
Cletus Lee charges at O'Connor, who's frozen still, wide-eyed in fear.
The fans audibly groan as Cletus Lee nails him with a hellacious forearm
that sends him flying to the outside.]

GM: Good lord, did you see that?! Young O'Connor dropped like a sack of
potatoes!

BW: Was that an Irish joke?

GM: Um, no.

BW: Good.

GM: Since when are you politically correct, Bucky?

BW: I ain't. I was tryin' to make sure you weren't crackin' jokes all of
a sudden. That's my job.

GM: I should've known.

[Cletus Lee follows to the outside and picks his poor opponent back up.]

GM: Oh no, now what?

[Surprisingly, Cletus Lee simply rolls him back into the ring and
re-enters himself.]

GM: What? Is that restraint I see from Cletus Lee Bishop?

BW: No way, daddy. That's focus. Cletus Lee wants to end this as soon as
possible. Ol' Bo's taught him well.

GM: I can't believe I'm seeing this.

[Cletus Lee hauls O'Connor back up, taking a quick second to menacingly
glance at the ref, who gestures to Cletus Lee to keep it in the ring.]

GM: Well, there's the Cletus Lee Bishop we all know and... uh, know.

BW: Oh, brother. We all know these Meeklys have something against The
Bishop Boys. Can't we hire someone impartial?

[O'Connor takes the opportunity to jump up and hit a forearm smash of
his own to Cletus Lee's face.]

GM: There you go, kid! Bring him down a peg!

BW: There you go again, Gordo, playing favorites as usual.

[O'Connor chops Cletus Lee in the stomach, and follows up with a rather
nifty dropkick. The crowd pops for O'Connor's show of fire.]

GM: Finally, somebody gives Cletus Lee what he's been dishing out! This
is fantastic.

BW: Uh, Gordo?

GM: What?

BW: Look.

[Despite three moves, Cletus Lee hasn't budged. Okay, MAYBE he moved
back about a half-inch.]

GM: Oh no. Don't get cocky now, Mike. Turn around!

[O'Connor does so, and promptly receives a straight punch to the face,
falling with a thud. The fans are disappointedly hushed.]

GM: So much for that.

BW: What is Dave Cooper thinking? How can he possibly prepare for this?

GM: Dave Cooper is not Mike O'Connor. He's faced many a big man in his
career. If anybody knows what to do against this goliath, it's him.

[Cletus Lee gestures as if he's had enough, and moves to finish things.]

GM: Oh boy, I think we all know what's coming.

[The fans all get up out of their seats, knowing exactly what's coming.
Cletus Lee hauls the kid back up by the hair, which the ref warns him
about. Cletus Lee promptly ignores him.]

GM: What is going on here? Since when have The Bishop Boys shown any
focus?

BW: You saw that debacle with Duane Henry against EMS. Duane Henry had
that match won, and let it slip away from him because of that stupid
Meekly. Bo wants results, and if he has to hammer it into his cousins'
heads, he will.

GM: The whip into the ropes now....

[Cletus Lee bounces off the opposite rope and charges, nailing the big
boot. The fans cringe.]

GM: Oh! That hurts to watch every single time. Wait, what now?

[Instead of letting O'Connor fall, Cletus Lee grabs him by the singlet
with one hand and keeps him up.]

BW: Look at the raw strength here, Gordo!

[Cletus Lee bends O'Connor over forwards. Then bounces off the ropes
again.]

GM: What's... OH!

BW: AXE KICK! Did you see the impact on that?!

GM: Good grief, the poor kid's face was sent into the mat with such
force that I think he may have busted his nose.

[Cletus Lee moves to stand over his face-down opponent, and looks to
grab him by the legs, but is distracted by a shouting Cousin Bo.]

CB: NO! NOT NOW!

[Cletus Lee looks at Bo in frustration. But Bo emphatically shakes his
head.]

GM: Why did he stop him? I'm confused.

BW: I think I know what Cletus Lee was going for there.

GM: What?

BW: Can't tell you. I swore to Bo I'd keep it secret. Let's just say
there's more in the arsenal that Bo's not willing to show just yet.

[Cletus Lee looks to be pondering what to do next. He shrugs and pulls
the kid back to his feet one more time.]

GM: Uh oh, we've seen this before. Cletus Lee has him in position.

[Cletus Lee bends him over again, and grabs him around the waist,
hoisting him straight up. The crowd, still on its feet, watches in awe
as Cletus Lee takes a few steps forward and throws him like he's a toy.
THUD!]

GM: Tossing Powerbomb! Devastating, as always. He's making the cover
with one foot!

BW: Now do your job and count, Meekly!

1...


2...


3!


"Ding Ding Ding!"


["Trashville" fills the building as Cletus Lee raises an arm in triumph.
He quickly swats Meekly's hand away in disgust, and leaves the ring,
where Bo is waiting, nodding in approval as he points to his watch.
Cletus Lee looks like he could care less.]

MC: Here is your winner, Cletus Lee Bishop!

[Bo and Cletus Lee make their way towards the announce table, Gordon and
Bucky allowing Cletus Lee a very wide berth.]

BW: Incredible showing of power there by Cletus Lee, Bo.

CB: Indeed. I have to say, even I was impressed by my cousin's
performance.

[Bo nods and smiles at Cletus Lee, who's not even paying attention. Bo
shrugs.]

CB: Were you watching, Dave Cooper?

[Oh, now he's got Cletus Lee's attention.]

CB: I hope you've got that on your little DVR. I hope you watch that
match repeatedly. And I hope you're asking yourself why you decided to
wake up a sleeping giant.

[Bo slaps Cletus Lee's chest. Cletus Lee just continues to stare at the
camera with a grim look.]

CB: Because the results of four weeks ago simply will not be tolerated.
I admit it.

[Bo nods.]

CB: Duane Henry dropped the ball. He lost. And it will NOT happen again.
When the time comes? He will not let this team down.

GM: Speaking of whom, where exactly is Duane Henry, Mr. Allan?

CB: Not that it's any of your business, Myers, but he's back home in
Arkansas. He's going through the most rigorous training schedule I could
possibly put him through. And I'm making him watch that match over and
over again. We have a goal. And I will to see it that we accomplish that
goal, at all costs.

GM: Fair enough. Now I assume you heard what Dave Cooper had to say
about having a warm-up for his eventual match with Cletus Lee.

[Bo chuckles.]

CB: Yeah, I did. And to be honest, it made me laugh. But you know who
doesn't find this funny, Cooper?

[Bo points behind him.]

CB: Cletus Lee Bishop, that's who. The match Cletus Lee just had was
immediately set up as a response. A reminder, if you will.

[Bo looks back at the ring.]

CB: That poor sap in the ring? They're gonna need a spatula to scrape
him off the mat.

[Bo looks back to the camera.]

CB: If Cletus Lee did that to some kid he doesn't know and doesn't care
about, exactly what do you think he's gonna do to some fossil like you?
A nagging little gnat that's making him angrier by the day.

[Bo scratches his head in amazement.]

CB: I mean, really. A warm-up? What scrub can you find that could
possibly prepare you for this? And _THAT_, my non-friend, is what's
making this man so angry.

[Cletus Lee nods, but still stares daggers.]

CB: There is not a wrestler on the face of this earth that could
possibly make you ready. Not Tumaffi. Not Gary Bright. Not ANYBODY!

[By now, Bo is red in the face.]

CB: So for you to think that you're gonna face some random nobody off
the streets, and that's going to make you ready? That is not just an
insult to the sheer strength of Cletus Lee Bishop.

[Bo points at himself.]

CB: That is an insult to my managerial prowess, and an insult to my
training methods.

[Bo takes a moment to compose himself.]

CB: This isn't just a game anymore. This isn't about your old woman.
It's not about thinly veiled insults. To me and my cousins, your actions
for the last few months are tantamount to a declaration of war. You
scored your first victory by managing to beat Duane Henry. And that'll
be your last.

[Bo points at the camera.]

CB: In two weeks time, we return fire. You better have eyes in the back
of your head, Cooper. Let that be a warning.

[And with that, Bo storms off with Cletus Lee.]

GM: Wait. A warning? What does that mean?

BW: It means Dave Cooper is a marked man. Having a warm-up may be the
biggest mistake he's ever made.

GM:  I can't imagine the Championship Committee will be happy with the
words of Cousin Bo right there.  Jason Dane is standing by in the locker
room where I understand he was just given some more information by the
Committee.  Jason?

[Cut to the locker room area where Jason Dane is indeed reading a sheet
of paper.]

JD:  Thanks, Gordon.  Moments ago, I was given this document by a
staffer for the Championship Committee which contains three big
announcements...

#1 - on August 15th, two weeks from tonight, in Chattanooga,
Tennessee... The Right Proper Thugs have earned a rematch with
Unfinished Business!

#2 - sometime in the next two weeks, a major in-depth interview with
Chairman Stephen Ross will be conducted by myself and Mark Stegglet to
discuss any and all issues AWA.

And finally, due to what we heard earlier tonight, the Main Event on
August 15th will be Tin Can Rust going one on one with Adrian Freeman!

[Dane puts the paper down.]

JD:  There's one other announcement on there as well...

[Dane grins.]

JD:  ...but let's save that for the Control Center.  Fans, don't you
dare go away because we'll be right back!

[And with that, we fade away from Jason Dane to black...

...and then back up.  It's a shot of a few kids standing outside of a
classroom.  A fourth kid walks up to them, carrying his backpack over
his shoulder.]

4th Kid:  Hey guys... wait til you see what I got from AWAShop.com!

[He whips open the backpack and produces...

...a JUAN VASQUEZ BOBBLEHEAD!]

"Whoa!"

"Wow!"

"That rocks!"

"I want one... now!"

[The 4th kid looks pleased with himself...

...until a fifth kid walks up.]

5th Kid:  Juan Vasquez, huh?  That's not bad... but check this out!

[The 5th kid opens his backpack and reveals...

...a CITY JACK BOBBLEHEAD!]

"WHOA!"

"WOWER!"

"THAT ROCKS MORE!"

"I WANT ONE... NOW!"

[The fifth kid looks proud as the fourth kid looks sad at his Vasquez
bobblehead and we fade to black.

And then back up on the backstage area where Jason Dane is standing,
looking a little perplexed as his gaze rests off-camera.  A whisper is
heard, snapping Dane's attention back to the cameraman.]

JD:  Welcome back to AWA Saturday Night Wrestling, fans, and at this
time, I'm... uhhh... well, I'm being joined by... do I have to do this?

[A shout of "YES!" is heard off camera.]

JD:  Fine.  At this time, I'm being joined by "Superstar" Kevin Slater
and his former friend... "The Outlaw" Bobby Taylor.

[Dane seems less than enthused at this announcement as Slater bursts
onto the scene, dressed in street clothes.  He's all grins.]

KS:  A little more energy would be helpful, Jason.  It really would.  I
mean, I _am_ a former TWO TIME World Champion, you know.

[Jason knows.  I think we all know by now.]

KS:  Plus, this is big... no, no, no... HUGE!  A reunion of the Cult of
Personality!  Right here!  In front of your very eyes!  Sure, Luke and
Chris aren't here but they never really counted anyways, right?  It was
always me and Bobby... Bobby and me... the Wild Thing and the Outlaw...
sure, we've had some tough times lately but we're back together.

[Slater lifts his right hand, revealing a chicken trapped inside a metal
cage.]

KS:  Right, Bobby?

[Slater cackles with glee as the chicken clucks.]

JD:  Kevin, what's the meaning of this?

[Slater turns his attention back to Dane.]

KS:  I thought everyone wanted the big tearful reunion.  You guys just
can't make up your minds, can ya?  This isn't what you wanted to see? 
Me and Bobby hugging and making up in front of the whole world?  Heck,
maybe we'll form a tag team!  National Tag Team Champions!  I like the
sound of that.  How 'bout you, Outlaw?

[Slater lifts the cage again, smirking.]

JD:  You know what I mean, Kevin.

KS:  Yeah, yeah... I know what you mean.  But here's what I mean, Dane. 
I came back to the AWA for two reasons.  First, to rid the wrestling
world of Bobby Taylor and second, to get on with my life.  I've mocked
him, I've insulted him... I revealed that I tormented him for months! 
For God's sake, I even revealed that I'm the reason his brother got
slapped around by Grant Stone.

And what do I get for it?

[Slater spits.]

KS:  Nothing.  He put up a good front.  He chased me off a couple times.
 He talked the talk.  He acted like he wanted to get a shot at me.  

But none of it was true.  It was all a bunch of...

[Slater holds up the cage.]

KS:  Chicken feed?

[The former World Champion chuckles again.]

KS:  The fact is... I went to the Championship Committee.  I asked for
the match at No Escape.  Me and the Outlaw... one on one... time to make
him pay for everything he ever did to me and everything he never did for
me.  

[Slater nods.]

KS:  It was time to show the world that Bobby Taylor is nothing but a
well-crafted piece of hype.  "The Outlaw of Professional Wrestling."

[He snorts.]

KS:  If Hardin could see you now, he never would have given you that
name.  And don't forget for a single second that's how it went... he
_gave_ you that name.  You tried to live up to it.  You fought Casey and
Claw and Thunder and Tex and Bram and... the list goes on, right?  You
wanted so badly to be him.

[Slater shakes his head.]

KS:  I wanted the chance to expose you for what you really are.  A
second-rate hack wannabe who never accomplished a thing in this business
except bleed and visit hospitals on every continent you wrestled on.

But you won't give it to me.

[Slater does airquotes with his fingers.]

KS:  "Mr. Taylor does not wish to sign for a match with you due to your
history."

[He spits again.]

KS:  What a crock!  Bobby, if you're afraid of me, you can tell me.  At
least I'll respect that.  But if you're going to run and hide... 

[Slater rubs his chin.]

KS:  Then I've got no choice, do I?  I heard you running your mouth
earlier, Jase.  I know we've got a busy show next time out but it's time
to add one more match to it.

"Superstar" Kevin Slater...

[Slater grins...

...and then lifts the cage once more.]

KS:  Versus "The Outlaw" Bobby Taylor.

JD:  Wait a second... what are you-

KS:  Let me make it clear,  Dane... real clear.  Slater vs Taylor...
Chattanooga, Tennessee... one way...

[Slater points at the camera...

...and then taps the cage.]

KS:  ...or another.  See you soon, Outlaw.

[The "Superstar" walks off camera, leaving a jaw-dropped Jason Dane
behind.]

JD:  Is... is he... is he going to wrestle a chicken?

[And with that, we fade to black.

After a moment, we fade back up on a very long shot of the exterior of a
pretty dingy looking building.]

"Have you ever dreamed of fame?"

[Cut a little closer.]

"Of glory?"

[A little closer.]

"Of your friends and family seeing you on television?"

[And just a little closer, revealing a red, white, and blue sign that
reads "AWA Combat Corner."]

"Well, now you can make all your dreams come true by signing up today at
the AWA Combat Corner - the official training school for the American
Wrestling Alliance!"

[We cut to the interior of the building where we can see lots of
standard gym equipment surrounding a very basic wrestling ring.  There
are people lifting weights, running on treadmills, and of course,
working out in the ring.]

"With the very best trainers in the business, the AWA Combat Corner is
the most-equipped training facility to get you in shape and get you in
the ring in the shortest amount of time!"

[Cut into the ring where Todd Michaelson is barking out instructions.]

"With former World Champion Todd Michaelson leading the classes, you can
guarantee that you will be prepared for in-ring action upon graduation
and with the AWA expanding by the day, you will have a place to work on
Day One!"

[Two young students are grappling on the canvas.]

"So, stop by the Combat Corner today... call our offices... visit our
website... and let them know that you want to be the next AWA Superstar!
 You want to be the future of the business!

You want to wrestle!"

[Fade to a graphic that has all the info on the AWA Combat Corner.  We
freeze there for a moment...

...and then back on the funky graphic that can only mean the No Escape
Control Center.  Jason Dane is seated behind the desk, a big grin on his
face.]

JD:  Welcome back, fans, and we've got even more news to bring to you
from the Control Center!  

First, let's talk about what we know...

[The graphic reveals the images of Raphael Rhodes and Juan Vasquez.]

JD:  Rhodes.  Vasquez.  Cage!

[The graphic changes to Pure X and Ron Houston.]

JD:  The Top 10 Challenge continues as both Pure X and Ron Houston look
to work their way up the ladder for a shot at the National Title
currently held by Stevie Scott.

[The graphic changes to a pile of cash with Tumaffi and Shane Destiny's
faces next to it.]

JD:  The $50,000 Challenge - Tumaffi versus Shane Destiny.

And now...

[The graphic slowly changes, this time to reveal a new match.]

JD:  The National Tag Team Titles will be on the line with Kentucky's
Pride defending their gold against the number one contenders, Calisto
Dufresne and Adrian Freeman!

[Dane grins a huge grin.]

JD:  That's four HUGE matches already signed for September 7th in
Greensboro, North Carolina...

...but wait, there's more!

[Dane smiles even wider... he looks a bit scary... seriously.]

JD:  I'm being told that no matter who wins the Main Event tonight. 
Whether our National Champion is Stevie Scott or Marcus Broussard...

...we WILL announce the National Title match for No Escape TONIGHT!

[Dane pauses for cheers that we can't hear in the Control Center. 
Ninny.]

JD:  Fans, No Escape is just five weeks away and I simply can not wait! 
It has the potential to be the biggest night of the year for the AWA so
far with four tremendous matches already scheduled to go down! 
Greenboro, buy your tickets now because the AWA is comin' to town!  

From the Control Center, I'm Jason Dane and let's go back to ringside!

[We fade from the Control Center's wacky logo to ringside...

Enter the AWA's new most hated trio -- Stevie Scott, Gary Bright, and
Ben Waterson -- to a huge chorus of boos.  Waterson is decked out in a
charcoal gray suit and tie combo, while Scott is dressed his ring
attire, ready to defend his title.  Bright goes a different direction,
wearing a tight collared shirt that shows off his well-defined and
massive physique.]

GM: Stevie Scott, the AWA National Champion... Mr. Scott, you will
defend your title in just a short, short while for the very first time
against a former champion in Marcus Broussard.

[Waterson, instead of Stevie, moves in to answer Myers's comment.]

ATTSBW: Look, Myers, if you're implying that we're nervous, scared,
worried, afraid about the challenge that the "Hotshot" is facing
tonight, we are none of the above.  Broussard might have been the man
once upon a time but that time was long ago now.  He's had his run at
the top, and he will not be getting a second one at _our_ expense
tonight.

GM: Well, Stevie, your manager certainly is full of confidence in your
chances tonight.

[Stevie grins and laughs silently as he removes the AWA National Title
from his shoulder and sets it on the broadcast table.]

HSS: Gordon...you've followed me very closely over the course of the
last year, have you not?  You watched me fall to the absolute rock
bottom of my career, and from there you have watched me climb the
ladder, rung by rung, until I got to the top of the wrestling world.

So what makes you think I am concerned about the challenge of Marcus
Broussard?

[Before Myers can answer what was apparently a rhetorical question,
Scott goes on.]

HSS: Two weeks ago, in Birmingham, Alabama...hey guys, remember the
party that night?

[Bright and Waterson both nod and smile.]

HSS: Whoo yeah!  B-ham, Alabama!  Before we partied the night away,
Gordon Myers, we took some of the trash out of the AWA.

Sweet Daddy Williams?  Packed his bags and left.  Tucked his tail
between his legs like the washed-up old dog that he is, and ran away.

[MASSIVE heel pop at the mention of the hometown hero's departure.]

HSS: And then...Vladimir Velikov and Kolya Sudakov.  Once again, Myers,
you saw the Hotshot pin the shoulders of the Russian War Machine, the
man who was supposedly the most unstoppable force in professional
wrestling... you saw me pin his shoulder to the mat for the second time
in two weeks.  The man who could not be defeated...the man who put both
Ron Houston and Mark Shaw out of commission...

He couldn't beat _me_.

And what did they do, Myers?  They pulled a Sweet Daddy.  Tucked their
tails between their legs and ran back to Russia.

You do the math.  One show.  Three people sent packing at the hands of
the Hotshot, the Gold Bomber, and the greatest mind in professional
wrestling.  And now, you want to ask...

[Stevie pauses to start laughing again.]

HSS: You want to ask me if I'm worried about the challenge of a guy who
has one good arm?  The challenge of someone whose best days here in the
AWA came when he was accompanied by some dude in a ninja suit?

I really thought you'd know me better than that, Myers.  After all this
time you've spent watching me over the last year...I really thought
you'd know that Stevie Scott _always_ has a plan.  And tonight, that
plan will make _certain_ that the AWA National Title stays right...
where... it... belongs.

Gold Bomber...tell 'em like it is!

[Bright smirks as he leans over the offered mic.]

GB: AWA...

[Bright shakes his head]

GB: In times of need and desperation, the weary and the downtrodden look
up to sky and they pray to the Big Gold Bomber in the sky and they ask
for answers.... they ask for change... they ask for a sign. The AWA was
praying that there would be a sign that change would be coming. And that
is exactly what has arrived here. One piece of trash at a time... we
shall cleanse the AWA of the unwanted. It has already begun and it will
continue. More will continue to fall at the feet of the most dominating
force here in the AWA.

[Bright strikes his trademark double bicep pose]

GB: And tonight... will be no different.....

[The trio starts to walk away.]

GM:  Fans, we are moments away from-

[A hand snakes in from off-camera, pulling the mic back from Gordon
Myers to a grinning Ben Waterson.]

ATTSBW:  Consider.  Yourselves.  Warned.

[Waterson shoves the mic back towards a disgusted-looking Gordon Myers
who glares at the well-dressed Agent To The Stars as he joins Bright and
Scott in climbing the ring steps.]

GM:  Let's go backstage where Mark Stegglet is standing by with the
former National Champion and tonight's challenger... Marcus Broussard!

[We cut to the locker room area where the San Jose Shark is standing
next to young Mark Stegglet.  He's wearing a pair of cream and gold
tights along with black boots.  A black t-shirt covers his torso as
Stegglet speaks.]

MS:  Marcus, you just heard from Stevie Scott, the National Champion. 
He's said your best days are behind you.  He said you're a man fighting
with one good arm.  He said-

[Broussard interrupts.]

MS:  He said, he said, he said.  It seems like that's all that Stevie
Scott does these days.  He talks a good game, I'll give him that.  And
hey, he pulled off one hell of a plan... a plan worthy of something _I_
might have pulled off at one time... so I'll give him credit for that as
well.

But I won't give him credit for is being worthy of wearing that title
belt.  

[Broussard nods.]

MB:  When I was the AWA National Champion, it meant absolutely
everything to me.  There was nothing I wouldn't do... there were no
rules I wouldn't break... there were no levels I wouldn't stoop to win
that belt and keep that belt around my waist.

And yeah, I _did_ run around with a guy in a ninja costume.

But the last time I checked, I _won_ that title belt on my own.  I
pinned Ron Houston in the middle of the damn ring and walked out with
the title over my shoulder.

The last time I checked, I didn't need to coldcock someone with a
briefcase to win the title.

[The Shark smirks.]

MB:  How 'bout you?

You want to think my best days are behind me?  That's fine with me.  I'm
sure that's useful to you.  I'm sure it makes you sleep better at night
to think that the man climbing into the ring with you tonight isn't the
real Marcus Broussard.  That I'm not the man who was big time in Los
Angeles with a couple of old friends.  That I'm not the man who went
through the entire AWA to win the title.  

Pretend that's not still me.  

[Broussard clasps his hands together in front of me.]

MB:  I'm beggin' ya.

[Stegglet interrupts.]

MS:  But what about the arm?

[Broussard casts a strong glare at him.]

MB:  What _about_ the arm?

[Stegglet shrinks away from the stare.]

MB:  You want me to admit it's hurting?  Yeah, it's hurting.  You want
me to admit I probably shouldn't be wrestling?  That's probably true
too.

But here's the thing, Stevie...

[Broussard slowly lifts his left arm up, wincing as he does so, until
suddenly coming to a stop just about at shoulder height.]

MB:  Maybe I can't lift my arm any higher than this.  

[He pauses - and then thrusts his raised arm forward in a punch.]

MB:  But maybe... just maybe... I don't need to.

[Broussard cracks a grin.]

MB:  We're all about to find out together, I guess.

[The San Jose Shark reaches over, patting Mark Stegglet on the back, and
then walks away.]

MS:  Could he be the next National Champion?

[Stegglet grins.]

MS:  We're all about to find out together, I guess.  Let's go up to
Melissa!

[We cut away from Stegglet to the ring where Melissa Cannon is standing.
 Already in the ring are Ben Waterson and Gary Bright, both giving words
to Stevie Scott who is leaning back against the ropes, title belt slung
over his shoulder, waiting for his opponent.  And suddenly, the cheers
erupt as the sounds of Soul Coughing's "Super Bon Bon" kick in over the
PA system.]

GM:  Here comes the challenger!

[The San Jose Shark emerges through the curtain to a thunderous roar
from the Atlanta fans.  Broussard pauses just beyond the curtain,
cracking a smile at the reaction.  He raises his right arm to salute the
fans before making his way down the aisle.]

GM:  Listen to these fans!  A year ago, who would have ever imagined
these fans cheering Marcus Broussard like this, Bucky?  Who?

BW:  Not me.  And not him either.  He hated the fans and didn't give a
rat's tail if they cheered him or not.  Now he's out here waving and
smiling like a... ugh.  Makes me sick.

[Broussard, still wearing the t-shirt, slaps a few hands on his way to
the ring, quickly walking up the ringsteps and climbing through the
ropes into the squared circle where his eyes immediately lock onto
Stevie Scott who looks a little on edge.  The fans start to settle down
as Melissa steps out to the middle of the ring.]

MC:  Ladies and gentlemen, this is your MAIN EVENT of the evening!

[Big cheer!]

MC:  It is scheduled for one fall with TV TIME REMAINING and is for the
AWA National Championship!

[Even bigger cheer!]

MC:  Introducing first... in the corner to my left... he is the
challenger... standing 6'3, weighing in at 252 pounds... from San Jose,
California... he is a former National Champion...

The San Jose Shark...

MAAAAAARRRRRCUS BROUUUUUUSSAAAAARD!

[The former champion steps out of the corner, raising his right arm to
the cheers of the crowd, and then steps back to the buckles.]

MC:  And his opponent...

[Boos!]

MC:  In the corner to my right... he is accompanied to the ring by Gary
Bright and his manager Ben Waterson... standing 5'11 and weighing in at
228 pounds... from St. Louis, Missouri... he is the current AWA National
Champion...

The Hotshot...

STEEEEEEEEEEVIE SCOTT!

[Stevie Scott steps out of the corner, holding the title belt high over
his head as he soaks up the jeers of the crowd.  Bright and Waterson
exit the ring as Scott reluctantly hands the title belt to AWA senior
official Michael Meekly who holds the title belt and then hands it over
to the timekeeper out on the floor.]

GM:  This is it, fans.  This is it.  Two men, one title belt.  Only one
of these men can walk out of here as the National Champion.

BW:  If you think Stevie Scott is going to lose the title belt in his
first title defense, you're dead wrong.  Broussard would have to pry
that belt out of his cold dead hands, Gordo.

GM:  I guess we're about to find out.

[Broussard pulls off the black t-shirt, hurling it to the floor...

...and revealing a very heavy tapejob on his upper left arm and
shoulder.  Stevie Scott's eyes go wide at the revelation and immediately
is summoned by Ben Waterson.  The Hotshot drops to a knee, conversing
with both Waterson and Bright as they stare across the ring at the
challenger who is swinging both arms back and forth, trying to loosen
up.]

BW:  You know... there were a lot of times when we would use the pun
that the Shark smelled blood in the water during Marcus Broussard
matches but this time, Stevie Scott is that Great White from Jaws and he
DEFINITELY smells blood in the water!

GM:  That arm and shoulder are very heavily taped, Bucky.  Christmas may
have just come early for Stevie Scott.

[Scott straightens up, looking a lot more confident now.  Michael Meekly
calls for the bell which quickly rings.  Both champion and challenger
stride out of their respective corners, meeting in the middle of the
ring where the Hotshot has no shortage of harsh words for the former
champion.]

GM:  The champion's giving Marcus a verbal beating just seconds into
this match.

BW:  As bad as he's trashtalking him, it's not gonna hurt as much as the
physical beating he's about to dish out, Gordo.

GM:  We'll see about that.

[Tired of listening, Broussard lunges into a collar and elbow tieup,
struggling to gain an edge.]

GM:  Here we go!  Broussard is taller, bigger, and stronger than the
champion but will it be enough with one injured limb?

[The San Jose Shark uses his size advantage to push Scott back towards
the buckles where the referee immediately calls for a break...

...but Broussard steps back and lets a right hand fly, catching the
Hotshot squarely on the chin and knocking him down on his rear in the
corner to the cheers of the crowd!]

GM:  Oh yeah!  That got him!

[Broussard backs away, all grins as the fans cheer the knockdown. 
Grabbing the ropes, Stevie Scott gets back to his feet, kicking at the
bottom rope in rage.  He points a threatening finger in the direction of
the San Jose Shark who waves him forward to the middle of the ring.]

GM:  Scott's gotta keep his cool, Bucky.

BW:  That he does.  He's at a definite advantage in this match with the
former champ coming in hurt.  He needs to stay focused and get on that
arm at the first chance.

GM:  And I'd imagine Ben Waterson is telling him something similar right
now.

[Waterson gives a few words to Scott who nods before edging out of the
corner, trying to move to the Shark's left side.  Broussard keeps
turning, trying to keep the injured limb away.]

GM:  This is almost like a game of keep away, Bucky.  Marcus is
desperate to keep that left arm out of Scott's reach.

BW:  And Stevie keeping the title may depend on getting ahold of that
arm.

[Approaching the middle of the ring, Scott lunges into another tieup. 
He quickly grabs a handful of hair, dragging Broussard back into the
buckles.  The referee steps in to call for a break...

...which Stevie promptly gives him before connecting with a haymaker
blow to the upper left arm, causing Marcus to cry out before grabbing
the top rope with his right arm.]

GM:  There it is!  Right after the arm!

[With the San Jose Shark clutching the top rope with his right arm,
Scott winds up and drills the left arm with another haymaker, knocking
Broussard down to a knee.]

GM:  Broussard's trying to pull the arm away, trying to cover it up...

[But a hard kick to the shoulder by the Hotshot knocks Broussard down to
the mat.  Stevie Scott stands over him, all smiles as he looks to his
corner for support.  Waterson is clapping wildly, shouting for him to
continue the attack.]

GM:  What is he doing?

[Scott grabs the injured arm by the wrist, pinning it down to the mat
with his left foot...

...and then drops down, smashing his knee down on the bicep!  Leaving
his knee on the arm, Scott grabs the wrist and yanks it upwards, pulling
it against his own body weight.]

GM:  Oh my... 

BW:  Listen to Broussard screaming.  He should give it up right now and
save himself, Gordo.  That arm is going to be ripped right off if he
doesn't.

GM:  Calisto Dufresne and Adrian Freeman started this.  They were the
ones who did the damage to the arm back at Death Or Glory and now Stevie
Scott is looking to finish the job they started.

BW:  Sounds familiar.

[Getting back to his feet, Scott keeps his grip on the wrist of
Broussard and then drives stomp after stomp after stomp to the upper arm
and shoulder.]

GM:  Come on, referee!

BW:  What do you want Meekly to do?  There's nothing illegal going on!

[Still holding the wrist, the National Champion drags the Shark off the
canvas by the arm, moving him back to the corner where he wraps the
injured arm around the top rope...

...and smashes an elbow down on the bicep!]

GM:  Scott keeping up the attack on the arm, dragging Broussard away
from the ropes now... handful of hair...

[Still holding the arm, Scott fires the San Jose Shark through the ropes
and out to the floor.]

GM:  Uh oh.

BW:  This just got interesting.

[The Hotshot steps out on the apron, measuring the former champion as he
starts to get to a knee...

...and leaps off, crashing down with a double axehandle on the injured
shoulder!]

GM:  Ohhh! 

BW:  Bullseye!  That was pinpoint accuracy on the axehandle!

GM:  And you've got to wonder just how much Broussard will be able to
take.  I mean, we're only minutes into this match but the arm is already
taking a tremendous amount of punishment.

BW:  Did you ever find out what was wrong with the arm?

GM:  The medical team wouldn't disclose it at Broussard's request but
you have to think it's pretty bad considering the tapejob on the arm and
shoulder.

[Still out on the floor, Scott stalks towards Broussard as the San Jose
Shark crawls towards the barricade, looking to escape the assault.  The
Hotshot grabs his wrist, pulling him up to his feet, and lifting the
left arm high in the air...

...and SLAMMING it down on the steel railing!]

GM:  OHHHHH!

[Broussard screams out in pain, rolling back and forth on the
barely-padded concrete floor.  With the count at seven, Scott rolls
under the ropes into the ring where Michael Meekly moves to reprimand
him...

...which allows the dastardly duo on the floor to inflict more damage,
stomping the injured arm and shoulder to the jeers of the crowd.]

GM:  Oh, come on, referee!

BW:  He didn't see any of it.  If he doesn't see it, he can't call it.

[Bright pulls Broussard up off the floor, shoving him under the ropes
into the ring where Stevie Scott promptly leaps high in the air,
dropping a big knee down on the shoulder before flipping him onto his
back for a lateral press attempt.]

GM:  There's a cover!  One!  Two!  And the shoulder's up.

BW:  But you notice it was the right shoulder.  That left arm must feel
like it's on fire right now, Gordo.  And I don't think Broussard's got
any way to put that fire out.

[With Broussard flat on his back, Scott straddles his torso, pinning him
to the mat while he batters him with right hands.  Getting to his feet,
the Hotshot drags Broussard off the mat by the hair, tugging him into a
double underhook...

...and taking the larger man up and over with a beautiful butterfly
suplex!]

GM:  Ohhh!  Nice suplex by the champion... and another cover...

[Michael Meekly dives to count - reaching two before Broussard fires a
shoulder up again.]

GM:  Two count only.  The Hotshot took him down with that suplex... and
look at the San Jose Shark.  He's crawling for the ropes, trying to get
some room between him and the National Champion.

[The Hotshot gets up, looking to pursue... but the referee cuts him off,
allowing Broussard to slide under the ropes to the apron.]

GM:  The former champion looking for breathing room and...

[Pushing the official aside, Scott races across the ring, dropping down
into a baseball slide with both feet squarely in the ribs, knocking the
Shark off the apron and down to the floor!]

GM:  Ohh!  Down to the floor goes the former champion again.

[An irate senior official is all up in Scott's face, forcing him
backwards...

...which again allows Gary Bright to strike, driving boot after boot
after boot to the shoulder of Marcus Broussard.  Waterson applauds
nearby as the Gold Bomber pulls away just as the referee turns around. 
The crowd jeers as an unsuspecting Michael Meekly starts a count on the
former champ.]

GM:  The referee has no idea what happened and these fans are all over
him.

BW:  So fickle.  How is this his fault?

GM:  Here comes the champ...

[With Broussard still down, the Hotshot drops down off the apron to the
floor, dragging him to his feet.  Grabbing the injured wrist, Scott
executes an Irish whip that sends Broussard smashing spinefirst into the
steel barricade!]

GM:  TO THE RAILING!  COME ON, REFEREE!

[Filled with confidence now, Scott slowly approaches the kneeling
Broussard, dragging him back to his feet.  He quickly hammerlocks the
arm...

...and THROWS the Shark shoulderfirst to the steel!]

GM:  OHHHHH!  

[The Hotshot is all smiles as the referee reprimands him from inside the
ring.  Pulling Broussard up, he throws him under the ropes into the ring
before climbing up to the ring apron, and scaling the turnbuckles.]

GM:  The National Champion is up top... waiting... watching...

[And the champ throws himself off the top for a double axehandle but
catches a hard right hand to the midsection, flipping Scott over in a
somersault before he hits the mat!]

GM:  COUNTER!  Broussard caught him coming off the top!

BW:  Broussard caught him but can he do anything with just one arm
working?

[The Shark kneels down in a straddle, clutching his left arm for a
moment before throwing right hand after right hand down to the skull of
the National Champion to the cheers of the crowd.]

GM:  Broussard is all over him!  Listen to these fans!

[The referee steps in, forcing Broussard to break up the attack.  He
gets back to his feet, reaching down to pull the champion up by the
hair...

...and smashes his face into the top turnbuckle, spinning him around in
the corner.]

GM:  Scott's in the corner... look at this!

[The crowd roars as Broussard steps up on the middle rope, holding his
right fist high in the air...

...and starts the pounding!  Punch after punch after punch scoring with
the temple of the champion with the referee counting along with every
shot!]

GM:  Eight!  Nine!  Ten!  He's got the champion rocked!

[Broussard hops down off the second rope, reaching back to hook a side
headlock...

...and then stampedes out of the corner, leaping into the air, and
SMASHING the champion's face into the mat!]

GM:  BULLDOG!  

[Using his right arm to flip Scott to his back, he throws himself across
the chest, reaching back to hook a leg with his right arm.]

GM:  ONE!!  TWO!!  

[The crowd roars with disappointment as the Hotshot fires a shoulder off
the mat.]

GM:  The former champ almost regained the title right there... but it
wasn't enough.  Broussard getting back to his feet... a few stomps to
the downed Scott...

[Reaching down, Broussard hauls the champion to his feet by the hair,
snapping off a chop across the pectorals to knock Scott back into the
buckles.  Wincing, the challenger grabs the Hotshot by the back of the
head, pulling down on it...

...and DRILLS Scott with a European Uppercut that rocks Scott, knocking
him down to a knee.  Broussard turns around, reaching back to hook a
snap mare, taking him down to the mat.]

GM:  Snap mare to the mat... Marcus backs to the corner... this is a
trademark Broussard move...

[With a seated Scott in front of him, Marcus charges out of the corner,
leaping into a front flip while grabbing the head of the champion with
one arm...

...and executes a sloppy rolling necksnap that doesn't seem to have much
effect as he hits the mat.]

GM:  He couldn't get it all.  He couldn't get the necksnap.  Usually, he
does that move with both hands but he just couldn't use the left arm on
it.

BW:  It hurt a bit but not as much as it could have.

[A frustrated Broussard regains his feet, dragging Scott into a front
facelock, slowly turning to his side for a reverse neckbreaker
attempt...

...but before he can bring it crashing down, Scott slips out of the
move, spinning around and connecting with a picture perfect dropkick to
the shoulder that knocks Broussard backwards and down to the mat.]

GM:  Ohh!  Stevie countered the neckbreaker and... OHHH!  Running
sliding dropkick to the arm!  That knocks Broussard under the ropes
again - right out to the floor!

[On the other side of the ring, Ben Waterson hops up on the apron,
drawing the referee's attenton as Gary Bright yanks Broussard up to his
feet, grabbing him loosely around the waist...

...and SMASHING him spinefirst into the ring apron!]

GM:  Bright with the attack on the outside!  The Gold Bomber is
definitely living up to his moniker as the insurance policy here
tonight.  The National Title may be insured with the Gold Bomber in
Atlanta tonight.

[With Broussard in pain, Bright shoves him under the ropes into the
ring.  Scott immediately grabs him by the left wrist, dragging him away
from the ropes...

...and drops a leg across the outstretched arm!]

GM:  The Hotshot staying on the arm!

BW:  Of course he is.  What else would you expect him to do?

GM:  The champion getting back to his feet... a pair of stomps on the
bicep... 

[Grabbing the wrist, Scott hauls him to his feet and executes an
armtwist before smashing an elbow down on the bicep.  He tucks the arm
underneath his armpit, pushing Broussard down to his knee as he stands
behind him, bending the arm.]

GM:  Armbar applied!  And the Hotshot's got that hold in deep!

[Broussard immediately struggles against it, realizing how much trouble
he's in, and somehow gets to his feet...

...where he pops his hips, snapping the Hotshot over in an armdrag!]

GM:  Armdrag out of the- uh oh.

[The challenger rolls around on the mat, screaming in pain as he
clutches the injured arm.]

GM:  He hurt himself with the armdrag!  He hurt himself, Bucky!

BW:  With all the punishment that Stevie Scott has inflicted in this
match, it's perhaps Marcus Broussard himself that caused the worst
injury!

GM:  We are closing in on the ten minute mark of this match and Marcus
Broussard just hurt himself so badly... I don't know if he can continue
this match, Bucky.

BW:  Well, we're about to all find out together, I guess!

GM:  Very funny.

[Smirking at the anguished Broussard, Stevie Scott slowly moves in...

...and starts viciously stomping the arm and shoulder, shouting at the
downed challenger.]

"I'm the champ!  It's my belt!  MINE!"

[A leaping stomp to the shoulder causes Broussard to roll to his
stomach, clutching his left arm underneath him...

...which causes Scott to kneel down in a straddle, grabbing the left arm
and yanking back hard in another armbar.]

GM:  Back to the armbar goes the Hotshot...

BW:  And I think Stevie Scott has decided that he wants the submission
in this one, Gordo.  I think he'd take the pin to keep the title but he
really wants to make Marcus Broussard submit.  How great would that be?

GM:  Marcus may not have much of a choice with as much punishment as his
arm has been through over the past month.  

[The Hotshot screams as he pulls on the arm, shouting at the official to
"ask him!"]

GM:  Michael Meekly checks on Broussard - nope, no submission.

BW:  Not yet maybe.  

GM:  Scott is really cranking on that arm, Bucky.

BW:  And the odd thing is, Stevie Scott is not known for his submission
skills.  It's pretty rare you'd be looking for the Hotshot to gain a
submission win but tonight?  With that arm?  It could very well happen,
Gordo.

[With his feet in a wide base, Scott pulls back harder on the arm,
screaming again at the referee to check.]

GM:  The referee checking in again as we pass the ten minute mark in
this match.  Still no submission from the San Jose Shark.

[Showing a little frustration, the Hotshot breaks the armbar, twisting
the arm into a hammerlock...

...and then lunging forward, hoisting Broussard up in the air, and
slamming him down on his own arm!]

GM:  Hammerlock slam!  

[With Broussard's left arm pinned underneath him, it seems like a good
time to go for a pin attempt but instead, the Hotshot tees off with
stomps to the shoulder.]

GM:  Right there, Bucky.  He should've gone for a cover right there.

BW:  I told you he wants the submission.  He wants that submission
badly, Gordo.

GM:  He drags Marcus up by the hair, shoving him back to the corner...

[Grabbing the injured arm, Scott whips his challenger across the ring to
the opposite corner.]

GM:  Whip to the buckles... here comes Stevie!

[The champion charges across the ring, looking for a running
clothesline...

...but the San Jose Shark sidesteps, causing Scott to slam chestfirst to
the buckles to the cheers of the crowd!]

GM:  STEVIE HITS THE CORNER!

[The Hotshot staggers out of the buckles, spinning around...

...and the San Jose Shark lunges forward, hooking a bearhug.]

GM:  BELLY TO BELL- ohhhh!

[But as Broussard attempts to snap off a potentially match-ending
belly-to-belly suplex, he withdraws, clutching his injured left arm. 
Scott steps forward, quickly hammerlocking the arm, and ducking
underneath, hooking a side waistlock...

...and dropping Broussard down on his own injured arm with a hammerlock
belly-to-back suplex!]

GM:  OHHHHH!

BW:  Even with a healthy arm, that could end a match!

[The National Champion springs to his feet, delivering stomp after stomp
after stomp to the arm, Broussard rolling quickly to avoid the assault,
and rolling right under the ropes to the floor where an irate Stevie
Scott leans over the ropes, spitting on the back of the downed Broussard
before being backed away from the ropes by the referee...

...which again allows Gary Bright room to operate, yanking Broussard up,
applying the hammerlock.]

GM:  No!  NOOOO!

[The Gold Bomber executes a crushing hammerlock bodyslam on the
barely-padded concrete floor!  The crowd jeers wildly as the powerhouse
stands over the downed challenger, striking a double bicep pose to the
applause of Waterson.]

GM:  Gary Bright just... he may have snapped that arm...

[The Hotshot rolls under the ropes to the floor, pulling Broussard off
the concrete by the hair.  He slams him facefirst into the ring apron
before firing him under the ropes into the ring.]

GM:  Broussard's back in... Stevie rolling in as well...

[With the San Jose Shark down, Stevie Scott delivers a trio of stomps to
the chest and ribs before heading towards the corner where he steps up
to the middle rope, then to the top...

...and then LEAPING backwards in a full flip.]

GM:  MOOOOOOONSAULLLLLLLLL- OHHHHHH!  HE MISSED!  HE MISSED!

[The crowd ERUPTS as Broussard rolls away from the moonsault attempt
just in the nick of time, causing the National Champion to eat the
canvas.]

GM:  This is his chance!  This is his opportunity to become the two-time
champ!  Broussard has to capitalize on this mistake if he wants a shot
to become the champion again!

BW:  Get up, Stevie!

[Broussard grabs the ropes with his right hand, dragging himself up to
his feet off the mat.  The "Hotshot" pushes up to his knees, cradling
his ribcage.  The San Jose Shark approaches, throwing a right hand to
the head of the kneeling Scott.]

GM:  Oh!  What a shot by the challenger!

BW:  GET!  UP!

[Reaching down with his good arm, Broussard hauls Scott to his feet by
the hair...

...and SLAMS him facefirst to the top turnbuckle!]

GM:  To the buckles!  Scott is rocked...

[Still holding the hair, the San Jose Shark charges to the opposite
corner...

...and SMASHES his head to the buckles again!  The crowd roars as Scott
stumbles out, eating a boot to the gut.  The challenger steps forward,
hooking a front facelock with his right arm.]

GM:  DDT!  DDT!  COVER HIM, MARCUS!

[A hurting Broussard flips Scott to his back, diving across.]

GM:  ONE!!!  TWO!!!  THR- OHHHHHH!  He didn't hook the leg, Bucky!  If
he had hooked the leg, I think he could have had him!

BW:  He couldn't hook the leg, Gordo!  The left arm is hurting too
badly.  He just couldn't reach back with that arm to hook the leg.

GM:  You're absolutely right.  That makes perfect sense.

[Wincing with every movement, Broussard rolls to his rear, somehow
getting back to his feet with only his right arm to support him.  He
stomps down on the chest of Scott once, twice, three times before
heading towards the corner.]

GM:  The challenger... I'm gonna say it... The Shark smells blood in the
water!

BW:  Where's he going?

GM:  Broussard back to the corner... steps up on the middle rope...

[The challenger stands tall on the middle rope, raising his right hand
in a fist...

...and leaps from his perch, driving the clenched fist down on the
forehead of the National Champion!]

GM:  FISTDROP OFF THE MIDDLE ROPE!

[The impact causes Scott's body to convulse which only ends when
Broussard throws himself over Scott again.]

GM:  ONE!!!  TWO!!  THRE- 

BW:  NO!  NO!  HE DIDN'T GET HIM!

GM:  The leg, Bucky... he still couldn't hook the leg and that's the
difference between Marcus Broussard being the first two-time National
Champion and this match going on!

[Waterson slaps the canvas outside the ring, screaming instructions to
his charge.  Gary Bright is a few feet away, stalking back and forth
like a caged animal as Broussard tiredly grabs the top rope, pulling
himself up off the mat.]

GM:  Broussard is back to his feet and - HEY!

[The crowd jeers as the muscular Bright snakes a hand underneath the
ropes, grabbing Broussard around the leg to prevent him from moving back
in on the National Champion.  The referee is unaware as he's checking on
the Hotshot who is grabbing him by the shirt.]

GM:  Referee, get over there and-

BW:  Look at Stevie!  Stevie's got the ref tied up!  This is brilliant,
Gordo!

[Spinning towards Bright, Broussard lashes out with a boot to the chest,
breaking the grip of the Gold Bomber.  The challenger glares at him for
a moment before turning back around...

...and catching a running forearm that knocks Marcus back against the
ropes.]

GM:  Ohh!  He caught the challenger off-guard... whoa!  Big chop by the
champion!

[Sneering at the protesting official, the Hotshot tees off with another
big chop across the chest.  Grabbing the injured arm, Scott whips
Broussard across the ring.]

GM:  Irish whip... backdr-

[But with the champion doubled up, Broussard hooks his head with his
right arm, and drops down to the mat while sweeping the legs out with
his own legs, pulling Scott into a small package.]

GM:  ONE!!  TWO!!  THR- OHHHH!

BW:  Again!  Again, the inability to use the arm to hold the legs of the
champion may have saved the National Title for Stevie Scott!  Broussard
was a half count away from winning the title right there!

GM:  Less than that!

[Broussard rolls to all fours as Stevie Scott tries to scramble to his
feet before his challenger does.]

GM:  Broussard to a knee, Stevie to his feet...

[A wild haymaker aimed at the head of the San Jose Shark misses as
Broussard drops down to the mat, reaching his right arm up between the
legs of Scott, and dragging him down in a schoolboy rollup!]

GM:  ANOTHER CRADLE!!  ONE!!  TWO!!  THRE-  

[At the last possible moment, the Hotshot kicks out, leaving the crowd
buzzing with disappointment and Marcus Broussard insisting to the
referee that it must have been a three count.]

GM:  That was three!

BW:  No it wasn't!  Michael Meekly says it was two!

GM:  That was so close, Bucky.  SO close.  We want to thank our friends
at WKIK once again for letting us go past our allotted time.  We will be
staying with you until this match is over.  Before this show is over, we
WILL know who the National Champion is.

[The Hotshot regains his feet, reaching down...

...and EATING an uppercut to the chin causing Scott to stumble back to
the corner.]

GM:  Broussard caught him!

[With Scott leaning in the buckles, Broussard charges across the ring,
leaping into the air and driving his knee into the back of the National
Champion, smashing him chestfirst into the buckles, causing the Hotshot
to stumble backwards...

...where a grimacing challenger grabs a rear waistlock.]

GM:  He's not!

BW:  He can't!

GM:  Oh my stars and garters... he's got the waistlock hooked... 

[Scott struggles against the waistlock as the San Jose Shark grits his
teeth, bearing down...

...and putting every last bit of strength and energy into hoisting the
champion into the air, DUMPING him on the back of his head and neck with
a German Suplex!]

GM:  WAISTLOCK SUPLEX!!

BW:  I don't believe it... I just don't believe it.

[There's absolutely no chance that Broussard can hold a bridge,
immediately releasing the hold and crawling towards his opponent,
throwing his right arm across the chest.]

GM:  ONE!!  TWO!!  THRE-  


"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


GM:  He almost had him.  He ALMOST had him, Bucky!

BW:  Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, daddy!

GM:  The waistlock suplex almost got the three count but he couldn't
keep him down.  He couldn't keep the National Champion down for a three
count.

[A weary and pain-racked Broussard sits up, head in hands as the referee
tells him it was only a two count.  The challenger shakes his head back
and forth as he pulls himself to his feet using the ropes.  He leans on
the ropes for a moment, waiting and watching as his opponent rolls to
his stomach, trying to push himself up off the canvas.]

GM:  Broussard on his feet... Scott is up to a knee...

[The San Jose Shark moves in, dragging the champion to his feet.  He
grabs an arm with his right arm, executing a weak one-armed Irish whip
to the ropes.]

GM:  The Hotshot to the ropes... backdr-

[A tired challenger drops his head, ready to send Scott sailing through
the air...

...but the champion pulls up short, hooking a front facelock as he grabs
the left arm, and DROPS down to the mat, smashing the injured limb into
the canvas at a sickening impact.]

GM:  OHHHHH!

BW:  Single arm DDT by the champion!

[With his challenger howling in pain, Scott immediately rolls to the
side, grabbing the injured arm...

...and CRANKING back in a Fujiwara Armbar!]

GM:  ARMBAR!

[The crowd roars with concern as a pain-ravaged San Jose Shark claws at
the canvas, trying to get somewhere near the ropes.]

GM:  The challenger is trying to hang on... the challenger is trying to
escape the hold...

BW:  This could do it!  Look at the pressure on the arm!

GM:  The National Champion is pulling back on the arm, bending it in a
sickening fashion...

[Meekly is flat on his belly on the mat, asking the San Jose Shark if he
wants to quit.  Broussard screams "NOOOOO!" repeatedly.  Meekly rises
up, informing the champion of the challenger's refusal...

...to which Scott replies by planting his feet on the canvas and arching
his back, yanking harder on the injured limb.]

GM:  He's got the armbar sunk in even deeper!  He's got that armbar
cranked back as far as he can.  Broussard is screaming his head off...
that man is in so much pain yet he still refuses to submit!  Refuses to
give in!  Refuses to quit!

[The AWA's senior official drops down on all fours again, asking
Broussard if he wants to give in.  An exhausted San Jose Shark shakes
his head at the official, unable to speak his refusal to quit.  The
referee raises up to inform the Hotshot who angrily breaks the hold,
rising to his feet where he immediately throws a tantrum, stomping the
shoulder over and over and over.]

GM:  Broussard isn't even moving and the champion continues to work on
the arm.

[The Hotshot leans down, pulling the Shark up by the trunks...

...and FIRES him through the ropes out to the floor.  Of course, he then
immediately grabs the referee, steering him away from the barely-padded
floor where Ben Waterson goes to work, stomping the arm before Gary
Bright yanks Broussard off the floor.]

GM:  Look at these... these... jackals!

BW:  I'm going to tell them you said that.

GM:  Bright's got Broussard up off the floor... what's he-?

[The Gold Bomber scoops Broussard up, slinging him over his shoulder to
set up for a powerslam...

...and then stampedes across the ringside area, DRIVING Broussard
shoulderfirst into the steel ringpost!]

GM:  OHHHHHHHH!

[Bright pulls back from the post, nudging Broussard off his shoulder and
back into the ring where a fired-up Stevie Scott yanks Broussard off the
mat, swinging him up onto his shoulder...

...and bringing him down on the left shoulder in a shoulderbreaker!]

GM:  SHOULDERBREAKER!

[Scott immediately flips Broussard to his stomach, reaching down to grab
the injured left arm, and yanking back in another straddling armbar from
behind.]

GM:  The armbar is locked on again!  He's got it in deep!

[Broussard instantly cries out in agony, clawing at the canvas as he
tries to escape the hold or at minimum, fight off the pain.  Scott
screams just as loud, trying to use every drop of energy left in his
body to rip and tear the arm.]

GM:  Broussard's trying to fight it... trying to escape... come on,
Marcus!

[The champion screams "ASK HIM!  ASK HIM!" at the official who
immediately does so, dropping down to his knees.  Broussard weakly
refuses, shaking his head back and forth.]

GM:  The challenger is hanging on!  He refuses to quit!

[Scott keeps his grip, pulling back with all his might as Ben Waterson
shouts encouragement from out on the floor.  Gary Bright slaps the
canvas, rooting on his partner in crime.]

GM:  Broussard is inching closer to the ropes.  He's desperate to get
there and break this hold!  

BW:  He should be!  If he can't get out of this hold, this match is all
over!

GM:  Scott cranking back hard... screaming to ask him again...

[Meekly ducks down again, checking on the challenger.]

GM:  Meekly's asking him... checking on him...

[The San Jose Shark barely moves his head, refusing to give in.]

GM:  The challenger is still in this!

BW:  But for how long?  How much more does Marcus Broussard have left?

GM:  I don't know but he continues to fight - continues to struggle...

[The crowd roars, cheering the challenger with every bit of energy they
have.]

"MAR-CUS!"
"MAR-CUS!"
"MAR-CUS!"

GM:  You can hear the fans chanting for the challenger, trying to cheer
him on to get out of this armbar and continue the fight!  Can he do it? 
Can he get out of this punishing hold?

[Scott arches his back as much as he can, pulling back on the arm as
much as possible, screaming "ASSSSSSK HIM!" to the official who
immediately obliges, dropping down to all fours.]

"MARCUS, DO YOU GIVE UP?"

[The San Jose Shark does not answer, his head slumped over to the mat. 
Michael Meekly tries yet again.]

"MARCUS, DO YOU QUIT?"

[There's still no reply, the San Jose Shark not moving at all as Scott
cranks back on the arm...

...when suddenly Michael Meekly springs to his feet, waving his arm back
and forth.]



"DING!  DING!  DING!"



GM:  What happened?  What just happened?

BW:  He gave up!  Stevie got him to quit!

[With Marcus Broussard motionless on the mat, Gary Bright and Ben
Waterson climb into the ring to congratulate the National Champion as
the referee confers with the timekeeper and the ring announcer.  After a
few moments, Melissa Cannon speaks.]

MC:  Ladies and gentlemen... referee Michael Meekly has determined that
Marcus Broussard has PASSED OUT from the pain and therefore is unable to
defend himself.  As a result, your winner of the match and STILL AWA
National Champion...

"HOTSHOT" STEEEEEEVIE SCOTT!

[Stevie Scott immediately walks across the ring, grabbing the referee by
the shirt and shoving him back to the corner.]

GM:  He didn't give up and the Hotshot is irate!

[The champion shouts at Meekly, screaming "HE GAVE UP!  I HEARD IT!"]

GM:  We need to get some control in there!  Stevie Scott has got the
referee back in the corner and- oh, come on!

[The crowd jeers as Bright and Waterson start stomping and kicking the
left arm of the downed Broussard.  A leaping stomp by Bright to the
shoulder crushes it against the canvas.  The Hotshot shoves the referee
back to the corner, walking over to join his allies in the assault.]

GM:  Look out, fans, but I think Stevie Scott may have just decided to
take Marcus Broussard out for good!  He's out to end him once and for
all!

[Waterson grabs the wrist, holding the arm at full extension on the mat
as Bright and Scott take turns dropping knees on the arm, a motionless
Broussard completely unable to defend himself against the assault on his
injured limb.]

GM:  Come on!  There's no call for this!  None at all!

BW:  Broussard picked the wrong guys to tangle with this time, Gordo!

[Brushing his allies aside, Gary Bright reaches down to haul Broussard
off the mat by the back of the trunks.  He quickly grabs the injured
arm, twisting it into a hammerlock behind the hurting San Jose Shark...

...and then HOISTS him high into the air, still holding the hammerlock! 
The crowd gasps in shock as Bright's power is on full display.]

GM:  FLYING HAMMERLOCK!  MY GOD!

[Waterson and Scott step back, eyes open wide as they too are in shock
at the power of their teammate.  Broussard is absolutely motionless as
Bright holds all of his weight in the air by the arm, wrenching the limb
and shoulder even worse than it already was...

...when suddenly the Atlanta crowd ERUPTS!]

GM:  ADAM ROGERS!  HERE COMES THE NATURAL!

[The Natural comes tearing down the aisle, steel chair in hand.  He
dives under the ropes as both Waterson and the National Champion lunge
to the floor.]

GM:  Out goes Waterson!  Out goes Stevie!

[With Rogers turning to face Bright, the Gold Bomber HURLS Broussard in
the direction of the Natural, slowing him down just long enough for the
big man to join his cohorts out on the floor.]

GM:  And there goes Bright to boot!  Adam Rogers has cleared house!

BW:  Yeah, but is it too late?  Broussard hasn't moved in a couple of
minutes now.  That arm is... I don't want to speculate, Gordo, but it's
in bad, bad shape.

GM:  Thank heavens for Adam Rogers... but I just don't know if he was in
time.

[Rogers stands inside the ring, chair in hand, glaring at the retreating
Bright, Waterson, and Stevie Scott as they backpedal up the aisle, all
taunting the Natural from the walkway.  A handful of medical team
members rush the ring, getting immediately to work on the downed San
Jose Shark as a concerned Rogers looks on.]

GM:  The AWA's medical staff is working on Marcus Broussard, trying to
stabilize that arm so they can see what kind of condition it's in.

BW:  I can tell 'em from here that it's broken.  It's done.  He's done.

GM:  Try not to sound so happy about that.

BW:  Hey, this was Marcus' own fault.  He jumped on the big dogs and he
got his arm gnawed off for it.

GM:  Stevie Scott may have put the finishing touches on the arm but you
can thank Ben Waterson and Gary Bright... not to mention Adrian Freeman
and Calisto Dufresne... for doing all the damage to it.  The medical
team is helping Marcus from the ring now - goodness, it looks like he
can't even move that arm, Bucky.  I think he's- wait one moment, we're
being joined right now by Adam Rogers.  Adam, I know you've got
something on your mind.

[A still-irate Rogers approaches Myers and Wilde, stopping with his
hands on his hips and breathing very hard before motioning to Myers to
bring the microphone over.]

AR: Gordon Myers, I am SICK of this bullcrap!

[As he says "sick", he slams his fist onto the table hard enough to
cause both Myers and Wilde to jump in alarm.]

AR: For over a year... over a YEAR... I've had to watch punks like Mark
Shaw, like Calisto Dufresne, like Adrian Freeman... and now like Stevie
Scott take every short cut necessary to get by!

[Adam pauses, trying to calm down a bit.]

AR: I've sat back and watched guys like Ron Houston, like Sweet Daddy
Williams...and now Marcus Broussard have their careers, their
livelihoods taken away from them.  I've seen them dishonored and
disrespected, and Gordon?

I've seen it for the last damn time!

[Adam nods and points at no one in particular.]

AR: I've seen the legacy of this great sport _tarnished_ by the Mark
Shaws, the Adrian Freemans, but tonight...tonight Stevie Scott, Gary
Bright, and Ben Waterson went too far.  Tonight, those three crossed the
line, Gordon.

Scott, you call yourself a _champion_?  You little chicken crap!  You
weaseled your way out of your first title defense because you were
_scared_!  Scared of what?  Scared that you aren't legit, that you
aren't for real.

That you aren't truly a champion.

Well, pal, let me just go ahead and make sure you hear it first-hand
from someone who's been there and done that on a much larger level than
_you_ ever have.

[Adam shakes his head.]

AR: You aren't a champion.

You are a COWARD!

[Big pop!  Rogers lets it die down a bit before continuing.]

AR: Gordon, I've been saving this for the right time...and I think that
time has come.

You see..."champ"...several months ago I won this battle royal.

[Another pop, at least from those who know where it's going.]

AR: And by winning that battle royal, I earned a shot at the AWA
National Title...whenever I wanted it, wherever I wanted it.

I've decided that it's time to cash that bad boy in... at No Escape!

[Huge pop!]

AR: You're no champion, Stevie Scott.  And I'm going to _prove_ that to
you, to Ben Waterson, and to everyone out there who hasn't figure it out
already.

I'm coming for you, Scott.  I'm coming for you on behalf of Marcus
Broussard, on behalf of Sweet Daddy Williams, and on behalf of every
wrestler out there who is SICK AND TIRED of people like you running the
show.

So consider yourselves warned.

[With Rogers, Myers, and Wilde staring into the camera...

...we fade to black.]