Starve.Org White Noise Usenet Archive: "[IIWF Countdown to Forever] 31 July 1998 [2/7]"

and what a battle it would be if they do.

[SCENE: Once again, from a camera position high in the top deck, we see
the darkened interior of the IIWF Coliseum, and the famous arena which
has played host to some of the greatest moments in wrestling history has
never looked finer. From the red, white and blue ropes and brand-new
ring canvas sporting the IIWF Forever logo, to the banks of television
lights lined with seemingly thousands of pyrotechnics for the
pay-per-view, to the many colourful banners hanging from the rafters
proclaiming the final event in the IIWF's glorious history, to the
immaculately maintained seats which line the bowl of the cavernous
auditorium, the Coliseum has been dressed in its best -- for the final
time.

The only illumination provided in the arena comes from the ceiling
spotlights which bathe the ring in harsh, white light, and the red exit
lights which surround each deck in the Coliseum. The silence which
blankets the empty arena is almost eerie, a stark contrast to the scene
which will play out here in just twenty-four hours, when the loyal, vocal
fans of the IIWF will congregate here one last time to voice their
enjoyment and support for the federation that has provided them with the
finest in wrestling entertainment... and also, to say goodbye, before the
Coliseum returns to silent darkness -- forever.

As we soak in this solemn atmosphere for a few moments, the camera begins
to swing on its mount, and sitting in a seat just a few feet away, we see
a pensive, brooding Duncan Macbeth, leaning forward in his seat, his chin
resting on his clasped hands as he stares down at the empty ring far
below him. The former Intercontinental Champion has never looked in
better shape, the result of his non-stop training regimen, made
especially intensive since Macbeth learned both of the closure of the
IIWF, and of the fiery Scot's entrance in the battle royal that will
determine the final IIWF World Heavyweight Champion. Dressed in a plain
white T-shirt with "IIWF" written across the front in black, blue jeans
and black motorcycle boots, Macbeth's powerful arms appear slightly less
beefy, but much more sinewy and defined, the chest slightly less broad
but more angular, the waist trimmer. His more recent role as the
high-flying half of the Black Watch has accounted in part for Macbeth's
leaner, meaner appearance, but since the announcement of the IIWF's
closing, the intense young Scotsman has been working feverishly with a
different goal than tag team success...

To take the greatest prize in wrestling.

The IIWF World Heavyweight Title.

Macbeth appears to be lost in thought, perhaps musing on the many battles
he has waged in the ring below, the exhilaration he felt after each
hard-fought victory, the crushing disappointment after each defeat. He
remembers so many little things about each match he has fought in this
building... the cheers of the crowd, the sensation of his sweat coursing
down his back, the taste of his own blood in his mouth, the varying
degrees of pain as night after night, he pushed his body to the limits of
its performance and beyond. Macbeth closes his eyes as these sensations
wash over him, the forgotten sensations made fresh again in his memory,
and he lets out a long, slow sigh. Then, his jade eyes sparkle in the
half-light as he open them again, and begins to speak, his eyes never
leaving the ring below him.]

DM: I've no' had much t' say lately.

Haven't really known wha' t' say, I suppose.

I've been tryin' t' put it out o' me mind fer weeks an' weeks now,
tryin' t' ignore th' reality of wha's goin' t' happen 'ere tomorrow
nigh', th' reality tha' once I walk out o' these doors tomorrow,
there'll be no comin' back.

Th' IIWF's been me home away from home fer goin' on twa years now.
Ye ken, I still remember th' day I arrived 'ere in Portland, after
drivin' me motorcycle halfway across th' country after th' last fed I
was in closed its doors. I remember pullin' in t' th' parkin' lot o'
IIWF Towers, takin' tha' posh elevator up t' th' top floor, walkin'
righ' past th' secretary in me grubby biker's leathers, an' bangin'
on Danny-boy's door. I must hae looked a sight, standin' there all
dusty an' sweaty, me hair in a state, demandin' tha' this wee man in
th' specs sign me t' a contract. I mean, I'm sure he had no idea
jus' who th' Jaysis I was, since I'd been bouncin' 'round th' bush
leagues fer years.

[Macbeth chuckles to himself, as the recollection plays out in his mind.]

But Spreadbury ne'er sae much as batted an eye, wha'.

Maybe 'e admired me brass, maybe 'e jus' wanted me t' go away an'
leave 'im in peace, but 'e gave me tha' contract. This crazy
stranger drops in out o' th' blue, an' 'e signs 'im t' wrestle in th'
greatest promotion goin'! I reckon 'e was figurin' at worst, 'e'd
'ave another jobber t' break up th' brawls when guys like Otto an'
th' Syndicate got out o' hand. An' at best... well, I reckon tha'
was my end o' th' bargain t' hold up.

An' I never forgot wha' Spreadbury did fer me tha' day.

I was given th' opportunity o' a lifetime, an' I was goin' t' do me
damnedest t' see tha' I made th' most o' it. I remembered all th'
talk in all th' locker rooms o' all th' minor leagues I ran in, how
th' IIWF was a tough life, how hard ye had t' work t' stick there,
how th' talent was damn near unbeatable, an' how sae many people went
there an' were either sent packin' back t' th' bush leagues, or got
put out o' wrestlin' altogether.

I swore t' meself tha' if I e'er made it t' th' IIWF, I'd stick it
out t' th' bitter end.

[Macbeth sighs, lowering his head momentarily.]

An' now, th' end is 'ere.

I've had a wonderful career 'ere in th' Double Eye. I've fought th'
guid fight against th' best in th' business, an' 'ave been lucky
enough t' have beaten quite a few o' them. I've made guid friends,
an' guid enemies. I won th' Intercontinental Title, an' no matter
what anybody may say, I wore it with pride, an' I can rightly say
tha' no man in th' IIWF was e'er able t' take it from me -- in the
ring, anyway. In th' twa years I've been in th' IIWF, I've risen
from an unknown rookie t' a respected member o' this federation.
I've accomplished jus' about everythin' I wanted t' do in th' IIWF.

Everythin' but ONE.

My goal has been, and always will be, to be th' best. Tha's why I
came 'ere t' th' Double Eye in th' first place. I was tired o' th'
minors, and I wanted t' be in th' best federation goin'. Ever since
I've been 'ere, I wanted t' be th' best wrestler in th' best
federation goin'. I was close wi' th' Intercontinental Title, but
there's still one las' rung on th' ladder t' climb.

Th' IIWF World Heavyweight Title.

There's nothin' I wouldn't give t' have tha' title 'round me waist.
If I have t' sweat fer it, I will. If I have t' hurt fer it, I will.

An' if I have t' bleed fer it... I will.

I've got one last chance t' grab th' brass ring. One last chance to
take the greatest prize in wrestlin'. One last chance t' climb t'
th' top o' th' mountain.

[Macbeth's demeanour darkens, and his focus turns from the ring as he
levels his trademark jade stare at the camera, his piercing eyes
glittering, his face half-masked by the dark shadow cast from the harsh
spotlights in the centre of the arena.]

There's goin' t' be twenty-nine men out there, all fightin' fer th'
same thing I am. Twenty-nine o' th' most talented, th' toughest, th'
meanest men e'er assembled under one roof, an' in one ring. Many o'
them have been champions. A few o' them have been IIWF Champions.
Fewer _still_ have been IIWF World Champions. But they're all goin'
t' be there, an' it's goin' t' be a livin' HELL.

Some o' those men are bigger than me.

Some o' those men are stronger than me.

Some o' those men are more experienced than me.

An' some o' those men are more talented than me, aye.

I'm goin' t' be sweatin'.

I'm goin' t' be hurtin'.

An' sure, I'm goin' t' be BLEEDIN'.

[Macbeth's voice lowers to a baritone rumble, his teeth clenching as the
steely determination fairly shines in his face and glows in his emerald
eyes.]

But I SWEAR tha' NONE o' those men are goin' t' work HARDER than me!

I'm NO' goin' t' QUIT.

I'm no' goin' t' quit until, jus' like in Calgary, I'm th' last man
standin'.

I'm no' goin' t' quit until I strap tha' shiny World Title belt
'round me waist.

This is me last chance. An' I ALWAYS make th' most o' me chances.

Mark me.

[The feisty Scot lets that sink in for a moment, then turns his attention
back to the ring below. Macbeth's demeanour softens and becomes more
thoughtful as he regards the site of the IIWF's final battle for the
World Title.]

Ye ken, I remember once a lang time back tha' Joe Petrow, a bloke
tha' everybody in wrestlin' has heard of, once referred t' me as a
"no-name scrub".

There's many ways t' make a name, Joe.

Ye can go out there an' sell yuirself, talkin' up a storm, gettin' in
people's faces, actin' like ye're God's gift t' th' wrestlin' world.

Ye can go out there an' gripe an' complain, tellin' everyone tha'
nobody treats ye righ', tha' everybody's tryin' t' keep ye down, in
th' hope tha' th' squeaky wheel will get th' grease.

Or ye can go out there, nigh' after nigh', an' give one hundred an'
fifty per cent, ne'er givin' less, ne'er givin' quarter, ne'er givin'
up, workin', sweatin', hurtin' an' bleedin' fer every single win, an'
makin' yuir opponents realise tha' t' beat ye, they're goin' t' have
t' work, sweat, hurt an' bleed even MORE.

Tha's how I made MY name 'ere in th' IIWF, Joe.

An' tomorrow nigh', IIWF, I'm NO' goin' t' give up.

No' until I've made one more name fer meself.

IIWF World Heavyweight Champion.

FOREVER.

[With that, Macbeth stands, and he continues to gaze down at the ring
below for a few moments, as if trying to visualize the battle royal that
will rage within its ropes just twenty-four hours from tonight. His
entire body looks hard and taut, although the Scot appears perfectly
relaxed, and the camera catches a quick glimpse of the letters "IIWF"
stretched across Macbeth's broad chest on the plain white T-shirt before
he turns and walks away from the camera towards a nearby exit. As
Macbeth disappears into the darkness of the Coliseum, from which he will
emerge for one last time tomorrow night, we see a single word written
across the back of his shirt, just before the young lion vanishes from
sight:

FOREVER

The sound of one of the Coliseum's heavy steel exit doors slamming shut
reverberates throughout the cavernous arena as the camera fades to black.
Cut back to the studio.]

TD: Duncan Macbeth has never looked better, gentlemen -- and I believe he
is going to be one of the prime targets for the competitors in this
match. With his prior victory in battle royals, and his renowned
stamina, I wouldn't be surprised to see other superstars ganging up
on Macbeth right from the get-go.

SR: I wonder, Dross, what would Macbeth rather have: the IIWF
Championship forever, or a nice, piping hot haggis?

TD: I beg your pardon?

SR: You know what these Iranians are like, Dross.

TD: For goodness' sakes, Steve Roberts, Duncan Macbeth is _Scottish_.

SR: I know, Dross. Just messin' wit' your mind, ol' buddy.

TD: Good grief. The final instalment of my series on the Meatman has me
back in Emeryville, California. Let's go to the VT:

[Cut to: Talking heads shot of Elsie Steele, wife of the Meatman.]

ES: Jim has not had a vacation in fifteen years. The IIWF was his
vacation.

[Cross-cut to Patrick Melt, Chamber of Commerce Director:]

PM: There were reports that a gentleman who purported to represent the
meat industry, was wrestling in a butcher's apron, carrying big slabs
of meat into the ring... I laughed at first; until I found out this
man truly did represent the meat industry. In fact, he was a major
player.

[Cut back to Elsie Steele:]

ES: He put into the IIWF the hours that he used to put into the farm, and
the passion that he used to reserve for his family.

[Back to Patrick Melt:]

PM: The only way I can describe it is this: what if a doctor took FDA
approved drugs and sold them on the street to the highest bidder? He
couldn't do it. He would be misusing the tools of his trade, it
would be an affront to his craft and what it stands for.

[Back to Elsie:]

ES: The Shadoe Rage bout is what started his decline. Every night, he
would sit on the edge of the bed. He would squeeze one of those
handgrips for hours at a time. "Creak, creak, creak...." I realised
my husband was sick.

PM: He drove a meat truck into the arena. He hit wrestlers with venison,
ham hocks, cattle skulls, meat cleavers... he drenched himself in
pig's blood, he even strangled men with intestines. It was
ludicrous.

ES: You didn't see me at the Meatman Challenge, did you? You want to
bring these wrestling fans on our property, I told him? I will not
have these... _animals_... on our farm.

PM: Here is a "Cease and Desist" order issued by a judge in Emeryville.
Jim Steele will lose his farm, his plant, his shop, his license, even
his meat truck, if he so much as buys a ticket to attend an IIWF
event. This piece of paper declares in effect, that Jimmy "the
Meatman" Steele... is dead.

ES: Meat, meat, meat... I fell in love with a man -- not a beat up,
sweaty, hate-filled cartoon! I love you, Jim Steele. But you've
jeopardised our business, our son, and our marriage. Either give up
the wrestling- or give up your family.

PM: One more Pay-Per-View? Doesn't matter. One more or a thousand more.
Jim Steele will not attend.

ES: I don't care if the IIWF only has one more show. It's over. A woman
has to draw the line. I have drawn the line here and now. End of
story.

[Finally cut to Tim Dross standing in front of the huge closed gates of
the Steele Family Farm.]

TD: Ladies and gentlemen, the Meatman was not available for comment. He
was in Washington, as we saw last week; and then shortly thereafter
he flew to Texas. The recent heat-wave has apparently created
lactose deficiencies in the cattle. Will he compete? I'm of two
minds about it. On the one hand, why would any man in his rightful
mind sacrifice his marriage and career for one shot at a wrestling
title? It wouldn't make sense. On the other hand... who are we
talking about here? Say what you will, no man can deny Jimmy "The
Meatman" Steele is a true original in our sport.

[Dross moves out of the frame as the shot zooms in on the "NO ADMITTANCE"
sign affixed to the gate. Cut back to the studio.]

LM: I agree entirely, Tim. The Meatman is one of the most unique
individuals ever to step into an IIWF ring -- but is he paying too
great a price for his participation?

TD: Well, I have no idea whether or not Jim Steele will be there tomorrow
night... but something tells me that he'll be in that ring when his
number's up.

SR: Of course he will, Dross! He's bringing me a pastrame sandwich!
All that blood-letting always works up the Soundbite's appetite, and
the Meatman is my designated food-provider.

TD: Let's hear from a man who shares a name with the Meatman -- the "Real
Deal" Luke Steele:

[SCENE: elegant IIWF Towers, midday in Portland, Oregon. The usual
traffic on the street passes by, unaware that in just a few days the
mighty IIWF will close its doors to the world. The revolving door sees
its share of men and women in business attire pass through the doors, all
the while under the watchful gaze of Cleveland's own "Real Deal" Luke
Steele. Steele sits on a bench facing the building, wearing a pair of
denim shorts cut off at the knees, a sleeveless blue t-shirt featuring an
oversized IIWF logo on the front and his name on the back in the form of
a sports jersey. On his head is a bandanna with one large IIWF logo,
obscured by the folds of the material. He continues to gaze upwards,
seemingly in a trance and not aware of the camera focused in on him.

Suddenly, he begins to speak without turning his head away from the
towering structure.]

LS: Majestic, wouldn't you say? There it is, the pinnacle of the
wrestling world, and in about... [looks at his watch] 72 hours, it'll
all be over. What's going to move into the building? Lord only
knows. Maybe another new wrestling company, many an existing one
will try to take over the local scene. Whoever it is, this will
_always_ be the IIWF Towers to me.

[Steele turns his head to the camera.]

I may whine, I may cry, I may sulk every now and then, but the IIWF
is my home. It's where the Real Deal came to be known as the master
of the floating DDT... as a superb technician and aerialist... and
where Luke Steele's wrestling career was born.

It may not have been the first place I fought in, it may not be where
I got my big break, but it's home simply because it was the first
organisation to take a chance on me. On _me_. Not on me playing
some other identity, as myself. Luke Steele. Not Shane Stevens, not
Luke Duke.

[Steele sits upright, and looks down at the shirt he's wearing. He
smoothes out the IIWF logo and smiles, looking up again.]

LS: There have been a lot of memories since Snow Brawl 1996. There was
that first match against J.P. Steele, which haunts him to this day.
There was my on again-off again rivalry with Ronnie Paris, and that
little thing with Bill Shakespeare and Spur.

Who could forget Genesis, except for maybe Brody Thunder after all
the lumps to his head. I've still got a few lumps on my head from
Requiem and Annis, and I plan to give a little back on Saturday.
Ditto a lot of those other guys in the ring in the main event. After
all, it'll be the last time we see the Double Eye in the Coliseum,
and after that wrestling will _never_ be the same.

So Portland, raise a glass and make a toast to the IIWF. You never
know what you've got until it's gone.

[Fade. Cut back to the studio.]

SR: All these fond farewells make me want to puke, Dross. Are these guys
wrestlers or goddamned actors?!

TD: I'll pass on that one, Steve Roberts. Larry, what of Luke Steele's
prospects in this match?

LM: He's not an automatic favourite, that's for sure. Luke's IIWF career
seems to be a story of near-misses -- and I wonder whether perhaps
that will come back to haunt him tomorrow night.

TD: I won't do Steele the disrespect of putting his lack of gold down to
bad luck -- but you do end up feeling that the number a man like Luke
Steele draws in this match will have an important part to play on his
potential success. Another man yet to hold IIWF gold but who wants
it so bad he can taste it is Shadoe Rage...

SR: Yo, yo! Brotha in da house!

TD: Nobody knows what you're talking about, Steve Roberts. Let's go to
Shadoe's comments:

[Fade in: the camera invades a church, winding its way through the rows
of abandoned, dusty pews. It stops at the altar, warped and discoloured.
A chalice is tipped over, wine spilled all over the faded wood. In the
shadows sits a man, a man who has been tortured since early childhood.
Shadoe Rage. He is swaddled in his black cape like a giant spectre. He
watches the camera impassively.]

SR: Who dares invade my kingdom of despair? My empire of ash?
[shouting] My bastion of brimstone rifts? Did I ask for your
intrusion? Did I ask for your presence? _Did_ I?

[Shadoe draws in a deep, hissing breath. He stares at the ground.]

SR: They say death is the moment when there are no more possibilities.
When there are no more chances. Well, I have no more chances at the
IIWF Heavyweight Championship. I have no more chances at the title
that has always eluded me in my career. No more chances.

Except this one. A battle royal. All the big guns have returned for
this. All the IIWF-born names and one Angel of Death who wasn't
supposed to be in the thing from the beginning. But the Black Jesus
hasn't lost his drive. He hasn't lost his focus. He hasn't lost his
desire. And he hasn't lost his never surrender drive. So let the
Black Jesus preach to you for one minute. I _will_ not be thrown out
of that ring. This is my dream. This is my life. Understand that.
This is my sole purpose in existence. Joe Petrow, you may think that
I am beneath your commentary, but let's understand one thing. I am
the persistent bastard that broke your body and drove you out of the
singles ranks of the IIWF. I was the man who dreamt up the most
twisted match of all time, the most violent display of wrestling that
surpassed all your pathetic gimmicks. And then my family ruined your
tag team dreams, too. And right now I know you're licking your lips,
dreaming up some brilliant storyline as to how you will finish your
career as the IIWF champion forever. It won't happen. The Black
Jesus won't let it happen.

[Fade out. Cut back to the studio.]

TD: Here's a man who took Steve Kowalski, arguably the greatest Champion
the IIWF has ever seen, to the limit, Larry. His endurance isn't in
question, his desire isn't in question, his ability isn't in
question. A dark horse winner, perhaps?

LM: I would agree with you, Tim... but I believe that Shadoe's hatred for
Joe Petrow could cost him his last shot at the prize he so
desperately wants. Shadoe comes at you with such rage, no pun
intended -- and I wonder whether he might see red, get sloppy... and
get tossed out as a result.

SR: Ain't nobody touchin' the Soundbite's homey, D-man! Shadoe, he's
gonna cut through the competition like Morton through a queue of
folks waiting to lick Chuck Norris's moustache...

LM: [dreamily] Oh yeah.

TD: Good grief.

SR: ...but, of course, Shadoe ain't gonna win this thang.

TD: Of course. So the winner would be whom?

SR: The Soundbite knows, but the Soundbite... he ain't the telling kind.

[Suddenly there is an interruption in the studio, and general
consternation off-camera.]

TD: Uh, what's going on here?

[The lovely Victoria Secret in all her beauty steps up, clutching a
microphone which she holds for Flare, who struts into the frame with a
grin on his face.]

FLARE: Drossy, Roberts, close your mouth and stop drooling. I've got
something to say here.

[Victoria smiles and bats her eyes]

The time is drawing near for the Eternal Rumble. Thirty men enter...
one man leaves, and WHOEVER GETS IN MY WAY WILL BE HURT! I just
don't care, it's the last IIWF match and you better be damn sure that
I pull out all the tricks of the trade to win! Just to let you
twenty-nine other sorry asses know, I don't care what you've
accomplished here in the IIWF, I don't care what you're made of, and
I don't care about the crap you talk! I'll let my actions in the
ring speak for themselves, Dirtiest Player forever is what you'll be
saying!

One more thing, after I win the World's title forever I'll be having
the IIWF Forever after party at the Flare estates in Miami.

[Flare turns the mic to Victoria.]

VICTORIA: Everyone who was with IIWF past and present is welcome to come
and party! Flare, how about one for old time's sake?

FLARE: Whooooooooooooooooo!!!!

[He throws the mic down and walks off with Victoria. Steve Roberts leans
back and stares lasciviously at Miss Secret as she departs.]

SR: "Whoo" is right, Dross. Ol' Vicky's hotter than a hot thing.

TD: IIWF veteran Flare with an unannounced appearance, ladies and
gentlemen. I had the questionable privilege of interviewing another
of the IIWF's old hands ahead of tomorrow night's match. Let's go to
the tape, as I met the Jailer, along with the Venusian Death Cell:

[SCENE: The IIWF Interview Area. Tim Dross stands alongside The Venusian
Death Cell and The Jailer. The VDC is inside small a steel cage,
equivalent in size to those used in animal testing laboratories.]

TD: Fans, with me at this time are two men who are evidently determined
to leave a lasting impression on the IIWF, The Jailer and The
Venusian Death Cell. Gentlemen, may I start by saying it's an honour
to have you with us here on this, the last ever edition of
"Countdown."

[Dross receives zero response from the duo.]

And, of course, the two of you were present on the _first_ ever
edition of this show, if my memory serves me correctly.

[Again, no response.]

Well, folks, there's just twenty-four hours or so to go until the
IIWF closes its doors, seemingly forever, and just the same amount of
time until the two of you venture into an IIWF arena for the very
last time.

TJ: Cut the sentimental stuff, Dross. See, we're not sentimental people.
The IIWF's meaningless to us. We're not here to try and re-live what
you'd have us believe are the "good old days," Dross, we're here to
leave a mark on history... that's _it_.

But it's not the federation _you're_ concerned about is it, Dross?
It's your weekly pay packet. It's the reality you're no longer in a
job... and you'll never get another. You're finished, Dross.

TD: Now hold it right there! I haven't come here to discuss my personal
situation, and I'm not at liberty to do so anyway, but I take offence
to what you're insinuating here!

TJ: The truth hurts, doesn't it, Mr. Dross?

TD: Yes, it does, and the truth of this whole charade, is...

[The Jailer puts his hand across Dross' mouth. He speaks softly, almost
whispering.]

TJ: Don't play with fire, Dross... you'll only get burnt. And we don't
want to see _that_ happen now, do we?

[He removes his hand from Dross' mouth. Dross shakes off the cobwebs,
and takes a deep breath. He turns to look at the VDC.]

TD: Now, Cell... I'm wondering if we can just get a few final words from
you.

TJ: What's there to say, Dross? What do you want him to do? Just repeat
everything _I_'ve just said? Because that's all he'll do.

TD: Well, I know a lot of our fans out there would like him to utter a
few words before we say goodbye to him permanently.

TJ: You'll get words from him, Dross... in his victory speech after the
match is over.

TD: Oh, you'll allow him to speak _then_, will you?

TJ: If he chooses not to speak when there's nothing to say, Dross, that's
hardly _my_ fault, is it? You come here looking for us to say
something to you three weeks in a row, and you get upset when we
don't co-operate? Didn't you _get_ the message last week? We've
said all there is to say!

TD: Well, maybe _you_ have, but the Cell hasn't said a word!

TJ: Don't refer to him as that, Dross. It brings back bad memories, and
he's liable to become rather... upset with you. I don't refer to you
as Oss, do I?

TD: No, but it's hardly the sa...

TJ: It's _exactly_ the same thing, Dross.

TD: Well as you've said yourself, after today, you'll never need speak to
me again.

TJ: Apart from tomorrow night when you join us in our celebration inside
the ring. Then we'll speak all night.

[The Jailer smiles, his eyes squinted.]

TD: Yes, of course... after the VDC here wins the World Title.

[The Jailer goes to speak. Dross snaps.]

TD: It's not going to happen for goodness' sake! How can you possibly
expect him to win this thing? He going up against twenty-nine of the
greatest wrestlers ever to grace this sport with their presence! And
you expect him to beat them all? It's crazy!

TJ: Disbelieving the reality is what's crazy, Dross. Look at the
physical condition of him. Just look at the stature; the composure.

TD: I'll agree it's impressive, but with all due respect, a match of this
type is in many ways a lottery. He could be eliminated in any of a
number of ways...

TJ: And _he_ can eliminate in even more. _But_, Dross, this is just idle
chit-chat, and it's getting us _nowhere_. What we say's of no
importance... just watch the match tomorrow night, and see us prove
you wrong.

It's been a pleasure.

[Fade out. Cut back to the studio.]

TD: Thirty men, one prize, folks... and what a prize: to be the IIWF
World Heavyweight Champion _forever_. Reason number two to catch
IIWF Forever tomorrow night... and your picks, gentlemen?

LM: Out of a field of thirty incredible athletes, this is the toughest
call I've had to make... but I'm going to go with Chris Quigley. I
realise that he probably ranks as an outsider, and he has to get
through the Legends Match before he can even think about the Eternal
Rumble... but it's Quigley I'm picking, to finally make good on that
promise.

TD: I have to go with the red-gloved wrecking machine, Creed. He may be
limited nowadays in comparison to the explosive rookie who blasted
his way to that fifteen-match unbeaten streak last spring... but his
desire, his self-belief... and his _need_ to win this thing; I think
they'll carry him through. And finally, what about you, Steve
Roberts?

SR: I ain't sayin. I know who's gonna win... but I ain't sayin'. It