Memorial Day Mayhem

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                           American Wrestling Alliance
                                 Proudly Presents
                            Memorial Day Mayhem

                  Live from the Ft. Worth Convention Center
                                Ft. Worth, Texas
                                  May 24, 2008
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[As the closing notes to the "Sanford And Son" theme fade into
nothing, it is replaced with a shot of the American flag flapping in
the breeze outside of the Fort Worth Convention Center.  The voice of
Gordon Myers is heard.]

"Francis Marion Crawford once said... 'They fell, but o'er their
glorious grave floats free the banner of the cause they died to save.'

On this Memorial Day, we proudly send our thoughts and our prayers to
the memories of those who have died for their country and to the loved
ones they left behind."

[A silent moment, still holding on the flag...

...and then we fade through black to a shot of the interior of the
Fort Worth Convention Center with a graphic reading, "Memorial Day
Mayhem - Fort Worth Convention Center - Ft. Worth, Texas.  The crowd
is roaring as we get our first look at the capacity crowd of just over
10,000.  The camera pans over the cheering fans, showing people of all
sizes, shapes, colors, and ages screaming their lungs out for Memorial
Day Mayhem.

With the fans still cheering, the camera continues to pan, showing the
standard AWA ring camped out in the middle of the Convention Center
with a fairly long entrance aisle leading to it from the locker room.
We can also see that the AWA has splurged on some security barricades
to go around the ringside area.  The entry aisle is roped off with
just plain rope and a handful of security guards.

The shot cuts to ringside where we find Gordon Myers in a spiffy black
tux for the occasion, standing in front of a ringside barricade.  By
his side, in a glittering gold jacket with orange dress shirt is "Big
Bucks" Bucky Wilde.  Both are all smiles as the camera lands upon them
for the first time tonight.]

GM:  Good evening, fans, and welcome to the Fort Worth Convention
Center right here in Fort Worth, Texas.  We are LIVE for the next
three hours here on WKIK as we bring you Memorial Day Mayhem!  This is
the biggest night in the short history of the AWA thusfar and Bucky
Wilde, I am honored to be out here to call this event for the fans of
the AWA and I know you are as well.

BW:  Absolutely, daddy.  Before this night is over, we're goin' to
know exactly who the first AWA National Champion is.  Eight men come
in with a shot... only one man leaves with the gold, Gordo.  It don't
get no bigger than that!

GM:  You said it.  It's going to be an amazing night of action here in
Fort Worth... and these fans are excited, Bucky.  We got to the arena
early this afternoon and there was already a huge line of fans waiting
to get inside.  The Dallas-Fort Worth area is in love with the AWA and
we could not be happier.

BW:  All this great action comin' up tonight and you wanna talk about
the fans?

GM:  Well, I'm just paying a little tribute to-

BW:  Forget all that, Gordo.  Let's talk about Tumaffi.  Let's talk
about Marcus Broussard.  Let's talk about Stevie Scott.  Let's talk
about The Man With The Money.  Let's talk about The Russians.

GM:  Okay, let's talk about the Russians.  Kolya Sudakov and his uncle
Vladimir Velikov have been absolutely ruthless since Day One here in
the AWA.  It was on the very first AWA Saturday Night Wrestling that
they struck... assaulting Werewolf Gregorson and Despair.  Then they
struck again.  And again.  We had that horrific attack during the
Rumble.  We had that parking lot assault two weeks ago.

BW:  Blah, blah, blah, Gordo.  You act like those were all unprovoked.
 Gregorson and Despair had every bit of that coming!

GM:  Had it coming?!

BW:  Did you miss them backjump the Russians and steal that family
treasure?

GM:  If that big metal chain is a family treasure, then I've got two
heads, Bucky Wilde.  And what about that... that traitorous piece of-

BW:  Easy there, Gordo.  Stevie Scott is no traitor to his country.

GM:  He's coming out here to wave the Russian flag tonight!  Explain
that!

BW:  Not every American hates the Russians, Gordo, plain and simple...
and Stevie Scott has told me that he finds their viewpoints
interesting and he would like to subscribe to their newsletter.

GM:  Well, I'm not the only one that thinks it's absolutely
disgraceful for him to come out here and wave that flag on Memorial
Day and before this night is over, I bet he finds himself up close and
personal with some of the others.  Fans, it's gonna be quite the
battle and it's one that I've been looking forward to for months.
Let's go up to Melissa for our opening matchup!

[We cut to the ring where Melissa Cannon is in a red, white, and blue
evening gown.]

MC:  Ladies and gentlemen, this is your OPENING MATCH of Memorial Day
Mayhem!

[The crowd roars at the show finally getting underway.]

MC:  This is a tag team contest scheduled for one fall with a twenty
minute time limit.  Introducing first...

[Cannon pauses, shaking her head.]

MC:  At this time, they request that you please rise and pay the
appropriate respect for the Soviet National Anthem.

[The crowd boos wildly as the referenced music starts up.]

GM:  And not a soul in the building is on their feet for that request.

BW:  Hey, I don't count?

GM:  I can't even believe you're standing up.  It's Memorial Day,
Bucky!  Show some respect for your country!

[The curtain parts and two large Russian men walk into view... with a
much smaller American dressed in street clothes but waving a Soviet
flag back and forth wildly.]

MC:  Hailing from Kemerovo, Russia... at a total combined weight of 510
pounds... they are accompanied to the ring by their flagbearer, Steve
Scott...

[A nutty amount of boos erupt at the announcement of Scott.]

MC:  They are the "Russian War Machine" Kolya Sudakov... Vladimir
Velikov...

THE RUSSIANS!

[More boos pour down for the big men from the former Soviet Union as
they head towards the ring, well-flanked by security guards on both
sides of the aisle as fans reach out towards the Russians.

Sudakov is the smaller of the two at 6'2, 240.  But he is built for
fighting with an athletic build.  He's in a pair of black MMA style
trunks with the hammer and sickle of Soviet Russia on the leg.

His uncle Vladimir is right behind him.  At 6'0, 270 pounds, Velikov
is rotund to put it mildly.  He looks like he might have been in
excellent shape at one time in his life but not anymore.  A large
metal chain is draped around his neck as he makes his way down towards
the ring.

The two men stop at ringside.  Velikov shrugs the chain off his
shoulders, dropping it on the ring apron as he glares at the jeering
fans.]

GM:  The two big Russians are out here... and there you see that big
chain we talked about earlier.

BW:  Thankfully they got it back from those thieves Gregorson and
Despair two weeks ago.  It's a family treasure, Gordo!

GM:  My eye it is.  It's a dangerous weapon and it shouldn't be
allowed anywhere near the ring during a professional wrestling match.
Did Sudakov take the chain to the ring with him when he was in the
Mixed Martial Arts world?

BW:  He might have!

GM:  Highly unlikely in my opinion, Bucky.

[The Soviet Anthem finally cuts off as the Russians stalk around the
ring, waiting for their opponents.  Stevie Scott smirks at the booing
fans as he waves the flag again.]

MC:  And their opponents...

[The loud howl of a werewolf erupts over the PA, sending the crowd
into a frenzy as Metallica's "Of Wolf And Man" begins to blast over
the PA system, bringing the fans to their feet.]

MC:  At a total combined weight of 485 pounds... they are accompanied
to the ring by their flagbearer for tonight, "Stars And Stripes"
Clayton Shaw... they are the team of...

WEREWOLF GREGORSON annnnnnd DESPAIR!

[The curtain parts with Clayton Shaw stepping through first, holding
the American flag high above his head, waving it back and forth to the
roaring cheers of the crowd...

...and on both sides of Shaw, Gregorson and Despair sprint through the
curtain.  Gregorson is in a pair of full-length blood red tights with
three silver claw marks on the side of each leg.  Despair is clad in a
pair of black boardshorts and MMA style gloves.]

GM:  Listen to these fans, Bucky!  I guess we know who the fan
favorites are in this one.

BW:  The fans get you a bonus in your paycheck for selling t-shirts.
That's the only thing they're good for, daddy.

GM:  What about driving you to another level?  Taking you to-

[The crowd _explodes_ as Gregorson and Despair sprint from their spot
at the top of the aisle, racing through the narrow pathway leading to
the ring...

...and diving headfirst under the bottom rope, causing Stevie Scott
and Melissa Cannon to scatter as the referee calls for the bell to
start the match.]


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


GM:  It's already breaking down here in Fort Worth!

[Despair pairs off with Velikov, trading closed fists blows as
Gregorson and Sudakov tussle, trying to get an edge on one another.]

GM:  It was Despair who pinned Vladimir Velikov to win that big
Tornado Rules match two weeks ago on Saturday Night Wrestling.  Looks
like he hasn't had enough of the big man.

BW:  Sudakov showing off that martial arts background, securing a neck
clinch on- ohh!

[A hard knee pops Gregorson in the upper body while trapped in a Muay
Thai clinch, using the clinch to throw Gregorson back into the
turnbuckles.]

GM:  The referee is trying to get some control...

[In one corner, Sudakov snaps off kicks to the body of Gregorson.
Across the ring, Despair is lighting up the massive broad chest of
Velikov with chops.]

GM:  Sudak- Gregorson caught the kick... ohhh!

[The crowd roars as Gregorson, holding the leg of Sudakov, swings the
Russian back into the corner...

...and promptly drives his elbow backwards into the jaw of the Russian
War Machine, knocking him to a knee.]

GM:  Gregorson and Despair have take the edge...

BW:  Look at Stevie wave that flag!  Cheering the boys from the Soviet
Union on!

GM:  You do realize the Soviet Union doesn't exist anymore, right?

[Reaching out, Gregorson and Despair each grab an arm on a Russian,
firing them towards one another...

...where they collide hard in the center of the ring!]

GM:  OHHHH!  The Russians meet in the middle!

[With the stunned Russians at their mercy, Gregorson grabs Sudakov,
hurling him through the ropes to the floor.]

GM:  OUT TO THE FLOOR GOES SUDAKOV!

[A barrage of double right hands by Gregorson and Despair knock
Velikov back against the ropes...

...and a running double shoulderblock takes Velikov over the ropes to
the floor to the roars of the crowd!]

GM:  Both Russians are out!  Werewolf Gregorson and Despair have
cleaned house of the Russians and would you listen to this crowd,
Bucky Wilde?

BW:  I hear 'em, I hear 'em.

[Sudakov quickly makes his way to his Uncle, helping him to his feet
as they huddle up...

...and yank a surprised Stevie Scott into the huddle as well,
gesturing towards the ring where the referee is trying to get either
Despair or Gregorson out of the squared circle.]

GM:  You ever get the feeling that Stevie Scott doesn't quite know
what he got himself into with this?

BW:  Stevie Scott is a master strategist.  He always knows what's going
on.

[Clayton Shaw slaps the mat, cheering on his allies as he hoists the
flag high into the air for the still-buzzing crowd.]

GM:  The Russians are out on the floor, trying to plan out their next
step... and it looks like the referee has managed to get Despair to
step out on the apron.  Werewolf Gregorson will be in there for his
team when a Russian finally gets back in.

BW:  They've got til the count of ten, daddy.  Leave 'em be.

GM:  Velikov nodding his head out there, gesturing at the ring... and
it looks like his nephew, Kolya Sudakov, will be starting things out
in there for the Russians.

[After a few more words of strategy, Sudakov walks up the ringsteps,
glaring at the waiting Gregorson before stepping through the ropes
into the ring.  His Uncle moves up the steps as well, taking a spot on
the apron as a grinning Stevie Scott waves the Soviet flag.]

GM:  Okay, we've got Kolya Sudakov in for the Russians.  We've got
Werewolf Gregorson in for his team.  Referee Marty Meekly is warning
them both to keep this thing under cont-

[Myers is cut off by the voice of Stevie Scott.]

HSS: What do ya think, Gordo?Ê Red and yellow works on me, doesn't it?

GM: I think you're lucky that no one has put you in your place.Ê How can
you come out here on Memorial Day, of all days, waving the flag of the
Soviet Union?

HSS: What's wrong with that?Ê They're cool people, these Russians.

GM: You do realize what these two men you support stand for, right?

HSS: Yeah, baby!Ê They stand for not putting up with old farts like Tin
Can Bust and City Jack.Ê Wait, I mean Shi-

GM: I wouldn't think you need to go any further, Mr. Scott.  You'd
better take your flag out of here and over where you belong.

[In the Russians' corner, Vladimir Velikov pulls his nephew close,
giving him a few last second words of advice before clapping him on on
the shoulder.]

GM:  It looks like we're ready to get going with this one again.
Sudakov walking out of his corner... Gregorson right there in the
middle to meet him...

[The two competitors lunge at one another, quickly getting wrapped up
in a collar and elbow tieup that Sudakov uses to power Gregorson back
into the buckles.]

GM:  The Russian War Machine shoves him back to the corner and-

[Suddenly, Sudakov drops down, grabbing the middle rope and driving
his shoulder into the ribs of Gregorson.]

GM:  Ohh!  Shoulder to the gut of the Werewolf... and he drives it in
again to the body.

[A third shoulder has Gregorson clutching at his ribs, making him easy
prey as Sudakov delivers a brutal elbow to the side of the head,
knocking Gregorson to a knee.]

GM:  Sudakov's working him over in the corner.

BW:  And this is exactly where Gregorson doesn't want to be, Gordo.
He doesn't want to get trapped in the corner or on the mat with a
former MMA competitor.

GM:  He grabs Gregorson by the wrist... irish whi- reversal!

[Sudakov slams into the buckles as Gregorson backs into the opposite
corner, charging across...

...and getting a big boot squarely in the jaw of the Werewolf!]

GM:  The Werewolf staggers away...

[The Russian War Machine pops up, standing on the midbuckle and leaps
off with a double axehandle...

...and gets snatched out of the sky by a waiting Werewolf Gregorson!]

GM:  Ohhh my!  Look at the power by the big Alaskan!  He's got a
bearhug applied right there- ohh!  Sudakov to the eyes!  He rakes the
eyes of Gregorson, freeing himself from the bearhug.

[He quickly hooks a Thai clinch once more, driving a pair of knees up
into the blinded Gregorson's face before scooping him up and slamming
him down to the canvas with a thunderous bodyslam.]

BW:  Sudakov showing off some power of his own, daddy.  The Russian
War Machine is no 85 pound weakling, that's for sure.

GM:  He backs to the ropes... ellllboooo- nobody home!

[The crowd cheers as Gregorson rolls to the side, avoiding the big
elbowdrop before getting back to his feet.]

GM:  And now it's Gregorson with the scoooop... and the big slam!  He
sends Sudakov thundering down to the mat... he leaps up...

[But just as it happened moments ago, Sudakov rolls to the side,
causing Gregorson to slam into the empty mat.]

GM:  Ohhh!  He comes up empty as well!

BW:  And we've got ourselves a standoff, daddy!

[The crowd cheers as the two men climb to their feet, glaring at one
another from across the ring...

...and then cheer louder as Gregorson reaches out, slapping the hand
of his partner and bringing Despair into the match.]

GM:  Despair tags himself in, stepping through the ropes legally for
the first time in this match.  And Sudakov's right there waiting for
him, right into the collar and elbow tieup again.

[Using his power edge, Sudakov _hurls_ Despair down to the mat with
ease...

...but Despair pops right back up, charging in.]

GM:  Right hand from Sudak- blocked by Despair!

[The crowd roars as Despair pops the big Russian with a right hand
that sends him staggering back and then rears back again...

...but Sudakov lashes out with a side thrust kick to the midsection
that doubles up Despair.]

GM:  Sudakov caught him in the breadbasket... now he hooks him in a
front facelock...

[Holding Despair by the head, Sudakov backs to the corner where he
makes the tag to his Uncle.]

GM:  There's the tag to Vladimir Velikov and the big Russian is
climbing the buckles!

[Once to the top, Velikov points down at Stevie Scott who waves the
flag around like a madman on cue, drawing jeers from the Fort Worth
fans before Velikov leaps from the top rope, driving a double
axehandle down across the back of Despair, knocking him down to the
mat.]

GM:  Ohhh!  Big blow across the back there, Bucky.

BW:  Velikov is over three hundred pounds, daddy.  That's a lot of
weight to come crashing down across the back of a much smaller man
like we just saw right there.

GM:  Velikov reaches down, yanking Despair off the mat- ohh!  He
promptly drives both arms into the throat of Despair in what looked
like some kind of a martial arts thrust, knocking Despair back into
the corner.

BW:  And just like I said with Gregorson, Despair doesn't want to be
cornered either.  Both of these men are much bigger than he is and he
can't afford to get cornered and pummeled.

GM:  Irish whip by the Russi- reversed by Despair!

[Velikov slams into the turnbuckles as Despair pumps a fist, drawing
cheers from the fans as he charges in at top speed...

...and meets nothing but the turnbuckles squarely in his chest!]

GM:  Ohhhh!  He had a lot of speed going on that one and ended up
slamming into the corner!  The sternum and ribs slammed into the
turnbuckles... and Velikov's going back up top again!

BW:  It worked well the first time but I hope he's not going to the
well once too often, Gordo.

GM:  Velikov to the second rope... now to the top... he leaps!

[And the fans erupt as Despair catches him right in the gut with a
huge right hand, knocking Velikov down to his knees.]

GM:  What a shot to the gut there!  Now where's he going?

[A blur of motion, Despair promptly dashes off the ropes, building
momentum...

...and drills the kneeling Velikov with a lunging lariat, knocking him
to the mat where he promptly applies a lateral press, hooking a leg.]

GM:  Cover off the lariat!  One!  Two!

[The powerful Russian throws Despair off in time to break the pin
attempt but Despair scampers back to his feet, peppering Velikov with
palm thrusts as the big man gets back to a knee.]

GM:  Despair's working him over with strikes to the head and chest.
He shoves him back into their corner.  And now it's Velikov trapped in
the corner with Despair and Gregorson... there's the tag!

[Despair quickly pulls Velikov out of the corner, whipping him to the
opposite ropes.]

GM:  Velikov to the ropes... leapfrog by Despair... Velikov off the far
side...

[And the 200 pounder drills Velikov with a running dropkick squarely
to the jaw, sending him staggering backwards...

...where Werewolf Gregorson spins him around, scooping him up off the
mat.]

GM:  Another bodyslam perh- whooooa my!

[The crowd erupts as Gregorson muscles Velikov up over his shoulders...

...and then military presses him up into the air!]

GM:  Look at the power!  Look at the power of the Werewolf, Bucky!

BW:  How in the world did he get him up there?!

GM:  And he's walking around with him, showing him off to the fans...
a three hundred pound man up in the-


"THUUUUUUUUUUUD!"


GM:  And he brings him crashing down to the mat!

[With Velikov writhing in pain on the mat, Gregorson makes a quick tag
back to his partner.]

GM:  You can see the great teamwork on display from Gregorson and
Despair already.

BW:  Cutting the ring in half.  Keeping the fresh man in.  These are
the keys to tag team wrestling and right now, they're wrestling a
smarter tag team match than the Russians are.

GM:  Despair's on the apron... what's he-

[Grabbing the top rope, Despair slingshots himself into a somersault,
smashing backfirst down across the chest of the downed Velikov.]

GM:  Ohhh!  Somersault backsplash on Velikov!

[Despair quickly flips over into another pin attempt.]

GM:  One!  Two!  And again Velikov powers out of the pin attempt. 
Despair is-

[The crowd roars as the fiery Despair drives a few clenched fists into
the skull of Velikov, reaching back to hook a leg as he applies
another cover.]

GM:  One!  Two!  No!  Still can't hold him down!

BW:  It's gonna take a lot to keep him down, Gordo.  Either of these
big Russians.  They're as tough as nails and with Stevie Scott waving
the flag out on the floor, they're fighting for that Soviet flag.

GM:  Just disgusting.

[Despair drags Velikov off the mat by his grizzly beard, driving his
skull into Velikov's with a crushing headbutt and then connects with a
right hand that knocks him backwards...

...right where a waiting Werewolf Gregorson connects with a huge right
hand of his own, knocking him right back into Despair who connects
with another big right that knocks Velikov back against the ropes.]

GM:  A little bit of pinball action on the older of the two Russians,
Vladimir Velikov.  He's backed against the ropes now.  Another big
right hand by Despair!  He measured him with that one... took his time
and really drilled him.

[Despair reaches over to slap the hand of his partner who slips in and
buries a big boot into the gut of Velikov, almost knocking him through
the ropes to the floor.]

GM:  Oof!  That'll knock the wind outta ya.

[Grabbing Velikov by the arm, Gregorson goes for a whip...

...but it's Velikov who reverses it, firing the former Marine into the
ropes, setting for a backdrop.]

GM:  Backdr- noooo!  Gregorson catches him with a boot to the face!
That'll counter a backdrop in a hurry, Bucky.

BW:  The Russians are making a lot of mistakes in this one.  I wonder
if they underestimated their opponents.  Vladimir Velikov is a
long-time veteran of this business and it's not like him to be sloppy
like that.

[The big Russian on the mat starts crawling towards the corner,
looking for the outstretched hand of his nephew.]

GM:  Velikov's looking for a tag and I can't say that I blame him at
this- ELBOW!

[The crowd cheers as Gregorson scores with a big leaping elbowdrop on
the back of Velikov's head and neck.]

GM:  That'll keep him away from Sudakov for a bit.

BW:  Certainly will.

GM:  A cover by Gregorson now.

[Marty Meekly dives to the mat to make the count but Velikov again
powers out at the two count.]

GM:  Velikov out at two.  And Gregorson just gestured to Despair,
directing traffic a bit it seems.

BW:  The big Russian definitely needs to make a tag here soon and he's
just been overwhelmed by Gregorson and Despair so far.  He needs to
bring the Russian War Machine into this match, Gordo.

GM:  Gregorson pulls the three hundred pounder off the mat... another
tag to Despair...

[Despair quickly scales the ropes as Gregorson muscles their opponent
up into a belly to back lift...

...and drops him down in an atomic drop as Despair leaps off the top
rope, scoring with a high cross body press!]

GM:  ONE!!  TWO!!  THR-


"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


GM:  That was extremely close, Bucky.

BW:  Too close for the Russians.

GM:  Are you impressed with the teamwork of Gregorson and Despair so
far in this one?

BW:  I hate to admit it but how can you not be?  Like I said earlier,
cutting the ring in half, quick tags to keep the fresh man in.
They're simply wrestling a better tag team match than the Russians are
at this point.

[Despair climbs to his feet, clapping his hands together in rhythm,
rallying the fans to do the same as he waits for Vladimir Velikov to
get back to his feet.]

GM:  The fans are getting behind Despair as he measures his
opponent... Velikov to a knee... now up to his feet...

[With his opponent staggered, Despair charges towards the big Russian...

...who skillfully sidesteps the charge, grabbing the approaching
Despair and uses his own momentum to throw him towards a waiting Kolya
Sudakov who lashes out with a snap kick to the kidneys as Despair hits
the ropes near the Russians' corner!]

GM:  Ohhh!  Sudakov caught him!

BW:  Now _that's_ teamwork!  That takes years of experience to be
ready for something like that when it happened so far.  The Russians
saw it coming and took advantage of it.

GM:  And now it's Despair on the wrong side of town, clinging to the
ropes to try and stay on his feet.

[Suddenly, the voice of Melissa Cannon rings out as Velikov staggers
towards his downed opponent.]


"TEN MINUTES HAVE EXPIRED, TEN MINUTES REMAIN!  TEN MINUTES!"


GM:  You hear the call from Melissa Cannon.  This match is halfway to
the time limit and I expect both teams will pick it up a notch now.
Neither one of these teams wants any kind of a draw, Bucky.

BW:  Absolutely not.  The Russians want to turn the two Americans into
a greasy stain on the mat for sure.

GM:  There's the tag to Sudakov!

[The Russian War Machine storms into the ring, driving repeated kicks
and stomps to the body of the downed Despair before pulling him off
the mat by the back of his shorts...

...and driving him down to the mat with a hard belly-to-back suplex!]

GM:  Oh!  Did you see Despair's head snap off the mat from the impact of
that?

[Sudakov quickly pushes back to his feet...

...and promptly delivers a soccer-style kick to the ribcage of the
downed Despair.]

GM:  Ohhh!  You could hear that in the last row of the building, I
think.

BW:  You could hear that in N'Awlins, daddy!

GM:  Despair could have suffered a serious rib injury from that kick.
Sudakov's got the kind of kicks that can end a night in a hurry.

BW:  That's right, daddy.  You saw him lay out Gregorson with that
high kick two weeks ago.  And Gregorson's a big, tough dude.

[The Russian War Machine pulls Despair off the mat again, this time
shoving him back into the corner and rearing back his fist...

...which brings Marty Meekly into the fray, trying to back Sudakov
away.]

GM:  Meekly right in there... trying to- Sudakov backs off?  That's a
bit of a surpri- no!

[The crowd boos wildly as Velikov slips the Russian chain around the
throat of Despair in the corner as the referee is tied up with
Sudakov.]

GM:  He's choking the life out of Despair with that chain!  Come on,
referee!

BW:  The referee's tied up with Gregorson!  The big dumb goof tried to
come help his partner and he's only making it worse for him!

GM:  The referee has no idea that any of this is going on!

[After a bit, Velikov removes the chain, allowing Despair to slump
down in the buckles as Sudakov moves back in.]

GM:  No telling how much damage was done right there with that chain.

[Sudakov grabs Despair, pulling him to his feet and draping his arms
over the top rope to stay standing...

...and lashes out with a hard side kick into the ribcage.]

GM:  Ohhh!  The referee is trying to get Sudakov to let Despair out of
the corner...

[Another hard side kick causes Despair to slump down to a knee again...

...and Sudakov shoves the protesting referee down to the mat!]

GM:  OHHH!  That's it!  DQ him!

BW:  Meekly's fine!  He's embarassed but he's fine!

GM:  Marty Meekly is warning Sudakov.  If he does it again, this match
is over!  If he-

[Sudakov pulls Despair to his feet in a Thai Clinch, driving a knee up
into the face of Despair, a blow that knocks Despair down to his own
knee as Sudakov argues with the official.]

GM:  A hard knee to the face there.  Sudakov and Meekly are-

[Despair suddenly lunges forward off the bent knee, taking Sudakov off
his feet with a double leg takedown...

...and starts raining down blows on the stunned Sudakov from a mount
position to the enjoyment of the roaring crowd!]

GM:  Look at this!  Look at this, Bucky!

[Sudakov raises an arm to try and block some of the blows, which
Despair quickly grabs, seamlessly moving into a cross armbreaker.]

GM:  ARMBAR!

BW:  If he straightens out the arm, this match might be ov-

GM:  OHHH!

[The crowd boos as the big Russian slides into the ring, leaping into
the air and dropping a beefy leg down across the throat of Despair to
break the armbar attempt.]

GM:  Vladimir Velikov broke that submission attempt by Despair... and
we've got both men down on the mat now.  Velikov back out on the
apron...

[An embarassed Sudakov rolls to his knee, reaching up to slap the hand
of Velikov who steps into the ring...

...and delivers a leaping kneedrop across the chest of Despair,
dropping into a lateral press.]

GM:  Cover!  One!  Two!  Th-

[Despair slips out from under Velikov who shakes his head, climbing to
his feet and hurling the much smaller man bodily into the turnbuckles
before tagging his nephew again.]

GM:  And now it's the Russians making quick tags in and out of the ring,
Bucky.

BW:  I knew they had better teamwork than they were showing, Gordo.

GM:  Both Russians in on Despair... double whip... and a big double
elbow smash knocks Despair down to the mat!

[Velikov exits the ring as an arrogant Sudakov glares at a nearby
Gregorson, waving him into the ring.]

GM:  Look at that.  There's no call for that, Bucky.

[Sudakov smirks at Gregorson as he pulls Despair off the mat...

...and then suddenly lunges at Gregorson, nailing him with a back
elbow that knocks the former Marine to a knee before he comes charging
through the ropes into the ring!]

GM:  HERE COMES GREGORSON!

[But the referee cuts off his charge, allowing Sudakov to shove
Despair back into the Russians' corner again where Velikov slips the
chain around the throat, strangling the air out of his body as Sudakov
continues to try and draw Gregorson into the ring.]

GM:  Gregorson just wants to... just wants to get right at him!

BW:  Even that moron Shaw is trying to get the referee to see what's
going on.  Just stand there and wave the flag... that's your job
tonight, ya big goof.

GM:  The crowd is going nuts.  Sudakov and Gregorson are tangling up
with the referee trapped between them and with all that going on,
Velikov is taking Despair out of this match with that... that chain!

[Sudakov finally pulls back and returns to his corner, battering the
body of Despair with rights and lefts as Velikov removes the chain
from the throat.]

GM:  The choke is broken up but the damage may have been done.
Despair looks like he's out on his feet... ohhh!  Right hand to the
side of the ribs!  That puts Despair down on a knee in the corner...
and there's a tag to Velikov...

[The big Russian slips into the ring, driving a forearm into the
ribcage of Despair before yanking him back to his feet.]

GM:  Ohh!  Big clubbing forearm across the back of the head and neck,
knocking Despair down to a knee again...

[Velikov taunts the crowd for a moment, gesturing at the downed
Despair to the jeers of the fans...

...which quickly turn to cheers as Despair erupts from a knee, driving
a hard forearm into the side of Velikov's head, staggering him back a
couple of steps!]

GM:  Despair's fighting back!

[But a hard boot to the gut from Velikov cuts the rally short,
allowing the senior member of the Russian team to whip Despair across
the ring.]

GM:  Irish whip... clothesli- ducked by Despair... off the far side...

[The crowd _erupts_ as Despair takes to the sky, knocking Velikov off
his feet with a flying forearm!]

GM:  FLYING FOREARM TAKES VELIKOV DOWN!!  HE CAUGHT HIM SQUARE IN THE
JAW!!

[Despair quickly dives across Velikov, reaching back to hook a leg.]

GM:  ONE!!!  TWO!!  THR-


"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


GM:  SUDAKOV MAKES THE SAVE!  DESPAIR HAD HIM BEATEN, I THINK!

[And with Sudakov in, Gregorson charges in and they start tussling as
well.]

GM:  It's breaking down here in Fort Worth again!  The referee is
trying to get Sudakov and Gregorson out of the ring and-

[The boos go CRAZY as Stevie Scott puts the flagpole down for a
moment, sliding into the ring...

...and _drilling_ a rising Despair with a superkick right under the
jaw!]

GM:  STEVIEKICK!  DESPAIR IS DOWN!

[Which allows Velikov to dive across Despair as Stevie Scott rolls
back out to the floor...

...where a waiting Clayton Shaw _creams_ him with a right hand that
knocks the "Hotshot" down to the floor!]

GM:  SHAW KNOCKS SCOTT FLAT!

BW:  But Despair is pinned!  Come on, Meekly!

[Marty Meekly spins around from getting Gregorson out of the ring,
diving to the mat to make the count.]

GM:  ONE!!!  TWO!!!  THRE-

[The crowd _explodes_ as Despair fires a shoulder off the mat just in
time!]

BW:  That was three!

GM:  The referee says it was two!  A two count only!


"FIFTEEN MINUTES HAVE EXPIRED!  FIVE MINUTES REMAIN!  FIVE MINUTES!"


[A sense of urgency seems to rush over the men inside the ring as
Sudakov races in, helping his Uncle to his feet.]

GM:  Both Russians are in... a double whip on Despair...

[The two Russians barrel forwards for a double clothesline...

...but Despair ducks underneath it, somehow leaping into the air and
managing to slap the hand of his waiting partner!]

GM:  TAG!  HE TAGS GREGORSON!

[The former Marine tears into the ring, sprinting across at the
stunned Russians...

...and connecting with a _huge_ double clothesline of his own that
takes both Russians over the top rope and all the way down to the
floor where Stevie Scott is tangled up with Clayton Shaw!]

GM:  OHHHH MY!  GREGORSON TAKES THE RUSSIANS TO THE FLOOR!

[With all their opponents on the floor, Gregorson races to the corner,
shaking his partner and gesturing wildly.]

GM:  What in the world is he telling Despair?  Despair's barely able
to stand from the beating he's taken in there and... where's he going,
Bucky?

BW:  I have no- oh no.

[The crowd begins to buzz as Despair tiredly climbs the turnbuckles,
stepping to the top as Gregorson steps out on the apron near him,
reaching up to grab his partner...]

GM:  They're not!  They're not gonna do this!

[...and _hurls_ his partner off the top rope onto the pile of men on the
floor!]


"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


GM:  I DO NOT BELIEVE MY EYES!  I CAN NOT BELIEVE WHAT I JUST SAW, BUCKY
WILDE!

[The crowd continues to roar as Gregorson lets loose one of those
crowd-rallying howls, pumping his fists in triumph as his partner
managed to wipe out the Russians, Stevie Scott, and just slightly,
Clayton Shaw... all in one shot.]

GM:  These fans are going nuts... and this is the opening match of the
night!

[Outside the ring, Clayton Shaw is the first to recover and promptly
shoves Vladimir Velikov under the ropes into the ring...

...where Werewolf Gregorson is standing across the ring.]

GM:  Velikov!  He doesn't know the Werewolf is waiting for him!

BW:  He's going for that Silver Bullet, Gordo.

GM:  It certainly appears that way!  Gregorson is measuring him...
he's ready... he's set...

[And as Velikov pushes up to his feet, Gregorson charges towards him,
ready to deliver the match-ending spear tackle...

...but Velikov dives to the side at the last moment, causing Gregorson
to slam throat first into the middle rope, stunning him.]

GM:  Ohhh!  He almost had him there!

[Velikov quickly loops a leg over Gregorson's neck, choking him
against the middle rope, an illegal move that draws Marty Meekly's ire
as he backs Velikov away...

...which leaves Gregorson's head exposed through the ropes.]

GM:  NO!  STEVIE'S GOT THE FLAGPOLE!  STEVIE SCOTT!

[Smirking like an idiot, Stevie gives one big wave of the Soviet flag
to the entire arena...

...and swings it down hard at the exposed skull of Werewolf Gregorson!]

GM:  NOOOO!

[The crowd _erupts_ as Werewolf Gregorson brings his hands up,
blocking the shot and grabbing the flagpole.]

GM:  He blocked it!  Gregorson blocked it!


"THREE MINUTES!  THREE MINUTES REMAIN!"


[Gregorson and Stevie tussle over the flagpole for a moment...

...until Clayton Shaw yanks the pole out of both men's grasp.]

GM:  SHAW!


"CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!"


[The wooden flagpole splinters as it's driven down across the forehead
of Stevie Scott, causing the Hotshot to drop to the floor like he's
been shot.  With the crowd roaring, Shaw holds the Russian flag
high...

...and then throws it down on the floor to an even louder cheer!]

GM:  Yeah!  Take that, Mother Russia!

[An irate Velikov pulls Gregorson off the ropes, shoving him back into
the corner where he drives a few right hands into the belly.]

GM:  Velikov knows they're running out of time!  Less than three
minutes left in the time limit.  Irish whi- reversed by Gregorson!

[Velikov's spine slams into the turnbuckles...

...just about one second before Werewolf Gregorson's body _slams_ into
the midsection of Velikov!]

GM:  SILVER BULLET!  SILVER BULLET BY THE WEREWOLF!

BW:  But it's in the corner!  He can't pin the man in the corner!

[Gregorson, feeling the urgency as well, quickly whips Velikov across
the ring again, this time the Russian's chest hitting the corner.]

GM:  He's setting for the Silver Bullet again!  He's calling for it!

[But before he can do it, Despair rolls back into the ring,
exhaustedly waving for his partner.]

GM:  Despair... he wants to do it!  He wants to pin Velikov again!  He
wants Gregorson to throw him at the Russian like he did on Saturday
Night Wrestling two weeks ago!

[With the crowd roaring, Gregorson nods his head, grabbing his partner
by the back of the shorts as Velikov slowly staggers backwards out of
the corner.]

GM:  Velikov has no idea they're coming for him!  He has no idea that-

[And as the Russian slowly turns, Gregorson spins in a 360...

...and _hurls_ his partner at the dazed Russian!]

GM:  FASTBALL SPECI-


"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


GM:  VELIKOV DRILLED HIM!  HE DRILLED HIM WITH A RIGH- NO!

[The crowd erupts in jeers as Despair crumpled to the mat and Velikov
stumbled backwards, clutching the Russian chain in his arms.]

GM:  HE... HE HIT HIM WITH THE CHAIN, BUCKY!

[Spotting the chain wrapped around Velikov's arm, the referee promptly
calls for the bell.]


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


[An irate Gregorson starts to move in but from outside the ring, Kolya
Sudakov yanks his ankle out from under him, dragging the former Marine
out to the floor where their fight continues.]

GM:  Vladimir Velikov... he knew he was beaten, Bucky!  He knew it!

BW:  That's your story.  I think he wanted to send these punks a
message!

GM:  Can we get a replay of this?

[We cut to a slo-mo replay from another angle, showing Velikov slam
chest first in his own corner from the whip by Gregorson and then
wrapping the steel chain around his arm while an unaware Gregorson
waited.]

GM:  There it is, Bucky!  There he is slipping that chain around his
arm... and here it comes...

[More slo-mo action of Despair being hurled towards Velikov who spun
around and _blasted_ him upside the head with the chain-wrapped arm,
putting him down like a rock.]

GM:  Ohhh!  What a shot that was!  Despair got knocked out like a
light, Bucky!  These dastardly Russians have struck again... and we've
still got a fight out on the floor!

[Clayton Shaw has joined in the battle, helping Gregorson fight off
Sudakov who quickly bails away, joining his Uncle in dragging a barely
moving Stevie Scott away from ringside, back up the aisle.]

GM:  And they're getting out of here like thieves in the night.
Unbelievable.  Let's go up to Melissa for the official announcement.

[Gregorson and Shaw roll into the ring, checking on the still-stunned
Despair.]

MC:  After eighteen minutes and seven seconds of action, the referee
has DISQUALIFIED the Russians for using their chain.  Your winners of
the match... WEREWOLF GREGORSON AND DESPAIR!

[The fans cheer for the announcement of the winners even as a
still-upset Gregorson tends to his partner.]

GM:  Despair may need some help in getting out of the ring.  Wow!
What a way to start our show, Bucky.  A wild match between these two
teams... and I'm going to bet we haven't seen the last of this war.

BW:  I bet you're right.

GM:  Werewolf Gregorson and Despair are your winners in our opening
match here tonight.  Fans, we'll be right back with more of Memorial
Day Mayhem so don't you go away!

[Our cameras stay on the ring where Werewolf Gregorson is helping his
partner off the mat for a moment before 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 a live shot of the Fort Worth Convention
Center, the crowd still buzzing over what we just witnessed.]

GM:  Welcome back, fans.  Things have started off wild and wooly here
in Fort Worth for Memorial Day Mayhem!

BW:  Wild and wooly?

GM:  Yes, what's wrong with that?

BW:  Nothing - if you're my grandmama.

[Gordon audibly sighs.]

GM:  Fans, the intensity level in this building is about be turned up
a notch.  Not only are we about to kick off the National Title
Tournament... but we're also going to see one of the most heated
rivalries in the AWA in action as the Ragin' Rebel, Ricky Royal, goes
one on one with the mighty and massive Tumaffi!

BW:  Since Day One, I've had two picks to win the AWA National Title.
The San Jose Shark, Marcus Broussard, and Tumaffi.  And tonight, I
fully expect one of those two men to walk out with the title.

GM:  You can not look past Ricky Royal though.  Ricky Royal has been
chasing Tumaffi for weeks and after what happened to Erik Reid two
weeks ago, when he finally gets his hands on Tumaffi tonight, I think
the odds are high that blood will be spilled inside the ring in just a
few moments.

BW:  That's the problem, Gordo.  Royal's fired up.  Royal's angry.
Royal wants revenge for Erik Reid.  I watched the footage from him at
the hospital with Reid earlier this week and you know what I noticed?

GM:  What's that?

BW:  Not once did he mention the National Title.  His mind and vision
is so clouded by Tumaffi, he's going to burn every thing he has out in
this one match.  Win or lose, Royal isn't sniffing the gold tonight,
Gordo.

GM:  We shall see about that.  Fans, to kick off this tournament,
let's go up to Melissa!

[We cut to the ring where Melissa Cannon is standing.]

MC:  The following  contest is scheduled for one fall with a 15 minute
time limit and is a first round match in the AWA National Title
Tournament!

[The crowd roars at the start of the tournament!]

MC:  Introducing first...

[A single deep bass drum beats... BOOM.  Then again, a little louder.
And again.  With the sound of rain in the background, the drum beats
resound throughout the arena, like the approaching footsteps of some
terrible monster.  Upon their climax, the crackling BOOM of a
thunderbolt is heard over the PA followed by hollow-sounding drumbeats
and reedy-toned woodwinds forming an ominous tune (amongst the
backdrop of the thunderstorm.)]

GM:  Here he comes, Bucky.  The largest man in the AWA and the man
that many, yourself included, believe will be our first AWA National
Champion.

BW:  He has been in one word... dominant... since his debut.  No one
has come close to stopping him and I don't see that changing here
tonight in this match or in this tournament.

[The behemoth form of Tumaffi steps forth from the curtain to a
horrific outpouring of boos.  The monstrous Samoan pays the fans
little mind as he marches down the aisle.  A mountain of muscle and
fat, the dark-toned Tumaffi has massive shoulders, thick limbs, and a
big round gut.  His hair is nearly as mountainous as his physique, as
he sports a wild black mane that would make a lion envious!  His long,
cascading hair and beard seem connected in a way that leaves little
visible determining point as to where one ends and the other begins.
So hairy is the man that it is difficult to make out his brown-eyed,
big-nosed face.]

MC:  From the Island of Samoa, weighing in at 405 pounds...

TUUUUUUMAFFIIIIIIII!!!

[Clad in a loose flowing black silk robe with a dark-colored floral
design, Tumaffi spreads his arms wide in the middle of the aisle,
soaking up the jeers of the fans...

...and making himself the easy target of a charging-down-the-aisle
Ricky Royal who leaps onto the back of the big man, managing to wrap
one arm around Tumaffi's massive neck while he pummels wildly with the
right arm to the roar of the crowd!]

GM:  RICKY ROYAL DIDN'T WANT TO WAIT!  HE DIDN'T WANT TO WAIT TO BE
INTRODUCED!  HE DIDN'T WANT TO WAIT FOR TUMAFFI TO REACH THE RING!  HE
DIDN'T WANT TO WAIT FOR A SINGLE MOMENT MORE!

BW:  I told you, daddy!  I told you he was too fired up!

[The battering seems to annoy Tumaffi more than hurt him as he
staggers through the crowd, coming ominously close to the ropes on
either side of the aisle as security tries to keep the surging crowd
at bay.]

BW:  Referee Mickey Meekly should ring the bell right now and DQ Ricky
Royal for this blatant sneak attack.

GM:  The match hasn't even started yet, Bucky!

[Tumaffi continues to stagger through the crowd, finally emerging into
the ringside area where he reaches back with a huge arm, snapmaring
Royal off his back onto the concrete!]

GM:  Ohhh!  Right down on the floor.  No!  NO!

[The massive Samoan stands over the downed Royal, leaping up into the
air...]

GM:  SPLAAAAAAASH!

[The crowd _erupts_ as Royal rolls out of the way, all of Tumaffi's
400 pounds slamming down on the concrete!]

GM:  OHHH!  TUMAFFI SPLASHES THE FLOOR!  HE DROPPED IT ALL ON THE
CONCRETE FLOOR!

[Rolling onto his back, the big Samoan clutches his ribcage as Ricky
Royal stands over him, letting loose a big Rebel Yell that the crowd
happily echoes.  Mickey Meekly quickly rolls to the floor, seizing the
moment to back Royal away.]

GM:  The referee is threatening to throw the match out if Royal
doesn't back off.

BW:  And he's got the power to do it.  The AWA officials have a lot of
control over the matches they officiate.

GM:  Royal back in the ring, marching around it... he's all fired up
still, Bucky.

BW:  Look at all the energy he's wasting though.

[Outside the ring, Meekly checks on Tumaffi as the big man sits up,
visibly wincing in pain as he pushes up to a knee, glaring at Royal
inside the ring.]

GM:  The referee is checking to make sure Tumaffi can continue, I
think... well, I guess he's checking to see if he can even start,
right?  The match hasn't even started yet officially.

BW:  Don't you worry, Gordo.  Tumaffi would walk through a warzone and
come out standing.

GM:  He may be about to prove that from the look on Royal's face.

[Tumaffi climbs to his feet, shoving the official aside.]

GM:  Oh, come on!  There's no call for that!

[The massive Samoan's face is covered with rage as he walks up the
steps, stepping through the ropes...

...and immediately gets rushed by Royal again, this time the bell
ringing as it happens.]


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


GM:  Here we go!  This match is now official!

[Royal immediately launches into the big man, rocking him with wild
haymakers to the skull in the corner.]

BW:  Why aren't you cryin' for the ref to pull him out now?

[The Ragin' Rebel backs out of the corner a few feet, pumping a fist
in the air...

...and barrels back in, blasting the Samoan with a running clothesline
in the corner!]

GM:  Ohhh!  Big running clothesline by Royal!

[Royal races out to the middle of the ring again, the crowd roaring as
he fires off a salute in their direction...

...and runs right back in, leaping up to the middle rope as Tumaffi
leans against the buckles, trying to stay on his feet.]

GM:  Up on the ropes...

[The Mississippi native holds a clenched fist up to the sky and then
drives it home into the skull of the Samoan.]

"ONE!"
"TWO!"
"THREE!"
"FOUR!"
"FIVE!"
"SIX!"
"SEVEN!"
"EIGHT!"
"NI-"

[The mighty Tumaffi reaches up, shoving Royal down off the buckles but
the Ragin' Rebel lands on his feet, charging right back in and
drilling Tumaffi with a leaping forearm shot.]

GM:  He's just all over Tumaffi, Bucky!

BW:  But Tumaffi can absorb a lot of punishment, Gordo.  He doesn't
want to but he can.  Royal might be punching himself out with all
this.

GM:  Another right hand... and another...

[Finally, Mickey Meekly slides in between the two, forcing Royal to
take a few steps back.  Meekly reprimands him vehemately.]

GM:  The referee warning for the closed fist... warning for the
fighting in the corner... warning for- Tumaffi staggers out of the
corner.

[And as the big Samoan gets in range, Royal dips down, looking for the
scoop.]

GM:  HE'S GOING FOR THE SLAM!

[Not gonna happen.  Tumaffi immediately drives his right elbow down
into the ribcage of Royal to break the slam effort.  A second elbow
causes Royal to stagger away.]

GM:  Royal took a couple of hard shots there to the ribs, backing away
from Tumaffi to recov-


"WHAAAAAAAAAAP!"


[A bone-rattling knife-edge chop knocks Royal back against the ropes,
clinging to the top rope to stay on his feet.]

GM:  Royal's hurting but he's still standing.

BW:  Not for long.  Tumaffi's moving in on him.

[The massive Samoan approaches the stunned Royal, winding both arms
up...

...and bringing them both down on the sides of Royal's neck with a
Mongolian chop that knocks Royal down to a knee.]

GM:  Ohh!  He couldn't stay on his feet after that one!

BW:  Tumaffi grabs him by the hair... head butt 'em!

[On cue, Tumaffi drives his mammoth skull into Royal's, a blow that
sends the Rebel down in a heap on the canvas.]

GM:  And that one takes Royal the rest of the way down to the mat.  No
one can withstand the headbutt of Tumaffi.  One of his most lethal
weapons.

BW:  Everything this guy does is lethal, daddy!

GM:  Very true.

[Reaching down, Tumaffi drags Royal back to his feet, connecting with
another big chop that sends Royal falling back into the corner.]

GM:  Back to the buckles goes Royal.  Tumaffi moving in once more.

[The Samoan grabs Royal by the wrist, whipping him across the ring
with one arm.]

GM:  One-armed Irish whip.  What a show of power that is!

BW:  Here he comes!

[The 400 pounder barrels across the ring as quickly as his frame will
move, aiming to squash Royal in the corner...

...but at the last moment, Royal dives out of the way, causing Tumaffi
to slam his injured ribs and chest into the turnbuckles!]

GM:  OHHHH!  NOBODY HOME!

[Royal charges into the corner, flinging his body into the back of
Tumaffi with a leaping splash that slams Tumaffi's chest into the
corner again!]

GM:  Ricky Royal is trying to take advantage of Tumaffi's injured
condition.  That may be his best chance of winning this match and
moving on in the tournament!

BW:  Tumaffi's clinging to the corner, trying to stay on his feet.

GM:  Royal backs across the ring... he's got the crowd roaring as he
waves for Tumaffi to turn around... he wants the big man to face
him... he wants to crush those ribs again...

BW:  Don't turn around, Tumaffi!  Don't turn around!

[But slowly, the big man starts to turn, still hanging onto the top
rope...

...and Royal sprints across the ring again, leaping into the air once
more!]

GM:  CORNER SPLAAAAAA-

[Tumaffi snatches Royal out of the sky, _spiking_ him into the canvas
with a modified uranage!]


"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


GM:  Good heavens!  Did you see the impact on that?  This match may be
over right here and now!

[The Samoan leans against the buckles, looking down at Royal as he
rolls to his stomach, an arm snaking around to check his lower back...

...the lower back that is right on Tumaffi's mind as he steps from the
corner and drops _all_ his weight down in an elbowdrop across the
kidneys of Royal!]

GM:  Ohhh!  A 400 pound elbowdrop on the lower back!  Unbelievable!

BW:  We're less than five minutes into this match and these two have
done worlds of damage to one another already, Gordo.  I don't know
what kind of shape _either_ of these guys would be in in the second
round.  Either one of them might be easy pickings for Mark Shaw or
Kenta Kitzukawa.

GM:  Tumaffi isn't going for a pin attempt though, just resting with
all that weight on the lower back of Royal.  That might be worse than
a pin attempt honestly.

BW:  That's a lot of weight to have pressing on your kidneys while
you're trying to breathe.

GM:  The big man grabbing the ropes, pulling himself up off the mat.

[Reaching down with one hand, Tumaffi yanks Royal off the canvas by
the back of the trunks with ease...

...and promptly drives a forearm into the small of the back, knocking
Royal chestfirst into the turnbuckles.]

GM:  Right back in the corner they go.  Tumaffi connected with a short
forearm to the kidneys and Royal's hurting... you can see the
expression on his face and he is wrecked with pain right now.

BW:  Look at this, Gordo.

[Winding up, Tumaffi unleashes a huge chop to the lower back of Royal
that echoes through the arena.]

GM:  Good heavens!  What a shot to the lower back!

[The referee warns Tumaffi to let Royal out of the corner, the big
Samoan turning away from Royal to face the referee...

...and then with a sneer, lunges backwards, driving all 400 pounds
squarely into the back of Ricky Royal!]

GM:  OHHHHH!  He just fell back on Royal... just threw his body into
the back of Ricky Royal!

BW:  Such a simple move, daddy... but oh-so-devastating!

[Tumaffi just continues to lean back, pressing all his weight onto the
back of Royal as the referee reprimands him... and then finally starts
a count, forcing Tumaffi to step out of the corner at the count of
four.]

GM:  Finally, he gets Tumaffi off of Royal and-

[But Tumaffi lunges right back in, driving his weight into the back once
more.]

GM:  Come on, referee!  Get him out of there!  Get Tumaffi off the man!

[Again, at the count of four, Tumaffi steps away from the corner, this
time grabbing Royal by the hair and dragging him out of the buckles
with him.]

GM:  He's got Ricky Royal... seemingly at his mercy right now.
Royal's back is just being punished by this monster.

BW:  And I hope Royal reserved a hospital bed next to his buddy Reid!

GM:  You're a sick, sick man, Bucky Wilde.

[Sneering at the jeering fans, Tumaffi scoops him up in bodyslam
position, holding him across his massive body...

...and then drops down to the mat, smashing Royal's back across a bent
knee!]

GM:  Ohh!  Backbreaker right on target by Tumaffi!

BW:  He should do exactly what he did to Reid, Gordo!  Exactly what he
did to Reid!

[Holding his position, Tumaffi pushes down on Royal's chin and thigh,
stretching his spine over the knee...

...and then brings his left hand down hard across the throat of Royal,
flipping him down to the mat.]

GM:  Oh my.

BW:  Shades of an executioner right there, daddy!  Off with his head!

GM:  Royal's clutching his throat... that was an illegal strike to the
throat, Bucky.

BW:  Too bad.  The ref's not gonna DQ him for it so it looks legal to
me.

GM:  Your morality is in a permanent shade of gray.

[Tumaffi slowly gets back to his feet, methodically moving towards the
downed Royal.]


"FIVE MINUTES HAVE EXPIRED!  TEN MINUTES REMAIN!"


GM:  Five minutes gone in this one.  Ten minutes left in the time
limit for Tumaffi and Ricky Royal.

BW:  As much as they've beaten the hell out of each other in five
minutes, I can't imagine this is going much longer, Gordo.

GM:  Tumaffi standing over Royal, looking down at him.

[With a mighty bellow, Tumaffi runs back to the ropes, rebounding off...

...and leaping into the air.]

GM:  SPLAAAAAAAS-

[The crowd erupts as Ricky Royal rolls to the side, causing Tumaffi to
slam chestfirst into the canvas.]

GM:  ROYAL MOVED!  ROYAL MOVED AGAIN!  TUMAFFI EATS CANVAS!

[With the crowd cheering him on, Ricky Royal rolls to the ropes,
grabbing them to try to pull himself off the mat as Tumaffi rolls to
his back on the other side of the ring, clutching his sternum.]

GM:  Tumaffi is hurting and...

[The cheers grow louder!]

GM:  AND RICKY ROYAL IS ON HIS FEET!

[Royal slowly staggers across the ring, reaching his opponent just as
Tumaffi gets up to a knee.]

GM:  Tumaffi to a knee... Royal hooks him around the head...

[Holding a side headlock, the Ragin' Rebel throws clenched fists
repeatedly into the skull of his opponent, dragging him up by the
head...

...and uncorking a big right hand that sends Tumaffi falling back into
the corner.]

GM:  Royal's pummeling him again... rockin' him with big right hands...

[Royal steps up to the second rope, holding up the clenched right hand
again before driving it home into the skull.]

"ONE!"
"TWO!"
"THREE!"
"FOUR!"
"FIVE!"
"SIX!"
"SEVEN!"
"EIGHT!"
"NINE!"
"TEN!"
"ELEVEN!"
"TWELVE!"
"THIRTEEN!"
"FOURTEEN!"
"FIFTEEN!"
"SIXTEEN!"
"SEVENTEEN!"
"EIGHTEEN!"
"NINETEEN!"
"TWENTY!"

[The Ragin' Rebel jumps down from his perch, the crowd roaring as
Tumaffi looks close to toppling over to the canvas.]

GM:  Tumaffi's out on his feet!

BW:  That's what Erik Reid thought.

[Royal reaches up with his right arm, hooking a side headlock...

...and dragging Tumaffi out of the corner as quickly as he can,
leaping into the air...]

GM:  BULLDOG!

[...and _slamming_ Tumaffi's face into the canvas to the roar of the
crowd!]

GM:  HE HITS THE BULLDOG!

[Royal pushes hard, shoving Tumaffi over onto his back.]

GM:  COVER!  ONE!!!  TWO!!!

[But Tumaffi powers out of it at two, shoving Royal so hard into the
air, the Ragin' Rebel actually lands on his feet...

...where he scampers to the corner, quickly scaling the ropes.]

GM:  What the-?!

BW:  He's going up top!  He may be going for that Rebel Yell that his
brother told us about!  Royal may be going for the killshot right here
to finish this match off!

GM:  Royal's up top... Tumaffi's not moving yet...

[And with a wild yell, Royal hurls himself into the air, sailing
through the sky...

...and _driving_ the point of his elbow down into the injured sternum!]

GM:  OHHHHHH!  FLYING ELBOW CONNECTS!

[The crowd gasps at the impact as Royal bounces away but after a
moment, manages to roll over, throwing an arm across the massive chest
of the Samoan.]

GM:  ONE!!!  TWO!!!  THRE-

[But just before the count of three, referee Meekly shoots two fingers
into the air as Tumaffi slips a shoulder off the mat just in time.]

GM:  OHHHH!  So close!  So close!  Ricky Royal was a half a count...
maybe less... away from moving on to the second round of this
tournament!

BW:  And what does that do to Ricky Royal, Gordo?

[Royal sits up, head in hands, in total disbelief.]

BW:  He just gave Tumaffi his very best shot... his _very_ best shot
and he could not get a three count.  What does this do to his
confidence?

GM:  I don't know, Bucky.  He's just got to keep fighting.

BW:  That's easy for you to say sitting out here at ringside.  But
inside the ring, Royal knows he gave Tumaffi everything he had just
now and came up short.  That's devastating for him.  Absolutely
devastating.

[Royal rolls up to his feet, leaning against the ropes, shaking his
head in disbelief as he waits for Tumaffi to get off the mat.]

GM:  Royal's trying to shake it off... you can see it on his face,
Bucky.  He's trying to figure out what else he can do to put down the
big man.

BW:  He'd better think quickly because Tumaffi's getting up!

[The massive Samoan looks a little dazed as he gets to his feet,
looking around in confusion as he stumbles a couple steps...

...and gets _creamed_ by a running lariat from the Ragin' Rebel!]

GM:  RUNNING CLOTHESLINE BY ROYAL!  He caught him squarely with that
one!

[Tumaffi stumbles back a step...

...but does not fall.]

GM:  He's still standing!  Royal can't believe it!

[The Ragin' Rebel hits the ropes again, bouncing back...

...and connects with another thunderous running clothesline that
knocks Tumaffi back a couple steps.]

GM:  He hits another one!

BW:  But Tumaffi won't go down!  Royal's giving him his hardest shots
and Tumaffi just will not fall!

GM:  To the ropes again...

[Royal runs to the closest ropes, rebounding off...

...and running past Tumaffi to the opposite side, rebounding off those
ropes.]

GM:  ROYAL!

[The crowd roars as Royal hits another brutal running clothesline...

...but the roar turns into a stunned buzz as Tumaffi simply glares at
Royal this time, releasing a wild bellow and slapping a big hand
across his chest.]

BW:  Oh... my... god.

GM:  What in the-?  How?!

[Royal's eyes go wide as he races to the ropes again, rebounding back
at top speed...

...and gets flipped completely upside down and over with a thunderous
lariat from the big Samoan, a move that dumps Royal at Tumaffi's
feet.]

GM:  WHAT A LARI-

[Tumaffi immediately leaps into the air, bringing all 400 pounds
crashing down on the chest of Royal with a splash.]

GM:  POLYNESIAN BURIAL!  GOOD HEAVENS!

[The referee dives to the mat, dropping to count.]

GM:  ONE!  TWO!  THREE!


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


MC:  Your winner of the match in eight minutes and forty-seven seconds
advancing to the semifinals of the National Title Tournament...

TUUUUUUMAAAAFFI!

[The crowd boos wildly as Tumaffi pushes himself up to his knees,
raising a beefy arm in triumph as Royal lies on the canvas, clutching
his ribs in agony.]

GM:  Ricky Royal was on the rally... hitting running clothesline after
clothesline after clothesline... he looked to have Tumaffi in trouble.
 And just like that...

BW:  Just like that, Tumaffi cleaned his clock, broke his body, and
advanced to the second round of the tournament.  That's what he did,
Gordo.

GM:  Well, he certainly won the match and will advance.  Ricky Royal
took a hard clothesline... got squashed with that big splash and the
Polynesian Burial claims another victim.

BW:  And now, Tumaffi gets to go sit in the back and rest up.  Will it
be Mark Shaw or Kenta Kitzukawa who meets him in the second round?  In
my opinon?  It doesn't even matter.  Tumaffi's heading to the Finals.

GM:  That remains to be seen.  We've got a lot of action left here
tonight.

[Back on his feet now, Tumaffi smirks at the downed Royal, gesturing
with his hand like he's sweeping Royal out of the ring.]

GM:  Tumaffi can treat Ricky Royal like a piece of garbage all he
wants right now but I can promise you, we have not seen the last of
those two in the ring together.  Fans, we'll be right back with our
next first round matchup!

[Our camera holds a shot of the mighty Tumaffi posing in the ring over
a still-injured Royal, we fade to black...

...and then fade back up on a screen with the AWA logo splashed across
the top with a "Live Events Schedule" graphic underneath.  The
backdrop is some generic space photograph showing the moon and some
stars.]

"Join all the stars of the American Wrestling Alliance as they come to
your town!"

"On May 25th, the AWA invades the Arena Theatre in Houston, Texas for a
Non-Televised Live Event and then the next afternoon in San Antonio for
a very special daytime show on Memorial Day at the Freeman Coliseum.

Join us on tour in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, Little Rock, Arkansas, and
New Orleans, Louisiana as well.  Check the AWA website or
Ticketmaster.com now for all the details!"

[The graphic changes back to the original AWA logo and "Live Events
Schedule" showing a smaller version of the announced shows.]

"The AWA - the Major League of Professional Wrestling!  Don't miss it
when it comes to your town!"

[And we fade away from the graphic...

...and back up on the ringside area where Gordon Myers and Bucky Wilde
are standing.]

GM:  Welcome back to the Fort Worth Convention Center, fans.  We are
still in the first hour of Memorial Day Mayhem and we've got two big
matches under our belts.  We've seen a brutal tag team war go down.
We've seen Tumaffi advance to the second round of the National Title
Tournament.  And we're about to see our second match of that
tournament as two bruisers, Mark Shaw and Kenta Kitzukawa collide.
Bucky?

BW:  You're right, Gordo.  They are bruisers.  They do hit hard.  They
like to dump people on their heads and necks.  I expect this will be a
fun and exciting match to watch.  And I expect after this match is
over, the AWA officials will be trying to get Kenta Kituzkawa to
extend his stay in the AWA.

GM:  Wow.  Some very nice things to say there.

BW:  But I also expect none of that matters because all these two are
fighting for is the right to face Tumaffi... and that means sudden and
total defeat for them later tonight.

GM:  Sticking with Tumaffi as your pick?

BW:  Until Marcus Broussard wrestles in a little while, yes.

GM:  Fans, this should be a lot of fun.  Let's go up to the ring to
Melissa!

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

MC:  The following contest is scheduled for one fall with a 15 minute
time limit and is a first round match in the AWA National Title
Tournament.  The winner of this match will meet Tumaffi in the second
round.

Introducing first...

["Unstoppable" by E.S. Posthumus starts over the PA System to little
reaction from the Fort Worth crowd.]

MC:  Standing 6'1 and weighing in at 283 pounds... from Osaka, Japan
and representing Tiger Paw Pro...

KENNNNNNTAAAA KITZUKAWAAAAAA!!!

[As the curtain parts, Kitzukawa bursts into view.  He's wearing a
black hooded jacket with the hood up over his head.  His lower body is
uncovered, revealing green and white trunks, kneepads, and boots ala
his teacher, Todd Michaelson.

Kitzukawa trots down the aisle towards the ring, ignoring any offered
hand from the fans alongside the ropes making up the ring entry
aisle.]

GM:  Kenta Kitzukawa will be making his AWA debut in this match but
not his North American wrestling debut, Bucky.

BW:  That's right.  In the original Pro Wrestling Revolution,
Kitzukawa competed there... actually battled fellow tournament
competitor City Jack in his debut match.  After PWR closed, he
returned to Japan where he's wrestled for just about every promotion
that would take him in, trying to gain experience in every style of
wrestling he could find.

GM:  And now he's back and finds himself with the chance to become the
AWA National Champion.

[Kitzukawa quickly climbs the steps, stepping through the ropes, and
whipping his hood off as he throws an arm into the air to receive a
scattering of cheers.  We see that Kitzukawa has let his hair grow out
a bit since his last United States appearance, looking a little
scraggly as he pulls the jacket off to reveal a scattering of scars
over his upper body from his experience in the death match promotions
of Japan.]

MC:  And his opponent...

["Go" by Powder blares over the loudspeakers.]

MC:  He hails from Los Angeles, California.  Standing 6'2 and weighing
in at 270 pounds... he is the man known as the Hellion...

MARK SHAAAAAAAW!

[A pretty loud cheer goes up for the tall and well-built Hellion as he
pushes the curtain aside, stepping into the Fort Worth Convention
Center.  He's dressed simply, wearing a pair of long black wrestling
pants which vanish into a pair of black boots.  The only colors not
black are the gold-stenciled words "Shaw" on his boots and the white
tape that covers his right arm from knuckles to elbow that has
"HELLION" written in thick black ink on it.]

GM:  And here comes the barrel-chested brute from Los Angeles, Bucky.
Mark Shaw is a force to be reckoned with.

BW:  I'll give you that much, daddy.  He's big, he's tough, he's
strong as an ox.  But like I said, this is just a fight to see who has
to face Tumaffi - not a very good prize if you ask me.

[Shaw makes his way through the mass of humanity, ignoring all the
outstretched hands before rolling into the ring.  He takes a knee,
glaring at his opponent before settling back into the corner, waiting
for the bell to ring.]

GM:  Michael Meekly is the AWA's senior official and the referee of
record for this contest.  He's giving both men a few last minute
instructions.

BW:  And he's checking that tape on the arm of Shaw.  That's gotta be
illegal, Gordo.  Look at all that!

[Meekly pats the taped arm before nodding his head, backing away...

...and calling for the bell!]


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


GM:  And heeeeere we go, fans.  The second of four first round matches
in the quest to crown the first AWA National Champion.

[Shaw and Kitzukawa immediately walk from their respective corners,
circling one another looking for an opening...

...and then lunge into a collar and elbow tieup that proves to be to
Shaw's advantage as he easily powers the man from Japan back into the
buckles.]

GM:  No surprise that Shaw shows off that power right away.  He's got
a couple inches of height on Kitzukawa but is actually giving up about
10 pounds or so.  Pretty close to the same size actually.

[Shaw holds Kitzukawa against the turnbuckles for a moment...

...and then breaks cleanly, backing away to the cheers of the crowd.]

GM:  Clean break by Shaw - exactly what I like to see.

BW:  Not me.  He should've waffled him with a right hand right there.
Hit him with that taped arm and make him think about it.

[Nodding his head, Kitzukawa slaps his own chest and then walks out of
the buckles, circling his opponent again...

...and going right back into another collar-and-elbow tieup.]

GM:  Another lockup... a bit of a feeling out process in the early
moments of this one as these two are completely unfamiliar with one
another.  This time, it's Kenta who has the edge, pushing Shaw back to
the buckles.  Will we get a clean break this time?

BW:  I hope not.  Whack him, Kenta!

[The referee starts counting Kitzukawa and as he reaches three...

...Kitzukawa backs away, nodding his head at his opponent.]

GM:  Another clean break - good to see that both of these men are on
the same page so far in this one.

[Shaw nods his head as well, easing out of the corner and going right
back to the collar and elbow...

...but immediately rips himself out of it, lashing out with a big chop
across the pectorals of Kitzukawa!]

GM:  Ohh!  What a chop!  Shaw lit him up with that!

[Kitzukawa steps back, clutching his chest as Shaw moves in...

...and then lashes out with a blistering chop as well!]

GM:  Ohhh!  And Kenta returns the favor!

[Shaw winces, stepping back...

...and then stepping up, blasting Kitzukawa with another hard knife-edge
chop!]

GM:  Good heavens!  These two are choppin' each other like a tree!

BW:  Trading chops won't do either of them any good.  Someone needs to
seize the moment and go for the kill.

[Kitzukawa winds up for a chop which causes Shaw to bring his arms up
to block...

...which allows Kenta to strike with a hard left kick to the side of
Shaw's knee!]

GM:  Leg kick by Kenta!

[Shaw immediately drops to a knee, clutching the leg that was kicked.]


"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!"
"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


GM:  Ohhh my!  Kitzukawa took advantage of Shaw's position and chopped
him right off his knee and down to the mat.  Shaw got blasted with
that reverse knife-edge and he's in trouble early.

[Kitzukawa immediately moves in, pulling Shaw to his feet by the hair
and driving a knee to the body that knocks Shaw back against the
ropes.]

GM:  Shaw's on the ropes... Kenta to the far side...

[But the Hellion has had enough, exploding off the ropes with a
running shoulder tackle that knocks Kitzukawa off his feet.]

GM:  Big tackle by Shaw!  The 270 pounder knocks him clear off his
feet with that one.

BW:  And now it's Shaw on the attack, pulling Kenta up by that
mop-like hair of his...

[Shaw connects with another huge chop, knocking Kitzukawa back against
the ropes.]

GM:  The Hellion with a whip... clothesli- ducked by Kenta... off the
far side...

[Kitzukawa takes to the air, connecting with a leaping shoulder block
that sends Shaw flying down to the mat where he quickly rolls under
the ropes to the floor.]

GM:  Shaw out to the floor... here comes Kenta!

BW:  This is what I'm talking about.  Go for the kill when you can,
daddy!

GM:  Kitzukawa out on the apron, drops down to the floor now...

[The Tiger Paw Pro competitor lashes out with a big chop across the
chest, knocking Shaw back against the metal ringside barricade.]

GM:  Backed into the railing... ohhh!  Another big chop by Kenta!

[The camera zooms in on Shaw, clinging to the railing, his chest
rapidly turning bright red from the impact of the chops.  His opponent
grabs him by the head, dragging him towards the ring...

...but Shaw buries an elbow into the gut of Kitzukawa, breaking his
grip.]

GM:  Shaw breaks free from-

[The Hellion promptly grabs two hands full of Kitzukawa's lengthy hair
and uses it to _hurl_ Kitzukawa through the air into the steel steps,
knocking the staircase over as the crowd roars in a mixed reaction.]

GM:  OHHHH!  He just _threw_ Kenta into the steel steps like he was a
bag of trash, Bucky!

BW:  Amazing power to throw a 280 pounder like that!  Amazing!

[Shaw drives a few hard stomps on the downed Japanese competitor on
the floor as the referee's count reach six... then seven...]

GM:  Both men in danger of being counted out here.  Shaw realizes it
and ducks under the ropes... breaking the count.

BW:  They've gotta be careful of that.  Of course, if both guys get
counted out, they're both gone from the tournament!

GM:  And I don't think anyone wants that to happen.

BW:  Tumaffi might not mind.

GM:  No, I don't suppose he would.

[Out on the floor, Shaw pulls Kitzukawa up by his long hair, tugging
him into a front facelock.]

GM:  What the-?  He's trying to suplex him on the floor!  He's going
for a vertical suplex on the concrete floor, Bucky!

BW:  That might end this match right now if he hits it.  If he's able
to take him down with-

[But before Bucky can speculate, Kitzukawa breaks out of the grip...

...and promptly batters Shaw's head with rights and lefts, clubbing
blows in a barrage that knocks Shaw backwards...

...and a running high kick that takes Shaw all the way back to the
barricade!]

GM:  Good heavens!  Kenta Kitzukawa just completely overwhelmed Mark
Shaw, knocking him back against the railing.

[Kitzukawa approaches again, raining down overhead right forearms that
chop Shaw down to a knee...

...and this time, it's the man from Osaka who rolls into the ring to
break the count, rolling back out to the ring apron.]

GM:  The count is broken again.  Shaw on the floor, Kenta on the apron.

[The Tiger Paw Pro competitor climbs to his feet, waving for Shaw to
get to his feet and as the Hellion does...

...Kitzukawa runs down the length of the apron, leaping into the air,
and wiping out Shaw with a flying tackle!]

GM:  OHHHHH!

[Some cheers go up for the Japanese competitor now, the crowd starting
to warm to him as he pumps a fist in the air out on the floor when he
climbs back to his feet.]

GM:  Kitzukawa pulls Shaw off the floor, he really wiped him out with
that tackle... rolling him back into the ring now...

BW:  Both men back inside the ring.  I kinda liked 'em out there, Gordo.

GM:  I'm sure you did.

[Kitzukawa drags Shaw back to his feet, shoving him back into the
closest corner...

...and lacing into him with another hard chop!]

GM:  Those chops by Kitzukawa are absolutely devastating, Bucky.

BW:  Shaw throws a pretty good one too.

GM:  He certainly does.

[Grabbing Shaw by the wrist, the Tiger Paw Pro competitor fires him
across the ring.]

GM:  Big whip by Kenta... here he comes!

[Kitzukawa's stampeding charge towards the corner...

...comes up empty as Shaw dives to the side, causing Kenta to slam
spinefirst into the buckles.]

GM:  Shaw moved!  The Hellion avoided the running back elbow and-
he's tearing into him, Bucky!

[The crowd roars as Shaw tees off, firing rights and lefts, then
throwing forearms that catch Kenta on both ears, clubbing Kenta back
and forth until he melts down to the mat...

...which Shaw quickly counters by pulling Kenta up in a light bearhug.]

GM:  Bearhug applied... Shaw backing from the corn- ohhhh!

[Shaw shows off his power some more by popping his hips, throwing
Kenta over his head and down to the mat with a big overhead
belly-to-belly suplex to the cheers of the fans.]

GM:  What a suplex executed by Shaw!

BW:  We keep talking about the power of Mark Shaw and he just keeps
showing it off.  It takes a lot of power to throw a near three hundred
pounders over your head like that.

[The Hellion races across the ring, dropping down into a lateral press.]

GM:  A quick cover by Shaw... one!  Two!  No.  Kitzukawa gets a shoulder
up.


"FIVE MINUTES HAVE EXPIRED!  TEN MINUTES REMAIN!  TEN MINUTES!"


GM:  You hear the announcement from Melissa.  Five minutes are gone in
this match and that usually sees the competitors pick up the intensity
a bit but these guys are already throwing everything they've got at
one another, Bucky.

BW:  Yeah, I don't think anyone has been holding back waiting for time
to run down.

GM:  Shaw pulls Kitzukawa up, shoving him back to the ropes... irish
whip...

[And as Kitzukawa rebounds back, Shaw hoists him up, spinning
lightning-fast, and _plants_ him with a hard powerslam!]

GM:  Ohhhh!  What a powerslam!  One!  Two!  No!

BW:  Shaw wants to end this.  He knows he's got two more matches if he
can finish off this one.  He wants as much stamina left as possible,
Gordo.

GM:  You may be right, Bucky.  He's pulling Kenta right back up, just
a blur of motion... waistlock!

[Shaw attempts to get Kenta off the mat for a German suplex but a hard
back elbow finds the side of Shaw's face, breaking his grip...]

GM:  Kenta breaks free of the waistlo- ohhh!  What a shot!

[A hard forearm to the side of the face knocks Shaw back a couple
steps.  Kitzukawa keeps moving towards him, this time cradling the
head with his left hand...

...and then repeatedly battering Shaw with right forearms to the face!]

GM:  Forearm!  Forearm!  Forearm!  He's rockin' the world of Mark Shaw!

[Kitzukawa breaks his grip, dropping back to hit the ropes...]

GM:  Kenta to the ropes... LAAAAARIAAAAAT!!

[The crowd _explodes_ as Kitzukawa obliterates the Hellion with a huge
running lariat!]

GM:  KITZUKAWA DRILLED HIM!  ONE!!!  TWO!!  THRE-


"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


GM:  Shoulder up!  Shaw got the shoulder up!

[A frustrated Kitzukawa slaps the mat in frustration, pushing back up
his feet and dragging a thumb across his throat.]

GM:  Kenta's looking to finish off Shaw - he's looking to score the big
upset!

[The Tiger Paw Pro competitor pulls Shaw off the mat, tugging him into
a standing headscissors.]

GM:  He's calling for the Blilion Dollar Bomb!  This is Todd
Michaelson's old finisher!

[Kitzukawa hooks one arm, then reaches down to hook the other...

...which does not happen as Shaw deftly spins out of the underhook,
hooking a side waistlock of his own...]

GM:  Counter!

[And the Hellion hoists Kitzukawa into the air, _dumping_ him down on
the back of his head and neck on the canvas!]

BW:  BACKDROP DRIVER!

GM:  Good heavens!  Shaw with the cover!  One!  Two!  Three!	


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


MC:  Your winner of the match in a time of six minutes and forty-two
seconds...

MARK SHAW!

[Shaw raises a  triumphant arm for a moment before looking at the
camera, holding two fingers up.]

GM:  One down... two more to go if Mark Shaw wants to be the National
Champion, Bucky.  And if he can handle Tumaffi like he just handled
Kenta Kitzukawa, that title is within his grasp.

BW:  That would be entirely true... if he can handle Tumaffi at all.

GM:  Mark Shaw vs Tumaffi in Round Two of this tournament will be
coming up later tonight.  But we've still got two more first round
matches to come.  Don't go away - we'll be right back!

[And with that, we fade away from a shot of Kitzukawa being helped by
the referee to black...

...and then back up to a shot showing the logos of Pro Wrestling
Revolution, Sin City Wrestling, and Southern Championship Wrestling.]

"From Day One, the American Wrestling Alliance was determined to give
its fans the very best action available.  And on Day One, our video
library is officially open for business!"

[Cut to a closeup of the Sin City Wrestling logo.]

"Check out "High Profile" Darryl Styles on commentary.  See the Upper
Crust in action before they were the Upper Crust!"

[Now to the Southern Championship Wrestling logo.]

"Ricky Royal lit up the rings in SCW before he came to the AWA!  "Stars
and Stripes" Clayton Shaw was a SCW staple as well!"

[And then the PWR logo.]

"See Calisto Dufresne in action!  And don't forget the ever-dangerous
Kolya Sudakov!"

[Cut back to the wide shot of all three logos.]

"Events from all three promotions are available NOW exclusively through
the AWA website via DVD or download!  So, be the first on the block to
be an AWA expert and check out all of this great action today!"

[Fade to black...

...and then back up on the announcers at ringside.]

GM:  Welcome back, fans.  We've got two men in the second round of our
National Title Tournament - Tumaffi and Mark Shaw.  And four men are
sitting in the locker room hoping they'll be able to join them.  Rick
Marley, City Jack, Marcus Broussard, and Ron Houston still will be
competing in the first round and the nerves have got to be running
high in the back, Bucky.

BW:  Of course they are.  Everyone wants to be the first National
Champion but only one can actually do it.  Four guys left in the first
round - now they see what it takes to get there.  I expect the matches
to only increase in intensity from here.

GM:  Let's go up to the ring to Melissa for our next tournament match!

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

MC:  The following contest is scheduled for one fall with a fifteen
minute time limit and is the third of our first round matches in the
tournament to crown the first National Champion!

Introducing first...

[The arena lights dim for a five count as a hush spreads across the
arena, broken by the opening line...]

#This ain't a song for the broken hearted...

[As "It's My Life" by Bon Jovi begins to play over the PA system, the
fans see "Showtime" Rick Marley making his way to the ring.  The fair
skinned light heavyweight has his long dark hair pulled back in a pony
tail and wears a midnight blue set of long legged trunks with the word
"Showtime" stitched across the butt.  White spotlights trail up from
his black boots and cascade up the pant legs.]

MC:  Standing 5'10 and weighing in at 215 pounds... hailing from
Miami, Florida...

"SHOOOWTIME" RICK MARRRRLEY!

[Marley slaps hands with the fans at ringside until he is about 15 feet
from the ring, at which point he sprints the distance, sliding under
the bottom rope, striding across the squared circle to climb to the
second rope in front of the announcer's table, where he raises both
hands to the crowd.]

GM:  Wooohaaa!  Check him out, Bucky!  Rick Marley is in the house,
these fans are lovin' it, and it's Showtime for sure!

BW:  I hate this guy.  You know that, right?

GM:  I think I've heard something about that.  But these fans are
solidly behind him and they're hoping to see the National Title
strapped around his waist at the end of the night.

[Marley hops down from the midbuckle, tugging on the ropes as he waits.]

MC:  And his opponent...

[Chet Atkins' "Classical Gas" plays over the convention center's PA
system, bringing the fans to their feet for the man from Liberty,
Kentucky. Those cheers get louder as City Jack steps out of the
entrance, clapping his hands as he comes through.]

MC:  Standing 6'2 and weighing in at 324 pounds... he hails from
Liberty, Kentucky...

CITY JACK!

[Wearing his usual brown wrestling singlet, black boots, and a black
"Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death" t-shirt. As well, Jack wears a
black knee brace over his right knee, a lingering injury for the big
man that has yet to prove a liability. As Jack comes down the aisle,
he shakes the fans' hands and gives them good words while passing
towards the ring. Once at the ring steps, Jack jukes and jives up each
step until finally entering the ring.]

GM:  Ohh yeah!  Here comes one of the most popular men in the AWA,
City Jack!  In fact, this is a showdown between two of the most
popular men in the AWA, Bucky.

BW:  Which is all well and good but when you have to face Marcus
Broussard in the second round, the fans won't get you past that man.
The San Jose Shark is waiting in the wings for-

GM:  Not yet he isn't!

BW:  Just wait and see, Gordo... wait and see.

[The referee steps between the two men, giving some final orders.]

GM:  Referee Marty Meekly, the youngest of the Meekly family, is the
man in the middle of this one.  And listen to these fans!

[With a roaring crowd echoing throughout the Fort Worth Convention
Center, two very distinct chants break out.  One for "SHOW-TIME!"  and
one for "CI-TY JACK!"]

GM:  The fans are going absolutely berzerk for these two men!  This
place has been electrified by the entrance to the ring of Rick Marley
and City Jack!

BW:  I think the referee just rang the bell but I can't hear a thing
in here, Gordo!

GM:  This crowd is on their feet, cheering on "Showtime" Rick Marley
and City Jack.  This is unbelievable, Bucky!

[The two fan favorites don't hesitate to stride out to the middle of
the ring where they exchange a handshake.]

GM:  And somehow the crowd gets even louder!  A great show of
sportsmanship right there between these two.

BW:  Sure was - but I bet Marley was thinking of suckerpunching him in
the eye during the handshake.

GM:  Would you stop?  Those days are long over for Rick Marley!

[With the handshake out of the way, the two men split apart, quickly
circling one another.  Marley dashes in a couple times, pulling back
out before City Jack can get his hands on him.]

GM:  The speed advantage definitely goes to Rick Marley - as will the
stamina.  You have to expect his gameplan will be to run, run, run,
right Bucky?

BW:  I would imagine so.  Run until City Jack's tongue is hanging out
then take him out with one of those quick moves Marley's always
showing off.

GM:  Perhaps the superkick.  Perhaps the Limelight.  You never know
what Rick Marley's got up his sleeve to finish a match off.

[Marley dashes in low again but this time he's caught in a collar and
elbow tieup by City Jack who immediately muscles Marley back towards
the corner...

...but "Showtime" uses his quickness to slip out of the tieup,
applying a side headlock on the Kentucky native.]

GM:  Nice slip into the side headlock by Marley.  That might be a good
hold to wear the big man down a little bit.

BW:  He doesn't have the power to hold him in it though, Gordo.  City
Jack should be able to muscle his way out of this any time he's ready.

[Marley keeps the hold on, pushing back towards the ropes where he
promptly drives a hard right hand in while holding the headlock.]

GM:  Oh!  Hard shot by Marley!  We know he loves the fans but we know
he's not going to play Mr. Nice Guy in there either.  If he needs to
throw a right hand to improve his chances of becoming the first
National Champion, he's gonna do it.

[Releasing the headlock, Marley uncorks another right hand, this one
knocking City Jack back against the ropes.]

GM:  And the big man is already backed to the ropes.  Marley getting
nice effect out of the big haymak- ohhhhh!

[The crowd roars as Marley attempts a quick running clothesline at
City Jack who ducks down, pulling the top rope down with him which
sends Marley toppling over the ropes to the floor!]

GM:  City Jack, the experienced veteran, using those wiles right there
to avoid the big clothesline, a move that sent Rick Marley all the way
to the floor.

BW:  Well, I'd say that's why they call it "high risk" but it really
wasn't that risky.  He just overshot it, hit the floor, and he looks a
little embarassed out there actually.

[Marley quickly rolls back in, seething a bit as he climbs to his feet
where City Jack is waiting, offering the hand again...

...and again, the handshake is accepted to the cheers from the crowd.]

GM:  Embarassed or not, I guess he's not holding it against City Jack.

[But this time, Marley pulls the hand in, drilling City Jack with a
right hand across the jaw.]

GM:  Marley feeling a littl- ohh!  City Jack fights back with a right
hand of his own!

[The two men trade right hands for a moment before City Jack blocks a
wild one, hooking Marley...

...and hurling him down to the canvas with a big hiptoss throw!]

GM:  Ohhh my!  Big hiptoss by City Jack puts the much younger Marley
down on the mat again!

[Immediately, Marley pops back to his feet...

...but a wound up Metropill forearm causes him to bail out backwards,
dropping to the mat and rolling out to the floor.]

GM:  That close, Bucky!  City Jack was _that_ close to scoring with
the Metropill.

BW:  And you can see how well Rick Marley has him scouted.  He saw the
forearm cranked back, he knew what was coming, and he hit the bricks
before the big goof could connect with it.

GM:  Marley's out on the floor, regrouping a bit.  You can this isn't
going exactly as he had in mind.

[Marley stands outside the ring for a few more seconds, eyeing City
Jack who is wiggling his hips a bit, bringing more cheers to the fans
for the fat man's jig.]

GM:  Marley up on the apron, still keeping an eye on City Jack who is
dancing around, getting the fans rallied to his cause.

["Showtime" looks around at the cheering fans, looking a little
disappointed that they're cheering on his opponent...

...and walks along the apron towards the corner, gesturing at City
Jack.]

GM:  I'm not sure what Marley's doing here as-

[Tired of waiting, City Jack approaches the ropes to bring Marley back
in...

...and gets a hard forearm to the chin for his efforts.]

GM:  Oh!  He lured City Jack in and he caught him with the forearm!

[Reaching over the ropes, Marley grabs City Jack by the head and
_slams_ his face into the top turnbuckle, sending him spinning out
away from the corner.]

GM:  Into the buckles goes City Jack.  Whatever regrouping Rick Marley
did outside the ring seems to have worked for him for the time being.

[Marley grabs the top rope, leaping into the air and landing on his
feet on the top turnbuckle facing the crowd...

...and leaps backwards, catching City Jack squarely across the chest
with a breathtaking moonsault that brings the fans to their feet!]

GM:  Backflip off the top by Marley!  He's got both legs hooked!  One!
 Two!  TH-

[The crowd roars as City Jack kicks out, breaking the pin attempt.]

BW:  The surprise of the moonsault and the tight double leg cradle
almost cost City Jack a date with Marcus Broussard.

GM:  Or Ron Houston.

BW:  Yeah, right.

[The big man from Kentucky wobbles to his feet, shaking the cobwebs
loose...

...and gets drilled with a right uppercut to the jaw that knocks him
back against the ropes again.]

GM:  City Jack was trying to clear the fog from his head and I think
Marley might have cleared it permanently... what a right hand that was
to the underside of the chin...

[Marley backs off, the referee warning him for the clinched fist...

...and executes a perfect standing dropkick that knocks City Jack
through the ropes and out to the floor.]

GM:  Ohhh... and down to the floor goes City Jack!  Marley knocked him
clear from the ring with that standing dropkick.

BW:  And Marley, showing just how badly he wants that belt, he's
coming out after City Jack.

GM:  Hopefully just to put him back in the ring, Bucky.

BW:  From the look in his eye, I think he wants to do some more damage
to this half-wit from Kentucky.

[Marley rolls under the ropes to the outside, measuring City Jack as
he pushes up from a knee to his feet.]

GM:  City Jack back to his feet... here comes Marley...

[But an attempt at a running right forearm is countered as City Jack
ducks his head...

...and _hurls_ Marley high into the air before he slams down hard on
the barely padded concrete floor courtesy of a back body drop!]

GM:  Ohhhh my!  Big back bodydrop by City Jack!  He countered Marley's
offense on the floor and that was a big mistake by Rick Marley - a
fall like that on concrete has got to do some damage.

BW:  The concrete has a thin layer of cushion over it but I don't know
how much cushion helps when you're dropped from ten feet in the air on
the floor, Gordo.

GM:  "Showtime" Rick Marley is on the floor and he's hurting.  City
Jack rolls back into the ring.  He's not looking to take advantage of
the situation at all.  City Jack is always looking for a clean and
fair fight when he can get- now what's going on here?

[The fans start booing wildly at the appearance of "Ladykiller"
Calisto Dufresne as he walks through the curtain, making his way down
the aisle towards the ring.]

GM:  Dufresne has no business being out here!  He's got his issue with
City Jack that hopefully will be settled in that big tag team match
later tonight - but he's got no business out here now.  He didn't want
any part of this tournament!

BW:  The Ladykiller is on his way out here.  City Jack has spotted
him, informing the referee now that Dufresne is on his way down the
aisle.

[Reaching the ringside area, Dufresne shouts a few disparaging words
in the direction of City Jack as Marley pulls himself up on the ring
apron, rolling under the ropes into the ring.]

GM:  Rick Marley is back in as well now.


"FIVE MINUTES HAVE GONE BY!  TEN MINUTES REMAIN!"


GM:  You hear the five minutes call right there by Melissa Cannon.
Both men back inside the ring now - what in the world is Dufresne
doing?

[Suddenly, the Ladykiller hops up on the apron, pointing an accusing
finger at City Jack, which brings the Kentucky native over to the
ropes, shouting at Dufresne with the referee trying to keep them
apart.]

GM:  Get him down from there, referee!

BW:  Look at Marley!  Look at Marley!

[With his opponent distracted, the hurting Rick Marley crawls up
behind City Jack...

...and pulls him down in a schoolboy!]

GM:  ONE!  TWO!  TH-

[The crowd sighs with relief as City Jack fires a shoulder off the
canvas in time.  Dufresne drops down from the apron, smirking as
Marley and City Jack battle back to their feet at the same time...

...and immediately start throwing bombs again.]

GM:  Right hand by Marley... and City Jack returns the favor!

[With the fans cheering them on, Marley throws another haymaker - and
then the Kentucky native fires back in kind, staggering his much
smaller opponent.]

GM:  Uh oh!  That one caught Marley on the chin and seems to have
wobbled him!

[With Marley's arms at his side, City Jack throws a jab to the jaw...
and another... and another... dancing to the side as he does so, doing
a full 360 around Marley while throwing jabs to the chin...

...he stops, doing a wild little jig as he winds up the right arm.]

GM:  He's got the Metropill locked and loaded again!

[But just before he throws it, Dufresne snakes an arm in from under
the ropes, grabbing City Jack around the ankle.]

GM:  Oh, come on!

BW:  What?  You want the Golden Boy DQd for that?

GM:  Rick Marley's got nothing to do with Calisto Dufresne being out
here, Bucky.

BW:  How do you know that?

GM:  What are you implying?

BW:  We already said that Marley would do _anything_ to be the
National Champion.  How do you know he didn't strike a deal with
Dufresne to give him the edge he needs to get out of the first round?

GM:  I don't think- hey!  Here comes Tin Can Rust!

[The crowd roars as Tin Can Rust quickly makes his way through the
mass of humanity, taking a place at ringside across the ring from
Dufresne, pointing an accusatory finger at the Ladykiller as he holds
up his hands in a "I didn't do anything" gesture as the referee
reprimands him.]

GM:  Now the sides are even!

[Marley managed to fall back into a corner while City Jack and
Dufresne traded words and that's where the big man from Kentucky finds
him as he goes back on the offense.]

GM:  City Jack's got him in the corner, right hand... another big
right hand... a third...

[Grabbing the wrist of Marley, Jack whips him across incredibly hard
which causes Marley's back to slam into the turnbuckles before
slumping down to the mat.]

GM:  Good heavens!

BW:  I think the ring might've shifted on that one, Gordo.

GM:  Marley's down again - hey, wait a second!  What's going on here?

[Before City Jack can move in again, Dufresne sprints over to where
Marley is lying on the apron, leaning over to whisper something to the
fan favorite.]

GM:  Did Dufresne just tell Marley something?  What on earth could he
possibly have to say to Rick Marley?

[City Jack shoots an intense glare at Dufresne as he reaches the
corner, dragging Marley off his feet...

...and getting a hard right hand to the midsection from Marley to
break himself away from City Jack.]

GM:  Ohh!  Big right to the gut gets him loose...

[And Marley promptly drives his own knee into the side of City Jack's
right knee...

...a blow that causes Jack to grab the ropes in desperation as he
winces in agony.]

GM:  Oh!  Marley went to the knee!

[With Jack clinging to the ropes, Marley intensifies the attack,
repeatedly kicking at the right knee that is covered in a fairly large
metal brace.]

GM:  He's attacking the injured knee of City Jack!  He's going right
after the knee of City Jack that has given him trouble over the years!

BW:  Now, the real question is, Gordo... did Marley intend to do that
all along?

GM:  What are you-  are you saying that Dufresne told him to go after
the knee?!

BW:  I didn't say that.  But it would make sense, wouldn't it?

[There's a scattering of boos for Marley as he's pulled away from the
corner by the official, leaving a kneeling City Jack on the canvas
behind him.]

GM:  The referee's backing Marley away, trying to keep him off the knee
of-

[Nudging the official aside, Marley charges back in, kicking the leg
again which knocks City Jack all the way down to the mat.]

GM:  Right back to the leg.

BW:  It's a sound strategy, Gordo.

GM:  It certainly is - all I want to know is whose strategy it is!

[Grabbing Jack by the ankle, Marley tugs him out of the corner and
promptly turns him over in a half Boston Crab.]

GM:  The half Crab applied by Rick Marley - and immediately you hear
City Jack crying out in pain!

[The camera cuts to a shot of a grinning Dufresne, nodding his head in
approval as Marley cranks back harder on the knee causing City Jack to
claw the mat in agony.]

GM:  City Jack's trying to get to the ropes, trying to find a way to
break the hold.

BW:  And outside the ring, Tin Can Rust has got to be concerned.

GM:  That's his best friend in there, I'd imagine he is.

BW:  Not that, Gordo.  His worst fear is coming true.  City Jack's
going to be too hurt to compete in the tag match later tonight!  After
this match is over, Jack's going to only have... ten?  Fifteen minutes
to heal up?

GM:  It's a bad situation for City Jack and Tin Can Rust - and exactly
why Calisto Dufresne is out here involved in this!

[After a bit, Jack wraps his big paw around the bottom rope, forcing
Marley to break the hold which he quickly does.  He backs away as the
referee checks the condition of City Jack.]

GM:  Marley continuing to show some sportsmanship.  He may have gone
for the injured knee - but I refuse to believe he's associated himself
with Dufresne, Bucky.

BW:  Denial is more than a river in Asia, daddy!

[In the corner, City Jack pulls himself to his feet using the ropes,
still obviously favoring the injured leg.]

GM:  Marley moving back in on him...

[The crowd erupts as City Jack throws a big right hand that knocks
Marley back a couple steps!]

GM:  But City Jack is fighting back!

[Marley recovers, moving in again...

...and eating another five knuckle sandwich!]

GM:  Another right by City Jack!

["Showtime" shakes it off, moving in again...

...and gets crowned with an overhead elbow smash to the top of the
noggin that sends Marley staggering back across the ring.]

GM:  Jack's moving in out of the corner, got his eyes locked on
Marley...

[But as the Kentucky native approaches, Marley leaps into the air,
driving both feet squarely into the knee of City Jack, toppling him
to the canvas again.]

GM:  Ohhh!  Dropkick to the knee by Rick Marley!

BW:  Right back to the knee.  Not showing any signs of lacking focus
tonight.  He's also stayed away mostly from the high risk offense that
seems to cost him as well.

GM:  Marley grabs the foot... figure four!

["Showtime" twists his victim's leg around his own, bending over to
grab the other...

...and getting pulled down in an inside cradle!]

GM:  ONE!!!  TWO!!!  THRE-


"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


[The crowd erupts in a mixed reaction as Marley just barely snakes a
shoulder off the mat in time.]

GM:  City Jack almost stole that one!

[An irate Marley grabs the foot of City Jack as he gets up, repeatedly
kicking the knee before pinning it to the mat with his foot...

...and dropping his own knee on it, causing City Jack to cry out in
agony!]

GM:  Right down on the knee... now where is Rick Marley going?

BW:  I think I spoke too soon!



"TEN MINUTES HAVE GONE BY!  FIVE MINUTES REMAIN!"


GM:  We're into the home stretch now.  Only five minutes remain for
these two men to try to put the other man away - and it may not take
five more seconds as Rick Marley is heading up top!

["Showtime" reaches the peak of his climb, looking out at the
screaming fans, and leaps into the air, pulling his legs in tight...]

GM:  HIGHLIGHT REEL!

[But the tuck senton is not to be as City Jack rolls out of the way,
causing Marley's spine to slam into the canvas!]

GM:  MISSED!  HE MISSED THE BACKSPLASH!

BW:  Right down on that back he injured on the backdrop on the floor
earlier in the match!

[With both men down, the crowd starts cheering wildly, trying to
inspire their favorite up to his feet.  The chants of "SHOW-TIME" and
"CI-TY JACK!" echo through the Fort Worth Convention Center as both
men roll to opposite sides of the ring, grabbing the ropes in an
attempt to be the first to hoist themselves up to their feet.]

GM:  And now it's a footrace!

BW:  Whoever is the first to their feet is going to have a _huge_
advantage, Gordo!

GM:  Marley's got a hand on the middle rope.

BW:  But City Jack's up to a knee!

[A few tense moments follow as the two men struggle and strain to beat
their opponent up...

...and finally, both men are standing, leaning against the ropes,
trying to recover to go on the attack.]

GM:  Both men are up!  Both men are standing!  Both men are-

[It's Marley who is the first to act, dashing away from the ropes
towards his opponent who takes one step away from the ropes...

...and catches the oncoming Marley in a bearhug!]

GM:  BEARHUG!  IT'S THE SETUP FOR THE METROBOOM!

[Indeed it is.  But Marley has it well-scouted as well, reaching up to
fire clenched fists into the side of the head, breaking the weary City
Jack's grasp.]

GM:  Marley slips free... Marley's out of it...

["Showtime" dashes to the far ropes, rebounding back towards the
stunned City Jack...

...who _uncorks_ a huge Metropill forearm, the impact of which sends
Marley sailing backwards, crashing down to the canvas and falling out
to the ring apron!]

GM:  METROPILL!  METROPILL ON TARGET!

BW:  What?!  I can't even hear you!

[With the deafening "CI-TY JACK!" chants in the air, Jack staggers
across the ring towards the downed Marley, looking to finish him off
and advance in the tournament.]

GM:  Jack's moving in for the kill, reaching over the ropes to grab
Marley by the hair.

BW:  Hey!  That's illegal!

GM:  Give me a break, Bucky!

[Pulling a dazed Marley to his feet, Jack applies a front facelock
from inside the ring over the ropes on the on-the-apron Marley.]

GM:  He's going to bring Rick Marley into the ring the hard way!

[Jack raises a hand to the crowd, getting more cheers as he sets his
feet, hoisting Marley off the mat in a vertical suplex...]

GM:  He's got him up!

[But the powerful suplex soon turns wobbly as Calisto Dufresne slips
his hand under the ropes, grabbing the injured right knee of City Jack
and tugging on it.]

GM:  DUFRESNE!

[The action makes the suplex grasp weak enough that Marley is able to
reverse his momentum, hooking City Jack's head as he does so...

...and _spike_ him skullfirst into the canvas!]

GM:  REWRITE!  He countered the suplex into a DDT - he calls it the
Rewrite!

[Marley dives atop the stunned Jack, hooking his left leg tightly...

...as Calisto Dufresne grabs the injured right leg, pulling down hard
from outside the ring as an unaware Marty Meekly drops down to make
the count.]

GM:  ONE!!  TWO!!  THREE!!


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


GM:  You've gotta be kidding me!  Not like that!

[And just after the three count comes down, Tin Can Rust, moving as
quickly as possible around the ring, levels Dufresne on the floor!]

GM:  Tin Can Rust knocks Dufresne flat... but it's too late!

BW:  Haha!  I told you,  Gordo!  I told you Marley and Dufresne were
working together on this one!

GM:  I don't- I don't even know what to think about that.  That can't be
true!

[A presumably unaware Marley lifts an arm in triumph, still kneeling
on the canvas as Calisto Dufresne flees from a pursuing Tin Can Rust,
racing through the crowd and disappearing in the mass of humanity.]

GM:  Unbelievable.  Let's get the official word.

[Cut to the ring where Marley is now leaning in the corner, sucking
wind as City Jack is being tended to by Marty Meekly.]

MC:  Your winner of the match in a time of twelve minutes and fifteen
seconds... advancing to the second round...

"SHOWTIME" RICK MARRRRLEY!

[Marley again throws a triumphant arm in the air, not even noticing
the slightly mixed reaction coming his way for the controversial
victory.]

GM:  Rick Marley is your winner - like it or not... and he will meet
either Marcus Broussard or Ron Houston in the second round.

BW:  Where he will certainly meet defeat at the hands of the San Jose
Shark.

GM:  So you've told us... repeatedly.  Fans, we'll be right back for
the final match in the first round.  Don't go away!

[Our camera zooms in on the triumphant Rick Marley exiting the ring to
a mixed reaction...

...as 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 fade back up on our announcers at ringside.]

GM:  Welcome back to Memorial Day Mayhem, fans!  We are nearing the
halfway point of our night and we've got a lot of action left to bring
to you.  And for those of you with an eye on the clock, yes, we've
noticed it too and AWA officials, as I speak, are working out a deal
with WKIK to present this show in full even if we go over our three
hour time slot.  As soon as that's official, we'll let you know.

BW:  Is it time?  Is it time?

GM:  For what?

BW:  To see the National Champion in action.

GM:  I know you think Marcus Broussard is going to be the National
Champion but he's got a long road in front of him if he wants to win
that title.  He's gotta get through Ron Houston who is _dying_ to take
his head off.  Then he's gotta get past Rick Marley.  And if he
manages to do both of those things?  Either Mark Shaw or Tumaffi will
be waiting for him in the Finals.  The odds are long against Mr.
Broussard, Bucky.

BW:  Never tell me the odds.

[The shot pulls out a bit, revealing Adam Rogers standing right next to
the announcers in a dress suit.]

GM:  And at this time, I'd like to welcome former World Champion, "The
Natural" Adam Rogers to our announce table as he will be joining us on
commentary for this match.  Welcome to Memorial Day Mayhem, Adam.

AR:  Thank you, Gordon.Ê I'm definitely glad to be here and I'm very
much looking forward to this match.Ê Thanks for letting me sit here and
talk about it with you guys.

GM:  Obviously, you have quite the history with one of the participants
in our next match, Marcus Broussard.  Bucky Wilde has picked Broussard
to not only win this match but also the National Title later tonight. 
Your thoughts?

AR:  Well, Gordon, I've spent a lot of time around Marcus in the past
and even two years ago, you just knew the kid was destined for great
things.Ê He's been on quite a roll here in the AWA in the ring, despite
his methods of getting there, and it's hard to deny his raw talent.Ê
That said, winning three matches in one night is incredibly difficult.Ê
I was able to do it back in the EMWC a few years ago and it took
everything I had and then some.Ê Marcus is definitely one of the
favorites but he can't expend too much energy in this match with Ron
Houston or his tank may hit empty before the finals.

GM:  Very interesting.  Fans, let's go up to the ring for our final
first round matchup.

[Cut to the ring where Melissa is standing.]

MC:  The following contest is scheduled for one fall with a fifteen
minute time limit and is the final first round match in the National
Title tournament.  The winner of this match will meet "Showtime" Rick
Marley in the second round.

Introducing first...

["Super Bon Bon" by Soul Coughing plays in the Fort Worth Convention
Center, and the crowd nearly jumps out of their seat to jeer the San
Jose Shark.]

MC:  Standing 6'3 and weighing in at 252 pounds... from San Jose,
California and being accompanied to the ring by the Super Ninja... he is
the San Jose Shark...

MARCUS BROUUUUUSSARRRRD!

[Marcus Broussard makes his way onto the scene and waits for the Super
Ninja to come out, nodding to him and then turning to the crowd.
Broussard is clean shaven with sandy blonde hair, and is wearing a nice
little matching ensemble of blue wrestling tights with a shark drawn on
the backside in gold, blue knee pads and boots, with gold tassles. He
also wears a white button up ring jacket that he's left open.]

BW: There he is Gordo, the favorite to take it all home! Marcus
Broussard has been waiting a long time for this chance, daddy, and he
says he's bringing it home!

GM: And you believe every word he says?

BW: If Marcus Broussard says a rooster can tow a dump truck, then you
better hook it up, brother. The man ain't never told a lie.

AR:  Marcus always told it like it was.Ê Whether or not you like the way
he handles himself, you always know what he's thinking.

[Broussard wastes little time getting to the ring and ditching the ring
jacket, and then has a quick conversation with Super Ninja as he waits
for his opponent to reach the ring.]

MC:  And his opponent...

[The haunting piano of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" begins to play.]

MC:  From Athens, Georgia... standing 6'7 and weighing in at 286
pounds... he is the Athens Georgia Madman...

RON HOUUUUUSTON!

[The imposing figure of Ron Houston steps through the curtains. Clad in
a full length tan trench coat with the Confederate Flag seamed into the
back, his black wrestling tights, elbow pads, knee pads, and boots
underneath.]

GM:  He was the first man to qualify for this tournament thanks to his
victory in the 30 Man Rumble - eliminating Marcus Broussard to win that
match.  At the time, he seemed like the early favorite to win this
tournament - but the shoulder injury suffered at the hands of the San
Jose Shark has seemed to make him a longshot.  

BW:  That's right, daddy.  In fact, in the fan polling leading up to
tonight, he was far and away in last place.  The fans know it just as
much as I do.  Marcus Broussard is gonna win it all tonight, Gordo!

GM:  Adam, your thoughts on Ron Houston?

[Houston raises his large fists in the air as he begins to march down
towards the ring. He reaches ringside and and leers at the audience
around him... embracing their warmth. His eyes measure the ring where
the San Jose Shark is standing and waiting. 

But Houston makes a quick turn, facing the announce table.]

GM:  Uh oh.  I think... err, I'm pretty sure that Ron Houston is looking
right at you, Adam.

BW:  You got a problem with Houston you didn't share with the rest of
the class, daddy?

AR:  The first time I saw the man was when Marcus had him in bad shape a
few weeks ago.

[The camera pulls within "earshot" as the Athens, Georgia Madman leans
his massive frame over the table, his stubble laden face  barely a few
inches from that of Adam Rogers.]

RH: Ah want ta make somethin' _crystal_ clear for ya, Rogers...

[Houston's pearly whites clench together as the two men's eyes lock,
neither giving an inch.]

RH:  .. there's a difference 'tween makin' somethin' yer business..

.. and it actually bein' yer business.

[Houston backs up slightly, his lumbering frame returning to an upright
position.]

RH:  So if ya get any ideas tonight.. if ya get the notion that steppin'
out from behind this table and into this here ring is a _good idea_.. if
ya think fer a minute, a second, a fraction of a moment, a split second
in time, that ya in a single solitary way belong in this ring...

[Houston pulls his tan trench coat off and allows it to hit the floor
behind him. His face grimacing in pain as he rotates his left shoulder
hoping to relieve the tension in the joints.]

RH:  .. Then rest in the comfort of knowing that we won't have met for
the last time, amigo.

[Houston turns his back to the announcer's table decisively, his massive
back all that remains visible as he utters one final line.]

RH:  Ah promise ya that.

[And with that, Houston shoves the cameraman aside, diving headfirst
under the bottom rope.  The San Jose Shark charges Houston, hoping to
catch him offguard as the referee calls for the bell.]


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


GM:  Here we go!  Here we go!

[Houston gets to his feet as quickly as possible but is met with a big
right hand from Broussard followed by a quick European uppercut that
knocks Houston back towards the ropes.]

GM:  The Shark has him on the ropes early... 


"WHAAAAAAAAAAAP!"


GM:  Big overhand chop across the chest of Houston!

[Grabbing the right arm, Broussard executes an Irish whip.]

GM:  Houston off the far side... ducks a clothesli-

[The Athens, Georgia Madman slams on the brakes, spinning on his heel
with his left hand pulled back...]

GM:  Broussard turns- PULSE KILLER!

[Houston wildly throws the punch squarely aimed for the cold, black
heart of the San Jose Shark, looking to finish the match...

...but Broussard somehow lunges to the side, avoiding the dangerous
blow, and hooking the thrown arm, trying to leverage it into an armbar
takedown.]

GM:  He's going for the arm already!

AR:  I'd expect nothing less from Marcus.Ê Very focused in that ring.Ê
He enters with a gameplan and always does an excellent job of executing
it.

[Desperate to avoid punishment to the arm, Houston grabs a handful of
Broussard's hair with his right hand...

...and slams him down to the mat with it, drawing the immediately
warning for the hairpull from referee Michael Meekly.]

GM:  Smart counter by Houston - not entirely legal but smart.

BW:  Not _entirely_ legal?  Now who's being biased?

GM:  Well, someone's got to balance you out.

[With Marcus on the mat, Houston starts stomping repeatedly, causing 
Broussard to roll right out to the floor, the Super Ninja immediately by
his side.]

GM:  And we've already got Broussard out on the-

[The crowd roars as Ron Houston steps out to the apron, leaping off with
a right forearm smash across the back of the head that sends Broussard
sprawling on the floor.]

GM:  Houston's out on the floor!  Right after him on the floor!

BW:  Watch the Ninja!

[And Houston wisely does so, spinning to face the Super Ninja with his
left hand cocked back, keeping his left shoulder out of reach from the
mysterious man from the Far East.]

AR: Well, there we go...the Super Ninja could be the x-factor tonight
for Broussard.Ê I don't really see why Marcus needs the guy with him at
ringside, though.Ê He's man enough to handle his own fights without
backup.

BW:  You heard what Marcus said earlier this week - the Super Ninja is
the most dangerous man in the AWA.  More dangerous than Mark Shaw, than
Ron Houston, than Tumaffi even!  The Super Ninja is a force to be
reckoned with, daddy!

[Houston backs away from the silent assassin, reaching down to grab
Broussard...

...and who promptly drives a thumb into the eye of Houston, momentarily
blinding him.]

GM:  Ohhh!  Right to the eyes of Houston!

BW:  You taught him well, Natural!

AR:  I don't think that's something he learned from me.

[Seizing the moment, Broussard grabs Houston by the hair, moving towards
the ringpost.]

GM:  He's gonna put Houston into the post!

[Pulling his opponent's head way back, Broussard aims for the steel
ringpost with it...

...but Houston brings both hands up, grabbing the post and blocking the
attempt!]

GM:  Blocked by Houston!  He got the hands up on the post to block-

[And promptly drives his right elbow back into the gut of Broussard,
grabbing the Shark by the head...

...and _slamming_ it directly into the steel ringpost sending a dull
"THUNK!" through the arena.]

GM:  OHHH!  BROUSSARD'S HEAD TO THE POST!  And just what does something
like that early in the match do to your condition, Adam?

AR:  Depends on how hard the shot is.Ê If it's hard enough, it slows
down your ability to think and react quickly.Ê For a guy like Marcus,
that could be big because he does use his head in the ring a lot.Ê Like
I said earlier, his success is heavily tied to his gameplan and a shot
like that could cause a few gaps in the memory banks.

GM:  Well, Broussard slumped to the floor.  I think the cobwebs are in
his head right now.

[Houston quickly rolls under the ropes to break the ten count, rolling
right back out and pulling Broussard off the floor.]

GM:  Both men still on the floor.  The referee has to restart his ten
count thanks to Houston right there.

AR:  Smart move by Houston.Ê He's got Marcus in trouble and being
outside the ring is to Houston's advantage.Ê Bought himself some more
time on the floor.

GM:  That's exactly right.  Very alert move by Houston.

[Dragging Broussard around the ringside area by the hair, Houston
suddenly stops...

...and hoists Broussard up into the air by the throat with both hands!]

BW:  That's a choke, daddy!  A blatant choke by Houston!  DQ him right
there and now!

[Houston holds him high for a moment, the crowd roaring as Broussard's
eyes bug out...

...and then _hurls_ him in the direction of the ringside barricade,
sending Marcus' spine slamming into the steel!]

GM:  Ohhhh!  Did you hear that?

BW:  I think you could hear that back in the WKIK Studios, daddy!

[The Athens Georgia Madman lifts a big hand in the air, saluting the
cheering fans as he walks away from Broussard...

...and then spins back around, charging towards the San Jose Shark.]

GM:  LAAAAAARIIIIII- OHHHHHH!

[Just before Houston connects with the big running clothesline, the
California native slumps down to the floor, causing Houston to throw his
entire body over the railing and into the front row!]

GM:  Look out down there!  Ron Houston just went sailing over the
barricade - he's in the crowd now.  

BW:  Endangerment of the fans!  DQ!

GM:  Uh oh.  That might have took a lot out of him, Adam.

AR:  That's one of the differences I've seen in these two guys...
focus.Ê You saw right before that, Houston was too concerned with the
crowd and not concerned enough with keeping the pace up.Ê Just like
before the match, there was no reason for him to even think about me...
his sole focus should have been Broussard.Ê It's that lack of focus that
could keep him from winning this tournament.

[A smirking Broussard climbs to his feet, mocking the front row fans as
they try to rally Houston.]

GM:  What a jerk this guy is.  I can see why you want to give him an
attitude adjustment so badly, Adam.

AR:  Well, speaking of focus, Marcus lost his for a bit there.Ê No
reason to give the fans a hard time, Gordon.Ê These people pay our
salaries and deserve respect.

GM:  What's he doing now?

[Reaching over the barricade, Broussard pulls Houston off the floor.  In
the background, we see the Super Ninja hop up on the ring apron,
breaking the referee's count so that his employer doesn't have to.]

BW:  Look at the Ninja.  The Super Ninja breaks the referee's ten count
to protect his boss.  Brilliant!

GM:  Oh no.  Broussard's got the wrist... 

[Grabbing the left wrist, the San Jose Shark lifts it high...

...and then swings it down hard, slamming the left arm into the top of
the steel barricade!]

GM:  OHHHHHH!

BW:  And so it begins.

AR:  Back to the gameplan.Ê You knew it was just a matter of time before
Marcus was able to begin isolating that arm.

GM:  That was a brutal assault on the injured arm.  

[Broussard grabs the arm again, smirking as he raises it high above...

...and slams it down onto the railing again!]

GM:  Oh, come on, referee!  Get some control over this thing!

[The San Jose Shark pulls Houston's head back by the hair, screaming in
his face.]


"SLAAAAAAAAAP!"


GM:  Oh!  He slapped the taste right out of Houston's mouth!

[Broussard slowly saunters away from his injured opponent, receiving a
mouthful of reprimands from the referee who is still standing in the
ring.]

GM:  Broussard is taking his time getting back inside the ring and-

[Clutching his left shoulder, Houston steps over the barricade,
staggering towards the not-looking Shark.]

GM:  Houston's right behind him!  He's right behind Broussard!  I think
that slap might have woken him up!

AR:  Those sorts of things can come back to bite you.Ê Marcus
disrespected Houston with that slap and all it served to do was make the
big man mad.

[With his right hand, Houston reaches out, grabbing Broussard by the
hair which sends the crowd into a roar...

...that quickly dies out as Broussard buries a knee into Houston's gut.]

GM:  Oh!  That'll cut Houston off.  And Broussard rolls him into the
ring.  This match is in the ring for the first time since the opening
seconds.  Broussard rolls in as well, stalking his prey... you know he's
looking for that Fujiwara Armbar.

BW:  That's right, daddy.  Marcus wants to finish this as soon as he
gets the chance.  Just because he could wrestle all night doesn't mean
he wants to!

AR:  Exactly, Bucky.Ê Marcus trains hard and spends a lot of time on
cardio for nights like this, but it's always wise to not burn too much
energy early on.

[As Houston gets to a knee, Broussard approaches from behind, hooking
the left arm and pulling back in an armbar.]

GM:  And there we go... right to work on the left arm and shoulder.

BW:  It's a brilliant strategy.

GM:  I didn't say it wasn't, Bucky.  It's just not very sporting.

BW:  I didn't hear you freaking out when Marley went after City Jack's
knee earlier.

[The camera catches the grimace on Houston's face as Broussard stands
behind him, yanking the shoulder against the grain.]


"FIVE MINUTES HAVE EXPIRED!  TEN MINUTES REMAIN!"


GM:  Wow!  We're already five minutes into this thing and if Broussard's
looking to incorporate some kind of a weardown strategy, he may need to
pick up the pace, Adam.

AR:  That's one adjustment that can be difficult to make in these short
time-limit matches when you're as calculating as Marcus is.Ê You don't
always have enough time to do the damage to the body part you want to,
especially when your opponent does his job at keeping you away from it.

[Apparently thinking the same thing, Broussard pushes down with his
leverage, forcing Houston chestfirst to the mat where he extends the arm
out to the side, pinning it to the canvas.]

GM:  What's he have in mind here, I wonder?  He's got Houston's arm
pinned down to the mat.

[Broussard pushes his body into the air and drives his right knee into
the left shoulder socket of Houston, grinding the knee against the joint
back and forth.]

GM:  Oh my.  Absolutely punishing hold on display by Marcus Broussard
right now.  Really working over the shoulder.

[The San Jose Shark climbs to his feet, still pinning Houston's wrist to
the mat with his left foot...

...and promptly stomps the shoulder joint with his right foot.]

GM:  Ohh!  Give me a break!

BW:  What?  That's the flat of the boot.  It's totally legal, Gordo.

GM:  Perhaps but- 

[Another stomp to the shoulder... and another... draws the jeers of the
fans in a hurry.]

GM:  Broussard repeatedly stomping the shoulder!

AR:  The fans don't like it and I know you're not too keen on it,
Gordon, but what he's doing is completely legal... and smart.

BW:  It's an effective way to do damage to that injured body part in a
hurry.  You said he might need to hurry things up, Gordo, and that's
exactly what he's doing.

[Broussard pleads his case to the referee, still pinning the wrist to
the mat with his left foot...

...and then suddenly leaps up, pulling both feet high and then driving
them both down onto the left shoulder!]

GM:  Ohhh!  Double stomp on the shoulder!

[A smirking Broussard leans on the turnbuckles for a moment, soaking up
the jeers of the crowd before slowly turning back towards his opponent
who has managed to get to his knees...

...and throws a hard right hand to the breadbasket of Broussard as he
approaches!]

GM:  Houston's fighting back!  Right hand to the gut!

[A second right to the body doubles up the San Jose Shark making him
easy victim for a loud uppercut shot that knocks Broussard for a loop,
sending him staggering back into the corner.]

GM:  Broussard got rocked with that uppercut!

BW:  Closed fist, Gordo!  Closed fist!

GM:  Maybe.

[Houston climbs up to his feet, grabbing his injured left shoulder and
rubbing it just before he drives another hard right hand into the side
of Broussard's head, knocking him back into the buckles.]

GM:  Broussard's in the corner...

[Reaching down with his right arm, Houston executes a one-armed Irish
whip that sends Broussard across the ring to the other corner.]

GM:  From corner to corner... and here comes Houston!

[The rampaging Madman throws his body into it, crushing Broussard
against the buckles.]

GM:  AVALANCHE IN THE CORNER!  HE GOT ALL OF THAT!

AR:  Wow, an impressive comeback here by Ron Houston.Ê And we might be
seeing the effects of Marcus's head getting slammed into the ringpost
earlier.Ê His reaction time wasn't quite as good as usual, leaving him
in the corner to take that avalanche.

GM:  Broussard's in trouble for the first time in the match,  Houston
grabs him by the wrist again... another one-armed whip...

[The Rumble winner rampages across the ring again, this time determined
to kick Broussard's head off his shoulders and into the third row...

...but the big boot comes up empty as the Super Ninja deftly hooks the
back of his employer's trunks, yanking him down to the mat.]

GM:  Missed!  The Super Ninj- cradle!

[Broussard pulls Houston down in a schoolboy rollup.]

GM:  ONE!!  TWO!!  TH-

[The crowd breathes a collective sigh of relief as Houston gets the
right shoulder off the mat in time.]

GM:  Very close... very close.  

BW:  Gordo, our broadcast colleague here at the desk tonight is
well-known for having some of the best and tightest cradles in the
business.  And I just bet he taught some of that to Broussard as well,
eh, Adam?

AR:  Well...we did spend some time working on those, yeah.

GM:  Broussard came very close to getting the win with that cradle. 
Houston's going to need to watch out for that in this one.

[Broussard immediately gets back to his feet, catching Houston in a
standing armbar as the big man starts to rise.]

GM:  And right back on the arm.  Broussard definitely is utilizing the
gameplan we all knew he'd be looking for.  Cranking on that left
shoulder, trying to make that left arm basically useless for Ron
Houston.

[The San Jose Shark drags Houston to the ropes, wrapping the left arm
around the top rope...

...and then drives a downward elbow smash across the shoulder joint to
the jeers of the crowd and the warning of the referee as Houston
staggers away.]

GM:  The referee is all over Marcus Broussard but the San Jose Shark is
just ignoring him.

[Approaching Houston from behind, Broussard reaches for the left arm...

...but eats a right haymaker across the cheek that knocks him down to a
knee.]

GM:  Ohh!  Houston caught him with a-

[The crowd _explodes_ as Houston throws himself at Broussard, knocking
him flat to the mat where Houston starts throwing right hands as quickly
as he can.]

GM:  RIGHT HAND!  RIGHT HANDS BY HOUSTON!

[The battering of Houston seems destined to go on forever...

...until the Super Ninja hops up on the apron, a move that causes
Houston to pop up to his feet, taking a wild swing at the masked man
that the Ninja drops off the apron to avoid.

GM:  Ninja drops down off- 

[The crowd roars as Houston reaches over the ropes, grabbing the Ninja
by the hood.]

GM:  He's got him!  Ron Houston's got the Super Ninja!

[The Super Ninja struggles to escape the Athens Georgia Madman's
grasp...

...and the tussle gives Marcus Broussard time to climb to his feet,
racing towards the exposed back of Houston, leaping into the air and
hitting a knee to the upper back that causes Houston to fall over the
ropes, crashing down to the floor on the injured left shoulder!]

GM:  OHHH!  All the way over the ropes to the floor!

AR:  And right on that bad shoulder, too.Ê Tough break for Houston, and
to me it's disappointing because Marcus doesn't need the Super Ninja to
be one of the greats.Ê He's hurting himself by taking away from any
accomplishments that he might get.

GM:  Houston's in trouble for sure now.  Broussard rolls under the
ropes... ohh!  Stomp to the shoulder!  Another!  A third!

[Dropping to his knees, an enraged Broussard just drives his clenched
fist into the shoulder joint over and over.]

GM:  He's snapped!  Broussard has just snapped!

AR:  Marcus always did have a temper.

BW:  I like this side of him!

[Grabbing a double handful of Houston's hair, Broussard slams his face
into the barely-padded floor to the wild booing of the Fort Worth
crowd.]

GM:  That's enough!  Get him off of Ron Houston!

[Broussard sneers at the screaming referee, climbing back to his feet as
he drags Houston up as well.]

GM:  The referee is starting his ten count once again, trying to get
Broussard to bring this back into the ring.

[The San Jose Shark drags Houston over towards the railing again.]

GM:  Oh no.  Not again.

[Grabbing a handful of Houston's hair, Broussard tries to drive his head
into the railing...

...but the powerful Houston blocks it with his hand on the barricade!]

GM:  Blocked!

[Broussard is shocked at the power of Houston blocking with only one
hand...

...and then becomes even more shocked when that right hand is wrapped
around his throat.]

GM:  Look at Broussard!  He can't believe it!  He can't believe that Ron
Houston can keep fighting!

[The San Jose Shark backpedals, Houston's hand wrapped around his
windpipe...

...and with a mighty throw, Broussard slams backfirst into the ring
apron, staggering away towards a waiting Houston.]

GM:  HOUSTON PICKS HIM UP!

BW:  No!  Not a powerslam on the floor!

[The Athens Georgia Madman, Broussard draped over his shoulder in
powerslam position, turns towards the ringpost, pointing towards it...

...and charges!]

BW:  NOOOOOOO!

[The crowd gasps in unison as Houston charges at top speed, _driving_
the skull of Marcus Broussard into the solid steel ringpost which sends
a sickening thud through the entire arena as Broussard slumps to the
floor, Houston clinging to the apron to stay on his feet.]

GM:  GOOD HEAVENS!

AR:  Amazing that Ron Houston had the energy and strength to pull off a
move like that after the punishment he's taken.Ê Very impressive.

GM:  Broussard's skull was driven into the ringpost!  Absolutely
sickening thud... did you hear it, Bucky?

BW:  I think I'm gonna be sick, daddy.

[Broussard rolls over onto his back, the camera zooming in to catch a
solid stream of blood pouring from a large wound on his head.]

GM:  Broussard's been busted wide open!  Ron Houston split the head of
the San Jose Shark like a melon!


"TEN MINUTES HAVE EXPIRED!  FIVE MINUTES REMAIN!"


GM:  We're down to five minutes!  Five minutes left in the time limit in
the final match of the first round.

BW:  And that flying jumping bean Marley is backstage _praying_ for a
draw.  

GM:  You could be right.  A draw here puts "Showtime" Rick Marley
directly into the Finals against either Mark Shaw or Tumaffi!

[Houston pulls the now badly-bleeding Broussard off the floor, firing
him under the ropes into the ring before rolling under the ropes
himself.]

GM:  Both men back in.  You know they both heard the announcement.  Less
than 300 seconds left to win this match and move on in the National
Title Tournament.

[The Athens Georgia Madman immediately drops into a lateral press,
reaching back with his right arm to cradle a leg.]

GM:  This could be it.  One!  Two!  Thr-

[The crowd roars in disappointment as Broussard slips out just before
the three count comes down.]

GM:  The San Jose Shark gets the shoulder up just before the three
count!

AR:  Wow, that was really close.Ê This place would have gone nuts had
Houston scored the fall right there.

[A frustrated Houston pushes up to a knee, grabbing a handful of
Broussard's hair and driving right hand after right hand after right
hand into the bloodied forehad.]

GM:  Good heavens!

[Houston violently shoves Broussard back down to the mat, covering
again.]

GM:  One!  Two!  Thr-  shoulder up again!

BW:  Look at the resilience of Marcus Broussard!

AR:  Not one bit surprising, either.Ê The only question is, will the
blows to the head plus the blood loss be too much for him?

[The Athens Georgia Madman slowly gets up to his feet, reaching down to
drag a barely-moving Broussard up to his feet, shoving him back against
the ropes.]


"FOUR MINUTES REMAIN!  FOUR MINUTES!"


[Houston moves over to the ropes, leaning down.]

GM:  HE'S BITING HIM!  HE'S BITING THE CUT ON BROUSSARD!

[The crowd reacts with disgust as Houston pulls his head up, spitting a
smattering of blood on the canvas before yanking Broussard into a side
headlock.]

GM:  Is he- BULLDOG!

[Houston stampedes away from the ropes, leaping into the air, and
_driving_ the bloodied Broussard facefirst into the canvas, leaving a
bloody faceprint behind!]

GM:  He got all of that!

AR:  This may be it right here!

GM:  He flips Marcus over... a cover!

[The referee dives to the canvas as Houston hooks a leg again.]

GM:  ONE!!  TWO!!  THRE-


"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


GM:  So close!  So very close right there!

[Frustrated, Houston shakes his head as he drags himself back to his
feet, pulling Broussard off the mat...

...and right into a front facelock.]

GM:  He's going for-

BW:  NINJA!

[The Super Ninja leaps up to the apron, desperate to prevent Houston
from spiking his employer's head to the mat with a DDT.]

GM:  The Super Ninja is trying to distract Ron Houston!

AR:  He's doing his job... but I don't like the job he's doing.

GM:  Houston's looking at the Ninja, trying to get the ref to-

[Broussard suddenly shoves Houston off, towards the Ninja...

...giving Houston the element of surprise to lash out with his right
arm, catching the Super Ninja squarely across the face with a lariat
that sends the Ninja sailing off the apron to the floor!  The crowd
ERUPTS!]

GM:  DOWN GOES THE NINJA!  DOWN GOES THE NINJA!


"THREE MINUTES REMAIN!  THREE MINUTES!"


GM:  Down to three minutes!

[Houston staggers away from the ropes, towards the kneeling Broussard.]

GM:  The Athens Georgia Madman reaches down to grab-

[The San Jose Shark springs the trap, reaching up to hook the head and
pulling Houston into an inside cradle.]

GM:  ONE!!!  TWO!!!  THREE!!

[The crowd deflates... but the referee springs up with two fingers held
up, gesturing that Houston got the shoulder up just _barely_.]

GM:  He got the shoulder up?  Ron Houston got the shoulder up!

BW:  No, no, no!  That was a three count!

GM:  Marcus Broussard was a millisecond away from moving on in this
tournament.  He can't believe it.  He's pleading with the referee,
almost begging him to change his mind.

[A tired Ron Houston climbs to a knee as Broussard gets to his feet,
blood pouring from the wound on his forehead as he moves in on
Houston...

...and gets a hard right hand to the side of the face!]

GM:  Ohh!  Houston caught him with a right!  He's back up to his feet
now.  

[The big man from Georgia staggers towards the stunned Broussard,
winding up his right arm...

...which allows a quicker Broussard to reach out to grab the left arm,
tucking it under his armpit as he attempt to push Houston down to the
mat!]

GM:  FUJIWARA!  HE'S GOING FOR THE ARMBAR!

AR:  He learned this move from the best, Gordon.Ê If Marcus locks it on,
there will be no escape for Ron Houston.

BW:  If he gets this locked in, it's over!  They're in the middle of the
ring, Gordo!

GM:  He's trying to get Houston off his feet... trying to push him down 
to the mat where he can crank back on that injured shoulder!


"TWO MINUTES!  TWO MINUTES REMAIN!"


GM:  They're down to two minutes!  Two minutes left in the time limit. 
One of these two men need to come up with something big to finish the
other off in time!

BW:  Damn you, Rick Marley!  You've been touched by an angel, daddy!

AR:

GM:  Broussard can't get him down!  He can't get him off his feet!

[And suddenly, Ron Houston pivots his body enough to get his right arm
under Broussard, hoisting him into the air...

...and then collapsing down to the mat with him in a huge sitout
spinebuster!]

GM:  OHHHH!  SPINEBUSTER!  SPINEBUSTER BY HOUSTON!

[A dazed Houston is unable to take advantage of the move though, both
men lying motionless on the canvas.]

GM:  Both men are down!  Both men are out!

AR:  What a counter by Houston!

BW:  Please don't let the match end like this!  Don't let Rick Marley
get a bye to the Finals!

GM:  The referee is checking on both men.  He's going to start a double
count on both of these men.  I don't know... can they get up in time?


"ONE!"


"TWO!"



"THREE!"


[The referee pauses, checking both men again before continuing.]


"FOUR!"





"FIVE!"




"SIX!"

[At the count of six, the bloodied Broussard rolls to his stomach,
slipping his arms underneath himself.]

"SEVEN!"




"EIGHT!"

[The crowd _roars_ as Ron Houston sits up!]

GM:  He's up!  He's up!  That'll break the count.


"ONE MINUTE!  ONE MINUTE REMAINS!"


[The crowd grows louder as the two men start moving faster, trying to
somehow beat the clock.]

GM:  Houston to a knee... Broussard's on his feet!

[The San Jose Shark moves quickly across the ring, reaching up to wipe
the blood from his eyes as he approaches a dazed Ron Houston who, for
some reason, tries to throw a left hand...

...and gets his arm caught by Marcus Broussard who once again, tries to
leverage him the rest of the way down to the mat.]

GM:  Broussard's trying to get the Fujiwara again!  He's got Houston
kneeling so the leverage is to his advantage - does he have time to get
it on and get the submission though?


"40 SECONDS!"


GM:  I don't know if he has enough time, guys.  I just don't-

[The crowd _erupts_ as Houston swings his body around away from the
pressure...

...and hoists Broussard up in a fireman's carry, standing up in the
middle of the ring with the San Jose Shark draped across his shoulders!]

GM:  HE'S GOT HIM UP!  HE'S GOT HIM UP!

AR:  Uh oh... if he hits the Fade To Black, Houston's going to the
semis!

BW:  NO!  GET OUT, MARCUS!

[With the roaring crowd cheering him on, looking for the Fade To Black
that will send Ron Houston to the next round of the tournament, he
starts to spin...]


"20 SECONDS!"


[But as he attempts to swing Broussard out into the Fade To Black,
Broussard counters, landing on his feet and hooking the injured left arm
again...]

GM:  FUJIWAR- NO!  HOUSTON'S BLOCKING IT!  RON HOUSTON IS BLOCKING
THE FUJIWARA!

AR:  HE DOESN'T HAVE TIME FOR IT!Ê IT'S PINFALL OR NOTHING NOW!


"10 SECONDS!"


GM:  HE CAN'T GET HOUSTON DOWN!  HE CAN'T GET-


"NINE!"


[The crowd explodes as Ron Houston executes the same counter as before,
spinning away from the pressure and muscling Broussard up onto his broad
shoulders for the Fade To Black.]


"EIGHT!"


GM:  HOUSTON!  HE'S GOTTA GO QUICK!


"SEVEN!"


[And quick he attempts to go, throwing a quick spin...]


"SIX!"


[Houston spins as quickly as possible, going halfway around...]


"FIVE"!


[Then the rest of the way...]


"FOUR!"


[But as he attempts to spin Broussard off his shoulders, his left arm
gives way, causing him to lose his balance...

...and get pulled down to the canvas in a crucifix by the San Jose
Shark!]


"THREE!"


GM:  CRUCIFIX!  ONE!!


"TWO!"


GM:  TWO!


"ONE!"


GM:  THREE!


"DING!  DING!  DING!"

[The crowd erupts in a confused buzz as the referee looks at the time
keeper with puzzlement and the time keeper returns the blank stare.]

GM:  Did he get him?  I don't know if he got him.

BW:  He did!  He did!  Marcus Broussard is going to the next round!

AR:  In all my years in the business, I don't think I've _ever_ seen a
finish this close!

GM:  I'm not sure.  He got a three count but did the time limit expire
before he got it.  I don't know.

[The referee quickly rolls to the floor, consulting with the official
time keeper.]

GM:  They're discussing the situation.  Broussard thinks he's won it but
I'm just not- 

BW:  You're not!  I am!  Broussard has won it!  I guarantee it!

[After a few more moments, the referee and timekeeper nod, turning to
Melissa Cannon.]

MC:  Ladies and gentlemen... after further review... the referee has
made a decision.  After 15 minutes of action, the time limit has indeed
expired.

[The crowd boos wildly.]

MC:  However...

The referee has ruled that before the time limit expired, a pinfall did
occur.  Therefore, your winner of the match, advancing to face Rick
Marley in the second round...

MARCUS BROUSSARD!

[The fans boo once again as a bloodied Broussard and a dazed Super Ninja
make their way through the crowd back up the aisle towards the locker
room leaving a disappointed Ron Houston sitting in the ring.]

GM:  Marcus Broussard squeaks out a win just before the time limit
expired - they went 15 hard minutes but the San Jose Shark squeaked out
a win and is heading to the second round of the tournament.  I want to
thank you for joining us out here, Adam.

AR:  It was my pleasure.  I just wish we could have seen a different
outcome.

BW:  I bet you do.  It's going to be the same outcome when you finally
square off with the Shark one on one, Rogers.

AR:  You know, Bucky, one of these days, you're going to say the wrong
thing to the wrong person.

GM:  We can almost guarantee that.  Fans, don't go away, we'll be right
back!

[Our camera holds a shot of a disappointed Ron Houston still arguing
with the referee as we fade to black...

...and then fade back up on a screen with the AWA logo splashed across
the top with a "Live Events Schedule" graphic underneath.  The
backdrop is some generic space photograph showing the moon and some
stars.]

"Join all the stars of the American Wrestling Alliance as they come to
your town!"

"On May 25th, the AWA invades the Arena Theatre in Houston, Texas for a
Non-Televised Live Event and then the next afternoon in San Antonio for
a very special daytime show on Memorial Day at the Freeman Coliseum.

Join us on tour in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, Little Rock, Arkansas, and
New Orleans, Louisiana as well.  Check the AWA website or
Ticketmaster.com now for all the details!"

[The graphic changes back to the original AWA logo and "Live Events
Schedule" showing a smaller version of the announced shows.]

"The AWA - the Major League of Professional Wrestling!  Don't miss it
when it comes to your town!"

[And we fade away from the graphic...

...and back up on the ringside area where Gordon Myers and Bucky Wilde
are standing.]

GM:  Welcome back, fans - and what an exciting match we just witnessed.

BW:  Exciting, sure.  But as I predicted, Marcus Broussard wins the
match.  Marcus Broussard advances in the tournament.  And before this
night is over, Marcus Broussard wins the National Championship!  Count
on it, daddy!

GM:  So, we have reached the official halfway point in our show.  Five
matches down, five matches to go.  We've got the semifinals and finals
of our National Title Tournament plus two big tag team matches still to
come.  In fact, one of those big tag team matches is next as we see the
team of Stevie Scott and Calisto Dufresne take on City Jack and Tin Can
Rust, Kentucky's Pride.

BW:  I wouldn't be so sure about that.

GM:  What do you mean?

BW:  Buzz coming from the locker room says that someone is injured and
out of the match.

GM:  What?  Who?

BW:  Not sure.  I guess we'll find out together.

GM:  These two teams have been waiting to get their hands on each other
- albeit separately - for a long while now.  Let's go up to Melissa for
what should be one heck of a fight!

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

MC:  The following tag team contest is scheduled for one fall with a
twenty minute time limit.  Introducing first...

HSS: It's tiiiiiiiiime for Steviiiiiiietaiiinmeeeent!

[The supra-loud lead guitar of Nigel Tufnel blasts over the P.A.,
followed by the other lead guitar from David St. Hubbins.]

MC:  Standing 5'11 and weighing in at 228 pounds... from St. Louis,
Missouri...

"HOTSHOT" STEEEEEEEVIE SCOTT!

[The boos immediately fire up, and leaping into the entrance portal,
striking his Superman Pose (tm) is none other than the innovator of
Stevietainment, the purveyor of all that is silly...

"Hotshot" Stevie Scott.

Errrr.  Maybe?]

GM:  Wait a second.

BW:  Here he is, Gordo!  Stevietainment has come to Fort Worth, Texas!  

GM:  Are you sure about that?

BW:  Of course I am!  He's finally gonna compete here tonight!

[The camera zooms in on the entranceway to reveal Stevie Scott... sorta.
 Let's run it down for ya.  

Stevie's full-length tights with flames airbrushed down the outside of
each leg?  Check - but they seem a little baggy.

Spinal Tap entrance music?  Check.

Yellow and orange "flaming" mask?  Chec- wait a second!]

GM:  If this is Stevie Scott, why is he wearing a mask, Bucky Wilde?

BW:  I told you someone was hurt!  Stevie's face got hurt when that big
goof Clayton Shaw hit him with the flagpole!  He's gotta wear this mask
for protection.

[The alleged "Hotshot" sprints out of the back at top speed, racing
through the sea of fans on the floor of the Convention Center towards
the ring.  He pulls up to a stop next to the announce table - taking
quick, short breaths as he arrives.] 

HSS: GordoyouandthepeopleprobablywonderwhatI'mdoingwearingthismask!

GM: That among other things, yes.

["Stevie" pauses, looking around very quickly, his chest collapsing and
expanding rapidly.]

HSS: WellIgothitinthefacewhenSteviewascarryingtheRussianflag!Ê
Andithurtsprettybad!

[Breathe, "Stevie", breathe.]

HSS:SoinordertohelpavoidanyfurtherdamageI'mwearingthismaskforprotection!

GM: You're claiming to be Stevie Scott, correct?

HSS: That'sright!

GM: I don't know who you really are, but you are good three inches
shorter and I've never heard Stevie Scott talk this fast.

HSS:
Wellthat'sbecauseIdrankabunchofRedBullbeforethismatchforenergyandstuff,
baby!Ê Stevie'sfeelinggood!Ê Whooooooo!

[Before Myers can continue the interrogation, "Stevie" sprints off
toward the ring.]

GM:  If that's Stevie Scott, I'm Mrs. Tumaffi!

BW:  What are you talking about, Gordo?

GM:  Did you hear Melissa?  She said 5'11 and 228!  This guy is 5'8 and
a buck eight-five... maybe!  That is not Stevie Scott, Bucky!  Stevie
Scott is trying to pull a fast one to get out of this match!  He's
trying to get out of facing Tin Can Rust AGAIN!

["Stevie Scott" leaps up on the midbuckle, raising his scrawny
pipecleaner arms to the boos of the crowd.]

GM:  Unbelievable.  Absolutely unbelievable.

["Stevie" jumps down, lifting a hand for Melissa to high five...

...who pretends not to see him as she raises her mic.]

MC:  And his tag tea-

[But before Melissa can continue her introductions, the crowd bursts
into cheers as a totally irate Tin Can Rust tears through the entrance
curtain, heading towards the ring.

A few feet behind him, walking with a noticeable limp, is City Jack,
fresh off being eliminated from the National Title Tournament.]

GM:  Kentucky's Pride is in the building!  And they do not look happy,
Bucky!

BW:  Hey now - Calisto Dufresne isn't even out here yet!

[The crowd grows louder as the two men get closer to the ring and then
absolutely explode as Tin Can Rust slides under the bottom rope, getting
to his feet and heading straight for "Stevie Scott" as the bell rings to
start the match, Melissa Cannon fleeing the scene.]

GM:  This one is off and runnin'!

[With the bell still ringing, Tin Can Rust catches a surprised "Stevie"
with a big haymaker that knocks the 185 pounder off his feet to the mat
where he immediately tries to crawl from the ring...

...only to get caught by the back of the trunks by Tin Can Rust who
drags "Stevie" back into the ring.]

GM:  Not tonight!  This guy, whoever he is, is gonna have to cover the
check that Stevie Scott's been writing for weeks!

[Outside the ring, City Jack stands on the ring apron...

...and is completely unaware that Calisto Dufresne is sneaking up behind
him, on his way from the locker room.]

GM:  Jack!  Look out!

BW:  He doesn't see him at all, Gordo!

[The former PWR Pacific Champion grabs City Jack by the leg, yanking
hard on the injured limb to pull Jack down off the apron where he
immediately starts stomping on the injured knee!]

GM:  Oh, come on!  Referee!

[Referee Mickey Meekly is on the other side of the ring where Tin Can
Rust has managed to corner the faux Stevie Scott and is standing on the
middle rope, raining down blows to the head.]

GM:  The referee doesn't know what's going on - neither does Tin Can
Rust!

[Dufresne grabs the injured leg, lifting it high in the air...

...and then slams it down over the steel steps, causing City Jack to cry
out in pain.]

GM:  Dufresne's going right after the knee that Rick Marley did as well
- at presumably Dufresne's suggestion!

BW:  Are we back to that whole conspiracy theory?

GM:  I don't know - but Rick Marley benefitted from Calisto Dufresne
being at ringside for his match and now Dufresne is benefitting from the
damage Rick Marley did _during_ that match.  It seems awfully
coincedental.

[Out on the floor, Dufresne ties up the leg, dropping down to the
concrete with a figure four leglock.]

GM:  Figure four!  Figure four leglock out on the concrete floor!

[Inside the ring, Tin Can Rust drops down off the midbuckle, turning
back to the other side of the ring with a whoop of triumph...

...and doesn't see his partner.]

GM:  Rust!  Rust, he's on the floor!

[Confused, Tin Can Rust starts to walk across the ring, the crowd
imploring him with every step.]

GM:  Hurry up, Rust!  

[The 22 year veteran moves as quickly as his aging body will carry him,
finally reaching the apron and spotting the assaulting Dufresne.  Rust
drops down to the mat, rolling under the ring where he dives onto
Dufresne, pummeling him with right hands.]

GM:  Yeah!  Yeah!  Get 'im, Rust!

BW:  Get him off of Calisto!  The Ladykiller's being doubleteamed!

GM:  Doublete- unbelievable!

[Dufresne pulls out of the figure four, rolling away from the attacking
Tin Can Rust who keeps up the assault until Dufresne jabs a thumb into
his eye.]

GM:  Ohh!  Dufresne thumbed him in the eye!

[And with Tin Can Rust blinded, Dufresne grabs him by the short brown
hair...

...and slams his face into the ring apron!]

GM:  Come on!  The referee needs to get some control over this!

BW:  He's out on the floor trying to help with City Jack!  What else do
you want him to do?

[The Ladykiller rolls Rust under the ropes into the ring, sliding in
like a snake behind him.  Dufresne quickly helps "Stevie" out of the
corner and the two men begin stomping Tin Can Rust into the canvas.]

GM:  Look at this attack inside the ring!  These two are bunch of
backjumpin' snakes!  Dufresne attacked City Jack for the second time
tonight and now they're doubleteaming Tin Can Rust!

BW:  Good teamwork, huh?

GM:  Would you stop?

[Dufresne pulls Rust up to his knees, pulling his arms back behind him
as "Stevie"  throws left hands into the side of the head.]

GM:  This is terrible!

[Outside the ring, several AWA officials can be seen helping City Jack
to his feet...

...and despite his protests, walking him back up the aisle towards the
locker room.]

GM:  No!  They're taking City Jack back to the locker room.  That knee
must be in seriously bad condition to go that far - and that leaves Tin
Can Rust out here as the victim of a two-on-one attack!

BW:  Not for long.  The referee is trying to get one of them out of the
ring.

GM:  Nonetheless, with City Jack in the locker room, this has just
turned into a handicap match, Bucky!

["Stevie Scott" happily leaves the ring as Dufresne delivers a few more
stomps to the downed Tin Can Rust.]

GM:  The Ladykiller, Calisto Dufresne, is stomping the life right out of
Tin Can Rust in the early moments of this match.  This has been chaos
since the opening bell - heck, since _before_ the opening bell actually!
 Rust crawls to the corner - but his partner is not there.

[A mocking Dufresne grabs Rust by the arm, swinging his hand upwards to
where City Jack would normally be.]


"Tag him in, big guy!  Bring in the fat slob!"


[A hard slap across the face by the Ladykiller seems to wake up Tin Can
Rust as he throws a right hand to the gut from his knees...

...and then tucks his head under Dufresne's chin, dropping back down to
his knee with a modified jawbreaker!]

GM:  Oh yeah!  The crowd liked that one!

BW:  Yeah, it's all sorts of spiffy-like but there's still no one for
him to tag, Gordo.

GM:  Rust on his feet in the corner... waving for Dufresne to turn
around...

[And as an injured Ladykiller slowly turns...

...he gets knocked flat with a running clothesline from the big man from
Central City, Kentucky to the cheers of the crowd!]

GM:  Down goes Dufresne again and-

[The crowd roars as Tin Can Rust spins around and knocks "Stevie Scott"
clear off the apron with a big right hand, sending him sailing all the
way down to the floor!]

GM:  And down goes... I don't even know what to call that guy.

BW:  Man, you _are_ getting senile!  That's Stevie Scott, remember?

GM:  It certainly is not Stevie Scott.

[With the crowd cheering him on, Tin Can Rust balls up his fist and
slowly approaches Dufresne who is huddled in the corner, trying to
recover.]

GM:  Rust grabs Dufresne... big whip across the ring...

[The Ladykiller slams hard into the buckles, bouncing off and down to
the mat as Rust nods his head, pumping his fist in the air to the cheers
of the crowd.]

GM:  Dufresne rolls under the ropes, out to the floor... and Tin Can
Rust is going out there after him!

[The much-slower Rust steps out on the apron, measuring the dazed
Dufresne...

...and flooring him again with a falling forearm smash off the apron
over the head of the Ladykiller.]

GM:  Tin Can Rust is in complete control on Calisto Dufresne right now. 
Just tossing him around at will.  

BW:  It can't last forever, daddy!  Where did Stevie go?

[A quick look around the ringside area does make it seem like "Stevie
Scott" managed to vanish.]

GM:  Good!  Maybe now it'll be a one on one.  But I'm sure Tin Can Rust
is furious.  He wanted to get his hands on Stevie Scott tonight so, so
badly - he's gotta be disappointed.

[Pulling Dufresne off the floor by the hair, Rust hurls him under the
ropes back inside the squared circle.]

GM:  He puts the Ladykiller back in and now he's climb- what the-?!

[Tin Can Rust's attempt to get back into the ring is cut short...

...thanks to a pair of pale white arms coming out from under the ring
apron and firmly wrapped around his leg!]

GM:  That... that impostor is holding onto Rust's leg!  He's keeping him
from getting back into the ring!

[The delay in Tin Can Rust's ascent gives Calisto Dufresne a moment to
hit the far ropes, rebounding back...

...and _driving_ both feet squarely into the face of Tin Can Rust,
knocking him flat on the concrete floor!]

GM:  Ohhh!  Right in the face!

["Stevie Scott" crawls out from under the apron, somehow bodying Tin Can
Rust up onto the apron and shoving him under the ropes to a waiting
Calisto Dufresne who immediately starts stomping the head and neck of
the Kentucky native again.]

GM:  Dufresne goes right back on the attack, stomping Rust down on the
mat.  This just isn't fair, Bucky.  What chance does Tin Can Rust have
against two guys?

[Cut to a shot of "Stevie Scott" scampering around the ring, hopping up
on the apron in his corner.]

GM:  Make it one and a half maybe.

BW:  Stevie Scott is all man, daddy!

[Cue awkward silence as Dufresne pulls Tin Can Rust up to a knee,
balling up his fist and driving it right into the left eyebrow of the
veteran.]

GM:  Big right hand - right to the eye.  Oh!  Another one!

[Dufresne pulls Rust off the mat by the hair, dragging him over to the
corner - and immediately wraps his hand around the throat of Rust,
blatantly choking him.]

GM:  Come on, referee - get in there.

[The referee steps in, forcing Dufresne back...

...which of course gives "Stevie" the chance to wrap his entire forearm
around the windpipe, strangling the flailing Tin Can Rust.]

GM:  Oh, give me a break!  Come on, ref!

[But as the referee turns around, he finds a barely-able-to-breathe Tin
Can Rust unmolested in the corner.]

GM:  Dufresne with a hard boot to the gut in the buckles.  The referee's
trying to get him out of there.

BW:  They're just overwhelming Tin Can Rust right now.

[Dragging Rust out of the buckles, Dufresne hooks a front facelock, then
turns it completely over, posing for a moment...

...before dropping down in a hard reverse neckbreaker!]

GM:  Ohh!  Neckbreaker by the Ladykiller!

[Dufresne quickly applies a cover, waving for the ref.]

GM:  One!  Two!  

[But Rust powers out of it, not staying down for the three count.]

GM:  Dufresne can't keep him down for the three count.

[The Ladykiller doesn't look upset though, simply grinning as he slaps
the hand of "Stevie Scott" who promptly scampers up the ropes to the top
rope strand.]

GM:  Stevie Scott hardly ever goes to the top rope - the real Stevie
Scott that is!

BW:  He's been training hard for this match.  A completely new Stevie
Scott is in there, Gordo.

GM:  That's what I'm afraid of.

[The impostor hurls himself off the rope, sailing through the air...

...and dropping his leg across the throat of the downed Rust!]

GM:  Wow!  Big flying legdrop by... whoever this guy is.

BW:  STE-VIE SCOTT!  STE-VIE SCOTT!  STE-VIE SCOTT!

[The masked man applies a lateral press.]

GM:  One!  Two!  Th-

[The crowd grows concerned as Rust has a much harder time kicking out
this time.]

GM:  Tin Can Rust may not have much left in the tank, Bucky.  He's been
in there all by himself, taking punishment from two men.  How much
longer can he survive?

["Stevie" springs to his feet, stomping and kicking at the prone Tin Can
Rust, cutting him off before he has a chance to get off the canvas.]

GM:  Rust needs to get up.  He can't get anything done on his back.

BW:  And on the other side of the coin, Dufresne and Stevie need to keep
him grounded.  They like the way this match is going so far, Gordo.

GM:  I'll bet they do.

["Stevie" drops down to his knees, openly choking Tin Can Rust now.]

GM:  Oh, come on!  It's not enough they have a two on one edge but they
have to resort to these tactics as well?

BW:  Rust should just give up, call it a night.

GM:  Apparently you don't know Tin Can Rust very well.  This man does
not give up.  This man does not say die.

[Breaking the choke, "Stevie" batters Rust with the veteran on his knees
with left hands.]

GM:  This is ridiculous, Bucky.  The referee should have stopped this
match the instant that City Jack was injured - heck, he should've never
started it with this sham going on in there with a fake Stevie Scott!

[The pummeling continues...

...but suddenly, Tin Can Rust seems to be absorbing the blows pretty
well.]

GM:  Wait a second!

BW:  Hit him harder, Stevie!

GM:  That's not Stevie and it doesn't matter!  Tin Can Rust is getting a
second wind!

[The haymakers continue to fly...

...and Tin Can Rust's eyes are wide open, filled with fire as he stands
up off the mat.]

GM:  He's up!  He's up!  Listen to these fans!

["Stevie" promptly reaches up and rakes the eyes of his opponent,
grabbing his arm and whipping him to the ropes.]

GM:  Irish whip... backdr-

[But Tin Can Rust pulls up short, winding up his right hand...

...and popping "Stevie" in the jaw with an uppercut!]

GM:  TIN JAW ROCKER!

[The impact of the blow sends "Stevie" flying through the air, crashing
down on the canvas in a heap...

...which brings Calisto Dufresne charging in.]

GM:  Dufresne!  Ohhh!  He nails Tin Can Rust from behind, knocking him
back down to the mat!

[The crowd boos wildly as Dufresne gets a few more stomps in to the back
of the head before the referee forces him away.]

GM:  Tin Can Rust was rallying and Calisto Dufresne came in illegally to
cut it off.

[Dazed, "Stevie" wobbles towards the corner, slapping the hand of
Calisto Dufresne.]

GM:  There's the tag!

[Dufresne races in, pulling Rust off the mat, shoving him into the
ropes.]

GM:  Rust bounces off the rop- lift!

[The Ladykiller hoists Rust up into the air...

...and then drops him facefirst down to the canvas!]

GM:  Flapjack!  He nailed it!

[Dufresne pops up from the move, flexing for the capacity crowd that boo
him in response.  He toes at the motionless Tin Can Rust on the canvas,
walking over to the Kentucky's Pride corner, leaning against the
turnbuckles.]

GM:  That might be it, Bucky.

BW:  It might be but I don't think Calisto's done with him.  

GM:  He's not going for a cover.  I'm not sure why.

[The Ladykiller smirks at Tin Can Rust who once again is moving, just
slightly, towards his corner.]

GM:  He's gotta know no one's there, Bucky.  That's gotta just be
instinct on his part.  It's gotta be-

[The crowd _erupts_!]

GM:  The crowd is going crazy!  I don't-

[The camera cuts, revealing a riled-up City Jack wading through the
crowd, limping heavily with his knee now heavily taped.]

GM:  CITY JACK!

BW:  No way.  That can't be!

GM:  CITY JACK IS HEADING FOR THE RING!

[Dufresne doesn't even notice the roaring crowd as he claps his hands
mockingly at Tin Can Rust who is now crawling steadily towards the
corner.]

GM:  Dufresne doesn't know he's coming!  City Jack is coming to the ring
and-

[Jack slowly climbs the steel steps, holding a finger to his lips to the
fans as he steps up behind Dufresne who continues to mock Tin Can Rust. 
Across the ring, "Stevie Scott" is losing his mind, gesturing wildly at
Jack.]

GM:  Rust is almost there - almost...

[The 22 year veteran lunges, Dufresne sidestepping to mock...]

GM:  TAG!

[The roof nearly blows off the Ft. Worth Convention Center as City Jack
steps through the ropes...

...and points an accusing finger at Calisto Dufresne, whose eyes are
wider than the Grand Canyon!]

GM:  Dufresne's backing away, begging for mercy... begging for...

[He suddenly rushes forward, trying to catch Jack offguard but the big
man cranks his right arm back...

...and pops Dufresne squarely in the jaw with a Metropill that sends
hims sailing the other direction...

...where he slaps the arm of a surprised "Stevie Scott" before rolling
out of the ring, fleeing the scene of the crime to the jeers of the
fans.]

GM:  Dufresne's running for it!  He's running from it!

BW:  Did he just jump the barricade?

GM:  He's gone!  He's off in the crowd somewhere!

[An irate City Jack grabs "Stevie" by the head and neck, hurling him
over the ropes into the ring...

...and as he scampers to his feet, he too eats a Metropill that sends
him falling back into the ropes.]

GM:  What a shot!  Jack nearly knocked him flat with that one!

[Grabbing him by the arm, Jack whips "Stevie" to the ropes, catching him
as he rebounds...]

GM:  BEARHUG!  THAT'S THE SETUP!

[A tired Tin Can Rust charges in, hitting the ropes, and blasting the
raised "Stevie Scott" with a clothesline just before Jack flops fowards
in the Metroboom!]

GM:  DARK AND BLOODY GROUND!  THEY DRILLED IT!  One!  Two!  Three!


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


[But as soon as the bell rings, the Ladykiller, Calisto Dufresne dives
headfirst under the ropes, popping to his feet...

...and _blasting_ a surprised Tin Can Rust with a right hand that lays
him out completely!]

GM:  OHHH!  The brass knuckles!  He hit him with the brass knuckles!

[The blow crumples Rust to the mat immediately and he quickly rolls to
the floor to avoid further attacks.  Dufresne, on the other hand, races
to get behind City Jack as Jack climbs to his feet...]

GM:  No!  Jack, behind you!  Jack, turn aroun-

[The boos inside the Ft. Worth Convention Center grow louder as suddenly
another figure jumps over the barricade, having sprinted through the
crowd.]

GM:  What the- THAT'S STEVIE SCOTT!

[The _true_ "Hotshot" slides headfirst under the ropes, distracting City
Jack...

...which allows Dufresne to drive his knucks-covered hand into the
ribcage of Jack, knocking him down to the canvas.]

GM:  City Jack is down!

[The crowd boos wildly as Scott and Dufresne stomp and kick at the
downed City Jack.]

BW:  You're witnessing the end of City Jack's career right now, I think,
Gordo!

GM:  We need some help out here!

[Stevie Scott pulls Jack onto his knees, holding his arms behind him as
a gloating Dufresne re-adjusts the knucks on his hand, measuring City
Jack's head.]

GM:  Oh no.  Come on.  Referee, get in there and-

[The crowd roars again...

...although this time, there is a bit of a mixed reaction as the
approaching man dives under the ropes, popping to his feet.]

GM:  It's Rick Marley!  

BW:  Haha!  Now they're _really_ gonna finish off City Jack!

GM:  What do you know, Bucky?  Do you know something?

BW:  I know that City Jack's in a lot of trouble!

[The crowd buzzes as Marley and Dufresne are seen trading words... not
angry words... just words...]

GM:  What's going on here?  What is going to happen with-

[And the buzzing turns to boos as Marley extends his hand...]

GM:  Oh, you've got to be kidding me!  This can't b-

[But just as Dufresne takes a step forward, Marley lashes out with his
right foot, catching Dufresne squarely in the chest.]

GM:  SUPERKICK!  SUPERKICK ON DUFRESNE!

BW:  WHAT?!

GM:  MARLEY WASN'T WITH DUFRESNE!

[A stunned Stevie Scott throws City Jack aside, moving to attack Marley
who drills Scott with a right hand to the face that knocks the "Hotshot"
to the mat...

...and cues another explosion of boos from the locker room.]

GM:  What the- THE RUSSIANS!

[Kolya Sudakov and Vladimir Velikov slide under the bottom rope into the
ring.  Velikov drops the metal chain on the mat as the two man swarm
Rick Marley, knocking him back into the corner where Sudakov and Velikov
batter him relentlessly.]

GM:  Chaos has broken loose at Memorial Day Mayhem!  The Russians have
hit the ring and along with Stevie Scott, they're beating on a man who
has a second round tournament match in just a short amount of time!

[Sudakov drives hard snapping kicks to the body as Velikov and Scott
take turns punching the head of Marley...

...until another roar comes up from the crowd!]

GM:  GREGORSON!  DESPAIR!

[The crowd parts again as the two men rapidly make their way down the
aisle, Despair's head wrapped in tape from the blow to the head earlier
in the night.]

GM:  We knew their war with the Russians wasn't over yet and heeeere
they come!

[Both men dive into the ring, rushing the corner where the Russians are.
 Those four men quickly peel off, trading shots in different parts of
the ring as Stevie Scott continues to batter Rick Marley in the
turnbuckles.]

GM:  We've got a war on our hands!  All over the ring!

[Calisto Dufresne rolls back into the ring, stomping on the fallen City
Jack before he can regain his feet, joining the fray.]

GM:  We've got eight men beating the tar out of one another inside the
ring.  I can't even call any of it - Sudakov and Gregorson, Velikov and
Despair, Scott and Marley, Dufresne and City Jack!

[A hard kick to the ear by Dufresne knocks City Jack under the ropes to
the floor allowing the Ladykiller to return to helping Scott batter
Marley...

...but Despair momentarily floors Velikov, allowing him to tackle
Dufresne down to the mat, battering him with right hands.]

GM:  DUFRESNE IS DOWN!  DESPAIR ON DUFRESNE!

BW:  This is crazy, Gordo!  

[In the corner, Rick Marley has managed to turn the tables on Stevie
Scott and is pasting him with right hands to the face over and over and
over, knocking him down to a seated position on the mat.]

GM:  Marley's got Stevie down on the mat!  

[Backing away across the ring, Marley points at the seated Scott,
bringing a big cheer from the fan, and charges across the ring.]

GM:  MARLEY!

[But before he can leap into the air for the dropkick, a recovering
Vladimir Velikov, his arm wrapped in the metal chain...

...leaps forward, clotheslining the running Marley with the
chain-wrapped arm!]

GM:  OHHHHHH!

[Marley collapses to the canvas instantly, his hands shooting up to his
throat.  A sneering Velikov waves Stevie Scott over to his side as he
pulls Marley off the mat by the hair.]

GM:  What on earth is going on here?

[Outside the ring, the camera catches a shot of "Stevie Scott" running
back and forth between City Jack and Tin Can Rust delivering kicks and
stomps to keep them out of the fray.

Inside the ring, Gregorson is teeing off on the body of Sudakov with
blows to the ribs as his partner batters Calisto Dufresne on the mat.

Just a few feet away, Stevie Scott and Vladimir Velikov double whip
Marley across the ring...

...and stretch the chain out between them, rushing forward.]

GM:  NOOOOO!

[The metal chain strikes Marley in the throat at top velocity, snapping
him backwards and down to the mat where he immediately starts coughing,
struggling for breath as he grabs at his own throat.]

GM:  Oh my heavens.  What have they done?  What have they-

[Quickly wrapping the chain around his fist, Velikov drops a fist down
on the windpipe of Marley, doing further damage as the action all around
them rages on.]

GM:  Somebody get in there!  Somebody needs to stop this right now!

[The ring quickly floods with AWA officials, grabbing, tugging, and
pulling at anyone in sight, trying to get control of the situation.]

GM:  We've got chaos!  We've got anarchy in the middle of the ring! 
Fans, we've gotta take a break!  We'll be right back!

[And with that, we fade away from a shot of Marley clutching his throat,
his face turning bright red...

...and then back up to a shot showing the logos of Pro Wrestling
Revolution, Sin City Wrestling, and Southern Championship Wrestling.]

"From Day One, the American Wrestling Alliance was determined to give
its fans the very best action available.  And on Day One, our video
library is officially open for business!"

[Cut to a closeup of the Sin City Wrestling logo.]

"Check out "High Profile" Darryl Styles on commentary.  See the Upper
Crust in action before they were the Upper Crust!"

[Now to the Southern Championship Wrestling logo.]

"Ricky Royal lit up the rings in SCW before he came to the AWA!  "Stars
and Stripes" Clayton Shaw was a SCW staple as well!"

[And then the PWR logo.]

"See Calisto Dufresne in action!  And don't forget the ever-dangerous
Kolya Sudakov!"

[Cut back to the wide shot of all three logos.]

"Events from all three promotions are available NOW exclusively through
the AWA website via DVD or download!  So, be the first on the block to
be an AWA expert and check out all of this great action today!"

[Fade to black...

...and then back up on the announcers at ringside where order has
apparently been restored.]

GM:  Welcome back, fans - and as you can see, we did manage to get
control of the situation during the commercial break.  However, we do
need to report something very disturbing.  During that break, we saw
Rick Marley being rushed to the back by AWA medical personnel.  He was
having a lot of difficulty breathing and there was some blood coming up
in his coughs.

[Bucky winces.]

GM:  At this time, we do not know if Marley will be able to make his
second round matchup against Marcus Broussard.  If he is not able to
make it, Broussard will, we assume, receive a bye to the finals to meet
either Tumaffi or Mark Shaw.  But I suppose we shall know soon enough. 
Fans, let's go up to the ring for the first semifinal match!

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

MC:  The following contest is scheduled for one fall with a thirty
minute time limit and is a semifinal match in the National Title
Tournament.

[The crowd roars!]

MC:  Introducing first... 

[A single deep bass drum beats... BOOM.  Then again, a little louder.
And again.  With the sound of rain in the background, the drum beats
resound throughout the arena, like the approaching footsteps of some
terrible monster.  Upon their climax, the crackling BOOM of a
thunderbolt is heard over the PA followed by hollow-sounding drumbeats
and reedy-toned woodwinds forming an ominous tune (amongst the
backdrop of the thunderstorm.)]

GM:  Tumaffi defeated Ricky Royal - arguably his arch-rival since Day
One here in the AWA - to advance to the semifinals.  He has been
considered a strong favorite to win this tournament and the National
Title all along.  Can he take another step towards that goal right now?

BW:  And to make things even more interesting for Tumaffi, both men in
the other side of the bracket are _much_ smaller men than him.  You know
he's looking forward to facing either Rick Marley or Marcus Broussard.

[The behemoth form of Tumaffi steps forth from the curtain to a horrific
outpouring of boos.]

MC:  From the Island of Samoa, weighing in at 405 pounds...

TUUUUUUMAFFIIIIIIII!!!

[Clad in a loose flowing black silk robe with a dark-colored floral
design, Tumaffi spreads his arms wide in the middle of the aisle,
soaking up the jeers of the fans before walking the rest of the way
towards the ring.]

GM:  He looks pretty good, Bucky.  No signs of wear.

BW:  It's been quite a while for these guys now.  Tumaffi was in the
second match of the night.  We've had a lot of action since then so he
shouldn't be too worn out.

[Tumaffi rests in the corner, waiting for his opponent as Melissa
continues.]

MC:  And his opponent...

["Go" by Powder blares over the loudspeakers.]

MC:  He hails from Los Angeles, California.  Standing 6'2 and weighing
in at 270 pounds... he is the man known as the Hellion...

MARK SHAAAAAAAW!

[A pretty loud cheer goes up for the Hellion as he pushes the curtain
aside, stepping into the Fort Worth ConventionCenter.  He's dressed
simply, wearing a pair of long black wrestling pants which vanish into a
pair of black boots.]

GM:  Mark Shaw defeated a debuting Kenta Kitzukawa to make it this far
in the tournament - but there's no doubt he's in for a much greater
challenge now.

BW:  That's right, Gordo.  It's one thing to beat the rookie from Japan
whose jet-lagged and never seen you fight before.  It's quite another to
beat a four hundred monster who wants nothing more than to strap that
National Title around his waist.

GM:  Will the belt even _fit_ around his waist?

[Shaw makes his way through the mass of humanity, ignoring all the
outstretched hands before rolling into the ring.  He takes a knee,
glaring at his opponent before settling back into the corner, waiting
for the bell to ring.]

GM:  This should be something else.  I've been looking forward to this
one since Shaw's first rounder earlier tonight.


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


GM:  This match is underwa-

[Shaw immediately barrels across the ring, charging the surprised
Tumaffi, shoving him back into the corner.  The Hellion immediately
steps back, switching to chops.]


"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!"


[The big chop draws groans of "Dear lord, that must've hurt" from all
over the arena - and a second one draws just about as many.]

GM:  Big chops in the corner to start things off for the Hellion.

[Shaw squares his shoulders, driving clubbing forearms to the sides of
Tumaffi's head, swatting him in the ears repeatedly, knocking Tumaffi
down to a knee.]

GM:  He's chopping the big tree down, Bucky!

[The Hellion switches back to the chops, blistering the chest of the big
Samoan with repeated reverse knife-edge chops across the massive
pectorals.]

GM:  Tumaffi is taking a lot of shots from Mark Shaw to start this
match.  The Samoan usually starts off with a burst of offense, trying to
wrap things up quickly.  But not in this one.

BW:  Shaw has just overwhelmed him so far in this one.

[Shaw muscles Tumaffi off his feet, yanking him up by the beefy arm.]

GM:  Big whip by Shaw!  How in the world did he manage that?

[The Hellion drops back against the corner, then sprints across the ring
towards the stunned Tumaffi...

...and connects with a big running clothesline into the corner!]

GM:  The clothesline is on target... Tumaffi staggers out of the
buckles..

[The crowd gasps as the mighty Shaw ducks down, hooking an arm between
the legs as he attempts to hoist Tumaffi off the canvas into the air.]

GM:  He's going for the slam!

[Shaw actually manages to get one foot up in the air off the canvas...

...before Tumaffi brings his left elbow down into the side of Shaw's
head, breaking the grip.]

GM:  He couldn't get him up.  It was a good try though.

BW:  I personally think Shaw's stronger than Ricky Royal.  If anyone
stands a chance to slam him, I think it's Shaw moreso than Royal.

[Grabbing the back of Shaw's head, Tumaffi brings his right knee up...

...and then slams Shaw's face down into the bent knee of Tumaffi as he
stomps down on the canvas.]

GM:  Ohhh!  Face crusher!

[As soon as Shaw hits the mat, Tumaffi cranks his arm up...

...and drops a big elbow down across the chest of the Los Angeles
native, staying draped across him in a pin attempt.]

GM:  That's a cover!  One!  Two!  

[The crowd cheers as Shaw kicks out hard, slipping out from under the
big Samoan.]

GM:  Couldn't keep him down for a three count.

BW:  But it was pretty close off just a big elbowdrop.  Imagine if he'd
gotten the three count there, Gordo.  

[Tumaffi, looking a little weary, simply rolls over to his knees and
wraps his massive paw around the throat of Shaw.]

GM:  Choke!  Blatant choke by Tumaffi!

[The referee starts counting immediately.]

GM:  One!  Two!  Three!  Four!  Fi-

[Tumaffi breaks the choke, sneering at the official...

...and then puts both hands around the throat of the Hellion again,
violently shaking him repeatedly as he throttles.]

GM:  Again with the choke!  The referee is screaming at Tumaffi,
ordering him to break the hold!

[The fans boo as the referee starts the count - once again, getting to
just before the five count before Tumaffi breaks the hold, looking up at
the irate official...

...and simply lying across Shaw again.]

GM:  Another cover - one!  Two! 

[The big powerhouse muscles out again, breaking the pin attempt.  An
angry Tumaffi pushes up to a knee again, shaking his head...

...and driving a big overhand chop down across the ribcage of Shaw!]

GM:   Good heavens!

BW:  Gordo, if I didn't know better, I'd say Tumaffi is trying to
conserve his energy in this one.  He may be a bit more winded from the
match with Royal than we thought.  Chokes, repeated pin attempts -
that's not really the Tumaffi we've come to expect.

GM:  You may be right.  He does look a little sluggish.

[The big Samoan slowly climbs off the canvas, reaching down to pull Shaw
up by the back of the trunks...

...and just slinging him by the trunks into the turnbuckles.]

GM:  Backed into the corner - and that's not where you want to be
against Tumaffi!

[With a bellow, Tumaffi uncorks a heavy chop in the corner.]

GM:  Ohhhh!  What a chop across the chest by Tumaffi!

[Shaw clings to the top rope, trying to stay on his feet after the
impact of the huge chop.]

GM:  The Hellion is barely on his feet after-


"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!"


GM:  He got it again!  Did you hear that, Bucky?

BW:  How could I not?

[Tumaffi leans against Shaw for a moment, breathing deeply as his four
hundred pounds press against the chest of the Hellion.]

GM:  Irish whip by Tumaffi...

[Shaw hits the opposite buckles fairly hard though the impact is not
quite as bad as you might expect.]

GM:  There wasn't a lot on that whip, Bucky.  Tumaffi showing some signs
of fatigue, I believe.

BW:  That's not good.  Not good.

GM:  Here he comes!

[The big Samoan lumbers across the ring, trying to run fast... but
failing for the most part.]

GM:  AVALANCHE!

[The tired Tumaffi takes too long though as Shaw dives aside, causing
the Samoan to slam his injured chest into the turnbuckles!]

GM:  He missed!  Tumaffi missed!

[Seeing an opportunity, Shaw slips in behind Tumaffi, hooking a side
waistlock.]

GM:  He's going for the Backdrop Driver!  

BW:  No chance.  No chance he gets him up.

GM:  If he hits this, it's over!

[Shaw struggles and strains, attempting to get Tumaffi up into the air
for the move that would end the match...

...but a hard elbow driven down to the back of Shaw's head breaks the
lift attempt.]

GM:  Ohh!  He breaks the Backdrop Driver lift!

[Tumaffi spins to the side, grabbing Shaw by the head and driving a
crushing headbutt down into the back of Shaw's skull, causing him to
slump down to his knees.]

GM:  Headbutt!  Good heavens!

[With Shaw kneeling in front of him, Tumaffi throws his arm at him,
connecting with a less-than-stellar lariat but one with enough impact to
put Shaw down on the mat...

...as Tumaffi leaps!]

GM:  POLYNESIAN BURI-


"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


GM:  KNEES UP!  KNEES UP!

BW:  We're less than five minutes into this match and Tumaffi already
went for the Polynesian Burial - you have to wonder just how tired he is
and how desperate he is to finish this fast.  

GM:  Obviously, he didn't do enough to Mark Shaw because the Hellion
managed to get his legs on that big splash.

[But as Tumaffi rolls off, clutching his ribs and chest, Shaw rolls the
other way, grabbing his legs.]

GM:  Uh oh.

BW:  Four hundred pounds is four hundred pounds - whether it lands on
your ribs or legs, it's gonna hurt bad.

GM:  Mark Shaw is grabbing his right knee - that splash obviously did
some damage to both men.  The referee is checking on Shaw, trying to
make sure he can continue.

BW:  Can he even stand?

[The crowd buzzes as Shaw scoots across the ring on his rear, not
getting to his feet as he pushes all the way to a corner where he rubs
the knee, trying to get some feeling back in it.]

GM:  Both men are down on the mat.  Shaw's in the corner, trying to get
some life back in his knee.  On the other side of the ring, Tumaffi is
on his knees, clutching the sternum that he injured during the match
with Royal earlier tonight.

BW:  Tumaffi is the first to his feet though - he's hurtin' for certain,
daddy, but he's movin' in on Shaw.

[Shaw grabs the ropes, pulling himself to his feet in the corner.]

GM:  The big Samoan is moving in on him... Shaw is still shaking that
knee, trying to get some feeling back in it...

[As the Samoan pulls close, Shaw strikes.]

GM:  Big right hand by Mark Shaw!  And another right hand!

[The clenched fists bounce off the skull of Tumaffi, causing the big
Samoan to stagger back...

...and Shaw _hurls_ his body at Tumaffi, throwing his massive arm into a
clothesline!]

GM:  Shaw hits a big clothesline... but Tumaffi is still on his feet! 
He's still standing!

[With the fans roaring, Tumaffi weebles and wobbles, arms flailing in
the air as he tries to keep his balance.]

GM:  Look at Tumaffi!  He's trying to stay on his feet - trying to keep
from toppling over to the mat...

[The Hellion pulls himself up, bouncing off the ropes right behind
him...

...and drilling Tumaffi with another clothesline, this one to the back
of the head!]

GM:  Another big clothesline!  Tumaffi stumbles forward - but my
heavens, he's still on his feet, Bucky!

BW:  It's going to take a lot to knock him down.  More than this goof's
got, daddy!

GM:  Where is Shaw going?

[The Los Angeles native backs to the corner, popping himself up to the
midbuckle.]

GM:  Mark Shaw's on the second rope!  Tumaffi is dazed, staggering
closer and closer to Shaw... 

BW:  Look out, Tumaffi!

GM:  Shaw's measuring him... wincing as he puts his weight on the bad
knee...

[With Tumaffi within range, Shaw hurls himself off the ropes...

...but the bad knee doesn't give him enough force, causing him to just
kinda float towards Tumaffi who snatches him out of the air in a bearhug
type hold.]

GM:  Caught!  Tumaffi caught him!

[The big Samoan pauses, breathing heavily...

...and in one motion, he throws Shaw up into the air, catching the
Hellion across his shoulders, and _driving_ Shaw into the canvas with a
crushing Samoan Drop!]

GM:  OHHHHHHHH!  DID YOU SEE THAT?!  DID YOU _SEE_ THAT?!?

BW:  IT'S OVER, DADDY!  IT'S ALL OVER!

[The exhausted Tumaffi simply slumps back in a sloppy cover.]

GM:  ONE!!!  TWO!!!  THRE-


"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


GM:  SHOULDER UP!  SHAW GOT THE SHOULDER UP!

BW:  No!  No!  No!

GM:  He woulda had him if he'd made a real cover, I think.  The sloppy 
cover allowed Mark Shaw to slip out the back door, avoiding the three
count.

[Tumaffi sits up, slamming a beefy fist into the canvas in anger as he
shoves himself up to his feet.  The Hellion rolls under the ropes out to
the apron.]

GM:  Tumaffi's on his feet... Shaw's out on the apron...

[The big Samoan approaches the ropes, reaching over them to grab Mark
Shaw, yanking him up to his feet...

...and delivering a crushing headbutt that causes Shaw to fall
backwards, hooking the top rope to keep from falling to the concrete
floor.]

GM:  Shaw's hanging on!  He's just barely hanging on!

[Reaching out, Tumaffi pulls Shaw towards the ropes, pulling Shaw's
throat down on the top rope...

...and laying his entire upper body down on the back of Shaw's head and
neck, strangling him on the rope.]

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

[The referee steps over to the ropes, calling for the break.]

GM:  Break the choke, ref!

BW:  He's counting', Gordo.  What more do you want him to do?

GM:  The count's to three... to four...

[Just before the five count, Tumaffi breaks the choke, sneering at the
official...

...and then uncorks a standing side kick to the chest, sending the
Hellion sailing off the apron, crashing down to the concrete floor
below!]

GM:  OHHHHHHHH!  A big kick sends Shaw down to the floor!

[The crowd roars as the Hellion bounces off the solid concrete floor,
down in a heap as Tumaffi steps out on the apron.]

GM:  Where is Tumaffi going now?  He's standing out on the apron,
looking down on Mark Shaw... looking down at the Hellion...

BW:  But he's not getting off the apron.  He's just standing there,
arguing with the referee...

[Reaching back over the ropes, Tumaffi grabs the referee by the shirt,
staring menancingly at him.]

GM:  If he hits the ref, he's out of the tournament!  If he hits the
ref, this is over, Bucky!

BW:  I'd have to imagine it is.

[Tumaffi shoves the official back, not knocking him down, simply trying
to intimidate him as he turns back towards the floor where Mark Shaw is
laid out on the floor, staring at the lights.]

GM:  What is he-

[A big bellow by Tumaffi as he points at Shaw, leaning back against the
ropes.]

GM:  Oh my- he's not!

BW:  I think he is!

GM:  He's gonna splash Mark Shaw off the apron?!

BW:  Somebody call 911 because we're going to need an ambulance in a
hurry!

GM:  If he does this... I can't- I don't even want to imagine what's
going to happen if he does this.  

BW:  Shaw's going to have a bed in the hospital next to Erik Reid -
that's what is going to happen!

[Tumaffi closes his eyes, soaking in the frightened buzz of the Fort
Worth Convention Center crowd...

...when that buzz turns to a hopeful roar!]

GM:  Someone is coming from the back- I can't quite see who-

[The cheers grow louder as the man in question hobbles from the locker
room, ribs heavily taped...

...and a wrestling boot held in his right hand!]

GM:  RICKY ROYAL!  RICKY ROYAL IS ON HIS WAY OUT HERE!

[Moving as quickly as he can, the Ragin' Rebel races around the ring...

...and positions himself squarely between Tumaffi and the Hellion, Mark
Shaw.]

GM:  He's blocking Tumaffi!

BW:  This isn't right!  This isn't fair!

GM:  Ricky Royal has seen enough people sent to the hospital at the
hands of Tumaffi - he'll be DAMNED if he's going to see Mark Shaw carted
out of here on a stretcher!

BW:  Gordo!

GM:  I apologize for my language, fans, but- 

[Royal stands his ground, waving for Tumaffi to jump as he rears back
with the boot, ready to strike at a moment's notice.]

GM:  The referee is yelling for Royal to get out of here.  Tumaffi is
doing the same.  Tumaffi wants no part of Ricky Royal right now.  He
knows if he tangles with Royal, he may lose this match and be out of the
tournament.

BW:  He should get Royal to hit him with the boot!  Shaw would be DQd!

GM:  And I'm sure Royal knows that.  He won't hit Tumaffi unless he has
absolutely no other choice.

[The mighty Tumaffi bellows at Royal, ordering him away from "his
victim" but Royal does not budge, shaking his head in refusal as the
crowd roars to cheer him on.]

GM:  We've got a standoff here!

BW:  And Mark Shaw is getting to his feet... slowly... but he's doing
it.  Ricky Royal bought him enough time to get up off the mat and-

[On his feet, Shaw sizes up the situation...

...and shoves Royal aside, approaching the ring apron, grabbing the
front of Tumaffi's trunks.]

GM:  What the-?

BW:  LOOK OUT!

[With a powerful pull, Shaw yanks Tumaffi off the apron as hard as he
can, causing Tumaffi to sail through the air and land _chestfirst_ on
the barely padded concrete floor!]

GM:  OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

[The crowd goes absolutely crazy as Tumaffi splats on the concrete
floor, his injured chest crashing into the unforgiving floor.  Shaw
pauses for a moment, breathing heavily before rolling under the ropes
into the ring.]

GM:  Shaw's in!  Tumaffi's out!

[The referee quickly assesses the situation...

...and starts the ten count.]

GM:  The ten count is started - and Tumaffi isn't moving!

BW:  No!

GM:  If he gets counted out, he's eliminated, Bucky!

BW:  Don't you think I know that?

GM:  The count is up to three... now to four...

[Grabbing the ropes, the Hellion, Mark Shaw pulls himself off the
canvas, clinging to the ropes to stay on his feet as the count reaches
five.]

GM:  The count is at five... Tumaffi rolls to his back, chest heaving as
he tries to get some air into the huge, huge body.

BW:  This is all Ricky Royal's fault!

GM:  He's just standing there!  He's not doing a thing to stop Tumaffi
from getting up!

BW:  He's the reason Tumaffi's on the floor to begin with!


"TEN MINUTES HAVE EXPIRED!  TWENTY MINUTES REMAIN!"


GM:  Twenty minutes to go - but the referee's count is at seven... now
at eight...

[Tumaffi sits up, quickly moving to a knee...]

BW:  Come on, you big goof!  Move!

GM:  The referee is taking a long look... trying to see if Tumaffi is-
the count's at nine!

[The big Samoan pushes up off the floor, staggering towards the ring,
reaching up to grab the bottom rope...]

BW:  Come on... come on...

[...and then slumps back down to a knee as the referee counts ten.]


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


GM:  It's over!

[The referee raises the arm of a tired Mark Shaw in the corner as the
fans cheer.  Ricky Royal gives a pump of his fist in triumph, staring
dead in the eyes of Tumaffi...

...and then turns to walk back up the aisle through the adoring crowd.]

MC:  In a time of ten minutes and ten seconds, your winner by
countout...

MARRRRRK SHAAAAAAAW!

[The crowd roars again as Shaw lifts his arm in triumph again, slumping
back against the turnbuckles before exiting the ring, making his way up
the aisle before Tumaffi recovers enough to assault him.]

GM:  Mark Shaw is your winner by countout - and he'll now advance to the
Finals to meet either "Showtime" Rick Marley or Marcus Broussard for the
National Championship.

BW:  Tumaffi was robbed.  He was hosed.  He was- this isn't right,
Gordon Myers and you know it!

GM:  A definitely controversial finish to this semifinal match and if
you thought Tumaffi's victory over Ricky Royal earlier tonight was the
end of their war, you were sadly mistaken.  

BW:  That's right, daddy.  Ricky Royal just made himself a marked man in
the eyes of the mammoth Samoan tonight!

GM:  Fans, we mentioned that Mark Shaw will face either Marcus Broussard
or Rick Marley - but the fact of the matter is, we still don't know if
Marley is able to continue here tonight.  Of course, he defeated City
Jack in the first round to advance to the semifinals - but the brutal
assault by the Russians and Stevie Scott had him in very bad shape when
he was being helped to the locker room.

BW:  He's done for, Gordo.  No chance he's coming out here to face the
Shark.  And even if he somehow managed to do it, how long do you really
think he could last inside the ring with Marcus Broussard with that
throat injury?

GM:  I'm- well, we really don't know what's going to happen.  Let's go
up to Melissa and find out.

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

MC:  The following contest is scheduled for one fall with a thirty
minute time limit and is a semifinal match in the tournament to crown a
National Champion.  The winner of this match will meet the Hellion, Mark
Shaw, in the Finals later tonight.

Introducing first...

["Super Bon Bon" by Soul Coughing plays in the Fort Worth Convention
Center, and the crowd nearly jumps out of their seat to jeer the San
Jose Shark.]

MC:  Standing 6'3 and weighing in at 252 pounds... from San Jose,
California and being accompanied to the ring by the Super Ninja... he is
the San Jose Shark...

MARCUS BROUUUUUSSARRRRD!

[Marcus Broussard makes his way onto the scene, his head heavily
bandaged with white gauze that has been stained slightly crimson from
continued bloos loss.  He waits for the Super Ninja to come out, nodding
to him and then turning to the crowd to make his way towards the ring...

...when the mighty and massive Tumaffi strides directly into his path.]

GM:  Uh oh.

BW:  No, no - not him, Tumaffi!  You want Royal!  You want Shaw!  Not
Marcus!

[A look of panic crosses Broussard's face...

...for the moment we see it before the Super Ninja steps in front of his
employer, staring dead in the eyes of the huge Samoan warrior.]

GM:  Now, _this_ might be interesting.

BW:  No, no, no!  Not now!  Marcus needs to focus on his match!

[The Ninja and the Samoan stare each other down, eyeing one another
appraisingly as the crowd roars, eager to see the two bad guys throw
down on one another.]

GM:  We might be getting a bonus match right here, Bucky.

BW:  I don't want a bonus match, Gordo!  My contract doesn't pay me for
it, daddy!

GM:  Give me a break.

[The Ninja holds his ground, ready to strike at the slightest
provocation...

...but apparently Tumaffi decides to fight another day, stepping aside
just slightly to let the Super Ninja and his employer pass unmolested.]

BW:  Whew.  That was a close one.

GM:  Tumaffi is heading to the back, Broussard is heading to the ring. 
And the San Jose Shark may need to change his trunks after that faceoff.

BW:  Very funny, Gordo.  Very funny.

[Broussard quickly moves up the steps, climbing through the ropes.]

GM:  You can see the banadaging on the head of Broussard, courtesy of
the split skull given to him by Ron Houston earlier tonight - the first
time someone has been split open in the AWA.

BW:  You gotta love milestones like that one, daddy!

GM:  Broussard settles back in the corner, not wasting any energy.  A 30
minute time limit in this match - a 60 minute time limit in the Finals. 
Marcus could still have a very long night ahead of him.

BW:  Not if Marley can't compete.

GM:  That would certainly help him out for sure.  We still don't know -
from what we're seeing here- okay, it looks like the timekeeper is
speaking with Melissa right now.  He has been in contact with the locker
room area apparently.

[With the crowd buzzing and Broussard looking on eagerly, the referee
joins the conversation...

...and then the three split.]

MC:  Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please.  Earlier tonight,
"Showtime" Rick Marley earned the right to compete in this semifinal
match by defeating City Jack in the first round.

[Cannon pauses.]

MC:  However, shortly after that match, he was assaulted by Stevie Scott
and Vladimir Velikov with a steel chain - an attack that left Mr. Marley
with a serious neck injury.  Due to the severity of that injury and
despite Mr. Marley's pleas, the official AWA medical staff for tonight
have ruled that "Showtime" Rick Marley CAN NOT compete in this match
tonight as scheduled.

[The crowd boos crazily, Broussard starting to look hopeful.]

MC:  Therefore, Rick Marley has been forced to FORFEIT this semifinal
matchup against Marcus Broussard.

[The boos only increase as an ecstatic Marcus Broussard pumps his fist,
throwing both arms in the air in triumph.]

MC:  Your winner of the match... advancing to the Finals to face Mark
Shaw...

MARCUS BROUSSARD!

[Somehow, the boos seem to only grow louder as Broussard jumps up on the
midbuckle, his arms high in the air in a victory celebration.]

GM:  Well, fans, this is unfortunate - but sadly, not unexpected after
seeing Rick Marley being helped from the arena.  He really did look to
be in serious condition.

BW:  He did.  And they made the right call for his health.

GM:  Give me a break, Bucky.  You don't care one bit about Rick Marley's
health.  This is all about Broussard making the Finals for you.  You
predicted he'd win the title and he's one step closer to making that
prediction come true.

BW:  You got it, daddy!  Rick Marley who?!  Marcus Broussard is going to
be the first National Champion - and in the end, that's the only thing
that matters!

GM:  Fans, we're going to take a quick break.  Don't go away - we'll be
right back.

[Our cameras stay on the ring for a moment where Marcus Broussard
continues to celebrate before 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 a live shot of the Fort Worth Convention
Center, the crowd still buzzing over what was just announced.]

GM:  Well, Bucky, it's been a long night and we're down to two matches.

BW:  ...

GM:  Bucky?

BW:  Sorry, did you say something?

GM:  Are you even listening?  I was talking about how we only have two
matches left.

BW:  You expect me to care about Kevin Slater's problems when Marcus
just made the Finals?  Now, excuse me, I'm trying to get my bookie on
the phone.

GM:  Fans, it was the very first night of AWA action on Saturday Night
Wrestling - Kevin Slater meeting Marcus Broussard in the Main Event of
the show when The Masked Menace appeared out of nowhere and struck
violently at Slater, costing him the match.  No one knew why.  There was
no past history at all between the two.  Soon, we found out.  Someone
had placed a bounty on the career of Kevin Slater - an undisclosed
amount of money to whoever could put Slater on the shelf.

BW:  Yes, yes... ten on Broussard by pinfall.

GM:  A few weeks later, during the 30 Man Rumble, a mysterious man named
Spyder LZ showed up and assaulted Slater, trying to claim the bounty as
well.  During all this time, Slater continued to try to fight them off
on his own, claiming he needed no help.

BW:  What are the odds on submission?

GM:  But help was on the way as his long-time friend Luke Steele, former
allies in the Cult of Personality, arrived on the scene to aid the Wild
Thing.  And the match was set for tonight, Steele and Slater, together
again, against the Menace and the Spyder.

BW:  Forfeit?  Another one?  I don't think so.

GM:  But Slater made it clear that the Menace and the Spyder weren't his
focus - he wanted The Man With The Money.

[The camera shot changes to a pair of empty front row seats.]

GM:  There you see it.  Slater bought two ringside seats, inviting The
Man With The Money to show up here tonight to confront him.  As of right
now, those seats have yet to be claimed.  And if you've been following
the story this week, you know that Kevin Slater has been slowly losing
his grip on reality.  He has become nervous, paranoid, jumpy.  He
stopped training with Luke Steele.  He's suspicious of all of his
friends and allies.  And he even accused his fiancee, Megan - the mother
of his child, of having something to do with this.

BW:  What's the side bet on first blood?

GM:  Kevin Slater walks into this match a man all alone - but very
focused.  But will that focus be his ultimate undoing?  In pushing away
all his friends and allies, has Slater made it that much easier for The
Man With The Money?  We're about to find out.

BW:  First to throw a right hand?  Really?

[Myers sighs deeply.]

GM:  Let's go up to Melissa!

[We 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...

[The ominous tones of "Anonymous Skulls" by Martin Medeski & Wood cranks
out from the arena loudspeakers. The crowd boos the two men who step
through the entrance curtain.]

MC:  They are accompanied to the ring by "High Profile" Darryl Styles...
at a total combined weight of 681 pounds... they are...

THE MASKED MENACE!

[The burly brawler lifts a arm in recognition.  Garbed in his trademark
mask, an old school solid black mask with red leather trimming
surrounding the eyelets and nose and mouth openings, a pair of solid
black trunks with a crossed set of red capital M's on the rear, a pair
of solid black boots, and black kneepads on both knees, and black
elbowpads on both elbows, the Menace pauses, ignoring the jeering crowd
as he looks back at the entryway for his partner.] 

MC:  And SPYDER LZ!

[Spyder LZ is a big, barrel-chested black man.  He's clad in a pair of
Dickey work pants and British Knight tennis shoes.  There is no shirt
covering his massive torso.  He has a blue bandana wrapped over his
head, ending just above his eyes and second around the lower half of his
face, ending just below his eyes - leaving just a small slit with his
eyes visible.]

GM:  681 pounds... good heavens.  Kevin Slater and Luke Steele have
their work cut out for them here tonight.

BW:  If Slater will even let Steele come out here with him!

GM:  Oh!  So good to have you back!  Finished with your phone call?  

BW:  If that pays off, I'm takin' you to Sizzler for dinner, Gordo.

[The two massive bounty hunters walk down the aisle, slowly making their
way into the ring where they wait for their opponents.]

MC:  And their opponents...

[A voice comes over the PA.]

"And during the few moments we have left, we want to talk right down to
Earth in a language that everyone can easily understand."

[A very familiar guitar riff kicks in over the PA, sending the crowd
into a frenzy.]

GM:  Oh yeah!  Here they come!

[As Living Colour's "Cult Of Personality" blasts through the
loudspeakers, the curtain parts.]

MC:  On their way to the ring... they are the "Real Deal" Luke Steele...
the "Wild Thing" Kevin Slater...

THE CULT OF PERSONALITYYYYYY!!!

[The cheers grow louder as Kevin Slater bursts into view, all business
as he stalks down the aisle, leaving his teammate who follows behind him
in the dust.  Steele pauses to slap hands with a few fans along the
aisle as Slater ignores them all, marching down the aisle towards the
ring.]

GM:  It's been a long, long time since these two men have entered a tag
team match together, Bucky.

BW:  Not long enough if you ask me.  But some things never change,
Gordo.

GM:  What do you mean?

BW:  They were outgunned against the Syndicate ten years ago and they're
outgunned against the Menace and the Spyder here tonight, daddy! 
Hahahaha!

GM:  Oh, just hysterical!

[Slater bursts into view at ringside, diving under the bottom rope
without waiting for his partner to join him...

...and immediately gets assaulted by both The Masked Menace and Spyder
LZ as referee Mickey Meekly calls for the bell to start the match!]


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


GM:  We are off...and... runnin!

[The Wild Thing breaks to his feet, absorbing the blows of both men to
deliver some of his own to the cheers of the crowd.]

GM:  Right hand by Slater on the Menace!  One on the Spyder!

[Slater spins around completely and cracks Darryl Styles who was on the
apron with one as well, knocking him down to the floor!]

GM:  DOWN GOES STYLES!

BW:  Slater said he could do it himself - so far he's proving himself
right!

GM:  Steele's in as well now!

[The Cult Of Personality members bring the fans to their feet, peppering
the Menace and the Spyder with right hands that knock the two bulky
bounty hunters all the way over to the ropes.]

GM:  The big men are on the ropes... double whip... 

[A leaping double shoulder tackle sends both men out to the floor to a
huge cheer from the crowd...

...which grows louder as Steele drops down on all fours, allowing Slater
to charge across the ring, springing off his friend's back!]

GM:  LOOOOOK OUUUUUUT!

[And completely wiping out the Masked Menace, Spyder LZ, and Darryl
Styles with a big cross body!]

GM:  Big dive to the floor by Kevin Slater takes them all out - and this
place is going absolutely CRAZY for the Cult of Personality right now,
Bucky!

[Quickly getting to his feet on the floor, Slater drags the Menace off
the concrete...

...and throws him into the steel steps, the Menace's shoulder slamming
into solid metal.]

GM:  The Menace is the one who started all this.

BW:  No, no - The Man With The Money is the one who started all this,
Gordo.

GM:  I suppose that's true.

[Slater drags the masked man off the floor, grabbing the back of his
head...

...and _slamming_ it into the steel ringpost!]

BW:  Why isn't the referee counting Slater out?

GM:  There was never a legal man!  There's no one to start a count on!

[With the Masked Menace dazed, Slater grabs him by the arm...

...and whips him backfirst into the steel security railing!]

GM:  OHHHH!  INTO THE RAIL GOES THE MENACE!

[Spyder LZ regains his feet, moving in on the distracted Slater...

...but gets spun around by Luke Steele before getting popped in the jaw
with an uppercut!]

GM:  Oh!  What a shot by Steele - and now all four men are fighting
outside the ring, Bucky!

BW:  Well, we knew this wasn't going to be much of a wrestling match. 
Odds were real high this was going to break down into a fight and that's
exactly what has happened right now.

[Steele grabs the Spyder as he staggers away, slamming his face into the
ring apron to the cheers of the crowd.]

GM:  The Cult of Personality is standing tall on the floor at the moment
in this one.  Steele's got Spyder by the arm... irish whi- reversed by
the Spyder!

["The Real Deal" goes racing towards the steel railing, his body
actually taking flight from the momentum and sailing over the barricade
and into the crowd!]

GM:  OHHHHHHHH!  STEELE WENT OVER THE RAIL!

[With Steele out of the picture, Spyder LZ turns his attention back on
Kevin Slater who is driving clenched fists into the masked face of the
Menace.]

GM:  Slater's preoccupied with the Menace - he doesn't see Spyder LZ
coming up from behi- ohh!  Big double sledge across the back of Slater's
head and neck by the Spyder.

[Grabbing Slater by the hair, Spyder LZ drags him away from the Menace,
chucking him under the ropes into the ring.]

GM:  Okay - well, it looks like Kevin Slater and Spyder LZ are the legal
men in this tag team match now.  The referee backs up a step as Spyder
LZ slides in.

BW:  Can you blame him?

GM:  Not at all.  That guy is a monster.  6'3, 360 from Inglewood,
California.  We know he's a former convict - having done time for- well,
let's just say something pretty bad.

[Spyder LZ climbs to his feet, grabbing the rising Slater by the throat
and throwing him back into the turnbuckles.]

GM:  Slater thrown back into the corner.  That's not where you want to
be against a 360 pounder, Bucky.

[The big man from California winds up, blistering the chest of Slater
with a knife-edge chop.]

GM:  Ohhh!  Big chop on target there!

[Grabbing Slater by the arm, he uses a powerful whip to send the Wild
Thing across the ring...

...and when Slater staggers out, Spyder LZ scoops him up.]

GM:  He's got Slater up... what's he-

[The crowd roars as Spyder LZ shows little problem in military pressing
Slater over his head.]

GM:  Good heavens!  Look at the power!

[The buzzing crowd grows louder as LZ brings Slater down on top of his
head... and then presses him right back up.]

GM:  Spyder LZ is a beast, Bucky!

BW:  Now _he_ might be able to slam Tumaffi.

GM:  Two presses... now a third... and he just dumps Slater down on the
mat like a sack of potatoes.  

[Slater winces from the impact of the press slam, grabbing his back as
Spyder LZ stalks around the ring, slapping his own chest to brag about
his power.]

GM:  This guy is strong... he's tough... he's mean.

BW:  A deadly combination.

GM:  Slater getting to his feet...

[Spyder LZ approaches from behind, quickly hooking a half nelson on the
Wild Thing before hoisting him into the air...

...and bringing him down hard across a bent knee!]

BW:  Half nelson backbreaker!  He might have broken Slater in half right
there!

GM:  Did you see the impact of that?  Wow!

[Outside the ring, the camera catches the Masked Menace taking his spot
on the apron.  On the other side, Luke Steele is still in the front row,
trying to shake the cobwebs.  He's clutching his arm.]

GM:  Look at Steele grabbing at the arm.  We know he hurt that arm on
the last Saturday Night Wrestling when he got shoved off the top to the
floor.  He hurt his elbow pretty badly.  Look at how heavy the tapejob
on the arm is.

BW:  And that's exactly what Steele _didn't_ want to happen.  First
offense of the match that he takes bangs up that elbow and puts him on
the sidelines.  

[Spyder LZ drags Slater off the mat again by the hair, pulling him into
a side waistlock.]

GM:  Maybe a suplex on the way.

[The big man from Inglewood hoists Slater up in a belly to back suplex
lift...

...and then spins to the side, dropping Slater down across his knee
again!]

GM:  Another high impact backbreaker!

BW:  And you notice quickly that Spyder LZ is not even _thinking_ about
attempting a cover.  He doesn't get the money for beating Slater - he
gets the money for putting Slater on the shelf.

GM:  If he keeps going after the back of the Wild Thing like that, it
may not take much more to put Slater on the shelf.

[Spyder LZ again taunts the crowd, gesturing at himself as they jeer
wildly...

...and fails to notice his partner slap his shoulder, tagging himself
into the match.]

GM:  The Masked Menace tags himself into the match, that's a legal tag,
Bucky.

BW:  The referee is allowing it.  And Spyder LZ does not look too happy
about that.

GM:  Well, you said it yourself.  If he hurts Slater, he gets the money.
 If the Menace does it, he gets the money.  The Man With The Money pulls
all the strings in this one.

[The Menace immediately pulls Slater off the mat, throwing him
chestfirst into the corner.]

GM:  The Menace has him in the buckles, grabbing the middle rope...

[Leaning over, the big masked man drives his shoulder into the lower
back of Slater - once, twice, three times.]

GM:  Repeatedly driving his shoulder into the back... into the kidneys
of the Wild Thing, trying to do some permanent damage to collect that
bounty.

[Pulling Slater out of the corner into a side waistlock, the Menace
hoists him up...

...and drops him down in a belly to back suplex.]

GM:  Big suplex by the Menace - and he's right back up, grabbing the
legs of Slater...

[The crowd jeers as the Menace turns Slater over, applying a full Boston
Crab.]

GM:  Boston Crab!  That's in deep!

BW:  It certainly is, putting incredible pressure on the spine of Kevin
Slater.

GM:  Outside the ring, Luke Steele just came over the railing.  The Real
Deal is desperately trying to get back to the apron, back up there for
his partner.

[The fans are cheering wildly as Slater claws at the mat, trying to find
a way out of the hold.]


"LET'S GO SLA-TER!"
clap clap clapclapclap
"LET'S GO SLA-TER!"
clap clap clapclapclap
"LET'S GO SLA-TER!"
clap clap clapclapclap

GM:  The fans are solidly behind the Wild Thing tonight as he tries to
get out of this Boston Crab and tries to finish off these two big bounty
hunters who've been chasing him for weeks.

[The camera cuts to outside the ring revealing the still-empty ringside
seats.]

GM:  No sign of The Man With The Money yet.

BW:  Do you really think he's coming?

GM:  I don't know, Bucky.  I really don't know.

[Still far from the ropes, Slater plants his hands in push-up position.]

GM:  Oh my.   He's going to try and power out of this, Bucky!

BW:  And that's a dangerous thing to try and do, Gordo.  By pushing up
like that, you bend your spine even more than it already is being bent
by the Menace's Boston Crab.  You can escape the hold this way but you
can also do a lot of damage if you don't do it quick enough.

GM:  Slater's trying it - pushing hard!

[The fans roar as the Wild Thing grits his teeth, pushing hard against
the Menace's leverage advantage, trying to use his arms and legs to
escape the hold.]

GM:  Steele's over to the apron, slapping the apron to try to rally his
partner out of the hold.

[With a pain-filled scream and one last push, Slater manages to break
free, his legs flinging the Menace a few feet away to the cheers of the
crowd.]

GM:  He broke it!  Slater broke free of the hold!

BW:  But the question is how much damage did it do to his back, Gordo?

GM:  That remains to be seen.

[The Menace quickly turns around, grabbing the foot of Slater to prevent
any attempt at a tag to Steele who is now on the apron, waiting to make
the exchange.]

GM:  The Menace caught him!  Slater was crawling for a tag and-

[The crowd roars as Slater upkicks hard, nailing the Menace in the jaw
and sending him sprawling...

...allowing Slater to roll to his stomach, crawling once again.]

GM:  He's almost there... almooooost...

BW:  The Menace tags in the Spyder... 

[The big burly brawler comes in as quickly as his 360 pounds will go...

...just as Slater makes a final lunge!]

GM:  TAG!

[The crowd erupts as Luke Steele slingshots over the ropes into the
ring, drilling the incoming Spyder LZ with a wild haymaker to the side
of the face.]

GM:  Steele nails the Spyder...

[Charging across the ring, Steele leaves his feet with a leaping forearm
that sends the Menace spilling from the apron and down to the floor
below.]

GM:  He clears out the Menace!  Luke Steele is a house of fire!

[Spinning around, Steele charges back the other direction, ducking under
a wild right from Spyder LZ...

...and promptly drilling him with a leaping back elbow that staggers the
Spyder knocking him back towards his corner.]

GM:  Steele's got the Menace down... he's got Spyder LZ staggered...
Darryl Styles is _screaming_ for LZ to do something, anything...

["The Real Deal" dashes to the far ropes, rebounding back behind Spyder
LZ where he jumps the hair, grabbing him by the skull...

...and smashing his face into the canvas to the roars of the Ft. Worth
Convention Center crowd!]

GM:  Spyder LZ is down!  The Menace is down!

BW:  Not for long.

[The Masked Menace manages to roll back into the ring, shoving aside a
protesting official as he charges towards Luke Steele with a clothesline
that catches Steele squarely in the back of the head, knocking him down
to the mat.]

GM:  Ohhh!  The Masked Menace knocks Steele off his feet.  He is not the
legal man though and the referee needs to get him out of the-

[Before the referee can protest, Kevin Slater, injured back and all,
dashes back into the ring and leaps into the air, tackling the Menace
down to the canvas where Slater repeatedly drives clenched fists into
his head.]

GM:  Slater's all over the Menace!  He's exacting payback for all those
weeks of attacks from behind!  He's getting revenge for getting taken
out of the Rumble and out of the National Title Tournament!  

[With Slater pummeling the Menace relentlessly, Luke Steele's been
pushed back into a corner by Spyder LZ, eating the big heavy chops
thrown by the burly brawler.]

GM:  Steele and the Spyder!  Slater and the Menace!

BW:  This is crazy, Gordo!

[The Wild Thing pulls off the Menace, yanking him up by the arm and
immediately holding him by the mask.]

GM:  What's Slater gonna do with the Men-

[With a crazed scream, Slater flings his arm across the throat of the
dazed Menace, knocking him flat with a standing Lariat!]

GM:  OHHHHHH!

BW:  He nearly took his head right off with that!

[And apparently looking to symbolize that, Slater yanks the Menace up
into a seated position, hooking his fingers in the eyeholes of the mask,
pulling up.]

BW:  He's trying to pull the mask off!  He's trying to-

[With a powerful yank, Slater rips the mask off the Menace, holding it
high over his head to the roar of the crowd.  The formerly Masked Menace
quickly rolls under the ropes, covering his head as he drops down to
wrap his face in the ring apron.]

GM:  The Menace bails out!  The Mask- errr, Unmasked Menace is fleeing
the scene!

[Covering his face with his arms, the Menace stumbles through the
mocking crowd, leaving Spyder LZ alone in the ring with Slater and
Steele.]

GM:  Slater tosses the mask aside and-

[Seeing the exposed back of Spyder LZ, Slater rampages towards the
corner, leaping into a flying forearm smash in the back of the big man's
head...

...and then yanks him out of the corner by the back of the pants.]

GM:  Slater pulls Spyder LZ out of the corner... what's he-?!

BW:  No way, Gordo!  No chance!

[The crowd buzzes as Slater pulls Spyder LZ into position for a torture
rack.]

GM:  He's trying to get the big man up!

BW:  There's no way he's getting a 360 pounder up for that Burning
Hammer, Gordo!  Not a chance!

GM:  If he can do it, this match is ov-

[But Spyder LZ throws his elbow down violently, smashing into the back
of Slater's head and neck to break his grip.]

GM:  LZ breaks free... irish whi- reversed by Slater...

[And as the big man rebounds back, Slater somehow manages to get the big
man off the mat, twisting in the air...

...and _driving_ him down to the canvas with a spinebuster slam!]

GM:  SPINEBUSTER!  SPINEBUSTER ON SPYDER LZ!

[Seizing the moment, Luke Steele quickly steps out to the apron,
climbing the ropes as quickly as he can.]

GM:  Steele's going up!  And we all know why!

["The Real Deal" reaches the top rope, posing for all to see...

...and hurls his body into the air, flipping backwards while sailing
forwards!]

GM:  OHHHH!  REAL!  STEELE!  PRESS!

[Steele reaches back to hook the leg as Slater stands watch.]

GM:  ONE!!  TWO!!  THREE!!


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


MC:  Your winners of the match in a time of nine minutes and fifty-four
seconds...

THE CULT OF PERSONALITY!!!

[The music starts up for the C.O.P. once more as Steele climbs the
midbuckle, saluting the cheering fans.  His partner, on the other hand,
stares as Spyder LZ rolls out of the ring, slowly making his way back up
the aisle alongside Darryl Styles.]

GM:  Slater and Steele are your winners - in quite impressive fashion at
that, Bucky.

BW:  They looked pretty good - I'll give them that.

["The Real Deal" drops down off the apron, clapping a hand on his
partner and friend's shoulder as he glares off in the distance.  Slater
turns, staring at his ally.]

GM:  We found out yesterday that Slater's having... let's say trust
issues.  He doesn't trust his fiancee.  He doesn't trust his friends. 
He doesn't trust Luke Steele either.

BW:  He might just throw down on Steele right now, Gordo.

[Slater suddenly drops down to the mat, rolling out of the ring.]

BW:  Or not.

GM:  Where's he going?

[The Wild Thing stomps over towards the still-empty seats at ringside -
the two seats purchased for The Man With The Money.  An irate Slater
reaches over the barricade, grabbing the chair and yanking it free from
the row.]

GM:  I don't like the looks of this, Bucky.

[Slater hurls the chair over the ropes, sending it bouncing off the
canvas with Steele standing just a few feet away, hands on his hips as
he watches his paranoid partner roll back in, house mic in hand.]

GM:  Slater may have something to say.

[The Wild Thing unfolds the chair, planting a foot on it in the middle
of the ring as he taps the mic.]

KS:  Is this thing on?  Hello?  Can you hear me?

[The crowd responds in affirmation.]

KS:  I was just wondering if the mic worked because I could've sworn I
spoke into one of these mics a few weeks ago and told The Man With The
Money that I wanted him in _this_ chair tonight.

[Zoom in on the chair.]

KS:  But after we get rid of his boys there... he still doesn't show.

[Slater nods his head.]

KS:  You're messing with my head - I get that.  You've made my fiancee
leave me.  You've got me second guessing all of my friends... all of my
allies.  You've got me watching ten year old video tapes trying to
figure out who you might be.

["The Wild Thing" moves away from the chair towards the ropes.]

KS:  You've sent your hired guns and I'm still standing.  So, you can
keep sending them and sending them if you want... and I'll keep
standing.

[Slater rubs a hand through his hair.]

KS:  OR YOU CAN BE A MAN, YOU SON... OF... A BITCH!

[The Boston native kicks the ropes hard, pointing a finger at the
camera.]

KS:  Come get me yourself.  Come and get me, you coward!

[Slater drops back, spreading his arms wide.]

KS:  I'm right here.  I'm here waiting for you.  I'm here for you right
now.  Come on!

[The Wild Thing looks out over the entryway, eyes scanning the crowd for
any sign of movement towards the ring.]

BW:  Can someone get this nutjob out of the ring?  Marcus has a title to
win.

GM:  It certainly doesn't appear like The Man With The Money is coming.

[Steele steps up behind his friend, placing a hand on his shoulder...
which actually causes Slater to jump a bit.  The mic in Slater's hands
picks up Steele's words.]

LS:  Come on, Kev.  It's over.  Another time, man.

[Slater shakes his head, still staring out at the crowd with steely
resolve.]

LS:  Kev... I...

[The Wild Thing turns his head at Steele, staring coldly in his friend's
eyes.]

LS:  Forget it.  Do what you need to do.

[Shaking his head, "The Real Deal" walks away from his friend, stepping
through the ropes to make his exit from the ringside area.]

GM:  Fans, um... well, we're going to try to get Kevin Slater out of the
ring so we can- alright, let's just take a quick break.

[Slater is still standing in the ring as a scattering of AWA officials
show up at ringside, trying to get him out as we fade to black...

...and then fade back up on a screen with the AWA logo splashed across
the top with a "Live Events Schedule" graphic underneath.  The
backdrop is some generic space photograph showing the moon and some
stars.]

"Join all the stars of the American Wrestling Alliance as they come to
your town!"

"On May 25th, the AWA invades the Arena Theatre in Houston, Texas for a
Non-Televised Live Event and then the next afternoon in San Antonio for
a very special daytime show on Memorial Day at the Freeman Coliseum.

Join us on tour in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, Little Rock, Arkansas, and
New Orleans, Louisiana as well.  Check the AWA website or
Ticketmaster.com now for all the details!"

[The graphic changes back to the original AWA logo and "Live Events
Schedule" showing a smaller version of the announced shows.]

"The AWA - the Major League of Professional Wrestling!  Don't miss it
when it comes to your town!"

[And we fade away from the graphic...

...and back up on the ringside area where Gordon Myers and Bucky Wilde
are standing.]

GM:  Welcome back, fans, to Memorial Day Mayhem - and all the hype, all
the action, everything that has happened since the first night of AWA
Saturday Night Wrestling has led right to this moment - the crowning of
the first National Champion.

BW:  Aw yeah, daddy - time to get paid!

GM:  Eight men started this night with visions of being in this match in
their heads - now, we are down to two men who are about to climb into
this ring to battle for the honor of being the AWA's first National
Champion and to be the first man to have their name engraved on that
belt.

BW:  Make sure they know that Broussard only has one "U" in it.

GM:  Fans, for the final time tonight... let's go up to Melissa!

[We cut to the ring where Melissa Cannon is standing.]

MC:  Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for your MAIN EVENT of the
evening!

[The crowd roars!]

MC:  It is set for one fall with a 60 minute time limit and is to crown
the first AWA National Champion!

[Another big roar from the crowd.]

MC:  For this very important match, your referee for this match is the
AWA's Head of Officiating...

MAX MEEKLY!

[The fans cheer the eldest member of the Meekly family as he raises a
thin arm to the Ft. Worth crowd.]

BW:  Ol' Moldy?!

GM:  Show some respect, Bucky.

[Melissa continues.]

MC:  Introducing first...

["Go" by Powder blares over the loudspeakers.]

MC:  He enters this final match with victories early in the evening over
Kenta Kitzukawa and Tumaffi.  Hailing from Los Angeles, California. 
Standing 6'2 and weighing in at 270 pounds... he is the man known as the
Hellion...

MARK SHAAAAAAAW!

[The cheers have grown louder for the intense Hellion through the night,
this time a near roar going up for the Hellion as he pushes the curtain
aside, stepping into the Fort Worth Convention Center.  The long black
pants he's been wearing to the ring all night have been cut off at just
above the knee, revealing Shaw's right knee is heavily taped.]

GM:  There you can see the results of that knee injury he suffered in
the match against Tumaffi.  As Melissa said, Shaw defeated Kitzukawa by
pinfall in the first round with the Backdrop Driver.  In the second
round, he bested Tumaffi by countout.

BW:  Thanks to Ricky Royal!

GM:  Well, that's debatable but a countout it was - and now Mark Shaw
steps into the ring tonight looking to make history.

[Shaw makes his way through the mass of humanity, slapping an occasional
hand as he slowly walks the aisle to the ringside area.  He rolls under
the ropes, pushing up to feet and leaning back against the corner
turnbuckles as he waits for his opponent.]

MC:  And his opponent...

["Super Bon Bon" by Soul Coughing plays in the Fort Worth Convention
Center, and the crowd nearly jumps out of their seat to jeer the San
Jose Shark.]

MC:  He enters this final match with victories over Ron Houston and Rick
Marley earlier tonight.  Standing 6'3 and weighing in at 252 pounds...
from San Jose, California and being accompanied to the ring by the Super
Ninja... he is the San Jose Shark...

MARCUS BROUUUUUSSARRRRD!

[Marcus Broussard makes his way onto the scene, his head heavily
bandaged with white gauze that has been stained slightly crimson from
continued bloos loss.  He waits for the Super Ninja to come out, nodding
to him and then turning to the crowd to make his way towards the ring.]

GM:  Well, you heard Melissa give him credit for victories over Ron
Houston and Rick Marley.

BW:  Those are true, Gordo!

GM:  Yes, yes they are.  He narrowly squeaked by Ron Houston to advance
to the second round where he won by forfeit over Rick Marley who was
ruled too injured to compete.

BW:  A win's a win!

GM:  I know you believe that.  You know what I believe?

BW:  Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Moon landing?

GM:  I believe that Rick Marley being robbed of his opportunity to
compete in the semifinals of this tournament is a total crime.  And I
believe that whoever wins this match tonight... _whoever_ wins it...
should do the right thing and give Rick Marley the first chance at the
title.

BW:  Well, I'm sure Marcus will take that under advisement.

GM:  You seem very confident in the San Jose Shark.

BW:  Don't you wanna go to Sizzler, Gordo?

[Broussard slowly makes his way up the steel ringsteps, waving the Super
Ninja over to a spot in his corner as the San Jose Shark steps between
the ropes into the squared circle.]

GM:  The feeling inside this building is electric, Bucky.

BW:  Of course it is, daddy - this is what these people paid to see! 
This is the reason they're all here.  The AWA National Title is about to
go to one of these men and they want to see it happen as badly as we do.

[Referee Max "Moldy" Meekly calls the two men together in the center of
the ring.

Broussard has a cocky smirk on his face as he strides out to the middle
of the ring where Meekly is standing. 

But the intensity on Mark Shaw's face is unmatched as he joins the other
two men - staring dead in the eye of Broussard, a gaze that seems to
shrink the smile a bit.]

GM:  Max Meekly going over some last minute instructions with both men -
look at the stare from Mark Shaw.  If looks could kill...

BW:  Your wife's looks might kill.  I've seen better mugs on my desk at
home.

[Meekly asks for a handshake...

...and gets none as the two men back away to their respective corners,
Shaw holding the gaze as the Super Ninja gets a few words from the San
Jose Shark.]

GM:  This is it, Bucky.  It's all on the line in this one.  Knee
injuries and head injuries go out the window - you're not allowed any
excuses.

BW:  Tell that to Shaw when he ends the night staring at the lights.

[Referee Meekly takes one last look to both men to make sure they're
ready...

...and signals for the bell!]


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


GM:  And we are unnnnnderway!

[The two men both edge slowly from their corners, both moving in a
circle from the other, trying to find an opening to take advantage of.]

GM:  No barreling attack by either man in this one.  Both men start very
slowly, looking for an opening.

BW:  In a match of this magnitude with so much on the line, you want to
be very careful, Gordo.  You do not want to make a mistake that could
cost you everything.  Imagine if Marcus ran out, throwing right hands,
missed one and ate a Backdrop Driver.  His night, and his dream of
ending this night as the National Champion, would be over.

GM:  It could happen.  That Backdrop Driver is so dangerous - it can
turn your lights out in an instant.  Broussard does not have that kind
of killshot, Bucky.  He doesn't have the move that'll end your night
just like that.

BW:  That's not Marcus' style, Gordo.  But he's got some dangerous
weapons in his playbook that no one in the AWA has seen yet - believe
that.

[Slowly, the two men edge closer to one another, Broussard extending a
hand, fingers wiggling as Shaw stretches an arm, trying to find his
reach...

...and they suddenly lunge at one another, immediately tying up in a
collar and elbow.]

GM:  Right into the lockup... and this is where you'll see the power
advantage of Mark Shaw, pushing Broussard back with the collar and
elbow... backed into the corner...

BW:  Will we get your treasured clean break?

[Shaw steps back for a second, patting Broussard on the chest...

...and then lights up the chest of the San Jose Shark with a knife-edge
chop that echoes throughout the arena!]

GM:  Ohhh!

BW:  That didn't look very clean, Gordo.

GM:  When you've seen how dirty of a fighter Broussard is, I wouldn't
break cleanly either.

[A protesting Broussard ducks his head under the ropes, screaming for
Meekly to back Shaw away which the veteran official quickly does,
warning Shaw for hitting on the break.]

GM:  Broussard finds another way to force Shaw to back off.

BW:  And this is when you really see Marcus Broussard at his element,
Gordo.  He's got sixty minutes to work with.  He's as fresh as he can be
considering he wrestled 15 minutes earlier.

GM:  That was a lonnnnng time ago now though.  The bye in the semifinals
really puts Broussard at an advantage in this one, Bucky.

BW:  Without a doubt.  It gave the head injury some time to heal.  It
gave Marcus some time to rest.  He's gotta be in better shape than Shaw
is right now.

GM:  And fans, I know a lot of you are looking at the clock with some
concern but I was just informed by our head of production, Jon Stegglet,
that we have gotten clearance from WKIK to extend tonight's broadcast if
necessary.  Our thanks to WKIK for that as we definitely did not want to
go off the air tonight without a National Champion being crowned.

[The San Jose Shark finally ducks his head back into the ring, staring
out at Mark Shaw who is standing in the middle of the ring, inviting
Broussard to tangle with him again.]

GM:  Broussard edging slowly from the buckles.  He doesn't want to get
tied up with Shaw - and after seeing the power of Shaw throughout the
past couple months, who can blame him?

BW:  Marcus needs to use his speed, his quickness, his stamina, and most
of all, his brain.  He's a ring general in there so he needs to do the
little things that a big goof like Shaw won't think of.

[The two men lock up in a collar and elbow tieup again, this time Shaw
pushing back to a different corner... again, with relative ease.]

GM:  Shaw backs him down again - and we know he won't be breaking
cleanly...

[Shaw steps back again, rearing the arm back for another chop...

...but the San Jose Shark ducks under the ropes before he can throw it,
again forcing the referee to back the Hellion away.]

GM:  Again, Broussard ducks away.  You can hear the fans starting to get
on his case for it too.

BW:  Who cares?  Marcus doesn't give a single thought to if the fans
like it or not.

GM:  It's not pleasing Mark Shaw either.

BW:  That may be part of the plan.

[Shaw's a little more irate this time as he complains to the referee
about it.]

GM:  Mark Shaw showing a little frustration now.  And who can blame him?
 We're a couple minutes into this match already and Marcus Broussard is
absolutely refusing to engage with him.

[Broussard gestures for the ref to keep Shaw back as he ducks his head
back in, smirking at a rapidly-stewing Mark Shaw.]

GM:  The Hellion needs to keep his cool though, Bucky.  He can't lose
his temper and make a mistake.

BW:  He can if Marcus draws him into it - and you can bet that's exactly
what the Shark is looking to do.

[Easing back into the middle of the ring again, Broussard feigns a tieup
attempt, quickly moving behind Shaw into a rear waistlock.]

GM:  Waistlock applied by Broussard...

[Shaw quickly grabs the wrists of Broussard, trying to pull the grip
apart...

...and does so, yanking the San Jose Shark into a side headlock to the
cheers of the crowd.]

GM:  Pure power there.  He just ripped Broussard's hands right apart in
that waistlock.  And now he's got the side headlock applied, wrenching
down on the head and neck with those powerful arms.

[Broussard wraps his arms around the body again, looking for an
escape...

...but as Shaw increases the pressure, Broussard's arms come apart,
looking for another option.  After a couple of moments, he grabs the
front of Shaw's tights, tossing him into the ropes.]

GM:  To the ropes goes Shaw... hiptoss!

[The Hellion slams down to the canvas courtesy of a big hiptoss takeover
by Broussard who quickly moves in on the downed Shaw...

...who simply pulls his legs up to his chest, kicking up at the San Jose
Shark, sending him sailing backwards.]

GM:  Haha!  Nice counter by Shaw and he's right back up to his feet.

BW:  A lot of feeling out in the early goings of this one, trying to get
a feel for what your opponent can do... what he can't do... what he
likes to do...

GM:  Broussard moves back in...

[And makes a mistake in doing so as Shaw quickly scoops him up, throwing
him down to the mat with a big bodyslam, and dives onto him, hooking
another side headlock as the referee drops down to count.]

GM:  One!  Two!

[Broussard fires a shoulder off the canvas as he grabs at Shaw with the
other arm, looking for an escape to the grounded headlock.]

GM:  A little too close for Mr. Broussard, I think.  Maybe he fell
asleep a little bit at the wheel there.

[The Shark wraps his arms around the waist of Shaw, rolling sideways to
put his shoulders on the mat.]

GM:  One!  Tw- no, Shaw rolls back the other way, cranking on that
headlock again.

[Planting his feet under him, Broussard manages to roll to the side,
pushing Shaw up to his feet where he keeps the headlock on, wrenching
the neck from a standing position.]

GM:  Broussard is still tied up in the headlock and after getting your
bell rung a couple times in the match with Ron Houston like Broussard
did, a powerful headlock like this can't feel too good.

BW:  It certainly can't.

GM:  Broussard to a knee- oh, come on!

[Grabbing a handful of hair, Broussard pulls back on Shaw's head to
allow him room to get to his feet before firing Shaw off the ropes
again.]

GM:  Shaw off the far ropes... hipto-

[But this time, Shaw slips through the hiptoss attempt, throwing
Broussard down to the mat with a hiptoss of his own!]

GM:  Down goes Broussard!

[The San Jose Shark pops back up, hoping to catch Shaw off-balance...

...and gets pulled down into an inside cradle.]

GM:  One!  Two!  THR-

[The crowd groans in unison as Broussard kicks out of the cradle just
before the three count, quickly rolling under the ropes after doing so,
and moving out to the floor where the Super Ninja quickly moves to his
side to counsel him.]


"FIVE MINUTES GONE BY!  FIVE MINUTES!"


GM:  Five minutes into the match and we've got a long way to go, Bucky.

BW:  That's right.  We haven't even scratched the surface of how long
Marcus can go tonight, daddy!  He'll go the full hour if he needs to. 
Heck, you saw him take Houston down just before the time limit so you
know he can do it.

GM:  A very narrow victory in that first round match.  You can bet Ron
Houston is watching this match with a lot of interest as well.

[Broussard stares up in the ring at Mark Shaw who stands near the ropes,
waving him back in.]

GM:  Shaw's avoiding the temptation to chase out there after him.  You
do not want to go out to the floor when someone's waiting for you there.
 Out on the floor with Broussard, you're in a two on one situation.

[A few more words are given to the Ninja before the Shark walks back up
the ringsteps, standing on the apron as the referee continues his
count.]

GM:  Here comes Shaw!

[Broussard steps back on the ringsteps, shaking his head as Shaw gets
close to the ropes.  He waves his back with a hand, telling Meekly he
won't get into the ring with Shaw there.]

GM:  Boy, Broussard knows every rule in the book and how to bend them to
his advantage.

BW:  That's the sign of a ring general, Gordo.  Get with it, daddy!

[The referee backs Shaw several steps away, allowing room for Broussard
to step back through the ropes, staying within arm's reach of the
ropes.]

GM:  Marcus Broussard is back inside the ring now, keeping a watchful
eye on Mark Shaw.

[In the middle of the ring, Shaw stands in a defensive position, waiting
for Broussard who slowly moves out again...

...and goes right back into a tieup that Shaw again quickly turns into a
side headlock.]

GM:  Right back to the headlock and we talked about Broussard being very
bright inside the ring but this is a smart move by Shaw.  We know all
about the incredible stamina of Broussard but this kind of move will
wear him down in a hurry.

[Shaw shifts his weight, taking Broussard down to the mat with a side
headlock...

...but the Shark uses the momentum to slip his arm between the legs of
Shaw, rolling him to his shoulders.]

GM:  One!  Two!

[The Hellion rolls back the other direction...

...but gets rolled right back.]

GM:  One!  Two!

[Shaw rolls back, squeezing harder...

...and gets rolled the other direction again.]

GM:  One!  Two!

[And back they go, this time staying there for a moment as Shaw grits
his teeth, increasing the pressure on the headlock.]

GM:  You know, Bucky, watching that exchange, you almost got the feeling
that Broussard was toying with him there.  That he was letting him out
of the cradle.

BW:  I think he was, Gordo!  I think he was letting him escape so he
could roll him back.  Did you see how hard Shaw was having to struggle
to get out of the pin?  That takes a lot of energy out of the big man to
keep wriggling free like that.

GM:  Broussard gets his legs underneath himself again, forcing up off
the mat to his feet.

[With another handful of hair, Broussard hurls Shaw out of the headlock
to the ropes...

...and as Shaw rebounds, Broussard drops down to the mat, forcing Shaw
to hop over him.]

GM:  Shaw off the far side...

[And as the Hellion bounces back once more...

...the San Jose Shark goes for the figurative jugular by throwing his
entire body at the right knee of Shaw, essentially clipping the knee out
from under him!]

GM:  OHHHHH!

[The crowd groans alongside Myers as Shaw immediately reaches down for
his heavily taped right knee, screaming in pain as the San Jose Shark
sits up, grinning widely.]

GM:  And look at that son of a gun, Bucky.  Smiling like the cat that
ate the canary for goodness' sake!

[Shaw immediately rolls all the way under the ropes to the apron, both
hands wrapped around the injured kneecap as Broussard slowly gets to his
feet.]

GM:  I'd say the feeling out process is over, Bucky.

BW:  You think so?  That was beautiful!

[Dropping down to the mat, Broussard rolls under the ropes, slowly
making his way around the ring to where Shaw is sitting on the canvas,
trying to recover.]

GM:  Look out.  There's a Shark in the water!

[A hard right hand from Broussard knocks Shaw flat on the apron. 
Broussard shoves his upper body back under the ropes into the ring,
grabbing for the leg and raising it high...

...before slamming the right knee down onto the edge of the ring apron!]

GM:  Ohhh!  Ruthless - just absolutely ruthless.

[The referee warns Broussard for the attack to which the San Jose Shark
nods his head at the official...

...and then promptly does it again, driving the knee joint into the
apron!]

GM:  Oh, come on!  Get some control in there, referee!

[AWA Head of Officiating Max Meekly leans over the ropes, reprimanding
Broussard for the attack on the leg.]

GM:  Broussard backs off...

[But lunges back in, driving a right hand into the side of the knee that
causes Shaw's entire body to spasm in pain.  Pinning the leg to the
canvas, Broussard continues to drive blow after blow after blow into the
knee area.]

GM:  Get in there, Mr. Meekly!

[Meekly finally slides to the floor, stepping between Broussard and
Shaw, heatedly warning the San Jose Shark for his conduct.]

GM:  About time.  The referee is trying to regain some control of this
match, trying to keep Broussard from attacking the leg out on the floor.
 

BW:  He should get back in the ring and let nature take its' course.

GM:  Nature?!

BW:  Never heard of survival of the fittest?

[Shaw rolls back into the ring while Broussard is arguing with the
official.]

GM:  Mark Shaw crawling across the ring, trying to get a breather. 
Trying to find some chance to recover.  

BW:  Not a chance, daddy!  Marcus is movin' in for the kill!

[With Shaw down and hurting, Broussard takes his time walking up the
ringsteps before stepping back into the ring.  He moves confidently,
measuring his opponent before his next move.]

GM:  Shaw dragged himself to his feet in the corner - trying to-

[The Hellion takes a wild swing at Broussard, trying to keep him at
bay.]

GM:  Is Broussard laughing at him?  What a jerk!

[The smirking Broussard edges closer...

...and easily avoids another wild haymaker thrown by Shaw trying to keep
him from moving in.]

GM:  Those blows are nowhere close to making contact but they are
keeping Broussard from moving in too quickly.

[Broussard feigns rushing in which makes Shaw throw another wild blow
that the Shark easily avoids, rushing in behind it to pin Shaw against
the buckles.  Shaw continues to throw rights and lefts, smacking
Broussard in the back of the head as he flails wildly.]

GM:  Shaw isn't going down without a fight!

[One of the blows catches Broussard on the ear, a shot that causes him
to stumble back from the corner, grabbing the same ear and visibly
wincing.]

GM:  He caught him with one of those, Bucky!  

[And as soon as Broussard turns back to move in, Shaw throws himself
from the corner with a forearm shot that catches Broussard squarely on
the side of the head, causing him to spin down to the mat landing right
next to Shaw.]

GM:  Both men down!  Shaw's knee couldn't hold his weight after the
forearm shot.  Broussard's head is giving him some trouble it looks
like, Bucky.

BW:  Of course it is!  You try getting your head split open on the
ringpost and see if you're all daisies and sunshine, daddy!

GM:  I'd rather not.  But referee Meekly is checking on both men...

[Meekly drops to a knee, checking with a pain-filled Shaw who shakes his
head, refusing to quit.  A quick check of Broussard sees him roll to his
back, hands on his head.]

GM:  Both of these men have been through the wringer here tonight.  It's
going to take a superhuman effort to become the National Champion
tonight in Fort Worth, Texas!


"TEN MINUTES HAVE GONE BY!  TEN MINUTES!"


GM:  Ten minutes into this - and I don't think that one hour time limit
is going to be an issue.  At this point, I don't even know if they can
continue _now_.

BW:  You'd have to kill Broussard to stop this match right now - Shaw
too, I bet.

[Shaw rolls to his stomach, pushing himself up with both arms to his
knees - a move that obviously causes a lot of pain as he quickly gets to
his feet, hobbling over to the ropes for support as Broussard sits up,
still shaking his head.]

GM:  Broussard is slowly getting to his feet as well - very slowly.  You
can see that he's having a lot of trouble at this moment.  Shaw rattled
him with a couple of those shots.

[The San Jose Shark moves in on Shaw who is clinging to the ropes,
turing his back to the ropes...

...and blasting an overhand chop across the chest!]

GM:  Big overhand!

[Shaw fires a right hand in reply, causing Broussard to take a step
back, shaking his head...

...and then lunges back in, wrapping his hand around the throat of
Shaw!]

GM:  That's a choke, ref!  Get in there!

[Meekly immediately starts a quick count.]

GM:  Broussard breaks it at four - perhaps trying to buy himself some
time, Bucky.

BW:  I think so.  He looks a little dazed.  Those blows to the head are
giving him a hard time in this one.

GM:  Still feeling sure about your bet?

BW:  Shut up, Gordo!

[Turning Shaw towards the ropes, Broussard wraps his arms around the top
rope and Shaw's neck, pushing his windpipe down on the top rope strand.]

GM:  Another choke!  

[The referee is immediately on the scene again - counting to four which
forces another break.]

GM:  Broussard's trying to strangle some of the fight out of Mark Shaw. 
He went after the knee but that wasn't enough to keep Shaw from throwing
heavy shots to the head to put some serious cobwebs in the head of the
San Jose Shark.

BW:  Stop saying that!  He's fine!

GM:  Broussard grabs him by the arm... irish whi- 

[But Shaw only gets a few steps towards the ropes before the knee gives
way, causing him to collapse down to the mat.  The fans buzz with
concern as Broussard quickly moves in.]

GM:  Oh!  Hard kick right to the kneecap!  

[The blow knocks the kneeling Shaw down to his back, allowing Broussard
to grab the foot of Shaw, lifting it up.]

GM:  Broussard's got him by the foot... spinning toehold!

[Shaw screams out in pain as Broussard wraps the injured right leg
around his own leg, sitting up as he tries to grab for his own leg...

...and eating a hard right hand from Broussard that knocks him back down
to the mat.]

GM:  This might be it, Bucky.  I just don't know how much punishment
that knee can take.

[Broussard cranks on the knee for a bit, then steps out...

...and executes it again, screaming at Shaw as he does so.]


"GIVE UP!  QUIT, YOU SONUVA-"


[Shaw sits up, uncorking a hard right hand to the temple of the leaning
Broussard that breaks the hold and brings big cheers from the Ft. Worth
Convention Center crowd.]

GM:  He caught him with another hard right... and Broussard had to break
the spinning toehold.

[The Hellion tries to crawl away...

...but Broussard reaches down, grabbing the foot.]

GM:  Shaw tried to get away but- oh no!

[Broussard lifts Shaw high in the air by the foot...

...and _slams_ the kneecap down into the canvas!]

GM:  OHHHHHH! 

[The crowd groans right with Gordon Myers as Broussard stares
emotionlessly down at Shaw, still holding the foot.  With the toe of his
boot, he flips Shaw onto his back.]

GM:  He's going for the spinning toehold again - and this time, I think
it really is going to be over!  

BW:  Yes!  Yes!  We goin' SIZZZZLAH!  WE GOIN' SIZZZZLAH!

[Broussard grabs the foot with both hands, stepping over it and starting
to spin...

...but a desperate Mark Shaw counters, driving his foot into the rear
end of Broussard, shoving him off.]

GM:  Nice count-ERRRRR!

[The crowd roars as Broussard sails off the spinning toehold attempt...

...and smashes his face into the top turnbuckle!]

GM:  That might buy the Hellion some time, Bucky!

BW:  Come on, Marcus!  Snap out of it, buddy!

[The San Jose Shark lies against the buckles, slumped over the top of
them as Mark Shaw grabs the ropes with both hands, using them to pull
his entire body weight off the mat.]

GM:  Broussard in one corner.  Shaw on the ropes, trying to find a way
to fight this match on one leg.  It's going to be very hard for Shaw to
get off some of those big suplexes and throws that he likes to do
without both of his legs as a base.

BW:  That's exactly right, Gordo.  You're a genius!  That's exactly why
my pick is comin' true, my ship is comin' in, and why WE... GOIN'...
SIZZLAH!  Little cubes of ham, here I come, daddy!

[Hobbling across the ring, careful to not put any weight on the injured
leg, Shaw approaches the corner.]

GM:  He's moving in on Broussard and for the first time in a while, the
Hellion, Mark Shaw, is on the attack!

[As he reaches the buckles, Shaw spins Broussard around so that his back
rests against them...

...and promptly steps up on the middle rope, careful to not strain the
right knee in doing so.]

BW:  Oh no.  No - not this!

[Shaw lets loose an angry cry as he lifts a fist to the sky, the crowd
roaring in approval...

...and he brings the heavy hand down on the injured head of his
opponent.]


"ONE!"
"TWO!"
"THREE!"
"FOUR!"
"FIVE!"
"SIX!"
"SEVEN!"
"EIGHT!"
"NINE!"
"TEN!"


GM:  He's rockin' the San Jose Shark, Bucky!

BW:  I can see that!  You don't think I can see that?!

GM:  Calm down... daddy.

BW:  DON'T STEAL MY CATCHWORD, MYERS!

[Shaw gingerly steps down off the middle rope, grabbing the stunned
Broussard by the head, dragging him out of the corner by the hair.]

GM:  Out to the middle of the ring...

[The Hellion hooks a front facelock, draping Broussard's limp arm over
his neck...

...and hoists him high in the air.]

GM:  Suplex!  Big vertical suplex!

[The crowd buzzes as Shaw holds firm, standing tall with Broussard held
high overhead.]

GM:  LOOK AT THE POWER!

[Shaw lifts his right leg slightly off the mat.]

GM:  What the-?!  

[He holds for a couple more moments, sending the crowd into a frenzy
before he drops back to the mat.]

GM:  A ONE LEGGED SUPLEX!  HAVE YOU EVER SEEN THAT?

BW:  LEAVE ME ALONE!

[Shaw rolls over onto Broussard, reaching back to hook a leg.]

GM:  ONE!!  TWO!!  THR-

[The shoulder pops off the mat just before the three count comes down.]

GM:  He got a shoulder up!  But just barely, Bucky!

BW:  I SAW IT!

[Shaw immediately pushes up to a knee, grabbing Broussard by the hair as
he moves to a straddle position, driving right hands down into the
bandaged head.]

GM:  Punches from the top - he's blasting Broussard over and over and
over!

[The crowd roars with each and every shot, growing louder as Shaw pushes
up off the mat, holding up a fist that is now covered in crimson.]

GM:  He busted him open!  He re-opened the cut!

[And just to make sure everyone knows it, Shaw reaches down and pulls at
the white tape wrapped around the head of the San Jose Shark, ripping it
clear off the head, blood now oozing from the wound yet again.]

BW:  He ripped the tape off.  That sick sonuva-

GM:  Bucky!


"FIFTEEN MINUTES HAVE GONE BY!  FIFTEEN MINUTES!"


[Shaw reaches down to the mat, pulling Broussard off the canvas by the
hair...

...and driving another clenched fist into the forehead, knocking
Broussard back into the turnbuckles.]

GM:  Another hard shot on target...

[The Hellion pauses, a few steps from the corner, and drops down into a
three point stance...

...and throws his body at the buckles, smashing into Broussard with a
full body tackle.]

GM:  Ohhh!  Where did that come from?

[Shaw picks up Broussard over his shoulder from the tackle position,
walking away from the corner...

...and dropping back to the mat in a modified Northern Lights Suplex!]

GM:  BRIDGE!  ONE!!  TWO!!  THR- OH!  The bridge gave out!  He couldn't
hold the bridge with a bad knee.

[The Los Angeles native rolls over to his stomach, applying a lateral
press.]

GM:  ONE!!  TWO!!  THR-

[But too much time has gone by, allowing Broussard to slip out from the
pin attempt.]

GM:  Couldn't hold him down.  Broussard manages to wriggle out again.

[Again, Shaw slips into a mount, driving punches onto the cut on the
head.]

GM:  Another shot... and another... and another...

[Trying to seize a moment, Broussard pulls his legs up, hooking Shaw...

...and rolling him into a modified Sunset Flip pin.]

GM:  ONE!!!  TWO!!!  THR-


"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


GM:  Close!  Too close!  The fans were concerned right there, Bucky.

BW:  We talked earlier about Broussard having some of the best cradles
in the game.  At any moment, he can wrap you up in one of those and win
the match.  We saw it with the crucifix on Houston and we almost just
saw it with the sunset flip on Shaw!

GM:  Shaw's to a knee... 

[But Marcus Broussard is just a little bit quicker, drilling Shaw in the
side of the head with a running kick that sends the Hellion sprawling,
falling through the ropes and out to the floor.]

GM:  OHHHH!  He caught him!

BW:  Yes!  The Shark caught him with a kick to the side of the head,
knocking Shaw out to the floor.

[Broussard collapses on the mat after the blow, waving for Meekly to
start a ten count.]

GM:  He wants Meekly to count Shaw out.  

BW:  Nothing wrong with that!  Shaw took a countout win earlier.

GM:  You're absolutely right.  If Mark Shaw gets counted out right here,
Marcus Broussard is the first AWA National Champion.

[Meekly shakes his head as he approaches the ropes, seeing Shaw still on
the floor.]

GM:  And here we go... Meekly with the count...

[Scooting back across the ring, Broussard pulls himself up with the
ropes, waving along with the referee's count.]


"ONE!"



"TWO!"



"THREE!"


[Shaw rolls over onto his back, his chest heaving with each breath as
Broussard lifts his arms in triumph, stumbling around the ring to the
jeers of the crowd.]

GM:  The count is up to four... now to five...

BW:  Did you figure out what you want to order, Gordo?

[As the count reaches six, Mark Shaw sits up on the floor, reaching a
hand up for the top of the ring apron.]

GM:  It's not over yet, Bucky.

BW:  It is!  It's over!  Ring the bell!

[Shaw uses all his power to pull his 270 pounds off the floor as the
count reaches seven...

...which allows a furious Marcus Broussard to charge across the ring,
dropping down into a baseball slide kick that connects squarely with the
face of Shaw, sending him stumbling backwards into the steel barricade.]

GM:  OH!  Right in the face!

[Broussard slides the rest of the way under the ropes, stalking towards
a stunned Shaw...

...and pops him hard in the jaw with a European uppercut that causes
Shaw to spin around, gutfirst over the railing.]

GM:  The Shark is on the attack out on the floor.  Where's he going now?

[Turning away from Shaw, Broussard reaches over the railing...

...and grabs the empty seat that was reserved for The Man With The Money
earlier in the night, yanking the chair over the railing.]

GM:  Wait a second!  The referee has been pretty lenient so far but I
don't think he's gonna allow-

BW:  Who knows, Gordo?  He used to work in that Extreme place and he's
pretty old - maybe he'll get confused and think it's okay.

GM:  Broussard is gonna get DQd!  He's gonna-

[But referee Meekly proves himself to be pretty spry, sliding out to the
floor to intervene.  He steps between the chair-wielding Broussard and
the prone Shaw, shaking his head and threatening to DQ the San Jose
Shark.]

GM:  Excellent officiating by Max Meekly!  He's right there to tell
Broussard if he uses the chair - this match, this tournament, and
Broussard's dreams are over!

[An irate Broussard throws the chair down on the concrete floor,
throwing up his hands in frustration as he backs away, still arguing
with the referee...

...which is the perfect distraction as the Super Ninja races to replace
him, grabbing the discarded chair, and _driving_ the edge of it into the
injured knee joint!]

GM:  OHHH!  COME ON!  GIVE ME A BREAK!  THAT'S A DQ, RIGHT THERE!

BW:  Nobody saw it but you and me, daddy!

GM:  AND THE REST OF THE WORLD!

BW:  Well... uhh... the ref had to see it and he didn't!

[A smirking Broussard finally quits arguing with the official, moving
back in to pull Shaw back over the railing, rolling him under the ropes
into the ring.]

GM:  He's got Shaw back in.  He's rolling back in behind him.  And a
quick cover!

[Meekly dives headfirst under the ropes, showing surprising speed and
quickness for an elderly man.]

GM:  ONE!!  TWO!!  THRE-  SHOULDER UP!  SHOULDER UP!

BW:  NO!  NO!  NO!  NO!  NO!

[Broussard pops up to his knees, a look of shock on his face as he holds
up three fingers to the official who shakes his head.]

GM:  He didn't get three!  Broussard didn't get three!  The match
continues!

[The San Jose Shark shows a bit of frustration, rolling over onto Shaw
in a kneeling position, wrapping both hands around the throat.]

GM:  CHOKE!  Get in there, ref!

[The count starts immediately, Broussard's face filled with rage as his
fingers clutch around the windpipe of the Hellion.]

GM:  Three... four... fiv-

[The San Jose Shark barely breaks the count in time, driving a pair of
clenched fists into the temple...

...and then promptly wraps his hands around the throat again!]

GM:  Come on!

[Broussard holds til four again, breaking just in time.]

GM:  This is ridiculous.  Get him off of Shaw if he's not going for
anything legal-

[With a break in the action, Shaw acts, rolling back to pull his legs
up...

...and then wrapping them in a figure four around the head and neck of
Broussard, pulling back on his trapped arm.]

GM:  What in the world-

BW:  TRIANGLE CHOKE!  TRIANGLE CHOKE!

GM:  I've never seen-

BW:  You don't watch Mixed Martial Arts, Gordo!  It's a jiu-jitsu choke
- not a windpipe choke but a carotid artery choke!  He's cutting off the
blood to the brain!  It's like a sleeperhold!

[Broussard frantically gets to his feet, trying to find a way out of the
hold as his face quickly gets red.]

GM:  Whatever it is, it's very effective!  It's putting Broussard out!

BW:  All the advance buzz on Shaw said he was an expert at chokes - but
this is the first one we've seen him use in the AWA, I believe, Gordo! 
Marcus is in trouble!

[But before he can pass out, Broussard flails his free arm at the
injured right knee over and over and over...

...which causes the choke to break, allowing Broussard to flee away from
it to the turnbuckles, sucking air into his body.]

GM:  He got out of it!  

BW:  That took a lot out of him though.  He's looking in very bad shape
over there against the turnbuckles.  If Mark Shaw is in any shape to
capitalize, we may have a problem.


"TWENTY MINUTES HAVE EXPIRED!  FORTY MINUTES REMAIN!"


GM:  A third of the time limit is gone - there's no way these guys are
going another forty minutes though, Bucky.  Look at them.  Broussard can
barely stand - he almost got choked out right there.  Shaw can barely
move on that one leg.

[Pushing up to his feet, Shaw basically hops the few feet towards
Broussard, spinning him around in the buckles...

...and getting his legs pulled out from under him as Broussard ducks
down suddenly and lunges, jacknifing the legs while putting his feet on
the middle rope.]

GM:  NO!  NO!

[The referee drops down to the mat to make the count - one, two, and a
very near three before he spots the feet, breaking the count and warning
Broussard who pops up to his feet, shoving Meekly hard with both hands.]

GM:  Oh, come on!

[But Meekly is an old man with nothing to lose, returning the favor by
shoving with all his strength...

...right into a schoolboy rollup by Mark Shaw!]

GM:  ONE!!!  TWO!!!  THRE-


"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"


GM:  Mark Shaw was less than a half count away from being the National
Champion!  He's gotta be running on fumes right now, Bucky.  In this
night, Shaw went almost twenty minutes earlier tonight and he's gone
another twenty in this one.  How much more does he have left in the
tank?

BW:  And more than half of that time earlier tonight was against
Tumaffi!

GM:  In contrast, Broussard went fifteen grueling minutes with Ron
Houston, got a bye through the semifinals, and now has been in here for
twenty minutes.  They're both pretty beat up at this point with the
injured knee for Shaw and the bloody and banged up head for the Shark.

[The two men square off for a moment, Shaw throwing a big chop across
the chest and Broussard returning the favor.  With the crowd roaring for
every blow, the two stand toe-to-toe.]

GM:  Chop by Shaw!

[The San Jose Shark throws a forearm into the chest of Shaw in reply,
causing Shaw to drop back a step towards the buckles.]

GM:  Shaw backs aw- ohh!  Another chop by Shaw!

[The step up into the chop causes Broussard to spin away, staggering
back towards the opposite corner...

...which brings a hobbling Mark Shaw out of the buckles, moving in on
him from behind.]

GM:  The Hellion moving out of the buckles... right behind Broussard...

[The crowd _erupts_ as Shaw hooks a side waistlock.]

GM:  BACKDROP DRIV-

[Broussard immediately drives the point of his elbow downwards into the
back of Shaw's head once, twice, three, four, five times to finally
break the grip.]

GM:  Broussard breaks away - he felt it coming, knew it was coming, and
got out of it as quickly as he could.

BW:  Even in a field of eight, you can bet that Marcus Broussard knows a
little about them all.  He knew that Backdrop Driver was on the way and
he did whatever it took to get out of it.

[The San Jose Shark quickly bends the injured right leg of Shaw,
hoisting him into the air...

...and dropping the injured leg across his own bent knee!]

GM:  Ohh!  Shinbreaker by Broussard!

BW:  And he's going back to the leg.  Back to the weak point.  Marcus
knows that if he's going to win this match, it's going to be because of
that leg.  Just like he beat Houston because of the bad shoulder.

GM:  He picks Shaw up again...

[And brings him down across the bent knee again, sending a bellow of
pain up from Shaw.]

GM:  He's holding onto the foot, Shaw barely able to stand.

[Broussard coldly just kicks the other leg out from under Shaw, taking
him down to the mat again as Broussard holds onto the foot, stepping
over it and twisting it.]

GM:  FIGURE FO-

[The crowd roars as a desperate Mark Shaw reaches up, pulling Broussard
into an inside cradle.]

GM:  ONE!!!  TWO!!!  THREE- NO!  NO!  SHOULDER UP!

[There's a buzz washing over the crowd with disappointment and
disbelief.]

GM:  He almost had him, Bucky.

BW:  I think I almost had a heart attack.  Don't do that, Gordo. 
Please.

GM:  I'm sorry - but it was so close.  I thought he had him.

[Broussard is the first to his feet, reaching down to pull Shaw up off
the mat...

...but Shaw shoves him back to the corner from a knee, showing off that
power.]

GM:  From his knees, he throws Broussard back to the buckles!

[The big man pushes up off the mat, wincing as he puts pressure on the
right knee.]

GM:  Shaw moving in on the corner...

[He pauses just a step away from the buckles, letting loose a wild
bellow as he slaps himself in the face.]

GM:  Mark Shaw may be getting a second wind!

[With his opponent corner, Shaw lashes out with a right hand to the ear
of Broussard.  A left boxes the other ear, sending Broussard down to the
mat...

...where Shaw grabs him around the throat with both hands, pulling him
hard to his feet to the roar of the crowd.]

GM:  Whoa!  Did you see that?

[The crowd continues to roar as Shaw plants his feet wide, continuing to
throw rights and lefts to the head of Broussard, some bouncing off the
temple, some glancing off the ears, and an occasional straight jab to
the middle of the face.]

GM:  THE SHARK IS BEING PUMMELED IN THE CORNER!

BW:  Where's the referee now?!

[Shaw bellows again as he takes a step back and Broussard stumbles out,
the crimson mask in full effect from the shots to the head...

...and gets wrapped up in the arms of the Hellion.]

GM:  Shaw's got him hooked!

[The Hellion takes a deep breath, planting his feet and bracing for the
pain...

...and then pops his hips, throwing Broussard up and over to the mat
with a belly-to-belly suplex throw!]

GM:  OHHHHHH!  WHAT POWER!  UNBELIEVABLE POWER!

[Shaw crawls across the canvas, having collapsed to the mat after the
suplex...

...and throws a weary arm across the chest of Broussard.]

GM:  ONE!!!  TWO!!!   THRE- NO!!!

[The fans buzz with frustration as Broussard slips a shoulder off the
mat again just in time to beat the count.]

GM:  He got out of it again.  Incredible resiliency on the part of
Marcus Broussard.  Mark Shaw has just been unable to keep him down for a
three count.

BW:  Both men showing incredible comeback power, Gordo.  I thought
Shaw's knee woulda ended this ages ago.  But we're over twenty minutes
deep and they're both still going!

[And yet again, Shaw cradles the head of Broussard, driving punch after
punch into the cut on the skull, sending more blood pouring from the
wound...

...and this time leans down, taking a chunk out himself.]

GM:  HE'S BITING HIM!  SHAW'S BITING THE CUT!

BW:  This guy is sick.  He's an animal!

[Shaw gets to his feet, noticeably leaning towards the left leg as he
reaches down, pulling a fairly limp Broussard to his feet by the hair...

...and right back into the side waistlock.]

GM:  He's got him hooked!

BW:  Broussard's not even moving!

[The San Jose Shark attempts to escape, throwing a few weak elbows to
the back of the head again...

...but this time, there is no escape.]

GM:  BACKDROP DRIVER!

[The crowd roars as Shaw hoists Broussard into the air, sailing
backwards...

...and _drives_ the back of his head and neck into the canvas!]

GM:  THAT'S IT!  IT'S OVER!!

[Shaw moves as quickly as his injured leg will allow, throwing an arm
across the chest.]

GM:  ONE!!!  TWO!!! 

[But before the three count comes down, the sneaky Super Ninja snakes an
arm into the ring, throwing Broussard's leg over the bottom rope.]

GM:  Wait... what just happened there?  Did the Super Ninja-

BW:  No!  Marcus got a foot on the ropes!

GM:  I think the Super Ninja put Broussard's foot on the ropes!

[A weary Shaw rolls off of Broussard, staring up at the lights while
sucking air into his body...

...which gives the Super Ninja a moment to pull Broussard out of the
ring by the ankle.]

GM:  Wait a second!  He can't do that!


"TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES HAVE EXPIRED!  TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES!"


GM:  The Super Ninja just pulled Broussard out to the floor.  Referee
Max Meekly is screaming at the Ninja - he's threatening to DQ him if he-

[The crowd roars!]

GM:  MEEKLY JUST THREW THE NINJA OUT OF HERE!  HE KICKED THE
NINJA OUT OF HERE!

[An irate Super Ninja jumps up on the apron, arms moving wildly as he
argues with the official...

...and Mark Shaw rolls out to the apron, slowly lowering himself down to
the floor.]

GM:  Mark Shaw is going out after Broussard and the Super Ninja can
argue all he want but Max Meekly just kicked him out of the ringside
area!  It's about time!

BW:  But... that's not fair!  He's Marcus' bodyguard!  Who will protect
Marcus Broussard now?!

GM:  The Ninja is still arguing but- yep, I think he's leaving.

[But before he does, the Ninja deftly tugs at the ties on one of the top
turnbuckles, pulling the padding clear before he drops to the floor.  
The movement is unnoticed by the distracted referee who has started a
count on Shaw and Broussard - and apparently by the announcers as well
who fail to comment on it.]

GM:  The Super Ninja is being forced out of here - and finally, Bucky
Wilde, if Marcus Broussard wants to win the National Title, he's gotta
do it on his own!

BW:  This isn't fair at all.  Not at all.

GM:  Shaw's out on the floor, pulling Broussard up without having to
worry about the Ninja.

[Broussard is still barely conscious as Shaw yanks him to his feet by
his blood-covered hair...

...and promptly hurls him like a ragdoll into the steel barricade!]

GM:  Good heavens!  

BW:  This isn't good, Gordo.  We need to get the Ninja back out here to
protect Marcus!

GM:  He has to protect himself!  He's fighting for the National Title!

[Shaw pulls Broussard off the floor again, leaving a bloody stain on the
floor...

...and throws him under the ropes into the ring.  He boosts himself up
on the apron, rolling under the ropes as well.]

GM:  Both men back in, breaking the count in time.  

BW:  Marcus is out cold, I think.  He's not even moving!

GM:  Shaw pushing himself up off the mat, pulling up with the ropes now.

[The crowd roars for the Hellion as he leans against the ropes, looking
down at his motionless opponent.]

GM:  Mark Shaw and Marcus Broussard have given every inch of their body,
every ounce of their blood, sweat, and tears to become the National
Champion - but in the end, there can only be one, Bucky!

BW:  Don't remind me!  Let's call it a draw and try again later!

[Staggering across the ring, wincing with every step, Shaw reaches down
to pull Broussard to his feet by the back of the trunks.]

GM:  Shaw pulls him up... 

[The crowd is roaring as Shaw looks around at them, nodding his head as
he pulls Broussard into a standing headscissors.]

BW:  Now what's he doing?

[Shaw throws a fist in the air, nodding his head.]

GM:  He told me earlier tonight he had a new move!  This could be it,
Bucky!  He said he wanted something no one knew about tonight in case he
needed it!

BW:  Secret weapons?!  Marcus can't even move!

[With his opponent barely able to stand, Shaw hoists him high, slipping
his arms under the now-outstretched arms of Broussard.]

GM:  A crucifix powerbomb?!

[Shaw walks out of the corner, holding Broussard high above, the crowd
roaring as he prepares to spike the San Jose Shark down to the canvas
and win the National Title...

...but he takes one step too many out of the corner, his knee buckling
underneath him, allowing Broussard to drop down to the canvas behind
him.]

GM:  Ohh!  The knee gave out!

[The San Jose Shark, knowing he has one chance left, snatches yet one
more page out of an old friend's playbook, wrapping his arms around the
ample waist of the Hellion, charging forward...]

GM:  Broussard's got him hooked...

[The two move in unison the few steps towards the corner, Shaw's face
_slamming_ into the top turnbuckle...

...the actual metal buckle previously exposed by the Super Ninja.]

GM:  Hard to the corner!  WAIT - WHERE'S THE TURNBUCKLE?!

[The impact of hitting the metal seems to make Shaw go limp as Broussard
uses the momentum to roll backwards, pulling Shaw with him into a
reverse rolling cradle.]

GM:  CRADLE!

[And with his last bit of energy, Broussard throws his body back into
the most picture-perfect, breathtaking beautiful bridge that he's ever
managed.]

GM:  That's- 

BW:  NATURAL BRIDGE!  IT'S ADAM ROGERS' FINISH-

GM:  NO!!

[The referee dives to the canvas, raising his arm once...]

BW:  ONE!!!  

[Twice...]

BW:  TWO!!!

[And yes indeed, thrice.]

BW:  THREEEEEEEE!!!!


"DING!  DING!  DING!"


GM:  I can't believe it!  

BW:  You just don't want to believe it!

GM:  After all these weeks... after all we've seen tonight... after
nearly thirty minutes of war between Mark Shaw and... and... 

BW:  Say it!  Say it!  You know you want to!

GM:  Marcus Broussard is the National Champion?!

[The crowd is buzzing with shock and horror as Melissa Cannon makes it
official.]

MC:  Ladies and gentlemen... after twenty-eight minutes and six seconds
of hard-fought action... your winner of the match...

And the FIRST AWA NATIONAL CHAMPION...

[Wait for it...]

MC:  MAAAAAARRRRCUS BROUUUUUSSARRRRRRD!

[The arena deflates, quickly devolving into a storm of booing fans,
pouring their disgust all over the reviled villain as he sits up on the
canvas, a look of near-shock on his face as referee Max Meekly lifts his
hand high into the air...

...and puts the glittering, sparkling brand new AWA National Title belt
into his outstretched hand.]

GM:  Marcus Broussard has done it, fans!  Marcus Broussard... I can't
believe I'm saying this.  But Marcus Broussard is the first man to hold
the AWA National Title!

BW:  He beat 'em all, Gordo!  He beat Houston!  He beat Marley!  He beat
Shaw!  The big guns came for him and shot every round they had at the
Shark... but this Shark is bulletproof!

GM:  Fans, I can not believe this.  The celebration of the San Jose
Shark continues in the ring.

[Confetti erupts from the ceiling, Broussard's music blasting as a
bloody and dazed San Jose Shark steps up to the midbuckle, clutching the
gold and silver title belt to his chest.]

GM:  We're past our allotted time!  We want to thank WKIK for allowing
us to go the extra mile to bring to you all the conclusion of this
amazing show!  We apologize for not being able to bring you the debut of
Wilton Stone or the medical update on Erik Reid but we will get those to
you as soon as possible.  Fans, on behalf of the AWA, thank you all for
being here tonight... either in the arena live or at home on television.
 We couldn't have done it without you!  We're almost out of time!

BW:  Gordo!  Gordo!  You know the best part of this?

GM:  What's that?

BW:  WE GOIN' SIZZLAH!

GM:  At least there's that.  Fans, from Fort Worth, Texas, I'm Gordon
Myers and along with Bucky Wilde and everyone here in the American
Wrestling Alliance, we wish you good night - and we'll see _you_... at
the matches!

[The camera holds on Broussard, red and white confetti pouring to the
ground all around him as he stands on the second rope still, hugging the
title belt like a long-lost love, blood pouring from his wounds onto the
bright gold and silver prize...

...and we fade to black.]