___ ______ __ _, _, _ ___ _,_ __, _ _ _ __, __, / _ \/ ___/ | /| / / / \ |\ | | |_| |_ | | | |_) |_ / , _/ /__ | |/ |/ / \ / | \| | | | | |/\| | | \ | /_/|_|\___/ |__/|__/ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~ Thursday 23 February 2006 [As the high-energy guitar riff of Semisonic's "F.N.T." kicks off, we cut to the RCW studios. A man leans against a desk in front of a plasma screen bearing the RCW logo. The man, in his early 50s, is wearing a sports jacket and an open-necked shirt. As the camera swings in, the man turns to the camera and smiles.] DD: Howdy, everybody, and welcome to the very first broadcast from Rip City Wrestling. My name is Don Ditka, and it's my privilege to be the voice of RCW. Let me tell you, folks, I've been involved in this great sport for some twenty years, and I've honestly never been more excited. Stick with us here tonight on KPDX 49: over the next 60 minutes we're going to introduce you to the stars of RCW, and by the end of the hour, I'm prepared to bet you're going to be just as excited as I am. [The logo on the plasma screen behind Ditka changes to the "On The Wire" logo.] DD: RCW On The Wire is your bi-weekly magazine show. We'll bring you all the latest happenings, the hirings and firings, the low-down on forthcoming live events, and more besides. And every other week, cable's premier hour of wrestling entertainment will come to you *live* from the world-famous Rose Garden arena here in downtown Portland. [A picture of the Rose Garden arena appears on the screen.] DD: Speaking of which, folks, we are just two weeks away from RCW's first ever live event -- and you can be there! Tickets are on sale right now from www.ticketmaster.com. We'll have all the details on the incredible matches lined up for RCW's first ever show over the next hour. But right now, let's talk talent. [A graphic of "Golden Boy" Nolan Dorado and his valet, Jodee Burwick, appears on the screen behind Ditka.] DD: The RCW front office staff have been incredibly busy lining up some of the most exciting young wrestling stars of tomorrow to compete here in Rip City Wrestling -- and perhaps none more so than "Golden Boy" Nolan Dorado. This young man from Tacoma, Washington is at the very least a quadruple threat: he excelled in college sports as wide-ranging as football, baseball, track, and, of course, wrestling. Trained by "Fireball" Ken Keening in Seattle, Dorado and his beautiful valet Jodee Burwick -- herself a former cheerleader for the San Francisco 49ers -- is on his way to RCW. Let's meet him now. [We cut to an unusual setting... what appears to be the interior of a large bank vault filled with stacks of gold bars. In the midst of this affluence, a couple is standing with a muscular man facing the camera with his arms folded over his chest while a curvaceous blonde is draped over his left shoulder, her voluptuous curves pressed against the man's bicep as he grins at the camera with a brilliant smile. The man's long, dirty-blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail and his eyes are hidden by golden wraparound sunglasses as he continues to smile even as the woman coos and nibbles on his earlobe. He is wearing shining golden pants and white wrestling boots with gold laces while the woman's body is sheathed in a skin-tight golden halter top that threatens to burst at the seams matched by a very high cut golden miniskirt. Upon closer examination, the woman appears to be significantly older than the man who is visibly in his early 20s while she, despite the miracles of modern science and plastic surgery, could technically be old enough to be his mother. Despite the age difference, the woman continues to caress the man's bare chest in a lascivious manner as he grins triumphantly.] Man: They say that all that glitters is gold but in this case, I don't just glitter... I shine. Woman: You tell 'em, baby. Man: For those who don't know me, and very soon you most certainly will, my name is Nolan Dorado... "Golden Boy" Nolan Dorado. And like King Midas of old, everything I touch... [Lowering his right hand to his side, Dorado absentmindedly reaches up with his left and caresses the woman's hair, inadvertently revealing darkish roots that hint at the fact that she might not be a natural blonde after all.] ND: ...turns to gold. [The smile broadens and Dorado's teeth glint as golden decorative caps can be seen on his incisors.] ND: But where are my manners? If I'm introducing myself, I should present my lovely assistant. Say hello, Jodee. [The woman turns to the camera and arches an eyebrow as she wickedly licks her lips.] J: Hello. ND: Jodee and I have come to Rip City Wrestling for one reason... and one reason only. [He beckons at the gold bars around him.] ND: Diamonds may be Jodee's best friend but mine... mine is gold. And in RCW, gold translates into one thing... titles. Championships. For my nickname is more than just an indication of my interests, it also reflects my talents. For I am the finest, most superbly conditioned, most talented all-around athlete this company will ever see. And soon... very soon... [Dorado folds his arms over his chest once more.] ND: ...I'll be adding to my collection of golden trinkets. Every other wrestler... in fact, absolutely everybody is about to learn the Golden Rule... [The grin, if anything, widens.] ND: ...the "Golden Boy"... rules! [Jodee giggles and sinfully licks the side of his face as Dorado continues to smile. After a moment, we cut back to Ditka in the studio, whose eyes are a little wider than normal.] DD: Let me tell you, folks, I'm a happily married man, but Jodee Burwick... wow. There's a woman who knows how to get what she wants. Something tells me she's going to be one of Dorado's most valuable assets. [The graphic on the screen behind Ditka changes to a graphic of Vinny Carmazzi.] DD: If Dorado's is a story of everything going right, let's meet a young man for whom -- so far, at least -- years of hard work haven't yet paid off. Vinny Carmazzi is a twelve-year veteran of our great sport, but he's still waiting for that big pay-day. He's hoping that RCW is going to be the place that all his hard work translates into gold... championship gold. [Cut to the view from the ceiling corner of a small, poorly-lit room. Not too much inhabits this run-down space, other than a bench, a few weights, a punching bag, a jumprope, and a man. If there was more equipment, it might be called a pathetic excuse for a gym. If it was just a little bit bigger, it could be considered a long-abandoned warehouse. But there isn't, and it isn't. The faded blue-gray paint peels and cracks off the walls, while the dirt covers the floor to the point where it just very well has become the floor. And the man? He doesn't have to punch the middle of the wall. But he does. He knows he has a punching bag. He knows he could very well break his entire hand punching the wall. But he punches anyway. And hard. Very hard. Maybe he doesn't know when to stop. Or maybe he feels that he shouldn't. Such is life when you're angry and desperate.] VC: How the hell to sum up twelve very long years? Twelve years spent learning, doing others' [BLEEP] work, placing all your ambition aside for the moment, in order to get the big payoff down the road. [The face of Vinny Carmazzi slowly turns up towards the camera affixed to the ceiling. His brown eyes are red for numerous reasons and appear to burn like acid. Although not yet in his 30's, you wouldn't know it from his face. Or his raw knuckles, the ones that leave new blood stains on the wall with every punch. He should tape them up for his own safety, but he doesn't. He just punches. A bandana holds in most of his dirty blonde hair. At this point, it's much more dirty than blonde. His gray t-shirt is covered by stains, of both sweat and blood, both old and new.] VC: Wanted to succeed and be a star in pro wrestling. But the cards weren't dealt my way. Wasn't born a giant. Can't scramble somebody's face with one punch. Just a small Italian kid who grew up poor in Jersey. [Despite the strategic placement of the camera, the stature of Vinny Carmazzi is apparent as he punches. Six foot one. Two hundred and thirty-five pounds. Slight to medium build. Unimpressive. Average. In some circles, maybe less than.] VC: The only big thing about me is the goals I set. I needed a big plan. So I went from promotion to promotion, leagues and federations around the world, just getting in the ring and watching. Learning. No offense, just absorbing moves from others. Done to me. Done on me. [The speed of punches decreases slightly, almost impossible to see.] VC: Because if I experience the move just once, not only can I learn how do it, but how to reverse it the next time. [The speed of punches increases again, but also nearly impossible to see.] VC: Took many years and many beatings, but I think I've seen every move out there. I became ready. I've wanted my opportunity to shine for a long time now. [Sweat continues to pour down his forehead, finally coming to rest in his eyes. They only add to the agony. Vinny doesn't even muster the effort to wipe them. Doesn't even blink. Pain is part of the learning.] VC: But after so many years of watching and experiencing, what people only saw as "jobbing," my window for success only seemed to get smaller. The people in charge never gave me a shot. Didn't see past the win-loss record. Thought I had nothing to offer. No upside. Became a joke in the locker room. They never thought about why I was always losing. Never realized it was a part of something more. The desire for something bigger. Something great. [The last two words flip a switch inside of him. His expression becomes more intense. The blood stains on the wall grow in size and deepen in color.] VC: RCW might be willing to give me a chance. They sent back a postcard. More than I can say for the others. A chance for me to shine. Show what I can finally do. They won't regret it. [Vinny stops the assault on both the wall and his hands. He watches the blood surge from the top of his hand, down his arm, and off his elbow to the floor. He stands unfazed, as if he's done this countless times before.] VC: Because this is my big chance. Probably my last chance. If I lose here, it's all over. That can't happen. It won't. [He cradles the damaged hand in the middle of his chest. Gray quickly becomes red.] VC: Really have no choice. Put in too much time. Too much effort. Too much bloodshed. Too much pain. Can't imagine a world without this. Can't fail now. [His teeth clench. His arm falls to his side.] VC: Won't. [Cut back to Ditka in the studio, as the image of Carmazzi in the warehouse fades out, to be replaced with the RCW logo.] DD: Vinny Carmazzi is a young man with tremendous heart and determination, and I'm sure he's going to be a big success here in RCW. Let's switch gears and meet somebody quit unlike anybody you've ever seen before -- in a wrestling ring or otherwise. [Dropped in the middle of Portland is a man who will not be denied. A strange wild man with hirsute hair and scraggily looks. A thick large strong fellow of mixed blood that speaks his mind without restraint, that acts without fear of consequences, eats whatever he gets his hands on, loves whomever he wants and fights whenever there?s time for it. This man will not be contained; this man will not be stopped?] M: OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW- [This man will not shut up.] M: MY NECK! Sumbody konked me loights out an? stuffed me inna crate! Now I?z gots a crick inda neck da size of Ayers Rock, me legs are all numb and I?z surrounded by all sorts uv? gawping yokels starrin? at me as if I wuz da prize pig at da township carny! [The newest RCW talent from the Australian islands has just opened up to our shores. I mean this literally: shipped freight and fresh off the delivery truck, those who pried open the wooden crate on which was written "WRESTLING TALENT" were surprised to be greeted by a big screaming madman yelling in a thick Cockney accent. Point of order: there lies a 300 plus pound screaming freak of nature in an off-green faded shirt with a great white bull's skull painted on front. Cut-off denim jeans are supported by a thick leather belt with a larger than necessary Wallaby themed buckle. Hard mountain boots that were made to stomp faces and oversized fluffy green-white-red wristbands complete the ensemble. Wisely, everyone that came to see what the fuss was about give this man a wide berth.] M: I know you rotten gitzes affa 'ole lotta queshuns, but lemme tell ya roight kwick: I don't know oo I iz, 'ow I got 'ere or wot you lot expect from me. Scratch dat. I do know 'oo I iz! I'z Madrock: REMEMBER DA NAME! Madrock an I'z da bane uv' Brisbane, da monster uv' Almunster, dey call me da freak up Abbott's Peak! I've been all 'round dis big blue rock: livin' 'ard, shoutin', drinkin', fightin'... an' dat wuz jus' at da rugby game wif da Wallabies!!! Dey couldn' stand me so I sailed all da way up ta Africa: saw 'ow dey knocked 'eads dere! Den I took to da scrum an' showed 'em 'ow we knock 'eads HERE there! Dey toss me out flat on me bottom so I went to Ireland for sum'more fun, got lost, went ta Egypt: 'finx bit me but I punched it roight back inda noze! Took to Canada, got lost, went to Russia, got lost, went to Greece, got lost, went to Japan, ate a burger den got lost! All dis time I wuz scrappin', facebashin' an' krumpin' wut scum don't like me when I took to my boat one las'time, and woodn'cha know it: I sailed back 'ome an' caught da Wallabies finishin' da last leg uv' dere nine-try haul for da win! I yell so 'ard, God 'imself told me to take it down a 'notch; but ain't no one, nobody can tell Madrock 'ow to live his life, so God 'ad to smite me down from da 'eavens an' packed me inna crate for da YOO-NI-TED STATES! [Bewildered looks of astonishment from all gathered to observe this attraction. If anyone is skeptic over Madrock's accomplishments, there isn't a soul out there to voice those concerns. Partly because no one would want to anger such a man, but also because after looking into these crazed intense eyes, no one is certain if these ARE fabrications or not!] M: DAT'S MY STORY AN' I'M STICKIN' TO IT! Now I'z 'ere to spread da word: men such as me, MADROCK; we were put on dis Earff to scrap, foight, kick ass' and WIN! Izzat clear? When its rugby, I want my Wallabies to win; so when it's rasslin', I want my guy to win! An' my guy 'ere is me, MADROCK! Dey stuff me inna box and throw me in a great big rasslin' ring, SO? I ain't leavin' till they call me CHAMP Madrock! An' if any one of yoo finks any different, any of yoo sekretly wishin' dat da great big git from da Cockatoo islands should juss 'ead ovvah where 'ee came from, in annuver crate if e'has too? Well chaps, noffin' eazier! Dere's only two fings stoppin' you! [And in an unusually quiet moment, Madrock shows his burly right hand curled into a massive gnarly fist. Then he shows the left hand, curled up into an equally impressive fist. Then, in the clearest words that he can muster (and bear in mind, this is a man with exactly 13 teeth inside his mouth), pronounces.] M: DO - YOU - UN-DER-STAND? [Cut back to Ditka in the studio, looking with a befuddled expression on his face up at the plasma screen behind him, on which the extreme close-up of Madrock's toothless grimace can still be seen. Ditka continues to look at Madrock, almost transfixed. The same befuddled expression on his face, he turns slowly back to the camera.] DD: A Cockney Australian rugby enthusiast. Madrock... Madrock the Irrepressible, folks. A more unique competitor you will not see here in RCW -- or anywhere. [Madrock's face finally fades from the plasma screen, to be replaced by the RCW RAMPAGE logo.] DD: Now don't forget, folks: we'll be back here live at 10pm next week on KPDX 49, with another outing for On The Wire. But just seven days later, on March 6, we'll be coming at you live and direct from the world-famous Rose Quarter arena, with RCW's very first live event. Every fortnight, RCW RAMPAGE will be the showcase for all the talent you're meeting here tonight for the first time. And before we go off-air tonight, RCW President Daniel Spreadbury will be joining us here in the studio to make some important announcements about the very first RCW RAMPAGE broadcast. Don't forget: you can be there live and in person. Hit www.ticketmaster.com right now to make sure you don't miss out. We'll be right back after these messages. [Fade out.] [Fade back to the RCW studio. Ditka is now sat behind the desk, the plasma screen behind him now showing a shot of Orin "The Lynx" Leblanc.] DD: Welcome back, folks, to RCW On The Wire. Let's meet another man who will be stepping into the ring two weeks from tonight at our inaugural RCW RAMPAGE. Orin "The Lynx" Leblanc hails from Ontario, Canada, and this man is *huge*. See for yourself. [The camera fades in on the interior of a bar. Where exactly, we're not sure, but it's a bar and that means booze and really, so long as it's not watered down, does it matter where the bar is? The camera makes its way toward a booth in the back, where a young man dressed in a beat-up brown leather jacket and jeans is sitting alone, already on his second bottle of Alexander Keith's.] Man: 'Bout time you showed up... [Ah..."about" sounding like "aboot". Between that and the beer, let us assume that we're in Canada or at the very least somewhere close to the border on the US side. The man shakes his head a little, getting a few strands of shaggy light brown hair out of his face.] Man: Probably some of you are thinkin' you might have seen me somewhere before. An' if you saw the latest last gasp out o' Re-RAW way, you'd be right. But for those not in the loop, the name's Orin "The Lynx" LeBlanc. [Pause. Chug.] OL: Now, last time we left this young 'tagonist, Re-RAW was goin' the way o' the dodo an' WILD an' SPW were splittin' the roster. "Orin," --for those o' you who have a tendency to talk to the TV screen like it's your own personal genie-- "Orin, there's opportunity right there! Get your foot in the door at one o' them big places...why take your chances down in Portland?" [He snorts, then his face twists into a toothy grin.] OL: Politickin' ain't a personal hobby o' mine. An' them places weren't lookin' at me for me. More like a toy between two kiddy school kliqs... somethin' to have just so the other side don't get it. [LeBlanc's eyes narrow.] OL: My time is too short to be just a pawn in a dick wagglin' contest. Show me those two paths an' I'd rather just make my own. An' folks know better than to get between me an' mine... [The Lynx stares hard into the camera as his lips curl into a bit of a sneer.] OL: ...point blank, my path is takin' me to Portland. An' I'm fixin' to make Rip City my own.... [Chuckling a little, Orin turns back to his beer as we cut back to Ditka in the studio.] DD: This young man is certainly not short on confidence, folks. But the surprising thing about this beast from north of the border is that he is one of the most impressive submission-style wrestlers you will see. Speaking of impressive, let's meet a competitor whose achievements outside the ring are as impressive as those within it. [The graphic on the plasma screen fades to an image of "The Unbreakable" Trevor Lansing.] DD: Trevor Lansing majored in English and Sociology at the University of Washington, as well as becoming [We cut to a wide shot of a square, well-lit changing room.] Voice: I'm not going to bother you with false realities.. [We tighten on a single set of double lockers aligned against the back wall.. as two wooden chairs flank the metal beast on each side. Only a few feet in front of the lockers rests a single wooden bench, painted green to match the chipped-but-still-painted lockers. And upon that bench rests a single man. The Caucasian man sports a decent tan.. one that is definitely natural genetics, not a tanning booth product by any stretch of the imagination. His well-proportioned, muscular yet highly athletic build is showcased as he sports a sleeveless black "IN Flames" t-shirt and broken-in blue jeans. His clean shaven, blad head gleams off the lighting above.. truly accentuating his chiseled cheekbones and striking , dark blue eyes.,. that are set against a contrasting and well-groomed, dark brown goatee. His demeanor, as he looks towards the camera, is that of a man who doesn't mix business with pleasure... and this, by far, is a business meeting.] TL: The brass of Rip City Wrestling want me to introduce myself to the world.. want me to flaunt my God-given assets... and provide fodder for every single one of you in the press, and for every single one of the boys that'll end up in the back to feed off of... ...hold over my head... ...and point towards when the cow pattie hits the fan. But the simple fact of the matter is? I'm not much for blowing smoke up you-know-where. [He shrugs simply... but quickly replaces the indifferent pose with a switch back to a business-like glare.] TL: The name is Trevor Lansing... ..."The Unbreakable" Trevor Lansing. And you see? I didn't just attach the moniker to my name to sound cool... or to build my own ego up to the point of internal combustion. I was given the name by those I trained with... those I sweat and bled with for hours on end in the gym. I "earned" my name... with every stretched body part... ...and with every sprain, strain, and hyperextension... ...for it was well-established that nothing short of a broken neck would keep me down. _Unbreakable._ [A not-so-subtle nod... this man, this Trevor Lansing beams with a quiet confidence. Or not so quiet?] TL: But, I know how this business works... I know it is eat or be eaten.,. and I know most, if not all, of you are calling me a hypocrite already. I know that most of you think I'm blowing smoke... embellishing the facts... and making myself out to be bigger and badder than the rest. So, Rip City Wrestling? I beg of you. Test me. Throw me the biggest, baddest dogs in the yard. Throw me the most hardcore... throw me the quickest... throw me the strongest... throw me any and every established star you can muster... and then throw me the tablescraps. And I promise you... the one they simply call Unbreakable? He'll break them all. One by one... One snapped ligament after one fractured kneecap... One broken carcass after another. And then... and only then... when all the fliers are crippled and all the strong men are neutralized... Will Rip City Wrestling _really_ understand what truth I spoke of when they look back at this video. [No smiles... no nods... nothing. Just a glare... a cold, decisive stare. But it is broken up by a slight shoulder shrug... as he continues.] TL: And I'm sorry ahead of time if this is not what the brass at Rip City was expecting... if this isn't what they would like to see come out of the mouths of their prospected talent... but I'm not the guy who is going to be smiling, and shaking hands, and kissing babies and be up to my ears in you-know-what. This is me... this is Trevor Lansing. This is how _I_ introduce _myself_ to the wrestling world. [A single nod.] TL: So.. all that is left now... ...is to either put up or shut up. And if I was a betting man? [Trevor chuckles.. a gruff smile creasing his chin slightly. He doesn't bother answering that rhetorical question: no, it really was rhetorical.] TL: From here on out, Rip City Wrestling, be on alert... ...because every single contest... ...is life or death... ...is make or break... ...and if there is one thing you can set in stone... ...it is that Trevor Lansing truly is... ...unbreakable. [Cut back to Ditka in the studio.] DD: "The Unbreakable" is certainly not short on confidence -- but you can be sure that he'll be tested big-time in the coming weeks by the other competitors here in RCW. [The screen behind Ditka shows the front page of the RCW web site.] DD: You can find a full profile for Trevor Lansing -- and indeed all the other RCW superstars -- on our web site at www.ripcitywrestling.com. And something else you'll find at the RCW web site is a column from a man called Owen "The Truth" Curtis. [The picture behind Ditka changes to a shot of Owen Curtis.] DD: Owen Curtis is a familiar figure here in Portland, and when he's not writing his poison pen letters to the rest of the wrestling industry, he's no slouch in the squared circle. Let's meet "The Truth" right now. [Cut to a scene -- make it scenes. Scenes of a sunny Portland flash by -- the Oregon Zoo, the Japanese Gardens, the Fremont Bridge, the Oregon Convention Center, the Willamette River, the Portlandia statue, the Saturday Market ... and finally, the MAX light rail line pulling up to the Rose Garden arena on the east banks of the Willamette. The doors open, and out steps a crowd of people ... along with Owen "Truth" Curtis. He's wearing some rumpled brown tweed slacks, brown dress shoes, a white oxford shirt with faint criss-cross pinstripes and both sleeves rolled up, and a brown knitted tie. And he's got a black gym bag. His dirty blond hair -- long but not shoulder length -- is tossed about in the February breeze. A two-day growth of stubble comes standard.] OTC: A nice day in Oregon? In February? Who'da thunk. [He draws one last gulp from his insulated cup of Coffee People -- no Starbucks for this Oregon native -- and drains a carefully-measured eight-footer into the nearest trash receptacle. He turns to the camera.] OTC: Hi. I'm Owen Curtis. I'm sure more than a few of you knew that. After all, I'm from right here in Oregon. I won four state high school wrestling titles and then two NCAA titles for the U of O. I brought glory to the schizophrenic, dysfunctional Oregon homeland. In other words, I did the impossible. Who else does that kind of thing around here? And don't say Joey Harrington. He can say that he's done something as soon as he stops sucking, and I don't see that in the foreseeable future. So if you want to see heroism, your options are me, me, me or all of the above. Multiple choice. I know you can get the answer right on that one -- unlike our high school students on their pre-college tests. Time's up. And you put? The answer is D. [He looks down at his watch.] OTC: Time is short. Come along for the ride. I am Owen Curtis. This is the Rose Garden. A grand stage where the sport of professional wrestling is about to experience a revival. There's all kinds of men who think they have what it takes to stand out. 16 men. All different shapes and sizes and backgrounds. All wanting the Rip City Wrestling championship. But there's only one champion among them. [He's walking along now, towards the arena. We follow.] OTC: You think it's me? Why, I'm flattered. That was nicely anticipated, and yes, I was getting there. But the fact is, we're a little premature on that. You see, this is why we have the matches. I am not one to report things before they happen, you know. That's not good journalistic practice. So let's just say I have a good shot at winning. I'm hopeful of winning. And I have the best backstory of anyone here. That ought to get you fans going. A national champion making his way to professional wrestling. A bright future in the squared circle just waiting to be seized. Fame, fortune, women, money, critical acclaim ... they all were mine for the taking. I had already won my first major belt, and I did it against a so-called legend, the Dark Destroyer. Mr. Five-Time EWA Champion ... I tied him in knots and left him on the orphanage doorstep like an unwanted baby. He truly WAS orphaned, because without a belt, he was nothing. And I made him into nothing by taking away from him the EWA North American Championship. Do I have to draw you a map to what was next? Then ... it happened. And it had to happen in practice. Not in Madison Square Garden. Not here, in the Rose Garden. Practice. I was running the ropes and heard a noise, like a big rubber band breaking, or maybe it was the ring ropes. But it wasn't a ring rope. It was my knee. Destroyed. Career over. Kaput. Finished. Done. The end. Thirty. [He stops at a loading dock, near where the competitors go inside the Rose Garden arena. He leans in conspiratorially.] OTC: Thirty. That's typesetter's lingo for the end of the story. Nothing more to say. Nothing more to know. [He turns his head sideways with a look of regret on his face.] OTC: My thirty was at age 22. Nine years ago. Ironic. Because that leads me to right now. Age 31. Life after thirty. In both senses of the word. I have been rehabilitating this knee for nine years. I have been doing what doctors said I could not do. I am ignoring their advice right now, by even being here. [He reaches for the arena entrance door, then stops.] OTC: For the past eight years, I have been writing stories. Other people's stories. I worked in a newsroom, and I wrote about old people. Young people. Rich people. Poor people. Nice people. Mean people. People who helped their community. People who didn't. The stories I have told ... and I've told them well. But today is the beginning of a new story. My own story. Chapter two. Owen Curtis -- wrestling legend. And it all starts here in the Rose City. Life ... after 30. Watch, people. Watch on channel 49, KPDX. Most of you know it as cable channel 13. The channel that used to have Fox. No matter, because all you have to do is watch ... as The Truth unfolds. [He grabs that door handle, opens it, and disappears inside. Cut back to Ditka in the studio.] DD: One thing's for sure: Curtis won't be making too many friends here in RCW. But somehow I don't think a lack of friends will keep Curtis up at nights. [Once again the RCW RAMPAGE logo appears on the screen behind Ditka.] DD: It's nearly time for another commercial break, folks. But don't forget: you can see Owen Curtis and all the other stars of RCW live and in person two weeks from tonight in Portland's world-famous Rose Quarter arena, at our very first RCW RAMPAGE broadcast. Tickets are still available: get to www.ticketmaster.com to ensure you're there in living colour. We'll be right back after these messages. [Fade out.] [Fade back in to a bustling downtown street in suburbia. The focus appears to be on a single male of average stature, clad in a pair of black boots and loose-fitting jeans with the holes in the knees seemingly having been made long ago. He sports a "Buffalo Bills Football" tee and from its tattered look, appears to have survived from about the first or second Super Bowl. With his hands buried within his pants pockets, his head down and his eyes focused upon the asphalt ahead of him, the man inches closer and becomes audible. The man is RCW newcomer, Bailey Fitzgerald.] BF: I must be nuts. I mean, really. [The individual subtly shakes his head.] BF: I must be nuts if I actually do what I'm thinking 'bout doing. [Fitzgerald briskly saunters on, slightly kicking his feet in front of him in an indifferent manner.] BF: For me -- the greenhorn whose only ever answered to, "Who the hell is that guy" retorts -- to think about packing up his life and leaving the only home he's ever known in hopes of... [Quotation marks with his fingers.] BF: ..."making it" in the sport of professional wrestling, yeah. I got to be out of my friggin' mind. [Hacking in the Buffalo cold, Fitzgerald cinches back and shoots south a stream of phlegm.] BF: I've not been dealt the right cards no matter where I've gone or what I've done, so why should this be any different? I can't help but fail to see the logic in traveling 3,000 miles to fall face forward when I have done it so admirably so close to home. Why even bother to try my luck clear across the country, deal with the same futility and disappointment, and then throw in some inclement weather, to boot? Because we're talking about me, I reckon. [Hands still in his pockets, Bailey merely shrugs.] BF: The name is Bailey Fitzgerald. [He nods in affirmation.] BF: Don't worry, I wouldn't have known me either. But I figure I've been making all the wrong decisions the better part of my adolescence and adult life, and while throwing myself to the proverbial wolves appears to be in poor judgment, I figure I've worked far too hard to be taking a back step now. After hearing who is and who could be potentially participating within the ranks of RCW in the coming weeks, there is no doubt in my mind - I'm gonna be in for Hell. I look at the years of experience and accomplishments some of these guys have, and man, I know I'm gonna get thrown around Portland like a Raggedy Ann doll. And there are gonna be days when I can't feel certain extremities of my body... days when I look at my fifty cents on the dollar paycheck... and days when I just want to pack it in, tuck my tail and pout my way back to Buffalo. [Fitzgerald abruptly stops before a crosswalk.] BF: But I'm not going to let them get the better of me. Not yet anyway. I may not be much now, but I've got the time and the patience a lot of these guys don't. And if I keep learning and continue gaining the necessary experience it takes to _survive_ in this sport... [Fitzgerald nods his head in the direction of a nearby newspaper dispenser.] BF: I hope to making plenty of these: [Rummaging through his pockets now, Fitzgerald pulls out a handful of coins, joined by some chewing gum, various receipts and pocket lint. He does manage, however, to locate a single quarter. He returns the remaining items back to his right jeans pocket and deposits the quarter into the machine. However, Fitzgerald mistakenly lets go of the dispenser's door prematurely and does not retrieve the newspaper he has just paid for! Fitzgerald instinctively reaches for his pockets once again, but realizes he does not have the sufficient coinage.] BF: Well... I was going to say, "Headlines." [Clearly embarassed with his klutziness, Fitzgerald bows his head once more and continues his thought.] BF: And here I thought my luck was about to change. [With that, Fitzgerald continues down the city boulevard and soon out of sight. Cut back to the studio. Ditka is still sat behind the desk, an image of Bailey Fitzgerald pulling on the front of the newspaper machine in vain still up on the plasma screen behind him.] DD: Welcome back, folks. Poor Bailey Fitzgerald -- but don't feel sorry for him. This young athlete from Buffalo, New York has relocated to Portland to compete here in RCW, and I'm sure he'll be doing everything in his power to ensure that his luck changes once he steps between the ropes of that squared circle. [The image behind Ditka changes to show the wide grin of "Your Hero" Danny Daniels.] DD: One man who's not short of confidence, never mind luck, is this next competitor, "Your Hero" Danny Daniels. This burly San Franciscan is coming to RCW -- just don't call him Maurice. [The camera fades in to see a blond-haired man looking at the camera. He's wearing a blue sequined jacket, is very tan with white gleaming teeth. He's smiling goofily as he begins speaking, with a voice that sounds like a radio announcer describing an Auto Show.] DD: Greeting and Salutations! You know, some people call me the Space Cowboy. Some call me the Gangster of Love. Some people... they call me Maurice. Because [pointing to himself] I speak of the pompatus of Love. But you... you can call me 'Your Hero' Danny Daniels. A man so nice they named me twice. And I'm coming to Rip Central Wrestling! [Danny flashes a 'thumbs up' at the camera.] DD: That's right... thanks to your president, David Spreadbury, RCW will soon be the home of the greatest wrestler on earth! A man who not only can wrestle, but can be a shining example to each and every of you. And that man is... ME! [Another thumbs up.] DD: No need to thank me -- I'm just that kind of swell guy. So expect to see me shortly in a Rap City Wrestling ring, showing off the magnificence that only "Your Hero" Danny Daniels can display. [Danny gives a small wave, one finger at a time on his right hand.] DD: TOODLES! [Daniels walks away as the shot cuts back to Ditka in the studio.] DD: Danny Daniels is certainly one of the more, uh, *eccentric* competitors set to compete in RCW, but don't let his unique personality fool you: Daniels may be a little clueless at times, but he's no slouch between the ropes. Other competitors in RCW would do well not to underestimate him. [The screen behind Ditka once again shows the RCW RAMPAGE logo.] DD: Now, don't forget, folks: before the end of the show tonight we will be joined live by RCW President Daniel Spreadbury, who has some blockbuster announcements about our first RCW RAMPAGE broadcast, featuring "Your Hero" Danny Daniels and all the other top RCW talent we're meeting tonight -- including this man, Jake Andrews. [Wearing shredded blue jeans, beat up black hiking boots, and a loose fitting vintage t-shirt, Jake Andrews puffs on one of the many Camel Lights he'll inhale today. He's the picture of All-American youth, confident, with a chiseled jawline; yet edgy, with a disarming vulnerability. Solely on his own merits, the youngster has a rogue appeal, and arguably, as much charisma as anyone in the industry. Andrews sends a winding trail of smoke out from his lips.] JA: The calls started rollin' in a few days ago. First, the front office: "We'd love to have you on-board! Welcome to the team." And then, marketing department: "Jake, with your style, your look, your ability... you have a chance to be the face of RCW." And finally, creative: "We're sending a camera crew over to tape your first promo. This is your chance to introduce yourself to the fans, to tell your story to the people at home." Hell, I'd love the chance to tell my story. I only got two problems doing that. [A pause.] JA: Number one, I'm 22 years old, and for all intents and purposes, my story hasn't been written yet. I could stand here and name some of the so-called legends of this industry, in the hope that someday my name might be associated with them. Or I could come out and tell you I'm the best in the world at what I do, and the truth is, I believe it, but I'll just as soon let you judge for yourself, when I give the Rip City its first match of the year candidate. My other problem is, and I learned this a long time ago, yeah, the fans, they want to hear your story, but they don't want to hear about the easy parts, the good days you have, the amazing things you're capable of. They want to hear about the places they haven't been. The pain they haven't felt. [As Andrews flicks the cigarette away, an odd, almost feral smile comes over his lips. His voice is full of unrest, and a little sardonic.] JA: I've seen it from both sides. It's like revisiting an old wound. Yes, I have a wrestling pedigree. My brother won a couple of titles and headlined a couple of shows, and all of a sudden, thought he was king of the world. I was a teenager. And I have to admit, there was a period there when I doubt there was anyone on the face of the earth that enjoyed life as much my brother. Hell, it was debatable whether anyone should have that much fun. He always had the talent, where he could spit in your face, and to some people, they would just be happy that he acknowledged the fact they exist. The bastard was marble slick, but he never saw it coming. He never saw it coming when the same people who hung on his every word, chewed him up and spit him back out, right next to the rest of the garbage. But that's my brother. A washed-up ex-wrestler on the wrong side of thirty, with the maturity of a chimp. To me, he's the lowest form of human filth: a man that doesn't acknowledge, won't acknowledge, the damage that he did to his own family when he walked out on us years ago. [Jake's unencumbered, twirling his lighter around his finger like a six-gun. Andrews has his own vices, to be sure, but his vices are somehow humanizing in light of his words.] JA: Yeah, it's something like revisiting an old wound, and scraping off the scab. I'm not my brother. Hell, I'm dead to repetition. So when the call came from the marketing wizards: "Jake, you have 'the look,' you could be the _face_ of Rip City Wrestling"... all I could do, was grin, and laugh. My brother had "the look." [A smirk.] JA: Yeah, he had "the look," but he didn't have the passion for the industry. His passion was for the spotlight. For movies. For all the fluff associated with being the best. But when the time came to pay the piper, he just didn't have it in him. And you know, it would have been all too easy for me to follow down his path, just like it would have been all too convenient for me to rely on the doors that _he_ opened. The comparisons would have been too convenient for the brand and too convenient for the apologists, in their own fumbling, inept way to villafy me when I succeed or taunt me if I don't live up to "the hype." Hell, I don't mind the hype. But that's not why I came to Rip City Wrestling. I want to blaze my own path. I want to be apart of something special. I want to make my own name, to write my own legacy. And I can do that here. I can bring it on the mike, in the ring, out of the ring, in the bed, in the club, you name the time and the place, I can bring it. [He lets the thought linger for a minute.] JA: The marketing department had it partially right. Yeah, I admit, I have "the look." I've got style and I've got ability. But I've also got the passion, the drive, and one hell of a violent streak in me, and _that's_ what's gonna make me the face of Rip City Wrestling. I'm willing to put my body and soul on the line to get where I wanna be, to get to the very top of this company. Yeah, you're either gonna love me, or you're gonna hate me, but you're gonna learn one thing pretty quickly: 2006 belongs to Jake Andrews. [Cut back to the studio.] DD: A bold prediction from Jake Andrews, but it may not be unrealistic. This 22-year-old from the Big Apple certainly has the pedigree, the genetics, the background. But as well as working hard, he's living fast -- and though his flame burns brightly, who knows for how long? [The screen behind Ditka shows a picture of Ryan Faith.] DD: Another young man who has made a long road-trip to arrive in Portland is Ryan Faith. Let's meet this Southborough, Mass. native, who will make his RCW debut in two weeks at our first RCW RAMPAGE show. [Cut to a shot of a rather beat up looking red 1990 Honda Civic Hatchback. The hatch is up, and the camera pans around to the back of the Civic and we see leaning into the car adjusting a few boxes and bags. He turns around and ponders which bag to put in next. His brown shaggy hair, hangs slightly in his face and he brushes it off to the side, revealing a clean cut, youngish face with crystal blue eyes. The youngster? Ryan Faith, professional wrestler. Ryan is wearing a white Boston Bruins t-shirt and a pair of black and gold tear away pants and white sneakers. On the ground are a large black duffel bag and a small camoflauge bookbag. Ryan notices the camera crew provided by the RCW and acknowledges their presence.] RF: It just seems that I spend more time packing my bags and driving from state to state than I do wrestling. It was five years ago when I hopped onto I-90 and left Southborough behind. My dad? [Ryan looks off to the side and bites his lower lip.] RF: To this day I remember him not even walking outside to see me off. He wasn't proud of my choice, he didn't approve of the direction I wanted to take my life. The last words I remember him saying were "When you walk out that door, I don't have a son anymore." [Ryan lets out an audible sigh and then brings his focus back to the camera.] RF: You see, I had gotten a call from the GIW. They were a new federation and were looking for new talent. They wanted youngsters who wanted to make a name for themselves and they wanted to give me a shot. The only thing was, GIW was in Louisiana. The Big Easy and for my dad, the other city of sin. Not an easy task being the son of a preacher. [Ryan grabs the black duffel bag off of the ground and tosses it into the back of the jeep.] RF: He was leading the life he wanted to lead but did not want me to live the one I wanted. It was a long ride from Southborough to Baton Rouge, a long 25 hours... no sleep, my rage wouldn't let me sleep. That would be the first step of my new life. It would be a new beginning. But it didn't last long. I gave everything I had in the GIW and then poof.. it was over. [Ryan picks up the other bag now and tosses it with the other bags.] RF: I've been wrestling here and there trying to make ends meet. I moved out to Michigan, enrolled in school and tried to lead that life my father wanted me to lead. I tried to do right by him but he still wouldn't let me back. So you may be wondering what that has to do with anyone? What does that have to do with the RCW? [Ryan smirks.] RF: It's simple. When I realized that no matter what I did, I couldn't make him happy, I decided I would make myself happy. I missed wrestling day in and day out. It was my life... correction, it is my life. If he won't have a son, so be it. But I will have my life. This is just a new beginning. Another trip, same bags being packed... destination Portland. Time to make my mark on the sport. Time to take my seat among the elite names that wrestling has ever known. That's what I want from RCW. That's what I'll bring to RCW. [Ryan closes the hatch, enters the car and starts the ignition.] RF: Only this time, the journey won't end until I make it end. I know my faith. [He slams the car door and smiles into the camera.] RF: Question is.. are you all ready to test your faith? [Faith pulls the car out of the driveway... and out of the scene. Cut back to the RCW studio.] DD: Ryan Faith will test and be tested, no doubt about it. One of the men who will be out to test him is Johnny Pleasence, a cocky Brit about whom we don't yet know a whole lot -- but as you'll see from his comments, he's certainly sure of himself. [Cut to a black screen.] V: Bloody hell... this is a kick in the squids, that's for sure. [And with that, the camera fades in on a shot of Johnny Pleasence, idly smoking away on a Camel Turkish Gold as he reads a sheet of paper. He's standing in front of a dark blue "RCW" backdrop, and is dressed in a black t-shirt, black jeans, and black Doc Martens. What he's reading looks to be an official document of some sort, as Pleasence squints and tugs at the collar of his shirt, trying to get comfortable a bit. He looks at the camera with just a bit of contempt before speaking.] JP: Had to dip into the next egg a bit to come all the way out here, you know. Portland... home of... well, just what in God's name is "Rip City" anyway? [He pauses, taking a drag off of his cigarette.] JP: A couple of the few ponces runnin' 'round this joint- gettin' their knickers all soggy at the prospect of this "organization" opening up, mind you... they said it was in honor... or "appreciation" of a great city. They said folks were gonna be makin' history or somethin'... one lit'le git said that the "fun was back". Give me a soddin' break! [He spits.] JP: I mean, this business... it's not about "fun", children. There will be no fun here, so get that notion out your thick skulls. This place will become about blood, tears, broken bones, and distraught lit'le chits after their husbands get stretchered out... men'll sell their souls just for a bit of gold only to get their hopes and dreams crushed. How do I know all that, you ask? Because I'm the guy that's gonna be doing it. That's right. [He hooks a thumb at himself.] JP: Me. The Big Bad. The Lord of Darkness, Savior of All Things, and most importantly... _He Who Will Not Be Denied._ [Pleasence smirks.] JP: There's a scant few of you... [He holds his left thumb and forefinger a few millimeters apart...] JP: ...yeah, that's a good amount. Anyway, _that_ many of you think you actually got the talent and the ability to make your mark here in "good ol" Rip City. Sure, all your dreams and goals, they'll come true... that's right, each and everyone of you will succeed... ...in your dreams, of course. [He chuckles, flicking his cigarette away and immediately lighting another one.] JP: When that big ol' waterhead of yours hits the pillow each and every night... there you'll be the king of the world. During each lit'le bit of forty winks you get, you'll be a champion. Me? I live in the real world, and I'm ready to get on with things... I've been away for far too long, and it's high time that the Big Bad went back in business for himself... So, lock and bar the door, nancies. Someone's going to be in a world of pain really soon... [And with that, Pleasence flicks his cigarette at the camera and walks off as we cut back to the studio.] DD: Now, our next competitor sent us this video cassette along with several tapes of his wrestling performances. The RCW road agents were sufficiently impressed to sign him on the spot without even bringing him up to Portland. Having seen these tapes myself, I'm inclined to agree with our road agents' assessment. See for yourself: here's "Pistol" Paul Driscoll. *CLICK* V: Figures I gotta film the damn thing myself. [The camera turns, and sees a gas station in the dead of night. From the left, a figure walks from behind the camera and parks himself in front of the lens. He is a muscular character, with chiseled arms and a broad, defined chest covered by a sleeveless denim vest. His face is angular with a set jaw, showing a few days worth of stubble and not much else.] V: The name is Paul Driscoll. "Pistol" Paul Driscoll, if yer so inclined. [Driscoll's got longish brown hair that goes to chin level, and a toothpick in his mouth.] PD: And I got me a piece of paper that's asking me to tell the Rip City Wrestlin' staff just why in the hell they'd be interested in a guy like me. [Paul produces a pice of paper from his pocket, shows it to the camera and then crumbles it up and throws it away.] PD: An' sure, I could run off my family tree, my history in the service, the fact that my ol' man has been a fixture in Texas wrestlin' since ol' Freddy Flintsone challenged Barney Rubble to a Bedrock Death Match. Hell, I might could show ya the holes in my skin from when those damn A-Rabs shot me. It's all real impressive, I assure ya. But I ain't. No use shootin' yer wad on the first date. Lemme ask ya this, though... why _wouldn't_ you want ol' Pistol Paul? See, I been to another RCW a couple hundred miles to the East, and they told me to go back home and they'd call me when they had a minute. An' then I told them to kiss my ass, because a Driscoll don't wait fer no man. Seems as though they had enough egos and loud mouthes to last 'em a life time. But this RCW? Rip City Wrestlin'? Y'all ain't got much of a choice now do ya? [Driscoll crosses his arms and shakes his head.] PD: When ya start out in pro wrestlin', as I'm sure Dan Spreadbury knows, what ya need is an identity. An' when ya start out runnin' a promotion, ya need a personality even more. Someone to lend credibility to yer operation, because yer gonna get yerselves a bunch of kids runnin' around paintin' themselves up, lookin' like damn fools and acting like jackasses because they're tryin' to shock people. Which is why this whole interview process is stupid. Because once ya get past the fools who got into wrestlin' fer the premium tail an' national exposure, yer gonna find the people who was _born_ into wrestling. Who tried to get away from it as best they could, but found themselves back in the ring anyway. And people like that? People like me? We're what this business has always been about. People who ain't afraid to be great. People who know what it takes. People who know that when you get the chance to work for a promotion from the get go, like this here in Rip City Wrestling, when you get a chance to mold it and shape it the way you want to, well hell, that's just something you gotta do. It's a chance you gotta take. The damn thing of it is... [Abruptly, Driscoll spits out the toothpick and then produces a pack of Camels, drawing one out and lighting it.] PD: Yer gonna get a million of these new fangled wrestlers tellin' ya about the time they spent in Japan and in dojos, learnin' how to sweep floors and do squat thrusts. And if that's what yer interested in, a bunch of house boys bouncing off turnbuckles, then maybe I ain't yer particular brand of Vodka. But of the many things you undoubtedly are, Daniel, stupid on a grand scale ain't one of 'em. An' so the deal is this... ...you hire me and I make you money, more than ya already got. An' in return fer all that money I make ya, you give me my fair share of it an' ya also gimme the best competition ya got. Because Lord knows I love Texas, it's been good to me, but I done burned every bridge and mined every oil well I possibly could. It's time for the Driscoll name to go on, meet new horizons and all that other junk. ["Pistol" Paul exhales a puff of grey smoke.] PD: Why should you hire me? ...'cause I'm the best option you got. [With that, Paul walks out of the picture and turns off the camera. Cut back to the RCW studio.] DD: Driscoll is a second-generation superstar, the third son of Texas great "Gentleman" George Driscoll. In my travels I've run across Paul's elder brother John, who is truly an excellent competitor -- but if I know the Driscoll family, Paul is going to want to step out of his brothers' shadows, and take his own position in the limelight. [The image on the screen behind Ditka changes to show two faces: Nickolai Trevianski and Petr Ivanovich. Ditka addresses the camera, a serious look on his face.] DD: Now, before we meet RCW President Daniel Spreadbury, let's talk about Nickolai Trevianski. It was announced at ripcitywrestling.com on Monday that Trevianski -- a notorious MMA and Sambo-style wrestler -- had signed to an RCW contract, bringing with him his manager -- or perhaps it would be more appropriate to say his *svengali* -- Petr Ivanovich. Let's hear from Ivanovich and Trevianski now. [The camera slowly fades in on the all too familiar face of Petr Ivanovich. His narrow jaw line, freshly lined with a massive 5 o'clock shadow, rotates right to left as he lets out a massive billow of smoke from a cigarette. He removes it, tosses it on the ground, and rubs it out on the dirty gym floor. The smoke filled room barely allows the camera to pick up Nickolai Trevianski in the background. The Russian Mad Man stalks his training partner as they stand on what once was a workable wrestling mat now thinly stretched onto the hard concrete floor. Petr strides in front of the camera, his face now full of pride as he too, has just seen his pride and joy. He speaks fluent english, only allowing his deep Russian accent to overwhelm his choice of words ever so often.] PI: Look at him...quite the specimen, no? Look into his eyes if you vill...his soul is incorruptable...his heart, already black as the night, cannot be messed with...no emotion...a machine... [Petr nods his head slowly, a wry smirk appearing on his face.] PI: The arrr ceee dubbayou, yet another, how you say, rasslin' promotion, that has called upon myself, and my glorious machine to grace their ring. Yet another company that's willing to put it's employee's safety and well being at risk in order to sell some useless tickets to their events. They will never learn, no matter how many times I try to warn dem. Sure, I love the money... [Petr really lets loose a creepy smirk, before his face turning into a stone faced expression.] PI: But at what cost? Nickolai? He sleeps peacefully at night, with ease...without worry. To heim, it's just a job, no more and no less. He's paid to inflict punishment and to cause pain, which he does better then anyone in this business. That's how he sees it, no more...and no less. But me? I...how you say...toss and turn at night. For me, I can't simply wash avay the screams. I can't still see their faces, proud in the beginning, as they slowly turned blue from dah machine's arms squeezing against their neck. He erases those thoughts the minute the bell rings. But not me... [Petr looks over his shoulder at Nickolai, as his partner feverishly slaps the mat, locked into a choke hold, Nickolai refusing to release, until someone pulls him off.] PI: I vill be completely honest with you. Nickolai...scares me, and I feel no shame in admitting that. To see him before he makes his way to the ring...to see his preparation in the locker room...to see the look in his eyes when he finally gets to look at the man he's about to annihilate...it scares me. I'm not any less of a man for admitting that, because I've seen the...how you say...carnage that has been at his feet when he's finished. I've seen what he's capable of, and I know to avoid ever standing across from him...opposing him. In the beginning, we came here, from mother Russia, to seek money for our families back home. We knew we were better athletes. We knew we were smarter athletes. We knew we could take and give out more punishment then any American rassler could give us. It wasn't a challenge. But as the years have passed, Nickolai's finding it more and more difficult to do what he simply wants to do...punish people. Banned from several organizations, and banned from a few of these united...states...he no longer cares about the money we've made. He tells me that is my job, that is my task, and that is my concern. Which brings me to the arrr ceee dubbayou. [Petr lowers his head slowly, shaking it side to side, before directing his attention back to the camera with a look of concern on his face.] PI: I am very unfamiliar with the employee's here. I do not know many of you and I do not know why you are here. I am sure many of you will seek some sort of...how you say...redemption for your previous failures. I'm sure some of you will be there to entertain the many American infidels that choose to pay money to see you...how you say...rassle. But not the machine...not the mad man...his only motivation is pain. You see, to come from where he's come from...Siberia...you must realize that there's no amount of...psychological games...you can play with heim. There is no pain that has not already been inflicted upon heim. And there's no limit as to vhat he will do in order to make any...and all of you... Suffer. [Petr's face returns to a little wry smirk, as he pauses ever so slightly...] PI: He is...how you say...a cold blooded son of bitch. [As Petr begins to walk towards Nickolai, cut back to Ditka in the studio.] DD: Trevianski looks like a very formidable competitor, that's for sure. Now, rumours from the front office suggested that Trevianski would be joined by an ally from his fatherland, and sure enough, just twenty-four hours later, it was announced that Kolya Sudakov had also been signed to an RCW contract. Sudakov, like Trevianski, has an extensive Mixed Martial Arts background, and is reputed to be an extremely dangerous competitor. [We cut in from black, revealing the back of a man's head. Thrilling, no? It is a man with hair shaved very close to the head, completely flat on top. He is motionless, sweat pouring down his scalp to his muscular neck and shoulders. A man speaks.] MAN: You think this is all a game, don't you? [The camera is physically jerked to the side where we get a major, major closeup of "Agent To The Stars" Ben Waterson. He screams into the camera at way too much volume.] BW: There is not a _thing_ about this that I find amusing, people. You try bringing a world class athlete into this country... getting him into a promotion with some big names... having him promoted right up next to those big names... This man was on the same level as Caleb Temple, for god's sake. [Waterson sneers.] BW: And then it's all jerked out from under you. "Sorry the check didn't clear. The boss filed for Chapter 11 this morning." "Sorry his work visa's in jeopardy. No company, no job, you know." [Waterson moves the camera violently from side to side.] BW: We were prepared to take this industry by storm. We were prepared to revolutionize what people thought of when they thought about professional wrestling. We were going to end Matthews... Verhoeven... Myers... Temple. [Waterson moves his face even closer, almost touching the lens.] BW: AND NOW WE WORK FOR- [He pauses, pulling his head back and looking off camera.] BW: Rip... City... Wrestling?! [Waterson sighs.] BW: Where... the _hell_... is that? [A whisper... Waterson nods.] BW: PORTLAND! [Yes, he's close again.] BW: We're coming... for you. [And with a swipe of the hand, we quickly cut to black. Fade back to Ditka in the RCW studio.] DD: Neither Ben Waterson nor Petr Ivanovich will be drawn on whether Sudakov and Trevianski know each other -- but surely it's too much of a coincidence that these two men have arrived in RCW at the same time. Is it possible that we are witnessing the birth of the first stable here in RCW? Only time will tell. Stay tuned, folks -- we'll be right back after these messages, with RCW President Daniel Spreadbury live in the studio with news of our inaugural RCW RAMPAGE event. [Fade out.] [Fade back in to the RCW studio. Ditka is now joined at the desk by RCW President Daniel Spreadbury, bespectacled and besuited as ever.] DD: Thanks for joining us here tonight, Daniel. DS: You're welcome, Don. And you're doing a great job so far. DD: You're too kind. Now, we're just 14 days away from our inaugural RCW RAMPAGE event. We've met no fewer than fourteen incredible competitors who will be tearing it up in Rip City from next Thursday. What can you tell us about our first event? DS: Our first three editions of RCW RAMPAGE will be directed towards crowning our first ever RCW Champion -- and that's exactly what will happen on 6 April 2006, live in the Rose Quarter, when the two top contenders battle it out for supremacy. But to get us there, we're going to have six incredible matches, on the RCW ROAD TO THE GOLD. DD: Sounds like we're getting ahead of ourselves -- what about the first show? DS: I'm just getting to that, Don. On the first RCW RAMPAGE, coming at you *live* on 9 March, we will see all sixteen RCW competitors in action in Fatal Four-way matches. The rules will be simple: all four men will be in the ring at the same time, and the first decision by pinfall or submission will determine the winner. The winners of those four matches will then go on to our next RCW RAMPAGE event on 23 March to face each other in randomly-drawn singles matches. Finally, the two winners of those two matches will go on to compete in the final match on the RCW ROAD TO THE GOLD in our third RCW RAMPAGE broadcast on 6 April 2006, and we will have our very first RCW Champion! DD: So in two weeks we will see four Fatal Four-way matches. Can you tell us the line-up of each match? DS: With pleasure, Don. As you know, we're still in negotiations with some talent, so two of the four matches have one as-yet undetermined competitor. We'll announce who is filling each of those two remaining spots right here next week on RCW On The Wire. But here's the card as it stands: [The screen between Ditka and Spreadbury shows headshots of four wrestlers, together with a FATAL FOUR-WAY graphic.] DS: It'll be Vinny Carmazzi, "Pistol" Paul Driscoll, "Golden Boy" Nolan Dorado and Jake Andrews going at it in one of our four Fatal Four-Ways. [The screen animates again, showing four more faces: this time one of them is but a silhouette.] DS: In our second match, Owen "The Truth" Curtis, Madrock The Irrepressible, "The Unbreakable" Trevor Lansing and one other combatant to be named will go at it. [The screen animates again, showing four faces.] DS: Bailey Fitzgerald, Nickolai Trevianski, Ryan Faith and Johnny Pleasence will battle it out in our third match. [The screen animates a final time; again, one of the faces on the monitor isn't shown.] DS: And in our final Fatal Four-Way match in the first round of the RCW ROAD TO THE GOLD, it'll be Kolya Sudakov, Orin "The Lynx" LeBlanc, "Your Hero" Danny Daniels and an as-yet unknown fourth opponent. DD: That sounds like an incredible line-up for our first show! DS: I'm hoping so, Don. I'm really excited about crowning our first RCW Champion -- and it starts in just two weeks, right here on KPDX 49. DD: But don't forget, fans, that you can be a part of the inaugural RCW RAMPAGE broadcast live and in person at Portland's world-famous Rose Quarter arena. See www.ticketmaster.com for more details. Mr. Spreadbury, I want to thank you for coming here to RCW On The Wire tonight. DS: I wouldn't have missed it for the world, Don. And I'll be back here next week to confirm who will be filling the two remaining spots in our RCW ROAD TO THE GOLD. [The shot closes in on Ditka, as the RCW On The Wire logo appears on the screen behind him once more.] DD: That just about wraps it up here tonight for Rip City Wrestling's first-ever broadcast, folks. Thanks for tuning in -- and don't forget that we'll be back again next Thursday night with the latest news from RCW in another instalment of On The Wire. Until then, this is Don Ditka signing off from the RCW studios: good night, Portland! [The lights in the studio dim as Semisonic's "F.N.T." again starts up over the credits. The show ends with a run-down of the card for the inaugural RCW RAMPAGE event:] RCW RAMPAGE 9 March 2006 Rose Quarter, Portland, OR RCW ROAD TO THE GOLD FIRST ROUND Fatal Four-Way: Vinny Carmazzi vs. "Pistol" Paul Driscoll vs. "Golden Boy" Nolan Dorado vs. Jake Andrews RCW ROAD TO THE GOLD FIRST ROUND Fatal Four-Way: Owen "Truth" Curtis vs. Madrock The Irrepressible vs. "The Unbreakable" Trevor Lansing vs. TBA RCW ROAD TO THE GOLD FIRST ROUND Fatal Four-Way: Bailey Fitzgerald vs. Nickolai Trevianski vs. Ryan Faith vs. Johnny Pleasence RCW ROAD TO THE GOLD FIRST ROUND Fatal Four-Way: Kolya Sudakov vs. Orin "The Lynx" LeBlanc vs. "Your Hero" Danny Daniels vs. TBA [Fade to black.]