((FADEIN: A hospital bed where a man with a bandaged face shrieks in pain as a doctor shots him up with a needle. Blood vomits out of his mouth down onto his grab. The doctor grabs a curtain and shuts it on MICHAEL MANSON, sitting in his own bed, a collar screwed into his collar bone and around his neck, a bowl of grapes in hand. He shakes his head.))
MANSON: Damn. There goes my Saturday night.
((Grabs his mail off a nearby table.))
MANSON: Tax evasion....tax evasion....Paris and Nicole are fighting, well, I saw that coming. What's this? I'm booked for a match? I'm booked for a match in a backyard?
Didn't these people get the memo? I had neck surgery. Jonathan Marx has been waiting for months to kill me, and now he might actually have a chance. The most I can mange out of this is a tag team match, and I should know these things. I used to wrestle while I had to roll around in a wheelchair.
There's only one man who can be my tag partner in this...and thankfully..I know the man who can help me find that man.
((Manson buzzes his nurse.))
Get me a screwdriver and my clothes.
((CUTTO: B/W footage of a car racing down a Sin City street. INSIDE, MARV drives as MANSON rides shotgun.))
MANSON: Thanks for driving me, Marv.
MARV: Anything for you, Mikey. I remember when you blackmailed all them priests and got me into that baptism. Man, that holy water tasted great with vodka.
MANSON: No, really, I appreciate it. Especially with you being dead and all.
MARV: Hey, this is your imagination. Anything can happen.
((Manson's eyebrows arch.))
MANSON: Wait, if I'm imagining you, who's driving the car?
((Manson and Marv look at each.))
((CUTTO: The car running off the docks into the water.))
((CUTTO: MANSON wanders into a seedy strip club, his clothes damp.))
MANSON(shaking leg): Damn imagination, shows you why so many kids are bastards. Speaking of which...
((He gazes over the club, at Nancy Callahan doing her cowgirl routine up onstage, and past her, to THAT YELLOW BASTARD sitting in the corner. MANSON saddles up to him, and sits next to him in his booth.))
YB: I know you?
YB: Keep down then.
MANSON: Yeah, I've seen this movie. You're following Hartigan and he's led you to Nancy. Now you're waiting for them to leave.
MANSON: No, seriously, I need your help. I need a tag team partner.
YB: The hell are you talking about?
MANSON: Come on, the act's over.
YB(sneers): What are you doing here?
((Manson slaps him really hard and some of the yellow face paint comes off.))
MANSON: It's done with, Alex.
YB: No! No! I'm here to kill Hartigan! He did this to me!
MANSON: No, he didn't. We got drunk last year and I dared to go and do this. You just took it a little far.
MANSON: It's time to come home, Alex.
YB(tears welling up): What?
MANSON: You are not That Yellow Bastard. You have your member intact, though I won't even try to prove that since I'd have to touch it or something.
((The tears roll down and mix with the makeup, eroding it more and more until the face reveals....ALEX WYLDE.))
WYLDE(staring down at his hands): What the hell have I been doing?
MANSON: Scoring with a lot of prostitutes and living off a senator's power.
WYLDE: Oh. That.
MANSON: Yeah, come on. I need a tag match. My neck's not up to wrestling Jonathan Marx.
WYLDE(shakes his head): No, I'm done with the ring. Done.
MANSON: Then why are you wearing this!
((Manson rips open Wylde's shirt to reveal his wrestling outfit underneath.))
WYLDE: No, no, I just like how it feels on a breezy day!
((A giant hand slams down on the tabletop.))
MARV: Let's go.
((Marv picks Wylde up and drags him off, kicking and screaming.))
WYLDE: No! But you're imaginary!
MARV: Quit it or I'll make ya a real yeller bastard!
((Marv carries Wylde off as Manson follows, throwing Nancy a silver dollar as he passes.))
::Marx is standing by the phone in the den of his mansion in Princeton, New Jersey, with a look of bewilderment across his face::
JONATHAN MARX: Manson, we’ve gone back a long time and we’ve been involved in a lot of matches together, either on the same side or against each other, but we have never faced off in a dream partner match. The selfish part of me would love to have a chance to get revenge for what you did to my father one on one, but the job always gets done quicker when you have a partner. You want a dream partner match? You’ve got it. Pick anyone you want. It won’t help. Savoy promised me that he would use all of his power and all of WFW’s resources in order to in order to ensure that I could have anyone I wanted as a partner in all of wrestling.
Who should I ask? Should I ask a technical god of professional wrestling like Rabesque who wants a piece of Manson almost as badly as I do? A man who stands for all that is good in wrestling in a world which descends further into the darkness day by day….
::slowly lifts the phone off of the handle but places it back down::
For all of Rabesque’s skill, I need someone by my side without any limits. Someone as devious and evil as Manson himself and sadly Rabesque doesn’t fit that bill.
Who is out there who could lay a beating on Manson the likes which have been rarely seen? Where can I find a true warrior who loves to fight? Maybe Maelstrom, a man who has defeated Manson for a Heavyweight Title. He wouldn’t hold anything back and he would take great pleasure in beating Manson within a inch of his life to the likes he has never seen before.
::slowly lifts the phone off the handle but places it back down::
The problem is when Maelstrom gets into that ring and gets that gleam in his eyes he is uncontrollable until he gets his twenty pounds of flesh. I need someone who can control their temper or Manson is going to exploit it as a weakness.
Who can I ask who has the skill of Rabesque but has been in enough wars to be the warrior Maelstrom is? Someone who has wanted a piece of Manson for a long, long time but their paths have never crossed….. Hornet. He has been in wars all over the south against legends as far back as Zack Sirius and he has come out on top. He is several time CSWA World Heavyweight Champion.
::slowly lifts the phone off the handle but places it back down::
But between Hornet being busy at his law practice and working his current CSWA schedule, he may not have the time to properly train for a match of this caliber.
Damn it, there has to be one man who fits all of the qualifications that I am looking for. Someone who is as devious as Manson, someone who is a warrior like Maelstrom, and a man who will be as dedicated as I am to finding a way to beat Manson and will fight to their very last breath…
::Marx eyes widen as he realizes the answer has finally come to him::
That is it. I know without a shadow of a doubt who my partner should be.
::Marx lifts up the phone and dials the number::
JONATHAN MARX: Pitt, it is time to raise some hell.
FADEIN-- Le Chateau du Phenizzle in Orlando, Florida - 11:26 P.M.
The PHENOM sits, sporting a retro 70's leisure suit, at what appears to be a poorly-constructed, makeshift news desk. After fumbling some papers about, he nods, then looks into the camera.
TP: So.... this is what it's come to... Mr. Manson has seemingly brought Mr. Wylde back from the grave like Bela Lugosi and Mr. Marx responds by tracking down the ACTUAL Bela Lugosi!!! I think that's jiggy like jelly beans, so I say Sim-sim-SALABIM... let's toss 'em all in the stew like peas and carrots, nnnnnndaddio, cuz this thing's a tag team match!! Thank you and GOODNIGHT!
(FADEIN: A dirty, seedy, strip joint in Atlantic City, New Jersey. In the Champagne room, a cheap go-go dancer performs for a drunk guy on the ground...sucking liquor from her toes between shots of tequila. His face is mostly concealed by a thick beard and dark sunglasses.
Until a cellphone goes off. The ringtone being "Diesel Power" by Prodigy. The guy reaches in his pocket...reads the "666" area code from the caller ID...and takes off his sunglasses. Squinting in the dim light of the phone is none other than a bearded ALEX WYLDE. He spits the stripper's toe out of his mouth.)
WYLDE: Geezus christ. You know this number is only for emergencies...I mean it's...
(checks his watch)
WYLDE: Oh. Noon. Guess I've been here longer than I thought...
WYLDE: Yeah, well if it's before your bedtime it must be important.
WYLDE: Oh, who the hell let you into Vatican City?
WYLDE: The POPE DIED?!?
WYLDE: Yeah yeah. If anybody asks, you had nothing to do with that.
WYLDE: In a Backyard?!
WYLDE: DON'T say my name out loud. This isn't secure air. For all we know information gets out and I'm getting join requests, "subpoenas" and all that other crap.
WYLDE: Unsanctioned?! I assume that means no rules. No contracts. Cash payments that Uncle Sam doesn't have to know about?
WYLDE: Well, I'll have to check with Hart about that.
WYLDE: Savoy?! Who the hell is that?
WYLDE: I see. Well, we all dodge the government in our special ways. I'll just call him TAFKASH.
WYLDE: Whoa whoa whoa. That's not NEARLY enough dough. Any appearance by Alex Wylde is an event...
(Wylde does a nip-up off the floor.)
WYLDE: I'd wrestle him for free. Don't tell TAFKASH that though.
WYLDE: God damn. Those crackheads will let anybody into WFW. Is Tsunami back?
WYLDE: Oh. Ew. A hundred thousand people? Guess he's through.
WYLDE: I don't need to train. You ever watch those crappy infomercials on TV? You remember that serrated knife that you never had to sharpen? That's my body. Now, you give me one week to find transportation...maybe read a few newspapers...borrow a driver's license. I'll be right there. Backyard or back alley. This is a score that must be settled.
(He swigs his vodka and spits it on the floor)
WYLDE: Oh man. Sin City? You gotta get off the painkillers, bro.
(Wylde heads for the door. He turns to the stripper before he leaves.)
WYLDE: Just put it in on my tab sweetheart.
STRIPPER: Anything you say, Mr. Southern.
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