Post by dano1991 on May 24, 2020 4:54:00 GMT -5
Card:
Singles Match: Tajiri vs Chavo Guerrero, Jr.
No Disqualification Match: Mick Foley vs Rob Van Dam w/ Bill Alfonso
Tag Team Title Tournament Match: The Broserweights vs Hardy Boyz
The Main Event: Shawn Michaels vs Rey Mysterio, Jr.
Promo: Paul Heyman introduces us to the PWF and its first-ever champion:
An establishing aerial shot of the PWF arena, a venue purpose-built for the use of this exciting new wrestling company. There’s a big screen and sufficient lighting, but also some modest-looking guardrails and a sense of community. The crowd is a diverse assembly of fans young and old, male and female, all united in seething anticipation.
The venue's higher levels threaten to buckle under the weight and frenzy of the excitement. Close-ups catch smiling kids lost in this wonderland of appreciation, and flicker past the diehards who'll claim to have been present at every major wrestling event on record. The camera eventually leads us to the entrance ramp, emblazoned with the electric signage of PWF. Pyrotechnics and fireworks flare as the capacity ground ramps up the volume to unbelievable heights. This is happening.
As the cheering continues, Paul Heyman’s music hits to a rapturous ovation. Smoke billows down the ramp as the fans seated behind the steel barricades jump to their feet in adulation. Signs are thrust skywards all across the crowd. Whether "Heyman is God" or "Marry Me, Paul", you'd be hard-pressed to find a disparaging sign throughout the hustling sea of limbs and cheering faces. Even those not privy to Heyman's cultural significance are caught up in the screaming melee. This man, their baseball-capped, leather-jacketed Messiah, has arrived.
Heyman eventually emerges from the smoke at the top of the entrance ramp, drinking in the atmosphere as the smoke gradually disperses. He looks around in quiet acknowledgement before slowly walking down to the ring. Heyman's leather jacket fully frames his slight figure, his belly bulging against the buttons of his blue shirt. His ever-present baseball cap sits snugly atop his head. The slogan, an electric yellow iteration of PWF, proof of this mastermind's never-ending creativity. He's holding a briefcase, largely black with a golden trim. Portions of the crowd spot this and begin to speculate on its contents.
To chants of “Paul E”, Heyman climbs up the black metal of the steel steps, walks onto the apron and enters the ring through the middle rope. He stops in the centre, once again looking around at the frenzied crowd and grinning his famed Mad Scientist grin. Heyman's music stops and he gestures for a microphone, a request duly obliged by an official seated at ringside.
Heyman: So... here. we. are. (The crowd once again sparks up its frenzy. Heyman lets this pass before carrying on.) It's been a long time. Too long since I've stood before you in such a position of power, of authority, of appreciation. But fate works in mysterious ways, and fortune has smiled on me wonderfully. The opportunity to put together a company with such an overwhelming wealth of talent is one that a visionary like me just couldn't resist!
It’s true. With the crowd remaining in high spirits, their excitement is palpable.
Heyman: The more eagle-eyed amongst you will have noticed what I was carrying on my way to the ring. This briefcase (holds aloft to rampant cheers) contains the first-ever iteration of the PWF World Championship. I've spent every waking moment of the last few weeks deciding how best to crown our inaugural World Champion. I've dreamed up scenario after scenario and mixed idea with idea, searching in vain to come up with something to give this title the prestige it really deserves. But then I thought " it!"
Confusion clouds the air as the crowd's former unwavering buoyancy starts to fracture and hostility begins to pierce the optimistic atmosphere.
Heyman: I thought that what would truly matter most to you, the fans, would be to crown your first-ever World Champion right here tonight. And, better yet, to not leave this to chance. After all, the fate of such a prestigious championship simply cannot be left to chance. So, without further ado, I give to you your inaugural PWF World Champion. And the only Olympic Gold Medal winner in PWF history, KURTTTTT ANNNGGGLLLEEE!
"Medal" plays as the crowd skirts between bewilderment, hostility and optimism. There are audible cheers, but these are drowned out by resenting boos. Angle, blue and red American singlet and blue boots, marches down the aisle in determined fashion. His gold medal fastened proudly round his neck. He stops mid-way down the ramp to allow for his pyro to fire and then carries on down the ramp, ignoring the fleeting hands that attempt to tag him on his way down. Angle enters the ring through the middle rope and waltzes his familiar in-ring pose, arms outstretched, woo expelled, face full of gritty ambition.
Angle gestures to Heyman and the two embrace in a firm, definitely-choreographed hug. Angle grimaces at the crowd before being handed a second microphone.
The crowd begins to boo as Angle and Heyman stand in the centre of the ring, neither seeming bothered or surprised by this steadfast rejection.
Angle: Surprise, surprise! The crowd doesn't appreciate Kurt Angle. It's something that I've grown quite accustomed to. After all, what does a gold medal mean to "the fans" when you only seem to embrace those who leg drop or elbow their way to championships? I won a gold medal with a broken freakin’ neck, and I have never fully recovered. But I'm still the greatest pure athlete this sport has ever seen. There is nobody in the history of this business that could out-wrestle or out-perform me, I AM A WRESTLING MACHINE!
The crowd continues to boo, and appear to be united in their dislike of Kurt Angle. All those who were sitting on the fence now seem to share the popular consensus: Angle is to be hated and vilified.
Heyman and Angle eat up the boos as Angle continues…
Angle: When Paul Heyman asked me to join his new company, I did so because I knew that he appreciated me as an athlete, technician and entertainer. His vision has a clarity that no one I have worked for before can match. Here is a man who knows that being a World Champion is more than a catchphrase or memorable gesture. I am the complete package and I deserve your adulation more than anyone who has ever stepped into the squared circle. I am ready to take my place at the top of the mountain. I, Kurt Angle, am proud to be your first-ever PWF World Champion!
The boos are now deafening.
Heyman picks up the briefcase and once again holds it aloft as Angle begins to woo in the middle of the ring. Angle then stands on ceremony as Heyman begins to open the briefcase. Angle stands proudly, hand on heart and eyes closed as Heyman opens the case. Yet, Heyman is overcome by a look of terror. His cheeks redden and he begins to sweat, aghast and confused.
Angle opens his eyes to see what is happening and sees Heyman's reddened face staring blankly back at him. Angle becomes more vocal as Heyman flaps around with the briefcase. An audible "where is it?" can be heard from Angle as Heyman pulls out a piece of scrap paper from the briefcase: it’s a note. It reads “Dear Kurt, I.O.U, one championship belt. Love, Bret.”
Heyman stands in shock as Angle begins to stomp around the ring screaming in anger. The lights then go out as the crowd waits in stunned anticipation. When the lights go up, Bret Hart, leather jacket, shades and pink and black singlet, is standing on the entrance ramp. Bret has a confident smile and something is resting over his shoulder. It's the PWF title belt!
The crowd goes wild in its appreciation for "The Hitman" and "Bret!" chants echo throughout the arena.
Bret grins as Angle stares him down from the middle of the ring. Heyman attempts to interact with Angle but is completely ignored. Angle begins to quiver and foam at the mouth such is the intensity of the staredown. Bret nods towards Kurt and then turns his back on the ring, the title still on his shoulder. Bret walks backstage as Angle and Heyman look on in disbelief.
*Commercial Break*
Match #1: Tajiri vs Chavo Guerrero, Jr. :
After an even start to the match, which features some intense mat wrestling and several missed shots and reversals, Tajiri gains control. The highlight of this early offence is a beautiful Asai moonsault to the Chavo on the outside. Back in the ring, Chavo battles back and begins to dominate Tajiri, yet fails to put him away. As Chavo’s dominance is derailed by his growing frustration, he manages to set Tajiri up for a frog splash from the top rope. Tajiri rolls out of the way, leaving Chavo clutching his ribs in agony. This opens the door for an awesome buzzsaw kick from Tajiri and the win - 1,2,3!
After the match, Chavo appears visibly distressed and sits with his head in hands. He initially refuses a handshake from Tajiri but begrudgingly accepts. Chavo then raises Tajiri’s arm as we cut backstage.
Segment:
Backstage, Angle and Heyman are frantically knocking doors and hastling road agents and talent, desperately searching for Bret Hart. Heyman spots Raven and gestures as if to begin a conversation with him, but Raven shoots back a look of pure hatred so Heyman decides against it. Angle knocks over the contents of a catering table and corners a steward, angrily demanding to know whether the steward has seen Bret Hart. The steward, flustered and intimidated, says that he hasn't and Angle pushes his body against the wall before screaming "You better find him then!"
A crowd of wrestlers have formed and begin to watch Angle and Heyman's increasing desperation, silent but knowing, appearing to have sided with Bret without needing to say anything. Angle and Heyman march away as the group of wrestlers looks on.
*Commercial Break*
Match #2: Mick Foley vs Rob Van Dam w/Bill Alfonso - No Disqualification Match:
Van Dam enters the ring first in tandem with his manager-cum-cheerleader, Bill Alfonso. Alfonso blasts on his whistle with incessant regularity, drawing the ire of some of the crowd’s less-forgiving fans. Despite his music playing, Foley fails to come down the entrance ramp for 30 seconds or so and instead enters through the crowd, running into the ring and attacking Van Dam from behind. Foley, demonstrating a vicious intensity from the start, clotheslines Van Dam to the outside. Outside, Foley dominates, hurling Van Dam into the steel steps, dropping some vicious elbows and slicing his opponent’s head open with a ream of barbed wire.
The tide only begins to turn when Foley misses an elbow from the apron. Van Dam takes control in the ring, using his educated feet and full-on martial arts style to seize the momentum. Following a few near falls for Van Dam, Foley battles back into the match and it becomes a brutal slugfest between the two.
With several chair shots exchanged, both men are left bleeding and exhausted. Despite encouragement from Alfonso, Van Dam begins to fall prey to Foley’s increasing barbarism and ends up unable to mount much offence. Foley wins the match following a mandible claw, with Van Dam tapping out in anguish after flailing around on the mat.
As Foley raises his arms to cheers from the crowd, the house lights go out and a static noise echoes throughout the arena. A short clip of a man in a sheep mask bursts onto the screen in time with a disorientating animal screech. We are taken to a backstage area in which symbols representing the “three faces of Foley” (the Mankind mask, Dude Love headband, Cactus Jack Wanted poster) are positioned on a table. A figure walks into the shot, back to the camera. The figure picks up each of these items, studies them intently and then places them back down on the table. He then turns to the camera. With piercing eyes and a manic smile, we soon find out who we’re looking at - it’s Bray Wyatt!
This draws a divisive reaction from the crowd, and much confusion from Foley, with the Hardcore Legend propped up against the ropes in the ring, hair stuck to his face with blood. Van Dam is being comforted by Alfonso.
Promo: Bray Wyatt
Wyatt: Very impressive, Mick. Did someone light a fire under your ass or what? I hope you both don’t have to spend too long in the hospital!. *He chuckles* Typical Mick, always putting on a show…
Foley remains stationary in the ring, as Van Dam and Alfonso slowly make their way backstage.
Wyatt: But, seriously, you might be wondering what I’m doing interrupting your victory lap. Here’s you picking up the win on the first-ever PWF Revision and you’ve not even been allowed to celebrate properly. So, let me cut to the chase. Mick, for years, you are someone who I’ve idolised and identified with. You’re a freak. Like me. You are someone who the world looks at as an outsider. And this is something that I know all too well. You see, without Mick Foley, there’s no Bray Wyatt and I just wanted the chance to thank you for all you’ve done for me. For giving me the confidence to embrace my inner demon, to unleash my dark side, no matter what.
And this is where I need you, Mick. Thanks to you, I’ve carved out quite the legacy of my own, taking your mind games and aggression to a whole new level. Some would say that I’ve even managed to surpass you, in every way. So why don’t we find out just who is the better man, and why don’t you give me the chance to prove myself against my hero? Let me know, Mick. I’ll be waiting for your answer.
With this, Wyatt turns away from the camera and back to the table of items, staring at them intently. He cackles loudly before picking the table up and turning it over, the items ending up splayed on the floor. The sheep mask flits back onto the screen as the camera pans back to the ring. Foley looks startled, but not altogether intimidated. He gestures for a microphone, appears to be ready to address the crowd, and Wyatt in turn, but suddenly stops, drops the microphone to the canvas and climbs through the ropes towards the entrance ramp. The crowd sits in stunned silence as Foley walks back through the curtain, having given no response.
*Commercial Break*
Match #3: The Broserweights (Matt Riddle and Pete Dunne) vs The Hardy Boyz (Matt Hardy and Jeff Hardy) - Tag Team Title Tournament:
It’s a barnstorming opener to the Tag Team Title Tournament as two teams with opposing and highly distinctive styles go at it. Riddle and Dunne gain the advantage early on by restricting the high-flying Hardyz to the mat, wearing the brothers down with some brutal mat wrestling and effective strong style manoeuvres. Riddle’s suplexes are a particular highlight here.
As the match continues, things become more even and a ref bump allows the Hardyz to perform some of their signature tag team offence on a tiring Dunne and Riddle in turn. The match comes to an end when Jeff, not the legal man, attempts a swanton bomb on a prone Riddle but is knocked off the apron by Dunne. Dunne then hits The Bitter End on a worn-out Matt, allowing his partner to cover as the ref recovers to count the three. The Broserweights advance to the next round of the Tag Team Title Tournament.
Segment:
As the two celebrate in the ring, we cut to Angle and Heyman backstage in Heyman’s office. Heyman seems to be desperately trying to stop Angle from exploding with rage, an effort that proves fruitless as Angle grows angrier by the second. As things come to a head, Angle storms out of Heyman’s office and slams the door behind him. He walks down the corridor with a determined expression on his face when he runs into The Velveteen Dream, posing in a nearby mirror. Angle takes offence to Dream’s apparent narcissism and when Dream talks back, Angle grabs him by the throat and pushes him against the wall. Angle spits in his face and takes him by the neck, dragging him towards the ring.
The crowd is visibly concerned and confused at the unfolding events as Angle pulls Dream through the curtain. Angle begins to land punches as Dream fights back in vain. When the two reach the ring, Dream runs inside and tries to flee from Angle but can’t escape his clutches. Angle whips Dream into the ropes and lands a vicious German suplex on him before putting him in the ankle lock. The crowd begin to chant for Bret as Dream taps the mat frantically. Angle foams at the mouth as Dream continues to tap. There’s a pause before Bret’s music plays and the crowd roars in anticipation. Angle immediately releases the hold and jumps to his feet, readying himself for Bret’s arrival. In this time, Dream manages to scramble out of the ring and to the outside, visibly limping.
Yet, Bret doesn’t appear in person. Instead, he takes the screen from an undisclosed location, title belt sitting proudly on his shoulder.
Bret: Wow, Kurt, you really need to keep your temper in check, buddy. After all, that’s no way for a so-called champion to behave. Everything you’ve done tonight totally justifies my decision to take this title belt away from you. And that’s because where I’m from, champions conduct themselves with both honour and decency- two things that it seems that you’re not accustomed to at all. You’re a great wrestler, Kurt, but your actions leave a lot to be desired and I would consider it a great dishonour to just let you collect this title without seeing you do anything to demonstrate any of the traits of a worthy champion. Besides, when it’s all said and done, I’m the best wrestler in this company by a measurable distance and for me to have not even been in the conversation for the title is a slap in the face to everything I stand for.
So what I’m going to do is this. Even though I can’t argue that this title, however you “earned” it, is rightfully yours, I will be returning it to you. On one condition. You agree to face me one-on-one, with the title on the line at Anarchy In The UK!
The crowd pops loudly and begins to chant for Bret as Angle raises the microphone to his mouth without a moment’s thought.
Kurt: You’re on!
Kurt throws down the microphone as Bret laughs heartily, a dream match set in stone for PWF’s first-ever Pay-Per-View!
*Commercial Break*
Match #4 and Main Event: Shawn Michaels vs Rey Mysterio, Jr. :
As fast-paced as they come, the main event match-up between Shawn Michaels and Rey Mysterio, Jr. is hotly-contested from start to finish. After an initial period of feeling each other out, Mysterio takes the pace of the match up a level with some awe-inspiring high spots and breathtaking offence, throwing down the gauntlet for Michaels to reply. And reply Michaels does after a top-rope altercation pans out in his favour. With Mysterio recovering on the outside of the ring, a perfectly-executed crossbody turns the tide.
It’s here that Michaels displays a pronounced mean streak by whipping Mysterio back-first into the guard rail and chopping his chest until it’s raw. A superkick goes awry and Michaels’ leg collides with the ring post, giving Mysterio the opportunity to win back the advantage.
Back in the ring, neither man gives an inch as Mysterio takes his chances by springing off the top rope. This is a risk too far as he finds himself the recipient of a face-smashing Sweet Chin Music, giving Michaels the three count. Both men embrace in the ring as the first episode of PWF Revision goes off the air.
Singles Match: Tajiri vs Chavo Guerrero, Jr.
No Disqualification Match: Mick Foley vs Rob Van Dam w/ Bill Alfonso
Tag Team Title Tournament Match: The Broserweights vs Hardy Boyz
The Main Event: Shawn Michaels vs Rey Mysterio, Jr.
Promo: Paul Heyman introduces us to the PWF and its first-ever champion:
An establishing aerial shot of the PWF arena, a venue purpose-built for the use of this exciting new wrestling company. There’s a big screen and sufficient lighting, but also some modest-looking guardrails and a sense of community. The crowd is a diverse assembly of fans young and old, male and female, all united in seething anticipation.
The venue's higher levels threaten to buckle under the weight and frenzy of the excitement. Close-ups catch smiling kids lost in this wonderland of appreciation, and flicker past the diehards who'll claim to have been present at every major wrestling event on record. The camera eventually leads us to the entrance ramp, emblazoned with the electric signage of PWF. Pyrotechnics and fireworks flare as the capacity ground ramps up the volume to unbelievable heights. This is happening.
As the cheering continues, Paul Heyman’s music hits to a rapturous ovation. Smoke billows down the ramp as the fans seated behind the steel barricades jump to their feet in adulation. Signs are thrust skywards all across the crowd. Whether "Heyman is God" or "Marry Me, Paul", you'd be hard-pressed to find a disparaging sign throughout the hustling sea of limbs and cheering faces. Even those not privy to Heyman's cultural significance are caught up in the screaming melee. This man, their baseball-capped, leather-jacketed Messiah, has arrived.
Heyman eventually emerges from the smoke at the top of the entrance ramp, drinking in the atmosphere as the smoke gradually disperses. He looks around in quiet acknowledgement before slowly walking down to the ring. Heyman's leather jacket fully frames his slight figure, his belly bulging against the buttons of his blue shirt. His ever-present baseball cap sits snugly atop his head. The slogan, an electric yellow iteration of PWF, proof of this mastermind's never-ending creativity. He's holding a briefcase, largely black with a golden trim. Portions of the crowd spot this and begin to speculate on its contents.
To chants of “Paul E”, Heyman climbs up the black metal of the steel steps, walks onto the apron and enters the ring through the middle rope. He stops in the centre, once again looking around at the frenzied crowd and grinning his famed Mad Scientist grin. Heyman's music stops and he gestures for a microphone, a request duly obliged by an official seated at ringside.
Heyman: So... here. we. are. (The crowd once again sparks up its frenzy. Heyman lets this pass before carrying on.) It's been a long time. Too long since I've stood before you in such a position of power, of authority, of appreciation. But fate works in mysterious ways, and fortune has smiled on me wonderfully. The opportunity to put together a company with such an overwhelming wealth of talent is one that a visionary like me just couldn't resist!
It’s true. With the crowd remaining in high spirits, their excitement is palpable.
Heyman: The more eagle-eyed amongst you will have noticed what I was carrying on my way to the ring. This briefcase (holds aloft to rampant cheers) contains the first-ever iteration of the PWF World Championship. I've spent every waking moment of the last few weeks deciding how best to crown our inaugural World Champion. I've dreamed up scenario after scenario and mixed idea with idea, searching in vain to come up with something to give this title the prestige it really deserves. But then I thought " it!"
Confusion clouds the air as the crowd's former unwavering buoyancy starts to fracture and hostility begins to pierce the optimistic atmosphere.
Heyman: I thought that what would truly matter most to you, the fans, would be to crown your first-ever World Champion right here tonight. And, better yet, to not leave this to chance. After all, the fate of such a prestigious championship simply cannot be left to chance. So, without further ado, I give to you your inaugural PWF World Champion. And the only Olympic Gold Medal winner in PWF history, KURTTTTT ANNNGGGLLLEEE!
"Medal" plays as the crowd skirts between bewilderment, hostility and optimism. There are audible cheers, but these are drowned out by resenting boos. Angle, blue and red American singlet and blue boots, marches down the aisle in determined fashion. His gold medal fastened proudly round his neck. He stops mid-way down the ramp to allow for his pyro to fire and then carries on down the ramp, ignoring the fleeting hands that attempt to tag him on his way down. Angle enters the ring through the middle rope and waltzes his familiar in-ring pose, arms outstretched, woo expelled, face full of gritty ambition.
Angle gestures to Heyman and the two embrace in a firm, definitely-choreographed hug. Angle grimaces at the crowd before being handed a second microphone.
The crowd begins to boo as Angle and Heyman stand in the centre of the ring, neither seeming bothered or surprised by this steadfast rejection.
Angle: Surprise, surprise! The crowd doesn't appreciate Kurt Angle. It's something that I've grown quite accustomed to. After all, what does a gold medal mean to "the fans" when you only seem to embrace those who leg drop or elbow their way to championships? I won a gold medal with a broken freakin’ neck, and I have never fully recovered. But I'm still the greatest pure athlete this sport has ever seen. There is nobody in the history of this business that could out-wrestle or out-perform me, I AM A WRESTLING MACHINE!
The crowd continues to boo, and appear to be united in their dislike of Kurt Angle. All those who were sitting on the fence now seem to share the popular consensus: Angle is to be hated and vilified.
Heyman and Angle eat up the boos as Angle continues…
Angle: When Paul Heyman asked me to join his new company, I did so because I knew that he appreciated me as an athlete, technician and entertainer. His vision has a clarity that no one I have worked for before can match. Here is a man who knows that being a World Champion is more than a catchphrase or memorable gesture. I am the complete package and I deserve your adulation more than anyone who has ever stepped into the squared circle. I am ready to take my place at the top of the mountain. I, Kurt Angle, am proud to be your first-ever PWF World Champion!
The boos are now deafening.
Heyman picks up the briefcase and once again holds it aloft as Angle begins to woo in the middle of the ring. Angle then stands on ceremony as Heyman begins to open the briefcase. Angle stands proudly, hand on heart and eyes closed as Heyman opens the case. Yet, Heyman is overcome by a look of terror. His cheeks redden and he begins to sweat, aghast and confused.
Angle opens his eyes to see what is happening and sees Heyman's reddened face staring blankly back at him. Angle becomes more vocal as Heyman flaps around with the briefcase. An audible "where is it?" can be heard from Angle as Heyman pulls out a piece of scrap paper from the briefcase: it’s a note. It reads “Dear Kurt, I.O.U, one championship belt. Love, Bret.”
Heyman stands in shock as Angle begins to stomp around the ring screaming in anger. The lights then go out as the crowd waits in stunned anticipation. When the lights go up, Bret Hart, leather jacket, shades and pink and black singlet, is standing on the entrance ramp. Bret has a confident smile and something is resting over his shoulder. It's the PWF title belt!
The crowd goes wild in its appreciation for "The Hitman" and "Bret!" chants echo throughout the arena.
Bret grins as Angle stares him down from the middle of the ring. Heyman attempts to interact with Angle but is completely ignored. Angle begins to quiver and foam at the mouth such is the intensity of the staredown. Bret nods towards Kurt and then turns his back on the ring, the title still on his shoulder. Bret walks backstage as Angle and Heyman look on in disbelief.
*Commercial Break*
Match #1: Tajiri vs Chavo Guerrero, Jr. :
After an even start to the match, which features some intense mat wrestling and several missed shots and reversals, Tajiri gains control. The highlight of this early offence is a beautiful Asai moonsault to the Chavo on the outside. Back in the ring, Chavo battles back and begins to dominate Tajiri, yet fails to put him away. As Chavo’s dominance is derailed by his growing frustration, he manages to set Tajiri up for a frog splash from the top rope. Tajiri rolls out of the way, leaving Chavo clutching his ribs in agony. This opens the door for an awesome buzzsaw kick from Tajiri and the win - 1,2,3!
After the match, Chavo appears visibly distressed and sits with his head in hands. He initially refuses a handshake from Tajiri but begrudgingly accepts. Chavo then raises Tajiri’s arm as we cut backstage.
Segment:
Backstage, Angle and Heyman are frantically knocking doors and hastling road agents and talent, desperately searching for Bret Hart. Heyman spots Raven and gestures as if to begin a conversation with him, but Raven shoots back a look of pure hatred so Heyman decides against it. Angle knocks over the contents of a catering table and corners a steward, angrily demanding to know whether the steward has seen Bret Hart. The steward, flustered and intimidated, says that he hasn't and Angle pushes his body against the wall before screaming "You better find him then!"
A crowd of wrestlers have formed and begin to watch Angle and Heyman's increasing desperation, silent but knowing, appearing to have sided with Bret without needing to say anything. Angle and Heyman march away as the group of wrestlers looks on.
*Commercial Break*
Match #2: Mick Foley vs Rob Van Dam w/Bill Alfonso - No Disqualification Match:
Van Dam enters the ring first in tandem with his manager-cum-cheerleader, Bill Alfonso. Alfonso blasts on his whistle with incessant regularity, drawing the ire of some of the crowd’s less-forgiving fans. Despite his music playing, Foley fails to come down the entrance ramp for 30 seconds or so and instead enters through the crowd, running into the ring and attacking Van Dam from behind. Foley, demonstrating a vicious intensity from the start, clotheslines Van Dam to the outside. Outside, Foley dominates, hurling Van Dam into the steel steps, dropping some vicious elbows and slicing his opponent’s head open with a ream of barbed wire.
The tide only begins to turn when Foley misses an elbow from the apron. Van Dam takes control in the ring, using his educated feet and full-on martial arts style to seize the momentum. Following a few near falls for Van Dam, Foley battles back into the match and it becomes a brutal slugfest between the two.
With several chair shots exchanged, both men are left bleeding and exhausted. Despite encouragement from Alfonso, Van Dam begins to fall prey to Foley’s increasing barbarism and ends up unable to mount much offence. Foley wins the match following a mandible claw, with Van Dam tapping out in anguish after flailing around on the mat.
As Foley raises his arms to cheers from the crowd, the house lights go out and a static noise echoes throughout the arena. A short clip of a man in a sheep mask bursts onto the screen in time with a disorientating animal screech. We are taken to a backstage area in which symbols representing the “three faces of Foley” (the Mankind mask, Dude Love headband, Cactus Jack Wanted poster) are positioned on a table. A figure walks into the shot, back to the camera. The figure picks up each of these items, studies them intently and then places them back down on the table. He then turns to the camera. With piercing eyes and a manic smile, we soon find out who we’re looking at - it’s Bray Wyatt!
This draws a divisive reaction from the crowd, and much confusion from Foley, with the Hardcore Legend propped up against the ropes in the ring, hair stuck to his face with blood. Van Dam is being comforted by Alfonso.
Promo: Bray Wyatt
Wyatt: Very impressive, Mick. Did someone light a fire under your ass or what? I hope you both don’t have to spend too long in the hospital!. *He chuckles* Typical Mick, always putting on a show…
Foley remains stationary in the ring, as Van Dam and Alfonso slowly make their way backstage.
Wyatt: But, seriously, you might be wondering what I’m doing interrupting your victory lap. Here’s you picking up the win on the first-ever PWF Revision and you’ve not even been allowed to celebrate properly. So, let me cut to the chase. Mick, for years, you are someone who I’ve idolised and identified with. You’re a freak. Like me. You are someone who the world looks at as an outsider. And this is something that I know all too well. You see, without Mick Foley, there’s no Bray Wyatt and I just wanted the chance to thank you for all you’ve done for me. For giving me the confidence to embrace my inner demon, to unleash my dark side, no matter what.
And this is where I need you, Mick. Thanks to you, I’ve carved out quite the legacy of my own, taking your mind games and aggression to a whole new level. Some would say that I’ve even managed to surpass you, in every way. So why don’t we find out just who is the better man, and why don’t you give me the chance to prove myself against my hero? Let me know, Mick. I’ll be waiting for your answer.
With this, Wyatt turns away from the camera and back to the table of items, staring at them intently. He cackles loudly before picking the table up and turning it over, the items ending up splayed on the floor. The sheep mask flits back onto the screen as the camera pans back to the ring. Foley looks startled, but not altogether intimidated. He gestures for a microphone, appears to be ready to address the crowd, and Wyatt in turn, but suddenly stops, drops the microphone to the canvas and climbs through the ropes towards the entrance ramp. The crowd sits in stunned silence as Foley walks back through the curtain, having given no response.
*Commercial Break*
Match #3: The Broserweights (Matt Riddle and Pete Dunne) vs The Hardy Boyz (Matt Hardy and Jeff Hardy) - Tag Team Title Tournament:
It’s a barnstorming opener to the Tag Team Title Tournament as two teams with opposing and highly distinctive styles go at it. Riddle and Dunne gain the advantage early on by restricting the high-flying Hardyz to the mat, wearing the brothers down with some brutal mat wrestling and effective strong style manoeuvres. Riddle’s suplexes are a particular highlight here.
As the match continues, things become more even and a ref bump allows the Hardyz to perform some of their signature tag team offence on a tiring Dunne and Riddle in turn. The match comes to an end when Jeff, not the legal man, attempts a swanton bomb on a prone Riddle but is knocked off the apron by Dunne. Dunne then hits The Bitter End on a worn-out Matt, allowing his partner to cover as the ref recovers to count the three. The Broserweights advance to the next round of the Tag Team Title Tournament.
Segment:
As the two celebrate in the ring, we cut to Angle and Heyman backstage in Heyman’s office. Heyman seems to be desperately trying to stop Angle from exploding with rage, an effort that proves fruitless as Angle grows angrier by the second. As things come to a head, Angle storms out of Heyman’s office and slams the door behind him. He walks down the corridor with a determined expression on his face when he runs into The Velveteen Dream, posing in a nearby mirror. Angle takes offence to Dream’s apparent narcissism and when Dream talks back, Angle grabs him by the throat and pushes him against the wall. Angle spits in his face and takes him by the neck, dragging him towards the ring.
The crowd is visibly concerned and confused at the unfolding events as Angle pulls Dream through the curtain. Angle begins to land punches as Dream fights back in vain. When the two reach the ring, Dream runs inside and tries to flee from Angle but can’t escape his clutches. Angle whips Dream into the ropes and lands a vicious German suplex on him before putting him in the ankle lock. The crowd begin to chant for Bret as Dream taps the mat frantically. Angle foams at the mouth as Dream continues to tap. There’s a pause before Bret’s music plays and the crowd roars in anticipation. Angle immediately releases the hold and jumps to his feet, readying himself for Bret’s arrival. In this time, Dream manages to scramble out of the ring and to the outside, visibly limping.
Yet, Bret doesn’t appear in person. Instead, he takes the screen from an undisclosed location, title belt sitting proudly on his shoulder.
Bret: Wow, Kurt, you really need to keep your temper in check, buddy. After all, that’s no way for a so-called champion to behave. Everything you’ve done tonight totally justifies my decision to take this title belt away from you. And that’s because where I’m from, champions conduct themselves with both honour and decency- two things that it seems that you’re not accustomed to at all. You’re a great wrestler, Kurt, but your actions leave a lot to be desired and I would consider it a great dishonour to just let you collect this title without seeing you do anything to demonstrate any of the traits of a worthy champion. Besides, when it’s all said and done, I’m the best wrestler in this company by a measurable distance and for me to have not even been in the conversation for the title is a slap in the face to everything I stand for.
So what I’m going to do is this. Even though I can’t argue that this title, however you “earned” it, is rightfully yours, I will be returning it to you. On one condition. You agree to face me one-on-one, with the title on the line at Anarchy In The UK!
The crowd pops loudly and begins to chant for Bret as Angle raises the microphone to his mouth without a moment’s thought.
Kurt: You’re on!
Kurt throws down the microphone as Bret laughs heartily, a dream match set in stone for PWF’s first-ever Pay-Per-View!
*Commercial Break*
Match #4 and Main Event: Shawn Michaels vs Rey Mysterio, Jr. :
As fast-paced as they come, the main event match-up between Shawn Michaels and Rey Mysterio, Jr. is hotly-contested from start to finish. After an initial period of feeling each other out, Mysterio takes the pace of the match up a level with some awe-inspiring high spots and breathtaking offence, throwing down the gauntlet for Michaels to reply. And reply Michaels does after a top-rope altercation pans out in his favour. With Mysterio recovering on the outside of the ring, a perfectly-executed crossbody turns the tide.
It’s here that Michaels displays a pronounced mean streak by whipping Mysterio back-first into the guard rail and chopping his chest until it’s raw. A superkick goes awry and Michaels’ leg collides with the ring post, giving Mysterio the opportunity to win back the advantage.
Back in the ring, neither man gives an inch as Mysterio takes his chances by springing off the top rope. This is a risk too far as he finds himself the recipient of a face-smashing Sweet Chin Music, giving Michaels the three count. Both men embrace in the ring as the first episode of PWF Revision goes off the air.