dstephe4

You had me at "What" I like a good @Voeltzwagon diary!

LOVING the Gerald nomination! Thank you.

I remember our time in Khabarovsk well. Not because of anything to do with wrestling, but because everyone's piss turned fizzy. It should be medically impossible for piss to fizz. But for those bizarre two weeks we were all treated to a symphony of hissing, bubbling and crackling noises with every visit to the toilet. We were farting rust too. At first I assumed these funky symptoms were side affects of all the Lightning Bolt energy drink we were chugging by the gallon – that stuff has so many toxic, Sci-Fi-sounding ingredients I’m still amazed none of us can fly. The Ministry For Sport had tried drugs testing a few of us once, and the urine samples melted the test tubes. I was telling all the guys not to panic and to stay calm, but when our turds became magnetic we knew something was definitely going on. Above: This is Khabarovsk. I blame the s***ty venue we were in. “What a s***ty venue” I said to the mayor. "What a s***ty, s***ty, s***ty venue” I added for good measure. He just looked at me, snorted with laughter, then went back to live-streaming extremely strong pornography on his phone. I looked over to his bodyguards to try and gauge their reaction, but they were too busy showing off their shiny new guns to some local prostitutes. I was getting a bad vibe about this place. Above: And this is Khabarovsk. Khabarovsk – our home for Episodes 14 and 15 - was mostly famous for all the anti-Putin, anti-corruption protests that took place there a few years prior. The Russian government handled the situation with all the tactful grace and delicacy they are famous for – namely by sending in a ‘special force’ from Moscow, tear gassing the living s*** out of everything that moved, and arresting the governor Sergei Furgal for having the audacity to let the people’s voice be heard. (Or ‘Domestic Terrorism’ as the Russian media / propaganda machine called it.) Above: And this is also Khabarovsk. There was so much rioting and unrest in this city that even publications on the other side of the world speculated that things would never be normal here, ever, ever again. Even to this day, if you do an image search on Khabarovsk there's only two kinds of results, either: a.) Panoramic wide angle shots of this dramatic cityscape covered in sunny rays, under brightly coloured clouds of sunset, or b.) Panoramic wide angle shots of this dramatic cityscape covered in thousands of pissed off rioters, under brightly coloured clouds of tear gas. Above: And this is Khabarovsk too. What a lovely place we'd wandered in to. In to Furgal’s place – amid all the crackdowns and rioting – and under circumstances so shadowy, shady and mysterious they could only happen in Russia – stepped the new mayor Aleksandr Sokolov: Above: Don’t let the snazzy blue suit fool you. Sokolov was an absolute penile wart of a man. Seriously – he was about as much fun as an anal worm outbreak. He was, according to all the nation’s ‘reputable’ newspapers, ‘the people’s choice’ for leader. On paper there was an election, but nobody I spoke to in Khabarovsk could remember voting. Sokolov was definitely not just some Kremlin puppet parachuted in to keep the public in line, I was told, over and over again, by the many scary armed men who surrounded me for every second of my visit. I could feel all the warmth of the ‘glowing public support’ as they herded me forcefully from one unmarked vehicle to another. And so it was this stone-faced, joyless hemorrhoid of a man that greeted me when I arrived to do business. He was one of those people who’s face looks like they’re having a tricky s***, no matter their expression. Christ only knows what this guy’s qualifications were that apparently made him suitable for office – but English wasn’t one of them. Despite having been in the country since 2014, my Russian wasn’t up to much either. So we ended up communicating in a mixture of grunts, hand gestures, Google Translate and swearing. It wasn’t exactly a match made in heaven. We didn’t exactly ‘vibe’ as the cool kids would say. Thinking back, that’s probably why we ended up in such a weird venue. “I mean it, Aleks, this creepy old place sucks. The air tastes like old boot polish and formaldehyde. My teeth randomly started hurting the moment we walked in here. The hands on my Rolex are ticking backwards. Why do the walls keep humming? What the hell’s wrong with this place? It’s s***!” “Da. It f***ed” said the mayor, eloquently. His eyes didn’t leave the screen of his phone for even a split-second. I glanced over to see what the hell he was watching, saw three women, a midget and a donkey, and dared look no further. I tried searching for info about this weird, deserted venue online. But there was nothing. It wasn't just as if this place didn't exist, more like it had been erased from all living memory. It seemed as though someone had gone to great lengths to erase all evidence of this place from history. My bulls*** alarms began ringing so loud my skull shook - or was that just a headache from being in this crappy venue for too long? The situation stank of a state-sponsored cover-up - which was entirely possible here in Russia - even the name of this place seemed to be a big secret. To test my theory I opened another browser window, and re-tried my search on Yandex, which is the main search engine used in Russia. Nothing there either. I would spend much of my first week in this godforsaken city using low-tech methods to try and solve the mystery of our freaky, f***ed up venue. After a few casual bribes to a few ethically ambiguous councilmen, I’d found out the place used to be an old power station. It’s demolition date had been put back countless times due to a number of undisclosed ‘complicating factors’ that’s made knocking it down much trickier than the pencil-pushers ever imagined. Nobody would tell us what the hell those ‘complications’ were. Nobody cared enough to check. We’d been forced into some really s***ty venues so far, but this had to be the worst. It was not quite condemned – on paper at least – but it'd been due a dance with a wrecking ball for years, ever since some shady property developer bought the land and started demolishing everything to make room for a trendy new mall. The venue was one of the last things scheduled for destruction. But then came the Ukraine War, and all the international economic sanctions that butt-f***ed the Russian economy to pieces. The project halted, and this place had been in a bureaucratic no-man’s-land ever since. And so our creepy, post-apocalyptic-looking venue was just left there to rot. Not closed, but not open. Not condemned, but not in use either. Just... there. Just... waiting for something to happen to it. There wasn’t the money to destroy it. There wasn’t the money to maintain it. Since Putin sent the tanks over the border, everyone involved in that doomed project was desperate for someone from the outside to turn up like a white knight with a solution. I didn’t know at the time that solution would turn out to be us. “This is bulls***, Sokolov!” I whined with the pissy tone of a toddler whose sweets got stolen. “We’re The Russian Federation Of Wrestling! We’re a big deal! We deserve a proper venue, like your famous Platinum Arena! Not some creepy old husk with serious Chernobyl vibes.” Above: This is what we wanted. This is not what we got. “Nyet. Impossible” snapped the mayor. He turned off the dancing ladies on his phone for a brief moment and frantically started typing. “The arena has been taken by real celebrities” came the monotone electronic voice of Google. “F*** that!” came the pissed off voice of me. There was more rapid-fire typing. The mayor’s tongue stuck out in concentration as he poked away at the screen so hard he seemed to be murdering it with his fingers. “Mikhail and Josef and the Dancing Bears. A circus act, like yours, but more highly trained” the search engine voice said in a bitchy, mocking tone. “F*** this guy” I thought to myself. “And f*** you too, Google!” I got my own phone out and did my own tapping. I fired up Bing – it sucks, but I refused to use Google out of spite. I looked up those assholes Mikhail and Josef and their stupid bears. Turns out they were a family friendly animal show like Siegfried and Roy, but a lot more Russian and a lot more awful. The bears looked massive. The crowds they drew did not. Their posters looked like they’d been created by a hyperactive child using MS Paint for the first time. I hated that these gimps had bagged the cool, shiny venue, and we’d been left with the crappy, itchy little rust-box on the edge of town. What was worse was only one of those clowns would even be there – turns out one of those silly b*****ds got eaten recently – though nobody was sure which. You’d think that some dude getting his lungs munched would be enough for the event to get cancelled, but this is Russia, and the show must go on. I was reminded of the unfortunate Sergey Belyev and his own bear-related encounter. Whatever happened to that guy? I could tell by the frostiness of our reception and from the size of the bodyguard’s guns that arguing would get me nowhere. Besides, debating the issue would only mean standing in this derelict hell-hole even longer – the longer I stayed in there, the more and more it felt like I was picking up radio frequencies in the fillings in my teeth. I stepped outside for some fresh air and a hip flask or three of vodka. It didn’t help me though – being in that place for even just a few minutes had somehow made my booze taste like old coins and battery acid. I took a look around at the cityscape on the horizon. As the sun slowly started to descend into dusk I admired the distant flashing lights of the police riot vans as they raced into action. I looked up at the sky as it filled with the flickering lights of police helicopters speeding towards another protest. Attack dogs barks echoed somewhere in the distance. Business as usual in Khabarovsk. Into this boiling mix of political tensions, corruption and horror-movie venues, strolled The Russian Federation Of Wrestling. Sokolov and his goons wondered what the hell we were doing here. I was wondering the exact same thing. When one of the suits in charge had mentioned this city as a possible location for our Episode 14 show, The Ministry couldn't wait for us to get our arses over there. They were delighted to have Khabarovsk in the news for something other than mass arrests and the image of one of Russia’s most popular politicians being dragged in handcuffs into a van full of big, scary-looking motherf***ers with guns. In swooped The Russian Federation Of Wrestling with all it’s fanfare, flags, fireworks and freaks. A tsunami of photo opportunities and propaganda events were hurriedly set up. The press was everywhere. The whole thing just grew and grew into some kind of freaky, unstoppable media circus. Even big bad Vlad Putin himself ended up getting in on the act, sliming his way into proceedings for an official state dinner with ‘The Fighting Face Of Modern Russia’ Ilja Dragunov, along with Seagal, Arlovski, 'Russian Citizen' Roy Jones Jr, Sting and a few hand-picked others. Things escalated so much that our one week visit quickly grew into a two week stay. That meant the first Double Header in our short, noisy history, even though we’d never even wanted to visit here in the first place. The whole thing reeked of bulls***. ‘Who has time to think about politics when there’s family-friendly violence on offer’ was the plan. All we had to do was show up, smile, wave, do a few Headlocks and Bodyslams, make people happy for a fortnight, then get the hell out of there in a blaze of macho, patriotic glory. Easy, right? What could possibly go wrong? This, however, is The Russian Federation Of Wrestling. Anyone who’s been paying attention thus far will know... everything could go wrong when we were involved. And, of course, it did.

Fair enough. Will know for future.

In the fine tradition of this fine thread, I am here to shamelessly self-promote my latest show in the rather unique Russian Federation Of Wrestling. Follow this link to read our latest weird installment, which is full to the brim of literary nuggets such as this surprisingly sweet and tender moment, which I'm actually rather proud of... Scotty 2 Hotty, Rikishi and our nuclear-shirted, velveteen-jacketed interviewer Vlad ‘Party Tsar’ Radinov are hanging out, doing whatever the hell it is wrestlers do backstage during a show. They’re laughing and joking, but Rikishi looks very, very serious all of a sudden. “I’m finished with being an in-ring competitor” said Rikishi to Scotty. “My knees are shot. It hurts to move around the ring. Plus I’m 58 years old now. I’m no spring chicken any more. It’s time to let someone else do the ass-kicking” said the big Samoan in a sad but determined tone of voice. “Are you sure?” asked Scotty. “It’s a big decision” added Vlad. “Yeah I’m sure, homie. Besides, I finished last week’s show with some dude’s whole head stuck up my ass. If that isn’t the universe telling me to stop, I don’t know what is.” “Can’t argue with that ‘logic’ I guess” shrugged Radinov. “Don’t worry, Scotty, I still got your back. We started this wrestling adventure together – you, me and Brian Christopher, God rest his soul. And you’re gonna keep his memory living on, with me watching your back. I’ll be your bodyguard, your manager, your... whatever, homie.” Scotty doesn’t look happy. “I’m not sure, man. We’ve always been a team. Maybe it’s too late for me to go solo?” “Look, this is a whole new country – it could be a whole new opportunity for you – a whole new beginning. You never had chance to prove yourself as a singles competitor. But you deserve the spotlight to be on you, homie. This is your moment! This is your chance! You ain’t getting any younger either, it’s now or never!” Rikishi gives his little buddy Scotty a supportive hug. ‘The Party Tsar’ joins in the hug too, because why the hell not. “I got your back, bud. You got this, trust me” says the now-retired Samoan as the scene fades to black. “Trust me.” Follow this link to read more of this wholesome Russian goodness!

Before we get into measuring the varying levels of everyone's clairvoyancy in the RFW Predictions Game Thingy, I would just like to say a very, very, very belated THANK YOU to everyone who voted to make The Event Of The Century the Showcase Event Of The Month waaaaaaaay back in the February DOTM poll. Yes, that was forever ago. Yes, I should have posted this an eternity ago. But I have waaaaaaaay too many kinds and waaaaaaaay too much sleep deprivation to stay on top of things. My home looks like a scene from 101 Dalmatians, except with feral children instead of dogs. But I digress. To everyone who voted, this giant pyramid of Lightning Bolt Energy Drink is for you! Also, a massive thank you to all who have so kindly nominated this weird little diary in the April Diary Of The Month Poll Thingy. Being included in stuff like that means the world, and I thank you all from the bottom of my shriveled, black little heart for your continued support. To all who nominated, please accept this 100ft high statue of 'Party Tsar' Vlad Radinov as a token of my appreciation: And with all that gushy, mushy stuff out of the way, we move on to the Predictions Results! The scores are in... yet again... Like I said before, it's great to see such a good variety of new and old faces posting their predictions. Thank you to you all - and to everyone who takes the time to read this strange little adventure. @Old School Fan - 3 points out of 3. @DinoKea - 2 points out of 3. @Valkyria - 3 points out of 3. @Taylor2020 - 2 points out of 3. @kanegan - 3 points out of 3. @scapegoat - 3 points out of 3. @80085 - 2 points out of 3. The fact that more people won than didn't win kinda indicates that at least 4 of you are smarter than me. Which, given the state of my sleepy, somewhat drunken little brain, probably makes sense. Maybe one day I'll get round to achieving my grand ambition of fooling you all. But clearly this was not that day. Thank you, sincerely, to all who read this. Imagine my big, virtual arms around you all. Big hugs. Big thanks. And a big 'Double Header' show coming up soon...

I love the bit in show #3 where the cage collapses because the stagehands hadn't had time to finish putting it up. I wish I'd thought of that.

Rossiya 1 had the great pleasure of broadcasting the latest collision of the ongoing car crash that was The Russian Federation Of Wrestling. The Fen-Shuy Resort & Hotel was where we'd somehow managed to cram 3,176 people into their tiny little function room. I'm still baffled as to how we managed it - maybe we folded them all in half or something. We started our thirteenth episode with fireworks, flags, industrial-strength vodka, enough Lightning Bolt Energy Drink to flood a whole city, and with one of those tried-and-tested promos where people stand in the ring and say things about other people who are not in the ring. ‘The American Dragon’ Bryan Daniels was there, about to do his thing. The crowd were roaring with excitement. The fans were loud this time. Like, drunken-ECW-fans-in-a-bingo-hall loud. This was hardly surprising – our audience was full of sugar-crazed, hyperactive kids on their summer holiday. The adults were running wild too - they had so much Lightning Bolt in them their sweat was flammable. Our venue was the Fen-Shuy Resort & Hotel – one of those ‘all-inclusive’ holiday places where you can have as much food and booze as your body can handle. It’s the kind of place where you can have a gallon of beer with your morning cereal and nobody even gives you a second glance. It’s the kind of place where kids can eat a bucket of candyfloss for breakfast with an ice cream chaser. You can imagine the atmosphere all that created. Cram 3,176 of these crazed, supercharged people together in a small, hot room together, and you’ve set the scene for a particularly memorable evening. Our whole audience was practically feral. Our cameras zoomed in on one guy who got so excited he ripped off his shirt, swung it around in circles above him like a wobbly, drunken helicopter, and launched it at some little old lady so hard it sent her flying ass-over-head five rows backwards. It was glorious. "Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you a man transformed by my time in Russia. Battling the fierce Vladimir Kulakov, it wasn't just a match - it was a war with my inner demons. For years, the doubt and fear from my concussion injuries haunted me, but no more. I've emerged from that war stronger, tougher, and more unstoppable than I ever thought possible." The crowd chanted "YES! YES! YES!" at a volume I previously wouldn’t have thought was biologically or medically possible. "Ilja Dragunov, you're a formidable World Champion, and I respect that. But when I step into that ring to challenge you later tonight, I do it with unwavering confidence. I've faced my fears, conquered my doubts, and I've never been more ready for this opportunity." The crowd erupted with another "YES!" chant in a display of startling originality. Daniels reveled in it. He basked in the warm glow of their Yes-ness. "Ilja, I'm not just any challenger; I'm Daniel Bryan... I mean Bryan Daniels. I fight for every person who's ever faced adversity, and when we meet for that World Title, you're going to see an American Dragon like you've never seen before. I'm going to push myself to the limits, and I'm going to prove to the world that YES, I can be the World Champion!" The crowd went wild again, and Daniel Bryan... I mean... Bryan Daniels... raised his arms in triumph. He was riding a tidal wave of Yes-ish-ness now. The camera cut to a reaction shot of a bunch of kids near the front row, all of whom were wearing big, thick, home-made beards in honour of their scruffy-looking hero. It was a fashion trend that would spread like wildfire through Russia through all of 2023. "So, Ilja, brace yourself, because it's not just about surviving the Yes Lock or the Running Knee; it's about surviving the indomitable spirit of Bryan Daniels. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, YES, I can!" The crowd's "YES!" chants reached a deafening level as the loveable, excitable, scruffy-looking fan-favourite exited the ring like some kind of triumphant, homeless-looking rock-star, leaving the audience in frenzied anticipation for the upcoming championship match. As the scene faded out, our cameras fixed upon some dude with a hand-made sign showing a high-fiving Bryan Daniels and Vladimir Putin riding a T-Rex together. If ever there was an image that summed up the bat-s*** crazy Russia of 2023, that was it. Angle Rating: 84. Next there’s a backstage area, a World Champion with a preposterous-looking beard, a man with a ponytail in a silky Japanese dress, a less-ridiculously bearded guy in a shimmering corduroy jacket, a microphone, and a promo. “People in the West seem to think Russia has no freedom of speech. But the opposite is true – you can say whatever you like in this glorious nation – no matter how crazy or ridiculous it might be.” Seagal is on mic duty again tonight. Dragunov has clearly been told to shut the hell up, stand in the background, and look dangerous. “Bryan Daniels can say he will be our next World Champion. He can say he has what it takes to defeat our fine Ilja Dragunov. He can say that the radical improvements he has attained in the trials of our combat will give him the edge he needs to secure victory. Who knows, maybe he even believes those things too.” Dragunov grunted menacingly, tapping the shiny belt around his waist, for emphasis. “But at the end of the day, Daniels faces a man who is the indomitable spirit of Russia personified. And just like Russia, Ilja Dragunov will never be defeated!” Radinov looks excited. Seagal looks confident and proud. Ilja, with all the weight of a nation’s hopes and dreams heavy upon his shoulders, looks terrified. Like a little, tiny worm on a big f***ing hook. A worm with a big, shiny belt and a big, dangerous target on his back. Angle Rating: 78. “This is our only chance!” shouted the man in the coat made of what appeared to be... ostrich feathers? “Quick! We must act now, before we are detected!” Petr Tihanyi was outside one of the dressing rooms. Our camera zoomed in. ‘Markov / Марков’ said a big, shiny, star-shaped sign hanging on the door. “If that lumpen, knuckle-dragging Neanderthal gets to be referee, everything’s ruined! I can’t believe that un-stylish, pudding-faced idiot Seagal let Markov be in charge of this bout! I want a fair rematch - that won’t happen if that moron’s involved! He simply can't spoil this fabulous occasion. I’d rather have no referee than that oaf!” said the man in leather trousers and a furry fedora hat that would’ve made Hendrix blush. Clearly, John Hennigan was a man on a mission tonight. “But what are we gonna do, boss?! The match begins in, like, 2 minutes! We need a plan!” squealed the man in the brightly-coloured faux-fur coat. It was lined with... was it mink? The frills were in some bizarre, extraordinary new colour I’d somehow never seen before in my whole life. His voice was bizarrely loud, high-pitched and squeaky – he sounded like a cat with it’s arse on fire. Benceh Toth looked better than he sounded – and that was saying something. Hennigan seized the moment, grabbing a chair from somewhere unseen and jamming it under the door handle. With his Cuban leather, fur-trimmed boot he gave it a quick kick. Seemed sturdy enough. “Will that really work though? That’s the sort of cockamamie crap they pull in cartoons!” Petr wasn’t buying it. “He’s right boss. Only an idiot would be stopped by a scheme like this. Only someone completely stupid and... oh, I see.” The puzzle pieces came together in Toth’s brain as he adjusted his loud, zebra-patterned belt. Suddenly the entrance music of Alexandr Klapstov started playing in the distance. The three fabulously-attired, devilishly-dressed bad guys scarpered. As the camera zoomed out to follow them high-tailing it into the distance, Steven Seagal was clearly visible in the background. He was walking backstage having finished his interview with Dragunov and Radinov, and had swung by to watch this childish crap with a smirk. Our so-called ‘un-stylish, pudding-faced’ Authority Figure saw the whole thing. He didn’t seem upset by this hair-brained scheme. He seemed to enjoy it infact. He laughed quietly to himself as he slowly dragged his ample, slug-like frame towards the ring. Angle Rating: 55. ‘The Fabulous’ John Hennigan (with ‘The Style Squad’ of Benceh Toth and Petr Tihanyi) vs Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov (with Edge) – This was supposed to be a Special Guest Referee match with Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov as the official, but he was locked in his dressing room, so God knows what that means. The first match of the night was the big rematch between John Hennigan (with his fashionista followers ‘The Style Squad’) and Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov, who strode to the ring with his mentor Edge in a way that let us all know a serious ass-kicking was about to take place. And it was - just not in the way they'd planned. They got maybe 6 feet down the ramp before Hennigan, Tihanyi and Toth pounced on them. This was the classic, industry-standard pre-match beatdown you've seen a thousand times on a thousand wrestling shows – except this one had a lot more sequins and a lot more perfume. This was a particularly floral and well-moisturised ass-whupping. While the two Style Squad goons took care of Edge, Hennigan grabbed Vertigo and dragged his ass to the ring. He was determined to have an uninterrupted, 1-on-1 battle with the ex-hacker, instead of the (admittedly amusing) bulls*** shenanigans that’d mired their previous encounters. Sensing danger, Klapstov grabbed his laptop from under the ring and frantically started bashing away at the keys, hastily hacking the venue’s lighting system to try and create a distraction. ‘The Fabulous One’ had seen this before. He knew exactly what to do, as he ran up and dropkicked the laptop right into the Russian’s face. The laptop exploded into a cloud of smoke and shattered circuit boards. Vertigo was sent flying into the guardrail and got folded in half by the impact. From that moment on he was screwed. The leather-trouser-clad American was just slightly better. Slightly smarter. Slightly faster. More experienced. Klapstov had some impressive moments in which he took to the sky like the world’s geekiest eagle, but for the most part got his ass handed to him. Edge, seeing his dweeby protégé in trouble, broke free of his attackers and ran to the ring. He leaped to the top turnbuckle, ready to pounce. But Hennigan was ready for that too. With an amused little smile he reached into one of his fabulous coat’s many hidden pockets, produced a tin of hairspray, and blasted ‘The Rated R Superstar’ right in the eyes with it’s contents. The Canadian screamed. The Canadian fell. The Canadian hit the concrete with a sickening thud. The Canadian was set upon once again by Toth and Tihanyi. Hennigan then zapped Klapstov in the eyes with it as well, for good measure - because that’s what bad guys do. He let off an evil laugh too, just to accentuate his flamboyant heelishness. The fans booed loudly at this rather ungentlemanly display. ‘The Fabulous One’ responded by throwing the hairspray can at the fans. There was a loud ‘clunk’ that echoed through the building as it hit some snot-nosed little kid right between the eyes. “Bull’s-eye!” he shouted with delight, celebrating like he’d just hit a Home Run. It was about this time that people finally realised this match had no referee. We’d gone about 5 minutes without an official. To be fair, our shows were such chaotic festivals of bulls*** that the total lack of refereeing made no real difference. Our only licensed ref ‘Boris’ could’ve stepped in from the start, as soon as it was obvious that ‘special referee’ Ivan Markov was ‘unavailable’, but he was much too busy out back smoking the funky new black market Iranian cigarettes he’d become hooked on. He did eventually stroll to ringside, watched admiringly as Klapstov got on the receiving end of a Brainbuster that almost sent his spine shooting out of his arsehole, then begrudgingly set about ‘officiating’. I don’t know why he bothered though, it’s not like the guy ever enforced any rules. The man had about as much authority in this place as the French Foreign Legion. Moments after ‘Boris’ arrived on the scene, the fans cheered loudly as Ivan Markov – clad in the tightest, most ill-fitting referee's shirt the world has even seen - charged towards the ring like the ‘Lokomotiv’ he used to be named after. His knuckles looked badly bruised and discoloured – it’s entirely possible the guy just punched his way through the dressing room door... or even the wall... with his bare hands. Then he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. His face was a picture of panic and confusion – he looked down at the referee shirt he was wearing – then looked up at the ring. You could almost hear the cogs in his brain crashing into each other and grinding to a halt. Sweat started pouring out of his face as he struggled to compute. He was the referee – but there was some other referee in the ring already. His baffled little brain just couldn’t handle the strain. But then he saw his enemy John Hennigan was also in the ring – and presumably his toothy little canine nemesis too – and finally his mind shuddered and rattled into motion like a rusty old machine. He ripped off his shirt, threw it at a startled fan, then charged towards the action like a bull in a china shop. He grabbed the startled, shrieking Benceh Toth and Gorilla Press Slammed the absolute crap of that funky little b****. The pop was huge. So was the thud as Toth’s arse became one with the concrete. Tihanyi was about to meet a similar fate, until Hennigan reached into his coat again. The thing he brought out was small. It was furry. It started yapping. It showed it’s teeth and started growling. “Holy crap it’s Gerald!” shouted commentator Alex Koslov “may God have mercy on his soul!” he added. “Wait a second, Gerald lives inside Hennigan’s coat?!” said Rico Bushido with surprise and just a little wonderment in his voice. “Well... it’s possible I guess. Tiny dog. Big coat. I had a kebab earlier that was bigger than Gerald” pondered Koslov. “I had a crap earlier that was bigger than Gerald” Roy Jones Jr interjected. We left it at that and moved on. Gerald was loose. Markov ran screaming as the vicious, lethal canine gave chase. Soon Tihanyi and Toth were running for their lives too. Then Edge as well. There was horror on their faces, mortal terror in their eyes. All four men dived over the guardrail, into the crowd. The world’s most fearsome Bichon Frisé gave chase. The front five rows of fans began running and scrambling for their lives. There was nearly a stampede. “This is ridiculous” our Authority Figure Steven Seagal could be heard saying from his ringside seat. This wasn’t quite the spectacle he had in mind when he signed this bout. “Enough of this silly crap” he muttered. His arm went up. The lights suddenly flickered. And then the only thing scarier than Gerald in all of the Russian Federation Of Wrestling was on the scene at an unnatural speed. “It’s ‘The Nightmare!’ It’s Kulakov!” hollered Rico. “I didn’t think it was possible, but somehow that big scary b*****d looks even crazier without his mask” exclaimed Koslov. Calmly the demented Russian strolled over towards the melee, whistling a tune to himself, with his hands casually in his pockets. He looked around at the screaming, the tears, the carnage and the panic that surrounded him. Grown men wept with fear. Children cried. One dude wet his pants. Kulakov just smiled madly as he entered the epicentre of the storm. He found what he was looking for, shuffling around on the floor among all the madness. He swung back his leg, then launched his foot forward with an almighty kick. Have you ever seen a dog fly? No? I have. And so did the 3,176 in attendance. Yes, kicking a dog is mean. And yes, you sure as hell wouldn’t be able to do that anywhere outside of Russia. Yeah, it was incredibly politically incorrect of us. But I’m not sorry – seeing the yappy little b*****d take flight was funny as hell. Back in the comparative sanity of the ring, Hennigan and Klapstov were still doing battle. Despite all the hoopla in the crowd, a pretty good wrestling match was happening. Hennigan was still clearly the more skilled competitor, but the guy we’d nicknamed ‘Lord Nerd’ was holding his own. Soon, Edge was back on the ring apron, shouting encouragement to Klapstov. He was so caught up in the action he didn’t see the Style Squad dudes mincing towards him. They attacked from behind, stunned him, then held his arms so he couldn’t escape. With Edge incapacitated and forced to watch, Hennigan seized the moment, knocking Klapstov out cold with his Starship Pain finisher. Edge was kicking and screaming, but Toth and Tihanyi held him still, forcing him to watch as ‘The Fabulous One’ picked up ‘Vertigo’ again, smiled a cocky smile, then added insult to injury, performing an Edgecution on him. Hennigan followed it up with an Edge-O-Matic too, just to be mean. Edge swore vengeance and lots more bedsides as Hennigan easily got the 3 count victory. The ‘Style Squad’ guys laughed victoriously as the Canadian veteran finally wriggled free and rushed to his fallen friend, all pissed off and snarling as the scene faded out to a commercial. Match Rating: 59. We return from a smorgasbord of the finest advertising Russian Rubles could buy, to a plush, fancy-looking office. Steven Seagal and Vlad Radinov are quietly talking business when Dragan Spazic bursts in. “Help! Somebody! They’re after me! Villain Enterprises are gonna turn my ass into grass” he squeals. He’s totally disheveled, his bright pink suit is covered with sweat and dirt, one of the sleeves torn half off. His face is covered with bruises. Suddenly Marty, Brody and Flip storm in, looking for trouble. “Dragan! You silly pink twonk! We’ve had enough of your crap! We lost the Tag Team Title Tournament last week because of you, you borscht-munching tit! You won’t be able to humiliate us ever again once you’re tied to a hospital bed with a tube up your arse! Get him guys!” Scurll gives the command. The Villains pounce. A beatdown is afoot. “Quick! Spazic! Defend yourself with this! It’s Sting’s baseball bat! He left it behind after I ‘interviewed’ him last week!” Yells Radinov. He throws the bat. The bright-pink nearly-Russian catches it and starts swinging it like Mickey Mantle. With a mighty ‘swooosh’ he brings the bat down hard on Scurll’s villainous skull, smacking him right between the eyes. But the bat crumbles into dust instantly on impact. Marty & Co laugh like Musketeers before recommencing their ass-kicking. ‘The Party Tsar’ picks up what’s left of the bat and inspects it. 'Made in America' he reports sadly with a shake of the head. Seagal turns to the camera and addresses the fans with a serious tone. “Proud citizens of Russia. In a world of fancy foreign gimmicks it can be tempting to buy flashy foreign imports. But as we’ve seen here today there is no substitute for fine, Russian-made, high-quality goods. Like this one.” With a knowing nod to our viewers, he opens a desk drawer and pulls out the biggest God-damned axe the world has ever seen. I swear the thing was so massive The Big Show would’ve had trouble lifting it. It was neon pink too – almost as if Seagal had somehow clairvoyantly foreseen this attack, and prepared the world’s most preposterous weapon in response. With a smile he passes it to Dragan. Instantly the ass-kicking stops. The three bad guys crap themselves in unison and run for their lives. “Remember folks, buy better; buy Russian!” Эта социальная реклама представлена вам совместно с Министерством торговли и коммерции: строим вместе для лучшей, более светлой России. This public service announcement is brought to you in conjunction with The Ministry For Trade And Commerce: building together for a better, brighter Russia. Angle Rating: 52. The Viking Raiders (Erik and Ivor) with Valhalla vs Sting and Darby Allin – Semi Final of the RFW Tag Team Title Tournament. “Do you reckon they're really Vikings, Alex?” asked commentator Rico Bushido to his broadcast buddy Alex Koslov. “Yes, Rico, they're really Vikings. 100% bona fide genuine Vikings. The real deal. Absolutely. These are real, authentic Viking Raiders with an actual Longship and everything. Steven Seagal got a time machine, travelled back to the 9th century, hopped along to Scandinavia, kidnapped a couple of Norsemen, then brought them back here to 2023, to fight for us. This is pro wrestling, after all. Anything is possible.” Koslov was on fine form. “Really?!” said Rico, his voice full of surprise. “No. Idiot.” That happened. And also Sting and Derby Allin won. What more could you possibly need to know? Match Rating: 62. Steven Seagal looked nervous. Pensive. He clenched his massive, sweaty fists so hard his prayer beads got crunched into powder. Everyone knew why he was on edge. Every week, after every Tag Tournament bout, the Satanic, terrifying, seemingly indestructible Damien Black and his Dark Church had turned up and crucified everything in their path. (Not literally – that would take too long.) Half the roster ran to the scene and surrounded the ring, ready to stop any attack. All the tag teams whose arses had been so unceremoniously kicked in the previous weeks stood near the top of the ramp, ready for another shot at a violent, painful (but family-friendly, of course) retribution. The lights went out. ‘666’ by Rotting Christ hit the speakers like a cluster-bomb. Flames erupted from Christ-knows-where. “It looks like Hell in here!” said Rico Bushido with a voice full of panic. “It sounds like Hell in here” said Roy Jones Jr gruffly, covering his ears. “It smells like Hell in here too” said Alex Koslov, with a weird expression poking out from under that big, fluffy Russian hat of his. “Sure” countered Rico “if Hell smells like farts, Vodka, sweat and energy drinks, then welcome to Hell everybody!” Suddenly the music stopped and the lights flashed back on. The Dark Church Of Satan had magically appeared in the centre of the ring. Sting, Allin and the Vikings stumbled back in shock and horror. Damien Black laughed demonically. Then suddenly the lights were out again. Everything fell instantly silent. After about 5 seconds, our technicians managed to get the lights back on. Then somebody screamed as they saw that Black, [name] and [name] were gone... and so were The Viking Raiders – with only smouldering piles of ash left where they were stood. People started freaking out big time. We quickly cut to a commercial. This was the last time anyone in the Russian Federation Of Wrestling would ever see Erik, Ivor and Valhalla of the Viking Raiders. In hindsight, maybe I should’ve organised a search party for them or something. But hey, I’m a busy guy. Angle Rating: 59. Goldberg is in his dressing room, doing huge bicep curls with dumbells so big our camera guy had to zoom out just to fit them in the picture. There’s a knock at the door. Old Bill doesn’t look too happy as Roy Jones Jr and Vlad Radinov barge their way in. “What are you two crap-stains doing here?!” Huffs the former WWE and WCW supremo. “I’m here to bring back your spark, to bring back the real Goldberg, not this half-ass, no-heart version that’s haunting the RFW ring” said Jones Jr assertively. “What about you, loser?!” barks Goldberg at the Party Tsar. “I’m here to hold the mic and look fabulous” he replied in a remarkable display of honesty. “Bill, everyone’s worried about you. They see a guy who keeps turning his back and walking away when things get tough, and they panic. The fans love you, but they want the old Goldberg back – the warrior - not... whatever the hell it is you’re turning into.” Goldberg doesn’t like what he’s hearing. He drops the dumbells unceremoniously on the floor. Radinov flinches as the whole set shakes under their massive weight. The former multi-time wrestling champion gets right up in the face of the multi-time boxing champion. “Goldberg doesn’t need help. Goldberg is indestructible. Goldberg will show the whole of Russia how powerful he still is when he kicks Sting’s ass all the way back to America in the #1 Contenders match the week after next. Then the whole world - including you - will get off Goldberg’s ass once and for all. Legends never fade. I guess I gotta remind people of that” snarls Goldberg, before storming out in a rage, dragging his wounded ego along behind him. Roy Jones Jr shakes his head sadly as the scene fades to a close. “Such a shame” he says, sighing deep with frustration. Angle Rating: 65. After a state-mandated news bulletin which rather casually interspersed footage of Russian troops shooting flamethrowers with footage of Putin taking quaint family walks through the countryside, we were back to our show. Scotty 2 Hotty, Rikishi and our nuclear-shirted, velveteen-jacketed interviewer Vlad ‘Party Tsar’ Radinov are hanging out, doing whatever the hell it is wrestlers do backstage during a show. They’re laughing and joking, but Rikishi looks very, very serious all of a sudden. “I’m finished with being an in-ring competitor” said Rikishi to Scotty. “My knees are shot. It hurts to move around the ring. Plus I’m 58 years old now. I’m no spring chicken any more. It’s time to let someone else do the ass-kicking” said the big Samoan in a sad but determined tone of voice. “Are you sure?” asked Scotty. “It’s a big decision” added Vlad. “Yeah I’m sure, homie. Besides, I finished last week’s show with some dude’s whole head stuck up my ass. If that isn’t the universe telling me to stop, I don’t know what is.” “Can’t argue with that ‘logic’ I guess” shrugged Radinov. “Don’t worry, Scotty, I still got your back. We started this wrestling adventure together – you, me and Brian Christopher, God rest his soul. And you’re gonna keep his memory living on, with me watching your back. I’ll be your bodyguard, your manager, your... whatever, homie.” Scotty doesn’t look happy. “I’m not sure, man. We’ve always been a team. Maybe it’s too late for me to go solo?” “Look, this is a whole new country – it could be a whole new opportunity for you – a whole new beginning. You never had chance to prove yourself as a singles competitor. But you deserve the spotlight to be on you, homie. This is your moment! This is your chance! You ain’t getting any younger either, it’s now or never!” Rikishi gives his little buddy Scotty a supportive hug. ‘The Party Tsar’ joins in the hug too, because why the hell not. “I got your back, bud. You got this, trust me” says the now-retired Samoan as the scene fades to black. “Trust me.” Angle Rating: 57. Immediately next we have another backstage interview, and once again our man Vlad Radinov is on the scene to get the big scoop. It’s surprising nobody questioned how our shiny, hirsute interviewer managed to somehow be in three different backstage locations at once on a ‘live’ broadcast. That’s the magic of television, I guess. This time Radinov is with a victorious Sting and Darby Allin. The two face-painted superstars puff out their chests confidently – because that’s what triumphant Tournament Finalists do, I guess. Their Viking-bashing antics earlier have made them very proud. Unsurprisingly our microphone-wielding velveteen wonder wants Sting’s thoughts on... well... lots of things, really. Sting answers magnificently, as you’d expect from a guy who’s been in this game since 1985 – back when presidents Reagan and Gorbachev were slugging it out on the world stage – back when Russia was seen as the spooky, villainous Heel we all needed protecting from. Not much has changed in 38 years I guess. Darby Allin is also there. He tries talking, answering questions, and doing other big-boy things. “Hush now, grown-ups are talking” interjects our interviewer. The ‘Party Tsar’ asks Sting whether he fancies his chances against Goldberg in the big #1 Contenders match the week after next. The Stinger says he’s known Old Bill for decades, since they used to be gym buddies even before Goldberg trained to be a wrestler. He says he knows every weapon in the guy’s armory, every strength of his... and every weakness. Suffice to say that as far as Sting’s concerned, victory is assured. Radinov asks Sting if he’s afraid of the immortal-seeming Damien Black and his spooky ‘Dark Church Of Satan’ ruining the Tag Team Title Tournament final. Sting says he’s made a new friend recently, who’s agreed to “watch their back on a one-time-only basis”. When quizzed on their identity, Sting decides to be all mysterious and keep it a secret – he’s been doing the ‘mysterious’ thing since he beat up the nWo back in the 1990s – he wasn’t going to stop now. The timeless legend then talks up his chances of defeating The Arrows Of Russia in the tournament final. His belief is that because he’s never heard of The Arrows until now, they surely can’t be much of a threat. He’s so confident of victory he says Seagal and The Russian Federation Of Wrestling may as well save time and hand over those shiny new Tag Team Title belts right now. The man's on such a confidence trip that you could put him in a fist-fight with Godzilla and he’d go in there expecting the victory. Naturally, The Arrows Of Russia don’t take kindly to Sting’s belief that the final will be a one-sided white-wash. They invade the promo and begin shouting angry stuff in Russian. Sting and Allin, confused and blindsided by this verbal onslaught, begin screaming things back in American. Neither side understands what the hell the other side is saying, which only makes them even angrier. Both sides have to be held apart, as a conveniently-placed gang of security guards suddenly flood the scene to stop things getting violent. In the ruckus the cameraman gets knocked on his ass. Radinov squeals, shrieks, and runs for his life. We cut to the next scene before things get completely out of control. Angle Rating: 64. Seagal is walking backstage, making his way to ringside before our main event. His ashen face tells the story of a busy man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He is tired, frustrated, and about one bit of bad news away from throat-punching some poor b*****d into oblivion. His whole body language screams ‘leave me alone’. Naturally, someone doesn’t get the hint. Tamerlan Rasuev: “I want a rematch!” Seagal: “Oh Christ.” It's our old friend Rasuev, the Russian National Amateur Wrestling Championship Finalist. The one who has been going around randomly maiming people since Episode 1. The one who injured Sergey Belyev so badly he had bandages covering his whole body. The one who has been suspended, fired, suspended, fired again, yet is inexplicably still here. That guy. Tamerlan: “I was screwed! The way I have been treated is an absolute disgrace! A travesty! I demand reparations!” Seagal: “Tamerlan, I didn’t recognise you without Andrei Arlovski’s boot on your face, or without Alen Khubulov’s foot up your ass. How’s things?” he said with a fake smile and a brimming hatred barely disguised within his voice. Tamerlan: “I came to this company as a national hero! And your incompetent, disrespectful, negligent running of this vermin-filled dump has reduced me to a nationwide laughingstock! Time and again you have insulted me with your actions! I came to this nauseating circus on promises of glory and fame! Instead I have been overlooked, disrespected, suspended, even fired! On multiple occasions! You are a disgrace! This whole company is a disgrace! You do not deserve me!” The woe behind this tortured soul’s words was so immense our production team coupled it with sad violin music. Seagal: “Hang on, you’re right... didn’t I fire you? I’m pretty sure I did. I fired you a bunch of times. But yet you keep coming back. Like an itchy rash, you just keep popping back up no matter what we do to make you disappear. And yet here you stand, with the nerve to make demands. You scream for a title shot when many more deserving competitors stand before you in line – competitors who actually still work for The Russian Federation Of Wrestling – competitors who aren’t a constant pain in my ass.” Tamerlan: “How dare you...” Seagal: “You haven’t exactly covered yourself in glory during your time here, have you? You injured Alen Khubulov so badly it’s a miracle he can walk. You sprayed Andrei Arlovski with so much pepper spray that doctors are genuinely amazed he isn’t blind. And for the last few weeks you’ve spent all your time hitting people in the penis with an incredibly big chain. That’s not exactly the work of a hero, is it?” Tamerlan was flabbergasted, his angst-filled features somehow managed to display every emotion known to man, all at once. Forget wrestling, this guy should’ve been a mime. Seagal: “I’ll tell you what – next week you can have your precious rematch for your precious National Title. A few days after that I have a dinner function with none other than the honourable Vladimir Putin himself. You can have one last shot at the fame and glory that you think will make your life complete. If you win, you can have your precious trinket. If you lose, not only will you be fired, but I will ask President Putin himself to deport you!” It was a storm-off of epic proportions. Furniture was kicked. People were screamed at. Tears were probably shed too. Nobody cared. You could see Seagal’s whole mood lighten the moment the guy went away. His whole body language became looser. He let out a massive, cathartic sigh of relief. There was something even approaching a smile – although this is Steven Seagal we’re talking about here, so it was hard to tell. He was about to happily stroll over to ringside to watch his protégé Ilja Dragunov in action. But then almost as quickly as his happiness returned, it went away again. This time it was Arlovski and Khubulov that were pissing on his proverbial parade. Seagal had clearly had enough of this s***. You could see he was weighing up whether to kick both men through a wall and walk off, but he decided against it. This time. Another almighty sigh was let out. Chakras were realigned. Karmic Chi Balance was quickly reattained. Celestial vibrations were thrown back into order. Alen and Andrei might have sensed how close they’d come to being decapitated, had they shut up for a second and paid attention. But they were too worked up for that. Hands were gesturing. Mouths were flapping up and down frantically. Noises were coming out. I was genuinely surprised our ponytailed authority figure didn’t just face-smash his way out of that situation. We can literally see Seagal doing the mental calculations of how much energy and force it would take to send Arlovski and Khubulov flying through the wall beside them. How much heft, he ponders, would it take to drive their skulls through that coffee table? What angle would be best, he wonders, if he were to launch them through that window? The mental image pleases him. He is soothed by the thought of their destruction. 'Not this time' we see him decide. The angry Russian and the pissed-off Belarusian are still talking at him. He tunes in to the conversation for the first time. "It is unfair! Rasuev gets a title opportunity, yet we are much better challengers!" Barks Khubulov. "Rasuev isn't even in The Russian Federation Of Wrestling! You fired him! Multiple times!" Adds the former UFC Champion, adding an outraged fist-shake, for emphasis. They carry on talking. Their mouths are moving. Sound is being produced. But Seagal isn't listening - his eyes show us that he is elsewhere again. 'It's been a very long time since I smashed someone with a table lamp so hard that it went all the way through their head. That would be fun' he seems to be thinking. 'When did I last do that? Ah, yes, Singapore, 1986' he ponders, a little smile flickering at the corner of his mouth as he thinks back to such happy, care-free times. "Enough!" Shouts Seagal, clearly tired of their s***. "If you two clowns had teamed up in your last National Title shot, you could've taken care of Rasuev, put your feud to bed, then fought for that glorious belt. But you were too busy fighting among yourselves like children to even contemplate such a strategy. Just imagine what you could accomplish if you were to combine your skills. Think of it - the former National Wrestling Champion and the former UFC Heavyweight Champion working together as a team. Let's make it happen. It could be fun to watch you two idiots teaming up." Seagal feels like he's onto a good idea here. Maybe he won't have to kick a hole through anybody's torso after all. "The glorious Arrows Of Russia will be taking on the famous Sting and that other guy in the tremendous final of our Tag Team Tournament next week. Whichever team arises from that supreme festival of combat with the belts will need challengers worthy of those superb titles. I shall grant this prestigious opportunity to you both. You are hereby now officially the #1 Contenders for the RFW Tag Team Titles. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind and have my boy Kulakov rip out your spines and floss with them." Surprised but happy, the two feuding superstars make a hasty retreat, leaving our Authority Figure to make his way towards ringside. There is about to be a glorious, violent main event, he reminds himself. His protégé Ilja Dragunov will once again have the chance to make Russia proud against his dangerous Western opponent Bryan Daniels. What a contest that could be, he thinks. And he smiles once again. Maybe being in charge of this circus is worth it after all. Angle Rating: 50. 'The Fighting Pride Of Mother Russia' Ilja Dragunov vs ‘The American Dragon’ Bryan Daniels - For The RFW World Title Remember all those times over the weeks when our rather vocal Russian fans nearly broke the sound barrier cheering for Daniels? Remember all those times he whipped them into a seismic, pant-crapping frenzy of excitement just by yelling ‘Yes’ a lot? Remember when it seemed Bryan was the most popular American to grace Russian TVs since John Wayne? Well, all that love disappeared the moment our shaggy-bearded Yank dared to lay his hands on their treasured Russian champion. For fifteen cold, frosty minutes, the air around him turned to poison. The reception he got wasn’t just hostile, it was borderline murderous – I was genuinely worried some crazy, patriotic b*****d would leap the guardrail and try to strangle him in a fit of nationalistic hysteria. When Daniels arrived in the Russian Federation Of Wrestling he was received like a hero. Guys were literally offering him their daughters in marriage by the truckload. Then he had his... ‘little run-in’ with ‘The Nightmare’ Vladimir Kulakov, got flipped half a dozen times in the crushed remains of his Ferrari, got his Humvee smashed into a concrete barricade at a million miles an hour, retreated into his emotionally crippled, traumatised little shell, and saw the fans turning against him. This affected him badly – his confidence was knocked by the loss of their support. Thankfully for our bearded fighting virtuoso, the lips of a whole nation were firmly superglued back on his raggedy-looking ass the minute he was ‘reborn’ and started kicking butts again. He’d been riding the crest of a wave momentum-wise and confidence-wise, built upon a bedrock of gushy fan-love and the sounds of thousands screaming ‘Yes’ at him with a fanatical intensity only Russia can produce. But instantly that confidence, that momentum was gone. The fans’ sudden, unexpected hatred shook the crap out of devastated Yank. How dare this foreigner come along and beat up Dragunov; the blonde-haired, blue-eyed poster-child of this modern new Russia? How dare this brash American come to these shores and try to take Russia’s championship gold? In terms of fan reaction, he may as well have wiped his s***ty arse on the Russian flag, then spat on it, then set fire to it. Psychologically he was all over the place. His plaid-covered brain couldn’t cope. I hadn’t seen such terror in a man’s eyes since Sergey Belyev got eaten by that bear. His gameplan went out of the window. And this gave the smaller, less experienced Dragunov the flicker of advantage he needed. Don’t be thinking, however, that ‘Putin’s Favourite’ had an easy night – this was the fight of his life. He had his own burdens to shoulder too – he had the weight of a whole nation upon his back. He hadn’t asked to be the standard-bearer for the world’s biggest country. Nobody asked Ilja if he wanted to be the Russian face of the Ukraine War / Invasion / Catastrophe / 'Special Humanitarian Operation'. The emotional weight of all that bulls*** would’ve crushed a lesser man like a bug. Quite a few of us in the locker-room wondered how he managed to keep his s*** together under such heavy circumstances. Some said it was Patriotism that kept him going. I say it was Vodka. Vodka, and ridiculous amounts of Lightning Bolt energy drink. He’d chugged three cans of the stuff during his ring-walk alone, which would be enough to topple a hippo under normal circumstances. Christ knows how much of that toxic, bio-iridescent crap he’d inhaled backstage. Bryan Daniels Dropkicked him in the face as he was climbing through the ropes and he didn’t even notice. The first match between these two was hyped up by the fans until they expected the battle of the decade. What they got instead was an okay fight marred by a ‘lack of chemistry’ (whatever that means. It sounds like cosmic hippy bulls*** to me.) This one was different – this one was two petrified-looking guys beating the crap out of each other as if their lives depended on it – and given the maniacal fan reactions, that was a distinct possibility. Unlike so many of our matches which are overbooked with a circus-like level of interference, this one had the terrifying Vladimir Kulakov at ringside. Even unmasked the guy was more dangerous than Chernobyl. His mission was to eat anybody foolish enough to try and intervene. It worked, everyone stayed away, nobody got brutally murdered on live TV, and the competitors got to maul, maim, dismember, discombobulate, twist, torture, batter, brutalise, hurt and horrify each other until only one was left standing. The match, which was about as even and 50/50 as they get, ended with a frantic exchange – a glorious clusterf*** of painful manoeuvres which lived rent-free in Rossiya 1’s highlight reels for years. It finished with Daniels doing that kickass Running, Jumping Knee thing, which Dragunov dodged. Daniels collided with the ropes and bounced backwards. Ilja, in a remarkable display of athleticism, caught our hairy challenger in mid-air, then smashed him to bits with a frankly epic Capture Suplex. The force of the move bounced Bryan somehow back onto his feet... right into the most ferocious Grüße aus Moskau Lariat in recorded history. The scruffy-looking Yank looked like he’d been hit by a freight train. The sound of 3,176 fans shouting along as our referee did the 1... 2... 3 was pretty epic, as was the look of massive relief on Ilja’s face as his hand was raised in victory. The fans applauded their champion with a boisterous nationalistic fervor. Flags were waved. Big, furry Russian hats were thrown with reckless abandon. A 40 piece orchestra played the national anthem so loud it made the walls shake. We set off so many fireworks we almost set the ceiling on fire. The victorious Dragunov didn’t look happy about all the fanfare though – he almost seemed to shrink as the noise got louder and louder. He looked like he almost s*** his pants when Seagal sneaked up behind him to place the belt around his waist. Soon there was another round of cheers and applause as our dizzy, disheveled challenger groggily and unsteadily dragged his ass off the mat. Daniels looked extremely confused as the fans chanted his name – as if the booing and hatred he’d received had pierced his psyche somehow. The walls of the little beach-side resort we'd invaded seemed to shake with the noise of it all. Daniels stands, staring out at the hot, sweaty, crazy fans crammed into this tiny venue. As the adrenaline fades, we see him suddenly realise he is hurt, then trying to muffle a scream. He holds his wrist. It is clearly broken. As our show goes off air, we end on a split scene shot, with Dragunov's epic celebrations on one side, Daniels being lead away by a team of medics on the other. Match Rating: 66. Overall Show Rating: 62.

I second @80085's nomination for Tales Of Acheron by @DarK_RaideR - that's a very entertaining diary, some bits in there that really made me laugh. The TNA 2024 diary by @kanegan deserves a nomination. Well worth a read. I recommend it to anyone who hasn't taken a look yet.

The large, drunken, rosy-cheeked old gentleman was slumped in a pile on the floor. His matted white hair was a tangled mess which flopped unceremoniously over his face. He smelled so strongly of vodka that I thought he'd gone swimming in it. The guy had so much in him he was probably flammable. “I think this man's dead” I said helpfully. My buddy Tom sauntered over for a closer look. “What? Again?!” he scoffed, shaking his head in annoyance. He gave the fallen gent an undignified kick in one of the many ripples of flesh that covered his impressively-sized frame. The man grunted, gargled, coughed, swore imaginatively in Russian, then returned to his slumber with a gassy, satisfied little smile. “I know everyone in this club has died at least once, but this is bulls***” frowned Tom, the annoyance in his voice doing nothing to dilute that heavy Detroit accent of his. “Normally people re-invent themselves after they’ve died – it gives them a whole new lease of life. I’m a man re-born since I croaked. I’ve lost 20lbs. I’m doing yoga and tennis, wearing tracksuits and doing ‘Line Dancing For Fitness’ classes, s*** like that. But not ol’ Boris here. He’s on his ninth liver now – and wasting that one too, by the looks of it. It’s a shame – he was President of the biggest nation on Earth for, like, the whole 1990s, until your pal Putin took over. Mind you, he was a pickled, drooling slug of a man back then too” Tom said, stroking his chin philosophically. I suddenly realised who the guy on the floor was. “Holy crap, Boris?! As in... Boris Yeltsin?! I thought he died in 2007 or something” I said with wonder and confusion. “He did, and now he’s here in this club, with us” came the answer. I nodded. This would take a lot of getting used to. “You said he was on his ninth liver? How the hell does that work?” I asked, though I was afraid of what the answer might be. “Chinese organ thieves” replied Tom nonchalantly, as if it were something you’d normally say. But nothing was even remotely normal here, I was starting to realise. “They send him a new one in a mason jar every couple of years. Mail order. Special delivery” Tom quipped. “Really?! You’re kidding, right?!” I stuttered in shock and disbelief. Tom giggled to himself. He could see I was like a fish out of water, and he was entertained as hell by it. “About the jars? Absolutely. About the organ thieves? Absolutely not” he said with a smile. This was some seriously mad s***. “You’re having trouble adjusting to this place, huh?” He asked as he gave me a playful, insincere little pat on the back. It didn’t help. “It’s not every day you nearly trip over an ex-President of Russia who’s been dead for over 20 years” I replied. “There’s a lot of strange s*** here for my brain to unpack. I’ve known about this place for a long time, but being here in person is turning out to be a bit of a mind-f***. Mind you, it’s not as much of a mind-f*** as the idea of ‘action movie tough guy’ Tom Sizemore at a ‘Line Dancing For Fitness’ club. That’s hard to imagine. Hell, you doing any kind of fitness must be a real sight to see. I can’t picture you in a tracksuit” I joked, giving him a quick elbow in one of his magnificent love-handles. They wobbled on impact. He didn’t like that. It didn’t wipe the smile off his big, ‘dead’ face though. “Tracksuit? F*** that. Latex. Spandex. Nothing but skin-tight goodness for me” he laughed with a knowing look. It was hard to tell if he was being serious. “I look good in that s*** too. Statuesque. Masculine. Adonis-like. Big and tough, like a pro wrestler” he joked. I shot him a look that let him know I wasn’t buying any of this crap. “What?!” he shot back defensively. “Yokozuna was a pro wrestler too!” Above: Tom Sizemore. A man of many movies. A man of many deaths. My friend Tom Sizemore was being my unofficial tour guide for the evening. This was the prestigious Dead Gentlemen's Association (or DGA for short) – the most illustrious, most select club you never knew existed. It’s existence is the best-kept secret since the Illuminati. It’s members swear to uphold that secrecy under pain of death. There’s a blood oath and everything - it’s all very serious. Even mentioning it in this diary is an incredibly dangerous move, which could have lethal ramifications from the club’s shadowy leaders. But what the hell are those bozos going to do? Kill me? I’m already 'dead'. [ The Dead Gentlemen’s Association was founded in 1876 by General George Armstrong Custer. Yes, that General Custer – he of the infamous Last Stand and the dreaded Battle Of Little Bighorn. The history books say he died on the battlefield that fateful day. The reality is he was just very, very badly wounded. As the smoke cleared and the scalpings commenced, a near-dead Custer managed to crawl into the bushes and escape his grizzly execution. Despite receiving gruesome injuries almost Sergey-Belyev-esque in scale, the stubborn b*****d refused to die, crawling a gazillion miles on his hands and knees to safety. Eventually he was rescued, and fled to anonymous safety with one of his mistresses. By the winter of 1876 he was all healed up, but not only did everyone think he was dead, they were going around murdering all the natives in his name. He couldn’t exactly just stroll back in and say ‘hi’ – that’s not what martyrs do. So he shaved that fabulous moustache, fled abroad and passed his time by creating a club for well-to-do ‘deceased’ gentlemen such as himself. Things grew slowly from there, until we got to the stage where a ‘dead’ Hollywood actor and a not-yet-‘dead’ rich Brit were stood over the fallen Boris Yeltsin, waiting to see if he’d piss himself. Above: George Custer. Wager of wars. Founder of clubs. Thanks to Tom putting in a good word for me, I was tonight’s Guest Of Honour, with a view to joining the club as a full-time member. He’d announced his grand plan to fake his own death at our drunken, ill-fated soirée through Russia’s boozy underbelly. It was a bold move, and one the scandalised, out-of-work, broke-as-hell former actor couldn’t pull off without help. Fooling the whole world into thinking you’re dead is an expensive game – and that’s where I came in. I agreed to fund his costly and very public demise. In return, Sizemore would ensure my membership in the shady cabal that made his ‘death’ possible. If you’re either incredibly famous, incredibly rich - or both - and want to disappear from public life in a blaze of glory / infamy, The Dead Gentlemen’s Association are the people you need to talk to. They’ve been arranging the ‘deaths’ of society’s biggest and brightest names for centuries – the famous and infamous alike. Those rare few who are fancy enough to learn of the club’s existence can schmooze or buy their way in, enlist The DGA’s help in arranging a glorious, loud and very public departure, then spend their days living it large in some secret mansion with all their ‘dead’ pals. There’s some seriously impressive names among the club’s ranks – Margaret Thatcher and Steve Jobs are rumoured to be among The Association’s current leadership committee. (After his ‘death’, Fidel Castro was a leader there too, until he died for real in 2020 – after decades of dodging CIA assassination attempts, poisonings, shootings and seemingly everything deadly ever devised, the bearded old goat bizarrely met his end as the victim of bad sushi.) There’s one big downside to being dead though – it’s really hard to earn a living when the whole world thinks you’re a corpse. That’s where rich arseholes like me come in. Cash-cows such as myself might not be as noteworthy as the Tupac Shakurs, Dennis Hoppers, Leonard Nimoys or Gary Colemans of the group, but the tremendous mountains of money handed over by shady, soon-to-be-deceased pricks like me are what keep the club going. They needed me (and my many, many bank accounts). And I needed them. Ever since that big, ugly, gangly b*****d Oleg Matytsin came stomping into my life like some ungainly Russian sasquatch, I knew I needed an Exit Strategy. Since the endless bulls*** machine that was The Russian Federation Of Wrestling began, I was one mistake away from being murdered, one balls-up away from eating a bullet. Bearing in mind that I knew nothing about wrestling and was obviously making this s*** up as I went along, my ass was sure to be grass sooner or later. Even if I did everything perfectly and somehow made this s*** work – which was impossible – the RFW would cease to be useful once the Ukraine War ended, at which point we’d be surplus to requirements, which meant my arse was hamburger meat. I needed a quick exit, a secret door to jump through to safety should the s*** hit the fan. And the Dead Gentlemen’s Association was the perfect way out. Above: Parties held in secret, undisclosed locations are always the best parties. So here I was, having a good look around, making new friends and rubbing shoulders with the most prestigious names to ever ‘die’. It was going well. People laughed at my jokes, they seemed pretty cool about me joining, and even began showing me all their secret handshakes and stuff. And they also had the finest Tzatziki dip this side of the mortal coil. The itinerary for the evening was a busy one – there was brandy and cigars, there was billiards, a craps table – a few of us fine, distinguished, deceased gentlemen even went for a spot of late-night quail hunting. To this day I’ve no idea what the f*** a quail is, but apparently I shot one. It was too dark to tell what the hell I killed, to be honest. But for important reasons, the Dead Gentlemen’s Association could only meet at night, lest we be discovered. Though if some lucky passer-by did somehow manage to witness me, Tom Sizemore, Layne Stayley from Alice In Chains, Patrick Swayze, Hunter S. Thompson and Adobe co-founder Charles Geschke wandering around the woods at night, carrying rifles, laughing and drinking champagne, who the hell would believe them? If you posted a photo of us on social media, people would tell you to put down the crack pipe and step away from the Photoshop. After a brief but amusing interlude where Gary Coleman showed off his surprising physical prowess by bench-pressing one of the co-founders of Ben & Jerry’s over and over again, we got down to club business. Everyone got seated in the main room of their secluded the palatial hide-away to discuss and vote on the matter of my inclusion. Logically, my joining this funky little syndicate made sense for everyone – they needed my money, and I needed a quick way to disappear like a fart in a Jacuzzi, should the s*** hit the fan. Of the club’s 100+ members, 70 or more had to give their approval for any new addition. My buddy Tom Sizemore had been on a charm offensive for weeks trying to get as many names into the ‘yes’ column as possible. It was an ass-kissing drive of epic proportions. Things were going well as the votes came in – only a few of the less influential, less popular members (and Luciano Pavarotti) cast their lot against me. It wasn’t long before I nearly had the votes I needed – but one of the DGA’s most prominent members was doing everything he could to stop me. His meek, annoying little voice still grinds my gears, even to this day. “Guys, I’m really against this. I’m voting to stop this ludicrous situation. It is not in the spirit of this club to let a Brit join The Dead Gentlemen’s Association. This glorious nation didn’t fight a War Of Independence just to have some slimy, fog-breathing Englishman creep into our ranks. It’s not what our noble founder George Custer would have wished for.” “F*** you, John Denver!” Came the rather magnificent reply. Many in the room nodded and cheered in agreement. As a non-member I wasn’t allowed to speak on club matters. But fortunately I had Tom Sizemore speaking for me – and as one of the loudest, brashest voices in Hollywood history, he was more than up to the task. “Why don’t you shut your Rocky Mountain High, paisley, plaid-covered, country bumpkin, West Virginia, hickory-dickory, banjo-playing, square-dancing, cornbread-munching, sour-mash, chewing-tobacco-ass mouth” he added, to a round of applause from the other members. With eloquent words such as these spoken in my defence, I was beginning to feel confident. The dead, Grammy Award-winning douche didn’t like that. He pulled a face like we’d not only crashed his party, but s*** on his birthday cake too. Above: Yeah, f*** you John, you big, dead buzzkill. “Our benevolent Custer didn’t die on that battlefield just so that some shady British turd could join this wonderful club. He’d spin in his grave if he saw one of the English – whom his kind fought so hard to be emancipated from – among us. This is an American club, for Americans” said Denver with a whiney, nasal tone that made me want to smash him like a piñata. “Firstly, I think you need to study your American history a little better. Secondly, our 'benevolent' Custer didn’t die on that battlefield, full stop!” Sizemore fired back. “Besides, there’s all kinds of nationalities here. Yeltsin the Russian. Your pal Pavarotti, who you did a song with once, is a weird, sweaty Italian. You’re full of crap, John! Your head’s so far up your ass it’s making s*** come out of your mouth!” I looked over at Luciano to try and gauge his reaction, but the rotund, bearded, angel-voiced maestro had fallen asleep in his chair. I was almost entranced by the way his tummy rippled as he loudly snored, like waves across a mighty, vast ocean. John’s rat-like voice soon snapped me out of my daze. "It wasn't Luciano here that I recorded that wonderful song with - that was Placido Domingo. And if that silver-tongued legend were here, he'd also say your pal can shove his membership request up his sleazy English keister!" Sneered the whiney country dong with a nauseating level of satisfaction. “Your ‘death’ sucked nearly as much as your life, Denver! I'm amazed nobody’s figured out you’re still alive. Your biggest, most famous song was literally called 'I'm Leaving On A Jet Plane'. Out of every type of death imaginable, how do you choose to leave your life behind?! On a God-damned jet plane!" Dozens of fellow members murmured loudly in agreement. Denver looked over to Pavarotti for some kind of support, but all he got was a damp, muffled fart from the big, 'dead', sleepy Italian. Tom was relentless. "You say Custer wouldn't want my buddy here to join this club. But I'm pretty sure a big, tough guy like him wouldn't be too pleased to see your drippy, whiney-bitch ass here either. The man would be spinning in his grave if he saw a harmonica-playing, weak-ass, decaf-ordering, light-beer-preferring sissy like you trying to speak for him!" Denver gasped. Denver shook. Denver's eyes got all teary. His lip trembled. It looked like he was about to bawl like a baby. He seemed wounded. Sizemore went in for the kill. "You don't speak for General Custer, John. You don't speak for this club, or for any of us members. How could you? You wear socks underneath your sandals for Christ's sake. What in the hell kind of man does that?!" Ouch. And then came the final insult - the nail in the coffin, so to speak. "Everyone here wanted Johnny Cash in this group! Christ only knows how we ended up with you instead!" That was it. That one hurt. John Denver could take no more. Knowing he was losing this highly intelligent, deeply eloquent debate, John suddenly lost his temper. He jumped to his feet to confront his verbally bombastic opponent. Tom stormed over too, fists clenched, cheeks reddened with anger. They met face to face, forehead to forehead in the middle of the room. Both men were ready to fight, in a scene that looked like something torn straight from one of my own wrestling shows. Things got really tense as it seemed the first fist-fight in the DGA's 147 year history was about to break out. I looked around and saw a scene of frightened faces - the other members had obviously never seen tensions escalate in such a manner. Clearly I was a bad influence. This was fun. Then suddenly there was a heavy, clumsy, almost elephantine sound of approaching footsteps - almost like the sound of a drunken, charging bull storming it's way in. I looked on in amazement as one of the most bizarre yet undeniably awesome sights I'd ever witnessed unfolded before me. Suddenly in the middle of the skirmish stood the mighty, staggering figure of Boris Yeltsin. His face was hot with rage. His eyes were lit with flames of anger. He opened his mouth wide, emitting a bestial snarl that reminded me of the war cry of Genghis Khan. He began drunkenly, tremendously pounding his chest like King Kong. Denver and Sizemore both took a step back, unsure what in the name of Christ was going on. Suddenly Yeltsin's primal battle-cry stopped. The vast, drooling former Russian Premier gritted his teeth. And then... The punch was tremendous. The impact was extraordinary. John Denver's head swung back so hard and so fast the back of it hit him on his ass. He didn't just hit the floor - he became the floor. It was as if there was a John-Denver-shaped rug on the ground. It was amazing. My random-ass, unexpected hero then belched victoriously. He smiled, stumbled, before hauling his big Russian arse into the chair next to Pavarotti's, slumping down into a sleepy slumber in almost exactly the same manner as the big, dozing Italian. Within seconds the two men's snores were synchronised, both harmonising perfectly in a majestic, unconscious duet. With victory assured and my club membership all but guaranteed, Tom and I knew nothing more needed to be done. We strolled out onto the balcony, our heads held high. The morning sun was scorching it’s way up onto the horizon, pushing away the darkness as it climbed. I couldn’t help but feel it’s warm glow on me and feel assured. There was a spring in my step, and a smile on my face. Tom saw my big, s***-eating grin and gave an approving nod. I felt like tonight’s result was cause for celebration. Out came a hip flask filled with Jack Daniel’s Single Barrel Select, which sure as hell wasn’t going to drink itself. I took a mighty sip. Tom took the flask, then took an even mightier one. A big, satisfied sigh emanated from deep within him. Now he was smiling too. “Thanks for all your help Tom. You really came through for me there” I said while trying to grab the flask back off him before he could turn all that fine bourbon into burps and farts. “No worries bud. I figured I owed you one after you financed my ‘death’ – least I could do to repay you was help you with your own disappearing act.” “Yeah, but thanks. I really needed an Exit Strategy. Now that I have you and this fruity club of corpses to fall back on, I can breathe a little easier. So, yeah, thank you.” “Well, don’t thank me too much, pal. It’s a good thing you've got a way out. From what I’ve been reading about the s*** going on in Russia right now... you’re gonna need it.”

Thanks to all who have posted predictions so far. I've edited the write-up for Vertigo vs Hennigan to reflect the fact that Ivan 'The Body' Markov has been 'volunteered' into being special guest referee for their bout. What difference will that make? Wait and see. If anyone wants to factor that into their predictions, go ahead. Thank you everyone for participating. More new stuff being posted soon!

Wow, that was FAST!!

Welcome to the latest stop on our World Tour Of Russia. Episode 13 comes to you from one of Russia's tropical, sunny, idyllic coastal retreats. This week we're all about Russian palm trees, Russian cocktails served in coconuts, Russian swimsuits, sandy Russian beaches that stretch as far as the eye can see, and clear warm Russian seas. Yes, really. Above: Any of you study Geography at school and really get a kick out of it? If so, this World Tour Of Russia is seriously gonna be your kinda thing. For Episode 13, it was time to turn up the heat. Episode 13 saw the Russian Federation Of Wrestling's fledgling 'World Tour Of Russia' visit the hot, sunny, sandy and very un-Russian seeming Domashlino Beach, situated in Primorsky Krai, near the Gorod Nakhodka region of this massive, mind-boggling nation. This soothing tropical paradise, located on the coastal underbelly of this ridiculously big country, was the extreme opposite of every drab, s***ty Moscovan gulag we'd been dragged to so far on this bizarre adventure. After the aggressively dull pit-stop in Zeya last time, I figured I owed the guys something that'd cheer them up. And there's nothing like sun, cocktails, warm seas and palm trees when it comes to putting smiles on faces. Our venue was to be the Fen-Shuy Resort & Hotel - the kind of place designed for fun, budget-friendly family holidays, not mindlessly chaotic wrestling shows. But our villainous overlord Oleg Matytsin and his ghouls in the Ministry For Sport kept screaming at me about how our shows were meant to be 'family-friendly'. And when it came to venues, there wasn't much that was more family-friendly than this. The hundreds of kids that swarmed about the place like flies couldn't believe their eyes as they shared their water-slides and fountains with wrestling legends like Bryan Daniels, Sting and Edge. It was like a dream come true for the noisy, squeaky little f***ers. The grown-ups sunning themselves in this sandy paradise were just as giddy with excitement. Our roster got a kick out of it too. It was smaller than some of the venues we'd crashed our way through so far. But the place would be packed with kids rather than grown-ups. And, by my reckoning, kids only take up about half the room an adult does. So with that 'unquestionably sound' logic applied, I reckoned we could cram maybe 1,800 or even 2,000 spectators in the hotel's function room without anyone being significantly crushed or trampled. The guys loved it. The kids loved it. The locals wouldn't stop talking about our visit for months. The local press had a field day. The town mayor named a Tiki Hut in our honour. PR-wise we'd hit a home run, with images of our smiling wrestlers surrounded by euphoric, grinning children lighting up the front pages of the whole Russian nation. But none of this was my real motivation for choosing this place. I had business to take care of, without prying eyes getting in the way. I needed everyone to be all happy and distracted, so I could take care of some none-RFW business with nobody asking where I'd gone. And so, as the sun set on our first evening in this sandy escape, I slid away into the sunset, off in to parts unknown, towards what would prove to be one of the most bizarre encounters of my whole Russian (mis)adventure... Anyhow. Enough of all that. Onto the serious business of predictions. Here are the latest 'glorious, war-like encounters' that 'will emblaze the wonderous festival of combat' that would be our next wrestling show. (Those were Steven Seagal's words, by the way, not mine). Here's the spicy s*** we're serving up this time around... ... and on paper at least ... this could be our biggest, most important show in a long time... Sting & Darby Allin vs Viking Raiders - The Penultimate Match Of Our Everlasting Tag Title Tournament The epic, prestigious semi-final of our 'epic', 'prestigious' Tag Team Title Tournament is upon us. Witness with open-mouthed awe as two lads painted up like ghosts take on two lads dressed up as Vikings, in a bout sure to silence any naysayers out there who dare to even suggest that this wrestling thing is fake. 'The Fabulous One' John Hennigan (no doubt with his 'Style Squad' of Benceh Toth and Petr Tihanyi) vs 'The Digital Messiah' Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov (with Edge) - Ivan 'The Body' Markov is the special guest referee for this one. In the latest encounter of what has been a pleasingly amusing feud so far, the glamorous Hennigan and the mother's-basement-scented ex-hacker Klapstov do battle once again. When these two have gone face to face previously, the guy nicknamed 'Vertigo' has come out on top twice, due to various high-tech hijinks. But will this third installment go the same way, or will the flamingo-feather-fashionista turn the tide? Let us all know your prediction! Also thrown into the mix is Ivan 'The Body' Markov, who was 'volunteered' into being the bout's special guest referee after Hennigan refused to let our only official 'Boris' officiate this match. Given Markov's own vendetta with Hennigan's 'spirit guide' Gerald The Dog, this really is one of those matches where anything is possible. 'The Glorious Hero Of Russia' Ilja Dragunov vs 'The American Dragon' Bryan Daniels - For The RFW World Title The big one. A monumental rematch for the ages. A herculean clash pitting the forces of East vs West into a collision-course. But who will win? Will the man with the fluffy, ridiculous beard emerge victorious? Or will the other man with the fluffy, ridiculous beard seize the day? Or will something else happen entirely? This is The Russian Federation Of Wrestling, after all. The whole thing's run by an idiot. A drunken idiot at that. Anything could happen! Episode 13 - Coming Soon! Thank you magnificent online people of this fine forum for your continued involvement. More finely unpredictable nonsense is coming soon. Until then, seeing as how there were a good variety of new faces and old having a go at the predictions last time, I have high hopes for this one. Unleash your predictions below! Sting & Darby Allin vs Viking Raiders John Hennigan vs Vertigo Bryan Daniels vs Ilja Dragunov - For The RFW World Title @St. Templar @Vandal @DinoKea @GreatreDRagon @Taylor2020 @Just here to look @christmas_ape @SonOfSharknado @Ippon @KingKennit @Pteroid @MidKnightDreary @John Lions @DarEatWorld @ElectricX @knkmaster69 @Old School Fan @kanegan @DinoKea @Jason Phoenix @stratusfaction @80085 @Diddums @jokandra @noteddysteinblock

This made me laugh. Brought a real, proper smile to my face. More of this please!

“I was in a match predictions contest. I was wrestling predicting” remembered the big Samoan 80085 out loud, trying to hazily put the pieces together. “Yes, you were. It was certainly a... memorable contest” said Seagal reassuringly. “Does that mean I won?” asked Rikishi groggily 80085. Seagal looked over and saw a traumatised, broken Scurll weeping in the corner a very close predictions contest in which various entrants had emerged with 4 points apiece. "You know what, my Samoan friend 80085, in a way, yes you did." The big, friendly giant 80085 smiled. The show closed once and for all with a celebration dance, and a rare smile from our Kimono-clad Sensei. “Yessssss” came Rikishi’s drooling, semi-coherent 80085's voice, as we faded slowly into black.

I like this a lot so far. Looking forward to the next installment

It's great to see a good number of people stepping up and having a go at the RFW Predictions Game thingy. Thanks to you all for reading and taking part. Here's how all you fantastic folk fared: Will @80085 storm to victory again? Or will we crown a new champion? Let's see... @DinoKea - 4 points @knkmaster69 - 3 points @Valkyria - 3 points @StanMiguel - 4 points @Taylor2020 - 4 points @Old School Fan - 2 points @ElectricX - 3 points @80085 - 4 points Nobody got any bonus points for predicting that Scotty 2 Hotty and Rikishi would be the surprise opponents for those spooky Dark Church Of Satan guys. To be fair, nobody in their right mind would have. Only someone mildly deranged or peculiar or drunk would come up with something as silly as that. So 4 points seems to be the highest score this time. @DinoKea @StanMiguel @Taylor2020@80085 that makes you all winners I guess! Congrats to you! Awesome people who frequent this diary - thanks again to you all. The card for Episode 13 will go up soon, as will the next chapter / intermission thingy, which is quite possibly the (second) weirdest thing I've ever posted here. See you soon, folks!

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE FORUM! EPISODE 12 OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION OF WRESTLING HAS BEEN POSTED! AND HERE I AM, SHAMELESSLY FLAUNTING THE CRAP OUT OF IT! AS WITH EVERYTHING ELSE POSTED IN MY BIZARRE, FUNKY LITTLE DYNASTY, I CAN HONESTLY SAY YOU WON'T SEE ANYTHING LIKE THIS ANYWHERE ELSE! ALSO, FANS OF THIS PARTICULAR WRESTLING MOVE WILL PROBABLY WANT TO CHECK THIS SHOW OUT! SO HEAD OVER AND HAVE A LOOK. CLICK HERE (OR ANYWHERE ON THIS SHAMELESS PLUG OF A POST) TO SEE THIS SEXY NEW CONTENT!

Broadcast on Rossiya 1. Held deep within the damp, hot, sweaty bowels of The Institute For Industrial Solidarity And Hydroelectric Research Building #3, deep in the underbelly of the rusty, odd-smelling, ugly but impressively huge dam in Zeya, in the Amur Oblask region of Russia. 1,742 Lightning Bolt Energy Drink scented locals were in attendance. Above: I'd gotten so tipsy on champagne that I'd accidentally ordered French flags instead of Russian ones. Fortunately our viewers were even more drunk than I was - it was nearly a month after Episode 12 aired before someone sobered up enough to notice. Above: So little happens in Zeya that even the queue for our event was depicted by a local artist for the town newspaper. For Episode 12 we weren't messing around, we got immediately into the action. We went straight to our ‘glorious’ RFW National Title match. In a show of ‘unity under Russia’ our champion Kris ‘The Falcon’ Jokic and his challenger Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov came to the ring together. There were flags everywhere. There were blue, white and red fireworks. A fat old guy in a tuxedo belted out the Russian national anthem at the top of his lungs. It was wonderful, and patriotic, and... lasted about 30 seconds... right until about a millisecond after they got into the ring. That’s when the treacherous Tamerlan Rasuev jumped them from behind and started beating the crap out of them. We’d gotten maybe a minute into our broadcast before the plans all went to s***. Rasuev had a massive chain wrapped around his fist and he was hitting people in the penis with it – it’d worked for him in the past and it was becoming ‘his thing’ now. Unsurprisingly the presence of Rasuev brought out his hated rivals – former UFC supremo Andrei ‘The Pitbull’ Arlovski and former champ Alen Khubulov. They started kicking ass. Rasuev did some more Chain-Related Penis Destroying. Jokic and Markov, both rather annoyed that they’d been blindsided and assaulted, joined in the fun. Everyone got hit with the RFW National title belt at least once. A big Russian flag on a big, heavy-looking brass pole came into play and made a satisfying ‘twang’ noise with every skull it dented. Everyone was having fun – including our Authority Figure Steven Seagal who watched the whole debacle with a grin on his face, until he put a stop to it “in the name of fairness, competition and common decency.” His usual blizzard of shirtless ‘students’ jumped in, brought a halt to the violence, and dragged everyone’s ass back into the ring. Above: 'The Falcon' Kris Jokic, our proud National Champion. This photo was taken before Rasuev hit him in the d*** with a massive chain, obviously. “It’s been ages since our TV show had a National Title bout on it. Khubulov, Rasuev, Arlovski – I’m not letting you three mess it up just because your blood feud got in the way. This is a 5 Way Dance for the wonderful National belt, as of right now! Who knows, maybe you guys will finally settle your score.” Seagal was nodding at his own wisdom. His massive kimono rustled magnificently around his sizeable frame as he did so. “Wait! That’s not fair!” Whined Markov. Our champion Jokic wasn’t thrilled either. Seagal shrugged. It was medically, biologically and scientifically impossible for a human being to give less of a s***. Then suddenly one of Seagal’s many shirtless Russians came forward. You could tell it was Bogdan ‘Hardcore’ Kilmov right away from his massive head bandage. The silly tit still looked like a human lightbulb with that thing on his skull. When was he going to take that thing off?! “I want in on this” he shouted. “Whatever” said Seagal, adding him to the mix without a care. Markov carried on moaning “It’s so unfair! I had to beat, like, 9 other guys at The Event Of The Century to win this title shot!” He whined, stomping his feet in temper like a child. “Yes. How sad. Anyhow, let’s begin!” hollered Seagal, ringing the bell. Angle Rating: 56. Kris ‘The Falcon’ Jokic (C) vs Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov vs Tamerlan Rasuev vs Alen Khubolov vs Andrei Arlovski vs Bogdan ‘Hardcore’ Kilmov – A 2 Way 3 Way 4 Way 5 Way 6 Way Dance – For the RFW National Title It wasn’t long before this match split into two – the feuding Rasuev, Arlovski and Khubulov on one side of the ring beating the crap out of each other, and Jokic, Markov and Kilmov on the other side doing the same. The three foes were so consumed in their vendetta they wouldn’t have noticed if the building were on fire and the room filled with smoke. If Khubulov and Arlovski had teamed up, they could’ve taken care of Rasuev then taken care of business for the championship gold. But by now they were literally kicking each other’s asses for the right to kick Rasuev’s ass. And Rasuev had made it his life’s work to destroy them both. With all three men having legit grappling backgrounds you can imagine the submissions they pulled out of the bag. Limbs were twisted in ways even horror movies haven’t thought of. It was great entertainment. On the other side of the ring were three guys who actually remembered there was a title at stake. Jokic used every high flying stunt in his arsenal, taking every risk imaginable to defend the strap he won against the odds at The Event Of The Century. Markov fought like every muscular, well-greased beefcake you’ve ever seen grace the squared circle. Kilmov was freaking out a little less whenever anyone went near that ridiculous bandage on his head, but still looked like he’d s*** his pants every time a fist went near his face. He did get hit a couple of times, and thankfully his head didn’t explode into an awful death-fountain of blood and brain-goop. The ‘two matches in one’ schtick added a little dynamism to a bout that was otherwise a rambling, uncoordinated clusterf*** of a battle. There was no psychology. Apparently that is bad. But it did give our production team the chance to break out their fancy new split-screen thing they’d been itching to unveil, so at last someone came out of this happy. The match ended when the two fighting groups finally bumped into each other, knocking all but one of the competitors onto their asses in a heap. Jokic, somehow the only one left standing, seized the moment – he hauled his spritely Croatian arse up to the top rope and hurled himself into a Senton Bomb which somehow inexplicably squished all 5 rivals at once. He sprawled himself over the pile of bodies like a human blanket, got the fortuitous 3 count, then hauled ass to the back with his belt before anyone could grab him. Match Rating: 52. After the match, Ivan Markov was pissed. He threw our referee ‘Boris’ to the ground in anger. Despite his huge arms, massive bodybuilder physique and hands that looked strong enough to crush a skull like a Pepsi can, the big guy looked like he was about to burst into tears. “I’ve had enough! This was supposed to be my night! I was the number one contender! This was my fight with Jokic! Yet suddenly every b*****d and his boyfriend is invited into the match like it’s a God-damned frat party!” He looked like he was about to do something crazy. Security ran in to settle him down, but the man they used to call the ‘Lokomotiv’ threw them out of the ring one by one. Within seconds a pile of unconscious bodies lay in a heap. One by one Seagal’s Russians charged at him. One by one he knocked them all out. We’d never seen him in ‘wrecking ball’ mode like this before. He looked unstoppable, single-handedly destroying any fighter who came near him. But then suddenly he stopped, his face lost all colour, he was frozen in fear. He backed off in a panic, tripping over one of the unconscious Russians, falling on his ass. And then he was doomed... Above: The fluffiest, most malevolent force in all of wrestling. ...as the unstoppable killing machine Gerald The Dog pounced on him, put its fangs round his throat, ready to rip out his jugular if he so much as moved a muscle. The arrival of Gerald, Destroyer Of Worlds could only mean one thing – ‘The Fabulous’ John Hennigan was here. Moments later the stench of perfume and flower blossoms confirmed it. Suddenly our bizarre scene now presents us with a pile of unmoving security guards, a menagerie of broken Russian tough guys, a washed-up 80s action movie star in a Japanese dress, a terrified bodybuilder who may or may not have s*** his shorts, the world’s most terrifying poodle crossbreed, and a man dressed in a pink fluffy trenchcoat made entirely of Flamingo feathers. It was a lot for our viewers to take in. Hennigan has his pouty, angry face on as he tells the world he wants revenge on Alexandr ’Vertigo’ Klapstov. He’s pissed at losing their first battle due to Klapstov hacking the venue’s systems, turning off the lights, f***ing with the fireworks, and all the other glorious nonsense that happened that day. The Fabulous One is also steamed about his second loss at The Event Of The Century, due to Edge interfering and Vertigo pummeling him with a laptop in their rematch. “What was that so-called referee doing?! Had there been an official involved with any kind of class, none of these illegal, dangerous shenanigans would’ve been allowed to happen. And then last week in our 3vs3 match that same stripy-shirted simpleton allowed Goldberg to walk out on me, then Daniels to walk out on me, leaving me in terrible danger, allowing The Chin (Edge), The Dweeb (Vertigo) and The Caveman (Markov) to have their fun kicking the crap out of me. I was humiliated thanks to that referee’s incompetence! I demand a rematch with the one they call Vertigo. And I demand another official be in charge!” Seagal pointed out that we only have one referee, saying that if The Fabulous One wanted someone else to officiate the bout, it’d have to be a volunteer from the roster. Of course, nobody volunteered – nobody was that stupid. There was a big, epic silence. Then finally Markov agreed, having gotten away from the fearsome Gerald long enough to raise his hand like the dumb kid at the back of the classroom. His skin looked like he’d lost a tickling contest with Wolverine. Seagal looked puzzled as to why Ivan would volunteer to officiate a match where Gerald would be ringside, given his recent history as that yappy little b*****d’s chew-toy. But our lumpen, jaded Authority Figure was already bored with this nonsense, so just shrugged and went along with it. He made it official: Next week it’ll be Hennigan vs Vertigo with Markov as the Special Guest Referee. ‘Once more to settle the score’ our marketing team called it. “A f***ing travesty” was Hennigan’s rather more colourful name for it. Angle Rating: 59 Vlad Radinov was backstage getting his interview on. Sting and Darby Allin were there. It was all very exciting. To be honest, the ‘Party Tsar’ was only there because I thought his terrifyingly bright array of shirts and jackets would add some colour to a scene full of black and white corpse paint and trenchcoats. “Well, well, well, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a main event, folks! And let me tell you, Darby and I are more than confident about our match against Edge and Alexandr Klapstov. You see, confidence comes from experience, and we’ve got plenty of that” Sting stormed in, because he’s a legend, and legends don’t have time to wait to be asked a question. “You challenged...” began Radinov, but he barely had time to breathe before Mini-Sting got going. “That’s right, Sting. We’ve been through the trenches, we’ve faced some of the toughest competition in this business, and we’ve come out on top. Edge, you’re a legend in your own right, and Klapstov, you might be the ‘new kid on the block,’ but we’re here to welcome you to the big leagues with a taste of what we bring to the table” said Allin enthusiastically. He reminded me of Scrappy Doo. “So you believe your chances...” Radinov shot his question into the mixer with the speed and precision of a Bruce Lee throat-punch, but he needn’t have bothered. “The whole of Russia knows this match is not just about Edge and Klapstov. No, it’s about us sending a message to the entire locker room. We’re not here to play games; we’re here to win, and we’re here to make an impact. And after we’re done with those two, we’ve got another challenge waiting for us.” Sting was swinging his baseball bat as he talked. He must have been serious. The fact that he nearly decapitated the big, hairy, silky, velveteen and fawn interviewer standing next to him didn’t seem to matter. “You are in prime position in the RFW Tag Team Title Tournament, with betting odds having you...” That was nearly a full sentence. Nice try, Vlad. “That’s right, Sting. Next week, we’ve got a date with destiny in the Tag Team Tournament semi-finals against the Viking Raiders, and what better way to prepare than by taking on Edge and Klapstov tonight? So, boys, get ready for a fight you won’t forget, because we’re not just confident; we’re unstoppable” declared Darby, puffing out his chest and shoulders to look less like a kid at a costume party. He clenched his fists to let us all know he was serious too. “Am I invisible or something?” Vlad said to the cameraman, bewildered. He opened his mouth for another question, and that’s about as far as he got. Our interviewer was getting rather sick of this now. “So, whether you’re Edge, Klapstov, or anyone else in our way, remember one thing: the Stinger and Darby are here to stay, and there’s no stopping us now!” Sting smiled triumphantly, then turned to our intrepid interviewer, suddenly remembering there were three people in the promo, not just two. “Vlad! I bet you have some questions for us!” he said with a half-assed smile. “Screw you, you creepy old black and white b*****d!” Shouted Radinov emotionally, before storming out the room, slamming the door behind him. The Stinger looked bewildered. “Don’t worry, these Russians are emotional creatures” offered Allin, patting his mentor on the back. The wily old legend shrugged. The two of them then stared dramatically into the camera until our production team eventually got the hint and cut to a commercial. Angle Rating: 68. The Arrows Of Russia (Dover & Icarus) vs Villain Enterprises (Brody King & Flip Gordon) - Semi Final Of The RFW Tag Team Title Tournament. There are two arrows in the Arrows Of Russia. There are three villains in Villain Enterprises. You can get an idea right away how this one went down. You’d think people would’ve been wise to this by now, but once again everyone was shocked and appalled when this thing ended up as a 3-vs-2 battle. As with every other Villains match, Marty Scurll got involved and a dastardly beatdown ensued. As with every other Villains bout, our referee ‘Boris’ seemed strangely ill-equipped to stop this from happening. Maybe this time he had an excuse – he knew Seagal would kick his ass if the Semi Final of his treasured Tag Team Title Tournament ended in an unsatisfying Disqualification. Things looked bleak for The Arrows. It seemed The Villains would notch up their first victory in forever. But then help came in a very bright, very pink form. It was at the exact moment Scurll was signaling for Brody King to do his All Seeing Eye finisher and end the match - that’s when the beer can smacked into the back of his skull. That’s when Marty toppled and fell like Saddam Hussein’s statue. That’s when Dragan Spazic celebrated the best throw outside of the World Series by opening another 3 cans and somehow downing them all at once. That’s when Brody and Flip rushed to their fallen leader’s aid, unwisely turning their backs on their opponents. That’s when Dover and Icarus snuck in behind, hitting their newly-christened ‘Doom Shot’ finisher. That’s when our smiling, laughing referee slid in for the 3 count. And that’s when The Arrows Of Russia booked their spot in the final. Above: We were on a mission to get people excited about our tag titles, or die trying (probably the latter). This was an enjoyable match – it’s just a shame so many fans didn’t see it. Despite my best efforts to make people give a crap about our Tag Division, the crowd were much more interested in the match later on with Edge, Sting and those other two guys. Whole sections of our fans ran off to the beer tent instead. Maybe we should’ve held the bout there. What happened next brought their attention back to the ring though... Match Rating: 46. The lights went out. Ominous yet wonderfully noisy heavy metal hit the air. All 1,742 fans in attendance fell deathly silent as the rabid melodies of ‘666’ by Rotting Christ pulverised their ear-drums. And then our spooky, Satan-cherishing, randomly indestructible trio of terror made their way eerily towards the ring. Having witnessed the destruction The Dark Church inflicted on previous shows, Steven Seagal was well prepared. A well-rehearsed, well-executed plan was put into motion. Within moments pretty much every member of the roster rushed down the ramp, forming a human wall between Damien Black, his two followers, and everything else. Black, seeing that he had struck fear into Seagal and the whole Russian Federation Of Wrestling, laughed demonically in satisfaction. Seagal looked pissed off – or about as pissed as that saggy, dough-like lump of a face would allow him to look. He got on the mic and addressed the roster: “Until now I was determined to handle this my own way. But I can see now this is a problem that needs a more... physical solution. I know many you want revenge on Black for his random, violent attacks. Any tag team brave enough can step up. Who will have the courage to fight the very face of evil in defence of this fine company? Which team will dare defend Russia, it’s virtues and it’s values?” he uttered with all the raw power and pizazz of a sloppy turd baking in the sun. There was a fearful, awkward silence. No team wanted to be the next lambs to slaughter. Until finally one team raised their hand, ready to sacrifice everything in the name of Truth, Justice And The Russian Way. Unfortunately for Seagal and RFW, it was 2 Cool, who were not exactly the vehicle of retribution Seagal had in mind. He was even more pissed than before. "What are you gonna do, dance them to death?!" he barked angrily - though that massive, gelatinous face of his barely moved. Scotty 2 Hotty and Rikishi nodded with a big smile. That's exactly what they were going to do. "But there's 3 of them and only 2 of you!" Said our Authority Figure, desperately searching for excuses for this random-ass contest not to happen. "I will assist them! I fear no man! Not even the Satanic Damien Black!" It was ‘Dirty’ Dragan Spazic, who’d put down his beer cans long enough to volunteer himself as a beacon of justice. Seagal literally smacked his head in embarrassment as the pink-suited wonder slid into the ring and embarked upon what was simultaneously the worst and the best display of breakdancing I’ve ever seen. "Is there no end to this man's talents?!" Shouted our commentator Alex Koslov enthusiastically, as our new trio performed the most tragic yet hilarious choreographed dance routine since N-Sync split up back in 2002. Seagal groaned, hung his head in shame, than rang the bell. Angle Rating: 59. The Dark Church Of Satan (Damien Black, Ronni Krimson and Koyla Siply) vs 2 Cool (Scotty 2 Hotty and Rikishi) with ‘Dirty’ Dragan Spazic. It's a battle between the unstoppable forces of evil, The Worm, The Stink-Face, and a lad in a bright pink suit. For the honour of Mother Russia! This match was certainly memorable. It was action-packed. It was strangely entertaining. It was also unequivocally, undeniably, unquestionably absolutely truly f***ing terrible. It was the malevolent power of Darkness, Evil and Satan... versus the power of Dance. Guess which one won. Black and Scotty started the match with a Collar & Elbow Tie-Up, but immediately Hotty broke off and started dancing instead. Black went in with a Rear Waistlock, which Scotty twisted his body to reverse, then let go and started dancing. Black latched on a Side Headlock, which Hotty managed to wriggle out of, before – you guessed it – dancing. Scotty tagged in Rikishi, who joined in the dance, the two of them murdering every late-90s Street Dance manoeuvre ever devised. Suddenly Spazic was tagged in, then there were 3 of them at it. It was like a Backstreet Boys revival in there. It wasn’t wrestling. It wasn’t really dancing, to be honest. I don’t know what the hell it was. But it was fun. Then Scotty tagged himself back in, to complete a three minute sequence containing no actual offensive moves whatsoever. Our fans aren’t exactly wrestling aficionados – they loved this crap. I remember thinking to myself how nice it was of Damien Black to stand there watching this nonsense, but when Scotty suddenly started doing The Worm, that’s when he drew the line, casually strolled over, and Curb Stomped his skull into the canvas. What followed next wasn’t just brutal – it was just plain mean. It wasn’t an ass-kicking, it was a pulverisation. My main memory of it is Rikishi - all 6ft 1, 425lbs of him – just standing there screaming as The Dark Church tore his buddy to pieces like Piranhas. Black and his acolytes had Invincible Satan Power on their side; the poor little American didn’t stand a chance. Finally The Arrows Of Russia, who’d been ringside spectators to this massacre, had seen enough – they jumped into the ring and fists started flying. Realising that conventional violence alone wasn't enough against their supernatural enemies, they decided to get creative. I’m not sure how they managed to detach that section of steel guardrail, but it easily weighed as much as they did – which made their feat of throwing it at Black’s head like a javelin all the more impressive. Damien caught the full impact with his face. It’s the kind of impact that’d surely cripple a man. Rikishi and Spazic pushed the guardrail down on top of Black, squashing him beneath it. Dover and Icarus then climbed the top turnbuckles at opposite ends of the ring, performing a dual Moonsault manoeuvre onto the guardrail, crushing Black beneath. The Arrows, Rikishi and Spazic all piled on for the pin – over 1500lbs in weight combined. But the superhuman Black threw them and the guardrail off like flies. He then calmly got up, completely undamaged, not even slightly stunned. His hair wasn’t even messed up or anything. His shirt wasn’t even creased. Seeing The Arrows in peril, the dastardly lads of Villain Enterprises decided this was the moment to get their revenge for their loss earlier. And that’s when one of our wholesome, family-friendly mass brawls broke out – the highlight of which was definitely Spazic slamming Marty Scurll in the corner, which Rikishi followed up with the most thorough Stink Face in wrestling history. Scurll’s whole head seemed to go missing. It was brilliant. It was around this time, however, that Black and his two creepy cohorts turned their ass-kicking up a notch. They systematically went around the ring knocking out everyone, one by one... including Rikishi who was mid-Stink-Face. The giant 425lbs Samoan was completely out cold, stone-cold unconscious... with Scurll trapped underneath with Rikishi's massive, legendary arse still in his face. It was quite the image. The Dark Church Of Satan destroyed everyone in the ring, but left Rikishi and Scurll there. Even Satanists don't like Scurll I guess. Even after the dust settled and the carnage cleared, nobody could shift the motionless Samoan. A team of half a dozen strong, burly stagehands tried and failed. We just ended up having to leave him there all night, with the terrified, traumatised Scurll trapped beneath, his whole head totally enveloped within that massive, stinky posterior. “Scurll’s squashed under there! Someone should help him!” Hollered Roy Jones Jr. “Why?” Asked his co-commentator Rico Bushido quizzically. “The guy’s an absolute tool” added Alex Koslov, incredulously. “Oh yeah” laughed Jones Jr. “An asshole stuck in an asshole. It’s almost poetic” he said with a chuckle. How right he was. So we left it at that. Match Rating: 44. A hearty serving of commercials, propaganda and Putin followed for our lucky viewers at home. When we returned, Vlad Radinov’s bad luck with interviews continued. Up next was him trying to crack the nut that is Bill Goldberg. “It’s like Rocky Balboa said: life ain’t about how hard you can hit – it’s how hard you can get hit and still get back up that counts! I’m seeing internet dorks and dweebs writing me off already. They’re saying a couple of losses spells the end for ol’ Goldberg. The haters are saying I’m finished, that it’s the end of the line. I got news for you clowns – this isn’t online nerd land – this is real life! And only Goldberg gets to say when Goldberg’s done! Only Goldberg tells Goldberg when Goldberg's finished! The critics are not Goldberg, Goldberg is Goldberg!” He was crimson with anger and stuck in some kind of de-linguistic rage spiral. Old Bill looked like he was about to s*** flames. “Goldberg, I hate to ask this, but a lot of fans reacted negatively to you walking out on your tag partner John Hennigan last week. You walked out of your match against Damien Black at The Event Of The Century - the fans hated that. It wasn’t long since you walked out of that bout where you were meant to be Edge’s partner, but left him to get his...” The self-proclaimed ‘Hirsute Mary Poppins of wrestling’ (his words) was suddenly stopped mid-sentence. Goldberg didn’t like what he was hearing. Goldberg got (even more) mad. And that’s when Vlad Radinov got lifted three feet off the floor by his collar, pinned to the wall, and began sobbing in fear. “What fans?! Goldberg did not run away! GOLDBERG! DOES! NOT! RUN!” The veins in his face looked like they were about to explode like landmines. “Mommy!” bleated Vlad like a frightened little lamb. “He never said you ran. He said you walked out. Different thing entirely” came a voice. It was Roy Jones Jr. Our multi-weight, multi-time former boxing champion had left his commentary position to try to talk some sense into the screaming veteran, before he ate Vlad alive and crapped him out all over the floor. “You can scream at the bearded, velveteen fruitcake all you want. It won’t change the facts. You walked out. You turned your back. And that’s gotten the fans – myself included – all worried about you.” Radinov got dropped on his ass. Goldberg was now missile-locked on Jones Jr, getting all up in his face, snarling. But the Ring Magazine P4P veteran wasn’t intimidated. He didn’t back down, standing his ground and meeting the former WCW champion’s ferocious stare with his own. And Goldberg didn’t like that. He stormed off, screaming with anger and kicking over furniture as he went. Jones Jr sighed and shook his head sadly. “Man, I thought my ass was grass!” Sighed Radinov with relief. Jones Jr looked at the sweat patches on Vlad’s shirt and the suspicious wet patch on the front of his pants. “You should always stand up to bullies. Never be scared of anyone – especially those who seek to get their own way by shouting, intimidation, or with threats of violence. This is Russia, and all men are equal in this glorious nation – and that means you too. If you ever want to remind yourself of that, head down to one of my Putin-Approved™ Boxing Gyms – available nationwide. It’s the first step towards being reborn into the kind of man you’ve always had the potential to be; the kind of man Russia needs us ALL to be.” Upon hearing these ‘inspiring’ and definitely not state-mandated words, Radinov got back to his feet, dusted himself off, and shook Jones Jr’s hand. Both then faced the camera, nodding wisely as our scene faded to black. Это социальное объявление предоставлено вам Министерством общественной физической культуры и здоровья: совместная работа на благо более сильной, здоровой и мужественной России. This public service announcement is brought to you by the Ministry For Public Physical Fitness And Health: working together for a stronger, healthier, more masculine Russia. Angle Rating: 62. The next stop on our action-packed journey through the darker nether-regions of nonsense was the very important, very official contract signing. This is where our upcoming World Title bout would be made official. It was a really big deal. Or we wanted it to look like it was at least. We had a table with a couple of expensive-looking pens on it. We had a red carpet laid out in the ring. We had the contract itself, ready to go, just two squiggles away from an epic rematch between ‘Russia’s Hero’ Ilja Dragunov and ‘American Dragon’ Bryan Daniels. Both men were there, stationed either side of the table, both staring each other down intensely, neither taking their eyes off the other for a second, neither backing down. It was like the Cold War all over again, but on a much lower budget. Seagal was in the ring, giving it the Big Hype. Anticipation was climbing. Tension was building. The fans were digging the hell out of this, all 1,742 of them salivating for next week’s big bout. But then there was suddenly a weird, smothered groaning noise. Slowly it got louder, until the moans grew into a stifled scream. Seagal’s big, tanned, leathery face scrunched up with rage - in the dimmed light he looked a bit like a puckered anus. The camera nervously panned over to the corner of the ring where the weird, rather worrying noises were coming from. That’s when half the TVs in the biggest country on Earth were filled with the sight of Rikishi’s big, unconscious Samoan ass engulfing the whole face of Marty Scurll. Every time the trapped, terrified Englishman screamed it sent ripples cascading through Rikishi’s ass-cheeks like waves on a lake. They were still there. Rikishi was still out cold and unmovable after his match-up earlier. Marty Scurll was still trapped underneath, mid-Stink-Face, screaming into the abyss (literally) for help. Above: Ilja Dragunov, with that dead-gerbil-like beard still on his face. I'd told him if he shaved the beard, he lost the belt. And I meant it. Dragunov and Daniels looked at each other with confused, bewildered eyes. Daniels had wrestled all over the globe, but he’d never seen anything as weird as this. Our World Champion shrugged almost apologetically. “Welcome to Russia” he said with an uncomfortable frown. I think it’s safe to say all the drama we’d built had escaped. “Let’s just sign this thing and get the hell out of here, before the image of Rikishi’s big ass with some dude’s head wedged in it is burned into my nightmares forever” suggests Daniels with fear on his face. He signs so fast his hand is a blur. Dragunov does the same, trying not to stare as the sound of a man sobbing uncontrollably into another man’s anal crevice fills the air. The big rematch is official. The battle begins anew next week. But this wasn’t exactly the big build up we’d hoped for. It was entertaining as hell though. And in the end, that’s what we’re here for, I guess. Angle Rating: 86. After a patriotic newsflash filled to the brim with soldier lads in shiny boots marching up and down a hill for no apparent reason, we were back to the action. “Hennigan, my boy Kulakov has had enough Lightning Bolt to run through the side of a mountain. If you so much as touch this ring, he’ll rip out your spine and floss with it.” ‘The Fabulous One’ had tiptoed all the way to the ring, somehow expecting to go un-noticed in his bright purple coat made of ostrich feathers and mink. His ‘Style Squad’ lackeys were head-to-toe in sequins. How those clowns thought they wouldn’t be visible from ringside is beyond me – they were visible from outer space. Everyone in the ring – Seagal, Dragunov, 'The Nightmare' Vladimir Kulakov, Edge, Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov – had stopped what they were doing just to stare at these idiots. (Rikishi and Scurll were in the ring too, but the less said about that, the better.) Our mammoth-chinned Canadian seized the moment and got on the mic: Edge: “It seems I've found myself in quite the circus. John Hennigan, the self-proclaimed 'Prince of Pizzazz' with that effeminate hair that takes more time to style than it does to wrestle a match! You’re more likely to overpower us with your perfume than with your moves!” Klapstov: “Yeah!” Edge: “I mean, look at that hair of yours; it's like you're trying to compete with Rapunzel for the longest locks in the kingdom! Maybe you should trade in your tights for a hairbrush.” Klapstov: “Yeah!” Edge: “And let's not forget your entourage, Benceh Toth and Petr Thijani, always kissing your... posterior. I mean, really, guys, I've seen more convincing loyalty from a puppy dog! You three should start a comedy act, it'd be a hit.” Klapstov: “Yeah!” Edge: “Speaking of hits, my protégé Alexandr Klapstov had a blast handing you not one but two losses, John! He enjoyed it so much that he was practically begging for a third round long before you whined your way into a rematch! He's got a ‘Hennigan Beatdown Tour’ poster hanging in his room already. You see, John, he's just getting started on his path to stardom at your expense.” Klapstov: “Yeah!” Edge: “But let's not get ahead of ourselves. As much fun as it is to taunt you, John, I've got my sights set on a bigger prize.” He turned to face our World Champion, Ilja Dragunov, and gave him the ‘evil eyes’ treatment. “I haven't forgotten about you. Once I beat Sting and Mini-Sting tonight, you’re the next one in my crosshairs. I'm coming for that title, and I promise you, John, you'll be watching from the sidelines as I exact my revenge and become the World Champion.” Klapstov: “Yeah!” Edge: “So keep styling that hair, Johnny Boy, because when I'm done, you won't even recognize yourself, and I'll have that championship around my waist!" Klapstov: “Yeah!” Vertigo was really on fire creatively in this segment. Seagal then gave ‘The Nightmare’ a little tap on the shoulder, and RFW’s pet monster responded with a Suicide Dive that splattered our ‘fabulous’ interlopers like roaches. Toth and Thijani hauled themselves to their feet, then hauled ass to the back, screaming like frightened children. Hennigan was red with both rage and embarrassment. “Vertigo! Edge! You haven’t seen the last of me!” He hollered as he retreated. “Enough of this silly crap. Get Sting and that creepy-looking kid of his down here now. I wanna see some wrestling” commanded Seagal. Angle Rating: 65. Edge & Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov vs Sting & Darby Allin Everyone was really happy with how well Sting and Darby’s match with FTR went a week or so ago at The Event Of The Century. So in a stunning display of un-originality, we copied the exact same formula for this one. Once again Allin was the sacrificial lamb, as Edge and Vertigo did all manner of cunning shenanigans to stop the Coco-looking kid from tagging in his grown-up. This continued until the crowd’s anticipation levels reached fever pitch. Then came the hot tag, Sting turning back the clock like a one man army for about 60 seconds, Edge would then use his cunning to spoil the party, then we’d start all over again. It’s a work as old as tag team wrestling, but we milked it for everything it was worth in this main event. Everyone was impressed with the quality of it, especially considering they could only use 75% of the ring. Our stagehands had used police crime scene tape to seal off the whole quarter of the ring containing the sleeping Samoan and the screaming Scurll. It looked like the most tragic, bizarre, unhygienic crime scene in sports entertainment history. But our on-form competitors didn’t let that stop them. Klapstov in particular surprised a lot of doubters by hanging with the bigger names without looking as out of place as a nun in a whorehouse. As the only Russian in the bout we gave him plenty of time to showcase his stuff, and the spritely, dweeby little firecracker really went for it. Nobody was surprised when ‘Fabulous’ John Hennigan and his ‘Style Squad’ bozos came strutting back down the aisle like it was their own personal catwalk. Sting was the legal man in the ring, somehow managing to look a million bucks despite having his skull jumped and down on by our geeky Russian. The wily old veteran pretended to be appalled when Vertigo got Powerbombed into oblivion. It was almost artful how he managed to get to his feet just moments after the Style Squad had finished their assault, sending Edge flying off the ring apron into the guardrail with the force of a train-wreck. He pretended to be delighted as ‘The Nightmare’ Vladimir Kulakov attacked like a one-man death-squad and decimated the fashionistas like a shark mauling goldfish. But whether you bought that s*** or not, nobody could deny the victory was handed to him on a silver platter. He looked crestfallen at the manner of his victory, but I could tell the crafty old coot was delighted underneath all that face-paint. None of our drunken, Lightning Bolt-addled fans cared though. They’d seen the Legendary Sting shake his money-maker live in their sleepy little town. They’d seen the world-famous Edge do battle. And they’d particularly enjoyed it when the psychotic Russian war-machine Kulakov chased the Style Squad until they cried. That didn’t cheer up Edge and Vertigo, however, as they dusted themselves off at ringside. Match Rating: 62. As the dust settled, the victorious Sting grabbed a mic and pointed at our champion Dragunov, who’d been watching from ringside with great interest. “Ilja, I wish you the best of luck in your title match next week. I like what I’ve seen of you so far. And I know that with the whole of Russia cheering you on, you’ll find a way to win.” The 1,742 fans ate that one up big time. The crafty old veteran had them in the palm of his hand. “Because when you retain that belt... I’m next!” Before Dragunov could even open his mouth to speak, his mentor Seagal was on the mic, doing the talking for him. “You want a shot at the biggest title in world wrestling? Then I shall give you a chance to earn it. Next week you and your Emo-looking sidekick face The Viking Raiders in the Semi Final of our glorious Tag Team Title Tournament. Emerge victorious, and the week after I’ll let you show the world you still have what it takes... against an old rival... it’ll be you and your old friend Goldberg in a #1 Contender’s match!” The crowd were buzzing with excitement. It was like WCW’s heyday all over again, except a lot colder, a lot weirder, and a lot more boozy. "Hang on! That’s not fair! What the hell has Goldberg done to deserve a title shot?!” whined Darby Allin. His voice was deeper than I’d expected. I’d thought he’d sound like Gary Coleman for some reason. Above: I'm still not a fan of that skateboard. “Some fighters have what’s known as ‘Legacy.’ Their actions echo through the generations. Their feats burn their names forever into the pages of the sporting history books. Goldberg has such Legacy, just as much as your mentor Sting. Perhaps one day, when you finish puberty, you’ll understand” said Seagal wisely. And that was the end of that. Dragunov and Sting did a staredown. Because that’s what you do in pro wrestling. It’s the law. I saw this from my position in the control room and thought it’d be a pretty cool visual to end the show on. I pressed the massive red button in front of me that said ‘BOOM’ on it and instantly our venue was lit with a blizzard of pyrotechnics. I pushed the button saying ‘LOUD’ and the speakers shook with the sound of Sting’s theme music Seek & Destroy by Чёрный Обелиск (they’re like Metallica, but much less American, much less upsetting to our overbearing overlords, and a lot more crap. Screw you Oleg for not letting us license the real thing). Then I pulled a switch labelled ‘ENOUGH OF THIS S***’ and the end credits began to roll. Then I cracked open yet another bottle of champagne and sighed with relief that another week of barely scripted nonsense was finally in the bag. Angle Rating: 69. Overall Show Rating: 67. When the credits were done, the cameras returned to an empty venue. The lights were off. The seats were empty – everyone was long gone – except some old dude pushing a broom around the ring, sweeping up the crap left behind after another action-packed episode. It was quiet. Even the muffled screams of Marty Scurll had fallen silent. Was he passed out? Had he fainted? Was he sleeping? Was he dead? Did anybody care? He was still motionless and pinned under Rikishi’s big, family-sized ass, and that was all the information anyone needed. Speaking of which, after hours out cold, the Samoan giant was finally beginning to stir. He groaned. He stretched. He hoiked his massive frame sleepily out of the corner, stumbling a little as he moved. There was something big stuck on his butt, he sensed. He inhaled sharply, then let out The Holy Mother Of All Farts. Whatever it was that was bothering his bottom quickly fell out into a heap on the floor, possibly sobbing. Rikishi was too dizzy to care about that now. His brain was slowly starting to unscramble. His senses started rebooting, one by one. Our Authority Figure Steven Seagal saw there was finally movement and went over to see what was happening. “Everybody’s gone” noted Rikishi with a voice that wasn’t quite conscious. His eyes weren’t quite pointing in the same direction yet. “Yes, Kohai. They left long ago” said Steven with a kindness and a warmth to his voice. “I was in a match. I was wrestling” remembered the big Samoan out loud, trying to hazily put the pieces together. “Yes, you were. It was certainly a... memorable contest” said Seagal reassuringly. “Does that mean I won?” asked Rikishi groggily. Seagal looked over and saw a traumatised, broken Scurll weeping in the corner. "You know what, my Samoan friend, in a way, yes you did." The big, friendly giant smiled. The show closed once and for all with a celebration dance, and a rare smile from our Kimono-clad Sensei. “Yessssss” came Rikishi’s drooling, semi-coherent voice, as we faded slowly into black.

Thanks for the nice comment - glad you enjoyed this diary so much you read through it all. It's great to see people coming on board and enjoying this glorious, ridiculous mayhem. Thank you also to those who have posted predictions so far. Episode 12 results will go up in a day or two, so there's just a little bit of time left for anyone else who wants to have a go. The predictions have all been very wise and logical so far, and definitely what a talented, sober, knowledgeable booker would do.

Looks like a great diary potentially. Was this a real thing? Did this Manchester fed really exist IRL?

Another day, Another show. Another stop on our fledgling 'World Tour Of Russia'. And surely another night of amusing, ridiculous Russian nonsense. You wouldn't expect anything less... Above: Maps are cool. You folks dig maps, right? Despite still having no clue what the hell we are doing, we have somehow survived long enough to bring Episode 12 to the masses. And despite my almost aggressively bad booking, this one has somehow managed to be the highest rated show in the history of The Russian Federation Of Wrestling. If anyone fancies putting their predictions forward as to how we somehow managed such a feat, please go ahead, The card is as follows... Edge & Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov vs Sting & Darby Allin A main event loaded with talent. Even we can't mess this one up, surely? The Arrows Of Russia (Dover & Icarus) vs Villain Enterprises (Brody King & Flip Gordon) - Semi Final Of The RFW Tag Team Title Tournament. Yes, what feels like the longest running tournament in the history of all mankind is somehow still going. Stick with it though. There's fun stuff coming up. Kris ‘The Falcon’ Jokic vs Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov - For The RFW National Title The most talented (and only) Croatian pro wrestler in history defends his recently awarded bauble against our #1 contender Markov, who won this chance at the gold in a 10 man battle royale at our recent(ish) Event Of The Century. This has the potential to be a decent little match... unless something weird happens... The Dark Church Of Satan vs ??? Until now, our Authority Figure Steven Seagal was determined to handle this dark, spooky threat by himself. But this time things are different. Seagal will call for a brave, patriotic tag team to step up and defend the virtues of all of Russia. But which team shall answer the call? And will they stand a chance against the seemingly indestructible Damien Black and his Dark Church? A point is available for predicting the winner, There's another point per mystery opponent correctly guessed. Episode 12 - Coming Soon Thank you all for reading. It's great to see there's still an audience for this, despite going away for a few months. Please do go ahead and post your predictions below. I've made a funky little template for you to copy and paste, if you like. Edge & Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov vs Sting & Darby Allin The Arrows Of Russia (Dover & Icarus) vs Villain Enterprises (Brody King & Flip Gordon) - Semi Final Of The RFW Tag Team Title Tournament. Kris ‘The Falcon’ Jokic vs Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov - For The RFW National Title The Dark Church Of Satan vs ??? @St. Templar @Vandal @DinoKea @GreatreDRagon @Taylor2020 @Just here to look @christmas_ape @SonOfSharknado @Ippon @KingKennit @Pteroid @MidKnightDreary @John Lions @DarEatWorld @ElectricX @knkmaster69 @Old School Fan @kanegan @DinoKea @Jason Phoenix @stratusfaction @80085 @Diddums @jokandra @noteddysteinblock

Real World News: Putin Wins Shock Election! He was a big underdog. Nobody thought he stood a chance. The odds were really stacked against him. But somehow this plucky everyman managed to triumph against insurmountable odds. In claiming this shocking victory, Vladimir Putin has shown us all that anything is possible if we just believe hard enough. I'm kidding, obviously. Everyone knows the whole 'election process' in Russia is just one big parabolic circus of bulls***. News outlets are calling it a 'sham election', which is probably an insult to any real sham elections out there. When you have your main opposition publically killed, you can't really call it a democratic process. But go on Vlad, you ridiculous, lumpy old pudding of a man, enjoy your victory. It's the political equivalent of me taking a hefty, meaty dump, flushing it, then victoriously doing victory laps of my bathroom, triumphantly proclaiming myself 'king of the toilet'. I'm genuinely mystified as to why Putin and his clowns even bother with this nonsense any more. Why bother rigging an election you were bound to easily win anyway? Why bother killing an opponent who has about as much chance of becoming Russian President as I do? The whole thing's just a big, lethal pissing contest with a big, balding ball-sack at the top of it. But, on the positive side, Vlad's 'big victory' means more years in power, which means more years of this diary taking the piss out of him. The card for Episode 12 will be posted soon. The results are written, I just need to format it all and add lots of pretty pictures for you all to stare at. Thanks again to you all for following. More frosty Russian nonsense coming soon.

I just commented on WCW 1995 by @Henderson to say that it's the best diary on the forum. So a nomination for Diary Of The Month goes without saying. The TNA 2024 diary by @kanegan is a good read, I recommend it. A good contender for Diary Of The Month too.