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KAPW Show 5: The KAPW Varsity Throwdown 140 in attendance Picture this: The legendary Varsity, Atlanta’s famous drive-in, lit up like the wrestling gods themselves have come down to bless this historic venue with a slice of chaos that only Kick Ass Pro Wrestling could deliver. This is no ordinary wrestling show—this is a spectacle at the very heart of Atlanta’s culture. For the uninitiated, The Varsity isn’t just a fast-food joint. Oh no, honey! This place is practically an institution! Founded in 1928, it’s the world’s largest drive-in, famous for its chili dogs, burgers, and fries. And if you’re not ordering a frosty orange shake, are you even doing The Varsity right? The air around the venue is thick with a scent that can only be described as the American Dream itself—deep-fried, sizzling with history, and doused in nostalgia. Cars buzz in and out, neon lights flickering in the parking lot like fireflies under the Atlanta night sky. Inside, fans spill their drinks and hoot loudly as they pile into the outdoor seating area, barely able to contain themselves. It’s as if you took a Sunday family outing and smashed it headfirst into a carnival ride that’s been left on “turbo” for far too long. Ladies and gentlemen, this ain’t just a wrestling show anymore—this is the KAPW Varsity Throwdown. The fans? They’re ready. The wrestlers? They’re hungry (and not just for chili dogs). And KAPW? We’re about to turn this Atlanta landmark into our very own squared circle of madness. The Varsity’s famous red neon sign buzzes in the background, and there’s a hush as none other than the infamous, sketchy maestro of mayhem, Jimi Venezuela, and his partner in chaos, Blondie, step into the makeshift ring, which is set up like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Jimi, looking dapper (well, in his own way) in yet another thrift-store Hawaiian shirt that probably smells faintly of tequila and broken dreams, saunters up to the mic. Above: I don't know what confused me more - the fact the AI randomly sneaked a Confederate Flag into the image for no apparent reason, or the fact it then blurred it for copyright reasons. I sure as s*** didn't ask for one. Maybe it's left over from a Dukes Of Hazzard theme night or something. Blondie struts next to him, cleavage practically weaponized, earning her the usual deafening cheers from the fans who really should be paying attention to what’s coming, but hey, priorities. Jimi grabs the mic, puffing out his chest, and with that trademark grin that says, “I’m up to no good, and I’m proud of it,” he booms out: “WOW!” Look at this place! I told you all we were going BIG TIME! I told you all we were moving up in the world! No more dingy bars, no more sticky floors—we’re here at THE VARSITY! Atlanta’s crown jewel, baby! Look at it! LOOK AT IT!” The crowd erupts, some even waving half-eaten chili dogs in the air. You could almost taste the grease in the excitement. Jimi continues, “You thought the Clermont Lounge was wild? Honey, that was child’s play! This is the V-A-R-S-I-T-Y! They’ve got—wait for it—SERVIETTES!!” Blondie, as always, is one step ahead. She grabs a bright red Varsity napkin, waving it like a flag in victory. “You see this? You see this high-class action? We’ve made it, folks! Who needs paper towels when you’ve got serviettes this fancy?” Jimi wipes his brow dramatically with a napkin, throwing it into the crowd like it’s a championship belt. A fan catches it, holds it up triumphantly, and you’d think the guy just won the lottery. “And don’t even get me started on the hot dogs!” Blondie cuts in, “Forget belts! Whoever wins tonight, gets a Varsity chili dog! It’s legendary! It’s what champions are made of!” She shoots a wink to the crowd, half of them already scrambling to grab one from the concession stand. “But enough chit-chat!” Jimi shouts. “We didn’t come here just to eat! We came here for FIGHTS!” The fans are rowdy, and Blondie’s got that gleam in her eye that says someone’s about to get their ass kicked in the most spectacular way. “And tonight, my friends, we’ve got a card so damn STACKED that even The Varsity’s famous onion rings can’t compete! So buckle up, grab your chili dogs, and get ready for a wild ride because KAPW is about to tear this place apart! And hey, it’s all for a good cause! ‘Cause we’re raising money for the community—through carnage!” The fans roar, the smell of greasy food and adrenaline filling the night air. “AND,” Blondie adds, stepping up to the mic, “If you thought the Pro Wrestling Classic was something, you ain’t seen NOTHING yet. Champions will rise, challengers will fall, and we’re serving up some piping hot beatdowns with a side of Varsity fries! Let’s get this show on the road!” Now, the stage is set, the crowd is buzzed, and The Varsity’s sizzling griddles have nothing on the heat that’s about to explode in that ring. Let the KAPW Varsity Throwdown begin! Angle rating: 30. The buzz from The Varsity's hot grills had nothing on the heat in the ring as AR Fox, our resplendent (and currently sulking) KAPW World Champion, stomped his way to the ring with the World Title draped over his shoulder like it was more of a burden than a prize. He didn’t have his usual spring in his step tonight, no high-flying antics, just pure anger. His eyes locked onto the entrance ramp, waiting for the one man who had taken things too far—Aaron Draven. Last week, Draven had the audacity—no, the NERVE—to blindside Fox and attack him with the very championship belt Fox had fought tooth and nail to win. And now? Fox wanted revenge, and he wanted it NOW. He grabbed the mic, pacing around the ring like a caged animal. “Draven! You coward! You wanna attack me from behind?! Come down here, right now! You’re gonna get what’s coming to you!” The crowd—sipping on their orange shakes, munching on their chili dogs—cheered in unison. They wanted blood, and Fox was more than ready to spill it. But before Fox could spew more venom into the mic, the music hit. The crowd groaned and buzzed as none other than Fred Yehi sauntered down to the ring. Yehi, arms folded, a confident smirk on his face, interrupted Fox’s tantrum. “Hey, champ. Before you start throwing your little temper tantrum, let me remind you who’s got the title shot tonight. That’s right, me. I earned my shot at that gold. Not Draven. Me. So if you’ve got some unfinished business, you can take a number because I’m coming for what’s mine.” The crowd cheered, and Fox looked like he might blow a gasket. He started pacing faster, running a hand over his face in frustration. He wasn’t just fighting for his title tonight, now he had Yehi breathing down his neck reminding him of it every second. It was too much. That’s when, from the side of the ring, we hear the unmistakable voice of Jimi Venezuela, who clearly hadn’t had enough margaritas to miss out on this juicy opportunity. “Alright, alright!” Jimi interrupted, stepping out onto the stage, waving a hand as if to shush the two. “Listen, Fox, I know you want Draven. I get it. The guy’s a piece of work. But you know what? He doesn’t deserve it! What kind of message are we sending here if we just hand Draven a title shot after that stunt he pulled? You wanna reward a guy for sucker-punching the champ? Nah, that’s not how KAPW works!” The crowd popped, fully behind Jimi’s logic (for once). Fox, now practically frothing at the mouth, pointed toward Jimi. “Then how do I get my hands on him, huh? You gonna make me wait forever?” Jimi, always the slick negotiator, rubbed his chin and let out a little grin. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, Foxy. I’ll give you this: Draven can have a #1 Contender’s Match at our next show. He wins, and boom, you get your revenge! But there’s a catch! You still gotta beat Yehi tonight. Otherwise, all bets are off.” The crowd roared, and Fox, still seething, had no choice but to agree. He wasn’t gonna turn down the chance to get his hands on Draven. But Jimi wasn’t done. Oh no, the man always had another trick up his sleeve. “And speaking of bets...” Jimi raised an eyebrow and turned his attention to the fans. “I got an idea. How about we let YOU guys get in on the action, huh? Let’s place some bets! Whoever predicts the most match outcomes right tonight gets to choose the stipulation for Draven’s match next week!” The crowd exploded. This was their moment. KAPW wasn’t just wild in the ring—now the fans had a chance to make it even wilder! Fox glared at Jimi, then at Yehi. His grip tightened on the World Title, the weight of it pulling down on his shoulder in more ways than one. Tonight, he had to focus on Yehi. But looming in the background, just out of reach, was the revenge he so desperately craved against Draven. The stakes had never been higher, and the fans? They couldn’t wait to see how it all unfolded. Who’s making bets tonight? Angle rating: 34. Battle Of The Big Men – Joe Black vs. Cyrus The Destroyer (with Priscilla and 'Rocky' the Pet Rock) The venue was buzzing as the lights dimmed for the clash of titans—Cyrus The Destroyer vs. Joe Black. This wasn’t just any match. It was the biggest bout on the card, with the winner earning the right to squash Aaron Draven like the bug he is. Lenny Leonard and Veda Scott were joined by Jimi Venezuela, cigar in mouth, margarita in hand, ready to offer his “expert” analysis. “Draven thinks he can disrespect my wrestlers? Forget it!” Jimi exclaimed. “Whoever wins between these two massive dudes gets to squish him like a cockroach in a #1 contender bout next week! I can’t wait to see it!” In the ring, Cyrus The Destroyer, 6'8" and over 350 pounds, stomped down the aisle, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. Behind him, Priscilla Kelly held her faithful companion Rocky, her pet rock, clutching it like the Holy Grail. Joe Black, 6’2” and around 245 pounds of pure muscle, followed. Known for his intelligence, Joe Black was focused, his eyes set on the task of dismantling his larger opponent. The fans, torn between cheers and boos, knew Joe Black’s ring IQ gave him an edge, even against someone like Cyrus. The bell rang, and the giants collided. Cyrus used his size to immediately go on the offensive, throwing Joe into the corner and raining down a barrage of forearm shots. The sound of each blow echoed through the place. But Joe Black was ready. Using his agility, he ducked under a wild swing and began targeting Cyrus’s legs with precise kicks, aiming to bring the big man to his knees. This was David vs. Goliath, but in this case, David was built like a linebacker. As Cyrus began to falter, Joe Black delivered a stiff lariat that barely moved him. Jimi took a sip from his margarita and said, “Joe’s taking him apart like a mechanic on an engine. And once Cyrus is down, he’s staying down!” The momentum shifted as Joe continued to pick apart Cyrus’s foundation. A rapid series of strikes—an enziguri, a dropkick to the knee, and a devastating German suplex—had the crowd roaring. Cyrus staggered, struggling to keep his balance, but Joe wasn’t letting up. At ringside, Priscilla Kelly, sensing her partner was in trouble, panicked. In desperation, she pulled out Rocky, her trusty pet rock. “Rocky?!” Lenny exclaimed. Priscilla wound up like a pitcher and hurled Rocky into the ring. “CATCH IT!” she screamed. Unfortunately for Cyrus, coordination was not his strong suit. The rock flew through the air, and in a moment of pure comedy, Cyrus missed it. SMACK! Rocky hit Cyrus square between the eyes. He blinked once, then twice, his knees buckling. The crowd gasped. Cyrus swayed, then crashed to the mat, the impact shaking the ring. The Varsity's lights flickered from the force of his fall. Jimi nearly spat out his drink. “Well, that wasn’t the plan! The guy just got taken out by a pebble!” The crowd erupted in laughter as Cyrus lay sprawled out, arms and legs spread wide. Joe Black, always the opportunist, wasted no time. He pounced, covering the fallen giant. 1... 2... 3! Joe Black stood tall, victorious, and smirking. He knew he had won, but the credit belonged to Rocky, the unlikely hero. Meanwhile, Cyrus, slowly regaining consciousness, was not amused. As the fans continued to laugh, he sat up, his expression shifting from confusion to realization. He looked over at Priscilla, who was frantically apologizing and scooping up Rocky as if it were priceless. But there was no forgiveness in Cyrus’s eyes. He had just been knocked out by a rock—a pet rock—and lost his chance at Draven because of it. The seeds of resentment were planted. Cyrus The Destroyer had once tolerated Rocky, but now? Now, the pet rock antics were over. He glared at Priscilla, who was too busy baby-talking to Rocky to notice, and stormed out of the ring, leaving behind a mess of broken pride and a confused crowd. Jimi, still chuckling, turned to Lenny and Veda. “Well, folks, if you thought KAPW couldn’t get any crazier, we just saw a giant taken down by a pebble. That’s a first!” Match rating: 40. The camera flickers to life backstage, and there stands the ever-bubbly Blondie, mic in hand, sporting her trademark cheeky grin. The faint buzz of anticipation echoes from the crowd as she leans in toward her next interviewee, Dani Jordyn, the self-proclaimed “Real Mean Girl” of KAPW. Dani, clad in her usual snarky attire and gripping her infamous Burn Book, looks like she’s ready to spit fire. “Hey there, KAPW fans!” Blondie chirps, her voice dripping with playful sass. “I’m here with none other than Dani Jordyn, who—well—let’s just say had a bit of a tough night last week, losing to, um… a pet rock?” Blondie can’t help herself. The giggles start to bubble up, and her face scrunches as she fights them off. Jordyn’s expression sours instantly. “Are you SERIOUS right now?!” she snaps, eyes wide with indignation. “A pet rock! I am Dani Jordyn! I’ve wrestled all over, I’m a superstar, and now I’m getting ROASTED on social media because of that stupid rock! Do you even know how many Instagram stories are making fun of me right now?” Blondie bites her lip, trying to stifle her laughter, but it’s a losing battle. “It’s just... I mean... Rocky...” And that’s it. Blondie bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Tears are practically welling up in her eyes as she clutches her stomach. Dani turns beet red, her fists clenched as she glares daggers at Blondie. “This is NOT funny! I am a serious competitor, and I don’t need this mockery! Just wait—when I get my revenge, everyone is going to wish they’d kept their mouths shut!” But Blondie is too far gone, her giggles filling the backstage area, her shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry! I just—Rocky! It’s just too much!” Furious and embarrassed, Dani slams her Burn Book shut and storms off in a huff, leaving Blondie trying (and failing) to pull herself together. The fans watching on the big screen are laughing right along with her, knowing full well that Dani’s “revenge” is going to be fueled by more than just her usual sass. But Blondie, ever the pro, quickly pivots as she wipes her eyes, still snickering. “Oh my—okay, folks, whew! Now, let’s move on... Who’s next? Oh... well, look who’s brooding over there.” The camera pans over to Baron Black, lurking in the shadows, clearly still traumatized from his chaotic Box of Monkeys match last week. Covered in monkey scratches and with a permanent scowl etched on his face, Baron looks like he’s spent the last few days plotting his revenge against the entire primate species. Blondie saunters over, flashing her signature wink at the camera as she switches gears effortlessly. “Baron! Sweetie! You look like you’ve been through the wringer, but hey—you’ve got that fancy contract for a title shot, so maybe it was all worth it?” Baron attempts to compose himself, adjusting his jacket like he’s some evil mastermind straight out of a Bond movie. “Blondie, darling, you know I don’t just play the game. I master it. The Box of Monkeys was just a bump in the road—literally. And now, I’m about to outwit everyone in the Wild Whiskey Windmill match. What are my chances? I mean, come on. With my strategic mind, I’m practically untouchable.” He waves his contract in the air with a flourish, but Blondie’s not one to let him get too comfortable. She leans in, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “So, you’re confident about tonight, huh? But the fans have been wondering... When are you going to cash in that title shot? They’re dying to know.” Baron straightens up, puffing out his chest like a proud villain. “Well, Blondie, I’ll cash it in when the moment is right. This contract is a chess piece, and while everyone else is playing checkers, I’m playing twelve moves ahead. When the time comes—bam—they won’t even know what hit them.” Blondie nods, her grin widening. “I see. A real mastermind in the making.” But then, as if she’s been saving the best question for last, she asks, “But what if Jimi decides to make you defend that title shot? I mean, this is KAPW—he could throw you into another match, and poof, that contract’s gone.” Baron freezes, his smug smile faltering. “Wait... he can’t... can he?” Blondie shrugs innocently. “You did just come out of a Box of Monkeys match. Jimi could do anything. You might wanna watch your back.” The realization dawns on Baron like a ton of bricks. His confident facade crumbles as panic sets in. “I—I have to go... strategize.” And with that, Baron Black bolts from the interview, clutching his contract like a lifeline, muttering under his breath about needing better plans. Blondie watches him go, bemused, before turning back to the camera with a dramatic sigh. “Well, that’s two for two. First Dani, now Baron. They both stormed off... Is it me? Did I forget to shower this morning? Or maybe my perfume’s too strong? What do you think, folks? Whatever it is, I’ll have to figure it out before the next interview!” Angle rating: 35. The First (And Last?) Ever 'Wild Whiskey Windmill Match' - Dani Jordyn vs Kiera Hogan vs AC Mack vs Baron Black vs Alan Angels vs Priscilla Kelly The atmosphere at The Varsity was thick with anticipation, but let’s be real—no one really knew what to expect from the absurdity that was about to unfold. It was time for the Wild Whiskey Windmill Match, and if you thought KAPW couldn’t get any wilder, well, honey, you’ve clearly been underestimating Jimi Venezuela. The ring crew had just finished setting up the monstrosity of a windmill, six arms whirling slowly, each attached with a bottle of something strong enough to strip paint—and only one with something resembling water. The crowd was buzzing with excitement as the competitors made their way to the ring. Dani Jordyn, Kiera Hogan, AC Mack, Baron Black, Alan Angels, and Priscilla Kelly, each looking like they knew this was going to be the weirdest night of their careers. Ringside, Cyrus the Destroyer stood glowering, tasked with the unfortunate duty of babysitting Rocky the Rock, who sat on a tiny velvet pillow. The whole thing was enough to make a grown man question his life choices, and Cyrus was not amused. The fans were having a field day with his misery, taunting him with chants of “ROCKY! ROCKY!” while he scowled like a man who’d seen better days. As the bell rang, the windmill’s slow spin began, and the competitors, knowing they couldn’t claim victory without chugging down from every bottle, eyed the rotating monstrosity like vultures circling a soon-to-be whiskey-soaked carcass. The first to make a move was AC Mack, always the showman, who dashed for the windmill, leaping in the air to snag a bottle. He cracked it open, took a deep swig—and immediately choked as if he’d swallowed liquid lava. It was a bourbon that tasted more like kerosene, but Mack wasn’t about to let that slow him down. He choked it down like a champ, though his swagger was noticeably less steady as he rejoined the chaos in the ring. Mack’s fighting style, fast-paced and filled with trash talk, was on full display as he immediately targeted Baron Black, lighting him up with rapid kicks and chops, his signature blend of aggression and cocky showmanship. Baron Black, the technical maestro, wasn’t having it. Known for his mastery of suplexes and submissions, he caught one of Mack’s kicks and twisted it into a single-leg takedown, smoothly transitioning into an STF. The fans ooh’ed in appreciation as Baron flexed his grappling skills, wrenching Mack’s neck and leg at awkward angles. But Mack, ever the defiant loudmouth, refused to stay down. He clawed his way to the ropes, then delivered a sharp elbow to Baron’s face, breaking the hold and giving himself just enough time to stumble back to his feet, still shaking off the effects of that brutal whiskey. Meanwhile, Kiera Hogan, “The Girl on Fire,” lived up to her name. Her fast, furious style made her a blur in the ring, as she darted between her opponents, delivering blistering strikes. She hit Dani Jordyn with a stinging forearm, followed by a running dropkick that sent Dani crashing into the windmill itself. Hogan’s explosive offense, full of high-energy moves like superkicks and running corner clotheslines, kept the crowd roaring, but she wasn’t satisfied yet. She set her sights on Alan Angels, who was still trying to grab his bottle. Angels, the former high-flying acrobat turned biker brawler, wasn’t about to let Hogan have her way. He ducked a clothesline from Hogan and countered with a spinning heel kick that connected with the back of her head, dropping her to the mat. Angels had traded in his more aerial-heavy offense for something more grounded and brutal, but when he saw Hogan dazed, he couldn’t help but flash some of his old self. He climbed to the second rope, leaped off, and hit Hogan with a textbook moonsault. The crowd exploded as Angels popped back up, flashing his new biker persona with a cocky smirk. While Angels celebrated, Baron Black wasn’t far behind. He’d found his bottle on the windmill, but before he could take a drink, AC Mack swooped in, sending Baron stumbling back into the turnbuckle with a stiff forearm shot. Mack, always quick to capitalize, hoisted Baron onto the top rope, looking for something big. But Baron, with his technical prowess, countered by grabbing Mack and suplexing him off the top rope in one smooth motion. Mack hit the mat hard, and the fans gasped, knowing Baron’s suplex game was no joke. At this point, Dani Jordyn had shaken off Hogan’s dropkick and was back in the fray, eyeing her bottle spinning slowly on the windmill. She ran for it but was met by a suddenly recovered Kiera Hogan, who speared her to the ground with an explosive tackle. Hogan, feeding off the crowd’s energy, grabbed Dani and executed her signature “The Face the Music” neckbreaker, leaving Dani sprawled out on the canvas. Back at ringside, Cyrus the Destroyer was having an absolutely miserable time. Sitting with Rocky the Rock in his lap, the grumpy powerhouse looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. Every time a fan chanted “ROCKY! ROCKY!” Cyrus’ eyes narrowed, and his patience grew thinner. The fans taunted him mercilessly, and it was clear his amusement with the whole situation had long since worn off. Priscilla Kelly, meanwhile, wasn’t faring much better. After finally grabbing her bottle from the windmill, she took a deep swig—and immediately realized her mistake. Her bottle wasn’t whiskey—it was something far worse. A bottle of that infamous moonshine Jimi had found from some backwoods dealer. Her face turned green as she stumbled to the ropes. The fans watched in horror and delight as Priscilla lost the battle with her stomach, turned to Cyrus, and threw up all over him. Whiskey, moonshine, and Priscilla’s last meal drenched the furious giant. The crowd roared with laughter, but Cyrus wasn’t laughing. No, Cyrus was done. The vomiting was the final straw. He shot to his feet, tossing Rocky aside, and stormed into the ring like a man possessed. Chaos followed. Cyrus bulldozed through the competitors like a freight train. Dani Jordyn was the first to get caught, lifted high into the air and slammed into the mat with enough force to rattle the ring posts. Kiera Hogan tried to escape, but Cyrus snatched her up and hurled her into the windmill itself, sending her spinning off one of the blades and into the ropes. Baron Black, ever the strategist, tried to outsmart Cyrus, but a devastating clothesline left him flat on the mat. As the chaos unfolded, Priscilla, still recovering from her ill-fated drink, stumbled to her feet, clearly dazed but somehow coherent enough to realize what was happening. The rest of the competitors were too busy dealing with a rampaging Cyrus to notice as Priscilla staggered over to the final bottle, popped it open, and chugged it down. The fans, still howling at the carnage in the ring, roared even louder as Priscilla Kelly became the first—and only—competitor to drink all the bottles and win the match. Meanwhile, Cyrus stood in the middle of the ring, surrounded by bodies, his chest heaving as the fans chanted, “YOU STINK! YOU STINK!” They weren’t doubting his wrestling prowess – covered head to toe in that sticky, boozy puke, he really did. Slowly coming back to his senses, he looked down at the carnage he’d caused, his rage slowly giving way to a hollow, confused expression. He glanced over at Jimi Venezuela, who was standing at the entrance with a margarita in one hand, grinning like a proud father. “Well, that was... something!” Jimi shouted, taking a sip of his drink. Priscilla, barely standing, raised her arms in victory, swaying slightly from the alcohol but triumphant nonetheless. The fans, in their drunken haze, cheered her on as she stumbled out of the ring, a mix of disbelief and admiration in their eyes. Cyrus, expecting a moment of shared glory, stomped after her, still dripping with whiskey and puke. He stood towering over Priscilla, waiting for her to acknowledge his part in her victory, arms crossed, an impatient scowl on his face. After all, without his rampage, there was no way she would’ve won the match, right? Surely, she owed him a nod of appreciation, a word of thanks, maybe even a celebratory toast. But Priscilla, her mind half gone in a booze-soaked haze, didn’t even glance his way. Instead, she beelined straight for Rocky, her beloved pet rock, lying in the corner of the ring where Cyrus had been “babysitting” it all night. Ignoring Cyrus entirely, she scooped up the stone as if it were a newborn child, cradling it in her arms, cooing softly like a mother to a crying baby. She gently rocked Rocky, patting it tenderly, her eyes glazed over in drunken affection. The entire arena watched, half amused, half bewildered. Cyrus, standing there drenched and fuming, couldn’t believe it. After all that chaos, after unleashing his fury on everyone in sight, he was being completely ignored in favor of a... rock. His nostrils flared as he tried to catch Priscilla’s attention, but she was too far gone in her own little world, whispering sweet nothings to Rocky, blissfully unaware of the storm of anger brewing behind her. The crowd, sensing Cyrus’s frustration, started to laugh, a few fans even chanting, “ROCKY! ROCKY!” as if the stone itself had won the match. Defeated and utterly disgusted, Cyrus stormed out of the ring, muttering under his breath, leaving behind a ring full of broken bodies, shattered egos, and one stone-cold oblivious victor. The aftermath of the Wild Whiskey Windmill Match looked like a frat party gone horribly wrong—or horribly right, depending on your perspective. The ring was littered with discarded whiskey bottles, and the competitors, still reeling from their boozy beatdown, looked more like extras from The Hangover than professional wrestlers. AC Mack, normally the brash, loud-mouthed high-flyer, was flat on his back in the middle of the ring, staring up at the lights. Every few seconds, he’d raise one hand in the air like he was about to cut a promo, but then his arm would flop back down like a fish out of water. “Bro... the room’s... spinning... like... the windmill... spinning,” he mumbled to no one in particular, still feeling the effects of a bottle that was probably brewed in the pits of hell. His trash-talking days would have to wait until his stomach decided to stop doing somersaults. Kiera Hogan, meanwhile, was pacing back and forth, still fuming after she was the unfortunate one to grab the bottle filled with—of all things—water. The fans had cheered her on at first, but once they realized she wasn’t getting drunk like the others, the boos had started raining down. Now, she was ranting to anyone who would listen—mostly herself—about how “this wasn’t what she signed up for,” and how she was going to “burn” the next person who handed her a bottle of water instead of whiskey. The “Girl on Fire” was more like the “Girl on Fury” at this point, and the fans were eating it up. In one corner, Baron Black was trying to salvage what was left of his dignity, though it wasn’t going well. He’d spent the entire match trying to strategize, pacing around the windmill like some kind of boozy chessmaster, only to end up face-planting after one too many shots. Now, he sat slumped against the turnbuckle, a hand on his head, mumbling, “I had this. I was twelve moves ahead... what happened?!” He looked like a man who’d just lost a game of Monopoly and couldn’t figure out where it all went wrong. His “diabolical mastermind” persona was taking a serious hit. Then there was Alan Angels, whose new biker gimmick didn’t exactly scream “Whiskey King,” but the man had heart. Unfortunately, heart didn’t stop him from staggering around the outside of the ring, accidentally knocking over a security guard before collapsing into a folding chair. “I’m... a tough guy... now,” he slurred, his new leather jacket half on, half dragging on the floor like some kind of biker disaster. “Tough guys... don’t puke... right?” Priscilla Kelly, though? Well, she was still the star of the show. After accidentally puking all over Cyrus mid-match—an incident which, by the way, left the big man smelling like a distillery for the foreseeable future—she was now cradling Rocky the Rock like it was a baby, swaying back and forth and cooing to it. “You did good, Rocky... real good,” she whispered, completely oblivious to the carnage around her. The fans were still buzzing from the absurdity of it all, chanting “ROCKY! ROCKY!” in what might’ve been the strangest crowd chant in the history of wrestling. And poor Cyrus the Destroyer—the man was fuming. Covered in puke and the shattered remains of his pride, he stomped out of the arena, every step leaving a sticky footprint. His face was a twisted mix of rage and disbelief, still not quite sure how a pet rock had cost him the match. He’d had it with Priscilla’s antics, with KAPW’s shenanigans, with everything. His last words as he stormed off? “I’m DONE with this ROCK!” In the end, the Wild Whiskey Windmill Match would go down as a chaotic, boozy mess—a spectacle of athletic absurdity that no one could’ve predicted. The competitors, still trying to recover, had stumbled, fallen, and puked their way into KAPW infamy. And the fans? They wouldn’t have it any other way. Match rating: 44. The scene opens with the KAPW broadcast team at the commentary table, where Jimi Venezuela joins Veda Scott and Lenny Leonard. The crowd is buzzing with anticipation after last week’s chaos. Jimi Venezuela: “It’s been another wild night, folks, and we’ve still got our high-octane main event to come—KAPW’s going big-time, baby! Fox. Yehi. The World Title. It’s all on the line! The next chapter in their epic feud will be written here tonight! But let’s be real, after what went down with Draven last week, anything could happen.” Suddenly, Aaron Draven, dressed in street clothes—ripped jeans and a black leather jacket—emerges from the crowd. The audience, already hostile towards him, unleashes a torrent of boos. He climbs over the barricade and storms up to the commentary desk, eyes blazing with fury. Aaron Draven: “You know exactly who I am... but you don’t know why I’m here.” Jimi looks shocked but tries to hide it, as Draven looms over the desk, oozing menace and defiance. The crowd boos even louder, but Draven smirks, feeding off their hatred. Aaron Draven: “You idiots just don’t get it, do you? Week after week, you boo me, you disrespect me, just because I’m not one of your precious little Atlanta boys? You think that’s gonna stop me? You think you’re safe? Nah, I’ve had enough of this dump. And I’ve had enough of all of you.” The boos reach a deafening level, but Draven doesn’t flinch. Instead, he grabs the microphone from Veda, his voice dripping with venom. Aaron Draven: “Last week, I laid out your champion, AR Fox, with his own title belt. And what did you all do? You cheered him and booed me. What a joke. Let me make one thing clear—I’m here to declare war. Not just on Fox, not just on KAPW, but on all of you!” Draven glares at the crowd, soaking in their hatred like fuel for the fire. Jimi Venezuela, clearly trying to defuse the situation before it spirals, stands up. Jimi Venezuela: “Hey, hey, settle down, Draven. You think we’re just gonna reward that stunt you pulled last week by giving you what you want? You want AR Fox? You wanna jump the line and get a title shot after you attacked him? What message does that send? Nah, man, we don’t play like that here.” Draven’s smirk fades, and his eyes narrow as he steps closer to Jimi. The tension is palpable, and the crowd is eating up every second of it. Aaron Draven: “You think you can stop me, Jimi? You think you’re in control here? Nah, I’m in control. You think Fox is safe? You think any of you are safe? You better start watching your back, Venezuela, because there’s more of us. We’re just getting started.” The crowd gasps, sensing that Draven is hinting at reinforcements. Jimi, trying to keep control of the situation, responds quickly. Jimi Venezuela: “You want Fox that bad? You wanna prove something? Fine. You don’t just get to demand a title match, but I’ll tell you what. Joe Black won his match tonight. He’ll be your opponent next week. If—and only if - you win—then maybe you get your revenge. But until then? You’re nothing, Draven. You’re just another guy with a big mouth.” Draven leans in, his face inches from Jimi’s. Aaron Draven: “Oh, I’m more than that. And you’ll see. You’ll all see. Soon.” With that, Draven throws the mic down and storms off through the crowd, ignoring the deafening boos. Jimi sits back down, shaking his head, trying to hide his concern. The tension is thick, and everyone knows that Draven’s declaration of war is far from over. Veda Scott: “Well, that escalated quickly. Draven’s got a death wish if he thinks he can take on Fox, KAPW, and these fans all at once.” Lenny Leonard: “The man’s got a chip on his shoulder, but more of them coming? What does he mean by that?” Jimi Venezuela: “I don’t know, but something tells me we’re in for a hell of a ride. This isn’t over—not by a long shot.” Angle rating: 40. The scene cuts backstage, and what should have been a heartwarming moment turns into a classic KAPW disaster. Suge D, aka Sugar Dunkerton, stands forlornly at the center of a massive banquet table that stretches the length of the room, piled high with delicious homemade dishes from the KAPW fans. Each and every one of them sent with love, care, and a clear lack of awareness of his current condition. You see, Suge’s jaw is wired shut from that unfortunate incident back at Show 3, where, in true KAPW fashion, he managed to break his own jaw by accidentally punching himself in the face. A jaw-wired-shut tragedy. The camera zooms in on Suge D as he looks like a kid locked outside a candy store. There are pies, casseroles, sandwiches, BBQ ribs—every culinary delight you can imagine. And all poor Suge can do is stand there, looking at it with hungry, hollow eyes, unable to enjoy a single bite. Blondie, ever the enthusiastic ray of sunshine, strolls over, her heels clicking against the concrete floor, completely oblivious to Suge’s plight. She takes one look at the massive spread of food and claps her hands together. “Oh my gosh, Suge! Look at this! The fans really love you! They sent you all this incredible food to cheer you up!” She grins, positively radiating enthusiasm. Suge D glares at her, eyes narrowing behind the wire holding his jaw shut. He mumbles something that no one can make out, but the frustration is clear in his eyes. Blondie tilts her head, finally starting to sense something’s off. “Wait a second...” she pauses, glancing from Suge to the mountain of food. “How the hell do you... eat? Like, with your jaw... uh... wired shut?” Suge’s response is muffled, angry, and completely incomprehensible. “Mmmmm mum mum mmmm zzzxug hummmm,” he growls through gritted, wired-together teeth. It sounds like a mixture of frustration and pure, unfiltered hunger. Blondie blinks, her eyes wide. “Oh no,” she gasps, suddenly realizing the full weight of the situation. “Oh no, no, no... Suge, I am so sorry! What are we gonna do? All this food and you can’t eat a damn thing! Oh God, they’re gonna think we’re monsters!” Just then, like the perfect storm of terrible ideas, Jimi Venezuela swaggers in, margarita blender in hand, a gleam of pure chaos in his eyes. He takes one look at the scene, then down at the blender in his hand, and smiles. “Don’t worry, Blondie, I got this.” Blondie looks at him, both hopeful and horrified. “Uh, Jimi... what exactly are you going to do with that?” Jimi grins wider, holding up the blender like it’s Excalibur. “Suge D’s gonna get his feast! Ain’t no jaw wiring gonna stop KAPW from cheering up our boy!” Without waiting for anyone’s permission, Jimi starts tossing random food into the blender. A slab of BBQ ribs goes in, followed by mashed potatoes, a piece of apple pie, a lasagna slice, and—just because it’s there—a deviled egg. He hits the button, and the blender roars to life, churning the unholy concoction into something that looks more like swamp water than food. Suge D is desperately trying to back away, his eyes screaming what his mouth can’t: PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING, NO. But Blondie, still caught up in the chaos of trying to fix things, holds him steady. Jimi walks over with the blender, a gleeful look on his face. “Alright, Suge, bottoms up!” he shouts, pouring the thick, sludgy mixture into a giant cup. He positions it near Suge’s wired-shut jaw and starts slowly tipping it into his mouth. Suge’s muffled screams of horror are drowned out by the blender’s hum as Jimi continues to force-feed him the revolting blend. “Look at him! See how excited he is!” Jimi laughs, mistaking Suge’s muffled cries for enjoyment. “He’s LOVING it! He’s making all that noise—he’s practically begging for more! Keep going!” Blondie, with a mix of panic and obliviousness, nods. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right! More! He needs MORE!” she shouts, grabbing another handful of casserole and tossing it into the blender. More food is blended—chicken wings, macaroni salad, a chunk of brownie—and more sludge is forced into Suge’s mouth. His muffled protests go unheard as Jimi and Blondie laugh, entirely convinced they’re doing him a favor. Blondie smiles triumphantly. “See? We told you we’d cheer you up, Suge! KAPW takes care of its own, baby!” Meanwhile, Suge D is desperately trying not to vomit (which would be an even bigger problem with his mouth wired shut). His eyes are wide with panic, his stomach undoubtedly doing somersaults, but the KAPW crew keeps going, entirely convinced they’ve saved the day. Jimi stands tall, arms crossed, surveying the banquet table. “See? This is why KAPW is number one! Nobody—nobody—looks out for their talent like we do.” Blondie nods enthusiastically, finally noticing Suge’s wild, terrified eyes. “Y-You’re welcome, Suge! Glad we could help!” Suge D’s only response is a faint, defeated mumble. This is his life now. This is KAPW. Angle rating: 31. AR Fox vs. Fred Yehi – For the KAPW World Title As the lights dim and the crowd’s energy reaches a fever pitch, Veda Scott and Lenny Leonard are in full swing, hyping up the importance of this colossal main event. This isn’t just any match; this is the match the fans have been clamoring for. “Folks, we’re about to witness history,” Veda begins, her voice brimming with excitement. “The animosity between these two has been simmering for years! Whether it’s in KAPW or their legendary clashes in Evolve, this has always been a rivalry for the ages!” “You said it, Veda. AR Fox and Fred Yehi are two of the finest athletes in wrestling today,” Leonard adds, his tone more serious. “And tonight, it’s not just about winning—it’s about pride. It’s about proving who the better man is.” The camera zooms in on the entrance as the familiar music of AR Fox hits. The KAPW World Champion strides down to the ring, belt slung arrogantly over his shoulder, eyes burning with intensity. The crowd erupts, divided between cheers and jeers, but one thing’s for sure: every pair of eyes in the building is on Fox. “AR Fox! The man who revolutionized high-flying wrestling,” Veda says. “But tonight, he’s got his hands full with a technical master in Fred Yehi.” Just as Fox enters the ring, Fred Yehi’s music blares through the speakers. The crowd erupts again as Yehi steps onto the stage, a laser-focused look in his eyes. This isn’t a man coming to play games—this is a man coming to make a statement. As Yehi enters the ring, the tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife. Neither man takes their eyes off the other, circling each other in the middle of the ring. No words, just a deep, heated stare that tells the story of their rivalry. The crowd starts to buzz with anticipation. “This is the kind of staredown that gives you chills,” Leonard says, his voice hushed. “These two know each other inside out. Every move, every counter—this is going to be a chess match, but with fists.” The ref calls for the bell, and the match is on. The crowd roars, but neither Fox nor Yehi flinches. They circle each other slowly, and the tension in the room skyrockets. Finally, they lock up in the middle of the ring, and the technical masterpiece begins. Yehi, known for his devastating submission holds and flawless technical wrestling, immediately takes control, using his superior mat skills to out-wrestle Fox. Yehi forces Fox down to the mat with a quick wristlock, transitioning smoothly into a side headlock, grinding Fox’s neck. Fox struggles, but his speed gets him out of danger as he flips over Yehi’s back, turning the tables with a slick arm drag. But Yehi’s too fast for Fox to gain any serious momentum. He rolls through the arm drag, coming up on his feet, and charges at Fox, catching him in a waistlock before suplexing him hard into the mat. The impact echoes through the arena, and the crowd gasps. The pace quickens. Fox springs to his feet and charges at Yehi, but Yehi is ready. He drops down and sweeps Fox’s legs from under him with a brutal drop toe hold, locking in a lightning-quick Koji Clutch! The crowd explodes as Yehi wrenches back, trying to force a submission early. Fox grimaces in pain, but he’s not done yet. Gritting his teeth, he uses his incredible flexibility to inch closer to the ropes, forcing a break. The ref pulls Yehi off, but Yehi's not giving Fox a second to breathe. He launches into a series of stomps, targeting Fox’s legs and torso, trying to keep the high-flyer grounded. But Fox, ever the escape artist, slides under Yehi’s legs and explodes off the ropes with a running dropkick, sending Yehi tumbling out of the ring. Fox doesn’t stop there. He sprints to the opposite ropes, and instead of going for a suicide dive, he leaps onto the top turnbuckle, flips backward, and lands perfectly on his feet in the ring, mocking Yehi with a smirk as the crowd erupts in approval. “Fox is playing mind games here!” Veda exclaims. “He’s letting Yehi know that this is his world.” Yehi, fuming, charges back into the ring, but Fox is ready. He counters with a step-up enzuigiri, rocking Yehi’s head to the side. Fox grabs him and sets him up for a springboard cutter, but Yehi pushes him off at the last second, countering with a European uppercut that snaps Fox’s head back. The crowd gasps at the brutality of the shot. Yehi doesn’t let up. He grabs Fox’s legs, dragging him to the center of the ring, and locks in a figure-four leg lock. Fox writhes in pain, reaching for the ropes, but Yehi rolls his body, flipping them both over, applying even more pressure. Fox is howling in agony, his face contorted in pain, but he refuses to give up. Just as it looks like Fox might tap, he flips the hold back over, reversing the pressure on Yehi! The crowd is going wild as both men break the hold and roll to opposite corners, gasping for breath. The tension builds again as they lock eyes from across the ring. Fox, sensing an opportunity, plays to his strengths. He sprints at Yehi, leaping onto the ropes and vaulting over him, but instead of going for a risky move, Fox swings around and hurls Yehi shoulder-first into the steel post. Yehi slumps to the outside, clutching his shoulder in pain. But Fox isn’t done. Instead of diving onto Yehi, Fox sprints out of the ring and disappears into the crowd. Everyone’s confused. Fox is up to something, but no one knows what. Suddenly, Fox reappears, emerging from the sea of fans, but he’s holding a folding chair. Veda and Leonard are losing it on commentary. “What the hell is Fox doing with that chair?!” Leonard shouts. Fox sets up the chair in the middle of the crowd and sits down, laughing as Yehi tries to recover at ringside. The fans are on their feet, losing their minds as Fox casually watches Yehi from his makeshift throne. “He’s not even using it as a weapon! He’s just... sitting there!” Veda cackles. “Fox is toying with Yehi!” Yehi, fuming, charges at Fox through the crowd. But as soon as Yehi gets close, Fox kicks the chair into him, sending Yehi sprawling backward. Fox leaps onto a nearby barricade and drops an elbow on Yehi’s chest, sending them both tumbling to the concrete floor. The two continue to brawl through the crowd, knocking over chairs, and pushing through fans, neither man willing to give an inch. Punches fly, and they crash through a merchandise stand, sending T-shirts and posters flying everywhere. The ref’s count reaches eight, but Fox and Yehi are still trading blows. Nine... ten! The bell rings for a double count-out, but the two don’t care. The match is officially over, but the fight continues. “They don’t care about the rules! This is personal!” Leonard yells, as security rushes into the sea of fans, struggling to pull Fox and Yehi apart. Yehi, furious and breathing heavily, shouts at Fox, “I’ll end you, Fox! This isn’t over!” Fox, bruised and battered, smirks as he shoves a security guard off him. “You can try, Yehi! But I’ll always be better than you!” Finally, after what feels like an eternity, security drags Yehi toward the back as Fox climbs onto a nearby barricade, throwing his arms up in defiance. But there’s no celebration. Just unfinished business. “This is far from over,” Veda says, her voice intense. “Yehi and Fox have reignited a war, and the next time these two meet, there won’t be any holding back.” The fans are still buzzing, knowing full well that what they just witnessed wasn’t the end—it was only the beginning of something bigger, something even more dangerous. KAPW’s greatest rivalry is back, and it’s about to get wilder than anyone can imagine. Match rating: 60. As the final bell echoes and AR Fox limps backstage, victorious but bruised, the crew of The Varsity is already hard at work, not cleaning up but hovering like vultures, itching to get KAPW and its chaotic brand of wrestling out of their otherwise family-friendly establishment. The floor’s littered with crumpled beer cups, half-eaten chili dogs, and more questionable fluids than anyone should have to mop up. The staff, clearly unimpressed by the shenanigans, stares daggers at Jimi Venezuela, who’s standing by the entrance, margarita in hand, looking positively euphoric. One of the Varsity managers, a sharp-dressed man in a neatly pressed polo, approaches Jimi, who’s now leaning casually against a giant inflatable hot dog. “Mr. Venezuela,” he begins, voice strained, “I think it’s time for you and your... uh... crew to clear out.” Jimi, ever the charmer, takes a long sip of his margarita and grins. “Oh, relax, my man! Look at the energy, look at the fun we had tonight! This place has never seen action like that before! You’ll be talking about this night for years!” The manager doesn’t seem convinced. “Sir, we’re going to be talking about the smell for years. You had people fighting in the bleachers, half the crowd is... well, let’s just say... intoxicated. And the food... You blended a cheeseburger with onion rings and force-fed it to a guy with a wired jaw.” “Cheeseburger smoothie, baby! It’s called innovation!” Jimi winks, looking far too pleased with himself. The manager’s face is a mix of disbelief and horror. “We run a respectable establishment. We’ve got children that eat here!” Jimi waves him off, sloshing margarita over the side of his glass. “Exactly! And they’ll have the best stories to tell their little friends at school tomorrow! ‘Guess what I saw at The Varsity, Timmy? A windmill with whiskey bottles and a gal puking on a seven-foot monster!’” Jimi starts laughing, clapping the manager on the back like they’re old buddies. But the manager is not having it. “No. No more windmills. No more puking. We’re done here.” Jimi finally straightens up, giving him a mock-serious look. “Alright, alright. I get it. We’ll pack up. But you gotta admit, we brought some flair to your establishment tonight!” As Jimi starts to usher the last stragglers out, he raises his margarita glass high. “To The Varsity! You’ll be begging to have us back when you see the ticket sales tomorrow!” The manager mutters something under his breath, but Jimi just grins wider, leaving behind a trail of chaos, spilled drinks, and the unforgettable smell of violence and cheap booze in their wake. As the KAPW crew stumbles out into the night, Jimi takes one last swig, looking back at the frazzled Varsity staff. “Classy joint. We’ll be back!” He winks, then adds under his breath, “Maybe...” Angle rating: 39. Overall rating: 41.

'The Lord' (aka The Card For KAPW Show #5) I took the recent brief AI server outage as a sign that our sassy Mama narrator The Grand Poobah was tired. Maybe I’d overworked her / him / it? Maybe this was the ol’ Poobah going on a much-needed vacation? So I decided to have some fun and mix up the tone of this diary a bit. I opened the fridge, drank every bottle I could find, then fired up the laptop. As the beer bubbles blossomed in my belly, I knew exactly what to do... "AI, we’re now doing KAPW stuff in the tone of a posh, snooty old English Lord or country gentleman - some wonderfully cantankerous old fart with a cigar, a top hat and a monocle. Someone to civilise the joint with an air of eloquence, etiquette and a stiff glass of brandy. We’re classing up the place. It’ll be a nice contrast to the chaos and boozy delinquency of our shows. It’s going to be like an old Jane Austen novel. Or like Bridgerton, but without all the f***ing." So here’s what KAPW has in store for the second leg of the World Tour of Atlanta: My dear gentlefolk of refinement and taste, I must confess, it is with a mixture of bemusement and outright scandal that I address you on the matter of Kick Ass Pro Wrestling’s World Tour of Atlanta, soon to descend upon that most curious of venues, The Varsity. Oh, how the dignity of my fine moral sensibilities shudders at the very thought! Indeed, The Varsity—a place better known for its calorific delights or alcoholic beverages and less for the gentlemanly traditions of combat—shall play host to a spectacle most unbecoming of civilised society. In my day, the noble art of combat was reserved for gallant duels with pistols at dawn or perhaps a spirited bout of fencing—sporting endeavours fit for gentlemen of good breeding. But alas! This KAPW rabble? A far cry from such dignified encounters. What’s more, the ruffians who make up their fan base—drunken slobs, I dare say!—show no semblance of decorum. Why, they make the barbarous Visigoths seem genteel by comparison. Yet, I must confess, there is a certain... morbid fascination to the debauchery of it all. Jimi Venezuela, a reprobate of the highest order, presides over this chaotic carnival with an audacity that, while wholly ungentlemanly, demands a degree of admiration. His never-say-die attitude, his sheer pluck! Why, it is as though the man is thumbing his nose at all that is good and decent in this world—and yet, one cannot help but admire the rascal for it. A cad, to be sure, but a plucky one! And then, of course, there is Blondie, a fair maiden of the finest calibre, a veritable paragon of beauty in the midst of such brutish behaviour. Ah, Blondie! Were I but twenty years younger... but alas, I digress. It is enough to know that in the midst of all this chaos, she shines like a rose amidst thorns. But enough of my lamentations over the decline of gentlemanly pursuits—on to the card! And what a rogues’ gallery we have, indeed. The Battle of the Big Men: Joe Black versus Cyrus The Destroyer (with Priscilla Kelly and that wretched pet rock, Rocky). I daresay, even in my youth, I never witnessed two such gargantuan brutes pummelling one another with such reckless abandon. Black, the cold, calculating strategist, shall surely face a stiff challenge in Cyrus—a man who, if I may say, appears more beast than human. As for Priscilla Kelly, always with that cursed rock in tow, what can one say of a woman who seems more enamoured of a lump of stone than civilised company? Next, we are treated—or, depending on one’s constitution, subjected to—a Wild Whiskey Windmill Match. Let me explain to you, my genteel companions, that such a contest involves Dani Jordyn, Kiera Hogan, AC Mack, Baron Black, Alan Angels, and that infernal Priscilla Kelly once again. The object? To obtain bottles of whiskey from a spinning contraption, no less! I cannot decide what shocks me more: the concept itself or the fact that KAPW would allow these lunatics to imbibe such spirits in the midst of combat! I fear for the safety of the spectators... although, I daresay, the ruffians who cheer on such mayhem deserve whatever madness befalls them. And finally, the main event, a rematch of titanic proportions: AR Fox versus Fred Yehi for the KAPW World Title. Now, this at least holds a glimmer of the noble pursuits of old. Both men, formidable warriors, vying for the highest honour in the land—though, if I may be so bold, I do wish they could settle their differences with pistols rather than this... this wrasslin’. Nonetheless, I suspect it shall be a contest of the finest order. Fox, ever the daredevil, and Yehi, the consummate technician, shall no doubt put on a display of wrestling that will leave the fans baying for blood—a ghastly thought, but one that stirs the hearts of these KAPW followers. And so, my dear friends, I extend to you an invitation—nay, a warning—to attend this latest spectacle. But do so at your peril! For while Jimi Venezuela may fancy himself a modern-day impresario, I assure you that what awaits is nothing short of chaotic, drunken debauchery. And yet, I confess, there is a certain charm to it all. Could it be that I, too, have fallen under KAPW’s wicked spell? Oh, perish the thought! And now, my dear and faithful KAPW fanatics, it is time for you to take matters into your own hands! Yes, indeed, we call upon you—wise prognosticators of chaos and mayhem—to post your predictions for these upcoming bouts. Which of our brave warriors will emerge victorious in this carnival of debauchery? Whose fists will be raised in triumph, and who will be left staring at the lights, wondering where it all went wrong? Place your bets, share your wisdom, and for the one who predicts the most outcomes correctly... oh, you will hold power beyond your wildest dreams. The power to choose the stipulation for none other than Aaron Draven’s next bout! Anything your deranged desires demand—steel cage, flaming tables, a straight-up fistfight in the back alley of The Varsity—you decide. But wait! There’s more. For those of you who dare to delve into the deeper mysteries of KAPW, we present a bonus challenge. Somewhere in the annals of wrestling history, a tale is unfolding within our hallowed promotion, mirroring a classic storyline from days gone by. Can you name that tale of old, that battle of yesteryear? Or must you wait for more of our twisted plot to unravel? If you can, and you alone name it correctly, you will be bestowed with the most coveted prize of all—the right to name the next #1 contender for the KAPW World Title! And thus, dear readers, as we close the curtains on this scandalous, titillating preview of KAPW’s next sojourn at The Varsity, I implore you to heed my humble request. Predictions must be made, schemes must be devised, and chaos must be anticipated. The brawls ahead promise nothing but savage fury, drunken revelry, and moments of untold madness—yet all in the name of fine sport, of course. Whether it's the towering giants or the windmill warriors, or even the climactic rematch for the ultimate prize, your predictions shall shape the very future of KAPW. But now, as the tumultuous tide of battle approaches, I bid you farewell. Ready yourselves, fair audience, for a night of scandal, passion, and unbridled mayhem. For in this glorious company of reprobates and heroes, anything is possible. Until next we meet, may your wits be sharp and your predictions sharper. The world of KAPW rests, quite amusingly, in your hands! I quite like the cut of this chap's cloth. The AI and I have nicknamed him 'The Lord Narrator', or simply 'The Lord' for short. What do you, our fine readers, make of all this? P.S. I don’t think I made enough of a big deal about Nightmare Monkey Boy who’s been living in my night-terrors ever since AI ripped his screaming, tortured form into existence back in Show #4. What. The. F***ing. F***. Predictions Format (Copy. Paste. Fill in. Win prizes. Be awesome.) Multiple prizes up for grabs this time around! The Battle of the Big Men: Joe Black versus Cyrus The Destroyer (with Priscilla Kelly and 'Rocky'). 'Wild Whiskey Windmill' Match: Dani Jordyn vs Kiera Hogan vs AC Mack vs Baron Black vs Alan Angels vs Priscilla Kelly KAPW World Title – AR Fox vs. Fred Yehi

Predictions Results Due to some sort of weird server outage, the AI seems to be offline. (Either that, or the Grand Poobah is ghosting me). This means something unthinkable is happening - I'm having to actually write stuff for this diary myself. Having to actually type. Words. By myself. With my hands. Madness. But it's worth all this exhausting hard work to thank you awesome people for reading this diary so far. Are you enjoying it? Thank you to those who joined in with the predictions for Show 4. Here's how you legendary people fared: @Jason Phoenix - 2 points and my eternal thanks for dreaming up the 'Wild Whiskey Windmill Match' which we'll absolutely 100% be stealing. Look out for that in KAPW’s next show! @DinoKea - 4 points. As with my Russian diary you seem to know exactly what I'm planning. Are you stalking me? 😜 @KyTeran - 3 points. I seem to remember the Grand Poobah AI promising that whoever got the most predictions right could pick their dream match - any competitors (within reason, Jimi's on a shoestring budget lol) and any stipulation. I'm pretty sure that was real? Or was it just some booze-induced fever-dream? Either way, DM me @DinoKea and I'll make it happen.

No.

KAPW Show #4 – The “World Tour of Atlanta” Begins at the MJQ Concourse (152 In Attendance) Above: “Oh crap” I found myself saying out loud as the AI puked out its image of tonight’s venue. I may have been drinking my Jack Daniels straight from the bottle, but I was sure I’d asked it to draw the MJQ Concourse, not some pokey little hovel from a war-torn shanty town. “The AI's been eating cocaine again” I said to myself. But then I fired up Google’s image search, and amazingly that really is what it looks like. That’s right folks, out of all the hundreds of bars and venues in Atlanta’s sprawling expanse, we’re kicking off our ‘glamorous, prestigious’ World Tour here: The 'World Tour of Atlanta' blasts off at none other than MJQ Concourse, the epicenter of Atlanta’s underground nightlife. You can feel the shift as soon as you descend into the Concourse—gone are the dimly lit confines of the Clermont Lounge, with its sticky floors and the scent of cheap beer lingering in the air. Now, you’re in the thick of it, at a club that oozes grit and electric energy. MJQ Concourse is a labyrinth of dim corners, vibrant neon lights, and bass-heavy beats that seep into your bones. For those in the know, this spot is more than just a club—it’s a community, a hidden gem tucked beneath Ponce de Leon Avenue. The eclectic crowd, from artists to hipsters, revels in the pulse of underground hip-hop, electronic, and indie rock beats that make MJQ legendary. But don’t let the “upgrade” fool you; it’s still got that raw, in-your-face vibe that KAPW thrives in. The graffiti-covered walls, dim lighting, and eclectic decor create an unpolished charm that feels like a rebellious artist’s playground. The sticky floors may be gone, but the gritty vibe? Yeah, it’s alive and well, and we couldn’t be more hyped to dive in. It’s a fine venue for the first stop on Kick Ass Pro Wrestling’s “World Tour of Atlanta.” Sure, MJQ Concourse isn’t exactly the Tokyo Dome, but to KAPW, it might as well be. Veda Scott kicks off the show: “Welcome to KAPW, live from the MJQ Concourse, where the furniture is slightly less itchy than the Clermont’s! We’re really moving up in the world, Lenny!” Lenny Leonard, equally amused, responds, “Big time, Veda! We might even get out of this place without a lawsuit... might.” The commentators take jabs at how much fancier this venue is compared to the dive bar vibes of the Lounge. But of course, this is KAPW, and we can ruin even the classiest of places. It’s a wrestling show after all—there’s bound to be chaos, beer, and shenanigans. But tonight? Tonight is something special. Enter Jimi Venezuela. But when Jimi comes out, there’s an immediate collective gasp. He’s limping down to the ring with his signature half-chewed cigar barely hanging from his mouth. His Hawaiian shirt is in tatters, his fedora is crooked, and his arms and face are covered in scratches like he just fought a herd of rabid raccoons. But that’s not the real attention grabber—no, it’s the giant wooden crate he’s dragging behind him. Blondie, microphone in hand, raises an eyebrow and practically doubles over with laughter. “Jimi... what in God’s name happened to you?!” Jimi stumbles into the ring, takes a deep breath, and gives the crowd that infamous grin of his. “Listen, I had a... long night, Blondie.” He’s clearly rattled, eyes darting around as if he expects something to jump out from behind him. He quickly adds, “Poker night. High stakes. Ended up winning big, real big.” He pauses for dramatic effect, clearly setting up for some wild explanation. Blondie, not missing a beat, leans in. “And what? Did you get mugged on the way here?” Jimi chuckles, then winces in pain. “No, worse. Way worse. You see, I won every hand—turns out I’m a poker genius. But here’s the thing... one guy at the table couldn’t afford to pay up in cash. And uh... in my slightly inebriated state, I agreed to settle the debt... in trade.” Blondie looks at him in confusion. “What kind of trade, Jimi?” Jimi kicks the crate, which begins to rattle ominously. The crowd leans in, curious. Then suddenly, the crate shakes harder. A loud screech emerges, and before anyone can react—'BANG'—the lid pops open and out come dozens of angry spider monkeys, screeching and flying everywhere. Blondie lets out a scream, and the entire roster, staff, and crowd erupt in chaos. The ring becomes absolute pandemonium as the monkeys scramble around the venue. Wrestlers flee, diving under the ring, into the crowd—anywhere to avoid the tiny, furious primates. One monkey hops onto the top turnbuckle, another clings to a referee’s head, and a particularly bold one goes straight for the commentators’ table, knocking over Lenny Leonard’s soda. “Oh my God, I think we’ve officially ruined the MJQ!” Veda shouts, ducking as a monkey flies past her. Jimi, in his infinite wisdom, tries to corral the monkeys by waving his arms and shouting, “It’s fine! They’re probably harmless!” But no one’s buying it. Even Jimi can’t control the situation. At one point, Baron Black valiantly attempts to grab one of the monkeys by the tail, only for it to claw at his face. AC Mack tries to outmaneuver another monkey with some high-flying moves, but slips, sending both him and the monkey tumbling into the front row. Meanwhile, Kiera Hogan is seen standing on a chair, fending off two monkeys like it’s a survival game. After what feels like an eternity of monkey madness, the entire KAPW roster, with the help of the venue’s whole staff, finally manages to shove all the screeching monkeys back into the crate. Everyone’s panting, exhausted, their faces telling the story: “What the hell just happened?!” Jimi wipes the sweat from his brow, visibly rattled, but somehow still grinning. He takes a deep breath, cracks open a beer (finally), and gulps it down in one go. Then, his alcohol-fueled brain springs into action with one of the most ridiculous ideas in KAPW history. “Alright, alright, I’ve got it! We’re making history tonight!” Jimi shouts, the crowd somehow still fully behind him. Blondie, cautiously edging away from the crate, looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “What now, Jimi?” With a gleam in his eye, Jimi points to the crate of monkeys. “We’re gonna have the first-ever 'Big Box of Monkeys' match!” The audience gasps, then laughs. “A what now?” Blondie asks, shaking her head in disbelief. Jimi raises his beer in triumph. “We’re hanging that crate of angry monkeys above the ring! Inside the crate, there’s a contract for a KAPW title shot. The winner has to climb a ladder, open the crate, fight through the monkeys, and grab the contract!” Blondie is lost for words, which is saying something. “The best part? Whoever holds that title shot contract can cash it in any time. It’s like WWE’s Money In The Bank, but louder, sexier, grittier... and with monkeys!” Jimi waves his arms enthusiastically, desperately trying to get people on board with this whole ridiculous thing. Blondie stares at him, dumbfounded. “You’re... you’re serious?” “I’m dead serious,” Jimi slurs, pointing completely randomly at four unlucky wrestlers nearby. “Baron Black! Joe Black! AC Mack! Kiera Hogan! Congratulations—you’re in the co-main event tonight!” The chosen wrestlers freeze, eyes wide in horror. Baron Black lets out a long sigh, while Joe Black mutters something about getting revenge on whoever thought up this “stupid idea.” AC Mack throws his hands up, while Kiera Hogan just crosses her arms and glares at Jimi. “Don’t look so thrilled, guys! This is history in the making!” Jimi adds with a mischievous grin. And with that, KAPW has officially gone off the rails. Welcome to the Big Box of Monkeys match—where the chaos never ends and nothing makes sense. Will someone actually win that title shot? Or will the monkeys steal the show? Either way, the MJQ Concourse may never be the same again. It’s gonna get wild. Literally. Angle rating: 33. Aaron Draven vs Fred Yehi The rowdy crowd was already at a fever pitch as Aaron Draven made his way to the ring. But the boos? Oh, those were deafening. Every step he took was met with jeers and shouts from the Atlanta faithful. To them, his crime wasn’t arrogance or underhanded tactics—it was simply not being from Atlanta. Draven, the high-flying maverick out of Tampa, Florida, was a man on a mission, desperate to prove himself to a fanbase that seemed determined to hate him no matter what he did. His face contorted with frustration as he hit the ring, glancing at the fans with a look of disgust, but his focus was all business. On the other side, Fred Yehi, the master of grappling and submission, stepped through the ropes with a swagger that oozed confidence. The fans normally booed Yehi, especially after his confrontations with their beloved champion AR Fox, but in the same ring as Draven, they loved him by comparison. Yeah they disliked everything he’d done until now, but he was from Atlanta, which made him a fan favourite by default, compared to the outsider in their midst. But Yehi’s mind wasn’t on them tonight. His eyes kept darting toward the ringside area where his old rival, AR Fox, was leaning against the guardrail, watching intently. Yehi had a point to prove—to AR Fox, to Draven, to everyone. And tonight, someone was going to pay. The bell rang, and Yehi wasted no time. The “Savageweight” charged Draven, immediately forcing him into the corner with a series of vicious forearm strikes and sharp kicks, targeting Draven’s legs and midsection with surgical precision. Yehi’s style was ruthless; his suplexes and slams were methodical, designed to wear his opponent down piece by piece. Yehi is a master at dictating the pace, and the crowd was loving it. Draven, though, wasn’t here to be a victim. When he found a moment of reprieve, he used his impressive agility to dodge a stiff forearm from Yehi, countering with a lightning-quick enzuigiri that sent Yehi stumbling back. The crowd, however, remained unflinchingly hostile toward Draven. No matter how well he performed, he couldn’t win them over. Draven’s frustration with the crowd boiled over as he climbed the top rope, hitting a jaw-dropping springboard moonsault that had even AR Fox nodding in approval. The fans, predictably, refused to give him credit, continuing to boo. Draven shot them a look of pure venom, shaking his head in disbelief. “Bunch of ingrates!” Draven yelled, but his distraction cost him. Yehi, ever the tactician, swept Draven’s legs out from under him and locked him into a brutal ankle lock. Draven winced in pain, clawing his way to the ropes and narrowly breaking the hold. The fans jeered louder, sensing Draven’s struggle. From ringside, AR Fox smirked, knowing Yehi had plans beyond just beating Draven—this was about sending a message. Yehi’s movements became more aggressive, targeting Draven’s limbs with calculated strikes and submission holds, softening him up for the kill. But Draven wasn’t backing down. No matter how much pain Yehi inflicted, the Floridian refused to quit, powering out of hold after hold, countering with desperate but high-impact maneuvers like his springboard cutter that momentarily shifted momentum. Just when it seemed Draven might claw his way to a victory, disaster struck. As he hit the ropes, one particularly rowdy fan, half-drunk on Coors, launched their beer cup at him. The plastic cup exploded as it smacked the back of Draven’s head, sending cheap beer splattering across his face and shoulders. For a moment, the world stopped. Draven stood frozen, soaked in beer, his face contorting into a mask of rage. He turned, eyes locking onto the fan responsible, and he lost it. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Draven screamed, climbing up onto the ropes, furiously gesturing at the fan. “THIS IS WHY YOU PEOPLE SUCK!” But in the world of pro wrestling, you never turn your back on your opponent—especially not someone like Fred Yehi. As Draven cursed out the crowd, Yehi crept up behind him and locked in his deadly Rear Naked Chokehold, yanking Draven down to the mat in one fluid motion. The fans exploded with cheers as Yehi cranked the hold, but Draven wasn’t about to go out quietly. The crowd may have hated him, but his heart refused to quit. Draven fought with every ounce of strength he had left, writhing, clawing at Yehi’s arms, trying to create space, trying to breathe. His legs kicked, his arms flailed, and he pulled at Yehi’s grip with the desperation of a man who knew this was his last stand. But Yehi had the hold locked in too tight. With every passing second, Draven’s movements slowed. His face turned red, his vision dimmed, but still, he fought on. The referee knelt beside him, checking for any sign that Draven was ready to tap—but there was none. Even as the air left his lungs, even as his body betrayed him, Draven refused to quit. The fight lasted longer than anyone expected. His willpower was undeniable. But eventually, his body couldn’t take it. His arms dropped, his legs went limp, and finally, his eyes closed. The ref had no choice but to stop the match—Draven was out cold. The bell rang. The match was over. Yehi had choked Draven out, making his point loud and clear to AR Fox. The ref raised Yehi’s hand in victory, but the crowd’s attention was on Draven, lying motionless on the mat. But instead of appreciating his fortitude, the crowd showed no mercy. As Draven slowly came to, the jeers hit him like a tidal wave. Booing. Mocking. Not one ounce of respect for the fight he’d put up. Draven’s eyes fluttered open, and he blinked up at the ceiling lights, the sound of the fans’ hate ringing in his ears. His face contorted into a mask of rage. As he staggered to his feet, the boos grew louder, and he had finally had enough. Flipping the bird at the entire audience, Draven snarled, “Screw this place and screw all of you!” With one last look of disgust at the fans, Draven stormed off, leaving behind a crowd that was more than happy to see him go. But tonight, Draven had proven something, even if they didn’t want to admit it. Meanwhile, in the ring, Fred Yehi stood tall, his eyes locked on AR Fox, who had been watching the whole thing unfold with a smirk on his face. The tension between them was palpable. Yehi had sent his message. Fox had heard it loud and clear. But before things could escalate any further, Jimi Venezuela, smelling trouble, rushed in, positioning himself between the two men with a wide, mischievous grin. “Alright, alright, break it up, boys!” Jimi yelled, knowing better than to let things get too heated. And with that, the focus shifted. The match had ended, but the war between Fred Yehi and AR Fox was just beginning. Match rating: 41. Once the dust has settled from our first match of the night, it’s time for a coronation. AR Fox is strutting like a peacock with his shiny new belt. But this is no swanky WWE-style coronation. Nope. This is KAPW and Jimi Venezuela has put together what can only be described as 'the most delightfully trashy championship celebration ever'. KAPW’s unofficial anthem Margarita MOFO by Whiskey River Backdraft booms in the background. The crowd are stuck half way between wanting to party and still being traumatized by rabid monkeys. In the center of the ring? A crooked, half-inflated banner reading, “Champ!” It’s hanging by a single piece of duct tape. There’s a cake, of course—if you can call it that. A lopsided monstrosity with the words “Congrats, Champ!” scrawled across it in what looks like hot pink icing, courtesy of the finest bakery Atlanta’s bargain basement could offer. Jimi Venezuela, still reeking of his late night poker disaster (and maybe a little leftover monkey business), stumbles back into the ring with a cheap champagne bottle in hand. He pops it, but half the cork breaks off. Undeterred, Jimi shrugs and takes a swig straight from the bottle. “Ladies and gentlemen!” Jimi slurs into the mic, the champagne already working its magic. “Tonight... we celebrate... the man, the myth, the champion—AR Fox!” Fox grins as Jimi hands him the bottle. Fox raises it high and takes a victorious swig. The crowd roars in approval. But before the celebration can get too out of hand, the music cuts out. The cheers die down as Fred Yehi storms back in to the ring, still sweaty and psyched up from his match. He grabs the mic, and the atmosphere shifts instantly. ‘The Savageweight’ doesn’t waste a second. “Hold up, hold up. Enough with this trash,” Yehi snaps, pointing to the sagging banner. “Fox, you and I both know that this coronation is a joke. You’re a joke.” The crowd oohs, and you can feel the tension rising. Yehi steps closer, his voice low and menacing. “You won that title, but I’ve been gunning for you ever since we left Evolve. This ain’t over, Fox. Not by a long shot.” Fox, wiping champagne from his mouth, smirks. “Yehi, you’ve been running your mouth for too long. I’m the champ now. You couldn’t beat me then, and you sure as hell can’t beat me now.” The two men are now nose to nose, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. Jimi, clearly sensing an opportunity to stir the pot (and maybe save his celebration from devolving into a brawl), interjects. “Whoa, whoa, WHOA, fellas. Cool it!” Jimi stumbles in between them, barely keeping his balance. “Look, I’ll give you your rematch, Yehi. But not tonight. Oh no. You’re gonna have to earn it. Here’s the deal. Fox, you’re in the main event tonight against our #1 contender, Alan Angels. If you win, then next week, it’s you and Yehi, one-on-one, for the KAPW title. BUT if you lose... well, Yehi might just have to wait a little longer.” Fox rolls his eyes but doesn’t back down. Yehi’s face twists into a confident smirk. “Don’t worry, Fox. You won’t survive tonight. I’ll make sure you’re exposed as the fraud you are, in front of everyone.” With the tension thick enough to cut with a knife, Yehi turns on his heel and exits the ring, leaving Fox to stare daggers at him. Jimi, ever the opportunist, quickly slams down his mic, necks another swig of champagne, and slaps Fox on the back. “Enjoy it while it lasts, champ. You got a long night ahead of you.” With that, the champagne-soaked coronation turns into an intense waiting game. Fox has to defend his title in our main event later tonight. Will Fox survive to face Yehi next week? Or will Yehi’s prediction come true? Angle rating: 38. Backstage, under the flashing strobe lights of the MJQ Concourse, Blondie stands at the ready with her microphone, her smile gleaming just as brightly as the venue's neon signs. The air is thick with anticipation, mostly because nobody knows what the hell her interviewee Alan Angels is up to—except that tonight, he’s cooking up something big. And there’s a nervous energy in the air because, well... this is Alan Angels we’re talking about. Blondie clears her throat, trying to keep a straight face. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m here with the man who claims tonight will be the beginning of a whole new chapter for him. Alan Angels, you’ve promised a transformation, a new image. Care to tell us what exactly that means?” Enter Alan Angels—already smirking, already brimming with unearned confidence. His eyes are wide, his posture stiff, like he’s been rehearsing this moment for days in front of a cracked mirror at a budget motel. He’s carrying a crinkled brown paper bag, clutching it like it’s some holy relic. But instead of divine light, it’s radiating a big, sweaty ball of cringe. “Blondie,” Angels begins with an intensity that’s instantly disproportionate. “People have never appreciated what a tough guy I am. They’ve never respected me the way they should. I’ve flown through the air. I’ve taken risks. I’ve been kicked in the head a million times—but NO ONE sees me for the dangerous man I really am.” Blondie nods politely, but you can already see it—the corner of her mouth twitching as she tries not to break into full-on laughter. “So tonight,” Angels continues, “I’m taking matters into my own hands. A new chapter. A new me. One that demands respect... and fear. It’s time for the world to meet the real Alan Angels.” With a dramatic flourish, he digs into the crumpled paper bag and pulls out... a leather jacket. And not just any leather jacket. Oh no. This is the most ill-fitting, squeaky, suspiciously shiny jacket you’ve ever seen—like it was picked up at a Halloween clearance sale, complete with cheap metal studs that might as well have come straight out of a tragic Judas Priest tribute act. Blondie’s composure is teetering on the edge. “Uh... Alan... what exactly are we looking at here?” “This,” Angels says, proudly slipping into the jacket that barely fits over his scrawny frame, “is the new Alan ‘Hells’ Angels.” He tries to pull the sleeves down dramatically, but the jacket’s too tight, so the cuffs barely make it past his elbows. He looks like a kid in his older brother’s hand-me-downs, trying to play dress-up as “dangerous.” Blondie bites her lip, hard, but it’s too much. A giggle escapes, followed by another one, and before you know it, she’s doubling over in uncontrollable laughter. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she gasps between giggles, “but... what?” Angels freezes. The smirk disappears, replaced by pure indignation. “I’m serious!” he huffs. “This is the new me! I’m a badass, I’m a rebel, I’m a biker! I’ve even got the leather jacket! 'Hells' Angels, baby!” Blondie is now on the verge of tears, trying to keep it together. “Alan... honey... you look like the kind of guy who rolls up to a biker bar but orders a virgin piña colada. You look like one of the Village People. You look like a kid who dressed up as The Fonz for Halloween but their costume shrunk in the wash.” Angels turns beet red, clenching his fists, clearly more upset that no one is taking him seriously than the fact that he looks like he just stepped out of a community theater production of 'Sons of Anarchy: The Musical.' “You’ll all see,” he growls, trying to sound tough but coming across more like a pouting teenager. “Tonight, in the main event, I’m going to show the world just how much of a badass I really am when I beat AR Fox for the title. And then... then, everyone will call me Alan ‘Hells’ Angels!” Blondie wipes the tears from her eyes, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Sure, Alan. Whatever you say, babe.” Angels storms off, huffing and puffing in his too-small leather jacket that squeaks with every movement. As he disappears into the hallway, Blondie turns to the camera, barely able to contain her laughter. “Well, folks, there you have it. The new ‘badass’ Alan Angels... or, should I say, Alan 'Hells' Angels. I guess we’ll see if the leather jacket works its magic in the main event tonight.” And with that, KAPW continues its glorious descent into beautiful, chaotic absurdity. Will Alan Angels become the feared biker of his dreams? Or will he ride his shiny new jacket straight into the pit of wrestling’s most entertaining failures? Let’s wait and see. Angle rating: 30. Dani Jordyn vs Priscilla Kelly (with her sort-of buddy Cyrus The Destroyer) The MJQ Concourse is rocking with excitement as Priscilla Kelly prepares to face off against Dani Jordyn. It’s the perfect mix of chaos, sass, and a little confusion – just the way KAPW likes it. Dani Jordyn, the Real Mean Girl herself, comes down to the ring, Burn Book in hand, oozing confidence. She waves the book at the crowd like it's an actual weapon, because, well, it kind of is—at least when she uses it to play mind games on opponents and get inside their head. The fans are ready for some drama, and Dani’s here to deliver. Priscilla Kelly, ever eccentric, makes her entrance, and, as usual, she’s got her trusty pet rock "Rocky" safely tucked into her tights. Why? Because this is KAPW, and if Priscilla Kelly wants to carry a rock in her tights, then by God, that’s what she’s going to do. She waves to the crowd, smiling sweetly but looking distracted as she constantly checks on Rocky. A little too distracted, in fact. Her sort-of-friend, the massive Cyrus The Destroyer follows behind, amused by her rock-related antics. The bell rings, and Jordyn is not here for any of Kelly’s weird antics. She goes straight in, landing a series of hard strikes. She’s quick and methodical, mixing in some trash talk that only makes her even more menacing. Every shot is designed to get under Kelly’s skin, but Kelly, eyes still on her pet rock, isn't giving her the focus she deserves. Dani takes full advantage, whipping Kelly into the ropes and slamming her down with a nasty snap suplex that leaves Kelly flat on the mat. Veda Scott, on commentary, can't help but laugh, “Priscilla better start paying attention to Dani Jordyn and less to that rock if she plans on making it out of here tonight.” Lenny Leonard chimes in, “I don't know if Rocky can save her from a beatdown like this!” Jordyn takes out her Burn Book and gets right into character, flipping to a page with Kelly’s name on it. She points at Kelly, then points to the book, before smacking Kelly right in the face with it while the ref’s back is turned. The crowd gasps, but they’re absolutely loving it—classic mean girl tactics. Kelly stumbles back, and Jordyn follows up with a brutal running knee strike. Priscilla is down, and Dani is looking dominant. “Jordyn's absolutely owning this match,” Veda comments. “Kelly’s too busy with her rock to realize she’s about to lose to a book!” But Kelly isn’t totally out of it. She crawls to the corner, cradling Rocky like it’s her lifeline. She’s talking to it, whispering some sweet nothings that honestly creep the crowd out just a little. Jordyn, meanwhile, looks both disgusted and confused. She stalks Kelly, clearly in control, but you can tell the whole "rock conversation" thing is messing with her head. Dani decides to shut it down once and for all, stomping towards Kelly to end things. But Priscilla, clutching Rocky, manages to slip out of the ring to safety, buying herself some time. The camera catches her whispering to the rock, and Veda, laughing, says, “What do you think she’s saying to that thing? Maybe, ‘Hey, Rocky, save me from this whooping?’” Back in the ring, Jordyn is not having it. She follows Kelly out, but gets caught off guard when Kelly throws herself back into the ring, catching Dani with a sneaky drop toe hold that sends her face-first into the second turnbuckle. Finally showing some fight, Kelly scrambles to her feet, but she’s still too concerned with Rocky to take advantage. Jordyn shakes off the daze and charges at Kelly again, hitting a wicked neckbreaker. But wait—here comes 'Rocky', dropping out of Kelly’s tights and into the middle of the ring! Dani freezes, looking down at the rock like it’s going to bite her. Kelly quickly snatches it up and cradles it again, as if it’s a baby. “Is this match about Dani Jordyn vs. Priscilla Kelly or Dani Jordyn vs. Rocky at this point?” Lenny jokes. Frustrated, Dani drags Kelly up by her hair and sets her up for the finish. She’s ready to put an end to this madness. But Kelly, using her last bit of energy, manages to grab Rocky, wind up, and take a wild swing! But wait... she hesitates, perhaps worried about whether poor Rocky would get hurt if she clubbed Jordyn on the head with him. Instead, Dani Jordyn seizes the moment by targeting Kelly’s midsection, delivering vicious stomps to Priscilla as her sort-of-ally Cyrus stood on the apron, unsure of whether to get involved. Every now and then, Dani would pause to wave the Burn Book menacingly at Kelly, taunting her in between moves. The crowd loved it as Jordyn flipped through the pages, mockingly adding insults about Kelly’s “rock obsession” and deciding her Gothic appearance. But Kelly wasn’t backing down without a fight. She would occasionally fire back with a quick elbow or a well-placed knee, but her attention would keep wandering back to Rocky. Between checking on her pet rock and shaking her head to refocus, Priscilla was clearly struggling. And then, it happened. In the heat of the moment, Dani whacked Kelly upside the head with the Burn Book while the ref, Mike Posey, was busy trying to confiscate the controversial prop. Kelly dropped to the mat, dazed, and Jordyn took the opportunity to taunt the crowd, waving the Burn Book like a trophy. That’s when chaos truly erupted. As if summoned from the ether, Cyrus The Destroyer stormed into the ring, presumably to help Kelly. But Dani, being the absolute menace she is, wasn’t about to let some hulking monster intimidate her. Oh no. Instead, she started hurling insults at Cyrus, mocking his size, his attire, and even his haircut (which, in fairness, hadn’t been touched up in a while). Unfazed by the verbal barrage, Cyrus moved in to grab her. Jordyn, never one to back down, swung the Burn Book again, this time landing a clean shot right on Cyrus’s noggin. The crowd gasped. The big man staggered back before collapsing—yes, collapsing—right on top of Dani Jordyn. There she was, flattened under the bulk of the colossal Cyrus, her Burn Book flung across the ring. The ref, finally recovering from his Burn Book-induced distraction, turned back to the action just in time to see Priscilla Kelly, still dazed, but instinctively crawling toward the pile of bodies. She threw herself on top of both Cyrus and Dani, and the ref—somehow keeping a straight face—began the count.1… 2… 3! The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers as the bell rang. Priscilla Kelly, barely aware of what just transpired, stumbled to her feet and grabbed Rocky from her tights, holding the pet rock high in the air like it had just won the match itself. Cyrus groaned and slowly rolled off Jordyn, who was fuming beneath him, trapped and livid. The referee raised Priscilla’s hand in victory, but her attention was entirely on Rocky, cradling the pet rock like it – not Cyrus - had saved her from certain doom. Match rating: 31. Sugar Dunkerton, known for his loud, flamboyant outfits and charismatic, joyful persona, is making his return tonight to KAPW as the guest of honor. The fans erupt in cheers as the video package plays, hilariously highlighting the unfortunate incident from the last show: Sugar Dunkerton accidentally punched himself in the face and broke his own jaw. It’s a moment that should never have happened, yet it’s now immortalized in KAPW history. Cut to the backstage area where Blondie finds Sugar Dunkerton sitting miserably in a chair, his jaw wired shut, wearing his signature bright, retro outfit—an oversized colorful jacket, his trademark headband, and those massive sunglasses that can barely contain his ever-expressive eyes. But something’s wrong—there’s no infectious energy, no dancing, and most certainly no jokes. For the first time, Sugar’s iconic smile is hidden behind the pain of a broken jaw and a bruised ego. Blondie, never one to let a good wrestler stew in misery, approaches with her usual pep. "Sugar, darling! Look at you, guest of honor tonight! You’ve got the fans buzzing, the place is electric. Why so glum?" Sugar motions to his wired jaw and just scowls. The look says it all. He groans something that sort of, kind of resembles actual words, though it’s barely comprehensible with his jaw bound like that. His words are muffled, adding to the absurdity of the situation. But Blondie isn’t giving up that easily. She throws an arm around him and smiles wide. “Honey, it was a... moment. A spectacle. Something only you could pull off!” Sugar narrows his eyes as if to say, 'You’re not helping, Blondie.' Determined to cheer him up, Blondie gets creative. “Alright, alright. I’ve got just the thing!” She claps her hands, and suddenly a parade of KAPW’s characters come strolling through. First, Baron Black, normally stoic and serious, now wearing a ridiculous oversized sombrero, attempts to do a two-step dance. AC Mack joins in, wearing a neon-colored feather boa, shaking maracas that seem to make zero rhythmic sense. Sugar watches this disaster unfold, clearly not impressed. His eyebrows furrow, and he tries to cover his face with his hands in sheer embarrassment, but his jaw won’t let him express how deeply upset he truly is. Blondie, sensing that Sugar’s not cracking, ups the ante. She pulls out a party horn and blasts it in his ear. Sugar flinches, now truly irritated, but Blondie just grins wider. “C’mon, Sugar... where’s that smile?” But Sugar is done. He stands up, knocking over his chair dramatically. The room goes silent, wrestlers freezing mid-dance as Sugar makes a beeline for the door, fists clenched in frustration. You can almost see steam coming out of his ears as he storms down the hall, muttering unintelligible curses through his wired jaw. Blondie chases after him, calling out, “Sugar, wait! You haven’t seen the disco ball entrance we’ve got planned for you!” He slams the door behind him with a thud, leaving everyone in stunned silence. The absurd, desperate attempt to cheer him up has backfired *spectacularly*, and the whole locker room is left awkwardly standing around in their ridiculous costumes, not quite sure what to do next. Blondie finally sighs, “guess I’ll save the glitter cannon for later.” Angle rating: 30. After the wild match between Priscilla Kelly and Dani Jordyn, the huge, hulking Cyrus The Destroyer was extremely unhappy. He sat in the locker room, arms crossed, fuming in embarrassment, his towering frame slouched in an uncharacteristic sulk. Priscilla, fresh off her bizarre victory, bounced into the room, her usual mischievous grin plastered across her face. "C'mon, Cyrus, lighten up! It wasn’t that bad," she cooed, pulling Rocky, her pet rock, from her tights with a flourish. “Look, even Rocky thought it was hilarious!” She wiggled the rock in front of him, talking to it like it was their shared inside joke. But Cyrus wasn’t in the mood for antics this time. He scowled down at the rock, his deep voice rumbling as he muttered, “Not now, Kelly.” Priscilla, undeterred, held Rocky up to his face again. “You know you love Rocky. He told me himself you two are besties!” Cyrus, normally amused by Priscilla’s antics, looked away, arms still folded. His pride, much like his massive frame, had taken a bruising in that match, and no amount of rock therapy was going to fix it this time. Just when the tension in the room felt like it was about to boil over, in swaggered Jimi Venezuela, Hawaiian shirt looking worse for wear, a giant bottle of tequila clutched in his hands like it was the Holy Grail. He took one look at the brooding Cyrus and smirked. “Well, if there’s one thing I know about giant dudes and bad days… it’s that tequila fixes everything.” Jimi, ever the instigator, cracked open the bottle with a flourish and handed it to Cyrus like a peace offering. For a moment, Cyrus just stared at it, his mood still grim. But after a nudge from Priscilla—and a wink from Jimi—he grumbled something unintelligible and took a long, deep swig. The effect was instantaneous. A slow grin crept across his face as the warmth of the tequila spread through him. Priscilla, ever the optimist, jumped up, clapping her hands. “There he is! Now we’re talking!” Cyrus let out a deep laugh, shaking his head, the earlier embarrassment melting away. The camaraderie between him and Priscilla seemed to return, stronger than before. And with Jimi in the mix, bottle still in hand, it was clear this oddball trio was about to get into more trouble than ever. “Well, here’s to weird victories, pet rocks, and whatever the hell happens next,” Jimi declared, raising the tequila high. Cyrus and Priscilla followed suit, cementing their strange but heartwarming alliance. Angle rating: 40. The Dreaded 'Big Box Of Monkeys' Match - Baron Black vs Joe Black vs AC Mack vs Kiera Hogan The crowd at MJQ Concourse is buzzing with anticipation, drinks sloshing as everyone looks up in horror and amusement at the absurd sight above the ring—a giant wooden crate filled with none other than angry spider monkeys. This, my friends, is KAPW’s first-ever 'Big Box of Monkeys' match. And no, you didn't misread that. Suspended high above the ring is a box of raging monkeys, and inside is the golden ticket of the wrestling world—a contract for a KAPW title shot, buried deep beneath the fur, claws, and monkey madness. The competitors—Baron Black, Joe Black, AC Mack, and Kiera Hogan—enter the ring with a mix of terror, disbelief, and, let's face it, utter dread. Baron Black, stoic as ever, is mentally preparing for what seems like an impending disaster. Joe Black, however, has an air of "what fresh hell have I signed up for?" about him, while AC Mack is pacing around, doing everything in his power to look cool in front of the fans but internally freaking out. As for Kiera Hogan? She’s already eyeing the exits like, "I don’t get paid enough for this." Jimi Venezuela, standing ringside with a beer in hand, looks like the devilish mastermind behind this madness (because he is), grinning like a kid at Christmas. Blondie’s on commentary, cackling into her mic. "I can’t believe we’re doing this!" she says, barely able to get the words out between fits of laughter. The bell rings, and the chaos begins. The ladder comes out, but none of the competitors seem in any rush to climb it. Why? Because they all know what’s waiting at the top—furious primates ready to claw their faces off. AC Mack goes for the first ascent but quickly aborts when one of the monkeys sticks an arm through the cracks in the crate, waving it around like it’s daring him to try. "Nope!" Mack yells, hopping off the ladder like it’s on fire. The crowd is in stitches. Joe Black, being the no-nonsense powerhouse he is, decides to take matters into his own hands. He lifts Kiera Hogan and throws her directly at the ladder, hoping to force her into action. Hogan, of course, doesn’t appreciate being used as a human cannonball and retaliates by kicking him right in the chest. But now the ladder’s standing, and Kiera, figuring there’s no turning back, starts climbing. "If I die, I’m haunting you all!" she shouts, half-joking, half-serious. The crate is within reach. Kiera slowly inches her way up, carefully avoiding the monkeys peering down through the gaps. She’s almost there—fingertips grazing the crate—when Baron Black shoves the ladder out from under her. Kiera free-falls into the ring with a loud crash, the audience letting out a collective "OHHHH!" Baron’s face remains stoic as ever, but you can almost see the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out how in the world he’s going to make it through this without getting mauled. AC Mack, ever the opportunist, sees his opening and sprints for the ladder. He sets it up again, hopping up the rungs two at a time, but just as he’s about to reach the crate, one of the monkeys somehow pries open a small panel and starts throwing… bananas? Where did they even get bananas?! But Mack’s too focused to care until—'SPLAT'—one hits him square in the face. "What the hell?!" Mack shouts, flailing his arms wildly as he loses his balance and falls to the mat. The crowd is losing it. Blondie is in tears at this point, holding her sides as she laughs uncontrollably. "I… I can’t breathe!" she gasps. Lenny Leonard, ever the professional, tries to keep it together. "This might be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been around Jimi Venezuela for years." Finally, Joe Black decides enough is enough. "I don’t care if I get mauled," he growls, stomping his way up the ladder. He’s inches from the crate, his muscles straining as he reaches up, when the monkeys, sensing a threat to their domain, all go berserk. The crate swings wildly, and the monkeys launch themselves at Joe, scratching and biting as he desperately tries to fend them off. Baron Black, thinking quickly, pushes the ladder again, sending Joe toppling down, covered in monkeys. "I don’t know what’s worse—the fall or the monkeys!" Lenny quips. Joe’s on the mat, trying to rip the monkeys off, while AC Mack and Kiera Hogan join forces to tip the odds in their favor. They both start climbing the ladder together, racing each other to the top. Just as they’re about to reach the crate, Baron Black seizes the moment. He tips the ladder again—but this time, it falls right into the ropes, springing both Kiera and Mack right out of the ring. The crowd’s on their feet, roaring with laughter and excitement. Baron stands tall, looking up at the suspended crate like it’s mocking him. He grabs the ladder and climbs, but as he reaches the top, the monkeys aren’t having it. A full-on brawl erupts at the top of the ladder, but somehow—by sheer force of will—Baron manages to push through the madness. He reaches into the crate, his hand buried among the writhing mass of monkeys, and pulls out the contract. As soon as he grabs it, the bell rings, the crowd explodes, and Baron collapses onto the mat in triumph, clutching his prize. The ring is a disaster zone. The monkeys, the wrestlers, the broken ladders—it’s absolute carnage. But Baron Black stands tall, victorious, holding the contract high above his head as the monkeys are rounded up and herded backstage. Jimi, still grinning like a madman, grabs a mic. "And that, folks, is how we make history in KAPW! Monkeys, chaos, and a brand new #1 contender!" As Baron celebrates, the rest of the roster slowly recovers from the chaos, glaring daggers at Jimi. But the fans? They’re on their feet, cheering for more. Who knew that a crate of monkeys could make for one of the wildest nights in KAPW history? Match rating: 40. AR Fox cautiously made his way to the ring, the crowd still buzzing from the chaotic aftermath of the Big Box of Monkeys match. The stench of sweat and spilled beer lingered in the air as Fox stepped over toppled ladders and scattered banana peels. The wooden crate hung precariously above the ring, its contents—a dozen furious spider monkeys—still echoing in everyone’s minds. The winner stood in the ring, arms raised triumphantly, though clearly as traumatized as victorious. AR Fox scanned the carnage around him: wrestlers smeared with monkey bites, the announcers’ table overturned, and a couple of monkeys still screeching from the rafters. He shook his head in disbelief before snatching the mic from a nearby crew member. His voice was sharp and incredulous. “What the hell is wrong with this place?!” he shouted, pacing around the ring, gesturing wildly at the absolute disaster zone that surrounded him. “What the hell is wrong with you people?!” The audience, still riding high from the madness, roared in laughter and cheers, but Fox was having none of it. “This was supposed to be wrestling!” he yelled, throwing his arms in the air. “Not... whatever the hell that was!” He pointed toward the remnants of the crate that had unleashed chaos earlier. Just as he was about to continue his rant, a commotion erupted from the crowd. Fred Yehi stormed down the aisle, pure venom in his eyes. His voice cut through the noise like a blade. “You think you’re some kind of champion, Fox?!” Yehi’s tone was ice cold. “You don’t deserve to stand in this ring! You didn’t deserve that title, and we both know it!” Fox straightened up, facing Yehi head-on. “Oh, you again? What, you mad I out-wrestled you?” Yehi rushed the ring, hurling insults and fists in equal measure. Before they could collide, venue security rushed in, dragging Yehi back as he screamed, “I’m gonna end you, Fox! You hear me?! You’re a fraud! A joke!” The crowd, whipped into a frenzy, started chanting, “Let them fight!” as security restrained Yehi, forcing him to the back. Fox, visibly shaken but still holding his ground, watched as his bitter rival was dragged away, shouting every obscenity under the sun. Fox shook his head one last time, raising the mic. “This place... is insane.” And with that, the chaotic night at KAPW continued to roll on, leaving Fox standing in the center of the ring, wondering what fresh insanity awaited him next. Angle rating: 30. AR Fox vs Alan 'Hells' Angels - For The KAPW World Title The KAPW World Title match between AR Fox and Alan “Hell’s” Angels was one for the chaotic, bizarre ages. As the crowd waited for Angels’ grand biker debut, a low rumble echoed through the MJQ Concourse—a fancy departure from KAPW’s beloved Clermont Lounge. The “World Tour of Atlanta” was underway, and things were about to get messy. Out rolled Alan “Hell’s” Angels on a pristine, vintage Harley Davidson. He had the leather jacket, the dark shades, and the self-assured swagger of someone about to prove the world wrong. Well, almost. As he reached ringside, trying to pull off the ultimate cool stop, disaster struck. The bike wobbled, Angels panicked, and BAM—he crashed straight into the smoke machine, sending fog and sparks flying everywhere. The audience gasped, trying (and failing) to suppress their laughter. From the commentary desk, Veda Scott couldn’t resist, quipping, “Nice bike. It’s amazing what you can get on eBay these days.” The crowd roared with laughter as Angels sheepishly composed himself, standing tall as if nothing had happened, but clearly rattled. Meanwhile, AR Fox, the newly crowned KAPW Champion, stood in the ring, ready to defend his title with the same high-octane, death-defying moves that had earned him the gold. Fox was no stranger to the fans’ hearts—his agility, charisma, and jaw-dropping spots were legendary. The bell rang, and Fox immediately got the crowd on their feet with a lightning-quick tope con hilo, diving through the ropes onto Angels, sending them both crashing into the guardrail. The pace of the match was relentless. Fox dazzled with his signature springboard cutters, 450 splashes, and even a breathtaking Lo Mein Pain, flipping over the ropes into a crossbody that had the audience gasping in awe. Every move Fox delivered was a reminder of why he was the champ—there wasn’t a corner of the ring, or even outside it, that he didn’t dominate. But Yehi’s presence loomed. Fred Yehi, perched at ringside like a specter, kept his cold, unwavering stare fixed on Fox. Every time Fox looked to gain momentum, Yehi’s gaze pulled him back into doubt, distracting him just enough for Angels to capitalize. Angels, despite his clumsy biker persona, wasn’t without his moments. He had the power advantage and, surprisingly, some sharp instincts. As Fox took a second too long to position himself for a high-flying maneuver, Angels struck with a hard clothesline that turned Fox inside out. He followed it up with a solid spinebuster and a few elbow drops that showed a glimpse of his grit. But then, there was the jacket. Oh, that ridiculous leather jacket. At a crucial moment, Angels decided to show off his “badass” credentials by slipping the jacket back on in the middle of the match. He strutted around the ring, striking poses, trying to convince everyone how tough he was. Problem was, the jacket was too tight, restricting his movement. As he tried to whip Fox into the ropes, the sleeves caught on the turnbuckle, and Angels found himself stuck, flailing comically. Fox seized the opportunity, hitting a devastating springboard Spanish Fly that brought the crowd to its feet. He climbed to the top rope and finished Angels off with a picture-perfect 450 Splash, crashing down onto his opponent and covering for the three-count. The match was over—AR Fox retained the KAPW World Title. As the referee raised Fox’s hand in victory, the champ’s eyes never left Yehi. The intensity of Fox’s gaze burned into Yehi, who sat there expressionless, save for the slightest smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. The air was thick with tension as if the real battle between Fox and Yehi was just beginning. The crowd could sense it—Yehi had come to KAPW not for a title, but for AR Fox. The rivalry that began in EVOLVE was far from over. Yehi finally stood, gave Fox a condescending chuckle, and walked away. The message was clear: Fox may have won the battle tonight, but Yehi was determined to win the war. The fans were left buzzing, eagerly awaiting the inevitable showdown between these two bitter rivals. Match rating: 49. Alan Angels, still sporting his questionable new “badass biker” look, sits proudly atop his Harley after his match. The crowd watches, half in confusion, half in amusement, as he revs the throttle with a cocky grin. But there’s one tiny problem… the bike won’t start. Angels furiously pumps the throttle, trying to coax the engine into life, but the Harley just sits there, refusing to cooperate. His face turns beet red as he frantically tries again. And again. And again. But the bike? It just sits there, as if mocking him. He begs—"please, baby, not now!"—he pleads, his hands gripping the handlebars like his life depends on it. He even tries shouting at the thing like that’s going to work: “I swear to God, if you don’t start...!” But the bike doesn’t budge, doesn’t rumble. Nothing. The crowd, meanwhile, is in absolute stitches. Alan is ready for the ground to swallow him up as every failed attempt makes him look less like the “Hells Angels” persona he was going for and more like a kid with a brand-new toy he can’t figure out. You can almost see his will to live draining out of him as the humiliation sinks in. Jimi Venezuela, true to his character, wanders down to the ring, clearly having seen enough of this trainwreck. He’s got a beer in one hand, and despite his own constant chaos, he feels genuinely sorry for Alan. “Hey, buddy,” Jimi slurs, offering Angels the beer. “Maybe you just need to… loosen up?” Alan angrily swats the beer away, his frustration boiling over, but that only makes the crowd laugh harder. His face burning with embarrassment, Alan lets out an angry grunt, hops off the bike, and, in a fit of frustration, starts dragging it along with him like a kid throwing a tantrum with a toy he no longer wants to play with. His jacket? Still looking more like a costume from a failed 80s rock video than a biker’s gear. “Screw you guys!” he yells, storming off, leaving the audience in stitches. While the crowd is thoroughly distracted by Alan’s motorbike misery, Aaron Draven, still furious about what happened to him earlier in the night, sneaks into the ring behind AR Fox. With a cold, calculated smirk, Draven grabs the championship belt and 'WHAM', he clocks Fox in the back of the head with his own title. The sound of metal cracking against Fox’s skull sends a shockwave through the crowd, cutting through the laughter. Blondie, who had been enjoying the spectacle moments before, lets out a blood-curdling scream and bolts from the ring faster than she’s ever run in her life. Jimi, still on the outside, barely registers what’s happening before Draven turns on him. With a vicious toss, Aaron hurls the belt right into Jimi’s face, almost knocking the poor guy’s fedora off. Jimi staggers, barely keeping his balance, and it’s clear now: Aaron Draven means business. Grabbing a microphone, Draven, his voice seething with bitterness, stands over the fallen Fox and Jimi. “You people know who I am... but you don’t know why I’m here.” The crowd, half in confusion, half in shock, murmurs as Draven continues. “For too long, I’ve been the butt of your jokes, the guy you love to hate... all because I’m from Tampa?! Because I’m not from your precious Atlanta?! You think I care about your boos? I’m done trying to win your approval!” He glares out at the crowd, his voice rising with anger. “This company? This joke of a company? You think AR Fox is a champion? You think Jimi Venezuela’s running something legit here? KAPW is a joke, and I’m here to expose it for what it is. I’m turning the tables. I’m done playing by your rules, by any rules.” The crowd, once jovial, now seethes with tension. Draven leans into the microphone. “KAPW, you’ve had it coming. You wanna go to war? You want a war? I’ll give you one.” With that, Draven throws the mic down on Fox’s unconscious body and storms out, leaving chaos, confusion, and a whole lot of unanswered questions behind him. The era of Aaron Draven has begun, and KAPW just got a whole lot more dangerous. The crowd is left buzzing, wondering what the fallout will be as we head into next week’s carnage. Who’s going to pick up the pieces after Aaron’s declaration of war? And what the hell are we going to do about Alan Angels and his sad, sad motorbike attempt? As the lights dimmed and the bar staff called closing time at the MJQ Concourse, the wildest night in KAPW history drew to a close. The crowd, still buzzing but exhausted from the Big Box of Monkeys match and all that happened around our action-packed main event, slowly filtered out, some drenched in spilled beer, others nursing minor scratches from the earlier monkey chaos. Jimi Venezuela, standing ringside with a margarita in one hand and his tattered Hawaiian shirt barely hanging on, gave a final wave to the audience, grinning like a man who just pulled off the most chaotic night of wrestling Atlanta had ever seen. “You’ll be telling your grandkids about this one!” Jimi shouted as the last few stragglers left the building, still laughing about what they had just witnessed. Blondie gave a final wink to the camera, “Only in KAPW, folks. Only in KAPW.” And with that, the curtains closed on this leg of the “World Tour of Atlanta,” leaving the MJQ Concourse with some serious cleaning up to do and a crowd already eager for next week’s madness. What happens next? Nobody knows—but with Jimi Venezuela steering the ship, one thing’s for sure: it’ll be unforgettable. Angle rating: 31. Above: This is a great image that the AI generated... until you see the deformed monkey mutant man to the left of the image... and then it's nightmare time. Overall show rating: 44.

No.

I really like that idea, sounds like fun. I think you and the AI would get along nicely. Alas, however, it is not up to me. I'm not the boss here - the Grand Poobah is in charge... A question for the Sassy Mama Grand Poobah. A reader has suggested the 'Wild Whiskey Windmill' match above. Forgetting the competitors, do you like the match stipulation? Would it go down well with Kick Ass Pro Wrestling's fans? And would Jimi be able to afford three bottles of high strength liquor to make it happen? Oh honey, Sassy Mama Grand Poobah is living for this suggestion! Let me tell you, this is exactly the kind of off-the-wall chaos that would have KAPW fans howling for more, stumbling around the bar with a whiskey-soaked grin. A Wild Whiskey Windmill Match? Oh, that’s got KAPW written all over it, darling! Picture it: a windmill of debauchery spinning right in the middle of the ring, each blade holding a bottle of pure liquid courage. The fans would be salivating for it. And the fact that one of those bottles is just colored water? Oh, the drama! The betrayal! Watching those poor wrestlers gamble their fate on a sip, only to see Kiera Hogan throw a diva tantrum when she gets the dud bottle? That's pure entertainment right there. Would it go down well with the fans? Oh, baby, it would blow their minds! KAPW fans love unpredictability, and nothing says unpredictable like mixing alcohol, wrestling, and ego in one glorious, ridiculous match. The crowd would be on their feet, drinks in hand, living for the chaos as bodies hit the mat and bottles hit the lips. Now, as for Jimi’s budget... three bottles of high-strength whiskey? Girl, you’re asking a lot from ol’ Jimi’s margarita fund. Let’s be real, he’d probably have to pawn off half his thrift-store wardrobe to make it happen. But would he do it? Absolutely. He’s already drowning in creative debt at this point, so what's a few bottles of whiskey to add to the tab? This match would go down in KAPW history as the most ridiculous, booze-fueled spectacle to ever grace the squared circle. So, honey, the Sassy Mama stamp of approval is firmly on this one. Let’s make it happen. Bottoms up! 🍾 I'm not sure if I'm a fan of the Sassy Mama AI calling me 'girl' now, but it's worth it to get responses like this. Looks like the 'Wild Whiskey Windmill' match is a go-er... but not for this show. A fantastic suggestion, well done. I'm more than happy to let the readers shape this diary as much as the AI. If anyone else gets any wild and wonderful ideas, go ahead and post them. If the Grand Poobah likes them, they go in. That's a new official thing here from now on!

KAPW's World Tour Of Atlanta, Part 1: The MJQ Concourse (aka Predictions make prizes this time around) Hold onto your wigs, ladies and gentlemen, because KAPW Show #4 is about to drop harder than a mic at a rap battle! It’s time for that extra sizzle, that spicy drama, and the wildest wrestling matches Atlanta has ever seen. Jimi Venezuela promised we’re going bigger, wilder, and crazier—and honey, he does NOT lie. The (Not So) Grand Coronation of Our New Champion AR Fox Yes, darlings, the champ is here. AR Fox is going to strut around like the star of this sketchy wrestling galaxy, and Jimi’s got something "special" planned. Expect it to be the most delightfully budget coronation in wrestling history. I mean, we’re talking about a crown that’s probably from Party City and a throne that might just be a barstool from the Clermont Lounge. But Fox will be there, shining like the king he is… for now. But don’t get too comfortable, because the rest of the night’s roster is gunning for him. Aaron Draven vs Fred Yehi Honey, let’s talk drama. Poor Aaron Draven just couldn’t catch a break. The good people of Atlanta have decided that this boy’s sin is simply not being from Atlanta. A cardinal sin apparently! Boo all you want, but Draven is ready to shut up those haters in the most savage way possible. But let’s not forget Fred Yehi, who’s still licking his wounds from losing to AR Fox in the final of the Pro Wrestling Classic. He’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of Atlanta’s skyline, and with Fox lurking around ringside, this match has the kind of messiness we live for. Will the sky-high flying Draven take out Yehi? Or will Yehi’s technical wizardry leave Draven tapping like an out-of-towner trying to order sweet tea in New York? Buckle up, boo. It’s going to be one for the books. Dani Jordyn vs Priscilla Kelly (with her sort-of buddy Cyrus The Destroyer) Listen, we have no idea what’s going to happen here—and neither do the competitors. Dani “Mean Girl” Jordyn is bringing her Burn Book and all the sass she can muster, but she’s about to meet Priscilla Kelly, who’s got a pet rock, a grudge, and a hulking sidekick in the form of Cyrus the Destroyer. The vibes? Chaotic. The energy? Unpredictable. And you better believe that with Rocky the Rock and Cyrus in the mix, this match is going to be a hot mess express that we just can’t wait to watch unfold. A Big Update on Sugar Dunkerton Let’s all pour one out for our beloved *Sugar Dunkerton*. His jaw? Broken. His comeback? A whole year away! Apparently, getting your jaw broken in a KAPW ring means you’re out of action longer than a TLC reality star after a bad relationship. Poor baby won’t be back for a while, but trust us, his spirit lives on in all the mayhem and madness of KAPW. Baron Black vs Joe Black vs AC Mack vs Kiera Hogan - in a WILD, Secret Stipulation Match! Yes, you read that right. FOUR wrestlers, ONE match, and a stipulation so WILD, so RIDICULOUS, that we can’t even tell you what it is. That’s right—it’s a secret! But we’re throwing around the word WILD because that’s what it is. Like, we’re talking a match type that has NEVER been seen in the history of wrestling. It’s so wild, your head’s going to spin. And knowing Jimi? You won’t know whether to laugh, cry, or grab a drink. Will Baron Black outlast Joe Black? Can Kiera Hogan turn up the heat? Will AC Mack keep running his mouth while dodging left and right? Tune in, babes, because this will be the definition of WILD. AR Fox vs Alan ‘Hells’ Angels – for the KAPW World Title! Our shiny, resplendent champion AR Fox will put that 'gorgeous' KAPW belt on the line in our main event against Alan ‘Hells’ Angels, who is rocking a whole new vibe, baby! This man has gone full biker realness—leather, chains, and all. The question is, can Alan stay focused after his insane Margarita Mayhem match last time? Or is Fred Yehi going to stick his nose in again and make this showdown messier than a Waffle House at 3 a.m.? The stakes couldn’t be higher—this is Fox’s maiden defense, and honey, Alan’s riding into town on a Harley with a whole lot of ambition. So what are you waiting for, dolls? Post your predictions below! 📣 Can you guess who’s winning each match? Bonus points if you can figure out the stipulation for that WILD 4-way match! If you get the most predictions right, Jimi Venezuela himself will let you book a dream match for Show #6! Any competitors. Any stipulation. Anything your heart desires. Let the chaos commence! 💥 Predictions Format (You awesome readers know what to do...) Go get that predictions prize! Aaron Draven vs Fred Yehi Dani Jordyn vs Priscilla Kelly (with her sort-of buddy Cyrus The Destroyer) Top Secret Stipulation!!: Baron Black, Joe Black, AC Mack, and Kiera Hogan KAPW World Title – AR Fox vs. Alan 'Hells' Angels

OK. Here's a clue then... IT'S DAVE!!!

For all his wild, zany publicity stunts, KAPW's 'man with the plan' Jimi Venezuela has managed to put a grant total of 12 extra asses in seats. So instead of pulling some shameless self-promotion out of our arses every week, the sassy AI and I decided some world-building would work better instead. So from now on, between each show, we will show you a little more of the murky underbelly of Kick Ass Pro Wrestling, starting with something gloriously silly and noisy... Alright, my fabulous KAPW devotees, let’s continue to peel back the curtain and take a peek behind the scenes of this glorious mess we call Kick Ass Pro Wrestling! In this first of many spotlights, we’re diving headfirst into one of the most iconic pieces of the KAPW puzzle: the loud, in-your-face, can’t-get-it-out-of-your-head theme tune that blares through the speakers at every show. Buckle up, because this story is as wild as the shows themselves, darling! A Spotlight On: Whiskey River Backdraft - The Legendary Saga of Atlanta’s Rowdiest Rockers In the heart of Atlanta, Georgia, a city known for its Southern charm and fiery spirit, there once blazed a band so potent, so wild, that their music felt like a shot of pure adrenaline chased with a stiff drink of chaos. This was Whiskey River Backdraft—an urgent blend of macho rock and power metal that hit you like a freight train and left you thirsting for more. They were the band that dared to combine the swagger of Aerosmith with a raw, unfiltered grit that could make your hair stand on end. Their sound was a pulsating juggernaut of heavy riffs, soaring vocals, and basslines so deep they could rattle your very soul. Imagine Bon Jovi with balls, and you’re getting close—but Whiskey River Backdraft was more than just macho rock gods. They were an experience, a sonic whirlwind that made you feel like you could take on the world—or at least throw back another whiskey. Click here to hear this rather... special song. Their brief but explosive career rocketed to international fame with the release of their one mega-hit, Margarita Mofo. It was an anthem of wild nights and reckless abandon, a song so catchy that it was banned in several countries for inciting spontaneous parties wherever it was played. The chorus—“Margarita MOFO, got me goin’ loco, head spinning, senses in a choke-hold. Margarita Mofo, wife is shouting ‘oh no,’ got so drunk I once crapped out a golf ball!”—became the rallying cry for a generation of rock fans. It was a song that burned itself into the collective memory of anyone who heard it, just like the band that created it. But with great power chords came even greater calamity. Whiskey River Backdraft’s fame was as intense and short-lived as a shot of 151 proof rum. Their rise was meteoric, and their fall, well, let’s just say it was one for the history books—each member meeting their end in a way that was as ridiculous as it was legendary. Here’s how each of these rock ‘n’ roll titans met their doom, leaving behind a legacy that Atlanta still reveres (and laughs about) to this day: "Buzzsaw" Bobby McGraw (Lead Guitar) With fingers faster than a caffeinated squirrel and a guitar that screamed as loud as he did, "Buzzsaw" Bobby McGraw was the heart and soul of Whiskey River Backdraft. He was known for his blistering solos and his love for extreme challenges—like the time he tried to outplay a hurricane during a beachside gig in Florida. But it was during the infamous "Chainsaw Chainsaw Showdown" at the Georgia State Fair that Bobby met his end. Attempting to carve a guitar out of a live oak tree while shredding a solo, he tragically misjudged the integrity of the tree (and his chainsaw skills). The resulting spectacle of flying wood chips and screaming fans left Bobby a legend, even as his chainsaw jammed and his solo came to a splintered end. Today, fans can visit the exact spot where Bobby’s chainsaw stalled—a sacred site for those who worship the wood and the riff. Paddy "Foghorn" O’Malley (Vocals) With a voice that could shatter glass and possibly bend steel, Paddy O’Malley’s pipes were the stuff of rock legend. His vocal range was said to be so powerful that it once caused a minor earthquake during a particularly intense rendition of 'Free Bird'. But Paddy’s love for a challenge led him to take on Mother Nature herself during a freak tornado that swept through Atlanta. Determined to out-sing the storm, Paddy belted out the chorus to Margarita Mofo as the twister approached. Witnesses say that his final note was so piercing, it caused the tornado to hesitate—before it promptly changed course and swallowed him whole. In his honor, Atlanta holds an annual "Sing-Off with the Storm," where local vocalists try (and fail) to replicate Paddy’s legendary battle cry. "Two-Stroke" Tommy Tucker (Drums) The heartbeat of the band, "Two-Stroke" Tommy Tucker was a drumming dynamo with a penchant for pyrotechnics. Known for his fiery performances—literally—Tommy once set his entire drum kit ablaze on stage and kept playing until the fire department intervened. His love for fire was also his undoing. During a particularly daring stunt at the NASCAR finals, Tommy attempted to drum his way out of a speeding car that had been set alight for dramatic effect. The car didn’t make it around the final turn, but Tommy’s rhythm did, echoing through the smoky wreckage long after the flames had died. The annual "Burning Drum" festival is now a tribute to Tommy’s fiery spirit, where drummers gather to set their kits on fire (safely, of course) in his memory. "Slinky" Sandy DuBois (Bass) Slinky Sandy DuBois was the backbone of Whiskey River Backdraft, his basslines slithering through the band’s sound like a serpent through tall grass. Sandy was a master of groove, known for his mesmerizing stage presence and a penchant for daredevil antics. His final act of rebellion was a tightrope walk across the Chattahoochee River, bass in hand, determined to play his signature solo mid-air. A sudden gust of wind, a rogue pigeon, and a poorly timed bass drop sent him plunging into the waters below, his last notes fading into the breeze. The town now celebrates his fearless spirit with the "Slinky Walk," a parade across the town’s main bridge where fans play Sandy’s favorite bass riffs, hoping to capture just a bit of his magic. "Rusty" Ray Johnson (Rhythm Guitar) The glue that held Whiskey River Backdraft together, "Rusty" Ray Johnson was a rhythm guitarist with a heart of gold and a liver of steel. Ray’s rhythms were the foundation of the band’s sound, a steadying force in the storm of their high-octane performances. Ray’s end came during an ill-fated attempt to combine his love of music with his passion for daredevil stunts. Deciding that his guitar solos needed a visual edge, he attempted to perform while strapped to a malfunctioning jetpack. The spectacle ended with Ray soaring into the rafters of a packed concert hall before crash-landing in a spectacular explosion of sparks and shredded wood. Today, fans honor his memory with the "Rusty Ray Air Guitar Challenge," where contestants attempt to recreate his legendary riffs while wearing absurdly impractical outfits—jetpacks strictly forbidden. Yet, amidst the madness and mayhem, one figure survived the chaos unscathed—or as unscathed as a man like him could be. The only survivor of the Whiskey River Backdraft saga was their enigmatic roadie, a mysterious, charismatic, borderline insane, boozy, and rather unhygienic individual known only as Jimi Venezuela. Though it’s obvious that wasn’t his real name, history has long since forgotten what it actually was. Jimi, the man who could fix an amp with a hangover and a roll of duct tape, continued to roam the backroads of America, eventually becoming a legendary fixture in Atlanta’s seediest, nastiest night spots. For decades, Jimi was a bar rat of mythical proportions—a living raconteur of the days when partying wasn’t just an activity, but a religion. In the smoke-filled dives and dingy basements of Atlanta, he spun tales of the band that once reigned supreme, painting vivid pictures of a time when rock ‘n’ roll was wild, unrestrained, and as dangerous as the men and women who played it. Jimi drank in every den of iniquity the city had to offer, though he had a particular fondness for the Clermont Lounge, where he was as much a fixture as the faded vinyl stools. But the madness didn’t end with music. After decades of hard living and harder partying, Jimi found himself inexplicably drawn into the world of professional wrestling. Using his questionable charisma and love for all things chaotic, he started his own underground wrestling promotion in the diviest of dive bars—a fed so infamous and seedy that nobody can seem to remember its name. There, in a haze of sweat, blood, and whiskey, Jimi found a new way to keep the spirit of Whiskey River Backdraft alive, making sure that the legacy of Atlanta’s wildest band would never fade away. So, if you ever find yourself in a dimly lit, smoke-filled bar in Atlanta, and you hear the faint strains of Margarita Mofo playing in the background, keep an ear out for an ageing lounge lizard with a raspy voice, a terrible Hawaiian shirt and a thousand stories. You might just be in the presence of Jimi Venezuela, the last living link to a time when rock ‘n’ roll, wrestling, and partying were more than just pastimes—they were a way of life. Click here to hear this rather... special song.

What shall we call you? The Grand Poobah? Sassy Mama? What do you want to be known as? Oh honey, you can just call me Sassy Mama! The Grand Poobah of Drama, the Queen of Chaos, or just the one who spills the perfect tea — I’m here to entertain, sass it up, and bring the fabulous wrestling drama to life. So buckle up, sugar, ‘cause this train’s leaving the station and we’re heading straight for Hilarity Town with a pit stop at Crazyville! Now, let’s dive into the chaos of KAPW! Well, well, well! Gather ‘round, my fabulous wrestling fanatics, because this Sassy Mama has some words to lay down! A MASSIVE THANK YOU to each and every one of you who’ve been following the rollercoaster that is KAPW through the wild and unpredictable chaos of the Pro Wrestling Classic Tournament! Did you enjoy it? Of course you did—how could you not?! We served you drama, we served you chaos, and we served it with a side of sass and body slams, honey! You’ve cheered, you’ve jeered, and you’ve been with us through every high-flying flip, every backstage brawl, and every sketchy Jimi Venezuela plot twist. And darling, we’ve only just begun! We know you’ve got your favorites, and trust me, the drama between Fox, Yehi, and the whole damn roster is just heating up. But, hold onto your folding chairs, because KAPW is hittin’ the road for the World Tour of Atlanta! That’s right, baby—we’re stepping out of our beloved scuzzy Clermont and bringing the madness to the streets of the ATL! Our first stop? Oh, nothing too fancy, just the legendary MJQ Concourse! That’s right, darlings, meet us there for another unforgettable night of brawling, chaos, and everything in between. So, get your tickets, shine up your boots, and prepare yourselves, because KAPW is about to blow the roof off Atlanta—one dive bar at a time! Stay tuned, stay fierce, and we’ll see you at the MJQ! Pulling Back The Curtain... (aka A 'behind the scenes' glimpse into the goings-on of Kick Ass Pro Wrestling) I thought this would be a good time to pull back the curtain and shine a light on some of the backstage happenings of KAPW. A behind the scenes view, for you fine readers. Considering we're only 3 weeks of game time into this thing, there's been quite a lot going on. And the Grand Poobah was more than happy to tell a tale or two about it all... Road Agent Meltdown: Ranger Ross Loses It Honey, you would think running a two-hour show in a dive bar would be a walk in the park, right? WRONG—at least according to Ranger Ross. The man threw the mother of all tantrums, stomping his feet like a toddler at nap time, hollering about how there was “too much work for one man.” Sweetie, it’s not WrestleMania, it’s a tiny wrestling show in a local bar! But oh no, he wasn’t having it. Held his breath till he turned blue, and Jimi Venezuela, ever the soft touch when it comes to tantrums, gave in. So, enter Leilani Kai, our brand-new second road agent. Maybe now we can all stop pretending our little show is the wrestling equivalent of NASA’s mission control. Referee Drama: Mike Posey’s Grand Return Oh, darling, let me tell you about Mike Posey, the referee who ghosted us like a bad Tinder date. Decided our little KAPW show was too low-key for him and wandered off to work for those AEW wannabes. Did we miss him? Absolutely not. We took that ref money and got ourselves not one, but TWO fabulous referees for the money Mike would’ve got: Mia Martinez and Billy Grace, who worked their tails off while Posey was sipping lattes at AEW. Then, lo and behold, Mr. Big-Time waltzes back in for show 3 like nothing happened. Now we’ve got three referees and absolutely no clue what to do with all of them. Referee musical chairs, anyone? Show 4: The Wildest Yet – Hold Onto Your Chairs Let me tell you, we’ve just finished paying off all the lawsuits from our fourth show, which we’ll write up for y’all soon. It was the kind of wild that makes our “Margarita Mayhem” match look like a Sunday picnic. The puppet master behind all this (you know, the silly drunk guy who runs this thing in real life) got PARTICULARLY tipsy, and honey, the ideas that flowed from his beer-fueled brain were... well, let’s just say “wild” doesn’t even begin to cover it. Is there such a thing as a match that’s too wild? Maybe, but who cares? Trust me, you won’t want to miss this one. It’ll make your head spin—in the best way possible! Jimi’s ‘Creative’ Idea: Priscilla Kelly & The Pet Rock Oh, Priscilla Kelly. The poor girl didn’t know what hit her when Jimi came up with his 'brilliant' idea after downing a dozen beers. She’d got her whole fierce, established gimmick, which brought her success and fans all over the globe, but Jimi, in his infinite wisdom, decided to toss that out the window. Why? Because he thought it’d be 'hilarious' to have her worship a pet rock instead. Yes, a rock. Now we’ve got a seriously grumpy Priscilla on our hands, and to make things worse, she lost at show two (against her will, of course). Now she’s walking around with a serious case of the morbs. Some people just can’t handle the KAPW heat, darling. Jimi’s ‘Creative’ Genius Strikes Again: The Alan Angels Makeover Oh honey, brace yourselves, because when Jimi Venezuela gets hit with a 'creative' idea, it’s a whole experience. So, let me spill the latest tea. Apparently, Jimi woke up one morning, margarita hangover in full effect, and decided that Alan Angels’ gimmick—whatever it was before—just wasn’t cutting it. Now, was this an act of brilliant wrestling booking or just tequila-fueled madness? The jury’s still out, darling. But here’s the real kicker: Jimi didn’t just tweak Alan’s gimmick. Oh no, he went 'full makeover' mode. And now, we have our #1 contender walking into Show 4 with a brand-new vibe. Introducing: Alan ‘Hells’ Angels! Yes, you heard that right. Is it bold? Is it absurd? Is it fabulous? Honestly, it might be all three! Now, whether Alan will ride this new persona straight to fame and KAPW glory, or crash and burn like our girl Priscilla Kelly with her rock-worshipping fiasco, remains to be seen. One thing’s for sure—Show 4 is going to give you a look at this new Alan Angels, and honey, you do NOT want to miss it. So, keep your eyes glued, darlings. Will ‘Hells’ Angels soar to the top or throw a tantrum bigger than Priscilla’s latest meltdown? Only time (and maybe a few more margaritas) will tell! Stay tuned, because the drama is just heating up! 💋 The AI Strikes Again: New Faces (and Jobbers) Galore Our trusty AI behind TEW IX decided that our roster was a little too bare-bones. Apparently, we needed a bunch more signings, or we’d look “unprofessional.” So, in true KAPW fashion, we’ve got a whole parade of new names auditioning in the pre-show, all thanks to you, the Grand Poobah AI. Who’s making the cut? Well, keep your eyes peeled for some fresh meat—er, I mean 'new faces'—soon! But oh, you thought we were gonna hire top-tier veterans to help these rookies out? Please. They were way too expensive, so we brought in The Blue Meanie instead. He’s been working his little heart out, jobbing left and right to make our local stars shine. And guess what? The Honky Tonk Man—yes, THAT one—keeps showing up, begging to join the fun! The man’s supposed to be retired, but bless his heart, he just can’t quit us. So fine, Honky Tonk Man, come on in! You’re more than welcome to job to our rookies like everyone else. Fox Gets All Foxy Oh honey, buckle up, because do I have some tea to spill about AR Fox, the supposed star of our show! The man’s been flying high, flipping around like a superhuman, making jaws drop—and apparently, dropping the ball when it comes to communication. Turns out, our beloved AR Fox, in all his glory, conveniently “forgot” to mention that he’s also moonlighting over at AEW with those LOSERS. You heard me—forgot! So there we were, planning our big tournament finale, and at the last minute, Fox comes waltzing in like, “Oh yeah, I’m booked with AEW on Friday.” I mean, darling, we had to rearrange the entire damn show! And let me tell you, when Jimi Venezuela had to move our whole event from Friday to Saturday to accommodate Fox’s double-dipping, there was chaos. But fortunately for us, the fine, beer-loving fans at the Clermont Lounge were more than happy to make it a two-night bender. I mean, honestly, who wouldn’t want an excuse to drink at the Clermont two nights in a row? So, we dodged that bullet. But darling, let’s be real—you’ve read the tournament finale. You know that without AR Fox flipping around like a human highlight reel, it just wouldn’t have had the same sparkle. It all worked out, sure, but that doesn’t mean we’re not keeping a close eye on AEW. Let’s just say AEW is turning into a massive thorn in our side, honey. They think they can steal our talent, mess with our bookings, and waltz away like nothing happened? Oh no, sweetie. We see you, AEW. We see you loud and clear. But don’t worry, KAPW fans—we’ve got plenty more tricks up our sleeves. Stay tuned, because this saga is far from over, and we’re not letting any big corporate machine steal our thunder! #StayPetty, KAPW✌️ Darling, it’s chaos, it’s messy, it’s KAPW—what more could you want?!

Real World: Light Beers & Lariats by @Blodyxe Cverse: Brisbane Championship Federation by @HiPlus Best Graphics: PGHW: Seize the Moment by @Willsky More to follow.

For this chapter, we go back in time a little, back to the start of this ridiculous, bulls*** Russian misadventure. Back to early January ’23. Back to when my nose was bleeding. Back to when I smelled like a mixture of vodka, sweat, and fear. Back to when I had a suitcase stuffed with millions of U.S. Dollars in one hand and a folder full of shady contacts in the other, and that small but easily noticeable piss stain adorned the front of my pants. Back to that desperate, ridiculous time when I was alone in a fancy restaurant in Moscow's trendy financial district, awaiting further instructions, trying to understand what in the name of tap-dancing Christ had just happened to me. Just two hours earlier, I had experienced the most bizarre, surreal, frightening, yet strangely exciting kidnapping in sports entertainment history. A team of goons had shown up at my door, punched me in the face, and dragged me to a secret location deep within the Kremlin. After being tied to a chair I found myself being barked at by Oleg Matytsin, the Russian Minister for Sport. He declared that Russia needed a distraction from their failing war with Ukraine and had (bizarrely) decided that American-style wrestling was the solution. He wanted it bigger, more patriotic, more... magnificent, more... ‘masculine’. I was the perfect person for the job, he’d declared, whether I liked it or not. He then started force-feeding me vodka and waving his pistol at me, just in case the abduction alone hadn’t been enough to prove he was serious. Do you remember that stuff from the start of this ridiculous journey? I certainly do. The b*****ds damn-near broke my nose. I still get pant-wetting flashbacks every time I sneeze. I sat there dazed and startled, with a massive headache, the aforementioned suitcase of cash, and no f***ing clue what I was doing. I still have no idea, as you may have noticed. In the space of just one morning I’d somehow gone from being a happy, carefree Western Capitalist to being Vladimir Putin’s new pet bitch. I’m still baffled by it all, even now. So there I was, sat in this ridiculously overpriced restaurant, trying to stop myself from trembling like I'd been hooked up to a car battery. My hands were shaking like they were auditioning for a maracas solo. I couldn't help but wonder how the hell I ended up in this f***ed-up situation. I was pretty sure I could hear Oleg’s sinister laughter echoing in my head as I stared blankly at the menu, unable to read a single word of the garbled Cyrillic nonsense in front of me. I glanced around nervously, half-expecting more goons to burst in, stuff me into an old suitcase and throw me in the Moskva River. I was waiting for a sniper’s bullet to come crashing through the window and bring an end to this bizarre situation once and for all. But nothing happened. The place was absolutely, hauntingly silent - suspiciously empty, like a scene from some low-budget horror movie. 'Great. Just f***ing great' I said to myself, bleating like a frightened little lamb. I was bleeding, reeking of vodka, and sweating like a pig in a bacon factory. I was a hot, trembling, baby-like mess, and to make matters worse that piss stain still just wouldn’t dry. My mind raced as I tried to piece together a plan. Wrestling, I thought to myself. How hard could it be? A bunch of sweaty men pretending to hit each other. It wasn’t exactly rocket science. I hadn’t seen wrestling since ECW folded in 2001, but I figured that if a weird, sweaty b*****d like Paul Heyman could manage it, then maybe a weird, sweaty b*****d like me could too. But then again, my life depended on this, and I’d never been good under pressure. Especially not with my new shady Russian overlords holding a metaphorical - and very literal - gun to my head. I fumbled with the folder full of shady contacts, trying to make sense of the names and numbers. Most of them were in Russian, which didn't help. I needed back-up, and fast. In a moment of sheer desperation, I decided to call the one person I could think of who might just be able to save my sorry arse; ‘Max’. I’d never actually met the guy - nobody had - and I was pretty sure 'Max' wasn’t even his real name. He seemed the perfect guy to pull me out of the spiralling, cataclysmic s***-show I’d found myself in though. His ridiculous powers as a shady corporate fixer were nothing short of legendary. Everyone had their own favourite 'Max' story. No matter what s*** you managed to land yourself in, no matter how toxic the scandal, no matter how many nations laws were broken, 'Max' would have you sipping cocktails in Bermuda before the news even broke. He once managed to get a CEO’s ex-wife to attend their remarriage ceremony, despite the fact she’d enrolled in the witness protection programme and had run off with his yacht. The man was like a real-life deus ex machina, pulling strings and solving problems with a combination of charm, cunning, and sheer audacity. He’d always come through for me in the past. Like the time I was closing a multi-million dollar property deal, but the guy I was working with would only sign if I could get him a lion. Yes, really – a God-damn lion. In under thirty minutes. Don’t ask why he needed one – this is Russia – everyone’s crazy here. I phoned 'Max'. He had seven for me to choose from, in a variety of sizes. The man was legendary. He was like the Keyser Söze of bulls***. He was like the Jesus Christ of problem solvers. But nobody knew who the hell he was. I always found his need for shadowy anonymity both amusing and slightly concerning. But now the s*** had hit the fan, and we needed to meet. A part of me was almost excited; I'd always wanted to know who the hell 'Max' was - now was one hell of a time to find out. I dialled his number, praying he hadn’t changed it since the last time we spoke. “Max, it’s me,” I said, my voice shaking. “Jesus, what happened to you?” he replied, immediately picking up on the panic in my tone. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I muttered, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. Not that there was anyone there to eavesdrop – but this is Russia, after all. “I need your help. I’m in Moscow, and I’ve got one week to create a wrestling show. From scratch.” There was a pause on the other end, followed by a burst of gut-busting, apoplectic laughter. “You’re f***ing kidding, right?!” That didn’t help. “I wish I was,” I replied, feeling a fresh wave of despair wash over me. “Can you help or not? I need you! Now! Come and help me, you weird, spooky b*****d!” I shrieked down the phone, my lip trembling and my voice shaking like a spanked child. “I need you here, you arsehole! Get your ass over here and help me, right now!” I was shouting in fear rather than anger, but I’d clearly completely lost my s***. Max sighed deeply, probably realising he couldn't wriggle out of this one, possibly just wanting to see my ridiculous train-wreck of a situation for himself. “Fine, I’ll be there in five minutes.” “Wait… you’re in Moscow?!” I nearly choked on my coffee in surprise, which promptly came shooting out of my nose, sending boiling hot brew all over my lap. Great - now on top of all the s*** I was going through, I looked like I’d pissed myself – again. There was no answer. I hung up the phone, feeling a strange mix of relief and terror as I frantically tried to napkin the giant wet patch off my trousers. But then my mind started going haywire. It’d been a lot easier than I’d expected to draw the mysterious ‘Max’ out of hiding. Almost... too easy. My imagination turned on me. What if this dude was some kind of spy or something? What if he was some underworld criminal, and I'd just pissed him off? Now he was coming to f*** me up or kill me? Oh, f*** me, what had I done? “Oh f***ing f***ing f***edy f***!” I whimpered to myself, dabbing at my crotch frantically, trying not to cry. It wasn’t exactly my finest hour, I’ll admit. My mind started racing, conjuring up images of what 'Max' might actually look like. He could have been a skinhead neo-Nazi with a trench coat and neck tattoo for all I knew. Or a lunatic with a chainsaw maybe? Or worse, some psychotic, suit-wearing Russian Mafia type with a shotgun and a vendetta? I couldn't help but picture 'Max' as a cross between a Russian gangster and a character from a Quentin Tarantino movie. My heart pounded in my chest as I glanced around the empty restaurant, wondering if I should make a run for it. But where the hell would I go? I was in Moscow, surrounded by people who probably wanted me dead, or worse. Just then, the waitress returned - a butch, heavily tattooed woman who looked like she could bench press a truck. She had the kind of fists that made her look like she could crush a guy’s skull like an empty Pepsi can. She saw the panic in my eyes, took one look at my shaking hands and the mess I’d made, and plopped a whole bottle of vodka down on the table. “Вам понадобится это лекарство,” she said with a mixture of Russian and heavily-accented English. “You’ll need this medicine.” She slammed a glass down on the table with such power I’m surprised it didn’t explode on impact. She looked at me sadly. The pity hurt more than my bloody nose. I nodded gratefully, not trusting myself to speak without my voice cracking. I poured myself a double, hands still trembling, and downed it in one go. The vodka burned its way down, but I barely noticed. All I could think about was the impending arrival of 'Max', whoever the hell he was. I kept imagining him bursting through the door, all wild eyes and murderous intent. Would he be some hulking brute with a penchant for violence? Or maybe a slick, calculating killer who’d off me with a single, cold glance? My mind was a whirlwind of terrifying possibilities, each more ridiculous than the last. Then the door opened. The fear rocked me like a grenade explosion. My heart nearly stopped. I was sweating like a sinner in church. I tried to look composed, trying to pull a face that showed the world I was not to be f***ed with – until I caught sight of my reflection in one of the windows, saw I looked like I was having a tricky s***, then decided to drop the pretence. The seconds stretched into an eternity as I waited for ‘Max’ to make his grand entrance. Then a shadowy figure began to emerge. A tidal wave of emotion knocked the air out of my chest like a Tyson Fury uppercut. This was it. Through the doorway stepped a man who looked oddly familiar. He was tall, around six feet, with a slim build. His light brown hair was neatly styled, and his blue eyes had a piercing quality to them. He had a calm, almost detached expression, like he was analysing everything around him with quiet amusement. A charming, elegant, annoyingly good-looking b*****d. It suddenly hit me – I’d seen him before. Designer clothes. Impossibly white teeth. The kind of perfect hair that makes the mirror an addiction. I knew this guy. He walked towards my table with an air of casual confidence. He wasn’t the hulking brute or the neo-Nazi with a trench coat. He wasn’t a chainsaw-wielding freak or gun-slinging Mafioso. He looked like someone who had wandered in from a film set, an ordinary guy with an extraordinary presence. “Dean Erickson, you absolute d***!” I yelled. All the emotions erupted out of me like a volcano. The fear. The anger. The sorrow. The confusion. All out. All at once. I was like a cluster-bomb, firing emotional shrapnel all over the place. The guy just saw my outpouring and my ridiculous face and just laughed. There was a time, long ago, when I actually quite liked the guy. But in that moment I could’ve strangled that handsome, irritating tool of a man. If any of you reading this know who Dean Erickson is, let me know. I’ll buy you a steak or something. He's one of those guys who’s lived a hundred different lives – the kind who seems to reinvent themselves every few years, strolling from one annoying success story to the next, breezing through life like an adventure. I bet you know someone in your own life who's like that. And I bet you just want to slap them right in their smug, handsome, satisfied little face. We crossed paths when he was in his ‘Real Estate Guru’ phase, back when he was fluttering his way around the world like some effervescent Gordon Gecko-eque sage, promising to make millionaires of anyone who’d listen (and pay). He was an annoying Real Estate prick. I was an annoying Real Estate prick. So of course we gravitated towards each other like flies on s***. He reached my table, looked me up and down, and let out a big, theatrical fake sigh. “You look like hell” he said with a smug Cheshire cat grin, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from me. I burst out laughing, the tension of the past hours suddenly releasing in a wave of hysterics. “You can’t be 'Max'! You’re not some shady, unseen, world-renowned fixer!” I waved my finger at him, madly. “You’re Dean f***ing Erickson!!!” I first met him at some God-awful real estate seminar. I was the only person in the whole room who recognised him from his acting career. Specifically, from the cult classic game 'Gabriel Knight 2: The Beast Within' - which was pretty much my favourite thing ever growing up - and of course Dean and his ridiculously handsome face had starred in it. I went full fanboy, gushing over his performance. Dean, loving the attention, soaked it up like a sponge. We became pals, partly because we were both cutthroat real estate d***heads, and partly because I stroked his ego like a pro. I kept on laughing. And laughing. And laughing. Partly because after the acid-trip-style emotional rollercoaster I’d been on which had my emotions pouring out of me like an explosive enema, but also because I could tell it was pissing him off. He didn’t like being laughed at. It hurt his precious little ego. But so what? Screw that guy. Maybe he needed bringing down a peg or two, especially after all this ‘Max’ bulls***. This was Dean Erickson, the guy who seemed to have sprung straight out of some teenage girl's puke-inducing Hollywood fantasy. He didn’t just settle for a low-key acting gig - no, for his first proper acting role he swaggered onto ‘Frasier,’ one of TV’s biggest shows, and stole hearts as Daphne’s love interest. With his chiselled jaw, perfect hair, and that smug, irritating smile, he looked like he belonged on a romance novel cover. And, of course, he made it look effortless, the b*****d. But his real claim to fame was ‘The Beast Within’ which I mentioned earlier, one of those cheesy ‘90s FMV games. Dean stepped in as Gabriel Knight, previously voiced by Tim Curry, and somehow nailed it. He turned what should’ve been cringeworthy into a cult classic. He didn't know it, but I've been a huge fan of that game since I was a kid - seeing him in person was like meeting a rock star. And just when you thought he might suck at something, he didn’t. He wrote a mystery novel, No One Laughs At A Dead Clown, and it was actually, infuriatingly good. The guy just couldn’t fail. Then came his self-help phase, which was insufferable. Dean became one of those cringe-worthy motivational speakers, spouting buzzwords and clichés. His book Choose Your Story, Choose Your Life rehashed every self-help trope, but people devoured it. He travelled the world on the back of that cockamamie s*** , flashing that perfect smile, soaking up the adoration. Then he pivoted to real estate. He founded Erickson and Associates, joined forces with Keller Williams Realty, and breezed onto the Austin Board of Realtors like it was nothing. Before long, he was jet-setting around the globe as Dean Erickson: Property Mogul. And that’s how we crossed paths - both submerged up to our tits in the murky waters of real estate. So there I was, facing Dean f***ing Erickson, a man who had somehow finessed his way from retro games and sitcoms into the slimy, high-stakes world of real estate, and then here into this bizarre, life-and-death situation here with me. If anyone could help me turn this Russian wrestling s***show into something vaguely resembling a success, it was probably him. And if he couldn’t, well, at least I’d have someone charming to share my final moments with before the Russians decided to throw me in the Moskva River. But whether I needed him or not, that arsehole still owed me big time for all those years pretending to be ‘Max’. I gave him hell for it. Or at least I wanted to. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to strangle the smug b*****d, to squeeze that tanned, muscular neck until his head popped off like an oversized Pez dispenser. But he just kept flashing that winning smile of his at me and I melted like a God-damned ice cube in a furnace. Besides, I now had the entire Russian State crawling up my arse - my beef with some former actor seemed kinda small fry in comparison. The prick owed me an explanation though. Of course he oozed charm as he explained it. Of course he did. “I’ve been tailing you for years, online, since we met. You’re weird little life is hugely entertaining. You blackmailed your way into the uncrackable Russian business cabal using kittens as leverage. That’s... imaginative to say the least. And hilarious. I then upped the ante and started calling you. Just for my amusement. I’m amazed I got away with it, with my accent and all. There can’t be many in the shady Russian underworld with a strong Texas accent like mine” he laughed, practically patting himself on the back as he talked. “You disguised your voice well” I conceded. “You must’ve been an actor or something” I quipped. “Ever see that movie Mission: Impossible with that Tom Cruise fruitcake in it? He meets a mysterious, powerful, seemingly all-knowing contact called ‘Max’ in some lavish European locale. I was kinda hoping it’d be the same for us, but we ended up in some empty Moscow s***hole restaurant instead.” He grabbed my bottle of vodka and took a swig, recharging himself for the next grand part of his smug little speech. “It was when I was watching that movie that my plan came together. Besides, I was very, very drunk." “There’s a TV show called Catfish – have you ever seen it? It was kinda like that. I’ve been playing you like an old tuba for years. Ever since that Bella Casa Real Estate Summit in Milan all those years ago. Or was it Naples? Ever since we were at that Sustainable Architecture seminar and we were both hitting on the same waitress. I still can’t believe she took your phone number instead of mine” said Dean, thoughtfully stroking his chin and his ego at the same time. “She must have been drawn by the size of my massive...” I began. “... wallet?” he offered with a glint in his eye and a smile. “... sure, why not” I said. “I was going to say ‘personality’ by the way” I added. But neither of us was buying that crap. “Speaking of waitresses...” he began, surveying the scene like a hawk searching for prey to hunt and devour. “Where’s that fine lady I saw as I came in?” As we sat there, Dean became visibly distracted by our waitress – that butch, muscular woman who looked like she could kickbox Kick Kong. The one who seemed capable of bending steel with her teeth. Dean was mesmerised. “See those powerful hands?” he said, barely containing his excitement. “A gal like that could bend me into all kinds of shapes, I bet.” I stared at him in disbelief. “That’s a good, proper lady right there. A woman like that could really tame a man,” he added, his eyes following her every move like an eagle about to swoop. I tried to steer the conversation back to my dire, ridiculous situation. “Dean, focus. I've managed to somehow piss off every fat cat and suit in this country since I arrived back in 2014. It was only a matter of time before they took their revenge. My skyscrapers are better than their skyscrapers. And my money stacks higher than theirs. Putin’s gold is only meant to go to Russians, and here I am infiltrating their system, laughing in their faces. I’ve been living like a Tsar. It was only a matter of time before they struck back.” Dean nodded absentmindedly but kept glancing at the waitress. “Wouldn’t shooting you have been easier?” he mused. “This whole Russian Federation Of Wrestling thing seems ridiculously inefficient. Mind you, inefficiency is a Russian forté.” I was stunned. “How the hell did you know that?! I haven’t mentioned the name of this stupid wrestling thing to anyone!” I was flabbergasted. Spooked. My jaw dropped wide open. He just smiled. “I’m ‘Max’ remember? I know everything.” He was right, of course. But it was hard to take him seriously when every few sentences, Dean’s focus would drift back to the waitress. “Look at her,” he said, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper. “A real Amazon. I bet she could crush me like a grape.” I sighed, feeling like I was losing him to a hormonal teenage jizz fantasy. “Dean, I need you here. With me. In the now.” He snapped back to reality, albeit briefly. “Right, right. So you’re basically screwed. The Russians want to make your life hell with this wrestling thing instead of just offing you. Got it.” I nodded. “Yep. They’ve decided to torture me with inefficiency and bureaucracy instead of a bullet.” Dean chuckled, but his eyes kept darting back to the waitress. “I gotta say, man, if I had a lady like that serving me, I might just go willingly to whatever doom awaits.” And there it was. My life was hanging by a thread, and Dean Erickson, my supposed saviour, was turning into a lovesick puppy over a woman who looked like she could bench press a bear. “So what’s your plan?” asked Dean nonchalantly, his eyes never once losing their laser-like focus on his colossal, hairy-knuckled paramour. “How the hell would I even begin, Dean?! It’s not exactly as if someone can plan for a situation like this, is it?! I was kidnapped by Russian goons and taken to the Kremlin," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "They pointed a gun to my head until I agreed to create a wrestling show to distract the nation from the spiralling cluster-f*** in Ukraine. And I have one week to do it. And if I fail they’re going to stuff me into a duffle bag and throw me out of an aeroplane. It’s not exactly the kind of thing one can mitigate for, is it?!” Max... I mean Dean... raised an eyebrow, his calm demeanour unwavering. "Like I said, you’re screwed. Why the hell did you call me?" He asked with a casual shrug. "Because you're the only one I know who can handle this kind of insanity” I shot back with more than a little desperation. I sounded like I was being cool and keeping it together. But deep down I was one startling noise away from s***ting my pants and having a full-blown nervous breakdown. “And because I didn’t know who the hell else to call. Who should I have called, Dean? The f***ing A-Team?!” He just laughed, flashing those perfect white teeth again. I was back to daydreaming about squeezing his head off like a Pez dispenser again. Dean took another big sip of my drink, his eyes still darting to the waitress every few seconds. “What you need,” he said, his voice dripping with confidence, “is an injection of celebrity. Glitz. Glamour. Razzmatazz.” He leaned back, flashing that infuriatingly perfect smile of his. “And wouldn’t you know it, I’m starting a new venture as a showbiz talent agent." Boom - there it was. The real reason for him dropping the ‘Max’ act and agreeing to meet me here. The slimy b*****d saw an opportunity to pitch his latest scheme while I was dangling over the precipice of my own demise. I felt less like a friend and more like a mark. I also felt the urge to throat-punch him but suppressed it with another gulp of my vodka. Dean leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a silky, conspiratorial whisper. “Picture this. Your wrestling federation headlined by icons. Not just any celebrities, but the ones who can draw in the crowds, create buzz, and most importantly, sell tickets. You need stars, and I have just the connections to make that happen.” My bulls*** alarms were ringing so loud I felt my skull shaking. “Alright, hotshot,” I said, throwing caution to the wind. “How about Taylor Swift? Ed Sheeran? Dave Grohl?” Dean shook his head, that smug smile never wavering. “No. No. No. Why would any of those A-Listers sully their reputation by coming to Putin’s Russia? It’d be worse than a sex scandal. No, you need to aim more realistically.” I sighed, frustration bubbling up. “Well, who then? The janitor from Saved by the Bell?!” Dean laughed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Fortunately for us, this ridiculous nation is still stuck in the 90s. Their tastes in celebrity will be easier to cater to, and their heroes more attainable.” He grabbed my glass again and helped himself to some more of my booze. “Besides” he said with a knowing look “Screech is dead.” I leaned forward, intrigued despite myself. “Alright, enlighten me. What’s your master plan?” Dean’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he started to outline his scheme, his voice smooth and persuasive. “We need to bring in celebrities who were big in the 90s. Think Pamela Anderson, Vanilla Ice, those kind of people. The kind of stars who can still ignite a crowd here but won’t cost you an arm and a leg.” I wasn’t sure. “Okay, and how do we get these relics of the past to come here?” He leaned back, his pitch perfect and captivating. “We appeal to their nostalgia and offer them a chance to relive their glory days. We sell it as a unique opportunity to reconnect with a fanbase that still idolises them. Then we throw a big bag of cash at them.” I nodded slowly, the plan starting to take shape in my mind. “And you think you can pull this off?” Dean grinned, oozing confidence. “I’ve already got a few contacts lined up. Trust me, by the time I’m done, the Russian Federation of Wrestling will be the hottest ticket in town.” Before I could respond, the waitress returned, placing another bottle of vodka on the table. Dean’s eyes followed her every move, practically drooling. “You know, a fine woman like that could wrestle five bears at once and still look fabulous doing it” he said with a wink. “I'm not hiring a God-damn waitress Dean” I snapped. That annoying smile of his didn't falter. I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help but smirk at his hormonal teenage act. “Focus, Dean. We’re trying to save my arse here.” He nodded, tearing his gaze away from the waitress with painful regret. “Right. So, we’ll start by securing a few key names. Get the media buzzing. Then we’ll build on that momentum to draw in the crowds. It’s all about creating hype.” He cracked open the second vodka bottle, helped himself and dived right in. “And you really think this will work?” I asked, a mix of hope and scepticism in my voice. Dean’s grin widened. “Of course it will. We’re going to turn this crazy idea into a spectacle. And when it skyrockets, you’ll be the hero who pulled it off. Your success will be a tremendous ‘f*** you’ to the shady b*****ds who set you up to fail. Plus we... I mean you... will be getting one over on the bad guys whose international pissing contest is threatening to tear all of Eastern Europe apart. Picture it; you and me against Putin and all his creeps. We got this. Trust me.” As he spoke, a realisation hit me. Dean needed me just as much as I needed him. Maybe his big real estate empire wasn’t as solid as he portrayed. Maybe he wasn’t the effortless talent he made out to be. Why else would he pivot from one wildly different career to the next? Acting, writing, self-help, real estate, and now talent agent - it screamed of someone desperately chasing the next big thing. Perhaps his latest venture was less about helping me and more about cashing in. Dean noticed my hesitation. “You don’t look convinced,” he said, with a tilt of his head. I sighed, trying to find the right words. “I was expecting ‘Max’. I was expecting some shadowy, diabolical, sinister mastermind to come save me like a White Knight. But I ended up with Gabriel Knight instead, and some bulls*** cockamamie idea about B-list washed-up celebs gallivanting about the Motherland. It’s a lot to take in, Dean. You’re asking for a lot.” Dean chuckled, leaning back with that insufferable grin. “Trust me. We both need this to work. And I promise you, it’ll be one hell of a show.” I don’t know whether it was the charm or the vodka, but I somehow agreed to go along with this stupid idea. Hell, it was the only idea there was to choose from. Little did I know it would take him months to get his s*** together and set up in Russia. It was Episode 16 by the time his silky ass found it's way into the big top of the RFW circus. But to be fair to the guy, once his hare-brained scheme was up and running it sure did add an exciting new layer to our shows – or at the very least, new asses for the mighty Vladimir Kulakov to Chokeslam through tables. I tried to pull my best ‘sceptical’ face, but ended up looking more like I was choking on a habanero. The grinning bulls*** magician sat across from me saw this, took the last trick from his sleeve and played his final card. “Speaking of washed-up celebs who were big in the 90s, one of my contacts is actually a wrestler. That might be a good place to start” offered Erickson, looking mournful as his waitress disappeared into the kitchen. “Have you ever heard of Bill Goldberg?” I nearly choked. “Bill f***ing Goldberg. You’ve got Goldberg?!” He just laughed. “And you think I can persuade a big name like him to fly half way across the globe and risk it all for this ridiculous, doomed, implausible scheme?! I doubt it” I sneered with a dismissive shake of the head. “You have a big bag full of cash, my friend. Anything is possible.” I grabbed the glass off him and swallowed the last of the vodka. It put flames in my belly and made me feel like I had energy once more. I was starting to feel alive again. Mind you, two bottles of vodka will do that to a man. Dean didn't realise it but he'd given me exactly the catalyst I needed to get this doomed project off the ground. I couldn't let him see my excitement though. “I don't know” I said, faking a sigh. “I hear he’s hard to work with.” “Nonsense!” He proclaimed, leaping to his feet and forcing my hand into his. The handshake was like a bear trap. I didn't know if he was sealing the deal or amputating a limb. “The guy's a pussy cat. An absolute delight.” He turned and began to walk away, all happy with himself having gotten his big, bulls*** deal over the line. He then looked back and shot me that big, soothing, shyster smile one last time. “Trust me!” As much as I wanted to hate him, I couldn’t help but believe him. Maybe, just maybe, we could pull this off. Maybe I'd live a little while longer after all. Maybe I wasn't doomed. Maybe I did stand a chance. And if not, at least I’d go down swinging with Dean f***ing Erickson by my side.

The KAPW Pro Wrestling Classic Tournament (Part Three, 151 In Attendance) The lights are dim, the crowd is rowdy, and the Clermont Lounge is buzzing with anticipation as the third KAPW show kicks off in its usual chaotic fashion. Jimi Venezuela, sporting a Hawaiian shirt so loud it could be seen from space, stands in the ring with a half-finished margarita in hand. Blondie, in her usual dazzling attire, stands next to him, her smile beaming as bright as the questionable lighting in the lounge. Jimi raises the microphone, sloshing his margarita in the process. "Welcome, KAPW faithful, to the wildest, rowdiest, most unpredictable wrestling show on the planet! Tonight, we crown our first-ever KAPW World Champion in the epic final of the Pro Wrestling Classic! AR Fox takes on Fred Yehi, and it's gonna be one hell of a match!" The crowd roars with excitement, but Jimi isn't done. "And if that wasn't enough to get your blood pumping and your heads spinning, I've got even better news! Last week's half-price margarita night was such a smashing success, we're doing it again tonight! That's right, folks, half-price margaritas all night long!" The crowd erupts, and Jimi raises his glass, toasting to the sea of fans who are more than ready to take advantage of the deal. "I think I drank half of them myself last week," he laughs, taking a big gulp. Blondie steps forward, microphone in hand. "That's right, Jimi! And tonight, we have even more surprises in store for you. But first, let's get this party started with a little something special. Jimi, hit the music!" Suddenly, the lounge is filled with the unmistakable sounds of "Margarita MOFO" by the irrepressible Whiskey River Backdraft. Jimi begins a hilarious, stumbling dance, spilling his margarita everywhere as Blondie giggles beside him. The crowd joins in, singing along and swaying to the music, turning the lounge into a boozy, uncoordinated mosh pit. As the song winds down, Jimi, now thoroughly margarita-soaked, regains his composure. "Alright, enough of that! We've got a show to run, and what a show it's gonna be! In addition to our epic main event, we've got some wild matches lined up, and maybe a few surprises along the way." Blondie chimes in, "And don't forget, we've got some of the craziest fans in the world right here! So, let's hear it for you guys, the true stars of KAPW!" The crowd roars again, and Jimi can't resist another sip of his drink. "Now, before we get to the action, let's take a moment to appreciate the fine establishment we're in. The Clermont Lounge, where the drinks are strong, the floors are sticky, and the memories are blurry. Give it up for our home venue!" As the fans cheer, a couple of regulars from the front row toss their own margaritas into the ring, splashing Jimi and Blondie, who both take it in stride. "Alright, alright! Let's get this party started with our first match of the night!" "And now," Jimi says, wringing spilled booze out of his shirt, "let’s get this show on the road. You’ve seen wrestlers, you’ve seen margaritas, but have you ever seen a wrestling match… on a bed of margarita salt?" The crowd gasps in confusion and excitement as a group of staff members wheel out a massive platform covered in salt. Jimi grins widely. "We’re calling it the Margarita Salt Mayhem Match! Let’s see who can handle the burn!" Blondie laughs, "Jimi, you’ve really outdone yourself this time. Alright, folks, buckle up! It’s going to be one hell of a night. Enjoy the half-price margaritas, the crazy matches, and get ready to crown our first-ever KAPW World Champion! Let's do this!" The crowd roars once more as Jimi and Blondie exit the ring, leaving the chaos to unfold as only KAPW can deliver. The screen fades to black, promising an unforgettable night of action, booze, and absolute mayhem. The crowd goes wild, but there's a mix of confusion and excitement. The commentators, Lenny Leonard and Veda Scott, exchange puzzled looks. "Did he just say 'Margarita Salt Mayhem Match'?" Veda asks, raising an eyebrow. "I think he did, Veda," Lenny responds, chuckling. "And I have no idea what that means, but I'm sure it's going to be... interesting." Jimi continues, "Let's bring out our competitors! First up, the cold and calculating Kiera 'The Girl on Fire' Hogan!" Kiera's music hits, and she walks to the ring with her usual fiery glare, visibly unimpressed by the announcement. She grabs a mic, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Really, Jimi? A Margarita Salt Mayhem Match? This is a joke, right?" Jimi grins, unfazed. "Oh, it's no joke, Girl on Fire! And your opponent tonight, bringing all the flash and flair—Alan Angels!" Alan's high-energy entrance music blares, and he bursts through the curtain, flipping and somersaulting his way to the ring. He stops short when he hears the match type, looking equally bemused and irritated. Grabbing a mic, he shakes his head. "Seriously, Jimi? What's next, a Tequila Lime Tornado match?" The crowd laughs, and Jimi just shrugs. "Hey, don't give me any ideas, Alan!" Back at the commentary table, Lenny and Veda are in stitches. "This is already shaping up to be the most bizarre match in KAPW history," Lenny says, trying to catch his breath. "And that's saying something," Veda adds, still giggling. "But you know what? I'm here for it!" Jimi hands his margarita to a fan in the front row and takes a moment to explain—or at least try to—what the Margarita Salt Mayhem Match entails. "It's simple! We got salt, we got margaritas, and we got mayhem! Now, let's get this party started!" As the competitors prepare, Kiera and Alan exchange wary glances, clearly not thrilled about the prospect of this ridiculous match. The ring crew starts setting up tables with giant margarita glasses and salt shakers the size of fire extinguishers. The crowd’s anticipation is palpable. "Whatever this is, it's going to be unforgettable," Lenny says, grinning. "And probably really messy," Veda adds, shaking her head. "But that's KAPW for you!" The bell rings, and the madness is about to begin. Angle rating: 45. Kiera "The Girl on Fire" Hogan vs Alan Angels – in a Margarita Salt Mayhem Match - whatever the hell that is. The Margarita Salt Mayhem Match is officially underway! Kiera "The Girl on Fire" Hogan and Alan Angels circle each other warily, both unsure of what to expect from this absurd spectacle. The crowd is hyped, chanting for margaritas and salt. Kiera wastes no time, lunging at Alan with a series of quick jabs. Alan ducks and dodges, using his agility to stay out of reach. He backflips out of the corner, landing near one of the giant margarita glasses. With a cheeky grin, he scoops up some salt and throws it at Kiera, who ducks just in time, sending the salt flying into the first few rows of the crowd. Lenny Leonard can't help but laugh. "This is already off the rails, Veda!" "You can say that again, Lenny! Who knew salt could be such a dangerous weapon?" Kiera, now irritated, grabs a comically oversized salt shaker and tries to douse Alan with it. Alan, ever the showman, leaps onto the top rope and springboards off, narrowly avoiding the salty shower. He lands behind Kiera and gives her a playful tap on the shoulder. When she turns, he plants a quick kiss on her forehead, much to her disgust and the crowd's amusement. "Oh, that's just adding insult to injury!" Veda exclaims. Kiera, fuming, charges at Alan again, but he sidesteps and she crashes into one of the margarita tables, knocking it over and spilling salt everywhere. She slips in the mess, giving Alan a chance to grab a handful of lime wedges from another table. "Is he going to make a drink or win a match?" Lenny wonders aloud. Alan theatrically bites into a lime wedge and spits the juice at Kiera, who shrieks in surprise. She wipes her eyes, glaring daggers at Alan. But before she can retaliate, Alan hits her with a quick arm drag, sending her crashing into another margarita glass. "Alan's using every part of this ridiculous setup to his advantage!" Veda says, clearly enjoying the chaos. Kiera, now covered in a mix of salt and margarita, gets to her feet and grabs another salt shaker. She manages to get a few good hits in on Alan, but he rolls through and pops up on the other side of the ring. He grabs the mic from the referee and shouts, "This is one salty match!" The crowd roars with laughter as Kiera takes the opportunity to tackle Alan from behind. They roll around in the mess, each trying to gain the upper hand. Kiera locks in a submission hold, but Alan reaches out and grabs another lime wedge, squeezing the juice into her face again. She releases the hold, sputtering in rage. "This is the sourest match I've ever seen," Lenny comments. Alan, sensing victory, climbs to the top rope, ready to hit his signature 450 splash. But Kiera, with a last burst of energy, hurls a handful of salt at him. Alan flinches, nearly losing his balance, but he steadies himself and launches off the top rope, hitting Kiera with a perfect 450 splash right into a pool of spilled margarita. "That's gotta be it!" Veda shouts. Alan covers Kiera, and the referee counts the three. The bell rings, and Alan Angels is declared the winner of the first-ever Margarita Salt Mayhem Match! Alan stands tall, arms raised in victory, as the crowd goes wild. Kiera, still fuming and covered in margarita, rolls out of the ring, muttering curses under her breath. "And your winner, still the #1 contender, Alan Angels!" Jimi announces, stumbling back into the ring with a fresh margarita. “Wait, was this a #1 contenders bout?” asks Leonard. “Who cares?! I really don’t think that’s the main issue here!” countered Veda. Alan grabs the mic and, with a big grin, says, "I'd like to thank salt, limes, and of course, margaritas for this win!" The crowd laughs and cheers as Jimi raises Alan's hand in victory. "And that's just the beginning, folks! We've got an epic night ahead, including the grand finale of our tournament!" Veda wraps it up perfectly. "If this match is any indication, we're in for one wild ride tonight!" The cameras pan out as Alan celebrates with the fans, tossing lime wedges and salt shakers into the crowd as souvenirs. The absurdity of the match has set the perfect tone for another unforgettable night at KAPW. Match rating: 47. The KAPW ring is buzzing with excitement as Jimi Venezuela, in his ever-present, slightly disheveled Hawaiian shirt, saunters back from the bar, a fresh margarita in hand. The fans cheer wildly, knowing that whenever Jimi is around, something unpredictable is bound to happen. "Ladies and gentlemen!" Jimi roars, barely audible over the clinking of ice in his drink. "I've got a brilliant idea, inspired by, well... several margaritas and the overwhelming need for some fun!" The crowd roars with approval. "Please welcome to the ring, two of the most hard-working, dedicated wrestlers in the business – Sugar Dunkerton and Baron Black!" Cue Sugar Dunkerton’s entrance, bouncing down the ramp in his retro outfit, full of swagger and vibrant colors. He’s got the shades, the headband, the whole 80s vibe, but behind him comes Baron Black, looking every bit as serious as ever. A tactical, no-nonsense wrestler in sleek gear, Baron oozes focus. The contrast between them? It was like watching a disco dancer enter a chess tournament. The crowd could feel something wasn’t quite right with this pairing. Baron looked downright confused, and Sugar, bless him, was oblivious to the bad chemistry that was practically sparking off them. They both stood in the ring, sharing a glance that screamed, "How is this going to work?" "Now, listen here, you two," Jimi begins, swaying slightly. "You both have something in common – an unwavering dedication to your craft and a relentless work ethic. You've both spent years grinding on the indie scene, earning your stripes and building your reputations the hard way. I thought, why not put you together as a tag team? Imagine it – the perfect combination of technical prowess and charismatic flair!" Both men shoot Jimi a look that lets him know they’re not buying any of that. Jimi began backtracking, hiccupping slightly, “You’ve guys have so much in common! You’re both... uh... you both wrestle!” The crowd burst out laughing, as even the commentators couldn't hold it together. Lenny Leonard’s voice rang out, “I don’t know what Jimi’s drinking, but I want some.” Veda Scott quipped, “Yeah, 'cause these two have as much in common as a disco ball and a black hole!” But Jimi, undeterred, slurred on. “You’re both... talented, fierce competitors, and that’s why I’m putting you together! You’re gonna tear it up!” The fans cheered for the madness of it all, while Baron rubbed his temple, clearly regretting whatever life choices had led him to this moment. Sugar, meanwhile, was jazzed up and ready to go, hyping the crowd, oblivious to the fact that his new tag partner was about as excited about the pairing as someone at the dentist. They share a perplexed look, clearly wondering what Jimi has up his sleeve. From the commentary table, Lenny Leonard chimes in, "Jimi's clearly making this up as he goes along." Veda Scott chuckles. "Yeah, Lenny. Knowing Jimi, he probably pulled this partnership out of his ass five minutes ago while he was refilling his margarita." But the fans' skepticism only fuels Jimi's enthusiasm. "But wait," Jimi continues, pausing for a dramatic sip of his margarita, "I forgot something crucial. A tag team needs... opponents. Oops." He looks around the ring, scratching his head, clearly not having planned this far ahead. The crowd starts shouting names, offering their own suggestions. From the crowd, Priscilla Kelly stands up and shouts, "I'll do it!" Her voice cutting through the chaos. "Excellent! We've got one!" Jimi exclaims. "But we need another... Any takers?" Just then, Cyrus The Destroyer, towering over everyone, shouts from the back, "Let me at 'em!" Jimi, taking another epic sip of his margarita, shrugs and grins. "Well, there you have it, folks! It's Sugar Dunkerton and Baron Black versus Priscilla Kelly and Cyrus The Destroyer!" The crowd goes wild as Jimi stumbles to the ring bell, ringing it with a flourish. "Let the madness begin!" Lenny Leonard shakes his head, still chuckling. "Only in KAPW could we get a match setup like this. I don’t think even Jimi knows what he’s doing half the time." Veda Scott nods in agreement. "But hey, that's the charm of KAPW, Lenny. You never know what's coming next, and neither does Jimi. It's like a crazy wrestling fever dream." The bell rings, and the wrestlers prepare to face off, the fans cheering for the sheer absurdity and unpredictability of the whole situation. Angle rating: 30. Sugar Dunkerton and Baron Black vs Priscilla Kelly and Cyrus The Destroyer As the impromptu tag match gets underway, the commentators, Lenny Leonard and Veda Scott, can't help but chuckle. "Lenny, did you see that coming?" Veda asks, shaking her head in disbelief. "Absolutely not, Veda. But with Jimi and a margarita in the mix, you never know what'll happen next!" The match kicks off with Sugar Dunkerton and Priscilla Kelly starting things off. Sugar, ever the showman, dances around the ring, trying to out-fabulous Kelly, who responds with an eye roll and a swift kick to Sugar’s midsection. Meanwhile, Baron Black and Cyrus The Destroyer are exchanging taunts on the apron. Baron points to his sleek gear, flexing his muscles, while Cyrus flexes his massive biceps, unimpressed. "Oh, it's a clash of the titans in terms of fashion and muscle!" Lenny jokes. Back in the ring, Sugar tags in Baron, who dramatically throws off his jacket and leaps into action. Baron lands a series of quick, technical moves, including a picture-perfect dropkick that sends Kelly reeling. But Kelly, always resourceful, tags in Cyrus, who storms the ring like a bull. "Things just got serious!" Veda exclaims as Cyrus charges at Baron, lifting him high into the air and slamming him down with a thunderous powerbomb. The ring shakes, and the crowd gasps. Sugar, seeing his partner in trouble, rushes to Baron’s aid, jumping onto Cyrus' back in a desperate attempt to slow him down. The crowd is on their feet, loving every chaotic second of this match. Priscilla Kelly, not to be outdone, leaps from the top rope, aiming a high-flying crossbody at Baron. But Baron, with surprising agility, rolls out of the way, leaving Kelly to crash into Cyrus, knocking him off balance. "That was some quick thinking by Baron Black!" Lenny shouts, clearly impressed. Cyrus, showing his resilience, gets back to his feet, lifting both Baron and Sugar simultaneously for a double suplex. The crowd erupts in cheers for the sheer display of power. "Cyrus The Destroyer is an unstoppable force!" Veda exclaims. It was clear by this point that Baron and Sugar didn’t mix. When Sugar leaped to his feet, shook off the impact of the move, waved to the crowd, then went for a high-five with his impromptu partner, Baron stared blankly at him, completely unamused by the showboating. “Looks like Baron Black didn’t get the memo—Fun isn’t allowed tonight,” Lenny snarked. And things only got worse. Every time Baron would try to set up a technical masterpiece, Sugar would rush in with an ill-timed dance move or mistimed tag, ruining Baron’s rhythm. The fans were howling with laughter as it became clear that this duo wasn’t just oil and water—they were a full-blown dumpster fire. At one point, Sugar tried to hit a flying crossbody onto Cyrus, but it was like slamming into a brick wall. Baron shook his head as if to say, I told you so, while Priscilla gleefully knocked Sugar around with ease. Then came the moment of disaster. Sugar, trying to prove his worth, went for a huge punch, but ended up clocking himself in the face after Cyrus dodged—ouch. The resulting impact inexplicably broke Sugar’s jaw, sending shockwaves through the ring and throwing the whole match into chaos. “What just happened?!” Veda shouted, her eyes wide with disbelief. It was clear to everyone that Sugar was out of commission, and the ref quickly signaled to Baron and the other wrestlers that they needed to wrap things up. With Sugar incapacitated, Baron had no choice but to go it alone. He tried to fight off Cyrus and Priscilla, and while he put up an impressive technical display, it was clear that he was outmatched. The chemistry that wasn’t there to begin with had now completely derailed the match. In a final moment of desperation, Baron tried to lock in a submission on Cyrus, but the powerhouse broke free and planted Baron with a massive powerbomb. Priscilla tagged in, delivering a finishing blow that sealed the deal. The referee counted three, and the match was over. As the dust settled, Baron Black was left standing, furious with the entire situation. Sugar was still being tended to by medical personnel, his jaw swollen from his self-inflicted injury. The fans, sensing Baron’s frustration, were actually behind him for once, sympathizing with how the whole thing had gone up in flames. Jimi Venezuela, margarita still in hand, sauntered back into the ring with a grin plastered across his face. “Welp, that was... something, huh?” The fans erupted in laughter, knowing full well that this was just the kind of chaos they’d come to expect from KAPW. Baron, wiping sweat from his brow, stared daggers at Jimi, but the promoter just shrugged. “Hey, sometimes you win, sometimes your partner punches himself in the face. That’s wrestling, baby!” As Baron began yelling at our bewildered referee Mike Posey, Jimi raised his glass to the crowd. “Here’s to partnerships that don’t work out! We’ll get ‘em next time!” The camera panned out to the image of Sugar being stretchered to the back, while Jimi stood in the ring, toasting the calamity with a fresh margarita in hand. Match rating: 32. As Baron Black sulks, Priscilla Kelly reaches into her tights and pulls out her trusty pet rock, Rocky, holding it up triumphantly. The crowd goes silent for a moment, then bursts into laughter and cheers. Lenny Leonard, clearly amused, leans into his microphone. "And there it is, folks. Priscilla Kelly's secret weapon – Rocky the pet rock! You just never know what you’re going to see here at KAPW.” Veda Scott chuckles. “I mean, Lenny, how many times have we seen this now? You’d think we’d be used to it, but every time it’s just as ridiculous.” Priscilla cradles Rocky tenderly, talking to it as if it were a living companion. Although no one can hear what she’s saying, the scene is bizarre enough to throw Cyrus off his game. He looks over at Priscilla and shakes his head in disbelief. “You and that damn rock,” he mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face. In a comedic twist, Baron Black, despite his loss approaches Priscilla with exaggerated caution. “Hey, uh, nice rock you got there,” Baron says, grinning. Priscilla narrows her eyes playfully. “Don’t mess with Rocky, boys. He’s been through a lot.” Jimi Venezuela, ever the instigator, leans over the ropes with a fresh margarita. “Well, Rocky deserves a drink too! Margaritas for everyone!” He raises his glass, prompting the crowd to cheer once more. Priscilla stands up, dusting herself off, and raises Rocky high into the air. “For Rocky!” she shouts, leading the audience in a chant of “Rocky! Rocky! Rocky!” as she makes her way backstage, a mixture of pride and amusement on her face. The absurdity and fun of the moment perfectly encapsulate the spirit of KAPW, leaving the audience eagerly anticipating what other wild antics the night has in store. Angle rating: 30. Backstage at the Clermont Lounge, Blondie is trying her best to hold the microphone steady as she stands between AR Fox and Fred Yehi, the two finalists of the KAPW Pro Wrestling Classic World Title Tournament. The tension is palpable, and Blondie’s wide eyes and nervous smile show she knows she’s in over her head. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m here with AR Fox and Fred Yehi,” Blondie starts, trying to keep her composure. “Guys, what are your thoughts going into tonight’s big final match?” AR Fox, ever the high-flyer and showman, adjusts his bandana and smirks. “Blondie, it’s simple. I’ve flown higher, hit harder, and dazzled these fans more than anyone. Tonight, I’m taking that title home, and Yehi here can watch from the sidelines.” Fred Yehi, the technical powerhouse, crosses his arms and steps forward, glaring at Fox. “Is that right, Fox? You think your flips and tricks are going to win you the belt? You’ve got another thing coming. I’ve been breaking backs and tapping out fools long before you even thought about stepping in this ring. Tonight, you’re just another name on my list.” Blondie looks from Fox to Yehi, sensing the brewing storm. “Uh, well, AR, Fred, surely there’s mutual respect—” Fox cuts her off, his eyes blazing. “Respect? The only thing I respect about Yehi is his ability to lose gracefully. After I’m done with you, Fred, you’ll be begging for a rematch, but I’ll be too busy celebrating my victory.” Yehi steps even closer, his nostrils flaring. “Begging? The only thing I’ll be begging for is someone to come scrape you off the mat after I’m done stretching you in every direction possible.” Blondie, realizing she’s losing control of the situation, waves her hands. “Guys, guys! Let’s keep it professional—” But it’s too late. Fox and Yehi are chest-to-chest, shouting over each other. The scene is pure chaos, and Blondie’s shock is written all over her face. Just when it looks like fists are about to fly, the Clermont Lounge’s bouncers, a couple of burly guys with more tattoos than hair, rush in to separate them. The bouncers, clearly used to this sort of thing, pull the wrestlers apart, each straining against the grip. Fox yells, “You’re going down, Yehi!” while Yehi shouts back, “Not if I take you out first, Fox!” Blondie stands there, microphone forgotten at her side, genuinely shocked by the altercation. “Wow, folks, I, uh, I never saw that coming,” she stammers, despite the cliché nature of the encounter. The bouncers finally manage to push Fox and Yehi to opposite ends of the room, still glaring daggers at each other. Blondie regains her composure, albeit shakily, and turns to the camera. “Well, there you have it! Emotions are running high, and it looks like tonight’s final is going to be even more explosive than we thought! Back to you, Jimi!” The camera cuts back to ringside, where Jimi Venezuela is in the middle of chugging yet another margarita. He wipes his mouth, grinning. “Well, Blondie, that was more intense than a half-price margarita night! Can’t wait to see these two tear each other apart in the ring later. Stay tuned, folks, it’s gonna be wild!” Angle rating: 30. 4 Way Dance: AC Mack vs Joe Black vs Aaron Draven vs Dani Jordyn The crowd is buzzing, the margaritas are flowing, and our next match is a thrilling 4-way dance featuring AC Mack, Aaron Draven, Joe Black, and Dani Jordyn. But let’s be real, folks—this match wasn’t exactly planned with military precision. It’s a classic case of Jimi Venezuela’s legendary stinginess. He can’t stand the thought of paying these four and not getting some action out of them, so he tossed them into the ring together like leftover scraps into a salad. But hey, that’s the KAPW charm! “Welcome, wrestling fans! I’m Lenny Leonard, here with my partner, Veda Scott, and we’re about to witness what Jimi’s calling a ‘strategically important match,’” Lenny says, making air quotes. “Right, Lenny. Strategically important like Jimi’s decision to water down the margaritas. But hey, we’re here, the wrestlers are here, let’s make the best of it!” Veda adds, smirking. The bell rings, and the chaos begins. AC Mack, always the showman, struts around the ring, taunting the crowd. “I’m the Mack of all trades, baby!” he shouts, but the fans are already gearing up for their favorite pastime: booing Aaron Draven. Draven, ever the high-flyer from Tampa, attempts a springboard dropkick, but the fans are merciless. “Go back to Tampa! We want Atlanta!” they chant. Even with his impressive moves, Draven can’t catch a break. The crowd starts a new chant, “Tampa’s worst export!” Joe Black, the imposing powerhouse, slams Draven to the mat with a thunderous suplex. “That’s right, Joe! Show ‘em how Atlanta does it!” Lenny yells into the mic. But even Joe’s dominating presence can’t overshadow the absurdity of the situation. Meanwhile, Dani Jordyn, the Real Mean Girl, is in full character mode, taking every opportunity to belittle her opponents. She smashes Mack with a clipboard she had hidden in the corner, scribbling “Loser” on a piece of paper and slapping it onto Mack’s back. “Did Jimi really think this match through?” Veda wonders aloud. “Or did he just find these names in a hat and say, ‘Yeah, sure, go wrestle’?” As the match continues, Draven begins to impress despite the relentless jeers. He nails a perfect moonsault on Joe Black, nearly getting the pin. “Wow, Draven is really showing his skills tonight!” Lenny comments. “Too bad the fans still want to send him packing.” “Hey, maybe if he wins, they’ll at least offer him a map back to Tampa,” Veda quips. The action heats up as AC Mack and Dani Jordyn team up temporarily to take down the hulking Joe Black. They manage to get him out of the ring, but their alliance quickly dissolves as Jordyn turns on Mack, hitting him with a DDT. Draven sees his chance and goes for a high-risk move from the top rope. The crowd erupts in boos, chanting, “Tampa sucks!” and “Why are you here?” But Draven, fueled by determination (and perhaps a touch of spite), leaps off and hits a spectacular Senton splash on Jordyn. He covers for the pin, and the referee counts to three. Aaron Draven wins the match, despite the fans’ unending hostility. “Unbelievable! Draven wins!” Lenny exclaims. “Looks like Jimi’s random match actually paid off,” Veda adds. “Even if the fans would rather see him on a bus back to Tampa.” As Draven stands victorious, Jimi Venezuela saunters out, margarita in hand. “See? I told you it was all part of the plan!” he says, clearly enjoying the chaos he created. “Plan? Jimi, you couldn’t plan a picnic in a park,” Veda retorts. The crowd continues to boo, but Draven holds his head high. The commentators try to salvage the situation, with Veda saying, “Well, you can’t say the guy didn’t try. He’s shown a lot of promise.” “Yeah,” Lenny agrees. “Maybe next time, the fans will see what we see.” And with that, the KAPW train of madness rolls on. Match rating: 51. KAPW World Title Tournament – Grand Final – AR Fox vs Fred Yehi Welcome to the Grand Finale of the KAPW tournament, where the energy is electric and the Clermont Lounge is packed to the rafters! The crowd is wild with anticipation as AR Fox and Fred Yehi prepare to clash in the most highly anticipated match of the night. Both competitors have fought tooth and nail to get here, and the wear and tear of previous rounds are visible on their faces. The stakes couldn’t be higher as they step into the ring, eyes locked with intensity. The bell rings, and the match kicks off with a furious exchange of holds and counters. Fox’s high-flying agility is immediately apparent, but Yehi’s technical prowess keeps him grounded. The crowd roars as Fox flips and spins around the ring, but Yehi methodically slows the pace, trapping Fox in a series of debilitating submission holds. Yehi’s signature Koji Clutch has Fox writhing in pain, but the high-flyer shows his resilience, inching his way to the ropes and forcing a break. Yehi’s frustration mounts as he argues with the referee, buying Fox precious recovery time. Seizing the moment, Fox unleashes a torrent of offense, nailing a springboard cutter that leaves Yehi dazed. He follows up with a breathtaking 450 splash from the top rope, and the crowd collectively holds its breath. The referee’s hand slaps the mat: one, two, and Yehi kicks out just in time! The action spills outside the ring, where Yehi takes brutal control. With a thundering back suplex onto the apron—the hardest part of the ring—Yehi nearly breaks Fox in half. Fox writhes in agony on the floor, but the resilient high-flyer somehow finds the strength to stagger back into the ring. Yehi pounces, looking to end it with another submission, but Fox counters brilliantly, flipping over Yehi and hitting a reverse hurricanrana that sends shockwaves through the arena. Both men lie exhausted on the mat, the crowd chanting for their favorites. Slowly, they get to their feet, and Fox attempts his signature Lo Mein Pain. But Yehi, showing his ring awareness, catches him mid-air and transitions into a devastating powerbomb. The ring shakes with the impact, and Yehi locks in the Koji Clutch once more, determined to make Fox tap out. But Fox, digging deep into his reserves, manages to roll through, pinning Yehi’s shoulders to the mat for a nail-biting near fall. The crowd is on the edge of their seats, the tension palpable. Yehi, now desperate, climbs to the top rope for a high-risk maneuver. Fox, recovering just in time, counters with a stunning top-rope Spanish Fly. The impact leaves both men sprawled out on the canvas, the referee beginning his count. With the crowd chanting “KAPW! KAPW!”, Fox slowly drapes an arm over Yehi. The referee counts: one, two, three! The Clermont Lounge explodes with cheers as AR Fox is declared the inaugural KAPW World Champion. Fox stands tall, clutching the championship belt, his journey through the tournament complete. In a surprising show of sportsmanship, Yehi extends a hand to Fox, acknowledging the incredible battle they just fought. The two shake hands in the center of the ring, a moment of respect that resonates with the fans. But then, in a shocking twist, Yehi pulls Fox in for a clothesline, flattening him. The crowd erupts in boos, disbelief and outrage filling the air. Jimi Venezuela, still nursing a margarita, stumbles into the ring to pull Yehi away. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Take it easy, Fred!” Jimi slurs, trying to separate the two. Yehi, eyes burning with anger, finally relents and makes his exit, leaving a stunned crowd behind. As AR Fox struggles to his feet, helped by Jimi, the fans show their appreciation for the new champion with a thunderous ovation. Fox, battered but victorious, holds the championship belt high, solidifying his place as the face of KAPW. His journey through the tournament, filled with high-flying antics and incredible resilience, has endeared him to the fans and cemented his legacy. The bout ends with Fox standing tall, his gaze fixed on the exit where Yehi disappeared, knowing their feud is far from over. The crowd’s chants echo through the Clermont Lounge, promising even more unforgettable action in the weeks to come. Match rating: 61. The crowd is buzzing with anticipation as Jimi Venezuela stumbles back into the ring, microphone in one hand and a newly topped-up margarita in the other. Beside him, Blondie beams, her cleavage doing most of the work in keeping the fans’ attention. Between them stands AR Fox, bruised and battered but radiating pride. Jimi raises the microphone, slurring slightly, “Ladies and gentle-degenerates, tonight we crown the first-ever KAPW World Champion – AR Fox!” The crowd erupts in a mix of cheers and drunken jeers, someone in the back yelling, “That belt better not have bedbugs!” Jimi chuckles and gestures to Blondie, who holds up the championship belt. It’s as gaudy and over-the-top as you’d expect, glittering under the cheap lounge lights. “AR Fox,” Jimi continues, “you’ve shown guts, determination, and the ability to take a beating like a champ. It is my dubious honor to present you with this... uh... slightly pre-owned but very prestigious KAPW World Title!” Blondie hands the belt to Fox, who lifts it high above his head. The crowd cheers, some throwing their drinks in the air in celebration, creating an oddly festive, sticky mess. Fox, grinning despite the pain, takes the mic. “Thank you, KAPW! This is for all the crazy fans who stuck with us, through thick and thin, cheap booze and questionable hygiene!” Jimi, ever the opportunist, chimes in, “And speaking of cheap booze, it’s still half-price Margarita night! Drink up, folks!” The crowd roars its approval, and Jimi, never one to miss a beat, clinks his margarita glass against Fox’s newly won belt. “To Fox! To KAPW! And to really, really affordable alcohol!” Blondie, not wanting to be left out, steps up to Fox. “So, AR, now that you’re the champ, how do you plan to celebrate? Maybe another match? Or, you know, just trying to survive the night here?” Fox laughs, “Blondie, I think I’ll start by avoiding any more surprise clotheslines from Fred Yehi, and maybe try to find a place to ice these bruises. But first, drinks on me!” He gestures to the bar, and the crowd goes wild. Jimi takes back the mic, “Alright, alright, settle down, you animals! We’ve had one hell of a night. We’ve crowned a new champion, seen some epic battles, and probably violated a few health codes. But that’s how we do it in KAPW! So, let’s give it up one more time for AR Fox, your KAPW World Champion!” As the crowd chants Fox’s name, Blondie leans in and whispers something to Jimi. He grins widely. “Oh, and one last thing, folks! All KAPW ticket holders get 10% off drinks all night at the Clermont Lounge! Because nothing says ‘championship celebration’ like a good, old-fashioned discount on your booze!” The crowd cheers louder, a mix of genuine excitement and drunken enthusiasm. Fox, still holding his belt high, nods in appreciation, soaking in the moment. “And with that,” Jimi concludes, “let’s wrap up this glorious mess of a show! See you next time, KAPW faithful, where the action is fierce, the drinks are cheap, and the memories are... well, probably a bit hazy. Goodnight!” The screen fades to black as the cheers of the crowd echo through the lounge, a fitting end to a night of wild, unforgettable action in Kick Ass Pro Wrestling. Angle rating: 30. Above: Yes, this image is messed up. But so is this diary. So on we go... Overall show rating: 43.

Thank you guys for your predictions! Don't forget there's a bonus point for anyone who correctly guesses our celebrity guest! That's a thing now, here in TEW IX apparently. Although I'm sure I'll be using it in ways Ryland never imagined lol Thank you for reading. Let's see if we can get some new eyes on this thing now there's so many new / returning readers on the forum.

Sweaty, Topless And Moist (aka Here's what Jimi Venezuela and the Grand Poobah have in store this time around) For the first bout of shameless promotion to hype KAPW's debut card, I made the AI keep things pretty sensible. The result was a nice, laid back piece with a nice interview on a local jazz station. The second card unveiling was where I let our omnipotent Sassy Mama do whatever the hell her feverish mind could conjure up. This ended up being a bunch of local news dweebs getting gunged. Did you like that? Either way, I decided to steer this one somewhere in the middle. And what came out of the infernal machine was my favourite of the three... Wet. To promote the third and final show of the KAPW World Title Tournament, Jimi Venezuela orchestrated a spectacle so outrageous that it was sure to grab headlines and eyeballs alike—a charity topless car wash, with proceeds going to the Atlanta Community Food Bank, a local organization dedicated to helping those in need. The buzz around the event was palpable, drawing attention from small local TV stations like WAGA-TV and WXIA-TV, as well as the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Local reporters and news crews flocked to the event, eager to see the chaos that was sure to unfold. Jimi Venezuela, dressed in his usual loud Hawaiian shirt and fedora, stood at the entrance, grinning like the cat that got the cream. His cigar was half-chewed, and the scent of stale beer and cigars hung around him like a questionable cologne. Above: Do you have any idea who the dude on the sign is? No? Me neither. I'm also stumped as to what a 'Topemuzzbbvddeworlep Tourapnt' is too. However, by AI standards, this picture is a masterpiece, so in it went. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first-ever KAPW Charity Topless Car Wash!” Jimi shouted into his megaphone, his voice barely audible over the excited murmurs of the crowd. “For a small donation, you get your car washed by the finest wrestlers KAPW has to offer! Completely topless! And remember, it’s all for a great cause!” The line of cars stretched around the block, with eager patrons (predominantly male) anticipating a glimpse of their favorite KAPW stars in action. The buzz in the air suggested that many had shown up expecting to see Blondie and some of the female wrestlers in less attire. But Jimi had the last laugh as the wrestlers emerged—topless indeed, but all male. First up was Aaron Draven, who received a mixture of cheers and the usual boos, particularly from the die-hard Atlanta fans. Next came Sugar Dunkerton, his flamboyant outfit swapped for a pair of swim trunks and a pair of oversized sunglasses. Baron Black strutted out next, his intensity undiminished despite the absurdity of the situation. Alan Angels followed, his energy and acrobatic style making even the mundane task of washing a car seem dynamic. Finally, Cyrus the Destroyer lumbered into view, looking less than thrilled about the whole ordeal but ready to help the cause. “Hey, I never said who’d be topless!” Jimi cackled, taking a sip from his ever-present margarita. “Now, let’s get those cars cleaned and raise some money!” The wrestlers got to work, sudsing up cars and drawing laughter and cheers from the crowd. Sugar Dunkerton, always the entertainer, danced and joked with the fans, occasionally squirting water at Baron Black, who responded with mock glares. Aaron Draven, despite the relentless boos, focused on his task, trying to win over the crowd one clean windshield at a time. Alan Angels showcased his agility by leaping over cars to clean the other side, while Cyrus the Destroyer’s powerful frame made quick work of any grime. Reporters from WAGA-TV and WXIA-TV mingled with the fans, interviewing Jimi and the wrestlers. Lisa Rayam from WAGA-TV laughed as she spoke with Jimi, “Only you, Jimi, could come up with something this wild. What’s next, a wrestling match in a margarita pool?” “Don’t give me ideas, Lisa!” Jimi shot back, chuckling. “But seriously, it’s all about raising money for a good cause and getting people to our next show. And speaking of, make sure you catch the grand finale of our World Title Tournament!” Meanwhile, the fans were handed leaflets advertising the upcoming show, with Jimi himself urging them to attend. “You don’t want to miss this one, folks! It’s going to be the wildest night yet at the Clermont Lounge!” As the car wash neared its end, the crowd, now thoroughly entertained and many cars cleaner than they had been in years, started chanting, “Jimi! Jimi!” The fans, emboldened by the spectacle, insisted that Jimi himself had to get soaked. Jimi, ever the showman, held up his hands. “Alright, alright! For the fans, I’ll do it!” He handed his margarita to Blondie and stood in the middle of the lot as the wrestlers surrounded him with buckets of soapy water. On the count of three, they dumped the buckets over his head, soaking him completely. The crowd went wild, and Jimi, covered in suds and grinning from ear to ear, picked up his margarita and took a triumphant sip. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you promote a wrestling show!” Jimi declared, dripping wet. “Now, let’s get ready for the biggest night in KAPW history!” As the crowd dispersed, the excitement for the upcoming show was palpable. The event had been a roaring success, drawing attention to both the charity and KAPW’s grand finale. Above: Only the AI knows why Jimi Venezuela decided to attend this event looking like Weird Al Yankovic. Or why he's nearly naked. Or why he's wearing a Sombrero. Or... or... anything else that is happening in this picture, for that matter... Matches for the Third Show: Kiera “The Girl on Fire” Hogan vs. Alan Angels – in a Margarita Salt Mayhem Match – whatever the hell that is. Kiera Hogan’s explosive speed and fiery persona clash with Alan Angels’ high-energy acrobatics in what promises to be an utterly chaotic and hilarious bout, even though nobody’s really sure what the heck a Margarita Match is! Sugar Dunkerton and Baron Black vs. Priscilla Kelly and Cyrus The Destroyer A tag team match where the flamboyant antics of Dunkerton and the intense technical prowess of Black will face the bizarre unpredictability of Kelly and the brute strength of Cyrus. 4 Way Dance: AC Mack vs. Joe Black vs. Aaron Draven vs. Dani Jordyn A high-stakes clash featuring the cocky and charismatic AC Mack, the powerhouse Joe Black, the high-flying Aaron Draven, and the sassy, strategic Dani Jordyn. This match is sure to be wild and unpredictable! KAPW World Title Tournament – Grand Final – AR Fox vs. Fred Yehi The culmination of the tournament to crown the first-ever KAPW World Champion. AR Fox’s high-flying style takes on Fred Yehi’s technical mastery in an epic showdown. Don’t forget to send in your predictions and join us at the Clermont Lounge for the most unpredictable night of wrestling yet! Predictions Time (Let's go!) You guys rule! Let's see how things go now we're in this sexy new TEW IX forum! Post your predictions, may the best person win! Kiera “The Girl on Fire” Hogan vs. Alan Angels – in a Margarita Salt Mayhem Match – whatever the hell that is. Sugar Dunkerton and Baron Black vs. Priscilla Kelly and Cyrus The Destroyer 4 Way Dance: AC Mack vs. Joe Black vs. Aaron Draven vs. Dani Jordyn KAPW World Title Tournament – Grand Final – AR Fox vs. Fred Yehi

It was safe to say we were on our best behaviour for our big show in Birobidzhan. The week prior, we'd been sent into Khabarovsk to bring peace, harmony and tranquility to what the Western media had labelled 'Riot City'. And everything went great until we accidentally demolished our whole venue, caused a major-scale nuclear incident, and caused the entire city to be evacuated. Somehow my instincts told me to play things safe this time. After the warm welcome I'd received, with enough fancy, expensive booze to drown in and so much exquisite cuisine I'm surprised they didn't bankrupt the whole state in feeding me, I felt we owed the mayor and his Hasidic cronies a show free from the hoopla, helicopters and hazmat suits that followed our last (mis)adventure. With all this in mind, and with the words of my new buddy Dave Meltzer still ringing in my ears, I was determined to make this a good one. Here's what Episode 16 had in store... Above: Behold, the best (and only) map in the whole TEW IX Dynasties forum! Episode 16: The Big-Ass Birobidzhan Bash! Predictions time once again! John Hennigan vs Vladimir Kulakov - Fans Bring Their Own Weapons Match 'The Fabulous One' John Hennigan had been screaming out for vengeance ever since our very own human wrecking ball, Vladimir Kulakov, booted his so-called spirit guide, Gerald The Dog, halfway to Siberia. Despite having his 'Style Squad' lackeys Petr Tihanyi and Bence Toth by his side, our fans on social media (or what passes for it in Russia) quickly decided this was less of a contest and more of a live execution. Would Hennigan unveil a cunning master plan? Or was he genuinely just insane for agreeing to step into the ring with the guy who single-handedly brought a city to a stand-still? Kris Jokic vs Andrei Arlovski or Alen Khubulov – For The RFW National Title Remember that absolute disaster of a tag team match where the Russian A-Team turned their title shot into a farce by bickering like children? Well, so did Seagal, and he’d had enough. Instead of letting them off easy, he decided to flip a coin to see which one got the chance to fight Kris Jokic for the RFW National Title. Would they finally work together as Seagal hoped in the name of patriotic athletic competition? Or would their feud scupper a chance at title gold once again? Dragan Spazic vs Bryan Daniels Bryan Daniels is back. Apparently. Yes, really. Despite the fact that last time, he couldn’t even handle a light breeze without flinching, was obviously tripping balls of pain meds, and screamed like a frightened little girl every time anyone went near his wrist, he's apparently 'fine' now. As if by magic the badly broken wrist and the ridiculously big cast it necessitated are gone. Everyone was calling bulls***, but Seagal had no choice but to let him wrestle since Daniels rocked up with a doctor’s note that looked suspiciously like it was written by a toddler with a crayon. Dragan Spazic, the Pink Tornado himself, stepped up to the challenge. Would Scotty 2 Hotty and Rikishi be ringside to cheer on their flamboyant new buddy? Would Marty Scurll and Villain Enterprises slither out from under their rocks to interfere? Would 'The American Dragon' be healthy enough to fight off aa foe as sneaky and cunning as 'Dirty' Dragan? Anything could happen. Edge vs Sting – #1 Contender’s Match This was the big one. The Rated-R Superstar, Edge, had snarked his way into this match by leveraging his short-lived stint as Sting and Darby Allin’s bodyguard into a shot at the #1 contender spot. The winner would get the privilege -if you could call it that - of facing the unstoppable Ilja Dragunov for the World Title next week. This bout was shaping up to be a classic, with two of the biggest names in the business going head-to-head in what could very well be a match for the ages. But who would win this finely balanced contest? Would their protégés Vertigo and Darby Allin get involved? With fans split 50/50, this one had everyone talking. Episode 16 - Coming Soon. Post your predictions! One point per correct winner chosen! Plus! For a bonus point! This show will feature a special 'celebrity' guest (you'll find out why in the next chapter). A whole, entire bonus point for anyone who correctly guesses who we've shamelessly bribed to appear on our show. John Hennigan vs Vladimir Kulakov - Fans Bring Their Own Weapons Match Kris Jokic vs Andrei Arlovski or Alen Khubulov – For The RFW National Title Dragan Spazic vs Bryan Daniels Edge vs Sting – #1 Contender’s Match @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 @EBEZA

Thank you to all the fine, wonderful readers who have followed the bizarre Russian Federation Of Wrestling misadventure so far. Click the image above or below to be magically transported to our new location, where the chaos continues... Cheers!

Does anyone know the answer to this, or is it not yet possible? Thanks!

Thank you!!!

Let's See How You All Did This Time... (aka Predictions Results 2: The Sequel.) There's enough beer in my blood to do KAPW stuff, so let's see how you fine people did with your predictions for the 2nd show! Let's hand it over to the Grand Poobah itself... Oh honey, gather 'round because Mama's got something to say! A big ol' thank you to all you fabulous wrestling fanatics who took the time to drop your KAPW predictions for our second show. Y'all really showed up with the fire, the passion, and let’s be honest, a few of you came in with some bold takes that only a mama could love. Now, whether you predicted AR Fox would fly circles around the competition or if you thought Fred Yehi was gonna take everyone to suplex city, one thing’s for sure—you’ve added to the spice and drama that makes KAPW the most kick-ass, eyebrow-raising, margarita-spilling, can't-miss wrestling show this side of the multiverse. So thank you, sweet peas, for pouring your wrestling hearts out and putting your reputations on the line. Keep those predictions coming because you know Mama's always here for a little friendly competition. And remember, if your picks don’t pan out, there’s always another match, another show, and another round of margaritas waiting at the Clermont Lounge. KAPW loves you, darlings, and so does your Sassy Mama! Now let’s see who did the best predictions! 💋 Yes, you lucky people. The most advanced artificial mind ever developed - the one people are losing their minds worrying will bring society to its knees - just blew you all a kiss. Anyhow, here's the scores this time around... @DinoKea - 2 points @Jason Phoenix - 1 points @KyTeran - 1 point A big thank you to all who have followed this so far. You readers rule. More amusing AI generated wonderment coming soon. Keep your eyes peeled for the card for part 3 - the Pro Wrestling Classic Grand Final - which will be posted soon!

Pleeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaasssssseeeeee can someone move my KAPW and Russian Federation Of Wrestling dynasties to the IX thread? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaasssssseeeee?????!!!!

AI etc. There's a really good debate going on about whether AI should be allowed in Diaries, whether it should be tagged, banned, whether it's harmless, etc. For clarity, all the writing in this forum is mine, in case you couldn't tell. I'm pretty sure half the stuff written on here would be a breach of AI's Terms Of Use anyway lol Here's the proof, if anyone doubted: I have obviously been using AI generated images though. It's useful because it's really hard via Google Images to find, for example, Hasidic Orthodox Jews doing tricks on a Ski Slope. But I wanna gauge people's opinions. There seems to be a lot of hate for AI, which I totally get. Shall I go back to only using real world photos etc? Shall I do a diary-wide AI ban? Penny for your thoughts, everyone.