dstephe4

I have more kids than Cruella DeVille has fur coats. I recently added another one to the brood. The downside is a lot less time to spend writing this, despite how much I enjoy writing this mildly entertaining gibberish. The diary is very much alive, but this - and the ridiculous length of the shows - means I'm posting about one show a month. Hopefully the recent Russian Reminder thingy helped freshen up a few memories that went rusty due to the big gaps between posts. So here's an extra bit of info for anyone cool enough to do Predictions for this show... The Tag Team Title Situation Steven Seagal was really proud when he announced a big, sexy new tournament to crown RFW's first ever Tag Team Champions. There's been a tournament bout every week, with 3 quarter finals having been contested so far. The final (and biggest) is coming up at this event. Seagal thought these contests would make the Russian Federation Of Wrestling the talk of the wrestling world. It hasn't quite worked out that way, due to the Russian fans not knowing who the hell half these teams are, and due to the mysterious Damien Black and his acolytes spookily kicking the living s*** out of all the competitors. To set things back on track, Seagal has decided to go All Out with this next tournament bout. It wasn't just hyperbole - the teams in this next match really are two of the biggest in the world. Here's how the tournament has progressed so far, winners in bold... Villain Enterprises vs Dragan Spazic & Kris Jokic The Arrows Of Russia vs Lykos Gym 2 Cool vs The Viking Raiders ??? vs ??? As you can see, the Arrows have already fought in the tournament. They will not be one of the teams competing in that match. If anyone wants to edit their predictions accordingly, go for it.

I have just decided to make sure my diary reaches 40+ pages, so I can match this landmark!

Hello amazing people who take the time to read this dynasty! And in particular those who take the time to post predictions! Everyone! The season finale is upon us! Get predicting! Good luck to you all! @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

The ambulance sped off into the distance, tyres spinning and roaring across the loose gravel track, sirens wailing, echoing eerily through the misty, deserted countryside. What was left of Sergey Belyev disappeared over the horizon, into the ominous sea of fog beyond. We stood, shell-shocked by what we'd witnessed. "This is getting stupid" commented Shane Douglas with a weary shake of his head. "Ridiculous" said our World Champion in agreement. I'd wondered why Ilja Dragunov was here, as he wasn't in the main event at all. Turns out that he'd found Sergey Belyev's blood-stained underpants in the branches of a nearby tree, and had passed them to one of the paramedics. "Maybe you can squeeze out some of the blood and put it back in him - he looks like he needs it" Ilja had suggested at the time. Our Road Agent's expression was one of sheer disbelief. "If this were a story someone told me, I'd call bulls*** on it big time. It's like something a sleep-deprived, drunken moron would dream up. But here we are... in the real world... in an actual, bona fide, supposedly family-friendly wrestling company, watching some silly clown getting mauled and eaten by a bear." Dragunov nodded in agreement. "He was merely a snack" our champion added. "I wonder how many hours it will take to hose out the ambulance. They will be shampooing him out of the hospital carpets for weeks." "Every paramedic in a hundred mile radius is tending to that poor, brave, stupid, mangled little b*****d!" Shouted Shane. "All three of them" I added. "The bear's in the ambulance too. They're waiting for the part of Belyev that it ate to be crapped out, so they can surgically re-attach it" informed Ilja, matter-of-factly. This was like the worst episode of ER ever. "The guy was mangled so badly, when it came to loading him into the ambulance, they didn't know whether to use a stretcher or a sponge." "I almost feel sorry for him" I said, wringing out some of his sweat and blood from my tie. "Don't. It is his fault. What kind of idiot takes on a bear? What was he expecting? A hug?! A cuddle?! What would he do for an encore? Headbutt Godzilla? Arm-wrestle King Kong? He is lucky to be alive. How fortunate for him that the bear was obviously tame" said Dragunov with an air of distain. I nearly choked in disbelief. "Tame?! Tame?! I saw that savage beast using Belyev's femur to scratch it's balls! That thing was like something from a horror movie!" Ilja shook his head. "Nonsense. It was just playing with him. Did you not see it smile? The locals keep these animals as pets." I didn't know what to say. I looked across to Shane - he was dumbfounded too. "What the hell is wrong with this country?! Why can't people just have normal pets? Why not just have a dog or a cat or something instead?" I snapped with a stupefied whine. Dragunov looked at me like I was stupid. "Impossible" he said. "They would just get eaten by all the bears." Before I could answer back, Shane Douglas then asked the question that was on everybody's mind. "What if that silly b*****d dies?" I thought about it for about half a second. "Then we hire the bear to take his place" I said. They seemed strangely fine with that. Suddenly a trembling hand tapped me on the shoulder, trying to get my attention. I turned around and nearly jumped out of my own skin with fright. "Boss? I might need a doctor. I have a little cut on my forehead... and... it won't stop bleeding." It was our new guy, 'Hardcore' Bogdan Kilmov, the one who'd insisted on 'blading' during our main event. The one who was now covered in so much blood he looked like a used tampon. "My God! Somebody get an ambulance!" I shrieked in panic. The silly b*****d was covered from head to toe - every part of him was red. And the stuff was still gushing, spraying out of the daft sod like a fountain. "Christ almighty! How are you still standing?!" Shane Douglas yelled with genuine fear. That spooked me even more. If a veteran of ECW and XPW was freaking out, then this was very bad news. "We need medics! We need doctors! Get another ambulance here, right now!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "We can't! The only ambulance in Vladivostok just drove off with Sergey Belyev in the back of it! I'm surprised it even made it here - this place doesn't even have proper roads!" Shane Douglas was right. Kilmov was doomed. "We need a vehicle!" I commanded, getting all practical all of a sudden. "We gotta get this fool to a hospital! He won't last long if he keeps bleeding like this! If nobody's gonna help, then it's on us! We gotta get a car!" I looked at Shane and Ilja expectantly. Neither volunteered. Either they both didn't have cars, or both weren't stupid enough to have this silly tit explode his arteries all over their upholstery. It was time for Plan B. "We go to the car park. We just had a wrestling show with nearly 1500 people in the crowd. A man's life is on the line here! If that means stealing a car, then so be it!" Immediately we hauled ass over to the big, empty, creepily foggy field where the fans had dumped their rides. But there wasn't a single car in sight. "They must've all gotten the hell out of here the moment a bear started eating our wrestlers!" Shouted Shane. "We need a car, otherwise this moron's death'll be on our conscience forever!" He was panicking now too. That was a really bad sign. Then I realised - with dread - that there was only one option left. My heart sank. I got into a cold sweat just thinking about it. But he was right. This was literally a life or death situation. And that was the moment I went and got the Porsche. Within moments a $5,000,000+ automotive masterpiece became instantly worthless. Douglas and Dragunov threw the barely conscious Kilmov across the tiny back seat, and within seconds it looked like someone'd murdered an entire basketball team in there. The mayor was going to be beyond furious. His prized possession, pristine since its creation back in the 90s, was ruined - just days after he'd entrusted me with the keys. I was a dead man walking, for sure. But there was no time for self-preservation. I dragged my arse into the driver's seat and poised myself to fire her up. Suddenly I heard Bogdan's trembling voice coming from the back of the car. "Maybe it's not as bad as we think. Maybe we're all just over-reacting. Maybe I don't need a doctor. Maybe I'll be fine" said Kilmov, faintly, his eyes glazed, his tone delirious. "Your head looks like a vagina!" Hollered Shane Douglas, getting a squirt of blood to the eye as he yelled. "It's true!" I added "I can see skull! I definitely should not be able to see skull!" I was freaking out, big time - which is an appropriate reaction when you can see a man's skull. Bogdan started drooling uncontrollably. His blood was sploshing and splashing and spraying all over us now. It was an impossible-seeming amount of gore. We were all drenched in seconds. "There's so much of your blood splatted all over the inside of this car we can't even see out of the windows! It's like a vampire's wet dream in here! We're going to the hospital!" I shouted as I fumbled for the key, trying in vain to get it into the ignition. But the blood on my hands meant the damn thing kept slipping out. "Kilmov! Imagine how silly you'll look if Belyev survives getting half-eaten by a bear, but you die just because you wanted to bleed on TV. That wouldn't be very 'Hardcore', would it? You'd be laughed at all the way to the afterlife." Said Dragunov wisely. I glanced over at him. He looked like a man on a mission. "Drive, American!" He commanded with force. "I'm not American! I'm British!" I yelled back. After saying it a dozen times a day, it'd become like a reflex by now - it just shot out of my mouth without my brain even getting involved. "Bulls***!" He shouted back, looking very annoyed. "Impossible!" He continued, his cheeks speckled red with flecks of anger. Or was that blood? "The British are a formidable race of men. Strong, broad shouldered and masculine. They exude authority and dominance, aligned with an indefatigable charm and suave sophistication. There are currently 194 recognised countries on Earth. At one time or another in history, Britain has owned or colonised 182 of them. The glorious nation that ran the whole globe for centuries down the barrel of a gun does not count you among it's peers, American!" He stopped momentarily for breath, as if reloading this verbal salvo. "You are... erm... what is the best way to say this? I try to think of phrasing that will not offend you unjustly, American" he paused, scrunching his face in a monumental display of concentration. I could see that every single module of his brain was firing at full capacity in an attempt to find the right words. "How do you say..." suddenly his eyes shone with triumphant recollection. "You are... too much of a little p***y bitch to possibly be British, my nice American friend. You are much too small, your scent too flowery and effeminate. Your hands are soft and dainty, like a teenage girl's. No. Do not disgrace the wonderful British nation by throwing yourself among their fine number, my friend" he said, all pleased with himself. "Carry on like that and we won't be friends much longer" I said, my voice like that of an emotionally wounded child. Instinctively he reached in to offer me a hug, as if to balm my wounded feelings. "Get the hell off me!" I shrieked. "A man is bleeding to death next to us! We don't have time for this silly s***!" Our slightly offended World Champion lumbered into the front of the car, shoved me out of the way, and took the wheel. "I drive!" He boomed with authority. He took the keys. He took control. The car screeched into life, it's finely-tuned engine emitting a symphony of noise. Dragunov drove like a man possessed, throwing the Porsche around the tight, winding corners like a racing driver. The tyres squealed in delight. The engine coughed and roared with joy, being finally tested to it's limits for the first time since it's creation. It ripped through the misty night like a demon. Soon the fog began to dissipate and the buildings of Vladivostok city came into view in the distance. Maybe we'd manage to do this after all. I looked back at the mess in the back seat, saw Shane Douglas jamming his massive fingers deep into the wound, and fainted immediately. I don't know how long I was out cold, but I was awoken by the sound of sirens. Big, loud, flashing sirens, all around us. We were in the city centre now, surely not far from the hospital, and still burning rubber. I heard Shane's gravelly yells above all the chaos. "What the hell are all these pigs doing here?! What the f*** do they want with us?!" He was furious, but scared a little too. "Are you kidding, you asshole?! We're driving through the streets 100mph in the world's rarest Porsche, covered in so much blood it's like every Texas Chainsaw Massacre movie happened in here all at once! And... and... maybe I shouldn't have volunteered to drive! Maybe the cops know... that I don't have a driver's licence" stated Dragunov nervously. "What?!" Yelled Douglas. His disbelief was well-founded - somehow this situation was getting even more ridiculous. "It's true! I never even had a lesson!" Said our champion bashfully. "What?!!" Screamed Douglas again. "But you've been driving like Ayrton Senna on crack since you got in the car! Where the holy f*** did you learn to drive like that?!!" Our Road Agent was flabbergasted. "Grand Theft Auto!" Dragunov shouted back. "If the cops pull us over, they're gonna think we're the new Manson Family or something! Look at all this blood!" Yelled Shane, thoroughly losing his s*** by now. "I am not going to a Russian prison! I am much too pretty to survive in there!" He shrieked in a much higher pitch than I ever knew he possessed. It was time for me to be a man and take control of the situation, which I was now able to do, now that I was no longer passed out on the passenger seat like a fairy with broken wings. "Dragunov! Have you seen what those Russian cops are driving? They're chasing us in Ladas for God's sake! The Lada is the worst car ever made! I can jog faster than those things! You say you learned to drive from GTA, right? When the cops chase you on that game, do you stop for a chat, or drive like hell?!" Dragunov was panicking. "I... I..." he stammered, his eyes full of fear. "DRIVE, YOU SILLY LITTLE RUSSIAN S***-WORM! DRIVE!!!" Above: The long, slow arm of the law. His foot floored the accelerator. Instantly the Porsche slammed into hyperdrive with the force of a dozen SCUD missiles. I swear if we'd moved any faster we'd have torn a hole in the space/time continuum. If that kid ever gives up wrestling, he has a career in Le Mans waiting for him, that's for sure. I was expecting our car chase to be like the ones in the movies. But there was no crashing through market stalls, no driving through giant stacks of conveniently placed boxes, no hurtling down one-way streets with terrified pedestrians diving out of the way. Not a single wall was smashed through. Nobody burst into flames. Nobody went screeching round corners so fast they left trails of burning rubber behind. We didn't jump over a rising suspension bridge. We didn't get sideswiped by a helicopter. We didn't smash our way through a mall, or see someone's vehicle flip over a hundred times. And most disappointing of all - nothing exploded. Not even a single fireball. In reality, all that happened was Dragunov floored the accelerator, and we burned off into the distance, never to see the cops again. Our Porsche could do 0 to 60mph in 3.1 seconds. The Ladas the police drove could do 0 to 60mph in... to be fair, I don't think they could do 60. Our Porsche had a top speed of 204mph. Nobody has ever bothered to find out the top speed of a Lada, because... what's the point? With an almighty screech of tyres we slammed to a halt outside Vladivostok People's Hospital. We didn't even need to open the door to let him out - that crazy b*****d Bogdan Kilmov dived out the window and sped inside, leaving a crimson trail of blood behind him. From that moment on I was sure my death certificate had been signed. Surely there'd be no coming back from this - my ass was grass. I fled for my life, high-tailing it to the airport before any mysterious-looking men in trenchcoats had the chance to turn me into dog food. I nearly cried when they told me all commercial flights were cancelled due to a sudden, treacherous, mysterious fog. Despite me throwing cash around like a Tsar, the earliest private jet I could charter wouldn't be ready 'til 6AM. That was too late. I was screwed. As I contemplated my fate, I realised that everyone in the airport departure lounge was staring at me. I looked down and saw the state of me. There was blood everywhere. There wasn't a piece of clothing on me that wasn't saturated. I looked like a serial killer. There was blood all over my $800 Armani shirt. So much that it clung to me like I'd been swimming in the ocean. Thinking creatively, I dunked it in a bucket of Lightning Bolt energy drink - available in every good store nationwide (even those in airport lobbies). I was hoping it'd melt away the stains. It worked brilliantly. A little too brilliantly infact. The stains dissolved almost immediately. Unfortunately, so too did the shirt. So there I was, in the First Class Men's washroom, shirtless, blood-drenched and sobbing. Even though it was the middle of the night, and the airport was quiet, I'd drawn a crowd of concerned onlookers. Which of them, I wondered to myself, would be the one to drag me away to a waiting car, off to my doom? All they asked me to do was put on a wrestling show. All they wanted was a fun, quaint little TV programme to distract people from the colossal, bewildering cluster-f*** that was the Ukraine War. Just a few guys in tights, pretending to throw each other about. A few flags, a few fireworks, a few smiles. What I'd given them instead was a bear mauling, severed arteries, a city-wide police chase, and the mayor's prized, ridiculously rare and expensive Porsche covered in an inhuman amount of blood. My shallow grave would be a fitting end to this bizarre circus of stupidity and horrors. And then suddenly my phone rang. And a familiar voice filled the air. It was Konstantin Shestakov, the mayor. My heart sank. I was ready for rage, for screams, for death threats. But instead his voice was full of joyful congratulation. "Comrade! I applaud your bravery and your very survival! At first I did not believe your story about my priceless, precious Porsche being hijacked by 'big, scary men in ski masks' - I thought for sure that you were full of s***." I didn't remember saying any of that, but apparently I did. "But they finally found the burned out, blood-filled wreckage of what used to be my beloved car." Did we torch it? I really couldn't remember - I was delirious. "I have spoken with our Police Chief. He is now convinced it was Ukrainians. The finest detectives on this side of Russia have expertly determined that Ukrainian agents murdered someone inside my treasured Porsche, dumped it and torched it to hide the evidence." To be fair, I could see why they'd think that. "Such a scheme must have come from that snake Volodymyr Zelenskyy himself! We had no idea the Ukraine Conflict had reached so far East! No part of our sacred Motherland is safe from these vile Nazis!" Yes, the bizarre Russian propaganda machine really had lowered itself to calling Ukraine's Jewish President a 'Nazi' - and amazingly nobody yelled 'bulls***' upon hearing it. "I have informed our glorious comrade Vladimir Putin of this directly! Our magnificent nation's entire invasion plan must now be drastically altered as a result of this savage attack! Russia's whole war strategy must now completely pivot! This could well be a radical turning point in the whole affair! We had heard rumours of a Ukrainian counter-offensive, but had no idea their dastardly schemes were so maliciously ambitious! We thank you, valued friend of Russia! Our fine nation salutes you!" "For the glory of the Motherland!" I hollered back, blatantly taking the p***. "Finally, American, I heard there was some little incident on your TV show involving a cuddly pet bear. A man was brutally decimated, I am told. I trust all is now okay?" He asked with a remarkably casual tone. "Don't worry" I said "the bear will be fine." And with that, he hung up the phone. My heart was pounding on the inside of my chest like a bass drum, shaking my torso like one sledgehammer blow after another. It'd taken every bit of my self-discipline to stop myself hyperventilating through that entire call. I badly needed a drink. With perfect timing, my phone rang again. "This is Mikhail, your pilot for the private flight you chartered. The plane is almost finished fuelling now, and should be ready to fly very soon. A bottle of the finest vintage champagne is in an ice bucket chilling for your delectation. We await your presence on board. However, according to the flight's manifest, no destination has been recorded. Where shall we have the pleasure of flying you today?" Music to my ears. I could feel my blood pressure lowering with each delightful word. I could taste the champagne bubbles already. My answer was simple. "Anywhere. Just get me the f*** out of here!"

Nothing wrong a good rip-off. We could have...

The next chapter, simply titled 'Blood' will be posted soon. I just need to sort the formatting and find a picture of a Russian police Lada that I'm really happy with. Then it'll go up - soon as I can hide from my many, many kids long enough to get some laptop time... Good God I had fun writing this one. I've only done 3 dynasties since I plopped into the TEW Forum like a hot turd back in 2014. But this chapter is my favourite that I've ever written here. I don't know if people are still reading this as much as a few months ago, but I really don't care - I'm having such a blast with this I think I'd still carry on if it was just me on here. There's all sorts of crazy stuff coming up. To the loyal crew of readers who keep coming back for more, I say a big 'thank you'. Until 'Blood' is posted, if anyone has any suggestions for names for the Big Event, please do post them here. My frazzled little brain's kicking up nothing but dust, and I need all the help I can get!

I'm going to nominate @Henderson for his WCW one, because it's still the best dynasty going. I nominate @Bigelow Cartwheel for his WWE one, because I like the guy's work. Thank you @80085 for the nomination! And for being a Derek Chisora fan, by the looks of it? I would like to be a massive jerk and also self-nominate the main event from my Russian Federation Of Wrestling's 'Episode 10' show, because it has a bear in it.

Hello amazing people who take the time to read this dynasty! And in particular those who take the time to post predictions! Here's how everyone did last time... The scores are in... @Old School Fan - 2 points. @DinoKea - 3 points. @MidKnightDreary - 2 points. @Just here to look - 1 point. @ElectricX - 1 point. If I've mis-counted (which is entirely possible given the condition of my tired, sleep-ravaged little brain) then let me know. By my reckoning though, @DinoKea is our proud winner once again! I need your help... The next chapter / interlude is nearly written. The results for that As Yet Unnamed Big Event Thingy are being written and coming along nicely. But that's the problem... it still doesn't have a name! I was thinking of calling it The Big Ass Russian Bash, but I don't think Oleg and his stooges at the Ministry would allow that. The Event Of The Century is decent enough, but it doesn't "spark joy" as that Netflix lady used to say. So I open it up to all you wonderful, creative people to suggest a name for this event. Show me your skills! Post your ideas for names for our big event here! Any that tickle my fancy will be used! Thanks to you all for reading, and for your continued support.

I use .jpgs either made in Photoshop, or saved straight from whatever news sources, then uploaded to a free Imgur account I'm using. The shows / chapters are done in a simple html that I copy and paste and re-use, which I originally slapped together crudely in Dreamweaver.

Broadcast on Russiya 1. Held in a creepy, spooky-looking old slaughterhouse somewhere on the edge of Vladivostok, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and bears and stuff. 1497 in attendance. Our show opens with hidden camera footage, recorded deep in the middle of the night. The dark, quiet, star-lit scene is punctured suddenly by the sound of swearing. The voice is manic, unhinged - the warped screams of a man pushed far beyond his mental limits. A guttural, gasping shriek... punctuated with a weird Puerto Rican, yet somehow Cockney accent. "Those awful Russian b*****ds! Pieces of garbage, all of them! Three days! Three days I was trapped. Three days I was crushed, unable to move, hardly able to breathe. Not one of those selfish, cruel arseholes lifted a finger to help me! Three days it took to free myself from all that heavy, metal crap on top of me! I'll show them! I'll have my revenge on them all! Nobody treats Marty Scurll like that!" Despite wobbling from side to side as he walks, the deranged Brit manages to hail a cab. "Taxi" he screams helpfully to the Taxi Driver, who luckily for Marty is one of the few cabbies in Moscow able to speak English without receiving a bribe first. "The next show of this crappy, tin-pot federation is in somewhere called Vladivostok. That can't be far from here surely? Just a short, easy drive from Moscow I bet. Take me there, pronto!" Yells the dishevelled Villain, clicking his fingers demandingly like an absolute Karen. "You pay?!" Sneers the cabbie, staring accusingly at the battered, beaten, and bizarre looking stranger in front of him. He'd been trapped under all that debris for days - you can imagine what he looked (and smelled) like. "Money is no object. I am Marty Scurll, international wrestling megastar extraordinaire. A mere taxi ride means nothing to a debonair..." he is cut off mid-sentence. "$6,000 mister" snaps the driver. For the first time in all recorded history, Scurll is lost for words. "Payment in cash. Up front. No funny business." He adds, cracking his knuckles to let the guy know he was serious. "I... what... how?!" Stammered Scurll, perplexed, shell-shocked. The cabbie cleared his throat, took a sip of something from a hip flask, then took a deep breath before saying "Consider the average cost per kilometre for a long-distance taxi journey in Russia, which is approximately $0.6 per kilometre. Using this estimate and considering the approximate road distance of 9,300 kilometres between Moscow and Vladivostok, the fare is roughly $5,580. Plus you smell like wet ass and pissy gerbil cages. So an extra $420 to deep-clean your stench out of my car. $6,000 total. Give me the cash, or walk." Taken by surprise by the driver's magnificent speech, Scrull just shrugs, reaches into his tattered, battered fur coat, pulls out a big wad of cash from one of the inner pockets, and nonchalantly flings it through the car window. The cabbie doesn't need to count it. He can somehow tell just by the weight of it that the cash is enough. He sniffs the money hard and deep - that is enough to reassure this maestro of the roads that the moola is genuine. "Get in, pissy stranger" instructs the driver. "Make yourself comfortable. You have a long journey ahead of you." The leader of Villain Enterprises gulps with panic, but hops in, straps in, and puts his very best 'ready for action' face on. "How long?!" he asks, his voice flooding with unease. "The estimated driving time, assuming ideal conditions and no stops, would be around 140 to 170 hours (5 to 7 days) or more, depending on the route taken and the driving speed. When do you need to get there for, grimy stranger?" Scurll is visibly worried now, shaken even. "I must get there before Saturday evening. I must be at that show. I must have my revenge!" Marty declares in the best Bond Villain voice he can muster. "Very well. Many would not consider such a journey possible in such a short time. But I have a secret weapon!" He reaches into the taxi's glove box, before proudly retrieving a bright turquoise can. He holds it up for Scurll to see. It has Lightning all over it, and funky neon writing, and the mythical face of Steven Seagal. "New flavour. New formulation. Less calories. More caboom. This is Sissyberry Smash Lightning Bolt Energy Drink. With this, we go everywhere" says the driver, with a demonic smile. Suddenly the doors lock, the engine revs violently into life, and the taxi tears off down the street in a blizzard of smoke and melted rubber. It speeds away so fast it actually leaves lines of burning fuel behind it, like Doc Brown's DeLorean. Even over the howls and growls of the car's engine, you can just about hear the panicked screams of the terrified Brit trapped inside, about to have the ride of his life. Above: Vrrrrooooooooooooooooommmmmm. Our show begins in earnest with a recap video showing the "shocking" and "completely unexpected" moment last week when Bill Goldberg turned his back on his tag partner Edge, and walked out in the middle of their match. Our commentators emphasised the point - "shocking actions from Goldberg. Totally uncharacteristic" stated Alex Koslov grimly. "I've never seen this side of him. What is going through this man's mind right now? This is completely unexpected" said Roy Jones Jr. Then we hammered the point home with interviews with our fans. "I am completely shocked" declared Dimitar, 24, from Khamovniki District. "Wow! There's no words! Completely unexpected!" Mascha, 19 from Maryina Roshcha proclaimed. "Shocking and totally unexpected. He's got some explaining to do" were the wise words of Kitay-Gorod District's own Igor, 14. Online fan polls with totally not made-up data showed that 79.7% of fans agreed Goldberg must answer for his actions. 58.9% demanded he redeem himself immediately by kicking some ass. And 95.3% agreed the whole situation was as unexpected as it was shocking. We really, really stayed on-message here, in 3 minutes which provided more Russian freedom of speech than anything in all of 2023 so far. An instant later we cut to Edge, who's in the ring, pacing up and down, his face the very picture of pent up anger and frustration. He demands that Goldberg "get his grizzled veteran ass down here right now" to explain his actions. The fans cheer in agreement - they want answers too. There's a big roar from the crowd as the lights dim and his music plays. ...There's a long, dramatic pause... anticipation builds... but there's no sign of Goldberg... ...The wait becomes awkward... with no Goldberg in sight... the camera cuts to crowd shots... an old man twiddles his thumbs... a large woman in a fancy hat does the biggest yawn anyone's ever seen... but still no sign of him... But it's soon obvious he's nowhere to be seen. The music fades slowly into silence, with a minority of fans booing in disappointment. Edge shakes his head dramatically. "Shame" he mouths, turning his back. "Unexpected scenes here in RFW" says announcer Rico Bushido. "Shocking" agrees Koslov. After a needlessly long, yet highly dramatic pause, the fans suddenly come to life as Steven Seagal and Ilja Dragunov stride to the ring. After 10 episodes of the Authority Figure and the World Champion being in total cahoots, you'd think someone would've kicked up a fuss by now. But this is Russia, and people are used to that sort of crap. Seagal, who may or may not have been contemplating re-growing his iconic ponytail at this stage, completely sidesteps the whole Goldberg issue, instead bigging-up a "huge, landmark event, the likes of which Russian sport has never before witnessed". The fans are open-mouthed in awe as he announces there will be "not just one" - big gasps from all 1497 fans - "not two" - huge gasps now - "but three main events!" This is simply too much for the fine people of Vladivostok to handle. The camera cuts to the fans at ringside. We see a woman faint from the enormity of this unfathomably huge announcement. Her husband tries to revive her before he too becomes overcome with emotion, and faints as well. The fans then completely lose their collective s*** when Seagal keeps his promise from last week, and announces Edge vs Dragunov - in an epic rematch for the RFW World Title - as one of the main events! Children hugged their parents. Men wept with joy. Edge, however, was less excited, wearing a cynical look, which made sense given the Russian flavoured ass-kicking he got when he got screwed over in his last title shot. "Seagal, we don't need a big, fancy contract signing like when Goldberg faced Dragunov. But I want your word that there'll be no interference. You want your boy Dragunov to show the world he's a true, proper champion? Allow him to prove himself. No interference. No outsiders. Just one on one. I want a guarantee that nobody else gets involved." And that's how our popular Canadian's big mouth talked him into a Steel Cage match. Seagal had another trick up his big, silky, dragon-patterned sleeve too - he insisted that our expensive Canadian have a "warm-up match" here tonight. Seagal offered the spot to any Russian in attendance. An ambitious, brave newcomer called Bogdan Kilmov accepted, keen to impress. Our main event tonight was set, leaving Edge, Dragunov, Seagal and the new guy to their mandatory stare-down as we went to commercial. Angle Rating: 72. "You bunch of no-good, no-class, pieces of absolute garbage!" Screamed Marty Scurll. He was pissed. He was leaping about the ring with rage, throwing fists at thin air, making noises like a wounded animal. His clothes were torn to bits. His hair and beard were still full of dust and debris. The man looked like he'd just fallen ass-first out of a tornado. And the fact that every one of our 1497 fans were pointing at him and laughing didn't help his mood either. Seagal and Dragunov were still in the ring. Neither gave a crap about the whirling, flailing, out-of-control rage-spiral going on in front of them - they just calmly drank a few cans of Goji Berry Grenade flavour Lightning Bolt energy drink and watched the drama unfold. Scurll got a chair from somewhere and was throwing it around in a storm of emotions. He was banging his head against the turnbuckles in a rage. He was so angry he'd gone beyond the threshold of the English language - he was now snarling and making weird gargling noises. He was twitching. I'm surprised the silly tit wasn't foaming at the mouth. As displays of fury go, it was impressive - he was doing 'the full Goldberg' as we called it. After a while he began panting for air, finally slowing down. His eyes were completely bloodshot. He started coughing as the adrenalin faded and he realised his lungs were on fire. Limbs began to wobble. His buddies from Villain Enterprises had to grab him before he collapsed. The fans loved it. It was at this moment that Seagal noticed something was different. "Who the hell is that?" RFW's man in charge asked, pointing at a new face in the ring. We'd all been so busy mocking the screaming sex pest, that nobody had noticed PCO was gone, replaced by somebody new. "That's Flip Gordon!" our announcer Alex Koslov proclaimed. Seagal seemed to hear this, realised he didn't give a crap, and gave a shrug which seemed to say "I will allow it." Scurll could've brought The Pope with him and nobody would've cared. Brody King and Flip, seeing that their leader was now almost passed out on the canvas, took to the mic, revealing Flip as their new member, after PCO "had to be removed". They then announced that "the invasion is back on track" and a bunch of other grand-sounding bad guy stuff. I don't need to spell it out for you - you've been watching wrestling for years - you know the routine. Seagal finishes his can of Lightning Bolt, crushes it down to the size of a penny with one hand, then studies it carefully. You can just tell he was thinking of ways of killing all three Villains with it in one throw. It would surely be impossible to achieve such a feat, but you can bet your ass Seagal knows a way. We never got to see this glorious moment, however, as surprisingly the bright-pink-suited 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic interrupted. "You guys are AWESOME!" yelled Dragan, in full fan-boy mode. "Even that purple-lipped guy on the floor!" He was giddy. "Nobody in wrestling appreciates the fine art of cheating any more, but you guys are keeping that fine tradition alive! You're the best cheaters in the whole Russian Federation Of Wrestling... except for me!" The Villains weren't sure what the hell was going on - they certainly hadn't planned for this. "We shall join forces! Together we will be the most dastardly force in sports entertainment!" Despite the fact that Dragan managed to get them all disqualified in under 3 minutes just a couple of episodes ago, the Villains turn him down - they have fresh new Flip instead. "Learn from the master. I can show you a thing or two about villainy. This new guy isn't fit to fetch your coffee! You need my expertise, not some Playgirl Magazine reject who clearly styles his beard with a pube trimmer!" This being pro wrestling, a brawl inevitably broke out. Seagal enjoyed watching the carnage until things got a little wild and a can of Lightning Bolt got spilled. Then he was forced to intervene. Our wise Authority Figure made a match between Dragan and Flip - the winner becoming the newest member of Villain Enterprises! Angle Rating: 51. Flip Gordon (with Marty Scurll and Brody King) vs 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic Immediately this match became a 2-on-1. Spazic held his own, using every d***-punch ever invented. He really is a master of the penis-punching craft. But soon Marty Scurll came back to life and joined in. Then an even contest became an ass-kicking. Scurll in particular took out his fury on the man in pink. Our referee 'Boris' probably should've done more to stop it - he could've easily disqualified Flip for the blatant interference going on. But then Dragan found a knuckle duster in his shorts and started using their skulls as bongo drums. Any hope of rules being enforced died the moment the bell rang. After a surprisingly long time, Brody King finally decides not to get whacked with brass knuckles any more, and obliterates Dragan with his All Seeing Eye finisher. Flip could've got the pinfall win easily at this point, but the Villains were too busy 'sending a message'. Flip hit a 450 Splash on the unmoving Spazic. Still no pinfall. Scurll then locked on his Chickenwing signature submission, which just seemed mean, considering Dragan was completely out cold. RFW Champion Dragunov, watching from ringside, thought so too and was desperate to join the action. Seagal wouldn't let him though, wanting his guy to be fresh to face Edge at our Big Shiny Unnamed Event Thingy in a few days. Instead, Seagal raised a hand to the sky. The referee saw the signal, nodded his head in agreement. Suddenly the bell rang to restart the match. "Ladies and gentlemen, the match up has now been declared a 3-vs-2 Handicap Match!" Echoed the voice of our ring announcer Vlad Radinov. "Wait... what?!" Exclaimed Alex Koslov on commentary. "So the 3 Villains are suddenly legally in the match now, against Spazic... but who the hell else is going to stand against them?!" And then, in time-honoured pro wrestling fashion, all hell broke loose. "Good God!!! Where the hell did he come from?!! It's 'The Nightmare'! Kulakov is in the ring!!!" Villain Enterprises (Marty Scurll, Brody King, Flip Gordon) vs 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic & 'The Nightmare' Vladimir Kulakov Imagine, if you can, 3 tiny little ants being hit by a sledgehammer. No, wait, that doesn't quite cut it. Picture in your mind a steamroller versus 3 hamsters. No, hang on, that's not right either. How about Megatron versus the Teletubbies. Whatever the metaphor, Kulakov was like a Lightning Bolt fuelled wrecking ball in there. "He's not a wrestler, he's Death: The Destroyer Of Worlds" squealed commentator Rico Bushido. He wasn't fighting Scurll & Co, he was mowing them down. The Two-Man Powerbomb / Shooting Star Press combination they did looked amazing, and would've defeated any other opponent. Referee 'Boris' was pleasantly surprised to get as high as a 1 count. For all their fancy manoeuvres, however, Villain Enterprises made the breakthrough when Scurll took a brick from under the ring, and hit Kulakov right in the middle of his face with it. The fans were in shock as 'The Nightmare' stumbled in a daze to the ropes, climbing through onto the canvas to regain his senses. The Villains saw their opportunity, uncorking a perfectly synchronised Three Man Dropkick on the maniacal Russian. The big, crazy b*****d flew like a boulder falling off a cliff. Like an 18 wheeler truck driving off a bridge. Like a meteorite hurtling towards Earth. The noise was indescribable as he broke the announcer's table clean in half... with his face. "Wow!" screamed Roy Jones Jr. "Holy crap, what an impact, he nearly landed right on top of us!" hollered Rico Bushido. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" wailed Alex Koslov with a mortified, mournful dread in his voice. "SCURLL! YOU PIECE OF GARBAGE! I WARNED YOU! I WARNED YOU LAST WEEK WHAT'D HAPPEN IF YOU BROKE MY TABLE! AND YOU JUST WOULDN'T LISTEN!" The feeble confines of the English language mean I cannot properly describe the level of rage Koslov emitted. The angry Moldovan went thermonuclear. He threw down his big, furry Russian hat in a fury. He launched his jacket to the ground. He cracked open a Raspberry Rampage flavour can of Lightning Bolt energy drink and chugged the contents. And then the former WWE superstar was unstoppable. He flew into the ring with a speed surely beyond the limits of mortal man. A fan threw a big Russian flag. Koslov caught it. And he unleashed post-Soviet hell. Villain Enterprises (Marty Scurll, Brody King, Flip Gordon) vs 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic & 'The Nightmare' Vladimir Kulakov & Alex Koslov The bell rang again, and again our ring announcer Vlad Radinov got to work. "Ladies and gentlemen, this contest is now a 3-vs-3 Tag Team match!" The fans loved it. It was wrestling chaos at its bizarre, random best. "This is crazy! I can barely keep up" said Jones Jr. "It's not crazy... it's awesome!" countered Bushido. Up came Brody King. Down came the flagpole. Down went Brody. Forward rushed Flip Gordon. Forward swung the flag. Backwards Flip flew. And then there was Marty. Perhaps the loudest pop of the night came as he dropped to his knees, Ric Flair style, begging Koslov not to hit him. Koslov gestured to the crowd to decide Scurll's fate. They were not merciful. With a big smile, our enraged announcer was happy to oblige. I'll always remember how loud the pop was as the flagpole snapped in half over Scurll's skull. The chief Villain fell like he'd been shot. The fans grew even louder as they saw Kulakov strolling back into the ring, stepping over the still-unconscious Dragan Spazic as he went. Koslov saw this, and whispered into The Nightmare's ear. You could almost see him smiling through his hockey mask as he gathered up King, Gordon and Scurll into a pile.. then delicately placed the comatose Spazic on top of them - like pink icing on top of a cake. The fans counted loudly in unison as our laughing referee made the count. 1! 2! 3! And just like that, it was over. "Hang on... you remember the stipulation of this match, right?! The deal was if Dragan wins, he gets to join Villain Enterprises!" shouted Bushido excitedly. "Does that mean Spazic is a Villain now? Someone better wake those guys up and ask them!" laughed Jones Jr, as the scene faded to black for a commercial. Match(es) Rating: 53. A few minutes later, we are back! And so is Bryan Daniels! The smiling, bearded wonder has a big promo for us about how he's back and better than ever. "YES!" he triumphantly declares. "YES!" holler many drunken Russians in agreement. Seagal comes to ring, and says he's impressed at how Daniels has "re-established his karmic flow" which I guess is zen-speak for "getting your s*** back together." With a twinkle in his eye, the Kimono-clad man of Authority challenges the former WWE champion to "face his demon" at the big event. We all know what that means. Daniels says he's not afraid any more - forget the concussions, the injuries, he'll fight to the death if need be. He's not afraid of Kulakov either, he's seen through the mask, and knows there's just a human man underneath, who can fall like anyone. Seagal likes what he hears. The fans like what they hear. Hell, all of Russia's back behind the lovable, scruffy-looking rascal. Seagal suggests a Last Man Standing match, as Kulakov will never quit, the only way to beat him will be to knock him out cold. Daniels happily agrees to this brutal stipulation, so long as he can add one of his own - if Kulakov loses, he must take off the mask and show the world his real face, proving to the whole world once and for all it's just a man underneath, not a monster. Match is made. Hands are shaken. "Yes!" is shouted. Lightning Bolt is consumed. Everyone is happy. This match had been a long time in the making. To say anticipation and expectation was high for this one would be the understatement of the century. The stage was set. Now these two just had to deliver... After the crowd finally runs out of "Yes!" chants, and after Daniels has been and high fived what seems like the entire population of Vladivostok, Seagal moves on to the next item of business. The man with the most motionless face in Hollywood history almost musters a smile as he announces the 3rd Main Event of our up-and-coming (yet still inexplicably un-named) big show will be the last of the preliminary Tag Team Tournament match ups... and this one, he promises, will feature two of the very biggest teams in the whole world. But before that, we must have the third match of this prestigious tournament. This one features two teams who might not be considered the best in the world, but are certainly entertaining as hell... Angle Rating: 76. The Legendary 2 Cool (Scotty 2 Hotty & Rikishi) vs The Viking Raiders (Ivor & Erik, with Valhalla) I was literally shaking with joy as 2 Cool came to the ring. Because this is my federation, damn it... and if I want Scotty 2 Hotty and Rikishi in my show THEN YOU'D BETTER BET YOUR ASS IT'S GOING TO HAPPEN. Here's a factoid for you: after Goldberg and Dragunov, Scotty was the very next superstar I signed. Talent, popularity and common sense be damned - I wanted to bring The Worm to Russia, and nothing on this Earth was going to stop me, damnit! The "wrestling purists" and the "dirt sheets" crapped all over this one, as if they were expecting a match between 2 Cool and a couple of lads dressed as Vikings was going to be a 5-star mat classic or something. It was awful, but brilliant. Terrible, but amazing. The critics singled out Rikishi in particular, slating him for being "the long-faded ghost of his Attitude Era prime." The truth is that back then Rikishi was just some fun-loving Samoan who was there to shake his ass. Fast-forward to 2023, and Rikishi is still a fun-loving fat guy in a weird leather skirt. The way in which he slowly strolled around the ring and randomly rubbed his big Samoan ass in people's faces was exactly the same as it was in 2001. And our crazed, drunken Russian fans loved it. It was always going to be up to the Viking Raiders to carry this match-up. And they really did try. Despite being here because they were chosen by a fan who won an online competition, 'Erik and Ivar' more than had enough skills to warrant their place in the Tag Team Tournament. I still don't know which is which, but who cares? The fans loved it when the talented one bodyslammed the big, lumpy one on top of Scotty, squashing him like a bug. The Viking Raiders were loads of fun and great to have around. They reminded me a lot of our own Arrows Of Russia in their double teams and the way they moved - except the Vikings were more famous. And more fluid. And more expensive. Oh, and they were actually talented too. The Vikings eventually found their way to victory - mainly because one team was wrestling, the other was dancing. It did seem for a moment that Scotty 2 Hotty had turned back the clock and was about to steal the win. A big Superkick had the flabbier of the two Raiders out cold. Scotty signalled to the crowd, and suddenly our dark, weird, ominous venue turned into a frenzied, electrified party. Hotty threw down his hat - then every person here was chanting in unison... ...W!... ...O!... ...R!... ...Bang! And suddenly Scotty was cut in half with a big-ass clothesline. Turns out 'Igor' or 'Ivor' or whoever it was had decided not to just lie there for what seemed like three quarters of an hour while his opponent hopped about on one leg for no apparent reason. During all the showboating he'd had enough time to recover, get back up and polish his helmet twice before Scotty was even half way through his routine. "Wow. When you stop and think about it, The Worm's a really, really easy move to counter" pondered commentator Rico Bushido. "Yeah, I'm surprised they got away with that crap for so many years" said Roy Jones Jr thoughtfully. "Mind you, if I'd just had Rikishi's big, wobbly Samoan ass rubbed in my face, I wouldn't be countering a damn thing either. I'd be too busy puking into a bucket." The Vikings both jumped on Scotty. Referee 'Boris' got to it and started counting. Rikishi tried to break up the pinfall, but was just too slow to get there in time, and this one was history. Match Rating: 39. The Vikings go off to celebrate and do... whatever the hell it is 8th century Norsemen do? Pillaging perhaps. Or drinking Mead from massive, comedically oversized drinking horns. I have no idea. But what I do know is that 2 Cool stayed in the ring. A mere defeat wasn't going to stop them from partying. "We may not have got the victory here tonight, but we're still gonna thank you fans who spent their hard-earned money just to watch us" said Scotty 2 Hotty, adjusting his Big Pimpin' Top Hat as he spoke. "And we're gonna do that by turning this creepy-ass venue into the biggest dance party in the Eastern Hemisphere!" The fans, all loaded to the hilt on super-strength local beer and hilariously potent energy drinks, jumped all over that s***. Rikishi then put the cherry on top. "This one's dedicated to our fallen homeboy. Grandmaster Sexay! Brian Christopher! Wherever you are, up there in the sky, this one's for you homie!!" And with that, every one of the 1497 in attendance got their asses up and completely lost their s***. Don't let anyone tell you Russians can't dance - every one of our fans shook their asses with the best of them. There was dance music. Fireworks. Streamers. Kickass looking disco lights. This moment had it all. Everyone was having the time of their lives. And then the lights suddenly went out. The electricity in the air suddenly disappeared. Everything went cold. And morbid. And dark. And it all got really creepy, really fast. Rico Bushido: "I don't like it! I'm scared! Roy Jones Jr: "I got goosebumps!" And then within moments the Dark Church Of Satan was in the ring. Damien Black and not one, but two hooded acolytes. Scotty and Rikishi didn't know what the hell was about to hit them. It wasn't a beat-down. It was a destruction. A Crucifixion. And the chorus of boos was deafening. This wasn't just heel heat. This was genuine hatred coming from the crowd. Finally, mercifully, the smoke cleared and the painted, masked, Satantic trio stood victoriously over their fallen prey. Steven Seagal pounced into the ring with every shirtless, muscular Russian you ever read about in this diary (and a couple more besides) coming in behind him, watching his back. He. Was. Pissed. Prayer beads were thrown. Kimono sleeves were rolled up in rage. The Chi was definitely mis-aligned that night. The Karmic vibrations of the universe were all bent towards an ass-kicking. But Seagal harnessed his inner Peace Animal and kept his cool... this time. He shouted about how the Tag Team Title bout he'd worked towards all of last week's show was destroyed by Black. He was enraged about how tonight's Tournament match had ended with destruction. This was not the peaceful man of Tibetan prayer we're used to. Black had clearly gotten under our Authority Figure's skin. "The action at our big event in a few days is gonna be punctuated by your ass kicking. Your spooky ass is getting in the ring with my guy Bill Goldberg. I don't know what your dark motives may be, Black, but you wanna come and spoil all our plans? You wanna waltz in and burn down our tournament? I wanna see Goldberg's big boot kick your backside from one side of Russia to the other! There will be no rules! There'll be no disqualifications! Just you, him, and a big Russian ass-kicking!" The crowd loved it. They stood in unison and cheered every word. It didn't make one bit of sense at all - there weren't even any Russians in the match, for starters - but it sounded good - and in the dumbass world of pro wrestling that's all that matters. Angle Rating: 59. We come back from commercial and find Seagal and his merry band of shirtless Russians still in the ring. God knows what they were doing during the break - oiling each other's muscles perhaps. Seagal is giving the Evil Eye™ to someone at ringside. The camera zooms in to see who it is. It's Tamerlan Rasuev, yelling insults at our Authority Figure. Immediately he is besieged by security guards, but Rasuev pulls a ticket out of his pocket and waves it in their faces. "You fired me to keep me away, but you can't get rid of me this time, you turncoat b*****d!" Screams the jilted Russian, flipping the middle finger at anyone in range. Seagal looks ready to climb out of the ring and handle this with his own brand of Zen-like violent diplomacy, but suddenly patriotic music fills the air. Khubulov was waving a doctor's medical clearance note high above his head and grinning with glee. Seagal looked on suspiciously, stroking his chin in thought. Something wasn't quite right here. The RFW National Champion needed a cane to walk last week, but here he was, suddenly with a clearance letter saying he was 100% fit and healthy. Our commentators could smell the suspicion in the air too. Rico Bushido: "Hang on, is that thing written in crayon?!" Roy Jones Jr: "So what? Doctors can use crayons too you know!" Before Seagal can even open his mouth to intervene, our former UFC Heavyweight Champion Andrei Arlovski comes stampeding to the ring too. "I am number one contender! Me! Arlovski! Fighting pride of Belarusia and Russia! MMA Legend! Me! I fight you first!" He proclaims, waving his finger in Khubulov's face, getting all shouty and bossy. "The doctors make you well again. I break you into tiny little pieces again. You cry in hospital. I get my belt. I have waited patiently to maim you, mister National Champion. Now we can finally find out how much blood is in that body of yours!" This is pro wrestling. The fight that broke out between them suprised nobody. Rasuev jumping the guardrail, somehow effortlessly bypassing half a dozen security guards, and joining in surprised nobody either. What did surprise people was the sight of wrestling's only Croatian joining in, jumping on the other guy's backs like a rabid little spider monkey. Bushido: "That's 'The Falcon' Kris Jokic! What the hell is he doing here?!" Jones Jr: "Yeah! What the hell is he doing here?!" Seagal immediately got on the mic. "What the hell are you doing here?!" He demanded. Jokic chimed in, saying the fans and social media have been clamouring for him to have another title shot since he was the first ever challenger to the National Title back in Episode Whatever. Bushido: "He's right!" Jones Jr: "He is right!" "You're right" said Seagal with a shrug, clearly tired of this nonsense. "So it seems like these fools want to fight" he said with a slick smile. "So here's what's gonna happen. These four so-called tough guys are going to do battle, for the RFW National Title at our big event on the 17th. This will bring peace to the zen forces that have been unbalanced in this place for quite some time. You shall restabilise the Karmic dichotomy with acts of glorious, highly entertaining violence... all in the name of Mother Russia!" A big roar from the fans. Hooray for Patriotism. "Our resplendent champion Khubulov will be returning to battle, triumphing over injury and adversity. MMA legend Arlovski will be fighting not just for personal glory, but also for the very legitimacy of his sport. Rasuev will be fighting for the glory he craved his entire career, and for a place back in RFW - for if he loses he's not just fired, he's banned from this company and its events forever! And Jokic will be... erm... ah... erm... also involved!" Many cheers. Much jubilation. And with that, our first RFW National Title match in Christ knows how long was made. Angle Rating: 57. Seagal gave the signal. 3 of his Russians Alexei Urgumov, Ilya Malkin and Anton Deryabin came forward, carrying a big wooden case overflowing with delicious, cool, mouth-watering, vaguely toxic energy drinks. Because RFW's lazy, useless booker could think of nothing for these guys to do at this stage, other than carry boxes around. "Gentlemen! Fine athletes of this glorious, beloved nation! As many of you are in action at our forthcoming event, you must limit your calorie intake! You must be at your physical peak! And so, we feast upon the glorious new Sissyberry Smash Lightning Bolt Energy Drink! This newly formulated beverage, which is available in all stores now, will surely give you the fighting advantage over your Western Capitalist foes! I toast to your victory!" Seagal was almost believable in his delivery as he threw the brightly-coloured cans around like confetti at a wedding. This was the ideal moment for us to cut to commercial... ... but then... ... echoing quietly in the background of our big, spooky venue... ... a familiar, unwelcome noise... ... a sound that was distant... ... but getting ever closer... Bushido: "I recognise that sound!" Jones Jr: "Me too! It's..." The fluffy little fella hops up the ring steps, wagging his fluffy little tail joyfully as he bounces into the ring. The happy little chap barks playfully, hopping up and down excitedly. Half a dozen of our big, tough Russians leap out of the ring in fear, running for their lives. Seagal sniffs the air. His keen, heightened senses detect the odour of perfume and flower petals. He smells lavender and shampoo. "John Hennigan, wherever you're hiding, get your pampered ass out here now." Sheepishly 'The Fabulous One' appears front and centre. "What do you want, John? I was explaining to this fine nation the virtues of my energy drink, for it is packed full of antioxidants. Did you know I have included in this potent beverage all that I can to strengthen the body? It is karma in a can! Why are you interrupting? I already agreed to your rematch with Vertigo. You'll fight at our big event in a few days and..." suddenly the man with the greatest, most luscious hair in wrestling history interrupts. "It's not fair! Goldberg and Dragunov got a fancy Contract Signing! With a red carpet and a table and a fancy pen and everything! I want that too? Where's my big moment?!" Seagal looks like he's about to kick the guy in the throat, but channels his inner peace spirit and resists the temptation. He's about to say something wise and spiritual, when Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov and his mentor Edge slide into the ring, ready to kick ass. There's no reason for them to do that, but this is pro wrestling, so just go with it. Half a dozen of Seagal's Russian army grab them before they can come to blows. It's all very macho. All of a sudden Ivan 'The Body' Markov is in the ring too, lest we forget he's also involved in this bizarre yet amusing sideshow. He declares vendetta upon Hennigan and his spirit guide Gerald, proclaiming revenge upon both. "I will be ringside!" He howls "you better watch ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuwwwwwwwwww!!" The massive bodybuilder's howl turns to a scream. "Lord help him! Gerald's got him!" squeals our commentator Rico Bushido. "He's doomed!" yells Roy Jones Jr. Every one of Seagal's Russians immediately leaped to Markov's aid, all trying in vain to prise the tiny Bichon Frisé off of him. This meant that Hennigan, Vertigo and Edge suddenly had nobody holding them back. Within a nanosecond fists were flying. Seagal looked bewildered at the carnage going on all around him, cracking open a can of Lightning Bolt and shaking his head in dismay. He looked over at the screaming, sobbing Markov. He saw about 10 guys losing a test of strength to a tiny canine. He saw a 3 man brawl going out of control in the opposite corner. Over all the chaos you could hear him sigh in frustration. The scene faded to black on a close up of a former Hollywood legend now seriously questioning his life choices. Angle Rating: 67. We're back from our State-approved salvo of commercials, and we're nearly ready for our main event. Before then there's a nice little scene where our impromptu team of Dragan Spazic, Alex Koslov and Vladimir Kulakov are celebrating their win backstage. Naturally this involves the cracking open a near-lethal amount of energy drinks. Based on the luminous green cans I'd say this was Goji Berry Grenade flavour. Quite how 'The Nightmare' manages to drink that s*** through a hockey mask is still a mystery. Koslov thanks Dragan for giving him the chance to kick some arse after all these years out of action. He says he feels so alive after getting back in the ring, even though it was only a one-off. It's a lovely moment, but this being the world of pro wrestling, of course it can't stay that way. It's only a matter of time before our unlikely trio gets jumped by Villain Enterprises in a revenge attack. Cue a big, ridiculous Wild Brawl all around the whole backstage area of this big, creepy-ass venue. It's all gloriously entertaining, but unfortunately we have to cut away from the destruction as the main event is about to begin... Angle Rating: 50. Edge vs Bogdan Kilmov The online 'dirt sheets' referred to Episode 10's final match as "a glorious, ridiculous, cacophany of bulls***." The dweebs at Wrestling-Edge.com called it "a cataclysmic miasma of ridiculous nonsense that somehow shook itself into a strangely exciting finale. It was crap. But it was exciting crap." One other summed it up by saying "none of this was actually wrestling, but Christ it was fun. It was an explosion of highly entertaining crap that at times almost threatened to make sense. I don't even know quite how to describe it. But man it was fun!" There was a very sensible and carefully laid-out plan for this match, which went out the window the moment our new guy Bogdan Kilmov got in the ring... then got on the mic. "That yellow-haired b*****d's going off-script!" hollered our Road Agent Shane Douglas. I could immediately feel a panic attack coming on. "I am Bogdan Kilmov, and I am hardcore" he yelled with a powerful yet strangely squeaky voice. "I don't care what the suits backstage say - this match is a No Disqualification, Falls Count Anywhere street fight!" The fans howled in delight. Kilmov's opponent Edge, who'd watched the situation unfold with great amusement, signalled to the crowd. A steel chair was thrown to him right away. The grin on the Canadian legend's face was huge as he smashed our Russian with it, right in the middle of his face. And just like that our match had begun. The bout was 14 minutes long. And a good 8 or 9 seconds of it was actually spent in the ring. In a contest that featured not even one actual wrestling move, they brawled: • Up the aisle • Through the oddly chilling, cobweb-laden, deathly silent locker rooms • All through this spooky venue's long-abandoned kitchens. There was a liberal use of frying pans. Kilmov got whacked repeatedly across the tits with a wooden spatula, creating a sound that was oddly satisfying. Mustard was also used, aggressively. • Into some long-empty industrial tool storage room. Edge's protégé Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov had turned up by this point. He would pick hilariously oversized weapons, one at a time, and pass them to Edge, who would then bash the living crap out of Kilmov with them. There was a hilariously big wrench. A massive chain came into play. The fans still fondly remember the giant wooden mallet. There was also a big metal sign with the word безопасность (Safety) written on it in huge letters - so naturally that had to be used as a weapon. Bogdan responded to the beating he was taking by screaming a lot, pounding his chest like a gorilla, then getting hit some more. • You may wonder why the hell bullet points are being used. But there's so much random crap that happens in this one, it's the only way of making it digestible. • And also because bullet points are, quite frankly, awesome. • Remember that big brawl we cut away from between Koslov, Kulakov, Spazic and Villain Enterprises? That was still very much in full flow. As Edge, Vertigo and Kilmov went stumbling out the tool room's doors, both brawls collided into each other. It was like when two tornados crash into each other, forming one hugely destructive mega-storm. • By now there were so many fists flying and asses being kicked it was impossible to know what the hell was going on. • 'The Nightmare' tore off a whole door with his bare hands and went about casually smashing everyone with it. That bit was fun. • Next, the brawl found it's way into the private dressing room of Bryan Daniels, which was conveniently located close by. There was a time that the sight of the masked psychotic, screaming Kulakov crashing through his door, with half the roster hanging off his back, would've made 'The American Dragon' curl up into a ball and cry. But the former WWE ass-kicker is rejuvenated now. Revitalised. Reborn. He proved this by jumping right into the fray, punching every random face he could get close to, kicking every single ass he could find, before finally tearing into his nemesis Kulakov. • I think it was at this point that Edge, Vertigo and Daniels worked together to rip down a huge piece of the ceiling. Christ knows how they found the colossal strength to do that (though I suspect a certain illegally-potent, pharmaceutically-charged beverage may have had something to do with it.) It was a huge bit of masonry and must've weighed a ton. They smashed it over Kulakov's back with a horrifying force. The big, demented, mad Russian b*****d hardly flinched. • By now the bodies were starting to fall away from this huge melee, as people got knocked out, got thrown comedically through walls, or simply had enough of this crazy s*** and walked away. • By the time this ridiculous thing reached it's outdoor climax, only Edge, Kilmov, Daniels and 'The Villain' Marty Scurll were left standing. They'd brawled their way right out of our eerie, desolate venue and into the cold air outside. • It was at this point, by the way, that things started to go REALLY wrong. • Earlier in the night, Kilmov had confronted me backstage. "I have a Hardcore reputation to uphold" he proclaimed. "I want to blade!" 'Blading', for the uninitiated, is the act of taking a razorblade and slicing open some poor b*****d's forehead to create the 'crimson mask' you've all seen before. I sure as hell wasn't having that crap on my wholesome, family friendly prime time TV show. "If I were you, kid, I wouldn't sneeze for this show, let alone bleed for it" interjected Douglas. "Don't you think Russia's seen enough bloodshed already? Besides, you don't want to end up like my buddy Steve Corino. He used to blade all the time. The poor b*****d's forehead looks like a God-damn vagina now. Forget it!" I thought that was the end of it... right until Kilmov took the razor he'd hidden in his boot and sliced like he was carving a Thanksgiving turkey. • Holy s*** there was a lot of blood. • This wasn't just a 'crimson mask' amount of blood. Within moments the silly tit looked like he'd been dipped head-to-toe in red paint. The man was a terrifying, squirting, fire hydrant of Type O Positive. • And you don't need to be a wildlife expert like David Attenborough to guess what the scent of all that blood brought to the party. • The camera cut to 'The Nightmare' Kulakov and 'The Villain' Scurll who were cheerfully beating the crap out of each other in the name of entertainment. They'd separated from the others somewhat, brawling closer and closer to the trees that surrounded our Venue Of Horrors. • And then our supposedly child-appropriate, family values oriented show suddenly got very sweary, very fast. The guy operating the 'beep machine' really earned his money. • "AAAAAAAAAGH! OH HOLY F***! OH F***! OH F***ING F***! OH F***EDY F***ING F**! THERE'S A F***ING BEAR! A F***ING BEAR! AN ACTUAL, REAL LIFE F***ING BEAR! OH F***!" came the shrieks of Marty Scurll, who definitely wet his tights, in a moment that would finance the careers of Marty's many therapists for years to come. • Bravely, the blood-covered Bogdan Kilmov charges to the scene and tries to intervene, but is swatted aside by the biggest bear anyone in the history of Russian television had ever seen. The big, scary beast was like something out of a Godzilla movie. • Edge saw this terrifying creature and did the only sensible thing - he ran for his life. I noticed Bryan Daniels had vanished too - and who could blame him? • Unlike those two who chose the smart option, Vladimir Kulakov chose the crazy option - he climbed a tree, jumped out from about 15 feet in the air, and punched that big grizzly b*****d right in the face. It was one hell of a shot, sending the massive bear onto it's ass. That's right folks, The Russian Federation Of Wrestling presents a maniac in a hockey mask punching a bear in the face. The blow dizzied this fierce animal, sending it's eyes in circles. But then it quickly recovered, got rather angry, and swatted 'The Nightmare' aside too. • Quite why it singled out Scurll to eat, rather than the blood-covered Bogdan, is still a mystery to this day. My theory is it saw that ridiculous Top Knot, Man Bun hairstyle on Marty's head, and decided he had to die. • The bear was just about to land a lethal blow when an unexpected saviour leaped into the fray. "It is I, Sergey Belyev! I am returned from injuries more horrific than any encountered in pro wrestling history. Despite having so many broken bones that my physician had to resort to a Witch Doctor just to put me back together again, I have defied the odds and the very limitations of medical science to be here and save the day! I... AAAAAAAAAGH!" • We quickly cut to commercial just as the bear had it's massive fangs millimetres from his head. • When we returned, the possibly brave, but definitely mangled Sergey Belyev was hidden behind an ambulance. An army of Russia's finest paramedics were openly panicking about the damage laid out before them. One of them was so terrified he was singing to a Bible - it was so bad the man had rediscovered Jesus. • The bear, for its part, was sat calmly on top of the ambulance roof, proudly looking upon the carnage it had caused, while scratching it's genitals vigorously. • The match, I guess, had no declared winner in the end. When this happens 'wrestling marks' refer to this as a 'Sports Entertainment Finish' - but is that term really applicable when someone's been half eaten by a bear? • Normally the Russian Ministry Of Culture And Social Appropriation would have us shoot an alternative, watered-down version of each scene. That way if we tried to put something out there that went beyond "traditional Russian virtues and standards" they could quickly throw a bunch of child-friendly crap in instead. But Episode 10 had been too last-minute for any of that. We didn't even know what the venue would be until a couple of days before. There simply wasn't time for b-roll takes. So when the s*** hit the fan, it did so live, in front of the whole nation, with no backup. • It was around this time that we drew our show to a close. You don't really need me to say why. Match Rating: 55. Overall Show Rating: 61. Brian Christopher Lawler - Rest In Peace.

Keep me posted. I seem to remember your previous diaries being golden nuggets of awesomeness.

This was a very good diary, which a lot of people enjoyed, myself included. There's been a lot of ECW diaries, but hardly anyone thought of going back to Eastern times - it was good to see this time capsule style diary. The dirt sheet format, with photos from the time, really brought it to life. I challenge you, once your motivation is restored, to do another one.

Exactly. There was a very popular WCW diary a while back where Shane Douglas got a good push - that was great to see - albeit due to surprisingly good match ratings, rather than by design. I wanna see some really wild stuff happening. If I ever do a historical diary I'm putting the main strap on Scotty 2 Hotty, having 2 Cool as the main power stable in WWE, with the Hardy Boyz as lackeys. I'm having everyone under the age of 35 declaring war on everyone over that age in WCW. Rey Mysterio beats The Giant. And the hot new tag team of Raven and Cactus Jack will be the longest running Tag Champs of all time. I'm having Todd Gordon come back to ECW in 2001 to try to "save this company, or put ECW out of it's misery after it's slow death under that fat slob Paul Heyman". He wants to take ECW back to it's roots, instead of the Circus Of Backflips it'd become by then. This would somehow involve The Triple Threat coming back, with Douglas, Candido, Bigelow and Francine. Meanwhile all hell breaks loose when Mick Foley returns, re-establishes Mikey Whipwreck as his protege... and then the Whippersnapper accidentally beats Rhino to become ECW Champion. The Sandman finds Jesus, gives up booze, starts wearing chinos and vest tops and socks with sandals, and goes around lecturing people on the perils of 'extreme living'. The Heavyweight scene would be based around a 'Japanese Invasion' of Masato Tanaka, Taijiri, 'Tokyo' Tracy Smothers and Jinsei Shinzaki... because I say so and this is ECW so it doesn't have to make sense. Come on people! You can do ANYTHING you want on TEW. Let's see what mad, entertaining stuff people can pull off!

I'm not saying you should do this, and this may well be me going off on a tangent... but I've always wanted to see a historical diary where things go wildly different from what happened in real life. Or where someone picks a wrestler who never got a shot at glory and pushes them to the moon, rather than the usual names. Something like... Bischoff: So, Kevin. Scott here is already on board with this. It's a wild idea but you'll love it. We're starting a faction called the New World Order. The nWo. We're gonna take over all of WCW and change wrestling forever. Nash: Nah, sounds stupid. 'New World Order' sounds waaaay too political. The kids'll never go for it. I'd look like such a dweeb! I'm out. Bischoff: But... but... I asked everyone else on the roster... everyone else is too scared to do it. Only you and Scotty Hall here have the balls to make this thing work. Nash: Nah. Worst idea ever. That Air Paris kid wanted an opportunity. Give it to him. I dare you, Bisch! I dare you!

"I don't see a future for this Jerry Lynn kid. He's got no upside. Best to throw him under a mask and call him 'Mr J.L' or something instead."

The internet really is genuinely hilarious to me - tracking cookies and algorithms in particular. The World Wide Web was designed to provide unlimited information and knowledge. But here in 2023 it just exists to sell you random crap you blatantly don't need. A while back I wrote a chapter for this diary called 'Kittens'. Immediately after posting, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and all the rest made it their life's work to sell me this t-shirt: I swear I saw this thing more than my wife and (many, many) kids. And then I posted a chapter about Bears. And suddenly every screen in my life is throwing this at me: Seems I need to be really, really careful what I write my next chapters about. Thank God I don't write porn. Just imagine what those t-shirt designs would look like.

Real life: I know story interludes between shows divide opinion. Some people like this world-building stuff in a dynasty, others hate it and just want to get on with the wrestling. Either way, I appreciate that having 3 of these things in a row might be pushing it a bit. But, if I didn't post this, you'd wonder what the hell is going on in Episode 10 lol Also: Thank you to @ElectricX, whose comment inspired me to put down the milk bottle, wipe the baby puke off my shirt, fire up the laptop, and finish writing this chapter. Before the Russian Federation Of Wrestling, in the business world they flushed me from, I was a killer. Ruthless. Unstoppable. And then the world of pro wrestling came along and smashed me like a God-damn wrecking ball. By March, not even 3 months in, I was a rambling, ridiculous mess - an alcohol scented, flailing joke of a man. My trip to Vladivostok was an example of the pitiful, shambolic mess I'd become. I look back at how I was back then with laughter - which is appropriate. To the ruthless Russians who surrounded me I must've looked like an absolute f***ing clown. My body went into full rebellion mode the moment my plane landed in Vladivostok International Airport. I hadn't eaten properly in 3 days, so my stomach sounded like someone'd set a grizzly bear on fire. Despite this being an internal, domestic flight, we'd been in the air so long that I'd started out (vaguely) sober, gotten drunk, had the hangover, then sobered up again - all while we were still in the sky. I had to remind myself that's what you get with a country the size of Russia - the largest nation on Earth, covering about a third of the whole globe. The plane journey was Russia in a nutshell - massive, seemingly endless, noisy and crap. I bypassed airport security after a few seconds of throwing dollars around. It was roughly 45 seconds between getting off the plane and into the limo. Vladivostok's mayor Konstantin Shestakov was already inside, ready to do business. We had only a few days before RFW Episode 10 was due to air, and still no venue booked. Shestakov clicked his fingers and immediately the car was in motion, a glass of champagne was in my hand, and a hearty portion of Borscht was unveiled to me on a silver platter. This was perhaps the only official in all of Russia who actually got s*** done, and wasn't up to his tits in corruption. It was nice dealing with someone who wasn't the political equivalent of spicy diarrhoea. Shestakov said he was "sick of the retarded, fluorescent clown car that Modern Russia has become" and was on a mission to de-f*** his corner of it. Also, his predecessor Oleg Gumenyuk was thrown out of office and arrested for massive corruption. The guy was sentenced to 16½ years in prison and fined 150 million Roubles. Getting jailed for corruption in Russia is a massive achievement that only a select few ever achieve - it takes holy s*** levels of dirt to conquer such a pinnacle. We're talking thermonuclear levels of sleaze here. So as the new boss, Shestakov knew he had to be squeaky clean, or end up naked and alone deep in the darkest Russian forests being chased by ravenous wolves. That's why I was getting the red carpet treatment - he couldn't wait to do business with the popular Russian Federation Of Wrestling - it was good for his image. This train of thought was interrupted as I inhaled the last of the Borscht. My stomach was even more angry than before. "Feed me, you b*****d", it screamed. "FEED ME!" The mayor heard the noise of my belly screaming over the sound of the engine. He waved his hand and another platter appeared before me. Christ knows where all this food was coming from. This was a limo not a restaurant. There were bits of food flying everywhere as I went at the plate like a school of Piranhas. I was ravenous. Bestial. Rabid. My host looked rather frightened as he watched me frenziedly stuffing fistfuls of food into my mouth. Then came plate number three. Then plate number four. It was only then that I realised Shestakov hadn't said a single word. We'd been in the car together for about 15 minutes now, and he'd stayed silent the whole time. I looked up. He was staring at me with a look of fear and panic in his eyes. His hands gripped the leather upholstery like he was on a rollercoaster. The poor b*****d looked like he'd been locked in the car with a God-damned lion or something. I wondered if he'd been up all night preparing for this meeting. I bet he'd expected some shrewd, devious Gordon Gecko type mastermind. The poor b*****d ended up with me instead. I realised then that I didn't just have food around my mouth - it was all over my face. In my eyebrows. In my hair. Everywhere. And Shestakov just kept on staring at me like I'd s*** my pants. Cue the most awkward silence since my sweaty encounter with Damien Black a couple of days ago. Then suddenly a big ol' smile broke out all over his face. "Christ almighty. You eat like my wife!" He quipped. I laughed so hard I nearly pissed. I was going to like doing business with this guy, I could tell. First impressions count, and his first impression of me was seeing me randomly devouring food like the Cookie Monster on crack. I hadn't eaten in over 72 hours and my digestive system was going full-on Blitzkrieg on the rest of my body, but he wasn't to know that. God only knows how I must've looked as I began wiping bits of pastry out of my eyelashes. But Shestakov just took it in his stride. I'd heard good things about him, and that was part of my reason for staging Episode 10 here. The other reason was because Vladivostok couldn't be any less like Moscow if it tried - both in terms of looks and location. I'd wanted to get away from the bubbling, frothing crap-infested sewer that was Moscow, and all the assholes that filled it like floating turds. The best thing about Vladivostok is that it's 5,800 miles from Moscow. Paris, France is nearly 4 times closer to Moscow than Vladivostok. London is 3 times closer (1,490 miles). Just think about that for a second. Anchorage, Alaska, in the United States, is the same distance from Moscow, just in the other direction. Russia is absolutely f***ing massive. The distance felt great. We were technically in the Far East, within pissing distance of China and North Korea. Above: Vladivostok - magnificently far from Moscow, situated on what looks like Russia's wang. When people think of Russia, they think of desolate, snow-covered gulag s***holes full of despair and serfs. People think of places like this: But the city hosting RFW Episode 10 looked like this: Looking back now, years after the whole RFW misadventure, I can see that Moscow is an amazing place, vibrant, full of life and culture. Back then though all I could see was assholes. I was jaded. I regularly had dreams about the d***heads in charge all choking to death on my farts. Getting away was the right thing to do, I assured myself, as the limo weaved its way further and further into the hills, away from the city. As we came close to... wherever the hell it was we were going... the security van suddenly pulled to a halt in front of us. I stuck my head out of the window, half expecting armed bandits or something. Instead there was a cute little bear sat calmly in the road. I watched, awestruck, as a machine-gun carrying tough guy in a SWAT team outfit casually handed the bear a banana. I was then genuinely dumbstruck as the bear ate it, then waved them goodbye. I knew nobody would believe me if I told them, so I took pictures of it as proof: There was just something about that happy, confident little bear that made me feel all happy inside - a feeling that maybe things were going to be ok. "Look at that handsome little chap" I said to my gracious host. "I thought bears were meant to be scary. But here's a proper little gent." Shestakov nodded in agreement. "Bears are very common in this part of Russia, but are seen less at this time of year. The climate here tends to be a little too warm in these Spring months. That bear is likely someone's pet." "A pet?!" I stuttered in disbelief. "Sure" said the mayor nonchalantly. "WHAT THE F***?! Why?!" I blurted out. "Because hamsters are f***ing boring. This is Russia, мой смешной друг. This is the country that uses hand grenades as paper weights. I cut my children's birthday cake with a chainsaw. Men here use machetes to shave. Yes, that is a pet. Because we in Russia have balls" said Shestakov, nodding proudly to himself. I decided not to tell him that my whole fortune was thanks to a malicious use of gifted kittens. I tactfully changed the subject. "So, Konstantin, what breath-taking sports venue have you allocated for our event? The eyes of all of Russia will be upon us. I'm sure you will provide the Russian Federation Of Wrestling with a venue which will get the whole nation talking" I said hopefully, praying the man in front of me would be able to pull a world class arena out of his ass on 3 or 4 days notice. He just laughed. That wasn't a good sign. "Perhaps our superstars will grace the fine Vladivostok Oceanarium & Events Centre?" My host just laughed even harder. "No, my little friend" he said, amused as hell. The disappointment hit me like an uppercut right to the d***. "Oh. Well perhaps the likes of Edge, Goldberg, Daniel Bryan and many more will display their skills in the superb Fetisov Arena Sports Palace?" His laughter hit me like a landslide. I looked like I'd just been slapped in the face. "American, even if you had your whole audience cloned ten times over, you could not fill that venue. No, I have something much more suitable in mind. Have patience, we are nearly there." I sulked. He laughed. I sneered. He laughed some more. The limo tore its way up through the countryside, miles and miles further from Vladivostok city centre. I watched in bewilderment as the buildings became smaller and smaller, the signs of life becoming more and more sparse. We were now in the arse-end of nowhere, and going on further and further still. And then, after what seemed like forever, we arrived. By now a dense, crimson sunset had filled the sky, coating all beneath in a hue that looked uncannily like blood. A thick, ominous, terrifying fog had closed in around us. We'd gone from the beautiful and breath-taking to the downright scary. Then we all got out of the limo. And Shestakov pointed to what would be our venue. I stared at it in disbelief. "Konstantin, we're filming a wrestling show, not shooting a horror movie" I said. He was laughing again, but I sure as hell wasn't joking. Just look at the place: Above: The place couldn't be creepier if it tried. "What the hell is this place, Konstantin?!" I said with a squeal. "I'm getting serious Leatherface vibes here!" "Nobody really knows for sure. The documents were destroyed somehow at the end of the Cold War. In the confusion as the Iron Curtain fell, the meaning of this place was lost to the hands of time." I was starting to freak out. This place was bad news. "Is this where the locals burn the witches?" I said, partly joking, but mostly serious. "If I find a Wicker Man inside I'm going to be really upset." Shestakov laughed out loud. He liked that one. "Many say this building was an old barn. But I disagree. It is much too big. There's room for thousands of your fans here. Some believe this was a Soviet slaughterhouse back in the day. It would make sense to have such a place out here in the hills where nobody could hear the screams of the animals or the noise of the chainsaws." I looked to see if he was joking. He clearly wasn't. I gulped. "Why the hell do you want me to have a wrestling show here?" I asked, cutting the crap. The mayor shrugged, staring off into the far horizon as he talked. "You cannot have the other venues. They are much too big. If you have tens of thousands of empty seats on live national television, you will look very bad, and the Ministry would respond by driving a few dozen trucks over your skull. This is the only venue, of a suitable size, available at such short notice. You can book it for free, my American friend." I was trying to do my best 'badass businessman' performance, hoping to somehow become the 'alpha' in this negotiation. It was futile though. I still smelled like cabbage and potatoes. I looked like someone had loaded Borscht into a shotgun and fired it at me. It's hard to appear ruthless when you've got chewed up bits of onion in your hair. I would later find what appeared to be a whole mushed up beetroot in my suit pocket. I'd spent half the car ride burping up celery. As far as negotiating went, I was doomed. I may as well have turned up in clown shoes and started making balloon animals for everyone. "I'm British. And I'm genuinely worried my show will be ruined by Poltergeists or something if I have it here." The mayor was laughing, but I wasn't joking. "If a ghost interferes in one of your matches, try hitting them with a steel chair" he suggested. My mind was frantically searching for a smartass response, but there was nothing but dust and cobwebs up there. Fortunately my phone rang and cut through the awkward silence I'd just created like a machete. I answered the call, and suddenly my ear was full of a high-pitched, pre-pubescent whine. I wondered whether some little kid was playing with their parent's phone and dialled me by mistake. Then I realised it was the stooge from the TV network Rossiya 1 I'd nicknamed The Baby In A Suit. His tone was oddly victorious for someone whose balls hadn't dropped yet. I really didn't have time to deal with this idiot, but it was a welcome distraction from the Biblical ass-kicking I was being handed in this negotiation. I looked over at Konstantin and his bodyguards. They seemed oddly fine with the fact that I'd suddenly stopped the meeting dead in its tracks to take a call. "American" came the shrill shriek of my pubeless antagonist. "TV Network Guy!" I shot back with an almost aggressive level of obviously fake happiness. "I am pleasantly surprised to be talking to you" he continued, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was silently (and rather childishly) screaming obscenities at him while he talked. Here I was flipping the bird, via telephone, to someone who looked like the lovechild of Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone and that annoying blonde kid who played Anakin in Star Wars Episode 1. "You had ignored my calls for so long, I assumed that Oleg Matytsin had finally decided to strip you naked, cover you in chum, and leave you blindfolded in the forest for the bears. This is a logical presumption, given your insistence on turning his wholesome, family-friendly propaganda item, into a comical, slightly tragic, watered-down ECW." I finished mouthing juvenile swear-words at him just in time to respond. "Nonsense. I've seen the bears around here. They're lovely. Cuddly. My new buddy Konstantin says the locals keep them as pets" I said, smugly. There was a triumphant grin on my face, right up to the moment that the Baby In A Suit started laughing at me. "Oh you naïve fool" howled my beardless man-child opponent. "You refer, I assume, to the mayor of Vladivostok who I believe is currently stood eleven feet to your left, trying to look like he's not eavesdropping on this conversation." I panickingly looked up to the skies, trying to spot whatever drone he was watching me with. "The bears in Vladivostok are responsible for more missing tourists than North Korea. It was only three days ago that a Japanese nature photographer went missing in those woods immediately behind you. They eventually found him... the top half at least... hanging upside down from a tree, suspended from a branch by his own intestines. They recovered the photos from what was left of his camera. It seems the bears somehow posed for selfies while eating the poor guy's legs. Nobody keeps flesh-eating bears as pets, foolish American. Your new 'buddy' mocks you." While he was talking I Googled 'Bear Attack Vladivostok' to see whether he was messing with me. Headlines like this filled my screen: I realised then that Shestakov wasn't a 'buddy' at all - he was an 'arsehole'. "Your convoy encountered a bear earlier. Did they give it a banana?" He asked, a little too knowingly for my liking. "They fill the fruit with anything from extra-strength sedatives to black tar heroin. It's the only way to deal with them without using a rocket launcher" he added. I glared at the mayor accusingly. I was going off bears a little now. "But that is not why I called. I am about to do you a big favour, little American." I could picture the smug man-bitch doing a victory dance as he spoke. "This is Russia. Nobody does favours here. Get to it" I snapped, gritting my teeth with rage. He didn't though. He left me hanging like a worm on a hook. He let the dramatic pause hang in the air like a bad smell. "Oleg insisted that you sign every active Russian pro wrestler and throw them into the limelight, no matter how talentless and unmarketable they may be. Yet my people have found four such individuals who do not adorn your roster. I have been kind enough to send them all contracts on your behalf, before Oleg cuts off your head and sends it to Vladimir Putin as a trophy." He had my full attention. I knew of two of these guys. Who the hell other two were was a mystery to me. It wasn't a surprise a few had passed me by - every Russian (and nearly-Russian) on the roster was the result of 10 minutes of Google searching. I'd spent more time squeezing out a turd that morning than I had researching our line up. To be honest I was surprised there were only 4 I'd missed. "Bogdan Kilmov" he began. I cut him off in his tracks. "I know all about Kilmov. Blonde. Short. Muscular. Pops more pills than all of Lance Armstrong's cycling team put together. Has an awesome-looking dropkick where he jumps about a hundred feet into the air... but not much else." The voice on the other line seemed impressed. To be fair, it would have been more than understandable if I'd missed this guy. I was one of only a handful of people who even knew the weird, blonde little bugger existed. Allow me to demonstrate. The Rock - star of movies and wrestling alike - has 17 million Twitter followers. Sami Zayn - beloved within wrestling, but not well known beyond the sport - has 1.7 million followers. Kilmov has 5. Not 5 million. Not 5 thousand. Just 5. There's people in the FBI's Witness Protection Programme with a bigger online following than this guy. So it'd be more than understandable if I'd missed him. "There's a reason I didn't sign Bogdan. You said yourself that Oleg wants RFW's shows to be all family-friendly, to be a beacon of wholesome moral values, all that crap. Kilmov is one of those funky Death Match masochist guys. The type that can't even order a pizza without a 'crimson mask' and a hairline full of broken glass. The only image of him to make it as far as Google has him covered in so many spikes he looks like a God-damned porcupine." "Who else?" I asked with dread and curiosity in equal measure. "Konstantin La Patka" was the reply which I met with a long, puzzled silence. "Nope. No idea." I responded, hoping he could somehow hear my shrug on the other end of the phone. "He wears a mask and does backflips" was the Baby's surprisingly efficient summary. Above: Konstantin LaPatka. Has mask, will travel. "Who's next?" I asked, shuddering as I realised I'd accidentally paraphrased Goldberg. "Serge Sullivan" came the reply. "Nope. I have nothing. Sounds like a low-rent superhero from an old Saturday morning cartoon. What can you tell me about him?" I asked hopefully. "He wears a mask and does backflips" said The Baby again. I was noticing a pattern here. Above: Serge Sullivan. You now know just as much about him as I do. I looked up from my phone to see what the mayor and his guys were doing. I'd been on the call a while and was worried they'd be getting upset. Fortunately they hadn't noticed at all, instead they seemed rather distracted by something in the nearby woods. One of them had a shotgun. I couldn't tell what they were saying, but they were getting more and more excited, their Russian exclamations growing louder by the second. It looked like they were having a lot of fun, so I left them to it. "And finally there is Crowchester" said The Baby In A Suit grandly. A felt a smile coming over my face. "I know all about him. I tried signing him back in the beginning, when this whole ridiculous charade started. He told me to shove my contract up my arse, and tried spitting at me." There was a startled silence - he was perplexed. "I offered him his own weight in cash, but he refused. He said being associated with the regieme that destroyed and enslaved big chunks of Ukraine would be toxic to his career." Above: Also, the guy dresses like a bird for a living. That's just weird. The Baby gasped, recoiling at the horror of my words. "But... but... what a fool! That uneducated buffoon! Does he not know the wonderful job our compassionate leader is doing?! Does he know nothing about the peaceful mission of our glorious army?!" The pre-teen looking tit was genuinely flabbergasted. "I hope there are not others who would spread such vile lies about our wonderful mission of mercy! We are cleansing Ukraine of Nazism! Freeing this once-glorious nation from the dark influences of the West is God's mission!" I was trying hard not to chuckle. I had to cover my mouth so the silly b*****d wouldn't hear me laughing at him. He couldn't stop - he was on a roll. "History will prove him wrong! We shall be vindicated! Thank goodness this foolish Crowchester is alone in his scandalous, ludicrous opinions." Bless him. He wasn't the only one to think this way. Thanks to the likes of Rossiya 1 and the other brainwashing channels all over the Russian mainstream, most of the country believed this s***. "He's not the only one though. Not by any means." I broke the news to him with all the gentle grace of a crowbar-blow to the scrotum. "What?! Who else would believe such poisonous lies?!" He was tripping over his words now, choking up on emotion and surprise. "Well... every single human being on Earth outside of Russia" I said. There was a sharp intake of breath. I could hear lips beginning to quiver. Was he crying? "I'm not crying!" Squealed Rossiya 1's Executive Head Of European Content, apparently reading my mind. "It's just... how can the West be so blind?! Vladimir Putin is a saint, a man of peace! I... I..." suddenly he hung up. I'd made 'The Baby' cry. Maybe today wasn't all bad news after all. I turned my attention back to Shestakov and his Venue Of Horrors. He and his 3 bodyguards were looking genuinely worried now, all getting very animated. "Hang on" I said to myself out loud "weren't there 4 bodyguards last time I looked?" I started counting them, slowly, one by one, like a Sesame Street character. "We must go inside! Now!" Shouted Shestakov, trying to sound like he wasn't panicking, while definitely panicking. "I'm not going in there, Konstantin. It looks like the place where Ed Gein used to skin people." He didn't like that - his mannerisms were becoming erratic now, his voice breathless and urgent. "Look, I know you are not thrilled about the venue for your wrestling show. It is not what you anticipated. But inside there is something you'll really like - it'll be worth your while, I guarantee it." I shook my head. I wasn't born yesterday. "If it's a Pentagram made out of candles, I'm going to throat-punch you, Konstantin!" I warned. He would normally laugh at something like that - why wasn't he laughing? I looked around. Only 2 bodyguards now. And a thick, creepy, chilling fog descending quickly all around us. Suddenly a big, rugged hand grabbed me by the suit jacket and pulled me inside. "We move now, American" hollered the mayor, trying to sound suave and not at all scared. His hired goons literally lifted me off the ground by my sleeves and catapulted me into the big, scary-ass barn full of nightmares. Immediately the door closed behind us with an apocalyptic thud. Suddenly countless lights flicked on all at once. I held my breath in fearful anticipation as my eyes adjusted to the brightness, as my brain raced to prepare itself for whatever 'surprise' lay in wait. I was expecting sacrificial lambs, or a tribe of bloodthirsty cannibals. I was expecting The Hell Mouth. Instead, however, I was presented with something surprising and beautiful. And shiny. Very, very shiny. "See?" said my host, trying to sound elegant and charming despite the fiery panic which filled his lungs. "I knew you'd like it!" There it was. A thing of genuine beauty. "It is magnificent, is it not? The ultra-rare 1998 Porsche 911 GT1 Strassenversion. It was built to compete at the FIA GT Championship, which is arguably one of the golden eras of Le Mans. Only 20 were ever made, making this one of the rarest Porsche vehicles." I could tell he'd rehearsed this speech a thousand times, but that didn't make it any less impressive. Above: Fast. Shiny. Awesome. "This particular model, finished in Arctic Silver, sold for $5,665,000 through the Gooding & Company auction. Quite how it ended up in the possession of my unscrupulous predecessor remains a mystery. But now it is mine. And, my new friend, while you are in Vladivostok, it is yours." I was speechless. "There is an old Russian tradition whereby new friends making a deal for the first time share something of great value and sentimental importance. This creates a sacred bond of trust that can never be broken. This superb piece of automotive perfection is treasured beyond description. You will guard it with your very life." I laughed nervously, my face a picture of awe and dread, in equal measure. "I mean it, American. I saw what your Vladimir Kulakov did to that precious Ferrari. Suffice to say should something like that happen here, it would not be bananas being fed to the bears." I gulped. He laughed. He threw me the keys. I caught them, and stared at them in the palm of my hand as if they were cursed. I wiped the sweat from my brow as a sudden wave of horror washed over my entire body. I had a bad feeling about this...

Totally unrelated, but a look at the Hall Of Fame reveals someone with the name Burning Hamster, which is the greatest online alias I have ever seen.

Thank you. There's one more chapter titled 'Bears And Bananas' (hopefully) being posted soon. Then Episode 10, which is currently about 30-40% written. Then an as-yet-untitled chapter which I'm for now calling "Oh S*** Look At All That Blood" and then the Big Event Thingy. Plenty coming up soon. There hasn't been a post in a little while because I wrote 85% of Bears & Bananas then the file corrupted, and it's taken me a while to gear up the enthusiasm to re-write it again. I also had yet another kid recently, to pile on top of the hilariously large number already noisying up my home. But this is very much alive, and the fact that it's missed it very warmly appreciated. P.S A huge thank you to @Old School Fan for the DOTM nomination. If this turns into a third win, I'm going to celebrate by developing an ego, referring to myself in the third person, and possibly buying myself a scepter and crown.

Yeah, I remember him doing that move - the Heinekenrama!

What happens if nobody nominates?

Making his return to wrestling following a brief hiatus, Nikita joined forces with Ivan once again as the two-on-one attack left Eddie down and out in the middle of the ring just one month before the big Career vs. Career Russian Chain match! As the writer of the second most regularly updated Russian diary, I can vouch for the quality of those chains. Eddie had better watch out! Really liking this dynasty. The 1992 aspect makes it really interesting.

Just so I understand... Gordon vs Spazic - are you predicting the outcome as a draw / sports entertainment finish / no winner / that sort of thing? Totally a viable option, just clarifying is all. Thanks for predicting everyone - if anyone else fancies ago, there's still a little bit of time before the results are posted.

HELLO EVERYBODY! Episode 10 is being written, as my tired little brain keeps rolling along with its conveyer belt of ridiculous ideas. Would anybody like a go at predicting who will win? Here's who will be beating each other up for our entertainment this time... Flip Gordon vs 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic Newcomer Flip Gordon is the latest member of the infamous 'Villain Enterprises' - replacing PCO who had an 'incident of misfortune' last time out. He must take on 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic, a big admirer of the Villains, who wants Flip's place in the group. He's willing to lie, cheat and steal his way into the group by any means necessary - but will he get his wish? The winner of this one gets to be a Villain. The loser gets cast aside. The RFW Tag Team Tournament - The Viking Raiders vs 2 Cool There are federations out there today which bring an unprecedented level of realism to the sport of pro wrestling - cutting edge promotions that really blur the lines between real, intense combat and the world of sports entertainment. Then there's the Russian Federation Of Wrestling, which brings you two big lads dressed as Vikings, versus the man who does The Worm and a big Samoan guy in a leather skirt. Edge vs Bogdan Kilmov He has a huge match-up soon at an as yet un-named 'huge event' which could define his whole career here in Russia, but he was to have a 'warm-up match' first, because Steven Seagal says so. Edge has everything to lose against Russian newcomer Bogdan Kilmov - a mystery new signing about whom little is known. Can Edge get through this in one piece, and still have enough left for our World Champion Ilja Dragunov at what people are calling 'The Event Of The Century?' Or will Edge's Russian dream end before it's even begun? I'm going to be honest with you all - there's shenanigans going on here. One of these matches actually happens as advertised. The rest... you'll see. By all means, please go ahead and post your predictions. But things get a little bit wild in this one. No prizes this time - it's purely just for fun - I'm saving the next prize for our big show which comes up next - but hopefully that won't put people of posting their chosen winners. Thanks again to you all for reading and continuing to contribute to this ridiculous yet strangely satisfying to write diary. More Russian carnage coming soon...

I was 32,000 feet in the air. I had a whole aeroplane to myself. My feet were in the fancy little silk slippers they provide only on the most ridiculously expensive flights. A hot towel was slung across my shoulders, relaxing my muscles. We'd been in the sky only an hour and I was already on my third bottle of champagne. I'd tried something different on this latest glass-full - I put a strawberry in. Not only did it provide a refreshing, fruity edge to the fizz, it also represented the only solid food I'd had in over 72 hours. My body went into a frenzy thanks to the sudden influx of vitamins, causing me to burp, fart and cough at the same time. The noise was like someone set a cow on fire. The air hostess looked frightened at the bizarre sudden noise, then would refuse to make eye contact the rest of the flight. It was as awkward as it was hilarious. People assumed my hilariously, offensively lavish lifestyle was bankrolled by the Russian State. The truth was all the limos, the champagne, the fancy clothes - all of it was paid for by me. I didn't receive one red cent during my whole time with the Russian Federation Of Wrestling. Not one Rouble. Only wrestlers got rich from this ridiculous project. I got nothing but a bad reputation and bad diarrhoea. But I didn't care about any of that. Especially not then, up in my private little paradise in the sky. The further away I got from Moscow, the better I felt. God knows why I'd decided to host all but two of our shows there so far - I hated that place and it was full of assholes. I'd even asked the pilot if we could circle back over the city so I could open a window and take a massive dump on the place. But the killjoy wouldn't let me, shouting something about "cabin pressure" or "explosions" or something. My sky high party for one was about to turn sour though, the moment my phone started ringing. I was sure I'd turned it off. Infact I knew I had - they'd insisted on watching me power off all my devices before they'd even let me on the plane. Not only that, but I was miles up in the sky above thousands of miles of Siberian wasteland. It was impossible for my phone to be ringing. I didn't have time to think about it though - moments later the phone magically answered itself. This could only mean one thing - my psychotic Russian overlords fancied a chat. "Comrade!" boomed the voice of Oleg Matytsin, snapping at me like a bitchy schoolteacher. "Not today, d***head" I muttered to myself, as I tore open the back of the phone, ripped out the battery and threw it across the plane in disgust. I let out a big, satisfying sigh as a wonderful, calming silence once again filled the plane. Then the b*****d thing started ringing again. It was impossible. No signal. No battery. But the infernal thing kept on buzzing at me anyway. "Comrade!" came that voice again, once the malware had triggered and answered the call. "I have good news!" he followed, with something actually approaching happiness in his voice. This was new. And new was scary. The air hostess had seen me angrily throwing things around the plane, assumed I was drunk, and brought me a huge mug of steaming black coffee to try and sober me up. I quickly plopped the phone into the boiling hot brew, watching with great pleasure as the phone sparked, fizzed and smoked. The screen went blank, before the scalding-hot liquid got inside, blew up something important, and shattered the glass from the inside out. Again there was a joyous, triumphant silence. I basked in the glow of my victory. Then the voice came again. Don't ask me how. There's no way at all any of this s*** was even remotely scientifically possible, but it was happening anyway. The plastic little b*****d just wouldn't quit - and neither would the one on the other end of the line. I sighed the sigh of the damned and resigned to my fate. "Oleg, you charming, Skeletor-looking tit. How the devil are you?" I was yelling into a burning, smouldering phone inside a coffee cup. Things had gotten very strange, very fast. "American! Things are going splendidly. I am having a Banya (sauna) at the wonderful Sanduny in Neglinnaya, with many powerful, excellent men. We are talking about business, American. We are talking about you." Above: Real life Russian sauna scenes are a lot less awesome than you might expect. "Oh f***" I muttered under my breath, as my balls retreated back into my body at a speed I never even knew was medically possible. I suddenly envisioned fighter jets surrounding the plane, and big shiny missiles blowing us all to bits. "Sounds lovely" I replied, not knowing what the hell he expected me to say. But the wretched old fart was being oddly conversational. Social, even. "Have you ever taken the steam here?" He asked boisterously. "Sure" I said. I actually knew the place well. Sanduny Banya was opened in 1808 and has become a traditional social meeting place for the many crinkly, grizzled old suits who ran this s***ty old country. It was the place where Russians bizarrely insisted on getting business done, so I'd been there hundreds of times. As to why the dusty old farts of Moscow's elite insisted on boiling themselves half to death before doing a deal is a mystery best left unanswered. "Why are you inviting me to a sauna?" I asked Oleg with great suspicion, suddenly unsure of whether he was planning to kill me or f*** me. "I am not. I merely share with you the good news" he declared. "The splendid, excellent men who decide your fate smile upon your work with our Israeli friends. Hosting a wrestling show in the Israeli consulate. The street festival you arranged for them. The wrestling-themed art event that was organised in your honour. All great improvements in comparison with the festering turd of a job you did previously, American. My colleagues smile upon you! And so, your efforts will be rewarded with a great opportunity!" I struggled to hear everything he said, as he was talking at me through a destroyed phone speaker inside a cup of coffee. But what I pieced together was a potential game-changer for us. On Friday 17th of March - just a few short days after our next TV episode - Vladimir Putin was holding a big, patriotic rally for thousands of flag-waving neanderthals in support of the 'hugely successful Ukranian Special Operation'. This was a real event, I was told, and not at all a Kremlin-manufactured display of patriotism. It was important that people actually show up to this charade, to prevent international embarrassment. Some genius had suggested that the new nationally-televised, state-sponsored wrestling show might put arses in seats. And then suddenly the Ministry had decided we would provide a festival of wrestling to entertain the masses before Big Bad Vlad did his Big Bad Speech. I didn't hate the idea, even though I knew that if it went wrong there'd be a shotgun in my mouth before I knew it. After what felt like an Ice Age, Oleg finally stopped talking. "Sure, we can entertain people for an hour or so" I said, wiping hot spilled coffee off my crotch as I spoke. "Three. Three hours, American." There was an awkward silence as I contemplated what he'd just told me. Above: This is a real event, that actually happened in real life, by the way. There would be flags. There would be fireworks. There would be tanks. There would be planes. There would be hundreds of armed guards. There would be TV cameras from every news station in Europe. There would be the eyes of the whole world watching. There would be half the FSB (KGB) in attendance. There would be the entire weight of the whole Russian propaganda machine crushing down on us. There would be Vladimir Putin himself, and all his trained killers. And there would be absolutely f***ing hell to pay if anything went wrong. "Be excited, Comrade" commanded Oleg with a chuckle. He was enjoying this way too much. "This shall be the event of the century!" I wasn't excited. I took that last part in particular with a pinch of salt. The last big speech of Putin's was also heralded as 'the event of the century.' The one before that was too. The Russian President couldn't get out of bed to take a crap without the State Media proclaiming it as 'the event of the century.' It was obviously bulls***. As was this whole situation. Before I could start whining, Oleg suddenly ended the call. Maybe it was because she'd overheard my call, or perhaps it was because my whole face suddenly went so pale I made Marilyn Manson look tanned by comparison - either way the stewardess suddenly brought me a whole bottle of vodka without me even asking. And a straw. She gave me a sympathetic pat on the back and gestured towards the bottle as if to say "you're gonna need this." I nodded in agreement. She frowned at my sad puppy dog eyes. Then left me alone with my coffee stained pants, my ruined phone, my warm and flat champagne, and my ever-growing sense of impending doom. But hey, "things could be worse" I reasoned to myself. "At least I'm not in Moscow any more."