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USPW: Where the '90s Go to Die

Scapino1974

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Scapino1974 Newbie

Scapino1974

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The Grudge Match

 

Everyone always said that Brandon Smith was going to be a big deal. His parents. His teachers. His coaches. Everyone. Is it little wonder that I hate the jerk?

 

Maybe it’s a holdover from my childhood. I mean, the Smith house was right next door and Brandon’s parents were loaded. Little Brandon always got whatever he wanted. And then he would always invite me over to play with his stuff. My folks thought it was because he was so nice. Not really. It was to flaunt his newest stuff to me. If I didn’t act suitably impressed, he’d either beat me up or tell his mom I was using swear words or find some other way to express his displeasure. Needless to say, I had to become a pretty good faker.

 

In some ways, it worked out okay. I got to play with the coolest and newest toys with only an occasional charley horse to damper the fun. If Brandon wanted someone along to stroke his ego, who was I to complain? I might have resented him but I convinced myself it was only a little. I could put up with him. Sure.

 

And then Brandon’s tenth birthday came up. The year he wanted to go to the Rocket’s Launch Pad.

 

You remember Rack Rocket, don’t you? No? I’m not surprised. He was nothing more than a jobber back in the late seventies, early eighties. Worked for a bunch of different promotions but never made it that far. He’d do the occasional appearance for the SWF when they came to the Twin Cities, working a dark match. He became a joke for the local fans. Rocket would come out, wave to the crowd, get his butt handed to him, and the limp to the back and collect his money.

 

Thankfully, that’s not all he did. He had a wrestling school in downtown St. Paul. Or at least, he claimed he did. It was really just a rundown warehouse with a rickety ring Rocket picked up from somewhere. I used to see his ads in the back of the “Penny Saver.” He claimed to have dozens of satisfied students. At the time, I thought that was pretty cool. Now I know it was an exaggeration, but I’ll get into that in a bit.

 

Anyway, Rocket also rented himself out for kid’s parties. For a couple bucks, he’d show up and give kids a t-shirt (featuring him, naturally). For a little more, you could bring the birthday boy or girl to his “Launch Pad” for about an hour. If you went all out, you could bring a dozen kids and spend pretty much the whole day there. Rocket would let the rugrats run wild, put on an exhibition with a few of his students, and he’d even give a mini lesson to the birthday boy and the friend of his choice.

 

Well, which package do you think Brandon wanted? And who do you suppose he chose to take the lesson with him?

 

So Rocket gave us both a quick lesson, showing us a few basic moves. I thought he looked pretty impressed with me, but I suppose that’s what he’s paid to do. But maybe it was more, because when Brandon suggested that he let the two of us on a match of our own, Rocket agreed.

 

So Brandon and I clambered into the ring with Rocket, who wore a dingy ref’s uniform. And then we got started. I know now it was nothing special. I mean, we were two ten year old kids who had only received a half-hour lesson. It was mostly just pushing and bouncing off the ropes. But the parents did their part, cheering and clapping. The other party-goers looked suitably jealous. So I had as much fun as I could.

 

But I should have remembered who I was in the ring with.

 

The problems started after I got a near fall on him. I really put my weight into it and made sure he stayed down for a two count. When he finally shoved me off of him, I really hammed it up, raging around the ropes and throwing a big fit. Our audience loved it.

 

Brandon, not so much.

 

He came up behind me and shoved me pretty hard, then put me in a real headlock. “What do you think you’re doing?” he whispered. “This is my party, remember?”

 

Suddenly the fight became a little too real for me. Brandon wasn’t faking anymore. Oh, he didn’t haul off and deck me, although I suspect he would have if he could. But he was a lot rougher than he needed to be.

 

I think my dad was the only one to notice that something wasn’t quite right. He tried to get Rocket to end the match, but Rocket was chatting up a divorced mom and was barely paying attention to what was happening in his ring.

 

Dad was right to worry, especially how the match ended.

 

I’m still a little fuzzy about what happened exactly and for good reason. This much I know: we were in the final grapple, pushing each other back and forth when Rocket grumbled, “Get it over with, you two.” Then, next thing I knew, Brandon had somehow tripped me up, sending me face-first into a turnbuckle.

 

Next thing I know, pain explodes in my eyes and I wind up on the mat, clutching a bleeding nose. Dad was at my side in a flash, screaming that my nose was broken. But nobody seemed to hear him because of the racket Brandon was making.

 

He had taken a dive, rolling around and clutching at his ankle. In the aftermath, he had claimed that I had stomped him only to wind up tripping. And since he’s Brandon Smith and the birthday boy, everyone believed him. The other kids’ parents got out of there, casting dark looks at me and Dad. Brandon cried big fat crocodile tears about how I had hurt him so badly. And I had to stand there like an idiot, holding my souvenir Rack Rocket t-shirt to my nose to stop the bleeding.

 

When we went back to school, Brandon made a great big show of limping around and telling everyone how I almost crippled him.

 

Needless to say, Brandon Smith is not my favorite person in the world. But things would only get worse.

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FINisher Enthusiast

FINisher

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Not another USPW diary.. :o But good to see a Scapino back on the diary making as it adds even more competition into the Cornellverse scene we have going on here. :rolleyes:
Scapino1974 Newbie

Scapino1974

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The Tournament Debacle

 

Okay, so maybe people think I’m being a little harsh about Brandon. I mean, he was a spoiled rich kid. So what, right? Those are a dime a dozen, nothing special.

 

But Brandon was still different. You know why? Because everyone else thought Brandon was a little angel. Seriously. As his next door neighbor, I saw him in his natural element. But when he got around the adults, he became respectful, soft spoken, and well behaved. He just saved his terrorizing for home with me as his favorite victim.

 

You can imagine my relief when we decided to move. Dad decided he had enough of the Cities and wanted to get away, somewhere he could take it a bit easier. I have no idea why he chose Blue Earth, a small town about two hours south of the Twin Cities, but that’s where we wound up. Nice farm town, good people. I fit in pretty well, even started dating one of the prettiest girls in town. Life was good.

 

And it was there that I discovered my true passion: wrestling.

 

I suppose I caught the bug at Brandon’s birthday party. Sure, I knew the stuff Rocket “taught” us wasn’t the same as what would happen on the mat, but once I got involved, I loved it. Blue Earth had a phenomenal program and I learned a lot. Many of my teammates had been wrestling for most of their lives. I could barely play catch up. But my coach said I had a knack for it and my junior year, it looked like we were unbeatable. We were headed to State.

 

That’s where I became reacquainted with Brandon Smith.

 

I was pretty surprised to see him at the tourney. He wasn’t wrestling himself; apparently one of his buddies was. But the minute he stepped foot in the arena, all eyes were on him. And why not? Brandon Smith was the hottest football prospect in Minnesota at the time. All Star who knows how many times over with college scouts coming from all over to Robbinsdale. Rumor had it that even a few pro scouts were already gearing up for the bidding war that would inevitably start once Brandon graduated from college. He was a minor celebrity in Minnesota, having been interviewed by every news outlet in the state. So his entrance into the state tournament was like the arrival of a minor deity, surrounded by a cloud of friends and other acquaintances.

 

One look at him told me all I needed to know. Same fake smile I remembered, same cloying attitude. Glad to see his fame hadn’t gone to his head.

 

Anyway, our team did really well. We were on track to taking the whole thing. And it all came down to one final match: mine.

 

I was facing off against a pretty good guy, Jack Kellerman. Jack’s reputation was good, well nigh undefeated. But I had my team’s momentum behind me and I felt lucky. My girlfriend was sitting in the front row, beaming proudly.

 

The first round didn’t go so well. I think I was ahead on points, but Jack picked up the win with a clean pin. The second match, I managed to surprise him and picked up the win. So it would all come down to the final match. I was in the zone. I could do this. If I won, my team would be State champs. It would be great.

 

Naturally, that’s when everything went awry.

 

Oh, the match started out well enough. We were both eager to end things quickly, which led to some creative moves. I’m not sure how the judges kept up with us. I tried to remain focused, but I could read the fear in Jack’s eyes. He knew I was wearing him down. We both knew how it was going to end.

 

The round neared its end and neither of us had managed to pick up a pin. I thought I was ahead on points but I really didn’t want to win by technical superiority. It’d be better and much more satisfying to get the pin.

 

And then, over the din of the crowd, I heard it. Don’t ask me how. To this day, I still don’t know how.

 

I heard my girlfriend laughing.

 

I peeked out of the corner of my eye and froze. She wasn’t watching anymore. My greatest moment, and she was laughing and flirting with the person sitting next to her.

 

Brandon Smith.

 

She lightly slapped his arm and he smiled wolfishly at her. I couldn’t believe it! How could she–

 

You can guess what happened. Jack took advantage of my momentary distraction and next thing I knew, I was staring at the arena lights. And that was it. The match and the tournament were over.

 

Coach tried to put a positive spin on things. I mean, we ultimately took second and several of my teammates took first individually. But I could see the disappointment in his eyes. My teammates were outwardly gracious about it as well, though I suspected they weren’t as nice behind my back.

 

And to top it all off, my girlfriend decided a week later to dump me. She claimed we had grown apart, that I had withdrawn from here. Sure. Whatever. The fact that she went up to the Cities for another school’s prom with a certain football player three months later had nothing to do with it.

 

The next year, Coach tried to get me to come out for the team again, but I just couldn’t. I blamed myself for what happened and didn’t want to disappoint anyone like that again.

 

But if I thought I could leave wrestling behind, I was definitely fooling myself.

Shmoe Newbie

Shmoe

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I really like the fact you're putting a spin on a character like Brandon that hasn't been seen before (pretty much a b******), and actually, using him to set up the entire backstory, whereas most people use a much bigger figure in the universe. It's certainly very creative, and has got me interested.
Scapino1974 Newbie

Scapino1974

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Return to Rack Rocket

 

After graduating, I went to Minnesota State University in Mankato with no real idea of what I was going to do with my life. I hoped I’d get an idea, so I dabbled in a lot of different things. I eventually settled on being a theatre major, especially after the blast I had playing “Scapino” in a play called A Company of Wayward Saints. For some reason, my character’s name stuck and soon, that was pretty much all I answered to. Things were good. My life was on track and I had left wrestling far behind.

 

Or so I had thought.

 

My junior year, one of the engineering students in my apartment building somehow managed to hook up a pay-per-view descrambler to our entire building. Don’t ask me how, I have no idea. I think he just wanted free porn.

 

Me, I rediscovered my love for wrestling. Not what I did in highschool. Professional.

 

For a few months, I hosted pay-per-view parties and Supreme TV nights. At first, my friends went along with it. But they eventually grew bored. Not me. I kept watching, seeing whatever I could. I’d spend hours watching the shows, drinking them in.

 

And then, one night, I came across it.

 

I’m not sure what I was supposed to have been doing. Probably studying. But I found myself flipping channels. There wasn’t anything on worth watching, so I wound up watching some late night talk guy. In one of the commercial breaks, a very familiar face appeared on my screen: Rack Rocket.

 

He was advertising for his Launch Pad, saying that classes would start up soon. If anyone wanted to become a professional wrestler, he was the one to teach them. He’d show his students the ropes, teach them the deepest, darkest secrets of the business, and position them to make it big in one of the major promotions.

 

Maybe it was my lack of sleep. Maybe I just really wanted to believe it was true. At the time, I didn’t stop to think about what kind of professional contacts a washed up never-been like Rack Rocket would have really had. But in that instant, I knew what I wanted to do. So later that week, I borrowed my friend’s car and drove up to St. Paul to the Launch Pad to meet with the Rocket.

 

The years had not been kind to him. Years of killing himself at independent shows had left him pretty badly beaten. And yet he still sold me on his program. When I told him about how we met ten years earlier, he pretended he remembered me and said he saw the potential in me then. I fell for it. He extolled the wonders of his program, saying he would work with me to fit the training to my schedule. And all this for a measly seven hundred bucks a month.

 

That was a problem. My parents didn’t have a lot of money; my college career had been financed through student loans. But Rack had a solution: I’d just tack on extra money to those loans. I could ask the college to cut me a check and give it to him.

 

I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the arrangement, but what else could I do? I had to get that training and, at the time, he seemed like my best bet.

 

So that’s what I did. I went deeper in debt, borrowing my friend’s car to head up to the Cities every weekend so Rack could toss me around the ring. He tried to put on a gruff exterior, you know, to knock some respect into me, but I think he was impressed, at least enough to keep working with me. If the college or my parents ever caught on, they never said. And sure, I was a little worried about how I’d pay off the loans, but Rack filled my head with dreams of glory. He said once I landed a good contract through one of his many contacts, I’d have no trouble paying it all back.

 

Even after I graduated, I kept going back. I found a decent job in St. Paul, enough to pay for a crummy apartment and enough food to barely get by. My one problem was that I still couldn’t quite afford to pay Rack his monthly fee. So I did what any red-blooded American would do. I charged it. Sure, my debt grew every month but Rack promised me that someday soon, I’d be trying out for SWF or TCW and score a major contract, which would be more than enough to dig me out of the hole I had dug.

 

I should have caught on after my fourth year of training with him. What can I say? I can be a bit too trusting. Besides, Rack did help me score some gigs. Indy shows, Rack’s kid parties. I loved those. I played the heel to Rack’s face, snorting and stomping and generally getting the kiddies all riled up, just in time to send them home to mom and dad. It wasn’t perfect, but I was sure things were looking up.

 

That’s when the rug got yanked out from under me.

 

One day, I went into the Launch Pad and Rack’s other students were all excited. Turned out that Rip Chord himself was in the building. I couldn’t believe my luck! Rack had finally come through. Sure, Rip’s MAW wasn’t the majors, but it was a stepping stone. I was sure my boat had finally come in, that all that hard work would finally pay off.

 

No such luck. Rack gathered us all together and told us we were all being let go. He said that he had taught us all he could and that we were done. I was so excited, sure that I was finally going to get my shot. Instead, Rack admitted the truth. He hadn’t been able to find me anything. And he wasn’t going to try. It took some berating on my part, but he finally fessed up. At Rip’s request, he had taken on a new student, one with a lot of promise.

 

Guess who that was. That’s right. My mentor finally kicked me to the curb because of Brandon Smith.

 

You remember the game? The Gophers were taking on the Concordia Golden Bears, a total exhibition game. The Gophers are ahead, so Brandon, the star Gopher, the golden kid who had pro scouts eyeing him from his freshman year, started showboating for the crowd. Because he wasn’t paying attention, he got hammered by half the Golden Bear defensive line. And pop! There went his knee. And bam! There went his pro career.

 

So what does the kid do? After rehab, he drops out of school, convinces his parents to send him to Japan for a year or two, and comes back with a smattering of puroresu training. Then he goes out east where he wrestled in some indy shows where of course, he got spotted by Rip Chord, who liked his size and his story. So Rip signs him to a contract and hires away my teacher so Brandon can get private tutoring to polish him up a little.

 

You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say someone was conspiring against me the whole time.

 

At any rate, there I was. Rack and his feeble contacts were gone. I was stuck with ever mounting credit card bills and student loans that I had to pay, and I had little to nothing to fall back on. I finally had to swallow my pride and move back to Blue Earth where I went to work for my dad in his landscaping business.

 

And Brandon? He got tapped to become the next Masked Patriot, one of the longest running gimmicks in the country. He let me know by sending me the first of the t-shirts that MAW printed for him. I promptly stuffed it in the back of my closet.

 

I tell you, some guys have all the luck. But as it turned out, mine was about to change for the better.

Scapino1974 Newbie

Scapino1974

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Powergrrrl

 

So for a year, I worked with my dad. I gotta give it to my folks. They really helped me out. They weren’t happy, to be sure, especially not when they found out how much debt I had racked up on my credit cards. But they promised to help me any way they could.

 

That meant back-breaking labor with my dad spring through fall. In the winter, we worked as a snow removal company, plowing and hauling the white crap that seems to pile up everywhere during a Minnesota winter. I lived in my parents’ basement, something I tolerated because it was free. All told, it wasn’t a horrible deal. Most of my salary went to the student loan and credit card companies. My parents didn’t charge me rent (although I think Mom wanted to) and let me keep a little from what I made so I wouldn’t have to be a complete hermit.

 

Okay, so maybe it stunk a little. At least, after six months, I was going stir crazy. So Dad did something completely unbelievable for me. He bought me a Stallwart Rig. And not just the generic, bare bones set either. We’re talking top of the line with six wireless controllers, a dozen games, plus a year’s subscription to Stallwart Live. He told Mom he got it on sale but I knew better.

 

So my life fell into a hazy routine. Work for ten to twelve hours with my Dad, eat with the parents, and then lose myself in a game for a few hours before crashing only to start all over again.

 

I don’t know how much J.K. Stallings actually had in designing the Stallwart, but I’m seriously tempted to offer to bear his children. I’m pretty sure that thing saved my life. At the very least, it gave me a unique opportunity.

 

One night in late October, I trudged down the stairs and collapsed into my couch, nudging the Stallwart on with my toe. The welcome screen to Live came up and I tugged the headset into position. What was I in the mood for? A FPS? Maybe.

 

The Rig made a loud pinging sound, indicating that a friend had just logged in and wanted to talk to me. I had made a few on-line friends who I liked to play with. A few were old classmates from highschool and college. I called up the channel on the Rig.

 

“So feel like playing Supreme Challenge?” the voice purred in my ear.

 

I smiled. Powergrrrl. I’d recognize her voice anywhere. Low and sultry, just teasing enough to keep me on the cusp of blushing. I’m sure she did that just to keep me off balance. As much as I hated to admit it, it worked.

 

“Sounds good to me,” I said, snagging the disc and popping it into the Rig.

 

In a few moments, we were in a virtual ring. Powergrrrl picked Runaway Train, like she always did. I decided to go with Marc DuBois this time around. Once again, Powergrrrl managed to jumpstart the match.

 

“You need to tell me how to do that sometime,” I grumbled.

 

Her musical laugh teased heat into my cheeks. I tried to block several big kicks but to no avail. She took early control of the match and I had to just ride it out, waiting for the right moment. And there it was. A quick jab to Train’s midsection brought him to a standstill and I was able to take over, hitting a flurry of punches and kicks that knocked Train back.

 

Powergrrrl grunted over the headset. “Nice.”

 

The match see-sawed back and forth. I thought I had the edge, but then Powergrrrl tripped Train’s special ability, the massive run-in. Two other heels charged the ring and attacked me while Train distracted the ref. I snarled. Not good. I really only had one choice. I quickly tapped in the right sequence.

 

On the screen, Marc flipped his hair back and smiled, resulting in a dazzling flash of light. Powergrrrl laughed as her cavalry staggered back, stunned by Marc’s special ability. “You’re going to regret that later.”

 

I clenched my jaw, hoping she was wrong but knowing she wasn’t. You could only use those special abilities once in a match; Marc’s “Model Smile” special would have been better used to stun Train. But what choice did I have?

 

I quickly tossed the two attackers out of the ring and tried to get at Train, but Powergrrrl was ready for me. Train somehow managed to duck one of Mark’s kicks and then batted him to the mat.

 

“Like the real Runaway Train would be able to pull off a move like that without becoming completely winded,” I groused.

 

Powergrrrl laughed again. “So did you catch the last Supreme TV?”

 

“No, I really can’t bear to watch it ever since that moronic ‘election’ storyline wrapped up,” I said, stabbing a button to duck a huge fist from Train. “You can tell that SWF creative is floundering right now.”

 

“That’s for sure,” Powergrrrl said.

 

I smiled. This was part of the reason why I liked playing this game with Powergrrrl in the first place. Not only was she a female gamer (a rarity!), she also knew quite a bit about wrestling. We’d often discuss what the big promotions were up to and dissect their every move. We jokingly said that we could solve everyone’s problems.

 

I often wondered about who this Powergrrrl was. She obviously knew her stuff. One of my sillier fantasies revolved around a trip to Vegas I took with some friends a few years back. While there, we had taken in a so-called “wrestling show” done by a group called “Babes of Sin City.” It was really a group of oiled up women who knocked each other around and wound up stripping each other or themselves. One of the “wrestlers” called herself “Powergirl.” I sometimes dreamed that the Powergrrrl on Stallwart Live and the Powergirl I saw out in Vegas were one and the same. Maybe she’d come for a visit and then we could...

 

A near fall brought me back to reality. I managed to kick out after mashing buttons as hard as I could. I even managed to trip Train up and get a one count myself.

 

“How about TCW?” Powergrrrl asked next.

 

I shrugged, even though I knew she couldn’t see it. “They’re all right. The whole Syndicate thing worked out for them and was a clever way for them to flip some heels to face. But I have this feeling that it’s not going to be enough to get them on top.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

I groaned as I missed a Model Solution, then hunkered in to go after Train again. “Tommy means well and he puts on some great matches, but the thing TCW misses is the idea of story. That’s what makes a good match legendary. At least, that’s what I think.”

 

“I agree,” Powergrrrl said. “So have you ever watched USPW?”

 

I laughed. “You mean where the ‘90s go to die?”

 

“What do you mean by that?”

 

“They’ve got the same problem HGC did before Cornell bought it out. They’ve got all these people who were in their prime a decade ago trying to relive their glory days. I’m just glad that Strong hasn’t gotten into the ring himself yet. That wouldn’t be pretty.”

 

Silence. For a moment, I thought Powergrrrl had disconnected but no, she was still playing. The fact that Runaway Train managed to run me over and get the pin proved that well enough. But she still didn’t say anything as we popped out to the lobby.

 

“Want to play again?” I asked.

 

“I can’t,” she finally said. “Listen, you live in Blue Earth, right?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“How far is that from Mankato?”

 

“About an hour.”

 

She fell silent again. “Listen, I’ll be in Mankato in two days on business. How about we meet in real life?”

 

I nearly dropped my controller. Was my fantasy coming true? My hands trembled for a moment. “Sounds good to me.”

 

We exchanged cell phone numbers and agreed to meet at a Buffalo Wild Wings near downtown. Then she logged off and I tried to find someone else to play with. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake her silky voice from my mind.

1PWfan Collaborator

1PWfan

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Yeah, this is a bit obvious. Sorry. :rolleyes:

 

That just makes it even funnier (and let's face it, NewScap's a prat of the highest order).

 

Anyway, more story please!

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