USPW 2005: I Can Transform Ya

[Marshall]

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USPW: I Can Transform Ya

 

 

April 2010

 

The tension had finally reached crisis point. The friendship between Sam Strong and Danny Jillefski had come under a huge strain from their business relationship and disagreements on how to push USPW forward. Ultimately, Strong had control over the company and the constant clashes with his friend had been making things unnecessarily difficult. The unthinkable happened and Danny Jillefski was fired from USPW, the baby he’d created. With that, USPW were looking for an announcer.

 

That’s where I came in. My name is Jared Rhett, and I’d been a small indy-level announcer for about 5 years. I applied for the job, hoping for the best. What was the worst that could happen: Leg Drop from Sam Strong or Giant Redwood appearing at my door in the black of night? I shuddered and wished I’d never sent the application - I’d met Redwood once before and he’s even more disgusting in person.

 

In fact, it was about 5 years ago that I’d met him for the first time if I remember correctly, right at the start of my new career. I was 16 at the time, and believed I was capable of anything, regardless of my lack of knowledge on the subject in question. Determined to make something of myself in the wrestling world, I’d applied for the USPW head booker’s job in ‘05, believing I could do a much better job than good old Redwood. Hell, anyone could. Jillefski must’ve agreed with me seeing as how he stripped Redwood of his booking power. He invited me for an interview, almost definitely as a joke, but one I wanted to capitalise on. I went with a hundred ideas in my head, but as I reached the office block that Jillefski rented out, I was met by a horrible sight.

 

Giant Redwood was pacing outside the building. In tight Hawaiian shorts and nothing else. You think he looks awful in his wrestling gear…

 

I caught his eye by accident and he stopped pacing. He came closer to me, his eyes reddening in the late morning light. He noted my poor attempt at looking professional, and must have assumed I was the guy Jillefski was waiting for, as only a wrestling fan would think brown shoes go with a scraggy black suit. He looked amused by my ragged old briefcase I borrowed from my dad, and, ever the gentleman, asked me politely:

 

“Who the **** are you?”

 

Now, I wasn’t scared of Redwood back then and I’m still not. I swear. Word has it that Cheetah Boy punked him out. Seriously, Cheetah Boy. I’ll just let that sink in a bit.

 

.

.

.

.

.

 

OK, I was a bit scared. I was 16, cut me some slack. When he asked the question again, in an even harsher tone, my instinct was to make up a lie about attending an internship at an accountant’s in the building, rather than tell this humongous man that I was applying for his old job at 16 years old. I hoped I could slip in and still attend the meeting, but old Red insisted on walking me to the office I’d imagined, resulting in me having to feign attending an internship until he left. I didn’t make it to the interview.

 

That was the first time I’d met Redwood. It wouldn’t be the last either, as I’d applied for the announcers job in USPW once Jillefski left, and Strong had accepted me. My voice was going to be on television on a wrestling show. Redwood didn’t remember our meeting before and when I called him on it in the locker room, he denied it. Such a clever politician…

 

So that’s me. An announcer on a televised wrestling show. That’d always been the dream. Well, except for running the whole promotion of course. But that was a pipedream. Or so I thought.

 

A knock came at the door at my large house (I’m allowed to boast, Strong isn’t so clever with his chequebook). Being 4.30 in the morning, I ignored it, guessing it was probably some rowdy rich kid who’d had too much Bud Lite. I’m English by the way - you Americans can’t handle your liquor. I kid

 

The knock sounded again, louder and more aggressively. I figured I’d at least have a look through the peephole and see the face of my door’s oppressor. This led to a massive surprise.

 

 

 

It was Danny Jillefski.

[Marshall]

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Danny Jillefski was pissed. In every sense of the word. Shocked at the fact that the former USPW owner was outside my door at 4.30 in the morning, trying desperately to knock out the hinges, I’d decided it would better for my home safety if I let him in, rather than let him break my door down. Mistake #1. I opened the door, sending Jillefski plummeting to the floor. Whatever he’d been drinking caught up with him upon contact with the floor, leaving a pool of vomit on my brand new, premium wool carpet. I’d never get the deposit back now.

 

He seemed to represent a sad denouement the wrestling world was all too familiar with - a man so consumed with the business, that when you take it away, all that’s left is the alcohol and the drugs. Maybe that’s all the wrestling business is really: a front for a drug habit or an alcohol business. It’s surreal moments like this that really make you reflect on the world around you. I’d known too many people just on the indy circuit who plummeted and never made it back from the hole they built around themselves. Cain Sinclair, Daniel Derulo and Chasyn Blanc just to name a few. I never want to have to bury one of my friends again, and I’ll be damned if I have to bury one of my idols.

 

I tried to help him to his feet, though he didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture. He mumbled something under his whiskey-soaked breath and I was about to ask him what he was doing here when suddenly I found myself unable to speak. My vocal chords had become paralysed and I was choking on the words that I wanted to say. The barrel of a gun under your chin tends to do that to you.