The Russian Federation Of Wrestling

[DinoKea]

I have no clue how I've won this but I've sent through my pick for who you should sign. Absolutely love this whole diary

[Scottie]

I've not read everything, but I had read the first couple of shows and the most recent ones - talk about a wild ride! It's a lot of fun and presented really well. I'm looking forward to the big showdown between Goldberg and Dragunov! I agree - let the man improv.

[dstephe4]

 

Hey you! Yes you! The one taking some of their precious time to read this weird little diary! Yeah, you there! You're awesome. Thank you. Here's some wrestling matches for you to predict. Why not continue your fine form of awesomeness by having a guess on who wins? Winner this time gets to choose a tag team for Steven Seagal's sexy new tournament. Chances are I'll have fun with them and they'll end up a long-term attraction.  Here's what our boozy, delirious booker has in store for Episode 8:   Ilja Dragunov vs Bill Goldberg - For The World Title Last time they fought, Dragunov got the big win to become the first ever champion, in a result our marketing team lazily called 'The Upset Of The Century'. Since then, Goldberg has fought his way through approximately half the population of Russia to get a shot at revenge. No fancy gimmicks. No shenanigans. Just wrestler vs wrestler, with anyone who dares to interfere getting fired on the spot.  Let's see who's been paying attention to the early chapters of this diary....   The World Tag Team Title Tournament - Villain Enterprises (Brody King & PCO, with Marty Scurll) vs Kris Jokic & Dragan Spazic The opening bout of our snazzy new tournament pits two (almost) Russians against a world-(in)famous team spanning half the globe. (We're nothing if not international). It's two of RFW's up-and-coming talents against a group which tore the wrestling scenes in America, Britain and Japan new arseholes. In what will certainly be an exciting and unpredictable bout, the winners will be the first to advance towards becoming the first ever RFW Tag Team Champions. Who will win? You must decide. Other diaries have serious wrestling and stuff. I bring you a match between a man in a pink suit, a guy who insists on calling himself 'The Falcon' taking on The French Frankenstein, the lead singer of death metal group 'God's Hate' and a lad from England with a penchant for umbrellas. (And I couldn't be happier to do so.) [Edit: See below for the "oh f***" reaction and discussion to this one. I really didn't know about the Scurll scandal.]   'The Fabulous' John Hennigan (with Gerald) vs Aleksandr 'Vertigo' Klaptsov (with Edge) In an attempt to ally himself with WWE legend Edge, the man they call Vertigo issued an Open Challenge, willing to prove himself against anyone brave enough to step up and fight. A heavily perfumed American with a huge, fluffy coat and a little, fluffy dog answered the call. Then, thanks to circumstances entirely too random to repeat here, the muscle-bound Ivan Markov ended up battling Hennigan instead. The Fabulous One's victory paved the way for this battle. But which of these long-haired virtuosos will emerge victorious? On a personal note, I'm having the time of my life writing this silly crap. Re-tooling Hennigan as the new Gorgeous George may well be my finest hour. His opponent has one of the most decorated stars in WWE history watching his back. John has a small dog named Gerald watching his. This really is a 50/50 match-up, and another prime example of pro wrestling at it's finest.    Why not join our previous winners in the tepid glow of victory? Post your predictions! As stated earlier, whoever gets the most right gets to select any Tag Team in the world and shoot them directly into this tournament. (And then I get to have my fun with them.)

 

Edited May 11, 2023 by dstephe4
Reason for edit: Because everyone knew why Marty Scurll was surprisingly easy to hire, other than me.

[SonOfSharknado]

Ilja over Goldberg because Non-Russians are not allowed to win any titles 

Jokic and Spazic because I am not picking the team with a literal rapist 

Hennigan to get him ready for a title match with Ilja, because the character is fun, the match will actually be good, and it would make excellent propaganda. 

[dstephe4]

20 minutes ago, SonOfSharknado said:

Ilja over Goldberg because Non-Russians are not allowed to win any titles 

Jokic and Spazic because I am not picking the team with a literal rapist 

Hennigan to get him ready for a title match with Ilja, because the character is fun, the match will actually be good, and it would make excellent propaganda. 

Hang on, I've accidentally hired a rapist?! Who?!

[ElectricX]

1 hour ago, dstephe4 said:

Hang on, I've accidentally hired a rapist?! Who?!

Marty Scrull. He was one of the many wrestlers who had scandalous stories come out with the #MeToo movement. It's why Ring of Honor dropped him, and AEW won't sign him even though he's close friends with some of their Executive Vice Presidents.

Dragonov over Goldberg

Jokic/Spazic over PCO/King

Hennigan over Vertigo

[dstephe4]

26 minutes ago, ElectricX said:

Marty Scrull. He was one of the many wrestlers who had scandalous stories come out with the #MeToo movement. It's why Ring of Honor dropped him, and AEW won't sign him even though he's close friends with some of their Executive Vice Presidents.

Dragonov over Goldberg

Jokic/Spazic over PCO/King

Hennigan over Vertigo

Well... f***. 

[DinoKea]

Ilja Dragunov def. Bill Goldberg

Villaon Enterprises def. Kris Jokic & Dragan Spazic

Vertigo def. John Hennigan

[DinoKea]

23 minutes ago, dstephe4 said:

Well... f***. 

Depending on how popular he is (and how you feel about being stuck with him) you could maybe make him suffer for a bit (job out to all your favourite Russians) and/or just make him fight Kulakov, which is essentially a death sentence?

[Old School Fan]

7 hours ago, SonOfSharknado said:

Jokic and Spazic because I am not picking the team with a literal rapist 

 

5 hours ago, ElectricX said:

Marty Scrull. He was one of the many wrestlers who had scandalous stories come out with the #MeToo movement. It's why Ring of Honor dropped him, and AEW won't sign him even though he's close friends with some of their Executive Vice Presidents.

Boy howdy, I sure know how to pick 'em, don't I? 😆 🙃  If I'd been paying better attention at that point, I would've picked a different team, but hindsight's always 20/20, as they say...

That said, is it too late to switch my team pick?  If so, I'll just do up my predictions accordingly...

Ilja Dragunov vs Bill Goldberg - For The World Title

The World Tag Team Title Tournament - Villain Enterprises (Brody King & PCO, with Marty Scurll) vs Kris Jokic & Dragan Spazic

'The Fabulous' John Hennigan (with Gerald) vs Aleksandr 'Vertigo' Klaptsov (with Edge)

Edited May 11, 2023 by Old School Fan
Predictions added

[dstephe4]

I'm a bit gutted about the Marty Scurll thing. I genuinely didn't know. I used to watch Progress wrestling before it lost it's way, and he was magnificent in it. I had big plans for Villain Enterprises, with him as their leader, and have already run the show. Obviously, in light of this, something has to change. 

As I see it, there's 3 ways of handling this. I'll let you fine readers choose which path we take. Either:

1. I just write Scurll out of the show as if it never happened, as if he never existed.

2. Scurll shows up for a show or two and Russia happens to him. I have my fun, then bye bye Marty. Let's see what my sleep-deprived, alcohol-enlightened brain can come up with.

3. We carry on regardless. In real life it seems Scurll can only get booked in remote, far-away places. It could be feasible for this tarnished sex-pest to end up on a show in somewhere like Russia. It would be similar to how many historical diaries handle Chris Benoit.

Let me know which way you'd like this to go, by replying to this, and I'll write accordingly. I've always been keen on the readers of this diary being involved in shaping it's direction. Can't think of a better time for interaction than this.

Edited May 11, 2023 by dstephe4

[Old School Fan]

50 minutes ago, dstephe4 said:

As I see it, there's 3 ways of handling this. I'll let you fine readers choose which path we take. Either:

1. I just write Scurll out of the show as if it never happened, as if he never existed.

2. Scurll shows up for a show or two and Russia happens to him. I have my fun, then bye bye Marty. Let's see what my sleep-deprived, alcohol-enlightened brain can come up with.

3. We carry on regardless. In real life it seems Scurll can only get booked in remote, far-away places. It could be feasible for this tarnished sex-pest to end up on a show in somewhere like Russia. It would be similar to how many historical diaries handle Chris Benoit.

Doing #2 sounds right to me.  😉 😁

[Just here to look]

 

7 hours ago, dstephe4 said:

I'm a bit gutted about the Marty Scurll thing. I genuinely didn't know. I used to watch Progress wrestling before it lost it's way, and he was magnificent in it. I had big plans for Villain Enterprises, with him as their leader, and have already run the show. Obviously, in light of this, something has to change. 

As I see it, there's 3 ways of handling this. I'll let you fine readers choose which path we take. Either:

1. I just write Scurll out of the show as if it never happened, as if he never existed.

2. Scurll shows up for a show or two and Russia happens to him. I have my fun, then bye bye Marty. Let's see what my sleep-deprived, alcohol-enlightened brain can come up with.

3. We carry on regardless. In real life it seems Scurll can only get booked in remote, far-away places. It could be feasible for this tarnished sex-pest to end up on a show in somewhere like Russia. It would be similar to how many historical diaries handle Chris Benoit.

Let me know which way you'd like this to go, by replying to this, and I'll write accordingly. I've always been keen on the readers of this diary being involved in shaping its direction. Can't think of a better time for interaction than this.

Yeah number 2 seems good. 3 is (unfortunately) the most realistic, however I stopped expecting realism when I read the first few sentences of this diary. Give him hell. 

It pains me, but given that I assume this prediction thing was made after you did the show, and that you had big plans for Villain Enterprise, that his team will beat the Russians. Now beat the s**t out of him and hire a hit on him when you’re done. It’s Russia. 
 

Dragunov beats Goldberg. Goldberg physically must lose. I refuse (even if you wouldn’t die if you did make him win) that you would give it to this aged brick.

Gorgeous Hennigan vs Vertigo Klaptsov. I‘m leaning to Vertigo via bulls**t that Hennigan will dispute in the next episode to overturn the result. 

And that is my prediction for this episode. I don’t expect “the mysterious benefactor” to do any… benefacting? What the hell is the word for doing something a benefactor does? As I was saying, I don’t expect to win, but if I do, you sure as hell bet I’m gonna find some random team from somewhere thousands of miles away from Russia. 

[dstephe4]

Regarding this Tag Team tournament, there will be 4 matches in the first round, and the first two matches are booked. I have one of the teams for match 3 signed up also. That means there's spaces for 3 more tag teams. I look forward to the suggestions of whoever wins. It's fun seeing what you readers come up with, and thinking up ways to make it work.

Edited May 11, 2023 by dstephe4

[DinoKea]

9 hours ago, dstephe4 said:

I'm a bit gutted about the Marty Scurll thing. I genuinely didn't know. I used to watch Progress wrestling before it lost it's way, and he was magnificent in it. I had big plans for Villain Enterprises, with him as their leader, and have already run the show. Obviously, in light of this, something has to change. 

As I see it, there's 3 ways of handling this. I'll let you fine readers choose which path we take. Either:

1. I just write Scurll out of the show as if it never happened, as if he never existed.

2. Scurll shows up for a show or two and Russia happens to him. I have my fun, then bye bye Marty. Let's see what my sleep-deprived, alcohol-enlightened brain can come up with.

3. We carry on regardless. In real life it seems Scurll can only get booked in remote, far-away places. It could be feasible for this tarnished sex-pest to end up on a show in somewhere like Russia. It would be similar to how many historical diaries handle Chris Benoit.

Let me know which way you'd like this to go, by replying to this, and I'll write accordingly. I've always been keen on the readers of this diary being involved in shaping it's direction. Can't think of a better time for interaction than this.

#2 seems right to me. He's already in Russia, but I suspect he didn't come prepared for just how harsh Russia can be

[GreatreDRagon]

Dragunov def. Goldberg

Villain Enterprises def. Jokic & Spazic

Hennigan def. Klaptsov

I agree that option 2 is the way to go since you've already booked the show

[dstephe4]

 

Having spent the week on a battleship full of noisy drunken sailors, and the previous week in an alcohol-induced coma, I was determined to have a 'normal' week this time around. I needed to be among normal people, doing normal things. I needed a little time away from the psychotropic rollercoaster ride that was the Russian Federation Of Wrestling. This industry never rests, however, and there was work to be done ahead of Episode 8, which we had our fingers and toes crossed would be our biggest ever. And so it was under these circumstances that I found myself in the Israeli Cultural Centre of Moscow, with a pocket full of dollars, doing what the 'normal' people do in these parts - shopping. "It is garbage. Complete and utter garbage. This is not crap, because calling it such would be an insult to everything that is crap in this world. This is beyond crap. This is a thousand levels below crap. Seriously, Mister British, what you have asked for is not even worth shredding down and using to line hamster cages with. Hamster piss is too good for this stuff. Indeed, it would be an insult to the hamster." My friend had a way with words. Having spent his whole life working in movies and theatre, I'd come to expect such delicious elocution from him. I nodded in agreement, a broad smile on my face. "Excellent. Then it is exactly what I'm looking for. I know you normally wouldn't indulge in stuff like this. But it was either you, or Ikea. And I would rather be f***ed to death by bears than ever step foot in Ikea. I really do think that Ikea is Dante's Fourth Circle Of Hell. But I needed some really cheap, shoddy furniture, really quickly. And I also needed somewhere to store my good furniture for the weekend. You came to mind as a man who could help me with both." My friend was into movies and theatre. And furniture. This is Russia, after all, and everyone has a side-hustle here. "Mister British" he schmoozed in that smooth-as-silk voice that wooed movie-goers at film festivals around the globe. "I provide the finest furniture on this Earth. Or at least in this part of Moscow anyway. Last time you came to me after some sort of 'incident' involving one of your wrestlers and a temper tantrum. I provided you with stunning Chippendale masterpieces that would make Putin himself purr with pride. And now, here you are some short weeks later, asking me for furnishings that would shame a dumpster. Your motives confuse me, British." I evaded his question with one of my own. "Honestly though, what is this furniture really worth?" I asked, stomping on a woodlouse that came crawling from one of the pieces strewn before me. "Mr British-man, if this stuff were to somehow catch fire, it would not even be worth my time to open the window to let out the smoke." The salesman of the year talking to me was Kirill Safonov, one of the very few genuine friends I had in this ridiculous country. Plus, he was the only one in this God-forsaken nation who understood I'm British, not American. He emphasised this point by calling me 'British' at every available opportunity. Either that or he was too proud to admit that, despite being friends for many years, he still didn't know my real name.  "Don't worry mate. If it helps soothe your conscience, I can guarantee a Viking Funeral for all of this crap. It'll be smashed up in the same way that Godzilla smashed Tokyo. Knowing the guy like I do, it'll be smashed down to a particle level. And I assure you that your good name will be nowhere near this junk. Is that a rusty nail sticking out? Someone could catch themselves on that and get Hepatitis or something. Where'd you get this s*** from anyhow?" I gently tapped a coffee table with my foot. It immediately collapsed into a twisted pile of wooden debris and splinters. A strange, damp, farty kind of smell rose from the shattered remains.  "The old Chinese restaurant next door closed down. The bailiffs who cleared the place out decided the rubbish the owners furnished it with wasn't even worth the matches and petrol needed to burn it. They threw it out the window and walked away. Some of it smashed on impact, but you really can't tell the difference. There's some particularly offensive Chinese good luck cat statues, stained-glass lanterns and a sofa that smells like soy sauce and vomit, if you want those too." I laughed. "Sure, why the hell not. But just make sure my real, actual furniture ends up in a lot better condition than this crap, okay? I'll pay you actual, real money for keeping the good stuff safe. It only needs to be a few days. Like you said, my real furniture is exquisite Chippendale stuff. Makes me feel all snazzy and fancy. This tacky decoy crap only needs to last one onslaught." Kirill smirked, then lit up one of those nasty-as-hell cigarettes you can only seem to find on the black market. It smelled like a million sweaty hippies had been killed in a fire and he was smoking the ashes, but I was too polite to say anything. Besides, the handsome Israeli/Russian b*****d was doing me a favour. "You keep buying such beautiful furniture, it becomes hard to say 'no' to you, British." It was clear we were both enjoying the absolute crap out of this conversation. My face was smiling more than it ever had since Oleg had shown me his pistol at the start of this bizarre adventure. As my laughter slowly died down, it was at this point that I wondered how the hell I was going to transport all this crap all the way to RFW HQ. A magic carpet, maybe. My phone was full of strangely useful, yet incredibly shady contacts, but not one Russian van driver among them.   I had to take photos of this crap, in case nobody believed me. My big regret is I didn't manage to fit all the tacky Chinese crap on the photo too, especially given the big part it'd play in Episode 8.  "So the Brit with exquisite taste in furnishings and a seemingly endless supply of cash suddenly wants a job-lot of Chinese wooden crap, for use in his wrestling show. There are so many questions, but I want none of the answers. I have also so many questions about your strange life, British, especially these past few weeks. But I have been too polite to ask." I smirked. To be fair, my circumstances were so comically weird I was genuinely surprised they weren't fictional. I half-expected to wake up any minute, as if this were all some crazy acid dream or something. "Ask anything you like pal. We're friends." "How... how exactly did you suddenly find yourself in this ridiculous wrestling business? It is one step above the circus, British. Not the natural environment for a man like yourself. Rumour is you were kidnapped and held at gunpoint until you agreed to head this Russian Federation Of Wrestling nonsense. Is that true?" I studied his face carefully. His expression was of a man who couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. To be fair, it did sound ridiculous. "Not kidnapped. Enthusiastically transported. And it wasn't a case of getting shot if I didn't agree. It's more a case of me getting shot if or when I fail. But don't worry about that, I already have an exit strategy in place if things start turning sour." I really did. But more on that another time. "But... you know nothing of wrestling! Do they realise this?!"  "I know, right?! Turns out I was at the very bottom of a very long list. Maybe they just figured the project was doomed to fail, and they could pin the blame on a shady foreigner with questionable business interests. I sometimes wonder what would upset people the most - if I fail, or if I succeed. Lord knows circumstances are against us. I almost want to succeed out of sheer, bloody spite." Kirill was really going for it now. I could tell he'd wanted to have this kind of chat for a very long time, but was only now working up the courage. The questions came pouring out of him like bullets from a machine gun. "And what business interests, exactly? You have always had great wealth, British. But never a word about your occupation. Rumour is you're an international arms smuggler, is that true? I won't mind if it is the case. I am in the movie business after all - my waters are nearly as murky as yours." I shrugged. "Nah, I just tell everyone I'm an illegal arms dealer because it sounds cool and sexy. It's the kind of lie that seems to make me very popular in a country like Russia. The truth is slightly less believable. I actually build trendy apartment buildings in chic locations throughout Russia and sell them at ridiculous prices to the nuveau-riche d***heads that fill this country like rats in a sewer. I don't deal in death, I deal in real estate." The handsome icon of Russian stage and screen gasped in alarm, his face ashen with the horror of my words. Then suddenly he looked cross. "Bulls*** British. It cannot be true. The arms dealer thing was much more believable. It is not possible for a Western Capitalist to get a foothold in Putin's Russia. Russian money does not leave Russia, especially in any kind of legal profession. The wealthy burocrats who rule this once-fine nation would not allow a foreigner a seat at the table. They would rather crush you than ever allow you to play their game. Many have tried, and went missing before they could even get the proper permits." It was all true. His cynicism did amuse the hell out of me though. "So, mister British, how am I to believe you are the only Westerner who managed to infiltrate the Russian system without getting pumped full of Uranium and dumped in a river?"  Being a dual national citizen himself, the Israeli-Russian actor had clawed himself into the unforgiving movie business from the gutter, all the way up to the fancy climbs of Moscow's elite circles. We'd risen at a similar trajectory at a similar time, overcoming similar obstacles to carve out our own piece of success in the most ridiculous nation on Earth. It was this shared journey which had made us friends. It was these shared experiences that made him sceptical of what I was saying. He was about to get one hell of a surprise with my answer. "Kittens" I answered matter-of-factly. "Kittens. I owe all my fortune and success in this ridiculous, poisonous country to kittens. All of my millions, the cars, the clothes, the lot, all down to kittens." Kirill was now looking at me like I was completely mad. He had a look on his face like he'd smelled a fart. The silence was awkward, so I quickly got to the explanation.   "In order for someone to build anything taller than a midget's navel in this country, you need a million different permits all stamped by the Ministry of Industry And Trade. There's only two criteria for getting these - firstly, you have to be close personal friends with Vladimir Putin, and secondly you have to be Russian. Like you said, my friend, there are invisible barriers stopping people like you and me from getting a foothold in this country. You have talent, which allowed you to rise to the top. I don't. So I had to get creative. I made a point of introducing myself to the Business Minister Denis Manturov at one of the fancy galas those Kremlin creeps seem to love. I asked for a permit to build my big, shiny apartments. He laughed in my face. I tried bribing him, but unfortunately it turns out he is possibly the only powerful man in Russia who isn't buried up to his tits in corruption. He was about to have his goons throw me out of the party, and presumably kick the living crap out of me, when his little daughter turned up, crying. She wanted a kitten. She'd been asking all year for one, begging every day for a little feline pal, over and over again. But that mean b*****d Manturov had refused every time. He hated the little furry buggers." I had my moviestar friend's full attention now, I could tell. He was hanging on my every word. "So I politely said my goodbyes and got my limey arse out of the party before his goons could throw me out of a moving car, or off a bridge, or out of an aeroplane or something. I'm sure Manturov thought he'd never see or hear from me again. So the next morning I turned up at his house with a beautiful little kitten. Little fella had a blue silk bow around it's neck, a little furry cushion to sit on, the works. I rang the doorbell than ran away and hid behind some bushes. Seconds later the daughter opens the door, sees the kitten, and gives it the biggest hug that has ever been given to anything in the history of the whole universe. She's crying with joy. Manturov shows up, and he is PISSED. He immediately starts sneezing. There's snot shooting out of the guy's face like jizz from a porn star's d***. His eyes are like waterfalls. He wants the kitten gone, but he sees the emotion on his daughter's face and he knows it's too late. He's beyond furious, but sneezing so hard he's about to s*** his pants. He has no choice but to let the allergy-inducing furball into his life forever." My actor friend was laughing with disbelief. But he could tell I was telling the truth. "Next morning, I'm there again with another kitten. A girl kitten this time. Pink bow. This one's in a little wicker basket. Adorable little f***er. Same thing happens again. The daughter answers the door, and all her dreams have come true all at once. She's in tears of joy again. Angry Manturov is rage-pissing thunder again. But again he has no choice but to let her keep it, because as nasty and mean and horrible as he is, he can't break his little girl's heart. By this point his eyes are red and bloodshot like something of a low budget b-movie horror flick. Day three, kitten three. Day four, kitten four. By the end of the week there's seven kittens in the Russian Business Minister's house. His allergies are getting so bad his doctors are literally begging him not to go home at night." Kirill was laughing his ass off now. I was enjoying telling this story, and was amazed that despite being in Russia since 2014, this was the first time I'd ever told it. "A fortnight since the party. The poor Russian b*****d has fourteen kittens invading his home, and the happiest daughter in all of Moscow. He's looking like a human Voodoo doll by now. No manner of pills or nasal sprays can keep him safe in his own home. So he has his hired goons keeping watch by the front door every morning, to stop whichever mysterious person is leaving these purring bundles of joy. The goons were huge. Real badasses. They had Uzis. But that didn't stop me. I just started handing kittens to the little girl through the window. Or down the chimney. I threw one over the garden fence once. After a month, and thirty kittens, the previously unflappable Denis Manturov is on the brink of a breakdown. He's a broken man. A twitching, blotchy, sneezing, crimson-faced, sweaty and broken man. The guy hasn't slept a wink since he rejected me at the party. My sources told me he was even taking amphetamines to keep him from passing out at his desk in the Ministry." My face has alive with the joy of such warm, precious memories.  "It was the perfect moment for me to make my move. I showed up unannounced at his office armed only with a smile and an invoice. He was too busy sneezing to summon his guards to throw me out. I handed the invoice to him and the silly b*****d nearly had a heart attack. It was an invoice for a hundred kittens. He knew instantly he was defeated. The deal was simple. He would either give me my permits, or there'd be another kitten every day. I would never stop. I would never give up. Either he'd allow me to make my money, or his life would become a never-ending tsunami of cats. A hellscape of felines. A waking nightmare of paws and whiskers and purring. Long story short, I had all my paperwork stamped and signed within the hour. My first skyscraper broke ground a month later. And it's been raining money ever since." It took a minute or so before our laughter subsided. It was a great relief to be able to tell this weird story. A weight was off my chest. Suddenly though Kirill stopped laughing and got instantly serious. "But there will be recriminations, British! Men like Denis Manturov do not like to be defeated. Surely it was only a matter of time before you faced reprisals?!" "There's a secret, unspoken deal done with every businessperson in Russia - sell as much as you like, make as much money as you can, achieve all you can achieve, but stay the hell out of Politics. It's a clear choice: bathe in a bathtub full of cash and shut up, or speak up and Putin's buddies in the FSB (KGB) will invite themselves round for dinner and have a little chat." Kirill burst out laughing at this. "A little chat?! I do so love your dry British sense of humour." "The FSB has a very particular form of communication. They keep on shooting you in the face until either they run out of bullets, or you run out of face." He was keeled over with laughter now. "Quite true, British! Quite true! Maybe it is you who should have been the performer - you have quite the way with words." "No thanks. My ridiculous actor friend would just say I was copying him. I'll just stay nice and relaxed in my bathtub full of cash, thank you." We were giggling like kids. I remember it with a big smile. I often wonder whether cursing me with the poisoned chalice that is The Russian Federation Of Wrestling was the revenge that had been so long in the making. Perhaps I'd made just enough enemies of people like Denis Manturov, Konstantin Ernst and Oleg Matytsin, that when a bats*** crazy, suicidal, doomed project like the RFW came up, they knew just the scapegoat to hang it on. As to whether their revenge worked is entirely up for debate. I'd argue we did really well under impossible circumstances. Others say I was f***ed from the start. But no matter how hard, stressful or crazy things got, I would just think of kittens, and everything would suddenly feel just fine.

 

Edited May 11 by dstephe4
I really do worry that this chapter didn't feature enough kittens. And yes, on reflection, there was an unnecessary amount of red text in this one.

[Taylor2020]

On 5/11/2023 at 6:08 AM, dstephe4 said:

I'm a bit gutted about the Marty Scurll thing. I genuinely didn't know. I used to watch Progress wrestling before it lost it's way, and he was magnificent in it. I had big plans for Villain Enterprises, with him as their leader, and have already run the show. Obviously, in light of this, something has to change. 

As I see it, there's 3 ways of handling this. I'll let you fine readers choose which path we take. Either:

1. I just write Scurll out of the show as if it never happened, as if he never existed.

2. Scurll shows up for a show or two and Russia happens to him. I have my fun, then bye bye Marty. Let's see what my sleep-deprived, alcohol-enlightened brain can come up with.

3. We carry on regardless. In real life it seems Scurll can only get booked in remote, far-away places. It could be feasible for this tarnished sex-pest to end up on a show in somewhere like Russia. It would be similar to how many historical diaries handle Chris Benoit.

Let me know which way you'd like this to go, by replying to this, and I'll write accordingly. I've always been keen on the readers of this diary being involved in shaping it's direction. Can't think of a better time for interaction than this.

Option 2 seems like it'd be the one most viable for hijinks (especially at Marty's expense) so I'll go with that.

[SonOfSharknado]

I am also down for Option 2. A terrible fate for a terrible man in a terrible country. 

[kanegan]

Ilja Dragunov

Kris Jokic & Dragan Spazic

John Hennigan

 

I am ok with Option 2

[ElectricX]

I would go with Option 2 as well

[dstephe4]

 

HOLY CRAP! HOLY CRAP ON A CRAP CRACKER! THIS DIARY JUST WON DIARY OF THE MONTH! HOLY S***! I want to say a HUGE, HUGE thank you to everyone involved in nominating and voting for this bizarre, funky little dynasty. Like I said previously, I never thought this silly little diary would get anything like this, especially given the quality of some of the stuff out there on these boards. But it really does mean the world to me, so thank you everyone. You are all awesome.

 

Episode 8 will be posted soon. Thank you to everyone who has posted their predictions. The write-up has been delayed a bit due to the 'Scurll Situation'. Speaking of which, it seems there's a definite consensus for Option 2, in which I keep him in this diary and torture the b*****d in amusing and imaginative ways. It is up to you fine readers to decide how long that lasts for. I'll keep him around and keep piling on the misfortune until someone says they've seen enough. As soon as someone tells me it's time for him to go, I'll think of some grand way to kick him out of the show.

 

On 4/26/2023 at 10:01 PM, Just here to look said:

This is sheer insanity. I now want a real wrestling show held on a battleship. The fact that I can genuinely picture WCW doing this in their “all out writers are on crack” era and I’m not sure whether to laugh, cry (that I think WCW could’ve came to that) or cry (that it didn’t). 

The Shane Douglas and Carla part was also funny, and yet also genuinely sweet, and also genuinely terrifying. 
 

I absolutely love this diary. I love it so much that I’ve begun to regret calling myself “just here to look” because I’m sure as hell doing more than looking. 

Thank you very much for the kind words. The real question is: why the hell aren't there wrestling shows held on battleships in real life? How the hell am I the first? Surely I can't be the first, at anything? Either way, thanks for your comments, especially considering you'd always planned on staying incognito. It's great to have you along for this very silly ride.
 

On 5/7/2023 at 5:03 AM, Scottie said:

I've not read everything, but I had read the first couple of shows and the most recent ones - talk about a wild ride! It's a lot of fun and presented really well. I'm looking forward to the big showdown between Goldberg and Dragunov! I agree - let the man improv.

Wild? Maybe? Ridiculous? Absolutely. I'm going for "fun". This game allows you total freedom to book any wrestler on any show anywhere in the world, in any way you want. So I'm making the most of that. I'm enjoying writing this thing, and seeing what weird, mad s*** I can come up with.

A big thing for me is for the famous names to be booked in ways they wouldn't normally be booked anywhere else. My objective, along with all the craziness, is to put people like Daniel Bryan through situations they've never been in, and use them in ways others wouldn't. I'm loving writing this stuff, so thank you very much for reading it.

 

Finally, I've noticed that people on this forum are starting to dabble in AI. Having read a lot about this spicy new toy, I thought I'd do the same. I heard a lot about people using AI to generate images through some sort of black magic. I thought I'd have a play. There's lots of situations I'm conjuring up which have never / could never occur in real life. I thought AI would be a good tool to generate some images for use in this diary. I used a free online tool called Craiyon (because I sure as hell am not paying for this s***) and entered in some of the ideas I've had for this story going forward. The results were... erm... mixed? The output ranged from somewhat useable... to genuinely nightmare-inducing. Let's just say that based on my experiences, AI has quite a way to go before it takes over the world. Here's some of the stuff it spewed out:     First, I needed a photo of 'Fabulous' John Hennigan with his fluffy little soul guide Gerald. Because, as far as I'm aware, the man formerly known as Johnny Nitro isn't taken to posing with tiny little dogs in real life. This is what came out. Yes, the dog is way too big. Yes, he looks like he's mid-fart. And yes, Hennigan's lips look like he's been eating cocaine all day, but it's somewhat useable, I guess.   I asked the AI to make me a picture of Steven Seagal arriving in a monster truck. It gave me the wrong kind of truck. And what the f*** is going on with Seagal's eyes? Is he possessed by evil spirits? Is this Demonic Seagal? We learned one thing from this, however - Seagal looks really good in hats.   I needed a simple photo of Steven Seagal and Edge in a wrestling ring together. It's never happened in real life, so it's not like I could just grab the picture from Google Images or something. The best ones it came up with looked like 1980s style LP album covers. Like the two of them were starting a soft rock group together or something...     These are not so bad, other than the fact that Edge looks like he's having a massive stroke...      This one doesn't even look like Edge. And for some reason Seagal has turned into a bearded walrus...   Next up, I wanted some images of the RFW's audience patriotically waving big Russian flags. The images produced made the fans look like horrifying mutants. Which, given the way I've been writing about them, might be about right. Should I use these? Is this how the Russian fans look when you imagine them?        Next I started getting Craiyon to generate some of the fun scenarios I've been dreaming up for this diary. In this heart-warming image, Steven Seagal's life-long dream of starring in Sesame Street finally comes true. I'm actually really happy with this one...   Not one to be out-done, Bryan Daniels then immediately finds his way into a guest spot on The Muppet Show. The first image I thought was fun. The second is a little chilling (that face! Is he melting?!) The third is just plain creepy. Seriously, that's the stuff of nightmares right there.      My request for an image of Daniel Bryan and Marty Scrull facing off in a wrestling ring produced an image so bad, so weird, so scary I've decided they'll never ever share a ring in this diary, ever. Word is the boffins have been feeding AI huge amounts of data to get it to the level it's at today. I think the boffins have been feeding it cocaine instead.    My idea of Bryan Daniels cheering up the Russian kids dressed as the Easter Bunny brought mixed results. I'm genuinely delighted with the first image. The second is very good also. 3 and 4 are just plain terrifying.       Goldberg and Putin eat breakfast cereal together after a fun-filled sleepover, wearing their very snazziest pyjamas. The first image is marvellous. The second is... beyond the limits of the English language.     Speaking of Goldberg, I can't remember what I typed in to produce this one, but what a facial expression. Is he smelling a fart?   And finally, I asked it to give me images of Marty Scurll being arrested by Russian police. The stuff it puked out was perhaps the most weird and most disturbing of the lot. AI is not the future. AI is terrifying. From now on, I'm leaving AI the f*** alone.

 

Edited May 18, 2023 by dstephe4

[Just here to look]

8 hours ago, dstephe4 said:

 

HOLY CRAP! HOLY CRAP ON A CRAP CRACKER! THIS DIARY JUST WON DIARY OF THE MONTH! HOLY S***! I want to say a HUGE, HUGE thank you to everyone involved in nominating and voting for this bizarre, funky little dynasty. Like I said previously, I never thought this silly little diary would get anything like this, especially given the quality of some of the stuff out there on these boards. But it really does mean the world to me, so thank you everyone. You are all awesome.

 

Episode 8 will be posted soon. Thank you to everyone who has posted their predictions. The write-up has been delayed a bit due to the 'Scurll Situation'. Speaking of which, it seems there's a definite consensus for Option 2, in which I keep him in this diary and torture the b*****d in amusing and imaginative ways. It is up to you fine readers to decide how long that lasts for. I'll keep him around and keep piling on the misfortune until someone says they've seen enough. As soon as someone tells me it's time for him to go, I'll think of some grand way to kick him out of the show.

 

Thank you very much for the kind words. The real question is: why the hell aren't there wrestling shows held on battleships in real life? How the hell am I the first? Surely I can't be the first, at anything? Either way, thanks for your comments, especially considering you'd always planned on staying incognito. It's great to have you along for this very silly ride.
 

Wild? Maybe? Ridiculous? Absolutely. I'm going for "fun". This game allows you total freedom to book any wrestler on any show anywhere in the world, in any way you want. So I'm making the most of that. I'm enjoying writing this thing, and seeing what weird, mad s*** I can come up with.

A big thing for me is for the famous names to be booked in ways they wouldn't normally be booked anywhere else. My objective, along with all the craziness, is to put people like Daniel Bryan through situations they've never been in, and use them in ways others wouldn't. I'm loving writing this stuff, so thank you very much for reading it.

 

Finally, I've noticed that people on this forum are starting to dabble in AI. Having read a lot about this spicy new toy, I thought I'd do the same. I heard a lot about people using AI to generate images through some sort of black magic. I thought I'd have a play. There's lots of situations I'm conjuring up which have never / could never occur in real life. I thought AI would be a good tool to generate some images for use in this diary. I used a free online tool called Craiyon (because I sure as hell am not paying for this s***) and entered in some of the ideas I've had for this story going forward. The results were... erm... mixed? The output ranged from somewhat useable... to genuinely nightmare-inducing. Let's just say that based on my experiences, AI has quite a way to go before it takes over the world. Here's some of the stuff it spewed out:     First, I needed a photo of 'Fabulous' John Hennigan with his fluffy little soul guide Gerald. Because, as far as I'm aware, the man formerly known as Johnny Nitro isn't taken to posing with tiny little dogs in real life. This is what came out. Yes, the dog is way too big. Yes, he looks like he's mid-fart. And yes, Hennigan's lips look like he's been eating cocaine all day, but it's somewhat useable, I guess.   I asked the AI to make me a picture of Steven Seagal arriving in a monster truck. It gave me the wrong kind of truck. And what the f*** is going on with Seagal's eyes? Is he possessed by evil spirits? Is this Demonic Seagal? We learned one thing from this, however - Seagal looks really good in hats.   I needed a simple photo of Steven Seagal and Edge in a wrestling ring together. It's never happened in real life, so it's not like I could just grab the picture from Google Images or something. The best ones it came up with looked like 1980s style LP album covers. Like the two of them were starting a soft rock group together or something...     These are not so bad, other than the fact that Edge looks like he's having a massive stroke...      This one doesn't even look like Edge. And for some reason Seagal has turned into a bearded walrus...   Next up, I wanted some images of the RFW's audience patriotically waving big Russian flags. The images produced made the fans look like horrifying mutants. Which, given the way I've been writing about them, might be about right. Should I use these? Is this how the Russian fans look when you imagine them?        Next I started getting Craiyon to generate some of the fun scenarios I've been dreaming up for this diary. In this heart-warming image, Steven Seagal's life-long dream of starring in Sesame Street finally comes true. I'm actually really happy with this one...   Not one to be out-done, Bryan Daniels then immediately finds his way into a guest spot on The Muppet Show. The first image I thought was fun. The second is a little chilling (that face! Is he melting?!) The third is just plain creepy. Seriously, that's the stuff of nightmares right there.      My request for an image of Daniel Bryan and Marty Scrull facing off in a wrestling ring produced an image so bad, so weird, so scary I've decided they'll never ever share a ring in this diary, ever. Word is the boffins have been feeding AI huge amounts of data to get it to the level it's at today. I think the boffins have been feeding it cocaine instead.    My idea of Bryan Daniels cheering up the Russian kids dressed as the Easter Bunny brought mixed results. I'm genuinely delighted with the first image. The second is very good also. 3 and 4 are just plain terrifying.       Goldberg and Putin eat breakfast cereal together after a fun-filled sleepover, wearing their very snazziest pyjamas. The first image is marvellous. The second is... beyond the limits of the English language.     Speaking of Goldberg, I can't remember what I typed in to produce this one, but what a facial expression. Is he smelling a fart?   And finally, I asked it to give me images of Marty Scurll being arrested by Russian police. The stuff it puked out was perhaps the most weird and most disturbing of the lot. AI is not the future. AI is terrifying. From now on, I'm leaving AI the f*** alone.

 

This AI stuff is brilliantly terrible. Either that or I’m somehow drunk after just waking up and never having alcohol in my life that it looks all weird. 

[dstephe4]

21 minutes ago, Just here to look said:

This AI stuff is brilliantly terrible. Either that or I’m somehow drunk after just waking up and never having alcohol in my life that it looks all weird. 

I wonder whether this isn't inept AI at all, rather just the AI showing us how we'll look once it's nukes have all detonated.

[dstephe4]

 

Broadcast on Russiya 1. Held in the Israeli Embassy in Moscow. 1408 in attendance.

Israel and Russia have been buddies for years now, which is a very natural friendship given both government's shared love of blowing s*** up. The countries that brought the world the KGB and the Mossad have a lot in common. Putin and Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netenyahu are even building an encrypted communications network between the two nations. As one analyst said: "Russia feels very close to the Israeli leadership... The Russians want to speak to Israel without anyone eavesdropping." So when we chose to hold our next show at the Israeli Embassy, we got a lot of praise from our shady Russian overlords. I was personally praised for "being a beacon for Russo-Israeli diplomatic relations." What I didn't tell anyone is the show was only held there because it's across the road from my friend Kirill Safonov's warehouse. I'd bought nearly a ton of crappy furniture from the guy but had no way of transporting it, and I sure as hell wasn't carrying that crap all the way across Moscow. By turning the Embassy into an impromptu wrestling venue, I could just have my guys drag that s*** across the street. The building was certainly big enough. But man, what a s***hole.   Above: The venue had that 'wet dog smell'. Everyone in attendance would smell like hot, sweaty feet for a whole week afterwards.  There were a lot of people keen to see what the hell I needed all this nasty-ass furniture for. Why the hell would it be needed for a wrestling show, they wondered? People were about to find out...     "Russia's turned you into an absolute d***!" Red face? Check. Clenched fists? Check. Snarl? Check. That's the full set, which can only mean one thing - Edge is angry. "Jesus Christ!" yells Bryan Daniels, almost crapping with fright. "Learn to knock! You scared me, barging into my dressing room like that!" The poor guy looks like he's about to have an Asthma attack. He's holding his chest, one fright away from a heart attack. "You left me alone to get my ass kicked! On live TV! Watched by half of the biggest nation on Earth! The main event? 15 minutes of me getting the living crap stomped out of me by two over-powered Russians hopped-up on that crazy green fizzy piss everyone's drinking! 15 minutes of them trying to kick the head off my shoulders like a Superbowl Field Goal! 15 minutes of two big, heavy b*****ds jumping up and down on my skull like a trampoline! All because the man who used to be Bryan Daniels took his heart, guts, bravery and soul and crapped them out all over the floor! If it wasn't for Klaptsov taking your place, they'd be using my dental records to identify my body! And then, after all that, you swoop in at the end and steal the win! What the holy, flame-crapping hell is wrong with you?!" Edge's whole head had gone from pink, to red, to crimson. He was trembling with rage. If this were a cartoon there'd be steam shooting out of his ears.  He was expecting a huge shouting match. Or at least an argument. But instead there was just the world's saddest face staring back at him. It was then that Edge noticed Daniels had surrounded himself of photos of him in his prime. He'd been staring at images of himself proudly raising the WWE title high in the air. Pictures of him surrounded by awestruck fans in AEW. Photos of the days when he knocked all of wrestling on it's ass in ROH. A different time, a different Bryan. Then the eyes go red and start to fill with water. Then the bottom lip begins to tremble. Edge sees this and panics. "Bryan I swear to God if you start crying, I'm gonna rip this locker-room door off it's hinges and Piledriver your ass straight through it!" Edge's face portrays a thousand emotions at once - he doesn't know whether to kick the guy's ass or give him a hug. "What the hell happened to you?!!" "I don't know! I really don't! It's not Kulakov - I figured that much out. Not entirely him anyway. There's something else - like some invisible wall stopping me whenever I'm out there. It's like an icy cold tidal wave washes over me and I can't move. My brain knows what to do, but my body just turns to stone. The worst thing is I know that World Title could be mine. I've seen at least five mistakes Dragunov makes that I could exploit. But my stupid brain and stupid hands just won't go!" Before anything more can be said, Daniels storms out and leaves a bewildered Edge behind him.   Above: Edge was a little bit unhappy.  Angle Rating: 72.     Our next lumpen nugget of wrestling had Goldberg being loud, just as nature intended. "So there I was, sat on my ass at home watching what passes for 'American Pro Wrestling' and thinking of how these punks half my age, with half my talent, were stealing the limelight. I thought about how these soft-ass bitches wouldn't last 10 seconds in a ring with me. But if I went back there and started swatting them like flies, where'd be the fun in that? Where would the challenge be?  People say I've not long left. But I reckon this old dog's got plenty of ass-kicking left in him. But if I was gonna get my ass out of my Lay-Z-Boy and leave my wife and kid behind, it was going to be for a proper fight. Maybe I needed one last frontier to conquer before the end. Maybe I needed to stomp a mudhole in a part of the globe that no other boots had trodden. So I took my ass to the toughest place on Earth, with the toughest people in the world. Russia. And fair enough to you tough, vodka-swilling freaks, you put up a hell of a fight. That little snake Dragunov got lucky. Now I get my revenge. I destroyed half the Russian population on my way to this rematch. I won war after war after war, week after week after week. I never stopped. I never quit. No matter what freaks and weirdos they pitted me against, I managed to find a way to win.  So here we are. Fight night. Just one more ass to kick and I'm champion. Just one more bug to squash, and I've won the biggest prize in every corner of the world. This isn't just about victory, this is about legacy. This old dog's got plenty of bite left. And that reptile Dragunov's gonna find that out when I tear him to pieces." Angle Rating: 70.     Our first match of the night was the opening bout of Steven Seagal's sexy new Tag Team Title Tournament. That's when this video suddenly invaded the TV screens of half of Russia...   And then that's when these lads showed up...       'Villain Enterprises' (Brody King & PCO with Marty Scurll) vs 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic & 'The Falcon' Kris Jokic - The RFW Tag Team Title Tournament Before this match started, there was what can only be described as an epic staredown between our Authority Figure Steven Seagal and the leader of 'Villain Enterprises' Marty Scurll. Seagal just straight-up didn't like the guy, even before he'd said a word. He gave him a stare like he was about to eat him alive and s*** out his bones. Unwisely, Scurll took no notice. The Dirt Sheets crapped all over this match, but I loved it. Forget wrestling, because there was none of that nonsense. This was 13 minutes of sheer, undiluted devious b*****dry - the kind of sheer heelishness that you just have to applaud and admire. Scurll ran so much interference I can barely remember a moment our referee 'Boris' was even in the ring. PCO and Brody King cheated so much I don't think they used even one legal move. As a trio, they ran rings around their Russian opponents through levels of fiendishness never before seen in our ring. Our own 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic was having the time of his life out there. He loves this crafty, devious s***. It took about a nanosecond before the contest descended into a competition to see who could do the most cheating. You almost had to feel sorry for Kris Jokic, who was actually trying (and gloriously failing) to have an athletic competition in the midst of all these shenanigans. In terms of s***-housery, however, the Villains had met their match in the devious Dragan - and against all odds the pink-suited nearly-Russian almost won. As the Villains distracted the referee for the zillionth time, Spazic cleverly grabbed a steel chair, hit himself with it, then laid on the floor, pretending to be unconscious. The performance was perfect, to the extent that Villain Enterprises were actually disqualified, and RFW's own were briefly declared the winners.  It took an official protest from our foreign challengers and a series of TV replays to get the match reinstated. It was then that our bad guys got pissed off, started fighting, utilised their numerical advantage for something other than hijinks, and powered their way through to inevitable victory. I can't remember exactly how it ended - the big French Frankenstein guy did something painful to our high-flying Croatian, and Jokic nearly exploded on impact. The referee stopped being distracted just long enough to make the count, and Villain Enterprises became the first winners in our shiny new Tag Team Tournament. It wasn't really a surprise that the team that'd been working together for years, all over the world, was victorious over two guys we randomly threw together five minutes before the show. The Villains celebrated by yelling insults at our fans, giving them all the finger, and laughing in all their faces. The crowd hated it. The commentators were enraged by their total lack of class. I loved it though. And so did 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic, whose face was glowing with admiration even in defeat.   Above: Simmering tension. Match Rating: 40.     After Villain Enterprises' victory there's a lengthy newsflash involving pretty ballerinas and kickass helicopter gunships (separately). By the time we get back to the wrestling show, Steven Seagal is already back in his office, surrounded by eye-catching Chinese furniture. Oriental stained glass decorations surround him. A happy-looking Chinese Good Luck Cat happily waves to nobody in particular on his desk. He's eating Spring Rolls, Mushu Pork and Jasmine Rice. Something vaguely approaching a smile almost emanates from his tanned, bearded yet oddly muscular face, as he watches his 1995 epic The Glimmer Man on DVD. Incense burns around him. Peaceful Far-Eastern meditation music plays gently in the background. The silk-jacketed man of war seems oddly at peace. So naturally the boys of Villain Enterprises chose this exact moment to kick down the door and storm the hell in. Seagal, already having taken a disliking to their leader Marty Scurll, now stares him like he'd wiped his ass on the curtains. His hands are out of view, but you can already hear his knuckles cracking with simmering rage. With a snarl, he pauses the film, interrupting the scene where Seagal tricks Keenen Ivory Wayans into eating powdered deer penis. You can tell that's Seagal's favourite scene, and now he's missing it. Heads will roll. "Listen up, Seagal, you big ponytailed tit" bellows Scurll. He's been hiding out in Puerto Rico, and now his Cockney accent is littered with a weird Latino lilt, making him sound even more of a prick. Seagal slowly checks his appearance in a mirror, as if to remind his unwelcome guests that the ponytail's been gone since the turn of the century. Undeterred, the Umbrella-swirling leader of the Villains carries on his threat. "We're Villain Enterprises, the most feared, most infamous supergroup in wrestling history. We dominated in Japan. We invaded America. We took over everywhere we went. And now we're here to dismantle Russian wrestling. Villain Enterprises have arrived, and it's only a matter of time before all of the Russian Federation Of Wrestling is ours." Scurll looks pleased with his little speech, twirling his moustache in satisfaction. Seagal is less pleased, but keeps his cool. "It is true, little bear, that you have defeated all who stand before you in other countries. Your infamous reputations speak volumes. But you have never encountered a nation such as this. Russia is unlike anything you have ever experienced. Superstars like Goldberg, Bryan Daniels and Edge have taken on Russian opposition and found themselves humbled. Broken. Defeated. This is the toughest country on Earth, Gesu yarō. You know nothing of the war that lies before you." And that's when one of the Villains - the menacing Brody King - does something really stupid. He swipes Seagal's TV off the desk, laughing as Glimmer Man's triumphant scenes of violence explode into a wreckage of broken glass and electrical smoke. Seagal slowly rises to his feet. But the man known as PCO grabs him by the shoulder, daring to put his massive hand on the treasured Kimono.  Seagal is not angry. He is just dissapointed. He sighs, shaking his head. "A shame" he mumbles. With hands faster than even our Ultra-HD cameras could capture, Seagal had twisted PCO's arm a full 180 degrees. The French Frankenstein shrieks as his own shaking fist is made to punch him in the face again, and again and again. Then with impossible speed, Seagal has him over his shoulder, throwing him hard onto his desk, which explodes into a cloud of dust. Brody King is eager to join in. He throws a thunderous punch that would have KO'd any mortal alive. Seagal calmly blocks it, and the next one, and a dozen more, before guiding the bearded monster gently off-balance by the wrist, then whiplashing him head first through a wooden Chinese screen. King's sizeable frame creates a domino effect as one piece of furniture topples another and another, until half the room is destroyed. There's limbs and broken wood everywhere. A big wooden filing cabinet then falls upon him like a great, heavy oak, crushing him like a bug. The ceiling fan then falls on him, smacking him right in the face, as if for emphasis. Marty Scurll is pissed off at seeing his friends thrown about like rag-dolls. He launches at Seagal with a breathtaking flurry of powerful Strong Style kicks and elbows. Every one is caught effortlessly as our goatee'd Authority Figure nonchalantly swats them aside like they were nothing. His legs are kicked from under him. He falls, with full force, face-first into the spring rolls. He stands, stunned, only to be smashed in the face with the Mushu Pork bowl. A previously unseen tray of Bao Buns is pelted into his skull at superhuman speed. Scurll, fuelled by adrenalin, swings his umbrella at his foe, but Seagal ducks - the umbrella sails overhead, knocking over a coat stand, which brings down a chest of drawers, both smashing instantly into pieces. Scurll is throwing punches like a man posessed, but Seagal casually side-steps them all, looking like Neo in The Matrix.  Suddenly now PCO is back on his feet, joining in the mayhem. It's 2-on-1, but Seagal has found his groove now. The scene suddenly becomes more like a graceful, poetic dance as Steven somehow begins blocking both men's shots with just one arm, eating what remains of his Jasmine Rice with the other. Without warning a savage kick right to the chest sends PCO flying backwards into a previously unseen fish tank, which explodes. Water and Koi Carp fly everywhere. PCO is both damp and unconscious.  It's only now that Scurll realises he's doomed. Another roundhouse kick goes nowhere.  The way in which Marty's limbs flail into the air is almost balletic as Seagal's kick sends him twisting through the air. The impact makes him do a backflip, and somehow impossibly he manages to land on both his head and his ass at the same time. He makes a sound like a rat being bitten by a cat as the air implodes from his lungs. He begins twitching. The whole scene of destruction can only be described as magnificent. Literally the only thing not broken to pieces in the whole room is Seagal's rhythm. The man responsible for all this wonderful carnage isn't even sweating.  He's about to leave, when he notices something tangled around his foot. He looks down. It's Scurll's trademark umbrella. A tiny smile can be seen on Seagal's face as he picks it up, and with just one hand, crushes it, before snapping it clean in half. The shattered remains are dropped onto Scurll's un-moving body. The Special Representative for Russia-US Cultural Links and Historical Heritage looks pleased at the message he's sent, as he victoriously slides out of the room, leaving a trail of destruction behind him like a tornado. Angle Rating: 57.     Next up there's a thrilling video package reminding the world of how the big, muscular, tough-guy bodybuilder Ivan Markov lost a fight with a tiny, fluffy little dog. It wasn't quite that simple, but it's the kind of heart-warming, precious memories that should be preserved for a lifetime. The 1408 fans in attendance are pissing themselves with laughter - and rightly so - it was brilliant. Ivan Markov didn't feel the same way though. He was in the ring with a microphone. He had his grumpy face on and a bandage on his hand from where Gerald - aka the new star of Eastern European wrestling - had sunk his cute, adorable little fangs into his flesh like a sweet, cuddly little vampire. Ivan began to wax lyrical about how upset he was. I wouldn't normally let him promo, but he got his ass kicked by a pooch on live national TV, so I owed him one. He was quickly interrupted as Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov stormed to the ring, with Edge close behind. Vertigo tells Markov to stop being a whiney little bitch and let the grown-ups fight. He promised to get revenge on John Hennigan on behalf of all of Russia. The big bodybuilder began to object. "Shut up Ivan!" yelled Edge. Markov clenched his fists in anger - he was ready to go. Suddenly John Hennigan's music hit, and 'The Fabulous One' was soon in the ring - feathers, beads, perfumed hair and all. Markov begin shouting at Hennigan. "Shut up Ivan!" yelled the American. Markov was getting furious now, turning to Edge, Klapstov and Hennigan one by one and screaming in their faces. "Shut up Ivan!" yelled the ex-hacker Vertigo. "Shut up Ivan!" concurred all three members of our commentary team in unison. "Shut up Ivan!" chanted every fan in attendance.   Above: Hennigan went with the purple, pink and white feathery jacket this time - one of the more understated items from his wardrobe.  Markov'd had enough. He swung viciously at Hennigan, who ducked just in time. In the commotion, 'The Fabulous Ones' spiritual guide Gerald jumped out from somewhere deep within Hennigan's awe-inspiring coat. With animalistic speed so fast it took slow-motion replays to see it properly, the tiny Bichon Frisé somehow leaped 6ft+ in the air, going directly for the big Russian's face. Screaming like a wounded rat, Markov fled the ring with all the speed his massive frame would muster. But it was too late. Gerald was on him. You could hear his terrified, pitiful screams as the kebab-sized dog unleashed the full force of Mother Nature upon him. Hennigan tried to start a promo of his own, but we couldn't hear him for the sound of the muscle-bound Russian shrieking like a victim in a horror movie. There was bits of hair and fur flying everywhere. "Shut up Ivan!" yelled everyone in the ring all at once. The audience's laughter was deafening. Then the bell suddenly rang, and we all remembered there was a wrestling match scheduled. Vertigo's open challenge had been met by Hennigan, with Edge watching in great interest. The luscious American was allowed time to disrobe, re-perfume and re-style. Then the two high flyers locked up. Angle Rating: 60.          'The Fabulous' John Hennigan (with Gerald) vs Akexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov (with Edge, possibly) Edge had promised the ambitious young Klapstov they could "hang" if he impressed him. It was with this in mind that he began his match-up with the famous, heavily-favoured American. Despite being a massive underdog, the crafty Russian hacker-turned-wrestler looked confident - he clearly had a plan.  The two embarked upon an exciting, fast-paced battle that was low on psychology but high on entertainment. "Screw logic, bring on the somersaults" cheered announcer Alex Koslov. That summed it up nicely. Hennigan got the upper hand by being a little wiser, a little more experienced - and crucially - a little better at wrestling. A couple of near pinfalls almost signalled the end. That's when 'Vertigo' put a big, s***-eating grin on his face and put his plan into action.  He slid out the ring, under which he'd stashed a laptop. A few buttons were pressed. The mouse was clicked. Then instantaneously every light in the building went off. It was total darkness. The fans gasped. The commentators panicked. Hennigan yelled in pain. The lights came back on to reveal the American rolling about in agony and holding his head. Klapstov went for the pin, and got the nearest pinfall of the night.  Hennigan soon recovered and used his high-flying hijinx to regain control of the match... until Alexandr got to the laptop again. Suddenly Hennigan's bright pink pyros all went off at once. 'The Fabulous One' nearly leaped out of his skin in fright. Instantly Klapstov snook in behind with a blindside Schoolboy pin. Referee 'Boris' got to 2.998 with his count, but Hennigan got a foot on the ropes.  'Vertigo' swung to the top rope, attempting an almighty Frog Splash, but Hennigan was wise to it and got the knees up. Again it was Hennigan in charge, but Klapstov scurried to the laptop once again. The lights dimmed, and the menacing face of 'The Nightmare' Vladimir Kulakov filled the screens. The Russian maniac's music rocked the venue. Hennigan turned to the ramp, ready to defend himself - even though he was new in the RFW, he knew to watch his ass. But of course, it was just another imaginative trick. By the time Hennigan figured it out, he was walking straight into a Kyberspace (Hangman Neckbreaker) finisher. And this time, much to the amusement of Edge who was watching from ringside, it was over. 'Vertigo' and Edge celebrated the win with great joy. The Canadian veteran was entertained and impressed in equal measure. Clearly the WWE mainstay was reminded of the deviousness of his Edge & Christian days, and responded with an enthusiastic high-five. Seems like these two are going to enjoy working together... Match Rating: 57.   It was a vibrant red, with burgundy velveteen patterning in the shape of peacock feathers. It shimmered in the light like the tail of a mermaid. It was effervescent, as if glowing with it's own triumphant energy. As jackets go, our very own 'Party Tsar' had really brought his 'A-Game.' And why not? It was a big occasion - a one-to-one interview with the controversial Tamerlan Rasuev. We were really making a big deal of this. We'd even erected a snazzy-looking Chat Show style set for the occasion - which was quite easy, given the ton of furniture that'd suddenly become available. Having spent weeks pissing everyone off and hurting everybody, this was Rasuev's chance to tell his side of the story. He really went for it, and things got very serious, very fast.  "When I say that people have held me back all my life, I mean it. As Christ as my witness, I speak the truth. After a lifetime under the cold shadows of others, here in the Russian Federation Of Wrestling, I have decided to be held back no more. No matter what it takes, no matter who I have to hurt, no matter which barriers I have to violently remove from my path, I will relentlessly fight my way to the glory that I have deserved - but which has eluded me - my whole wrestling career.  I hate them all. Every one of them. All these other wrestlers with their easy lives, their comfortable pasts, their spoiled brat attitudes. Ever since I was a teenager my talent as a wrestler was clear. The talent scouts for the Russian National Wrestling Programme soon spotted my abilities. I was one of the best they had ever seen. As they took me into their training programme, and asked me to forsake all else in my development in this glorious sport, there was perhaps only one other candidate who could match my skill. It was always me and Alen Khubulov. Both of us, it was believed, had the potential to go all the way to the Olympic Games, to win gold, and bring honour and glory to our fine nation. I happily gave up everything else in pursuit of this dream. The sacrifices I made are countless and unimaginable to the likes of the fat, lazy nobodies who watch this programme from the comfy sofas of their homes.  But despite my dedication, it was always Khubulov who was favoured. He was the popular city boy from the big home and the well-to-do family. He always had the best equipment, the finest of everything. By contrast, everyone looked down on me, the little-known Tamerlan Rasuev from the tiny little town in the middle of nowhere. I did not have the connections. I did not get the publicity, the sponsorship, the easy ride that Khubulov got. No matter who I beat. No matter how good I was, it was always his smiling face in the limelight. I hated him for that. I hate him even more for it now."     "Finally the big day came, when we were to have our trials for the Olympics. A special tournament was held with the best amateur wrestlers Mother Russia could assemble. Of course, it was Khubulov in the final. But I had trained harder than him. I was stronger, faster, meaner. I would have died for that spot on the Olympics. The fat-cats behind the scenes had big plans for Alen. But I was delighted to spoil everyone's party. I not only won, I destroyed him. It was I, the unfashionable, unfavoured Tamerlan Rasuev who would prove himself to the whole world and win the legendary Olympic Gold Medal in Wrestling. But then the Western Evil Capitalists hatched their corrupt scheme to ban our glorious Russia from the Olympics. And my dreams were forever stolen.  Years went by. I did not stop. I continued to train. My work ethic was relentless. I knew another opportunity would come. And in 2022 my time came in the Russian National Amateur Wrestling Tournament. Again I destroyed all that were put before me. And again it was myself and Alen Khubulov in the final bout. This prestigious tournament had captured the whole nation's imagination, drawing record viewers. I was confident of victory, for I had dedicated my whole life for this one day. We fought, but somehow Khubulov and his schemes and plans stole my victory away. He must have cheated. It was the only possible way he could have won. Suddenly he is beloved. And I am nobody.  We come to the Russian Federation Of Wrestling. Another chance of glorious, triumphant recognition as Khubulov and I fight for the wonderful RFW Russian National Title. Again he cheats. Again my glory is stolen from me. Again, I am the forgotten man, despite being the better man. I am swept aside once again, because of my unfashionable small-town background, because they say I am not "marketable", because my family do not "know the right people." It has been a conspiracy against me my whole life, with that b*****d Khubulov at the centre of it, mocking me, laughing at me, plotting my downfall. Just like in the Olympics, just like in the Amateurs, here in RFW invisible hands hold me back. That buffoon Steven Seagal promised me glory, but all he ever gave me was lies. He said he would mentor me, but he has turned his back on me! And now he ignores me! For weeks they let that cancerous Khubulov parade around with my National Title. In the end, I had to resort to injuring people, removing those who would stand in my way one by one, in order to get what is rightfully mine. Khubulov, Arlovski, both rightfully removed from the picture.  I stand alone now, with nobody by my side, and with nobody left to hold me back. The RFW Russian National Title is my destiny. I don't care who I have to destroy. I don't care who I have to hurt. That title will be mine. It is the glory which has been shamelessly denied me my whole career. The gold, the recognition, the fame will be mine. For in my life there is nothing else." Angle Rating: 55.     Back from the usual commercials, parade footage and marching, we are outside tonight's shabby, piss-scented venue. The fire exit slides open and out marches a distracted-looking Bryan Daniels. He's back in his street clothes. His bag's slung over his shoulder. His coat's on. He's out of here. In his rush to leave, he bumps into a little Russian kid who was waiting outside, knocking them on their ass. Angrily, the child gets back to their feet. Short, cropped blonde hair. Bright blue eyes. Strong, muscular arms. Broad shoulders. Massive, powerful hands. Knuckles reddened from fighting. Fine Russian stock. "Damn, sorry little fella" mutters Daniels unconvincingly, still keen to flee the joint.  "Screw you, Yank! I am beautiful Russian lady!" protests the kid, stomping her feet in rage. "Jeez, sorry little girl. You want my autograph? Will that cheer you up?" mutters our bearded superstar, clearly wanting to be anywhere but here. "No!" Snaps the child. "Побрейся, грязный бородатый хиппи! No autograph from you!" With that, she storms off, grumbling under her breath. Daniels is crestfallen. He looks like he's been stabbed simultaneously in the heart and the back. Deep in thought, and clearly shocked, he turns his ass back around and goes back inside, slamming the metal fire exit door behind him. Angle Rating: 64.     Next up we had another 'Party Tsar' interview, this one pre-recorded earlier in the day. This time it's Seagal and his protégé Ilja Dragunov getting the spotlight. They were both sat on a giant crate of Lightning Bolt energy drink, which had featured surprisingly sparingly in today's episode. The general vibe was their desire to smash Bill Goldberg into itty bitty pieces. Steven did the talking while Ilja mixed two different flavour Lightning Bolts together in a pint glass, then inhaled the mixture. This chemically uncertain combination had produced a brand new colour never before seen in all of recorded science. It frothed and foamed. Weird, spiky crystals began to form, before all of it was launched into the belly of a medium-sized Russian. Our World Champion smiled uneasily as the arteries in his neck tried to leap through his skin.  "Tonight, the American athlete Bill Goldberg tests himself against a standard of opponent unavailable to him in the first 30 years of his career. Only in the glorious nation of Russia will you find fighters of the physical and mental calibre of Dragunov. He is a perfect fighting machine, one with mind and body and spirit perfectly aligned. Goldberg will need to produce the performance of his life just to prevent his total destruction. It is my hope that the Gauntlet I prepared for him has given him time to advance his tactics and strategy, to hone his craft beyond the lowly limits placed upon him within those American shores. He has faced a variety of opponents more varied and complex than anything before, and emerged victorious. Many would have fallen in such tests. But now he once again goes up against the only man to not only defeat Bill Goldberg, but to make him quit. Tonight we get to measure his evolution. Tonight we get to see to which higher levels this decorated sportsman can elevate his abilities. Tonight we get to see into the very soul of the man. And it shall either yield his finest ever hour... or his glorious destruction." Our interviewer Vlad Rudinov gave good 'fear eyes' as the scene began to fade to black. It was all very dramatic... Until Dragunov burped, and the ceiling light above him exploded on impact.  Angle Rating: 55.        Ilja Dragunov vs Goldberg - For The RFW World Title Finally it was time for "the big one". The rematch of the "upset of the century". Bill Goldberg strolled to the ring surrounded by fanfare, smoke and pyro. His entrance was interspersed with footage of his 'Gauntlet'. His easy first win in which he crushed poor, frightened Sergey Belyev like a bug. Then came 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic, whose crafty strategy of smashing up Goldberg's legs using every trick in the book almost derailed the American, who finally powered to victory. Then it was the high-flying Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov - his speedy onslaught made the veteran look a thousand years old until finally Goldberg's dogged endurance eventually outlasted the Russian's stamina. Next came the huge Ivan 'The Body' Markov - one of very few opponents to ever overpower Goldberg. It took everything the American had, but he emerged victorious from the war. And then finally came 'The Nightmare' Vladimir Kulakov - Goldberg had to bring down what seemed like half a building just to stop him. Rico Bushido: "He's been through hell. He's fought the toughest tests of his whole career, back to back, but emerged victorious - and now he faces his final battle for the gold." Alex Koslov: "But what has it taken out of him? What physical and mental cost? After all those wars, after all these years, we get to see what the legendary Bill Goldberg has left. Like Seagal said, it'll be either the win that secures his legacy, or cements his downfall." Roy Jones Jr: "There's something not quite right though. I said it before, I can read his eyes, and something's missing. Is his heart in it? Does he have enough left within himself? Or has this Gaunlet sewn the seeds of doubt in his mind? He used to be indestructible. Yes, he overcame incredible odds to get this far, but he looked anything but." Koslov: "At least he's guaranteed a fair fight. Seagal said it himself last week at the contract signing - this'll be man vs man - a battle of this magnitude doesn't need anything more." Bushido: "Don't forget, Seagal also said if anyone interferes or interjects, they get fired on the spot!" Jones Jr: "The main issue tonight will be whether Goldberg can evolve to overcome a new type of champion like Dragunov. I said it to him on this show not long ago - he'll need to find a whole new side to his offence if he's to succeed. He needs to show the world the old dog's got some new tricks. Adaptation brings victory. Anything else spells defeat." Dragunov came to the ring alone, followed only by his mentor Seagal. There were flags everywhere. His entrance music was the Russian national anthem. His robes were even made from Russian flags. A dozen soldiers in full uniform saluted him as he posed on the top turnbuckle, the RFW World Title gleaming around his waist. Then the whole scene was lit by blue, white and red pyrotechnics. The audience stood in unison and applauded Dragunov long after the patriotic music had finished. Our cameras showed audience members weeping with the enormity of it all. He was the pride and hopes of Russia personified. And suddenly Goldberg's previously intense stare began to look very, very nervous.   Straight from the opening bell, Goldberg was a blizzard of energy and speed. His strategy was clearly to smash the smaller Russian with his size and power early on. Crush him before he had chance to breathe. Mow him down before he could strategise. Like a man possessed, he threw everything. The onslaught was unyielding, unrelenting. But somehow the World Champion managed to cover up and survive every massive punch, every huge kick. It was like how Ali covered up against Foreman in the 'Rumble In The Jungle' and even though our crowd had just 1408 in attendance, they seemed just as loud as the frenzied boxing fans did that famous night.  But just like Ali, Dragunov managed to survive the pressure. Soon, the veteran began to slow, some of the ferocity beginning to fade from his blows. His face was red. His bald head was covered in beads of sweat. He gambled on a Spear. His quicker opponent moved. Goldberg hit the corner post and derailed like a freight train. Dragunov slinked to the outside, slowing the pace, regathering himself. Goldberg got up, and despite clearly being hurt, gave chase. Unlike the first time, when Ilja was drawn into a brawl throughout the stadium, the Russian was now smart enough not to play to Goldberg's strengths. Like 'Vertigo' in the 'Gauntlet' before him, he used his speed to great effect, striking then escaping before Goldberg could hit back. Then he took a page out of Dragan Spazic's playbook, and dropkicked the metal ring steps into the veteran's legs, flattening him instantly.  Both men fought their way back into the ring, but now it was clearly Dragunov on top, with Goldberg fading fast. Another Spear attempt was dodged, and the champion followed up by rebounding off the ropes and Curb Stomping his opponent face-first into the canvas. That brought a near pinfall, but Goldberg would not give up. Dragunov went for a Vertical Suplex, but was blocked. Using the last of his strength, the former WCW and WWE champion raised him up high into the air for his legendary Jackhammer finisher, but Ilja had it scouted and easily reversed it. Then out of nowhere he hit his own Grüße aus Moskau signature. Goldberg got huge respect from the fans for kicking out. With his opponent floored, Dragunov gracefully ascended the top turnbuckle, leaped high into the air, and hit the finest Torpedo Moskau Flying Headbutt I've ever seen. The referee made the count, but the grizzled veteran found just enough to get a foot on the ropes. The fans applauded the American's determination, clapping for him as he tried to slowly get back to his feet. But there was nothing left. The eyes were alive, but the body was finished. His hands shook with pain and exhaustion and he dragged himself achingly upwards. His punch landed flush on the face of the RFW Champion, but there was nothing behind it, and the Russian knew it. He signalled for the kill... then added insult to injury by raising the fallen legend vertically upwards. The whole place fell silent as Ilja Dragunov landed a crushing Jackhammer on the very man who'd invented it. There was a sense of history as the referee made the count. And in one man's huge victory, there was the sense of a whole era of wrestling coming crashing to an end.   The aftermath was one of huge contrasts. The young champion celebrated wildly, emotionally with his passionate, flag-waving fans. Whereas the man they used to call "Unstoppable", slowly walked away down the asile, his head and shoulders sunken in defeat, unable to look at the audience that once chanted his name. Slowly he slid through the curtain, beaten, saddened and very much alone. Match Rating: 61.     The scenes of joyous patriotic celebration are suddenly cut short when a pissed-off Tamerlan Rasuev storms into the ring. He gets on the mic and starts yelling, literally interrupting the national anthem in the process. It's impossible to know what he said - the boos were so loud they'd have drowned him out no matter how much he shouted. Dragunov was furious - his big, crowning moment was ruined. Half a dozen of Seagal's shirtless Russians had to hold him back. Rasuev was angry about losing to Dragunov last week, and saw this celebration as "another injustice" - it was like "salt in his wounds". He was inconsolable and wouldn't leave until he got what he felt he deserved. Seagal had seen and heard enough. "You have ruined a proud, momentous occasion for all of Russia. I took you on as my student because I thought your inner anger could be honed into an energy that would drive you to victory. Instead I see you succumb to selfishness, self pity and self destruction. Instead of pursuing your own glory, you ruin everyone else's. You bring shame where there should be honour. Tonight you have tarnished yourself for the last time. I can see no redemption for you. At last week's contract signing, I said that if anyone messed with this glorious celebration of combat, they would be fired immediately. Tamerlan Rasuev, my talented former student, it genuinely saddens my soul to say this... you are fired from the Russian Federation Of Wrestling! You will never darken this ring again." The fans go berserk, as does Rasuev. He refuses to leave, shoving any officials or security guards that try to come near him. He grabs the ropes so nobody can remove him, while screaming vile insults at anyone who approaches. Seagal's had enough. He gives the signal.  Suddenly the music of 'The Nightmare' Vladimir Kulakov fills the air, and the human disaster zone himself begins striding towards the ring. With Rasuev distracted by the oncoming leviathan, Dragunov sees an opportunity for revenge - he sneaks up behind the 2022 National Finalist and smashes the RWF World title over the back of his skull. Rasuev is down. The belt goes flying through the air to the floor outside the ring, such was the impact. The fans are on their feet as Kulakov leaps through the ropes, scooping up Rasuev, before delivering what a thousand memes would call "The Mother (Russia) Of All Chokeslams". Rasuev becomes one with the canvas, with a force that nearly shakes the ring from it's foundations. The 1408 fans in attendance instantly begin shouting for more, and Russia's favourite hockey mask wearing psychopath is delighted to oblige. He tosses Rasuev out of the ring like garbage, then single-handedly restores national pride with a Last Ride Powerbomb through the commentary table. The fans begin singing the Russian national anthem at a deafening volume, hugging each other and jumping up and down with joy. Dragunov and Kulakov bask in the adulation, as someone literally wraps the two of them in a Russian flag. The whole roster is ringside, and most of them (the Russians and nearly-Russians at least) are joining in this glorious celebration.  Everyone's applauding, including one figure who steps out of the crowd for a better view. It's Bryan Daniels. He's been watching Dragunov carefully, scouting him. Kulakov sees the bearded American at ringside and immediately runs at him. The national anthem suddenly stops as the masked maniac leaps out of the ring, charging at Daniels like a runaway train. Panicking, the former WWE champion instinctively lashes forward with a big kick, his eyes closed in fear as he does so. There's a big 'thud' sound which echoes through our grimy venue like a shockwave. Suddenly the fans in attendance fall silent. Daniels slowly opens his eyes. He sees the monster Kulakov suddenly stopped in his tracks. There is an audible gasp from the fans as the metal hockey mask slowly splits, a crack having formed across the centre from the impact of the kick. It was a perfect, powerful blow that would have knocked most wrestlers out cold. It broke the mask - it would've broken most people's skulls. Kulakov is not hurt, he never is, but suddenly just a little bit of his face is visible. An eye. Part of a nose. Just enough to see a flicker of the human being underneath. Daniels sees this. And then instantly his whole complexion changes. Something's different about him, as if a new force suddenly runs through him, as he steps over the broken remains of what's left of the fallen Rasuev. He's not afraid. With a confidence we haven't seen in weeks, he picks up the RFW title, admires it, polishes it up with his sleeve, then hands it back to the World Champion with a big smile. There's a look in his eye we haven't seen in all his time in Russia - a certainty we've not seen in him in years. Kulakov is about to leap on him, but Seagal holds him back. Our zen-like Authority Figure sees something in Daniels and gets a huge smile on his face too.   The music and fanfare and celebration fire up once again as our show fades off air. A former giant has fallen. But at least one other has risen. Angle Rating: 72.     Overall Show Rating: 65.

Edited May 12 by dstephe4