The Russian Federation Of Wrestling

[dstephe4]

On 4/17/2024 at 8:00 AM, dstephe4 said:

 

Welcome to the latest stop on our World Tour Of Russia. Episode 13 comes to you from one of Russia's tropical, sunny, idyllic coastal retreats. This week we're all about Russian palm trees, Russian cocktails served in coconuts, Russian swimsuits, sandy Russian beaches that stretch as far as the eye can see, and clear warm Russian seas.  Yes, really.   Above: Any of you study Geography at school and really get a kick out of it? If so, this World Tour Of Russia is seriously gonna be your kinda thing.     For Episode 13, it was time to turn up the heat. Episode 13 saw the Russian Federation Of Wrestling's fledgling 'World Tour Of Russia' visit the hot, sunny, sandy and very un-Russian seeming Domashlino Beach, situated in Primorsky Krai, near the Gorod Nakhodka region of this massive, mind-boggling nation. This soothing tropical paradise, located on the coastal underbelly of this ridiculously big country, was the extreme opposite of every drab, s***ty Moscovan gulag we'd been dragged to so far on this bizarre adventure. After the aggressively dull pit-stop in Zeya last time, I figured I owed the guys something that'd cheer them up. And there's nothing like sun, cocktails, warm seas and palm trees when it comes to putting smiles on faces.     Our venue was to be the Fen-Shuy Resort & Hotel - the kind of place designed for fun, budget-friendly family holidays, not mindlessly chaotic wrestling shows. But our villainous overlord Oleg Matytsin and his ghouls in the Ministry For Sport kept screaming at me about how our shows were meant to be 'family-friendly'. And when it came to venues, there wasn't much that was more family-friendly than this. The hundreds of kids that swarmed about the place like flies couldn't believe their eyes as they shared their water-slides and fountains with wrestling legends like Bryan Daniels, Sting and Edge. It was like a dream come true for the noisy, squeaky little f***ers. The grown-ups sunning themselves in this sandy paradise were just as giddy with excitement. Our roster got a kick out of it too.     It was smaller than some of the venues we'd crashed our way through so far. But the place would be packed with kids rather than grown-ups. And, by my reckoning, kids only take up about half the room an adult does. So with that 'unquestionably sound' logic applied, I reckoned we could cram maybe 1,800 or even 2,000 spectators in the hotel's function room without anyone being significantly crushed or trampled.      The guys loved it. The kids loved it. The locals wouldn't stop talking about our visit for months. The local press had a field day. The town mayor named a Tiki Hut in our honour. PR-wise we'd hit a home run, with images of our smiling wrestlers surrounded by euphoric, grinning children lighting up the front pages of the whole Russian nation.   But none of this was my real motivation for choosing this place. I had business to take care of, without prying eyes getting in the way. I needed everyone to be all happy and distracted, so I could take care of some none-RFW business with nobody asking where I'd gone.     And so, as the sun set on our first evening in this sandy escape, I slid away into the sunset, off in to parts unknown, towards what would prove to be one of the most bizarre encounters of my whole Russian (mis)adventure...       Anyhow. Enough of all that. Onto the serious business of predictions. Here are the latest 'glorious, war-like encounters' that 'will emblaze the wonderous festival of combat' that would be our next wrestling show. (Those were Steven Seagal's words, by the way, not mine). Here's the spicy s*** we're serving up this time around... ... and on paper at least ... this could be our biggest, most important show in a long time...   Sting & Darby Allin vs Viking Raiders - The Penultimate Match Of Our Everlasting Tag Title Tournament The epic, prestigious semi-final of our 'epic', 'prestigious' Tag Team Title Tournament is upon us. Witness with open-mouthed awe as two lads painted up like ghosts take on two lads dressed up as Vikings, in a bout sure to silence any naysayers out there who dare to even suggest that this wrestling thing is fake. 'The Fabulous One' John Hennigan (no doubt with his 'Style Squad' of Benceh Toth and Petr Tihanyi) vs 'The Digital Messiah' Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov (with Edge) - Ivan 'The Body' Markov is the special guest referee for this one. In the latest encounter of what has been a pleasingly amusing feud so far, the glamorous Hennigan and the mother's-basement-scented ex-hacker Klapstov do battle once again. When these two have gone face to face previously, the guy nicknamed 'Vertigo' has come out on top twice, due to various high-tech hijinks. But will this third installment go the same way, or will the flamingo-feather-fashionista turn the tide? Let us all know your prediction! Also thrown into the mix is Ivan 'The Body' Markov, who was 'volunteered' into being the bout's special guest referee after Hennigan refused to let our only official 'Boris' officiate this match. Given Markov's own vendetta with Hennigan's 'spirit guide' Gerald The Dog, this really is one of those matches where anything is possible. 'The Glorious Hero Of Russia' Ilja Dragunov vs 'The American Dragon' Bryan Daniels - For The RFW World Title The big one. A monumental rematch for the ages. A herculean clash pitting the forces of East vs West into a collision-course. But who will win? Will the man with the fluffy, ridiculous beard emerge victorious? Or will the other man with the fluffy, ridiculous beard seize the day? Or will something else happen entirely? This is The Russian Federation Of Wrestling, after all. The whole thing's run by an idiot. A drunken idiot at that. Anything could happen!   Episode 13 - Coming Soon!    Thank you magnificent online people of this fine forum for your continued involvement. More finely unpredictable nonsense is coming soon. Until then, seeing as how there were a good variety of new faces and old having a go at the predictions last time, I have high hopes for this one.  Unleash your predictions below!     Sting & Darby Allin vs Viking Raiders John Hennigan vs Vertigo Bryan Daniels vs Ilja Dragunov - For The RFW World Title     @St. Templar @Vandal @DinoKea @GreatreDRagon @Taylor2020 @Just here to look @christmas_ape @SonOfSharknado @Ippon @KingKennit @Pteroid @MidKnightDreary @John Lions @DarEatWorld @ElectricX @knkmaster69 @Old School Fan @kanegan @DinoKea @Jason Phoenix  @stratusfaction @80085 @Diddums @jokandra @noteddysteinblock

 

Thanks to all who have posted predictions so far. I've edited the write-up for Vertigo vs Hennigan to reflect the fact that Ivan 'The Body' Markov has been 'volunteered' into being special guest referee for their bout. What difference will that make? Wait and see.

If anyone wants to factor that into their predictions, go ahead. 

Thank you everyone for participating. More new stuff being posted soon!

[kanegan]

Sting & Darby Allin

John Hennigan

Ilja Dragunov

[scapegoat]

Sting & Darby Allin

John Hennigan

Ilja Dragunov

[dstephe4]

 

The large, drunken, rosy-cheeked old gentleman was slumped in a pile on the floor. His matted white hair was a tangled mess which flopped unceremoniously over his face. He smelled so strongly of vodka that I thought he'd gone swimming in it. The guy had so much in him he was probably flammable. “I think this man's dead” I said helpfully. My buddy Tom sauntered over for a closer look. “What? Again?!” he scoffed, shaking his head in annoyance. He gave the fallen gent an undignified kick in one of the many ripples of flesh that covered his impressively-sized frame. The man grunted, gargled, coughed, swore imaginatively in Russian, then returned to his slumber with a gassy, satisfied little smile.  “I know everyone in this club has died at least once, but this is bulls***” frowned Tom, the annoyance in his voice doing nothing to dilute that heavy Detroit accent of his. “Normally people re-invent themselves after they’ve died – it gives them a whole new lease of life. I’m a man re-born since I croaked. I’ve lost 20lbs. I’m doing yoga and tennis, wearing tracksuits and doing ‘Line Dancing For Fitness’ classes, s*** like that. But not ol’ Boris here. He’s on his ninth liver now – and wasting that one too, by the looks of it. It’s a shame – he was President of the biggest nation on Earth for, like, the whole 1990s, until your pal Putin took over. Mind you, he was a pickled, drooling slug of a man back then too” Tom said, stroking his chin philosophically.  I suddenly realised who the guy on the floor was. “Holy crap, Boris?! As in... Boris Yeltsin?! I thought he died in 2007 or something” I said with wonder and confusion. “He did, and now he’s here in this club, with us” came the answer. I nodded. This would take a lot of getting used to.     “You said he was on his ninth liver? How the hell does that work?” I asked, though I was afraid of what the answer might be. “Chinese organ thieves” replied Tom nonchalantly, as if it were something you’d normally say. But nothing was even remotely normal here, I was starting to realise. “They send him a new one in a mason jar every couple of years. Mail order. Special delivery” Tom quipped. “Really?! You’re kidding, right?!” I stuttered in shock and disbelief. Tom giggled to himself. He could see I was like a fish out of water, and he was entertained as hell by it. “About the jars? Absolutely. About the organ thieves? Absolutely not” he said with a smile. This was some seriously mad s***. “You’re having trouble adjusting to this place, huh?” He asked as he gave me a playful, insincere little pat on the back. It didn’t help. “It’s not every day you nearly trip over an ex-President of Russia who’s been dead for nearly 20 years” I replied. “There’s a lot of strange s*** here for my brain to unpack. I’ve known about this place for a long time, but being here in person is turning out to be a bit of a mind-f***. Mind you, it’s not as much of a mind-f*** as the idea of ‘action movie tough guy’ Tom Sizemore at a ‘Line Dancing For Fitness’ club. That’s hard to imagine. Hell, you doing any kind of fitness must be a real sight to see. I can’t picture you in a tracksuit” I joked, giving him a quick elbow in one of his magnificent love-handles. They wobbled on impact. He didn’t like that. It didn’t wipe the smile off his big, ‘dead’ face though. “Tracksuit? F*** that. Latex. Spandex. Nothing but skin-tight goodness for me” he laughed with a knowing look. It was hard to tell if he was being serious. “I look good in that s*** too. Statuesque. Masculine. Adonis-like. Big and tough, like a pro wrestler” he joked. I shot him a look that let him know I wasn’t buying any of this crap. “What?!” he shot back defensively. “Yokozuna was a pro wrestler too!”   Above: Tom Sizemore. A man of many movies. A man of many deaths. My friend Tom Sizemore was being my unofficial tour guide for the evening. This was the prestigious Dead Gentlemen's Association (or DGA for short) – the most illustrious, most select club you never knew existed. It’s existence is the best-kept secret since the Illuminati. It’s members swear to uphold that secrecy under pain of death. There’s a blood oath and everything - it’s all very serious. Even mentioning it in this diary is an incredibly dangerous move, which could have lethal ramifications from the club’s shadowy leaders. But what the hell are those bozos going to do? Kill me? I’m already 'dead'.   [   The Dead Gentlemen’s Association was founded in 1876 by General George Armstrong Custer. Yes, that General Custer – he of the infamous Last Stand and the dreaded Battle Of Little Bighorn. The history books say he died on the battlefield that fateful day. The reality is he was just very, very badly wounded. As the smoke cleared and the scalpings commenced, a near-dead Custer managed to crawl into the bushes and escape his grizzly execution. Despite receiving gruesome injuries almost Sergey-Belyev-esque in scale, the stubborn b*****d refused to die, crawling a gazillion miles on his hands and knees to safety. Eventually he was rescued, and fled to anonymous safety with one of his mistresses. By the winter of 1876 he was all healed up, but not only did everyone think he was dead, they were going around murdering all the natives in his name. He couldn’t exactly just stroll back in and say ‘hi’ – that’s not what martyrs do. So he shaved that fabulous moustache, fled abroad and passed his time by creating a club for well-to-do ‘deceased’ gentlemen such as himself. Things grew slowly from there, until we got to the stage where a ‘dead’ Hollywood actor and a not-yet-‘dead’ rich Brit were stood over the fallen Boris Yeltsin, waiting to see if he’d piss himself.   Above: George Custer. Wager of wars. Founder of clubs.   Thanks to Tom putting in a good word for me, I was tonight’s Guest Of Honour, with a view to joining the club as a full-time member. He’d announced his grand plan to fake his own death at our drunken, ill-fated soirée through Russia’s boozy underbelly. It was a bold move, and one the scandalised, out-of-work, broke-as-hell former actor couldn’t pull off without help. Fooling the whole world into thinking you’re dead is an expensive game – and that’s where I came in. I agreed to fund his costly and very public demise. In return, Sizemore would ensure my membership in the shady cabal that made his ‘death’ possible. If you’re either incredibly famous, incredibly rich - or both - and want to disappear from public life in a blaze of glory / infamy, The Dead Gentlemen’s Association are the people you need to talk to. They’ve been arranging the ‘deaths’ of society’s biggest and brightest names for centuries – the famous and infamous alike. Those rare few who are fancy enough to learn of the club’s existence can schmooze or buy their way in, enlist The DGA’s help in arranging a glorious, loud and very public departure, then spend their days living it large in some secret mansion with all their ‘dead’ pals.  There’s some seriously impressive names among the club’s ranks – Margaret Thatcher and Steve Jobs are rumoured to be among The Association’s current leadership committee. (After his ‘death’, Fidel Castro was a leader there too, until he died for real in 2020 – after decades of dodging CIA assassination attempts, poisonings, shootings and seemingly everything deadly ever devised, the bearded old goat bizarrely met his end as the victim of bad sushi.) There’s one big downside to being dead though – it’s really hard to earn a living when the whole world thinks you’re a corpse. That’s where rich arseholes like me come in. Cash-cows such as myself might not be as noteworthy as the Tupac Shakurs, Dennis Hoppers, Leonard Nimoys or Gary Colemans of the group, but the tremendous mountains of money handed over by shady, soon-to-be-deceased pricks like me are what keep the club going. They needed me (and my many, many bank accounts). And I needed them. Ever since that big, ugly, gangly b*****d Oleg Matytsin came stomping into my life like some ungainly Russian sasquatch, I knew I needed an Exit Strategy. Since the endless bulls*** machine that was The Russian Federation Of Wrestling began, I was one mistake away from being murdered, one balls-up away from eating a bullet. Bearing in mind that I knew nothing about wrestling and was obviously making this s*** up as I went along, my ass was sure to be grass sooner or later. Even if I did everything perfectly and somehow made this s*** work – which was impossible – the RFW would cease to be useful once the Ukraine War ended, at which point we’d be surplus to requirements, which meant my arse was hamburger meat. I needed a quick exit, a secret door to jump through to safety should the s*** hit the fan. And the Dead Gentlemen’s Association was the perfect way out.   Above: Parties held in secret, undisclosed locations are always the best parties.   So here I was, having a good look around, making new friends and rubbing shoulders with the most prestigious names to ever ‘die’. It was going well. People laughed at my jokes, they seemed pretty cool about me joining, and even began showing me all their secret handshakes and stuff. And they also had the finest Tzatziki dip this side of the mortal coil. The itinerary for the evening was a busy one – there was brandy and cigars, there was billiards, a craps table – a few of us fine, distinguished, deceased gentlemen even went for a spot of late-night quail hunting. To this day I’ve no idea what the f*** a quail is, but apparently I shot one. It was too dark to tell what the hell I killed, to be honest. But for important reasons, the Dead Gentlemen’s Association could only meet at night, lest we be discovered. Though if some lucky passer-by did somehow manage to witness me, Tom Sizemore, Layne Stayley from Alice In Chains, Patrick Swayze, Hunter S. Thompson and Adobe co-founder Charles Geschke wandering around the woods at night, carrying rifles, laughing and drinking champagne, who the hell would believe them? If you posted a photo of us on social media, people would tell you to put down the crack pipe and step away from the Photoshop. After a brief but amusing interlude where Gary Coleman showed off his surprising physical prowess by bench-pressing one of the co-founders of Ben & Jerry’s over and over again, we got down to club business. Everyone got seated in the main room of their secluded palatial hide-away to discuss and vote on the matter of my inclusion. Logically, my joining this funky little syndicate made sense for everyone – they needed my money, and I needed a quick way to disappear like a fart in a Jacuzzi, should the s*** hit the fan. Of the club’s 100+ members, 70 or more had to give their approval for any new addition. My buddy Tom Sizemore had been on a charm offensive for weeks trying to get as many names into the ‘yes’ column as possible. It was an ass-kissing drive of epic proportions. Things were going well as the votes came in – only a few of the less influential, less popular members (and Luciano Pavarotti) cast their lot against me. It wasn’t long before I nearly had the votes I needed – but one of the DGA’s most prominent members was doing everything he could to stop me. His meek, annoying little voice still grinds my gears, even to this day.  “Guys, I’m really against this. I’m voting to stop this ludicrous situation. It is not in the spirit of this club to let a Brit join The Dead Gentlemen’s Association. This glorious nation didn’t fight a War Of Independence just to have some slimy, fog-breathing Englishman creep into our ranks. It’s not what our noble founder George Custer would have wished for.” “F*** you, John Denver!” Came the rather magnificent reply. Many in the room nodded and cheered in agreement. As a non-member I wasn’t allowed to speak on club matters. But fortunately I had Tom Sizemore speaking for me – and as one of the loudest, brashest voices in Hollywood history, he was more than up to the task. “Why don’t you shut your Rocky Mountain High, paisley, plaid-covered, country bumpkin, West Virginia, hickory-dickory, banjo-playing, square-dancing, cornbread-munching, sour-mash, chewing-tobacco-ass mouth” he added, to a round of applause from the other members. With eloquent words such as these spoken in my defence, I was beginning to feel confident. The dead, Grammy Award-winning douche didn’t like that. He pulled a face like we’d not only crashed his party, but s*** on his birthday cake too.   Above: Yeah, f*** you John, you big, dead buzzkill.   “Our benevolent Custer didn’t die on that battlefield just so that some shady British turd could join this wonderful club. He’d spin in his grave if he saw one of the English – whom his kind fought so hard to be emancipated from – among us. This is an American club, for Americans” said Denver with a whiney, nasal tone that made me want to smash him like a piñata. “Firstly, I think you need to study your American history a little better. Secondly, our 'benevolent' Custer didn’t die on that battlefield, full stop!” Sizemore fired back. “Besides, there’s all kinds of nationalities here. Yeltsin the Russian. Your pal Pavarotti, who you did a song with once, is a weird, sweaty Italian. You’re full of crap, John! Your head’s so far up your ass it’s making s*** come out of your mouth!” I looked over at Luciano to try and gauge his reaction, but the rotund, bearded, angel-voiced maestro had fallen asleep in his chair. I was almost entranced by the way his tummy rippled as he loudly snored, like waves across a mighty, vast ocean. John’s rat-like voice soon snapped me out of my daze. "It wasn't Luciano here that I recorded that wonderful song with - that was Placido Domingo. And if that silver-tongued legend were here, he'd also say your pal can shove his membership request up his sleazy English keister!" Sneered the whiney country dong with a nauseating level of satisfaction. “Your ‘death’ sucked nearly as much as your life, Denver! I'm amazed nobody’s figured out you’re still alive. Your biggest, most famous song was literally called 'I'm Leaving On A Jet Plane'. Out of every type of death imaginable, how do you choose to leave your life behind?! On a God-damned jet plane!" Dozens of fellow members murmured loudly in agreement. Denver looked over to Pavarotti for some kind of support, but all he got was a damp, muffled fart from the big, 'dead', sleepy Italian. Tom was relentless. "You say Custer wouldn't want my buddy here to join this club. But I'm pretty sure a big, tough guy like him wouldn't be too pleased to see your drippy, whiney-bitch ass here either. The man would be spinning in his grave if he saw a harmonica-playing, weak-ass, decaf-ordering, light-beer-preferring sissy like you trying to speak for him!" Denver gasped. Denver shook. Denver's eyes got all teary. His lip trembled. It looked like he was about to bawl like a baby. He seemed wounded. Sizemore went in for the kill. "You don't speak for General Custer, John. You don't speak for this club, or for any of us members. How could you? You wear socks underneath your sandals for Christ's sake. What in the hell kind of man does that?!" Ouch. And then came the final insult - the nail in the coffin, so to speak. "Everyone here wanted Johnny Cash in this group! Christ only knows how we ended up with you instead!" That was it. That one hurt. John Denver could take no more. Knowing he was losing this highly intelligent, deeply eloquent debate, John suddenly lost his temper. He jumped to his feet to confront his verbally bombastic opponent. Tom stormed over too, fists clenched, cheeks reddened with anger. They met face to face, forehead to forehead in the middle of the room. Both men were ready to fight, in a scene that looked like something torn straight from one of my own wrestling shows. Things got really tense as it seemed the first fist-fight in the DGA's 147 year history was about to break out. I looked around and saw a scene of frightened faces - the other members had obviously never seen tensions escalate in such a manner. Clearly I was a bad influence. This was fun. Then suddenly there was a heavy, clumsy, almost elephantine sound of approaching footsteps - almost like the sound of a drunken, charging bull storming it's way in. I looked on in amazement as one of the most bizarre yet undeniably awesome sights I'd ever witnessed unfolded before me. Suddenly in the middle of the skirmish stood the mighty, staggering figure of Boris Yeltsin. His face was hot with rage. His eyes were lit with flames of anger. He opened his mouth wide, emitting a bestial snarl that reminded me of the war cry of Genghis Khan. He began drunkenly, tremendously pounding his chest like King Kong. Denver and Sizemore both took a step back, unsure what in the name of Christ was going on. Suddenly Yeltsin's primal battle-cry stopped. The vast, drooling former Russian Premier gritted his teeth. And then... The punch was tremendous. The impact was extraordinary. John Denver's head swung back so hard and so fast the back of it hit him on his ass. He didn't just hit the floor - he became the floor. It was as if there was a John-Denver-shaped rug on the ground. It was amazing.  My random-ass, unexpected hero then belched victoriously. He smiled, stumbled, before hauling his big Russian arse into the chair next to Pavarotti's, slumping down into a sleepy slumber in almost exactly the same manner as the big, dozing Italian. Within seconds the two men's snores were synchronised, both harmonising perfectly in a majestic, unconscious duet. With victory assured and my club membership all but guaranteed, Tom and I knew nothing more needed to be done. We strolled out onto the balcony, our heads held high. The morning sun was scorching it’s way up onto the horizon, pushing away the darkness as it climbed. I couldn’t help but feel it’s warm glow on me and feel assured.  There was a spring in my step, and a smile on my face. Tom saw my big, s***-eating grin and gave an approving nod. I felt like tonight’s result was cause for celebration. Out came a hip flask filled with Jack Daniel’s Single Barrel Select, which sure as hell wasn’t going to drink itself. I took a mighty sip. Tom took the flask, then took an even mightier one. A big, satisfied sigh emanated from deep within him. Now he was smiling too. “Thanks for all your help Tom. You really came through for me there” I said while trying to grab the flask back off him before he could turn all that fine bourbon into burps and farts. “No worries bud. I figured I owed you one after you financed my ‘death’ – least I could do to repay you was help you with your own disappearing act.”  “Yeah, but thanks. I really needed an Exit Strategy. Now that I have you and this fruity club of corpses to fall back on, I can breathe a little easier. So, yeah, thank you.” “Well, don’t thank me too much, pal. It’s a good thing you've got a way out. From what I’ve been reading about the s*** going on in Russia right now... you’re gonna need it.”

 

Edited May 29 by dstephe4

[80085]

That exit strategy post made me think you are not ok bruv. And I like that about you. Nobody else is posting the mad stuff on here

 

Predictions--

I'm going ALL AMERICAN with this one fam

Sting and allin

Hennigan in pink

Bryan Danielson because of how strong you been hinting about him bein all crushing under the pressure of being russian poster boy

Edited April 24 by 80085

[dstephe4]

 

Rossiya 1 had the great pleasure of broadcasting the latest collision of the ongoing car crash that was The Russian Federation Of Wrestling. The Fen-Shuy Resort & Hotel was where we'd somehow managed to cram 3,176 people into their tiny little function room. I'm still baffled as to how we managed it - maybe we folded them all in half or something.

We started our thirteenth episode with fireworks, flags, industrial-strength vodka, enough Lightning Bolt Energy Drink to flood a whole city, and with one of those tried-and-tested promos where people stand in the ring and say things about other people who are not in the ring. ‘The American Dragon’ Bryan Daniels was there, about to do his thing. The crowd were roaring with excitement. The fans were loud this time. Like, drunken-ECW-fans-in-a-bingo-hall loud. This was hardly surprising – our audience was full of sugar-crazed, hyperactive kids on their summer holiday. The adults were running wild too - they had so much Lightning Bolt in them their sweat was flammable. Our venue was the Fen-Shuy Resort & Hotel – one of those ‘all-inclusive’ holiday places where you can have as much food and booze as your body can handle. It’s the kind of place where you can have a gallon of beer with your morning cereal and nobody even gives you a second glance. It’s the kind of place where kids can eat a bucket of candyfloss for breakfast with an ice cream chaser. You can imagine the atmosphere all that created. Cram 3,176 of these crazed, supercharged people together in a small, hot room together, and you’ve set the scene for a particularly memorable evening. Our whole audience was practically feral. Our cameras zoomed in on one guy who got so excited he ripped off his shirt, swung it around in circles above him like a wobbly, drunken helicopter, and launched it at some little old lady so hard it sent her flying ass-over-head five rows backwards. It was glorious. "Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you a man transformed by my time in Russia. Battling the fierce Vladimir Kulakov, it wasn't just a match - it was a war with my inner demons. For years, the doubt and fear from my concussion injuries haunted me, but no more. I've emerged from that war stronger, tougher, and more unstoppable than I ever thought possible." The crowd chanted "YES! YES! YES!" at a volume I previously wouldn’t have thought was biologically or medically possible. "Ilja Dragunov, you're a formidable World Champion, and I respect that. But when I step into that ring to challenge you later tonight, I do it with unwavering confidence. I've faced my fears, conquered my doubts, and I've never been more ready for this opportunity." The crowd erupted with another "YES!" chant in a display of startling originality. Daniels reveled in it. He basked in the warm glow of their Yes-ness. "Ilja, I'm not just any challenger; I'm Daniel Bryan... I mean Bryan Daniels. I fight for every person who's ever faced adversity, and when we meet for that World Title, you're going to see an American Dragon like you've never seen before. I'm going to push myself to the limits, and I'm going to prove to the world that YES, I can be the World Champion!" The crowd went wild again, and Daniel Bryan... I mean... Bryan Daniels... raised his arms in triumph. He was riding a tidal wave of Yes-ish-ness now. The camera cut to a reaction shot of a bunch of kids near the front row, all of whom were wearing big, thick, home-made beards in honour of their scruffy-looking hero. It was a fashion trend that would spread like wildfire through Russia through all of 2023.     "So, Ilja, brace yourself, because it's not just about surviving the Yes Lock or the Running Knee; it's about surviving the indomitable spirit of Bryan Daniels. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, YES, I can!" The crowd's "YES!" chants reached a deafening level as the loveable, excitable, scruffy-looking fan-favourite exited the ring like some kind of triumphant, homeless-looking rock-star, leaving the audience in frenzied anticipation for the upcoming championship match. As the scene faded out, our cameras fixed upon some dude with a hand-made sign showing a high-fiving Bryan Daniels and Vladimir Putin riding a T-Rex together. If ever there was an image that summed up the bat-s*** crazy Russia of 2023, that was it. Angle Rating: 84.     Next there’s a backstage area, a World Champion with a preposterous-looking beard, a man with a ponytail in a silky Japanese dress, a less-ridiculously bearded guy in a shimmering corduroy jacket, a microphone, and a promo. “People in the West seem to think Russia has no freedom of speech. But the opposite is true – you can say whatever you like in this glorious nation – no matter how crazy or ridiculous it might be.” Seagal is on mic duty again tonight. Dragunov has clearly been told to shut the hell up, stand in the background, and look dangerous. “Bryan Daniels can say he will be our next World Champion. He can say he has what it takes to defeat our fine Ilja Dragunov. He can say that the radical improvements he has attained in the trials of our combat will give him the edge he needs to secure victory. Who knows, maybe he even believes those things too.” Dragunov grunted menacingly, tapping the shiny belt around his waist, for emphasis. “But at the end of the day, Daniels faces a man who is the indomitable spirit of Russia personified. And just like Russia, Ilja Dragunov will never be defeated!” Radinov looks excited. Seagal looks confident and proud. Ilja, with all the weight of a nation’s hopes and dreams heavy upon his shoulders, looks terrified. Like a little, tiny worm on a big f***ing hook. A worm with a big, shiny belt and a big, dangerous target on his back. Angle Rating: 78.     “This is our only chance!” shouted the man in the coat made of what appeared to be... ostrich feathers? “Quick! We must act now, before we are detected!” Petr Tihanyi was outside one of the dressing rooms. Our camera zoomed in. ‘Markov / Марков’ said a big, shiny, star-shaped sign hanging on the door.   “If that lumpen, knuckle-dragging Neanderthal gets to be referee, everything’s ruined! I can’t believe that un-stylish, pudding-faced idiot Seagal let Markov be in charge of this bout! I want a fair rematch - that won’t happen if that moron’s involved! He simply can't spoil this fabulous occasion. I’d rather have no referee than that oaf!” said the man in leather trousers and a furry fedora hat that would’ve made Hendrix blush. Clearly, John Hennigan was a man on a mission tonight. “But what are we gonna do, boss?! The match begins in, like, 2 minutes! We need a plan!” squealed the man in the brightly-coloured faux-fur coat. It was lined with... was it mink? The frills were in some bizarre, extraordinary new colour I’d somehow never seen before in my whole life. His voice was bizarrely loud, high-pitched and squeaky – he sounded like a cat with it’s arse on fire. Benceh Toth looked better than he sounded – and that was saying something. Hennigan seized the moment, grabbing a chair from somewhere unseen and jamming it under the door handle. With his Cuban leather, fur-trimmed boot he gave it a quick kick. Seemed sturdy enough. “Will that really work though? That’s the sort of cockamamie crap they pull in cartoons!” Petr wasn’t buying it. “He’s right boss. Only an idiot would be stopped by a scheme like this. Only someone completely stupid and... oh, I see.” The puzzle pieces came together in Toth’s brain as he adjusted his loud, zebra-patterned belt.  Suddenly the entrance music of Alexandr Klapstov started playing in the distance. The three fabulously-attired, devilishly-dressed bad guys scarpered. As the camera zoomed out to follow them high-tailing it into the distance, Steven Seagal was clearly visible in the background. He was walking backstage having finished his interview with Dragunov and Radinov, and had swung by to watch this childish crap with a smirk. Our so-called ‘un-stylish, pudding-faced’ Authority Figure saw the whole thing. He didn’t seem upset by this hair-brained scheme. He seemed to enjoy it infact. He laughed quietly to himself as he slowly dragged his ample, slug-like frame towards the ring. Angle Rating: 55.           ‘The Fabulous’ John Hennigan (with ‘The Style Squad’ of Benceh Toth and Petr Tihanyi) vs Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov (with Edge) – This was supposed to be a Special Guest Referee match with Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov as the official, but he was locked in his dressing room, so God knows what that means. The first match of the night was the big rematch between John Hennigan (with his fashionista followers ‘The Style Squad’) and Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov, who strode to the ring with his mentor Edge in a way that let us all know a serious ass-kicking was about to take place. And it was - just not in the way they'd planned. They got maybe 6 feet down the ramp before Hennigan, Tihanyi and Toth pounced on them. This was the classic, industry-standard pre-match beatdown you've seen a thousand times on a thousand wrestling shows – except this one had a lot more sequins and a lot more perfume. This was a particularly floral and well-moisturised ass-whupping. While the two Style Squad goons took care of Edge, Hennigan grabbed Vertigo and dragged his ass to the ring. He was determined to have an uninterrupted, 1-on-1 battle with the ex-hacker, instead of the (admittedly amusing) bulls*** shenanigans that’d mired their previous encounters. Sensing danger, Klapstov grabbed his laptop from under the ring and frantically started bashing away at the keys, hastily hacking the venue’s lighting system to try and create a distraction. ‘The Fabulous One’ had seen this before. He knew exactly what to do, as he ran up and dropkicked the laptop right into the Russian’s face. The laptop exploded into a cloud of smoke and shattered circuit boards. Vertigo was sent flying into the guardrail and got folded in half by the impact. From that moment on he was screwed. The leather-trouser-clad American was just slightly better. Slightly smarter. Slightly faster. More experienced. Klapstov had some impressive moments in which he took to the sky like the world’s geekiest eagle, but for the most part got his ass handed to him. Edge, seeing his dweeby protégé in trouble, broke free of his attackers and ran to the ring. He leaped to the top turnbuckle, ready to pounce. But Hennigan was ready for that too. With an amused little smile he reached into one of his fabulous coat’s many hidden pockets, produced a tin of hairspray, and blasted ‘The Rated R Superstar’ right in the eyes with it’s contents. The Canadian screamed. The Canadian fell. The Canadian hit the concrete with a sickening thud. The Canadian was set upon once again by Toth and Tihanyi.  Hennigan then zapped Klapstov in the eyes with it as well, for good measure - because that’s what bad guys do. He let off an evil laugh too, just to accentuate his flamboyant heelishness. The fans booed loudly at this rather ungentlemanly display. ‘The Fabulous One’ responded by throwing the hairspray can at the fans. There was a loud ‘clunk’ that echoed through the building as it hit some snot-nosed little kid right between the eyes. “Bull’s-eye!” he shouted with delight, celebrating like he’d just hit a Home Run. It was about this time that people finally realised this match had no referee. We’d gone about 5 minutes without an official. To be fair, our shows were such chaotic festivals of bulls*** that the total lack of refereeing made no real difference. Our only licensed ref ‘Boris’ could’ve stepped in from the start, as soon as it was obvious that ‘special referee’ Ivan Markov was ‘unavailable’, but he was much too busy out back smoking the funky new black market Iranian cigarettes he’d become hooked on. He did eventually stroll to ringside, watched admiringly as Klapstov got on the receiving end of a Brainbuster that almost sent his spine shooting out of his arsehole, then begrudgingly set about ‘officiating’. I don’t know why he bothered though, it’s not like the guy ever enforced any rules. The man had about as much authority in this place as the French Foreign Legion. Moments after ‘Boris’ arrived on the scene, the fans cheered loudly as Ivan Markov – clad in the tightest, most ill-fitting referee's shirt the world has even seen - charged towards the ring like the ‘Lokomotiv’ he used to be named after. His knuckles looked badly bruised and discoloured – it’s entirely possible the guy just punched his way through the dressing room door... or even the wall... with his bare hands. Then he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. His face was a picture of panic and confusion – he looked down at the referee shirt he was wearing – then looked up at the ring. You could almost hear the cogs in his brain crashing into each other and grinding to a halt. Sweat started pouring out of his face as he struggled to compute. He was the referee – but there was some other referee in the ring already. His baffled little brain just couldn’t handle the strain. But then he saw his enemy John Hennigan was also in the ring – and presumably his toothy little canine nemesis too – and finally his mind shuddered and rattled into motion like a rusty old machine. He ripped off his shirt, threw it at a startled fan, then charged towards the action like a bull in a china shop. He grabbed the startled, shrieking Benceh Toth and Gorilla Press Slammed the absolute crap of that funky little b****. The pop was huge. So was the thud as Toth’s arse became one with the concrete. Tihanyi was about to meet a similar fate, until Hennigan reached into his coat again. The thing he brought out was small. It was furry. It started yapping. It showed it’s teeth and started growling. “Holy crap it’s Gerald!” shouted commentator Alex Koslov “may God have mercy on his soul!” he added. “Wait a second, Gerald lives inside Hennigan’s coat?!” said Rico Bushido with surprise and just a little wonderment in his voice. “Well... it’s possible I guess. Tiny dog. Big coat. I had a kebab earlier that was bigger than Gerald” pondered Koslov. “I had a crap earlier that was bigger than Gerald” Roy Jones Jr interjected. We left it at that and moved on. Gerald was loose. Markov ran screaming as the vicious, lethal canine gave chase. Soon Tihanyi and Toth were running for their lives too. Then Edge as well. There was horror on their faces, mortal terror in their eyes. All four men dived over the guardrail, into the crowd. The world’s most fearsome Bichon Frisé gave chase. The front five rows of fans began running and scrambling for their lives. There was nearly a stampede. “This is ridiculous” our Authority Figure Steven Seagal could be heard saying from his ringside seat. This wasn’t quite the spectacle he had in mind when he signed this bout. “Enough of this silly crap” he muttered. His arm went up. The lights suddenly flickered. And then the only thing scarier than Gerald in all of the Russian Federation Of Wrestling was on the scene at an unnatural speed. “It’s ‘The Nightmare!’ It’s Kulakov!” hollered Rico. “I didn’t think it was possible, but somehow that big scary b*****d looks even crazier without his mask” exclaimed Koslov.      Calmly the demented Russian strolled over towards the melee, whistling a tune to himself, with his hands casually in his pockets. He looked around at the screaming, the tears, the carnage and the panic that surrounded him. Grown men wept with fear. Children cried. One dude wet his pants. Kulakov just smiled madly as he entered the epicentre of the storm. He found what he was looking for, shuffling around on the floor among all the madness. He swung back his leg, then launched his foot forward with an almighty kick. Have you ever seen a dog fly? No? I have. And so did the 3,176 in attendance.  Yes, kicking a dog is mean. And yes, you sure as hell wouldn’t be able to do that anywhere outside of Russia. Yeah, it was incredibly politically incorrect of us. But I’m not sorry – seeing the yappy little b*****d take flight was funny as hell. Back in the comparative sanity of the ring, Hennigan and Klapstov were still doing battle. Despite all the hoopla in the crowd, a pretty good wrestling match was happening. Hennigan was still clearly the more skilled competitor, but the guy we’d nicknamed ‘Lord Nerd’ was holding his own. Soon, Edge was back on the ring apron, shouting encouragement to Klapstov. He was so caught up in the action he didn’t see the Style Squad dudes mincing towards him. They attacked from behind, stunned him, then held his arms so he couldn’t escape. With Edge incapacitated and forced to watch, Hennigan seized the moment, knocking Klapstov out cold with his Starship Pain finisher. Edge was kicking and screaming, but Toth and Tihanyi held him still, forcing him to watch as ‘The Fabulous One’ picked up ‘Vertigo’ again, smiled a cocky smile, then added insult to injury, performing an Edgecution on him. Hennigan followed it up with an Edge-O-Matic too, just to be mean. Edge swore vengeance and lots more bedsides as Hennigan easily got the 3 count victory. The ‘Style Squad’ guys laughed victoriously as the Canadian veteran finally wriggled free and rushed to his fallen friend, all pissed off and snarling as the scene faded out to a commercial. Match Rating: 59.     We return from a smorgasbord of the finest advertising Russian Rubles could buy, to a plush, fancy-looking office. Steven Seagal and Vlad Radinov are quietly talking business when Dragan Spazic bursts in. “Help! Somebody! They’re after me! Villain Enterprises are gonna turn my ass into grass” he squeals. He’s totally disheveled, his bright pink suit is covered with sweat and dirt, one of the sleeves torn half off. His face is covered with bruises. Suddenly Marty, Brody and Flip storm in, looking for trouble. “Dragan! You silly pink twonk! We’ve had enough of your crap! We lost the Tag Team Title Tournament last week because of you, you borscht-munching tit! You won’t be able to humiliate us ever again once you’re tied to a hospital bed with a tube up your arse! Get him guys!” Scurll gives the command. The Villains pounce. A beatdown is afoot. “Quick! Spazic! Defend yourself with this! It’s Sting’s baseball bat! He left it behind after I ‘interviewed’ him last week!” Yells Radinov. He throws the bat. The bright-pink nearly-Russian catches it and starts swinging it like Mickey Mantle. With a mighty ‘swooosh’ he brings the bat down hard on Scurll’s villainous skull, smacking him right between the eyes. But the bat crumbles into dust instantly on impact. Marty & Co laugh like Musketeers before recommencing their ass-kicking.  ‘The Party Tsar’ picks up what’s left of the bat and inspects it. 'Made in America' he reports sadly with a shake of the head. Seagal turns to the camera and addresses the fans with a serious tone. “Proud citizens of Russia. In a world of fancy foreign gimmicks it can be tempting to buy flashy foreign imports. But as we’ve seen here today there is no substitute for fine, Russian-made, high-quality goods. Like this one.” With a knowing nod to our viewers, he opens a desk drawer and pulls out the biggest God-damned axe the world has ever seen. I swear the thing was so massive The Big Show would’ve had trouble lifting it. It was neon pink too – almost as if Seagal had somehow clairvoyantly foreseen this attack, and prepared the world’s most preposterous weapon in response. With a smile he passes it to Dragan. Instantly the ass-kicking stops. The three bad guys crap themselves in unison and run for their lives. “Remember folks, buy better; buy Russian!”   Эта социальная реклама представлена вам совместно с Министерством торговли и коммерции: строим вместе для лучшей, более светлой России. This public service announcement is brought to you in conjunction with The Ministry For Trade And Commerce: building together for a better, brighter Russia. Angle Rating: 52.          The Viking Raiders (Erik and Ivor) with Valhalla vs Sting and Darby Allin – Semi Final of the RFW Tag Team Title Tournament. “Do you reckon they're really Vikings, Alex?” asked commentator Rico Bushido to his broadcast buddy Alex Koslov. “Yes, Rico, they're really Vikings. 100% bona fide genuine Vikings. The real deal. Absolutely. These are real, authentic Viking Raiders with an actual Longship and everything. Steven Seagal got a time machine, travelled back to the 9th century, hopped along to Scandinavia, kidnapped a couple of Norsemen, then brought them back here to 2023, to fight for us. This is pro wrestling, after all. Anything is possible.” Koslov was on fine form. “Really?!” said Rico, his voice full of surprise. “No. Idiot.” That happened. And also Sting and Darby Allin won. What more could you possibly need to know?   Match Rating: 62.     Steven Seagal looked nervous. Pensive. He clenched his massive, sweaty fists so hard his prayer beads got crunched into powder. Everyone knew why he was on edge. Every week, after every Tag Tournament bout, the Satanic, terrifying, seemingly indestructible Damien Black and his Dark Church had turned up and crucified everything in their path. (Not literally – that would take too long.) Half the roster ran to the scene and surrounded the ring, ready to stop any attack. All the tag teams whose arses had been so unceremoniously kicked in the previous weeks stood near the top of the ramp, ready for another shot at a violent, painful (but family-friendly, of course) retribution.   The lights went out. ‘666’ by Rotting Christ hit the speakers like a cluster-bomb. Flames erupted from Christ-knows-where. “It looks like Hell in here!” said Rico Bushido with a voice full of panic. “It sounds like Hell in here” said Roy Jones Jr gruffly, covering his ears. “It smells like Hell in here too” said Alex Koslov, with a weird expression poking out from under that big, fluffy Russian hat of his. “Sure” countered Rico “if Hell smells like farts, Vodka, sweat and energy drinks, then welcome to Hell everybody!”  Suddenly the music stopped and the lights flashed back on. The Dark Church Of Satan had magically appeared in the centre of the ring. Sting, Allin and the Vikings stumbled back in shock and horror. Damien Black laughed demonically. Then suddenly the lights were out again. Everything fell instantly silent. After about 5 seconds, our technicians managed to get the lights back on. Then somebody screamed as they saw that Black, Siply and Krimson were gone... and so were The Viking Raiders – with only smouldering piles of ash left where they were stood. People started freaking out big time. We quickly cut to a commercial. This was the last time anyone in the Russian Federation Of Wrestling would ever see Erik, Ivor and Valhalla of the Viking Raiders. In hindsight, maybe I should’ve organised a search party for them or something. But hey, I’m a busy guy.  Angle Rating: 59.     Goldberg is in his dressing room, doing huge bicep curls with dumbells so big our camera guy had to zoom out just to fit them in the picture. There’s a knock at the door. Old Bill doesn’t look too happy as Roy Jones Jr and Vlad Radinov barge their way in. “What are you two crap-stains doing here?!” Huffs the former WWE and WCW supremo. “I’m here to bring back your spark, to bring back the real Goldberg, not this half-ass, no-heart version that’s haunting the RFW ring” said Jones Jr assertively. “What about you, loser?!” barks Goldberg at the Party Tsar. “I’m here to hold the mic and look fabulous” he replied in a remarkable display of honesty. “Bill, everyone’s worried about you. They see a guy who keeps turning his back and walking away when things get tough, and they panic. The fans love you, but they want the old Goldberg back – the warrior - not... whatever the hell it is you’re turning into.” Goldberg doesn’t like what he’s hearing. He drops the dumbells unceremoniously on the floor. Radinov flinches as the whole set shakes under their massive weight. The former multi-time wrestling champion gets right up in the face of the multi-time boxing champion. “Goldberg doesn’t need help. Goldberg is indestructible. Goldberg will show the whole of Russia how powerful he still is when he kicks Sting’s ass all the way back to America in the #1 Contenders match the week after next. Then the whole world - including you - will get off Goldberg’s ass once and for all. Legends never fade. I guess I gotta remind people of that” snarls Goldberg, before storming out in a rage, dragging his wounded ego along behind him.  Roy Jones Jr shakes his head sadly as the scene fades to a close. “Such a shame” he says, sighing deep with frustration. Angle Rating: 65.     After a state-mandated news bulletin which rather casually interspersed footage of Russian troops shooting flamethrowers with footage of Putin taking quaint family walks through the countryside, we were back to our show.  Scotty 2 Hotty, Rikishi and our nuclear-shirted, velveteen-jacketed interviewer Vlad ‘Party Tsar’ Radinov are hanging out, doing whatever the hell it is wrestlers do backstage during a show. They’re laughing and joking, but Rikishi looks very, very serious all of a sudden. “I’m finished with being an in-ring competitor” said Rikishi to Scotty. “My knees are shot. It hurts to move around the ring. Plus I’m 58 years old now. I’m no spring chicken any more. It’s time to let someone else do the ass-kicking” said the big Samoan in a sad but determined tone of voice.  “Are you sure?” asked Scotty. “It’s a big decision” added Vlad. “Yeah I’m sure, homie. Besides, I finished last week’s show with some dude’s whole head stuck up my ass. If that isn’t the universe telling me to stop, I don’t know what is.” “Can’t argue with that ‘logic’ I guess” shrugged Radinov. “Don’t worry, Scotty, I still got your back. We started this wrestling adventure together – you, me and Brian Christopher, God rest his soul. And you’re gonna keep his memory living on, with me watching your back. I’ll be your bodyguard, your manager, your... whatever, homie.” Scotty doesn’t look happy. “I’m not sure, man. We’ve always been a team. Maybe it’s too late for me to go solo?”  “Look, this is a whole new country – it could be a whole new opportunity for you – a whole new beginning. You never had chance to prove yourself as a singles competitor. But you deserve the spotlight to be on you, homie. This is your moment! This is your chance! You ain’t getting any younger either, it’s now or never!” Rikishi gives his little buddy Scotty a supportive hug. ‘The Party Tsar’ joins in the hug too, because why the hell not. “I got your back, bud. You got this, trust me” says the now-retired Samoan as the scene fades to black. “Trust me.” Angle Rating: 57.     Immediately next we have another backstage interview, and once again our man Vlad Radinov is on the scene to get the big scoop. It’s surprising nobody questioned how our shiny, hirsute interviewer managed to somehow be in three different backstage locations at once on a ‘live’ broadcast. That’s the magic of television, I guess. This time Radinov is with a victorious Sting and Darby Allin. The two face-painted superstars puff out their chests confidently – because that’s what triumphant Tournament Finalists do, I guess. Their Viking-bashing antics earlier have made them very proud. Unsurprisingly our microphone-wielding velveteen wonder wants Sting’s thoughts on... well... lots of things, really. Sting answers magnificently, as you’d expect from a guy who’s been in this game since 1985 – back when presidents Reagan and Gorbachev were slugging it out on the world stage – back when Russia was seen as the spooky, villainous Heel we all needed protecting from. Not much has changed in 38 years I guess. Darby Allin is also there. He tries talking, answering questions, and doing other big-boy things. “Hush now, grown-ups are talking” interjects our interviewer.  The ‘Party Tsar’ asks Sting whether he fancies his chances against Goldberg in the big #1 Contenders match the week after next. The Stinger says he’s known Old Bill for decades, since they used to be gym buddies even before Goldberg trained to be a wrestler. He says he knows every weapon in the guy’s armory, every strength of his... and every weakness. Suffice to say that as far as Sting’s concerned, victory is assured. Radinov asks Sting if he’s afraid of the immortal-seeming Damien Black and his spooky ‘Dark Church Of Satan’ ruining the Tag Team Title Tournament final. Sting says he’s made a new friend recently, who’s agreed to “watch their back on a one-time-only basis”. When quizzed on their identity, Sting decides to be all mysterious and keep it a secret – he’s been doing the ‘mysterious’ thing since he beat up the nWo back in the 1990s – he wasn’t going to stop now.  The timeless legend then talks up his chances of defeating The Arrows Of Russia in the tournament final. His belief is that because he’s never heard of The Arrows until now, they surely can’t be much of a threat. He’s so confident of victory he says Seagal and The Russian Federation Of Wrestling may as well save time and hand over those shiny new Tag Team Title belts right now. The man's on such a confidence trip that you could put him in a fist-fight with Godzilla and he’d go in there expecting the victory. Naturally, The Arrows Of Russia don’t take kindly to Sting’s belief that the final will be a one-sided white-wash. They invade the promo and begin shouting angry stuff in Russian. Sting and Allin, confused and blindsided by this verbal onslaught, begin screaming things back in American. Neither side understands what the hell the other side is saying, which only makes them even angrier. Both sides have to be held apart, as a conveniently-placed gang of security guards suddenly flood the scene to stop things getting violent. In the ruckus the cameraman gets knocked on his ass. Radinov squeals, shrieks, and runs for his life. We cut to the next scene before things get completely out of control. Angle Rating: 64.     Seagal is walking backstage, making his way to ringside before our main event. His ashen face tells the story of a busy man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He is tired, frustrated, and about one bit of bad news away from throat-punching some poor b*****d into oblivion. His whole body language screams ‘leave me alone’. Naturally, someone doesn’t get the hint. Tamerlan Rasuev: “I want a rematch!” Seagal: “Oh Christ.” It's our old friend Rasuev, the Russian National Amateur Wrestling Championship Finalist. The one who has been going around randomly maiming people since Episode 1. The one who injured Sergey Belyev so badly he had bandages covering his whole body. The one who has been suspended, fired, suspended, fired again, yet is inexplicably still here. That guy. Tamerlan: “I was screwed! The way I have been treated is an absolute disgrace! A travesty! I demand reparations!” Seagal: “Tamerlan, I didn’t recognise you without Andrei Arlovski’s boot on your face, or without Alen Khubulov’s foot up your ass. How’s things?” he said with a fake smile and a brimming hatred barely disguised within his voice. Tamerlan: “I came to this company as a national hero! And your incompetent, disrespectful, negligent running of this vermin-filled dump has reduced me to a nationwide laughingstock! Time and again you have insulted me with your actions! I came to this nauseating circus on promises of glory and fame! Instead I have been overlooked, disrespected, suspended, even fired! On multiple occasions! You are a disgrace! This whole company is a disgrace! You do not deserve me!” The woe behind this tortured soul’s words was so immense our production team coupled it with sad violin music. Seagal: “Hang on, you’re right... didn’t I fire you? I’m pretty sure I did. I fired you a bunch of times. But yet you keep coming back. Like an itchy rash, you just keep popping back up no matter what we do to make you disappear. And yet here you stand, with the nerve to make demands. You scream for a title shot when many more deserving competitors stand before you in line – competitors who actually still work for The Russian Federation Of Wrestling – competitors who aren’t a constant pain in my ass.” Tamerlan: “How dare you...” Seagal: “You haven’t exactly covered yourself in glory during your time here, have you? You injured Alen Khubulov so badly it’s a miracle he can walk. You sprayed Andrei Arlovski with so much pepper spray that doctors are genuinely amazed he isn’t blind. And for the last few weeks you’ve spent all your time hitting people in the penis with an incredibly big chain. That’s not exactly the work of a hero, is it?” Tamerlan was flabbergasted, his angst-filled features somehow managed to display every emotion known to man, all at once. Forget wrestling, this guy should’ve been a mime. Seagal: “I’ll tell you what – next week you can have your precious rematch for your precious National Title. A few days after that I have a dinner function with none other than the honourable Vladimir Putin himself. You can have one last shot at the fame and glory that you think will make your life complete. If you win, you can have your precious trinket. If you lose, not only will you be fired, but I will ask President Putin himself to deport you!” It was a storm-off of epic proportions. Furniture was kicked. People were screamed at. Tears were probably shed too. Nobody cared. You could see Seagal’s whole mood lighten the moment the guy went away. His whole body language became looser. He let out a massive, cathartic sigh of relief. There was something even approaching a smile – although this is Steven Seagal we’re talking about here, so it was hard to tell. He was about to happily stroll over to ringside to watch his protégé Ilja Dragunov in action. But then almost as quickly as his happiness returned, it went away again. This time it was Arlovski and Khubulov that were pissing on his proverbial parade. Seagal had clearly had enough of this s***. You could see he was weighing up whether to kick both men through a wall and walk off, but he decided against it. This time. Another almighty sigh was let out. Chakras were realigned. Karmic Chi Balance was quickly reattained. Celestial vibrations were thrown back into order. Alen and Andrei might have sensed how close they’d come to being decapitated, had they shut up for a second and paid attention. But they were too worked up for that. Hands were gesturing. Mouths were flapping up and down frantically. Noises were coming out. I was genuinely surprised our ponytailed authority figure didn’t just face-smash his way out of that situation. We can literally see Seagal doing the mental calculations of how much energy and force it would take to send Arlovski and Khubulov flying through the wall beside them. How much heft, he ponders, would it take to drive their skulls through that coffee table? What angle would be best, he wonders, if he were to launch them through that window? The mental image pleases him. He is soothed by the thought of their destruction. 'Not this time' we see him decide. The angry Russian and the pissed-off Belarusian are still talking at him. He tunes in to the conversation for the first time. "It is unfair! Rasuev gets a title opportunity, yet we are much better challengers!" Barks Khubulov. "Rasuev isn't even in The Russian Federation Of Wrestling! You fired him! Multiple times!" Adds the former UFC Champion, adding an outraged fist-shake, for emphasis.  They carry on talking. Their mouths are moving. Sound is being produced. But Seagal isn't listening - his eyes show us that he is elsewhere again. 'It's been a very long time since I smashed someone with a table lamp so hard that it went all the way through their head. That would be fun' he seems to be thinking. 'When did I last do that? Ah, yes, Singapore, 1986' he ponders, a little smile flickering at the corner of his mouth as he thinks back to such happy, care-free times. "Enough!" Shouts Seagal, clearly tired of their s***. "If you two clowns had teamed up in your last National Title shot, you could've taken care of Rasuev, put your feud to bed, then fought for that glorious belt. But you were too busy fighting among yourselves like children to even contemplate such a strategy. Just imagine what you could accomplish if you were to combine your skills. Think of it - the former National Wrestling Champion and the former UFC Heavyweight Champion working together as a team. Let's make it happen. It could be fun to watch you two idiots teaming up." Seagal feels like he's onto a good idea here. Maybe he won't have to kick a hole through anybody's torso after all. "The glorious Arrows Of Russia will be taking on the famous Sting and that other guy in the tremendous final of our Tag Team Tournament next week. Whichever team arises from that supreme festival of combat with the belts will need challengers worthy of those superb titles. I shall grant this prestigious opportunity to you both. You are hereby now officially the #1 Contenders for the RFW Tag Team Titles. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind and have my boy Kulakov rip out your spines and floss with them."  Surprised but happy, the two feuding superstars make a hasty retreat, leaving our Authority Figure to make his way towards ringside. There is about to be a glorious, violent main event, he reminds himself. His protégé Ilja Dragunov will once again have the chance to make Russia proud against his dangerous Western opponent Bryan Daniels. What a contest that could be, he thinks. And he smiles once again. Maybe being in charge of this circus is worth it after all. Angle Rating: 50.        'The Fighting Pride Of Mother Russia' Ilja Dragunov vs ‘The American Dragon’ Bryan Daniels - For The RFW World Title  Remember all those times over the weeks when our rather vocal Russian fans nearly broke the sound barrier cheering for Daniels? Remember all those times he whipped them into a seismic, pant-crapping frenzy of excitement just by yelling ‘Yes’ a lot? Remember when it seemed Bryan was the most popular American to grace Russian TVs since John Wayne? Well, all that love disappeared the moment our shaggy-bearded Yank dared to lay his hands on their treasured Russian champion. For fifteen cold, frosty minutes, the air around him turned to poison. The reception he got wasn’t just hostile, it was borderline murderous – I was genuinely worried some crazy, patriotic b*****d would leap the guardrail and try to strangle him in a fit of nationalistic hysteria. When Daniels arrived in the Russian Federation Of Wrestling he was received like a hero. Guys were literally offering him their daughters in marriage by the truckload. Then he had his... ‘little run-in’ with ‘The Nightmare’ Vladimir Kulakov, got flipped half a dozen times in the crushed remains of his Ferrari, got his Humvee smashed into a concrete barricade at a million miles an hour, retreated into his emotionally crippled, traumatised little shell, and saw the fans turning against him. This affected him badly – his confidence was knocked by the loss of their support. Thankfully for our bearded fighting virtuoso, the lips of a whole nation were firmly superglued back on his raggedy-looking ass the minute he was ‘reborn’ and started kicking butts again. He’d been riding the crest of a wave momentum-wise and confidence-wise, built upon a bedrock of gushy fan-love and the sounds of thousands screaming ‘Yes’ at him with a fanatical intensity only Russia can produce.  But instantly that confidence, that momentum was gone. The fans’ sudden, unexpected hatred shook the crap out of devastated Yank. How dare this foreigner come along and beat up Dragunov; the blonde-haired, blue-eyed poster-child of this modern new Russia? How dare this brash American come to these shores and try to take Russia’s championship gold? In terms of fan reaction, he may as well have wiped his s***ty arse on the Russian flag, then spat on it, then set fire to it. Psychologically he was all over the place. His plaid-covered brain couldn’t cope. I hadn’t seen such terror in a man’s eyes since Sergey Belyev got eaten by that bear. His gameplan went out of the window. And this gave the smaller, less experienced Dragunov the flicker of advantage he needed. Don’t be thinking, however, that ‘Putin’s Favourite’ had an easy night – this was the fight of his life. He had his own burdens to shoulder too – he had the weight of a whole nation upon his back. He hadn’t asked to be the standard-bearer for the world’s biggest country. Nobody asked Ilja if he wanted to be the Russian face of the Ukraine War / Invasion / Catastrophe / 'Special Humanitarian Operation'. The emotional weight of all that bulls*** would’ve crushed a lesser man like a bug. Quite a few of us in the locker-room wondered how he managed to keep his s*** together under such heavy circumstances. Some said it was Patriotism that kept him going. I say it was Vodka. Vodka, and ridiculous amounts of Lightning Bolt energy drink. He’d chugged three cans of the stuff during his ring-walk alone, which would be enough to topple a hippo under normal circumstances. Christ knows how much of that toxic, bio-iridescent crap he’d inhaled backstage. Bryan Daniels Dropkicked him in the face as he was climbing through the ropes and he didn’t even notice. The first match between these two was hyped up by the fans until they expected the battle of the decade. What they got instead was an okay fight marred by a ‘lack of chemistry’ (whatever that means. It sounds like cosmic hippy bulls*** to me.) This one was different – this one was two petrified-looking guys beating the crap out of each other as if their lives depended on it – and given the maniacal fan reactions, that was a distinct possibility. Unlike so many of our matches which are overbooked with a circus-like level of interference, this one had the terrifying Vladimir Kulakov at ringside. Even unmasked the guy was more dangerous than Chernobyl. His mission was to eat anybody foolish enough to try and intervene. It worked, everyone stayed away, nobody got brutally murdered on live TV, and the competitors got to maul, maim, dismember, discombobulate, twist, torture, batter, brutalise, hurt and horrify each other until only one was left standing. The match, which was about as even and 50/50 as they get, ended with a frantic exchange – a glorious clusterf*** of painful manoeuvres which lived rent-free in Rossiya 1’s highlight reels for years. It finished with Daniels doing that kickass Running, Jumping Knee thing, which Dragunov dodged. Daniels collided with the ropes and bounced backwards. Ilja, in a remarkable display of athleticism, caught our hairy challenger in mid-air, then smashed him to bits with a frankly epic Capture Suplex. The force of the move bounced Bryan somehow back onto his feet... right into the most ferocious Grüße aus Moskau Lariat in recorded history. The scruffy-looking Yank looked like he’d been hit by a freight train. The sound of 3,176 fans shouting along as our referee did the 1... 2... 3 was pretty epic, as was the look of massive relief on Ilja’s face as his hand was raised in victory. The fans applauded their champion with a boisterous nationalistic fervor. Flags were waved. Big, furry Russian hats were thrown with reckless abandon. A 40 piece orchestra played the national anthem so loud it made the walls shake. We set off so many fireworks we almost set the ceiling on fire. The victorious Dragunov didn’t look happy about all the fanfare though – he almost seemed to shrink as the noise got louder and louder. He looked like he almost s*** his pants when Seagal sneaked up behind him to place the belt around his waist. Soon there was another round of cheers and applause as our dizzy, disheveled challenger groggily and unsteadily dragged his ass off the mat. Daniels looked extremely confused as the fans chanted his name – as if the booing and hatred he’d received had pierced his psyche somehow. The walls of the little beach-side resort we'd invaded seemed to shake with the noise of it all. Daniels stands, staring out at the hot, sweaty, crazy fans crammed into this tiny venue. As the adrenaline fades, we see him suddenly realise he is hurt, then trying to muffle a scream. He holds his wrist. It is clearly broken. As our show goes off air, we end on a split scene shot, with Dragunov's epic celebrations on one side, Daniels being lead away by a team of medics on the other. Match Rating: 66.   Overall Show Rating: 62.

 

 

Edited May 30 by dstephe4

[80085]

“I’m finished with being an in-ring competitor” said Rikishi to Scotty. “My knees are shot. It hurts to move around the ring. Plus I’m 58 years old now. I’m no spring chicken any more. It’s time to let someone else do the ass-kicking” said the big Samoan in a sad but determined tone of voice. 

“Are you sure?” asked Scotty. “It’s a big decision” added Vlad. “Yeah I’m sure, homie. Besides, I finished last week’s show with some dude’s whole head stuck up my ass. If that isn’t the universe telling me to stop, I don’t know what is.”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

[dstephe4]

 

Before we get into measuring the varying levels of everyone's clairvoyancy in the RFW Predictions Game Thingy, I would just like to say a very, very, very belated THANK YOU to everyone who voted to make The Event Of The Century the Showcase Event Of The Month waaaaaaaay back in the February DOTM poll. Yes, that was forever ago. Yes, I should have posted this an eternity ago. But I have waaaaaaaay too many kinds and waaaaaaaay too much sleep deprivation to stay on top of things. My home looks like a scene from 101 Dalmatians, except with feral children instead of dogs. But I digress. To everyone who voted, this giant pyramid of Lightning Bolt Energy Drink is for you!     Also, a massive thank you to all who have so kindly nominated this weird little diary in the April Diary Of The Month Poll Thingy. Being included in stuff like that means the world, and I thank you all from the bottom of my shriveled, black little heart for your continued support. To all who nominated, please accept this 100ft high statue of 'Party Tsar' Vlad Radinov as a token of my appreciation:     And with all that gushy, mushy stuff out of the way, we move on to the Predictions Results!     The scores are in... yet again... Like I said before, it's great to see such a good variety of new and old faces posting their predictions. Thank you to you all - and to everyone who takes the time to read this strange little adventure.  @Old School Fan - 3 points out of 3. @DinoKea - 2 points out of 3. @Valkyria - 3 points out of 3. @Taylor2020 - 2 points out of 3. @kanegan - 3 points out of 3. @scapegoat - 3 points out of 3. @80085 - 2 points out of 3. The fact that more people won than didn't win kinda indicates that at least 4 of you are smarter than me. Which, given the state of my sleepy, somewhat drunken little brain, probably makes sense.  Maybe one day I'll get round to achieving my grand ambition of fooling you all. But clearly this was not that day.   Thank you, sincerely, to all who read this. Imagine my big, virtual arms around you all. Big hugs. Big thanks. And a big 'Double Header' show coming up soon...

 

[dstephe4]

 

I remember our time in Khabarovsk well. Not because of anything to do with wrestling, but because everyone's piss turned fizzy. It should be medically impossible for piss to fizz. But for those bizarre two weeks we were all treated to a symphony of hissing, bubbling and crackling noises with every visit to the toilet. We were farting rust too. At first I assumed these funky symptoms were side affects of all the Lightning Bolt energy drink we were chugging by the gallon – that stuff has so many toxic, Sci-Fi-sounding ingredients I’m still amazed none of us can fly. The Ministry For Sport had tried drugs testing a few of us once, and the urine samples melted the test tubes. I was telling all the guys not to panic and to stay calm, but when our turds became magnetic we knew something was definitely going on.   Above: This is Khabarovsk.   I blame the s***ty venue we were in. “What a s***ty venue” I said to the mayor. "What a s***ty, s***ty, s***ty venue” I added for good measure. He just looked at me, snorted with laughter, then went back to live-streaming extremely strong pornography on his phone. I looked over to his bodyguards to try and gauge their reaction, but they were too busy showing off their shiny new guns to some local prostitutes. I was getting a bad vibe about this place.   Above: And this is Khabarovsk.   Khabarovsk – our home for Episodes 14 and 15 - was mostly famous for all the anti-Putin, anti-corruption protests that took place there a few years prior. The Russian government handled the situation with all the tactful grace and delicacy they are famous for – namely by sending in a ‘special force’ from Moscow, tear gassing the living s*** out of everything that moved, and arresting the governor Sergei Furgal for having the audacity to let the people’s voice be heard. (Or ‘Domestic Terrorism’ as the Russian media / propaganda machine called it.)   Above: And this is also Khabarovsk.   There was so much rioting and unrest in this city that even publications on the other side of the world speculated that things would never be normal here, ever, ever again. Even to this day, if you do an image search on Khabarovsk there's only two kinds of results, either: a.) Panoramic wide angle shots of this dramatic cityscape covered in sunny rays, under brightly coloured clouds of sunset, or b.) Panoramic wide angle shots of this dramatic cityscape covered in thousands of pissed off rioters, under brightly coloured clouds of tear gas.   Above: And this is Khabarovsk too. What a lovely place we'd wandered in to.   In to Furgal’s place – amid all the crackdowns and rioting – and under circumstances so shadowy, shady and mysterious they could only happen in Russia – stepped the new mayor Aleksandr Sokolov:   Above: Don’t let the snazzy blue suit fool you. Sokolov was an absolute penile wart of a man. Seriously – he was about as much fun as an anal worm outbreak. He was, according to all the nation’s ‘reputable’ newspapers, ‘the people’s choice’ for leader. On paper there was an election, but nobody I spoke to in Khabarovsk could remember voting. Sokolov was definitely not just some Kremlin puppet parachuted in to keep the public in line, I was told, over and over again, by the many scary armed men who surrounded me for every second of my visit. I could feel all the warmth of the ‘glowing public support’ as they herded me forcefully from one unmarked vehicle to another.  And so it was this stone-faced, joyless hemorrhoid of a man that greeted me when I arrived to do business. He was one of those people who’s face looks like they’re having a tricky s***, no matter their expression. Christ only knows what this guy’s qualifications were that apparently made him suitable for office – but English wasn’t one of them. Despite having been in the country since 2014, my Russian wasn’t up to much either. So we ended up communicating in a mixture of grunts, hand gestures, Google Translate and swearing. It wasn’t exactly a match made in heaven. We didn’t exactly ‘vibe’ as the cool kids would say. Thinking back, that’s probably why we ended up in such a weird venue. “I mean it, Aleks, this creepy old place sucks. The air tastes like old boot polish and formaldehyde. My teeth randomly started hurting the moment we walked in here. The hands on my Rolex are ticking backwards. Why do the walls keep humming? What the hell’s wrong with this place? It’s s***!” “Da. It f***ed” said the mayor, eloquently. His eyes didn’t leave the screen of his phone for even a split-second. I glanced over to see what the hell he was watching, saw three women, a midget and a donkey, and dared look no further. I tried searching for info about this weird, deserted venue online. But there was nothing. It wasn't just as if this place didn't exist, it seemed as though someone had gone to great lengths to erase all evidence of this place from history. My bulls*** alarms began ringing so loud my skull shook - or was that just a headache from being in this crappy venue for too long? The situation stank of a state-sponsored cover-up - which was entirely possible here in Russia - even the name of this place seemed to be a big secret. To test my theory I opened another browser window, and re-tried my search on Yandex, which is the main search engine used in Russia. Nothing there either. I would spend much of my first week in this godforsaken city using low-tech methods to try and solve the mystery of our freaky, f***ed up venue. After a few casual bribes to a few ethically ambiguous councilmen, I’d found out the place used to be an old power station. It’s demolition date had been put back countless times due to a number of undisclosed ‘complicating factors’ that’s made knocking it down much trickier than the pencil-pushers ever imagined. Nobody would tell us what the hell those ‘complications’ were. Nobody cared enough to check. We’d been forced into some really s***ty venues so far, but this had to be the worst.  It was not quite condemned – on paper at least – but it'd been due a dance with a wrecking ball for years, ever since some shady property developer bought the land and started demolishing everything to make room for a trendy new mall. The venue was one of the last things scheduled for destruction. But then came the Ukraine War, and all the international economic sanctions that butt-f***ed the Russian economy to pieces. The project halted, and this place had been in a bureaucratic no-man’s-land ever since.  And so our creepy, post-apocalyptic-looking venue was just left there to rot. Not closed, but not open. Not condemned, but not in use either. Just... there. Just... waiting for something to happen to it. There wasn’t the money to destroy it. There wasn’t the money to maintain it. Since Putin sent the tanks over the border, everyone involved in that doomed project was desperate for someone from the outside to turn up like a white knight with a solution. I didn’t know at the time that solution would turn out to be us. “This is bulls***, Sokolov!” I whined with the pissy tone of a toddler whose sweets got stolen. “We’re The Russian Federation Of Wrestling! We’re a big deal! We deserve a proper venue, like your famous Platinum Arena! Not some creepy old husk with serious Chernobyl vibes.”   Above: This is what we wanted. This is not what we got. “Nyet. Impossible” snapped the mayor. He turned off the dancing ladies on his phone for a brief moment and frantically started typing. “The arena has been taken by real celebrities” came the monotone electronic voice of Google. “F*** that!” came the pissed off voice of me. There was more rapid-fire typing. The mayor’s tongue stuck out in concentration as he poked away at the screen so hard he seemed to be murdering it with his fingers. “Mikhail and Josef and the Dancing Bears. A circus act, like yours, but more highly trained” the search engine voice said in a bitchy, mocking tone. “F*** this guy” I thought to myself. “And f*** you too, Google!” I got my own phone out and did my own tapping. I fired up Bing – it sucks, but I refused to use Google out of spite. I looked up those assholes Mikhail and Josef and their stupid bears. Turns out they were a family friendly animal show like Siegfried and Roy, but a lot more Russian and a lot more awful. The bears looked massive. The crowds they drew did not.     Their posters looked like they’d been created by a hyperactive child using MS Paint for the first time. I hated that these gimps had bagged the cool, shiny venue, and we’d been left with the crappy, itchy little rust-box on the edge of town. What was worse was only one of those clowns would even be there – turns out one of those silly b*****ds got eaten recently – though nobody was sure which. You’d think that some dude getting his lungs munched would be enough for the event to get cancelled, but this is Russia, and the show must go on. I was reminded of the unfortunate Sergey Belyev and his own bear-related encounter. Whatever happened to that guy?   I could tell by the frostiness of our reception and from the size of the bodyguard’s guns that arguing would get me nowhere. Besides, debating the issue would only mean standing in this derelict hell-hole even longer – the longer I stayed in there, the more and more it felt like I was picking up radio frequencies in the fillings in my teeth. I stepped outside for some fresh air and a hip flask or three of vodka. It didn’t help me though – being in that place for even just a few minutes had somehow made my booze taste like old coins and battery acid. I took a look around at the cityscape on the horizon. As the sun slowly started to descend into dusk I admired the distant flashing lights of the police riot vans as they raced into action. I looked up at the sky as it filled with the flickering lights of police helicopters speeding towards another protest. Attack dogs barks echoed somewhere in the distance. Business as usual in Khabarovsk. Into this boiling mix of political tensions, corruption and horror-movie venues, strolled The Russian Federation Of Wrestling. Sokolov and his goons wondered what the hell we were doing here. I was wondering the exact same thing. When one of the suits in charge had mentioned this city as a possible location for our Episode 14 show, The Ministry couldn't wait for us to get our arses over there. They were delighted to have Khabarovsk in the news for something other than mass arrests and the image of one of Russia’s most popular politicians being dragged in handcuffs into a van full of big, scary-looking motherf***ers with guns.   In swooped The Russian Federation Of Wrestling with all it’s fanfare, flags, fireworks and freaks. A tsunami of photo opportunities and propaganda events were hurriedly set up. The press was everywhere. The whole thing just grew and grew into some kind of freaky, unstoppable media circus. Even big bad Vlad Putin himself ended up getting in on the act, sliming his way into proceedings for an official state dinner with ‘The Fighting Face Of Modern Russia’ Ilja Dragunov, along with Seagal, Arlovski, 'Russian Citizen' Roy Jones Jr, Sting and a few hand-picked others. Things escalated so much that our one week visit quickly grew into a two week stay. That meant the first Double Header in our short, noisy history, even though we’d never even wanted to visit here in the first place. The whole thing reeked of bulls***. ‘Who has time to think about politics when there’s family-friendly violence on offer’ was the plan. All we had to do was show up, smile, wave, do a few Headlocks and Bodyslams, make people happy for a fortnight, then get the hell out of there in a blaze of macho, patriotic glory. Easy, right? What could possibly go wrong? This, however, is The Russian Federation Of Wrestling. Anyone who’s been paying attention thus far will know... everything could go wrong when we were involved. And, of course, it did.

Edited June 5 by dstephe4

[80085]

Post the next card bruv!

I wanna get my Prediction on and win again bruv!

[dstephe4]

On 5/18/2024 at 7:05 AM, 80085 said:

Post the next card bruv!

I wanna get my Prediction on and win again bruv!

 

Awww shucks. Well, seeing as how you asked so nicely... go on then...

 

 

So here we were on the fifth stop on our already memorable 'World Tour Of Russia'. We'd travelled hundreds or even thousands of miles so far. But this is such a ridiculously big country, we hadn't even left Russia's wang yet. This time we'd ended up in the rather volatile city of Khabarovsk, with our shady puppet masters throwing us into the mix to try and distract all the locals long enough to put down their banners, bricks and baseball bats for a moment. Into this political tornado landed The Russian Federation Of Wrestling, with it's own unique brand of violent wholesome family entertainment. Such was the need for diversion that we'd been roped into sticking around for not one, but two shows - our first ever Double Whammy event. I remember the region's police chief sent we a wonderful bottle of locally brewed vodka and a rather fancy food hamper, as a 'thank you' for not having to tear gas anyone for a whole fortnight.   Above: The challenge now is to see how many of these weird little red dots we can get onto that map before we get cancelled.     Here is the senseless, directionless whirlwind of nonsense that we will try to pass off as 'pro wrestling' for the fourteenth consecutive week in a row... Predictions at the ready please....   Kris 'The Falcon' Jokic vs Tamerlan Rasuev - For The RFW National Title In a presumably epic encounter, we have our reigning champion - who recently had to literally beg our marketing team to not advertise as 'the birdman' - "The Falcon" Kris Jokic, soaring into the ring with the grace of an eagle. (And yes, I've been aching to use that cringeworthy analogy for weeks.) And in the other corner, it's the man who just can't seem to stay out of trouble, Tamerlan Rasuev, the most fired and suspended wrestler in RFW's short but colourful history. Kris Jokic has been winning a cult following in the Russian wrestling world with his dazzling aerial maneuvers and his knack for somehow winning every bout in the most ridiculous, bulls*** circumstances imaginable. He will be doing big, important wrestling type stuff with Tamerlan Rasuev, the man who’s been suspended, fired, and rehired more times than we can count. Rasuev's rap sheet is longer than a CVS receipt, and if he loses tonight, he's getting deported from Russia faster than you can say "nyet!" Known for his short fuse and even shorter temper, Rasuev is in a do-or-die situation. Will he finally keep his cool and clinch the title, or will he blow it and find himself hauled kicking and screaming out of the country? Lurking in the shadows are Rasuev’s arch-nemeses, Andrei Arlovski and Alen Khubulov, who Rasuev spent so much of RFW's short history hospitalising. These two would love nothing more than to piss on Rasuev’s parade, and they've promised to "make tonight’s match a memorable one." Will they interfere and add another layer of chaos to this bout? Or will they be content with a ringside seat to watch Rasuev’s potential downfall? With the RFW National Title up for grabs and Rasuev’s residency hanging by a thread, the stakes couldn't be higher (for Tamerlan at least). Will "The Falcon" Kris Jokic fly away with the championship? Or will Tamerlan Rasuev finally pull off the unthinkable and secure his place in Russia, the RFW, and the annals of wrestling history, avoiding deportation for at least one more show?   Sting & Darby Allin vs The Arrows Of Russia - Tag Team Tournament Final - Winner Shall Become The First Ever RFW Tag Champions! And so here it is. The big one. The grand finale. The big, triumphant final. The one we've been unable to shut up about for what seems like forever. I promised myself I would give this one a grand and definitely un-silly write-up worthy of this epic occasion. So, here goes... Ladies and gentlemen, the stage is set, and history is poised to be made in the grand finale of the prestigious RFW Tag Team Championship Tournament! The air is thick with anticipation as two of the most electrifying duos in wrestling prepare to clash in an epic showdown that will determine the first-ever RFW Tag Team Champions. Tonight, we witness the legendary Sting teaming up with the enigmatic Darby Allin, facing off against the formidable Arrows of Russia in a match that promises to be nothing short of spectacular  awe-inspiring  good  memorable. Sting and Darby Allin have captured the hearts of fans with their unyielding spirit and unbreakable bond. The Icon and the Daredevil have fought tooth and nail through the tournament, showcasing unparalleled synergy and a relentless drive to etch their names in Russian wrestling history. But tonight, they have an ace up their sleeve - a mystery person who will be watching their back, adding an extra layer of intrigue and excitement to this already momentous occasion. Who could this mysterious guardian be? A legend from their past? A shocking new ally? Gerald The Dog? The speculation is running wild, and the anticipation is at fever pitch! Opposing them are the unstoppable Arrows of Russia, a team that has bulldozed their way through the competition with sheer power and precision. Their ruthless aggression and unyielding determination have made them a force to be reckoned with. The Arrows are laser-focused on one goal: to claim the RFW Tag Team Championship and solidify their dominance as the main Tag Team force in the Eastern Hemisphere. Their path to glory is paved with the bones of those who dared to stand in their way, and they have no intention of letting Sting and Darby Allin disrupt their ascent to greatness. But there's another dark cloud looming over this historic night - the sinister presence of Damien Black and his Dark Church Of Satan. Throughout the tournament, Damien Black and his malevolent cult have wreaked havoc, their violent interference marring every stage of the competition. Will they once again cast their shadow over this final, or will they be thwarted by the cunning of our Authority Figure Steven Seagal, The Arrows, his army of Russian 'students', and the combined might of Sting, Darby Allin, and their mysterious new ally? The stakes have never been higher. The intensity is palpable. The world (or at least Russia) is watching as two teams collide with everything on the line. Who will rise to the occasion and be crowned the first-ever RFW Tag Team Champions? Will the mystery ally tip the scales in favor of Sting and Darby Allin, or will the Arrows of Russia cement their legacy as the most dominant tag team in RFW history? And what role will Damien Black and his Dark Church of Satan play in this epic encounter? Prepare yourselves for a night of high-octane action, unexpected twists, and unforgettable moments. This is the RFW Tag Team Championship Final. This is history in the making. Buckle up, because anything can (and probably will) happen! 'The Beating Heart Of Mother Russia' Ilja Dragunov vs ??? - For The RFW World Title Nobody's bothered to tell Dragunov yet, but he'll be having a 'keep busy' match, defending his World Title in an Open Challenge against forces unknown. Yes that's rather unfair on the spritely, plucky little Russian, given he's still battered and bruised from his war with Daniels last time. And yes, giving a title shot away for free to some randomer totally overshadows our big #1 Contender's bout between Sting and Goldberg next week. But the Russian authorities have decided that all the belts will be on the line, so that's what's gonna happen. Episode 14 - Coming Soon   Post your predictions below. People seemed to dig the copy-and-paste template the last couple of times, so we'll do it again. Thank you to all you loyal readers, who have kept this merry, bizarre little adventure going.      Kris 'The Falcon' Jokic vs Tamerlan Rasuev - For The RFW National Title Sting & Darby Allin vs The Arrows Of Russia - Tag Team Tournament Final - Winner Shall Become The First Ever RFW Tag Champions! 'The Beating Heart Of Mother Russia' Ilja Dragunov vs ??? - For The RFW World Title   @St. Templar @Vandal @DinoKea @GreatreDRagon @Taylor2020 @Just here to look @christmas_ape @SonOfSharknado @Ippon @KingKennit @Pteroid @MidKnightDreary @John Lions @DarEatWorld @ElectricX @knkmaster69 @Old School Fan @kanegan @DinoKea @Jason Phoenix  @stratusfaction @80085 @Diddums @jokandra @noteddysteinblock

 

Edited May 23 by dstephe4

[DinoKea]

Predictions

RFW National: Tamerlan Rasuev def. Kris Jokic (c)

RFW Tag: Arrows of Russia def. Sting & Darby Allin

RFW World: Ilja Dragunov (c) def. John Hennigan/Morrison/Nitro/Whatever his last name is here

Kulakov to win a match if there is another one on the card

[Valkyria]

Predictions

RFW National: Kris Jokic (c) defeats Tamerlan Rasuev

RFW Tag Team: Sting & Darby Allin defeat The Arrows Of Russia - for now

RFW World: Ilja Dragunov defeats an Outsider

Not Kevin Nash, but someone who we haven't seen yet. Could be literally anyone so I say... Nick Aldis, Why not? 

[ElectricX]

Kris 'The Falcon' Jokic vs Tamerlan Rasuev - For The RFW National Title

Sting & Darby Allin vs The Arrows Of Russia - Tag Team Tournament Final - Winner Shall Become The First Ever RFW Tag Champions!

'The Beating Heart Of Mother Russia' Ilja Dragunov vs ??? - For The RFW World Title

[dstephe4]

Is the Sting & Darby vs Arrows Of Russia Tag Team Final match my favourite one I've ever written? Quite possibly.

Thank you to you guys for your predictions. Almost done writing Episode 14, but if anyone else fancies having a go at the predictions, there's a little bit of time left!

[80085]

Kris 'The Falcon' Jokic vs Tamerlan Rasuev - For The RFW National Title

Sting & Darby Allin vs The Arrows Of Russia - Tag Team Tournament Final - Winner Shall Become The First Ever RFW Tag Champions!

'The Beating Heart Of Mother Russia' Ilja Dragunov vs ??? - For The RFW World Title

Mystery opponent is be Damien Black

[dstephe4]

 

The enthusiastic citizens of Khabarovsk were kind enough to put down their rocks, baseball bats and Molotov Cocktails and stop rioting for an hour or so, in order to watch The Russian Federation Of Wrestling TV: Episode 14, which was broadcast to a breathless nation on Rossiya 1. Held in a creepy, abandoned old power station where everything was covered in a weird, oddly-coloured dust that made everyone's teeth itch when they touched it. 3089 in attendance.

‘The Falcon’ Kris Jokic vs Tamerlan Rasuev - For The RFW National Title - If Rasuev Loses, He Gets Deported! Breaking with tradition, we skipped our usual apocalyptic level of fireworks and explosions that we normally open our shows with, and got straight to the action. We had a lot of s*** to get through tonight. There was no time for messing around. In the ring was our proud, resplendent National Champion Kris Jokic. The Ministry For Propaganda were ‘encouraging’ us to promote Jokic as a ‘Dual Nationality Superstar’. This made us pushing a Croatian as our Champion Of Russia vaguely, somewhat less ridiculous. Our commentators kept talking about how Jokic was ‘a glorious, triumphant example of how anyone from any nation could make a virtuous, prosperous new life for themselves in the new, modern Russia’ - words, which you don’t need me to tell you – were definitely spontaneous and not at all just a bunch of hokey crap pushed on us by the shadowy f***wits in charge.     With such a big build-up, ‘The Falcon’ was determined to make the most of his big moment – every ridiculously acrobatic move from the deepest, darkest depths of Lucha’s deepest darkest depths was uncorked. I’ve never been sure which Falcon he named himself after – the ridiculously fast, lethal bird? Or the Falcon missile which destroys all in it’s path? Either way, he struck like both. There was no psychology at all, no effort to tell a story, and none of the many subtleties that make up a great wrestling match, but none of that mattered to our rowdy fans, who roared with approval every time his funky Croatian ass took to the sky. It also helped that the guy Jokic’s funky Croatian ass was landing on was the almost impossibly unpopular Tamerlan Rasuev, who was beside himself with rage – how dare the fans not be applauding him?! How dare they not be cheering for him and chanting his name?! How dare they be rooting for that other guy instead?! Which was all pretty rich, considering this was the guy who’d filled every possible moment of his RFW tenure with uncharted levels of d***ishness. He’d done it all – whining, bitching, upsetting the fans, injuring people, maiming, cheating – every act of supreme assholery ever invented. And here he was as a result, one 3-count away from getting deported. Given the high stakes you’d think he’d be using every submission in his arsenal. You’d think every technical manoeuvre gathered from his substantial amateur wrestling background would be utilised. But no. Seeing that fellow National Title contender Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov had appeared at ringside, and our referee ‘Boris’ was conveniently distracted by his presence, Rasuev reverted back to his latest trick – hitting people in the penis with an incredibly large chain. Christ only knows where’d he’d stashed it. But there it was, wrapped around Rasuev’s fist, whacking our shrieking champion right in the spuds. Seeing Rasuev getting the upper hand was enough to draw out the guy’s mortal enemies Alen Khubulov and Andrei Arlovski, who wasted no time in bringing an ass-kicking to their hated rival. They were a tag team now, as per Seagal’s orders – that meant this was a collective ass-kicking, rather than an individual ass-kicking. The fans liked that. They liked it even more when Bogdan ‘Hardcore’ Kilmov ran in and Dropkicked his way into proceedings. Now that he’d finally gotten that God-damn bandage off his head, he clearly wanted to stomp his way into the National Title picture. The fans were even more happy when Markov shoved his way past our referee and joined in the Tamerlan-smashing. Big Ivan had no beef at all with the guy, he just joined in because he saw the others having fun kicking Rasuev to bits and was feeling left out. Any pro wrestling referee worth their salt would’ve dived in immediately, stopped the 4-on-1 onslaught and regained control. But our ‘Boris’ had other ideas. He saw how much fun everyone was having and didn’t want to be a killjoy. He just lit up one of his super-strength black market cigarettes and stood in the corner smoking instead. He checked his emails on his phone. He drank from a thermos full of coffee. He scratched his big Greek ass. Anything but get involved – he had a busy night ahead of him – he wasn’t risking hurting himself over any of this silly crap. All this outside interference had given our champion plenty of time to recover, nurse his swollen balls back to health, and get back on his feet. He saw all his rivals pounding his opponent into the dust and got annoyed – this was meant to be his title defence, his big night – how dare all these other clowns steal his big moment? Somewhat pissed off, he leaped to the top rope, took flight like his Falcon namesake once again... and flattened all five of them with a massive Senton Bomb. Before anyone had time to realise what’d happened, Jokic had hooked Rasuev’s leg, got the 3 count, and high-tailed it the hell out of there with his belt. As he laughed his way up the aisle and through the curtain, I couldn’t help but admire the crafty little b*****d, who’d once again found a way to win. Match Rating: 49.     "Hit the road, Jack, and don’t you come back, no more, no more, no more, no more! Hit the road, Jack! And don’t you come back no more!” Never had I ever expected to hear 3089 drunken, slurring Russians let loose with a spontaneous Ray Charles rendition. But such was their shared hatred of that weasel Rasuev, it’d driven them to song. It was great to see all their happy little faces as a swarm of about a dozen Russian Border Patrol Agents suddenly pounced on him, dragging the former Olympic hopeful kicking and screaming towards the exit. He yelled. He wailed. He fought. He bit one of them. He spat at another. His anger had overtaken his brain to such a degree that he was like a snarling wild animal. And that was the moment that Tamerlan Rasuev, who arrived in RFW as a celebrated, beloved National Wrestling Championship Finalist, was tazered live on prime time national television.  In most countries this would be deemed abhorrent and scandalous. But this is Russia and everyone watching just thought it was hilarious to see the whiney primadonna getting zapped. Seeing the unconscious, drooling Rasuev piss his pants as they dragged him away actually brought people together. They handcuffed the guy, which seemed a little excessive given he’d been electrocuted into unconsciousness – but this is Russia – the authorities aren’t exactly subtle here. Even Arlovski, Khubulov, Markov and Kilmov stood in shocked silence. Had all this gone too far? Had a line been crossed? But then the sound of a cigarette lighter flicking into action awoke them from their contemplations. “Oooh, are those the rare unfiltered ones from Uzbekistan? Or was it Iran? Lemme have one of those black market bad boys! Gimme! Gimme!” said Kilmov, gravitating towards our referee and his fancy smokes. The four men grabbed one each and lit up, sighing deeply as the acrid smoke quickly surrounded them. We cut to our first commercials of the evening with five guys laughing their asses off from inside a cloud. Angle Rating: 63.     Our Authority Figure Steven Seagal is in a great mood after seeing Rasuev dragged away. With his whiny former student presumably gone forever, there’s a spring in his step and a glint in his eye. A weight has been lifted. He’s in such high spirits he wants to mark ‘this glorious day’ with ‘another display of supreme combat befitting this glorious nation’ He then issues an open challenge. “The National Championship and the Tag Team Titles are already being contested today – why not make it all three?!” Seagal says with a chirpy little smile. Our World Champion Ilja Dragunov, who was obviously caught rather by surprise by this sudden revelation, absolutely s***s himself. He’s not recovered from his war with Daniels last week. He hasn’t had time to prepare at all. He hasn’t even brought his wrestling gear. Daniels comes out to the usual chorus of “Yes!” chants, but he’s got no time for any of that ‘interactive promo’ bulls***. He means business. He’d love a chance to kick the champ’s ass from one side of Russia to the other in a rematch, but his wrist is broken. He waves his comedically large cast in the air for all to see. Using his other, non-destroyed limb, he shakes Dragunov’s hand, congratulating him on his win last time, telling him he’ll be back for the title as soon as he can tie his shoes without fear of s***ting himself in agony. Ilja had better watch out. His days are numbered. All that jazz. Things suddenly get a lot more lavender-scented and floral as John Hennigan interrupts proceedings, strutting ravishingly towards the ring with his Style Squad cronies obediently trotting along behind him. ‘The Fabulous One’ is on a high after his victory over Vertigo. He wants to ride that wave of momentum into a World Title attempt tonight. Seagal isn’t wild about giving him a chance at the belt, unsure what message it would send to those ‘rugged, manly’ Russians watching at home if a preening princess like him were to get a title shot. But then ‘The Fabulous One’ starts talking about what a drab, dreary s***hole the place is, and how his Style Squad are the only ones who can give “this grey, lifeless morgue of a city and its luddite, neanderthal inhabitants” the makeover he feels is so badly needed. The fans want blood. Seagal hears their rage. He has no choice but to grant their wishes and make the match.  Edge and Vertigo come out, drawn by the perfume stink in the same way sharks are drawn to blood. They swear revenge. Edge also wants another title shot, but Seagal reminds him he wasn’t actually screwed at The Event Of The Century, so he can’t have one – no matter how much our grizzled Canadian sulks about it. Seeing their enemy’s backs turned, the Style Squad lackeys jump them from behind. A brawl nearly breaks out. Toth, Thijani, Edge, Vertigo are dragged from the ring by the same special security force that tazered Rasuev into bladder-bursting unconsciousness earlier. Hennigan watches this with pleasure, brushing his ‘Soul Guide’ Gerald with a tiny little comb as the four fighters get their asses tossed through the curtain.  Barely has the dust settled, when in storms Goldberg like the proverbial bull in a china shop. “What has this shiny, tulip-scented, clown-coloured bitch-man done to get a shot ahead of Goldberg?!” He roars like a T-Rex with gunpowder in its belly. “How dare you make a match when me and Sting haven’t even had our #1 Contender’s match yet?!” It was a valid point, to be fair. He squares up to the champion. Things get tense.  Suddenly Sting (and of course Darby Allin, following meekly behind like a spanked child) interject. The wise, crafty veteran advises his old WCW buddy towards caution, telling him to wait until their epic encounter in next week’s main event. “Think long-term, Bill. Think strategically. It can only be an advantage to us both if these two beat the living snot out of each other before facing one of us. Besides, if this ridiculous man in the sequined leather trousers somehow wins, he’ll be a much easier opponent for us than the fearsome Ilja Dragunov. The guy keeps a tiny little dog in his coat pocket for crying out loud – what kind of ‘warrior’ does that?!”  Hennigan is very offended by this. He starts screaming and shouting at the legendary, corpse-painted dude until his face is as pink as his outfit. Suddenly Allin steps in, as if to ‘protect his mentor’s honour’ and starts cussing at Hennigan. They get right up in each other’s faces. Goldberg shoves them both. Sting tries to grab Wild Bill to stop him doing something stupid, but gets knocked to the floor. It’s all about to kick off. There’s carnage. Chaos. Commotion. Conflict. All the big, loud, ridiculous stuff you’ve come to expect from The Russian Federation Of Wrestling. The good mood Seagal came in with is now gone. The prayer beads are out. The stressed out Authority is chanting again under his breath. He raises a hand. Out go the lights. On they flash again a second later. In the ring appears ‘The Nightmare’ Vladimir Kulakov from out of nowhere like some psychotic, face-smashing apparition, shrouded in an ominous cloud of crimson and black smoke - it's like the guy just strolled in from the basements of Hell.    And suddenly everyone is very well behaved again.   Seagal, realigning his Chi and remastering his Karmic forces, announces Dragunov vs Hennigan as our main event for tonight, and we thankfully cut to commercial. Angle Rating: 70.   The next leg of this ridiculous adventure takes us backstage. Scotty 2 Hotty is here and he’s ready for action. He’s a singles competitor now, he declares, and he wants a match to show all of Russia what he’s made of. He says that Seagal has promised to put him in action next week. Scotty puts the whole roster on notice – he’ll face anyone, he fears nobody.    His friend / bodyguard / manager / advisor / valet / whatever Rikishi is with him. Having recently retired, the chirpy Samoan seemed to have put his old wrestling gear into storage, and would from now on sport the finest, most dazzling array of loud Hawaiian shirts the world of wrestling had ever witnessed. Rikishi’s job was to nod. To stand slightly behind his little blonde buddy and nod. There were approving nods. There were joyful nods. There were aggressive nods towards whoever would accept Scotty’s Open Challenge. As a wrestler the famous Samoan’s performances were often mixed at best. But as a nodder he was second to none. It was left to Scotty’s new pal ‘Dirty’ Dragan Spazic to finish things off. Ever since teaming (very) unsuccessfully against The Dark Church Of Satan a couple of shows ago, they seem to have ‘vibed’ as all the cool kids say. “Which member of our roster will be brave enough to step up? Who will take the chance to make a name for themselves against legendary sports entertainment superstar Scotty 2 Hotty?! A big American ass-whupping awaits whoever answers the call!” Angle Rating: 53.   “Maybe Seagal’s on to something here. Maybe we should tag. Working together, we totally kicked Rasuev’s ass earlier. Wasn’t that fun?!” Arlovski and Alen Khubulov are backstage. They’re chatting. Our splendidly attired man with the mic Vlad Radinov is there too. Is this an interview? Who knows? “I don’t have time for this tag team crap. I really want to hurt that Rasuev clown again! I want to rip out his eyes and use them as golf balls! I want to tear out his spleen with my bare hands, put it in a little brown paper bag, and take it home for my dog to snack on. I’m not finished with that guy. I haven’t had enough retribution for what he did to me” replies Arlovski.  “Forget him! His ass is already on a train to Outer Mongolia. We won’t be seeing him again. Christ knows how he even kept getting into all our shows – he was fired, like, ten times. Was he buying himself a ticket? Was he tailing us from venue to venue like some kind of weird, tragic stalker? Were they smuggling him inside in a laundry basket or something? It doesn’t matter now – he’s history. Gone forever. And we need to move on. Together. As a team, like Seagal says.” Suddenly a commotion is heard in the distance. Our velveteen jacketed interviewer extraordinaire runs off to investigate as fast as his little legs will carry him, leaving Alen and Andrei in his dust. As our cameraman catches up, we see our breathless ‘Party Tsar’ has Sting and Darby Allin on the mic. It’s Hype Time for our Tournament Final later tonight. The corpse-painted supremos are still fired up after the earlier confrontation. Adrenalin is running high. Our trenchcoat-loving finalists tell us they are so confident of winning they can already taste the champagne.  Radinov asks them about the inevitable trail of destruction that the Dark Church Of Satan are bound to inflict again tonight. Sure, nobody knew for a fact whether Damien Black and his cohorts were going to turn up and destroy everything that moved. It’s not like these attacks were scheduled in or anything. But after weeks and weeks of malevolent, Satanic violence following every Tag Tournament outing, even our drunken Russian fans were beginning to notice a pattern. Sting isn’t scared though. Sting is smiling. The wily veteran has planned for such an eventuality. He reminds us all he has a ‘special guest’ tonight on a ‘one time only basis’ to watch his back. All week there had been much speculation over who would be watching Sting and Allin’s asses. Social media was alive with rumours and theories on who this mystery guardian might be. But of course Sting clung to the mystery like a barnacle – he’d been doing the ‘mysterious’ thing since the days of dial-up modems – he wasn’t about to change now. It was clear Sting and Darby were a lot more worried about who they’d face after the match than during it – like the tournament final itself was a foregone conclusion. So of course their opponents the Arrows Of Russia were stood nearby. Of course the Arrows Of Russia were listening in. Of course they felt disrespected by Sting’s blasé attitude towards their bout. Of course the Arrows Of Russia barged in to the interview and started yelling at them. Of course Radinov was the only one surprised by all of this. An epic staredown commences. Radinov has to get between them to stop tonight’s Tag Team Tournament Final kicking off early. It’s all very macho.  Then Arlovski and Khubulov – the foes forced to team by Seagal and thrust into the #1 Contender’s spot – barge in. “It doesn’t matter which of these ridiculous men wins, because they’re just keeping the belts warm for me!” Roars the scary former UFC Champion. “You mean US, surely?!” Khubulov shouts, shoving his ‘partner’.  Yes, there was a brawl. Yes, a battalion of security guards suddenly appeared to pull everyone apart. Yes, this was all just a blatant way of hyping our next bout. Yes, a smorgasbord of wrestling clichés were ticked off in this segment. And yes, the champagne rollercoaster in my bloodstream was in charge of a lot of the decisions here. I’d drank so much of the stuff I was farting bubbles. Our final was set up, our fans were excited, and my Limey arse was on it’s way back to the fridge to get another bottle. Angle Rating: 61.       The Arrows Of Russia vs Sting & Darby Allin – The Glorious Final Of The Triumphant RFW Tag Team Title Tournament. And so the lights went out. Our creepy, murky, potentially poisonous venue filled with smoke. Out stepped Sting and Darby. Everyone was dying to see who they’d enlisted on a ‘one time basis’ to watch their backs, and this was the moment we’d finally get the big reveal. A million different ideas had been thrown about by the fans, as Russia’s social media (such as it is) lit up with excited rumour and speculation. But as a smiling Sting gestured for their new ally to show themselves, it turned to be someone nobody had guessed...     Before this highly anticipated encounter began, our kimono clad, zen-loving Authority Figure Steven Seagal had an announcement: The Arrows had insisted that this epic final not be marred by outside interference. Given our recent history, that seemed like a pretty big, fanciful wish. Seagal had higher chances of growing a second d*** than delivering a shenanigans-free RFW bout. But given the importance of tonight’s Tag Team Title Tournament Final and the magnitude of the occasion, he was sure as hell going to try. His solution was to put his pet monster ‘The Nightmare’ Vladimir Kulakov on patrol duty. It worked wonders. Just like before, everyone was very well behaved and wisely stayed the hell away. Even Edge kept his distance... for now at least. With no outside nonsense to distract from the action, The Arrows started strongly. Back in the tournament quarter final, FTR’s strategy of isolating Darby, focusing on him, and trying to stop him tagging Sting didn’t work. In the semi final the Viking Raiders tried the same, and lost. Our crafty Arrows tried a bold new strategy – constantly kicking the crap out of Sting instead. It worked a treat.  The Arrows are reasonably decent-ish wrestlers. Solid, but nothing spectacular. What they lack in bona fide skill and ability they make up for with boundless enthusiasm, hairy chests, leather jackets and yelling. But a match of such significance needed more than that – it needed psychology, pacing, and for a gripping story to be told. That was Sting’s forte. He’s a master at all that crap. He took the Arrows under his wing for this bout. And it turned out beautifully, as he dragged their big Hungarian asses through what was undoubtedly the best match of their careers to date. My favourite part of the match was when Devon tried an ambitious Masato-Tanaka-esque Roaring Elbow. Sting suavely dodged it, sweeped his opponent’s legs, knocking him to the floor, and locked on his fabled Scorpion Deathlock. There was screaming. There was wriggling. But The Icon had it locked in tight. Sting laughed as he watched his opponent struggle ever so slowly, ever so gradually towards the ropes, entertained by Dover’s painful journey across the canvas. He waited until Dover was excruciatingly close to the ropes. He watched with a smile as the Hungarian’s trembling hand came painstakingly close to freedom... then pulled the poor b*****d right back into the centre of the ring. The wily old legend was having a great time. Icarus was pissed off with watching his partner suffer. He’d had enough, and decided to do something about it in the most effective way possible... with a Leaping Springboard Missile Dropkick... right into the middle Sting’s face. The former umpteen-time WCW Champion went flying like he’d been shot out of a cannon. It was marvelous. Things really came to life in that moment. Darby, having had enough of standing on the ring apron watching his mentor’s ass getting launched into the sky like a space shuttle, brought out his skateboard. I thought I’d won the epic Skateboard War Of 2023 – I was sure I was finally rid of those stupid God-damn things. I hated that stupid thing so much I'd set up a nationwide skateboard ban - I really wasn't messing around. The whole of Russia was behind us in getting rid of them - until one cropped up in Episode 12. My investigations after that show revealed Sting had bribed one of the locals $5,000 to drive 2,916 kilometers / 1,812 miles across the border all the way into Mongolia, buy one there, then smuggle it back into the country like contraband.   \   I admired the tenacity of such a scheme so much I let Sting think he’d won. But Episode 14 was when I struck back. Darby was about to take matters into his own hands. He was about to climb into that ring and start dispensing his own ridiculous brand of violent, skateboard-based retribution. But then Kulakov stepped up. The big, terrifying Russian maniac sent a clear warning as he picked up the metal ring steps and crushed them with one hand like an empty soda can. Allin, correctly choosing to not spend the next few weeks s***ting out his own teeth, got back into position like a good little boy and behaved.  But now the former AEW favourite was panicking. On one side was his hero Sting taking a pounding. On the other was a deranged maniac who put people in wheelchairs as a hobby. He was freaking out – you could see the rollercoaster of conflicting emotions etched all over his face. He clutched his trusty skateboard ever tighter, unsure of what to do. It was when #1 tag contenders Arlovski and Khubulov came to ringside to scout their future opposition that the skateboard came into play. Darby, having witnessed too much of his mentor getting his head stomped on by two psyched-up Hungarian 'Russians', freaked out, thinking Andrei and Alen were going to hurt Sting too. Even though our contenders were just here to watch, not interfere, Darby panicked. Skateboard hit skull. Edge, who was here to watch out for Damien Black, not deal with this silly s***, had to get involved, as our #1 contenders calmly took the skateboard off Allin and started spanking him with it like a naughty little boy. As soon as Edge dropkicked his way into the mix, it was Big Brawl Time. He wasn’t even holding a mic, but the weary, disappointed sigh of Authority Figure Steven Seagal could be clearly heard even over all the fracas. A signal was given. In stepped ‘The Nightmare’. Our 3089 fans really seemed to enjoy it as casually every f***er got Chokeslammed into oblivion, one by one. Even Edge. The sight of our expensive Canadian going ‘splat’ brought Vertigo into proceedings, charging to ringside to try and protect his mentor. The speed, force and power with which his dweeby, ex-hacker ass went through the commentary table was almost mean. Enjoyable as hell, but mean.  Our announcer Alex Koslov was enraged. He’d spent weeks furiously protecting his beloved table. It’d been weeks since anyone had been put through it. And now he was pissed. “How am I supposed to work without a commentary table?! This is an outrage! I warned you all! I told everyone what would happen if anybody messed with my stuff! And now someone’s gonna pay!” He completely lost his s***. He looked ready to explode as he got a knuckle duster out from under his big fluffy Russian hat. “Alex this is a really bad idea” warned colour commentator Roy Jones Jr, looking nervously at all the unconscious bodies lying all over the floor. But his words fell on deaf ears. Koslov leaped high into the air, swinging his knuckle-duster-covered fist wildly, smashing the almighty Russian monster right in the middle of the face with it. Kulakov had been unmasked since The Event Of The Century a few weeks ago. A blow like that could have killed a normal man. But no. The knuckle duster shattered. Kulakov literally didn’t even blink. Kulakov then calmly began using Koslov’s head like a basketball, smashing it into every shattered table piece, breaking the wooden fragments further, and further, until all that remained was a paste of sawdust, fluffy hat fragments and Moldovan tears. Meanwhile, back in the ring, there was a Tag Title Tournament Final still happening. Despite the 2-on-1 disadvantage, the legendary Stinger had been majestically holding his own. But this latest chaotic ringside scene proved to be the deciding factor of the bout. Sting saw the destroyed, Chokeslammed remains of what used to be Darby Allin sprawled out across the concrete floor. He knew he was screwed. He knew this epic final was now essentially a 2-on-1 Handicap Match. But the guy didn’t get his legendary status for nothing. He reminded us all what he was made of, rolling back the years with the help of the fans and a can of Cherry Charge Lightning Bolt Energy Drink, and becoming the war machine of yesteryear when it was needed most. But there was too much going on around the ring for his one man rampage to last forever. In particular, the sight of his tag partner’s motionless, twitching body being hauled away by medics proved to be a lot for the Stinger to handle. What came next must have been a big distraction too. In what was one of my favourite ever RFW moments, ‘The Nightmare’ picked up the skateboard that’d been wrapped around a wide variety of skulls just moments earlier... and ripped it in half with his teeth. Sting seemed horrified at the sight of this, briefly frozen in disbelief.    With The Icon momentarily diverted, The Arrows capitalised, landing a particularly brutal rendition of their Doom Shot finisher, for an epic, historic win. Match Rating: 59.     Was it one second after The Arrows Of Russia had been handed their title belts? Two seconds perhaps? It’s hard to say exactly how much time they had to celebrate before everything got dark. And spooky. And loud.  The lights suddenly dimmed, and a chilling silence fell over the arena. The eerie, ominous theme of The Dark Church Of Satan - '666' by Rotting Christ - began to play. Damien Black, Koyla Siply and Ronni Krimson made their entrance, surrounded by a thick, unnatural fog. Their faces were painted in black and white and covered in those freaky, spooky-ass masks they’d been scaring all the kids with, creating a haunting visual. The three sinister figures moved slowly towards the ring, exuding an aura of malevolence. Our tech guys had it raining sparks too, adding the cherry to the top of our proverbial cake of nightmares. As they reached the ring, the temperature seemed to drop, sending shivers down the spines of those in attendance. It was to the surprise of nobody that The Dark Church were here. After that suitably spooky and elaborate entrance, Damien Black and his followers were ringside. The enigmatic cult leader smiled that creepy, chilling smile of his. He looked impressed. They’d turned up to destroy everything, but thanks to the industrious efforts of Vladimir Kulakov, everything and everyone seemed to be already destroyed. He looked around with pleasure at the sight of medics stretchering away the fallen Darby Allin, Alex Koslov, Edge, Vertigo, Alen Khubulov and Andrei Arlovski. It was like a war zone. A massacre. Unsure of what more he could add, he gave one of the fallen wrestlers a kick, just for good measure. For the first time ever, The Dark Church hadn’t maimed anyone, or smashed anyone into tiny little pieces – well, not yet anyway. Seagal was still pissed off though. Their very presence seemed to have poisoned proceedings. Our ponytailed Authority Figure was furious. As he’d done once or twice before, he got on the mic and called out for a saviour. Who would step up to fight for RFW, he asked? Who’d be brave enough, strong enough, stupid enough to take on the seemingly indestructible, unstoppable Dark Church? This is wrestling. So of course, despite the fact that accepting the challenge was the equivalent of sticking your head in a guillotine, somebody did. The crowd inside the packed arena was electric as FTR's theme music blared through the speakers. Cash Wheeler and Dax Harwood emerged, determined and focused. They slapped hands with fans, feeding off the crowd's energy, ready for another hard-fought battle. As our hairy-chested, leather-jacketed heroes of the hour stormed towards the ring, Seagal couldn’t hide his surprise. He really hadn’t expected to see the Revival guys here tonight. “Hang on, what are you guys doing here?! I literally watched you board a plane back to America! You defended your titles on AEW's show just a couple of days ago! And the same on ROH's show not long before that! What the hell are you even doing back here?! You're not even contracted to this company!” Enquired our ponytailed Authority Figure. “We wanted revenge on those spooky Church Of Satan ass-wipes!” Hollered Cash. Or Dax. I still don’t know which is which. “But you’re not booked to fight on tonight’s show!” Seagal shot back with more than a little bewilderment. “After the kicking those Satan-worshipping clowns gave us, we decided to dispense some good old-fashioned justice – FTR style!” That was the other one this time. Dash. Or Cax. I have no idea. But it was cool. “Let me get this straight... you cancelled all your plans and flew 6000 miles across the world... just on the unlikely chance of you getting in the ring with Damien Black?!”  “Yup” they replied like it was the most normal thing in the world. “That’s crazy! That’s ridiculous! That’s insane! That’s... strangely, oddly brilliant! Get your asses in that ring and teach those Dark Church punks a lesson!” A second or two later the bell rang, and our 3,089 fans were on their feet to witness what everyone hoped would be a righteous, old-school ass-kicking. Angle Rating: 51.           For The Revival (FTR) vs The Dark Church Of Satan – It's A Battle Of Good Vs Evil. The match started with Harwood (I think) and Black squaring off. Dax charged, delivering a series of powerful strikes, but our masochistic cult leader absorbed each blow with an eerie smile, as if relishing the pain. He then somewhat casually retaliated with a vicious roundhouse kick, sending Dax to the mat. The crowd gasped as Damien’s eyes seemed to glow with an otherworldly light, his dark powers on full display. Dash Wheelwood tagged in, attempting to change the momentum. He executed a thorough, old-school, golden-age ass-whupping, firing through his vast array of high-impact moves one by one, but couldn't even stagger his otherworldly opponent. Next, Ronni Krimson entered the fray, his presence alone causing the lights to flicker. Cash launched himself at him, but the impact seemed to have no effect. Krimson lifted Cax effortlessly, tossing him across the ring with supernatural strength. The Dark Church Of Satan continued their eerie dominance. Black chanted an incantation, and the arena grew darker, shadows dancing along the walls. He locked Dax or Cash or whoever in a vicious, spine-smashing submission hold, whispering dark words into his ear as he made his opponent scream like he was on fire. Dax howled in agony, his face contorted with pain, but he refused to tap out. Meanwhile, Krimson cornered Cash, delivering methodical, devastating strikes. FTR rallied, showing their resilience. Cash and Dax double-teamed Ronni, momentarily gaining the upper hand. They executed their signature finisher, the Shatter Machine, on Black. The crowd erupted, believing the end was near. But as the referee dropped for the count, the lights went out completely, plunging the arena into darkness. When the lights returned, Damien Black, Koyla Siply and Ronni Krimson stood tall, completely unharmed. The fans were in awe, witnessing the full extent of their dark powers. Our spooky-ass cult leader delivered a Black Mass kick to Dax, followed by a devastating Krimson piledriver on Cash. The referee counted to three, and The Dark Church Of Satan were declared the victors. As the bell rang, the haunting theme of The Dark Church Of Satan played once more. The trio stood together, raising their arms in a dark, triumphant pose. The arena lights dimmed again, and a low hum filled the air. Suddenly, the ring burst into flames, the heat and intensity causing fans to scream in panic. The fire raged, casting an ominous glow throughout the arena. Smoke billowed, obscuring the view, and the chilling laughter of The Dark Church Of Satan echoed ominously. Just as quickly as it began, the flames and smoke vanished. The lights flickered back on, revealing an empty ring. Black, Krimson, Syply, and FTR were gone, leaving only a stunned and terrified audience behind. The eerie silence that followed was a testament to the dark powers and the fearsome dominance of The Dark Church Of Satan. Angle Rating: 55.     "Did you see that?! Did you see that?! Oh my God! That's some spooky, next-level, end-of-the-freakin'-world type stuff right there! I'm... I'm... I'm freaking out!!" He was right. Our commentator Rico Bushido was freaking out. Big time. "Calm down man! Aren't you a martial arts guy?! I thought you karate SOBs were meant to be tough?!" Roy Jones Jr was not impressed. But Rico wasn't listening. "Did you see those flames?! They came from out of nowhere! That's not special effects! It has to be magic! Dark, evil, hellish magic! I'm... I'm..." Bushido's voice was shaking. The poor guy was literally quaking in his boots. "God-damn man! Get a hold of yourself!" Jones Jr was getting agitated, possibly by the amount of spit and sweat being flung in his direction by his hysterical broadcast partner. "What we just saw was not of this world! Do you not realise that?! Damien Black and his followers... they... they literally just sent those poor, brave men to the deepest, darkest depths of the fiery abyss!" He stopped for a split-second to draw in an epic intake of breath, and then the barrage continued. "We're doomed! DOOMED! Do you not get it?! WE ARE ALL DOOMED!" Rico was shrieking now. His face looked like he'd trapped his d*** in a vacuum cleaner. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. And this Dark Church are the ones dooming us. Big deal" said Jones Jr with a shrug. "NOOO! WE ARE DOOOMED! DOOOOMED! DOOOOOOMED!" Bushido was shaking like something out of The Exorcist now. The silly tit looked like he was about to explode. "He's sent them to hell! He's sent them to hell!" Our former boxing World Heavyweight Champion had heard enough. He needed to quickly bring Rico back to reality before he lost control any further. You could see his face scrunching up in concentration as he searched his brain for a solution. Failing to find one, he improvised, slapping Bushido across the face to try to bring him back to his senses. Unfortunately the strike may have been just a tiny little bit too hard. Rico went flying backwards three feet, spun 180 degrees, then collapsed in an unconscious heap on the floor. Even in his motionless slumber the man was still somehow sobbing. "Oops" said Jones Jr, with a hilarious 'oh s***' look plastered all over his face. As a batallion of medics rushed in to drag our motionless commentator away, Roy realised he was all alone. Koslov was gone. Bushido was gone. He was all by himself, and looking really sad about it. Panic was setting in. Seagal pulled his ample arse out of his special ringside seat and hauled it over to our commentary position. Suffice to say he was not happy. "Just because he was being ridiculous, doesn't mean you had to kill the man" he said gravely, with a shake of the head. "Think of all the paperwork" he added. Seagal saw our last remaining commentator was suddenly solo, s***ting kittens and unsure what the hell to do about it. He too improvised - although his solution was a lot better thought out than Jones Jr's. He sent the 'Party Tsar' Vlad Radinov in to have a go at being an announcer. And so, under rather bizarre circumstances, this unlikely duo called the shots for the rest of our show. Angle Rating: 50.     "Why the bloody hell does it smell like sulphur in here? Which one of you inbred Russian tarts farted?!" Guess who. That's right. Marty Scurll and his fellow 'Villains' had turned up. They weren't invited, but they've never let a minor detail like that stop them. Seagal’s was ready to rip of one of their heads and play basketball with it, but decided to use his words instead. This time. “Why couldn’t Black and his Dark Church have vanished you clowns instead of a fine team like FTR?!" Suddenly there was a mischievous look on his face. "Come back Damien! Take these assholes to Hell with you too!” Seagal yelled with purpose. Scurll started looking really, really nervous. His buddies Flip Gordon and Brody King both simultaneously gulped in fear. Seagal winked to someone at ringside. Online sleuths with a knack for screenshots and slow motion replays caught sight of a bright pink suit sat among the technicians at ringside, but nothing was ever proven. Suddenly the lights went out and the ominous (but awesome) tones of 666 by Rotting Christ ripped through our weird, itchy, potentially poisonous venue. The Villains recognised the song. They knew who it belonged to. They knew what it meant to hear it. And, quite correctly, they all s*** their pants and ran for their lives. The sight of those three clowns running for their lives, screaming and crying like their asses were on fire were the last things to grace the nation's screens as we cut to our usual state-mandated newsflash. It would be hours before they came out of hiding and realised it was just a prank by Seagal. They'd then spend the rest of the week whining about how mean and childish it was. But whatever. I thought it was funny, and so did the 3,089 in attendance. F*** those guys Angle Rating: 50.     We’re back after a patriotic news feature, which insisted every Russian stop what they’re doing immediately and watch Vladimir Putin giving out potatoes to poor people here in Khabarovsk. The rumours I was hearing said that Big Bad Vlad had wanted to do this tacky, bulls*** publicity stunt for years, but all the tear gas would’ve kinda messed up the vibe. It’s hard to create the cozy, caring look Putin was going for when the streets are full of cops on horseback, swinging truncheons, beating the borscht out of anything that moved. Thanks to the distraction our funky little fed provided, the streets were finally clear of protestors long enough for Putin's diva ass to strut it's stuff down the high street. It all looked lovely. He even gave a bag of sweets to a nearby child, who then gave him a big, warm hug.  He was doing a lot for the poor, downtrodden people of Khabarovsk, we were told. He was doing f*** all for us though – the cold-eyed, turd-hearted old fart didn’t even come to our wrestling show. So f*** that guy too. Anyhow, back to the show... Seagal was being a one man hype army for ‘Russia’s favourite son’ Ilja Dragunov. He didn’t let the fact that he’d been saying the exact same things about him for weeks stop him from saying those exact same things again. “Ilja is the spirit of every benevolent Russian forefather made flesh and blood, striking valiantly against the corruptive foreign forces that would endanger our glorious Mother Russia.” But you already knew that. His opponent wasn’t interested in any of that crap though. A pissed off John Hennigan was here to complain about Gerald getting kicked, nay launched into the sky like the Challenger space shuttle, in our previous episode. It was the fact that the culprit was right there at ringside for this bout which made him mad. He pulled all his biggest, fanciest words out of the bag, labelling The Nightmare’s actions as “an appalling lack of decency” and “an unjustifiable act of malice” and even “a travesty for which this company, if not the whole of Russia, should be ashamed.” He was right. But it was also funny as hell. The footage of that yappy little b*****d taking flight was the most replayed TV highlight of 2023. He really, really was not okay with the perpetrator Vladimir Kulakov prowling around ringside like an uncaged beast. “He’s here to protect the peace!” Claimed Seagal, without blushing. “His endeavours ensured our first two championship bouts tonight have gone ahead without any interference or outside nonsense. It makes sense he continue such fine work here in the third” said Seagal without a shred of sarcasm. He really meant that crap. Maybe he was watching a different show to everybody else. “But... but... what about my beautiful, precious spirit guide Gerald?! How could he possibly be safe with that vile monster lurking around?!” Hennigan protested with a whimper. “John, you’re literally bringing a tiny little dog to a wrestling match. That wouldn’t even be okay if you were blind and Gerald were your guide dog. But you’re not blind, you’re just weird and a little bit stupid. And Gerald is no guide dog, he’s a yappy little pocket rat that has inexplicably somehow maimed and partially digested half of our roster. Why don’t you let those perfume-drenched Style Squad goons of yours look after him? So long as those three keep their distance, none of them will get eaten.” 'The Fabulous One' says he wants Kulakov banned from the arena. Seagal says Gerald is the most lethal force in the history of wrestling; he’s genuinely amazed no men have been killed by that murderous, savage beast. "Kulakov will be staying ringside for the safety of Dragunov. For the safety of our roster. For the safety of the 3,089 fine, noble citizens in attendance" declared Seagal. “It’d be less dangerous if you’d brought a nuke into the ring, than that flesh-craving monster” he added. Is he worried? Is he scared? This is Steven Seagal after all, and given his level of acting ability it really is impossible to tell. Seeing as the mic is in his hand, our movie star Authority Figure takes this opportunity to big up his protégé Dragunov once again. "He is the very essence of Russia's centuries of patriotic struggle personified, made flesh upon the most perfect athletic frame God has ever assembled. He is a new class of competitor. He is a new icon for us all. He is the future of Russia - a symbol for everything our glorious nation strives so valiantly to be." It was basically all the spiel from Event Of The Century regurgitated, but our enthusiastic, Lightning Bolt fueled fans ate it up anyway. With the scene suitably set, we’re just about to begin our impromptu main event. Finally, for perhaps the first time in our whole show, something was actually (sort of) going to plan. But then Daniels shows up. He has a mic. "Oh Christ" sighed Seagal. He'd had enough interruptions. He'd put up with more than enough crap for one night. He wasn't taking any s***. “Daniels don’t you dare open your mouth. Don’t you dare start all that ‘Yes!’ crap. We don’t have time. Look, I get it. You’re all spicy because my boy Dragunov broke your wrist. You’re mad because you didn’t win the title. You want a rematch, soon as you can move your hand without fear of it falling off. You’re here to scout the man you hope will be your opponent again some time soon. I get it. Now stand quietly at ringside and don’t you dare interfere, otherwise I’ll be feeding your ass to both Gerald and Kulakov! They’ll both be crapping out your bones for weeks!” The bell rings before Seagal decides to put his fist all the way through The American Dragon's chest, rip out his heart, squeeze out all the blood, then put it back in again. Thank God. Angle Rating: 63.        'The Warrior Spirit Of A Vengeful Russia' Ilja Dragunov vs ‘The Fabulous’ John Hennigan (with the 'Style Squad' of Petr Tihanyi and Bence Toth. And the most lethal force in wrestling history, Gerald The Dog) - For The RFW World Title  A lot of our Russian audience wrongly assumed Hennigan's effeminate Georgeous-George-esque gimmick meant he was stupid - but there's a big brain inside that heavily-pampered, well-moisturised head of his. He demonstrated this tonight, wisely instructing his 'Style Squad' to look out for Edge and Vertigo, rather than interfere and have Seagal or Kulakov jump on his skull like a trampoline. The bell rang. Hennigan, fresh and focused, wasted no time. He pounced on Dragunov, who was clearly still feeling the effects of his brutal encounter with Bryan Daniels last week. Hennigan’s crisp, high-energy offense overwhelmed Dragunov, who seemed to be moving in slow motion. Hennigan connected with a series of swift kicks and agile maneuvers, running around that ring like his arse was on fire. Dragunov, psychologically battered from his war with Daniels, struggled to mount any significant offense. Hennigan, sensing his opponent’s vulnerability, targeted Dragunov’s midsection with a flurry of strikes, each one sending a jolt of pain through Dragunov’s already battered body. Seagal, watching from ringside, seemed worried - Dragunov’s lack of focus was evident, and Seagal could see the match slipping away - his face etched with concern. “Seagal’s face is etched with concern” noted commentator Roy Jones Jr. “How in the name of Christ can you tell?” Laughed our impromptu stand-in Radinov. “I can see it in his face” claimed Jones Jr. “Nobody can see anything in that man’s face. All there is on Seagal’s face is the look of death. He always looks like he’s gonna snap some dude like a breadstick at any given moment. He doesn’t do emotion - he does ass-kicking!” Radinov wasn’t done. “The only ass getting kicked right now is Dragunov’s – and Seagal knows it.” Hennigan continued to dominate, executing a spectacular Springboard Twisting Plancha that sent Dragunov crashing to the mat. Dragunov attempted to rally, but each time he tried to build momentum, Hennigan was there to cut him off. Hennigan’s confidence grew with each passing minute, while Dragunov’s desperation became more apparent. Our vodka-swilling, energy drink-crazed crowd were sensing an upset, and began to rally behind Dragunov, hoping to spur him into action. Despite the crowd’s support, Dragunov’s mind was elsewhere. Bryan Daniels, his wrist encased in that comedically oversized cast, taunted Dragunov from ringside. “You think you’re a champion? I could still kick your gimpy Russian ass even with a broken wrist!” Daniels shouted, his words slicing through Dragunov’s concentration. Each time Dragunov glanced at Daniels, Hennigan took advantage. Suffice to say he was having a really s***ty day. Hennigan, sensing victory, went for a high-risk move. He climbed to the top rope and launched himself at Dragunov with a breathtaking Corkscrew Moonsault. Dragunov managed to pull his head out of his arse long enough to roll out of the way, and Hennigan crashed hard into the mat. It was a small opening, but Dragunov was too disoriented to capitalize fully. Seagal’s worry grew as he shouted encouragement to his protégé, urging him to focus. “Is this the day that the pressure of being champion finally got too much for him?” Wondered Jones Jr. “I don’t think anyone expected Hennigan to do so well here tonight – not even his ‘Style Squad’” said Radinov in agreement. As the match wore on, Dragunov began to show signs of life. He caught Hennigan with a stiff forearm, followed by a German Suplex. For a brief moment, it looked like Dragunov might turn the tide, but once again, Daniels’ taunts distracted him. Dragunov hesitated, allowing Hennigan to recover and nail him with a spinning heel kick. Dragunov crumpled to the mat, and Hennigan covered him for the pin. Dragunov kicked out at the last possible second, the crowd erupting in relief. With Dragunov reeling, Hennigan decided to end it. He signalled to the fans that he was about to do his signature Starship Pain move, but Dragunov, in desperation, grabbed Hennigan by his long, luscious hair. ‘The Fabulous One’ screamed in horror, his composure shattered. Dragunov yanked hard, sending Hennigan into a frenzy. You’d think ‘The Fabulous One’ had been shot by the way he was wailing. His perfect hair, his pride and joy, was now a mess, and he couldn’t cope with the devastating emotional hammer-blow that his unstyled locks represented.  In rushed The Style Squad – not to kick some ass, not to try and turn the match back in Hennigan’s favour – but to fix that stupid God-damn hair. Out came the hairspray. Out came a hairdryer. There was gel. There was wax. The speed and precision with which Tihanyi and Toth worked was mesmerising, almost surgical. But it wasn’t enough. The hair was ruined despite the best efforts of his lackeys. Hennigan was a broken man. The whole of Russia could see his messed-up hair. He looked like he was going to cry. The shift was immediate. Dragunov, sensing an opportunity, unleashed a barrage of strikes, each one more ferocious than the last. Hennigan, still in shock, was unable to mount any defence. Dragunov damn near turned his opponent inside out with a vicious, spiteful T-Bone Suplex. Milliseconds later the tenacious little Russian b*****d was on the top rope. Our 3,089 fans all knew what was coming next. The Torpedo Moscow that Dragunov unleashed from the top rope was as graceful as it was painful. Hennigan let out noises like a cat s***ting fireworks. The impact was brutal, and Hennigan was left weeping. That ridiculous man was actually weeping. The end was nigh. But Hennigan had one last desperate card to play. Suddenly there were screams of horror from all at ringside. A blood-curdling, terrifying bark filled the air. Dragunov froze in fear as the most dangerously lethal force in the Eastern Hemisphere hopped joyfully into the ring. It was Gerald. The little fellow was angry. His teeth were out. There would be blood. He wagged his little fluffy tail like a warning of horrors to come. “Don’t let the cute little pink bow fool you! In the ring right now is the biggest threat to life since Ebola!” cautioned our stand-in commentator Vlad Radinov. Dragunov was doomed. But then into the ring rolled 'The Nightmare' Kulakov. He wasn't afraid of anything, not even the flesh-devouring monster before him. You could almost hear the demented Russian giggle as he swung back his powerful leg. There was once a legendary Russian dog called Laika. In 1957 she was launched in to outer space aboard the Sputnik 2 rocket. Not only did she become the highest altitude dog in history, but that badass canine actually survived. Here in Episode 14, as Kulakov's boot connected, Gerald The Dog came a close second. Meanwhile, back on the ground, Dragunov covered Hennigan, hooking the leg as ‘Boris’ the referee counted. One... two... three. The bell rang, and Dragunov’s hand was raised in victory. Steven Seagal entered the ring, helping Dragunov to his feet and raising his arm in triumph. Dragunov had retained his title against all odds, overcoming his psychological turmoil and Hennigan’s relentless assault. The smell of glorious victory was almost as palpable as the smell of hairspray and perfume. As Dragunov celebrated, Bryan Daniels applauded sarcastically at ringside, until he clapped that massive cast on his wrist one time too many and yelped in agony. “Dragunov’s victory was a testament to his resilience, but the feud with Daniels is clearly far from over” proclaimed our sole surviving (official) commentator Roy Jones Jr. He did a great job of hyping their ongoing beef despite Daniels clearly going pale and looking like he was about to puke in pain. He was right though. For tonight, Dragunov stood tall, the RFW World Champion, his mentor by his side and the crowd chanting his name. Match Rating: 69.   Overall Show Rating: 65.

 

Edited July 16 by dstephe4
3,089 in attendance. 3,089 silly little mistakes found and fixed (so far).

[dstephe4]

Every time. It always happens. I proof-read a show sixty trillion times. It looks good. It reads perfectly. I post it.

I then read it again a day or so later. Somehow during the course of the night the prose I thought was awesome shakes itself loose. Bits start flying everywhere. As I read it again, hundreds of tiny mistakes suddenly leap out, laughing at me, taunting me, mocking me.

So to anyone who happened upon this thing in it's original, haggard state, and wondered what the hell is wrong with me, I apologise profusely. There were 3,089 in attendance, and almost as many silly mistakes fixed. 

It's better now. I promise.

But f*** it. That's what I get for writing this stuff in a half-drunken frenzy while hiding in the bathroom from my many, many, many children while pretending to take a dump.

Edited June 4 by dstephe4

[dstephe4]

I don't post a lot of comments, but I read about 70-80% of the Real World Diaries on this forum. One thing they all seem to have in common is the clever way they surprise their readers. Twists and turns abound, nothing is as it seems, and you never know what's going to happen next. Anyone posting predictions in those other dynasties would be lucky to ever get a full score. Then there's this place, run by this idiot. The guy writing this crap clearly doesn't have a clue. He obviously thinks he's being clever, but really nobody is fooled. So consider me rather smug that - for once at least - nobody got a full score. This time.    @DinoKea - 3 points out of 4. @Valkyria - 2 points out of 4. @ElectricX - 3 points out of 4. @80085 - 1 points out of 4.   Normally everyone seems to get everything right, but this time we have just two winners. So a big round of applause to @DinoKea and to @ElectricX for your magnificent efforts. Take a bow. Thanks again to all those who stick around to read the latest ramblings. There's more on the way very soon.     Speaking of competitions where everyone who enters seems to win, I've been thinking back to April's Diary Of The Month thread, in which this happened:     I'm still not sure exactly what the outcome was. Did this plucky little diary win? Did everyone win? Did nobody win? It's a strange one. On one hand, nobody's diary got more votes than this one, which is awesome. On the other hand, nobody's diary got less votes either. Also there's as many people who'd rather vote for no 'real world' diary at all than vote for mine. But hey, unless @Togg tells me otherwise, I'm totally taking it as a victory. Because that's exactly the kind of smug bitch that I am. To everyone who voted - thank you so very much!  The next chapter titled 'Dinner With Dave' is coming soon!

 

[80085]

"Dinner With Dave" huh?

Is it this Dave??

[dstephe4]

No.

[80085]

"Dinner With Dave" huh?

Is it this Dave??

[dstephe4]

No.

[80085]

"Dinner With Dave" huh?

Is it this Dave??

[dstephe4]

No.

Are you going to keep guessing Daves until all the Daves have been guessed? lol

According to Google there's 807,500 Daves in America alone. This might take a while lol

I'll help. I can confirm that my 'Dinner With Dave' thing does not feature:

- Dave Mustaine, lead singer and founder of Megadeth.

- Dave Draiman, lead singer of Dusturbed.

- David, the mythical giant-slayer who in the Old Testament beat Goliath in the Valley Of Elah by chucking a rock at the big guy's head. This somehow lead to the guy becoming King, but did not lead him into this Diary.