80085 Posted June 26 Share Posted June 26 Thanks for narrowing it down bruv. "Dinner With Dave" huh? Is it this Dave?? 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted June 27 Author Share Posted June 27 Ok. I see where you're going with this. Sadly no, Attenborough will not be joining us in this diary. That just leaves a few million more Daves to guess from lol The next chapter 'Dinner With Dave' is done and ready to go. But I'm not posting it til @80085 guesses the right Dave lol 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Jason Phoenix Posted June 27 Share Posted June 27 In that case, I'll make a guess as well... Rather than a person called Dave, is it Dave the TV Channel? 🤔 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted June 27 Author Share Posted June 27 (edited) 13 minutes ago, Jason Phoenix said: In that case, I'll make a guess as well... Rather than a person called Dave, is it Dave the TV Channel? 🤔 Oh Christ. I didn't even think of that. This is going to take even longer than I thought. Let's narrow it down some more. I can confirm that it is not: > David Copperfield, that geeky TV magician guy from the 1990s. > The popular rapper Dave, who I am too old, tired and un-cool to know anything further about. > Famous Dave's, the franchise of greasy BBQ eateries selling hot, slimy meat throughout the USA and (slightly) beyond. We'll get there eventually. Somebody HAS to guess the right Dave sooner or later, at which point I'll finally post the damn chapter lol It's very long, involves people getting incredibly drunk, and also has a brief appearance by a hairy-chested midget with three nipples. And yes, having read this diary up to this point, you know I'm not bluffing lol Edited June 27 by dstephe4 I added a link to the BBQ meat chain, lest readers here in the UK think I was making it up. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Jason Phoenix Posted June 27 Share Posted June 27 Hmmm, how about this Dave... (Hopefully we get this soon, I'm intrigued by the three nippled midget) 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted June 29 Author Share Posted June 29 Incorrect, but one hell of a cool Dave. Nice one. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Valkyria Posted June 29 Share Posted June 29 (edited) Is this Dave? I mean, this must be the correct Dave. Edited June 29 by Valkyria 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ElectricX Posted June 30 Share Posted June 30 Is it David Copperfield? 1 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
80085 Posted July 2 Share Posted July 2 Ok. Alright. I'll be the hero. I'll be the one who comes in with the obvious answer and is making this stupid thing get posted. "Dinner With Dave" huh? Is it this Dave?? 1 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted July 2 Author Share Posted July 2 (edited) Ever since the Russian Federation of Wrestling began, the online critics of the world had a great time s***ting all over it. Every time we put out an episode, the Internet Nerd Community would savage it as badly as Sergey Belyev was savaged by that bear. It was like an unstoppable blizzard of hot, flailing s*** would hit us the moment our stuff went online. We stank from the weekly s***nado of bad reviews. When it came to the online reviews of our shows, only metaphors could describe the scale of the pounding we received. We were the worm; the wrestling reviewers were the bird. We were the crash test dummy, they were the wall. We were the Blockbuster to their Netflix. We were the Creed to their Drago. We were the Tokyo to their Godzilla. In the online world, we were getting eaten up, chewed on, spat out, gobbled back up and s***ted out all over again. Our shady overlords in The Ministry didn't seem to mind this, as most of the writers who so joyously pissed on our parade happened to be from the ‘Decadent West’. Oleg Matytsin and his government ghouls always assumed that the crappy ratings and terrible reviews were just ‘Evil Western Propaganda’. They convinced themselves that all the crap we got from the online marks was because we were Russian, and definitely not because the RFW was run by a clueless moron who was only involved because he was a really big fan of not getting shot wrestling. I was absolutely fine with that – I’d be the first to admit I know nothing about this crazy ‘sport’ – I’d only gotten this far thanks to the superhuman power of my bulls***. You can have all the famous wrestlers that money can buy; Sting, Edge, Goldberg, even Daniel Bryan - but if the puppet master pulling their strings is a bit of a retard... well... look at the final days of WCW and you’ll see what I mean. And so it was with us too. We were an absolute circus of an organisation. I ran my shows like I was giving racing-car keys to a bunch of crack-addled monkeys and watching them drive – it'd be hilarious, it’d be noisy, it’d be fun, but it would also be absolutely f***ing terrible. (It’d also end in a disastrous crash and a massive fireball, and I envisioned a similar fate for us.) We’d spent the first 14 weeks pouring out mindlessly entertaining crap - it was popular, it was brash, it was novel, it was different, but it was still crap. There was one guy in particular who really hated our product. He is the alpha of all the online wrestling critics. He is the one who has been around the longest and has carved himself a reputation as being some kind of deity to the trolls that populate the internet wrestling scene. They look up to him like the Disciples looked up to Christ. His name is Dave Meltzer – or ‘MeltzGod’ as his followers call him. To the online wrestling community, he is what Vishnu is to Hindus, he is what Baphomet is to Satanists. He is what Spike Lee and Bob Kane are to comic book fans. He is what Taylor Swift is to teenage girls. Dave Meltzer is a brilliant writer. Dave Meltzer knows more about wrestling than I would if I ran the Russian Federation Of Wrestling for 500 years. And unfortunately for us, Dave Meltzer thinks I'm a massive prick. He told me this on the occasion that me and Dave went out to dinner. Above: Dave Meltzer - great writer, crappy housekeeper. I hadn’t invited him with the intention of pissing him off, even though he wrote about our events as if watching them was akin to pouring sulphuric acid directly into his eyeballs. He hated us so much it seemed that he was genuinely insulted by our very existence. Perhaps he thought of his hatchet-job articles as a way of bleaching the RFW-shaped turd-stain off the underpants of his beloved pro wrestling. I wanted to win him over, to hit him with a charm offensive, to turn him into an RFW fan. In all my years on this planet I had never once kissed a single person’s ass. Nice guys finish last, and I don’t have time for that s***. But for Meltzer I was more than willing to try. Hell, I’d have cuddled the b*****d and let him sit on my knee if it meant some good reviews. I’d asked my sinister Russian overlords to roll out the red carpet for him. No expense was to be spared. No luxury was to be withheld. I’d even had Meltzer officially listed as ‘a personal of significant cultural importance’ by the Ministry, which was no easy task. I envisioned fine wines and truffles, caviar and oysters. I wanted limousines and penthouse suites for the guy. The plan was to whisk him away and treat him like a Tsar. I wanted to shower him with so many sublime gifts and trinkets that he’d never wipe his crusty arse on our reputation ever again. Unfortunately by the time the memo had been passed from one government department to another, from one bureaucratic minefield to the next, the meaning of the message had been lost. Somehow my plan ended up in the hands of the FSB (KGB), and it was at this exact moment that everything went to s***. I’d requested a chauffeur to collect him from his home, and a private plane to carry him in style to our meeting. What he got instead was hired goons in cheap suits kicking down his door, shoving him into the boot of a car, smuggling him tied and gagged across the ocean in a giant crate of old engine parts, then throwing him ass-first into our dinner appointment. I didn’t know it at the time, but the whole thing was screwed before we’d even sat down to dinner. Even before the Russian State handled my scheme with all the delicacy of a nuclear war, a number of mistakes had been made on my part as well. For a start, Dave Meltzer wanted to go to Russia about as much as Kim Jong Un wanted to go to Disney World – no amount of bribery, borscht or bulls*** would make him want to step foot in a nation he despised for it’s brutal invasion of Ukraine. Reputation-wise, Meltzer joining me for dinner made about as much sense as Vladimir Putin joining a Gay Pride march. My choice of venue was a big mistake too. I’d reserved the finest table at the world-renowned Turandot Palace restaurant in Moscow. Yes, such was my desire to impress this guy, that I was stepping foot again into my most hated city in the world. As far as restaurants go, however, award-winning chef Dmitry Eremeev’s esteemed menus could not be beaten. It’s mountainous waiting list for tables takes years to climb to the top of – even the capital’s biggest celebrities struggle to get served. It’s the kind of place that makes Presidential mansions look like scuzzy, slimy drive-in motels by comparison. Ordinary Russians would look upon a restaurant like this with awe – it would be like Mecca to them; like the gates of heaven had popped open and invited them inside. 99.9% of Russians never get to eat culinary delights like those served at The Turandot. All the vast majority of Russians ever get to eat is crap. For instance, just a few days before I’d dreamed up my ‘Dinner With Dave’ scheme, I’d witnessed RFW’s prized maniac Vladimir Kulakov opening a tin of something for lunch. Hungry, I peered over to see what fine local delicacy he was about to indulge in. What I saw was this: Once I’d managed to subdue the urge to puke into my own mouth, I asked him what that horrifying can of mangled nightmares actually was. He looked at me like I was some sort of moron. “Fish” he said, staring at me like I was brain-dead. I mean, technically he was correct – it probably was fish – but Jesus Christ. I whipped out my phone and ran the tin’s Cyrillic hieroglyphics through Google Translate. It’s answers only intensified the horror further: So bearing in mind the usual standard of Russian cuisine, I was expecting my prestigious dinner guest to be licking his lips at the world-renowned dishes we bestowed upon him. I’d hoped the extravagant tastes and scents presented to him would win him over. But by the look on his face, you’d think someone had farted directly into his mouth. It turns out Dave Meltzer hates all that fancy crap. He’s strictly a hotdog and beers kinda guy. He’s the kind of man who considers the food they sell at bowling alleys to be fine dining. You could serve him one of Salt Bae’s Thousand Dollar Steaks, and he’d smother it in ketchup. He only enjoys food that’s been fried at least twice. So in terms of the cuisine we’d laid out before him, I may as well have pulled down my pants and s*** on his plate. Although, on reflection, if someone’s been abducted and dragged half way around the world at gun-point, they’re gonna be pissed at you no matter what food’s on the table. All it’d wanted to do was invite the guy to dinner. Instead I was suddenly an accessory to an international kidnapping. When Russia’s most distinguished thugs in suits threw him kicking and screaming into the restaurant, Meltzer’s face was a picture of rage, terror and confusion all at once. He looked like a disheveled refugee snatched from the middle of a war zone. He really looked like s***. Instinctively he grabbed one of the knives from the table and clenched it in his fist – I wasn’t sure if he was going to use it on the food or stab me in the neck with it. But then his hand shook, he slumped back in his chair and began releasing a sound that reminded me of a beached Orca baking to death in the sun. It wasn’t the kind of noise that comes from the mouth – this was a wallowing, guttural crescendo that came from deep within the man, almost as if it had emanated from the very depths of his soul. I didn’t know if he was having some sort of breakdown, or whether he was reciting some deep Buddhist-style mantra in an attempt to save his own sanity. After a minute or so of that, he suddenly fell silent. His eyes un-glazed, fixed upon me, and finally came back to life. He then let out an exasperated sigh to huge it seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the room. Such was the immense scale of the sigh, I’m surprised we didn’t all smother and die from a lack of air. At this point, I didn’t know the guy had been kidnapped. I still thought he’d come to Russia like a rock star. I thought he’d been pampered, not pounded. I didn’t realise Putin’s gorillas had delivered him in the boot of a car. I just thought the guy was being an ungrateful d***. The chef’s finest eleven course tasting menu was laid out before him. This was fancy stuff, damn it! This was haute cuisine painstakingly crafted with the best ingredients money could buy, yet this shabby-looking sports-writer douche refused to eat it. “What a catastrophic mega-bitch” I thought to myself as he pulled faces at me like someone was slowly shoving a whole pineapple up his ass. Looking back, his behaviour made perfect sense. But at the time I just thought he was being really, really weird. Eventually he regained some measure of composure. I saw a flicker of realisation on his face as he somehow recognised me and figured out who I was. He cleared his throat, wiped the sweat from his brow, then grunted his first words: “Ah. It’s you, Vladimir Putin’s pet American. I should have known. If we’re doing this, you’d better get rid of this pretentious crap and order me a f***ing Philly Cheese Steak. I want some civilised food, not whatever this weird s*** is. And somebody get me a Coors Light for Christ sake – or have real drinks not found their way through the Iron Curtain yet?” He banged a clammy fist on the table, for emphasis. The guy was in no position to negotiate, and seemed blissfully unaware he had at least five guns discretely pointed at him, but I admired his ballsy attitude, so I signaled to the kitchen to cook him one up. “Screw you, I’m British” I said back, trying not to sound wounded. I inhaled a $200 flute of champagne and put my brave face on. “Makes sense” snorted my guest. “An American would have served up some real food, not this fancy, sissy crap.” In a show of temper he swept the various plates and platters off the table, watching with great satisfaction as they crashed into a sloppy, ruined mess on the restaurant floor. The Head Waiter saw this, and fainted. Above: Just look at that happy face. The man's an absolute riot. It was at this moment that word of Meltzer’s rather assertive menu requests reached the kitchen. I could hear chef Dmitry Eremeev swearing profusely the moment the order reached him. The machine-gun-like delivery of his outraged verbal onslaught was really magnificent – he made Gordon Ramsay sound like a timid little child in comparison. Dishes were thrown. Several kitchen staff started crying. Somebody got punched. A cauldron of something bubbling and wet was launched angrily at a wall. A revolver was shot into the ceiling in outrage. Every customer in the restaurant could clearly hear all this commotion over the sounds of the live orchestra, but nobody paid any attention – they just kept eating and chatting as if nothing was happening. This is Russia, after all – things are different here. Once the rage died down, someone had a quiet word with Eremeev about who it was he was crafting the cheese-coated abomination for, and how many of Putin’s apes had dragged him here. The erratic chef quickly shut the f*** up, grabbed a few pans, and started cooking. “So, you need my help in saving that ridiculous federation you’re running? Is that why I’m here? From what I read in those Tom Clancy novels, people who fail in this country tend to get shot. Is there a bullet with your name on it? Is that why you brought me here? You think that you can scare me into turning your tragic, diet-ECW s***-show into something worth watching? And where the hell is my Coors Light, damn it?!” He was firing with everything he had now, probably a result of the adrenalin and fight-or-flight reflex, which made sense given he’d just been forcibly transported half way across the world with a bag on his head. He was trying to ‘take control’ and be ‘the alpha’ of the situation. At the time, remember, I didn’t know this – I was still under the impression he’d arrived in luxury and treated like a king. Seeing him acting like this just made me think the guy was a bit of an arse. Unwisely, I responded by being a bit of an arse too. I tried to take control of the situation by changing the subject. “Coors Light? Really?! I’d have thought a tough guy like you would’ve ordered a man’s drink, not a bottle of pissy-coloured rain-water like that. Are you on a diet or something? Or would a real beer make you dizzy? I had a Coors Light once. The condensation on the outside of the bottle tasted better than the stuff on the inside.” I’d had enough of this conversation already, even though it had barely begun. The guy was probably traumatised; I just thought he was being a tit. I was under the impression the guy was a total douche, whose Karen-like antics had already convinced me that bringing him here was a bad idea. Plus, Coors Light is for losers. “As for bullets with my name on, I’m doomed whether I succeed or fail. If the show gets cancelled I’m dead. If the show is a success and stays on the air long enough, until the Russia vs Ukraine clusterf*** is finally over, then it’s fulfilled it’s purpose, at which point I’m dead.” With almost perfect comic timing, the restaurant’s orchestra began playing sad violin music just as my woeful lament drew to a close. “Well boo hoo for you. At least you want to be in this Godforsaken country. This restaurant’s ridiculous. This food’s ridiculous. This city’s ridiculous. This whole nation’s ridiculous. And the clown that runs it is ridiculous too. Everyone and everything in this place can all kiss my ass. I want out. Get me out of here. I want nothing to do with whatever sick power trip game this is” said my grumpy dinner guest, once again pounding the table for emphasis. In hindsight I understand why the dude was pissed, but this show of bravado just ended up making him look like a toddler who’d skipped nap time. “Just be careful what you say. The table behind you has five heavily armed FSB / KGB guys sat at it. You can bet your cantankerous arse they’re recording every word. This is not America, Meltzer. This is Russia, and they do things differently here.” “Bulls***. I'm not falling for that spooky Cold War crap. Besides, there’s only four guys sitting at that table” he shot back bitterly. “You missed the guy hiding under the table, pointing something at you – is it a microphone or a pistol? It’s hard to tell in the candlelight. Probably the latter. You can see the barrel twitching beneath the tablecloth.” I sounded like I was bluffing, but I wasn’t. I saw those creepy motherf***ers passing bread rolls under the furniture as I walked in. He saw it too, and his tone changed to that of a man who realised he couldn’t win. There was an exasperated sigh. He looked around. The cavalry was not coming to save him. There would be no hero swooping in to save the day. This wasn’t some b-movie espionage caper – this was real life – and he was stuck in the middle of it, whether he liked it or not. “I just want to go home” he murmured, with the dejection of a man defeated. “Well, help me out and I’ll have you back home by sun-up” I reasoned. “How do I know you’re not just saying what I want to hear?” he said, in a sad little voice. “Trust me, neither of us really wants you to be here. That’s possibly the one and only thing we have in common. You say my wrestling shows suck. Well, smart arse, use that big brain of yours to un-suck it. Do that and your annoying ass is back in America ASAP. Even if it means strapping you to a Falcon 9 Missile and shooting your ass all the way across the Atlantic.” “You mean the Pacific, surely?” “I... erm... oh yeah. I can see why so many people don’t like you by the way.” “Look, I’ve been on this Earth all these years without getting shot, despite all the sleazy showbiz crooks I’ve upset over the years. I don’t intend for that to change tonight. If advising you gets me out of this s***hole then so be it.” “Nobody’s even so much as fired a gun at you? I’m amazed to hear that. I’ve only talked to you for a few minutes and I’m already wishing I had a rocket launcher.” I feel a bit bad about it all now – looking back, had I known the crap he’d been through, I’d have been kinder. But the bulls*** alpha male pissing contest going on between us finally died down, cooling off until it became what it always should have been – two guys talking about the ludicrous business of pro wrestling. “Apart from the rather... divisive geopolitical situation going on in this part of the world, which I can’t do anything about, what is it you dislike so much about RFW? What’s got those panties of yours in such a twist?” I quizzed, trying my best to stare at him like the tough cops in those TV detective dramas. He sighed again and rolled his eyes. His tone was that of someone trying to explain trigonometry to a baby. “The problem is you don’t know what you want your product to look like. There’s no clearly defined style to your promotion – no ethos – no identity, other than lots of random noisy crap and a liberal serving of chaos. Rather than choosing a particular style of wrestling, you’re just throwing as much s*** at the wall as possible and hoping some of it sticks. That’s a pretty apt metaphor for The Russian Federation Of Wrestling actually – ‘s*** flying everywhere’. The only reason you’ve enjoyed some measure of success so far is because people are too distracted by all the noise and all the carnage to notice how bad the wrestling really is.” He took a big breath, ready for the next excruciating chapter of his epic saga on how much I sucked. “I imagine the powers that be want a family-oriented yet masculine series of shows full of strong, butch men twisting each other’s big, hairy limbs. Instead, you want a low-budget ECW s***-show full of douchebags falling through tables and skulls being bashed with chairs, repeatedly, for no apparent reason. The fans want booze, psychedelic energy drinks and melodrama. Everyone wants something totally different. The result is a show that seems to have no sense of identity, meandering from one extreme to the next. Your Russian Federation Of Wrestling isn’t a wrestling show, it’s an acid trip. It does everything loudly but does nothing well.” He looked all smug and pleased with himself. I ordered more champagne and tried my best not to sulk. He wasn’t done yet. “To everyone’s amazement, including my own, you somehow managed to fool wrestling superstar Edge into joining your ridiculous, shady little company. Anyone sensible would recognise they had an internationally recognised icon in their midst, give them the title and immediately push them to the moon and back, dragging the whole company up in to the stars in his wake. But you are definitely not sensible. Instead you’ve got him involved in a weird bromance with the geekiest looking specimen to ever grace the squared circle. You should be building your whole programme around him. But instead you’ve got him and his dweeby sidekick battling it out with an effeminate weirdo and a tiny little dog.” Thankfully his verbal barrage ceased for a moment as a mortified-looking waiter passed him a Coors Light. You cannot buy Coors Light in Russia. You won’t see it anywhere in this part of the world at all. But by God they found him one. Above: Coors Light – great adverts, s***ty beer. “You made waves by unveiling the legendary Bill Goldberg as your first ever signing. But what have you done with him since? You seemed to be going somewhere with that ‘Goldberg’s Gauntlet’ thing. But then he lost to your boy Dragunov and has literally spent the rest of RFW’s history sulking. I can tell you’re building up to something big, some kind of existential crisis, but stuff like that is way too clever for your drunken Russian fanbase. They don’t have the attention span for your journey into the soul of that man – they just want to see him kicking ass so hard that buttocks start falling off. You’ve taken an unstoppable, indestructible monster and turned him into a crybaby little bitch. He must be furious with you. I’m surprised a rage-filled egomaniac like him hasn’t tried to strangle you yet” said Meltzer. I played it cool. Goldberg had tried to strangle me – half a dozen times or more – but Dave didn’t need to know that. “With Bryan Danielson, I can at least sympathise. You did the right thing putting him straight in an angle with Dragunov. It’s a shame that when those two shared a ring there was a near-toxic lack of chemistry. Watching those two try to wrestle each other is like watching two virgins trying to make a porno together – it just doesn’t work. So you did that interesting ‘crisis of confidence’ thing where the monster Kulakov gave him a concussion, he freaked out given his history of brain injuries, and lost his mojo. It was at least vaguely, somewhat competent how you then had him ‘re-forged in the fires of Russian combat’ or whatever that crap was, and now he’s back with a vengeance. He was on fire... right until you didn’t have the balls for him to take the strap off Dragunov. It was obvious you should’ve made The American Dragon champion – it’s what anyone with half a brain would’ve done. And then he broke his wrist, so your chance is gone. He’s on the shelf. So what will you do with him now? What’s the plan? Is there even a plan? Because you seem to be literally paying Bryan Danielson to not trim his beard, and very little else.” Ouch. “And don’t even get me started on the mess you’re making with Sting. Or the way in which you signed a bona fide UFC megastar in Andrei Arlovski, then did nothing to attract UFC fans into your audience. Now he’s just some angry-looking Belarusian hiding in your mid-card. And as to why your weird, demented brain thought the best way to push John Hennigan was through a liberal use of tight leather trousers is best left unasked” said Meltzer, in the same kind of tone you’d use when telling off a puppy for s***ting on the carpet. He took am almighty sip, inhaling the last of the Coors, before carelessly throwing the empty bottle over his shoulder. It flew across the restaurant, through the candlelight, into the darkness beyond. There was a crash. There was a scream. A fist-fight broke out somewhere in the distance. Furniture was toppled. Another waiter began to cry. My dinner guest seemed totally oblivious. “It’s almost like you don’t know what you’re doing” he said, trying to camouflage a burp. “I don’t” I said, rather casually and with a shrug. “I’m absolutely making this s*** up as I go. I gave a push to Dragan Spazic just because he has a bright pink suit and it amuses the hell out of me. The guy should probably have been a stand-up comic, not a wrestler. But I think all the comedians got wiped out during the last Cultural Revolution. Have you ever seen a Russian laugh? No? Me neither.” “Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov is getting the push of a lifetime just because some guy on a forum asked me to – they saw a photo of him in a geeky Star Trek visor and thought it'd be hilarious to see me put a rocket up his ass. And here I am pushing the guy as if the survival of mankind depended on it, just because I made some anonymous internet dude a promise.” I took a quick sip of champagne then started firing again before my mortified guest could interrupt. “Our big heel faction The Dark Church Of Satan recently added a new member. I chose Koyla Siply to join our most powerful stable just because he had a cool t-shirt on. The guy was a distinctly average kickboxer who made for an even more average wrestler. But when you’re trapped in a sewer like this it doesn’t matter which turd you grab, they all stink the same.” I was on a roll. Nothing could stop me now. “According to our marketing team, our most bankable star is a little dog called Gerald. I am 100% making my booking decisions based on what comes to me during the weird dreams that visit me on only the most drunken of nights. I really am amazed the big angry Russians who finance this thing haven’t shot me yet.” It was strangely cathartic to be finally saying this stuff out loud. “I’m... I’m not used to this level of honesty” he said, somewhat aghast. “You work in the wrestling industry, Dave. That’s hardly surprising” I replied with a smile. He seemed to almost sympathise, and decided to level with me. “There’s actually a lot of potential here, even despite your frankly insane decision-making. Unburdened by wrestling tradition, away from the prying eyes of smarks and trolls, something new and interesting and different could grow here. You clearly know absolutely nothing about this beloved sport, but that could be your biggest advantage. Rather than copying what’s come before, you have the opportunity to take things in a fresh and imaginative new direction. Nobody in wrestling history has ever ‘cracked’ this part of the world. Three of the biggest nations on Earth – Russia, India, China – are all unmoved and uninterested in all that our sport has thrown at them for decades. Maybe by forging something new and unique, you could be the one to finally capture their imagination. It’s virgin territory out there, just waiting to be conquered. Maybe comparing your stuff to the pro wrestling of the West isn’t the right strategy at all. Sure, your shows suck harder than a cheap whore on amphetamines, but maybe the stuff you’re crapping out will be dumb enough, loud enough, moronic enough to actually make a connection with these people. Who knows? Your path to glory may be to make something the West will hate, rather than worrying so much about what you think we would like.” “I never even thought about what the Russian people might enjoy watching, to be honest. What we’ve done so far has been driven by the Ministry For Sport and the Ministry For Propaganda threatening to shove live grenades up my arse if the shows aren’t ‘patriotic’ and ‘masculine’ enough. If they had their way, my shows would just be 65 minutes of a shirtless Vladimir Putin headbutting a shark. They want the episodes to be ‘family friendly’ and ‘wholesome’ so that our ridiculous, state-mandated, indoctrinating bulls*** reaches as many people as possible.” “But on the other hand there’s Konstantin Ernst and his Russiya 1 suits. On paper they own our asses. They cancelled a popular 30+ year running sitcom to put us on air. They’re convinced that if every single second of our show isn’t jam-packed with big, zany, violent, crazy s*** that people will turn off in their masses. I had Vladimir Kulakov smash a 3 tonne Soviet Era Lunar Landing Capsule over some guy’s skull – it was the maddest thing I ever saw – and they only described it as ‘satisfactory’. If I don’t keep conjuring up the crazy, or if people start changing the channel, I’m deader than Lenin. I’m not thinking about storylines or plot progression. I'm not thinking about what I want RFW’s ‘product’ or ‘message’ to be. I’m thinking about not getting shot in the face” I said with a level of honesty I never would’ve expected based on how our meeting started. It felt good to have someone to say this to. “I bet Eric Bischoff and Vince Russo never had to worry about crap like that” mused Meltzer as a shame-faced waiter fought back their tears of disgust long enough to bring a portion of cheese-drenched curly fries to our table. “Although looking back to the crap they pulled in latter days of WCW, maybe they did” he added. He gazed over at the plates of Kurnik and Pashka I was munching on and looked at me as if I’d just puked on my plate and started re-eating it. “I’m getting the slightest sneaking suspicion you’re not enjoying your meal” I said with a glint in my eye. He didn’t like that. I didn’t care. “Turns out getting kidnapped, dragged half way across the globe and being held at gunpoint kinda spoils the appetite” he shot back with more than just a little venom in his voice. He could see the look of realisation on my face upon hearing those words. That’s when I realised he wasn’t the no-expenses-spared guest of honour I’d planned for – nor was he the jerk my first impressions of him had labelled him as – he was just another schmuck who got dragged kicking and screaming into the Russian bulls*** machine – just like me. My whole tone and agenda changed immediately. “You like wrestling, right?” I said playfully. “No s***. I’ve been writing about the art of wrestling since Mikhail Gorbachev was running this ridiculous country. Wrestling Observer has been the toast of the trade since the days when Boris Yeltsin was Russia’s #1 party animal” said Dave, grandly. “He still is!” I said without thinking. Meltzer looked at me like I was crazy, for the umpteenth time that evening. I moved on quickly. “Do you hate WWE? A lot of you wrestling nerds seem to” I asked. He shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. “WWE’s global reach, mainstream visibility, and contributions to wrestling’s popularity cannot be denied. However, like many wrestling journalists and fans, I have reservations about certain aspects of WWE’s approach and their potential effects on the broader wrestling landscape” was his surprisingly diplomatic answer. I wasn’t buying that crap. “What do you think of Vince McMahon?” I asked with a sly smile. I could tell he was about to say something spicy, but stopped himself before the words could come out. “No comment” he said instead, looking around nervously at the various armed FSB (KGB) gorillas staring in his direction. I wasn’t buying that either. “Personally I find the man to be a leathery old sex pest. The guy’s skin’s so crinkly and brown he looks like something they found in an old pyramid” I said nonchalantly. And for the first time that night I saw a Dave Meltzer smile. Followed by a Dave Meltzer chuckle. Then the glorious sight of Dave Meltzer almost pissing himself with laughter. For the first (and possibly only) time we had common ground. I saw the opportunity and pounced. “Screw this place. Let’s ditch this stuffy, snooty old joint. I know a place not far from here that does the best Chili Fries outside of America. And the best thing about them? They come wrapped in real, totally genuine Cease And Desist letters signed by Vincent K. McMahon himself” I offered. My dinner guest’s face lit up like fireworks. It was an offer he couldn’t resist. I inhaled the last of the champagne, threw a stack of hundred dollar bills onto the table, then the two of us hauled ass out of there. Once my grumpy American had some food inside his belly, I decided the only sensible thing to do was to get us both drunk. Immediately. Thanks to the three bottles of champagne I’d inhaled during our dinner, I was already half way there. Evidently after just one bottle of Coors Light, so was he. The god-damned lightweight. At least it would be a cheap night out, I thought to myself, as we leaped into a nearby taxi. We hit all the major night spots, starting with VK Gipsy - a place known for being one of the Capital’s more... lively night spots. We drank (heavily) on their rooftop terrace, while Meltzer explained to me (in excruciating detail) that Kris Jokic wasn't the first and only Croatian wrestler. He was kind enough to tell me about all who’d come before him, their life stories, every promotion they’d worked for, every belt they’d ever won – in both chronological and alphabetical order. What a blast. This guy really knew how to party. Things soon became interesting though – as they invariably do when enough alcohol is involved. It was later on in the downstairs club area that a local lesbian biker gang mistook Meltzer for Henry Rollins of the legendary punk group Black Flag. When Dave wouldn’t sign their boobs and refused to sing any of their hits, they got mad and insisted on an impromptu arm-wrestling contest. Despite these enthusiastic ladies being larger than half the wrestlers on my roster, Meltzer somehow won. And nearly got stabbed for his troubles. Above: I mean, they kind of, sort of look a little alike. To be fair to our new biker chick friends, in the darkness under all the strobe lighting, all of us looked like Henry Rollins. We high-tailed it to our next venue, Night Flight. This was by far Moscow’s oldest, longest-running drinking establishment – at 25 years old. That in itself gives an insight into what a ridiculous, turbulent mess that city is. It would sadly close in 2024 – though I promise me and Dave had nothing to do with that. One of the capital’s more ‘up scale’ joints, it proudly boasted a cocktail menu for the ages, full of extravagant tastes and exotic boozes from around the world. Dave and I stared hazily at the list, didn’t know what the hell any of them were, so just went with the cocktails with the funniest names, such as: The Mushroom Cloud: A cocktail featuring mushroom-infused vodka, served with a dramatic presentation involving dry ice and smoke. It’s an accurate name, as the following morning my puke looked like something scraped out of Chernobyl’s dead reactors. The Black Swan: Activated charcoal gives this drink its black colour, combined with vodka, citrus, and sweeteners. There’s a number of solid, well-established reasons why people don’t drink charcoal. My s*** was black for weeks. Soviet Nostalgia: A mix of traditional Russian spirits like horseradish-infused vodka, combined with pickled vegetables or kvass. It gets it’s name because just like the Soviet era of old, it’s poisonous, deadly and full of wet, lumpy vegetables. I farted in bed the morning after drinking this and the smell was so bad it made me cry. The Molotov Cocktail: A fiery drink that’s literally set ablaze before serving, typically made with strong Vodka mixed with other spirits and spicy elements to give it some flavour. Yes, really. They serve this stuff. On fire. They really do. And people not only pay money for it, they drink it too. All I'll say is I had a beard until I sampled this thing. You probably think I invented these ridiculous, possibly toxic drinks. I guarantee you that all of these insane, medically questionable beverages are 100% real. You could genuinely get all of these in many of Moscow’s bars, right now – not just Night Flight. Places like the City Space Bar, Chainaya, and the Mendeleev Bar would also be delighted to sell you this s***. These unique cocktails highlight the innovation and boldness of Moscow's mixologists, and underline what a bat-s*** crazy country this really is. We had all of them. Twice. The Ministry For Propaganda had kindly left 24 missed calls and 17 voicemails on my phone while me and Dave had been drinking Russia dry. So I decided our next Bar had to be Propaganda, near Zlatoustinskiy Bol'shoy Pereulok. It’s one of those loud techno music places. The kind where the music’s so loud the floor shakes, and the people who go there are somehow even louder. I’ll admit my recollection was a little fuzzy by this point. Only one thing lives on in my memory – during my rendezvous with Khabarovsk‘s sleazy mayor Aleksandr Sokolov, I caught him watching a weird porno on his phone involving three women, a midget and a donkey. We somehow bumped into four of them here. And took selfies with them. I assume the donkey stayed at home, though it’s hard to be certain. I do remember that the midget had his shirt unbuttoned, proudly displaying his hairy chest and three nipples - all of which were pierced. And he either had a gammy eye, or kept winking at us - it was hard to tell which. We ended up getting kicked out of that place, possibly because Dave tried ‘making out’ with one of the women and got slapped. Or was it the midget? I really can’t remember. But as our asses were thrown to the street outside and the crisp, cold Moscow air brought us to our senses, my inebriated guest decided to get creative. “Let’s hire a monster truck!” He proclaimed. I looked him over to see if he was being serious. And, oh dear, yes he was being serious. Fortunately you cannot hire a monster truck in Moscow. There are lots of very logical reasons for this, and even in my drunken state I applauded the sensibility of the lawmaker’s decision to not let such a truly dangerous thing like that happen. “What a ridiculous idea” I thought to myself, trying to break the bad news to him gently. Thank God you can’t do such a crazy thing in such a crowded, densely populated place. Just imagine the danger. Just imagine the destruction. But Dave looked so sad and disappointed, and I was still trying so hard to impress the guy. So we went and hired a tank instead. It must have been 3AM by the time we reached Tankodrom, Moscow’s premier location for hiring terrifying ex-Military killing machines and driving them about. Want to crush a bunch of cars in a classic T-55 ex-Soviet battle tank? Sure thing. Fancy blowing s*** up in a BMP-1 mechanised infantry tank? No problem. Wanna smash through loads of walls in a BTR-80 armoured personnel carrier? Ask nicely and just remember to put the keys back in the basket when you’re done. Judging by all the screaming and swearing, the owners weren’t too happy about us waking them up in the middle of the night. They really, really weren’t in the mood for us to take their giant mechanised death machines ‘for a little spin.’ Strangely enough though a few thousand dollars suddenly changed their whole vibe. I don’t remember the exact details, but by 4AM we had a bottle of vodka to share, a KFC Bargain Bucket each and a 7 tonne ride with a giant f***ing flamethrower on the top. Unfortunately there’s something called the Federal Law On State Secrets (Федеральный закон "О государственной тайне"). This law is big on maintaining national security and safeguarding sensitive information related to the state, military, and intelligence operations, including drunken Westerners in tanks. Violations of this law can lead to severe legal consequences, including imprisonment, although nobody can confirm the exact punishment, as everyone found guilty has coincidentally gone missing. I can confirm, however, that it’s impossible to make a tank to a Moonsault, no matter how hard you try. Suffice to say my mission to give Dave Meltzer a night he’d never forget was definitely achieved. Even after our drunken escapade, Dave Meltzer would never be a fan on the Russian Federation Of Wrestling. But from then on he would at least review all our shows with genuine fairness – if they were good, he’d write that they were good; if they sucked, he’d say they sucked. And to be fair that’s all I’d ever wanted from the guy. Soon enough the other online marks followed suit, also giving us a fair shake. While Meltzer would continue to be genuinely appalled and dismayed by every single booking decision I would ever make during RFW’s existence, I at least knew that folks on the other side of the old Iron Curtain would read about our exploits with a lack of bulls***. Sometimes in life all you can hope for is a fair deal. And after my dinner with Dave, that’s what we got. I felt a great surge of pride on the rare occasions that one of our shows would get a good review – like an important mission had been accomplished. And all it took was an act of international espionage to get us there. Edited July 2 by dstephe4 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted July 3 Author Share Posted July 3 (edited) The legendary Dave Guessing Game will go down in history as one of mankind's greatest achievements. Generations to come may well look back on this moment as the time when humanity 'peaked'. It really was that epic. I wonder though if it created a sense of disappointment when the One True Dave was revealed? Are people mourning the David Duchovny-shaped hole that now exists in this diary? Are people wondering why this dynasty hasn't suddenly pivoted into Sci Fi to incorporate David the Vampire from Lost Boys? Dave Grohl is currently at the Wimbledon Tennis Tournament right now. He'd be an easy target for a kidnapping. Are people pissed that I didn't grab him instead? Edited July 3 by dstephe4 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Valkyria Posted July 4 Share Posted July 4 I am not disappointed, but if I ever win a reward in the Predictions, I don't care for the Price, I just want Dave Grohl to appear somewhere in this Diary. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
80085 Posted July 8 Share Posted July 8 The Meltzer thing was obvious from the moment he went in to the dog pound and he was posting a topic called Dave Meltzer: Discuss. Man was clearly getting people's moods on him before posting his thing. I read it. Meltzer has lots of opinions. People having nearly as many opinions on his opinions as he has opinions since 1986. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted July 10 Author Share Posted July 10 (edited) We were still holed up in Khabarovsk, famous as much for it's tear gas and riots as it was for it's ambiance and architecture. Our time here had proved to be such a distraction that the local police had gone a whole week without beating the crap out of anyone. They almost seemed at a loss as to what to do with themselves without anyone to club or chase on horseback. They even resorted to outlandish activities such as solving crimes while we were there. It really was a sight to behold. Above: We're still here. Hooray. With things relatively quiet (by our standards at least), I focused on my surprisingly epic dinner with Dave, thinking back to the advice he'd given me during our rollercoaster, booze-fueled encounter. I was determined to show Meltzer we meant business, that the Russian Federation Of Wrestling wasn't just the piss-pot promotion he made it out to be. I wanted things on a grand scale. I wanted our next show to be epic. Huge. Gargantuant. Almost... Wrestlemania-esque in scale. I found myself watching some of the old WWE and WCW stuff from the years gone by when the world of wrestling really had it's s*** together. Back when wrestling wasn't the sucky snoozefest it is today. I'm talking Attitude Era. I'm talking the turn of the century. I'm talking the days when WWE and WCW and ECW competed in a furious, loud, ridiculous circus of noise that produced some of the biggest and best moments this 'sport' would ever puke up. I liked how big and over-the-top everything was. I saw the introductions to the Wrestlemanias of the time, in particular, and loved how grand and epic they were. Watching these, you'd think the fate of all humanity was on the line - that the battle between The Rock and Stone Cold held the very fate of mankind in it's outcome. The whole world would fall out of orbit if the victor of the nWo and Sting's band of heroes were not found out. Seeing WCW and WWE in their prime stirred a fire in me. I was inspired. Energised. And determined to prove that b*****d Dave Meltzer wrong. And so here it is, the official card for Episode 15, with an industrial strength injection of grandeur... Predictions time everyone.... I've tried to recreate the sheer epic scale and pomp of those Wrestlemania introductions. Read these in your mind with the epic voiceover guy in your head... An Epic Battle Of East vs West: Ivan Markov vs. Scotty 2 Hotty (with Rikishi) The Russian Federation of Wrestling is gearing up for a monumental clash that promises to shake the very foundations of Khabarovsk. Episode 15 is set to deliver an unforgettable night of action as the unstoppable powerhouse, Ivan Markov, faces off against the dance sensation, Scotty 2 Hotty, with the legendary Rikishi by his side. This match is destined to become the stuff of legend. Ivan Markov, the mountain of muscle, known for his incredible strength and sheer brute force, has left a trail of destruction in his wake. As a former bodybuilder, Markov’s domination in the ring is unmatched. His bone-crushing slams and raw power have decimated every opponent who dared step into his path. But in Khabarovsk, he faces a challenge unlike any before. Enter Scotty 2 Hotty, the master of the dance floor and the ring, who has won the hearts of millions with his infectious energy and unorthodox style. His signature move, 'The Worm,' has electrified crowds around the world. Joining him is none other than Rikishi, a titan in the wrestling world. The stage is set in Khabarovsk for this epic confrontation. Will Ivan Markov’s raw power crush the spirited duo, or will Scotty 2 Hotty and Rikishi’s unique blend of charisma and experience dance their way to victory? The excitement is palpable as the crowd anticipates a match that will go down in history. In the grand spectacle of RFW Episode 15, only one will emerge victorious. Prepare yourself for a night of unforgettable action, heart-pounding moments, and the clash of titans. Ivan Markov vs. Scotty 2 Hotty, with Rikishi, is not just a match - it’s a battle for the ages. The time is now. Let the battle begin in Khabarovsk! The Super Showdown: Edge, Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov, 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic, Ivan 'The Body' Markov and 'The Nightmare' Vladimir Kulakov vs. Villain Enterprises and The Style Squad - In a world-shaking 5vs6 war RFW is set to deliver an electrifying spectacle - in an event that promises to be the most epic clash of the year - if not all of recorded history - Edge, Vertigo, Markov, Dragan Spazic, and the unstoppable Vladimir Kulakov will face off against Villain Enterprises and The Style Squad. This match is the culmination of intense rivalries, simmering tensions, and the kind of high-octane action that defines wrestling history. Edge, the living legend, and his protégé Vertigo have been through the wringer. Their bond, forged in the fires of competition, has seen them face insurmountable odds, creating a bond between the two stronger than the toughest steel. With their blend of experience and youthful agility, they are ready to settle the score with the ridiculous heavily-perfumed formidable Style Squad. Dragan Spazic, the flamboyant force of nature, has been a thorn in the side of Villain Enterprises for weeks. Known for his larger-than-life persona and signature bright pink suit, Spazic’s clashes with Marty Scurll, Flip Gordon, and Brody King have been nothing short of legendary. His unique style and resilience have made him a fan favorite and a nightmare for his opponents. Then there’s Ivan Markov - yes we're making the big dumb b******d wrestle twice in one night. The former bodybuilder whose strength is matched only by his simplicity stamina. Markov’s encounters with John Hennigan’s vicious Bichon Frisé, Gerald, will go down in the annals of wrestling history. His muscle-bound bravado is a stark contrast to the ferocious might of Hennigan’s ‘celestial guru' - the fearsome canine who many believe may well be the most lethal killing machine on the planet. Speaking of lethal killing machines, let’s not forget Vladimir Kulakov, the unstoppable, unflinching monster. His sheer presence turns the tide of any battle. His legendary kick that sent Gerald flying has become the stuff of wrestling lore, much to Hennigan’s fury and the audience’s delight. Despite the numerical advantage in the favour of the Villains and the Stylists, everyone knows Kulakov's involvement makes our good guys the betting favourites. Villain Enterprises and The Style Squad are a formidable coalition, however, and only a fool would write off their chances of a cunning victory. Marty Scurll’s craftyness, Flip Gordon’s aerial prowess, Brody King’s raw power, and the stylish antics of John Hennigan, Petr Tihanyi, and Bence Toth create a diverse and deadly force. Their vendettas against Spazic, Edge, and Markov have reached a boiling point. Steven Seagal, growing increasingly tired of the endless grievances, has orchestrated this epic confrontation that will echo through the ages for all eternity. With Kulakov evening the odds, the stage is set for a showdown of monumental proportions. Will long-standing feuds finally be laid to rest, or will new rivalries be ignited in the aftermath? How am I doing so far? Is this big enough? Grand enough? Wrestlemania-ish enough? The Clash of Legends: Sting vs. Goldberg - Winner is #1 contender for the RFW World Title This is the big one. A war of titans. A battle for the ages. A monumental chapter in the history of our illustrious sport. The Russian Federation of Wrestling is set to host one of the most anticipated matches in wrestling history. At Episode 15 in Khabarovsk, the ring will become a battlefield as two legendary warriors, Sting and Goldberg, collide in a main event that will determine the #1 contender for the World Title. This clash promises to be a historic moment, etching their names even deeper into the annals of wrestling lore. Sting, the Icon, has been a cornerstone of wrestling for decades. With his mysterious presence and signature face paint, Sting has captivated audiences worldwide. Known for his scorpion deathlock and death drop, Sting's career is marked by epic battles and unforgettable moments. From his days in WCW to his storied run in TNA, to the legacy he is already forging for himself here in RFW, Sting has faced and conquered the best. Now, he stands ready to prove that his legacy is far from over. Joining him in battle will be the electrifying Darby Allin, who made himself an internationally renowned superstar in AEW, and is continuing to light the wrestling world on fire here in Russia. Will Sting's protégé be a factor in this finely balanced battle? Speculation is also rife as to whether fellow legend Edge, who accompanied Sting and Darby to the ring last week, will continue this new alliance here in Episode 15. Will the Rated R Superstar make his considerable presence felt? Will he be the one to tip the scales in Sting's favour? On the other side, Goldberg, the man of few words and devastating power, enters the ring with a resume that speaks for itself. His incredible undefeated streak in WCW, where he bulldozed through opponents with his spear and jackhammer, has become the stuff of legend. Goldberg’s brute force and intensity have earned him championships and the respect of fans and peers alike. His return to the ring has reignited the fire of competition, and now, he aims to reclaim his position at the top. Their paths have crossed before in unforgettable encounters, each man pushing the other to their limits. The history between Sting and Goldberg is rich with high stakes and intense showdowns. This time, the stakes are even higher as the winner earns the coveted #1 contender spot for the World Title. It's a battle not just for supremacy but for the right to challenge for the ultimate prize in wrestling. The atmosphere in Khabarovsk is electric as fans prepare for a match that will be talked about for generations. Will Sting’s tactical prowess and legendary resilience overcome Goldberg’s raw power and relentless aggression? The clash of their styles promises a thrilling, edge-of-your-seat spectacle. Only one legend will emerge victorious. Prepare yourself for a night of unforgettable action, heart-pounding moments, and the ultimate clash of titans. Sting vs. Goldberg is not just a match - it’s a battle for the ages. The time is now. Let the battle begin in Khabarovsk! Episode 15 - Coming Soon. Predictions please! Who you got? Who will win in these monumental battles? Who will emerge victorious from the blaze of warfare? Who will... oh enough of this overblown crap. You get the idea. Post your predictions, let's see your winners. This ridiculous, long and rather silly show will be posted (fairly) soon(ish). Ivan Markov vs. Scotty 2 Hotty (with Rikishi) Edge, Klapstov, Spazic, Markov and Kulakov vs. Villain Enterprises and The Style Squad - 5vs6 Goldberg vs Sting - #1 Contenders Match Incidentally, Wrestlemania 17 was the highlight of sports entertainment for me. That's when the whole circus 'peaked' in my eyes. It was the top of the mountain. It was the precipice. The summit. Never again would the world of sports entertainment climb so high, and alas, it was all downhill from there. My favourite PPV ever, though, was ECW Heatwave 1998. That s*** was incredible. Every match was great. Feel free to tell me I'm wrong and discuss this, by the way lol @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 July 10 by dstephe4 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted July 13 Author Share Posted July 13 (edited) Bonus Match! When running Episode 15 it became clear I needed another match in order to get the matches / angles balance right. I was 50/50 anyway as to whether to have this match on Episode 15, or save it for Episode 16. Anyhow, here's one more for the Predictions. The All-Russian (Sort Of) Tag Team Championship Battle: The Arrows Of Russia (Dover and Icarus) vs The Russian A-Team (Andrei Arlovski and Alen Khubulov) Get ready for an explosive showdown in Episode 15 of the Russian Federation of Wrestling as the reigning Tag Team Champions, The Arrows of Russia, defend their titles against the formidable Russian A-Team. Icarus and Dover, known for their seamless high-flying maneuvers and devastating double-team moves like The Doom Shot, are set to prove why they’re the best in the business. With their experience and teamwork, the Arrows of Russia are determined to leave no doubt about their dominance. Standing in their way are the powerhouse duo of UFC star Andrei "The Pitbull" Arlovski and Russian National Wrestling Champion Alen Khubulov. Individually, they are titans of combat sports, with Arlovski's brute strength and MMA expertise complementing Khubulov's technical wrestling prowess. However, their past history of feuding and their uneasy alliance add an unpredictable element to this already intense matchup. Will their desire to win unify them, or will their differences resurface to hamper their performance? This clash promises to be a spectacle of athleticism and strategy. Can the champions solidify their reign with another successful defense, or will the Russian A-Team rise to the occasion and capture the gold? Tune in to find out in this high-stakes battle for tag team supremacy in the Russian Federation of Wrestling! So here's the (final) card for Episode 15: Ivan Markov vs. Scotty 2 Hotty (with Rikishi) The Arrows Of Russia vs The Russian A-Team Edge, Klapstov, Spazic, Markov and Kulakov vs. Villain Enterprises and The Style Squad - 5vs6 Goldberg vs Sting - #1 Contenders Match Edited July 13 by dstephe4 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
DinoKea Posted July 13 Share Posted July 13 Episode #15 Predictions Ivan Markov def. Scotty 2 Hotty The Arrows of Russia def. The Russian A-Team Edge, Klapstov, Spazic, Markov & Kulakov def. Villain Enterprises & The Style Squad Sting def. Goldberg 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
tdw36584 Posted July 16 Share Posted July 16 This thing is extraordinary Ivan Markov beats Scotty 2 Hotty (with Rikishi) The Arrows Of Russia beat The Russian A-Team Edge, Klapstov, Spazic, Markov and Kulakov beats Villain Enterprises and The Style Squad - 5vs6 Sting beats Goldberg 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Valkyria Posted July 17 Share Posted July 17 Ivan Markov def. Scotty 2 Hotty (with Rikishi) The Arrows Of Russia def. The Russian A-Team Edge, Klapstov, Spazic, Markov and Kulakov def. Villain Enterprises and The Style Squad Sting def. Goldberg 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted July 19 Author Share Posted July 19 (edited) Let me say a HUGE thank you to those who voted for The Russian Federation Of Wrestling to be Diary Of The Month. You awesome, awesome, awesome people. Thank you all, sincerely and truly for the continued support. Episode 15 is going to be a blast. Me and Seagal have watched it already. It's great fun. Yes, me and Seagal have matching furry slippers. It's our thing. Edited August 19 by dstephe4 I had to re-do the image because the first one vanished into thin air. The first one was better. This one sucks. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
80085 Posted July 24 Share Posted July 24 You better not put all your apples in KAPW bruv as this is too good to let it slide away to nothing. KAPW is funny and all But this has to stay as THE MAIN THING man Even if you don't have the balls to put David Attenborough in your diary This is my predictions Markov beats Scotty because he is Russian The Arrows beat the Ateam even though they are not really Russian Edge and all that beat the other guys because their team has some Russians. And because these forum people will strangles you if Scurll wins Sting wins because Goldberg is much too busy being Emo 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted July 31 Author Share Posted July 31 (edited) With the city not on fire (for now) and the riot squads staying the hell indoors, 3393 happy, drunken, energy-drink crazed Russians came to a spooky, run-down, dilapidated old power station to watch us raise hell. We wanted to put on a memorable show for them - and we definitely did that. Just... not in the way anybody had ever thought of... Fuelled perhaps by the scathing words I'd received during my rather feisty dinner with Dave Meltzer, I was determined to ‘go big’ this time. I wanted people to know we were serious from the get-go, with a video package for the ages. What's the point of having a ridiculous budget and a cutting-edge production team if you're not willing to go ‘the full Wrestlemania’ once in a while? We had a main event that would, on paper at least, certainly live up to such grandeur. And thanks to a goosebumps-inducing voice-over masterclass by my talented actor buddy Kyrill Sofanov, and a level of televisual pomp that made Game Of Thrones and House Of The Dragon look like school nativity plays in comparison, we gave our Sting vs Goldberg ‘Clash Of Legends’ main event the biggest build-up our endless Russian blood-money could buy. Our marketing team wisely focused on the legendary careers of both men and their historic standing in the world of wrestling. This was a clever way of distracting everyone from the fact that the match's competitors had a combined age of 117. Tonight we would make history, we proclaimed. And what better way of showing this than illustrating the storied past encounters of these fine, world-renowned warriors? Through the magic of television we went back in time to a mystical, bygone age when sports entertainment was the toast of the showbiz world, back when wrestling didn’t suck ass. Back in the mythical age when WCW could do no wrong – back before it all went to s***. We go back to WCW Monday Nitro, September 14, 1998 as 12,841 breathless spectators witnessed history being made. It was the first notable encounter between Sting and Goldberg, during the height of WCW's popularity. This match pitted two of the company's biggest stars against each other at a time when WCW was fiercely competing with the WWF (as it was then, back before the McMahons were humiliated by a charity and a giant panda, and had to change their name.) Goldberg, who was undefeated at the time and held the WCW World Heavyweight Championship, was the epitome of dominance. This was when Bischoff’s booking made him a super-man, and we all believed it. This was before Hall, Nash, Hogan and that bulls*** cattle prod. This is when Old Bill was a titan with the world at his feet. And so too was Sting, a perennial favourite, a living legend already, and a former champion himself - he represented the old guard of WCW heroes. He was wrestling’s many traditions personified. His opponent was the brash, loud new wave of wrestling made flesh. It seems strange to be referring to the Stinger of 1998 as the ‘old guard’ – especially considering the 2023 version was still kicking ass better than most of the bums on our roster. But this really was like a war between the past and the future. This was the era of ‘Wolfpack’ Sting, back when he painted his face bright red and kept howling at everyone. I remember at the time thinking how cool he looked. Watching it back now, the guy looked like the fryer had exploded at his local Burger King and he’d caught the whole hot, oily impact with his face. But he was still over as hell. The crowd were all on the edge of their seats, unsure of which of their heroes to cheer for. We showed the match’s highlights, illegally broadcasting the action to the whole of Russia without permission, in a giant ‘f*** you’ to pervy old Vince and his suits. We made the right call too - the clash was electric, with the crowd fully invested in every move. Sting brought unparalleled psychology and storytelling to proceedings. Goldberg brought lots of shouting. Sting brought his experience and ring savvy, attempting to outmanoeuvre the raw strength and intensity of Goldberg. Goldberg's strategy was to smash Sting until bits started falling off. The bout was filled with near falls and high-impact moves, creating an atmosphere of unpredictability. Sting made Young Bill look like an unstoppable monster, reacting with fear with every Suplex and Dropkick he refused to sell. Goldberg showcased an agility that’d surprise anyone watching the 2023 version that lumbered around the RFW ring looking like he’d s*** his shorts. The decisive moment came when Goldberg countered Sting’s signature Scorpion Death Lock, hitting him with a Spear and Jackhammer combo to secure the victory. The match underscored Goldberg's invincibility and solidified his status as a top star while maintaining Sting's legacy as a tough competitor. Goldberg was already so hot he was s***ting flames by this point. But this match is the one that let everyone know he’d ‘made it.’ This match is remembered for its sheer star power and the palpable tension it generated. It exemplified the best of WCW's talent and storytelling during the Monday Night Wars, drawing in millions of viewers and contributing to one of the highest-rated episodes of Nitro. The encounter between Goldberg and Sting remains a benchmark of late 1990s wrestling, showcasing the intensity and drama that made WCW a scary competitor to WWF – a stark contrast to the disintegrating shambles that was to come. I really, really hoped we’d be able to shamelessly tap into that sort of momentum and generate a similar kind of electricity ourselves. (Which given our show was in a weird, condemned old power station, seemed oddly appropriate.) Angle Rating: 81. With our first of three video packages out of the way and our production geeks all feeling very, very smug with themselves, it was time to kick off Episode 15. We decided not to have our usual Blitzkreig of flames and fireworks this time – mainly because the night before, I lit a cigar and thanks to all the weird crap in the air in this venue, the flame burned green. So instead we went with what the propaganda dorks insisted on calling ‘The Grand Coronation of The Arrows Of Russia’. I let those Ministry dweebs have their way with this one. They may have gone just a teeny, tiny bit overboard. The toxic metal coffin of a venue became a spectacle of pageantry and national pride as RFW Authority Figure Steven Seagal, dressed in a surprisingly well-fitted tuxedo, orchestrated a big, swanky, Putin-approved celebration to honour our newly crowned Tag Team Champions. The ring was decorated with an array of blue, white, and red banners. The crowd, decked out in patriotic gear and (of course) out of their tiny minds on Lightning Bolt and super-strength vodka, was buzzing with anticipation. (Or was that just all the weird static electricity that lingered in the air? It was hard to tell.) Seagal, with his usual expressionless expression, stood at the centre of the ring, a microphone in hand. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, throwing every ounce of acting ability he possessed into the speech, managing to squeeze out a tiny hint of dramatic flair like a hard, stony turd. "Tonight we honour true warriors, true champions: The Arrows Of Russia! Just like our mighty and noble Ilja Dragunov, they are shining examples of the fighting spirit that burns hotly within the blood of every true Russian!" The fans erupted in cheers, waving flags and banners, eating up Seagal’s words like Stroganoff. A 20-piece orchestra unleashed their trumpets as a local school choir, with all the youthful gusto they could muster, began a heartfelt rendition of Patrioticheskaya Pesnya - the Russian national anthem. The crowd joined in, their voices rising in unison, creating a spine-tingling moment of unity and puke-inducing national pride. It was like a scene straight out of a Hollywood movie, complete with confetti cannons showering the audience in fine Russian-flag-coloured papery crap. Dover and Icarus proudly made their entrance, flanked by a phalanx of flag bearers. The crowd's cheers reached a fever pitch as the Tag Team Champions, draped in their newly won gold, strutted their stuff. Seagal’s big pudding face was beaming with adoration as addressed the audience. "This victory is not just theirs," he declared, "it belongs to every single one of you!" We were getting bloody good at all this pageantry crap. The wrestling, not so much. But big, ridiculous fanfare and patriotic bulls*** was really becoming our hallmark. Just as the celebration reached its dizzying / nauseating peak, the iconic sound of a crow echoed through the arena. The lights dimmed. Sting, accompanied sheepishly by his pint-sized partner Darby Allin, made his usual dramatic entrance. The crafty old b*****d had our 3,393 fans in the palm of his hand. They swooned. Sting’s gaze was fixed on The Arrows. "Congratulations," he said with a sly little smile. "You beat us fair and square in the Tag Team Title Tournament grand finalé. Seems we overlooked you. We made the mistake of underestimating your considerable powers. We won't make that mistake again... next time." The crowd (of course) roared with approval as Sting continued, his tone shifting to one of righteous anger. "But Damien Black and his Dark Church Of Satan? They ruined your moment last week, and that doesn't sit right with me. They’ve been a danger to everyone since the moment they oozed their way into this place like some un-natural disease." The fans booed loudly at the mention of Black, their disdain clear. "The Dark Church is the biggest threat I've faced since the nWo, and I won't stand for it. They stand against everything that is righteous. They want to destroy all that is good. But my man Darby and I will not stand by and watch as they corrupt this place with their malevolent hatred for everything we hold dear. Black and his Church Of Satan must be stopped, whatever the cost!" Sting's declaration of war against the Dark Church electrified the crowd. His call to arms was as epic and inspiring as that of history's greatest leaders – he was like George Washington, Winston Churchill, Julius Caesar, Alexander The Great and Optimus Prime all rolled into one. "Tonight, I have a match with my old friend Goldberg, to cement my position as #1 contender to the World Title" he announced, "and then Dragunov better watch out!" The mention of our cherished champion brought a spontaneous standing ovation from the crowd. “And then once I am champion, I will be in the perfect position to lead the battle against The Dark Church Of Satan, fighting for the glory and virtue of us all!” Our death trap of an arena's atmosphere somehow got even spicier as ‘the living embodiment of Russia’s glorious, virtuous struggle’ Ilja Dragunov trudged to the ring, the title slung over his shoulder and the weight of the world's biggest, most ridiculous nation on his back. Moments later he was locking eyes with Sting in a tense staredown, because that’s what champions do. The two titans exchanged glares. Seagal stepped back, smugly letting the moment speak for itself. The fans, overwhelmed with emotion and patriotism, chanted for both, their support unwavering. The celebration, initially meant to honour The Arrows Of Russia, had evolved into a rallying cry against the Dark Church Of Satan, and then somehow morphed into placing the lips of a nation firmly onto Sting and Dragunov’s arses. This would have been the ideal moment of the other half of tonight’s surely epic main event, Bill Goldberg, to charge his way into the scene. But he was nowhere to be seen, once again. It hardly mattered though as one of the most ridiculously patriotic segments in pro wrestling history drew to a close. It was quite the sight to see The Arrows Of Russia raise their titles high, Sting and Darby Allin stand like soldiers and the fans, united in their fervour, chant, "Russia! Russia!" with such rabid volume I’m surprised the rusty old roof of our abandoned power station venue didn’t collapse on us all. “This is gonna be a night to remember – a key moment in RFW history” stated our announcer Alex Kosolv nicely on cue. “And we’re only just getting started!” Commentator Rico Bushido added. With the cherry now nicely atop the proverbial cake, we faded out to commercial. Angle Rating: 65. When we returned, the Arrows Of Russia, Sting, Allin, Seagal and Dragunov were somehow still in the ring, thanks to Khabarovsk’s overbearing butthole of a mayor Aleksandr Sokolov invading proceedings to present our ‘fine, masculine warriors’ each with the Order Of Lenin or some other random, ridiculous tinpot trinket. Fortunately this inane, self-serving publicity stunt was soon interrupted. ‘666’ by Rotting Christ boomed so loudly the walls of our Chernobyl-esque arena literally shook from all the vibration. Damien Black and his Dark Church stepped out through a sea of smoke and sparks, resplendent in all their Satanic majesty, scaring the crap out of everyone in the process. Even through their spooky-ass devil masks you could tell they weren’t happy. Sting had called the whole of RFW to war against our malevolent, supernatural invaders just minutes earlier. Naturally, Damien and his haunted henchmen were here to let us all know they were really not okay with it. Seagal quickly ushered everyone out of the ring, to the safety of backstage, before anybody could be set on fire. Black and his acolytes laughed victoriously as they fled. And then, just to turn up the spookyness a notch even further, this happened: “AAAGH! Why are his eyes glowing! This is some scary, supernatural stuff here! I don’t like it! Aaaaaggghhh!” Rico Bushido was freaking out again. “Can it, fool! You’re losing it again, like last time. Get a grip!” Roy Jones Jr was having none of it. “But it’s not natural! This is some creepy, dark magic, witchcraft stuff we’re witnessing!” Rico shrieked, his voice trembling. “What’s wrong with you?!” snapped Jones Jr. “Satan is here! In RFW! The devil is loose in Russia!” Bushido yelped like a kicked dog. Jones Jr sighed deeply and shook his head in disapproval. “Do I have to slap you again so you come back to your senses? I accidentally knocked your Swedish ass out last week.” Jones Jr said, raising a hand theatrically. Suddenly Bushido was very, very quiet. “Before you two big, rugged men start getting all handsy with each other, haven't you missed something? Have you noticed what’s different here?” Alex Koslov noted, trying to bring his broadcast team back to something other than the ridiculous. “There’s four of those guys now.” Our normally hot-tempered Moldovan was right. There were. The Dark Church did indeed have a new dude. Cue the usual massive speculation about who the mysterious fourth member was. “Look at who’s not here! Whoever is not here in front of us could be the new member!” Roy Jones Jr started making a checklist. He was panicking a little now too. “It could be anyone! How many of our number has that crooked, spooky SOB gotten his claws in to?! How many among us could be secretly part of this dark sect?! Nobody on our roster is safe!” Jones Jr was giving it the ‘big sell’ with all his might. “You guys should chill. You’ll do yourselves no good with all this fear and anxiety. Breathe through it. Allow the calming flows of the universe into your core” said Alex Koslov with a sudden wave of zen. “What the hell? How can you be so calm when all Hell is – literally – going on around us?” asked Jones Jr, stupefied. “Seagal gave me a pamphlet on relaxing meditative techniques. He mentioned I might be letting my anger get the better of me, what with me threatening to kill anyone who tried to touch our commentary table. We had a really good chat about Karmic forces and aligning Chi. I’m seeing life from a whole new aspect now. You guys should try it some time” said Koslov like some kind of trippy, new-age guru. Fortunately the demonic tones of Damien Black threw us back into focus. I’d decided to turn up the heat on this whole Satanic Panic programme. So we went big on this one. Black held up his end of the bargain, his voice dripping with malice as he delivered his lines like the snake in the Garden Of Eden. “Russia, land of the cowards who cower beneath the hollow gaze of a dead god! You, the trembling masses who kneel and pray, who cling to the rotting carcass of tradition, have lived in the shadow of lies for far too long!” Surprisingly enough, our fans didn’t like hearing that. The crowd were pissed at the guy before he even opened his mouth, but now their fury intensified. Our rusty metal mausoleum of a venue was now a sea of hostile faces and raised fists. Damien’s eyes gleamed with a sinister light, feeding off their hatred. He was loving this s***. “The Russian Orthodox Church, with its gaudy cathedrals and hollow hymns, is nothing more than a prison for your minds. You worship at the feet of false idols, blind to the truth that power lies not in submission, but in rebellion! The Dark Church of Satan declares war on your pathetic faith, on your entire existence!” To up the drama ever further, the followers of Damien Black – including our mysterious new fourth figure - began to chant in a guttural, demonic tongue, their voices blending into a single, terrifying hymn that seemed to make the very air in the arena grow colder. “To the people of Russia and the world, you who have shackled yourselves to the decrepit dogma of organised religion, hear this... we are the cleansing fire that will scorch the Earth of its delusions! We are the darkness that will consume your light! Your churches will crumble, your icons will burn, and your priests will fall silent!” The crowd’s rage reached a fever pitch around this point, some of our drunken / Lightning Bolt crazed fans even attempted to jump the guardrails. Lord knows what they were thinking – perhaps they were going to restore the honour of Mother Russia with their fists or something. Fortunately we had enough of Khabarovsk’s biggest, surliest off-duty riot cops moonlighting as our security to stop their silly macho s*** before it began. It was an impressive sight seeing the patriotic Neanderthals trying to storm the barricades like that. It was the biggest, most hate-filled emotional outpouring I’d seen since John Hennigan introduced the world to Gerald The Dog. Damien saw he was getting under their skin. He liked it. “Your God is dead! Your prayers are whispers into the void! And we, the Dark Church of Satan, are the harbingers of a new order! We will cauterize the wound of your existence, purge the world of your lies, and from the ashes of your faith, a new truth will rise. One forged in blood, darkness, and unyielding power!” Damien raised his arms, and his followers fall to their knees, chanting his name. Spooky music played on cue. A dozen or so black-market-bought smoke machines did their thing. There was even a gong. “We are the nightmare you cannot escape. We are the darkness you cannot avoid. For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness. Russia, the world, brace yourselves for the reckoning. For the Dark Church of Satan is here, and we will show no mercy!” The lights began to flicker on and off, which combined with all the smoke, flames, chanting and all the other spooky s*** we had going on, did a delightful job of scaring all the kids in the crowd s***less. It looked great, even if this last special effect was literally just me stood in the back, randomly flicking the light switch on and off again. “And now, to the so-called heroes, Sting and Darby Allin, who dare to stand against us, who fancy themselves saviours in this infernal crusade. Your declarations of war mean nothing! You are but insects to be crushed beneath the heel of our dark dominion. Your resistance will be fleeting, your efforts in vain.” The crowd’s chants for Sting and Darby Allin barely audible over the storm of boos and curses. Damien Black relished their anger. “You, Sting, with your painted face and hollow bravado, and you, Darby Allin, with your reckless defiance, are mere collateral damage in our grand design. Those who rally to your cause, who dare to stand against the Dark Church, will be swept away like the ashes of the heretics they are. Just like the Viking Raiders, just like FTR, anyone who stands against us will be sent into the abyss, never to be seen again. You will all be obliterated! This is your final warning. The age of light is over. The reign of darkness has begun. Prepare yourselves for oblivion!” The lights cut out once more, leaving the arena in pitch-black silence, broken only by the echo of Damien’s malevolent laughter and the pissed off roars of the crowd. “The Dark Church of Satan has declared its unholy war, and the world will never be the same!” Rico Bushido summarised rather nicely, his voice shaking with emotion. “Are... are you crying?! What the actual hell man?! I thought you were a martial arts expert or something. Has all this spooky, carnival-ass Halloween crap scared you that badly?!” Shouted Jones Jr, ready to get slapping some sense into his colleague again. “I think both of you need a pamphlet from Seagal!” Koslov laughed as we cut to another commercial. Angle Rating: 57. Scotty 2 Hotty (with Rikishi) vs Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov Wow. This match sucked. Compared to all the huge, epic-scaled feeling of all that’d come before it, this crappy match fizzled, frothed and stank like a turd in a microwave. All that momentum we’d built fell to the ground and crashed and burned like a Russian warplane falling out of the Ukranian sky. But that’s what you get when your booker is a halfwit. Scotty’s open challenge was answered by Ivan Markov. For once Gerald wasn’t there to maim or discombobulate him, so he had the chance to show all of Russia what he can do, without the fear of being brutally murdered by a tiny canine. And it turns out he can do... not that much. Markov is every wrestling beefcake you’ve ever seen strut their stuff. His muscles are well-oiled, even if his wrestling skills aren’t. Man, this bout really, really, really sucked. Our former champion bodybuilder Markov won due to his physicality, athleticism and size advantage. The guy is huge. It was the power of baby oil and big sweaty biceps, versus the power of dance. It went about as well as you might imagine. Christ it sucked. Very, very, very badly. “Scotty did well out there, despite the loss” analysed Roy Jones Jr. “He really did well against a much larger guy. And to his eternal credit he kept Rikishi at ringside. This was a fair contest. I think we’re gonna see some good stuff from Scotty. He’s still got it. He just seemed a little rusty out there today. His timing was slightly off. As soon as he finds his rhythm again he’ll make a real impact.” I’m an optimist. It’s always been my policy to try and find some good in everything. And the only thing I can think of is how good Rikishi looked at ringside. The Hawaiian shirts the guy wore during his time as Scotty’s manager / bodyguard / mentor / buddy / valet / whatever, were nothing short of magnificent. Let’s move on. Before I cry. Match Rating: 30. Next was the second of our three epic video packages for our hopefully epic main event. This time we venture back to WCW Halloween Havoc, October 24, 1999 when 13,410 excitable fans bore witness to another chapter of the Goldberg vs Sting saga. We treated our fans to a showcase of highlights ripped straight from the WWE and shoved straight onto Russian screens with a screaming ‘f*** you’ to WWE’s brigade of whining lawyers. We didn’t even bother editing off the WWE logo in the top corner. What were Vince and Triple H going to do about it? March into Russia and give us a slap? This Halloween Havoc event came during a period of transition and turmoil for WCW, with the company struggling to maintain its foothold in the wrestling industry. Sting (who had turned heel earlier that year, for reasons unclear to anyone except writers who’d eaten cocaine for breakfast,) faced Goldberg in what was billed as another clash of titans. The match was critical for both men: for Sting, it was an opportunity to redefine his character and for Goldberg, a chance to reaffirm his dominance amid the shifting landscape of WCW. The match was fairly brutal by WCW standards - a stiff, hard-hitting contest that saw both men push their limits. Watching this reminded me of everything good about Goldberg - the intensity, the explosive speed – and made me mourn the haggard shell of a man we’d signed here in 2023 instead - an angry, cranky old husk that couldn’t be in the ring for more than six minutes without fainting from exhaustion. Sting’s heel persona brought a new level of aggression to his performance, while Goldberg’s relentless power was on full display. The match was shorter than their previous encounters but packed with intensity and high spots. The turning point came when Sting, after delivering a series of Stinger Splashes, was caught by Goldberg’s Spear out of nowhere, followed by the devastating Jackhammer for the pinfall victory. This match is remembered not only for the physicality and ferocity of the competitors but also for the storyline implications. It highlighted Goldberg’s resilience and continued to develop Sting’s darker, more ruthless character. Despite WCW’s decline into the dizzying, stupefying clown car shambles it would become, this match stood out as a memorable moment, capturing the essence of what made both Sting and Goldberg icons of their era. I was hoping and praying these two ageing legends would be able to turn back the clock and deliver a similar epic for us in our main event. Angle Rating: 84. This was the part of Episode 15 where suddenly everything went pink. Here in the Russian Federation Of Wrestling, that could only mean one of two things, either: 1. Dragan Spazic’s suit had finally become so dangerously, unfathomably pink it’d gone full supernova, causing the very fabric of our solar system to collapse upon itself, dooming us all, or 2. ‘The Fabulous’ John Hennigan and his fashioning followers The Style Squad where here. Fortunately for all of mankind, it’s 2. John Hennigan stands fuming, his pouty little face full of rage. He grabs a microphone and begins loudly complaining. “I know the Neanderthals of this country are behind the times, but I never realised what a retarded, emotionally stunted, rotting cesspool of hatred this country is. The malicious acts of violence perpetrated by the people of this stinking nation must not go unanswered!” Our shadowy overlords in The Ministry For Propaganda panicked. Was he about to talk about the war in Ukraine? Was he about to get political? Would they have to pull the plug on our broadcast and show Mikhail, Josef & The Dancing Bears instead? Fortunately for us all, ‘The Fabulous One’ didn't give a crap about any of that stuff. He just wanted to talk about Vladimir Kulakov kicking his dog instead. “This is an outrage! Gerald is not just a dog—he’s my spirit guide, my celestial guru! He should be treated like a deity! Kicking a deity must be punished!” Hennigan demands retribution, proclaiming the divine status of his pet with all his might. The lights in the arena dim, and the giant screen above the stage flickers to life, displaying a clip of the infamous moment from last week's match. Instead of showing the sympathy Hennigan wanted, however, the crowd erupts in laughter as they watch Vladimir Kulakov send Gerald, the vicious Bichon Frisé, flying through the air like a frisby. The footage loops repeatedly, each replay accompanied by Steven Seagal's booming laughter echoing through the arena. He watches it again and again. He just can’t get enough of this s***, and neither can our fans. “Seagal! You un-stylish baboon! I demand to know what action you’re going to take to absolve this outrage!” Snaps ‘The Fabulous One’, stomping his feet. His ‘Style Squad’ goons Bence Toth and Petr Tihanyi hiss angrily in agreement. “Hang on a minute, Johnny Boy. Let’s just all see that wonderful footage one more time” says our cheery Authority Figure, having the time of his life seeing Gerald go airborne then come crashing down to Earth like one of Elon Musk’s rockets. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” shrieks Hennigan, covering his eyes and ears like a frightened little child. “This outrage cannot go on! Give me Kulakov! Let me fight that monster! Let me defend the honour of my spiritual mentor!” Seagal’s voice interrupts, barely able to contain his amusement. “Sorry, John, but I’m afraid we’ve spent so much time enjoying that wonderful moment together, there simply isn’t time for retribution tonight. I know the news team are keen to show us all that delightful state dinner with me and Vladimir Putin and...” Hennigan, red with fury, turns to leave the ring in a tantrum. He’s so cross he’s trying hard not to cry. Suddenly, Edge and Vertigo emerge from the back, sporting comically oversized whiplash collars from their run-in with Kulakov last week. They hobble down to the ring, high-fiving each other enthusiastically. “Wow, these guys are really getting along!” shouts Jones Jr, barely containing his own laughter. “These guys have been having a real bromance since they crossed paths all those weeks ago. Everyone's noticed it” added Rico Bushido thoughtfully. Edge stops Hennigan in his tracks. “Not so fast, Hennigan! You flowery Style Squad dorks may have gotten the better of us in Episode 12, but tonight, we’re back, and you're not leaving Khabarovsk without our foot up your ass!” Vertigo nods vigorously beside him, the collar around his neck bouncing humorously with every movement. Before Edge can continue, Ivan Markov lumbers his massive, muscular frame into the ring. Seagal does not look happy as the big Russian lad in the tiny shorts snatches the mic and starts shouting. Maybe his win over Scotty 2 Hotty earlier gave him enough of a confidence boost to start yelling out demands. “This is so unfair!” He hollers like a child having a tantrum. “How come Kulakov gets to kick that yappy little dog thing and I don’t?! Me and that fluffy little turd have unfinished business!” pouted Markov. “You fiend!” shrieks Hennigan, recoiling in disgust and horror. His Style Squad cronies see this and copy him, adapting equally ridiculous poses of their own. “Prizes to Ivan there for completely missing the point" laughs our surprisingly chilled Alex Koslov on commentary. “Also, why’s he still wearing those tiny little shorts? Why’s he still prancing about half naked? He already wrestled tonight. Doesn’t he have some street clothes to change in to?!” He adds quizzically. “Maybe those are his street clothes?” suggests Bushido, painting a frightening image. Markov flexes his muscles, trying to look tough but wincing as Gerald’s bite marks from the previous encounter still sting. “And Style Squad, I’ve had enough of your little dog and your fancy clothes. It’s payback time!” Dragan Spazic joins them in the ring, because why the hell not – we’ve already got a thousand people in the ring shouting at each other, why not add another. Spazic, in his ever-flamboyant pink suit, strikes a dramatic pose. “Villain Enterprises! You’ve been a thorn in my side for weeks, but tonight, the tables turn. The Pink Tornado is coming for you!” He spins, making his suit sparkle under the arena lights. “The Pink Tornado?!” laughs Jones Jr. “Is that a new catch phrase? Is he seriously gonna start calling himself that now?!” says the former boxing supremo-turned-commentator. “Why not, it sounds cool” shrugs Bushido. “No, ‘the pink tornado’ is not cool, ‘the pink tornado’ sounds like a God-damn sex toy!” huffs Jones Jr, much to everyone’s amusement. As if on cue, Villain Enterprises make their entrance, Marty Scurll, Flip Gordon, and Brody King swaggering down the ramp. Scurll grabs a microphone, glaring at Spazic. “Spazic, you’ve caused us enough trouble, you ridiculous, gameshow-host-looking slag. Tonight, we end this!” Are you struggling to keep up with all this? Our viewers certainly were, and Seagal too. By now there were so many people in the ring it’s amazing it didn't collapse. Seagal, growing visibly tired of this endless parade of bulls***, sighs dramatically. “Oh great, more of you. Just what we needed,” he mutters into the microphone, earning a chuckle from the audience. “What’s with you guys all coming to the ring at the same time these days? I can’t go a single segment without fifteen dudes turning up and barking at me. Every time I walk out of my office there’s a dozen voices yapping at me. Have any of you guys ever watched WWE? You ever notice how things happen one at a time on their shows? Maybe you guys should take note” said Seagal, shaking his head in exasperation. “Let’s see if we can sort our all this drama once and for all. Edge. Vertigo. Spazic. Markov. All of you will settle your grievances right now against The Style Squad and Villain Enterprises! Someone ring the bell and get this nonsense over with” he commands, waving his mighty fist. Edge looks around, counting all the people in the ring one by one out loud like The Count from Sesame Street, before realising they’re outnumbered. “Guys, look around. There’s six of them and only four of us. Even with all of us working together, it’s not fair.” Seagal raises an eyebrow, clearly fed up with the ridiculousness of it all. “Fine, fine. You’re right. Four against six isn’t fair. But I have an idea to even the odds.” The crowd hushes, anticipation hanging thick in the air. With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Seagal gestures to the ramp. The dramatic music plays as the massive silhouette of ‘The Nightmare’ Vladimir Kulakov appears. The unstoppable monster strides down to the ring, absorbing the cheers and awe from the audience. “With Kulakov on your side, you can take on any number of opponents! There could be a thousand of these fools and it wouldn’t matter” Seagal declares, sounding more resigned than enthusiastic. Kulakov climbs into the ring, towering over everyone else. He glares at the Style Squad and Villain Enterprises, cracking his knuckles menacingly. The odds are even now, even if the numbers aren’t, and the excitement in the arena is electric. Edge, Vertigo, Markov, Spazic, and Kulakov stand united, a formidable (if random and vaguely ridiculous) team ready to face their enemies. Edge raises his microphone one last time, “Tonight, we end this feud once and for all. Style Squad, Villain Enterprises – get ready, because we’re coming for you!” The crowd erupts into deafening cheers as the heroes pose triumphantly. Seagal, shaking his head at the absurdity, can’t help but smile as he exits the stage, leaving the chaos behind. “I started The Russian Federation Of Wrestling as a festival of glorious combat” he says to himself in disbelief. “Now look at me, I'm the ringmaster in a God-damn circus” he sighs, as our commentator Alex Koslov hands him back his pamphlet on staying calm. Angle Rating: 56. Edge, Vertigo, Markov, Kulakov, Spazic vs Villain Enterprises & The Hennigan Style Squad Edge and Vertigo, mentor and protégé, stand ready for battle. It's all very epic. Edge, with his steely stare and huge intensity, looks every bit the warrior. His little buddy Klapstov follows suit, hunching over, ready to pounce, looking every bit... a guy stood next to a warrior. Marty Scurll steps up to face Edge, and the action begins with Edge effortlessly outmanoeuvring him, tossing him around like a ragdoll. Edge’s dropkick sends Scurll flying into his corner, and the audience erupts in laughter. The multi-time WWE World Champion is another level. He’s in the zone. Scurll, on the other hand, looks like he just crapped out his own heart. Vertigo blind tags himself in, buzzing with energy, wanting a piece of the action. He dazzles the crowd with a springboard Hurricanrana that leaves Scurll spinning. Frustrated, Scurll rakes Vertigo’s eyes – rather fitting for a guy calling himself ‘The Villain’ - and tags in Flip Gordon, who flips into the ring, immediately kicks the ex-hacker right in the nuts – another suitably Villainous move - then squashes him with his signature Standing Shooting Star Press. Edge rushes in to break the pin, leading to a brief but hilarious staredown between him and Flip, in which Edge locks on his ironclad death-state, and just like Scrull, Flip also looks like he just crapped out his own heart. Deciding to let one of the youngsters have their fun, the veteran Canadian gestures for the tag. Edge isn’t the legal man, but referee ‘Boris’ is too busy scratching his big Greek ass to notice. Enter Ivan Markov, looking particularly shiny having spent his time on the apron reapplying the baby oil after his match with Scotty earlier. Naturally, the big beefcake spends his time flexing for the audience rather than wrestling, before getting distracted by Hennigan’s Bichon Frisé, Gerald, who was busy getting a pedicure from his Style Squad underlings. Flip tries a Kurt Angle-esque Suplex on the massive Markov, but our strongman reverses it with a mighty gorilla press slam. The crowd roars as Gerald, the world’s most vicious pet, charges at Markov. Markov’s flailing attempts to escape the tiny terror were truly hilarious – his petrified screams unified everyone in laughter. Frustrated at having mot maimed anyone in nearly three whole minutes, ‘The Nightmare’ Vladimir Kulakov steps over the ropes, like a human tank ready for battle. Yes, Markov was meant to be the one in the ring, but he was busy at ringside being licked to death by a fluffy white pooch. Brody King unwisely charges at him but bounces off like a pinball. Hennigan’s goons Toth and Tihanyi try their luck with a double dropkick, but Kulakov absorbs the impact, shaking it off with a roar. The nonchalant way RFW’s pet maniac then headbutted King to the ground, then double Chokeslammed both the Style Squad sissies on top of him really made an impression. He’d just casually destroyed three men without even leaving his corner. Then, it’s Dragan Spazic’s turn. In his bright pink suit, he spins around, delivering exaggerated European uppercuts to King, followed by his flashy new ‘Pink Tornado’ spinning heel kick, which he insisted was now ‘his thing’ despite the whole locker room telling him it was stupid. The crowd loves it though, and Spazic plays it up, posing dramatically before Marty Scurll whacks him with the timekeeper’s bell, triggering the all-out brawl that everybody other than our startled referee had expected all along. The ring descends into chaos as Edge and Vertigo rush to help Spazic, and The Style Squad swarms them. Referee Boris throws his hands up in despair as the match spills out into the audience. Vertigo and Flip Gordon engage in a high-flying duel, using chairs and barricades as launchpads. Vertigo’s Moonsault off the railing flattens Flip and some unlucky off-duty riot squad security guards, drawing huge cheers from our fans and a big ol’ smile from me. Meanwhile, Markov somehow manages to pry the yapping menace Gerald off him and tumble away to safety, stumbling into the merchandise stand, where Scurll and King bombard him with foam fingers and replica belts. Markov, in a fit of comedic rage, flips the entire merchandise table onto them, sending action figures flying everywhere. Back near the ring, Spazic climbs onto the stage, posing before leaping off and flattening Hennigan, Tihanyi, and Toth. The fans are in hysterics as Spazic prances around in his bright pink suit, even mid-battle. There’s pink everywhere. It’s ludicrous. Kulakov and Edge double-team Brody King, hitting a Suplex that shakes the floor, right next to where our Authority Figure Steven Seagal is seated. He shakes his head, seemingly both despairing of yet amused by the random, haphazard sea of carnage that swarms around him like a roach outbreak. ‘Maybe one day a real, proper wrestling match will happen’ he seems to think to himself as he squeezes his Buddhist prayer beads so hard they crumble into powder. Hennigan sneaks cartoonishly back into the ring with his Style Squad, seeing a chance at revenge as ‘The Nightmare’ has his back turned, but they freeze comedically as Kulakov turns around. It’s like a scene from Scoobie Doo. Our sinister Russian paymasters must have been so very proud. Hennigan, still holding a grudge for Gerald, confronts Kulakov with Toth and Tihanyi backing him up. Referee ‘Boris’ screams at them, berating them for their foolishness, fearful of the spectacular triple murder that’s about to occur. But as Kulakov turns, Edge spears Toth out of his shoes, and Vertigo takes down Tihanyi with a tornado DDT. Kulakov then lackadaisically grabs ‘The Fabulous One’ hoists him effortlessly into the air, then Powerbombs Hennigan out of the ring, onto a hot dog cart, which explodes dramatically on impact, ketchup and mustard flying everywhere. The brawl continues, with Edge and Vertigo rallying their team. Spazic grabs a microphone, leading the crowd in a chant as Markov, still dodging Gerald, climbs onto the announcer’s table, shrieking like a frightened child as he tries to evade the most lethal fangs in wrestling. Spazic distracts Gerald with a plush toy, allowing Markov to finally regain his composure, and set about the important business of Brainbustering Marty Scurll onto a pile of steel chairs. Sadly all good things must come to an end, even vast, chaotic yet highly entertaining shambles such as this. The grand finale, such as it was, sees Edge and Vertigo double-teaming Flip Gordon. Edge spears Flip, and Vertigo follows up with a dazzling Salto Splash. The crowd counts along as ‘Boris’ puts down his black market cigarettes long enough to make the three-count, and the heroes are victorious. Celebration erupts as this mish-mash, random-ass team of Edge, Vertigo, Markov, Kulakov, and Spazic bask in their win. Villain Enterprises and The Style Squad retreat, defeated and plotting their next move. Edge and Vertigo share a heartfelt moment, the mentor proud of his protégé, their bromance continuing. As we fade out to one of Putin’s patriotic newsflashes, we leave with a lovely, wholesome shot with the heroes posing for the adoring crowd. “That was fun!” Hollers Roy Jones Jr with a smile. “Big, goofy, random, occasionally stupid, but definitely fun” added Rico Bushido. “I do get the sneaking suspicion this isn’t over yet” warned Alex Koslov, as we faded out to black. Match Rating: 60. Up next was a nice little video package recorded earlier in the week. In the heart of downtown Khabarovsk, the Russian Federation of Wrestling pulled out all the stops for a state-mandated bulls*** PR event orchestrated by the ever-enthusiastic Ministry for Propaganda. World Champion Ilja Dragunov, a grumpy-looking Steven Seagal, and former WWE superstar Bryan Daniels were out to meet the common people, spreading goodwill and all that crap. So many people turned up for our little shindig that a massive marquee / tent thingy had to be put up. It looked like a carnival or a circus. Little did we know it was about to turn into one. As the trio stepped out of a shabby old limousine, dragged out of storage and polished up for the occasion by the pissed off but obedient mayor Aleksandr Sokolov, Dragunov addressed the local media, who were delighted to be reporting on something other than riots and crackdown. “I’m looking forward to this. I’ve been feeling the pressure of being champion - the weight of all that pressure has been bringing me down. Meeting our wonderful, patriotic fans will be just the lift I’ve been needing” he said hopefully. His words were heartfelt, a glimpse into the burden he carried as a national symbol. Being an unwilling puppet for a maniacal, oppressive regime is even less fun than it sounds. Even our drunken fans had noticed how fried the poor little b*****d had been looking recently. Seagal, attempting to channel his former zen master persona, clapped Dragunov on the back. “Don’t worry, Ilja. And remember, smile. It’s all about the people today.” Bryan Daniels, with a cast on his wrist and a terrified look every time someone got near it, tried to muster enthusiasm. “Yeah, Ilja, lighten up! This is going to be fun. Look, they even brought snacks!” He pointed to a table laden with traditional Russian treats, clearly trying to lift Dragunov’s spirits. “I’ve no idea what any of this weird-looking crap is, but I bet it’s tasty” he said, his tone almost aggressively happy. The guy clearly had the munchies. Despite the façade of celebration, Dragunov looked like a frightened child who wanted to run away. His escape, however, was blocked by an array of big, bulky FSB (KGB) suits chaperoning the event, ensuring no one could slip away unnoticed. Word was they were here for our star’s protection, but everyone knew that was obviously bulls***. The event kicked off with a meet-and-greet, and the first fan to approach Dragunov set the tone for the bizarre day. A burly farmer, clutching a barbell, beamed at Dragunov. “I sold my horse and tractor to buy weightlifting equipment so I could be strong like you!” Dragunov’s eyes widened in horror. “I never asked you to” he said, clearly freaked out by the stalker-ish level of dedication. Daniels exchanged amused glances with the camera-man, trying to stifle his laughter. He was hopped up on painkillers after his recent operation to put a scary-looking pin in his broken wrist. Seagal looked like he was one Karmic mis-step away from throat-punching the guy. Next up was a surprisingly hairy, dumpy-looking middle-aged woman who seemed a little too excited. “I saw you on TV and knew I needed a wrestler in my life!” she shrieked. “I divorced my husband just so I could meet you and start our romance!” Everyone stopped for a second to see if this was some kind of weird joke. But by God it wasn’t. Dragunov took a step back, visibly scared. “You don’t need a wrestler, you need a psychiatrist,” he retorted, his voice a mix of fear and disbelief. Daniels nearly doubled over with laughter while Seagal rolled his eyes. “Why didn’t you bring your World Title belt? We wanted to see the gold!” Yelled some croaky-voiced Neanderthal from the back. “Because I was scared one of you crazy people would steal it and sell the damn thing on eBay!” Dragunov hollered back. The room burst into laughter, but our champion sure as hell wasn't joking. The poor guy looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him up. To be fair to him, the Russian Federation Of Wrestling’s fans were anything but normal. I met them. They’re horrifying. The pièce de résistance was a burly man who turned around to reveal a life-sized tattoo of Dragunov covering his entire back and most of his arse. “This is my tribute to you, Ilja!” he proclaimed proudly. Dragunov’s face turned a shade of pale no one had seen before. He managed a weak smile, clearly trying to be polite but visibly horrified. “Um, wow. That’s... dedication,” he stammered, looking like he wanted to bolt out of the event like the room was on fire. As if things couldn’t get any weirder, a man dressed as a giant bear approached, growling and lumbering toward the trio. Dragunov tensed, but Seagal patted him reassuringly. “It’s just a costume, Ilja.” Then the weird costumed b*****d started growling. “Raaarrrhhhhh! Look! I’m the bear that ate Sergey Belyev! Raaaarrrrh!” Ilja stared accusingly at the big furry freak. He didn’t know whether to run for his life or punch the b*****d. Just to add an extra layer to all the crazy, the bear man then thrust a bouquet of flowers at Dragunov. “These are for you, my hero!” he declared in a muffled voice. It amused me how all the FSB suits working ‘security’ that day saw a dude in an 8ft bear suit growling at everyone, and not only thought this perfectly normal, but that the dude should be let in. Dragunov accepted the flowers with a forced smile, whispering to Seagal, “I want to go home.” Our Authority Figure adopted a calm, fatherly tone. “No. We talked about this” he said, gripping Dragunov by the arm with a force that made our fighting champion shriek. “I bet John Cena never had to deal with crazy stuff like this” sulked Ilja. “Actually, he did” chimed in Daniels with an absent, goofy smile. The next fan was an elderly woman who had apparently walked over 50 miles just to see Dragunov. “I baked you something, Ilja! I hope you like pickled herring and beetroot!” she beamed, holding out a somewhat lopsided... something. It had raisins on top. Or what we all hoped were raisins anyway. Daniels looked at the cake and then at Dragunov, his eyes wide with mock terror. “Please tell me you’re not going to eat that.” Dragunov tried to politely decline, but the woman looked so heartbroken that he took a small bite. His grimace was barely concealed as he mumbled, “Delicious” he lied, trying to swallow the terrible concoction without shooting puke everywhere. Seagal, sensing his protégé was a fan encounter or two away from s***ting his pants on live television, stepped in. “Alright, folks, let’s give Ilja some space. He’s had enough excitement for one day.” He guided Dragunov away from the crowd, who were now swarming around the glassy-eyed Daniels for selfies and autographs. Daniels, trying frantically to shield his broken wrist from overly enthusiastic fans, looked increasingly panicked. “Hey, Ilja, look on the bright side. You’ve got fans who would literally give up everything for you. That’s pretty impressive.” Dragunov couldn’t help but smile a little, despite himself. “Yeah, I guess. It’s just... overwhelming.” Suddenly, a commotion erupted from the far end of the crowd. A small child had somehow managed to climb on top of the big, weird tent / marquee thing we were in, and it was swaying dangerously. Seagal’s zen master façade dropped entirely as he barked orders at the FSB agents to get the child down. Before anyone could react, the tent collapsed in a spectacular fashion, sending the child tumbling safely into a pile of plush toys. The crowd gasped, and Seagal’s patience finally snapped. “Alright, that’s it! Event’s over! Everyone go home!” The FSB agents hurriedly started dispersing the crowd while Dragunov, Daniels, and Seagal made a hasty retreat to the old limousine. As they sped away, Dragunov sighed with relief. “Thank you, Steven. I... I... couldn’t take another minute of that.” Seagal, his face a mixture of frustration and bemusement, shook his head. “Next time, Ilja, we’ll do this somewhere safer. Like a padded room.” Daniels laughed, holding his cast protectively, his eyes still not quite pointing in the same direction. “Yeah, with no cake and no bear costumes.” With that, they drove off into the Khabarovsk night, ready to face whatever strange adventures the RFW had in store for them next. Angle Rating: 84. We cut back to RFW in the present, and we’re backstage, our camera guys having walked in on a confrontation between the newly-christened ‘Pink Tornado’ Dragan Spazic and Villain Enterprises. Tempers were running hot after the big brawly match-up thingy earlier. The air was thick with tension and macho bulls*** in equal measure. “Oi, Dragan,” Scurll snarled, his thick Cockney accent slicing through the air. “You’ve been a right pain in the backside, mate. You messed with the wrong lads, you big silky pink-suited tart. It’s time for a reckoning!” Spazic, rather than looking scared, just looked confused. “What the hell was that? I’m fluent in English and about half a dozen other languages but... I don't even know what that was. Speak English you big silly man-bitch!” Scurll sneered, his top knot bobbing with his indignation. “You think you’re funny, do ya? With your ridiculous pink suit and your fancy moves. Bet you couldn’t even tie your own laces without help.” Spazic laughed, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, please. Look at you with that ridiculous top knot. What are you, a samurai or just late to a hipster party? You look ridiculous. Do you even own a comb, or do you just use a garden rake?” Scurll looked cross. “You just wish you had hair like mine, you weird, gimpy Russian prick” he fired back, spit flying in rage. “I have got hair like yours... just not on my head” replied Spazic. Scurll’s face turned red, but his accent made his retort almost unintelligible. “You wha’?! You’re all mouth and no trousers, mate. I’ll knock you so hard, you’ll think you’re back in preschool!” Spazic leaned in, cupping his ear theatrically. “I’m sorry, did anyone catch that? Could someone translate Cockney to Russian for me? Honestly, Marty, I can’t understand a word.” The confusion boiled over into frustration for Scurll. “You wot, mate? You big, silly ponce, I’ll...” “That’s it,” Spazic interrupted, throwing his hands up. “I give up.” With a swift punch, he clocked Scurll right in the jaw, triggering another ridiculous RFW brawl, right on cue. Villain Enterprises quickly swarmed Spazic, pummeling him with punches and kicks. Brody King and Flip Gordon held Spazic down while Scurll landed a series of vicious strikes, their teamwork overwhelming the flamboyant wrestler. “Your stupid pink suit won’t save you now!” Yelled Brody King in a moment of improvised dialogue that nobody in the whole of wrestling can make sense of, even to this day. Just when it seemed like Spazic was done for, a blur of muscle and confusion barreled into the scene. Ivan Markov, bizarrely still wearing nothing but his tiny wrestling shorts despite his matches having finished ages ago, charged in to protect his comrade. “Leave Spazic alone!” he roared, fists already swinging. The backstage area erupted into chaos as Markov’s wild punches knocked over catering tables and scattered food everywhere. He grabbed Gordon and flung him into a stack of conveniently placed packing crates, sending splintering wood flying. King and Scurll tried to double-team Markov, but the big man’s raw strength and slippery, baby oil-covered body kept them from grabbing hold. Scurll, caught in a headlock by Markov, sputtered, “Oi, you daft git! Let go, you big, stupid Russian tit! This is none of your bee’s wax!” The former bodybuilder tried to comprehend the meaning of these strange words and blew a short circuit. Angered and confused by the bizarre noises coming at him, he squeezed on the headlock even harder. “Don’t worry, Dragan, I’m here!” Markov shouted, still somewhat bewildered but undeniably determined. The brawl surged through the backstage area, knocking over anything and everything in its path. They crashed through a storage area, sending steel chairs clattering and boxes flying. Spazic was Suplexed with a satisfying thud into the side of a massive vending machine, sending cans of Lightning Bolt energy drink shooting everywhere. Naturally our athletes began pelting each other with them – it was the only logical thing to do in the situation. Scurll let out a harrowing squeal as the frothy, un-natural, illuminous liquid got sprayed right into his eyes. Within seconds the whole top half of his face was purple. As to why there was a giant vending machine full of fizzy drinks deep within the catacombs of this old, abandoned power station venue remains a mystery. Edge and Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov stormed onto the scene for reasons never fully explained. “Hey! Get your hands off our friend!” Edge shouted, diving into the brawl with his geeky protégé Vertigo right behind him. It made no sense really – Spazic, Markov and Edge had no history going into this at all, other than having teamed earlier. But hey, this is wrestling, just go with it. Klapstov fought like he had something to prove, his agility on full display as he bounced off walls and equipment crates, his movements a blur. Maybe he’d frequented that Lightning Bolt vending machine earlier, but whatever had energised him, he was hopping about like a crack-addled Energizer Bunny. Edge on the other hand showed his maturity with a calmer approach. It was satisfying to see an old expert at work as he casually detached the vending machine door and began spanking The Villains with it one by one. The door made a really pleasing ‘thwack’ sound with every buttock it destroyed. Seeing the grizzly Canadian veteran pummelling the three younger men without even having to unbutton his jacket was a sight to remember. Their petrified screams brought a big, genuine smile to his face. It was great to see someone taking such pride in their work. The brawl continued to tear through the backstage area, the combatants stumbling and grappling their way through various rooms of this spooky, desolate, Chernobyl-like venue until they – naturally - burst into The Style Squad’s dressing room/salon with a deafening crash. Hennigan shrieked in horror as a chair flew past his perfectly coiffed hair. “My salon! Do you know how long it takes to get these feathers just right?!” The man got emotional. There were tears of horror. There were tears of rage. There were tears of everything, really. Hennigan’s fashion guru goons Bence Toth and Petr Tihanyi darted around, trying to save their precious styling equipment. “Watch the curling irons!” Toth cried, dodging a flung water bottle. “Not the hair dryer!” Tihanyi wailed as Brody King inadvertently crushed it under his massive boot. Scurll, caught in a headlock by Edge, tried to find humor in the situation. “Guess we’ll be needing a makeover after this, eh boys?” Markov, in his usual state of confusion, accidentally smashed a mirror with an errant punch. “Oops, sorry!” ‘The Fabulous One’ did not take kindly to this, responding in the only way wrestlers know how: by Dropkicking the big Russian right in the face. Stumbling backwards, the former bodybuilder instinctively failed out an arm, grasping for balance, but accidentally hit the fancy crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It made a magnificent sound as it hit the floor, exploded, and sent tiny bits of glass everywhere. Glistening under the lights of our camera crew, the whole place sparkled like glitter. As the brawl continued to tear through the salon, Hennigan’s screeches grew louder with every shattered bottle of hair gel and every broken brush. “Do you have any idea how expensive this equipment is?!” This rather wonderful (and rather ridiculous) chaos finally reached a fever pitch when Spazic, in a burst of flamboyant strength, lifted Flip Gordon and tossed him into a shelf of hairspray cans, which promptly exploded in a cloud of chemical mist. “That’s it! Everyone out!” Hennigan screamed, his face red with fury as he tried to salvage what was left of his ruined sanctuary. Of course, nobody listened, especially Edge who was having great fun trying to slice off Marty Scurll’s ridiculous top knot hairstyle with a pair of dog grooming scissors he’d found. “Enough! Enough, you lumbering, fiendishly un-stylish beasts! Leave right now... or I’ll set Gerald on you!” Immediately the carnage stopped. The room fell silent. Everybody froze. A tiny, pissed-off yapping could be heard coming from inside one of Hennigan's many flamboyantly plumed coats. The speed at which they all ran for their lives should’ve surely been worthy of a Guinness World Record. After everybody left, the once pristine salon was suddenly almost silent and in utter shambles. The only sound remaining was the noise of ‘The Fabulous’ Hennigan clutching the remnants of his ruined feather-covered coat, tears of rage and frustration streaming down his face. We cut to commercial with him cradling that ridiculous jacket in his arms like a dying lover, and sound of 3,393 fans laughing their asses off. Angle Rating: 61. Next up was our third nostalgic video package to hype our main event between Sting and Goldberg. We’d wanted to highlight the magic of the past and draw a direct line to the special attraction bout we had on offer. The video aimed to remind fans of a time when these titans clashed, bringing their unmatched charisma and prowess to the ring, even as the company around them faltered, spluttered, coughed, heaved, puked all over itself and s*** itself into creative oblivion. I sound like I’m being cynical and harsh, but I’m not. WCW fans will remember what a circus the company was by that point. It wasn’t a wrestling promotion any more – it was an acid trip. And a bad one at that. The setting was WCW Thunder on May 24, 2000. The attendance was a modest 6,000, a far cry from the packed stadiums of WCW’s glory days. Viewership had dwindled to about 1.2 million worldwide, a sobering reminder of the decline. WCW wasn’t totally screwed by this point – there were still a few dwindling sparks of what was the old flame that lit up wrestling. Embers still glowed. But by God people were working hard behind the scenes to smother that fire out. By this time, WCW was in its death throes, a company marred by chaotic booking, backstage drama, and a series of baffling decisions that made the Titanic look like a well-executed cruise. The culprits behind this downfall were many, from Vince Russo’s convoluted storylines to Eric Bischoff’s hubris and corporate meddling by Turner executives. They ruined something great, turning a once-mighty empire into a laughingstock. In the midst of this chaos, Sting and Goldberg faced off for what would be their final notable match – until Putin's millions dragged their asses across the ocean to Russia for one last grand ‘hurrah’. Even as WCW was grasping for relevance, these two legends brought a rare diamond of a match to the ring, attempting to rekindle the magic of the company’s heyday. Sting, the enigmatic warrior with his face painted for battle, had been entangled in a storyline filled with betrayals and alliances, maintaining his vigilante persona. Goldberg, still wielding his “Who’s Next?” catchphrase, was cast as the unstoppable force, although by this time, his character had suffered from poor booking and inconsistent storytelling. The creative team had turned him heel and then back to face in a confusing mess that did nothing but dilute his once fierce aura. Even Goldberg himself didn’t seem to know what the hell was going on any more by this point. This bout was meant to be a glimmer of hope, a chance to remind everyone of the glory days when WCW wasn’t just flailing in the ratings but actually competing. Despite the turmoil behind the scenes, Sting and Goldberg delivered a compelling performance. Sting’s technical prowess and experience shone through as he attempted to outmaneuver Goldberg’s raw power and intensity. The crowd, though smaller than in the past, was fervent and roared when Sting locked in his Scorpion Death Lock, only for Goldberg to muscle out of it like a comic book hero busting out of chains. It was fun, a reminder of what WCW could achieve when it wasn’t running toward the cliff-edge like a startled lemming. Then, true to form for WCW at the time, the finish was marred by interference. Other wrestlers barged in, turning what could have been a classic into a no-contest mess. It was a fitting metaphor for WCW itself - brimming with potential but constantly sabotaged by baffling decisions. This match ended in disarray, another casualty of WCW’s inability to get out of its own way. Looking back, this match on Thunder was a bittersweet reminder of WCW’s once-great potential. Sting and Goldberg’s really did try their best, yet they were swimming against a tide of incompetence, ultimately drowning in the stinking crap-water of the company’s bulls***. The legacy of this match wasn’t just in the moves executed or the crowd’s reactions, but in the stark reminder of what WCW could have been if it hadn’t driven itself into a wall like a crash test dummy. Naturally our editing guys still made it look like the bout of the century. We had all the dramatic music, slow-motion, all that crap – all designed to get the Russian nation's mouths watering for our own fourth instalment of what we assured people was an epic saga. We hoped to reignite the flames of this ‘clash of legends’ - this video package was our tribute. We aimed for our main event to ‘shine with the brilliance of WCW’s golden years’, rather than descending into the tragic circus it became. We wanted the fireworks between these two titans, Sting and Goldberg, to illuminate all of Russia. I mean, we can dream, right? Angle Rating: 83. The Arrows Of Russia (Icarus & Dover) vs The Russian A-Team (Alen Khubulov & Andrei Arlovski) In the midst of the chaos and nonsense that’d called itself Episode 15 so far, we decided to treat our loyal, noisy fans to the inaugural defence of the newly crowned Tag Team Champions. The Arrows of Russia squared off against the formidable Russian A-Team. I’d come up with that name as a joke, given that both guys – Alen and Andrei – had names beginning with A. I clearly wasn’t being serious. It was so obvious I was taking the piss that anyone other than the most heavily lobotomised of retards would have been able to tell I was kidding. But then our marketing team got really giddy about it, and before I knew what was happening t-shirts were being printed with that awful name on it, by the thousand. So yeah, welcome to ‘The Russian A-Team’ everyone, comprising of UFC star Andrei Arlovski and Russian National Wrestling Champion Alen Khubulov. Two grapplers teaming together. Both with similar legit fighting backgrounds. You’d think they’d have a lot in common and get along, right? There was lots of speculation before the show aired about whether these two would be able to put their feud behind them and team together. That was clearly what Seagal had hoped for when putting these two knuckleheads together anyway. The lure of Tag Team gold and a place in the RFW history books would be enough for any normal people to set their differences aside. But this is Russia, and nobody is normal here. As the Arrows of Russia made their grand entrance, you could could right away they were on the same page. Icarus and Dover are known for their seamless teamwork and devastating double-team new finisher, The Doom Shot. They were determined to show why they were the rightful champions – a common goal drawing them together. It was a clash of opposites, let’s just say that. The match kicked off with Icarus facing Khubulov. Immediately, Khubulov’s technical expertise was evident as he locked Icarus in a series of grapples and takedowns that looked like he was legitimately trying to kill the poor b*****d. However, Icarus’s agility allowed him to escape and counter with a lightning-fast Hurricanrana, sending Khubulov sprawling. Our motley crew of commentators Roy Jones Jr, Rico Bushido, and Alex Koslov were reminiscing about the days when the Arrows of Russia served as bodyguards for Khubulov and Arlovski during their injuries and the looming threat from Tamerlan Rasuev. “Whatever happened to that guy?” wondered Bushido. “He’s in Kazakhstan with a foot up his ass” said Jones Jr matter-of-factly. When Arlovski tagged in, he immediately made his presence felt with a barrage of powerful strikes. His MMA background was evident as he cornered Icarus with a series of punches and knee strikes, almost decapitating the poor Hungarian Russian and having great fun doing so. But Icarus managed to slip away, tagging in Dover, who charged in with a vengeance. Dover’s entrance was like a hurricane, utilizing his strength and technical skills to take on Arlovski. ‘The Pitbull’ tried to lock in a submission hold, but Dover countered with an impressive Snap Suplex, followed by a quick tag to Icarus. The Arrows of Russia executed their signature Doom Shot, drawing gasps from the audience as they demonstrated their flawless teamwork. The so-called A-Team should’ve taken note. The uneasy alliance of the began to show cracks. Khubulov and Arlovski’s thinly veiled hatred for each other became apparent as they started bickering over missed opportunities and failed tags. Koslov couldn’t help but point out, “These guys are incredible athletes, but they just can’t seem to get on the same page. They should read one of Seagal’s pamphlets on guided breathing. Inner peace is what these guys need. Their Chi is totally off-kilter” said our blissful Moldovan, unleashing his inner hippy. “You could drop a ton of those leaflets on these two and it wouldn't help. Besides, Seagal’s looking anything other than peaceful himself right now” commented Jones Jr. He was right. Steven Seagal, the zen master turned exasperated babysitter, was at ringside desperately wishing everyone could just get along. He'd turned up to oversee this one hoping for ‘a show of unity under Russia’. He ended up feeling more like a babysitter in a creche full of hyperactive kids. He tried his best to stay calm, to ride the celestial waves. But his attempts to meditate through the chaos were thwarted by the never-ending bickering unfolding in the ring. The breaking point came when Khubulov, frustrated with Arlovski’s approach, shoved him aside to take control. Arlovski, not one to back down, retaliated with a shove of his own, leading to a big, angry, sweaty shouting match. It was a glorious display of macho bulls***. The Arrows of Russia seized this opportunity, with Icarus hitting a stunning springboard dropkick that sent Arlovski tumbling ass-first out of the ring. The former UFC Champion hit the guardrail hard and was out cold. With Khubulov isolated, Dover capitalized on the chaos, applying a series of technical holds to try and wear him down. When those didn’t work, a big kick to the d*** did the trick instead. The crowd was on the edge of their seats as Dover locked in his finishing move, a modified Crossface called the ‘Crossfire’ (a much better name than that ‘Doom Shot’ bulls*** we came up with), cinching it in tightly. Khubulov, despite his best efforts, was unable to escape and was forced to tap out. It was a big humiliation for the former Russian National Wrestling Champion, being made to submit like that. He was furious and wanted someone to blame / shout at / strangle. Naturally his new tag partner would have to be the one, once Arlovski woke up from his unconscious slumber at ringside. The arena erupted in cheers as the Arrows of Russia celebrated their victory, their first successful defense of the Tag Team Championships. Their chemistry and teamwork had proven too much for the disjointed Russian A-Team. Roy Jones Jr. Summed it up perfectly, “The Arrows of Russia showed tonight why they’re the champions. It’s not just about individual talent, it’s about working together, and these guys have it down to a science.” Meanwhile, the defeated Russian A-Team continued their argument, each blaming the other for their loss. The tension between Arlovski and Khubulov hinted at a future showdown, but for tonight, the spotlight belonged to Icarus and Dover, the undisputed kings of the tag team division in the Russian Federation of Wrestling. Seagal, utterly exasperated, tried to mediate but eventually threw up his hands in defeat, muttering something about “children” and “nap time.” As the Arrows of Russia held their titles high, one thing was clear: in the unpredictable world of RFW, teamwork makes the dream work—or at least, it makes for one heck of an entertaining match. Match Rating: 56. Backstage, somewhere deep within the bowels of this rusty, spooky abandoned power station, we met some familiar faces. Steven Seagal’s office was, by some miracle of interior design, the most plush and luxurious space in the entire building. While the rest of the roster dealt with crumbling walls, flickering lights and an ambiance that made Chernobyl look like a lakeside holiday cottage by comparison, Seagal’s office was an oasis of decadence. Our kimono-wearing Authority Figure had really made himself feel at home. Plush Persian rugs adorned the floor, their intricate patterns silky and soft underfoot. Crystal chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, casting a warm, inviting glow. The walls were lined with mahogany bookshelves, filled with leather-bound tomes on martial arts and Eastern wisdom. A massive oak desk dominated the centre of the room, its surface immaculately polished and covered with prayer beads and pamphlets on meditative Karmic realignment. Overstuffed leather armchairs, the kind you could sink into and never want to leave, were strategically placed around a grand fireplace that roared with a fire that seemed almost too cozy for a wrestling venue, especially one as s***ty and dilapidated as this. There was an antique shelving unit filled entirely with Lightning Bolt energy drinks, in every horrifying flavour. Incense sticks in ornate holders released tendrils of smoke, filling the air with an overwhelming but somehow calming scent. A variety of meditative equipment was strewn about - singing bowls, Tibetan prayer flags, and even a gong that looked like it had been swiped from a Shaolin monastery. It was a setting fit for a king, or in this case, a zen master. Quite how such a luxurious environment was created deep within the confines of this rusty, creepy abandoned deathtrap of a venue remains a mystery. But this is Russia, I guess – anything is possible here. Our ponytailed Authority, who had been uncharacteristically pent up and angry due to all the shenanigans of the RFW, had finally found tranquility in this ridiculous oasis and managed to return to his old peaceful self. For now at least. Ilja Dragunov, the World Champion, sat on a silk-upholstered chaise-lounge recliner, a look of bewilderment still etched on his face as he took in the surroundings. Meanwhile, Seagal, his mentor and master, was meticulously polishing the title belt. The gleaming gold seemed almost too bright for the dimly lit corners of this plush office. In one of his rare moments of true serenity, the old Sensei offered his young protégé some sage advice. “Ilja, the path to greatness is paved with many battles. But remember, the true warrior fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.” Dragunov nodded, though the weight of his role as the nation’s figurehead was clearly pressing down on his shoulders. “Thank you. I love Russia. But recently this crazy country’s got me feeling like a little, tiny worm on a big God-damned hook” he said, his eyes distant, his face like that of a sad puppy dog. Seagal placed a comforting hand on Dragunov’s shoulder, his voice lowering to a whisper of wisdom. “When the storm passes, the warrior remains standing. You are that warrior, Ilja. Even when the winds howl and the thunder roars, you will stand.” Steven Seagal at his unscripted best, ladies and gentlemen. Before Dragunov could fully absorb these words of zen-like wisdom, the door to their quiet sanctuary burst open with a thunderous crash. In stormed Bill Goldberg, looking like he wanted to rip some b*****d’s throat out. His face was flushed, sweat dripping from every pore, and his eyes were wild with fury. He looked like he had just finished demolishing a brick wall with his bare hands. Knowing Goldberg as I did, that was a distinct possibility. His fists were clenched, his chest heaving as he glared at the two men. He was a man on a mission, and subtlety had never been his strong suit. The veins on his neck looked like they were about to burst. The intensity that had made him a household name in the wrestling world was on full display, turned up to eleven. And then, Goldberg’s gravelly voice cut through the tension like a knife... “Dragunov!!!” bellowed the spicy old goat at a volume that made all the prayer beads shake. “Last time you only beat me because your Daddy Seagal made me fight 5 opponents on the bounce just to get to you. He made me go through his messed-up Hell Gauntlet, reduced me physically to a burned out husk before I could get my hands on you. But I’m back to full power now. This time I only gotta crush one guy then I get to crush you. There’s no silly games that can stop me now, silly little Russian bitch-man! Your poppa Seagal can’t protect you – it’s gonna be Jackhammer! BANG! One! Two! Three! New champion!” He punched the door frame for emphasis. The whole room shook. I’m surprised part of the ceiling didn’t collapse. The big, angry, bright red American then stormed off in a ridiculous pissy-fit before anyone could reply. There was a shocked, stunned silence for a couple of seconds, then a collective round of shrugs. “Well, it was nice of him to let us know his strategy in advance, I guess” said Dragunov with a bewildered expression. He stroked that hideous, whispy little beard of his contemplatively. Seagal just laughed. “We already knew, Kohai. It’s the only strategy the man has” he replied with something that may have been a smile – it was hard to tell. The two then shrugged again and got back to their important polishing, as the scene faded to black. Angle Rating: 81. Bill Goldberg vs 'The Icon' Sting - 'The Clash Of Legends' - Winner Is #1 Contender To The RFW World Title I could write forever about this one. But I thought it best to let my new buddy Dave Meltzer do his thing instead... In an era where professional wrestling has often been mired in mediocrity, the Russian Federation Of Wrestling (RFW) managed to create an event that piqued the curiosity of the wrestling world. On a night where the impossible seemed within reach, two icons of wrestling, Sting and Goldberg, took center stage for what was billed as the biggest and most important bout of the 21st century. The venue: Khabarovsk. The stakes: legacy. The outcome: a night that would be remembered for both its grandeur and its bittersweet reality. It was surprising that an unprestigious company like the RFW could pull off a main event of this scale. However, anything is possible with the full financial weight of the entire Russian state at your back. The lavish production and massive promotion underscored the unscrupulous blood-money that made this spectacle possible. While fans from around the world couldn’t ascend upon Khabarovsk due to Russia’s closed state, the event still managed to draw a new worldwide audience. Many fans who would previously not have watched due to being put off by Putin’s unpopular and disastrous war with Ukraine tuned in, intrigued by the historic significance of the match. Sting and Goldberg, two names synonymous with wrestling greatness, have a storied history that dates back to their days in WCW. “The Icon” Sting and Goldberg, the indomitable powerhouse, were pivotal figures in WCW’s rise during the Monday Night Wars. Their careers, however, took divergent paths with the downfall of WCW. While Sting continued to evolve and adapt, Goldberg’s rigid adherence to his old-school methods left him struggling to keep pace in a rapidly changing wrestling landscape. The epic rivalry that could have defined an era was cut short by WCW’s demise. WCW’s mismanagement and internal conflicts robbed fans of a potential series of matches that would have seen these titans clash repeatedly. WCW ate itself from the inside, plagued by poor creative decisions, over-reliance on aging stars, and backstage politics that crippled its potential. Misguided storylines, such as the infamous “Fingerpoke of Doom” and the overuse of factions like the nWo, alienated fans. Vince Russo’s tenure, marked by “crash TV” and incoherent story arcs, further accelerated the company’s decline. By 2000, WCW was a shadow of its former self, and the AOL-Time Warner merger sealed its fate. The company that had once been a legitimate competitor to WWE was sold to Vince McMahon, ending an era in professional wrestling. After WCW’s closure, both Sting and Goldberg sought to continue their careers elsewhere. Sting found success in TNA, where he became a multiple-time champion and a cornerstone of the promotion, and in AEW (before Putin's gold lured him to Russia.) However, despite the accolades, he never quite recaptured the magic of his WCW days. Goldberg had a memorable run in WWE, including a World Heavyweight Championship reign and a notable feud with Brock Lesnar, but his sporadic appearances and mixed booking never reignited the fire of his undefeated streak in WCW. Both legends remained iconic figures in wrestling, but their post-WCW careers were tinged with the lingering shadow of what might have been had WCW survived. The announcement of Sting vs. Goldberg caught the interest of a world that had previously ignored RFW. The atmosphere in the arena was electric, with fans draped in memorabilia and media outlets dubbing it “the match of the century.” The presence of Edge at ringside added another layer of intrigue. Initially billed as a “one-time only deal” to watch Sting’s back, Edge’s second appearance hinted at deeper alliances. His role was to ensure no nefarious activities from Damien (Aleister / Malakai) Black, his “Dark Church Of Satan” (yes they’re really called that), or any unexpected “gates of hell” opening during the match - a classic (if rather corny) wrestling twist that seemed to have captured the imagination of the nation’s fans - many of whom will have been newcomers to the world of pro wrestling; RFW being their first exposure to the industry. The match kicked off with an intense stare-down that had the audience on the edge of their seats. Sting, ever the tactician, opened with a series of quick jabs and kicks to test Goldberg’s defenses. Goldberg retaliated with a powerful shoulder block, sending Sting sprawling to the mat. The veteran, however, was quick to recover, using his agility to evade a follow-up spear attempt by Goldberg, countering with a dropkick that staggered the powerhouse. As the bout progressed, Sting showcased his versatility with a blend of classic and modern wrestling techniques. He executed a textbook suplex, followed by a series of rapid-fire knife-edge chops that echoed through the arena. Goldberg, determined to assert his dominance, caught Sting off guard with a brutal powerslam. But Sting’s resilience shone through; he bounced back with a running clothesline that nearly took Goldberg’s head off, followed by a high-impact Stinger Splash in the corner, a signature move that brought the crowd to their feet. Goldberg, visibly frustrated by Sting’s relentless offense, relied heavily on his tried-and-true power moves. He attempted another spear, which Sting narrowly dodged, causing Goldberg to crash shoulder-first into the turnbuckle. Seizing the opportunity, Sting locked in the Scorpion Deathlock, his trademark submission hold. The crowd roared as Goldberg struggled, but to their amazement, he powered out of the hold, displaying the raw strength that had once made him a feared competitor. Despite Goldberg’s brief resurgence, it was clear his old strategies were no match for Sting’s adaptive style. Sting hit a series of precise moves: a DDT that rattled Goldberg, followed by a snap suplex. Goldberg, now visibly fatigued and mentally checked out, went for the Jackhammer yet again. Sting reversed it into a Scorpion Death Drop, planting Goldberg face-first into the mat. As Goldberg lay there, Sting climbed the turnbuckle, delivering an impressive top-rope splash, further cementing his dominance. The climax of the match arrived when Goldberg, desperate and visibly frustrated, attempted the Jackhammer yet again. Sting deftly reversed the move, sending Goldberg crashing out of the ring. Instead of regrouping and re-entering the fray, Goldberg simply walked away, a broken man. The Russian fans, once his ardent supporters, booed him relentlessly, perceiving his retreat as an act of cowardice. Roy Jones Jr., the event’s commentator, ran after Goldberg, trying to coax him back into the ring. His pleas fell on deaf ears as Goldberg continued his somber walk, unable to face the fans he had disappointed. The referee’s count reached ten, and Sting was declared the winner by count out, earning the position of the number one contender for the RFW World Title. Yet, there was no celebration from Sting. The victory, meant to be a crowning achievement, felt hollow. Sting looked out at the crowd, his heart heavy with sadness for his fallen rival. He remembered Goldberg at his peak, a force of nature who had captivated millions, and mourned the loss of that indomitable spirit. Darby Allin approached Sting, attempting to lift his mentor’s spirits. His efforts were in vain; the gravity of Goldberg’s decline weighed heavily on Sting. The match that was supposed to reignite old flames had instead revealed the stark reality of Goldberg’s current state; a shadow of his former self. This match, anticipated as a celebration of wrestling greatness, ended as a poignant reminder of the inexorable passage of time and the toll it takes on even the most revered athletes. Goldberg’s walk away from the ring marked a significant moment, not for the victory it handed Sting, but for the stark, painful truth it revealed. The hero of yesteryears had turned his back on the ring, the fans, and perhaps most heartbreakingly, on himself. In the aftermath, discussions abounded about the future of both legends. Sting’s victory positioned him for another title shot, but his focus remained on the lost glory of his once-great rival. Darby Allin, ever the loyal protege, stood by his mentor, hoping to see him rise above this melancholic chapter. The match in Khabarovsk will be remembered not just for its outcome, but for the emotional journey it encapsulated. It was a night that showcased the enduring spirit of Sting and the tragic fall of Goldberg, a poignant narrative that added a profound chapter to the annals of wrestling history. As for the match itself, it was good, but not the epic everyone hoped and wished it would be. The combined age of 117 between the competitors showed, though Sting in particular hid it well. Watching them in action made one long for the days when they were in their prime. How good it would have been to have seen this match when they were at their peak, before WCW spun out of control, derailing what could have been a career-encompassing feud between these two legends. In the end, while the match was a testament to their enduring legacy, it also served as a stark reminder of the passage of time and the changes that have come to professional wrestling. The spectacle in Khabarovsk was a grand event that will be remembered for its historical significance and the bittersweet emotions it evoked among fans and competitors alike. The booking of RFW has ranged from the genuinely surprising to the borderline insane and has been sometimes poorly executed in the past, but perhaps this event marks a turning point for the company. If they can build on this momentum and avoid the kind of crazy booking decisions that led to WCW’s demise, there will be hope for a bright future. This writer is pleasantly surprised by this development and optimistic that it could usher in a truly interesting new period for RFW from now on. As the dust settles on this historic night in Khabarovsk, the future remains uncertain, particularly for Goldberg. His decision to walk away from the ring has sparked rampant speculation among fans and pundits alike. Will this be the end of Goldberg’s storied career, or will he find a way to reclaim his former glory within the confines of RFW? His next move is shrouded in mystery, leaving fans eagerly awaiting any hint of what is to come. Sting, on the other hand, has solidified his place as a contender for the RFW World Title. His performance tonight was a testament to his enduring skill and passion for the sport. As he moves forward, supported by his loyal protege Darby Allin, the wrestling world watches with bated breath, hoping to see this legend continue to defy the passage of time. This event in Khabarovsk was a bittersweet reminder of the fleeting nature of athletic prime and the indomitable spirit of true legends. While the match may not have reached the epic heights everyone had hoped for, it was a poignant and memorable chapter in the careers of Sting and Goldberg. The event has opened new avenues for RFW, and if managed wisely, it could signal the beginning of a renaissance for the company. The wrestling world remains hopeful, yet reflective, as it looks to the future, cherishing the past while anticipating the promise of what lies ahead. Match Rating: 61. Sting stood victorious, his face displaying a myriad of emotions. He was panting heavily, but with a triumphant glint in his eye. Darby Allin and Edge, who had been ringside to guard against any Dark Church shenanigans, rushed into the ring. Allin was bouncing around like a hyperactive squirrel, while Edge approached with a massive s***-eating grin on his face. He was genuinely happy for Sting. Even though the Stinger spent his career mainly with ‘the other company’ WCW, you could see the huge respect he had for The Icon. The delighted, drunken fans chanted Sting’s name, their cheers echoing deafeningly through rusty metal venue. Sure, it was an absolute death trap, but the acoustics were top notch. I hadn’t seen such scenes of euphoric celebration since Charlie found Willie Wonka’s golden ticket. Everyone was buzzing. It was party time. Even Seagal, who’d watched all this from his plush ringside seat, looked almost pleased. Almost. After weeks of wanting to throat-punch everyone in sight, tonight he seemed to find a glimmer of happiness in Sting’s victory. His pudding-like face might not have shown it, but the pride was there. As Sting basked in the moment, Edge stepped forward, clapping his hands. “Give it up for Sting, everyone! Let’s give this living legend the respect he deserves!” The fans roared louder, the energy in the arena palpable. It's not often you get to see a grizzled veteran like Edge in fan-boy mode, but he was milliseconds away from cuddling the victorious old b*****d. Sting smiled, nodding in appreciation. He was soaking it all in, the cheers, the respect, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. But before he could fully enjoy his moment, Edge got on the microphone again. “Stinger, I’m genuinely happy for you, man. That was one hell of a fight. But, I’ve got something to say.” The crowd hushed, sensing a twist. Sting looked at Edge, curious. Even through all the smeared facepaint you could tell all his bulls*** alarms were ringing. Above: If you're having trouble picturing the scene, if you're having trouble visualising Sting's 'this is bulls***' glare... it all went down exactly like the image above. Edge grinned, a sly look on his face. The crafty old Canadian was up to something. “Well, I’ve been thinking... Stinger, you put on one hell of a show. But let’s not forget why I was here tonight, watching your back. I’ve been watching your ass all night, making sure Damien Black and his cronies didn’t pull any of their spooky crap. And now, you owe me. And I did it because I respect you, Sting. But now, I think you owe me one.” Sting raised an eyebrow, still catching his breath. He should’ve seen this coming. Edge’s grin widened. “I want a shot at that #1 contendership. Not now, let’s not ruin the moment. Next week. You and me, one-on-one.” The crowd erupted once more. Our fans were getting all hot and sweaty now. The air had a sweet, sticky, Lightning Bolt stink to it that burned your eyes if you stayed in it too long. Sting looked at Edge, seeing the challenge in his eyes. He respected Edge, but he also knew this had been coming since the moment he’d asked for help. Sting glanced at Seagal, who was rubbing his temples in what looked like a mixture of frustration and amusement. Seagal, surprisingly calm, took a microphone. “Sting, you don’t have to accept this” warned Seagal from ringside. “You’ve earned that #1 spot. But if you want to go through with it...” Sting, ever the honourable warrior, shook his head. “No, Steven. Edge has been there for me. He deserves a chance. Next week, we’ll settle this. For me, it’s a matter of honour.” Seagal sighed, though a hint of a smile played on his lips. “Fine. Next week, it’s Sting vs. Edge for the #1 contendership. Winner faces Dragunov the week after for the title.” The crowd were at fever pitch. Our crafty veterans had them on the edge of their seats. Our camera guys zoomed in on a little old lady moved to tears with the emotion of it all. Edge’s grin grew even wider. “Stinger, I’ll see you next week. Enjoy your victory tonight. You’ve earned it.” The crowd cheered, thrilled at the prospect of another epic showdown – one in which perhaps both competitors would stay til the end without just walking off. Sting and Edge shared a moment of mutual respect, but the competitive fire was evident in their eyes. Almost on cue, Ilja Dragunov hopped into the ring, the RFW World Championship draped over his shoulder. He locked eyes with both legends, trying to add some dramatic tension by engaging them both in an epic staredown. It was like a Mexican Stand-off of stares. A staring triangle. A... I have no idea what the hell to call it... but it looked cool. The fans couldn’t wait to see what was next. Having hyped the hell out of this ‘Clash Of Legends’, we got to do it all again the very next week. Angle Rating: 65. In his dimly lit dressing room within the labyrinthine old power station, ‘The Nightmare’ Vladimir Kulakov, the monstrous killing machine of RFW, sat alone, brooding silently. Something was different about him. For once, his usual terrifying aura of menace was replaced by a surprising calm as he gazed sorrowfully at the broken pieces of his trademark hockey mask. The mask, a symbol of his fearsome legacy, lay shattered in his massive hands. He’s been unmasked since The Event Of The Century, and seemed even more dangerous without it. But here we were at the end of Episode 15, seeing that maybe there was a different side to RFW’s pet maniac. Maybe there was more than chaos and terror to the guy who once nearly killed a guy by smashing the Sputnik Lunar Module over their head. He sighed deeply, a rare moment of vulnerability for the beast known for his unmatched brutality. Our production team started playing sad violin music in the background, to really hammer the point home. Suddenly, a cacophony of chaos erupted as the backstage brawl from earlier came crashing through his dressing room door. The door splintered into pieces, and bodies tumbled in like a human avalanche. Kulakov seemed oblivious to the madness surrounding him, lost in his woeful lament for his fallen mask. The camera remained focused on his sorrowful face as chaos reigned behind him. “Oi! Watch the hair you big Russian tit! Leave me alone, you big, goofy crap-sack!” cried Marty Scurll, trying to stop a massive iron pipe from crashing down on his head, as it swung wildly at him in Ivan Markov’s mighty, clumsy fist. He dodged the pipe but was then flattened by a huge Flying, Spinning Clothesline from the whirling ‘Pink Tornado’ Dragan Spazic. He fell arse-first backwards into an old storage closet, which burst open, burying him in a pile of old worker’s boots and hard-hats. Markov, locking onto a new target like a raging bull at Pamplona, grabbed the nearest human, and began swinging Flip Gordon around like a ragdoll, unintentionally smashing a nearby window. “Oops, my bad!” Markov yelled, still not fully grasping the gravity of the situation. Edge and Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov were now busy launching a double team attack on the fallen Scurll, who was desperately trying to keep his top knot intact. “You dirty little weasel!” Scurll yelled in his ridiculous cockney lilt as Edge threw him into a row of old, rusty lockers. Amidst the chaos, Brody King was shoved backward, tripping over a pile of gym bags and stumbling directly into Kulakov. King’s boot came down hard on the broken mask, crunching it into even smaller pieces. Kulakov’s eyes snapped open, his moment of meditation shattered along with the last remnants of his mask. There was a growl. There was a snarl. There was a cracking of knuckles. There was a huge “oh s***” shout from somewhere in the background. Brody King had unknowingly unleashed the beast. Kulakov’s face twisted in rage as he stood, towering over everyone, bristling with rage. ‘The Nightmare’ roared and began tearing through the brawl with the fury of a thousand storms. He grabbed Brody King and, with seemingly impossible strength, lifted the massive man off his feet and hurled him through the wall like a missile. King’s body crashed through concrete and metal, leaving a gaping hole. All the other wrestlers in the room froze instantly in fear. “Oh s***” came another voice in the background, this time trembling with fear. Everyone scattered, running for their lives from the enraged Kulakov. Flip Gordon tried to hide behind a pile of old machinery, but Kulakov easily flipped the entire heap over, sending Gordon sprawling. Scurll made a desperate dive under a dusty, disused conveyor belt, only to have Kulakov yank it out of place, nearly flattening him. Meanwhile, nearby, Bryan Daniels was minding his own business, rehabbing his broken wrist in a quiet corner of this dismal old venue. He whistled a jolly little tune to himself as he massaged his recently repaired joint. Then he heard the noise, coming towards him like a distant, terrible storm. His eyes widened in terror as the brawl surged towards him. And then they were upon him, tumbling and falling through the door in a dizzying spiral of fists and screams. “Not my wrist!” he squealed, dodging bodies left and right. Daniels ducked under a swinging crowbar and narrowly avoided a flying toolbox, all while cradling his injured arm. “Please, not the wrist! It’s got a pin in it!” he kept yelling, eyes wide with fear. Seagal, seemingly appearing from nowhere like some shadowy, ponytailed apparition, saw the chaos engulfing Daniels, rushed over and grabbed him by the collar. “Come on, Kohai, we’re getting you out of here,” he said, dragging Daniels away from the melee with a strength far beyond what you’d expect from his rubbery, slug-like frame. He was desperate to drag our wounded superstar to safety. But it was too late. This ridiculous brawl had them in its clutches now. There was no escape. The brawl raged on through the old power station. Wrestlers used anything and everything as weapons. Flip Gordon grabbed a rusty pipe, only to have it snapped in half by Edge, who then used it to fend off an advancing King. Vertigo leapt from a high platform, delivering a flying kick to Scurll, who crashed into a pile of old control panels. They thought they had lost Kulakov, but the calm was short-lived. The ground began to shake, and the wall behind them exploded in a shower of debris. Kulakov burst through the wall riding a massive steamroller, his eyes wild with rage. The wrestlers scattered, fleeing in all directions as Kulakov drove after them, relentlessly smashing through wall after wall to get them, room after room crumbling in his wake. The steamroller rumbled through the power station, demolishing everything in its path. Old machines were flattened, and the concrete floors cracked under the weight of the rolling behemoth. The wrestlers ran through the maze of corridors, screaming, fleeing for their lives, diving into rooms and slamming doors behind them, but Kulakov was unstoppable. Finally, in a desperate attempt to escape, Edge, Vertigo, Spazic and Markov dove into an old generator room. They piled up crates and metal debris against the door, hoping to create a barricade. “Maybe this will hold him,” Vertigo panted, out of breath. “Are you crazy?! You think this random pile of crap’s gonna stop a maniac like Kulakov?! We’re screwed! Screwed!” Spazic wailed in terror. Edge put his hand forcefully around Dragan’s mouth, trying to silence him before he gave away their location and doomed them all. The room fell silent for a moment. Someone breathed a big sigh of relief. Perhaps they’d made it. Perhaps they’d be safe after all. Perhaps they’d survived this terrible onslaught. And then the wall behind them exploded. Kulakov, still driving the steamroller, burst into the room with a deafening roar. “Run!” Edge shouted, leading the charge out of the room and down another hallway. With fear in their eyes and horror on their faces , they spilled out into the main area of the power station, with Kulakov still in hot pursuit, snarling like a rabid beast. Wrestlers dived over railings, slid down chutes, and squeezed through narrow gaps, trying to stay one step ahead of the unstoppable monster. The rampage continued unabated, the steamroller roaring like some hellish creature as it smashed and crashed through walls and machinery, tearing through the ruined old building like a tsunami. Kulakov’s ferocity was matched only by the sheer absurdity of the situation, as bits of the ancient power station’s infrastructure began to crumble around them. The brawl had spread throughout the building, with wrestlers using whatever they could find as weapons. Flip Gordon and Brody King were swinging from overhead pipes like makeshift trapeze artists, while John Hennigan and his Style Squad had rejoined the war and had turned an old generator room into an impromptu battleground. Bryan Daniels, still cradling his broken wrist, dodged and weaved through the chaos, terrified of another injury, shrieking as he cowered behind Seagal, using our Authority Figure like a human shield. In the midst of this melee, Kulakov’s steamroller crashed into a large, metal, rusty contraption adorned with warning symbols and ominous signage. The impact was catastrophic. A strange, fuzzy-colored dust burst into the air, making everything around it glow with an eerie, almost radioactive light. The edges of the room seemed to shimmer as if reality itself was bending. And that’s when all the fires started. Still, the wrestlers brawled on, oblivious to the potential catastrophe. It was only when Seagal’s squad of shirtless, muscle-bound Russian students, burst onto the scene that the gravity of the situation became apparent. “Alright, comrades! Time to end this nonsense!” Seagal bellowed, his voice cutting through the din. The students leaped into action, hauling the brawling wrestlers out of the increasingly hazardous building. Edge and Vertigo were carried out like unruly children, still swinging punches. Dragan Spazic was dragged out, kicking and screaming, while Ivan Markov clutched a broken piece of our decimated old venue as a makeshift trophy. “But I haven’t even had a chance to...” he protested, cut off as he was thrown over a student’s shoulder. Villain Enterprises tried to regroup but were no match for Seagal’s determined enforcers, who dragged them out into the night air. However, Kulakov remained in his own world of rage, oblivious to the chaos he had caused. “We must get him out!” cried one student, only to be swatted aside like a fly. The scene descended into farce as the students attempted various tactics – from forming a human chain to wrapping Kulakov in fire hoses, all ending in them being scattered like bowling pins. Finally, Seagal, with a look of sheer exasperation, shouted “Retreat!” and the students ran for their lives, leaving Kulakov to his fiery rage. Outside, the scene was one of pure pandemonium. The 3,393 drunken, Lightning Bolt addled fans who had come to witness our silly little show were now fleeing in all directions, diving into cars, and speeding away for their lives. Screams and the sound of screeching tires filled the air, mingling with the crackling of flames and the sound of collapsing masonry. As the fire spread and the building’s integrity failed, the strange, fuzzy dust ignited, resulting in a deafening explosion. At that moment, men in hazmat suits arrived, sprinting to secure the area. They hastily ushered everyone further away, declaring the show over as they cordoned off the building. As the final curtain fell on this catastrophic scene, it was clear: The Russian Federation Of Wrestling had really gone too far this time. We were in deep s***, and our shady Russian overlords were sure to have my head for this. But hey, at least it was a night no one would forget – especially not Kulakov, whose roar echoed ominously from the still-burning ruins as we faded slowly to black. Angle Rating:53. Overall Show Rating: 69. Edited August 1 by dstephe4 1 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted August 19 Author Share Posted August 19 (edited) Firstly, Thank You Over in the TEW IX part of the forum there was a poll for 'Best Forum Provider Of TEW Content', which I was surprised, honoured and thrilled to somehow find my way on to. Granted, I got my arse absolutely kicked in the vote - which is more than fair - but to be even included in such a thing is massive. So thank you to all involved and to all of you for your continued support of this silly, ridiculous diary. So long as people are happy to keep on reading it, interacting, replying, all that jazz, I'm more than happy to keep coming up with this nonsense lol Predictions Results Episode 15 came and went with all the steamrollers, collapsed buildings, nuclear dust clouds and other entertaining carnage that only seems to happen to us. Kudos to those who took the time to submit their predictions as to the winners. Here's how everybody did: @DinoKea - 4 points out of 4. @tdw36584 - 4 points out of 4. @Valkyria - 4 points out of 4. @80085 - 4 points out of 4. Once again it seems I managed to fool nobody at all with my shenanigans. Well done to everyone. You are all winners in what statistically seems to be the easiest Predictions thing in the history of this fine forum. New chapters 'Fallout', 'Slaloms & Shaloms', and 'The Fixer', and the card for Episode 16 all coming soon - stay tuned! Edited August 21 by dstephe4 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted August 21 Author Share Posted August 21 The following is an amalgamation of news reports from the 8 international real-world sources my brief Google research has managed to find. There's probably a hell of a lot more besides. Everything you're about to read is 100% real and really did happen, albeit I've moved the timeline a bit to fit my story. They say truth is stranger than fiction. When it comes to Russia, it really, really is. As to whether this bizarre, city-wide major nuclear incident was the result of a wrestling show or something more bizarre, however, I leave to your imagination... In April, the city of Khabarovsk, located in Russia's far eastern region, was plunged into a state of emergency following the discovery of an alarming radiation spike. The elevated radiation levels were detected in the city’s Industrial District, just 2.5 kilometers from residential areas. Radiation levels reached a staggering 800 microsieverts—1,600 times above the safe threshold of 0.5 microsieverts per hour, triggering fears of potential health risks, including cancer. The origin of the contamination appeared to be linked to a nearby site where an abandoned building had been mysteriously demolished only days prior. This demolition was carried out without public notice or standard safety protocols. Speculation quickly mounted that the radiation leak might have been caused by improperly stored radioactive materials hidden within the old building’s infrastructure, which were released during its destruction. Local reports hinted that this abandoned structure had a history of housing sensitive industrial equipment during the Soviet era, potentially including radioactive devices used for inspections or research. Despite these suspicions, Russian authorities swiftly moved to contain the area, cordoning off a 900-square-meter section around the contaminated site. As the crisis unfolded, authorities declared that the radiation levels had returned to normal, assuring the public that the situation was under control. However, rumors of a larger cover-up began circulating almost immediately. Local residents reported seeing increased activity from military and government personnel around the demolition site, fueling speculation that something far more serious had been unearthed during the building's removal. Eyewitnesses claimed that government officials were rapidly dispatched to the scene, removing materials and restricting access to information. There were even reports that local media outlets were instructed to downplay the severity of the incident, focusing on reassurances that no immediate threat to public health existed. This effort to suppress information has led to widespread belief that the leak was far more dangerous than officially stated. International attention has also focused on the incident, particularly from neighboring China. Khabarovsk is located a mere 30 kilometers from the Chinese border, and concerns about potential cross-border contamination prompted heightened scrutiny from Chinese officials. Although the Russian government maintains that the radiation levels were localized and no broader contamination occurred, skepticism remains high. Despite these official reassurances, the mysterious demolition, combined with the secrecy surrounding the radiation leak, has left the public with more questions than answers. While the immediate threat appears to have been neutralized, the long-term consequences of the leak, along with the potential for more undisclosed dangers, continue to cast a shadow over Khabarovsk. The incident serves as a chilling reminder of the risks posed by radioactive waste and the lengths to which governments may go to keep such dangers hidden from public view. A state of emergency is to remain for at least three more days in the Industrial district of the city, as law enforcement agencies examine the origin of the leak. It appears to have taken a week for the authorities to act, with action only being taken when a leaked video from the scene went viral beyond Russian borders. In the video, a man wearing a nuclear protective mask was seen in darkness with a radiation reader that quickly rises as he walked over a “waste dump”. His reader sounded an alarm at 0.45 microsieverts and the highest reading visible on screen is 5.99. It was decided to introduce a state of emergency in Khabarovsk to carry out work faster.” The authorities insisted there was no threat to life. “The radiation source was removed and placed in a protective container, transported to a radioactive waste storage facility,” said a source at Radon nuclear agency. The man says there was a reading of 20, enough potentially to increase cancer risk, damage DNA, cause foetal damage, and threaten the health of children. Astonishingly, the potentially lethal radiation leak in Khabarovsk was known for around one week before action was taken on it, or the public alerted, say reports. Yet it was only today that a state of emergency was called. Andrey Kolchin, head civil defence in the city, said: “A source of increased radiation levels was discovered….the area was cordoned. It was decided to introduce a state of emergency in Khabarovsk to carry out work faster.” The authorities insisted there was no threat to life. “The radiation source was removed and placed in a protective container, transported to a radioactive waste storage facility,” said a source at Radon nuclear agency. It became increasingly hard for Russian authorities to deny a radiation outbreak took place when the radiation was picked up on sensors all the way in neighbouring China. Above: The automatic monitoring station in Fuyuan of Jiamusi city, Northeast China's Heilongjiang Province, as per the account of the department of ecology and environment of Heilongjiang. Sources: The Mirror | Reuters | The Global Times | RFE / RL | The Daily Mail | The Daily Star | National States | Global Times Oops. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted August 29 Author Share Posted August 29 (edited) I must admit to not bringing my ‘A-Game’ during the conference call with Oleg Matytsin, The Baby In A Suit and the other weird, sinister ghouls that controlled RFW's fate. Partly this was because I'd forgotten all about our meeting – that was definitely a factor. Also there was the fact that we were fleeing a city-wide nuclear meltdown at the time. “American!” growled Oleg. “We must plan the location of the next show! Time is running short!” He sneered at me as five big men in hazmat suits dragged me through the smoky, siren-filled streets. “What are your requirements!?” he barked. There was an almighty, almost apocalyptic crash as the western wing of our abandoned power station venue collapsed, sending a mushroom cloud of dust, debris and soot into the air. This was End Of Days level s***. Especially when the cloud rose up into the sky high enough for the moonlight to shine through it, revealing a terrifying, un-natural green glow to the smoke. The Russian authorities at the scene told everyone the explosion was definitely not nuclear. Nobody bought that bulls*** for a second though - especially me, as I paused for breath beside a nearby fountain and noticed the water inside had boiled. We weren’t even at a safe distance before a team of shady FSB (KGB) goons were all over us, demanding we all sign Official Secrets Act documents, forcing us to keep silent under pain of death. Despite a nationwide audience of millions having watched our guy Kulakov destroying the place in a Lightning Bolt crazed frenzy, our state-sponsored wrestling circus was definitely not to blame for the accident. Because the government said so. Which was fine by me. I was confused for weeks as to why I wasn't immediately shot a couple of hundred times in the face for a f***-up so big we closed an entire city under a cloud of nuclear fallout. I just couldn’t wrap my brain around it. But then one of my shady contacts managed to sneak me a copy of the Official Accident Report. Suddenly it all made sense... It all clicked into place in my mind, as I realised I was just a pawn in another clown-car Russian government bulls*** cover-up. It was everything you’d expect from the Putin regime - the shady FSB hoods in their cheap suits swarming all over the scene like flies on s***, and the wild-eyed bureaucrats scrambling to slap their 'everything is fine' stickers on a situation that was most definitely not fine. I’d half expected the local media to start pumping out headlines like 'Local Fireworks Display Gets Out of Hand' or 'Western Propaganda Causes Hysteria Over Safe, Happy Nuclear Glow.' But the powers that be went with the traditional, all-too-familiar 'Full-Scale Media Blackout' routine instead. This was also absolutely fine by me. You’ve got to hand it to them - their talent for bulls*** was Olympic-level. The Official Accident Report was a masterpiece of fiction. It could’ve won a f***ing Pulitzer. It laid out a narrative so far removed from reality that I half-expected to see a section on how unicorns were found grazing in the fallout zone. According to the report, our death-trap power station venue didn’t implode because of Kulakov going kamikaze in a murderous steamroller rampage - it collapsed because a wayward weather balloon caused 'structural fatigue.' Yes, a weather balloon. That’s right, folks. Russia’s greatest engineering minds were apparently being brought down by errant f***ing helium-filled toys. And, in a stroke of utter genius, they claimed that the green glow rising ominously into the sky wasn’t radiation - it was a 'seasonal atmospheric phenomenon' caused by, get this, 'increased natural luminescence from local flora.' Yes, apparently the trees and flowers in that part of Russia just occasionally decided to light up like f***ing Christmas trees after a completely non-nuclear, totally natural explosion. Oh, and the fountain I mentioned earlier? You know, the one where the water had literally boiled? That was only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. All the water within a two mile radius had been superheated by the nuclear shockwave. Every drop in Khabarovsk began to fizz and bubble the moment our venue went 'boom'. According to the report, that was due to a 'localised volcanic anomaly.' A volcano. In the middle of an industrial city. You’ve got to admire the sheer creativity of these people. At this point, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they blamed global warming, or aliens, or told everyone that the explosion was just an elaborate magic trick gone wrong. And who was to blame for all this? Was it us, the Russian Federation Of Wrestling? Hell no. Was it the almost aggressively corrupt, porn-addicted mayor Aleksandr Sokolov? Don’t be silly. The culprit was obviously Ukraine. I had to laugh. I mean, this was high-level state-sponsored bulls*** of the finest calibre. The fact that anyone believed it was a testament to the fear-mongering machine that was the Russian government. Not that any of this mattered – minutes after it’s publication the report was made confidential, redacted and thrown into a vault deep within the bowels of the Kremlin, never to see the light of day ever again. So when Oleg and the other tools behind the scenes started screaming at me, demanding to know the location for the next episode of our downward spiral into lunacy, I couldn’t have given a single, flaming crap. They could have staged Episode 16 on the moon for all I cared. There was so much toxic nuclear debris floating through the air I’m genuinely amazed I didn’t develop super-powers and start fighting crime. I had bigger s*** to deal with than worrying about which unlucky town our ridiculous travelling carnival was going to accidentally f*** up next. It was around the time that some big geek in a scary-looking hazmat suit was waving a Geiger Counter over my balls that someone on the call suggested a ‘diplomatic event’ in a place called Birobidzhan. Have you ever heard of it? No? Me neither. Little did I know it’d turn out to be one of the most weird and wonderfully random places we’d encounter in the whole history of RFW. Fast forward a couple of days, and there I was, rolling through Birobidzhan in a limo that, by Russian standards, was positively luxurious. I had no idea what to expect from the place - Birobidzhan? Where the hell was that, anyway? This place wasn’t just off the beaten path - it seemed like the beaten path had given up halfway here, turned around, given up all hope and gone home for a drink. Every corner felt like a forgotten relic of some Soviet era experiment. The streets were dotted with buildings that looked like they hadn’t seen fresh paint since Khrushchev was banging his shoe at the UN. As we cruised through Birobidzhan’s desolate streets, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d accidentally wandered onto the set of a post-apocalyptic Soviet sitcom - if that sitcom was sponsored by grey paint and sadness. Every building looked like it had given up on life decades ago, standing there in a permanent state of existential dread. You know it’s bad when even the pigeons look depressed, lazily flapping between the crumbling apartment blocks like they’d rather be anywhere else but here. The town square wasn’t much better - a statue of Lenin gazed out over the barren plaza, his expression suggesting even he was rethinking his life choices. I half-expected him to climb down and book the next flight back to Moscow. Perhaps I was being harsh – fleeing a nuclear disaster zone does tend to make you see things in a rather dark light. Birobidzhan, it turns out, does have a few redeeming qualities – the natural kind, anyway. The River Bira, lazily snaking through the town, seemed blissfully unaware of the surrounding architectural despair, offering up a somewhat scenic view that felt like it belonged in an entirely different universe. There was even a semi-charming riverside park, which looked suspiciously well-maintained compared to the rest of the town. The kind of place you could almost see yourself enjoying... if you squinted hard enough and pretended not to notice the looming Soviet-era concrete monstrosities behind you. I was determined to shake off my gloom and stop being such a grumpy bitch. There must surely have been some stuff to like about this place. As the sun broke through the clouds and it’s warmth hit me through the limo window, I was determined to find something here I would like. As we pulled up to the venue (and yes, there was an actual venue this time, unlike our previous hellish nuclear playground), I was greeted by not one, but two grinning officials: Alexander Vinnikov and Aleksandr Golovaty. Or ‘Team Alex’ as I nicknamed them. Vinnikov, known as a pillar of the Jewish Autonomous Oblast, had a grin so wide it practically wrapped around his head. He looked like he was auditioning to be the national face of Russia’s toothpaste commercials. This was the man who’d helped open Birobidzhan’s first synagogue – the dude was a really big deal. It was obvious right away he was here on an ass-kissing mission for the ages. This made me very suspicious. Right next to him stood Golovaty, the current mayor - fresh-faced and clearly eager to impress, had the air of someone who’d only just learned how to do up his own tie. If Vinnikov was the smooth operator, Golovaty was the overeager sidekick, grinning and nodding like a bobblehead doll in a moving car. My bulls*** alarms began ringing nearly as loud as the sirens at Khabarovsk the moment I saw them. The fact that these two were teaming up to greet me was a surefire sign that something was going on. No way were these two smiling like Cheshire cats out of the goodness of their hearts. This was Russia, after all, where smiles usually came with strings attached - sharp, sinister strings. What I didn't expect - because nothing could have prepared me for this - was the battalion of long-coated, giant-hatted Hasidic Jews that surrounded them. There must’ve been twenty of them, all smiling and clapping at me. It really was a magnificent sight to behold. They were dressed to the nines – it was like a tidal wave of Bekishes and Shtreimels was headed straight for me - I felt like a visitor from outer space who’d fallen to Earth and landed in the middle of a Bat Mitzvah. I’d jumped from a city-wide nuclear emergency into what felt like the Temple Of Jerusalem. If you’d told me I’d be meeting a bunch of Orthodox Jews in the Siberian wilds of Birobidzhan, I’d have laughed in your face. And yet, here we were. Vinnikov gestured with a flourish toward the venue behind them - a real, actual f***ing venue. This thing could seat about 4,000 people, and was a hell of a lot less lethal than the crumbling nuclear B-movie set we’d just come from. Honestly, I was amazed. Not just at the venue itself, but at the fact that someone in this country was actually offering us a legitimate building, with walls and everything. “Welcome to the Birobidzhan Cultural Centre!” Vinnikov said, beaming like he’d just unveiled the eighth wonder of the world. I had to admit, it was a pretty decent setup. For once, I wasn’t walking into a death trap that looked like it had been cobbled together by someone’s drunken uncle. Golovaty purred with pride. “We are very pleased to offer this place – may it be of great service to the fine Russian Federation Of Wrestling” he said with giddy, puppy-dog eyes, his voice dripping with excitement. I could practically see the gears turning in their heads - these two were definitely up to something. Golovaty, my new mayor buddy, had clearly done his homework - he knew all about me. Enough anyway to see the uncertain look on my face and counter by thrusting a bottle of vintage champagne into my palm. And not just any champagne either. This was a 2002 Dom Pérignon P2 Plénitude, worth a cool $2,000. Even a stressed-out, sleep-deprived Brit like me could recognise fancy s*** when I saw it. He could tell I was impressed. He didn’t even flinch when I ripped the bottle open with my teeth and downed the thing in one right in front of him. He just smiled even wider, like some sort of villainous Bond henchman. Clearly, the man was up to something. Vinnikov, meanwhile, clapped his hands like an overenthusiastic seal, as if I’d just performed a magic trick. It was then I realized that these two were putting on one hell of a bulls*** charm offensive. But before I could ask questions, my arse was shoved back into the limo by a sea of Hasidic hands, the door slammed shut, and we were moving before I even had a chance to process what just happened. I could still taste the champagne. I was so shocked by the sudden turn of events I farted bubbles. From the moment I was shoved back into the limo, my over-eager hosts made it their mission to fatten me up like a Christmas goose, plying me with food and booze that would’ve made the King of England jealous. The whole thing felt less like a limo ride and more like being chauffeured through a bizarre, Siberian Michelin-starred dining experience. "Here, try this!" Vinnikov beamed, thrusting a silver platter toward me. It held what appeared to be a heaping pile of Almas White Beluga Caviar - enough to bankrupt a small nation. Not to be outdone, Golovaty reached into the mini-fridge and pulled out a bottle of vodka that he claimed had been blessed by the highest, most holy Russian Orthodox priests, boasting something about it being “handcrafted in the Ural Mountains.” The next thing I knew, they were pouring me a glass of it that must’ve cost more than most people’s life savings. And that was just the beginning. As the limo rolled through Birobidzhan, ‘Team Alex’ became increasingly desperate to win me over, throwing culinary delights my way with reckless abandon. A hand-made wild game Périgord Foie Gras, garnished with Fleur de Sel, Fig Compote, Brioche and gold flakes, slid onto my lap. Then there was a series of cheeses with names so fancy I couldn’t even hope of pronouncing them, and I was given a glass of cognac that I swear was older than the Soviet Union. This wasn’t a limo ride - it was a luxury food festival on wheels. And it was relentless. I was stuffed to the gills, tipsy as hell, and trying to keep myself upright as the limo swerved from one side of town to the other. Meanwhile, Vinnikov and Golovaty embarked upon an what passed for a guided tour in these parts, pointing out every landmark in Birobidzhan like they were showing off the Kremlin or the Eiffel Tower. There wasn’t much to boast about, but by God they tried. “Here we have the Monument to Sholem Aleichem!” Golovaty announced with dramatic flair as we passed by the statue of the famous Jewish writer. I tried to muster some enthusiasm, but honestly, the guy looked more bored than anything, like he’d been standing in that same pose since the Bronze Age. ‘Team Alex’ clearly thought this statue was the pride of the city though, so I gave them a thumbs-up and choked down another bite of Foie Gras. Next up on the grand tour was the Birobidzhan Synagogue, which Vinnikov tried to sell as some kind of architectural marvel. Sure, it was nice and all, but to hear him talk, you’d think we were coasting past Sistine Chapel. “Look at the beautiful design!” he exclaimed, waving his arms around like he’d just touched a live wire. Golovaty nodded furiously in agreement, all smiles like a politician at election time. I squinted out the window, trying to process the absurd amount of food I’d consumed. “Oh yeah, stunning,” I muttered, my mouth half-full of brandy-soaked truffles. The synagogue looked as plain as any other Soviet-era building I’d ever seen that day, but I wasn’t about to kill their buzz. Birobidzhan wasn’t exactly the artistic epicentre of Russia, but damned if they weren’t trying their hardest to make it seem like it was. I had to hand it to them – they really were polishing the hell out of this turd, shining it up with all their might. I wasn’t buying it. They were up to something – I could tell. As the limo climbed higher, Golovaty pointed toward the horizon with a theatrical sweep of his arm. “And now, the jewel in our glittering crown – the Bidzhan Ski Complex!” he said with a flourish. We were headed to the slopes, and I could see the snow-covered trails and ski lifts sprawling out ahead. I was half-expecting them to try and convince me this was Russia’s answer to the Alps. Sure enough, Vinnikov handed me yet another glass of champagne and declared, “Nothing beats Siberian snow!” as if we were about to embark on the most glamorous skiing adventure known to man. Skiing sucks. It’s stupid. Russia has a staggering 351 ski resorts, and since I’d arrived in that ridiculous country in 2014, I’d managed to avoid every single one of them. I was going to tell them this, but they kept stuffing my face so full of candied almonds and Amedei Porcelana chocolates I couldn’t talk if I tried. The exquisite single malt whiskey they had me wash it down with sloshed away the last of my resistance. By the time we pulled up at the entrance to the ski slope, I was stuffed, completely s***faced, and thoroughly bewildered. A huge press mob of ravenous journalists was waiting for me, cameras flashing and microphones poised like they were expecting me to announce I’d discovered the cure for cancer. And when I say ‘press mob’, I’m talking about a full-on, rabid horde of shutter-happy vultures. It was like the entire Russian press corps had descended upon me en-masse. Their cameras snapped at my face, lights flashing so furiously that I was convinced I’d gone snow-blind. The sound of them shouting questions in rapid-fire Russian was deafening, a relentless barrage of noise that turned my already boozed-up brain into mush. If they were hoping to catch me off guard, mission f***ing accomplished. I should’ve known something like this was coming. It was a trap. A textbook PR trap, and I’d walked right into it. This whole thing wasn’t about wrestling at all - it was about getting Vinnikov and Golovaty’s smug mugs on the front page of every newspaper in Russia. It’s not as if the eyes of the nation often turned to this crappy, sleepy, desolate corner of the Siberian wilds. No way were Team Alex going to let a political PR opportunity like this pass them by. It was too late to escape. I was in too deep - especially when another bottle of that fine-ass champagne was thrust into my hand. Before I knew it, they’d bundled me into enough snug, brightly-coloured ski gear to make me look like some sort of bargain-bin extra from a 1980s James Bond movie. Big plastic ski boots were strapped onto my feet. A massive, ill-fitting helmet was awkwardly wedged on to my head. Suddenly I was being herded onto the ski lift alongside what felt like a battalion of shtreimel-wearing Hasidic Jews. It was like I’d wandered into some bizarre alternate universe where the X-Games were hosted by a rabbinical council. Cameras were snapping and flashing away all around me like this was the God-damn Winter Olympics, but despite it all, I found myself laughing – a proper belly-aching, gasping-for-air kind of laughter. And then - because life just couldn’t resist throwing in another curveball - one of the Hasidic Jews decided to make things interesting. One moment, the guy was holding onto me like a religious Sherpa, guiding me down the slope with the grace of an elder guiding a lost soul. The next thing I saw, he’d grabbed a snowboard and shot down the slope like Travis Rice on a snowy mission from God. Full religious garb Shtreimel, Bekishe, the whole lot - and here he was pulling off tricks that would’ve made Shaun White s*** his shorts with envy. I nearly fell over laughing as he launched himself off a snowbank, hitting the air with a Backside Double Cork 1260, his long black coat fluttering behind him like some kind of Semitic superhero cape. It was insane - this man, dressed like he was on his way to a Torah convention, was absolutely shredding the slope like a pro. And the crowd of journalists? They were losing their collective f***ing minds. Cameras flashing, jaws dropping, and here’s this Orthodox prodigy spinning through the air like a Dreidel, landing a perfect McTwist like it was nothing. My brain could hardly process it. The sheer absurdity of the whole thing was almost too much to handle. By the time he pulled off a Frontside 1080, practically levitating from the force of his spin, I’d given up on trying to make sense of anything. Life had officially crossed the threshold into full-blown fever dream territory. And all I could do was watch as this Hasidic snowboarding maven flew down the slope, his coat billowing behind him like the wings of a holy bat. I was having a great time, my tipsy little brain struggling to keep up with the sensory rollercoaster that surrounded me. I was giddy with it all, giggling like an over-excited child on a sugar-rush. This was some seriously mad s***. I just had to tell someone. Instinctively I freed my phone from it’s prison deep within my ridiculous ski outfit and dialled the first number on my contacts list. I was buzzing with an effervescent, gleeful energy. It’s not often you find yourself slaloming down a snowy Siberian slope with Hasidic Jews hanging off your arms. My life had gone full Looney Tunes – again. But for once, I was just having some fun. I just had to share the joy. The guy who answered was not so happy, however. “Shane!” I excitedly shouted into the phone. “You won’t believe this! I’m skiing! With dozens of Orthodox Jews! Seriously, you gotta see this s***! It’s like some weird dream! Like nothing I’ve ever seen before! I’m having a f***ing blast out here!” There was silence on the other end. Then, Shane’s voice, low and brimming with fury, crackled through the line, hitting my ears with the impact of an R-36 Soviet warhead. “Are you f***ing kidding me?! Skiing?! We’ve got a God-damn motherf***ing TV show to f***ing pull out of our f***ing asses and you’re off on a f***ing vacation!” His voice was like a sledgehammer smashing through the phone speaker. “I’m not on vacation” I whimpered like I’d just been spanked “I’m on important business! This is a cultural diplomatic mission... or something. And because of all this... erm... diplomacy I’ve managed to get us a real venue this time! All you need to do is get our guys up to Birobidzhan and unpack. The mayor here can’t wait to help us. It’ll be easy!” Somehow our Road Agent didn’t share my optimism. “Three f***ing days! Three! You’re giving me three f***ing days’ notice to set up an entire nationally f***ing televised show for the f***ing Russian Federation of Wrestling, and you’re off skiing like a child on Christmas f***ing morning?!!” I winced, refusing to let the smile slide off my face. “Come on, Franchise, I’m sure you’ve got it under control!” “Under control?!” Shane practically exploded. “It’s a logistical f***ing nightmare out here, and you’ve got me running around like a goddamn one-man circus! The ring crew hasn’t slept, the lighting crew keeps blowing fuses, and don’t even get me started on the PA system - half the equipment out here looks like it was salvaged from a f***ing Soviet scrapyard!” Even through my ridiculously big ski gloves I could feel my phone shaking from the fury in his voice. “Let me break it down for you, real slow and simple” he spat, with a tone that could slice through steel. “We’ve got a goddamn show to air in a matter of days, and I’ve got a skeleton crew out here trying to turn s*** in to gold! The ring needs to be set up, and don’t even get me started on the lighting rig - we’re headed to the ass-end of nowhere in Biro-what-the-f***-ever with a local power grid that looks like it was assembled by a drunken electrician. One wrong move, and half the city could black out.” I tried not to laugh - compared to all the trouble we caused in Khabarovsk, a city-wide power cut would be a walk in the park. “Alright, alright, that does sound... mildly inconvenient. But honestly, lighting rig? Just plug in some disco balls and call it a day. You’ve seen worse setups, haven’t you? Remember XPW? You basically had one light bulb hanging over the ring back then.” I should’ve known better than to wind him up, but I just couldn’t resist. “That crap-hole was like WWE compared to this. This isn’t a wrestling promotion! It’s a f***ing acid trip! This isn’t normal! This isn’t how wrestling should be done! If one more thing goes wrong, I swear to God, I’m gonna kick your ass from Kamchatka all the way to Kaliningrad! You think this s*** is easy?! Setting up a wrestling show with only three days’ notice?!” I tried to stay upbeat. “Come on, Shane. It’s not that bad, is it? You’ve been in the wrestling business since fax machines were cutting-edge tech. You got this!” He wasn’t buying any of my bulls***. “Yeah, right. You know what I don’t have? Help! No one’s helping me! I’m out here by myself trying to make sure the ring doesn’t collapse during the main event, and that nobody gets incinerated by faulty pyro. Then there’s the so-called God-damn motherf***ing ‘talent’ you’ve got me working with. These wrestlers - half of them don’t even speak f***ing English! We’ve got to run rehearsals, go through the match card, make sure everyone knows their spots, that nobody gets their damn head cracked open too early. Meanwhile, you’re playing ‘Eddie the Eagle’ out there? You have no idea how much work I do behind the scenes! What’s next?! You want me to wrestle a f***ing bear?!” That wasn’t a bad idea, actually. “Come on,” I smirked, brushing snow off my jacket. “You’re a pro at this stuff, Franchise. You’ve been doing this longer than anyone. Hell, you could probably set everything up faster than I can strap on these skis.” There was an exasperated pause. “I swear, I’m gonna lose it. And you think that’s all? We still need to deal with the security, the crowd control, the fireworks, the permits, the safety protocols - God help me if we’re not compliant. One rogue spark and boom, you’re sending these poor b******s home in a body bag.” Every point he made was absolutely valid. But I was determined to not let the noisy old goat win. “Oh, relax,” I quipped, taking a sip of the vintage champagne they’d just handed me. “What’s a little fire hazard between friends? This is Russia. People get set on fire here all the time.” “Listen up you weird Limey turd. If you don’t get me some God-damn help I’m gonna snap. And when I do I’m gonna break you to pieces worse than I did that stupid f***ing McDonald’s toy!” He wasn’t messing around. That was a serious threat. I remembered what’d happened to that infamous Happy Meal gift. He didn’t just smash it. He pulverised it. He destroyed it again and again until it was obliterated down to a particle level. My list of enemies was big enough without having the first ever ECW champion gunning for my arse too. “Alright, alright,” I said, grinning like an idiot even as I knew he wasn’t bluffing. “I’ll get you some help, alright? You want a couple of big, butch, burly Russian brutes to haul some cables around?” “No, you f***ing dumbass! We need a second Road Agent! Someone good! I'm tired of running this s*** alone! I’m sick of being the calm centre of your never-ending s***-tornado! Get me another Road Agent to share the load or I’m gonna explode like f***ing Chernobyl!” This was fun. I looked up just as one of my new Jewish buddies took to the sky with a breathtaking double back-flip right over my head. I had the Winter Olympics going on before my eyes and a melodrama going on in my ears. It was thrilling. “If you don’t, I’m gonna fly out there and hit you harder than I did Tommy Dreamer back in ’94,” Shane growled. He was relentless. I couldn’t help but admire the guy’s energy. He wasn't done yet. “And what about the damn broadcast setup? You think the cameras are just going to magically position themselves? You think the production truck’s going to roll in by itself? The so-called ‘tech guys’ Russiya 1 have saddled me with don’t even know how to set up an HD feed, let alone handle a live show. And what about the video production? We’ve got to coordinate the cameras, the cranes, the jib arms, and make sure they’re all calibrated properly so we don’t miss the action. Plus, someone’s got to sync the broadcast feed, edit the highlight reels, and prep for live commentary. Think I can just wave a magic f***ing wand and make all that happen? And you’re asking me to do this on three days’ notice?! You better hire me a second Road Agent who knows what they’re doing because I’m at my God-damn breaking point!” I stifled a laugh. “Shane, relax. You’re the Franchise. You got this - just delegate, slap some people around if you have to. You’re the man.” This was fun. “Yeah? We’ll see about that when the pyro blows up half the arena. You’ve got me out here playing Road Agent, engineer, cameraman, and talent manager all at once! If one more wrestler shows up late or one more light blows out, I swear I’m gonna stomp someone's skull into next week.” I made a mental note to quietly switch Shane’s coffee to decaf. “Alright, alright,” I chuckled. “I’ll send some help. But really, man, three days? Come on, that’s nothing for you. You can set this up blindfolded. Just remember to breathe. I’ll bring you back some champagne - well, what’s left of it anyway. It might’ve gone down too well…” “Champagne?!” Shane scowled. “If you don’t get your ass back here soon, the only thing you’ll be sipping is through a straw after I knock your f***ing teeth out! Now get off the slopes and help me fix this s***show! And tell that fat, ponytailed ass-clown Seagal to come and give me a hand. He’s supposed to be here helping me organise this circus, but that kimono-wrapped douche has gone AWOL!” I laughed again, even though I knew he was dead serious. “You don’t need him. You got this, Franchise. See you soon.” As I hung up, I couldn’t help but laugh. This was classic Shane. He had a unique way of getting things done. Shouting. Screaming. Strangling. But hey, that’s why I hired him. If anyone could pull a miracle out of their ass, it was The Franchise. Hell, he’d performed miracles for 15 episodes so far, what was one more? He was right though, he did need some help. I’d thought Seagal was meant to be on backup duty. I’d specifically asked him to stay with Shane and lend a hand. I pondered this as another of my new Semitic brethren sped by, hitting the Slalom like a pro. I’d have been annoyed if I wasn’t so busy being overjoyed. Where was Seagal?! The answer sped past me in a blur moments later. Enter Steven Seagal, making his grand entrance charging down the slope like some kind of ski-bound Genghis Khan. I damn near spat out my Dom Pérignon when I saw his skin-tight ski outfit. The damn thing looked like it had been cobbled together from the curtains of a Las Vegas wedding chapel. He threw me a smile as he waved and posed for the cameras like he was some kind of mountain God traversing his frozen domain. Shane was going to be pissed. Just like the PR trap I’d fallen into, I should’ve seen this coming too. Seagal - always one for a good publicity stunt – was never going to miss out on this madness. I pondered all this as I sloshed the last of the champagne around my mouth, watching with equal amounts of terror and awe as he carved his way down the slope as if physics had given up trying to hold him back. It’s difficult to find the right words to describe the sight of Seagal slaloming his way down the slopes. It was like watching a cement mixer attempt ballet - heavy, slow, and full of misplaced confidence. His arms flailed like he was trying to swat invisible flies, and his knees bent at angles that made my own joints ache in sympathy. Every turn he made seemed like a battle with gravity, with physics losing out to whatever mystical energy Seagal believed he possessed. It was as if he were trying to conquer the mountain-side by kicking it to death with his skis. He didn’t so much ski as bulldoze his way downhill, scattering terrified skiers in his wake like bowling pins. It was only a matter of time before fate showed it’s cruel sense of humour by having some poor b*****d collide with our wobbly authority figure. It was as if time itself went into slow motion as Seagal went sprawling face-first into the snow, tumbling arse-over-head a dozen times down the icy slope, until he landed in a pile of broken skis and shattered limbs at the bottom of the piste. The entire crowd gasped like they’d just witnessed the assassination of a global leader. The swarm of paparazzi descended upon the human wreckage like piranhas, snapping away at our fallen movie star like they’d just struck tabloid gold. Cameras flashed with a frenzy usually reserved for celebrity meltdowns, catching every last ounce of humiliation as Seagal lay sprawled out like a beached whale in a fur coat. His carefully orchestrated publicity stunt had well and truly bitten him on the arse. His face went crimson with rage. There’d be hell to pay. The guy who hit him may as well have signed his own death certificate. Anyone who’s ever worked with Steven Seagal will tell you all about his fragile temperament. Not fragile like a delicate China vase. Fragile like a bomb. Instantly, he was back on his feet, that signature death glare plastered across his face - the kind of look that had sent countless stuntmen into therapy. The journalists who weren’t frantically photoing the scene for the next day’s headlines were taking bets on exactly what our homicidal ‘man of peace’ would do next. Perhaps he would tear off the guy’s arm and slap him to death with his own severed hand? Maybe he would rip out the man’s lower intestine and him to death with it? Seagal’s deadly, powerful hands twitched like they were about to explode. The foolish, unfortunate future victim just stood there, wide-eyed and shaking, probably praying to every deity he could think of. Nobody knew what poor fate awaited him – but whatever was about to happen, it was going to be awesome. Unfortunately, Vinnikov and Golovaty – their faces as pale as the Siberian snow - immediately jumped in to play peacemakers, doing their best to calm Seagal down. The poor skier looked like he was about to piss and s*** himself at the same time, especially when Seagal leaned in close, growling something about “disrespecting a master of the arts” or some other Karmic bulls***. Everyone was very disappointed - it’d looked like we were about to witness the majestic sight of Seagal breaking the guy in half for the cameras. We were all really looking forward to seeing the snowy white slopes being painted red with some dude's blood. Sadly, after some intense diplomatic efforts from Team Alex, who were clearly terrified Seagal would cause an international incident, the situation was defused. Seagal took a deep, exaggerated breath, smoothed down the creases in his God-awful snow-suit, and stomped off toward the ski lift like a child having a tantrum. Crisis averted. The press got their photos, the skier got to leave without having his whole spinal column shoved up his arse, and Seagal? Well, Seagal got to keep whatever shred of dignity he hadn’t left sprawled out in the snow. I couldn’t help but laugh. Here I was, skiing with Hasidic Jews who were pulling off death-defying stunts, while Steven Seagal nearly started a diplomatic incident on a Siberian ski slope, drinking pricey champagne and feasting on the finest foods, with the melodic tones of a world class Shane Douglas pissy-fit still ringing in my ears. This was my life now, and I had no choice but to embrace the madness. As I stood upon that high, snow-covered peak, my breath visible in the icy air, I gazed out into the distance. The Siberian sunset stretched across the sky, bathing the world below in hues of fiery orange and deep purple, like some great cosmic painter had decided to give the day a grand finale. For a brief moment, I felt something bubble up from deep within me. Was it hope? Maybe. Or was it just the bubbles from the obscene amount of champagne I’d downed in a single gulp earlier? Hell, at that point, I couldn’t tell the difference, but standing there, watching the sun dip below the horizon, I felt lighter than I had in months. It was ridiculous, really - just hours before, I was grumbling my way through another absurd PR stunt, convinced that life had become nothing more than a cruel joke played by Putin’s puppet masters. But now, surrounded by a bunch of Hasidic Jews on snowboards, Steven Seagal’s infinite rage bellowing in the distance, and the press snapping away like they’d never seen a wrestling promoter with a Shtreimel before, I couldn’t help but smile. Despite everything, despite all the nuclear meltdowns, the endless chaos, and the feeling of being a pawn in someone else’s deranged game, I found myself actually enjoying it. It reminded me, even in the darkest corners of the Kremlin’s scheming and the circus that was the Russian Federation of Wrestling, there were moments like this - wild, unexpected, utterly surreal moments that made the whole thing worth it. Standing there, with a gentle snowflake landing on my nose, I realized that, for the first time in a long while, I felt... okay. I might not have known what lay ahead - more meltdowns, more chaos, more Lightning Bolt, and probably a bullet with my name on it - but for now, I could laugh at the absurdity of it all and maybe - just maybe - find a little peace. And so, as the sun finally disappeared beneath the horizon, I gave one last glance at the scene around me, half-drunk, fully bewildered, but strangely hopeful. Life was mad, yes, but maybe that madness wasn’t so bad after all. Edited August 29 by dstephe4 1 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted August 30 Author Share Posted August 30 AI etc. There's a really good debate going on about whether AI should be allowed in Diaries, whether it should be tagged, banned, whether it's harmless, etc. For clarity, all the writing in this forum is mine, in case you couldn't tell. I'm pretty sure half the stuff written on here would be a breach of AI's Terms Of Use anyway lol Here's the proof, if anyone doubted: I have obviously been using AI generated images though. It's useful because it's really hard via Google Images to find, for example, Hasidic Orthodox Jews doing tricks on a Ski Slope. But I wanna gauge people's opinions. There seems to be a lot of hate for AI, which I totally get. Shall I go back to only using real world photos etc? Shall I do a diary-wide AI ban? Penny for your thoughts, everyone. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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