The Russian Federation Of Wrestling

[Taylor2020]

Sting & Darby Allin vs Viking Raiders

John Hennigan vs Vertigo

Bryan Daniels vs Ilja Dragunov

[dstephe4]

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

[kanegan]

Sting & Darby Allin

John Hennigan

Ilja Dragunov

[scapegoat]

Sting & Darby Allin

John Hennigan

Ilja Dragunov

[dstephe4]

 

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

 

Edited April 22 by dstephe4

[80085]

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

 

Predictions--

I'm going ALL AMERICAN with this one fam

Sting and allin

Hennigan in pink

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

Edited April 24 by 80085

[dstephe4]

 

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

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

 

 

[80085]

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

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

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!