The Russian Federation Of Wrestling

[80085]

57 minutes ago, dstephe4 said:

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.

AI is bollocks man. It is just really crap text most often. Im really glad to hear you not gonna start using that rubbish bruv. The writing on here is UNIQUE man and you will be keeping it that way.

The AI images are fine but the photos were better. Made us realise this stuff was based in the real world of Putin Russia. The AI images make this a comic book

[DinoKea]

Personal thoughts:

AI is a tool and should be treated as such. With the AI images I can understand the debate around replacing artists, but in a diary you're not getting paid for, I'm certainly not going to care. I use some myself for a Football Sim I'm doing elsewhere so can't exactly call anyone out on using it.

As for using AI to help write, it's a tool and should be treated as such. Particularly good for help with stuff like coding or lining up ideas, but needs a guide if you want it to give you anything good.

[dstephe4]

 

It was safe to say we were on our best behaviour for our big show in Birobidzhan. The week prior, we'd been sent into Khabarovsk to bring peace, harmony and tranquility to what the Western media had labelled 'Riot City'. And everything went great until we accidentally demolished our whole venue, caused a major-scale nuclear incident, and caused the entire city to be evacuated. Somehow my instincts told me to play things safe this time. After the warm welcome I'd received, with enough fancy, expensive booze to drown in and so much exquisite cuisine I'm surprised they didn't bankrupt the whole state in feeding me, I felt we owed the mayor and his Hasidic cronies a show free from the hoopla, helicopters and hazmat suits that followed our last (mis)adventure. With all this in mind, and with the words of my new buddy Dave Meltzer still ringing in my ears, I was determined to make this a good one. Here's what Episode 16 had in store...   Above: Behold, the best (and only) map in the whole TEW IX Dynasties forum!     Episode 16: The Big-Ass Birobidzhan Bash! Predictions time once again!   John Hennigan vs Vladimir Kulakov - Fans Bring Their Own Weapons Match 'The Fabulous One' John Hennigan had been screaming out for vengeance ever since our very own human wrecking ball, Vladimir Kulakov, booted his so-called spirit guide, Gerald The Dog, halfway to Siberia. Despite having his 'Style Squad' lackeys Petr Tihanyi and Bence Toth by his side, our fans on social media (or what passes for it in Russia) quickly decided this was less of a contest and more of a live execution. Would Hennigan unveil a cunning master plan? Or was he genuinely just insane for agreeing to step into the ring with the guy who single-handedly brought a city to a stand-still?   Kris Jokic vs Andrei Arlovski or Alen Khubulov – For The RFW National Title Remember that absolute disaster of a tag team match where the Russian A-Team turned their title shot into a farce by bickering like children? Well, so did Seagal, and he’d had enough. Instead of letting them off easy, he decided to flip a coin to see which one got the chance to fight Kris Jokic for the RFW National Title. Would they finally work together as Seagal hoped in the name of patriotic athletic competition? Or would their feud scupper a chance at title gold once again? Dragan Spazic vs Bryan Daniels Bryan Daniels is back. Apparently. Yes, really. Despite the fact that last time, he couldn’t even handle a light breeze without flinching, was obviously tripping balls of pain meds, and screamed like a frightened little girl every time anyone went near his wrist, he's apparently 'fine' now. As if by magic the badly broken wrist and the ridiculously big cast it necessitated are gone. Everyone was calling bulls***, but Seagal had no choice but to let him wrestle since Daniels rocked up with a doctor’s note that looked suspiciously like it was written by a toddler with a crayon. Dragan Spazic, the Pink Tornado himself, stepped up to the challenge. Would Scotty 2 Hotty and Rikishi be ringside to cheer on their flamboyant new buddy? Would Marty Scurll and Villain Enterprises slither out from under their rocks to interfere? Would 'The American Dragon' be healthy enough to fight off aa foe as sneaky and cunning as 'Dirty' Dragan? Anything could happen.   Edge vs Sting – #1 Contender’s Match This was the big one. The Rated-R Superstar, Edge, had snarked his way into this match by leveraging his short-lived stint as Sting and Darby Allin’s bodyguard into a shot at the #1 contender spot. The winner would get the privilege -if you could call it that - of facing the unstoppable Ilja Dragunov for the World Title next week. This bout was shaping up to be a classic, with two of the biggest names in the business going head-to-head in what could very well be a match for the ages. But who would win this finely balanced contest? Would their protégés Vertigo and Darby Allin get involved? With fans split 50/50, this one had everyone talking. Episode 16 - Coming Soon.   Post your predictions! One point per correct winner chosen! Plus! For a bonus point! This show will feature a special 'celebrity' guest (you'll find out why in the next chapter). A whole, entire bonus point for anyone who correctly guesses who we've shamelessly bribed to appear on our show.     John Hennigan vs Vladimir Kulakov - Fans Bring Their Own Weapons Match Kris Jokic vs Andrei Arlovski or Alen Khubulov – For The RFW National Title Dragan Spazic vs Bryan Daniels Edge vs Sting – #1 Contender’s Match   @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 @EBEZA

 

[Jason Phoenix]

2 hours ago, dstephe4 said:

 

It was safe to say we were on our best behaviour for our big show in Birobidzhan. The week prior, we'd been sent into Khabarovsk to bring peace, harmony and tranquility to what the Western media had labelled 'Riot City'. And everything went great until we accidentally demolished our whole venue, caused a major-scale nuclear incident, and caused the entire city to be evacuated. Somehow my instincts told me to play things safe this time. After the warm welcome I'd received, with enough fancy, expensive booze to drown in and so much exquisite cuisine I'm surprised they didn't bankrupt the whole state in feeding me, I felt we owed the mayor and his Hasidic cronies a show free from the hoopla, helicopters and hazmat suits that followed our last (mis)adventure. With all this in mind, and with the words of my new buddy Dave Meltzer still ringing in my ears, I was determined to make this a good one. Here's what Episode 16 had in store...   Above: Behold, the best (and only) map in the whole TEW IX Dynasties forum!     Episode 16: The Big-Ass Birobidzhan Bash! Predictions time once again!   John Hennigan vs Vladimir Kulakov - Fans Bring Their Own Weapons Match 'The Fabulous One' John Hennigan had been screaming out for vengeance ever since our very own human wrecking ball, Vladimir Kulakov, booted his so-called spirit guide, Gerald The Dog, halfway to Siberia. Despite having his 'Style Squad' lackeys Petr Tihanyi and Bence Toth by his side, our fans on social media (or what passes for it in Russia) quickly decided this was less of a contest and more of a live execution. Would Hennigan unveil a cunning master plan? Or was he genuinely just insane for agreeing to step into the ring with the guy who single-handedly brought a city to a stand-still?   Kris Jokic vs Andrei Arlovski or Alen Khubulov – For The RFW National Title Remember that absolute disaster of a tag team match where the Russian A-Team turned their title shot into a farce by bickering like children? Well, so did Seagal, and he’d had enough. Instead of letting them off easy, he decided to flip a coin to see which one got the chance to fight Kris Jokic for the RFW National Title. Would they finally work together as Seagal hoped in the name of patriotic athletic competition? Or would their feud scupper a chance at title gold once again? Dragan Spazic vs Bryan Daniels Bryan Daniels is back. Apparently. Yes, really. Despite the fact that last time, he couldn’t even handle a light breeze without flinching, was obviously tripping balls of pain meds, and screamed like a frightened little girl every time anyone went near his wrist, he's apparently 'fine' now. As if by magic the badly broken wrist and the ridiculously big cast it necessitated are gone. Everyone was calling bulls***, but Seagal had no choice but to let him wrestle since Daniels rocked up with a doctor’s note that looked suspiciously like it was written by a toddler with a crayon. Dragan Spazic, the Pink Tornado himself, stepped up to the challenge. Would Scotty 2 Hotty and Rikishi be ringside to cheer on their flamboyant new buddy? Would Marty Scurll and Villain Enterprises slither out from under their rocks to interfere? Would 'The American Dragon' be healthy enough to fight off aa foe as sneaky and cunning as 'Dirty' Dragan? Anything could happen.   Edge vs Sting – #1 Contender’s Match This was the big one. The Rated-R Superstar, Edge, had snarked his way into this match by leveraging his short-lived stint as Sting and Darby Allin’s bodyguard into a shot at the #1 contender spot. The winner would get the privilege -if you could call it that - of facing the unstoppable Ilja Dragunov for the World Title next week. This bout was shaping up to be a classic, with two of the biggest names in the business going head-to-head in what could very well be a match for the ages. But who would win this finely balanced contest? Would their protégés Vertigo and Darby Allin get involved? With fans split 50/50, this one had everyone talking. Episode 16 - Coming Soon.   Post your predictions! One point per correct winner chosen! Plus! For a bonus point! This show will feature a special 'celebrity' guest (you'll find out why in the next chapter). A whole, entire bonus point for anyone who correctly guesses who we've shamelessly bribed to appear on our show.     John Hennigan vs Vladimir Kulakov - Fans Bring Their Own Weapons Match Kris Jokic vs Andrei Arlovski or Alen Khubulov – For The RFW National Title Dragan Spazic vs Bryan Daniels Edge vs Sting – #1 Contender’s Match   @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 @EBEZA

 

Vladimir Kulakov

Kris Jokic

Dragan Spazic

The ring Ropes fall off, the posts topple, the main part of the ring disintegrates - No Contest

The "special guest" is Vince McMahon (who may or may not have something to do with the chaos of the main event)

[DinoKea]

Predictions

Vladimir Kulakov def. John Hennigan

Kris Jokic def. Andrei Arlovski &? Alen Khubulov

Bryan Daniels def. Dragan Spazic

Sting def. Edge – #1 Contender’s Match

[dstephe4]

Thank you guys for your predictions!

Don't forget there's a bonus point for anyone who correctly guesses our celebrity guest!

That's a thing now, here in TEW IX apparently. Although I'm sure I'll be using it in ways Ryland never imagined lol

Thank you for reading. Let's see if we can get some new eyes on this thing now there's so many new / returning readers on the forum.

[80085]

You should also give a bonus point if we are making the right choice of who is winning the coin toss. Khubulov or Pitbull Arlovski.

I say Arlovski gets the toss and the win. UFC class shows through

Kulakov beats Hennigan because HE IS KULAKOV 

For the Edge vs Sting I was gonna say Edge and you have a bit of a feud because Sting got screwed out of a title shot. But Sting is busy with the Dark Church and Edge is busy with the Style Squad so I think it's a DRAW.

Daniels beats Spazic because he's called himself the Pink Tornado now and that is STUPID lol

 

We need clues before we can guess the Celebrity tho. You said the next chapter is giving us a clue so post that and we will be guessing!

Edited September 8 by 80085

[dstephe4]

 

For this chapter, we go back in time a little, back to the start of this ridiculous, bulls*** Russian misadventure.  Back to early January ’23. Back to when my nose was bleeding. Back to when I smelled like a mixture of vodka, sweat, and fear. Back to when I had a suitcase stuffed with millions of U.S. Dollars in one hand and a folder full of shady contacts in the other, and that small but easily noticeable piss stain adorned the front of my pants. Back to that desperate, ridiculous time when I was alone in a fancy restaurant in Moscow's trendy financial district, awaiting further instructions, trying to understand what in the name of tap-dancing Christ had just happened to me. Just two hours earlier, I had experienced the most bizarre, surreal, frightening, yet strangely exciting kidnapping in sports entertainment history. A team of goons had shown up at my door, punched me in the face, and dragged me to a secret location deep within the Kremlin. After being tied to a chair I found myself being barked at by Oleg Matytsin, the Russian Minister for Sport. He declared that Russia needed a distraction from their failing war with Ukraine and had (bizarrely) decided that American-style wrestling was the solution. He wanted it bigger, more patriotic, more... magnificent, more... ‘masculine’. I was the perfect person for the job, he’d declared, whether I liked it or not. He then started force-feeding me vodka and waving his pistol at me, just in case the abduction alone hadn’t been enough to prove he was serious. Do you remember that stuff from the start of this ridiculous journey? I certainly do. The b*****ds damn-near broke my nose. I still get pant-wetting flashbacks every time I sneeze. I sat there dazed and startled, with a massive headache, the aforementioned suitcase of cash, and no f***ing clue what I was doing. I still have no idea, as you may have noticed. In the space of just one morning I’d somehow gone from being a happy, carefree Western Capitalist to being Vladimir Putin’s new pet bitch. I’m still baffled by it all, even now. So there I was, sat in this ridiculously overpriced restaurant, trying to stop myself from trembling like I'd been hooked up to a car battery. My hands were shaking like they were auditioning for a maracas solo. I couldn't help but wonder how the hell I ended up in this f***ed-up situation. I was pretty sure I could hear Oleg’s sinister laughter echoing in my head as I stared blankly at the menu, unable to read a single word of the garbled Cyrillic nonsense in front of me. I glanced around nervously, half-expecting more goons to burst in, stuff me into an old suitcase and throw me in the Moskva River. I was waiting for a sniper’s bullet to come crashing through the window and bring an end to this bizarre situation once and for all. But nothing happened. The place was absolutely, hauntingly silent - suspiciously empty, like a scene from some low-budget horror movie. 'Great. Just f***ing great' I said to myself, bleating like a frightened little lamb. I was bleeding, reeking of vodka, and sweating like a pig in a bacon factory. I was a hot, trembling, baby-like mess, and to make matters worse that piss stain still just wouldn’t dry. My mind raced as I tried to piece together a plan. Wrestling, I thought to myself. How hard could it be? A bunch of sweaty men pretending to hit each other. It wasn’t exactly rocket science. I hadn’t seen wrestling since ECW folded in 2001, but I figured that if a weird, sweaty b*****d like Paul Heyman could manage it, then maybe a weird, sweaty b*****d like me could too. But then again, my life depended on this, and I’d never been good under pressure. Especially not with my new shady Russian overlords holding a metaphorical - and very literal - gun to my head. I fumbled with the folder full of shady contacts, trying to make sense of the names and numbers. Most of them were in Russian, which didn't help. I needed back-up, and fast.     In a moment of sheer desperation, I decided to call the one person I could think of who might just be able to save my sorry arse; ‘Max’. I’d never actually met the guy - nobody had - and I was pretty sure 'Max' wasn’t even his real name. He seemed the perfect guy to pull me out of the spiralling, cataclysmic s***-show I’d found myself in though. His ridiculous powers as a shady corporate fixer were nothing short of legendary. Everyone had their own favourite 'Max' story. No matter what s*** you managed to land yourself in, no matter how toxic the scandal, no matter how many nations laws were broken, 'Max' would have you sipping cocktails in Bermuda before the news even broke. He once managed to get a CEO’s ex-wife to attend their remarriage ceremony, despite the fact she’d enrolled in the witness protection programme and had run off with his yacht. The man was like a real-life deus ex machina, pulling strings and solving problems with a combination of charm, cunning, and sheer audacity. He’d always come through for me in the past. Like the time I was closing a multi-million dollar property deal, but the guy I was working with would only sign if I could get him a lion. Yes, really – a God-damn lion. In under thirty minutes. Don’t ask why he needed one – this is Russia – everyone’s crazy here. I phoned 'Max'. He had seven for me to choose from, in a variety of sizes. The man was legendary. He was like the Keyser Söze of bulls***. He was like the Jesus Christ of problem solvers. But nobody knew who the hell he was. I always found his need for shadowy anonymity both amusing and slightly concerning. But now the s*** had hit the fan, and we needed to meet. A part of me was almost excited; I'd always wanted to know who the hell 'Max' was - now was one hell of a time to find out. I dialled his number, praying he hadn’t changed it since the last time we spoke. “Max, it’s me,” I said, my voice shaking. “Jesus, what happened to you?” he replied, immediately picking up on the panic in my tone. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I muttered, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. Not that there was anyone there to eavesdrop – but this is Russia, after all. “I need your help. I’m in Moscow, and I’ve got one week to create a wrestling show. From scratch.” There was a pause on the other end, followed by a burst of gut-busting, apoplectic laughter. “You’re f***ing kidding, right?!” That didn’t help. “I wish I was,” I replied, feeling a fresh wave of despair wash over me. “Can you help or not? I need you! Now! Come and help me, you weird, spooky b*****d!” I shrieked down the phone, my lip trembling and my voice shaking like a spanked child. “I need you here, you arsehole! Get your ass over here and help me, right now!” I was shouting in fear rather than anger, but I’d clearly completely lost my s***. Max sighed deeply, probably realising he couldn't wriggle out of this one, possibly just wanting to see my ridiculous train-wreck of a situation for himself. “Fine, I’ll be there in five minutes.” “Wait… you’re in Moscow?!” I nearly choked on my coffee in surprise, which promptly came shooting out of my nose, sending boiling hot brew all over my lap. Great - now on top of all the s*** I was going through, I looked like I’d pissed myself – again. There was no answer. I hung up the phone, feeling a strange mix of relief and terror as I frantically tried to napkin the giant wet patch off my trousers. But then my mind started going haywire. It’d been a lot easier than I’d expected to draw the mysterious ‘Max’ out of hiding. Almost... too easy. My imagination turned on me. What if this dude was some kind of spy or something? What if he was some underworld criminal, and I'd just pissed him off? Now he was coming to f*** me up or kill me? Oh, f*** me, what had I done? “Oh f***ing f***ing f***edy f***!” I whimpered to myself, dabbing at my crotch frantically, trying not to cry. It wasn’t exactly my finest hour, I’ll admit. My mind started racing, conjuring up images of what 'Max' might actually look like. He could have been a skinhead neo-Nazi with a trench coat and neck tattoo for all I knew. Or a lunatic with a chainsaw maybe? Or worse, some psychotic, suit-wearing Russian Mafia type with a shotgun and a vendetta? I couldn't help but picture 'Max' as a cross between a Russian gangster and a character from a Quentin Tarantino movie. My heart pounded in my chest as I glanced around the empty restaurant, wondering if I should make a run for it. But where the hell would I go? I was in Moscow, surrounded by people who probably wanted me dead, or worse. Just then, the waitress returned - a butch, heavily tattooed woman who looked like she could bench press a truck. She had the kind of fists that made her look like she could crush a guy’s skull like an empty Pepsi can. She saw the panic in my eyes, took one look at my shaking hands and the mess I’d made, and plopped a whole bottle of vodka down on the table. “Вам понадобится это лекарство,” she said with a mixture of Russian and heavily-accented English. “You’ll need this medicine.” She slammed a glass down on the table with such power I’m surprised it didn’t explode on impact. She looked at me sadly. The pity hurt more than my bloody nose. I nodded gratefully, not trusting myself to speak without my voice cracking. I poured myself a double, hands still trembling, and downed it in one go. The vodka burned its way down, but I barely noticed. All I could think about was the impending arrival of 'Max', whoever the hell he was. I kept imagining him bursting through the door, all wild eyes and murderous intent. Would he be some hulking brute with a penchant for violence? Or maybe a slick, calculating killer who’d off me with a single, cold glance? My mind was a whirlwind of terrifying possibilities, each more ridiculous than the last. Then the door opened. The fear rocked me like a grenade explosion. My heart nearly stopped. I was sweating like a sinner in church. I tried to look composed, trying to pull a face that showed the world I was not to be f***ed with – until I caught sight of my reflection in one of the windows, saw I looked like I was having a tricky s***, then decided to drop the pretence. The seconds stretched into an eternity as I waited for ‘Max’ to make his grand entrance. Then a shadowy figure began to emerge. A tidal wave of emotion knocked the air out of my chest like a Tyson Fury uppercut. This was it.      Through the doorway stepped a man who looked oddly familiar. He was tall, around six feet, with a slim build. His light brown hair was neatly styled, and his blue eyes had a piercing quality to them. He had a calm, almost detached expression, like he was analysing everything around him with quiet amusement. A charming, elegant, annoyingly good-looking b*****d. It suddenly hit me – I’d seen him before. Designer clothes. Impossibly white teeth. The kind of perfect hair that makes the mirror an addiction. I knew this guy. He walked towards my table with an air of casual confidence. He wasn’t the hulking brute or the neo-Nazi with a trench coat. He wasn’t a chainsaw-wielding freak or gun-slinging Mafioso. He looked like someone who had wandered in from a film set, an ordinary guy with an extraordinary presence. “Dean Erickson, you absolute d***!” I yelled. All the emotions erupted out of me like a volcano. The fear. The anger. The sorrow. The confusion. All out. All at once. I was like a cluster-bomb, firing emotional shrapnel all over the place. The guy just saw my outpouring and my ridiculous face and just laughed. There was a time, long ago, when I actually quite liked the guy. But in that moment I could’ve strangled that handsome, irritating tool of a man. If any of you reading this know who Dean Erickson is, let me know. I’ll buy you a steak or something. He's one of those guys who’s lived a hundred different lives – the kind who seems to reinvent themselves every few years, strolling from one annoying success story to the next, breezing through life like an adventure. I bet you know someone in your own life who's like that. And I bet you just want to slap them right in their smug, handsome, satisfied little face. We crossed paths when he was in his ‘Real Estate Guru’ phase, back when he was fluttering his way around the world like some effervescent Gordon Gecko-eque sage, promising to make millionaires of anyone who’d listen (and pay). He was an annoying Real Estate prick. I was an annoying Real Estate prick. So of course we gravitated towards each other like flies on s***. He reached my table, looked me up and down, and let out a big, theatrical fake sigh. “You look like hell” he said with a smug Cheshire cat grin, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from me. I burst out laughing, the tension of the past hours suddenly releasing in a wave of hysterics. “You can’t be 'Max'! You’re not some shady, unseen, world-renowned fixer!” I waved my finger at him, madly. “You’re Dean f***ing Erickson!!!” I first met him at some God-awful real estate seminar. I was the only person in the whole room who recognised him from his acting career. Specifically, from the cult classic game 'Gabriel Knight 2: The Beast Within' - which was pretty much my favourite thing ever growing up - and of course Dean and his ridiculously handsome face had starred in it. I went full fanboy, gushing over his performance. Dean, loving the attention, soaked it up like a sponge. We became pals, partly because we were both cutthroat real estate d***heads, and partly because I stroked his ego like a pro. I kept on laughing. And laughing. And laughing. Partly because after the acid-trip-style emotional rollercoaster I’d been on which had my emotions pouring out of me like an explosive enema, but also because I could tell it was pissing him off. He didn’t like being laughed at. It hurt his precious little ego. But so what? Screw that guy. Maybe he needed bringing down a peg or two, especially after all this ‘Max’ bulls***. This was Dean Erickson, the guy who seemed to have sprung straight out of some teenage girl's puke-inducing Hollywood fantasy. He didn’t just settle for a low-key acting gig - no, for his first proper acting role he swaggered onto ‘Frasier,’ one of TV’s biggest shows, and stole hearts as Daphne’s love interest. With his chiselled jaw, perfect hair, and that smug, irritating smile, he looked like he belonged on a romance novel cover. And, of course, he made it look effortless, the b*****d. But his real claim to fame was ‘The Beast Within’ which I mentioned earlier, one of those cheesy ‘90s FMV games. Dean stepped in as Gabriel Knight, previously voiced by Tim Curry, and somehow nailed it. He turned what should’ve been cringeworthy into a cult classic. He didn't know it, but I've been a huge fan of that game since I was a kid - seeing him in person was like meeting a rock star. And just when you thought he might suck at something, he didn’t. He wrote a mystery novel, No One Laughs At A Dead Clown, and it was actually, infuriatingly good. The guy just couldn’t fail.     Then came his self-help phase, which was insufferable. Dean became one of those cringe-worthy motivational speakers, spouting buzzwords and clichés. His book Choose Your Story, Choose Your Life rehashed every self-help trope, but people devoured it. He travelled the world on the back of that cockamamie s*** , flashing that perfect smile, soaking up the adoration. Then he pivoted to real estate. He founded Erickson and Associates, joined forces with Keller Williams Realty, and breezed onto the Austin Board of Realtors like it was nothing. Before long, he was jet-setting around the globe as Dean Erickson: Property Mogul. And that’s how we crossed paths - both submerged up to our tits in the murky waters of real estate. So there I was, facing Dean f***ing Erickson, a man who had somehow finessed his way from retro games and sitcoms into the slimy, high-stakes world of real estate, and then here into this bizarre, life-and-death situation here with me. If anyone could help me turn this Russian wrestling s***show into something vaguely resembling a success, it was probably him. And if he couldn’t, well, at least I’d have someone charming to share my final moments with before the Russians decided to throw me in the Moskva River.  But whether I needed him or not, that arsehole still owed me big time for all those years pretending to be ‘Max’. I gave him hell for it. Or at least I wanted to. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to strangle the smug b*****d, to squeeze that tanned, muscular neck until his head popped off like an oversized Pez dispenser. But he just kept flashing that winning smile of his at me and I melted like a God-damned ice cube in a furnace. Besides, I now had the entire Russian State crawling up my arse - my beef with some former actor seemed kinda small fry in comparison. The prick owed me an explanation though. Of course he oozed charm as he explained it. Of course he did. “I’ve been tailing you for years, online, since we met. You’re weird little life is hugely entertaining. You blackmailed your way into the uncrackable Russian business cabal using kittens as leverage. That’s... imaginative to say the least. And hilarious. I then upped the ante and started calling you. Just for my amusement. I’m amazed I got away with it, with my accent and all. There can’t be many in the shady Russian underworld with a strong Texas accent like mine” he laughed, practically patting himself on the back as he talked. “You disguised your voice well” I conceded. “You must’ve been an actor or something” I quipped. “Ever see that movie Mission: Impossible with that Tom Cruise fruitcake in it? He meets a mysterious, powerful, seemingly all-knowing contact called ‘Max’ in some lavish European locale. I was kinda hoping it’d be the same for us, but we ended up in some empty Moscow s***hole restaurant instead.” He grabbed my bottle of vodka and took a swig, recharging himself for the next grand part of his smug little speech. “It was when I was watching that movie that my plan came together. Besides, I was very, very drunk." “There’s a TV show called Catfish – have you ever seen it? It was kinda like that. I’ve been playing you like an old tuba for years. Ever since that Bella Casa Real Estate Summit in Milan all those years ago. Or was it Naples? Ever since we were at that Sustainable Architecture seminar and we were both hitting on the same waitress. I still can’t believe she took your phone number instead of mine” said Dean, thoughtfully stroking his chin and his ego at the same time. “She must have been drawn by the size of my massive...” I began. “... wallet?” he offered with a glint in his eye and a smile.  “... sure, why not” I said. “I was going to say ‘personality’ by the way” I added. But neither of us was buying that crap. “Speaking of waitresses...” he began, surveying the scene like a hawk searching for prey to hunt and devour. “Where’s that fine lady I saw as I came in?” As we sat there, Dean became visibly distracted by our waitress – that butch, muscular woman who looked like she could kickbox Kick Kong. The one who seemed capable of bending steel with her teeth. Dean was mesmerised. “See those powerful hands?” he said, barely containing his excitement. “A gal like that could bend me into all kinds of shapes, I bet.” I stared at him in disbelief. “That’s a good, proper lady right there. A woman like that could really tame a man,” he added, his eyes following her every move like an eagle about to swoop.     I tried to steer the conversation back to my dire, ridiculous situation. “Dean, focus. I've managed to somehow piss off every fat cat and suit in this country since I arrived back in 2014. It was only a matter of time before they took their revenge. My skyscrapers are better than their skyscrapers. And my money stacks higher than theirs. Putin’s gold is only meant to go to Russians, and here I am infiltrating their system, laughing in their faces. I’ve been living like a Tsar. It was only a matter of time before they struck back.” Dean nodded absentmindedly but kept glancing at the waitress. “Wouldn’t shooting you have been easier?” he mused. “This whole Russian Federation Of Wrestling thing seems ridiculously inefficient. Mind you, inefficiency is a Russian forté.” I was stunned. “How the hell did you know that?! I haven’t mentioned the name of this stupid wrestling thing to anyone!” I was flabbergasted. Spooked. My jaw dropped wide open. He just smiled. “I’m ‘Max’ remember? I know everything.” He was right, of course. But it was hard to take him seriously when every few sentences, Dean’s focus would drift back to the waitress. “Look at her,” he said, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper. “A real Amazon. I bet she could crush me like a grape.” I sighed, feeling like I was losing him to a hormonal teenage jizz fantasy. “Dean, I need you here. With me. In the now.” He snapped back to reality, albeit briefly. “Right, right. So you’re basically screwed. The Russians want to make your life hell with this wrestling thing instead of just offing you. Got it.” I nodded. “Yep. They’ve decided to torture me with inefficiency and bureaucracy instead of a bullet.” Dean chuckled, but his eyes kept darting back to the waitress. “I gotta say, man, if I had a lady like that serving me, I might just go willingly to whatever doom awaits.” And there it was. My life was hanging by a thread, and Dean Erickson, my supposed saviour, was turning into a lovesick puppy over a woman who looked like she could bench press a bear. “So what’s your plan?” asked Dean nonchalantly, his eyes never once losing their laser-like focus on his colossal, hairy-knuckled paramour. “How the hell would I even begin, Dean?! It’s not exactly as if someone can plan for a situation like this, is it?! I was kidnapped by Russian goons and taken to the Kremlin," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "They pointed a gun to my head until I agreed to create a wrestling show to distract the nation from the spiralling cluster-f*** in Ukraine. And I have one week to do it. And if I fail they’re going to stuff me into a duffle bag and throw me out of an aeroplane. It’s not exactly the kind of thing one can mitigate for, is it?!” Max... I mean Dean... raised an eyebrow, his calm demeanour unwavering. "Like I said, you’re screwed. Why the hell did you call me?" He asked with a casual shrug. "Because you're the only one I know who can handle this kind of insanity” I shot back with more than a little desperation. I sounded like I was being cool and keeping it together. But deep down I was one startling noise away from s***ting my pants and having a full-blown nervous breakdown. “And because I didn’t know who the hell else to call. Who should I have called, Dean? The f***ing A-Team?!” He just laughed, flashing those perfect white teeth again. I was back to daydreaming about squeezing his head off like a Pez dispenser again. Dean took another big sip of my drink, his eyes still darting to the waitress every few seconds. “What you need,” he said, his voice dripping with confidence, “is an injection of celebrity. Glitz. Glamour. Razzmatazz.” He leaned back, flashing that infuriatingly perfect smile of his. “And wouldn’t you know it, I’m starting a new venture as a showbiz talent agent." Boom - there it was. The real reason for him dropping the ‘Max’ act and agreeing to meet me here. The slimy b*****d saw an opportunity to pitch his latest scheme while I was dangling over the precipice of my own demise. I felt less like a friend and more like a mark. I also felt the urge to throat-punch him but suppressed it with another gulp of my vodka. Dean leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a silky, conspiratorial whisper. “Picture this. Your wrestling federation headlined by icons. Not just any celebrities, but the ones who can draw in the crowds, create buzz, and most importantly, sell tickets. You need stars, and I have just the connections to make that happen.” My bulls*** alarms were ringing so loud I felt my skull shaking. “Alright, hotshot,” I said, throwing caution to the wind. “How about Taylor Swift? Ed Sheeran? Dave Grohl?” Dean shook his head, that smug smile never wavering. “No. No. No. Why would any of those A-Listers sully their reputation by coming to Putin’s Russia? It’d be worse than a sex scandal. No, you need to aim more realistically.” I sighed, frustration bubbling up. “Well, who then? The janitor from Saved by the Bell?!” Dean laughed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Fortunately for us, this ridiculous nation is still stuck in the 90s. Their tastes in celebrity will be easier to cater to, and their heroes more attainable.” He grabbed my glass again and helped himself to some more of my booze. “Besides” he said with a knowing look “Screech is dead.” I leaned forward, intrigued despite myself. “Alright, enlighten me. What’s your master plan?” Dean’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he started to outline his scheme, his voice smooth and persuasive. “We need to bring in celebrities who were big in the 90s. Think Pamela Anderson, Vanilla Ice, those kind of people. The kind of stars who can still ignite a crowd here but won’t cost you an arm and a leg.”  I wasn’t sure. “Okay, and how do we get these relics of the past to come here?” He leaned back, his pitch perfect and captivating. “We appeal to their nostalgia and offer them a chance to relive their glory days. We sell it as a unique opportunity to reconnect with a fanbase that still idolises them. Then we throw a big bag of cash at them.” I nodded slowly, the plan starting to take shape in my mind. “And you think you can pull this off?” Dean grinned, oozing confidence. “I’ve already got a few contacts lined up. Trust me, by the time I’m done, the Russian Federation of Wrestling will be the hottest ticket in town.” Before I could respond, the waitress returned, placing another bottle of vodka on the table. Dean’s eyes followed her every move, practically drooling. “You know, a fine woman like that could wrestle five bears at once and still look fabulous doing it” he said with a wink. “I'm not hiring a God-damn waitress Dean” I snapped. That annoying smile of his didn't falter. I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help but smirk at his hormonal teenage act. “Focus, Dean. We’re trying to save my arse here.” He nodded, tearing his gaze away from the waitress with painful regret. “Right. So, we’ll start by securing a few key names. Get the media buzzing. Then we’ll build on that momentum to draw in the crowds. It’s all about creating hype.” He cracked open the second vodka bottle, helped himself and dived right in. “And you really think this will work?” I asked, a mix of hope and scepticism in my voice. Dean’s grin widened. “Of course it will. We’re going to turn this crazy idea into a spectacle. And when it skyrockets, you’ll be the hero who pulled it off. Your success will be a tremendous ‘f*** you’ to the shady b*****ds who set you up to fail. Plus we... I mean you... will be getting one over on the bad guys whose international pissing contest is threatening to tear all of Eastern Europe apart. Picture it; you and me against Putin and all his creeps. We got this. Trust me.” As he spoke, a realisation hit me. Dean needed me just as much as I needed him. Maybe his big real estate empire wasn’t as solid as he portrayed. Maybe he wasn’t the effortless talent he made out to be. Why else would he pivot from one wildly different career to the next? Acting, writing, self-help, real estate, and now talent agent - it screamed of someone desperately chasing the next big thing. Perhaps his latest venture was less about helping me and more about cashing in. Dean noticed my hesitation. “You don’t look convinced,” he said, with a tilt of his head. I sighed, trying to find the right words. “I was expecting ‘Max’. I was expecting some shadowy, diabolical, sinister mastermind to come save me like a White Knight. But I ended up with Gabriel Knight instead, and some bulls*** cockamamie idea about B-list washed-up celebs gallivanting about the Motherland. It’s a lot to take in, Dean. You’re asking for a lot.” Dean chuckled, leaning back with that insufferable grin. “Trust me. We both need this to work. And I promise you, it’ll be one hell of a show.” I don’t know whether it was the charm or the vodka, but I somehow agreed to go along with this stupid idea. Hell, it was the only idea there was to choose from. Little did I know it would take him months to get his s*** together and set up in Russia. It was Episode 16 by the time his silky ass found it's way into the big top of the RFW circus. But to be fair to the guy, once his hare-brained scheme was up and running it sure did add an exciting new layer to our shows – or at the very least, new asses for the mighty Vladimir Kulakov to Chokeslam through tables.  I tried to pull my best ‘sceptical’ face, but ended up looking more like I was choking on a habanero. The grinning bulls*** magician sat across from me saw this, took the last trick from his sleeve and played his final card. “Speaking of washed-up celebs who were big in the 90s, one of my contacts is actually a wrestler. That might be a good place to start” offered Erickson, looking mournful as his waitress disappeared into the kitchen. “Have you ever heard of Bill Goldberg?” I nearly choked. “Bill f***ing Goldberg. You’ve got Goldberg?!” He just laughed. “And you think I can persuade a big name like him to fly half way across the globe and risk it all for this ridiculous, doomed, implausible scheme?! I doubt it” I sneered with a dismissive shake of the head. “You have a big bag full of cash, my friend. Anything is possible.” I grabbed the glass off him and swallowed the last of the vodka. It put flames in my belly and made me feel like I had energy once more. I was starting to feel alive again. Mind you, two bottles of vodka will do that to a man. Dean didn't realise it but he'd given me exactly the catalyst I needed to get this doomed project off the ground. I couldn't let him see my excitement though. “I don't know” I said, faking a sigh. “I hear he’s hard to work with.” “Nonsense!” He proclaimed, leaping to his feet and forcing my hand into his. The handshake was like a bear trap. I didn't know if he was sealing the deal or amputating a limb. “The guy's a pussy cat. An absolute delight.” He turned and began to walk away, all happy with himself having gotten his big, bulls*** deal over the line. He then looked back and shot me that big, soothing, shyster smile one last time. “Trust me!” As much as I wanted to hate him, I couldn’t help but believe him. Maybe, just maybe, we could pull this off. Maybe I'd live a little while longer after all. Maybe I wasn't doomed. Maybe I did stand a chance.  And if not, at least I’d go down swinging with Dean f***ing Erickson by my side.

 

Edited September 9 by dstephe4

[80085]

OK so we know it's a 90s or 80s celebrity or something. But we need more clues man!

Clues bruv! Clues!!

Then come the guessing

[dstephe4]

On 9/10/2024 at 4:07 PM, 80085 said:

OK so we know it's a 90s or 80s celebrity or something. But we need more clues man!

Clues bruv! Clues!!

Then come the guessing

OK. Here's a clue then...

 

IT'S DAVE!!!

[Mistertbones]

I started reading this diary yesterday, and I couldn't stop laughing. Great job on the diary!

[80085]

On 9/11/2024 at 8:56 PM, dstephe4 said:

OK. Here's a clue then...

 

IT'S DAVE!!!

Oh oh oh oh!!

I know who it is!!!

It's DAVE ARQUETTE!

am I right or what???!!!

Edited Sunday at 09:57 PM by 80085

[dstephe4]

No.

[80085]

Is it Dave Lee Roth , that man from Van Halen?!