The Russian Federation Of Wrestling

[Old School Fan]

1 hour ago, dstephe4 said:

He's about to leave, when he notices something tangled around his foot. He looks down. It's Scurll's trademark umbrella. A tiny smile can be seen on Seagal's face as he picks it up, and with just one hand, crushes it, before snapping it clean in half. The shattered remains are dropped onto Scurll's un-moving body. The Special Representative for Russia-US Cultural Links and Historical Heritage looks pleased at the message he's sent, as he victoriously slides out of the room, leaving a trail of destruction behind him like a tornado.

Well now, that was pretty...satisfying (but I hope you're not done yet putting Scurll through the wringer).  😆

[dstephe4]

 

An impressive amount of crappy furniture had been destroyed, wrecked, obliterated and then destroyed once again for good measure by Steven Seagal. His method of using Marty Scurll's face like a jackhammer to smash it all was particularly effective. It would've taken my guys half a day to break all that wooden crap down with crowbars, yet Seagal got the job done in roughly four minutes, plus commercials. It was shortly after Episode 8 went off air, however, that the real destruction took place. My plan unfolded magnificently. The morning before the show, I had all the unused members of our roster move the snazzy, luxurious Chippendale furniture out of my office, and secretly store it in Kirill Safonov's furniture warehouse across the road. My brigade of muscular, obscure Eastern European tough guys then quickly swapped it for the cheap, nasty crap I'd bought off him for the price of a KFC Bargain Bucket. The scene was then set for the wrecking ball that was going to smash it all up for me, free of charge. A wrecking ball going by the name of Bill Goldberg. Suffice to say he was rather unhappy about putting over Ilja Dragunov for a second time. And he let me know about it too. He hadn't even showered or gotten changed. He'd marched right from the ring, up five flights of stairs, storming right into my temporary office in the loft of the venue - he was literally the bull in the china shop. I'd pinned the door open, but he made a point of slamming it shut, just so he could dramatically kick it open again and rip it off it's hinges. His use of dramatic entrances was top-notch, I had to admit. It was a funny sight, seeing the beefy old giant slamming about in his tiny little Lycra shorts, all sweaty nipples and clenched fists, his whole face and body burgundy with rage. He gnashed his teeth and made angry noises, roaring like a grizzly bear with it's ass on fire. And that's when things started flying. As the first piece of furniture - a shoddy, asymmetrical footstool - flew through the air like a hand grenade (and exploded like one too), I looked through the drawers of the lumpy old desk I'd barricaded myself behind. In there was a stack of faded, yellowed old issues of Time Magazine. "Ahhhhh" I thought, letting out a satisfied sigh as wood shrapnel detonated behind me, "I haven't read this publication in years. God knows how this ended up here, it's banned in this country." I thumbed through the dusty, crinkly old pages with great enthusiasm. "2007's Man Of The Year Award Winner: Vladimir Putin" it declared. "This might be good for a laugh" I chuckled quietly to myself as the deranged American ripped the cushions off one of the sofas and began ripping them to bits with his teeth, sending fluff and stuffing floating through the air like snow on a winter's morning.  "His final year as Russia's President has been his most successful yet" trumpeted the strapline. That one made me giggle. The sun will burn out before that relentless, puffy-faced old fart gives up the Presidency. "No one is born with a stare like Vladimir Putin's. The Russian President's pale blue eyes are so cool, so devoid of emotion that the stare must have begun as an affect, the gesture of someone who understood that power might be achieved by the suppression of ordinary needs, like blinking. The affect is now seamless, which makes talking to the Russian President not just exhausting but often chilling." That much was true at least. Goldberg had now taken to breaking a coffee table in two, using his head to crash through it like a bulldozer. "B*****d!" he yelled. I wasn't sure if he was yelling it at me or the table.  I turned the page. The image of a pubescent-looking Justin Timberlake stared up at me, demanding that I immediately buy a Tag Heuer watch, then the article continued. "There is so little visible security at Putin's dacha, Novo-Ogarevo, the grand Russian presidential retreat set inside a birch-and fir-forested compound west of Moscow." How times change. 2023's Putin now has so many Spetsnaz guards he needs a whole village of temporary housing around his villa just to house them all. Today's Putin looks more like a Bond Villain, the paranoia resulting from the hare-brained Ukraine clusterf*** reducing him to a living comic book bad-guy. Goldberg has making a weird noise now - animalistic but with a demonic vibe. Part scream, part hiss, part burp - it sounded like someone was deep-throating a rattlesnake. Maybe he'd accidentally swallowed a piece of sofa and was coughing it up like an owl. "To get there from the capital requires a 25-minute drive through the soul of modern Russia, past decrepit Soviet-era apartment blocks, the mashed-up French Tudor-villa McMansions of the new oligarchs and a shopping mall that boasts not just the routine spoils of affluence like Prada and Gucci but Lamborghinis and Ferraris too." This was still true today. The nouveau riche d***heads still wriggled and writhed around the city like maggots on rotting meat. I hated them, even if they did finance my snazzy new Champagne-for-breakfast habit. The pissed off old legend was kicking things now. 'Bang!' went his powerful foot, launching a torn old Lay-Z-Boy nine feet into the air, sending it crashing through a glass-fronted drinks cabinet. "Aaaaaaaagh! AAAAAAAAAGH!" he screamed like a thousand horror movies made flesh. I Ignored the ridiculous old tool. I was still chuckling at that photo of Putin in his Lincoln-Memorial-esque pose. What a tit. "Aides warn you not to stray, lest you tempt the snipers positioned in the shadows around the compound. This is where Putin, 55, works." Another giggle from me. "That's odd" I said to myself "Putin's still 55 in 2023 according to the Russian press." Maybe 2007 was the year they cryogenically froze him and brought out the cyborg instead. "He has never sent an e-mail in his life" the article claims. Also true; Big Bad Vlad prefers to write his messages on missiles before shooting them at people. Much like the berserker destroying my office, who I looked up at just in time to see headbutting a wooden sideboard so hard it disintegrated into sawdust. "LOUSY, NO GOOD B*****D! NOBODY MAKES ME LOSE TO MY OWN MOTHERF***IN' MOVE! AAAAAAGH!" His voice had gone hypersonic again. Back to the magazine - much more interesting. It made me snigger that Big Bad Vlad had won such an accolade, though the competition wasn't exactly fierce - the only other nominees were Al Gore and JK Rowling. Apparently nobody else mattered or did anything important that year, which in a world of 7 or 8 billion people seemed a bit harsh. But this is Time magazine, a publication for people who need something clever to read while they're having a dump, so I let it slide.     My favourite bit of the whole article was: "He is passionate in his belief that the dissolution of the Soviet Union was a tragedy, particularly since overnight it stranded 25 million ethnic Russians in 'foreign' lands." Lands like Ukraine. To be fair to Putin, he laid his cards out on the table for all to see, even back then. But then, if none of this had happened, the people of Russia would never have been able to watch slightly crap wrestling every week on Rossiya 1. They would never have been able to enjoy the sight of washed-up WWE stars of yesteryear getting the s*** kicked out of them by every Eastern European ever to wear Spandex. Silver linings, I guess. I shut the magazine, rolled it up, and was about to toss it in the waste paper bin in the corner, only to discover it buried under a destroyed wardrobe and a partly-crushed shelving unit, that was still vaguely upright but was silently begging to be put out of it's misery. I surveyed the scene. In about 6 minutes, our highly paid human tornado had gone through every bit of furniture in the room. Just like in the ring, however, his tired and brittle old lungs seemed to collapse in on themselves like a dying neutron star after that magic 6 minute mark. He was panting. Heaving. Making deep, guttural noises not unlike that of a pregnant walrus, as he frantically sucked in air. With no bin to toss the magazine into, I did the only sensible thing left available, and threw it at Goldberg instead. It hit him right in the eye with a deftness and accuracy I never knew I possessed.  "Ooowwwwwww!" He hollered like a spanked child. "Owwwww! That really hurt! What the hell did you do that for?!" His bottom lip was trembling slightly, like a harbinger of tears yet to come. "You! Are! MEAN!" While the big man gasped, I walked over to the big picture window and slid it open. With one last furious burst of energy, Goldberg picked up the nearest piece of furniture and launched right at at my head. I ducked. The particle-board monstrosity went flying over me, through the open window, then came crashing onto the courtyard below, smashing into tiny pieces on impact. "Perfect" I thought. Old Bill then grabbed another piece. I side-stepped it. It flew. It smashed. I smiled. He grabbed. He threw. I dodged. It fell. It smashed. He was sucking in air like a jet engine by now. He grabbed. Threw. I ducked. It flew. And smashed. Another was grabbed, thrown, ducked, flown, smashed. And again. Grab. Throw. Dodge. Drop. Smash. And so it went, until finally every last bit of that terrible, arse-splintering furniture was gone, consigned to a final resting place, in a heap on the street below. The maniacal former WCW and WWE champion was now staggering from side to side, light headed and dizzied by his exertions. His lungs were on fire. He stooped over. He let out a noise like like a goat bleating, then in one strangely fascinating movement gasped, fell, farted and fainted all at the same time. He lay there on his back, unmoving, his limbs wrapped impossibly around him like some kind of mangled spider. Despite being out cold, his chest still heaved and sucked like a turbine. I smirked to myself, closed the window, then left the big cranky b*****d to it. As soon as the window shut, the final stage of my plan went in to action. The aim of this whole elaborate (and admittedly slightly ridiculous) furniture scheme was to put on a bonfire for the kids and families in this poor, deprived part of Russia's capital. These were not the aloof, unbearable nouveau riche arseholes I endured doing business. These were the poor, forgotten immigrant families whose quiet labour and tireless, thankless work actually made this creaking giant of a nation somewhat function. It always bothered me that people like my Israeli-Russian friend Kirill Safonov were overlooked and forgotten. The Russian Federation Of Wrestling was meant to be for all Russians, including people in suburbs like this. So I decided to give a little something back to show the RFW's appreciation. It was time for a party. For a festival. And at the centre of it was to be a big-ass bonfire. The kind of bonfire you need a s***-load of wood to fuel. A bonfire so big it'd need a ton of crappy furniture to bring it to life. The whole weird, needlessly complicated plan to acquire and smash up all that furniture had been done with this in mind. Our guys poured a load of vodka over the wrecked woodpile and tried lighting it, but it just wouldn't take. We tried diesel, but for some reason that smouldered out too. Finally someone poured just one can of Lightning Bolt energy drink on there, lit a match, and nearly lost an arm to the instant explosion. I swear the bonfire lit up so fast it was like a motherf***ing mushroom cloud.   Above: I'm surprised it took this long into the diary for there to be a massive fire. I make fires like this in my garden all the time. The kids love it. My wife and my neighbours, however, are not so enthusiastic. Within seconds hundreds of people - men, women, kids, everybody - was on the street. I'd hired a band to perform. There were hotdog stands giving out free food, Tin Can Alley stalls, funfair rides for the little ones, a little wooden bar handing out free beers and vodka for the grown-ups. It was awesome. There were horses for the kids to ride, and farm animals for them to feed and play with. A strangely terrifying yet popular clown entertained the masses. Some of our roster mingled with the crowd, posing for selfies, giving autographs. Everyone had a great time. As the sky grew dark and the moon began to light our happy little scene, we even found some old fireworks to set off.  Looking back, this was one of the best things I ever did in all my years in Russia. Forget the wrestling, the money, the propaganda, all that crap. When I think back to the lunatic ride that was the Russian Federation Of Wrestling, it's that night which my brain goes to the most. And for all the crazy s*** that happened during my time in that ridiculous country, it's memories like this that mean I can still sleep soundly at night. That and all the gallons of champagne. That helps too.

 

Edited June 21, 2023 by dstephe4

[SonOfSharknado]

I'm waiting for the update that Seagal immediately died of cardiac arrest after that scene was filmed. 

[dstephe4]

 

Thank you once again for being the best damn readers ever and continuing to read and interact with this strange crap I keep on churning out. Thank you for those who took the time to post predictions also. Or, as Big Bad Vlad would say...     Speaking of predictions, here's how everybody did. @SonOfSharknado: 1 @ElectricX: 1 @DinoKea: 3 @Old School Fan: 1 @Just here to look: 3 @GreatreDRagon: 2 @kanegan: 1 Well done to @DinoKea and @Just here to look who I guess are joint winners this time. Having both won previously, it seems like these two are setting themselves up as the ones to beat, predictions-wise. I promised that the winner could pick a tag team to take part in Steven Seagal's Big Sexy Tag Team Tournament. So feel free to message me with your selections any time, I'll find a way to squeeze them in. Thank you everybody, for being awesome and for still being here. Card for Episode 9 will be posted shortly. Long may the games continue...

 

On 5/27/2023 at 10:35 PM, SonOfSharknado said:

I'm waiting for the update that Seagal immediately died of cardiac arrest after that scene was filmed. 

A good point. He's not exactly in great shape these days. From the early-90s onwards I noticed a definite shift in his fighting style to accommodate for the growing size of the man. Take The Glimmer Man for instance, given he was watching it in Episode 8. There's a cool scene in a Chinese restaurant where he beats all the bad guys mainly by standing still, having them run at him one at a time, before gently pushing each one through loads of furniture. They leap up. He stands still. He nudges them. They fly through tables and stuff. I like to think that it's not lazy, it's efficient.

I imagined a similar thing for Episode 8. However, there's a certain super-charged energy drink involved now. Two cans of that and the man could run through walls while s***ting flames. Anything is possible here in The Russian Federation Of Wrestling.

Finally: Remember folks, I'm keeping Scurll and his merry band of unfortunate sidekicks around until someone says 'stop'. You, the fine readers, decide when the Russian Vacation ends. I already have fun stuff in mind for him for Episode 9. After that, you decide.

Edited May 31, 2023 by dstephe4

[Taylor2020]

Before it ends, Scurll's suffering must only intensify.

[dstephe4]

 

Are you all ready for what, in terms of Overall Rating, is the joint-best RFW show ever? No? Me neither. We're calling this one 'The Art Of War' - for reasons that might possibly, maybe become clear when the results are posted. Here's the show my tired, drunken mind plopped out this time, in no particular order:     Marty Scurll vs ???: Villain Enterprises became the first winners of our Tag Tournament last week. Now it's their leader Marty Scurll's turn to get his hands dirty. He's issuing an open challenge, but who will answer the call? Ilja Dragunov & ??? vs Edge & ??? The vague, haphazard, haggard circumstances behind this one will be explained during the show. But the plan is for Edge and our World Champion to pick a partner each. Then they'll beat the crap out of each other for everyone's amusement. Andrei Arlovski vs ??? He is back! With a signed doctor's note any everything! And he just can't wait to kick some ass! But whose ass will he be kicking? Is he completely recovered from getting a whole can of Mace sprayed in his eyes a few weeks ago? And how will the (now fired) Tamerlan Rasuev figure into this? Will the (still broken) Alen Khubulov and the Arrows Of Russia be involved? Steven Seagal's Un-named Yet Unquestionably Very Important Tag Team Tournament: Lykos Gym vs The Arrows Of Russia      One point for each correct match winner. One point for each correctly guessed mystery person. Also, we're doing the whole "big mystery new signing" thing again, so there's a point for that one also. The winner this time gets to choose a match for Marty Scurll. Any opponent. Any stipulation. Depending on what the winner chooses, the bout would take place either in the show after this one, or the one directly after that. Dig in and enjoy. Thank you all once again for playing and reading. If the internet would let me hug you, I would.

 

[Just here to look]

1 hour ago, dstephe4 said:

 

Are you all ready for what, in terms of Overall Rating, is the joint-best RFW show ever? No? Me neither. We're calling this one 'The Art Of War' - for reasons that might possibly, maybe become clear when the results are posted. Here's the show my tired, drunken mind plopped out this time, in no particular order:     Marty Scurll vs ???: Villain Enterprises became the first winners of our Tag Tournament last week. Now it's their leader Marty Scurll's turn to get his hands dirty. He's issuing an open challenge, but who will answer the call? Ilja Dragunov & ??? vs Edge & ??? The vague, haphazard, haggard circumstances behind this one will be explained during the show. But the plan is for Edge and our World Champion to pick a partner each. Then they'll beat the crap out of each other for everyone's amusement. Andrei Arlovski vs ??? He is back! With a signed doctor's note any everything! And he just can't wait to kick some ass! But whose ass will he be kicking? Is he completely recovered from getting a whole can of Mace sprayed in his eyes a few weeks ago? And how will the (now fired) Tamerlan Rasuev figure into this? Will the (still broken) Alen Khubulov and the Arrows Of Russia be involved? Steven Seagal's Un-named Yet Unquestionably Very Important Tag Team Tournament: Lykos Gym vs The Arrows Of Russia      One point for each correct match winner. One point for each correctly guessed mystery person. Also, we're doing the whole "big mystery new signing" thing again, so there's a point for that one also. The winner this time gets to choose a match for Marty Scurll. Any opponent. Any stipulation. Depending on what the winner chooses, the bout would take place either in the show after this one, or the one directly after that. Dig in and enjoy. Thank you all once again for playing and reading. If the internet would let me hug you, I would.

 

Marty Scurll gets murdered to death by one of the guys I sent in. Im not saying who yet, but I’ll just say it’s the slightly older one, for a reason you reading this will never know.

Edge picks Goldberg, Dragunov picks Vertigo, Russians win. Why? IDK I’m too tired to think about booking decisions and current storylines I’m choosing based on my limited brain power

Oh for the tag match #DoverWinsLol

[Old School Fan]

Marty Scurll vs ???:

Ilja Dragunov & ??? vs Edge & ???

Andrei Arlovski vs ???

Lykos Gym vs The Arrows Of Russia

At this point, I don't care who the mystery guys are, I'm just having fun watching Marty Scurll getting used as a chew toy by RFW's native (or in some cases, pseudo-native) roster!  😆

[dstephe4]

@DinoKea as co-winner of the predictions, you can message me with any tag team and I'll force them to be in this diary for you. If you don't want to, that's cool also. Either way, thanks for reading and participating.

Show results will likely be posted Wednesday. Anyone that fancies winning this episode's particularly fun prize has until then to post their predictions, should they so choose.

Either way, I'm just thrilled to have you all here and reading this stuff. Cheers all.

 

On 6/7/2023 at 11:40 PM, Old School Fan said:

At this point, I don't care who the mystery guys are, I'm just having fun watching Marty Scurll getting used as a chew toy by RFW's native (or in some cases, pseudo-native) roster!  😆

The potential for fun here is unlimited. I think you'll like what I have in store for him this time too.

Edited June 10, 2023 by dstephe4

[DinoKea]

??? def. Marty Scurll

Ilja Dragunov & ??? def. Edge & ???

??? def. Andrei Arlovski

The Arrows of Russia def. Lykos Gym

[GreatreDRagon]

Marty Scurll vs Goldberg

Ilja Dragunov & Bryan Daniels vs Edge & Aleksandr 'Vertigo' Klaptsov

Andrei Arlovski vs Ivan Markov

Lykos Gym vs The Arrows Of Russia

For the mystery signing I'm just going to keep guessing Aleister/Malakai Black

[kanegan]

??? 

Edge/??? - I am guessing Christian Cage

Arlovski

Arrows of Russia 

 

[ElectricX]

Marty Scurll vs ???:

Ilja Dragunov & ??? vs Edge & ???

Andrei Arlovski vs ???

Lykos Gym vs The Arrows Of Russia

[dstephe4]

On 6/10/2023 at 8:54 PM, dstephe4 said:

Show results will likely be posted Wednesday. Anyone that fancies winning this episode's particularly fun prize has until then to post their predictions, should they so choose.

I've gone and done it again. I've gotten carried away when writing the results again. I keep promising myself I'm going to keep the next write-up short - just a few paragraphs per segment. Then I start typing, and my hands get all lively, and the damn thing runs away with me, takes on a life of it's own, and I'm barfing our War & Peace once again. Friday! Let's go for Friday night GMT for the results!

Edited June 14, 2023 by dstephe4
Sorry all.

[Old School Fan]

On 6/14/2023 at 4:20 PM, dstephe4 said:

I've gone and done it again. I've gotten carried away when writing the results again. I keep promising myself I'm going to keep the next write-up short - just a few paragraphs per segment. Then I start typing, and my hands get all lively, and the damn thing runs away with me, takes on a life of it's own, and I'm barfing our War & Peace once again. Friday! Let's go for Friday night GMT for the results!

As long as the results are good (and we get to see a little bit of sadism done to Marty Scurll for the LOLz), that's all that matters.  😁

[dstephe4]

 

"Marty Scurll! I swear to God if you put him through this commentary table I'm gonna kick your ass so hard your spine falls out of your asshole! Seems like every week someone gets their big dumb ass put through my table! Hell, one time it was even my ass that got put through my table! Ever since Seagal put your head through every bit of furniture in the whole of Moscow, there's no tables left in the whole Russian Federation Of Wrestling! This is literally the last one! And this big goofy b*****d isn't going anywhere near it!" Alex Koslov was on his feet. He was irate. He'd even taken his big furry hat off in anger, and was slapping Scurll across the face with it as he yelled. "Don't! You! Dare!" The metal bit on the hat hit Scurll right in his big, beady eye. The so-called 'Villain' looked like he was about to cry.  "How the hell am I supposed to do my job without a table?! What am I supposed to do, drag my ass all the way to Ikea in the middle of a show?! You think I'm gonna assemble myself a new one in the middle of a broadcast, you big moustachioed tit?! I am Alex Koslov! Former WWE superstar! And Alex Kosolv... Does! Not! Do! Flat-pack! Furniture!" With each word came another mighty blow of the big furry hat, and another squeal from it's terrified victim. "Take the big dumb man-b**** somewhere else! Find something else to throw him through! Because I swear if you even touch this announcer's table, I'm gonna rip out your tongue and whip you to death with it!" The angry almost-Russian was jumping up and down with rage now. Scurll, clearly both physically and emotionally wounded, was a good boy and did as he was told.

Hang on a second... we're getting ahead of ourselves here... let's start this one from the beginning...

 

Broadcast on Russiya 1. Held in Moscow's (in)famous Tretyakov Gallery, which definitely wasn't a wrestling venue until we turned it into one. 1414 in attendance.

In appreciation of the impromptu bonfire street festival we'd arranged, the people of Moscow were keen to show their appreciation... in the most random way possible... by having a bunch of local artists put on an exhibition for us at the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow - the one made famous when some guy got absolutely smashed off his tits on vodka, started screaming, went bat-s*** crazy and attacked a priceless painting of Ivan The Terrible with a metal pole. So it seemed somehow natural that we should have a wrestling show there as well. We were all hoping that the tidal wave of popular support stirred up by the festival, plus the publicity the wrestling-themed art exhibition generated, would put lots of extra asses in seats. Maybe we could even eclipse the number of tickets sold by the recent Moscow City Potato Extravaganza... a guy can dream, right?! But no. In the end we managed to sell just 6 more tickets than last time.    Above: Suffice to say a classy venue like this made sure our relationship was a one night stand.  Some promotions get sell-out events. We get a bunch of ugly-ass paintings of our wrestlers instead. But who can complain when they have masterpieces like this?!       Our show begins with huge celebrations for the triumphant Ilja Dragunov, who "made that awful, greedy, decadent, corrupt Westerner his bitch once again" (Oleg Matytsin's words, not mine). You can already picture the scene. A large woman in a gown enthusiastically belts out the Russian National Anthem. The audience salutes their hero while weeping patriotically. Every b*****d has a massive Russian Триколор (Tricolour) flag and is waving them all over the place. Big, furry Russian hats everywhere. Every Russian or Eastern European on the roster applauds the guy. Lightning Bolt Energy drink all over every shot. You get the picture. It's all marvellous. Hooray for Russia. All that bulls***. I wanted some guy to fire a cannon to really take it to the next level, but the art gallery owners nearly crapped themselves in outrage at the suggestion. What a bunch of un-patriotic killjoys. Imagine how good that'd have looked on everyone's TV screens. With Russia's new golden child Ilja Dragunov suitably applauded, a proud-looking Steven Seagal then moves on to the next item of business - his grand new Tag Team Title Tournament. He gets maybe eight words into his epic speech when suddenly Edge's music hits. Seagal stays cool as the legendary Canadian drags his massive chin all the way into the ring, then despite it's colossal weight, manages to flap it up and down enough to make words. Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov also makes his way ringside, seemingly to "keep an eye" on the hoard of shirtless Russians watching Dragunov from ringside. Quite what the hell the gimpy ex-hacker was expected to do against a dozen or so big, angry Russians was never made clear. "Dragunov, I gotta admit it was a great victory for you against Goldberg. A lot of people doubted you, but you emerged a fair and deserved winner. The best part about your win was that you fought him one on one, without any interference, any shenanigans. Just two men, just one winner - the way it should be." Edge is playing it cool, but his eyes are getting all big and angry. "Which makes me wonder why the hell it couldn't be that way when you fought me for the title? You remember that? Back when what seemed like the entire population of Mother Russia got in the ring and kicked my ass? Were you even there? I really can't remember, because it seemed like I kicked every Russian pro wrestler's ass except yours that night." Seagal puts a hand on Edge's shoulder, gesturing for him to stay calm. Unlike total morons like Marty Scurll, Edge is smart enough heed Seagal's warning.     "Look, I kept quiet out of respect for you and the fans while all this Goldberg business got sorted out. But it's been eating away at me ever since - let's face it - I got screwed out of the title. Can you beat me without all your stooges getting involved? Can you win if it's just me and you? I challenge you to find out! Shake my hand right now - let's go, man to man. My guy Vertigo will stay away, if your travelling circus of Russian cartoon characters stays the hell away too. Me. You. Title. Let's go!" Before Seagal can speak up, Dragunov immediately shakes the former WWE legend's hand.  A little annoyed, Seagal has no option but to go along with it. He says "something special" is coming up in a couple of weeks, and this will make the perfect main event. But for tonight, both men can prove themselves in a tag battle. "Pick a partner each - any partner - and let's see what you can do." Everyone's happy. Everyone shakes on it. And now Seagal can get back to business. Angle Rating: 68.     Seagal: "Fine, proud ladies and gentlemen of Russia, it gives me great joy to announce the next bout in our glorious Tag Team Tournament!" His big red face is full of pride as he talks. You can tell this means a lot to the big, old, strangely lethal walrus of a man. "Glory awaits the winner of our next..." Suddenly he's cut short again. This time it's Bryan Daniels, who strides to the ring like a man full of newly-recovered confidence and purpose. "Daniels-san" says our arse-kicking Authority Figure with a proud tone. "You look like a man full of newly-recovered confidence and purpose!" Despite being visibly annoyed at the interruption, the man in the kimono is pleased at Daniels' recent revelation.     Daniels then goes about proving my quietly held theory that ex-WWE guys can't shut the hell up, by embarking on a big, long speech. It wasn't Kulakov who scared him, he reveals. It was the concussions. He took a head injury when rolled in the Ferrari and again when the Humvee crashed. It gave him flashbacks to when concussions ruined his career in WWE, memories of the doctor's face when he was told his career was over. He'd been holding back since then, but no more. Kulakov is just like he was back then, he says. Young. Indestructible. Fearless. Seeing Kulakov reminded him of everything he used to be, but was too scared to be any more, and that's what had really spooked him. He credits Edge with inspiring his reinvention, says seeing how Edge fights so fearlessly despite coming back from multiple injuries of his own inspired him. Daniels says he wants another World Title run before he hangs up his boots. Then he gets all giddy and starts yelling "YES!" a lot. Over and over and over again. Seagal cuts him off before things get ridiculous, and says if he can prove that the real Daniels is back, he'll have a pathway to the title, and will get a chance to face his 'demon' in the process. He'll be in action... soon. But for now, on to that big shiny new Tag Team Tournament! Angle Rating: 69.     Seagal's face is beaming with pride now. You can tell this means the world to him. He's been looking forward to this all week - this big moment where he unveils the next part of his Tag Tournament. "A great day for us all. A momentous occasion. Tonight is the second round of our Tag..." But then suddenly he's interrupted again. The angry, scrunched-up face of Tamerlan Rasuev greets us as he snarls his way to the ring, not letting the small matter of him being fired last week deter him from spoiling Seagal's big moment - just like he spoiled Dragunov's big moment last week. The fans are jeering and shouting insults at him. A little old lady slaps him in the face as he goes by. People are throwing garbage at him. But he doesn't get the hint and marches on regardless.      In the ring, he gets right up in Seagal's face, snarling and screaming about the injustice of it all. The injustice of being fired by his once-mentor. The injustice of the wrestling world turning its back on him. The injustice of his dreams not coming true. The injustice of... you get the picture. I'm sure you all read every single word of Rasuev's incredibly long interview in last week's show. I bet nobody skipped that part at all. The cameras caught it all. The venom. The fury. The tiny bits of spit flying everywhere as Rasuev screamed, glimmering in the light, before crashing down into Seagal's goatee like flaming meteorites. The pain. The anguish. All that good, emotional stuff the Emo bands used to cry about years ago. Seagal's fed up now. You can see the annoyance etched on his face - which is impressive, given he has perhaps the least emotive, least expressive face in Hollywood history. He raises a hand. Every member of our roster that you can't remember the name of (because they suck too much to get used) leaps in. Rasuev is dragged away like last week's trash, kicking and screaming and biting all the way. Our snappily-dressed interviewer Vlad Radinov runs on ahead, helpfully picking up the garbage the fans threw earlier, and handing it back to them so they can throw it at Rasuev all over again. The crowd cheered in particular as an empty can of Raspberry Rampage Lightning Bolt Energy Drink hit him right between the eyes. The cameras zoomed in as it came to a rest on the floor. It's a new flavour, you see, available in every good patriotic Russian store right now. Angle Rating: 55.     Seagal clears his throat. He takes a big breath. It's showtime, at last, for his big Tag Team announcement. "And now, the moment we've been waiting for! It gives me great pleasure to announce the second battle in our prestigious Tag Team Tournament. The Russian Federation Of Wrestling presents..." And then the lights go out. Even through the darkness we can hear Seagal groaning in displeasure at the trillion billion zillion gazillionth interruption. Then the big, s***-eating grins of Marty Scurll and his buddies PCO and Brody King are making their way to the ring. By now it's a little crowded in there, with Seagal, Edge, Vertigo, Daniels, Dragunov and Christ only knows who else having already stolen the moment. Our guy Seagal signals for them to split. He wants these idiots all to himself.      Scurll, in that weird Latino-Cockney accent he's sporting these days, tells the world he's mad about getting his arse kicked in spectacular fashion last week. His pride's wounded. He announces again that Villain Enterprises are here to take over, and as such want revenge. Scurll is also very, very, very, very upset about his umbrella, the smashing of which he's taken as a personal insult. Purely for my own amusement, I pulled some strings with Oleg Matytsin and his stooges in the Russian Ministry. Like clockwork, they made it so no store in all of Russia could sell Scurll a new umbrella. It took a government building full of people working night and day to get it organised. Special Politburo Bulletins were wired to every shop throughout the largest nation on Earth, declaring it "of the upmost national importance" that Marty Scurll not get a new umbrella. The FSB's (KGB's) secret(ish) operational cyber unit Center 16 dedicated their full arsenal into hacking all Scurll's devices, blocking any website in the world that sold umbrellas. They even hacked the Sat Nav in his car and deleted the umbrella stores from there too. It's amazing to think that such a financially devastated and war-ravaged country as Russia managed to spare the colossal resources to implement a huge-scale operation like this. But it just goes to show you that people will do anything for a laugh. Scurll was getting angry now, yelling the word "umbrella" a lot and snarling. Bryan Daniels, who'd hung around at ringside to watch the drama unfold, decided to help. Within moments he'd procured a tiny pink fluffy umbrella from a little girl at ringside. It really was lovely. It had embroidered love hearts and unicorns on it. A stunning little number. For some reason, however, the self-proclaimed Villain didn't appreciate the girl's kind gift. He got quite irate infact. Daniels left the ring, laughing his ass off, seemingly having rescued his sense of humour from the monumental depths under which it had been buried. Scurll spitefully threw the pink umbrella into the crowd. The fans kindly threw it back. It hit him right on the back of the head. The silly b*****d didn't know whether to scream, laugh or cry.     Instead he settled on revenge, declaring his desire to beat up one of Seagal's pet Russians as a way of regaining his honour. Seagal shrugged at the idea, seemingly willing to do whatever it took to get rid of these guys and get on with the show. He did an "eeny, meeny, minie mo" on his Russians gathered at ringside. It landed on 'The Falcon' Kris Jokic. Seconds later a bell rang and an impromptu wrestling match began. Angle Rating: 57.          'The Villain' Marty Scurll (with PCO and Brody King) vs 'The Falcon' Kris Jokic And it was a pretty good wrestling match too. Despite being an unbearable prick and being so heavily engrossed in scandal he's basically toxic, 'The Villain' Marty Scurll is a fantastic wrestler. Kris Jokic is a good high flyer too - it's just a shame that being the only active Croatian wrestler in the world is the only interesting thing about him. But these two in the ring together brought the place to life. Jokic did many impressive somersaulty type moves, drawing many "ooohs" and "aaahs" from our drunken, energy drink fuelled fans. Scurll and his cronies Brody King and PCO continued their fine tradition of high-b*****dry by not just tearing up the rule book, but wiping their arses with it. Our Greek Russian referee 'Boris' was out of his depth the moment the match began. There was so much outside interference from Villain Enterprises the bout resembled a 3-on-1 handicap match for the most part. Jokic solved this problem by jumping on them all from various heights, living up to his 'Falcon' nickname. It was nice of the Villains, I thought, to keep standing close together in a cluster at ringside, patiently waiting for Kris to ascend the turnbuckle and leap at them. Naturally though the numbers game made a difference. Brody King finally got his hands on our sprightly Croatian and slammed the living crap out of him with his Valley Beyond Driver finisher. He then grabbed that cute little pink plastic umbrella from earlier and went to hit Jokic with it, despite Kris clearly being knocked silly. Fortunately the referee was able to intervene and stop such a brutal, barbaric assault from happening.  With the official distracted, Scurll grabbed Jokic by the arms, holding him still while PCO channelled his inner Ric Flair and slipped on a set of Brass Knuckles. The Falcon was doomed. Or so it seemed, until the big goofy b*****d somehow slipped, missed, and ended up pelting Scurll in the forehead with them instead. Marty was stunned, landing on his back motionless, still holding onto the dazed Jokic. Referee 'Boris' saw that Scurll's shoulders and legs were technically pinned to the mat and did his job. 1, 2, 3... and Marty Scurll became the first person in RFW history to be pinned by someone unconscious. Match Rating: 43.   To say that Marty Scurll was "a little bit upset" would be the understatement of the century. He leaped groggily to his feet, a big blue bruise quickly swelling up on his forehead where the brass knuckles had pelted him into a slumber. He stared daggers at his hapless French-Canadian henchman, growling. He wanted to take his fury out on Jokic, but he'd vanished the moment the bell rang to end the match. Unable to have his revenge on one of Seagal's 'students', Scurll decided to get revenge on PCO instead, because that's what wrestling logic demands in situations like this.  It is the law in pro wrestling that members of bad-guy groups like Villain Enterprises have to be punished if they let the side down. It's also a wrestling rule that this must be done by Powerbombing the offending party out of the ring onto the concrete floor below. And so it came to pass. King and Scurll struggled at first to lift PCO's massive frame high enough into the air. But a can of Lightning Bolt Energy Drink each soon fixed the matter. The noise was like a truck driving through a brick wall as the so-called 'French Frankenstein' was obliterated, left lying un-moving in a tangled pile of limbs and ass near our commentary position. The big, goofy-looking b*****d looked like he'd fallen out of a skyscraper. The fans loved it, making a deafening noise, until they remembered who it was, and began throwing garbage at them instead. Scurll wasn't done though. He was thirsty for more. He signalled to his lackey Brody King for another Powerbomb. The announcer's table was next. That's when our announcer Alex Koslov saw what those dastardly Villains were planning and leaped to his feet in a thundering cloud of rage.      "Marty Scurll! I swear to God if you put him through this commentary table I'm gonna kick your ass so hard your spine falls out of your arsehole! Seems like every week someone gets their big dumb ass put through my table! Hell, one time it was even my ass that got put through my table! Ever since Seagal put your head through every bit of furniture in the whole of Moscow, there's no tables left in the whole Russian Federation Of Wrestling! This is literally the last one! And this big goofy b*****d isn't going anywhere near it!" Alex Koslov was on his feet. He was irate. He'd even taken his big furry hat off in anger, and was slapping Scurll across the face with it as he yelled. "Don't! You! Dare!" The metal bit on the hat hit Scurll right in his big, beady eye. The so-called-Villain looked like he was about to cry.  "How the hell am I supposed to do my job without a table?! What am I supposed to do, drag my ass all the way to Ikea in the middle of a show?! You think I'm gonna assemble myself a new one in the middle of a broadcast, you big mustachioed tit?! I am Alex Koslov! Former WWE superstar! And Alex Kosolv... Does! Not! Do! Flat-pack! Furniture!" With each word came another mighty blow of the big furry hat, and another squeal from it's terrified victim. "Take the big dumb man-b**** somewhere else! Find something else to throw him through! Because I swear if you even touch this announcer's table, I'm gonna rip out your tongue and whip you to death with it!" The angry almost-Russian was jumping up and down with rage now. Scurll, clearly both physically and emotionally wounded, was a good boy and did as he was told.  By the time they'd dragged PCO's substantial, dead-weight ass all the way to the top of our entrance ramp, the 'Villains' were clearly panting for breath. Scurll obviously had a Plan B up his sleeve - he pointed at one of the two big screens we have at either side of our ring entrance. He laughed fiendishly as he signalled that $40,000 of equipment was about to be smashed with a big, round human missile. The force at which they threw the poor b*****d through it was impressive. There was an explosion of smoke and cool-looking sparks. Something big and complicated and expensive behind the screen also exploded, shaking the whole stage. Then the metal scaffolding supporting the whole rig began to shake violently. There was a groaning of metal. Something really important-sounding high above snapped. The 1414 fans in attendance fell deathly silent. Brody King saw what was happening and leaped head-first off the stage to get out of the way - but Scurll was not so lucky. The entire huge metal structure of our entrance way collapsed on the silly, bearded tit. It was like dropping a boulder on an ant.  The deathly silence continued until the smoke and dust finally cleared, revealing a huge pile of twisted metal, with one leg sticking awkwardly out the side. There were gasps of horror from our fans, until they remembered who it was who'd been crushed. Then they all burst out laughing.  Angle Rating: 48.     With the trash finally cleared from the ring, the smile is back on Steven Seagal's face again. That glint in his eye is back. "People of Russia! With every possible interruption and distraction in the world now surely dealt with, we finally proceed to the Tag Team..." But no. The entrance music of UFC superstar Andrei Arlovski fills the air instead. Seagal is seething now. He throws the microphone down in frustration. The zen master is getting pissed off, a feat which until tonight seemed impossible.     Arlovski sprints to the ring gleefully, excitedly waving a Doctor's Clearance letter in the air, jumping up and down on the spot. He's like Charlie waving his golden ticket to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. He has a smile so wide it was somehow bigger than his entire face.  "Seagal!" the Belarusian wrecking machine declares "give me a skull to crush! Give me a face to punch! Give me some limbs to snap! I am back in action! Let me kick an ass - any ass, right here, right now! Then after I win, I want my revenge on that b*****d Rasuev! It took me weeks to recover from what that snake did to me. I fight now, shake off the cobwebs, then he is next!" Seagal is impressed by his enthusiasm - enough to momentarily distract him from all things Tag Team Tournament related, anyhow. "Very well, Arlovski-san. I shall now reveal who your opponent tonight shall be." Arlovski: "Nah. No need." Seagal: "Excuse me?" Arlovski: "It doesn't matter who my opponent is. Do I get to hurt them? Do I get to bend their limbs until they scream? Do I get to smash them into tiny little pieces? That's all that matters. I don't care who you put in that ring. I will break them in half." Seagal: "I like you." There's big smiles from both big men... right up until the music of Bryan Daniels fills the air... then one of those smiles quickly disappears. Angle Rating: 73.        'The Pitbull' Andrei Arlovski vs Bryan Daniels I thought when I spent a fortune signing ex-UFC Heavyweight Champion Andrei Arlovski it would bring a wave of popularity and legitimacy to the Russian Federation Of Wrestling. What I got instead was a distinctly average wrestler, who in his mid-40s wasn't going to improve, and had about the same level of overness as Tamerlan Rasuev and Alen Khubulov, who were both earning roughly the same as the dude behind the counter at Burger King. He had explosive speed, and watching him "ground and pound" his opponents was loads of fun - for about a minute - until you then realised he had nothing else to offer. But then I put him in with Bryan Daniels - a guy so talented he could drag a 4-star wrestling match out of a corpse, and the two produced the best match of Arlovski's RFW career to date. I really can't say enough good things about the man WWE called Daniel Bryan. I never "got" the tsunami of popularity that he rode back in America. I never understood why the Yanks fell in love with a guy who looked like he lived under a bench in a local bus shelter. I never understood how a man yelling "Yes!" a lot could somehow fill a 20 minute segment on Raw. But once he got in the ring and started kicking the living crap out of people, I was sold. The man could share a ring with me and turn it into a memorable contest. He carried the Belarusian tough man to what some argued was the match of the night, nearly stole the show, and looked like he hadn't even broken a sweat afterwards. During the match we had Arlovski's "bodyguards" the Arrows Of Russia stood proudly at ringside. 'The Pitbull' had told them to not interfere, so they spent 13 minutes flexing their muscles and drinking Lightning Bolt instead. Icarus burped so loud it made a little boy in the front row cry. During the match we had a very pissed off, very fired Rasuev try to interfere, only to be tackled by a swarm of security guards, then dragged away like a madman escaped from an asylum. Speaking of which, Vladimir Kulakov tried the same trick too, running at Daniels like his ass was on fire. Security man-handled him, so he started throwing them around like ragdolls. He had five men on his back and shoulders trying to stop him, but he was at most mildly inconvenienced. Finally Seagal intercepted him before he could get to the ring steps. His zen-like words cooled the charging beast nearly as well as the Raspberry Rampage Lightning Bolt Energy Drink he handed him.  Back in the ring Daniels won, with a zest and zeal not seen since his prime WWE days, before the injuries and concussions ruined everything. I can't remember the details. A big jumping knee type thing was involved. What matters is that he had the energy and excitement of a sugared-up kid on a bouncy castle - the man was alive again. It was great to see. Arlovski was respectful in defeat, simply happy to get back in the ring, glad to be punching faces into mush again. He screamed for Rasuev next, then started punching lumps out of the ring canvas, for emphasis. Rico Bushido: "Does this mean the real Bryan Daniels is back?!" Roy Jones Jr: "He looked like a man transformed in there, for sure. But time will tell whether this can last. I wanna see what he looks like in the ring with a Kulakov or a Dragunov. Put him in with a killer. Then we'll see what's what." Rico Bushido: "What do you think, Alex? Is this the real deal or just a false dawn?" Alex Koslov: "..." Roy Jones Jr: "You're not still sulking about the whole Villain Enterprises announcer table thing, are you?!" Alex Koslov: "...maybe. I mean... screw you guys!" Match Rating: 66.     Despite the show being broadcast 'live' there's still enough of a delay to allow The Russian Ministry Of Culture And Social Appropriation enough time to swap out any scenes they don't like with sanitised ones recorded earlier in the day. That's what happened here, with one version being deemed too violent for this wholesome, family-friendly show - except the shadowy figures behind the scenes messed up - the fine citizens of Russia watching at home on their TVs got the watered-down version, but anyone watching online beyond Mother Russia's 'Iron Curtain' Firewall got to see the real version. You special readers get to have both - decide among yourselves which you like the best...   Here's what the people of Russia saw on TV: Back from commercial, we return to see a thoroughly fed up Steven Seagal stomping around, sulking. "Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise on behalf of all that is Russian for the constant interruptions to tonight's show. However, I can assure you now that every possible distraction has been dealt with. Now that everyone's issues have been settled, we can finally move onto the business of the Russian Federation Of Wrestling's Tag Team Tournament!" The spark is coming back to his eyes now. This could finally be the moment, he senses. After all that nonsense, this is finally it! "Introducing, from the..." But no. Seagal looks like he's about to punch a hole right through someone's chest as 'The Fabulous' John Hennigan's music hits. Seconds later, the air smells like perfume, there's flower petals falling from the ceiling, and the unmistakable yapping sound of a spiritual guru. But the most zen human being in the universe has finally lost patience. "No! No! No! Enough of this crap! Cut the music!" The scene falls silent. Hennigan stops in his tracks, his face a picture of disappointment. "John! You are here to seek a rematch with Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov, yes? After that ridiculous battle last week, you wish for retribution, am I right? You shall have it. Klapstov! Edge! Get your asses out here now!" Moments later the 'Rated R Superstar' and his protégé are also at the top of the entrance ramp. Edge is about to speak, but Seagal cuts him off. "No, Adam. Close your mouth. No words. No nonsense. No fighting. No little dogs biting people. I am bound to secrecy, but something big is coming up, during which we shall have the rematch of the most ludicrous match in RFW history. It shall once again be Hennigan vs Klapstov. And I will hear no more about it. And... Markov!" The camera pans back to where our scolded superstars are gathered in the entranceway. We see a big, oily Russian bodybuilder sneaking up behind Hennigan with a steel chair in his hands. Seagal cut him off mid-swing. "Ivan Markov! I would strongly advise against getting involved in this rematch. If you do, I'll put you in the ring one-on-one with that yappy little b*****d pocket rat, and let all of Russia watch it eviscerate you. Now! All of you! Be gone!"     And, alternatively, here's what anyone outside of Russia (or anyone watching online with a VPN) got to see: Back from commercial, we return to see a thoroughly fed up Steven Seagal ready to try yet again. "And now, fine citizens of Mother Russia, bear witness to a new chapter in the history of the Russian Federation Of Wrestling! Tonight we engage upon the second round of our prestigious new Tag Team Tournament, the winners of which will be..." It was at this precise moment that the sounds of a little dog yapping resonated through our dusty little venue. And then a strong smell of flowery perfume began burning everyone's nostrils. Moments later the finest head of hair in pro wrestling history was atop the entrance ramp, adorned in a fantastic pink feathery coat so magnificent there's nothing in the English language that could even come close to doing it justice. I won't tell you how that fabulous coat was made. Suffice to say it involved a flamingo and a shotgun. Seagal, normally the calmest, most centred human ever to walk the Earth, was now burgundy with rage. "Hennigan! No! Stay right there! There will be no more interruptions! I..." But of course there was another interruption. Of course there was. Out comes Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov, Star Trek visor and all, ready to stir things up. He and 'The Fabulous One' get in each other's faces. This escalates to pushing and shoving. "Enough!" boomed the mighty voice of Seagal. "No more interruptions! I have had enough! I have been interrupted for the last time! I..." He should've known better, because a nanosecond later another interruption happened. This is pro wrestling, after all. Now it was Edge bursting onto the scene, getting in on the pushing and shoving. Vertigo grabbed Hennigan by the hair, messing up the most fabulous styling in sports entertainment history. Naturally, the only suitable response was for John to kick him right in the heart. And, of course, it was only natural that Edge then Spear Hennigan into the stage, knocking down the sound equipment platform. And it goes without saying that all this heavy equipment then collapsed right on the pile that Marty Scurll was under. He made a weird squeaking noise as all that crushing metal landed on him. It was lovely. The Russians tasked with freeing Scurll from his dangerous predicament just shrugged and carried on reading their newspapers. One of them tried lifting one of the pieces of scaffold that was crushing the self-proclaimed 'Villain', found it quite heavy, thought better of it and put it down again. He relaxed and played a little harmonica instead. "I swear to God if there's one more interruption, there'll be deaths here tonight!" came the voice of Seagal. He was yelling at them like they were naughty little school kids. "Hennigan! You're here to request a rematch against Klapstov, yes?" Hennigan nodded, avoiding eye contact, and definitely sulking. "Then you shall have it. We have something big coming soon. You shall fight then. What is wrong with you all?!" he proclaimed, an undercurrent of rage beneath his words. "This is Russia, a peaceful nation - and you should be too!" He really said that. Without irony or sarcasm or anything. "Any more interruptions - from anybody - and I send in 'The Nightmare' Kulakov to keep busting skulls until karmic peace is restored!" Guess what happened next. The massive Ivan Markov was charging at them all. Prior to RFW he was known as "Lokomotiv" and he looked like one tonight. It wasn't clear whether he was here to revenge-pulverise Hennigan or his little dog, but he swept in nonetheless. Seagal sighed wearily, shook his head, then raised one fist in the air - the internationally-recognised signal for ass-kicking And that was the moment that Vladimir Kulakov appeared from out of nowhere like a ghost, jumped down from the rafters, falling a good fifteen feet or so, before landing right on top of Markov, squishing him like a bug. The normally super-smart 'Vertigo' Klapstov panicked, charging at the mighty Russian killing machine. Kulakov used the hacker's momentum against him, Suplexing him right on top of the pile of ruined stage equipment and scaffolding. "Aaaaggggh!" yelled Vertigo as the air collapsed from his lungs. "Aaaaaaghhhh!' squealed Scurll from within the debris. "When will someone help me?!?!" comes the Villain's pained voice. Kulakov kicked the mound of destroyed equipment hard. Scurll shut the hell up.  Then the yapping started. Hennigan's 'spirit guide' Gerald the Bichon Frisé was loose, and growling at the masked monster, all fangs and bad intentions. Hennigan's face was a picture of terror as Kulakov launched forward, about to launch the noisy little f***er into outer space. That's the moment when an army of security staff jumped on him to hold him back. Edge grabbed Hennigan and shoved him through the curtain, to safety, before running to his fallen comrade Klapstov. It took about eleven big, strong guys, but 'The Nightmare' was slowly being dragged away. "Let him go. I'm not afraid of him" came a familiar voice. It was Bryan Daniels. He rolled up his sleeves and everything. He was ready to go. But before World War 3 could break out, he too was set upon by billions of security folk. There were tough guys everywhere. Fists flew. Obscure Russian obscenities filled the air. Big Russian furry hats where knocked off heads. A small dog was gathered up and rushed to safety. And finally there was an exasperated Seagal signalling to our production team to cut to a commercial. Angle Rating: 65.     When our show finally returns, we're just in time to witness Seagal letting out the biggest sigh in all recorded history. He grips his prayer beads so tight they nearly pop. He does a little Buddhist chant quietly under his breath. You can see him trying to dissipate the rage that flows inside. After he's done re-aligning his chakras, re-centring his chi, and has steadied his karmic vibrations, he finally raises the microphone back to his lips. "Ladies and gentlemen of Russia!" He looks around cautiously. No interruptions so far. "It is with tremendous pride that I bring you the second battle in the prestigious RFW Tag Team Title Tournament!" He glances about again. No fireworks. No entrance music. No flashing lights. He reluctantly continues. "Introducing our first tag team... The Arrows Of Russia!" Triumphantly, Icarus and Dover make their way to the ring. We see Seagal high-fiving our referee 'Boris' in excitement. "Finally!" We can just about hear him proclaim "finally, this damn thing's finally happening!"          Above: The local artists of Moscow had never seen or heard of Lykos Gym for some reason, so based their paintings on a loose verbal description of them instead. The resulting artworks were... interesting... to say the least. But just look at what they gave us for the Arrows. Majestic. The Arrows Of Russia vs Lykos Gym - The RFW Tag Team Tournament At last, here we were. 40+ minutes into the show, and we were finally having what was meant to be our opening match of the evening.  The match kicks off with Lykos Gym showing off their fancy footwork and mind-boggling aerial manoeuvres. "They're flipping, twirling, and spinning around the ring like a bunch of crazed squirrels" our commentator Rico Bushido proclaims. "I think they're meant to be gerbils?" offers Roy Jones Jr. "Guys, they're clearly meant to be wolves. Those are wolf masks. The clue's in the name" berates Alex Koslov, still clearly unhappy. "But they look like squirrels!" Protests Bushido. "No, fool. Gerbils! They look like gerbils!" Jones Jr snaps back. You didn't need microphones to hear this very important argument, as the whole venue was deathly silent. Suddenly the noisiest, rowdiest place in all of Moscow was like a morgue. I've seen high school geography exams with a more lively atmosphere. Nobody knew who the hell Lykos Gym were - they're big in the UK, but here in Russia they were anonymous. And despite a considerable push, our fans weren't exactly bouncing with delight at seeing the Arrows either. As a result, no matter what our four competitors did, 1414 Russians just sat on their hands and stared at them in an awkward, suffocating silence.  At 5:08 someone near the back farted. This received the loudest ovation of the entire match. Which was a massive shame, as these guys worked their asses off in there. The total and complete lack of s***s given by the crowd didn't stop Kid Lykos I and II bouncing about like gymnasts on crack. The commentators said all the names of the big, fancy moves Lykos Gym did, but I couldn't keep up. The Big Spinny Top Rope Missile Thing made a huge impact. The Upside Down Legs-In-The-Air Thing drew a close 2 count. The Leaping Tits-First Somersault Bomb Thing took out both Arrows at once. It was impressive stuff for a couple of pale, skinny guys dressed up for a children's Halloween party. After a while, The Arrows of Russia were left literally scratching their heads, wondering if they stumbled into a circus instead of a wrestling match. The British team's strategy was to outsmart their brawny opponents by playing a game of hit-and-run. They'd tag each other in and out faster than a speeding bullet, confusing The Arrows and leaving them swinging at thin air. "It's a game of cat and mouse, or rather, Chihuahua and bulldozer!" Rico Bushido states. "I thought they were wolves?" muses a nonplussed Jones Jr. "They'd better stay the hell away from my table" is all Koslov has to say. In Tag Team wrestling it's a really big deal who "the legal man in the ring" is. The title reigns of some of history's biggest teams have swung on this matter. But this match had so many Hot Tags, Fast Tags and Blind Tags it was impossible for our referee 'Boris' to keep up. After 5 minutes he just gave up, left the ring, bought himself a hotdog (extra onions, extra mustard) and watched the action unfold like a spectator. He completely missed the bit where Tamerlan Rasuev appeared at ringside and tried to interfere against the Arrows. Fortunately the big "Russians" had their buddies Arlovski and Khubulov at ringside to drive him away. The angry ex-RFW man put up a real fight until he saw 'The Nightmare' Vladimir Kulakov and his baseball bat coming towards him too, at which point he vanished faster than a pensioner's erection. The Arrows then decide it's time to show off their own brand of wrestling magic. They grab hold of one of the Lykos Gym members and perform a two-man Suplex so powerful that it sends the poor wolf-guy flying across the ring and crashing into the turnbuckle. "Kid Lykos II hits the steel like Wile E. Coyote" shouts Koslov. "God dammit man, they're wolves! Not Coyotes" bickers Jones Jr, getting cross now.  In the end it was an even match, but something had to give. In this case, the difference was Lightning Bolt. Specifically, the Arrows Of Russia had guzzled half a case of the stuff. Lykos Gym had none. Kid Lykos II went for a Flying Headscissors on Dover, who suddenly turned into the Incredible Hulk, and turned it into a Powerbomb so big it woke the sea monsters at the bottom of the deepest, darkest oceans. Icarus then jumped on him with a Flying Half-Spin Twirly Thing, for good measure. Lykos Gym, slightly dazed but still full of energy, regrouped and unleashed their secret weapon: synchronized moves. They were twirling and spinning in perfect harmony, which confused and angered their Hungarian Russian opponents... right until Kid Lykos I tried a top rope Hurricanrana type thing, which Dover reversed into a top rope Powerbomb - the impact was so huge it set off a popcorn machine 50 feet away, but didn't even muster a stir from our bored, sleepy fans.  Dover and Icarus both leaped on their fallen foe for the pinfall. Kid Lykos II dashed into the ring to try and break up the count, but was tripped up by the crutches of the Arrow's wounded buddy Alen Khubulov, who had remained ringside to help his 'bodyguards' get their victory. The RFW National Champion's involvement brought about the only pop of the whole match. By this point, 'Boris' had finished his hotdog, and a Diet Coke too, so was ready to actually do some officiating. Mercifully, the 3 count brought this one to a close. Despite both teams performing well, this was a disaster. This wasn't an ending - it was a mercy killing.  Seagal, who'd been building up to this match all night, looked like he was about to rip someone's face off and use it to wipe his ass with. Match Rating: 26.   It was at this exact, precise moment that the lights went out. A strong smell of sulphur filled the venue. Suddenly a thousand candles were lit all at once. The air went cold. A sense of dread filled the place. Satanic death metal ripped through our ears. And then the man that our adorable Russian fans would look to as the devil incarnate decided to join us. He has gone by many names in many different federations throughout the world - but the Russian Federation Of Wrestling would come to know him as Damien Black.         With him was an unknown, un-named accomplice, his face hidden in a cloak.    Within moments they were in the ring. Seagal's face was one of dismay and horror as Black and his acolyte went about the business of kicking the crap out of everyone in the ring, bringing his precious Tag Team Tournament to it's knees. He watched on open-mouthed as bodies flew everywhere. Whether it was 'the darkness within' or some other nonsense like that, Black and his partner looked unstoppable. Any shots they took from the Arrows or the Lykos' seemed to just bounce off them without effect. It was like they were possessed. Remember that bit at the end of The Matrix when Neo is suddenly indestructible, and suddenly little things like the number of opponents faced, damage taken or the laws of physics suddenly stop mattering... but everyone just goes with it despite it being ridiculous, because it looks awesome? That's the kind of thing we had going on here too. Kid Lykos I and II jumped on Black both at once, but bounced off him like ping pong balls. Then it was like lambs... or rather wolves... to the slaughter. Lykos Gym, exhausted from their exertions in the match before, stood no chance. They got torn to bits then thrown out of the ring like trash. The Arrows Of Russia dived into the action, punches swinging. But despite being supercharged by Lightning Bolt Energy Drink, they still got their heads kicked in. The Arrows' friends Andrei Arlovski and the injured Alen Khubulov slid in the ring to help, but met a similar fate. Arlovski was still battered and bruised from his match with Daniels earlier, and fell the moment Black kicked him in the chest. Khubulov got his legs swept from under him by the un-named acolyte, then got beaten with his own crutches again and again and again. Despite being fired and banned from proceedings, Tamerlan Rasuev has wormed his way ringside, and was laughing his ass off at all this carnage, loving every moment. There was even a look of admiration on his face as 'The Pitbull' and the RFW National Champion were also effortlessly thrown over the ropes, falling lifelessly to the floor below. Seagal signalled for the cavalry and half the locker room came running to help. But as soon as they came near the ring, the lights went out again. Our technicians scrambled to try and restore the power. Tense moments passed, before finally there was light once again, but Black and his partner were long gone, leaving a trail of destruction behind them. Seagal shook his head as he surveyed the damage, equal amounts of horror and rage on his face as the match he'd spent all night working towards lay in tatters in the broken bodies that littered the scene. We saw him punch one of the metal ring posts in frustration as the scene faded to black and we cut to commercials. Angle Rating: 57.     We next turn to our intrepid, finely attired interviewer Vlad Radinov. He was on the scene next to the mountain of destroyed production equipment that was trapping the unfortunate Marty Scurll. He pointed his trusty microphone at Ilya Malkin, Alexei Urgumov and Anton Deryabin, who had appointed themselves leaders of the rescue mission. The more eagle-eyed among you might remember the first two from earlier on in RFW's history when they got mauled by Goldberg in the early stages of his Gauntlet. Having had f*** all involvement since then, it was about time they rolled their sleeves up and got to work. "How go your valiant efforts?" asked Radinov, trying his best not to laugh. "The project goes smoothly" declared the obscure Russians proudly. "Our men are preparing to begin their preparations, after which the preparation stage can begin in earnest." Radinov nodded sagely. "When will the leader of Villain Enterprises be freed?" This was edge-of-your-seat cutting-edge investigative journalism at its very best. "With a little luck, we should have him freed by the end of the year." A muffled scream came from deep within the rubble. The Russians just shrugged, took massive swigs of Lightning Bolt energy drink, then smiled as we went to yet another commercial. Angle Rating: 40.   It's time for our main event. Our World Champion Ilja Dragunov is in the ring, backed up by his mentor Steven Seagal (who was still twitching with rage after his Tag Team thing was ruined). Edge is in the ring, backed up by his protégé Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov. Ilja and Edge are staring each other down, because that's what pro wrestlers do. It's time to reveal who each has chosen as their mystery partner. Edge decides to be dramatic - rather than just saying a name, he raises a fist into the air. Suddenly the lights dim and Goldberg's music hits. The crowd roar. The commentators swoon. Edge smiles triumphantly. Vertigo looks like Christmas was cancelled because he wasn't chosen. There's a bit of everything going on really.  Goldberg walks to the ring. He looks ready to kill and smash like the Goldberg of old, but there's just something slightly off - he lacks that urgency, that "I'm gonna rip off your foot and f*** you to death with it" glare he used in his prime. In the ring he grabs a mic and addresses the situation with all the subtlety of a nuclear war. "You're wearing my title, you sneaky little Russian bitch!" He yells. This pleases the fans. "Did you think I was gonna just slide away after you used my own finishing move... my own Jackhammer on me?! Did you think I was just gonna roll over and take it? I gave Edge no choice but to pick me as his partner, coz you and me got unfinished business. That bell rings. These fists smash you. That Russian snake falls. End of story." He throws the mic at Dragunov's head. It misses my millimetres, but our champion doesn't even flinch.  Next it's Edge's turn to talk. "Let's cut the crap, shall we? You think us non-Russians are stupid. But it's no mystery who your partner's gonna be tonight. Just play Kulakov's music already and get on with it!" Seagal nods in approval. But no music plays. Instead there's a huge 'bang!' Then a deafening, guttural scream. Suddenly there's a hole in the ring canvas, and through it 'The Nightmare' appears, rising from the depths like the Kraken. Instantly he has Goldberg in his hands, and the previously indestructible WCW / WWE legend looks like he's seen a ghost. Angle Rating: 70.         Ilja Dragunov & 'The Nightmare' Vladimir Kulakov vs Edge (with Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov) and Goldberg. Edge, Vertigo and Goldberg all threw everything they had at Kulakov, but he didn't even notice. Within moments his hand was around the neck of Goldberg, who then ate a Chokeslam for the ages. Edge tried a Dropkick but it didn't even slow 'The Nightmare' down. Moments later he was Chokeslammed to hell as well. Finally he got his hands on Klapstov too, and raised him up in the air, ready to inflict the same fate. But the cunning Russian grabbed Kulakov's mask and started pulling it off. Immediately the monster freaked out, dropped the ex-hacker like old laundry, and rolled out of the ring to reset his mask and cover his face. This gave Edge and Goldberg the moment's reprieve they needed, but as they staggered to their feet, RFW Champion Dragunov was all over them, pelting them with elbows and kicks. Again it was Klapstov to the rescue, as he grabbed Dragunov from behind and hit his Kyberspace (Hangman Neckbreaker) finisher. Vertigo then threw the shaken Edge on top of him, for a near pinfall.  Still groggy from the massive Chokeslam he just ate, Goldberg goes outside the ring and grabs Kulakov before he can go into berserker mode again. Demonstrating impressive strength he tips the Russian killing machine up vertical, hitting a huge Jackhammer onto the concrete floor. He goes for the pin, and even though this definitely isn't a Falls Count Anywhere match, referee 'Boris' does the count, because he's sensible enough not to argue. Kulakov's taken a blow that'd shatter most people's skulls, but naturally it only gets a 1 count out of him. Goldberg is spooked, but keeps to the game plan. Realising it'll take something special to put his masked foe away, he does something he's hardly ever done - he climbs the turnbuckles. As Kulakov calmly rises to his feet, the 50+ year old superstar takes to the air like a missile. "Christ almighty!" Exclaims announcer Alex Koslov in a voice more high pitched than many thought to be medically possible. "Did you see that?! Goldberg just leaped from the top rope, to the outside of the ring, and Speared Kulakov like a God-damned harpoon! What a move! What an impact!" He wasn't wrong. The move was huge and absolutely devastated both men. Despite clearly being in pain, Goldberg went for the pin again... and just about got a 2 count. Now the ageing legend was visibly panicking. He had one last trick up his sleeve. Using the last of his huge strength, he dragged The Nightmare up once again into a vertical position. Then he showed unbelievable power by ascending the 2nd rope with him, before Jackhammering him from the 2nd rope to the concrete floor below! "Good God he killed him!" screamed announcer Rico Bushido, harnessing his inner J.R. The impact was sickening, and took a lot out of both men. Using everything he had left, Goldberg went for the pin one last time. 1... 2... kickout! It was damned close, but the unstoppable Russian had done it once again. Goldberg dragged himself to his feet, his hands shaking from the superhuman exertion. The belief was gone from his eyes. He shook his head, turned his back, and did something many believed unthinkable - he walked away. All the way up the ramp. He was gone, not even looking back.  Meanwhile Dragunov still had the upper hand on Edge, who still wasn't 100% after the massive Chokeslam he took earlier. Vertigo, seeing that this was now a 2-on-1 battle, leaped into the fray, grabbing the Russian and surprising him with his 'I.C.E. Simulator' (Sitout Front Facebuster Suplex) signature. He followed it up gracefully and immediately with his 'Laser Formatting' Moonsault. Like before, he dragged Edge on top of the fallen Dragunov, and once again almost stole the win for his new mentor. But now his time had run out. Dragunov leaped to his feet, hit a stunning Grüße aus Moskau Lariat, which splattered the geeky ex-hacker to the canvas. Seconds later he was thrown to the outside, where a recovered Kulakov was waiting for him. He was history. The cameras weren't quite fast enough to catch exactly what 'The Nightmare' did to him, but he was carried off in a stretcher about 60 seconds later. "Not again!" Edge could be heard yelling as Dragunov and Kulakov cornered him in the ring. Yet again he was abandoned by his tag team partner. Yet again a 2-on-1 ass-kicking was his fate. He put up a good fight against the odds, covering himself in glory despite being clearly doomed. But then came a Last Ride-esque Elevated Powerbomb from the crazed, masked monster, followed immediately with a Torpedo Moskau diving headbutt from the Champion. Referee 'Boris' did the count. "This one's history" declared commentator Roy Jones Jr, as the count went 1... 2...  And then the most pro wrestling-est thing possible happened. The fans completely lost their s*** as the rejuvenated Bryan Daniels shot into the ring like a f***ing bullet, knocking the referee over, stopping the count, and saving Edge's ass big time. "Now we're even!" hollered the smiling, bearded American as he set about kicking both his Russian foes right in the heart, over and over and over again. "Yes!" screamed the 1414 fans in attendance with every shot. "Yes!" yelled the fans as he felled Dragunov with that 'Knee Plus' strike of his. "Yes!" shouted the crowd as he grabbed Kulakov by the hair and catapulted him out of the ring. With a big smile on his face, he followed him out and engaged in an epic brawl with the masked monster of RFW, looking a lot more like the Bryan Daniels of old as he sent the psychotic Russian bouncing off of every metal object within reach. It was almost heart-warming watching these two having such fun beating the holy crap out of each other. At the same time, Edge and Dragunov were going at it in a similar manner, brawling into the crowd and up through the bleachers, never stopping hitting each other no matter how much beer, vodka or Lightning Bolt Energy drink was spilled on them. The fans were going apes*** as both battles drew further and further away from the ring, getting more and more intense with each passing moment. Everybody was having too much fun to notice the referee counting to 10. Everybody was too caught up in the moment to realise the match being thrown out on a double count-out. But it hardly mattered. It was clear that Edge and Dragunov were soon to cross paths for real some time soon. The same fate awaited Bryan Daniels - never had he looked more ready to finally face his 'demon' - the hellish Kulakov.  Fun times ahead. Match Rating: 66.   Overall Show Rating: 65.

Edited August 15, 2023 by dstephe4

[dstephe4]

 

P.S sorry it took so long. But who else brings you so much culture? So much art? And so many God-awful, s***ty oil paintings?! Thank you all, for reading, for waiting, for everything.

 

Edited June 21, 2023 by dstephe4
Yes, this is a double post. And I'm not ashamed either.

[GreatreDRagon]

On 6/22/2023 at 9:26 AM, dstephe4 said:

Damien Black.

🙌🙌🙌👏👏👏

[MidKnightDreary]

I'm enjoying the absolute hell out of this. Well done on DOTM too!

[ElectricX]

Another fanatstic show!

[dstephe4]

 

I gave the readers of this silly little dynasty the chance to pick a match-up for Marty Scurll. Any opponent. Any stipulation. This rather magnificent prize would go to whoever got the most predictions right.  So I did some counting. My tired, weary little brain did it's best to handle simple arithmetic. Numbers were crunched. And here is what came out... @Just here to look - 2 points + 1 bonus @Old School Fan - 2 points @DinoKea- 3 points @GreatreDRagon - 2 points + 1 bonus @kanegan - 2 points @ElectricX - 2 points Well done to @DinoKea for once again smashing it. You can post your chosen match and opponent on here if you wish for it to be public, or message me if you want it to be all hush hush. You amazing readers keep this thing going with your continued support and interactions, and I thank you all.

 

Edited June 28, 2023 by dstephe4

[DinoKea]

Man, lucks on my side with these predictions recently. After considering my many wonderful options (such as Gerald, his "rescuers" or Bence Toth) but I have a feeling watch:

Marty Scurll vs. Goldberg - No DQ match

Should prove interesting given the recent form of the pair

[dstephe4]

 

Episode 9 came and went like another turd circling the u-bend. Darkness followed light. The ridiculous nonsense of the evening soon followed the ridiculous nonsense of the day. The passage of time brought no reprieve from the wildly spiralling s***storm that was the Russian Federation Of Wrestling. I drank a whole bottle of champagne like it was sparkling water. I unleashed a burp so loud it startled God. I gritted my teeth. I took a deep breath. I got on with it. Time waits for no man... and neither does the bizarre world of sports entertainment. "How's the rescue mission going lads? How long until we can get Marty Scurll from under all that metalwork? It must hurt like hell being trapped under all that" I said with something sort of, kind of, vaguely somewhat approaching concern. "They're having a lunch break!" Came the shouted reply. "It's 10pm! Who the hell has lunch at 10pm?!" I yelled back.  "This is Russia" came the reply. I shrugged. I was way too busy to be distracted with trivial little matters like the Villain being trapped beneath 3 tons of stage equipment. There was a lot going on. I was multitasking, shouting out orders, making big decisions and feeling all smug and important. I was like Gordon Gecko, but sweatier, and much less successful.  "The photographer's here!" Came another voice from somewhere else. It was our latest flashy, hilariously expensive, extravagant new signing. I ran over to the empty ring where the triumphant-looking, freshly corpse-painted new addition to our roster was looking resplendent, all covered in championship gold. "And in the ring... our NEW Tag Team Champion... Damien Black!" I boomed in the most Michael Buffer-esque voice I could muster. There was a big smile on my face, for the first time in a while. "I must say, it was an almost Heyman-Level Mayhem™ booking decision to put the Tag Titles on a team that aren't even in the tournament - the fans will be incredulous when it happens, and that can only be good for business" he replied. His voice had that weird, vaguely ridiculous tone that the Dutch have perfected through centuries of keen practice. The way he used it was strangely charming though. Disarming. Like a warm, fluffy blanket made of words. It seemed odd coming from a man dressed like he was about to rage-smash my skull with the power of Lucifer. He spoke a lot more intelligently than I'd expected from the Pagan-looking wrecking ball that'd casually made it's way through the WWE and AEW rosters, kicking everyone half to death as he went. "We're just waiting for your new tag partner to arrive and we can take these official photographs properly." I said, checking my watch for the thousandth time. "I've never worked with this 'G-Raver' guy before, but what I've seen of him online he looks like a good fit. I was surprised you decided on a Hardcore / Brawler type of performer though" said the man dressed as Baphomet, thoughtfully. "He's a heavily tattooed, bearded, insane, death metal loving lunatic just like you. You bring the darkness. He brings the crazy. I thought his unhinged, brawling style would complement your Strong Style strikes and kicks nicely. I really liked the stuff you did in Britain with Progress Wrestling as Tommy End. I wanna see lots of that high-intensity, high-impact stuff. Add G-Raver to the mix, throwing victims around ringside like ragdolls, and that's a very memorable image." It didn't happen very often, but every now and again it looked like I almost knew what I was doing. I'd have them all fooled in no time, I told myself. I'd fertilised my plans with bulls*** since coming to Russia in 2014 - why stop now?        "It's about time something went right though. I feel like it's been raining s*** lately. This Tag Team Tournament could finally be the thing that turns the tide." I was getting melancholy. That's what happens when there's more champagne in your veins than blood. The man with more ink than War & Peace sensed this and quickly changed the subject. "We need a better name for him though. That 'G-Raver' thing sounds stupid" said Damien matter-of-factly. "It's his real name, sort of. He's Brandon Graver, so he just threw a hyphen into his surname and ran it to the hills" I replied. "I don't care if his mother gave it to him or not, it's a stupid name" said Black assertively. He wasn't wrong. "How about something like Brandon Darke, or Brandon Thorne, or Brandon Devilyn or something" he continued, pulling names out of his ass with ease. "Let's wait for him to get here. He can choose which he likes best. I don't really care so long as it's dark and mysterious. So long as he sounds like somebody who sets fire to churches as a hobby, that'll do fine. Speaking of which, the name of your team will be The Dark Church Of Satan." A move like this had been urgently required for a long time. It was clear we needed more bad guys. We had 30 or so guys on the roster, and only 5 of them were heels. And of that 5, 3 (Scurll & Co) were definitely just there for me to mess with for my own amusement. We needed some new, bad blood, and we needed it now. Black thought it over for a moment, stroking his vast beard like some wise old professor. "It's not very subtle, is it?" he whined. "Neither is the name Damien Black. This is Russia - this country's about as subtle as a sledgehammer-blow to the d***. The country whose main exports are Vodka and Kalashnikovs doesn't do subtle. I'm having a song called '666' by a band called 'Rotting Christ' as your entrance music. F*** being subtle." He nodded appreciatively, looking impressed. "I know them well. Nice guys. Greek. My ex-girlfriend used to party with them. I remember their lead singer Sakis Tolis well. He was always so nice to kittens. He would take wounded little birds into his home and nurse them back into flight. He would often do knitting to relax at night. A genuinely lovely man" reminisced Black as he nodded his head approvingly. He was trying to lift the mood. But I couldn't help myself. It was time to be all melancholy again. As the champagne bubbles fizzed mercilessly in my gut, turning my whole digestive system into some boozy, unstable lava lamp, something deep inside my brain decided it was time for a lengthy, self-pitying monologue.  "It's about time this federation stopped turning gold into s***. I signed the 'legendary' Bill Goldberg and planned to build the whole company around him, only to find out his lungs explode if he's in the ring for more than 6 minutes. I then wanted to make Ilja Dragunov our main attraction, only to find out that literally nobody in the whole of Russia knew who the hell he is - he's so unheard of in his home nation I was genuinely starting to think he was a figment of my imagination. Then I planned to build our whole promotion's storylines around a Daniels vs Dragunov mega-match - I had 6 months of stuff planned around it, everything centring around building up to that one huge pay-off - only for the whole thing to implode on me due to a 'lack of chemistry' - whatever the hell that is." A look of panic filled Black's heavily make-up laden eyes. He was trapped in the death-grip of my woe. There was no escape.  "My next trick was to sign a menacing former UFC Heavyweight Champion. Surely, I thought, that would open us up to a whole new audience, fuse together the MMA and Wrestling demographics, bring us a ton of new fans, and make us a boat-load of cash. Instead I end up with the world's most average, surprisingly crinkly-looking midcarder who is already going downhill despite only having been a pro wrestler for about 3 minutes. The guy only has two moves for Christ sake. Finally I thought I would build the whole show around a storyline where a group of foreign Villains would take over the promotion, bringing a shadow of evil and treachery over the whole of Russia... only to find out the leader of these Villains is a tarnished sex pest who has been hiding in Puerto Rico due to being so toxic he's unbookable. His right hand man PCO was so out of shape he had a small heart attack just climbing the stairs to the venue." Nothing could stop me now. I was a human Gatling-gun of despair, mowing down anyone in my path with my bullets of dejection and heartbreak. We needed some sad violin music in the background - then the scene would really be complete. "So to say I have all my chips bet on The Dark Church Of Satan would be the understatement of the decade. Fortunately the plan is fool-proof. Soon as G-Raver - or whatever the hell we decide to call him - gets here, I'll tell you the whole thing. It's such a relief to have things finally go right. Without this I'd literally be forced to build this entire enterprise around a small dog called Gerald." Black stared at me nervously, as if I were having some sort of a breakdown. A long, uncomfortable silence filled the air between us. There was this weird moment where he just stared at me, unblinkingly, with a confused intensity that seemed to almost melt time itself. I was almost relieved when my phone rang. But Black's look of baffled confusion only grew as I began talking. "What the flaming, blazing, world-destroying, apocalyptic f*** do you mean?!! How the hell has he been arrested!?! Well, that's less drugs than you get in even one can of Lightning Bolt! Even the new diet, low-calorie Sissyberry Smash flavour they're bringing out next month has more drugs than that. He's what?! Sentenced to HOW LONG?! I... I..." I just hung up the call, to the sound of a thousand hopes and dreams committing Hari Kari all at once. Black, normally stoic and poker-faced, didn't know what the hell to do. He'd flown half way across the world and had been in this strange country less than 6 hours, and already his new boss was having some sort of weird meltdown. And crying. His new boss was definitely crying. Uncontrollably. Like a spanked toddler. "Just give the silly Limey b*****d a hug!" Boomed the voice of our Road Agent Shane Douglas from somewhere in the distance. "He'll start acting normal one day, just you wait and see!" He added.   Above: This stuff's real, by the way. Yes, really. He's still in jail, right now.   And so it was that a bearded, trenchcoat wearing guy covered head-to-toe in Satanic tattoos, with his face still painted up like the Devil's slutty boyfriend, gave me the biggest yet least sincere hug in the world. This is Russia, so naturally none of the plumbing in our impromptu art gallery wrestling venue worked. Of course there was no hot water. So obviously our whole hot, sweaty, energy-drink filled roster spent the night smelling like Taurine-scented boiled ass, Damien more so than most. Black's hug was ceaseless. Never-ending. And thanks to his in-ring exertions earlier, wet too. It was like getting a bear hug from a trout. My new Gucci suit absorbed every smelly, stinky drop of it. But the big, hairy, demonic-looking b*****d refused to let go until I stopped sobbing like the ugly girl on prom night. But the tighter the hug, the wetter the suit, the bigger the tears. It was like a tragic, awkward, sticky death spiral. After an eternity I somehow slipped from his grip, collapsing to the floor in a pile - presumably I was so badly coated in another man's moisture I was impossible to hold on to any more. "This is getting weird, boss. Just tell us what the hell happened, before someone starts drafting up the marriage certificate!" Heckled Douglas from far away. Black stepped back, looking down on me with a cocktail of emotions plastered over his face. Fear. Confusion. Surprise. Concern. Unbridled terror. This certainly wasn't the dream wrestling assignment I'd promised him it would be. I stopped my bottom lip from shaking, wiped that potent mix of tears and hellish man-sweat from my eyes, then explained the whole sorry tale. Turns out the lunatic known as G-Raver had been arrested on drugs charges back in November 2022. The cops had searched his car - presumably because he looks like some kind of psychotic cult leader - and were pleasantly surprised to find lots and lots of Heroin in there. 10 bags full, infact. And then there was all the Meth. And Marijuana. And Magic Mushrooms. And all sorts of drug paraphernalia. And bags of something called Alprazolam, which sounds like the kind of dangerous s*** you only find in Russian Energy Drinks. It didn't exactly take Columbo to figure out the guy was not only guilty as hell, but totally f***ed too.  Despite his obvious guilt, and the thousands of demonic tattoos etched all over his body - including his face. And despite the fact the guy literally made a living smashing people with broken glass and making them bleed, a judge somewhere decided he was safe to let out on bail. He must've felt really clever when he called to accept an offer from some clueless Brit with more money than sense, to fly half way across the world, fleeing his charges while being paid enough cash to drown in. For the first time in his career he'd be able to wrestle without losing sixty pints of blood, all while giving a massive middle finger to the American authorities. What was less clever, however, was making the call accepting the offer using the Police Station payphone.    Above: I wonder if he dresses like this in prison?   It'd be interesting to see which would end first - the war in Ukraine, or G-Raver's prison sentence. But that was the future, and this was the present, and here in the present I was f***ed. Again. Things go wrong in wrestling - it's part of the beautiful chaos that sucks you into this demented sport - so it's vital to always have a 'Plan B'. But by now I was hitting the wall of a Plan F. Or Plan X. Or Plan Z. Or something. I was so upset my brain had lost the power of the alphabet.  It was back to the drawing board. And back to the champagne and vodka rollercoaster diet that was somehow getting me through my day. I was sweating Dom Perignon by this stage of the journey. Or I would have been, had most of Russia not been so God-damned cold.  There was no time to panic, however, because moments later my phone was ringing again. After the phone call I'd just had, I was seeing every incoming call as a harbinger of doom. The sound of my ring tone filled my soul with dread and my stomach full of butterflies. My left hand started to twitch randomly. I pulled the phone out of my pocket, and started stabbing at the 'Reject Call' icon with the thrust of a Norman Bates shower scene. I was jabbing the damned thing so hard I was surprised my finger didn't poke a hole right through the middle and out the other side. But no matter what I did, the call just wouldn't reject. And then, as if by magic, the phone answered itself.  "Comrade!" came the voice on my phone that my brain had trained itself to despise. I'd bought 3 new phones and changed my number as many times, but the big old b*****d kept on finding me. I remembered then how he'd had his goons hack every one of my phones so I couldn't ignore his calls any more. To be fair though, the gangly old gargoyle was harassing me less than he used to - we were down to just 20 or 30 calls a day now. "Comrade! Mother Russia demands you answer" screamed my phone at me. I sighed the sigh of a man about to jump off a very high ledge. "This is 2023, Oleg. The Iron Curtain fell on the 9th November 1989. Nobody talks like that any more. Your lingo is deader than Lenin." A dramatic pause filled the air. I pictured Oleg carefully loading a shotgun, thinking of me with each shell. "Comrade!" He began again, turning this conversation into a Soviet-clad Groundhog Day nightmare from hell. I hung up on the bizarrely powerful, leathery old mutant. My phone buzzed twice, then thanks to the malware Oleg's goons had installed on there, accepted the call, put itself on speaker, then added Oleg as my 'starred, favourite' contact. I sighed, half-tried to hide the word "p***k" under a fake cough, then braced for impact. "Comrade!" he began yet again. I was genuinely wondering if the guy was a cyborg by this point. "American!" snapped Oleg. "You have not notified the Ministry of next episode's venue!" There was snarl in his voice. I could imagine the spit beginning to fly as he barked. "Correct. I have not." Is there such a thing as a malicious pause? If so, one of them took place here. "Are you going to?!" I shook my head, then realised he couldn't hear me doing that. "No" I snapped back and hung up again. I'd had enough of Oleg and the Ministry and the Network and the Baby In A Suit and all those other Rossiya 1 assholes. I'd had enough of all these clowns, these bureaucrats, sticking their nose in, making an impossible job even harder. All of them could kiss my limey arse. Every single one of them. Lips on, full contact, every part of my big British arse. Bollocks to them all.  I had enough time to inhale and exhale before my phone rang again. This time it not only answered and put itself on speaker phone, but it also turned the volume way up - louder than my phone's actual maximum. Much louder. It was entirely possible those Ministry clowns had stolen my phone, installed an amplifier, then snuck it back into my pocket undetected. That's how they roll here in Russia. "Oleg, you big sexy hunk of a man, what are you wearing?" I hadn't tried that angle before. Maybe that would make him stop calling me, I pondered. Now I got to hear the familiar sound of Oleg furiously screaming unknowable Russian obscenities at me. This time he'd decided to be furious that "an excellent, strong Russian man was humiliated in such a way. What happened with that ridiculous little dog was not patriotic!" We'd been doing that crap for weeks - I was surprised he'd only just noticed. I'd prepared for this. When he'd stopping filling my ears with verbal lava, I simply smiled and said "Oleg! Relax! The dog is Russian!" I hung up before he could answer, turned off my phone before he could call me back. I then checked into a far-away hotel under an assumed name for a few days while he calmed down, laughing my Limey ass off the whole time. I needed to get the hell away from Moscow. It was time to take the show on the road...

 

Edited July 8, 2023 by dstephe4

[kanegan]

G-Raver!!! Never in my wildest dreams did I expected him to crop up.

[dstephe4]

On 7/6/2023 at 2:30 AM, kanegan said:

G-Raver!!! Never in my wildest dreams did I expected him to crop up.

Me neither lol!

The idea goes all the way back to February when I asked the forum's 'Booking Committee' for ideas for someone to partner Tommy End / Malakai Black.

@James The Animator kindly suggested G-Raver, along with a few others. As soon as I read that he was in jail, I just new I had to use it somehow. And now here we are in July with it finally written down and posted.

 

On 6/26/2023 at 4:55 PM, ElectricX said:

Another fanatstic show!

Thank you very, very much. I love that people are still getting a kick out of this. Keeps my brain alive with silly new ideas of what to do next!

 

On 6/26/2023 at 1:27 PM, MidKnightDreary said:

I'm enjoying the absolute hell out of this. Well done on DOTM too!

A massive, colossal thank you to those who voted for this diary. I really didn't think this would ever even get nominated, let alone ever win. Getting the DOTM twice is frankly mind-boggling. 

Thank you everyone!

Edited July 8, 2023 by dstephe4