KyTeran Posted September 24 Share Posted September 24 The Battle of the Big Men: Joe Black versus Cyrus The Destroyer (with Priscilla Kelly and 'Rocky'). 'Wild Whiskey Windmill' Match: Dani Jordyn vs Kiera Hogan vs AC Mack vs Baron Black vs Alan Angels vs Priscilla Kelly KAPW World Title – AR Fox vs. Fred Yehi 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted September 25 Author Share Posted September 25 (edited) KAPW Show 5: The KAPW Varsity Throwdown 140 in attendance Picture this: The legendary Varsity, Atlanta’s famous drive-in, lit up like the wrestling gods themselves have come down to bless this historic venue with a slice of chaos that only Kick Ass Pro Wrestling could deliver. This is no ordinary wrestling show—this is a spectacle at the very heart of Atlanta’s culture. For the uninitiated, The Varsity isn’t just a fast-food joint. Oh no, honey! This place is practically an institution! Founded in 1928, it’s the world’s largest drive-in, famous for its chili dogs, burgers, and fries. And if you’re not ordering a frosty orange shake, are you even doing The Varsity right? The air around the venue is thick with a scent that can only be described as the American Dream itself—deep-fried, sizzling with history, and doused in nostalgia. Cars buzz in and out, neon lights flickering in the parking lot like fireflies under the Atlanta night sky. Inside, fans spill their drinks and hoot loudly as they pile into the outdoor seating area, barely able to contain themselves. It’s as if you took a Sunday family outing and smashed it headfirst into a carnival ride that’s been left on “turbo” for far too long. Ladies and gentlemen, this ain’t just a wrestling show anymore—this is the KAPW Varsity Throwdown. The fans? They’re ready. The wrestlers? They’re hungry (and not just for chili dogs). And KAPW? We’re about to turn this Atlanta landmark into our very own squared circle of madness. The Varsity’s famous red neon sign buzzes in the background, and there’s a hush as none other than the infamous, sketchy maestro of mayhem, Jimi Venezuela, and his partner in chaos, Blondie, step into the makeshift ring, which is set up like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Jimi, looking dapper (well, in his own way) in yet another thrift-store Hawaiian shirt that probably smells faintly of tequila and broken dreams, saunters up to the mic. Above: I don't know what confused me more - the fact the AI randomly sneaked a Confederate Flag into the image for no apparent reason, or the fact it then blurred it for copyright reasons. I sure as s*** didn't ask for one. Maybe it's left over from a Dukes Of Hazzard theme night or something. Blondie struts next to him, cleavage practically weaponized, earning her the usual deafening cheers from the fans who really should be paying attention to what’s coming, but hey, priorities. Jimi grabs the mic, puffing out his chest, and with that trademark grin that says, “I’m up to no good, and I’m proud of it,” he booms out: “WOW!” Look at this place! I told you all we were going BIG TIME! I told you all we were moving up in the world! No more dingy bars, no more sticky floors—we’re here at THE VARSITY! Atlanta’s crown jewel, baby! Look at it! LOOK AT IT!” The crowd erupts, some even waving half-eaten chili dogs in the air. You could almost taste the grease in the excitement. Jimi continues, “You thought the Clermont Lounge was wild? Honey, that was child’s play! This is the V-A-R-S-I-T-Y! They’ve got—wait for it—SERVIETTES!!” Blondie, as always, is one step ahead. She grabs a bright red Varsity napkin, waving it like a flag in victory. “You see this? You see this high-class action? We’ve made it, folks! Who needs paper towels when you’ve got serviettes this fancy?” Jimi wipes his brow dramatically with a napkin, throwing it into the crowd like it’s a championship belt. A fan catches it, holds it up triumphantly, and you’d think the guy just won the lottery. “And don’t even get me started on the hot dogs!” Blondie cuts in, “Forget belts! Whoever wins tonight, gets a Varsity chili dog! It’s legendary! It’s what champions are made of!” She shoots a wink to the crowd, half of them already scrambling to grab one from the concession stand. “But enough chit-chat!” Jimi shouts. “We didn’t come here just to eat! We came here for FIGHTS!” The fans are rowdy, and Blondie’s got that gleam in her eye that says someone’s about to get their ass kicked in the most spectacular way. “And tonight, my friends, we’ve got a card so damn STACKED that even The Varsity’s famous onion rings can’t compete! So buckle up, grab your chili dogs, and get ready for a wild ride because KAPW is about to tear this place apart! And hey, it’s all for a good cause! ‘Cause we’re raising money for the community—through carnage!” The fans roar, the smell of greasy food and adrenaline filling the night air. “AND,” Blondie adds, stepping up to the mic, “If you thought the Pro Wrestling Classic was something, you ain’t seen NOTHING yet. Champions will rise, challengers will fall, and we’re serving up some piping hot beatdowns with a side of Varsity fries! Let’s get this show on the road!” Now, the stage is set, the crowd is buzzed, and The Varsity’s sizzling griddles have nothing on the heat that’s about to explode in that ring. Let the KAPW Varsity Throwdown begin! Angle rating: 30. The buzz from The Varsity's hot grills had nothing on the heat in the ring as AR Fox, our resplendent (and currently sulking) KAPW World Champion, stomped his way to the ring with the World Title draped over his shoulder like it was more of a burden than a prize. He didn’t have his usual spring in his step tonight, no high-flying antics, just pure anger. His eyes locked onto the entrance ramp, waiting for the one man who had taken things too far—Aaron Draven. Last week, Draven had the audacity—no, the NERVE—to blindside Fox and attack him with the very championship belt Fox had fought tooth and nail to win. And now? Fox wanted revenge, and he wanted it NOW. He grabbed the mic, pacing around the ring like a caged animal. “Draven! You coward! You wanna attack me from behind?! Come down here, right now! You’re gonna get what’s coming to you!” The crowd—sipping on their orange shakes, munching on their chili dogs—cheered in unison. They wanted blood, and Fox was more than ready to spill it. But before Fox could spew more venom into the mic, the music hit. The crowd groaned and buzzed as none other than Fred Yehi sauntered down to the ring. Yehi, arms folded, a confident smirk on his face, interrupted Fox’s tantrum. “Hey, champ. Before you start throwing your little temper tantrum, let me remind you who’s got the title shot tonight. That’s right, me. I earned my shot at that gold. Not Draven. Me. So if you’ve got some unfinished business, you can take a number because I’m coming for what’s mine.” The crowd cheered, and Fox looked like he might blow a gasket. He started pacing faster, running a hand over his face in frustration. He wasn’t just fighting for his title tonight, now he had Yehi breathing down his neck reminding him of it every second. It was too much. That’s when, from the side of the ring, we hear the unmistakable voice of Jimi Venezuela, who clearly hadn’t had enough margaritas to miss out on this juicy opportunity. “Alright, alright!” Jimi interrupted, stepping out onto the stage, waving a hand as if to shush the two. “Listen, Fox, I know you want Draven. I get it. The guy’s a piece of work. But you know what? He doesn’t deserve it! What kind of message are we sending here if we just hand Draven a title shot after that stunt he pulled? You wanna reward a guy for sucker-punching the champ? Nah, that’s not how KAPW works!” The crowd popped, fully behind Jimi’s logic (for once). Fox, now practically frothing at the mouth, pointed toward Jimi. “Then how do I get my hands on him, huh? You gonna make me wait forever?” Jimi, always the slick negotiator, rubbed his chin and let out a little grin. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, Foxy. I’ll give you this: Draven can have a #1 Contender’s Match at our next show. He wins, and boom, you get your revenge! But there’s a catch! You still gotta beat Yehi tonight. Otherwise, all bets are off.” The crowd roared, and Fox, still seething, had no choice but to agree. He wasn’t gonna turn down the chance to get his hands on Draven. But Jimi wasn’t done. Oh no, the man always had another trick up his sleeve. “And speaking of bets...” Jimi raised an eyebrow and turned his attention to the fans. “I got an idea. How about we let YOU guys get in on the action, huh? Let’s place some bets! Whoever predicts the most match outcomes right tonight gets to choose the stipulation for Draven’s match next week!” The crowd exploded. This was their moment. KAPW wasn’t just wild in the ring—now the fans had a chance to make it even wilder! Fox glared at Jimi, then at Yehi. His grip tightened on the World Title, the weight of it pulling down on his shoulder in more ways than one. Tonight, he had to focus on Yehi. But looming in the background, just out of reach, was the revenge he so desperately craved against Draven. The stakes had never been higher, and the fans? They couldn’t wait to see how it all unfolded. Who’s making bets tonight? Angle rating: 34. Battle Of The Big Men – Joe Black vs. Cyrus The Destroyer (with Priscilla and 'Rocky' the Pet Rock) The venue was buzzing as the lights dimmed for the clash of titans—Cyrus The Destroyer vs. Joe Black. This wasn’t just any match. It was the biggest bout on the card, with the winner earning the right to squash Aaron Draven like the bug he is. Lenny Leonard and Veda Scott were joined by Jimi Venezuela, cigar in mouth, margarita in hand, ready to offer his “expert” analysis. “Draven thinks he can disrespect my wrestlers? Forget it!” Jimi exclaimed. “Whoever wins between these two massive dudes gets to squish him like a cockroach in a #1 contender bout next week! I can’t wait to see it!” In the ring, Cyrus The Destroyer, 6'8" and over 350 pounds, stomped down the aisle, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. Behind him, Priscilla Kelly held her faithful companion Rocky, her pet rock, clutching it like the Holy Grail. Joe Black, 6’2” and around 245 pounds of pure muscle, followed. Known for his intelligence, Joe Black was focused, his eyes set on the task of dismantling his larger opponent. The fans, torn between cheers and boos, knew Joe Black’s ring IQ gave him an edge, even against someone like Cyrus. The bell rang, and the giants collided. Cyrus used his size to immediately go on the offensive, throwing Joe into the corner and raining down a barrage of forearm shots. The sound of each blow echoed through the place. But Joe Black was ready. Using his agility, he ducked under a wild swing and began targeting Cyrus’s legs with precise kicks, aiming to bring the big man to his knees. This was David vs. Goliath, but in this case, David was built like a linebacker. As Cyrus began to falter, Joe Black delivered a stiff lariat that barely moved him. Jimi took a sip from his margarita and said, “Joe’s taking him apart like a mechanic on an engine. And once Cyrus is down, he’s staying down!” The momentum shifted as Joe continued to pick apart Cyrus’s foundation. A rapid series of strikes—an enziguri, a dropkick to the knee, and a devastating German suplex—had the crowd roaring. Cyrus staggered, struggling to keep his balance, but Joe wasn’t letting up. At ringside, Priscilla Kelly, sensing her partner was in trouble, panicked. In desperation, she pulled out Rocky, her trusty pet rock. “Rocky?!” Lenny exclaimed. Priscilla wound up like a pitcher and hurled Rocky into the ring. “CATCH IT!” she screamed. Unfortunately for Cyrus, coordination was not his strong suit. The rock flew through the air, and in a moment of pure comedy, Cyrus missed it. SMACK! Rocky hit Cyrus square between the eyes. He blinked once, then twice, his knees buckling. The crowd gasped. Cyrus swayed, then crashed to the mat, the impact shaking the ring. The Varsity's lights flickered from the force of his fall. Jimi nearly spat out his drink. “Well, that wasn’t the plan! The guy just got taken out by a pebble!” The crowd erupted in laughter as Cyrus lay sprawled out, arms and legs spread wide. Joe Black, always the opportunist, wasted no time. He pounced, covering the fallen giant. 1... 2... 3! Joe Black stood tall, victorious, and smirking. He knew he had won, but the credit belonged to Rocky, the unlikely hero. Meanwhile, Cyrus, slowly regaining consciousness, was not amused. As the fans continued to laugh, he sat up, his expression shifting from confusion to realization. He looked over at Priscilla, who was frantically apologizing and scooping up Rocky as if it were priceless. But there was no forgiveness in Cyrus’s eyes. He had just been knocked out by a rock—a pet rock—and lost his chance at Draven because of it. The seeds of resentment were planted. Cyrus The Destroyer had once tolerated Rocky, but now? Now, the pet rock antics were over. He glared at Priscilla, who was too busy baby-talking to Rocky to notice, and stormed out of the ring, leaving behind a mess of broken pride and a confused crowd. Jimi, still chuckling, turned to Lenny and Veda. “Well, folks, if you thought KAPW couldn’t get any crazier, we just saw a giant taken down by a pebble. That’s a first!” Match rating: 40. The camera flickers to life backstage, and there stands the ever-bubbly Blondie, mic in hand, sporting her trademark cheeky grin. The faint buzz of anticipation echoes from the crowd as she leans in toward her next interviewee, Dani Jordyn, the self-proclaimed “Real Mean Girl” of KAPW. Dani, clad in her usual snarky attire and gripping her infamous Burn Book, looks like she’s ready to spit fire. “Hey there, KAPW fans!” Blondie chirps, her voice dripping with playful sass. “I’m here with none other than Dani Jordyn, who—well—let’s just say had a bit of a tough night last week, losing to, um… a pet rock?” Blondie can’t help herself. The giggles start to bubble up, and her face scrunches as she fights them off. Jordyn’s expression sours instantly. “Are you SERIOUS right now?!” she snaps, eyes wide with indignation. “A pet rock! I am Dani Jordyn! I’ve wrestled all over, I’m a superstar, and now I’m getting ROASTED on social media because of that stupid rock! Do you even know how many Instagram stories are making fun of me right now?” Blondie bites her lip, trying to stifle her laughter, but it’s a losing battle. “It’s just... I mean... Rocky...” And that’s it. Blondie bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Tears are practically welling up in her eyes as she clutches her stomach. Dani turns beet red, her fists clenched as she glares daggers at Blondie. “This is NOT funny! I am a serious competitor, and I don’t need this mockery! Just wait—when I get my revenge, everyone is going to wish they’d kept their mouths shut!” But Blondie is too far gone, her giggles filling the backstage area, her shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry! I just—Rocky! It’s just too much!” Furious and embarrassed, Dani slams her Burn Book shut and storms off in a huff, leaving Blondie trying (and failing) to pull herself together. The fans watching on the big screen are laughing right along with her, knowing full well that Dani’s “revenge” is going to be fueled by more than just her usual sass. But Blondie, ever the pro, quickly pivots as she wipes her eyes, still snickering. “Oh my—okay, folks, whew! Now, let’s move on... Who’s next? Oh... well, look who’s brooding over there.” The camera pans over to Baron Black, lurking in the shadows, clearly still traumatized from his chaotic Box of Monkeys match last week. Covered in monkey scratches and with a permanent scowl etched on his face, Baron looks like he’s spent the last few days plotting his revenge against the entire primate species. Blondie saunters over, flashing her signature wink at the camera as she switches gears effortlessly. “Baron! Sweetie! You look like you’ve been through the wringer, but hey—you’ve got that fancy contract for a title shot, so maybe it was all worth it?” Baron attempts to compose himself, adjusting his jacket like he’s some evil mastermind straight out of a Bond movie. “Blondie, darling, you know I don’t just play the game. I master it. The Box of Monkeys was just a bump in the road—literally. And now, I’m about to outwit everyone in the Wild Whiskey Windmill match. What are my chances? I mean, come on. With my strategic mind, I’m practically untouchable.” He waves his contract in the air with a flourish, but Blondie’s not one to let him get too comfortable. She leans in, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “So, you’re confident about tonight, huh? But the fans have been wondering... When are you going to cash in that title shot? They’re dying to know.” Baron straightens up, puffing out his chest like a proud villain. “Well, Blondie, I’ll cash it in when the moment is right. This contract is a chess piece, and while everyone else is playing checkers, I’m playing twelve moves ahead. When the time comes—bam—they won’t even know what hit them.” Blondie nods, her grin widening. “I see. A real mastermind in the making.” But then, as if she’s been saving the best question for last, she asks, “But what if Jimi decides to make you defend that title shot? I mean, this is KAPW—he could throw you into another match, and poof, that contract’s gone.” Baron freezes, his smug smile faltering. “Wait... he can’t... can he?” Blondie shrugs innocently. “You did just come out of a Box of Monkeys match. Jimi could do anything. You might wanna watch your back.” The realization dawns on Baron like a ton of bricks. His confident facade crumbles as panic sets in. “I—I have to go... strategize.” And with that, Baron Black bolts from the interview, clutching his contract like a lifeline, muttering under his breath about needing better plans. Blondie watches him go, bemused, before turning back to the camera with a dramatic sigh. “Well, that’s two for two. First Dani, now Baron. They both stormed off... Is it me? Did I forget to shower this morning? Or maybe my perfume’s too strong? What do you think, folks? Whatever it is, I’ll have to figure it out before the next interview!” Angle rating: 35. The First (And Last?) Ever 'Wild Whiskey Windmill Match' - Dani Jordyn vs Kiera Hogan vs AC Mack vs Baron Black vs Alan Angels vs Priscilla Kelly The atmosphere at The Varsity was thick with anticipation, but let’s be real—no one really knew what to expect from the absurdity that was about to unfold. It was time for the Wild Whiskey Windmill Match, and if you thought KAPW couldn’t get any wilder, well, honey, you’ve clearly been underestimating Jimi Venezuela. The ring crew had just finished setting up the monstrosity of a windmill, six arms whirling slowly, each attached with a bottle of something strong enough to strip paint—and only one with something resembling water. The crowd was buzzing with excitement as the competitors made their way to the ring. Dani Jordyn, Kiera Hogan, AC Mack, Baron Black, Alan Angels, and Priscilla Kelly, each looking like they knew this was going to be the weirdest night of their careers. Ringside, Cyrus the Destroyer stood glowering, tasked with the unfortunate duty of babysitting Rocky the Rock, who sat on a tiny velvet pillow. The whole thing was enough to make a grown man question his life choices, and Cyrus was not amused. The fans were having a field day with his misery, taunting him with chants of “ROCKY! ROCKY!” while he scowled like a man who’d seen better days. As the bell rang, the windmill’s slow spin began, and the competitors, knowing they couldn’t claim victory without chugging down from every bottle, eyed the rotating monstrosity like vultures circling a soon-to-be whiskey-soaked carcass. The first to make a move was AC Mack, always the showman, who dashed for the windmill, leaping in the air to snag a bottle. He cracked it open, took a deep swig—and immediately choked as if he’d swallowed liquid lava. It was a bourbon that tasted more like kerosene, but Mack wasn’t about to let that slow him down. He choked it down like a champ, though his swagger was noticeably less steady as he rejoined the chaos in the ring. Mack’s fighting style, fast-paced and filled with trash talk, was on full display as he immediately targeted Baron Black, lighting him up with rapid kicks and chops, his signature blend of aggression and cocky showmanship. Baron Black, the technical maestro, wasn’t having it. Known for his mastery of suplexes and submissions, he caught one of Mack’s kicks and twisted it into a single-leg takedown, smoothly transitioning into an STF. The fans ooh’ed in appreciation as Baron flexed his grappling skills, wrenching Mack’s neck and leg at awkward angles. But Mack, ever the defiant loudmouth, refused to stay down. He clawed his way to the ropes, then delivered a sharp elbow to Baron’s face, breaking the hold and giving himself just enough time to stumble back to his feet, still shaking off the effects of that brutal whiskey. Meanwhile, Kiera Hogan, “The Girl on Fire,” lived up to her name. Her fast, furious style made her a blur in the ring, as she darted between her opponents, delivering blistering strikes. She hit Dani Jordyn with a stinging forearm, followed by a running dropkick that sent Dani crashing into the windmill itself. Hogan’s explosive offense, full of high-energy moves like superkicks and running corner clotheslines, kept the crowd roaring, but she wasn’t satisfied yet. She set her sights on Alan Angels, who was still trying to grab his bottle. Angels, the former high-flying acrobat turned biker brawler, wasn’t about to let Hogan have her way. He ducked a clothesline from Hogan and countered with a spinning heel kick that connected with the back of her head, dropping her to the mat. Angels had traded in his more aerial-heavy offense for something more grounded and brutal, but when he saw Hogan dazed, he couldn’t help but flash some of his old self. He climbed to the second rope, leaped off, and hit Hogan with a textbook moonsault. The crowd exploded as Angels popped back up, flashing his new biker persona with a cocky smirk. While Angels celebrated, Baron Black wasn’t far behind. He’d found his bottle on the windmill, but before he could take a drink, AC Mack swooped in, sending Baron stumbling back into the turnbuckle with a stiff forearm shot. Mack, always quick to capitalize, hoisted Baron onto the top rope, looking for something big. But Baron, with his technical prowess, countered by grabbing Mack and suplexing him off the top rope in one smooth motion. Mack hit the mat hard, and the fans gasped, knowing Baron’s suplex game was no joke. At this point, Dani Jordyn had shaken off Hogan’s dropkick and was back in the fray, eyeing her bottle spinning slowly on the windmill. She ran for it but was met by a suddenly recovered Kiera Hogan, who speared her to the ground with an explosive tackle. Hogan, feeding off the crowd’s energy, grabbed Dani and executed her signature “The Face the Music” neckbreaker, leaving Dani sprawled out on the canvas. Back at ringside, Cyrus the Destroyer was having an absolutely miserable time. Sitting with Rocky the Rock in his lap, the grumpy powerhouse looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. Every time a fan chanted “ROCKY! ROCKY!” Cyrus’ eyes narrowed, and his patience grew thinner. The fans taunted him mercilessly, and it was clear his amusement with the whole situation had long since worn off. Priscilla Kelly, meanwhile, wasn’t faring much better. After finally grabbing her bottle from the windmill, she took a deep swig—and immediately realized her mistake. Her bottle wasn’t whiskey—it was something far worse. A bottle of that infamous moonshine Jimi had found from some backwoods dealer. Her face turned green as she stumbled to the ropes. The fans watched in horror and delight as Priscilla lost the battle with her stomach, turned to Cyrus, and threw up all over him. Whiskey, moonshine, and Priscilla’s last meal drenched the furious giant. The crowd roared with laughter, but Cyrus wasn’t laughing. No, Cyrus was done. The vomiting was the final straw. He shot to his feet, tossing Rocky aside, and stormed into the ring like a man possessed. Chaos followed. Cyrus bulldozed through the competitors like a freight train. Dani Jordyn was the first to get caught, lifted high into the air and slammed into the mat with enough force to rattle the ring posts. Kiera Hogan tried to escape, but Cyrus snatched her up and hurled her into the windmill itself, sending her spinning off one of the blades and into the ropes. Baron Black, ever the strategist, tried to outsmart Cyrus, but a devastating clothesline left him flat on the mat. As the chaos unfolded, Priscilla, still recovering from her ill-fated drink, stumbled to her feet, clearly dazed but somehow coherent enough to realize what was happening. The rest of the competitors were too busy dealing with a rampaging Cyrus to notice as Priscilla staggered over to the final bottle, popped it open, and chugged it down. The fans, still howling at the carnage in the ring, roared even louder as Priscilla Kelly became the first—and only—competitor to drink all the bottles and win the match. Meanwhile, Cyrus stood in the middle of the ring, surrounded by bodies, his chest heaving as the fans chanted, “YOU STINK! YOU STINK!” They weren’t doubting his wrestling prowess – covered head to toe in that sticky, boozy puke, he really did. Slowly coming back to his senses, he looked down at the carnage he’d caused, his rage slowly giving way to a hollow, confused expression. He glanced over at Jimi Venezuela, who was standing at the entrance with a margarita in one hand, grinning like a proud father. “Well, that was... something!” Jimi shouted, taking a sip of his drink. Priscilla, barely standing, raised her arms in victory, swaying slightly from the alcohol but triumphant nonetheless. The fans, in their drunken haze, cheered her on as she stumbled out of the ring, a mix of disbelief and admiration in their eyes. Cyrus, expecting a moment of shared glory, stomped after her, still dripping with whiskey and puke. He stood towering over Priscilla, waiting for her to acknowledge his part in her victory, arms crossed, an impatient scowl on his face. After all, without his rampage, there was no way she would’ve won the match, right? Surely, she owed him a nod of appreciation, a word of thanks, maybe even a celebratory toast. But Priscilla, her mind half gone in a booze-soaked haze, didn’t even glance his way. Instead, she beelined straight for Rocky, her beloved pet rock, lying in the corner of the ring where Cyrus had been “babysitting” it all night. Ignoring Cyrus entirely, she scooped up the stone as if it were a newborn child, cradling it in her arms, cooing softly like a mother to a crying baby. She gently rocked Rocky, patting it tenderly, her eyes glazed over in drunken affection. The entire arena watched, half amused, half bewildered. Cyrus, standing there drenched and fuming, couldn’t believe it. After all that chaos, after unleashing his fury on everyone in sight, he was being completely ignored in favor of a... rock. His nostrils flared as he tried to catch Priscilla’s attention, but she was too far gone in her own little world, whispering sweet nothings to Rocky, blissfully unaware of the storm of anger brewing behind her. The crowd, sensing Cyrus’s frustration, started to laugh, a few fans even chanting, “ROCKY! ROCKY!” as if the stone itself had won the match. Defeated and utterly disgusted, Cyrus stormed out of the ring, muttering under his breath, leaving behind a ring full of broken bodies, shattered egos, and one stone-cold oblivious victor. The aftermath of the Wild Whiskey Windmill Match looked like a frat party gone horribly wrong—or horribly right, depending on your perspective. The ring was littered with discarded whiskey bottles, and the competitors, still reeling from their boozy beatdown, looked more like extras from The Hangover than professional wrestlers. AC Mack, normally the brash, loud-mouthed high-flyer, was flat on his back in the middle of the ring, staring up at the lights. Every few seconds, he’d raise one hand in the air like he was about to cut a promo, but then his arm would flop back down like a fish out of water. “Bro... the room’s... spinning... like... the windmill... spinning,” he mumbled to no one in particular, still feeling the effects of a bottle that was probably brewed in the pits of hell. His trash-talking days would have to wait until his stomach decided to stop doing somersaults. Kiera Hogan, meanwhile, was pacing back and forth, still fuming after she was the unfortunate one to grab the bottle filled with—of all things—water. The fans had cheered her on at first, but once they realized she wasn’t getting drunk like the others, the boos had started raining down. Now, she was ranting to anyone who would listen—mostly herself—about how “this wasn’t what she signed up for,” and how she was going to “burn” the next person who handed her a bottle of water instead of whiskey. The “Girl on Fire” was more like the “Girl on Fury” at this point, and the fans were eating it up. In one corner, Baron Black was trying to salvage what was left of his dignity, though it wasn’t going well. He’d spent the entire match trying to strategize, pacing around the windmill like some kind of boozy chessmaster, only to end up face-planting after one too many shots. Now, he sat slumped against the turnbuckle, a hand on his head, mumbling, “I had this. I was twelve moves ahead... what happened?!” He looked like a man who’d just lost a game of Monopoly and couldn’t figure out where it all went wrong. His “diabolical mastermind” persona was taking a serious hit. Then there was Alan Angels, whose new biker gimmick didn’t exactly scream “Whiskey King,” but the man had heart. Unfortunately, heart didn’t stop him from staggering around the outside of the ring, accidentally knocking over a security guard before collapsing into a folding chair. “I’m... a tough guy... now,” he slurred, his new leather jacket half on, half dragging on the floor like some kind of biker disaster. “Tough guys... don’t puke... right?” Priscilla Kelly, though? Well, she was still the star of the show. After accidentally puking all over Cyrus mid-match—an incident which, by the way, left the big man smelling like a distillery for the foreseeable future—she was now cradling Rocky the Rock like it was a baby, swaying back and forth and cooing to it. “You did good, Rocky... real good,” she whispered, completely oblivious to the carnage around her. The fans were still buzzing from the absurdity of it all, chanting “ROCKY! ROCKY!” in what might’ve been the strangest crowd chant in the history of wrestling. And poor Cyrus the Destroyer—the man was fuming. Covered in puke and the shattered remains of his pride, he stomped out of the arena, every step leaving a sticky footprint. His face was a twisted mix of rage and disbelief, still not quite sure how a pet rock had cost him the match. He’d had it with Priscilla’s antics, with KAPW’s shenanigans, with everything. His last words as he stormed off? “I’m DONE with this ROCK!” In the end, the Wild Whiskey Windmill Match would go down as a chaotic, boozy mess—a spectacle of athletic absurdity that no one could’ve predicted. The competitors, still trying to recover, had stumbled, fallen, and puked their way into KAPW infamy. And the fans? They wouldn’t have it any other way. Match rating: 44. The scene opens with the KAPW broadcast team at the commentary table, where Jimi Venezuela joins Veda Scott and Lenny Leonard. The crowd is buzzing with anticipation after last week’s chaos. Jimi Venezuela: “It’s been another wild night, folks, and we’ve still got our high-octane main event to come—KAPW’s going big-time, baby! Fox. Yehi. The World Title. It’s all on the line! The next chapter in their epic feud will be written here tonight! But let’s be real, after what went down with Draven last week, anything could happen.” Suddenly, Aaron Draven, dressed in street clothes—ripped jeans and a black leather jacket—emerges from the crowd. The audience, already hostile towards him, unleashes a torrent of boos. He climbs over the barricade and storms up to the commentary desk, eyes blazing with fury. Aaron Draven: “You know exactly who I am... but you don’t know why I’m here.” Jimi looks shocked but tries to hide it, as Draven looms over the desk, oozing menace and defiance. The crowd boos even louder, but Draven smirks, feeding off their hatred. Aaron Draven: “You idiots just don’t get it, do you? Week after week, you boo me, you disrespect me, just because I’m not one of your precious little Atlanta boys? You think that’s gonna stop me? You think you’re safe? Nah, I’ve had enough of this dump. And I’ve had enough of all of you.” The boos reach a deafening level, but Draven doesn’t flinch. Instead, he grabs the microphone from Veda, his voice dripping with venom. Aaron Draven: “Last week, I laid out your champion, AR Fox, with his own title belt. And what did you all do? You cheered him and booed me. What a joke. Let me make one thing clear—I’m here to declare war. Not just on Fox, not just on KAPW, but on all of you!” Draven glares at the crowd, soaking in their hatred like fuel for the fire. Jimi Venezuela, clearly trying to defuse the situation before it spirals, stands up. Jimi Venezuela: “Hey, hey, settle down, Draven. You think we’re just gonna reward that stunt you pulled last week by giving you what you want? You want AR Fox? You wanna jump the line and get a title shot after you attacked him? What message does that send? Nah, man, we don’t play like that here.” Draven’s smirk fades, and his eyes narrow as he steps closer to Jimi. The tension is palpable, and the crowd is eating up every second of it. Aaron Draven: “You think you can stop me, Jimi? You think you’re in control here? Nah, I’m in control. You think Fox is safe? You think any of you are safe? You better start watching your back, Venezuela, because there’s more of us. We’re just getting started.” The crowd gasps, sensing that Draven is hinting at reinforcements. Jimi, trying to keep control of the situation, responds quickly. Jimi Venezuela: “You want Fox that bad? You wanna prove something? Fine. You don’t just get to demand a title match, but I’ll tell you what. Joe Black won his match tonight. He’ll be your opponent next week. If—and only if - you win—then maybe you get your revenge. But until then? You’re nothing, Draven. You’re just another guy with a big mouth.” Draven leans in, his face inches from Jimi’s. Aaron Draven: “Oh, I’m more than that. And you’ll see. You’ll all see. Soon.” With that, Draven throws the mic down and storms off through the crowd, ignoring the deafening boos. Jimi sits back down, shaking his head, trying to hide his concern. The tension is thick, and everyone knows that Draven’s declaration of war is far from over. Veda Scott: “Well, that escalated quickly. Draven’s got a death wish if he thinks he can take on Fox, KAPW, and these fans all at once.” Lenny Leonard: “The man’s got a chip on his shoulder, but more of them coming? What does he mean by that?” Jimi Venezuela: “I don’t know, but something tells me we’re in for a hell of a ride. This isn’t over—not by a long shot.” Angle rating: 40. The scene cuts backstage, and what should have been a heartwarming moment turns into a classic KAPW disaster. Suge D, aka Sugar Dunkerton, stands forlornly at the center of a massive banquet table that stretches the length of the room, piled high with delicious homemade dishes from the KAPW fans. Each and every one of them sent with love, care, and a clear lack of awareness of his current condition. You see, Suge’s jaw is wired shut from that unfortunate incident back at Show 3, where, in true KAPW fashion, he managed to break his own jaw by accidentally punching himself in the face. A jaw-wired-shut tragedy. The camera zooms in on Suge D as he looks like a kid locked outside a candy store. There are pies, casseroles, sandwiches, BBQ ribs—every culinary delight you can imagine. And all poor Suge can do is stand there, looking at it with hungry, hollow eyes, unable to enjoy a single bite. Blondie, ever the enthusiastic ray of sunshine, strolls over, her heels clicking against the concrete floor, completely oblivious to Suge’s plight. She takes one look at the massive spread of food and claps her hands together. “Oh my gosh, Suge! Look at this! The fans really love you! They sent you all this incredible food to cheer you up!” She grins, positively radiating enthusiasm. Suge D glares at her, eyes narrowing behind the wire holding his jaw shut. He mumbles something that no one can make out, but the frustration is clear in his eyes. Blondie tilts her head, finally starting to sense something’s off. “Wait a second...” she pauses, glancing from Suge to the mountain of food. “How the hell do you... eat? Like, with your jaw... uh... wired shut?” Suge’s response is muffled, angry, and completely incomprehensible. “Mmmmm mum mum mmmm zzzxug hummmm,” he growls through gritted, wired-together teeth. It sounds like a mixture of frustration and pure, unfiltered hunger. Blondie blinks, her eyes wide. “Oh no,” she gasps, suddenly realizing the full weight of the situation. “Oh no, no, no... Suge, I am so sorry! What are we gonna do? All this food and you can’t eat a damn thing! Oh God, they’re gonna think we’re monsters!” Just then, like the perfect storm of terrible ideas, Jimi Venezuela swaggers in, margarita blender in hand, a gleam of pure chaos in his eyes. He takes one look at the scene, then down at the blender in his hand, and smiles. “Don’t worry, Blondie, I got this.” Blondie looks at him, both hopeful and horrified. “Uh, Jimi... what exactly are you going to do with that?” Jimi grins wider, holding up the blender like it’s Excalibur. “Suge D’s gonna get his feast! Ain’t no jaw wiring gonna stop KAPW from cheering up our boy!” Without waiting for anyone’s permission, Jimi starts tossing random food into the blender. A slab of BBQ ribs goes in, followed by mashed potatoes, a piece of apple pie, a lasagna slice, and—just because it’s there—a deviled egg. He hits the button, and the blender roars to life, churning the unholy concoction into something that looks more like swamp water than food. Suge D is desperately trying to back away, his eyes screaming what his mouth can’t: PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING, NO. But Blondie, still caught up in the chaos of trying to fix things, holds him steady. Jimi walks over with the blender, a gleeful look on his face. “Alright, Suge, bottoms up!” he shouts, pouring the thick, sludgy mixture into a giant cup. He positions it near Suge’s wired-shut jaw and starts slowly tipping it into his mouth. Suge’s muffled screams of horror are drowned out by the blender’s hum as Jimi continues to force-feed him the revolting blend. “Look at him! See how excited he is!” Jimi laughs, mistaking Suge’s muffled cries for enjoyment. “He’s LOVING it! He’s making all that noise—he’s practically begging for more! Keep going!” Blondie, with a mix of panic and obliviousness, nods. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right! More! He needs MORE!” she shouts, grabbing another handful of casserole and tossing it into the blender. More food is blended—chicken wings, macaroni salad, a chunk of brownie—and more sludge is forced into Suge’s mouth. His muffled protests go unheard as Jimi and Blondie laugh, entirely convinced they’re doing him a favor. Blondie smiles triumphantly. “See? We told you we’d cheer you up, Suge! KAPW takes care of its own, baby!” Meanwhile, Suge D is desperately trying not to vomit (which would be an even bigger problem with his mouth wired shut). His eyes are wide with panic, his stomach undoubtedly doing somersaults, but the KAPW crew keeps going, entirely convinced they’ve saved the day. Jimi stands tall, arms crossed, surveying the banquet table. “See? This is why KAPW is number one! Nobody—nobody—looks out for their talent like we do.” Blondie nods enthusiastically, finally noticing Suge’s wild, terrified eyes. “Y-You’re welcome, Suge! Glad we could help!” Suge D’s only response is a faint, defeated mumble. This is his life now. This is KAPW. Angle rating: 31. AR Fox vs. Fred Yehi – For the KAPW World Title As the lights dim and the crowd’s energy reaches a fever pitch, Veda Scott and Lenny Leonard are in full swing, hyping up the importance of this colossal main event. This isn’t just any match; this is the match the fans have been clamoring for. “Folks, we’re about to witness history,” Veda begins, her voice brimming with excitement. “The animosity between these two has been simmering for years! Whether it’s in KAPW or their legendary clashes in Evolve, this has always been a rivalry for the ages!” “You said it, Veda. AR Fox and Fred Yehi are two of the finest athletes in wrestling today,” Leonard adds, his tone more serious. “And tonight, it’s not just about winning—it’s about pride. It’s about proving who the better man is.” The camera zooms in on the entrance as the familiar music of AR Fox hits. The KAPW World Champion strides down to the ring, belt slung arrogantly over his shoulder, eyes burning with intensity. The crowd erupts, divided between cheers and jeers, but one thing’s for sure: every pair of eyes in the building is on Fox. “AR Fox! The man who revolutionized high-flying wrestling,” Veda says. “But tonight, he’s got his hands full with a technical master in Fred Yehi.” Just as Fox enters the ring, Fred Yehi’s music blares through the speakers. The crowd erupts again as Yehi steps onto the stage, a laser-focused look in his eyes. This isn’t a man coming to play games—this is a man coming to make a statement. As Yehi enters the ring, the tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife. Neither man takes their eyes off the other, circling each other in the middle of the ring. No words, just a deep, heated stare that tells the story of their rivalry. The crowd starts to buzz with anticipation. “This is the kind of staredown that gives you chills,” Leonard says, his voice hushed. “These two know each other inside out. Every move, every counter—this is going to be a chess match, but with fists.” The ref calls for the bell, and the match is on. The crowd roars, but neither Fox nor Yehi flinches. They circle each other slowly, and the tension in the room skyrockets. Finally, they lock up in the middle of the ring, and the technical masterpiece begins. Yehi, known for his devastating submission holds and flawless technical wrestling, immediately takes control, using his superior mat skills to out-wrestle Fox. Yehi forces Fox down to the mat with a quick wristlock, transitioning smoothly into a side headlock, grinding Fox’s neck. Fox struggles, but his speed gets him out of danger as he flips over Yehi’s back, turning the tables with a slick arm drag. But Yehi’s too fast for Fox to gain any serious momentum. He rolls through the arm drag, coming up on his feet, and charges at Fox, catching him in a waistlock before suplexing him hard into the mat. The impact echoes through the arena, and the crowd gasps. The pace quickens. Fox springs to his feet and charges at Yehi, but Yehi is ready. He drops down and sweeps Fox’s legs from under him with a brutal drop toe hold, locking in a lightning-quick Koji Clutch! The crowd explodes as Yehi wrenches back, trying to force a submission early. Fox grimaces in pain, but he’s not done yet. Gritting his teeth, he uses his incredible flexibility to inch closer to the ropes, forcing a break. The ref pulls Yehi off, but Yehi's not giving Fox a second to breathe. He launches into a series of stomps, targeting Fox’s legs and torso, trying to keep the high-flyer grounded. But Fox, ever the escape artist, slides under Yehi’s legs and explodes off the ropes with a running dropkick, sending Yehi tumbling out of the ring. Fox doesn’t stop there. He sprints to the opposite ropes, and instead of going for a suicide dive, he leaps onto the top turnbuckle, flips backward, and lands perfectly on his feet in the ring, mocking Yehi with a smirk as the crowd erupts in approval. “Fox is playing mind games here!” Veda exclaims. “He’s letting Yehi know that this is his world.” Yehi, fuming, charges back into the ring, but Fox is ready. He counters with a step-up enzuigiri, rocking Yehi’s head to the side. Fox grabs him and sets him up for a springboard cutter, but Yehi pushes him off at the last second, countering with a European uppercut that snaps Fox’s head back. The crowd gasps at the brutality of the shot. Yehi doesn’t let up. He grabs Fox’s legs, dragging him to the center of the ring, and locks in a figure-four leg lock. Fox writhes in pain, reaching for the ropes, but Yehi rolls his body, flipping them both over, applying even more pressure. Fox is howling in agony, his face contorted in pain, but he refuses to give up. Just as it looks like Fox might tap, he flips the hold back over, reversing the pressure on Yehi! The crowd is going wild as both men break the hold and roll to opposite corners, gasping for breath. The tension builds again as they lock eyes from across the ring. Fox, sensing an opportunity, plays to his strengths. He sprints at Yehi, leaping onto the ropes and vaulting over him, but instead of going for a risky move, Fox swings around and hurls Yehi shoulder-first into the steel post. Yehi slumps to the outside, clutching his shoulder in pain. But Fox isn’t done. Instead of diving onto Yehi, Fox sprints out of the ring and disappears into the crowd. Everyone’s confused. Fox is up to something, but no one knows what. Suddenly, Fox reappears, emerging from the sea of fans, but he’s holding a folding chair. Veda and Leonard are losing it on commentary. “What the hell is Fox doing with that chair?!” Leonard shouts. Fox sets up the chair in the middle of the crowd and sits down, laughing as Yehi tries to recover at ringside. The fans are on their feet, losing their minds as Fox casually watches Yehi from his makeshift throne. “He’s not even using it as a weapon! He’s just... sitting there!” Veda cackles. “Fox is toying with Yehi!” Yehi, fuming, charges at Fox through the crowd. But as soon as Yehi gets close, Fox kicks the chair into him, sending Yehi sprawling backward. Fox leaps onto a nearby barricade and drops an elbow on Yehi’s chest, sending them both tumbling to the concrete floor. The two continue to brawl through the crowd, knocking over chairs, and pushing through fans, neither man willing to give an inch. Punches fly, and they crash through a merchandise stand, sending T-shirts and posters flying everywhere. The ref’s count reaches eight, but Fox and Yehi are still trading blows. Nine... ten! The bell rings for a double count-out, but the two don’t care. The match is officially over, but the fight continues. “They don’t care about the rules! This is personal!” Leonard yells, as security rushes into the sea of fans, struggling to pull Fox and Yehi apart. Yehi, furious and breathing heavily, shouts at Fox, “I’ll end you, Fox! This isn’t over!” Fox, bruised and battered, smirks as he shoves a security guard off him. “You can try, Yehi! But I’ll always be better than you!” Finally, after what feels like an eternity, security drags Yehi toward the back as Fox climbs onto a nearby barricade, throwing his arms up in defiance. But there’s no celebration. Just unfinished business. “This is far from over,” Veda says, her voice intense. “Yehi and Fox have reignited a war, and the next time these two meet, there won’t be any holding back.” The fans are still buzzing, knowing full well that what they just witnessed wasn’t the end—it was only the beginning of something bigger, something even more dangerous. KAPW’s greatest rivalry is back, and it’s about to get wilder than anyone can imagine. Match rating: 60. As the final bell echoes and AR Fox limps backstage, victorious but bruised, the crew of The Varsity is already hard at work, not cleaning up but hovering like vultures, itching to get KAPW and its chaotic brand of wrestling out of their otherwise family-friendly establishment. The floor’s littered with crumpled beer cups, half-eaten chili dogs, and more questionable fluids than anyone should have to mop up. The staff, clearly unimpressed by the shenanigans, stares daggers at Jimi Venezuela, who’s standing by the entrance, margarita in hand, looking positively euphoric. One of the Varsity managers, a sharp-dressed man in a neatly pressed polo, approaches Jimi, who’s now leaning casually against a giant inflatable hot dog. “Mr. Venezuela,” he begins, voice strained, “I think it’s time for you and your... uh... crew to clear out.” Jimi, ever the charmer, takes a long sip of his margarita and grins. “Oh, relax, my man! Look at the energy, look at the fun we had tonight! This place has never seen action like that before! You’ll be talking about this night for years!” The manager doesn’t seem convinced. “Sir, we’re going to be talking about the smell for years. You had people fighting in the bleachers, half the crowd is... well, let’s just say... intoxicated. And the food... You blended a cheeseburger with onion rings and force-fed it to a guy with a wired jaw.” “Cheeseburger smoothie, baby! It’s called innovation!” Jimi winks, looking far too pleased with himself. The manager’s face is a mix of disbelief and horror. “We run a respectable establishment. We’ve got children that eat here!” Jimi waves him off, sloshing margarita over the side of his glass. “Exactly! And they’ll have the best stories to tell their little friends at school tomorrow! ‘Guess what I saw at The Varsity, Timmy? A windmill with whiskey bottles and a gal puking on a seven-foot monster!’” Jimi starts laughing, clapping the manager on the back like they’re old buddies. But the manager is not having it. “No. No more windmills. No more puking. We’re done here.” Jimi finally straightens up, giving him a mock-serious look. “Alright, alright. I get it. We’ll pack up. But you gotta admit, we brought some flair to your establishment tonight!” As Jimi starts to usher the last stragglers out, he raises his margarita glass high. “To The Varsity! You’ll be begging to have us back when you see the ticket sales tomorrow!” The manager mutters something under his breath, but Jimi just grins wider, leaving behind a trail of chaos, spilled drinks, and the unforgettable smell of violence and cheap booze in their wake. As the KAPW crew stumbles out into the night, Jimi takes one last swig, looking back at the frazzled Varsity staff. “Classy joint. We’ll be back!” He winks, then adds under his breath, “Maybe...” Angle rating: 39. Overall rating: 41. Edited September 26 by dstephe4 2 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted September 28 Author Share Posted September 28 (edited) Predictions Results For Show #5 (The Lord Narrator is back!) What does everyone think of our posh new narrator? Let me know your thoughts! Ah, dear readers, it is with both a sense of astonishment and reluctant admiration that I thank you all for indulging in the most recent escapades of Kick Ass Pro Wrestling—especially those fine souls who dared to post their predictions! Yes, indeed, I, the Lord Narrator, had the curious misfortune of witnessing the entire show at the Varsity. Oh, what a ghastly display of untamed barbarism it was, a spectacle akin to one of P.T. Barnum’s infamous freak shows. How this raucous assembly of drunks, miscreants, and ne’er-do-wells found themselves in such fine Atlanta halls still baffles me. But alas, one must admire the tenacity of these uncouth ruffians. As I stood, quizzically observing from a respectable distance, I found myself bemused by the “Battle of the Big Men.” Joe Black, a veritable colossus of muscle and fury, clashed with the imposing Cyrus The Destroyer, who had the gall to bring a rock to ringside, of all things! That Priscilla Kelly woman—wild-eyed and deranged as ever—egged him on, but the combat left one wishing for a return to the more dignified bouts of my youth. The sheer volume of brute force displayed was impressive, I confess, though hardly civilised by any stretch of the imagination. One wonders if poor Rocky the Rock was the true victor of the night, having been hurled about as if in some grotesque parody of sport. And let us not forget the Wild Whiskey Windmill Match. Such a debacle! Bottles of liquor spinning in the air, participants stumbling like town drunks after the village fair... It was enough to make one clutch their monocle in horror. And yet, amidst the chaos, I found myself chortling. Who could resist the absurdity of Dani Jordyn, Kiera Hogan, and the others, as they staggered about the ring in pursuit of victory or perhaps sobriety? As for the rematch between AR Fox and Fred Yehi for the coveted KAPW World Title—well, it was nothing short of a travesty by gentlemanly standards, yet a thrilling display of raw athleticism. Yehi, with his calculated technicality, and Fox, flying about like some untamed falcon, gave a performance worthy of note. And what a kerfuffle it became as they brawled into the crowd, beyond the referee’s control, resulting in a double count-out. I daresay it was the most engaging chaos I’ve witnessed in some time, though a touch more decorum would not go amiss. But let me now turn my attention to young Alan Angels and this biker... thing he seems to have embraced. I daresay, the sight of him strutting about in leathers, pretending to be some sort of rough-and-tumble hooligan, was positively laughable. Oh, how the mighty have fallen! Once, he may have carried himself with some semblance of dignity—perhaps not much, mind you, but some—but now, to parade about like some common vagabond on a motorcycle! But, for all its ridiculousness, there is something amusing, something irresistibly... plucky about Alan Angels. One cannot help but admire the sheer audacity of the man, even if his delusions of grandeur know no bounds. And finally, we must address Aaron Draven’s shocking declaration of war on KAPW and, indeed, on its entire fanbase. The very audacity of the man to stand before these loyal patrons, these fine (though somewhat inebriated) souls, and declare his intent to bring the company to its knees! And yet, there is something unnerving about his cryptic hints, his murmurs of others who might soon join his cause. Who are these unseen conspirators lurking in the shadows? What sinister forces are aligning behind this scoundrel Draven? It chills me to the core, dear readers, to think of the chaos he may soon unleash. Before I bid you adieu, I encourage you all to continue posting your predictions for the next show. Additionally, there is a bonus prize at stake, should you be able to name the classic wrestling storyline we’ve been following in this tale of grit and glory. If no one rises to the challenge just yet, perhaps more will be revealed in due course. And so, my dear compatriots in this mad sport, we shall reconvene for the next leg of KAPW’s World Tour of Atlanta. Until then, may your wits remain sharp and your guesses true. Ta-ta! @Jason Phoenix – 1 point, and a set of answers that amused the hell out of me, thank you. @KyTeran - 2 points. I may have gotten a little trigger-happy in posting the results so fast. I'll give people more time to post their predictions next time around. I’m chatting with KyTeran and DinoKea. As winners of recent predictions contests they will be making choices that impact hugely on the happenings of Show #6 – stay tuned for more details! Edited September 29 by dstephe4 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted October 3 Author Share Posted October 3 Spotlight On: Alan Angels You’ve seen him tearing down the ramp, straddling his Harley, and heard the roar of his theme song, but who is the man beneath that squeaky, two-sizes-too-small leather jacket? We’re talking about none other than Alan ‘Hells’ Angels. Sure, the jacket might squeak, and his ‘badass’ biker persona may draw more giggles than gasps, but let’s dig a little deeper into the real Alan Angels—the wrestler behind the gimmick, and the man who's spent years carving his place in the wild world of pro wrestling. Buckle up, KAPW fans—it's time to take a ride through the rise of Alan Angels. Hailing from Snellville, Georgia, Alan Angels (real name Trey Tucker) has swiftly risen through the ranks of professional wrestling, building a name for himself as one of the most exciting and unpredictable talents in the business. Standing at 5'8" and weighing in at around 170 pounds, Angels may not have the size of a traditional heavyweight, but he more than makes up for it with his lightning-quick agility, fierce determination, and an underdog mentality that has made him a fan favorite across the independent wrestling scene. Alan’s wrestling journey began at the famed WWA4 Wrestling School in Atlanta, Georgia, under the tutelage of none other than AR Fox—a man known for producing some of the most innovative high-fliers in wrestling. Under Fox's guidance, Angels developed a hybrid style that combines high-flying, technical prowess, and a relentless fighting spirit. He quickly became a standout in the Southern independent wrestling circuit, wrestling for promotions like Southern Fried Championship Wrestling (SFCW), Peachstate Wrestling Alliance, and Southern Honor Wrestling (SHW). His early career was marked by an impressive 161-day reign as SHW Champion, solidifying his reputation as a major player on the indie scene. Despite his growing success, Angels’ true breakout moment came in 2020 when he signed with All Elite Wrestling (AEW). Joining during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, Angels had to prove himself in front of no live audiences, wrestling on AEW Dark and taking on some of the promotion’s biggest names, including Lance Archer, Rey Fenix, and Kenny Omega. While he often came up short in these matches, his heart, determination, and never-say-die attitude earned him a cult following. His performances led to him being recruited by The Dark Order, where he became known as "5" and began honing his craft as part of one of AEW’s most beloved factions. By 2022, Angels decided it was time to step out of the shadow of The Dark Order and pursue his solo career. This decision saw him transition to Impact Wrestling, where he briefly aligned himself with Violent By Design before once again setting out as a singles competitor. Angels’ ability to adapt and evolve has been a key factor in his success, and his journey from indie star to TV regular has been nothing short of inspirational. Badass Motorbike by Whiskey River Backdraft Alan Angels’ new theme song screams "biker rebellion"—at least that's what he hopes. Click on the image or the header to hear the tune for yourself and see if it lives up to the hype! Alan Angels in KAPW: Biker Gimmicks and Badass Tunes When Alan Angels rolled into Kick Ass Pro Wrestling (KAPW), he brought his undeniable technical ability and indie grit with him—but he didn't come alone. Reinventing himself as a tough-as-nails biker, Angels now struts to the ring sporting a leather jacket and the Badass Motorbike theme song by Whiskey River Backdraft—because every "badass" needs an equally badass soundtrack, right? But here's the kicker: despite the leather, the bike, and his best "intimidating" glare, Angels’ new persona doesn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of the KAPW roster. With his awkward swagger and underwhelming "tough guy" act, Alan’s biker character comes off more geeky than gritty. Still, that hasn't stopped him from embracing this new direction wholeheartedly, riding his Harley down the ramp like he’s a true outlaw of the squared circle. Since joining KAPW, Angels has been a regular feature in mid-card matches, showing off his ring craft against other competitors. While he may not quite nail the "biker badass" look he’s aiming for, his in-ring skills remain sharp, and his knack for getting under the skin of fans and opponents alike keeps everyone entertained. He’s on a mission to prove he’s as dangerous as his leather-clad persona suggests—even if he’s still more wimpy than wild. But will this new, leather-bound look and gritty attitude finally propel Alan Angels from the midcard into wrestling superstardom? Or will he just end up looking like a chump with a squeaky jacket and a Harley he can barely handle? Only time will tell if "Hells Angels" is destined for glory or for KAPW’s infamous blooper reel! 2 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted October 8 Author Share Posted October 8 (edited) Show 6 – The KAPW Tabernacle Takedown - Card & Predictions Ah, my most cherished and patient readers, how you return to me, despite the many trials and tribulations one must endure to keep pace with the carnival of misadventure that is ‘Kick Ass Pro Wrestling.’ As your faithful chronicler of chaos, I must beg your indulgence, for the state of affairs within this den of iniquity only grows more... dreadfully absurd. Yet here we stand, at the precipice of another spectacle, ready to witness what can only be described as a wrestling soirée of pure and unapologetic mayhem. And where does this latest debacle find itself staged? In none other than the illustrious Tabernacle of Atlanta. Oh yes, once a beacon of grace, a symbol of sanctity, now tarnished by the likes of brutes, charlatans, and one particular scoundrel whom I dare not name without a sip of the strongest port in my cabinet. Alas, I find myself once more in the unenviable position of guiding you through this labyrinth of violence and folly with what dignity remains intact. And that, dear readers, is not much at all. Let us first turn our begrudging attention to the architect of much of this nonsense, the endlessly incorrigible Jimi Venezuela. Ah, Jimi—how a man of such dubious character has managed to galvanize an entire throng of fervent, foaming-at-the-mouth fans is beyond the comprehension of any respectable soul. But here he is, leading this charade with Blondie at his side, whose charm and poise almost—almost—make one forget the anarchic nonsense she willingly partakes in. If only she had been born in an era where her talents could have been properly appreciated, rather than squandered in the company of... well, of him. Now, onto our dear Baron Black, who, despite his pretentious moniker, finds himself once again entangled in a mess of his own making. That coveted contract of his—snatched during that ludicrous Box of Monkeys escapade—now serves as bait. Who will dare to seize it? And by who, I mean which of these hooligans will tear each other apart in the most vulgar fashion imaginable to claim it? Might it be one foe, or, as it so often goes in this brutish realm, shall several band together, only to inevitably turn on one another in a frenzy of backstabbing and betrayal? Ah, the intrigue—it would almost be Shakespearean if it weren’t so dreadfully lowbrow. And then, of course, we must speak of Aaron Draven, whose persistence in the face of widespread disdain would almost be admirable if it weren’t for his wholly unrefined approach to... well, everything. Draven has positioned himself against not just the wrestlers, but the very audience itself! Imagine, if you will, a man storming into a grand ball, flinging wine in the faces of every esteemed guest, and then demanding they applaud his audacity. Such is the spectacle we are about to witness. His opponent, Joe Black, is no stranger to fisticuffs, and one can only imagine the violent tango these two will engage in, with the #1 contender spot hanging in the balance. Ah, but what will win out: raw defiance or sheer brute strength? Either way, it promises to be a spectacle—if one enjoys watching a pair of bulls charge at one another in a china shop. Finally, we arrive at the evening’s climax, the jewel in this muddy, unruly crown—our mystery main event. The reigning champion, AR Fox, stands poised to defend his title, but against whom? That, dear readers, is a secret that lies in the hands of a most peculiar entity: the victor of the predictions competition. Yes, in a most baffling twist, the fate of the main event has been left to the whims of some contest winner, a person whose sense of drama and spectacle is as yet unknown to us. Shall they choose a worthy opponent, or will we see yet another descent into the farcical pandemonium that has become KAPW’s hallmark? Oh, what delicious uncertainty! Not even I, with my boundless wit and impeccable judgment, can predict the outcome of this grand travesty. So, my dear compatriots, as we prepare to embark on this journey, I must offer my most sincere condolences to those of you still clinging to the tattered remains of decorum. For there shall be none. Yet, I implore you, attend with curiosity, speculate with abandon, and brace yourselves for what will undoubtedly be a cavalcade of vulgarity dressed in the guise of sport. The stakes are high, the consequences grim, and through it all, I remain your devoted narrator, standing here at the edge of madness, armed with only my wit and a raised eyebrow. Until the final bell tolls, I bid you adieu, with the faintest hope that some semblance of propriety might survive this storm. But let’s not kid ourselves—that ship sailed long ago. This time we have 4 matches, 3 of which are known in advance, the other being made up on the spot by a drunken Jimi... Joe Black vs Aaron Draven - #1 Contender’s Match – Predictions Contest Winner Picks The Stipulation Baron Black vs ??? – Defending His Title Shot Contract, Against Foe Or Foes Unknown AR Fox vs ??? – For The KAPW World Title - Opponent And Stipulation To Be Chosen By A Predictions Contest Winner This'll be interesting. Of the 3 or 4 people who will likely participate, 2 of them know the secret match details of 2 of the matches, because they're the ones who picked the stipulation / opponent etc. This would in theory give them a big advantage, their insider knowledge hurtling them towards a higher score. But if they post these answers, they give away their secret knowledge to the other readers, making their advantage null and void. It'll be interesting to see how you awesome folk play this one... Edited October 8 by dstephe4 1 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
KyTeran Posted October 8 Share Posted October 8 Joe Black vs Aaron Draven - #1 Contender’s Match – Predictions Contest Winner Picks The Stipulation Baron Black vs ??? – Defending His Title Shot Contract, Against Foe Or Foes Unknown AR Fox vs ??? – For The KAPW World Title - Opponent And Stipulation To Be Chosen By A Predictions Contest Winner 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Jason Phoenix Posted October 9 Share Posted October 9 (edited) 11 hours ago, dstephe4 said: Show 6 – The KAPW Tabernacle Takedown - Card & Predictions Ah, my most cherished and patient readers, how you return to me, despite the many trials and tribulations one must endure to keep pace with the carnival of misadventure that is ‘Kick Ass Pro Wrestling.’ As your faithful chronicler of chaos, I must beg your indulgence, for the state of affairs within this den of iniquity only grows more... dreadfully absurd. Yet here we stand, at the precipice of another spectacle, ready to witness what can only be described as a wrestling soirée of pure and unapologetic mayhem. And where does this latest debacle find itself staged? In none other than the illustrious Tabernacle of Atlanta. Oh yes, once a beacon of grace, a symbol of sanctity, now tarnished by the likes of brutes, charlatans, and one particular scoundrel whom I dare not name without a sip of the strongest port in my cabinet. Alas, I find myself once more in the unenviable position of guiding you through this labyrinth of violence and folly with what dignity remains intact. And that, dear readers, is not much at all. Let us first turn our begrudging attention to the architect of much of this nonsense, the endlessly incorrigible Jimi Venezuela. Ah, Jimi—how a man of such dubious character has managed to galvanize an entire throng of fervent, foaming-at-the-mouth fans is beyond the comprehension of any respectable soul. But here he is, leading this charade with Blondie at his side, whose charm and poise almost—almost—make one forget the anarchic nonsense she willingly partakes in. If only she had been born in an era where her talents could have been properly appreciated, rather than squandered in the company of... well, of him. Now, onto our dear Baron Black, who, despite his pretentious moniker, finds himself once again entangled in a mess of his own making. That coveted contract of his—snatched during that ludicrous Box of Monkeys escapade—now serves as bait. Who will dare to seize it? And by who, I mean which of these hooligans will tear each other apart in the most vulgar fashion imaginable to claim it? Might it be one foe, or, as it so often goes in this brutish realm, shall several band together, only to inevitably turn on one another in a frenzy of backstabbing and betrayal? Ah, the intrigue—it would almost be Shakespearean if it weren’t so dreadfully lowbrow. And then, of course, we must speak of Aaron Draven, whose persistence in the face of widespread disdain would almost be admirable if it weren’t for his wholly unrefined approach to... well, everything. Draven has positioned himself against not just the wrestlers, but the very audience itself! Imagine, if you will, a man storming into a grand ball, flinging wine in the faces of every esteemed guest, and then demanding they applaud his audacity. Such is the spectacle we are about to witness. His opponent, Joe Black, is no stranger to fisticuffs, and one can only imagine the violent tango these two will engage in, with the #1 contender spot hanging in the balance. Ah, but what will win out: raw defiance or sheer brute strength? Either way, it promises to be a spectacle—if one enjoys watching a pair of bulls charge at one another in a china shop. Finally, we arrive at the evening’s climax, the jewel in this muddy, unruly crown—our mystery main event. The reigning champion, AR Fox, stands poised to defend his title, but against whom? That, dear readers, is a secret that lies in the hands of a most peculiar entity: the victor of the predictions competition. Yes, in a most baffling twist, the fate of the main event has been left to the whims of some contest winner, a person whose sense of drama and spectacle is as yet unknown to us. Shall they choose a worthy opponent, or will we see yet another descent into the farcical pandemonium that has become KAPW’s hallmark? Oh, what delicious uncertainty! Not even I, with my boundless wit and impeccable judgment, can predict the outcome of this grand travesty. So, my dear compatriots, as we prepare to embark on this journey, I must offer my most sincere condolences to those of you still clinging to the tattered remains of decorum. For there shall be none. Yet, I implore you, attend with curiosity, speculate with abandon, and brace yourselves for what will undoubtedly be a cavalcade of vulgarity dressed in the guise of sport. The stakes are high, the consequences grim, and through it all, I remain your devoted narrator, standing here at the edge of madness, armed with only my wit and a raised eyebrow. Until the final bell tolls, I bid you adieu, with the faintest hope that some semblance of propriety might survive this storm. But let’s not kid ourselves—that ship sailed long ago. This time we have 4 matches, 3 of which are known in advance, the other being made up on the spot by a drunken Jimi... Joe Black vs Aaron Draven - #1 Contender’s Match – Predictions Contest Winner Picks The Stipulation Baron Black vs ??? – Defending His Title Shot Contract, Against Foe Or Foes Unknown AR Fox vs ??? – For The KAPW World Title - Opponent And Stipulation To Be Chosen By A Predictions Contest Winner This'll be interesting. Of the 3 or 4 people who will likely participate, 2 of them know the secret match details of 2 of the matches, because they're the ones who picked the stipulation / opponent etc. This would in theory give them a big advantage, their insider knowledge hurtling them towards a higher score. But if they post these answers, they give away their secret knowledge to the other readers, making their advantage null and void. It'll be interesting to see how you awesome folk play this one... The chosen stipulation will be something both glorious and obscure. So much so, that neither competitor actually follows the rules, as they are too lazer focused on beating each other up. - No Contest Cyrus and Priscilla are the opponents. It goes pretty badly for Baron, until Rocky the Rock makes his presence known. He wants to help Priscilla, but has also become quite fond of Cyrus. As Rocky slows precedings trying to make his choice, one of the monkeys from the match that Baron won his contract in, swings into to the ring. The monkey grabs Rocky and throws him into the crowd. Cyrus runs to save him, Priscilla crumbles into a heap of despair crying. Baron takes advantage of the situation and pins Priscilla to win, and retain his contract. The Lord is still with us. Presumably because his group of friends I mentioned last week missed their coach. As it turns out, they didn't miss their coach, it's just that the coach was powered by a horse, rather than petrol. Upon arrival, they interfere, nearly leading to the referee calling for a no contest. Jimi points out the stipulation, meaning there must be a winner. AR Fox's superior athleticism and stamina lead to him retaining the KAPW World Title. Edited October 9 by Jason Phoenix 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
DinoKea Posted October 9 Share Posted October 9 Predictions Aaron Draven def. Joe Black Baron Black def. Unknown AR Fox def. ??? 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
80085 Posted Monday at 07:08 PM Share Posted Monday at 07:08 PM The shows in this diary started out normal. Like the exercise was to see whether the AI could make a functional wrestling show. And then the crazy guy writing this got more and more drunk. And started leading the AI into some absolutely crazy stuff man. This dynasty gets totally wild. You wouldn't dream of the madness that comes out of this thing from how it is at the start. It's absolutely mayhem. There's something very wrong with this dude. There's something very wrong with this AI. I like it Hey @dstephe4 you should quote me on that so peeps know what they're getting into! This is not normal man!! 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dstephe4 Posted Wednesday at 06:41 PM Author Share Posted Wednesday at 06:41 PM On 10/14/2024 at 8:08 PM, 80085 said: The shows in this diary started out normal. Like the exercise was to see whether the AI could make a functional wrestling show. And then the crazy guy writing this got more and more drunk. And started leading the AI into some absolutely crazy stuff man. This dynasty gets totally wild. You wouldn't dream of the madness that comes out of this thing from how it is at the start. It's absolutely mayhem. There's something very wrong with this dude. There's something very wrong with this AI. I like it Hey @dstephe4 you should quote me on that so peeps know what they're getting into! This is not normal man!! I'll take all this as a big compliment. And yes, that's a good idea. So I took your advice and quoted you, here: https://forum.greydogsoftware.com/topic/57367-kapw-ai-generated-madness/?do=findComment&comment=1508123 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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