#Nature Boy Buddy Landel | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

storiesbybrian · 8 years ago

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Buddy’s Buddies, February, 2002

I kick Sam Zane in the belly. Then I grab him by the hair and sling him to the ground. These new lights are giving us a heavy sweat. Sam stinks. If I was a certain type of jerk, I could have him fined for not wearing deodorant. But he’s just a kid and everybody makes their mistakes. So I drop an elbow on his solar plexus and say, “Sam. They can smell your ass in the mezzanine, man.”

“I know,” says. “They lost my luggage in Richmond. ‘Sgot my Speed Stick in-”

I cut Sam off before he can finish, picking him up and whipping him into the ropes. When he bounces off, I’ll set him up for my big finishing move. The Olive Press. While he’s bounding tape to tape I have a second to think. It’s amazing how much thinking you can cram into a short period of time. I’ll be seeing Buddy today for the first time in three weeks. Things got pretty bad for me while he was away and I know he’ll be a sight for sore eyes.

Sam comes back from the ropes, kicking up tiny clouds of powder with every stomp on the mat, and I bend forward and toss him over my back. Sam flips through the air and lands near the middle of the ring. When somebody lands hard on the mat, the apron around the ring’s supposed to ripple from the impact. But Sam, though he’s got potential, is a long way from being a great faller. He hardly even bounces.

The small crowd boos, knowing that Sam was beat long ago and I’m just being sadistic. But that’s the way the American Wrestling League, and every other major professional wrestling body operates. In a non-marquee matchup, the bad guy drags out his match as a time filler, and he gets the crowd involved, taunting them, kicking his opponent while he’s down. One thing rednecks claim they can’t stomach is seeing a beaten man get abused further. Whether that’s true in real life, I’m not too sure. But their deepest moral indignations always come howling out at wrestling matches. I’ve gotten over 100 death threats for what I “done” to Buddy last month.

With Sam writhing around on the mat, the stray boos from the half-empty arena get louder. I taunt the folks in the stands, trying to give them their money’s worth. I start bellowing fake opera: “Oooooohhhh, Dio Mio!!!” Then I strut over to Sam and kick him a few times. My red, green and white patent leather boots catch the glare of the ring lights. The crowd noise picks up a little bit more. I cross my right leg in the air and tip over onto Sam, elbow first again. I say, “45 more seconds, kid.”

I pull Sam up to his feet and smack him in the chest. He falls right back down and I strut around some more under the hot lights, trying to wring more life out of the crowd. A few half-empty soda cups fly past the ropes and into the ring. I kick them at Sam and fling my fingers from under my chin at the crowd. The front rows start screaming at me, telling me I suck, that I’m a dead man. I wag my tongue at them and press both of my hands downward, the sign for the Olive Press. Somebody tries to start a chant of “Grease-ball! Grease-ball!” but it doesn’t catch on.

I grab Sam by the hair and drag him over to one of the corners and sit him up on the top turnbuckle. He smells and it’s genuinely pissing me off. If I had a shot at the national syndicate at his age, the last thing I’d do is act unprofessionally. As Sam sits there in a tortured heap, I preen around the ring one last time, slicking my hair back and kissing the tips of my fingers like a proud chef. Then I stomp over to Sam and give him the Olive Press. The Olive Press is half Super-plex, half Gorilla Slam. I hoist Sam off the turnbuckle and then windmill him to the ground so hard we both bounce a few times before the referee comes over and counts him out. More powder gasps up from the mat.

“That’s how you fall, son,” I say to Sam.

The bell rings and the referee comes over to raise my arm. But we’ve got more in store for this small crowd. We want them to tell their friends that they really missed something today. So I growl and stick my thumb behind my front teeth and flick it at the referee. I shove him to the mat and kick him with my shining Italian boots. Then I pick Sam up and give him some more slaps across the chest. As I draw him close to throw him into the ropes for a clothesline, I say, “Hey asshole! Next time they lose your luggage, go out and buy some more goddamn Speed Stick!” And then I whip him bouncing into the ropes at the east end of the ring.

Buddy. He’s everybody’s port in the storm, the only man the rest of us can love openly without seeming like homos. “Hell,” he’d say. “Only difference between us and movie stars is we do our own damn stunts!” And that’s how he makes us feel.

And I’m his best friend. He appreciates my insights. After all, it was my idea how he could go to the Bahamas with his wife in the first place. I know it sounds selfish now, but if I thought that me “turning” on Buddy’d mean the kind of sacrifices I’ve had to make, I’m not sure I would’ve gone for it in the first place. But Buddy is my friend and his marriage was in trouble and maybe if I’d covered for him a few of those nights when he didn’t come home, he wouldn’t have needed to take Donna on vacation in the first place. So I guess it all evens out in the wash.

I hold Sam in a headlock and gouge him in the eye. Suddenly the angry shouting from the stands turns into excited cheers. Buddy! Fans are running, stomping towards the southeast aisle of the arena. And there he is with Solomon Grande and Chief Mustang, charging towards the ring. I can see his ice blond locks shimmering, even in the darkness of the aisles. He’s even faster on his crutches than they are on foot, the fat goons. The crowd starts yelling, “Buh-Dee! Buh-Dee! Buh-Dee! Buh-Dee!” And like nobody else can, with his body swinging on those crutches, he acknowledges the love of his fans. “Whoo-Weeee!” he calls. “Whoo-Weeee!” the crowd answers. And now they sound like a sellout at the Omni.

I get terrified, like I’m supposed to. I cast about for the referee to save me but he’s long gone. Then I act like me and Sam Zane are good friends, helping him up and draping an arm around him, trying to revive him. But he stays limp. Chief Mustang and Solomon Grande torpedo into the ring and tear Sam’s flaccid body away from my false embrace. The Chief prods a huge finger into my chest and I cower to the other side of the ring, pleading, “Oh no, signori, no mi piace, signori! NO MI PIACE!” Then I hear Buddy clear his throat into the ringside microphone.

“Hey!” he says. The crowd, who’s missed him almost as much as I have, goes even wilder. They chant his name, like they’re witnessing the second coming, which, in a way, I guess they are. “Hey, Don Palermo!” He points one of his crutches at me. I shake my head wildly, trying to pretend this isn’t happening and that I’m somewhere far away and safe. That’s one of the tricks of the bad guy trade. We’re fakers. We’ll incur the wrath of the good guys, but rather than own up to it, we’ll try to hide, say that it can’t be. The good guy knows that it is and imbues his every action with the belief in the here and now. You can call it existential if you want. But that’s why the good guys are beloved and the bad guys reviled, even though we all wrestle, we all use the same violent moves. Our audience doesn’t want to retreat. They want to face the music. And the music is Buh-Dee.

“Hey, Don Palermo! Why don’t you try kickin’ somebody who ain’t already been put down? What kinda man are you, anyway? Twirlin’ your mustach-ee-o, singin’ that opera crap! Whatsa matta? You ‘fraid of a little Rock ‘n Roll?!”

The frantic screams from the crowd get organized. “ROCK AND ROLL! ROCK AND ROLL!”

I drop to my knees and lace my fingers in supplication, pleading, “No, Buddy, no!”

“Yeah, boy, yeah! You used to be my friend. And then you sneak attacked me! You stabbed me in the back! Made me sorry I ever trusted you in the first place! Now I ain’t ashamed to tell you good people, that hurt me. It hurts to lose a friend. But brother, Buddy Flash is instant karma! Somebody hurts Buddy Flash, ohhhh, they gon’ get theirs, baby. So you! You, Don Palermo, I wanna show you somethin’!”

Buddy raises one open hand and the crowd pitches down to a low rumble, craning to see Buddy’s visual aid. He grabs a couple of enlarged X-rays from the ringside table where they’d been waiting for him. Only Buddy Flash could get scientific with this crowd. He holds up one of the X-rays and says, “Yeah, people! Doctor Jorgenson says Buddy Flash is on the mend. The good doctor says I’ll be back in the ring come Thanksgiving! And Don Palermo? Brother, you are cordially invited.”

And Buddy hurls the X-ray into the ring and skips on his crutches back up the aisle and through the tunnel to the locker room. Man he moves fast on those crutches. Solomon Grande and Chief Mustang shove me off my knees and wave bye bye to me. I curl up in the fetal position and tremble for a good two or three minutes. I put my thumb in my mouth and try to show the crowd that this babyish action is even more pathetic because it actually soothes me. They buy it, razzing me with a new sense of purpose.

A few weeks earlier, we’d been in our locker room, showering after a tag team match. The floors were cream colored tile and we each had our own glass door and chrome dials with latches to control the water pressure and temperature. Not like back in Florida, but Buddy was still forlorn.

“I dunno, brother!” he said. “I think Donna might be serious this time. Maybe she’s just been waitin’ until her half of the nut was more to her likin’.”

“Well, Buddy,” I said. “One thing I know about married women. Their favorite anniversary present probably ain’t special shampoo.”

“Well, she wasn’t the only one sufferin’ there, boy! Why you think I started shavin’ all over?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Hey,” Buddy said. “You remember how dirty them showers down in Florida used to be?”

Buddy was always making me laugh. “Yeah man! You were like to be dirtier after ‘n before. Huh huh huh huh!”

“Those were some days, boy, I tell you!” Buddy hollered. “Back then, me ‘n Donna were inseparable. I hardly messed around at all down there.”

I turned off the water and walked over to Buddy’s stall. I was still sweating from the match and the steam in the locker room. “Hey Buddy,” I said through the spray.

“Ymmm?” he said.

“Why don’t you take her off to the Bahamas? You remember what a good time I told you Tammy’s sister had with her husband down there?”

He finished rinsing and turned off the water. He went and grabbed one of his ochre towels with the silver initials BF on it. His head was furled up in the towel so his voice was muffled but I could still hear him ask, “Huh?”

“MaryAnne. My sister-in-law. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh yeah,” Buddy said, wiping the ash blond hair out of his face and smiling at me. I could see the grid of scars he had on his forehead. Buddy cut himself plenty in the early days. The promoters loved to see his light hair get soaked with blood. “Nassau, right?”

“How can Donna be mad at you in a tropical paradise? Making love under waterfalls…”

“Spl-spl-spl-splt! Great idea, son,” Buddy said. He flicked on his blow dryer. “How the hell am I gonna take my goddamn wife down to the Bahamas and still do promos and matches five days a week?”

“Well!” I shouted over the echoing blow dryer. “You never let me stay upset for this long! So gimme a little time and I’ll figure something out! OK?”

“Whatever.”

I watched “Circle in the Square” yesterday. “Circle in the Square” is a weekly talk show about wrestling developments hosted by Mad Mike McDonough and Sir Algernon Crawford, two of the most respected commentators in the business. Buddy’s and my grudge match was the lead story. They played the statements that we’d pre-taped a few days earlier. In Buddy’s it was all about what a dirty yellow dog I was, betraying him like ‘at and all. And mine was about how now everybody can see who the real man behind our operation’d always been and it’s about time to see the great Buddy Flash get knocked off his high horse. Oh, it was gonna be some match, alright.

I had mixed feelings about the segment where they interviewed fans. They asked a bunch of Flashbulbs (Buddy’s hardcore fans who travel to see him wrestle) what they thought about our feud. Boys and girls alike, they all had their hair dyed white-blonde. And they all said that it was obvious that I was jealous of the spotlight and not humble enough to play a supporting role to Buddy. I had to laugh because what could be further from the truth? In my role as the foe, I’m more supportive of Buddy than ever. But I’m also proud of the job Buddy and I are doing with this feud. We’re like shining examples to the other wrestlers out there, showing ‘em how you really galvanize the public. Our ratings are up past FCCW and are fast gaining on the IWA. So what if the fans get carried away and forget it’s fake? That’s the whole point.

The cameras were filming in Roanoke, Virginia. A high school football team said their team Thanksgiving meal was gonna be early so they could watch Buddy stomp me to death. One young lineman said he hoped that Buddy would “torture that no-good, yella-bellied traitor for quite a spell. Quite a spell.”

The way we had it planned thus far, that’s exactly what Buddy was gonna do. We were choreographing a marathon of a match. Standard marquee dynamics. First Buddy would storm into the ring and I’d climb the cage to get away from him. After about five minutes of Buddy inspiring sheer terror in me, he’d get ahold of me and pummel me for a while. But then, just when things seemed to be all Buddy, I’d do something dirty and yank the momentum right out from under him. After a few minutes of me wearing him down, I’d put him in a submission hold. We hadn’t decided between the Boston Crabclaw and the Figure Four, but either way, Buddy’s job was just to grimace and writhe without giving up, a testament to, if not stoicism, then at least the epic pain threshold of a true hero. Just past the 20 minute mark, somebody was supposed to throw a rigged chair into the ring. It’d get busted up and then Buddy and I were supposed to rub wood chips in each other’s faces and gouge each other with splintered chair legs until I was to slip in a pool of my own blood. Then Buddy’d be upon me with his piece of the chair aimed at me like a stake. For a second, his face was supposed to be stamped with the blood lust. But then humanity would creep into his face and his eyes would unbug and his teeth would unbare. And this is where we need to decide what to do next.

This won’t be the first “I Quit” match in the history of the American Wrestling League. But the concept, if it isn’t handled properly, can run counter to the whole point of professional wrestling. The thing about wrestling is that you have us characters with our “genuine” differences, and we settle them violently. A three-slap on the mat should satisfy any grievance the crowd has, whether it’s personal, romantic or political. Even at the height of the Cold War, when the bad guys were bald-headed Russians, evil-eyed Sultans, or those indomitably mean, bland Chinamen that everybody loved to fight, nobody ever wanted to see those guys get killed. Victory is no fun for the fans unless the loser’s around to wallow in humiliation, to concoct fantastic excuses and test the market to see if revenge is in the cards.

But with Buddy’s and my “I Quit” match, we’re toying with death. Neither of us likes the idea. Buddy put it best: “How’m I gonna beat you without killin’ you?” Nobody wants that. But we are definitely wratcheting the violence up several notches. And by all indications, this is only too fine with our audience. “Boy,” Buddy said one day at rehearsal, “they are howlin’ for your blood!”

“No friggin’ way,” Jerry Boone had said.

“Now, Jerry,” Buddy said. “Quit starin’ out that window like General Patton or whoever and take your hands out from behind your back and sit down here at this big ol’desk o’ yours.”

Mr. Boone came back to the desk. “Buddy,” he said. “I know you’re at the top of every poll we run here, but don’t come in here forgetting who’s in charge. Who’re you feuding with right now, Isis the Samurai?”

“That’s right.”

“Well,” Mr. Boone said, trying to sound crafty. He flipped open his cell phone and dangled it over the desk like a butterfly knife. “How’d you like to drop that and get into a thing with Colonel Slocumb?”

“That faggot?!”

Jerry looked calmly across his desk at us. Buddy had mispoken and now Mr. Boone thought he was in charge again.

“Mr. Boone,” I said. “I change my name from Kid Amore to Don Palermo. Look at these sketches. I start acting like a mafioso. We plan a big match, Buddy kicks my ass, and that’s it. We figure the ratings boost’ll be worth the vacay.”

“Come on, Jerry. It’s only three weeks.”

“No.”

Buddy and I looked at one another and smiled. We still had our trump card to play. Buddy nodded for me to break the news to Mr. Boone. “What if we could guarantee that-”

Buddy jumped in, “We’re bringin’ Macon Tolliver in on this one!”

I smiled and Buddy slapped me five. “So waddya say, Jerry?”

Mr. Boone snapped his cell phone shut and took a look at my drawings of my new character.

Buddy and I came up together through the Florida organization. Roughly half of the AWL’s superstars got their seasoning on the Everglade Circuit. The most creative, ambitious and professional of us paid our dues for five or six years and then moved up to the national syndicate. But as far back as anyone can remember, Macon Tolliver’s been the king of Florida wrestling.

He worships Satan. Nobody knows how old he is. He wears a black velvet wizard’s cloak and has a way of gliding down the aisle for his matches while the PA system plays “Sympathy for the Devil” (how he could afford the rights to that song is another mystery). He spits green mist into the eyes of good guys and treats the bad guys as rivals for his own dark power, crippling them with ancient spells. All three major wrestling bodies, the AWL, IWA and FCCW issued invitations that’ve been standing for the last 25 years. But they all stipulated changes to Macon’s act so he stayed in Florida, putting the greatest show in wrestling on in union halls and high school gyms.

Buddy and I got to know Macon real well during Buddy’s four and my five years down in Florida. He said he saw something in us. He said Buddy was the embodiment of all that’s great about professional wrestling. He taught us most of what we know. But, unless you were a hardcore wrestling fan, you’d never have heard of him outside the state of Florida until a week before he and I Pearl-Harbored Buddy.

I was fighting some pushover. It was a quick match because I was a good guy. Buddy was watching from outside the ring, snapping the apron and leading the crowd in cheers. “Kid!” he’d call.

“Ah-Mo-Ray!” the crowd would answer.

“Kid!”

“Ah-Mo-Ray!”

But then, just before the match ended, a small commotion kicked up by the northwest aisle of the arena. I couldn’t see the aisle well from the mat but up on the video screens, sure enough, was Macon Tolliver floating towards the ring, hood pulled over his head like a Gregorian monk. Most of the fans had never seen him before but he had an effect on them anyway.

Macon made it to the corner opposite Buddy and stood there silently, oblivious to any attention he was being paid. He stared hard at me. At first I noticed but then I went back, gave my guy the Olive Press and pinned him. Buddy helped me on with my robe and we left Macon standing there by the side of the ring.

The same thing happened at each of my non-marquee matches for the rest of the week. As the week progressed, Mad Mike McDonough and Sir Algernon Crawford “dug up” the identity of the mysterious stranger who had started showing up at Kid Amore’s matches. They filled the public in on Macon Tolliver’s dark mission in life, inspiring dread like a couple of real pros. If you knew Mike and Al, you could see how excited they were to finally have Macon in the AWL. They seemed to defame him with more vigor than they’d displayed in years.

Meanwhile, Macon built a stable of wrestlers, conjuring loyalty from the most savage characters in the League- Nehru the Cannibal, the Tanzanian Devil, Steppenwolf der Havocmeister and Moustafa the Anatolian Giant. Backstage, there were more wrestlers lined up to work with Macon Tolliver than there are movie stars for a Robert Altman movie.

I acknowledged Macon’s presence at my matches with a statement they’d play before commercials: “Lemme tell you people somethin’! If that Satanic freak wants to watch Kid Amore dismantle a coupla unworthies, he’s more than welcome. But let him buy a ticket like the rest of the Kid’s hard workin’ fans! I don’t know what makes that lilly-livered servant of evil think he’s so special that he deserves a ringside seat, but if he wants one so bad, let’s have him bring one of his non-English-speakin’, unpatriotic goons inside the ring for me to handle. ‘Cause baby, when you’re in the Press, you ain’t nothin’ but mush. ArrivederLa!”

So, in short order, a match was set up with Steppenwolf der Havocmeister, master of the iron claw. Macon was in his corner, staring silently and intently from under his dark hood. Buddy was in my corner, helping the crowd taunt, “Ste-Fa-Nee! Ste-Fa-Nee!” I was winning the match and Steppenwolf der Havocmeister was almost ready to get the Olive Press. Buddy was pounding the outskirt of the ring, leading “Kid!”

“Ah-Mo-Ray!”

Suddenly, Macon started babbling. He had a mike in his cloak so everybody heard him. He was incanting something, “Cumis ego ipse oculis vidi in ampulla pendere. Cumis ego ipse oculis vidi in ampulla pendere.” I’m not sure what that means but it sure did scare the shit out of the crowd. And that was before they’d all noticed Buddy. When they did, he was on his knees, clawing his own throat. His platinum hair was shaking frantically with every gasp for air. I ran over to the corner and reached out my hand to him. “Buddy!” I shouted.

But then Steppenwolf der Havocmeister ran up and kneed me in the back. I fell to the ground and he started to stomp on me with his bulky jackboots. Finally, Macon shed his robe and slithered his fully tattooed body into the ring. The referee had the bell rung, signaling me winner by disqualification. The big roar from the crowd was frightenend and despairing. As soon as Macon kicked me, Buddy broke out of his choking spell. He sat on the concrete outside of the ring, trying to recover. The fans were urging him to run into the ring and help me.

Macon had handcuffed me to the middle rope on the ring’s south end. He and Steppenwolf der Havocmeister methodically continued my beating. I was still conscious but barely. The crowd started chanting “Buh-Dee! Buh-Dee!” to help him get his strength back so he could rescue me.

After a minute of heartbreaking grogginess, Buddy staged a full recovery. He was up and shaking his whole body with fury and juice from the crowd. He leapt up to the top of the apron and flipped over the ropes into the ring. The crowd went wild. Only Buddy could pick people up so quickly and only Macon could knock them back down. Buddy drop kicked Steppenwolf der Havocmeister and then squared off against Macon, light versus dark. Unlike most bad guys, Macon showed no fear. He shot out his fingers and spit his green mist into Buddy’s eyes.

Once again, the great Buddy Flash sank to his knees incapacitated. And then the final blow. Macon unlocked my handcuff and led me to where Buddy was lying blind in the middle of the ring. I was furious. I turned to Macon and the crowd screamed for me to avenge my partner. I knelt down and took one of Buddy’s hands. But, to the audience’s ultimate horror, instead of helping him up, I laced one of my legs over Buddy’s arm and dropped to the mat, crushing my partner’s arm and taking the abrupt leap over to evil.

“I don’t believe what I’m seeing,” Mad Mike McDonough wailed from his ringside broadcasting table. “In all my years as a commentator for the American Wrestling League, I have never seen a betrayal so treacherous, so cowardly, so disgusting. Fans, I am sick to my stomach right now over what has just transpired here in Louisville.”

“‘Don Pulayermoe,’ that’s how it’s spelled” Jerry Boone reads, “‘You are one dead ginnee f***wad. I don’t know who let your ass into my cleen country of hours, but I promise you will never spred your filthy ginnee seed on our soil. See you on Thanksgiving, boy.’’”

Mr. Boone holds the letter out across the desk to me. Buddy is chuckling, shaking his head slowly.

“I don’t want to get my prints on it, Mr. Boone.”

“Frank,” Mr. Boone says, getting up from his desk and turning towards the window. “I’m putting you on 24-hour guard.”

“What?!” I yell.

“Huh?” says Buddy.

“And another thing,” barks Mr. Boone. He turns around and plops both fists down on his desk. “Don’t either of you let me hear another word about your wives being seen together.”

“Now, Mr. Boone…” I begin.

“Now nothin’ boy!” Mr. Boone growls. He sits down. “You think our fans are stupid? How many of ‘em gotta see Donna and Tammy at the nail salon before this whole dang feud is blown? You two are supposed to hate each other, gol’dangit!”

“But Buddy’s my best friend,” I say. “How am I supposed to deal with death threats and the like without-”

“Just a second, Frank,” Buddy says assuredly. He leans across Mr. Boone’s desk and fiddles with the pile of hate mail. “Now, Jerry. I understand what you’re sayin’. And, obviously, Frank’s safety is priority numero uno. But you gotta understand somethin’, my man…”

“Can it, Buddy,” Mr. Boone says. “This is as much your fault as anyone’s. ‘It hurts to lose a friend?’ You think our fans pay to see your softer side? You’re too busy trying to show your range for the Hollywood people and Frank here’s getting blamed for it!”

Mr. Boone pounds on the table with one hand and rubs his forehead with the other. It’s funny to watch him be bossy and worried at the same time. “Look,” he sighs. “From now on, what with Frank’s security detail and the extra precautions we have to have outside the rehearsal gym, this thing is becoming a major pain in the you know what. Now, Frank, you’d be doin’ everybody a big favor if you just checked into a hotel in secret until the match. You know the League’ll reimburse you for it.”

Now I have to walk around the room a little bit. “I dunno, Mr. Boone. I mean, I know this whole feud was my idea in the first place. But a man can only be so professional if he ain’t got the comforts of life outside the workplace. I mean, why do we do any of this in the first place? I didn’t mind losing my soda contract so much. You know the bad guy motto, ‘Better to be hated than doubted.’ But first you cut off all contact between Buddy and me, and now me and my family? I dunno, Mr. Boone. Especially after I did my part to help boost your ratings. Heck, I’m just doing my job.”

Jerry Boone smiles benevolently and says, “Too well.” Then he lights his pipe.

Thanksgiving is the AWL’s biggest night of the year. So ever since we made it big, our families have eaten our traditional Thanksgiving meal on Wednesday night so we don’t cramp up during our matches. We used to eat together. But, this year, they’re being kind enough to let me out of my hotel to eat Thanksgiving dinner with my immediate family on Wednesday at AWL headquarters about 30 miles from our home in Charlotte. Tammy and the kids pick me up from the hotel. They are not pleased.

“Who ever heard of Thanksgiving dinner for five people?” she says in the car on the way over.

“Yeah!” my daughter Marie chimes in from the back seat. “Doesn’t that trailer trash know wrestling’s fake?”

“Marie…”

I hate it when the kids use language like that. Since I first crossed over to the bad guys, Mr. Boone and I have been meeting to draw more lines for me to cross. Out of respect for my professionalism, he’s given me carte blanche but there are certain things I won’t do. I will spit on children. I won’t be racist. I will grab my nuts and stick my tongue out at old ladies. I won’t moon anybody. I will say “redneck.” I won’t say “white trash.” Sometimes I realize what a crazy job I have and it makes me laugh.

“Oh, you think this is funny?!” Tammy says.

“I miss Uncle Buddy!” says Frank Jr.

“Come on now, gang,” I say. “Y’all just need to change the way you’re looking at this. Now who’s hungry?”

My wife and children grunt and look out the windows of the car. I see their scowls in my rearview mirror. I hope the AWL can cook.

We get done late. The kids are all asleep in the car when we pull up to the hotel. There’s a big surprise waiting for me at the desk. It’s a message from “Blanton,” otherwise known as Buddy. The night clerk gives me a dirty look and points me to a courtesy phone.

“Hey, brother. Donna and I just wanted to wish you and Tammy and the kids a happy one. Sorry we’ve been out of touch lately. You know what Jerry ‘Baboone’ says. So I’m just tryin’ to take the outer layers of the reality of our match more seriously. We ain’t getting’ any younger, you know. Anyway, I oughtta get back to all the brothers and sisters and cousins, even though they’re all the same, right? Just kiddin’! Any-hoo, I guess I’ll just see you tomorrow. Hey, after the match, maybe we can get together and I can finally show you the pictures from our trip. Later gator!”

Tammy can tell by my face who it is. She touches my shoulder and gives me a look of understanding.

I put my arms around her and hold her tight. “You know I’d never let anybody hurt you and the kids, Tammy.”

“I know, Frankie. I know.”

She kisses me and goes back to the car and drives the kids home.

The locker room’s a zoo. Security is doubled on my side. I hear Buddy’s pissed because it means less guards to keep the Flashbulb skanks out of his locker room.

Macon’s giving me a rubdown when I hear my theme song. Louis Prima.

“Alright, kiddo,” he says, slapping me in the small of the back. “Let’s get this over with and go home.”

“I hear that!” I shout. I stand up and clap my hands. Two attendants help me into my robe. It’s fashioned after a baggy pinstriped suit. I like the silky kerchief in the breast pocket. A third attendant carefully places the black fedora onto my head. Macon rolls his eyes and ducks his head back into his hood and nods it over his face. How he can see outta that thing, I’ll never know

He pulls me aside for a moment. His voice creeps from under the hood. “Who do you hate?”

“Buddy,” I say.

“Who?” he asks, raising his voice a little.

“Buddy!” I say.

“Buddy who?”

“Buddy Flash!” I stomp my feet a few times and spit on the floor. I’m ready. I’m totally in character.

“Let’s go!”

We see the mess at the end of the tunnel. It’s small at first. Blurry studs of faces, bright snippets of the ring in the ropes in the cage, flashbulbs, press tables. We see bits. Going down the tunnel it gets clearer. The place is crazy. The Coliseum’s locker room tunnels are short so we have a longer path of exposure before the ring. The place is going wild. We exit the tunnel and get swallowed by the visual roar. The sudden switch from a low ceiling to an arena dome is like falling upwards for a second. A rush everytime. The floors are already densely littered, but nobody’s run out of things to throw at Macon and me.

“Out of our way you 8 to 5 losers!” I say.

The security guard in front of me gets hit in the face with the eraser end of a pencil. We try to speed up our pace to the ring. But traffic in the aisle is thick. I’m focused on the wide patch of light in the cage. It’s automatic in there. The microphone dangles in the middle. All 16 ropes are white to highlight the blood. It sure is slow going in the aisle. The hatred is strong. Suddenly a big rockfaced lady jumps out in front of me. Just like Jack Ruby. She hauls off and drives a heavy brogan smack into my nuts. My eyes water. The scene blurs again. I double over. Security shoves the big bitch aside and surrounds me. I feel Macon’s hand on my shoulder. But it gets yanked away and the crowd jumps on my guards’ backs. Too many people are surging. They’re trampling me. My bones are breaking. The noise is changing. I curl up best as I can. My balls are throbbing. Somebody kicks me in the neck. I can still make out the ring. I try to crawl that way, between a guard’s legs. He falls away and I’m unprotected. More fans jump the aisle, raining down the blows. Security’s a memory. I keep crawling. Somebody spills hot coffee onto me. The anger is being satisfied. More big farmer shoes. Stilletos. I crawl a little further. The aisle collapses completely. I can’t see the ring. All I see is trash and spit. Fury. Tears. “Grease-ball! Grease-ball!” Deafening. My $20,000 robe is filthy tatters. Rotten teeth calling me names with lockjawed conviction. A micro-dump of coca-cola, popcorn, tobacco juice and broken airplane bottles. I feel one of my hands down the aisle. I reach it out along the sticky floor. Cheers for my destruction. The hand begs. The hand pleads. My lungs feel shred by busted ribs. I feel the burning holes when I breathe. They’re cheering. I stretch the hand out further. They’re getting their way. I extend. And then I hear his song. “Black Dog.” And it isn’t a snap and it isn’t a click and it doesn’t even feel all that sudden, but I realize that I’ve been reaching for Buddy. Buh-dee. My best friend. Doesn’t even wait for me to make it into the ring. And I don’t care if the PA system had his song set on a timer. I hear the crowd. I feel their joy. And I can’t wait another minute to get in the ring and tear that bullshit motherfucker apart.

I throw my arms around two security guards’ necks and they whisk me the rest of the way down the aisle like a wounded soldier and hoist me into the ring. Not the dramatic entry we had planned but I’m here now. And I see him. He’d never enter the ring before me, so he’s hopping around, shaking hands, kissing babies, telling the camera that he’s number one and those folks know what it’s like to see Buddy Flash in action. At first he’s the same spectacle you see on television. But then he touches you. He points to your section and gives you a serious nod, in the midst of all this hoopla. And you just know he’s gonna fight his ass off for you and that all that shit you’ve been taking from your job and from your family and from your lodge, tonight they’re wrong, you’re right and you are gonna win, baby.

So I get in there and I wait. My body aches but it’s just a few bruises. Nothing I haven’t fought through before. I like these lights. “It’s been so long, but I’ve found out what people mean by down and out!” And then we’re in there together and Jerry Boone himself comes under the microphone. I’m not sure how I can tell but I just can that Mr. Boone’s tux is a rental. But I’m thinking about me. Clearly, finally. Oh, I’ll go by the script at first, but the next time that microphone worms into this cage, what’s Buddy gonna do? Whine to the fans that I’m not being fake enough? Now who’s trapped by the public?

It isn’t like I didn’t do my share of carrousing with Buddy. But, unlike Mr. Flash, I was careful. Tammy never caught me and she never caught anything from me. Buddy, sometimes he acted like he wanted to get caught. He’d have Donna on the phone in the middle of it. He even had ‘em over to his house. And then there were those unwanted pets he gave her just before their anniversary. I covered for him as best as I could and nobody could blame me for his bumpy marriage. But fairness was never Buddy’s strong suit. Without ever saying a word, he was always trying to make me feel guilt commensurate with his own, like if he got caught, it wasn’t fair that I didn’t too. Oh, he never ratted me out, but he always seemed to skew the reciprocity. It seemed like every morning that the kids would ask what Uncle Buddy was doing on the couch, he’d wink at me and say, “Well, since your Daddy didn’t sleep at my house, I had to come all the way over here to see you little buzzards.” And Tammy would kiss me and glare at him and, instead of being glad that one of us made it, Buddy’d stew.

Just before Jerry Boone is finished with his announcement, Buddy invokes good guy privelege and grabs the dangling mike. The crowd noise dims and Buddy takes a deep breath, getting ready for the long haul. “Palermo,” he says. “I don’t know how long it’s gon’ take, but I am gonna kick your fat guido ass!” We aren’t supposed to use profanity but the crowd really loves it.

The bell rings and we charge each other, locking arms and shoulders. Buddy rakes his arms through the tangle and stomps to make it seem like a violent move. I back up and then relock. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Buddy whispers. I was supposed to cower into the corner. I actually had forgotten. “Hey,” Buddy says. “You okay?”

I can’t wait any longer. I loose my right arm from the lock and hammer it down on Buddy’s back. Buddy falls to one knee with a great pounding noise. When he’s down there, I knee him in the face.

“Goddamn, boy!” he says.

I spit on him. Kick him in the ribs. Let him feel a little of the pain he’s caused me. I can’t believe how good it feels. I give him an elbow drop, a fake move.

“What the hell you doin’?”

“Shut up, Buddy!”

And I grab a fistful of his crinkly bleached hair and bang his head into the mat. With my other hand, I punch him in the face. I can’t remember when’s the last time I really hit somebody with a closed fist.

“Wha?” Buddy says.

I keep working on him, slapping him, slamming him. I’ve lost my sense of the crowd. For all I know, they can tell that something’s wrong. But I don’t care. The only way they’re gonna start being fairer is if Buddy lets them down.

“Quit?” garbles Buddy.

I look in his eyes. They’re messed with blood and he’s trying to blink it away. His face is slicked so red I can see my own reflection, haloed by the ring lights. Buddy coughs and I let go of his head so he can turn and spit.

Suddenly, I get a blow to the back of my head and the crowd explodes. It was the toe from Buddy’s boot. It doesn’t hurt so much but it stuns me enough to knock me off of him. And now he’s up and kicking me some more.

“You wanna play like that, huh, boy? Whoo-Weeee!” I have never heard a happier crowd. And it’s my pain that makes them cheer so loud. My pain and Buddy’s triumph. But Buddy doesn’t deserve to triumph. I do, no matter what the crowd believes. They don’t know. But they do. This is professional wrestling. They know. But they don’t care, don’t want to be reminded of my humanity. And that’s why Buddy must be destroyed.

But asshole though he may be, he’s still a stud. He drops an elbow on me and, the way he’s recovering his strength, you’d think he was coming back from a fake beating instead of a real one. Shaking, the whole bit.

There’s Mad Mike and Sir Algernon. They own their tuxes. For tonight they have to wear newer, smaller headphones and wireless microphones instead of their usual bulky ones.

“Here comes Buddy!” Mad Mike announces.

I’m on the mat, looking up at Buddy, at the lights and the faint shadows of the cage they make on the mat, getting darker where they overlap. And now the chair comes sailing over the top of the cage and splinters on impact with the mat. Buddy isn’t sure whether to fetch his weapon or attend to me.

“Don’t you move, Frank!” he says and gives me another kick. He marches over to where the chair legs are. I get up and follow him, jumping on his back and hugging my arms around his neck. He straightens up and starts spinning around. Faster and faster. The red the white the brown the black. The shine and the shadow, they all swirl and I don’t hear a thing. Wrestling’s different from this. We’re slowing. Buddy’s choking. I hop off his back and wheel him around by his shoulder. His head is hanging. I hit him in the stomach. By reflex, I stomp my boot on impact. I’m not used to fighting. I run at him with my arm outstretched, giving him a clothesline. Buddy drops the chair leg.

“It’s a bloody bloodbath in there!” says Sir Algernon.

Buddy writhes on the mat. I give my head a few good shakes but I still feel dizzy. Now I can give the crowd a good look. They’re confused. They aren’t exactly out of hate, but they don’t seem sure that expressing it would effect what they see here. This thing has degenerated from ballet to brawl and, seasoned as Buddy and I are, neither of us have been in a real fight in 20 years. Not knowing what else to do, I raise my hands and roar. Buddy looks up at me. He doesn’t understand what I’m doing. He’s coherent, but it doesn’t make any sense to him, as if this time is a real betrayal, as if he hasn’t betrayed me, the man who loved him best. He’s disgusted with me. And it works. I feel kinda bad. But I fight through that and fall to the mat and begin punching him some more.

Buddy grabs me by the hair and pulls me down. He rolls over and gets on top of me, pinning my arms with his knees. We’re still close to the shards of the busted chair. Buddy grabs a piece and knocks the dull end of it across my head.

“Come on, now Pilgrim,” he says. “Let’s see what you got stuffed with today!”

It comes as a surprise to me that the crowd is not excited about this turn in Buddy’s favor. Buddy continues to batter me with the chair piece. But it’s clear that his real moves don’t capture the crowd’s imagination the way his fake ones do.

“Buddy,” I say. “We’re losin’ ‘em. We gotta go back to the script, man.”

Buddy tosses the wood aside and smacks my face. “What did you say, boy? You wanna quit now? I hear the crowd just fine!”

Buddy rises to his feet. “YOU WANNA QUIT?!”

And now the crowd gets reinvolved. But Buddy’s still intact. And so am I. I roll over onto my belly and my best friend drags me by the wrist over to the announcers’ table. He reaches his free arm out, and they hand him the microphone.

#Pro Wrestling #Short Story #Ric Flair #Buddy Landell #Nature Boy #WCW #WWE #Fiction #Shuman

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cbwalive · 6 years ago

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CBWA Imperio

Event: Rise To The Top Pay-Per-View

Thread date: Friday, June 1, 2018 (Pay-Per-View) Location: Arena, Bogota Capacity: 26,505

Results by @BogotaMeltzer

The video package airs to open the show.

From there we shoot live in the arena, pyro explodes and Sean Mooney welcomes us to tonight’s pay-per view event: CBWA IMPERIO Rise To The Top. Live from Arena, Bogota. Mooney is joined by Pork Chop Cash on commentary.

They run down the card lineup and Sean Mooney updates us on the big news of the day. CBWA Hall of Famer Fake Stan Lane announced earlier today that he will run for Mayor of Bogota.

Fake Stan Lane is in the building and will compete tonight in the main event Ladder Match for the CBWA World Championship.

Let’s go to the ring!

Bogota Sid Video & The Thundertaker Tim Horner vs James “Wheels” Ellsworth and Captain Honky.

We start with Captain Honky and Tim Horner.

Captain Honky with a quick scoop slam and tag to James Wheels Ellsworth. Captain Honky with a backbreaker and James Wheels Ellsworth comes off the top. James Wheels Ellsworth with chops to Tim Horner. Ellsworth with an uppercut and twisting lariat from the corner.

Tag to Sid Video who chop blocks Ellsworth. Sid Video with a big uppercut to Ellsworth. Ellsworth fights out of the corner, but Tim Horner is able to get the tag.

Tim Horner works over James Wheels Ellsworth, tags in Sid Video and holds Ellsworth down allowing Sid Video to come off the second rope with a shot. Sid is going wild.

Sid Video with a one leg swing on James Wheels Ellsworth and a tag to Tim Horner. Tim Horner with a huge leg drop over the leg of Ellsworth. Hot tag to Captain Honky with shots on Sid Video who got the tag.

Captain Honky with a big dropkick on Sid Video. Captain Honky knocks Tim Horner off the ring apron. Sid Video with a close roll up. Captain Honky catches Sid Video right in the back of the head. Captain Honky with a huge charge in the corner on Sid Video. Sid Video crotches Captain Honky on the top rope.

Sid Video with a suplex from the ring apron to the ring on Captain Honky and Tim Horner follows with a splash for another close two count. Tim Horner kicks Captain Honky in the face flipping back over the top rope. Tag to James Wheels Ellsworth who drops Tim Horner with a samoan drop. Sid Video breaks up the pinfall.

Tim Horner leapfrogs Ellsworth and both men collide in the middle of the ring.

Sid Video comes into the ring and Captain Honky leaps over taking out Sid Video. Tim Horner kicks Captain Honky in the face.

Horner goes outside to chase Ellsworth and Ellsworth drops Tim Horner back first into the barricade on the floor. All four men are down.

We’ll be right back with more action from CBWA #OverToTheTop

-Commercial Break-

PROMO:

The Real Nature Boy Buddy Landel has signed with the CBWA and will debut on the #MEGAOVER Roster at their next Pay-per-view.

WELCOME BACK:

Tim Horner with a close pinfall on James Wheels Ellsworth. Tim Horner with a Sharpshooter on Ellsworth. Captain Honky kicks Tim Horner in the head to break it up. Captain Honky and Sid Video go at it.

They fall out of the ring brawling. Ellsworth gets an arm over Tim Horner and Horner kicks out. James Wheels Ellsworth with a superkick to Sid Video. Sid no sells it.

Sid tags in Horner. Horner charges at Ellsworth, Ellsworth dodges and Horner goes hard into the corner. Ellsworth rolls him up, 1-2-3!

It’s over.

WINNERS: Captain Honky and James Wheels Ellsworth

They celebrate and leave the ring. Sid is raging, he grabs his Horner, his partner and destroys him with a 1 Day Rental in the middle of the ring.

COMING UP NEXT: Santiago Cornette’s Mystery Man vs Sin CaraVan

-Commercial Break-

#CBWA #RiseToTheTop PPV!

Santiago Cornette is in the ring with a giant wood box.

We hear Sin Caravan’s music and he’s accompanied to the ring by his manager Bogota Ox.

Cornette tells the crowd to shut up because BIG BROTHER is here in Bogota.

-Commercial Break-

We’re back. Cornette opens the box and It’s @SVeillance

Sir Veillance vs Sin Caravan

He’s massive. Built like a truck.

The bell rings, and Sir Veillance immediately puts himself through the ropes to keep Sin Caravan back. They lock up, and Sir Veillance applies a side headlock. Sir Veillance brings him down to his knees, and Sin Caravan bridges over him before hitting a deadlift gutwrench suplex for a two count. Sin Caravan applies a side headlock and cranks it in. Sir Veillance punches him and applies a side headlock of his own.

Sin Caravan tries to whip him off, but Sir Veillance hangs on. Sin Caravan finally whips him off, but Sir Veillance shoulder blocks him down. Sin Caravan hits the ropes, but Sir Veillance leapfrogs him and takes him down with a hurricanrana.

Sin Caravan goes for the 4DOOR SEDAN, but Sir Veillance gets out of the ring. Sin Caravan takes him out with a summersault senton off the apron. Sin Caravan goes for a running tackle, but Sir Veillance moves and kicks him over the barricade. Sir Veillance puts him in the ring and gives him a senton splash for a near fall. Sir Veillance talks a little trash and uses Sin Caravans “backup camera” taunt. Sin Caravan punches back at him, but Sir Veillance kicks him and goes for a suplex. Sin Caravan blocks it and connects with a textbook suplex. Sin Caravan hits a running uppercut in the corner and fires up the FOG LIGHTS (rapid knees to the mid section). Sir Veillance tries to counter with a superkick, but Sin Caravan blocks it and uppercuts him. Sin Caravan flips to the apron, but Sir Veillance knocks him off and into the barricade.

-Commercial Break-

We come back from the break to see Sin Caravan trapped in a chin lock. Sin Caravan fights up and elbows him, but Sir Veillance drops him with a modified neckbreaker using his knee for a near fall. Sir Veillance clotheslines him in the corner before going for a DODGE RAM SLAM, but Sin Caravan moves out of the way. Sin Caravan comes back with a deluge of uppercuts for a near fall. Sir Veillance holds on to the ropes to avoid a whip. Sir Veillance rakes the eyes and goes for The Spy Gate Neckbreaker, but Sin Caravan gets out and connects with a GRAND AM uppercut for a near fall!

Sir Veillance rolls out of the ring to recover. Sin Caravan goes outside and takes PorkChop Cash’s hat before running around the ring to hit Sir Veillance with a clothesline. Sin Caravan puts him in the ring and gives Sir Veillance a cross-body block while still wearing Pork Chop Cash’s hat for a near fall. Sin Caravan sets up for a DODGE RAM SLAM, but Sir Veillance gets out and boots him in the face. Sir Veillance goes for a tornado DDT, but Sin Caravan keeps him up and puts him back on the top rope. Sin Caravan dropkicks him and goes for a superplex, but Sir Veillance gets out and crotches him up there. Sir Veillance connects with The Spy Gate Neckbreaker for the win!

Winner by Pinfall: Sir Veillance

-Commercial Break-

UP NEXT: Giant Haystacks vs Pimp Pauly Roma

Giant Haystacks vs Pimp Pauly Roma

Roma ducks a clothesline and uppercuts him a few times.

Giant Haystacks tosses him to the corner, but Roma boots him. Roma comes off the second rope into a chop.

Haystacks chops the chest again before sending him hard into the opposite turnbuckle.

Haystacks hits a body blow and taunts the crowd. Roma punches back at Haystacks before hitting the ropes.

Haystacks runs him over with a shoulder block. Haystacks hits another body blow before viciously chopping the chest. Haystacks puts him in the corner and throws him across the ring.

Haystacks shouts that this is his ring. The crowd quietly boos him. Haystacks chokes him on the second rope before stomping him.

Haystacks stomps him down in the corner before hitting a Hay Bale.

Haystckas applies a chin lock, but Roma fights up. Haystacks immediately powers him down and goes for an elbow drop, but Roma moves.

Roma uppercuts Haystacks a few times before hitting a running uppercut in the corner. Roma runs into a goozle, but Roma dropkicks him out of the ring. Roma hits a running uppercut before diving off the Korean commentary table. Haystacks catches him and drives him spine-first into the ring post.

Roma uppercuts Haystacks on the apron and goes to suplex him into the ring. Romas kicks away at him before trying it again.

Haystacks doesn’t budge. Haystacks grabs him by the throat and throws him into the ring.

Haystacks annihilates Roma with a crushing elbow for the win.

Winner by Pinfall: Giant Haystacks

Giant Haystacks grabs a microphone and tells the crowd to boo him all they want. Haystacks then invites them to boo him. They barely register a loud boo. Haystacks points to Pimp Pauly Roma who is now being helped to the back by his prostitutes. Haystacks says this will be the winner of the tonight’s ladder match. Giant Haystacks says he’s the greatest giant this business has ever seen!

UP NEXT: THE CBWA WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP LADDER MATCH

-Commercial Break-

Welcome back to the CBWA WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP Ladder Match.

DDME PN News Jr Fake Stan Lane Hawk Bogota Miz Hot Stuff The White Knight

DDME, PN News Jr, Fake Stan Lane, Hawk, Bogota Miz, Hot Stuff, and The White Knight come out (in that order).

All the guys battle as soon as the bell rings.

When the smoke clears, it’s Hawk, Fake Stan Lane and DDMe left in the ring.

Hawk double-clotheslines them both over the top and then grabs a ladder. Lots of early dropkicks into the ladder before Bogota Miz ultimately ends up bringing the ladder into the ring.

Hot Stuff Eddy Gilbert ends up on the ladder but The White Knight dropkicks him off. DDMe sets the ladder up and begins his climb.

PN News Jr pulls him down.

Several guys do over-the-top dive spots onto the floor, culminating with Hot Stuff Eddie Gilbert coming off the top and landing on Hawk on the floor.

We get replays of all those spots. Crowd in Bogota is hot so far tonight.

Bogota Miz and The White Knight do a huge flip spot off the top rope.

Crowd dug that.

PN News Jr sets up a ladder-bridge, draping the ladder across the Korean announce table and the ring apron.

PN News Jr powerbombs Fake Stan Lane through the bridge-ladder.

Ouch! Crowd pops big for that spot. Replays, announcers with somber voices, EMTs/paramedics are out, etc.

The action resumes on the other side of the ring with Hawk knocking everyone down with a ladder. Fake Stan Lane is shown being stretchered to the back.

The second of two random “LadyBoys” chants breaks out during this match.

The White Knight hits the Castle Tower Dive on DDME.

Now he’s starting his climb. Hot Stuff is in to stop him, and he does.

The White Knight now hits the Castle Tower Dive on Hot Stuff.

He starts to climb again. Now PN News Jr is in to stop him. And he does. PN News Jr now begins his climb.

DDMe is in to stop him but PN News Jr comes down with an elbow. PN News Jr holds DDMe up and Hawk comes off the top with a clothesline, Legion Of Doom style.

Hawk wedges a ladder between the ring ropes and another ladder that is set up long-ways. Hawk powerbombs Bogota Miz through it.

Hawk then powerbombs The White Knight. PN News Jr and Hot Stuff fight on the ladder. Hot Stuff knocks PN News Jr out of the ring. Bogota Miz and Hot Stuff are on the ladder.

They both come crashing down to the mat, hard.

Crowd is way into this match so far.

-Commercial Break-

THE EYEPOD PODCAST

LISTEN NOW

We’re back.

DDMe hits a big kick finisher on several guys, leaving everyone laying.

The gives The White Knight, the Diamond Cutter!!!!

There’s ladders set up everywhere now, as DDMe lays a ladder sideways across the top rope in one of the corners.

DDMe and PN News Jr battle on top of the ladder. PN News scoop slams DDMe onto the bridge ladder set-up. Ouch, DDMe’s head gets split open on the ladder. Big-time ouch. Let me say that one more time. OUCH! Everyone is ganging up on PN News Jr in the ring now.

Bogota Miz hits the Mizard of Oz on PN News Jr.

The White Knight hits a 450 splash off the ladder that was laying sideways across the top rope.

Jesus that was crazy! How can he do that with all of that armour on?

WAIT. Here comes Fake Stan Lane. He’s being helped back down to the ring by 4 scantily clad women. He’s in bad shape but he’s not giving up.

Everyone is hitting their finisher. Feels like we’re coming towards the finish of this one. Hot Stuff, Bogota Miz and DDMe are all on top of one ladder.

DDMe is knocked off. Hot Stuff and Bogota Miz are fighting.

Bogota Miz is going for a reverse neckbreaker off the top of the ladder. Hot Stuff is fighting out of it. Hot Stuff kicks Bogota Miz off the ladder. Hot Stuff is slumped over the top of his Ladder, he’s got nothin left. Here comes PN News Jr, he’s climbing up the other side and out of nowhere, it’s the masked man who helped him win the qualifying match. He’s in the ring and he he has a hockey stick. He’s climbing up the other ladder, is he going to help PN News win again? Hot Stuff is reaching up for the belt and so it PN News Jr, the masked man - oh my GOD he just broke the hockey stick over the head of PN News Jr. News drops from the top of the ladder.

Hot Stuff Eddie Gilbert is going up for the CBWA World Championship and the crowd is hot. He reaches up, he has it, he’s got the title!

=======

Wow, a NEW CBWA WORLD CHAMPION!! The masked man just ran from the ring and into the crowd, he’s gone.

Winner: Hot Stuff Eddie Gilbert

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