#god. god the thesis statement coming back is bowling me over and killing me

[buckleyanddiaz]

Chris 'the things that make you sad, am I one of them' Diaz is gonna watch his dad decide to uproot their entire lives because Eddie thinks that's what Chris wants. he's gonna watch Eddie immerse himself in a fresh wave of hell and the question will become louder in his head - of the things that make Eddie sad, is Chris one of them.

[widowsofchaos]

Poor Little Rich Boy

summary: you find out your boyfriend isn’t all that innocent as he seems.

warnings: yandere behavior, violence, and gore. dub-non con. Ya know the filthy vibes.

Pairing: dark college!Tony Stark x black!reader

a/n: this is my first time writing Tony so be gentle with me <3

do not respost my works!

“I, Howard Anthony Walter Stark, being of sound, mind, and body do hereby declare that this document is my last will and testament. I bestow my legacy in the hands of my only heir, my son, Anthony Edward Stark. All my assets, finances, and chair as CEO of Stark Industries are now in his hands.”

Buzz.

A dull silent vibration shook in the confinement of Tony’s jean pocket, pulling him out of his sullen trance. Instinctively ignoring the notification, as he listened onto the blurred words of the lawyer reading his late father’s will.

Biting his lip to contain his swirling emotions -- aggravation to just collect his inherited earnings, and head home to you.

Buzz.

With a hazy eye-roll, Tony casually sneaked his palm into his pocket, retrieving the phone. As the family lawyer droned on reading, aged eyes glued onto the paper; Tony peaked at the screen, with the quick analysis of face ID -- his pupils dilated like saucers.

His nostrils flared, inhaling deeply, his chest heaving -- he gotta get home immediately. An iron grip onto the phone, he roughly dug it back into his pocket, his foot tapping against the carpeted flooring. Antsy.

God, please make time go faster.

Buzz.

His fingers itched to snatch the cellular device, internally screaming for another peak at the salacious cheeky messages.

Messages from you -- photos of yourself seated on his bedroom floor, in only a high-waisted thong, and his custom tailored blazer.

The creamy beige against your buttery smooth bronze skin was divine, Tony swears anything you wear is pulled off with elegance. Your brown areolas are slipping out just a tad bit from the flaps, a hint of what’s awaiting for him.

His cock hardened against the denim fabric, Tony salivates whenever you wear his clothing, his scent imprinting onto your flesh - of you in compromising positions, your neatly manicured fingers inside your panties, rubbing your swollen nub. Biting your plump bottom lip.

Buzz.

Another picture with a text, you were sipping from a glass, his best Scotch, with the typed words, “I miss you. I know my favorite boy is blue, come back home so I can take care of you.” Signed with a kissy face emoji, and a red heart.

You were leaning on your elbows, your bouncy ass in the air, legs bent upward with your ankles playfully interlocked in the air.

The glass of ale leaning downward against your teasing lips, and sultry eyes through the reflective mirror -- Tony’s cock twitched, oh he’s gonna eat you up when he gets home.

- It was midnight, the full moon shining bright in the inky indigo sky -- beaming upon the Stark manor. The white fluorescent solar satellite glistening upon the grand bedroom where two lovers lay satiated in bed.

Rubbing random circles by the pads of your fingertips on Tony’s sweaty broad chest, taming the beast into a purring feline.

“I love you.” Tony’s mild slurred speech infiltrated the serene silence, your nose scrunched up in glee. “I love you too.” you murmured in his neck, a lazy grin stretched on your face.

For hours, Tony, and yourself haven’t left the bedroom, stringing release after release -- letting Tony pinch, pull your hair, bruise, slap, and choke your soft flesh-- that’s what he loves about you, trusting him wholeheartedly with your body, and soul.

A lot of tears of euphoria, and fear of abandonment. Reassuring Tony that you would never leave him, breathy hymns of I love yous in his ear.

It’s been a couple of difficult few weeks, Howard Stark has passed at the age of 74. A fatal car crash taking his life, leaving behind his only son. It was only freshly five months ago that Tony lost his mother, Maria. Uterine cancer - multiple tumors.

Maria Stark, the matriarch of the family, was the light of Tony’s life. Maria was a saint, even at death’s door, she had a positive perspective. You can still recall her calling her tumors fruit bowls of pain - her tumors were the size of miniature melons; grew from the size of strawberries.

And when she died -- the already fractured relationship of father and son deteriorated to ash. Howard started becoming colder, more stricter on his son -- his disappointment fueling by the second.

Clayed into a modernized Narcissus -- guising his trauma with bloviating chatter to impress the little people. Boasting his youthful genius with no shame.

Tony may have been born from the finest cloth, a silver-spoon wedged in his mouth -- but he oozes the work ethic of a blue-collar joe.

Under the molden gait of a promising demigod is a fragile boy -- yearning for affection. A neglected child desperate for attention.

Sending nudes to your boyfriend while he’s attending his dead father’s will hearing -- many would deem that as distasteful -- tacky, even. But, you knew Tony’s coping mechanisms.

Frat parties, drinking excessively to the brink of oblivion, and copious amounts of sex.

Tony was raised in a household, where any emotional turmoil expressed to his father was shot down, except with his mother -- he needs a womanly touch.

He never saw his conquests as ladies, only whores to get his rocks off, but once he laid eyes on you -- sweet, and bubbly -- that little rich boy was a goner.

Succumbing to a dazed half-slumber, Tony’s cell phone rings at the bedside table -- you groaned at the intrusion. Flashing on the screen was Happy’s goofy grin, one of Tony’s closest friends. You mumbled a ‘of fucking course’, Tony cheekily chuckled at your frustration.

“Don’t worry, sweetcheeks. This won’t take long.” With the wisp of a lingering kiss on your hairline, Tony begrudgingly detached himself from you--proudly strutting his naked bare firm ass, picking up his boxers from the floor shamelessly displaying his hung cock, and balls.

“Nice ass.” you teased. Tony snorted, “Nice? Toots, it’s the finest ass. And you love it.” He winked at you over his shoulder, you giggled. Tony’s footfalls faded down the hall, his conversation blurring into the distance. You laid back down, sighing as you stared up at the ceiling, quickly getting bored.

Without Tony to entertain you, you had nothing to do. Maybe I could get a head start on my thesis? Your eyes languidly rolled to the corner of your lids, staring at your opened crumbled book-bag mocking you at the corner of the room, Fuck that. You grumbled.

Mindlessly deciding to get dressed, and search for substance. Hours of unadulterated love-making can take out a lot of energy.

Nimble quiet feet tip-toe down the stairs, covered in only Tony’s wrinkled white button-down, brown statuesque legs gracefully head to the kitchen -- but you halt in your tracks. A dim light seeps from the crack out of an office -- Howard’s former office.

Curiosity overwhelms you, biting down your tongue, you check your surroundings, making sure Tony is nowhere in sight. Earlier in the day, the office was locked -- why is it now open?

Open-palm press against the door, a tiny creak of the mahogany makes you cringe internally. Stealthy you walk into the office, nothing seems to be out of place. Maybe Tony was in here? Fidgety fingers skim against the polished wooden desk, at the corner of your eye, a mess of papers sit idly by.

You pick the papers up, fastly flicking through it. Statements declaring Tony as the new CEO of Stark Industries, royalties, and -- mechanic blueprints?

Your chest began heaving, breaths still choppy fuming out of your nose, your left eye twitched from the stressing bile rising. Here in your hands are the blueprints of a familiar vehicle -- Howard Stark’s car. Descriptive details on the full functionality of the car, why are these here?

Warm palms clutch your shoulders, soothingly rubbing, you flinch by the surprise, “You weren’t meant to see those.” A hot breath fan against your ear, you whimper, his voice sounded husky, menacingly.

Not daring to look him in the eye, frozen in your spot as if the soles of your feet grew roots in the flooring, Tony’s grasp on your arms tighten. “The old man was going to take me off the will. I know he was.”

A chaste kiss on your temple, “As if I didn’t take his shit over the years just for nothing. Blaming me for my mother’s death.” He grumbled against your skin, your blood running cold. There was no remorse in his voice, a hint of satisfaction.

This isn’t the Tony you knew.

A beast of his father’s making.

“Tony - I - I won’t tell anyone, I promise--” Tony shushed your stuttering, his rough hands snaking its travel to your waist, slithering his forearms around your torso, ensnaring you.

“I know, baby. I know you wouldn’t. You’re my good girl.” He spoke in your hair, small lingering kisses on your scalp. Tony was rocking your body back and forth, cradling you -- he can sense your fear.

With trepidation, you held his arms, a little shaky. “Tony, let’s just go back to bed.” Your voice was cracking, this isn’t the man you fell in love with, and you wanted to just run away as far as you can.

“You’re scared of me?” Although it was an intended question, its tone came off as a fact. Indeed you were terrified of him.

“No.” You spat too quickly for your liking. Tony gripped your chin, and twisted your head to face him, “I would never hurt you. I love you. Everything I do is for you.” Your breath hitched, his face was morphed into a sad feral puppy.

“I know. I know you do.” You feigned a weak smile, “I just didn’t think --” you stopped yourself before you vomited any other words. “Do what? Kill?” Tony cocked a brow, with a shit-eating grin. “I did it before. For you.” Tears were forming at the brim of his eyes, your doe-eyes widened, you began squirming in his arms. “Tony, what did you do?!” you shrieked, limbs failing.

Tony’s iron-grip didn’t let up, refusing to let you go, “He wasn’t right for you!” Tony bellowed on the top of his lungs, impulsive rage seeping through, fumbling feet colliding.

Both of your bodies falling to the carpeted floor as Tony tried to restrain your wrists, fumbling feet slipping. A miscalculated misstep sent you, and Tony colliding downward.

Tony’s weight pinning you down. Confusion making your head go dizzy, “What do you mean?” You whispered. Tony smashed his lips against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks, “You know what I mean.” His brows furrowed, gently his forehead on yours, his eyes staring into your soul.

Realization hits you like a freight train, flashes of your ex, the cops alerting you of his disappearance, Tony’s lingering shadow always appearing to provide comfort -- “Brock?” a lone tear trickle down your eye, down your temple, and hitting the carpet below. Tony nodded frantically.

Tony’s lips peppered against your face, your cheeks, your forehead, your eye-lids, your nose, your chin; mumbling affection against your tear-stained face.

It’s been three years since Brock vanished, rumors flew around campus from students believing he killed himself in some remote location, you lost him in the first years of university.

You were grief-stricken, but Tony, being the ever-present close friend lend a shoulder -- then soon, it blossomed into much more.

“Now, it's just us. We can start a new dollface.” Tony sniffled, hot tears drip upon your flesh, “We can start our own family” he rasps, “I can be a dad. A better father.” Your eyes widened at his suggestion.

A family? You both were just shy of twenty-one, and already Tony is mapping out your entire futures. You tried to wiggle out of his grasp, but it was futile.

Tony murmured nonono to your bodily request of escape, chasing clumsy blubbering kisses against your chavile. Your body began to be wrecked with sobs, your chest heaving.

“Don’t cry, baby. It’s better this way.” Tony’s brows were furrowed sorrowfully, his tremor low with ache. “You killed Brock, how could you?! I loved him!” Tony gripped your jaw, painfully his fingers kneading,

“Loved him?! He wasn’t right for you! You need me! I need you! No one is going to love you like I do. I loved you the first day I met you.” Harsh fingers rip off the fabric, exposing your breasts to the elements.

“You’re mine! No one can have you! I will kill anyone who tries to take you away!” Tony’s mouth plunged, fangs nibbling on your nipples, his entire mouth suckling your left breasts.

Tony’s left hand pinching your right nipple, twisting and slapping it roughly. You yelped, shutting your eyes closed. Your skin crawled, Tony’s brown eyes peered at you, dissatisfied that you refuse to look at him.

A sloppy pop echoed, “Look at me!” he slapped you, the crack of it pounding in your ears, the heat of the sting scorched throughout your cheek. Your eyes popped open, watery from the hit, Tony has never once laid a hand on you -- until now.

Nose to nose, “We’re gonna be a family--” one of his hands traveled down to tug down his boxers, his hard swollen cock is man-handled in his palm, you struggled to get away, but Tony clutched your wrists in one hand, and pinned it on the carpet.

Tony spit on your cunt, rubbing it within your velvety folds by the base of his veiny cock, earning a hiss out of you. “You’re going to look so hot swollen with our baby.” Your thighs twitched, Tony roughly forced your thigh to wrap around his torso, positioning himself.

“Please - Tony, please don’t”, you cried, Tony shushed you. Lining himself to your hole, with no hesitation, plunged his cock inside your pussy. You screamed, your back arching, “Feels lovely, right? Feels so fucking delicious - you were made for me.” Tony snarled, biting your chin, his tongue trailing your jawline, pistoning his cock inside you.

Dripping slick smears against your thighs, clenching onto his cock, a broken groan slips from Tony’s lips, “Fuck - yes, do that again.” You were blubbering tears down your cheeks, the inevitable pleasure Tony strings out of you is undeniable.

“You’re so tight, and warm.” He growled in your ear, “I can’t wait to have a baby with you. You all swollen, waddling around with bare-feet. You’ll be a great mother - just like mine.” He whispered, biting on your lobe.

You murmured muffled whines in the crock of his neck, bruising is slowly forming on your hips, fucking you like it’s the last time. Shivers run down Tony’s spine, time slows down.

Sweaty skin slapping against skin spurred him on, taking all of you. Your nails scratch at his palm, still bounding you down.

“I love you.” He whimpered, you bite your lip, refusing to sink into the instinct of saying it back. Tony perked his head up from your neck, growling, “Say it back!” he thrusted his pelvis against you, a cattle wail hit you, “Say -” thrust “it-” another thrust “-back!” his smile falters slow, a bruising touch.

He can see you slowly yielding, small pants of electric euphoria, “No!” you bite back.

Wet lips slant against yours. Your entire body jolting from his unforgiving pace, your back burning slightly from the rug beneath you.

Releasing your wrists, his rough hand find it’s way to your back, hiking you up, squeezing your ass in his fingers, bucking your hips; fucking you onto him, your nails dig into his sculpted back -- scratching for him to stop, but it felt too good.

You’ve become dizzy. Your teeth sink into his shoulder, hoping the pain makes him halt his actions, but it makes him harden inside of you.

There’s no space between you, melting into one, the friction, the heat; the tethers of reality blur into nothing.

“Please - say you love me.” Tony pleaded, his weary eyes sinking into yours. A robbery -- a heart-wrenching robbery of your soul, in an instant, you didn’t see a cold-blooded killer, but the mire of a lost boy.

He slowed down his thrusts, leisure movements, his brown orbs are glossy, “Say it, please.” Tony gently kisses you, not feverish, but you can taste the sweet commitment. Like he doesn’t own you, but he worships you.

“I love you.” you mumbled against his swollen lips, his eyes dilated, rubbing his nose against yours, “I love you” maneuvering your hips, squelching can be heard - sticky as honey, as the pace picked up.

Your fingers grip his soft fluffy hair, his balls slapping against your ass, “I love you, Tony.” You sucked on his bottom lip. He whimpered. His cock was coated in your juices, you can feel the swelling of his balls, and his uneven jerking movements -- he was close.

“Cum for me, baby.” Tony’s eyes were shut, he mewled, “Cum inside me, give me a baby, Tony.” The dam breaks. The window bursts open from a gust of wind, the full moon gleamed upon your sweaty sheen bodies, a howl erupts from Tony -- as the wolf within has been unhinged -- primal, feral fueled lust.

Toothy grin, all fangs lunged for your pulse point, devouring you. Squirted juices spray from you, splashing against his toned stomach, not once stopping, riding through the orgasm. Tony’s tongue peaked out, droplets of your cum sprinkling his mouth.

Your vision turns white, an inhuman scream leaves you, Tony collapses onto you.

He’s trembling, frightened, you massage his dome, “My sweet boy.” Tony sobs into your chest, ensnaring himself around your torso. You hugged him, cradling like a baby, as he cried water-falls.

“It’s okay.” You kiss his head, a lingering one, “It’s going to be alright.”

You’re all he has.

[friendlycybird]

Season 3 Reactions - Part 1

I’ve developed a strange association since I’ve begun listening to The Magnus Archives.  I don’t know how it started but somehow, my go-to food choice for listening is, for some reason, Cup of Noodles. Chicken Flavor, Typically.  I don’t understand how this happened, or why, but I strongly associate Cup of Noodle with TMA and I will never understand it, I’ll just go with it. So it is with a Styrofoam cup of cooking noodles set beside my computer that I begin this post.

I’m halfway through season 3, which I was told way back when I was halfway through season one would be the big Lore building season. I just didn’t anticipate how much.  I know so much more now then I did at the end of last season, and I’m fully aware I’ve only scratched the surface. So, as of right now, here’s what I think of the first half of season 3. 

81. Jon’s awareness of his personality flaws dating all the way back to childhood is, on one hand, good. On the other, I’m always wary when I hear a parental figure described as having “done their best” with a troublesome child...I’m never convinced that was a healthy upbringing. 

82. I have a lot of feelings about Martin’s unwavering faith in Jon. Well, unwavering may be a slightly strong word for it but I almost cried when he had that pleased reaction to being told people say he and Jon are close. 

83. I love Georgie. Also, I am of course, not surprised that it was a circus display, of all things, that went wrong in this statement. 

84. I am so happy that Martin’s reading statements now? I mean. I’m not happy for Martin since reading statements is obviously extremely draining and difficult but I love Martin so getting more of him is always good for me, however bad it may be for him. Also, Melanie stepping in to replace Sasha gives me some...mixed feelings. I really like Melanie and I’m glad to have her on board but this...this kinda makes it real, you know? I think this is when that last bit of hope I was still stupidly clinging to, even after Leitner stated point-blank that Sasha was dead, finally died as well. Sasha’s well and truly gone and has been since season one.  It’s Melanie’s turn. 

85. I’ve heard this rhyme before. Taking it to its logical conclusion like this was deeply unsettling. 

86. This episode was a reminder exactly why I didn’t use to listen to TMA at night. I’ve become a lot more flexible on the subject, and yes, I regret it. I fully intended to sleep with the lights on after I listened to this episode. My partner needed it off so she could get to sleep though so I gave in and settled for just not being alone. 

87. I’ve listened to... thirteen episodes after this one. Thirteen. When I listened to this episode, Gertrude’s closing comments were...largely nonsensical to me. All I knew was that something was that she’d been injured somehow, and that this statement suggested an unexpected alliance between avatars and a rushed timeline for The Unknowing. Already a lot of information.  I just went back and read the transcript of her closing statement and...there’s so much here. The connection between Gertrude and Jude Perry was one I picked up on a couple episodes later.  Looking at this now, it seems like a pretty clear who’s-who of the biggest players currently on the board. 

88. I love Martin and I genuinely feel so bad for him with all this.  Recording statements is hard and change is harder and everyone expecting him to know things. 

89. It’s not often anymore I hear a piece of media and have a bone-deep jealousy of the performer. Jude Perry is a character I want to play.  Her dialogue, her *statement*, her power, her...god. She’s just. She might be my favorite antagonist. 

90. Poor Tim. He tried to leave, he actually tried to just pack up and go, and it almost killed him. He hates this place with everything in him and hates himself for working there but he’s not ready to die just to stop. 

91. I can not tell you how taken aback I was by the fact that the first line we hear from Mike Crew is “You’re sure I can’t get you a cup of tea?” The fact that it seems all he really wants is to be left alone with his powers makes him...I can’t properly say sympathetic. Not after episode 75 but close enough that I’m a little sad Daisy killed him.

92. I was...genuinely prepared to come out of this hating Elias. God knows everyone who was in that room did. I don’t though.  Elias comes off to me as nothing so much as the tutor who’s finished his masters thesis on a subject and is sitting down with a first-year undergrad in that subject and trying to explain that yes, I absoloutly could tell you exactly how all of this works but if you don’t learn it for yourself you’ll never pass your tests.  Except, with the stakes turned up to 11. I think about Elias a lot. I don’t...I’m not as attached to him as I am to the others, to everyone else who was in that room...but I like him. He’s...interesting. 

93. Admiral is a good kitty, comforting Jon like that at the beginning. But the exchange toward the end I will never be over is “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Tough.” “Look, I’m moving out anyway, so just...just forget it. I’m out of your life. Alright?” “No.”  - Just. Georgie’s absolute refusal to take Jon’s shit and insistence on actually properly *helping* him - I love her. 

94. I remember we’ve seen this philosophy before, the idea that “The moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one.” the idea that the present and the future are not distinct from one another. I can’t remember what episode it came up in before but also the thought that - accepting that? Accepting the...smallness? Of the universe? Of the human experience? Would just kill you where you stand or, if you survive it, stop you from ever feeling fear again? That’s...a powerful statement really. And one I’m not sure I agree with? It’ll take some time to unpack the philosophy here. 

95. Poor Martin. I say that a lot but no really, poor Martin. He’s trying so hard and it’s all just too much. For him to give up on professionalism is just sad. His exchange with Basira at the end is another look into the philosophy it seems the show is building. What do you do in the face of helplessness?  “You make the best of things.” Basira says. Of course, as interested as I am in the overall message of TMA (beyond always carry a fucking flashlight, which was the lesson I took from season 1 and now there’s one clipped to my purse) I’m even more overwhelmed by the fact that the idea of escaping himself never occurred to Martin. 

96. Feels good to get some answers about Breekon and Hope finally. Proper ties to the circus it seems, although the questions from episode 93 all still stand.  TMA is really good at it, at giving you an answer, and it’s definitely an answer you know something you didn’t - and yet, none of your actual questions have been answered. 

97. As if it wasn’t enough that the statement hit a little closer to home than the typical TMA episode as I live in Oregon, so less then 500 miles from whatever the fuck that pit was. Of course, when the statement occurred I was safely down in California but all the same, unnerving.  As if THAT WASN’T ENOUGH. Fucking. Orsinov fucked me up, guys. I was *shaking*.  I don’t know what it is but she is, as a character, well beyond terrifying. I. I don’t have words for how much she scares me. I don’t even know why. I just. Everything about her is just. Fuck. 

98. I quite enjoyed Tim pointing out the problem with the “They can never know I have to project them” bullshit that Jon is prone to. That said, I find it ironic that Tim can, in the space of a page, go from calling the Institute, and by extension the Eye, evil, to saying “ignorance isn’t going to save anyone.” - because that’s what The Eye seems to be. Just knowledge. Observing, Learning, Knowing.  It’s not...at least...I don’t know that it’s as evil as Tim thinks it is.  Ruthless, detached, inhuman, yes. Evil? I’m not at all sure of that. 

99. Another American Statement, this time about The Dust Bowl. We also get names of several more...powers. The Spiral, The Buried, The Hunt. But more then that. We find out that Michael use to be Gertrude’s Assistant!  Which. Is he like Mike? Did something change him? He always felt...older...than that? It would explain why he seems to have so much curiosity toward the archive and the archivist though...

100. and finally, an anthology of sorts, of what happens when people who don’t have The Archivist’s ability try to take statements live. Two things stand out to me about this.  The first? Martin, you absoloute sweetheart why are you trying to pay the woman? She gave you fuckall and might not even have been telling the truth.  And also... “Elias can be quite... ‘protective’ of his people.”  Like. !!!!!!! I mean.  After reading that statement, that whole speech for Jon before everyone got there back in episode 92... after all that and people like Peter Lukas still see Elias as ‘protective’  ...I..you know I think it might be true? His total lack of anger when Melanie tried to poison him and just the fact that he’s trying so hard to prepare Jon? I don’t know. It’s funny, I’m always inclined to think the best of people. With Elias though, I’m not so quick to think there might be anything genuinely good to him, but, I definitely can’t see him as evil either. 

[fromtheringapron]

Observations from ‘92 WWF Episodes of Superstars

After years of demand, the WWE Network has finally uploaded episodes of WWF Superstars, although not without a catch. They can’t yet upload any episodes before April 18, 1992, which is when the show’s named was shortened from Superstars of Wrestling to simply Superstars due to some legal wrangling over the “Of Wrestling” part. This date also happens to be just a couple of weeks after I was born, so please begin your conspiracy theories on how these two events are somehow related.

Regardless of the controversy, these episodes are a blast. Each hour is packed with the perfect amount of nostalgia and leaves you wanting more. Wrestling on Saturday mornings as a concept may seem like a such strange one to audiences in 2019, but there’s so much to these episodes that three-hour Monday Night Raws can certainly learn from. It’s also a nice glimpse into what the WWF was like in 1992, which was just as much a transitional year on-screen as it were a tumultuous one off of it. Allegations of steroids and sex abuse had damaged the WWF’s public image, familiar faces who’d been on the roster for the past several years were beginning to disappear seemingly by the week, and the wrestling business in general had entered a recession. Perhaps the biggest game-changer was the absence of Hulk Hogan, which caused Vince McMahon to start shifting focus to the likes of Bret Hart and Shawn Michaels.  

I’ve been breezing on through these episodes as of late. They’re a sweet treat that goes down easy, like a tube of mini M&M’s. I’m up to July 1992 in my binge watch, and here’s the most notable stuff from them so far:

The WBF and Grade-A Beef

The first few months of episodes on the Network are stuffed with Vince hyping his failed venture into bodybuilding, the World Bodybuilding Federation. He can’t stop talking about the weekly show WBF Bodystars, the WBF magazine, and the upcoming the WBF pay-per-view special (which turned out to be a commercial dud and ultimately spelt the end for the organization). Worst of all, he refers to both his wrestlers and bodybuilders as “100% Grade-A Beef” which makes me vomit just thinking about it. Note to anyone: referring to any appendage on your body as any sort of meat is disgusting. Seriously, I get grossed out when dudes on Grindr refer to their piece as “beef.” It’s just not a good look. Interestingly enough, a few of the articles in the WBF magazine talk about the dangers of steroids, which feels like Vince desperately trying to deflect attention of himself. This also marks the beginning of the ICOPRO era and to be honest, all these years later, I still don’t know what the fuck Vince was thinking if he believed the kids in the audience would’ve cared about creatine.

Unscripted Promos

Each episode features cuts to the Event Center hosted by Sean Mooney, where the superstars give promos on their feuds, grudges, house show programs, plans to challenge Bush Sr. and Clinton in the presidential election, etc. The magic of these promos, outside of the excellent characterized green-screen backgrounds, is how unscripted and ad-libbed they are. In a time where superstars are now force fed lines from TV writers, there’s something about this approach that feels so refreshing in contrast. Truthfully, a lot of what comes out of these guys’ mouths is nonsense but, in a way, that’s precisely why it comes off more realistic. If a reporter held a mic to Tom Brady right after his umpteenth Super Bowl win, chances are that he’s not gonna give this five-star, ultra-rehearsed promo. He’ll probably ramble on a bit, give a vaguely satisfying answer, and move on. The characters and storylines are still campy as hell, but still feels like something within the realm of real-time sports. That’s exactly how this era works best.

The Fan Reaction Shots Are Everything

These episodes also unintentionally serve as audiovisual evidence of what human beings in 1992 looked like, in case you didn’t know. As with anything in the early ‘90s, there’s a lot in terms of fashion that still makes everything look like the ‘80s. The hair is still pretty big and teased out, the neon is bright and unrelenting, and you’re bound to find a few dads in the crowd with some pretty thick mustaches (and if there’s isn’t a mustache, you can except some thick-rimmed glasses instead). Crowd reaction shots are an underrated aspect of getting an angle or character to over to the audience. A more modern example would be that shocked, hapless Edvar Munch painting of a man when the Undertaker lost at WrestleMania 30. Here is no exception. I particularly love the shots of terrified children when Papa Shango walks down the aisle, most notably an adorable little red-headed child who looks like he just saw a ghost.  

Cartoon Violence! Cartoon Violence Everywhere!

At some point during the early ‘90s, the WWF had successfully captured the feel of a darkly humorous comic book, and these episodes boast plenty of it. The Berzerker tries to stab The Undertaker with a viking sword! Rick Martel stealing Tatanka’s feathers and blinding him with cologne! The Repo Man hanging the British Bulldog! The Mountie shocking Sgt. Slaughter with a jumbo-sized shock stick! What makes these angles so fun is that they’re completely ridiculous yet manage to stay true to the characters. Of course The Repo Man wouldn’t just use a steel chair or any other ringside weapon on the Bulldog. Of course The Model would try to maim Tatanka while also promoting his signature fragrance. Sure, Lou Thesz wouldn’t have liked it, but you can’t deny it sells the characters to the audience pretty well.

The Papa Shango/The Ultimate Warrior Saga

 And speaking of a darkly humorous comic book, the Papa Shango/Ultimate Warrior feud is perhaps the most infamous of this particular era in Looney Tunes hijinks. As you may know, this involved Shango putting a curse on the Warrior, which later caused the Warrior to spew green vomit Exorcist-style and have black goo drip out of his head. A visual feast, indeed. The craziest part is that none of this resulted in a huge blowoff on TV, which would be considered a cardinal sin in today’s climate. It was instead used to promote house matches between the two. Maybe they thought people in Fort Wayne, Indiana or wherever the fuck would attend their shows hoping Warrior would puke all over them? I don’t know, but I can’t help but the feel all of this was supposed to be some sort of artistic statement. Was this commentary on our collective ennui? A hard look at the appropriation of Haitian voodoo in pop culture? An obscure nod to the then-recent fall of the Soviet Union? Send me your thesis papers, grad students!

The Big Bossman Deserved to Get His Ass Kicked

The Bossman/Nailz feud has aged poorly. It was easier for viewers to gobble up the narrative the WWF were trying to sell back in 1992 but we, in 2019, know better due to the shift in rhetoric surrounding law enforcement and the abuse of power that system can often breed. If you’re not familiar, promos began to air in the spring of ’92 where a mysterious voice accused the Big Bossman of abusing him when he was in prison. The man later turned out to be Nailz, who then attacked the Bossman on an episode of Superstars and gave him an absolutely brutal thrashing. 

And the Bossman deserved it. You see, for as much as Vince McMahon tried selling the Bossman’s innocence, there’s plenty of evidence supporting Nailz’ allegations. From day 1 of his WWF tenure, the Bossman loved to beat poor, defenseless jobbers with his nightstick and handcuff them to the ropes, even when he turned into a happy, smiley babyface. In fact, right before Nailz beats him up, he can be seen taking his anger out on a barely conscious jobber. It’s not that much of a stretch to believe he did the same to several of his inmates in Cobb County. And don’t even get me started on the Confederate flag on the Bossman’s sleeve, or else this post will take a seriously dark turn on the extent of his brutality and prejudice. When you consider all of that, is there any surprise this is the same man who killed Al Snow’s dog and crashed the funeral for Big Show’s dad later in the Attitude Era?

The Tornado’s Last Spin 

I hate to discuss an even darker topic, but I was so stricken by how these episodes are essentially some of the last recorded moments of Kerry Von Erich’s career and, ultimately, his life. It’s often forgotten that he lingered on in the WWF until August of ’92. He was arrested for forging painkiller prescriptions in February, which led to his suspension from the company. He made his return to the ring two months later and would toil around on the undercard for the next four months before leaving/getting released altogether. It’s next-level tragic to watch him cut promos on repurposing his life toward God and his family, knowing he’s making allusions to all the trouble he’s found himself in. It’s even sadder knowing how much more trouble he’d find himself in before his untimely death, including a possible prison sentence that, had he served fully, wouldn’t have seen him released just a few years ago. 

The Jobbers Are Ugly

This is going to sound mean, but the jobbers on these shows are not attractive men. I mean, seriously, some of these dudes look like they just got off their shift at the local liquor store before they hit the arena for their scheduled thrashing. I do wonder how much of this was a deliberate choice by the bookers themselves. You need guys who are going to make Nailz and Sgt. Slaughter look appealing by comparison because that only enhances their star power. The lone exception to this rule is Ron Cumberledge, who would be classified as a hunk in any decade. A true renaissance journey man.

Squash Matches Galore

Even if you’re only slightly familiar with the WWF’s old syndicated weekend shows, you’d know most of the matches were these quick squashes where a superstar would easily trounce one of the jobbers I discussed previously. Matches between name superstars would only happen occasionally on TV, as it this was still an era where those were kept to draw buys to pay-per-views and house shows. While it would be highly unrealistic for the WWE to just revert back to them 100%, and they still do them on the main roster occasionally, it’s definitely something they’d benefit using more. And don’t just give your top talent squares either. In these episodes, Virgil gets squash matches. The Bushwhackers get squash matches. Repo Man gets squash matches. Obviously none of these guys were key players or anything, but it still gave them TV time and wins under their belt. Imagine if they did that today for, like, No Way Jose or Dana Brooke. It doesn’t seem like much, but it goes a long way in building credibility to your roster.

So that’s that. Or at least for now, anyway. I’ve still got plenty more episodes to watch for 1992, and who knows? Maybe in the future the Network will upload episodes from 1993, 1994, and so on. In the meantime, I’ll go back to chilling out, binge-watching, and daydreaming about Ron Cumberledge.