Toshiaki Koala

I'm a freedom-hating commie bastard, as I've always suspected.

...and one of the reasons for my recent squashage. I promise I won't suck as much when the month of May is over. Honest!

What about Terry Funk's book? Has anyone read this yet?

I almost made a reference to Snitsky when I heard that line, but nobody in the room would have understood it. On a somewhat related note, does anybody else think of Bull Buchanan whenever Bill Buchanan's name is mentioned? I know I do. Hmmm... perhaps the seemingly-incompetent VP is actually the head of the terrorist conspiracy. I mean, it's a given that evil white people are behind it as usual, and with what's happened so far in this season I wouldn't put it past them...

Our match at Battleground was illegitimate? Or does this imply that a third party was involved...? Anyway, so far I have yet to write a match that I would want people to read again. Although the desert island encounter with Lil' Buck was getting real spiffy until the run-in by Starcraft... EDIT: I think I misunderstood the meaning of "co-written" in this post. But in case I didn't, no text shall be deleted.

Hmmm... other people's matches aren't super-long too! That is heartening. As for my wordcount... No. It's just too embarassing.

I guess I'm not exactly a booking genius.

Due for what? Not to say that Pretzler isn't a good writer, because he is, or that he can't win, because he can, but why is he "due?" Because I've had the belt for two whole weeks? Have I been holding him down in some way? Due to finally win a goddamn match. With one exception, every match I've been in lately has been a loss, whether by no-show or just not writing something that was very good. And Ejiro almost beat me. I'm sure that's not what he meant... but that's how I see it. Not that I'm complaining. Everybody loses.

Although I had many free hours during the week, I made the brilliant mistake of not starting this match until around 8:00 Thursday night. I figured it would be OK, though, as I always seem to get things done no matter how much I procrastinate. I came home on Friday, and my brother, of course, was playing one those stupid online strategy games... but I didn't say anything, because I knew I'd be able to get an extension. I've never been denied one *before.* Needless to say, I forgot that Dace lived in a different time zone, and that 8:00 for me is for him one in the morning. Upon hearing my request, he promptly went to bed. So this is the match I didn't send. While it's not overtly 'good,' I think it's fun enough to warrant placement in this thread. There is a gaping hole in the middle portion, indicated by a large blank space, that would probably be filled by many backbreakers and tree spots. Yes, tree spots. ----- “Our next match, ladies and gentlemen,” Longdogger Pete begins, “should be a bit of a curiosity. To say the least.” As the camera zooms away from the booth and pans to show the reaction of the crowd, it’s clear that we have moved to a different part of the “arena.” The seats have been arranged in a circular pattern as usual; only now, they surround not the forest floor but a medium-sized pond with an island in the middle. Large speakers have been interspersed throughout the front row, where the commentary booth is also located, and floodlights cast their illumination toward the middle of the pond. The island itself is small, irregularly shaped, and about ten feet in diameter. It is almost bare except for a layer of grass, some rocks, and a sapling near one of its edges. The only living being present is non-native species Red Herrington. Above the buzz of the audience, a helicopter can be faintly heard. “It should indeed,” King continues. “After suffering a devastating loss to the Wildchild that robbed him of his Cruiserweight Championship, Scott Pretzler is out for blood. He’ll get a chance to improve his record tonight when he takes on the charismatic hip-hopper Lil’ Buck, fresh off a victory on Smarkdown. Still, you’ve got to think this will be easy pickings for the Critic.” “What do you mean? If anything, Pretzler’s in over his head tonight. In short time, Lil’ Buck has proven himself to be one of the toughest and most dangerous men in the SWF. Scott Pretzler thrives in a controlled environment, where rules are in place… the exact opposite of what we’re about to see.” … “The following contest is a Butte Death Match scheduled for ONE FALL!” The booming yet distorted voice of Funyon echoes across the pond. At first, it is unclear where the voice is coming from, until the helicopter finally floats into view. The ring announcer is standing in the open side door of the craft, bullhorn in hand. “In this match, the two competitors will be placed on the island before you. The first person to force his opponent into the water will be declared THE WINNER!” The speakers suddenly come alive with the urban beats of Crime Mob’s “Knuck If You Buck.” The helicopter has now reached a position directly above the island, and an imposing figure is visible in the doorway. Pimp cup in hand, Lil’ Buck crosses his arms and stares down at the crowd with street-honed snarl of a true gangsta. “Introducing first, from Lannet, Alabama, weighing two hundred seventy pounds… LIL’ BUCK!” A dazzling glint of light flashes momentarily on his face as one of the floodlights reflects off his crunk teeth. He raises the pimp cup to his lips and drains its contents, and the substance that dribbles down his chin is definitely not orange juice. He turns and nods. Then he begins to descend from the helicopter, supported by a cable attached to a harness at his waist. He draws a mixed reaction; many cheer him on while others are intimidated into silence. When he touches down, he removes the harness and gives the thumbs-up to the helicopter squad, who reel the cable back in. “You know, Pete, I hadn’t even heard of crunk music until this guy showed up.” “Well,” Pete responds, “you’re not exactly what one might call hip.” “What does ‘crunk’ mean, anyway? Is it the past participle of ‘crank’ in some long-forgotten dialect?” “Maybe you ought to ask him yourself.” “Oh, I know! You get it by combining the words ‘crap’ and ‘junk.’” “As I said, don’t ask me…” Suddenly, the tone shifts as the rap song is replaced by the cultured, harmonious notes of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Scott Pretzler appears at the door of the copter, and he wastes no time leaping out into the evening air after making sure his harness is secure. He wears an expression of absolute seriousness. BOOOOOOO! “And his opponent, from Toronto, Ontario, weighing two hundred twenty six pounds… ‘THE CRITIC’ SCOTT PRETZLER!” Pretzler places his hands on his hips as he descends in an effort to appear composed, but nobody is fooled. He is on edge. And as hard as he tries, he cannot keep the bloodlust from burning in his eyes. Upon touching down, he proceeds to unbuckle his… WHAP! Without warning, a hard left connects with his jaw. He is thrown off balance but does not hit the ground – instead, the harness’ support causes his rear end to dangle inches above the grass. Lil’ Buck grabs hold of the harness and forcefully yanks him to his feet, then takes the cable and attempts to wind it around his neck. Pretzler thrashes wildly, not willing to be Bossman’d, and referee Herrington quickly moves in to separate them. Across the water, a bell rings. After being rebuffed several times, Herrington succeeds in breaking Buck’s hold on the cable. He restrains the crunkster, who, after calming down, grins and nods at the audience. YEEEAAAHHH! Pretzler is enraged. He will not, however, allow this to degenerate into a street brawl – tat would be letting his opponent win long before the final bell. Instead, he crouches and extends a tentative right hand, hoping to initiate a test of strength. Lil’ Buck stares at him with incredulity. After a show of disrespect like that, Pretzler should be returning the beef, not reaching out to hold his hand like a sissy schoolgirl. He points and laughs. “Look at this crazy ni–” WHAM! Returning the favor, Pretzler rams a hard elbow into the face of the gloating rapper. Buck responds with another southpaw jab, and Pretzler fires off a second elbow! “And it’s on!” shouts Pete. “I feel bad for Scott,” King whines. “He’s always getting attacked before the bell!” Pretzler tries to grab Buck by the hair in order to add force to his elbow strikes, but his hand merely brushes over his opponent’s Astro Turf-like stubble. Buck takes the opportunity to deliver a hard knee to the gut before lifting Pretzler up in position for a bodyslam. As the Canadian struggles, Lil’ Buck marches toward the shore of the island. “This could be over fast,” says Pete. “Just hit him in the balls!” urges King. In his upside-down position, Pretzler has very few options and very little time, so he targets the area of Buck’s body most readily available… the legs. Clenching his right fist, he brings the arm down hard against Buck’s kneecap, causing the rapper to cry out. He releases Pretzler, who falls onto his back dangerously close to the water’s edge. The Critic climbs to his feet and performs a tuck-and-roll to bring himself back into the center of the island. Buck rotates to face him, but Pretzler does not attack upon reaching a vertical base. Instead, he holds out his hands in a placating gesture and begins to speak. “Okay, look. I’m really not in the mood for this crap, but I think it would be best if we made this a clean contest. Are you familiar with the basics of amateur wrestling?” Lil’ Buck again watches him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. He crosses his arms, causing his muscles to bulge with even greater menace. The tattooed words “Dirty South” are now spelled out with clarity on his forearms. “I take that as a ‘no.’ I’m not surprised. Since you…” “…You gonna hit me, bitch?” “…Since you seem like a brutish fellow, I’ll let you start on top.” Pretzler descends to his hands and knees and beckons Lil’ Buck to come behind him. The King of Crunk is not easily persuaded. ”I don’t swing that way, homie.” Lil’ Buck quickly tires of this nonsense and moves in to kick Pretzler in the ribs; the young mat marvel, however, reacts more speedily, darting to the side and tackling Buck by the legs. As he shifts his weight upward, Pretzler trips his opponent so that he is now crouched above him. He floats over Buck’s downed body until he reaches the head, then applies a grounded front headlock. Tightening it, he rocks back onto his feet and jerks Buck up so he is at the same level as Pretzler’s hip. Then, digging his left thigh into his opponent’s side, he flips the rapper over his leg and back down into a more secure headlock. Buck’s face gains a rosy complexion as the pressure of the hold increases. He stretches out an arm and tries to turn toward Pretzler, but there is too much leverage on that side. Twisting in the other direction could expose him to a possible chokehold. BOOOORING! BOOOORING! “This is not,” Pete complains, “what people expect to see when they heard the name ‘Butte Death Match.’” “Because it’s not gay porn?” asks King, finally making the obvious joke. Buck again twists his body inward; only this time, he uses his right arm to reach over and bash Pretzler in the side of the head. The hold weakens, and Pretzler suddenly releases it altogether. As Buck sits up, Pretzler abruptly stands before coming down again with a low dropkick to the back of his neck. Buck rolls over clutching his head, and Pretzler moves in for the instinctual cover… only to be reminded that there are no pinfalls in a Butte Death Match! Undaunted, the Revolution Zero member merely makes a minor strategy adjustment – rather then pinning him, he begins to roll his opponent in the direction of the shallows! BOOOOOOO! It’s far too early for that plan to work, as the bulky hip-hopper buries an elbow in the grass to stabilize himself, bringing the rolling to an immediate halt. He then leans in the other direction to face Pretzler and punches him hard in the gut. Although he’s a southpaw, the massive strength behind the right-handed blow is more than enough to send Scott reeling. Pretzler stands and Buck rises to a squat… …before exploding upward with a forearm to the cruiserweight’s jaw! YEEEEAAAAHHHH! Pretzler’s Chin is Checked and he stumbles back before collapsing on the loamy earth. Buck pumps his fist into the air, drawing another round of cheers, before continuing his return to the offensive. He walks briskly over to where Pretzler is laying and bitchslaps him. Hard. The grimace is wiped off his face and replaced by a look of shock – the expression doesn’t remain very long, though, as Lil’ Buck grabs him by the shoulder and heaves him onto his stomach. He stiffens, and the Alabama Gangsta takes a firm hold on his neck; with both hands tight around Pretzler’s windpipe, he slams the Canadian’s head repeatedly into the ground, each time causing dust to fly and a cringe-inducing thud to rise into the cool Butte air. Pretzler gasps, wheezes, and spits up dirt as his limbs flap helplessly. Red Herrington stands by, his only purpose being to determine which man first touches the water. “This is sick! This… this isn’t even a wrestling match!” King hollers. Not satisfied with inducing brain damage, Buck seizes his opponent by the hair and jerks his head up, allowing everyone to see the mask of pain and humiliation. He grins as he surveys the crowd. Then he looks back down at Pretzler. Spits. Pushes his face into the dirt. YEEEAAAHHH! He rubs Pretzler’s face in the rocky soil, grinding it, grating it, until the flesh begins to burn and chafe. Holding him down by the neck with his right hand, he uses the left to deliver a round of hard punches to the back of the head. WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP! Pretzler spits and chokes. He pushes up with his forearms in an attempt to regain some leverage, but it’s of no use, as the rapper violently shoves him back down. Rolling him over again, Buck begins to rain blows upon his face. A vicious one to the jaw makes an especially unpleasant noise. “Lil’ Buck knows that if he can knock Pretzler unconscious, it will be no problem at all to dump him in the water,” Pete points out. “He also seems to be targeting the neck after that idiot Wildchild dropped him in on it so many times. Damn it.” The real implications of this are now visible as Buck drags the battered Pretzler to his feet. Dropping him again with a forearm to the back, he turns around so his rear his facing Pretzler’s head. He reaches behind himself and hooks Pretzler’s left arm… …and Pretzler immediately uses the other arm to push himself away from Buck with as much force as he can manage. Buck stumbles a few feet before whirling to face Pretzler again, and the Critic stands there catching his breath – and aghast, because the move Lil’ Buck just attempted was none other than the Buck Wild Ride… “…The move that defeated Pretzler on not one but two occasions. The only move ever to have resulted in a pinfall over him.” King’s voice is laced with dread. Realizing the severity of his predicament, Pretzler is filled with a newfound urgency to win. He charges, apparently going for a shoulderblock – but as Lil’ Buck swings with a lariat, he ducks under it and ends up behind the crunk artist. He applies a vise-like waistlock and heaves Buck onto his shoulders. Hoping to backdrop him into the pond, he succeeds only in staggering back several inches before collapsing under his opponent’s weight. He still manages to execute the move, however, and he does so more than competently; Buck lands stiffly on his shoulder blades and groans in pain. Pretzler lies on the grass, his wind still returning, and when he has caught his breath he turns over and pushes Buck onto his stomach. He stands, using his arms to assist him by leaning against Buck, and upon standing he performs a brief handstand before dropping down into a kneedrop on the heavyweight’s spine! Buck cries out and turns onto his side, reaching out an arm to trip Pretzler – but the Critic hops over the arm and behind Buck, then delivers a sliding knee attack to his back. Some painful friction results due to the uneven surface, but Pretzler hardly notices it; instead, he dedicates himself to driving several penetrating elbows into the vertebrae of his opponent. From his position, he can see only Buck’s back… …and is therefore caught off guard when the southerner turns over and bashes him in the face with a freshly-uprooted chunk of granite! YEEEAAAHHH! Pretzler falls back, his forehead throbbing where it was struck, and Buck drags him to his feet before clubbing a second time. The crowd leaps to its feet in support. CRUNK HIM UP! CRUNK HIM UP! Throwing up his forearms in defense, Pretzler does his best to weather the barrage, but Lil’ Buck now grasps the rock with both hands and buries it in the Canadian’s gut. He doubles over and Buck applies a front facelock. “Oh, my God… did Lil’ Buck just use a wrestling move?” King gasps. Not exactly. With the facelock in place, Buck uses a modification of his traditional strategy: instead of bringing his forearm down upon Pretzler’s head, he uses the rock, adding considerable force to his blows. At the same time, he uses his knee to bore a hole in his ribs. Pretzler himself punches as hard as he can at Lil’ Buck’s stomach, hoping desperately that the rapper will release the hold or at least falter and provide an opening. But his strikes have little effect from such a compromising position. A last brutal swing topples him. Once he falls, Buck begins to roll him toward the water. CRUNK HIM UP! CRUNK HIM UP! His attempt is met with mighty resistance, as Pretzler claws at the ground, buries his feet in the soil, does whatever he can to avoid being dunked. He presses himself flat against the ground. Hugs it as if it were his mother’s bosom. Once more, Lil’ Buck turns so that his rear is facing the crouched form of Scott Pretzler. He reaches back and hooks Pretzler’s arms with his own. He grins, the shine of his crunk teeth undiminished by the thin sheen of blood that coats his mouth. CRUNK HIM UP! CRUNK HIM UP! “Here it comes!” Pete exclaims. “Pretzler has never kicked of this move!” With a grunt, Buck attempts to twist his own body sideways in order to reverse their position and place Pretzler on his back. Pretzler fights it furiously. He throws his legs out from under himself, splaying his body out and making it impossible for Buck to lift him. But Lil’ Buck is stronger than most wrestlers, and he leans forward, gradually pulling Pretzler to a semi-vertical base. Pretzler continues to strain. He manages again to extend his legs as far as they will stretch, but it isn’t quite enough. Buck is too strong. So Pretzler headbutts him in the tailbone. Not right in the balls, but close enough. Enough to give Buck pause, and for Pretzler to escape the hold. BOOOOOOO! However, Pretzler is not in great shape himself. Buck’s brutal attacks have done considerable damage above the shoulders, and immediately after delivering the headbutt he steps back and clutches his neck. Giving Buck the chance to move in, boot him in the gut… and reposition him for the Buck Wild Ride! He gives Pretzler no chance to escape, this time twisting immediately to the side so that Pretzler is positioned on his back. YEEEAAAAAHHHHH! But his spine, sore from so many backbreakers, suddenly sends out a needle of pain. Buck flinches, and in that moment Pretzler uses his momentum to continue rolling, this time landing on his feet and freeing himself from Buck’s grip. Already behind his opponent, he moves in and applies a rear facelock, setting Buck up for the Tildebang Driver! “YES!” shouts King. “Kill ‘im dead, Scott!” Having seen what the maneuver can do, Lil’ Buck is in no mood to take the plunge. He reaches up and swings blindly at Pretzler’s jaw… and connects! Pretzler’s hold slackens and Buck whips an elbow back, causing Pretzler to stumble backward… …to within mere inches of the island’s shore! Horrified, he runs forward with renewed ferocity and whips his elbow into Buck’s back. The rap star jars and Pretzler reapplies the front facelock. This time, though, he does not attempt the Tildebang Driver. Having discovered first-hand how close the water is, he lifts Buck into the air… …and drops him in a reverse suplex… SPLASH! RIGHT INTO THE WATER! *DING DING DING!* The bell rings on the other side of the pond as the lower half of Buck’s body crashes down into the shallows. “Here is your winner… ‘THE CRITIC’ SCOTT PRETZLER!” Pretzler sits up, in pain but fully aware of what he has just done. And proud. He stands and referee Herrington raises his arm. “The situation didn’t require it,” says King, “but Scott Pretzler has wrestled his way to victory!” He looks down at the defeated figure of Lil’ Buck. For a moment, he considers walking over and spitting on it. But that would be a show of disrespect. Pretzler is above such vulgar gestures. And besides, he has other things to think about.

*Begins hoarding bribe candy.*

A tall luchador.

For the record, I definitely submitted a match. So as to why nothing has appeared on the show... your guess is as good as mine.

*Manfully resists the tempation to post something dirty in the Smarkdown thread before it gets locked.*

There's always buzz around my match. Unfortunately, it's the buzz of the flies swarming over it like a freshly-released cow pie baking in the springtime sun.

If it gives you any consolation, I literally made myself sick by working so hard on my match. You were a worthy opponent indeed. Anyway, here is the Writer's Cut~! of the early portion of my match. I had to shave 215 words to make the limit, and all 215 were from the entrances and commentary. There's some wacky stuff in here. Enjoy, or whatever. --- “Ladies and gentlemen… the following contest is scheduled for ONE FALL!” Funyon’s booming announcement is suddenly replaced by the Seattle Symphony’s stirring rendition of Beethoven’s Ninth, drawing an instinctual negative response from the audience. The notes of the music flow in perfect harmony, each one its own personality, interacting, intertwining, making love to one another… but Scott Pretzler is oblivious to them as he steps through the curtain. “Introducing first, from Toronto, Ontario, weighing two hundred twenty-six pounds… ‘THE CRITIC’ SCOTT PRRREEEETTZZLLEEEER!” BOOOOOOO! No, Pretzler does not even take the time to pause and absorb the boos as he usually does; he marches straight down to the ring, ascends the steps, and stands awaiting his opponent. He clenches his fists, struggling to force his rage down below the surface and into the reserve where it will later be needed. He shifts anxiously from foot to foot. “You can’t blame Pretzler for feeling frustrated,” observes Longdogger Pete. “Not only did he lose his precious Cruiserweight Championship, but he was also defeated and humiliated by Lil’ Buck in the Butte Death Match last week!” “Pimp cup indeed. That match was designed for Pretzler to lose,” Suicide King spits. “It doesn’t count.” “Nonetheless, he appears to be losing confidence in his abilities.” Pretzler walks to the side of the ring facing the entryway and pulls back on the ropes, testing their flexibility and stretching his own tightly-coiled muscles. He glares out and the stage before suddenly jumping back as it is lit up by… POPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOP! HERE WE ARE! BORN TO BE KINGS! WE’RE THE PRINCES OF THE UNIVERSE! YEAH! “And his opponent, from Sarasota, Florida, weighing two hundred twenty-three pounds… EJIROOOOO FASAAAAAKIIIIIIII!” The machine gun pyrotechnics burst into the air as Ejiro Fasaki jogs onto the ramp in his Number 04 football jersey, drawing a somewhat mixed reaction. Some cheer… YEEEAAAHHH! …While others take part in the familiar chant, one Fasaki has grown most tired of hearing: F-U FASAKI! F-U FASAKI! On his way down to the ring, Fasaki gestures wildly to the crowd, hopping up and down and throwing up his hands, trying to swing the audience in his favor. He slaps hands with the front row on either side of the ramp, and the cheers gradually begin to overpower the negative heat. He leaps onto the apron, spins to face outward, and snaps off a military-style salute; climbing to the middle rope, he again raises his arm into the air before jumping into the ring. He strips off his jersey and tosses it to the timekeeper. “Fasaki has fared considerably better in recent weeks than his opponent,” notes Pete. “In fact, he has yet to suffer defeat since making his return to the SWF.” “Then it will be all the more crushing when he does so tonight. What I don’t understand is why he’s chosen to betray his nature. He used to be such a great competitor, with such a unique approach to winning… now he’s given it up to be like everybody else. Sad.” “Nonetheless, ‘Rule’ is well on his way to becoming a bona-fide legend here in the SWF. A victory over such a man would be an enormous boost for Pretzler’s career.” Pretzler checks to make sure that his knee pads are secure, and Fasaki does the same; both men then jump immediately into a collar-and-elbow tieup. *DING DING DING!*

The selling of the STF... yes, that must have been a bizarre image. I intended for Ejiro to crawl across the mat with Pretzler behind him trying to secure the leg (like when Kurt Angle's opponents attempt to escape the ankle lock), but somehow he ended up carrying Pretzler on his back as though he were a horse. Kind of funny, actually. And it's interesting that you say it was my best piece of writing - a lot of the detail in the entrances and some of the commentary had to be cut to accomodate the word limit. I'll post a Special Edition of the pre-match stuff in the Losing Matches thread so everyone can see just how flowery my writing gets.

Is this whole thread a giant inside joke that flew over my head? 'Cause it don't make no sense.

Baldfaced thievery, Drea. That was my idea! Anyway, not to spoil anything... but Pretzler is gonna be all over this show. Seriously. They just may have to call it the Scott Pretzler Hour of Power. Due to his omnipresence.

Does our fed have a Kevin Nash?

So, can anyone spot me in there? I got spooked pretty quick.

That's not a joke, right? I mean, the Butte Death Match is for real, no? If so... delightful!

I don't have a whole lot to say, as Drea's piercing insight more or less covered all the bases. About my match: Admittedly, I haven't read WC's match yet, but I think I have a pretty good idea as to why I lost. Basically, I wrote a completely illogical finish which disregarded everything that had led up to it for the sake of ending it with a 'big' move. Not to say that WC wouldn't have won either way, but I think it was the retarded finish that really sunk my match - perhaps Mike can specify. Anyway, congrats to WC for winning (and for waiting this long to do it when you could easily have taken the title from me at FTF). And to all the other peeps who won.

Well, it's done. I don't know how I did it, but I wrote a 5,000 word match in two days, most of it in one. Truly a Herculean effort, though I hate to brag. Okay, it's a *little* over 5k. But I'm sure you can forgive me after all that work.

How do I invite myself into a chat?