Toxxic

Brilliant. Or maybe a mix of Rhodes and Hansen? Dress him in polka dots (yes, WWF Rhodes!) and have him lariat the fuck out of people.

If Danny now comes back as a Stan Hansen clone... damn, that'd be awesome. If worrying.

The King of Cambodia, bitch!

Boo for an Aecas no-show. Boo, I say.

Well, on the show, Sly's match rocks. And Flesher's promo was good as well. ...I'm still unsure about the Fictional World Tour. It's all fun and everything, but trying to do a bar promo on, say Tatooine or something will be bizarre. Saying that, you could use the Mos Eisley Cantina.

What I want to know is why there has ever been any problem with Heyman playing a cult leader. Look at the two One Night Stands. Heyman IS a cult leader.

We get the shows just over a week later in the UK - I taped Impact last night and will watch it today, so I've only seen a couple of the Nash/Shelley shows. However, what I've seen so far has been promising. My only worry is that the last match I saw was Lethal vs Shelley where Nash accidentally cost Shelley the match. I worry that the focus will move onto Nash vs the X-Division and Shelley will get jobbed out in the process. However, I'm with the Shelley = new Jericho argument. I'd say he is more talented in the ring and just as entertaining out of it, and I think very highly of Jericho.

Well, I don't know about the rest of you, but I sure feel chastised.

Tom has a point. And Sly, you leave me out of this.

“So she din’t say what it was then?” Amy asks as she helps her brother get their bags out of the car. They’re at one of the large, soulless motels that litter the landscape of much of the so-called ‘developed’ world and it’s late at night; the parking lot is lit by the acrid neon lights overhead that tinge everything an unhealthy orange-yellow. “No,” Michael replies heavily, grunting as he heaves his black holdall out of the car’s trunk. “Bout as much use as she ever was then, innit.” Amy sniffs, hauling her own rucksack out and swinging it onto her back. “Look, I know you didn’t like her-” “Too fuckin’ right I din’t! Up-herself bloody cow!” Amy proclaims. “You only met her once,” Mike snaps, grabbing the last bag and thinking back to the autumn of 2004 when the SWF had travelled to England for Ashes 2 Ashes. Jet had come with him to meet his parents and sister - Sacred, Sean Davis and Spike had been left in Nottingham to amuse themselves - and while his parents had seemed remarkably amenable to the out-spoken, out-going, heavily pierced and flamboyantly-dreadlocked girl introduced to them as Naomi, Amy had been rather more hostile. As the only member of the family who still watched her brother’s exploits on TV (his parents had avoided it after seeing the bloodbath that was Toxxic vs. Aecas at From The Fire, and had therefore missed out on his subsequent fall from favour with the fans) she’d already had plenty of time to form an opinion, and didn’t hesitate to make that opinion known. “More’n enough, believe me,” Amy says. “But anyway, what’s the fuckin’ point of givin’ you a warnin’ about somefing if she ain’t gonna tell you what it is, ya get me?” “Well, at least it’s something,” Michael replies reasonably, “I mean, it’s not like her not to tell me flat out, but-” He stops. He stares. “But what?” Amy says, looking first at her brother, then at the place where he’s staring. This appears to be a couple of articulated lorries some thirty yards away in the parking lot, and seeing nothing there she looks back at Mike again. This time, she notices what it is about him that looks odd. It’s difficult to tell under the neon lights, but she could swear that her brother has gone far, far whiter than even his usual pallid shade. “Mike, what-” “Sssshhh…” He doesn’t even look at her. The only acknowledgement of her presence is one black-nailed finger raised as a warning against any further noise. Everything about Michael Stephens is concentrated on that one spot. He’s listening. His eyes flicker left. And right. It’s almost as if he’s scared to move his head in case it makes a sound that might mask something he’s listening for. Or attract attention. Cautiously, bending carefully at the knees, Mike places his black holdall and the other bag on the tarmac surface of the parking lot, then starts to very carefully, very quietly walk forwards. He doesn’t look back. The SWF World Heavyweight Title is in that black holdall, the biggest prize in the business. A prize he’s fought for, a prize he’s bled for, a prize that he never normally lets out of his sight. And her brother is walking away from it without looking back. Something, Amy decides, is seriously wrong here. “Mike…” she hisses, trying to attract his attention and at least get him to tell her what’s going on, but he ignores her. Swearing under her breath, Amy places her own bags carefully on the ground and hurries after him. She always could move more quietly than her brother. She catches up with him just as he reaches the lorries. He pauses to glance back at her for a split-second, lips pressed tight, then motions for her to stay behind him. There’s nothing on this side of the first lorry. Mike looks up into the cab, then over at the cab of the second. Nothing. “Mike, what-” “Ssh!” Her brother suddenly falls forward, landing on his fingertips and cushioning the fall as if about to start the press-ups he does every morning and evening. She realises after a second that he’s looking underneath the two vehicles, presumably checking to see if there’s anyone hiding beneath. Apparently there isn’t, because he pushes himself up again, absent-mindedly brushing small specks of gravel from his hands. Slowly, he edges around the front of the first lorry with a bewildered Amy in tow, looking down the shadowy space between them. Nothing. It’s only after they’ve made a complete circuit of the two lorries that Mike seems to relax. He puffs his cheeks out and lets out a small laugh, presumably at himself. He still doesn’t seem quite right though; Amy sees him chewing at his lip and in the stillness of the night air she can hear a faint *click… click… click* as he cycles through the knuckles of his right hand, squeezing and cracking them in turn. She can’t remember him doing that since they were much younger. “I must be imagining things…” the SWF World Champion mutters ruefully, then turns to head back towards their pile of abandoned bags. “Come on Ames, let’s get indoors.” “What, an’ you’re jus’ gonna walk off now?” Amy says incredulously, hurrying to keep up with her brother’s insistent pace, “d’you mind tellin’ me what the fuck that was all about?” “I thought I saw someone,” Mike replies, not looking back at her. Or the lorries. “You thought you saw someone?” Amy repeats incredulously, then her brows furrow. “’ang on a minute - didja think you saw someone, as in just any ol’ someone, or didja think you saw someone, as in someone specific, as in someone that you’re worried about an’ I should be too?” She quickens her step a fraction and gets in front of her brother just as they reach their bags. “As in, someone who might jus’ be what that bint warned you about?” “As in, I thought I saw someone, I was wrong, there was no-one there, and let’s get inside the bloody motel,” Mike growls, pushing past her and picking his stuff up. “It’s bad enough I’m jumping at bloody shadows without you cooking up some sort of conspiracy theory with it.” He sighs, and continues in a slightly more reasonable tone, “look, I’m tired, it’s been a stressful couple of weeks, and yes, what Naomi told me earlier is probably worrying me a bit. Just leave it at that.” Amy nods, but can’t help herself but turn back and look at the two lorries as she follows her brother towards the motel. They look as innocent as anything that casts large shadows in a neon-lit parking lot can. * * * Once the Stephens siblings are inside the motel a shape detaches itself from the roof of one of the trailers and moves with careful deliberation and in near-silence to descend down the little service ladder, put there for those occasions when someone may need to get on top of the trailer. Mike did look up several times when circling the lorries, but he never thought to actually climb up and take a peek. If he had, he might have got a surprise. Or then again, he might not. It all depends what he allowed himself to believe. * * * At 3am, Michael Stephens is looking out of the window of his motel room again. He hasn’t slept yet. Was it him? If it was him, the only reason I saw him was because he let me. Because he wanted me to see him. But why would he want me to see him? He’s got to know I’m not scared of him. Am I? Hell, I might not have seen anything. Part of the reason we stopped here was because I was tired and my eyes were getting blurry anyway. I could have imagined it all. Maybe there was nothing there after all. Maybe I didn’t see anyone. But if I did see someone… Was it him?

A good point, WC. Maybe it should be changed to a submission vs sandwich match so that Jimmy has at least a chance of winning. Then again, it's well-known that Flesher is a dick so maybe Jimmy won't mind feeding him a sandwich. We'll just have to wait for Drea's perspective on it all.

Christ, that boy likes his word limits doesn't he? And yeah, a typo - MANSON needs to be capitalised now! Only full caps can contain him!

I knew there was a reason I got a title shot.

I love the fact that we can have conversations like this in this fed. For all the neck-snapping, bone-breaking seriousness and the fact that some of us (particularly me) can get really pissy when we lose, we still have matches where a (kayfabe-wise) midcard Jobber To The Stars can disintegrate, decapitate, dismember or otherwise destroy whoever he's in the ring with at the time. AND NONE OF US THINK IT'S ODD ANYMORE.

Yeah, happy birthday Landon. Whoop.

Mid-2004, when he was writing a match against someone (I can't remember who, possibly Clark). Manson wrote a couple of thousand words of a normal match, ran out of time and tacked on a finish where laser eye beams shot out of his head and destroyed his opponent with the power of MANSONOSITY. Suicide King, who was marking, didn't put it over the full-length match written by his opponent but still thought that it was great and encouraged Manson to post the losing match for all to see. And so the legend of MANSONOSITY, and Manson's cult status in the fed, came to be.

Then if you really thought it was so bad, my suggestion would be you take it up with the marker. Flesher and Grappler (incidentally, two of the best writers we've ever had) are perfectly entitled to write an entire match of themselves slapping you about the face with a haddock if they want - however if that match wins, you should be questioning the marker. Besides, Grappler's matches almost always contain stupidity of one sort or another. Just be grateful you weren't facing the Masked Man.

J3 already explained to me that Mount Doom is necessary, due to your entrance music.

The Eel is gold.

I know none of them.

Sadly, I don't have broadband. Still, 10pm on Sunday night shouldn't be TOO bad. As long as it doesn't clash with a Wrestling Channel supercard show like the TNA PPVs.

Anyone know what channel, if any, is carrying ECW, and when? EDIT: Now I see that it's replacing Velocity internationally. Which means that we'll get it SUNDAY MORNING. Goddamn, that's going to be a lot of stuff cut out.

I don't like matches where big Japanese men chop each other, no-sell and scream, then chop back for half an hour, hold each other in a rear chinlock for five minutes to get their breath back, then drop each other on their heads before getting up and doing it again before everyone falls down exhausted after suitably masturbating their machismo. Call me miserable, but I prefer entertainment. Give me the NOAH juniors any day.

Looking good so far, but where's the rest?

I know we're invading there, I just wondered if they're going to invade here much.