A Random Retro Promo Repost!

[Guest TheBostonStrangler]

Everyone knows about the famous Carnie promos, but a lot of the newer guys have never really seen them, with the exception of Operation: P.O.O.F.N.A.R. This is one that I thought never got the respect it truly deserved. It was the opening promo for IGNWF Storm on Feburary 8, 2002. It's good stuff. Take a look.

 

 

 

 

 

First, there was nothing.

 

Then, there was the IGNWF.

 

With a tremendous explosion, the pyros go up on the MGM Grand Garden Arena, sold out and jumpin’, jivin’, and wailin’ like Brian Setzer on PCP! You know why they’re doing all these crazy vaguely swingish-big-and-drugtastic roars and cheers? It’s because IGNWF Storm is on its way!

 

“Welcome to Sin City herself, lovely Las Vegas, for another high-stakes show of IGNWF Storm! I’m Curry Man,” quoth the spicy play-by-play man, “and this is…this is…Nathaniel, what the hell are you doing?”

 

“Trying to buy a, uh, escort, for, uh, after the show…”

 

“We’re live, for god’s sakes! And…uh…that’s definitely a…uh, NTD, old friend, I’m not quite sure how to tell you this…but I’m pretty sure that’s a man that just happens to be wearing a mini-skirt and fishnet stockings…”

 

“Oh, I know,” reasserts NTD, waving down ‘Candy.’

 

“…oh yeah.” Curry realizes that this is NTD we’re talking about, and then realizes that, yes Virginia, there is a camera still on him! “We’ve got a loaded card for you tonight, folks, with title defenses a go-go! The Suicide King makes his first World Heavyweight Title defense against…Jay Dawg? What the hell? Well, in any case, it’s SK versus JD at the top of the hour! Tonight’s main event pits the King’s former friends, tag champs Edwin MacPhisto and Mark Stevens against the Clan, titles on the line! And our first match tonight pits the wonder from down under, Sacred, against the living legend, Rane, in a U.S. Title match! I can’t believe how stacked this show is!”

 

“It’s almost as stacked as Candy, Curry!” shouts NTD, cooing delightedly at his potential love-muffin. “And you didn’t even mention the 3 fall hardcore war between Perfect Bo and Neilsen of MY Jungle! Oo, I’m getting’ tingly just thinkin’ about it, yes I am…”

 

“And thanks for reminding me, NTD—we’re also going to see The Prophet, the wife-abducting trash-talking sucker in a cloak finally meet his match, if there’s any justice in this world! He’ll be battling an opponent of Commissioner Stubby P. McWeed’s choosing out on the Vegas Strip in an unsanctioned streetfight, if he accepts the challenge.” Curry pauses for a moment. “You know, NTD, the more I think about it, the more this Prophet reminds me a bit of…”

 

“What’s wrong, motherf**ker, you were a man, just a minute ago…”

 

The heavy beat of “You Were” cuts Curry of mid-sentence, and the lights in the arena drop out as a quartet of barely silhouetted figures step out onto the entrance stage, each man wrapped in thick and heavy black robes. “And we’re starting the show off with perhaps the most dominant stable to pass through the IGNWF in the last few months—The Supaido-Kuma, better known as The Clan!” The crowd is on its feet, hot with rage at the unappreciative fan-loathing bastards: the burly and imposing Hardcore Champion, the Boston Strangler; the most dominant Light Heavyweight Champion of all time, the Nuclear Weapon, Fallout; the ICTV champ and lethal Balancer, Thoth; and finally the leader and chief sadist of the Clan, the Reaper himself, Spider Nekura…

 

“Here come those sexy boys in their cute robes—no, Candy! Don’t run away! You’re cute too! I—I—god dammit, I always screw these things up!” The Clan makes it way to the ring, all the men staring straight ahead, their eyes focused on the ring, with the exception of the Boston Strangler, who jawjacks fans over the guard rail and trash talks a few scattered fans in St. Louis Rams jerseys.

 

“Looks like the Strangler hasn’t quite come to be totally apathetic to the fans like the other more veteran Clan members…Mr. New England over there still loves a good ripping on some poor soul—you folks should have seen him at the house shows last weekend! He was stealing pretzels from kids in the front row…I mean, that’s really about as low as you can get, folks.” As Curry rails on, the Clan members make it into the ring, each man taking a turnbuckle to pose on while Funyon stammers and struggles with the microphone, clearly a bit intimidated by this sudden presence…

 

“N-now in the r-ring…weighing in at…uh…uh…” And with a quick rip of feedback, Thoth snatches the microphone from Funyon and brings it to his own snarling lips.

 

“If you think for a second that we’re out here to get a reaction out of you…worms,” he spits, feeling unclean even for deigning to address the crowd, “then you’re infinitely wrong.” The roar of boos is deafening, but Thoth continues to speak as the Boston Strangler points out an irate fan and makes a slow throat-cutting gesture in the upstart’s general direction, quickly quieting him. “We’ve simply come out here tonight to show you the three pieces of IGN Wrestling Federation gold we already carry, and remind you all that tonight, you will see the Reaper, Spider Nekura”—Thoth extends his hand towards Spider—“and myself take the tag team championships from…your precious, precious heroes, the…”

 

“CAR-NIES! CAR-NIES! CAR-NIES!”

 

“Listen to the support, NTD!” shouts Curry over the din of the crowd! “Thoth’s not even spoken their name, and the crowd’s already going berserk for the tag team champions!”

 

“Quiet, wretches,” sneers Thoth.

 

The crowd gets louder, and Thoth’s left eye twitches a bit.

 

“I said…quiet…”

 

Now, the right eye takes a little twitch.

 

“Silence yourselves…or…I will slice…every…last…one…of your thr--”

 

“Why don’t you all shut your GOD-DAMN MOUTHS?” shouts the Boston Strangler, the heavy of the Clan, snatching the microphone out of Thoth’s hands before the Balancer loses all control. “We come out here—me, the HARDCORE GAMER’S CHAMPION, the man who DECIMATED Munich last week!”

 

“That’s a lie, NTD!” cries Curry! “Strangler only held onto his title because the time ran out on the ironman match just as Munich had the decisive fall!”

 

“Them’s the breaks, spicedrop! Kyah ha ha!”

 

“Then you’ve got Fallout, the most DOMINANT Lightheavyweight champion ever—the man who’s torn through Mistress Sarah, through Xstasy, through Mercury, through every damn cruiserweight the Commish can throw at him. Then there’s Thoth—you dare disrespect the Balancer, you little sh*ts? You heard him! He’ll cut your throat! You’ll be choking more than Kurt Warner! Go Pats, by the way…and then there’s Spider Nekura, the leader of the clan, and--” Suddenly, a strange staticky crackle wobbles into the arena, and Strangler keeps talking…

 

“and he’s a very sensitive man!” And a very confused Strangler cocks his head and stares at the microphone, dumbfounded by the vaguely fey British voice that seems to have replaced his own. He starts to talk again…

 

“Sensitive like me! I was women’s studies major at Harvard, and I truly believe I understand women! Behold my fashionable thong underpants!”

 

“Oooh!” squeals NTD!

 

“You dolt, that’s not the Strangler’s voice at all!” Thoth snatches the microphone back from a fuming Strangler and starts to speak, but a voice much more Hispanic than his own comes out over the speakers!

 

“Listen to me, esses! I am angry--” Thoth stops moving his lips, and the voice stops! He opens his lips again, and…“because my daddy didn’t love me, and in Japan, that is a sin! It is time that I will be playing the Dance Dance Revolution now! DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DA--” And now Spider snatches microphone from Thoth’s hands, as all the Clan has started to snarl, except for Fallout who, admittedly, is giggling a bit. Spider takes the mic to his mouth, trying to shout over the laughter of the crowd, but to no avail, as a booming Nebraska voice sounds out in front of his own…

 

“RAMSES! LET MY PEOPLE GO!”

 

“CURRY, IT’S MOSES!”

 

“That’s not Moses’ voice NTD!” shouts Curry! “That’s--” And before he can finish, the IGNTron lights up, to reveal Edwin MacPhisto, El Luchador Magnifico, and “Grand Slam” Mark Stevens hanging out in the tech booth, giggling and passing the a headset back and forth! The crowd erupts with laughter, and Spider moves his mouth again, and now the trick is revealed as Stevens talks in sync with the Spider-man!

 

“Rar, I am…scary! I like to…uh…listen to The Cure! Yes sir, the Cure, and--” Edwin snatches the headset away from Stevens.

 

“Sorry, Mark…you had the one good Moses bit, but I think that’s about it. Anyway, we just heard you fine young cannibals ranting and raving, and that was driving us crazy, and so, we just couldn’t help ourselves. Rich and Kilgore up here in the tech booth owe me from when I taught them how to set up an 8-light synchronized strobe flare, so we thought we’d cash it in and have some fun! We just wanted to let you little funloving fellows know that you have a level of chance somewhere between none and .18 of taking our tag titles away tonight, and an even less chance of getting us to agree with your rather nihilistic, apathetic, and dark-and-scary views! So, that said, you can have your microphone feed back now.” Edwin nods to Magnifico, and the high-flying fun-lover flips a switch.

 

“Edwin MacPhisto,” sneers Spider, “you--”

 

“HA HA! FOOLED YOOOOU!” cackles Edwin, as Magnifico flips the switch back and Stevens doubles over laughing! “My god, you sad sappy suckers are more foolish than I ever imagined—with perhaps the exception of Fallout, who’s tangled with myself and Magnifico enough to know that you never, ever touch a microphone when there’s a Carnie in the house!” With a shrug, Fallout nods to his robed cohorts, and Spider mouths to him something that looks like, “Oh, shut up, you.”

 

“SO!” continues Edwin, “that’s all we have to say for now! It is our mission tonight to get a smile across your little leatheren bat-eating blood-sucking faces, and thanks to a raid of Mark’s CD collection--” Stevens punches Edwin in the shoulder—“Okay, okay, fine, they were MY CDs, but anyway! Mags?” ELM takes the headset and smiles.

 

“Tiempo para bailar, senoritas!” He presses a button and the arena lights drop out…

 

“EVERYBODY DANCE NOW!”

 

The lights flare out in ravishing blues and purples!

 

BUMM! BUMM, BUMM BUMM!

BUMM! BUMM, BUMM BUMM!

 

“EVERYBODY DANCE NOW!”

 

“My god, NTD, they’re using C&C Music Factory on the Clan!”

 

The Clan is not amused.

 

“Here is the doe, back with the bass, the jam is live in effect and I don’t waste time!”

 

“It’s a homosexual factory worker’s wet dream!” squeals NTD.

 

Spider Nekura looks at the IGNTron, sighs, and looks at Thoth, who just slaps his forehead. The Boston Strangler can’t help but start to dance, until a fierce glare from Spider halts his boogie-action.

 

“EVERYBODY DANCE NOW!”

 

“Shake it babies, shake it!” shouts Edwin, cackling! “We’ll see you gentlemen later tonight! Until then…enjoy the party!” With that, the Carnies dart out of the tech booth, leaving Rich and Kilgore the music operators to bop and booty-dance with some randomly appearing voluptuous women, perhaps gifts from the prodigious Carnival, who have a way with women that, contrary to popular belief, does not involve chloroform and deception! Dejected, the Clan starts to walk out of the ring, making their exit to…that’s right, folks.

 

“Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now),” by the C&C Music Factory.

 

“I think Spider wants to cry, NTD.”

 

“As long as this sexy tune is playing, he can rest his braised eyes on my shoulder any time…”

 

Curry checks his watch, and realizes it’s time for a commercial break! “Well, folks, the Carnies have launched another blow at the Clan’s ideology, showing that the forces of sub-par early 90’s dance-pop music will always triumph over the forces of impressive yet scary industrial musc! We’ll be back with Sacred and Rane after this, but first—now is the time on IGNWF Storm when we dance!” Curry and NTD get to their feet and a censored bar appears in front of NTD’s pantsless figure, and they dance us into commercial break, with the lights and the crowd bebopping beyond them.

 

And though it’s been humiliating, the Clan has certainly found themselves at least one more reason to tear apart Edwin and Mark in about two hours…

 

“EVERYBODY DANCE NOW!”

[Guest The Superstar]

That rules. So much.

 

 

God Bless the Carnies.

[Guest Powerplay]

Carnies = (Y). That is all.

[Guest DawnBTVS]

Greatness....Total Greatness

[Guest Angel_Grace_Blue]

Judge, I be thinking that you need to educate the youngsters about the entity known as Cyclone Comet and a creation of his called "Prime Evil Promo." At the least, it will show the JLers (And some WFers, too) how to 'cut a promo.'

[Guest Powerplay]

Back in it all it's glory by popular request.

 

Cyclone Comet's Prime Evil Promo

 

Prime Evil Promo!

 

(…a dark corridor, somewhere in the old IGNWF arena. From one end of it comes the sound of footsteps… and suddenly three men turn the corner: a grim Fallout in the lead, with El Luchador Magnifico and the Silencer flanking him…)

 

Fallout: Listen up, minions… we are going to go over the plan, go over our moves, until the two of you are THE most dangerous wrestlers in this fed, because I will NOT allow the Stables title to leave Prime Evil…not now, not ever!

 

ELM: Si, senor! We shall pulverize those foolish, how you say, Carnies! And we shall be victorious over the Burning Bird of Death in Flight!

 

Silencer: It'll be a quiet day in hell before we lose to those pathetic…

 

(Silencer trails off, squinting through the darkness… then suddenly chuckles.)

 

Silencer: It looks like we can get started early, Fallout… guess which spandex freak I see down there!

 

ELM: The Falling Star Which Drops Houses On Witches! He dishonors my masked ancestors!

 

Fallout (growling): Look sharp, you worms… and don't hurt his arm. Otherwise, it won't look as nice when it's mounted over my fireplace…

 

(The three men stride down the hallway towards their target, which is leaning casually against the wall facing the other way. As PE closes in, finally that glorious champion of right and good, Cyclooone COMET, turns to face them; Prime Evil stops, less than ten feet away…)

 

Comet: Greetings, citizens! Any crimes to report?

 

Fallout (grinning ferociously): Just one, but trust me, it'll be an easy one to solve…

 

(Fallout stalks forward, bringing his fist back; Comet suddenly jumps back into a martial stance.)

 

Comet: A-HA! You have walked into my incredibly effective trap of justice!!

 

(Fallout swiftly glances around, expecting an ambush; not spotting anyone, he glares at Comet.)

 

Fallout: Funny man… you'll be grinning big when I rip your skull out of your mouth…

 

Comet: Not quite, my fiendish foe! Consider: you came expecting to, as they say in the professional wrestling business, "cut a promo" on me, correct?

 

Fallout (confused): What are you talking about?

 

Comet: The tables have turned, criminal! For now… it is YOU who are caught… in a PRIME EVIL PROMO!!

 

(And with that, Fallout receives a mighty blow from behind, sending him sprawling! He rolls around… and there stand Axis, Rane, and Suicide, all grinning with anticipation! El Luchador Magnifico and the Silencer are nowhere to be seen…)

 

Fallout: Hell's bells! Where are they?!

 

Comet: Churlish knave! This is a Prime Evil promo, where even if you are part of a large stable, no one ever rescues you!

 

(Fallout gets up to his feet… but is promptly pummeled from all sides by Phoenix Uprising! Axis picks him up and throws him like a javelin into the wall; Rane throws him into the ceiling; Suicide grabs chair after chair and nails him with them all! Finally, both Axis and Rane pick Fallout off the ground, and Suicide locks on and nails the Russian Roulette! Fallout collapses to the ground. Cyclone Comet, who has been sitting all this out, now walks forward and stands over Fallout's body!)

 

Comet: Ha! Now you see, pitiful cretin, how good triumphs over evil! …In fact, I've written an essay to that effect. (whips out a thick ream of paper) Ahem… "From the beginning of the IGNWF, it became clear that all heels absolutely sucked. We can see from various examples…"

 

(Time passes…)

 

Comet: "…and then, we saw a new renaissance of faces, as the Junior League was created. One of the most famous, of course, was that noble champion of justice, Cyclone Comet…"

 

Fallout: Er… can I get up now?

 

Comet: NO! It's a Prime Evil promo; we've beaten you up, you don't recover until AFTER we cut lengthy promos about how cool we are. Where was I? "…that noble champion of justice…"

 

(The hours pass… day turns to night, night to day again… until…)

 

Comet: "…and so, with two heels trying to gain the title who cannot get through a single match without grabbing the mike in the middle and gabbing on for ten minutes, we can clearly see that only a face can truly be a champion. The End." Okay, guys, let's go!

 

(The four men turn around and start walking away…)

 

Fallout: That's it? Can I get up now?

 

Comet: Oh, sure!

 

Fallout (getting up): Damn, my ears hurt from all that…

 

Comet: AHA!!

 

(Fallout looks up as Phoenix Uprising nails a quadruple spear on him, knocking him down the corridor to tumble and crash in a heap! Rane grabs him… ACID RANE! Axis grabs him… FACTOR BOMB! Suicide climbs up a handy ladder… SWAN SONG! Cyclone Comet grabs him… CYCLOTRON! …After that series of finishers, all four faces catch their breath…)

 

Comet: Foolish nogoodnik! You are not freed of your just punishmet! That was simply another part of the Prime Evil promo, where you make a desperate attempt to counterattack, only to be completely destroyed by our complete superiority and dominance!

 

Fallout (in pain): Guuhhh…

 

Comet: Oh, and by the way, El Luchador and the Silencer have both being run over by steamrollers in the parking lot. How can that be, when PU has been here the entire time? Simple...

 

PU: It's a Prime Evil promo!

 

Comet: And now, for the coup de grace… Suicide, if you would… it is time for… THE BLADING!

 

(As Fallout gapes, unable to move, Suicide grins evilly, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out…)

 

Fallout: …A sponge?? What the hell is that for?

 

(Suicide grins, then winds up and throws the sponge at Fallout, nailing him in the forehead. FALLOUT IS BUSTED OPEN! BLOOD JETS INTO THE AIR! Soon, the entire corridor is knee-deep in Fallout's hemoglobin!!)

 

Fallout: …What the <BEEP>! It was a sponge!

 

Comet: Hey, what can I say? It's your promo, dude!

 

Fallout: …Look, Molock handled the promos mostly, not me; maybe you should…

 

Comet: SILENCE, craven amoeba! Your cowardly words are anathema to me!!

 

Fallout: Hey… you know, you're right! I'm not even talking like I usually talk! …Don't tell me, "Prime Evil promo", right?

 

(Phoenix Uprising nods.)

 

Fallout: Wait a sec… I remember… at the end of our promos, we would always find out that we had just been beating on straw dummies with tape recorders shoved up their butts!

 

Comet: Is that so?

 

Fallout: Yeah, you damn weaklings! So all I have to do is reach up and turn off the recorder, and then we can end this stupid thing and I can kick your candy-<BEEP>! Now let's see…

 

(Fallout… well, he, er… well, reaches up and… um, well… let's just say that Phoenix Uprising tries not to look at the contorted figure as he, er… scrabbles…)

 

Fallout: Dammit, where is it?! I know it's in there somewhere!

 

Comet: Um, Fallout?

 

Fallout: Where'd you hide it, you dumb<BEEP>?! I'll find it soon enough…

 

Comet: Fallout, the promo hasn't exactly ended yet… so technically you're not a straw dummy, you're just, er, you… so you're not exactly going to find a tape recorder, um, where you're looking for it…

 

(There is an uncomfortable pause… more uncomfortable for some than others…)

 

Fallout: Fine. I give up. Whatever. Just end this stupid promo and let me die in peace.

 

Comet: Well, okay…

 

(And Comet pulls out a shotgun and blows Fallout's head off with an explosive burst of gore.)

 

Comet: Let that be a lesson to you!

 

(And the four members of Phoenix Uprising walk off. The twisted and headless body of Fallout, only one arm visible, lies disgustingly (and disgustedly) on the floor…)

 

(…and suddenly, the scene freezes, and some words appear across the screen: "CYCLONE COMET WINS - PRIME EVIL PROMO BONUS +1000 pts. SAVE NOW (Y/N)?"

 

(As we pull away, we see that the television screen showing Fallout's untimely demise is attached to a game console, around which are grouped the four heartily-laughing members of Phoenix Uprising. Cyclone Comet proudly puts down the gamepad.)

 

Comet: Now THAT is a cheat code!

 

Axis: HA HA HA HA HA! That was too sweet, Comet!

 

Rane: Heh heh... I'm planning on using just a little of that at Crossfire, when we take their precious Stables title away…

 

Comet: Now Rane, cheating is WRONG… unless it's one I've specifically put into our IGNWF Genesis video game myself!

 

Suicide: Okay, cool, now show me the one where I have a flaming kendo stick instead of an arm…

 

(The four men laugh as Comet saves and restarts, star-wiping the scene…)

[janusd 0]

*reads both*

 

.......

 

[Guest TheBostonStrangler]

It's been too long since I saw Comet's Prime Evil promo. God, I wish I had been active when Comet was around.

[Guest realitycheck]

You know, since we're reposting stuff, I guess I can't miss an oppertunity to shill my finest work...

 

===

 

Even at this time of the day, Halifax is a swinging, jovial town. Because that’s what Halifax is, no matter the time is. From the people enjoying the summer mid-day to the people, uh, enjoying the summer mid-day, all is well in Nova Scotia. Why, there’s even that big SWF show coming around, actually taking time away from surely bigger gates somewhere else in America to bring joy and violence to the jovial wrestling fans in the city.

 

…Well, maybe not everything is well. Deep inside the Halifax Best Western, The Midnight Carnival are in a less than rapturous mood. Sharing a single large suite, like they usually do, being cheap, underpaid bastards, the four members of the MC lay around the spacious room in varying states of glumness. When even the specially requested glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling can’t reverse the Carnies mood, there is a serious problem. After all, what’s there to be happy about? Chris Wilson is back to his usual maniacal ways, the Clan is undoubtedly using this as an alliance of convenience, and to top it all of, their once thought infallible fearless leader is being haunted by demons long past. Oh, and they have to face 5 other guys in a double cage at the next PPV in less than a week. It all bodes ill. Finally, after what seems to be forever, Chris Raynor breaks the unusual silence with a sigh.

 

“Man… I can’t believe it happened again.” He sighs, again, leaning further back against the end of the bed he’s sitting in front of. “I can’t believe we let Wilson blow up *another* building. I mean, didn’t we take some solemn oath as Carnies that we would never let it happen again?”

 

“Si…” Chimes in the Carnival’s official Mexican representative, replying from a chair in the room. “I am thinking it is because we have been so preoccupied with other matters. I have been dealing with ‘El Ridículo Uno’ in Flesher… Senior Raynor and Z have been busy with… um…” Mags stumbles.

 

“Worrisome matters in concern of the sociological states of our stablemates, ELM.” Raynor grins, trying his best to sound professional.

 

“Si…” Magnifico nods slowly. “Chris, you remember how this whole “Smash” thing began, no?” Raynor gulps. “I thought so. Don’t pretend you know what any of that means, Esse. After all… Ees bad enough we already have Z pretending he is a doctor.” The luchadore smirks and nods his head over to the newest Carnie, who shoots him a sour look.

 

“Thanks, Mags.” Z pulls himself up to a sitting position on the bed he’s been lying on. “You know, this completely boggles my mind.” Starts Z. “I mean, honestly, how the heck does Wilson get away with blowing up a building?”

 

“Well, we did not know.” Shrugs Magnifico. “If we had known he had planned to engage in more collateral destruction, we would have been able to stop him.” He frowns. “I *kick* myself for not seeing any of the signs! Wilson *always* drops hints to whatever he is planning! I should have seen. I mean, I was his right hand man, you know. And--”

 

“Mags, Mags, Mags…” Z stops him there with a wave of his hand. “You shouldn’t feel guilty about this. Besides, that’s not what I meant. I mean, don’t you think the cops would’ve caught on by now? I remember what happened with FAO Schwartz! It’s almost as if nobody important noticed, either…” Z scritches his chin thoughtfully. “I mean, he wasn’t caught for that? There had to be an investigation!”

 

“Z…” Raynor starts…

 

“Considering all of the Carnies knew—heck, half of the roster knew! Someone had to of come forward with information! It’s absurd that he could get away with it twice, considering today’s newer, tough anti-terrorism laws. It’s practically impossible to go out and buy a bomb, or even the components for a bomb!”

 

“Z…” Raynor tries again, just a little bit louder.

 

“The investigation would’ve turned up leads, evidence, fingerprints! They would’ve been able find the source of the explosion and the stuff the bomb was made of! *Maybe* at FAO Schwartz it could’ve been flawless, but here? With dolts like TNT and Stryke as your henchmen!? I mean, it’s just--”

 

“Z!” Raynor shouts!

 

“Yes?”

 

“Dude, it’s Chris Wilson. He’s obviously learned something from the Clan about covering his tracks the first time, and he’s applied it here. Or something like that…”

 

“Ah, the Clan…” Z nods knowingly. Well, at least he fakes knowing what he’s talking about beautifully. “Don’t even get me started on them, Chris. The entire group is a walking contradiction!”

 

“Well, whatever they are…” Mags speaks up, “One of their members is not only responsible for disgracing my masked father’s name with his muy ridiculoso claims that he is the greatest light-heavyweight in the federation and the sole, rightful heir to Magnifico’s light-heavyweight title, but by also giving me the grandest hangover since college! No es bueno…” Magnifico shakes his head, as Raynor and Z snicker a little. He continues, “But one top of that… they also have out líder audaz clearly preocupado profundamente, no?”

 

“No.” Raynor shakes his head. “I don’t have a clue what you’re saying.”

 

Mags sighs and rubs his temples “Igualdad para el curso… Ahem. What I was saying is that senior Spider and senior Thoth have clearly upset Edwin.”

 

“And I’m sorry for that.”

 

Finally raising his head up from his chest, and stepping away from his position against the hotel room wall, Edwin MacPhisto, The Mac Daddy, The Crown Prince of Flash and Panache, speaks for the first time in what seems like ages. Obviously, he has not been well, as the usually chipper MacPhisto has been in supposedly rare glum moods more and more frequently. Adjusting his half-lopsided smile, Edwin starts off…

 

“Guys, I’m sorry. I’ve been distracted by some… other matters recently, and it’s not only been hurting me, but you all as well. I’ve been decidedly un-Mac Daddy-ish as of late, letting the Clan get to me, letting Wilson get away with blowing up *another* bloody building… I don’t think I’ve been the leader of the Carnival I should be.”

 

Raynor smiles, “Damn straight, Edwin! Wilson’s been back for close to two months, and we haven’t tried to bury him in a pile of stuffed pandas yet! Whassupwitdat?”

 

Edwin tries to wipe the half-lopsided smile off of his face, but fails. He can’t help but chuckle. “No, Chris, we haven’t. Why, we’ve been allied with the Clan for well over two weeks, and we haven’t even tried to initiate them as un-official Carnies.” Edwin grins. “Honestly, could you imagine the look on Thoth’s face if we had him dress up for the Midnight Carnival Theatre Presents ‘Three Little Maids From School’?”

 

“Well, I’d say Thoth might make for a beeeee-youtiful lead soprano.” Raynor grins in return.

 

“Heh, heh… As much as I’d like to, gentlemen, I could only imagine the Clan would be a *mite* unresponsive to that request. And besides, me amigos, we have more pressing trouble… spelled with a capital ‘W’.” Edwin grins. Again. “Wilson should know better than to try and blow up something else while *this* sheriff’s in town! And if he thinks he can get away with this going unanswered… he’s a little dopey.”

 

“Oo! Great! What’ve we got lined up, fearless leader?” Raynor eagerly rubs his hands together, eVil prankish ideas for the eVil ones running through his mind. “Drive up to the Hilton and use the Grand Cannon to shoot balloons filled with whipped cream at Wilson’s window? Bury his dressing room in pandas? String the other six upside down and force them to watch BasketballASA matches?”

 

“All good ideas, but no. I have something…different. Mags, do you know where that recording studio that friend of yours runs is?”

 

“Si… He still owes me a favor from me hiding him up here from Immigration, as I’m sure that’s what you wanted to hear.”

 

Edwin grins for about the millionth time. “Ah, you know me to well. Okay, everyone, follow me, single file! We’re about to show Chrissy that he’s not the only one who can be a lyricist…”

 

--------------------------

 

“…Alright, gentlemen, that about wraps it up. Make sure you take as many notes as possible about these matches.”

 

At the Halifax Hilton, in the penthouse suite, megalomaniac and evil genius extraordinaire, Chris Wilson finishes assigning the homework to the rest of the Magnificent Seven: Watch all of the Wargames matches, and come back to him with all the notes about how brutal they were. And notes about how to make this one even more so. The other six members of the Seven sit around the luxurious suite, all in varied moods, what with essentially being assigned homework.

 

“Well…” Begins The Boston Strangler, “I was never one to like schoolwork, but as it’s just watching matches… I can deal with that.”

 

“Agreed, definitely.” Nods TNT. “Although, maybe just to spite TBS… you should throw in some math.” TNT grins in shit-eating fashion, while Strangler’s expression sours.

 

“Shut up, Thompson.”

 

TNT shrugs off TBS’s mierable reply, and turns his attention to the other occupants of the room, who all seem rather bored with the whole ordeal. He turns his head back to Wilson, who seems ready to dismiss all of them.

 

“Very well then, gentlemen. Thank you for your co-operation, and I’ll see you tomorrow for Smarkdo--”

 

**Knock! Knock! Knock!**

 

Wilson’s goodbye to the troops is rudely interrupted by a knock on the door. Mumbling obscenities under his breath, Wilson marches to the door, keeping in mind the some of the things that have happened to unassuming people who have opened doors without thinking out it first. With a light ‘ka-chack,’ Chris twists one of the brass knobs… and reveals a short, chubby man in a jumpsuit, with a patch reading “Cyclonef Comei Delivery Services” on the right breast pocket.

 

“…Can I help you?” Chris asks, increndiculously.

 

“Yup.” Nods the delivery guy, before glancing at a clipboard, “You Chris Wilson?”

 

“Yes…”

 

“Christopher Herman Wilson?”

 

“…Yes.” Wilson growls, obviously not a fan of his middle name.

 

“I got a delivery from the Halifax Best Western. Sign ‘ere.”

 

Snapping up the clipboard and pen, Wilson quickly signs the paper in his flowing script, before handing it back to the delivery man, who nods. “Thanks. Here you go. And happy birthday, mac.”

 

Wilson blinks in response, obviously stunned… and even more so as the man pulls a brightly wrapped parcel from his bag, accentuated with ribbons and big, red bow. The parcel’s finishing touch, however, is the card tucked in between the ribbons, reading “Happy Birthday!” in rainbow font. Confused, Wilson takes the parcel and slams the door on the delivery man, who waits expectantly with his hand open and arm extended. Wilson blinks and looks upward at the ceiling, before it finally dawns on him:

 

“The Carnies.”

 

“What was it, bossman?” Stryke’s asks from across the room.

 

“It’s my birthday.”

 

The room stops, and blinks as one. “Pardon?” Inquires Frost.

 

“It appears that the Carnival have not forgotten about me after all. How heartwarming.” Wilson’s demeanor sours. “In all likeliness, this package,” Wilson indicates to the brightly covered ‘present’. “Probably contains a stuffed panda with a note pinned to it, describing our horrific loss at WarGames. In haiku, of course. Or a confetti slash syrup bomb the will explode the moment I disturb it.”

 

Pause.

 

“TNT, you open this.”

 

Nodding uneasily, TNT takes the package from Wilson, tearing through the paper and ribbon like it was Christmas morning. The carefully done wrapping ripped aside, TNT grabs the now plain box, and while holding it a safe distance away, pulls the top off of it. Slowly.

 

Everyone in the room ducks!

 

…Nothing happens.

 

Everyone in the room sighs with relief.

 

“See, boss man? Nothing happened.” States TNT, showing a marvelous ability to see the obvious. “All that’s in here is a red video cassette… with a three-eyed smiley face?”

 

Wilson’s eyes light up.

 

“Give that to me. Now.”

 

Quickly forking over the tape, Wilson looks over it, satisfied by the black marker smiley face, and trots over to the suite’s large entertainment unit. Popping the tape into the VCR, Wilson smirks slightly, muttering. “Alright, Carnies, what have you got for me now…”

 

--------------------------

 

There is a sudden ‘Gah!’ all around the room as the shot on the television opens up with an EXTREEEEEME close up on the face of one, Edwin MacPhisto. SWF Champion, Mac Daddy, Crown Prince of blah, blah, blah. He grins. As always.

 

“Well, salutations, Meat Festival! Or should that be Meat Seven? Or Seven Meat Festival? Or Magnificent Meat of Seven Festivals?” The Mac Daddy pauses. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. Anyway, Wilson, consider this a response. A response to your shocking--”

 

“SHOCK!” The other Carnies chorus, even if they can’t been seen in the shot.

 

“—act of blowing up a building. Again.” Edwin pauses.

 

“GASP!” The Carnies chorus on cue.

 

“Despicable. Awful. Horrid. Terrible. Heinous, even!”

 

“BAH GAWD!” Cry the Carnies!

 

“BUT!” Edwin pauses again, ever the one for dramatic flair. “…to add insult to injury… you tried to out do us! You tried to out do our beautiful, beautiful singing by hiring a choir!”

 

“THE HORROR!”

 

“You just can’t leave it at the fact you’re blowing up something else on our watch, can you?” Edwin snorts. “You had to go and lyrically bitchslap us. Well, mi maniacal padre, you’re in for a shock! You can’t expect the Midnight Carnival to just take your outdoing us without another outdoing!” Even Edwin pauses at that, trying to figure out what he just said. “…erm… anyway, without further adieu, I give you a little ditty we wrote up. We like to call it, The Rise…

 

“…and Fall…” The camera slowly pans back, as Ryanor follows up Edwin…

 

“…of Chrissy Stardust…” Z adds…

 

“…and the Carnies From Mars.” Mags finishes with a smirk.

 

--------------------------

 

The penthouse suite of the Halifax Hilton is totally silent. Wilson was expecting this… but not expecting this. Maybe going ahead and playing the tape wasn’t such a great idea.

 

--------------------------

 

The camera has fully panned back from a wide shot… revealing the Carnies set up as band. Chris Raynor on drums, El Luchadore Magnifico on a baby Casio keyboard, Z on tambourine, and Edwin MacPhisto, standing in front of a microphone stand, Les Paul guitar in hand. The most defining feature of the setup, however, are the hundreds upon hundreds of Fender amps piled behind the carnies, most of which can’t possibly be serving any purpose.

 

“Alright, are we ready?” Edwin asks. Getting a rousing thumbs up, Edwin turns back to the camera…

 

“One! Two! One, two, three, four!”

 

Edwin strikes down on the Les Paul with vengeance, creating an oddly familiar riff. Raynor, playing like Tommy Lee, comes in with the drum beat, as ELM twinkles in the background, and Z… well, Z’s tambourine has absolutely no effect on any real sounds, but he goes on, because he’s a trooper. Edwin leans into the mic, pitching his voice into high, full on cockney, and…

 

(To the tune of David Bowie’s “The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust”. If you haven’t gotten that by now, you’re a bit dopey.)

 

Chrissy played the heel, fighting good with Edwin and Spi-der

And the Caries from Mars. He hated the Clan

And pushed them too far

Became the Seventh man, tried to rule the land

 

Chrissy really fought, screwed the guys and screwed with Edwin

Danny's moves from Japan, and Prophet unsmiling

Frosty and Thompson, Strangler from Boston

And Stryke's the loaded gun, Wilson's the Seventh one...

 

But where were the titles?

While Chris tried to break Edwin's bones

He kept the World and with Raynor

He played to all the fans, and foil-ed Chrissy's plans

 

Edwin called for WarGames

Jiving the Magnif-ic-ents

The fans really popped, and Chrissy couldn't be stopped

With a display of fire

Yes, he went way too far, trying to be the star

 

Blinded by his own ego, Wilson failed at War-Games

He became a pariah

And without their leading man, the Seven crumbled to sand

 

Ooh Yeah!

 

Oooooooooo…

 

Chrissy played... the heeeeeeeeeel!

 

Edwin winds down his guitar, as the other Carnies slow their instruments. They hold on for one last note, as Raynor viciously SMASHes the cymbals in dramatic fashion, even trying a Tommy Lee-esque drumstick twirl… that sends it clanking behind him. He gives the final cymbal crash with his head. And with Chris’s less than dramatic finishing flourish… the music stops. And is replaced by a ridiculously loud burst of canned applause! The four Carnies rise and bow to the imaginary audience, as ELM reaches out of camera, tossing confetti and roses at his compatriots. Raynor and Z bathe in the ‘adulation,’ as Edwin turns his head back up at the camera…

 

“And let that bold, bold statement be a prophecy to you. We’ll see you at Ground Zero.”

 

Edwin pauses, before winking at the camera.

 

“…Chrissy Stardust.”

 

Grin. Fade.

 

--------------------------

 

In his suite, Wilson is stunned. For about the fifth time today, shattering some record on some distant plane of existence. On top of that, the scattered sniggering amongst his compatriots suddenly explodes into all-out laughter, at his own expense. Wilson tilts his head down, massaging his forhead…

 

“I hate Carnies.”

 

“Hahaha… M-maybe so… haha… boss. B… ha! …but you know the –srnk- good thing abou… hahaha… about it?” Asks TNT, between poorly suppressed giggles.

 

“What?”

 

“At least we know where the Carnies are staying now!”

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

…*POW!*

 

C’est Fin.

[Guest Ash Ketchum]

CHRISSY STARDUST~!!!!!!!1!!!

 

 

I love that promo.

[Guest Edwin MacPhisto]

Wistful memories! I was just thinking about that promo the other day, TBS. Had a hell of a time writing it.

 

When Z wrote that promo, we knew he was finally a full-fledged Carnie. It was basically his initiation, and he done good.

[Guest Grand Slam]

I read the first promo a little earlier and gave it some thought...

 

And then I remembered that night. edwin and I went out after that awesome promo and promptly lost our Tag Titles to The Clan. ::sigh::

 

Then two months later, I was gone by my tag partner's hand...

 

I do believe this was one of the last Carnie group promos I was a part of.