The camera feed opens up in the Omega Omega house on the campus of Cal Poly SLO. The room is full of frat guys and sorority girls. One of the frat guys stands holding a microphone attached to a karaoke machine. He speaks to the masses.
Frat guy: WHOOOOO! Thanks for comin’ out, everyone! As president of this fraternity, I take great pride in welcoming this evening’s guest of honor. He’s truly one of us. He’s the Death Row Wrestling ‘Head Motherfucker’, Seth Stratton!
The crowd of college kids cheer, which is an unusual reaction to a Seth Stratton appearance. Seth walks over from off screen, gives the frat guy a bro hug and snatches the mic. He’s wearing the DRW championship around his waist, and it glistens in the light, having been freshly polished by a Cambodian immigrant.
Seth: I look into this crowd, and I see the future. The future of America. It brings tears to my eyes, knowing that our nation is in such great hands. Now that I’ve gotten the formalities out of the way, COKE TROUGH!
As he shouts this, he pulls a large sandwich bag of cocaine from his pocket. He empties it out onto the floor and falls to his stomach, snorting away with reckless abandon. Several of the students join him in what becomes a writhing ball of insufflating madness. After having his fill, Seth leans back against the wall. One of the sorority girls crawls over. Both of their faces are covered in white powder, like a bizarre Al Jolson skit.
Sorority girl: You’re so awesome, Seth. We love you.
Seth: I know, I know.
Sorority girl: Can I touch the title?
She moves her hands across the plate of the DRW title, still affixed to Seth’s waist. Her eyes are wide.
Sorority girl: This is turning me on, so much.
Seth: Have you ever fucked a champion wrestler before?
Sorority girl: Yes.
Seth: Oh. Well shit.
She continues rubbing the belt.
Sorority girl: I’ve never fucked a champion wrestler while encouraging two sorority pledges to watch and later participate, though. Let’s do that!
She grabs him by the wrist, dragging him towards the door. Seth takes a second and looks to the heavens.
Seth: Jesus, I know we don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, and that I’ve cursed your name on a near daily basis, but I just want to take the time to thank you for the tremendous gift you’re about to bestow upon me. I’ve always dreamed of banging an eager college girl while two apprehensive ones were forced to join in.
He stands and follows her.
Seth: I can keep the title belt on, right?
Sorority girl: I’d actually prefer it.
Seth: Oh sweet, sweet fancy moses. I should’ve gone to college.
She leads him down a hallway as the camera shot fades.
Your kings are not righteous
Your heroes are not strong
Your empire is crumbling
We've been sent to save your children
Everything is going to get better
Its written in the stars
We're not who they think we are
You can't fight what you can't see
We are scum deluxe
You have absolutely no idea
What's about to happen
It's our turn now
We are the most spontaneous
Creatures ever created
The future is ours
We are scum deluxe
We are scum deluxe. The throw-aways. Yesterdays trash--and it is as they say, one man's trash is another man's treasure. No one expected anything from The Row except bloody violence. They thought of The Row as a cave man, parading around and bashing anything on the skull that was different--and why, with such a small brain everything seems different and confusing. Keep away from those fellas--they're like Lenny--awful retarded but twice as strong. . .
But this was not so, this was not The Row.
The Row has grown, and has taken on even the intellectuals. . . well as intellectual as one can get while at the same time claiming a fraternity.
Enter Phillip Barnes, Omega Omega President, a suave shithead with a politician's smile and taste for rape and wrestling.
You see, Phillip Barnes is a real wrestling mark. A horrid one that at times can not tell the difference between illusion and reality. Sure it's a defect of the brain that's genetic--there is a long line of semi-retarded Barnes'--but his blood and namesake also gives him the opportunity to run the Omega Omega Fraternity in San Luis Obispo. A Barnes has always been the president of Omega Omega, since its conception in the 1980's.
And what a namesake. What a legacy. Omega Omega is not exactly an academic fraternity, operating on the fringe of an ever growing liberal college world. It's fundraisers are almost always for the legalization of marijuana for recreational use, or the lowering of the drinking age to eighteen. Their contributions to the school are limited, if at all--with its members averaging a rather mediocre C average, with some flirting with D's.
Every year Omega Omega picks up new recruits to torture during the initiation process (many semi-homoerotic rituals), and usually they hold a week long party to get everyone interested in Omega Omega. The plan is to throw the most wild party ever, and being a total Mark Phillip Barnes felt Omega Omega needed The Row. . .
And so The Row obliged, despite the majority of its members never having ever set foot on a college campus before. . . And The Row comes with some new blood--with some new hopefuls looking to be a part of SCUM DELUXE. One, Sonny Thompson is an ex-biker and a known crazy man, convinced he has Agent Orange despite never fighting in Vietnam. . . The other, Jasper Quinn, is virtually unknown to The Row.
Everyone is outside, getting drunk on mom and dad's dime, and the girl you thought you'd rape while she was passed out has woken up mid-pump, and she knows your name and recognizes your face. And you, being completely without any individuality of your own, just wanted to join a fraternity. . . And now look where it has gotten you. The future sure looks bright. . . for everyone but you.
It's Wednesday, Row day. Perhaps you better smack a bitch and get the hell out of there. . . you're missing the only show worth watching. . . It won't be long before she connects the dots. . . It won't be long before campus police put a flyer up with your name on it, LOOKING FOR SUSPECTED RAPIST.
Either way man. . .
One. . .
Two. . .
Three. . .
WELCOME TO THE ROW!
We cut to outside the Omega Omega House, a white two story affair, with a balcony out front and a spacious lawn that was once green. Improper care has turn the lawn a dull yellow-green, and the trees surrounding the property wither and threaten to fall to pieces.
Around back of the house is another lawn, just as decrepit. A slight buzz is in the air, coming from some hundred plus college douchebags mingled around the Death Row ring, situated in the center of the lawn. There are few chicks sprinkled through the crowd, looking more and more annoyed at all the men around them trying to get in their pants.
Waylon Wolf and Tommy Ace sit at a table once used for many many games of beer pong; it is stained with cup rings and the spillage of more than a hundred cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Waylon sits looking quite different--looking like he's actually on vacation, with a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of sunglasses he has over his eyes. Tommy Ace turns from the camera to inspect Wolf a bit, looking up and down at him and noticing the flask in his breast pocket. He shakes his head and turns to the camera.
Ace: Well here we are--
Wolf: God damn it, don't upstage me boy. I always start this show off.
Ace: Alright. I just thought that after last show I would--
Wolf: Thought you'd step all over my toes? Well I'm not going to let you do it.
Wolf turns to face the camera and smiles. If smell-o-vision were real, you'd already smell a hint of whiskey on his breath.
Wolf: Hello fans, and welcome to yet another edition of Lethal Injection, with Lethal Injection 12! I'm Waylon Wolf Senior, and with me as always is Tommy Ace--the personal pain in my ass.
Ace: Look Wolf--I--
Wolf: We've got a lot to cover tonight, as last night in the main event we saw. . . we saw. . . well aint that the damndest thing. . . I can't remember.
Wolf reaches up and scratches his head and then turns to Tommy and laughs. Tommy looks back at him and can't muster up a fake guffaw.
Ace: Yeah. . . I wonder why. . . Well let me refresh your memory--
Wolf: My memory is fine!
Ace: Yes, well anyway-- Last Lethal Injection we saw a new Death Row Champion crowned. Seth Stratton managed to beat out all odds, defeating BOTH--yes both--Rupture and Schism in a handicap match for the Death Row belt. He's officially the new head mother fucker.
Wolf: Oh yes. That's right. Seth Stratton of course won after. . . after. . .
Ace: After the Match Point on Schism--and that was all-she-wrote. It seems tonight he has the night off. One of his opponents however, Rupture, will be taking on IM Hate in tournament action.
Wolf: Well Dark announced the tournament to name the number one contender, and there are a lot of talented wrestlers in it, Ace. It should be a good one. . . Now if you'll excuse me. . .
Wolf takes the flask from his breast pocket and unscrews the cap.
Wolf: To World Peace.
Wolf laughs and then takes a healthy drink from the flask. He sighs with the burn in his chest and screws back the cap and puts it back in his breast pocket as if nothing had happened. Tommy stares at Wolf until he can feel Tommy staring, and then turns to face him.
Ace: I saw that!
Wolf: What! Look around Ace. . . everyone is drinking! This is a party!
Ace: For them maybe. But we've got a job to do!
Wolf: So do it. . . bitch.
Tommy turns red in the face and thinks to say something to Wolf, but thinks better of it. He faces the camera and gets the job done.
Ace: Also in tournament action, we've got that masked luchadore Mariguano taking on Major Kendu.
Wolf: I don't know about that Mariguano boy. . . I think he's on drugs.
Ace: What gave him away? The fifteen foot bong he was hitting last night? Whether he's a user or not, Mariguano has made a splash here in The Row, though he did lose last Lethal Injection to the newcomer from England, Trevor Browning.
Wolf: That kid stole one. Mariguano was ahead all night!
Ace: But not at the end, where it counts. Also in tournament action the One Man Misdemeanor, Cort Vang takes on Shane Jackson of Cash Money.
Wolf: That rich bastard Shane Jackson--he and Jason Cruz have recently joined up with IM Hate. I don't know why they did it--IM Hate is only concerned with himself and winning the belt for himself. Do they actually like being lackeys?
Ace: Speaking of IM Hate, he will be in our Main Event tonight, taking on Rupture, of the dangerous tag team Fracture. IM Hate surprised us all last week by forming a group he has taken to calling Anarchy, with the help of Cash Money.
Wolf: Fuck this place. We've got ourselves a power struggle already. I don't know who IM Hate thinks he is, but he's trying to take money from everyone in The Row by taking them out of a job!
Ace: Perhaps they want to share the spoils when The Row is gone.
Wolf: What spoils? I'm broke. The Row's broke. Everybody is broke but Cash Money. Fuck em!
Ace: Jesus Wolf, you sure are different with a little booze in yah.
Wolf: That's right! And get used to it!
Wolf frowns and immediately reaches for the flask; he is in need again to soften the world. Tommy takes no notice--let the old bastard do as he wishes.
Ace: Also in action tonight we have newcomers Jasper Quinn and Sonny Thompson, as well as Death Row favorite and resident fat man, The Disposal. Well, lets go to Dark in the ring, who has a special message for the fans here tonight.
We cut to the ring, where Dark stands with a red cup of beer in one hand and a microphone in the other. He raises up the red cup to a cheer from the crowd and promptly empties it. He takes the cup from his mouth and burps before turning the cup upside down to show that it's already empty. The crowd lets out another pop--the damn young alcoholics in training.
Ace: We know he can drink, nothing new there ladies and gentlemen.
Wolf: Boss is drinking, I'm gonna drink too!
Ace: Wolf no!
Wolf takes another swig as Dark raises the mic to his lips.
Dark: Welcome. . . to The Row.
He pauses for affect and gets a mild applause.
Dark: Wow. . . the future sure looks bright.
He says it sarcastically, but none of the frat fucks are bright enough to see that. They stare at him dumbly, wishing he'd just drink more beer.
Dark: Looking out on you guys, I have no fear for the future of America. . . Why there are future leaders around me today--men who will bring forth a new era in America. Vanguards of technology and progress. . . Yes. . . There are many brilliant men here.
Ace: Yeah. Namely me.
Wolf: Are you kidding? You're as thick as a brick, Ace.
Ace: Yeah, so the ladies tell me. . .
Wolf: Idiot, I wasn't talking about your cock but rather your skull.
Dark: But we all know what college is really about. . .
Dark looks around conspiratorially, as if he's about to impart great wisdom.
Dark: Partying. . .
The crowd pops.
Dark: Drinking. . .
The crowd pops again.
Dark: And fucking. . .
The crowd goes wild, hundreds of beers raised in the air in agreement with the last point most of all. The frat fools take a healthy chug, while the few young coeds in the crowd show their disgust (though a slut or two secretly enjoy it). Charlene can be seen clapping along with the rest, sure that tonight she will make a killing.
Dark: You're here. Which means you're smart enough to watch the best wrestling show out there. And for that, I thank you. In fact give yourselves a pat on the back. Go ahead, go on!
Dark stands and waits for the crowd, but very few of them comply.
Dark: There, don't you feel better? With that said, you work for us now. Here's your job description: love us more than anything in your life. It's just that simple! Oh and if you have any questions, I'll be by the keg.
Dark turns to make his way out of the ring but stops and turns toward the camera again.
Dark: Oh. . . and don't fuck my wrestlers--or I'll have to fuck with you.
He drops the mic as Binge and Purge begins to play over the stolen stereo system placed out in the grass. He exits the ring and makes his way to the nearest keg.
Ace: Well there he goes, our Boss. Aint you proud?
Wolf: Fuck no.
Ace: I think you should lay off that stuff--it's making you belligerent.
Wolf: Oh fuck off. . .
We are somewhere 'backstage', which is elaborate for 'somewhere in a hallway'. Along the walls are lined the pictures of every Omega Omega graduating class--each one looking more and more retarded than the next. Cort Vang crouches over, clutching a brown duffel bag and squinting his eyes looking for someone. Knowing 'Anarchy' could be around, he occasionally glances over his shoulder and seems satisfied that this is the perfect meeting place, one where he cannot be attacked from behind and can see the foot traffic from the left of him as well as to his right.
Ace: Cort Vang here in the Omega House, I'm not certain what he's up to.
Wolf: What's in that bag? A body?!
Cort assures himself that he is alright, when a tiny pudgy hand smacks his thigh, frightening him. He rises with a start and then looks down to see the small midget El Toro, looking up at him and raising his fists in anger.
El Toro: !Deme la campa, burro!
Ace: He's pissed off El Toro! Cort probably has one of his little friends in there! What's he saying?
Wolf: Got any work?
Cort looks downward at El Toro, handing him the duffel bag. El Toro quickly snatches it and rummages through it, pulling out the Death Row ringside bell Cort Vang must've swiped last week in Salinas.
Ace: The thief!
Wolf: What do you expect? Cort is a damn miscreant--he just can't help himself. I oughta teach him a lesson myself!
El Toro: Shwew!
El Toro brings up his hand as if to wipe the sweat from his forehead, though he wears a mask. He then looks up, pointing a finger.
El Toro: Próxima vez usted necesita una campana, usa una cuchara y una botella de whisky! ¡¿OKEY?!
Cort nods, not knowing what the hell El Toro says. Then, bending down to El Toro's eye level, speaks the only spanish he knows.
Cort Vang: Siéntese en mi regazo, señora bonita.
El Toro furrows his brow.
El Toro: ¡Usted no puede leer, o decir el español, usted bastardo loco!
El Toro carries the duffel bag away, as Cort is still squatted wondering what he learned off that spanish porn video he watched eleven years ago.
Ace: You speak Spanish, Wolf?
Wolf: Fuck no!
We cut back to ring side, where Wolf and Ace sit at their commentators table, the frat fucks still around the ring, mingling around and drinking.
Ace: Cort Vang stole the Death Row bell last Lethal Injection—I didn’t even notice that, did you?
Wolf: Hell no. Why steal a ring bell, it’s virtually worthless.
Ace: Obviously Cort just has the impulse to steal stuff, Wolf. Cort Vang just can’t help himself.
Wolf: Yeah him and Lindsay Lohan. . . and Winona Ryder. Wonderful.
Wolf reaches up to his breast pocket and grabs his flask, taking another nip. Ace ignores him, looking straight into the camera with a weak smile on his face. The pompous horns of Rule Britannica begins to play and we cut to a shot of the ring and at first the frat boys simply laugh, thinking some fool has made a mistake with the stereo system and chosen the wrong song. . . But Rule Britannica continues to play, swelling with love for England and the frat boys start to boo, as it is in their opinion that anyone who isn’t from America isn’t worth knowing.
Ace: Well here comes Trevor Browning, who made his debut last Lethal Injection against Death Row’s very own dope head, Mariguano.
Wolf: Mariguano had his way with this kid all night, but couldn’t come through in the end. Went for the Bongo Drop and Trevor lifted the knees and Mariguano fucked himself up. Ha! Fuck that kid!
We cut to the back of the Omega Omega house, where Trevor Browning stands in the open doorway of the back door. The booing intensifies, a few fellas starting up an ENGLAND SUCKS chant. Trevor Browning greets them all with a smile, regardless of their boos.
Ace: Well, Trevor Browning choosing to greet these fans with a smile, Wolf.
Wolf: This guy just may be the only sunny thing to come from England. That place has seen nothing but rain for years.
Ace: You sure about that?
Wolf: No. . . but who cares?
Wolf takes another nip from his flask as Trevor Browning makes his way onto the grass. He cracks his knuckles as he makes his way to the ring, the frat fucks parting to let him through to the ring. They boo him and curse him as he passes, though he does his best to ignore them.
Ace: Trevor Browning not interested in the fans here in San Luis Obispo—he’s concentrated on this match, and only this match.
Wolf: Maybe he aint a people person? Like me?
Wolf takes another nip as Trevor Browning climbs up the steel steps and makes his way to the apron. He looks around at the crowd and smiles once more before making his way to the center of the apron. He then steps through the top and middle rope, swinging his head under the top rope after and entering the ring. He rises up his arms and the frat boys let out a massive boo.
Ace: Trevor has been having some troubles getting accustomed to things here in America, and these fans here aren’t helping him any!
Wolf: I’m surprised this bastard has nice teeth. Aint they all supposed to have teeth like ragged playing cards?
Ace: That’s a stereotype Wolf!
Wolf: Ohh fuck off.
The introduction to Tom Sawyer by Rush begins to play out over the stolen audio system laid out in the grass, and Trevor Browning turns around in the ring to see who will come out to the music. The crowd buzzes silently, waiting in anticipation of this unknown. Trevor Browning starts to shadow box in the ring, to keep from worrying himself about his opponent.
Ace: Well here we go pukes and pussies. . . Fresh Meat on the Row!
Wolf: GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN KID! DON’T RUIN YOUR LIFE! Don’t be like me. . . Just don’t.
We cut to the back of the Omega Omega house, where an unfamiliar man appears in the doorway, donned in black wrestling boots, black tights, and a black smoking jacket.
Ace: Here he is. . . Jasper Quinn. He is said to be married, Wolf, with a wife and kids and everything.
Wolf: What the hell is he doing here in The Row?
Ace: I have no idea, Wolf. . . and from the looks of him he doesn’t know either. He looks like he’s walked into the wrong place. As casual as can be. What’s up with that?
Wolf: The cool calm, Ace. The cool, calm.
Jasper looks out on the frats and at Trevor Browning, and shows no real expression, his eyes moving and seeing—but nothing else. His hand reaches up and he feels around his pockets before pulling out a rather fancy pack of cigarillos. He takes one and places it in his mouth, acting casual as if it’s everyday he steps into a ring to fight another man. Jasper lights up the cigarillo and inhales before making his way onto the grass.
Ace: I know I did say this guy is married—and, well—technically that is true. You see. . . his wife wants a DIVORCE!
Wolf: The first one is always messy. . . It gets easier by the third or fourth time.
Ace: Jesus Christ, how many times have you been married, Wolf?
Wolf: Too many. . .
Wolf takes another nip from his flask as Jasper walks slowly toward the ring, looking at the frat fucks he passes. He looks at them with a blank face, but you can tell in a way he is studying them, taking them in one by one and instantly finding their weak points—their fears.
Ace: There’s something unsettling about this guy. . . I mean he’s way too calm. You’d think he’s waiting in line at the market or something. . . Not about to embark in a match with a brawler from overseas. . . You’d expect a guy with confidence like this to look like some muscle bound bastard with sledgehammers for fists, and a jaw like a lantern. . . But this Jasper Quinn looks like an everyday guy!
Wolf: Maybe the divorce has scarred over his heart—there’s no emotion left?
Ace: Maybe. . . One can never be sure.
Jasper Quinn reaches the ring and pulls one knee up onto the apron before grabbing the middle rope and pulling himself up. Jasper gets to his feet and grabs his cigarillo from his mouth before stepping through the ropes and into the ring. He blows out a cloud of smoke before returning the cigarillo to his mouth and making his way to the corner of the ring opposite Trevor Browning.
Ace: Who do you like in this one?
Wolf: Neither. . .
Wolf makes a face at the commentators table as the skanky Charlene enters the ring and smiles at all the frat fucks around the ring. They all look generally the same, with slight differences; a breed of human that is recognizable in its size, in the stupid faces they all seem to make, in the ugly way they destroy anything different. Jasper Quinn quietly smokes his cigarillo in the corner of the ring, while Trevor Browning in his corner jumps around to get the blood flowing.
Charlene giggles like a schoolgirl as the frat boys let out a raucous cheer. She strokes the microphone with her hand, just like chugging a cock, and winks before finally getting on with her job.
Charlene: Ladies and Gentlemen. . . well, mostly gentlemen, the following match is for one fall and has a thirty minute time limit. Introducing first, all the way from Exeter. . . England. . . weighing in at two hundred and eighty-five pounds, he is Trevorrrr. . . BROWNINNNGG!!
Trevor Browning raises his arms up in the corner of the ring and the frat boys let out a chorus of boos, for no other reason than because he is from England. Trevor Browning ignores his reception, and looks across the ring at his opponent—a man he can’t quite figure out yet. He looks determined, but he’s not flaunting it around. He certainly doesn’t look like much of a fighter—a big guy, sure—perhaps even a tad athletic. But a fighter? No, there was something else in Jasper Quinn. . . Looking across the ring Trevor Browning saw ruthlessness. . .
Ace: Trevor Browning with the weight advantage in this match—
Wolf: Do we even know how much Jasper Quinn weighs?
Charlene: And his opponent. . . from Livermore, California. . . weighing two hundred and fifty-five pounds, he is Jasperrr. . . QUINNNNNN!
Jasper Quinn finishes up his cigarillo, and he mildly acknowledges the introduction. He then suddenly turns from the corner and reaches over the top rope, grabbing a frat fuck’s beer cup and dropping the cigarillo in it.
Ace: Hey that’s not a good idea!
The frat fuck looks down in his beer and frowns. He tries to climb up into the ring, reaching the apron, but Jasper quickly turns and and grabs the guy by the hair and savagely bashes him in the face with a palm thrust, the blow breaking the man’s nose. The douche falls back into the crowd, blood dripping from his nose like water from a faucet.
Ace: Jesus Christ I think he broke that dude’s nose!
Wolf: Yep, this divorce has blackened his heart. . . I don’t know who this guy is—but I wouldn’t mess with him.
Ace: I agree with you there, Wolf. We don’t know who he is, but I think we don’t want to know! How far does the rabbit hole go? What skeletons are in his closet? Average Joes don’t just come to The Row. . .
El Toro directs the two men to the center of the ring with a clap of his hands, and he goes over the rules briefly in Spanish. Neither men seem to give him much attention, as he is in fact talking at their waists and neither man is one for Spanish anyway. El Toro raises up an arm and signals for the bell, officially starting the match.
Ace: And we’re off! This match between two virtual newcomers here in the Row. . . Trevor of course has already had a match with us, but he’s still getting accustomed to The Row, and the fans are still getting accustomed to him.
Wolf: Bunch of bloody foreigners if you ask me.
Ace: No one did. . .
Trevor Browning straightens up, moving forwards stiff in the back, his arms raised up by his head. Jasper Quinn receives him, moving about the ring and moving his head back and forth to keep from being a stationary target.
Wolf: What are we gonna have a fight? A good ole fashioned fist fight?
Ace: What of it?
Wolf: Oh I’m not complaining, I’m all for it.
Ace: You. . . are?!
Trevor Browning reaches back and throws a hard right but Jasper Quinn ducks under it and comes up throwing a left, striking Trevor square in the jaw. Trevor stumbles back from the blow, his hands reaching to his face where the blow struck.
Ace: Jasper Quinn with the hard left on Trevor!
Wolf: Those English can fight you know. . .
Ace: It appears so can Quinn!
Trevor Browning sells the punch and Jasper Quinn grabs him by the head and then directs him to the turnbuckle, ramming him head first into the top turnbuckle.
Ace: Jasper Quinn using the top turnbuckle as a weapon!
Trevor Browning’s head bounces off the turnbuckle and Jasper Quinn grabs him by the head again, ramming it into the top turnbuckle for the second time.
Ace: And again Trevor Browning goes face first into the top turnbuckle, courtesy of Jasper Quinn.
Wolf: Who is this guy?!
Trevor Browning comes up out of the corner along the ropes, his left hand grabbing the top rope. Trevor shakes his head and makes his way to the next corner, with Jasper Quinn in pursuit. Trevor Browning reaches the corner and Jasper Quinn grabs him by the shoulder, forcing him into the corner before he starts throwing rights and lefts to the face of Trevor Browning.
Ace: Jasper Quinn working Trevor Browning in the corner! This one is a brawl so far ladies and gentlemen!
Wolf: A tactless match. Great. . .
Trevor gets rocked by another left, then a right and then Jasper really reaches back and plants another stinging right to the face of Trevor Browning.
Ace: Hard right by Quinn!
Trevor sells the blows and staggers out into the center of the ring, Jasper watching him. Trevor reaches the center of the ring before his knees give out and he falls face first to the mat.
Ace: And down goes Browning! Down goes Browning!
Wolf: What are you
Jasper Quinn drops to the mat, covering Trevor Browning and hooking the leg, pulling upward to pin Trevor’s upper back to the mat. El Toro slides to the mat, full of energy (it being the first match) and goes for the count.
Ace: We’ve got a pin. 1. . . kick out—to be expected but nonetheless, I must mention it.
Wolf: I think I’m gonna drink after every pin attempt. Just like these frat bastards.
Ace: Don’t do it Wolf!
Jasper Quinn gets to his feet and grabs Trevor Browning by the hair. He takes a tug and Trevor Browning quickly gets to his feet. Jasper Quinn then grabs Trevor Browning and goes to Irish whip him into the ropes.
Ace: Irish whip—no. . .
Trevor Browning reverses the Irish whip, tossing Jasper Quinn into the ropes instead.
Ace: Quinn into the ropes. . .
Jasper Quinn hits the ropes and returns toward the center of the ring, where Trevor Brown turns and raises up and elbow, bringing it across the head of Jasper Quinn. Jasper Quinn hits the mat on his back and sells the elbow for a moment, reaching up and checking his head for blood.
Ace: Hard elbow by Trevor Browning, and Jasper Quinn is down!
Trevor Browning takes off for the ropes and comes back before he jumps up in the air and raises the very same elbow and brings it down across the chest of Jasper Quinn. Jasper Quinn sells the elbow drop and Trevor Browning gets up and salutes the crowd. The frat boys boo him, starting up another ENGLAND SUCKS chant.
Ace: Well Trevor Browning can’t get no love. Can’t you people see he’s just trying to live the American Dream?
ENGLAND SUCKS ENGLAND SUCKS
Wolf: You know, at some point you gots the close the damn gates. You can’t just let everybody in all the damn time. This Trevor Browning kid is green.
ENGLAND SUCKS ENGLAND SUCKS
Ace: We’ve all got to start somewhere, Wolf.
The chant switches suddenly, to a Pro-USA chant, as Omega Omega Fraternity members are easily amused and distracted.
Wolf: Start somewhere else.
USA. . . USA. . . USA
Jasper Quinn slowly gets to his feet and Trevor Browning reaches him before his does, grabbing him by the hair and helping him up to his feet anyway. Trevor Browning keeps his hold on Jasper Quinn with his left arm and reaches back with a right that he brings forward and plants across the kisser of Jasper Quinn, knocking him straight to the mat.
Ace: Hard Right by Trevor!
Wolf: Told you they could fight.
Ace: Who’s they?
Wolf: The English!
Jasper Quinn shakes his head on the mat, selling the right and slowly gets to his feet, Trevor Browning standing over him with a raised fist. Jasper Quinn gets to his feet and Trevor Browning throws a left jab, then another, each jab connecting with Jasper, and then Trevor Browning follows it up with a stiff right arm that he brings forward across the upper chest of Jasper Quinn, knocking him to the mat.
Ace: Lariat by Trevor Browning.
Trevor Browning then drops to the mat and goes for the pin. He hooks the leg of Jasper Quinn as El Toro slides to the mat to make the official count.
Ace: We’ve got a pin—1. . . kick out! This Jasper Quinn fella sure has a lot of guts.
Wolf: Why do you say that? The Row is a joke if you ask me.
Ace: You got out there and try it Wolf.
Wolf: I’m an old man!
Ace: That doesn’t stop Dark!
Trevor Browning gets to his feet and stomps Jasper Quinn once in the chest before dropping back down to the mat and grabbing Jasper Quinn by the arm and bending it backwards behind Jasper’s back, the wrist bent.
Ace: Hammerlock by Trevor Browning.
Jasper Quinn sells the hammer lock, his face twisted into a grimace as Trevor Browning wrenches the hold and sweats all over him. El Toro circles around the two, leaning slightly over at the waist and asking Jasper if he would like to submit. Jasper shakes his head and cries out once in pain as Trevor wrenches the arm particularly hard.
Ace: Jasper Quinn in the shit house now, ladies and gentlemen.
Wolf: This guy better go back to his job man. This is no place for no paper pushers.
Ace: This is no place for drunk commentators either, but we keep you around. . .
Jasper Quinn tucks his legs underneath him and starts to get up to the standing position, and the frat fuckers start to cheer if only for the hope of some change in action. Jasper Quinn reaches his feet and throws a wild elbow behind him, the elbow connecting with Trevor Browning’s head.
Ace: Elbow by Jasper Quinn! Trying to get out of this one folks. . .
Trevor Browning sells the elbow but keeps the hold on Jasper Quinn. Jasper goes for another elbow but Trevor Browning ducks his head before using his legs to lifts Jasper Quinn up and over his head, sending him to the mat behind him.
Ace: Hammerlock German Suplex!
Wolf: Every German suplex should include a hammerlock.
Ace: Why’s that?
Wolf: Because The German people—
Ace: Whoah whoah before you even get started—I’m gonna stop you there.
Jasper Quinn sells the hammerlock German Suplex on the mat as Trevor Browning gets to his feet and tries to get a cheer from the crowd. He raises his arms and smiles, but still the frat boys boo him with as much intensity as before.
Ace: I don’t know why Trevor Browning is so adamant on winning over this crowd—
Wolf: He’s lonely Ace—he’s just looking for some friends here in this big, scary, country.
Ace: I think you’re on to something there, Wolf.
Jasper Quinn slowly gets to his feet as Trevor Browning gives up on the fans and makes his way over to Jasper Quinn. He reaches Jasper, who’s bent over in the process of getting to his feet and Trevor brings down a forearm to the back of Jasper Quinn. Quinn straightens up, though he sells the blow, and Trevor throws another right before grabbing Jasper by the arm and tossing him into the ropes.
Ace: Irish whip by Trevor Browning.
Wolf: English Whip? I mean he is English?
Ace: Sure. . .
Jasper turns his back to the ropes and hits them, but grabs hold of the top rope with both arm to prevent returning back to the center of the ring. Trevor Browning charges Jasper Quinn and as Trevor reaches Jasper, Jasper bends at the waist and raises up, lifting Trevor Browning clean over the top rope and to the ground outside.
Ace: Back body drop by Jasper Quinn on Trevor Browning! And Trevor went over the top rope and out of the ring with that one!
Wolf: Now he’s having himself a little picnic in the grass.
Jasper steps through the top and middle ropes before leaping down to the ground outside of the ring. He lands on both feet and looks down on Trevor Browning, who sells the back body drop. Trevor Browning crawls forward on the grass and Jasper reaches him pulling him to his feet while El Toro instructs both men to get inside of the ring in Spanish.
Ace: Trevor Browning up now with the aid of Jasper Quinn, who’s not trying to help him out folks, he’s wanting to do even more damage.
Wolf: And now they’re wrestling in the grass. The Row depresses me so much these days. . .
Wolf takes a sip of his flask as El Toro tires of warnings and starts to cart. Uno. . . Jasper reaches back and throws a hard right to Trevor Browning, the frat boys around them cheering each shot. Dos. . . Trevor Brown sells the hard right but quickly comes back with a right of his own.
Ace: Both men exchanging blows on the outside!
Tres. . . Jasper Quinn throws another right, then a quick left, each shot rocking Trevor Browning. Jasper Quinn then kicks Trevor Browning in the gut before hooking his head under his armpit. Cuatro. . . Jasper then takes Trevor’s free arm and puts it over his head before Jasper grabs Trevor Browning by the tights and lifts him up into the air. Cinco. . .Jasper Quinn falls backward, bringing Trevor Browning straight down to the ground. The frat fucks pop.
Ace: Suplex on the ground outside!
Wolf: Grass is more dangerous than say. . . a steel chair? Is that what you’re gonna tell me?
Ace: There’s ground underneath that grass, Wolf, and it’s hard!
Wolf: That’s what she said. . .
Seis. . . Jasper Quinn grabs a handful of grass as he gets to his feet and sprinkles it in the air over the fallen Trevor Browning. Jasper Quinn then bends at the waist and grabs Trevor by the hair, bringing him to his feet. Siete. . . Jasper Quinn tosses Trevor into the ring and slides in after him.
Ace: Both men in the ring now after that near count out.
Wolf: No one is surprised. You really think we’re gonna open a show with a double count out?
Ace: Geeze, alcohol sure does make you testy. . .
Jasper Quinn crawls his way over to Trevor Browning and then covers him, hooking the leg. El Toro drops to the mat as the crowd acknowledges the pin with a general round of applause.
Ace: We’ve got a pin, 1. . . 2. . .No! Kick out! Trevor Browning kicks out!
Wolf: Up, attempted pin fall. I guess I’ll have to take another—
Wolf takes another shot as Jasper Quinn gets up to his knees and checks with El Toro. El Toro shakes his head and shows him two fingers and Jasper Quinn turns to the fallen Trevor Browning and grabs him by the head before pounding the back of Trevor’s head into the mat.
Ace: This guy is now pounding Trevor’s head right into the mat! It’s like he’s trying to bust a watermelon or something!
Wolf: Great work on that one Ace—‘a watermelon or something’!
Jasper Quinn then covers Trevor Browning once again, hooking the leg. El Toro slides to the mat, going for the count.
Ace: And another quick pin here. . . 1. . .2—NO. Kick out.
Jasper checks with El Toro and still El Toro shows him only two fingers. Jasper curses, and makes his way to his feet, grabbing a handful of Trevor Browning’s hair and bringing him to his feet with him. Jasper reaches back and punches him, once, twice, before grabbing him by the wrist and whipping him into the ropes.
Ace: Irish whip now by Jasper Quinn. . .
Trevor Browning turns, hitting his back on the ropes and returning to the center of the ring, where Jasper Quinn awaits him. As Trevor reaches Jasper, Jasper rises up a leg for the big boot but Trevor Browning ducks it.
Ace: Attempted clothesline by Jasper Quinn, ducked by Trevor Browning. The Englishman toward the ropes once again now.
Trevor Browning hits the ropes again on the other side of the ring and as he reaches Jasper Quinn in the center of the ring he grabs him around the waist and lifts him up into the air vertically before bringing him down, tailbone first across his bent knee.
Ace: Atomic drop by Trevor Browning!
Jasper Quinn sells the atomic drop and Trevor Browning rises quickly and hooks Jasper Quinn around the head and falls backward to the mat, bringing his head straight to the mat with him.
Ace: Trevor Browning links the two moves together—the atomic drop and the DDT and Jasper Quinn is down now!
Wolf: Whoop-de-frickin’ do!
Jasper Quinn sells the DDT on the mat, breathing heavily from the strain of the match as Trevor Browning slowly gets to his feet. He makes his way over to Jasper Quinn and bends over at the waist and grabs him by hair in an attempt to get Jasper to his feet. Jasper rises up and rakes a thumb over Trevor Browning’s eye.
Ace: Eye gouge by Jasper Quinn.
Wolf: This guy knows plenty of ways to hurt a person. I thought he was just supposed to be some square?
Ace: Apparently not Wolf.
Trevor Browning sells the eye gouge, reaching up toward his face and covering his eye. Jasper Quinn shortens the gap between them and throws a right followed by a quick left before he grabs Trevor by the arm and tosses him into the ropes.
Ace: Irish whip by Jasper Quinn. . . there goes Trevor.
Trevor Browning hits the ropes on the opposite side of the ring and returns. As he reaches Jasper Quinn, Jasper lifts Trevor up in the air as if for a back drop but instead of tossing Trevor over Jasper pushes Trevor up in the air and Trevor comes crashing down to the mat face first.
Ace: Flap jack by Jasper Quinn!
Wolf: What goes up must come down Ace! Wrestling would suck without that general rule.
The crowd applauds the bump as Trevor Browning sells the flapjack. He rolls over onto his back, his face contorted with pain and Jasper Quinn gets to his feet and promptly leaves them, falling onto the prone Trevor Browning head first.
Ace: Headbutt Drop!
Wolf: This fucker is really using his head tonight, Ace.
Ace: Quite literally.
Jasper Quinn scrambles over the fallen Trevor Browning and hooks the leg, pinning him to the mat. El Toro slides to the mat with all the grace a midget can muster, and goes for the count.
Ace: We’ve got a pin! 1. . . 2. . KICK OUT! Trevor Browning kicks out of it!
Wolf: You ever tire of feigning enthusiasm all the damn time?
Jasper Quinn checks with El Toro and gets two fingers in the face.
Ace: Who’s feigning anything?! This is a hell of a match!
Jasper Quinn frowns at the result and gets to his feet.
Wolf: Whatever you say.
Jasper Quinn makes his way over to Trevor Browning, who is still selling on the mat. Jasper Quinn reaches Trevor and bends at the waist, grabbing him by the hair and pulling upward. Trevor Browning gets to his feet with a cry of pain and Jasper Quinn reaches up and grabs Trevor around the top of the head before dropping to his knees, forcing Trevor’s chin downward over the top of his head.
Ace: Jaw breaker by Jasper Quinn!
Trevor Browning sells the jawbreaker, stumbling back toward the ropes and grabbing his chin. The crowd pops and drinks some beer in honor of Jasper.
Wolf: Yeah, I’d like to bust a few jaws myself—particularly yours.
Ace: Lay off the juice. You couldn’t take me old man.
Jasper gets his feet and makes his way over to Trevor Browning, who’s up against the ropes.
Wolf: Wanna bet?
Jasper strikes Trevor Browning in the gut once, twice, three times before pushing him up against the ropes and going for the Irish whip.
Ace: Irish whip by Jasper—no—reversal!
Trevor Browning turns and keeps his hold on Jasper’s wrist, before whipping him toward the opposite ropes and releasing the wrist. Jasper is sent toward the ropes, and he turns as he reaches them, his back bouncing off the ropes and sending him back toward the center of the ring.
Ace: Quinn off the ropes. . .
Jasper returns to Trevor Browning and jumps up in the air, and catches him with his body, sending him to the mat.
Ace: Lou Thesz Press!
Jasper then bends down and bites Trevor Browning’s nose, clamping down like a damn bird.
Ace: He’s biting Trevor Browning!
Wolf: Ha ha! He’s got that honker of Trevor and he’s biting down with all his force. Look at the blood!
Trevor Browning cries out in pain and kicks his feet and flails his arms, selling the bite as a trickle of blood comes down from the fresh bite marks. El Toro notices the bite and gets down to get Jasper off of Trevor, but still he clamps down.
Wolf: My God this is hilarious! I’ve got to have me another drink!
Ace: Everyone is enjoying this but Trevor Browning, that’s for sure.
El Toro starts up the count, uno, dos, tres, and Jasper Quinn releases Browning’s snout and gets up to smile and looking around at the crowd. El Toro tugs his tights in an effort to bring him to a knee so that he may reprimand him to his face, but Jasper Quinn ignores him. Meanwhile, Trevor Browning lays on the mat, his hands reaching up to check his nose, and each time bringing down drops of blood.
Ace: Jasper Quinn will bite your nose off ladies and gentlemen!
Wolf: I think he’ll do anything to hurt a man. And at the time he felt going for the ole’ schnozola was the way to go.
Ace: And Trevor is bleeding!
Jasper makes his way over to Trevor and then grabs him by the arm, pulling him to his feet. Trevor Browning stumbles on his feet a bit, his body bent over as if his head suddenly were too heavy to hold up. Jasper Quinn smiles and then hooks Trevor under the arm before taking the off arm of Trevor and hooking it over his head. Jasper then lifts Trevor up into the air for a moment before bringing him violently down on his upper neck/head.
Ace: My God! What a move! He calls that the Quintessence!
Jasper Quinn then scrambles over Trevor Browning, hooking the leg. El Toro slides to the mat a split second after and the crowd warms up in anticipation of the pinfall.
Ace: This could be it! 1. . . 2. . . 3!! He’s done it!
El Toro rises up and signals for the bell.
Wolf: Go back to England!
Ace: Jasper Quinn has won here in his debut match!
Jasper Quinn gets up to his feet and stands over the fallen Trevor Browning, looking down at him. El Toro grabs Jasper by the wrist and raises his arm as high as he can before Jasper Quinn raises it up the rest of the way. Jasper Quinn shows no other emotion or sign of victory, and then lowers his arm and turns to the ropes. He takes one last look at Trevor before hopping through the ropes and out of the ring.
Ace: An impressive debut here for Jasper Quinn, and as for Trevor—he’ll just have to go back to the drawing board.
Wolf: He ought to go back to England!
We get one last show of Trevor Browning in the ring, still selling the Quintessence by lying motionless in the ring. He breathes heavily, his arms and legs sprawled out around him. We then cut to Wolf and Ace sitting at the commentators table. Wolf appears a little ‘tipsy.’
Wolf: I’m serious. The Row don’t need any more people that are hard to understand. First Tarrasque. . . then Mariguano. . . and now this Trevor Browning kid!
Ace: Well unfortunately for you Wolf, I have a feeling this Trevor Browning is going to be around for awhile here in The Row, despite the loss tonight. Next week he’ll be looking to take on Schism in tournament action—so stay tuned for that one. That’s next week, September 26th. . .
Wolf: Nice job there. . .
Ace: But as for tonight, we’ve just gotten started ladies and gentlemen! We’ve got The Disposal and another new face in Sonny Thompson up next—also Dark, IM Hate, Rupture, and Cort Vang! Stick around!
Wolf: And drink!
BLACKBEARD BRAND RUGGED TAMPONS, PROUD SPONSORS OF THE ROW.
We cut to one of the many bedrooms in the Omega Omega House. It is one of the larger bedrooms and was given to Dark for the duration of the show by Phillip Barnes (as it was his bedroom) to run the show from and generally get drunk. In regards to running the show Dark is not doing so well, in regards to getting drunk—he’s getting along swimmingly. A keg sits in the room, and Dark stands nearby looking out the window down on the ring with a beer in his hands. He smiles to himself as the frat boys let out a random cheer (Charlene has taken it upon herself to entertain the crowd in between matches) and turns toward the door, ignoring the camera man.
Ace: A little up close and personal with the boss.
Wolf: Drink, drink, drink! It’s what we’re here to do!
Dark makes his way over to the door and pulls it open and peeks through the doorway. Wes Payton and Leon Williams are each on a side of the door, up against the wall, bustin’ security business.
Dark: Hey fellas. . . get me Johnny.
Wes Payton looks to Leon, which means ‘YOU DO IT NIGGA’ and Leon stomps off grudgingly as Dark turns back into the room and shuts the door in the face of Wes Payton, who was about to say something, probably ‘HEY NIGGA WHY WE GOTTA DO SECURITY? NOBODY WANTS YOU’
Ace: The Boss asking for Johnny Cox here. No doubt got some fact finding mission to embark on.
Wolf: Johnny is such a horrible Rat he told me yesterday—in confidence, that Dark likes to drink beer. . . Shit everybody knows that!
Dark makes his way back to the window, stopping to fill his beer cup once again. The condensation of the outside of the keg tells you the beer is cold, and from the way Dark sighs satisfactorily after each sip, you can tell he’s enjoying it. No need to ask what it is, it’s probably cheap domestic shit. But not everyone can drink good all of the time.
Wolf: Time for a drink break everyone!
Wolf takes a nip from his flask as Dark pulls the blinds and observes The Row from above. After a few moments there is a knock on the door. He chugs his beer and places the cup on the keg as he passes (to be filled again later) and makes his way to the door. He opens the door and finds the face of Leon William peering back at him.
Dark: So. . . where the fuck is he?
Leon: Umm. . .
Dark: Out with it!
Leon Williams turns to look at Wes, who returns his gaze with that stone like stare of his. Leon then walks out of the room and is gone for a few seconds before we see him again, backing his way into the room. He backs in toward the camera and the cameraman moves, revealing Johnny Cox in his arms, bleeding from the head.
Dark: Jesus Christ! What happened?
Leon: Dunno. . . just found him like this.
Leon looks up with a frown and Dark bends over to check on Johnny, who seems completely unconscious. Dark slaps him in the face a couple of times, but still Johnny does not respond.
Ace: Johnny Cox is out!
Wolf: He’s been mugged!
Dark gets up angrily and charges out the door.
Dark: The son-of-a-bitch!
Fade. . .
We cut to inside the Omega Omega house, where a door swings open and lets out the sound of a flushing toilet. The Disposal then squeezes through the doorway and wipes the sweat from his forehead—for it is quite a bit of work you see—getting in a small ass closet of a bathroom just to drop trow and squeeze out some steamers. There’s a party going inside of the house, with many young alcoholics calling themselves students mingling in the living room, drinking beer and taking in a baseball game on the television.
Ace: Oh God it’s The Disposal! I can’t stand this disgusting bastard. He’s always eating, and when he’s not eating he’s usually taking a shit. How does he even wipe his ass? I mean tell me how that is even physically possible? Look at the guy, there’s no way he can reach—there’s shit in those tights Wolf, shit.
Wolf: You know, I don’t really mind. I know I should mind, but thanks to this whiskey, I—I just don’t care. You know, I think I might have to try that ‘beer’ all those frat boys keep talking about.
Ace: Yeah way to go, Dark. . . There are a few sorority girls here, but for the most part this place is a real sausage fest. . . Way to ensure NOBODY gets laid.
The Disposal raises his hands to his face as a look of shock comes upon him. He’s not watching the game however; he’s staring at several giant platters of food—mostly finger foods, but bigger stuff too, like hotdogs and hamburgers. A great bowl of what looks like chili flanks the platter on one side, and a copious amount of bags of chips had been laid out on an adjoining table. The Disposal’s eyes open wide and he begins to drool as his mind goes through the many different possibilities—the combinations of food to be had and thoroughly enjoyed.
Ace: Great, The Disposal has found some food. You know this guy wouldn’t notice a man dying in the gutter, but not a grain of rice could escape his gaze.
Wolf: The fat bastard—he’s the sort that makes me sorry for America. What a pig. Oink Oink. Back in my day we’d take a pig like that and ridiculed him till he shaped up or killed himself. . . But not these days. OH NO. Not these days, what with the anti-bullying no-dodgeball-sissy crap. . .
Ace: Jesus Christ Wolf, are you drunk already?
The Disposal charges the food table, knocking chairs and coeds in his wake. He reaches the table and begins to stuff his face, eating whole hamburgers in four or five bites and finishing hot dogs in two. The little cocktail weenies are cute—those he can gobble by the handful. The Disposal stops only to notice that everyone is watching him, one in particular is taking great interest. One of Omegas huskier members emerges from the crowd and locks eyes with The Disposal, making his way over to the table.
Wolf: We’ve got ourselves a fatty stare down! Two chubby chubbies.
Ace: You aint so slim yourself. . .
Without a word the particularly ugly man takes up a spot next to The Disposal and begins to match him bite for bite. The drunken frat boys, in the mood and dense enough to cheer for anything begin to chant and take sides. The game on the television is suddenly forgotten as the two men start to eat faster and faster, gulping and chewing without concern for themselves or their bodies. GO GO GO GO GO GO the frat heads chant.
Ace: These men going chew for chew, bite for bite, neither man slowing down! These are true disgusting beings.
Wolf: Two peas in a pod, Ace. Fucking butt buddies. Homo-shexualsh.
Ace: Are you slurring your words now?
Wolf: Absholutely not.
Half of the platter is gone, but still both men keep up their pace. The drunks surrounding them keep up with their cheering, while a few others start up with some lame cult fight song. The Disposal continues to dispose of the food, taking it down his gullet, and for a moment the other fatty falters. He stops chewing and his eyes open wide, while The Disposal continues to eat hotdogs and hamburgers without stopping.
Ace: He really is a disposal. This guy has some sort of bottomless stomach. It’s insane I tell you, he’s a freak of some sorts.
Wolf: Put him in the damn freak show where he belongs!
The other man stops eating his hand up near his mouth, holding a half eaten hotdog. He freezes up and falls back like a felled tree, and the drunks around him make room and applaud The Disposal. The Disposal finishes the platter and raises his arms in victory.
Ace: Jesus Christ, this is The Row god damn it. We fight here.
Wolf: We also drink---Whoooooeeee!
The Disposal steps over the fallen man and makes his way out of the living room. He turns down a hall, where he struggles to get past another fella trying to enter the place. The Disposal squeezes past him and then exits outside, closing the door behind him, trapping a HEY WHO ATE ALL THE--. . . .
We cut to Ace and Waylon Wolf sitting at their table out on the grass. Every once in a while a drunken frat boy passes by to muck it up for the camera, acting like young adults usually do when given copious amount of alcohol and little to no supervision. Ace turns to stare at Waylon Wolf who takes a healthy sip from a flask.
Ace: You gonna drink all show?
Wolf: Maybe, maybe not. I haven't decided yet.
Wolf smiles a drunken grin at Ace and Ace shakes his head. For once he has to be the responsible one, and he’s not so sure he likes it. He turns to the camera to get the job done.
Ace: Well I don’t know if The Disposal is going to be ready for this match tonight or not. . . This dumb ass probably swims right after eating too.
Wolf: Fatty like that don’t have to worry about shwimming. He don’t need to shwim when he can float. Float just like an ehgg.
Ace: Okay, now you’re definitely slurring your words.
Wolf: And what of it, ehhh? You gonna shtop me bhoy? Chause you rhemembers bhoy. I know a lot about ewe.
Ace: N-n-n-no. I won’t. I won’t stop yah.
All Along The Watchtower by Jimi Hendrix begins to play over the stolen audio system placed next to the backdoor of the Omega Omega house. The frat boys and their douche friends start up a drunken cheer.
Wolf: Who the fuck is this?
Ace: A newcomer, Wolf.
Wolf: Prolly a pussy.
Ace: Actually I don’t think so. Sonny Thompson is an ex-biker outlaw who’s got a brain all scrambled up from something. Drugs maybe. Dropped as a baby? Highly likely. He knows how to fight, and he’s crazy. I don’t think anyone would want to get in the ring with a guy like that, especially The Disposal.
Wolf: Ex-biker? A punk? I hate those biker punks—they’re bikes make so much noi—
Wolf is cut off by the sound of a roaring Harley. It only adds to the feeling of the song playing over the stereo, and the drunken frats let out yet another cheer. A burly man with long hair and sunglasses appears on a Harley, and he hops up a nearby curb and drives onto the grass, carving through the ground as his Harley kicks dirt in its wake.
Ace: Jesus Christ, he’s driving right up to the ring!
Wolf: I told you! Those mhotherfhucking hoodlums! I’m telling you! I can’t stand those bastards! The rhotten fhuckkkkks!
The crowd parts and the Harley drives right up to the ring, blasting loud and boisterous through the air. Sonny Thompson cuts the motor and the great beast quiets down and Sonny kicks the kickstand out and settles his bike to one side.
Ace: This guy looks nuttier than a Pay Day bar. I’m telling you something aint right about this guy. One flew over the cuckoo’s nest, you know what I mean?
Wolf: Fuck you Ace. Just seriously. FHHUUUCK YOU. I’m tired of your shit. It’s so fucking tiring.
Ace: Seriously Wolf. Put down the booze. We’re only in the second match. Watch your shit.
Sonny Thompson looks around at the crowd, giving them neither hatred nor love. He takes his glasses off and places them in the pocket of his jean vest, the logo of some archaic bike gang fading on the back.
Ace: The Goat Rapists. . . What the hell kind of Motorcycle gang is that?
Wolf: Their all goat fuckers. Every last one of them scumbags.
Sonny climbs up the steel steps and reaches the apron. He walks to its center, ignoring the frat boys and their many brews. He turns and steps over the top rope and enters the ring.
Ace: Sonny Thompson making his debut here against The Disposal. I don’t know how—or rather, I don’t know if he’ll be able to pick up that blob of fat. He’ll just have to knock him to the mat. Something tells me he won’t be having any problems with that.
Wolf: You know. . . Fhuck himmm. Fffhhhuck all of you!
Ace: We get it Wolf, you’re a horrible drunk, why don’t you take a nap.
Wolf: YHHOUUU’RE A NAP.
Ace: Did you just call me a ‘nap?’
I’m Fat by Weird Al Yankovic begins to play over the stolen audio system and the frat boys that know the tune sing along drunkenly, without shame.
Wolf: I HATE THIS TUNE!
Ace: That’s a pretty good IM Hate impression, you been working on that Wolf?
We cut to The Disposal as he squeezes his way through the backdoor and out into the yard. He looks around at everyone and grabs his stomach, breathing slowly. He belches a bit and grimaces after them, as if he’s suffering from acid indigestion.
Ace: I think The Disposal needs to learn not to eat before a match!
Wolf: He can’t help himselffff. Oh I’m ffffattt, I eat everythinggg lhike a phiiig.
Ace: You really shouldn’t already be this drunk. You drink before the show?
The Disposal makes his way down to the ring, the crowd parting to let the fat man through.
Wolf: Mhhaybeee. Mhhaybee not.
The drunken laughter of Waylon Wolf can be heard as The Disposal reaches the steps to the ring and slowly climbs them, one step at the time. The Disposal reaches the apron and then makes his way to its center before stepping through the ropes. He swings into the ring and comes up grimacing. He lets out yet another belch.
Ace: The Disposal suffering some discomfort after all that eating.
Wolf: Serves him right. Hhhhe mhakes me shick. Just shick.
Charlene enters the ring and gets a few whistles from those who have indulged in booze more than others and have lowered their standards, working on the most primitive of urges to fuck anything and everything. Charlene enjoys the attention and plays it up for them before doing the announcements. SHOW YOUR TITS comes up from the crowd.
Charlene: Oh momma taught me not to give away anything away for free that people will pay for sugar. . . See me after the match. . .
Wolf: Picking up clients during the show? The Goddamn whoreeee! Fhuck her!
Ace: That’s the idea, Wolf.
Charlene: Introducing first from Oakland, California, weighing in at two hundred and sixty five pounds. . . he is The Anchor. . . Sonny. . . THOMPSONNNN!
Sonny Thompson ignores the announcement, taking the moment to crack is knuckles and work his wrists. The frat boys raise their beers for a toast and then each take a huge chug of their beer.
Wolf: Don’t mind if I do. . .
Ace: Put that damn thing down!
Wolf: You aint mhhhy mhotherr you lhittllleee.
Charlene: And his opponent, from Tempe Arizona, weighing in at four hundred? Five hundred? Plus pounds. . . He is the fattest bastard I have ever seen. . . The Disposalllllll!
The Disposal lets out an enormous burp as the frat boys raise their beers for a second toast (really just to take another sip of beer) and empty their cups.
Ace: The Disposal sure is one gassy bastard. He reminds me of you Wolf, after some cheese.
Wolf: Fhhuck cheese! I fucking hate it! Gums up tha works! Leaves me conshtapated for days. Days God damn it!
El Toro raises his arm to single the bell and Charlene is hardly out of the ring before Sonny throws a right to the face of The Disposal, bringing a cheer from the frat fucks and a grunt from The Disposal. The Disposal rocks back from the blow and again Sonny throws another right connecting with the fattened cheek of The Disposal.
Ace: Sonny Thompson starting this one off with a couple of rights ladies and gentlemen.
Wolf: Ffffhuckkk dah wifffe!
The frat boys let out some drunken cheers as Sonny Thompson pushes The Disposal up against the ropes before Irish whipping him toward the opposite side of the ring.
Ace: Irish whip by Sonny Thompson, and look at the fat man go!
The body fat of The Disposal ripples as he hits the ropes and bounces off, returning toward Sonny Thompson. As he reaches Sonny, Sonny raises up a leg and The Disposal collides with the boot of Sonny Thompson.
Ace: Big boot by Sonny and The Disposal is down!
Wolf: Is that what that whasss? I thought we was having an earthquake.
The frat boys cheer their appreciation at seeing a fat man fall flat on his back. They take and drink of beer while in the ring Sonny Thompson grabs The Disposal by the hair and brings him to his feet.
Ace: The Disposal is up—and is it just me or does The Disposal look like he aint feeling too well? Perhaps a tad under the weather?
Wolf: Fffucking. . . fffucking—fffucking guy like that eats that much ffffoood and he’s bound to feel like shit.
Sonny keeps his hold on The Disposals head and reaches back with his free hand and lays a left to the jaw of The Disposal, once again sending him to the mat.
Ace: What a left by Sonny Thompson!
Sonny drops to the mat and hooks The Disposal’s leg and El Toro slides to the mat to go for the count. COUNT IT MIDGET! COUNT IT! Can be heard coming from somewhere in the crowd.
Ace: Toro with the count. 1. . .2—no. Kick out by The Disposal.
Wolf: Aint that mahhh job?
Ace: I just thought I’d help you out there, Wolf. . .
Wolf: Ohhhh fffhhhuck you. I’m one to ewwwe.
Sonny checks with El Toro and sees two little midget fingers and lets out a scoff. He gets to his feet and makes his way over to The Disposal, who is already breathing heavily already. He grabs a handful of The Disposal's hair and pulls upward, forcing the fatty to his feet. The Disposal makes slow work of it, his fat giggling as he gets up to one knee and then the other, eventually pushing himself up from the ground and to his feet. The Disposal makes such slow work of it Sonny curses him: YOU FAT BASTARD!
Ace: He certainly is a fat bastard, anyone with eyes can see that.
Wolf: Watch out fhor that rhing. He might bhrake it!
Sonny then hooks The Disposal's head, placing his head in the crook of his arm before falling downward to the mat, bringing The Disposal with him. The frat fucks raise their cups in appreciation and gulp down some more brew, cold all the way down.
Ace: DDT by Sonny Thompson!
Sonny gets to his feet and stomps Sonny in the head once, twice, three times, and he feels like he's back in his scrapping days back with his buddies, when they'd take to a guy and stomp him for a good half hour--three on one, and stop and have themselves a nice cold beer. You don't know beer until you've had one after stomping the shit after someone.
Ace: Sonny Thompson relentlessly stomping the head of The Disposal!
Wolf: Fffhuck him! And Fhhuck Cheese!
Ace: You've said that already.
Wolf: And ffhuck you!
Ace: That as well, Wolf. . .
Sonny then drops to the mat and covers the mountainous fatty, not even bothering to hook the leg. El Toro slides to the mat next to them, and the comparisons between the midget El Toro and the morbidly obese Disposal are almost too much to bare.
Ace: We've got a pin by Sonny Thompson! 1. . . 2--no! Kick out by The Disposal.
Wolf: He should just give up now and get back to his slut of a mother and that shitty couch he loves so much. You know he wants some fffhucking snacks or something. OINK OINK.
Sonny doesn’t even bother with checking the count, he gets to his feet and bends over, grabbing yet another handful of The Disposal’s hair. The fat man grunts, as he’s not one for having his roots pulled, and grudgingly he gets to his feet with a jiggling of thighs and underarms. Sonny then grabs The Disposal and Irish whips him into the corner, The Disposal hitting the corner with such force the ring appears to actually move.
Ace: Jesus Christ be careful there, Sonny—don’t break the ring man! Do you have any idea how long it took to set up?
Wolf: Pfff hahaha that’s rhiiightttt. You was setting that thing up, with all them setbacks we’ve ghottt.
Ace: So what if I did!
Wolf: Brown-nosing-ass-kissing-son-of-a-bitch. . .
Ace: You’ve had enough of that stuff, Wolf.
Wolf: I’LL TELL YOU WHEN I’VE HAD ENOUGH!
Sonny Thompson makes his way over to The Disposal, who sells in the corner and grabs his abdomen, as if he is in desperate need to either take a shit or blast an air biscuit. Sonny takes no notice, and begins to work The Disposal in the corner, hitting him with lefts and rights in the abdomen.
Ace: I would say Sonny is working The Disposal’s ribs—that is if one could actually accomplish such a thing. At the moment he’s workin’ belly fat.
Wolf: That ffffuck don’t look so good.
Ace: You know I think you’re right.
Wolf: ‘COURSE I’M RIGHT!
The Disposal’s face twists into one of both pain and horror as Sonny Thompson continues to punch away in the corner, showing no intent to stop anytime soon.
Ace: Look out Sonny!
It was sudden. If The Row had the money for fancy instant replay technology with slow motion, the viewer would have been able to see the look on The Disposal’s face as his mouth forced itself open. The would have seen the absolute terror in El Toro, as he somehow saw it coming. . . They would would have been able to see the torrent come from The Disposal’s mouth, with food chunks so large and poorly masticated you could make out individual foodstuffs: hotdogs, bits of hamburger (complete with cheese), halves of tomato slices, whole cocktail winnies. . . But without fancy technology it happens all too fast. . .
Ace: No! Not again! Jesus Christ can’t we get through a damn show without somebody puking! The Disposal has just thrown up all over Sonny Thompson!
The frat boys let out a drunken cheer, as it is in their opinion that college is all about drinking until one pukes. They applaud The Disposal for his technique and sheer volume of puke. Sonny stands with his hands out, the rage slowly building in his body, coupled with shame and embarrassment. For a moment he almost doesn’t believe it.
Ace: And look at Sonny! He’s drenched in vomit! I’m gonna be sick!
Wolf: Beellluhhhh you’re ghonna be sick?
Wolf bends over and vomits.
Ace: No! Not my shoes! Not again!
The rage hits Sonny and he wipes the puke off and charges The Disposal. He reaches the fat bastard and extends an arm, as he rushes the fat man, knocking him clean to the mat. The frat kids pop.
Ace: Clothesline by Sonny Thompson! He’s pissed and I don’t blame him Wolf. Wolf? Awww God, he’s throwing up again!
Sonny begins to stomp the fallen The Disposal, the attack looking more like a mugging than anything else. The Disposal sells the stomps, taking each one into his bulbous body without making any attempt to block them.
Ace: Sonny is stomping the shit out of The Disposal now!
Wolf: Ugghhhh. You know afffterrr that I feel better.
Ace: Yeah and you threw up all over yet another pair of my shoes. Thank you.
Wolf: Urrrr welcome.
Sonny then drops to his knees and starts to punch The Disposal in the head repeatedly, showing no signs of stomping. El Toro finally decides to get involved but Sonny tosses the little man away easily. El Toro hits the mat and the frat boys let out a drunken laugh at seeing a midget fall over.
Ace: Hey that’s a Death Row official! You can’t do that! I don’t care who you are!
Wolf: Maybe Sonny has a pho-pho-phhhhobia of lil people.
Sonny continues to punch away at The Disposal, who by now is a flailing ball of fat. The frat boys let out their drunken cheers and Sonny keeps up with his punching, almost like he’s trying to hack away The Disposal’s fat and make him thin again.
Ace: Jesus Christ not again! Break this shit up! How is anybody gonna respect us if we can’t even put on a match?!
Wolf: Nobody gets respect. Not me. Not a man in the business for all these fucking years. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!
Ace: Alright enough already!
Wolf: FUCK YOU!
Dark appears in the doorway of the Omega Omega house and charges down to the ring. He slides in under the rope and grabs Sonny from behind and hooks his arms. Sonny tries to flail away by Dark keeps his hands pulled back.
Ace: Thank God!
Dark can be seen actually shh’ing the fellow to come him down as he pulls him away from The Disposal, who sells the beating he had endured.
Wolf: What a fucking mess.
Ace: Well. . . I don’t know what to tell you folks. We were supposed to have The Disposal vs. Sonny Thompson here for you, but it looks like this one has been called off due to vomiting. . . I apologize for this.
Wolf: Awww fuck em. Fuck everybody. Fuck fuck fuck.
Ace: Well, we’ve gotta clean up the ring in preparation for our next match here. . . we’ll figure something out. Again. . . I apologize for this bullshit. The Row is better than that!
BALLS ITCH? CAN’T GET LAID BECAUSE YOU’RE ALWAYS SCRATCHING YOUR NUTS? DO YOU WASH AND SCRUB AND WASH SOME MORE AND NOTHING CAN DO THE JOB? WELL FILTHY PHIL’S BALL CREAM IS THE BALL CREAM FOR YOU. SMOOTH AND IN A SCRAPE CAN EVEN BE EATEN AS A DIETARY SUPPLEMENT. GO GET SOME AT YOUR LOCAL DEALER SUCKER. TELL EM THE ROW SENT YAH AND BUY ONE GET ONE FREE.
We're going to the hotel California,
Such a lovely place (such a lovely place)
Such a lovely face
Plenty of room on the--.
Ace: Wolf, answer your damn phone!
Wolf takes down another swig, as he rips his sleeve across his mouth drying his mouth from his adult liquid.
Wolf: Ace, shut the fuck up! No one likes you, no one cares about you, and no one and I mean this exactly how I say it... NO ONE WANTS YOU HERE! And besides, you know it cannot be my phone, your mom is already in bed!
As the scene flips in a quiet spot outside, we see Ian Michaels pulling out his phone and hitting the button to answer it on speaker.
Ian Michaels: Chris here...
A moment waits, as a woman comes across the phone from the doctor's office.
Nurse: Christopher, it's Julie. Glad I could catch you.
Ian Michaels: Yeah me too, so what did the old man say?
Nurse: After reviewing your x-rays and the MRI on your shoulder and bicep he has determined that you need to take three to four weeks off, and enter a rehab program to prevent surgery on that tear. So he will not give you clearance.
Ian Michaels: Fuck it!
Ian states as he just presses the end button on his phone. He stands there motionless, soaking up the information he was just given.
Ace: Does that mean our main event is canceled?
Wolf: How about you go ask Hate yourself. I am sure he'd like to slap the shit out of your squirmy ass!
Ace: You have a fucking problem Wolf, and I think you need a 12 step program!
""All your base are belong to Gust!""
- Raging Dead