RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Friday, March 28

12-Pack Review: SSW 05/11/02

BEER ONE: Well, off goes the beginning of the 12-Pack Wrasslin’ Tape Review Tournament of Indies. Here’s how it will work, I do 12-pack reviews of different American independent wrestling groups, and each pair match up. Whichever out of each pair make me drink more beer, moves on. The first promotion to go under the scrutiny is Southern States Wrestling, run by Beau James, out of Tennessee. The particular show I have is the Mark Curtis Memorial. Memorial wrestling shows are all the rage, second only to light heavyweight tournaments. The guy (Southern Fried Brent) who hooked me up with this tape wasn’t supposed to copy the fans Q&A at the beginning, but he did. I’m thankful for it. To me, wrestling is small-town, ladies with bleached blonde hair holding their kids, longhaired stoners in black t-shirts at the matches with their fat uncle who is foreman at some factory. These things, to me, being raised a rural Southern fucker, are what the fuck wrestling is; and this is why I have trouble digesting the polished crap that is World Wrestling Enteration. I guess since this is not actually part of the wrestling show, I should fast forward, so as to not ruin the fairness of the competition between promotions. But fuck fair. There’s cross-eyed old ladies, and guys with goatees and black t-shirts, and old dudes in button-down shirts eating potato salad. Some kid is talking about why he loves wrestling and in the background, Jimmy Valiant is in a monogrammed leather jacket talking up some lady. Fuckin’ beautiful. Says the teenager, “Southern States Wrestling…Kingsport, Tennessee…what could be better?” Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn. This is great. I’m not fast forwarding fuck. Old eastern Tennessee legends that I don’t recognize with cauliflower ears talking about riots from the past. “Nature Boy” Buddy Landel is talking like a fuckin’ recovering alcoholic. “Just like the roots of country music is bluegrass, the roots of professional wrestling is in east Tennessee,” says the Nature Boy. He is one hundred percent preacher, even when drunk, the sign of a quality preacher. He needs to convert to dark hair and sunglasses though, because no successful preacher ever kicked it with dye jobbed hair and red eyes. Jimmy Valiant, even an old washed-up goat farmer, is cooler than 97% of the people on Earth. I drink to his little anecdote there.

BEER TWO: Wow, George South is wearing the swank evil graphic pro-God black t-shirt that you usually only find in Mexico. But apparently, that shit is alive and well in the Smoky Mountains as well. Beau James, I know you’re out there somewhere, and eventually you will read this. Keep up the fuckin’ great work, man. You are passionate, and you are true, and what you are doing is for a breed of people who still enjoy believing and computers and insider sheets and lack of kayfabe haven’t, as Jerry Clower would say, educated them beyond their intelligence. Smart fans aren’t much fun, and are usually too fuckin’ high-falutin’ to get a chili dog and Dr. Pepper at the concession stand. Our first match is El Hijo Del George South & Kid Apollo vs. the New York Assassin & Jason King. I’m not sure who is who, but one kid looks about thirteen and has a tribal tattoo on his lower back that, when on chicks, makes me want to engage in anal sex. It doesn’t work with fresh-faced young men, though. Ahh, he must be Kid Apollo, as his partner has some swank big-ass GSJ on his ass, for George South Junior. And I’m betting the big guy with grease in his hair is the New York Assassin. I love how New Yorkers are always evil bastards in the South. The best was when Leroy Brown was just a simple country boy in Mid-Atlantic, wrestling in overalls, and he was a face. Then, all he did, was go urban and start dying his beard golden blond and talking a little black pride shit and he was pure rudo, doing some great programs with Jimmy Valiant and Ricky Steamboat. As the babyface, I even remember him working an angle with a U.S. champ Ric Flair. Man, those were some great days for wrestling back then. George South Jr. is dressed like a luchador without a mask, sort of a redneck Super Crazy. Wrestlers should always get monograms on their boots so we can figure out who is who in the opening matches. Kid Apollo, despite his goofy name and bad tattoo that confuses me sexually, the motherfucker can get up in the air. This big guy, the New York Assassin I assume, he is one scary motherfucker. He’s got teeth sticking out and this goofy Of Mice and Men grin on his face. I would book that motherfucker in heel situations in small-city and large-town gyms till my money ran out or my ring broke. He would piss off the old people, I’m sure of it. The problem with indy openers is that they lack fluidity a lot of times, but that’s why they’re openers; they have to learn that shit. El Hijo Del George South has a long ways to go to be his daddy, and he’s throwing in lucha moves that make no sense. He won with a very shaky rana. Your announcer looks like the bald guy who played cops all the time in the ‘70s, he was on Sheriff Lobo and Stacey Keach’s top cop in the Cheech & Chong flicks. That makes me happy. Shit like that still exists in places like Kingsport, TN, and Waynesboro, VA, and Henderson, NC, and places like that. It is why I am proud to be from the South, because shit hasn’t changed, it just modified. They’re doing a ten-bell salute for dead people.

BEER THREE: Now a guy comes out in a black t-shirt and jeans and sings the National Anthem. He’s pretty good. The best National Anthem at an indy show ever was this NWA Virginia show I went to where some redneck on step 5 of Alcoholics Anonymous was wearing a suit and played the anthem on an electric guitar. Again, Southern perfection. Now we have a man in a mask called Iron Cross, and we have the motherfuckin’ man, Roger Anderson. All of a sudden, we have announcers. Roger Anderson is a big motherfucker, and if I had a shitload of money to waste on an indy, the first three dudes I’d call up would be Anderson, his partner Frank “The Tank” Parker, and Preston Quinn. The Iron Cross is billed as being from the Kingdom of Heaven, and he’s the babyface. Cross is basically wearing a Mil Mascaras mask with a Jesus cross added to the sides, and a little bit of extra flames off the eyeball pieces. Both guys are wearing regular old school brief-style trunks. That’s some shit you’d never see in the WWF. What makes an indy guy head and shoulders above others on a show like this is selling. Lots of guys the last few years have learned the moves in rings in strip mall gyms here and there. But few understand how to sell a fuckin’ move. “Ruthless” Roger Anderson sells like a champ; and that’s why, even with his six-pack a day physique, he is very watchable. Again, two things that make this perfectly Southern indy – the doors are open to let the heat out, I’m guessing, and cars are whizzing by, and Roger Anderson claims the Anderson family as his roots. I think if I was to actually take the time to figure it out, about half the wrestling cards I’ve been to have featured somebody who’s supposedly part of the Anderson family, whether it be Arn, C.W., Roger, Ole, Jackie, Pat, and I’m sure there are more. Being an Anderson means you are “double tough” and you will take shorts when necessary because you’re like that. And you’ll work on your opponent’s arm. It’s in your blood. The fans automatically respect you, but don’t trust you. Fuckin’ perfection. You can’t put shit like that on a t-shirt and sell it to kids. I don’t think I mentioned that I’m broke and drinking all the loose beers in my fridge tonight. The first three were all Old Milwaukees, but I’m sucking this one back as The Iron Cross beats Roger Anderson with the Lou Thesz Press. It’s always nice to see the Thesz Press win a match. Now we’ve got “Wild Child” Andy Douglas, the good-looking young face, in full Hardy mode, going up against the Mighty Yankee, a big guy in a one-strap Super Destroyer style black singlet, and solid black mask. He is managed by Misty Steinbrenner. Andy Douglas is wearing a heavy metal style studded belt straight from the flea market. I will drink to a guy wearing a belt like that beating down the Mighty Yankee. Fuckin’ Yankees. Douglas is not bad, having the Hardy Boyz stylish good looks combined with some high-flying talent, to give the local fans a taste of something they see on their TV every Monday night. Ahh, the old ref kicking the heels hands off the ropes for some reason and causing a roll-up for a two-count. What is the reasoning behind the ref doing that? I’ve never understood. Shouldn’t he be calling for the break? Goddamn shattering the illusion of reality.

BEER FOUR: Well, there were no more Old Mils in the fridge, but I found three PBRs in there. So that’s what I’m drinking now, you bitches. I love the foot on the second ropes while applying the reverse chinlock and the face, though he can’t see it, feels the bodyweight shift and starts kicking like a stuck pig when the feet go on the ropes. I will drink to the beauty of that, the type of thing that sports entertainment doesn’t have time to show me in between P.O.D. videos and backstage shenanigans and chicanery. Wow, the Mighty Yankee wins my heart with an enthusiastic swinging neckbreaker and the quick cover, complete with leg-hooking and tight-pulling. GODDAMN! It’s Jimmy Valiant, old and tattooed and doing his constant shake. The guy looks like some sort of wild street preacher nowadays. There is no human being more stylish than James “Jimmy” Valiant. Right now, I can’t remember what his son’s name is, but I know it’s one of the coolest things I’ve ever heard somebody be named. The heel, George South, comes out with John 3:16 on the back of his jacket. There’s a lot of God in southern indys. And if I was to ever convert, I would want a black jacket with three white stars going down each arm and “JOHN 3:16” on the back of it. Really, I would. I’d probably get some fringe on my jacket, too, though. George South is going for cheap heat, threatening to smack people in the crowd and all, while the ref and Jimmy wait patiently. George finally enters the ring and does the stalking point, gets his jacket half off, stops, starts jaw-jacking with the crowd, steps halfway out the ring, comes back in, jacket still on both arms but only one shoulder. Then he pulls it back, but still on his arms, hits the other side of the ring, starts the same bit. Back out the ring halfway on a third side, he jumps down and points and talks shit now. It’s great. And I love guys with long hair that are going bald. One of my biggest hopes, before I dreaded my hair, was going bald while having long hair. Fuck cutting that shit off, because nothing is wilder than that shit hanging with a bald spot. The bald guy ponytail is kinda gay and professorial looking, but letting it hang with the bald spot rocks like Black Oak Arkansas. We’ve finally got a bell, and South is out the ring quick, jacket still half off and arguing. We’re ten minutes in and South’s jacket is still not off. Now we’ve got some old school legends of east Tennessee wrestling that I’ve never heard of coming to ringside with canes and the such, to force George South into the ring for good. Super Mario, Bruiser Graham, Jim White, and others. This rocks. I don’t know any of the guys, but South stalling, Valiant getting hot for action, old guys being on hand, it all added up and came together. This is what wrestling is about. Valiant pulls his beard into a rubber band, and I have beard envy. A legends lumberjack match. Jimmy Valiant has the best tattoos in all of wrestling. He should be running a carnival. Valiant and South do an amateur grappling tease, South rolls out and gets the cane from the old guy, Jim White. I would like George South more if he still had the red trunks with the Confederate flag covering the whole ass-side of them, and then put the JOHN 3:16 over top the Confederate flag. That might make me go to Church, but then again, only if they let me drink and had a wrestling match. Remind me to tell you about the Christian wrestling in nowhere North Carolina that me and Boomer stumbled upon one day.

BEER FIVE: Someone should tell the announcer to only say “double tough” maybe three times the whole night. When he calls everybody in every match “double-tough”, it makes me think they’re all pussies. Valiant wins with a sleeper into a push into the turnbuckles followed up by a roll-up. I guess the calcium deposits in his elbow that Pro Wrestling Illustrated used to tell me about in their Scouting Report have gone away with his old age and the elbow drop isn’t as double tough as it used to be. Tracey Smothers is in the ring, obviously a heel, as he is hugging a guy who looks like he’s about to play golf after half a day of selling insurance. Smothers’ manager is a guy called the Duke of New York. I never knew Tennessee and New York had such beef. A fat lady is about to charge Mr. New York, so Tracey Smothers steps forward to look bigger than most people. Such is the fragile line wrestling used to walk, trying to make people so pissed they would freak out, but not so much that they would riot. It’s a business, and pissed off people pay to see retribution, but riots really kill the profit margin. Unless you’re in Puerto Rico. Tracey Smothers is so great. He’s going up against John Noble tonight, and according to the announcers, Smothers will have his hands full. And, of course, before the match even starts, Smothers accuses his opponent of pulling his hair and trunks. Smothers kills me as a heel, he’s great. Noble has a great physique, though is a small guy. Don’t any washed-up college football players get into wrestling anymore? Fuckin’ arena league football, ruining everything. I will now drink beer every time the announcer guy says, “double tough”. So I just drank. “He’s learned a lot of the moves that the Japanese uses,” says the color man. Double tough drink. I love the glazed look that a former TV star gives, when playing a heel, at the smart guy in the crowd who jumps up wearing the worker’s previous gimmick heel t-shirt. It’s a pause, wondering, “do I make fun of this guy who has obviously obsessed over me, or turn it on somebody else?” I’ve always been one for making fun of the guy. Remind me to tell you about the time Julio Dinero came out and got face-to-face with me and made fun of me to the satisfaction of teenagers wearing ECW replica belts that they paid too much money for. Back in my day, we took some cardboard, spray-painted it black, wrapped a piece of wood shingle in aluminum foil, and glued that to the cardboard. That was our fuckin’ belt. If we wanted to get all international, we’d rubber cement some maps from National Geographics on the outer flaps or some shits. We’d wear that shit to the bus stop, daring some other kid to try and take that shit. Many a kid got his teeth chipped by a DDT onto some gravel back in the day, I can guarantee you that. And they think all this backyard wrestling bullshit is new. Paul Bearer is wearing a red t-shirt and sitting in the front row.

BEER SIX: I think maybe I need to masturbate more when the sweat on the top of the PBR can that’s been sitting on the floor by my feet for the last twenty minutes looks sexy. Or then again, maybe beer commercials are fucked-up and manipulating my sub-consciousness. Smothers nails a wicked DDT, but Noble kicks out at two. Missile dropkick by Noble, kick out by Smothers, to the top rope for a cross bodyblock by Noble, that Smothers rolled over, with his feet landing on the second rope, still a kick out. The announcers have been counting down the time, every half a minute or so, since the time limit is almost up. Smothers calls for the Duke of New York to hold Noble against the ropes, here comes the big fist. NO WAY! Noble ducks, and Smothers hits his own manager. Then as he looks down from the ring at his fallen co-conspirator, Noble schoolboys him for the win. Of course, they hug for homophobic heat from the crowd afterwards, to show there’s no hard feelings. Pro wrasslin’…I love this sport! Now, we‘ve got Buddy Landel as a heel, with his rough figure hidden under a white t-shirt for the time being, attacking Cody Michaels before the bell. Oddly enough, your good guy is in a black t-shirt, and your bad guy is in a white t-shirt. Cody Michaels looks pretty good. Supposedly, Michaels and Mark Curtis were friends from Pittsburgh, which means Michaels probably went to wrasslin’ school with Shane Douglas and Mick Foley and that guy who ripped some football player’s eyeball out and stomped on it. Double tough drink! All the refs have been wearing bowties in honor of Mark Curtis, aka Brian Hildebrand, and this guy in this match even has the suspenders. Buddy Landel is terrible, but Michaels gives up to the Figure 4. He won’t let go, so Jimmy Valiant, now in his standard zubaz pants, black t-shirt, and black fanny-pack, comes out with a chair, one of those little school non-folding plastic types. Then Landel talks some shit by the old lady in the wheelchair sitting in the aisle. It just ain’t a wrasslin’ show without somebody in a wheelchair. Remind me to tell you the story about my sister getting a bruise on her knee from a flying chair bouncing off a wheelchair at an indy show in North Carolina. Watching more fans do the Q&A with little kids in the background fighting each other, I am reminded why life is good. Fuck being smart, fuck college degrees, and fuck assigned seats with metal barricades. I want big tits in my mouth and grease in an old tin can on the back panel of the oven and… Never mind. Hearing guys talk about the Mark Curtis Memorial makes me sad, as this is an actual memorial, not some capture some money off the memory of somebody. The Mark Curtis Memorial has connotations of cook-outs and trading stories and guys getting too drunk and ending up crying over his memory type things going on. I can dig it. Apparently, this is two shows together in one day. God Bless Beau James. He is double tough. Watching a guy like Super Mario say some words after getting a plaque, it makes me sad. Wrestling has lost its regional heroes, and its fraternity. It’s all become a giant ladder towards prostituting your passion to do dumb shit on TV and get fat paychecks. It’s like the last week when somebody told me about how busy this website was, and how it’d be great if I made money off it. And I don’t think I agree with that. Why prostitute a passion of mine for money, even if it doesn’t start out that way? Usually, in the course of prostitution, the pimp will allow you to do something you enjoy doing for money, then dangle double the money in front of you for you to sort of compromise your morals. And you do it. Fuck that. I hope this site is always money-less and I am the broke motherfucker that I am forever, at least when it comes to doing what I love. Why sell it out? That just endorses a system where another sad sack goes broke so I can go rich. It’s about passion. I don’t think Super Mario or Beau James ever got rich off of pro wrestling, but they did it anyways, because they couldn’t not do it. I don’t know if I can trust that a Kurt Angle or The Rock feels that way. And if I can’t truss it, then fuck it. But that’s just me, and I’m just one God Manifest on this little Heavenly planet spinning the wrong way towards self-destruction. Or something. Old wrestlers love polo shirts. I have problems with Landel coming back out to accept a plaque, and being cool, a few matches after getting run off as a heel. These are the little things that have gotten grey and my black-and-white mind hates it. If you are a heel, you should be fighting people in the parking lot, even if you’re old and Christian. You know, my neighbor, who built his fuckin’ house right on the road, so that I got to make sure they ain’t on their porch when I piss off my porch at night, he has this ‘70s model blue Ford pick-up truck. And on the side is glittery letters that say “BEAU JAMES”. Why the fuck is that?

BEER SEVEN: Well, the PBRs are gone, so now I dug out two bottles of Miller High Life, the Champagne of Beers. So let’s have a champagne jam. I do wish that bitch sitting on the moon on the label would go ahead and pull that red dress up a little and show some leg. All wrestlers wear gold watches, that is apparent. It matches their hair. Wow, Miller is one shitty beer. Now, here we go. It’s Brandi Alexander vs. Brandi Wine. I saw Brandi Wine live one time, and let me tell you, she has an ass on her. Looks like her tits are weirdly shaped bigger now; she must be a dancer somewhere. Ever since ECW went big, and then WWF co-opted their violence towards strippers, indy wrasslin’ women have had to wear the worst outfits. Brandi Wine…mmmm. Her ass is still banging, with the proper amount of curve hanging out her go-go shorts. I love that extra curving piece of ass that big-assed chicks have. Skinny chicks should realize that they’re not sexy. I also love the fact that lots of indy women wear short shorts trunks, but have pantyhose on underneath. That’s a great style. I would like to have sex with Brandi Wine. All wrestling cards should have actual wrestling women, with big asses. Molly Holly is the hottest bitch in the WWF, and they make it an angle to make fun of her. Big dicked men love big asses, it’s a proven fact. I love the jiggle of a big ass. Brandi Alexander has that jiggle. God Bless America, where middle-aged halfway ugly chicks with nice hair can wear bright pink outfits and confuse me into wanting sex with them. Yes, Brandi Wine has definitely had a tit job since I saw her at Solid Gold Championship Wrestling. And she’s from Greensboro. That’s not too far for a lap dance. Next match is Brian Overbay & Ray Idol vs. Chic White & The Tennessee Equalizer. I’m guessing the big fucker is the Equalizer. Ray Idol is the black guy in shiny red pants. Overbay looks like a bartender. Chic White looks like a hillbilly stoner with repressed homosexual tendencies, which is cool. I’m all for repressing that shit myself. Fuck freedom; it’s confusing. Chic White comes complete with jailhouse tattoos on his thigh, which means, and I know this, that he had to test out his homemade tattoo gun on himself before he charged somebody packs of cigarettes for a Speedy Gonzales tattoo. The Tennessee Equalizer, Chic White, and Brian Overbay look like a pack of Gypsy’s Jokers. Or Pagans. They look like they’d beat me with a 2x4 until they saw my rebel flag tattoo, then I’d be cool, and we’d all share painkillers, crank, and liquor bottles. The best thing about Chic White is he took his first name from a great porn mag. Some damned wack-ass double Irish whip reversal smash the bad guys into each other center ring, with the faces following up with double schoolboys shit for the finale. It sucked, but the guys looked great and scary. Hey, it’s the Franchise, Shane Douglas, out of shape and still wearing his ECW garb and yelling “Cut the fuckin’ music!” I thought this was family wrestling. Someone should really do a comp of somebody like Shane, his every match for half a year, going from the extremes of Major League Wrestling to XPW to Southern States in Kingsport, Tennessee. It’d be a great video, because he’d do the same cheap heat shit, and the crowd would be vastly different and react entirely opposite every time. Somebody do that shit and let me know about it. Wow, Shane Douglas looks disturbing in the face, very decadent. How much coke do you think Shane Douglas did with Chris Candido for them to think it would be cool to get those Triple Threat tattoos? Weird music is playing for a while, but finally a guitar solo kicks in, and out comes Tim Horner. It’s country music; it’s Tennessee; it’s Tim Horner. What more could you want? You see, Shane Douglas talked like some educated out-of-towner. But Horner, he talks like the people in the crowd, so he’s down. Multi-national sports entertainment can’t do that. Regional wrestling needs to come back, at least in some part.

BEER EIGHT: A guy like Tim Horner who stays in great shape to keep up his appearance for wrestling bookings into his golden days, I can respect that. Shane Douglas gets some cheap heat by arguing with the mini-Paul Bearer in the red t-shirt in the front row. Shane Douglas is basically a watered down less able to wrestle in Puerto Rico Tully Blanchard. Hahaha, Douglas leaves the building. That’s great. Utilizing his surroundings to the fullest; this from… DOUBLE TOUGH DRINK! Shane has a middle finger battle with some dude/chick with a long rattail in a Boogie’s Wrestling Camp t-shirt in the front row. White Lightning is a much better nickname than The Franchise. Tim Horner is throwing some terrible punches. Great ref bump, absolutely beautiful Greg Valentine style face plant by the skinny ref. Douglas pulls out a chain, knocks out Horner, raps the chain around Horner’s hand, then falls down. As the ref comes to, Shane groggily points to Horner’s hand. Shaen wins by DQ in a wonderful twist to an old school favorite, the chain in the boot deal. I will drink to that swerve. The Duke of New York is back. K.C. Thunder & Steve Flynn, with the Duke, go up against Beau James & The War Machine in a streetfight. Holy shit, this rocks. The thing about indy wrestling is, you hear wrestling nerds talk about how out-of-shape a guy like Beau James is, and he is. But goddamn, fuck the Vince McMahon/Pat Patterson encouraged physique, because Beau’s punches look like Philo Beddo knocking out cops or punk bitches in a meat factory. They look for real though. Steve Flynn goes head first into the ring post, which I hope means he blades. I think I’m gonna cut down a razor blade and start blading at work from time to time. That would be dope to roll down into the boss’s office, blood flowing down the left side of my face, and cut a promo like, “Damn boss, that panel saw you got in the warehouse just got all crooked and a piece of wood flew up into my forehead. Can I go home early?” And sell the fuckin’ angle all the way out to the car, just in case somebody’s looking out the window as you leave. Hell, sell it all the way out the parking lot, just in case. Better safe than sorry. And that’s what I hate about today’s wrestling, non-selling motherfuckers. It’s sorry. Fuck it all. I want fat rednecks beating the shit out of each other for old people, not gay strippers prancing around and missing punches by a mile for suburban retards with credit cards and Undertaker t-shirts. Beau James bleeds. When the first man who blades is the promoter, I am content. Unless he does that shit to make himself look more like Robert Gibson suffering than anybody else. But I’d like to think that ain’t the case. P.J. Sharpe, the face manager in the pink jacket and the Thirsten Howell III style sailor’s hat, chases off The Duke of New York. Then Beau James throws a fireball at Steve Flynn. I love the fireballs. Now, War Machine and Beau James are trying to break Thunder’s arm, knocking the refs down, turning heel as shit, all of a sudden. You gotta love it; four referees are knocked out.

BEER NINE: Well, the Millers are gone. Now I’ve got a Red Stripe that I found underneath the bag of organic white potatoes from the Scottsville Farmers’ Market. They’ve got a stretcher that says KINGSPORT LIFESAVING CREW underneath. Sell the angle. Fuck yeah, sell the angle. Holy shit, Terry Taylor pulled out the old red-and-black glitter robe for the main event, against Rickey Harrison, who is way into Van Hagar. He wears their shirt, and he comes out to their theme music. This automatically makes me root for the Red Rooster. Terry Taylor is old, yet way bigger than his opponent. Where the fuck did all the big guys go to? Everything is lightweights or juniors or cruiserweights or all the shit they call it nowadays. Can’t a bigger fucker get into wrestling and be good? Hey, Sandy Scott is your referee. I remember when he levied a fine against Sgt. Slaughter and Don Kernodle for cheating against Ricky Steamboat and Jay Youngblood. Jamaican people must be stupid, because Red Stripe tastes like a whore’s wore out ass. Sleeperhold by the wrestler on the drywall hanger who grew up digging the Rock-n-Roll Express. Sandy Scott is old enough to be a terrible referee. He just stopped the count because he knew it wasn’t time to end the match, though nothing happened to stop the count. Such is what happens when you can’t hear the ref smack the mat and kick out when appropriate. Ref/manager/opponent bump by Taylor. Terry Taylor wins with his feet on the ropes. Reversal of decision by promoter; Ref Sandy Scott is terrible, and that’s being nice. Hey, the match ended while I was looking for my Hawkwind CD underneath the stack of lucha tapes behind the box of porn that I have well-concealed from my wife like it’s more wrestling tapes or old zines or something or another. And Rickey Harrison won. There’s two-thirds of my shitty Jamaican lager left, so the official decision, for the sake of the Tournament of Independents is eight and one-thirds beers.

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