BEER ONE: Revolution Pro, as I understand it, is the shit. I can’t say I know a whole lot about them, though I know Super Dragon is their star and he’s a cult figure amongst west coast wrestling nerds, and I know it’s lucha styled wrestling, so what the fuck more could I want. I know it’s late, I know I’m at my peak when the moon is high, I know a couple Rev Pro guys secretly worked under hoods in that Hardcore Championship Fucking porn flick that Slammy did, which is the greatest fuckin’ thing ever. I know the intro is blurred out, cheap gym highlights with shitty punk metal music playing which makes me proud to be a wrestling fan. I also know there’s highlights of an outdoor show that looks like it’s raining. When motherfuckers are not stopping the lucha because of outdoors rain, then I am happy. This is the swankest first minute in the Tournament of Independents yet, as they are housed in some ran down pub, with balcony seating for two rows of folks with a wooden staircase right beside the ring. It looks like it’s in somebody’s loft. The ring has a nice green canvas, and some fat lady is rushing to her seat with her daughter, who is wearing a pink dress. And some guy directly by the camera is heckling the ring announcer. I am already sold on how great this shit is and will force myself to get drunker than necessary.
BEER TWO: First match is a “return grudge match”, between Excalibur, who is skinny as fuck and wearing some luchariffic shit, and Shogun, who has five white boys on the opposite side of the ring with one letter each on their chests, like sports fans or some shit. Shogun looks up the steps to the balcony, and I’m sure this is a sign of trouble. They are right at it, and Excalibur almost dies right away. I will drink when people almost land brain first on concrete. A kid with a mohawk is holding a camera on the other side, filming. When shitty punk rock and lucha wrestling come together, it is a glorious thing. My enthusiasm is waning rapidly, as Excalibur lacks that certain something. We’ll see what happens when Shogun takes over the match. Well, he took over, and has an evil looking submission hold on skinny dude. Mulkey Flip! I know I drink too much, because beer makes my body settle down and feel normal. At least I’m not abusive, I guess. Then again, if I’m in one of those stereotypical alcoholic hazes, I wouldn’t be able to recognize if I was an abusive husband/father anyways. Oh well. Wrestling is on, so fuck all that noise. Excalibur goes all the way across the ring for a diving headbutt, and this is wrestling that is so good it should only be on public access; and I do not mean that as an insult at all. Great, weird shit comes on public access, and for it to go beyond that, it has to compromise and prostitute itself. Hey, Shogun got held up in a pedigree suplex thingy (fuck knowing the names of shit) all long time like a Candido suplex, then dropped on his fuckin’ brain. Excalibur wins. I just slapped a mosquito on my arm and I hope I don’t have West Nile Virus now.
BEER THREE: Some evil crazy clique is in the ring, demanding their shitty music to dance to, and this is great. One dude is doing a disco gimmick and he’s got a Japanese buddy holding up a little mirror ball. Man, you can tell all these kids are so young, and I think about this relative to CZW, and it’s no comparison. These kids are going crazy and wearing weird colorful outfits and coming up with kooky ass names for themselves, and CZW, those kids all wear black t-shirts and do the same shit over and over, and though I hate California, at least it’s not New Jersey. And these guys all have some great fuckin’ masks, very swank. This Kikuzawa cat’s english is, how you say, inelegant, but he does know how to point at everybody one by one and say “shuddup”. And to top it all off, the ref has a forty-year-old redneck stoner style ponytail. Next up is Kikuzawa vs. American Wild Child, who comes out to “Voodoo Chile”, which makes me expect black confetti to fall from the sky. American Wild Child looks like the type of guy who is not afraid to snort cocaine, slam shots, and pour maple syrup on some stripper’s titties all night long. Basically, if you went to a multi-cultural high school, this would be what happened when the fat grungy Oriental kid had a wrestling match in his backyard with a ska punk kid, while the Mexican guy who sold everybody weed refereed, and some kid with a mohawk filmed it. Except they have a wrestling ring and a paying (I’m assuming) audience.
BEER FOUR: I am keeping up the torrid pace, because this is lucha, and in lucha, even the supreme athlete types like Shocker and Rey Bucanero have that weird beer belly, very much like late ‘70s American wrestlers who were beer-drinkin’ hell-raisin’ bodybuilders, the type you see on a young Jimmy Valiant or David Schultz, very thick and in shape, but that gut’s there. My own beer belly is prominent, it pushes a t-shirt out, but it ain’t biker standard by any means. Then again, my beard is only seven inches long at best, too. I’m a young buck, and have plenty of time to work on the beer belly and beard and bad tattoos. Part of my regiment involves slamming these weird-tasting Old Milwaukees, that were in the fridge, then left on the porch for a few days in the heat, then re-refrigerated, then sitting out for a while. It gives cheap beer that odd taste that reminds you of being sixteen and actually stopping your car on a back road with a car full of other teenage fools, so you can show off by slamming a whole can of Milwaukee’s Best while “Bonzo’s Montreaux” is reaching a crescendo of chaos, and then you throw the can out the window and zoom towards your future, whatever the fuck it may be, hopefully with some pussy and hopefully with some time to sleep it all off tomorrow. Some, my uncle Ricky, who’s dead now comes to mind, forever live that way, at least till they die tragically, always tossing empties out the window and racing towards that magical pussy, whatever may be symbolic of getting laid in their lives, and banking like bad credit on being able to one day to sleep it all off and everything will be okay. The stacks of books unread, and tapes unwatched, and loads of records or CDs that you don’t really need, but you have, because one day… Wild Child is clocked with a Singapore cane, bulldog DDTed, and pinned. The Jap with manager who is wearing a swank Doc Chan-like mask, a leather jacket, and low top Chuck Taylors, prevails, then they tease cutting the Wild Child’s skater punk hair. I suddenly have the urge to drink some Olde English 800 and blast some Jodie Foster’s Army. Hey, it’s NOSAWA, still with mask, out to cause trouble. Perhaps I’m biased, because Nosawa’s American translator has bribed me with merchandise, but Nosawa has been winning my soul lately in EMLL. The fucker is pure quality. His first opponent is El Gallinero, decked out in orange and black and begging for applause. The third guy in this 3-Way is Mr. Excitement, and holy fuck, I think Nosawa might have the Pink Panther laid back and sleeping on the ass end of his trunks. Mr. Excitement looks like the type of guy I’d run into when I used to play pick-up basketball, high, like five hours a night when I was sixteen. Nosawa is great because he always looks like a bad guy in an American Jackie Chan flick.
BEER FIVE: El Gallinero shatters both his knee and his brain on a stupid plancha onto Mr. Excitement ringside. God Bless self-destruction, and right in front of that little girl in the pink dress, too. Nosawa Michinoku drivers Gallinero away from the match, and now it’s Mr. Excitement vs. Nosawa, Puerto Rico vs. Gothic Japan, in southern California, at somebody’s loft, with the kitchen being the dressing room for the wrestlers. Well, Mr. Excitement steals a victory, and Nosawa argues with then spits in the face of the stoner redneck referee. I’ve had my face spit upon twice in my life, and it is not fun. The first time was by this crazy bitch Amber I was wrapped up with, and my boy Scan was present and he split immediately, afraid he might be witness to some man-on-woman crime. I didn’t touch her that night, probably except later to fuck, as she was all twisted like that. She’s the only bitch in my life that I ever tried to hurt physically, and after her, I realized beating a woman was wack, and I’d probably do best to avoid that type of situation by not falling in love with schizo Greek-Italian bitches who like to come home with hickeys on their fuckin’ necks and not tell you where they been, no matter how nice their tits might be. Man, that chick was gone. The most pathetic moment of my life was probably when I got beat by the Richmond Police, and I refused to let them take me to the hospital, so I walked home from where they beat me, blood and gravel in my face, back all bruised up, and I get home to my apartment on the 1100 block of Grace Street in Richmond, which is a noted transvestite prostitution block, and half my shit is on the front porch. So I know what’s up, Amber’s pissed again and deadbolted me out the house, and thrown some of my shit on the porch of our first floor apartment to teach me a lesson, I guess. So I knock on the door, she says she’s not letting me in because I’m an asshole, that’s a quote. I just, in my most pathetic Clint Eastwood voice ever, say, “Look, I’m bleeding. The cops just beat me up. Let me in the fuckin’ house.” And she did, took pictures of my bruises and shit, called the cops to complain, everything. Man, the fuckin’ two years of my life involved with that bitch were straight out a Bukowski book. I should’ve been betting the horses and writing poetry. Oh wait, I was writing poetry back then. The best night with that chick, I was selling acid, and we each took a couple hits, and we got all naked in the dark, with Stevie Wonder’s Innervision playing over and over on LP, and just rubbed each other, all over, slow and constant. It got to the point there was nothing sexual about it and we were just rubbing each other because it felt good. It was odd. Finally, the sun came up and we had actual sex, and I guess we were coming down from the trip because we laid there together and fell asleep after a while. What a crazy bitch. Bamber Boblazney was her name. I put that there because eventually she’ll be able to google her name and this will come up. You crazy bitch. Remember when I was gonna marry you to prove to you I loved you? Remember when you were poking holes in condoms, hoping I’d get you pregnant and be stuck with you? Remember the two miscarriages you had? Shit won’t meant to be, bitch. I hope you’re enjoying your life now, looking this shit up at the library you probably work at, shelving books and getting fat and still thinking that guys like you when they put their dicks inside you. (I through some Bs up in front of her name since she's always google searching it. Go away bitch.) Wait a second, there’s wrestling on TV. It’s Buddy George, who has a nice beer gullet underneath a Superman t-shirt; and he’s going up against Matt Sinister, who is some sort of champion.
BEER SIX: Matt Sinister is wearing a W.A.S.P. shirt.
BEER SEVEN: And his title belt is the hokiest, and thus greatest, title belt I’ve seen since me and my sister drove to Bassett, Virginia, to watch the American Independent Wrestling Federation live. My sister ended up with a bruise on her knee from some “worker” kicking a chair randomly down the aisle. It was great. Sinister’s title is some sort of Mexican lucha title, and properly sports some red and green and white leather on it. Mayan, I got to piss off the porch because I’m drunk, but my dog Waylon’s out there, sitting in my Datsun that’s broke down, listening to the new Alan Jackson tape, and he’ll start barking and wake up the baby. George and Sinister have taken it ringside, and this is a bad barfight, without a bar. Well, I’ll drink to the fact that Buddy George is not afraid to take a stiff chair shot to his skull without so much as putting one hand up to cushion the blow. Cushioned blows are for pussies.
BEER EIGHT: Out of Old Mills, so I dug a Milwaukee’s Best out the back of the fridge. I hope Rev Pro isn’t much better, because after this Beast, there’s nothing but Country Club malt liquor cans left for me to ingest. Holy fuck, that first sip of the Beast actually had no taste at all. How do they do that? The smart ass beside the fan camera is yelling, “Take it home!” Sinister drops a top rope headbutt to the nuts of the other guy. I think the best selling of hurt balls is D-Von Dudley, who does that nice clutching his thangs and bouncing on his ass deal, all while making a big O with his mouth. Nosawa is lurking about ringside, as is the stoner redneck ref. I think the real ref of this match is like in his first match ever and hasn’t picked up on hand signals from the back to end this thing. Sinister brainbuster has to end it…has to…NO! ANOTHER TWO-COUNT! Perhaps there’s some ulterior motive going on here, and they’re lulling the crowd for the ultra-spectacular swankitude of the next match. Fuckin’ Sinister takes the mic and the match ain’t even over, and he dedicates the shit to somebody else. It’s a bad People’s Elbow that he turns into a chokehold. Morgus the Maniac he ain’t, even if he is wearing a W.A.S.P. shirt. God, won’t this match end, ever? Has anybody ever won with a backslide before, since the days of Brian Adias, who had to drop the second “d” in his last name because he wasn’t Run DMC? Holy shit, there is a God! You know how I know? Right after a shitty missed clothesline into the ringpost by George, the screen went blue, then it came back on and Sinister had won, and some slutty-yet-attractive type of alcoholic chick with lower back tattoos perfect for looking at while clutching her fat ass and pumping it from behind to make thangs jiggle with the motion of love walked by the camera shot. And that match is over. Thank you God, you pervert. Sinister won’t stop the beatdown though, and Mr. Excitement comes out in Mango shorts and hits the most awkward Texas Tornado punch I’ve ever seen. I wish when guys were retiring, instead of having gay-assed retirement ceremonies, you had a guy cut a Black Bart type promo, saying he was gonna try to end the guy’s career, and he did. That’d be great, especially if you could get one sick-looking fucker, say Hack Myers, to do it to like three guys in a row. You’d make Hack a star, even more so than before. Now we’ve got our main event, a tag match, between rudos Ultra Taro Jr. & Disco Machine, going up against Super Dragon & Rising Son. Disco Machine blew his whole wad on that weirdly swank jacket, and has to wrestle in blue sweatpants. He rocks, and that Kikuzawa cat is holding that little disco ball again. Super Dragon and Rising Son are fake ninjas, but so what. Anybody emulating the beautiful cockrocking egotistical superstardom of the Great Sasuke is fuckin’ perfectly okay by me. Okay, Gurentai, the heels, get the crowd chanting their names. Then Rising Son does the same, and Ultra Taro Jr., how has big fake ears coming off his mask, holds his ear appendages on his mask in disgust. That is some shit that makes me happy. Your ref is Scrappy McGowan Jr. Double tag, and the dude known as Super Dragon comes in. Super Dragon smacks the shit out of Taro’s chest. Where the fuck is Ultra Taro Sr.? Fuck, this is great shit going on here, too fast to explain, especially since my thinking is slurred. Oh fuck, Ultra Taro goes from the shoulders of Disco, and flips out, but barely hits the good guys and lands on his fuckin’ head. It reminds me of when pussy Firefighter Matt moved out my way when I came with my 220 lb. cross bodyblock of doom off the back of Little Scott’s porch when we used to get together to order ECW pay-per-views. Matt moved, and I landed fist first in the yard, breaking three bones in my hand. I’m still missing one knuckle in my left hand from that. But I still have seven knuckles, that ain’t too bad. Usually, they grow back, just without the point on them, as I’ve broken two other knuckles apart. It’s just that far left one never grew back at all, there’s just a soft desensitized spot there. Rising Son is nuts, but Super Dragon is nutser, with a corkscrew moonsault from the apron. It causes the derelicts in the crowd to smash their chairs in unison, and little kids in hoodies are cheering ringside. Oh fuck, Taro gets brainbusted, then Son goes up for the shooting star press, and lands face first, actually bottom jaw first, in the canvas. Taro Jr. gets the pin on Super Dragon right as I finish my beer.
BEER NINE: I open up the Country Club and sip while the heels dance and parade in victory. And I refuse to believe that Country Club is “America’s Premium Malt Liquor”. If we can dominate so many things, like track and field and bomb technology and deaths by handguns and power consumption, then we can certainly come up with a better malt liquor than this. All the gangsta kids from across the camera’s way are filing out, and now American Wild Child is making very special announcements. “Viva the Revolution!” No doubt, holmes. No doubt.
EPILOGUE: FIRST STAR OF THE TAPE: Ultra Taro Jr. He has the lucha insanities, he has the dopest mask, where he can hold his fake ears in disgust as a rudo, and he can talk some shit on the mic, as leader of Gurentai. SECOND STAR OF THE TAPE: Rising Son. It’s easy to see, watching this shit, that Blitzkrieg would fit right in, and if I’m not mistaken, which I usually am, he used to be involved with these guys. Wow, Blitzkrieg, what a rock star he is, for kicking ass and disappearing so quickly. Rising Son did the crazy shit and had some style to himself that made me happy. THIRD STAR OF THE TAPE: American Wild Child. Skate punks with Voivod haircuts rule it. Point blank, period, check mate, beeyotch.
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