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.

Monday, May 12

12-Pack Review: NWA WS 11/02/02

BEER ONE: The first time I ever remember reading the term “NWA Wildside”, I didn’t know what to think. Wasn’t that the TV show with Terry Funk in it? Where was Wildside? Most wrestling promotions have geographical indicators in their names, but not with Wildside. It sounded like a great place for the Western States Heritage title to be resurrected. Eventually, because the Internet knows all motherfucker, that Wildside was in Georgia. And everybody says it’s good. Well, you probably know the history, you’re a fuckin’ wrestling nerd if you’re reading this anyways. You know the whole WCW developmental thing, and about Mamaluke and Styles and Air Paris and all that crap. I don’t need to tell you anything, Mr. Online Wrestling Fan. Well, this dude Jacey North used to wrestle in Virginia, and now he wrestles down there. The thing with Jacey is, he’s good in the ring and all, I’ve seen some good Jacey vs. Preston Quinn matches, probably the best indy matches I’ve seen in Virginia, outside of Rolling Thunder of course. Well, I always remember Jacey for one reason. J.T. Smith briefly was in the area and operated a wrestling school, the Virginia Wrestling Federation Academy, out of a dingy warehouse with a rut-filled parking lot in scenic Ashland, Virginia, where there is nothing, especially hope for the future. Anyways, me and my boy Matt the Firefighter got up and rode out to see a VWF show in the warehouse one time, and we drank plenty of Budweisers on the way, and sitting at the convenience store down the road on a Saturday night, watching the high school girls and guy talk and flirt, all of which probably love that Kenny Chesney motherfucker right about now, and it was beautiful perfection. We get to the show, and it’s very indy. Parts of it decent, and parts of it terrible. Bubba Knuckles was there, and he’s dead now I think. He got busted open with a chair on accident and was pretty bloody. But Jacey had one of the better matches that night, a tag match I think, and I seem to remember Hot Property also being in it and impressing me with his enthusiasm. Anyways, Jacey got the botched heel cheating clubbering with a cane for the finish, and he got clocked right smart. Later that night, I remember him walking right by me and Matt the Firefighter, holding a cold can of Lipton Iced Tea on his bruised bald head that he got out of the cooler the concession lady had set up in the corner. To me, that has always symbolized Indy Wrestling, the cold iced tea can held to the bruised head. Shit, I bet Jacey even had to pony up two quarters for it, to cover costs. Anyways, Jacey North sent me this Fright Night 2002 tape, and since it’s called Fright Night, I expect some scary shit to go down. Real scary shit. This was some tag tournament deal. I also have Old Milwaukee. Me and Old Milwaukee are always some tag tournament deal. Ahh, the wonderful comforting font of a Smart Mark video. Night 2 starts with The Backseat Boyz from Combat Zone talking shit about the NCW Arena. Trent Acid is annoying, which I guess is great since he’s a heel. Ref says, “Guys, you’re up in 10 minutes.” They are in street clothes, and the guy who’s not Trent Acid says, “We’ve got a massage in 10 minutes.” Dragon Dan Wilson is your ring announcer. Claudia the Claw is your referee, and she’s a chick. Rick & Chris Michaels are your first tag team for this match. They have the black and neon green clothes that The Confederate Mack endorses so much, as long as it’s not D-X related. Their opponents are Dory Funk Jr. & Adam Windsor. Dory is older than fuck and wearing a thrift store baseball hat. This is my first watching of “The Royal Stud” Adam Windsor, and he’s more solidly built than I had expected. Dory and Rick Michaels start it out. Dory has quick tags to Adam Windsor, who looks like he’d be a great partner to Adrian Street more so than Dory Funk Jr. You know, Dory might be old as fuck, but for a guy his age to be running around the ring, just running the ropes and doing headlock takeovers and shit, that’s pretty impressive. He should put his legs in the sun before he wrestles again though. And old guys should not wear blue biker shorts, I don’t give a fuck who they are. Rick Michaels apparently will also wrestle in a barbed wire match later tonight. Your ref looks like Janet from Three’s Company. Apparently it is an unwritten rule in professional wrestling that if you are British, you have to have either a crown on your trunks to symbolize your allegiance to the Queen, which makes you a natural heel in the republic of America, or you have to have a Union Jack, which makes you a babyface, because we don’t think of evil Queens and Kings trying to tax us anymore, we think of Def Leppard videos from our youth. Either there is no mic for the crowd or they are completely silent. Dory Funk Jr. looked old to me twenty years ago when he was losing the Mid-Atlantic title to Mike Rotunda, who spelled his name with an A back then because he was a big Herbie Hancock fan, and any Herbie Hancock fan worth his weight in jazz fusion vinyl knows that “Rock It” is crap compared to the Fat Albert Rotunda LP. Evil black men come in and break up the match, ruining the tournament format. Onyx enters the ring as well, and all sorts of angles are furthered, and the match is called a double DQ, letting Dory keep his face. Janet from Three’s Company emphatically explains to Dory and Windsor why she disqualified both teams. Rick Michaels takes the stick and starts talking about how he’s gonna carve up Rainman in the barbed wire match. The Backseat Boyz come out to the Midnight Express song, and I hate them. I really really hate them. Trent Acid and Johnny Kashmere hit the ring, and Kashmere takes the microphone. I think if ECW was still around, these guys would be embroiled in a bitterly boring opening match pay-per-view feud with Joey Mathews & Christian York right about now. And Danny Doring & Roadkill would always come out and make it a 3-Way Dance. God, ECW sure did get predictable. Ahh, evil is always good, and here comes Gabriel & Azrael, the Lost Boyz. Marilyn Manson fans indy wrestling in spot-tastic ways in the deep south is good post-modern culture.

BEER TWO: Gabriel and Acid start this party out. No tag out to Kashmere. Heel stalling antics, with another tag before even a lock-up. Boy band gimmicks suck, especially when they are heavily soaked in homosexual antics. Homosexuality is not funny; it is a serious good time when you feel the pang. And we all do. Don’t like. You know you’ve jacked off reading that story in Penthouse Forum about the old college buddy giving the guy a back rub after a physically taxing tennis match, that ends up in mutual masturbation and then a 69. I know you Mr. Online Wrestling Fan, better than you know yourself. That little Dream Sequence thing the Backseat Boyz do is pretty nifty. And then Johnny Kashmere takes a nice little face bump to the wood floor. Reverse rana by Acid on Gabriel with Gabe’s head landing on Acid’s back very awkwardly, making them lucky they didn’t die. Then Azrael puts Acid on the top rope in a tree-of-woe style position, then neckbreaks him. Lost Boyz set up chairs ringside and get ready to do a double suplex on Acid, but as they lift him, Kashmere dives in and causes all sorts of mayhem and chair rumblings. The Backseat Boyz do their big move and win and that is that. All those guys are good enough, but it’s like a lot of the indy shit I see, I just can’t get up for it. Brandon P & Jay Freeze, aka Future Shock, come out next. Their opponents are Scottie Wrenn & Tank, neither of which look like socially adjusted individuals. This is why wrestling is good. It gives a guy like Tank a place to be popular and have crowds cheer for him. Without the pro wrestling, a guy like Tank would be murdering teenage girls or some shit. Future Shock is from Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and appropriately enough they have tarheel blue on. For big freakish guys, Tank and Wrenn work a nice double camel clutch/boston crab thing on Future Shock. Thus far, it’s a squash, so the small heels will have to eyerake their way to momentum here soon. Yep, a low blow and they take over on Tank. I like the aesthetics of Wildside teams having color-coordinated outfits, but they’re not exactly alike, like Chong’s explanation of what their band needed as outfits in Up In Smoke, the same, but different.

BEER THREE: Dragon Dan Wilson uses the word “chicanery”, which means I drink, as that’s my favorite word to work into everyday conversation. Tank is getting beat down, and it’s weird Southern tag role reversal as the heels are small and fast, while the faces are big monsters. Tank gets a nutsack grab, but then gets eyeraked back into submissive positions, teasing a hot tag for the crowd. There’s the big punch by the face and double fall-down. He is positioned for the diving tag, but no, Future Shock takes over again. Tank executes a chokebreaker, which is a chokeslam into a backbreaker across the knee, and is my new favorite move. Wrenn gets the hot tag, and hits a powerslam but the ref has his back turned. Brandon P comes in with a chair and cold clocks Wrenn, puts Freeze over him, and ref returns to action. Tank does that casahajamay thing Taz used to use on Brandon P outside the ring. Freeze goes for a tornado DDT on Wrenn, but he turns it into a tilt-a-whirl slam for the pin. I vote Tank the one indy wrestler Most Likely To Have Entered A Toughman Competition. Holy shit, the behemoth Iceberg is from “Places Man Fears To Tread”. That’s the best hometown since Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. Iceberg is a very short 600 pounds, so short in fact, that his airbrushed name stops at the “r” on the leg of his pants. Stone Mountain is the opponent, another big man, Wildside’s Big Show. Iceberg tells the fans to move, and he throws Stone Mountain over the rail, or tries, and reversal and HOLY FUCK, Iceberg’s big ass goes over the rail. Now he’s getting rubbed into cage, and Stone Mountain has the worst wrestling outfit I’ve seen in my life – black pleather singlet with a silver mountain on it. Not a nice one either, just a crude mountain shaped thing on his belly. Iceberg’s button-down shirt with the sleeves cut-off and bloodstains on the back is much more pleasing. Iceberg is also bleeding, ever so minutely. Stone Mountain goes for a big choke, and the ref gets bumped. Goddamn all these ref bumps. Iceberg gets a low blow in, then gets a vegetable peeler from his C.E.O./manager Jeff G. Bailey. Stone Mountain has an icepick and stabs Iceberg in the head, and he’s got a good nasty bloody forehead that would make Rod Price proud. The ref disqualifies Stone Mountain, and all sorts of wrestlers come out to break them up. The old fashioned locker room pull apart. Iceberg has leaked blood all over all types of shit. He glares ringside, in his torn up shirt, bloody bald pate, and bad tattoos, looking like a well-fed and less-jailed G.G. Allin.

BEER FOUR: For some reason, in this 12-pack of Old Milwaukee in my studio, which is always cold, there’s a Budweiser. I haven’t bought Budweiser in years. It must be magic, or forgotten drunkenness, but nonetheless, I drink a toast to the Magic of Independent Shit, whatever it may be. We all have passions, and we want to do them for others to enjoy, and there’s a fine line where we start to try and make money off those passions, thus compromising them for mass appeal. That middle ground, where you’ve developed some but haven’t started to be pimped out/exploited/made it big just yet, that’s the perfect spot to be in. You know how NFL guys get busted for videotaping themselves having sex with drugged-out vixens? I bet Arena Football guys get away with that shit all the time because they’re not under the microscope. Scott Cage comes out to wrestle, and he slaps hands with the front row, which barely get up out their seats, meaning he’s a good guy, this I know. The other dude is Baldor Alexius Darkanius or some shit, or B.A.D. for short. His valet is a muscled up, fake-tittied chick named Taylor Made. That name screams The Anal Adventures of Max Hardcore Volume 14. Cage throws some really terrible punches. B.A.D. is cursed with an outward belly button. My boss sucks and gave us a shitty bonus, and this dude in the warehouse John, he doesn’t give a shit really, one of those great goofy oblivious guys it’s good to know. Well, two weeks after a shitty Christmas bonus that was accompanied with a letter saying “I’ve done what I can to not lay off people, so sorry this bonus is smaller than I’d like,” in other words, attempting to make us grateful for not losing our jobs instead of giving us workers the cut of his fat pie we deserve, well two weeks later, holmes takes a day to go to Maryland to buy an Audi. He comes in the next day, and we see the car and are like, “What the fuck?” So me and John are fucking off in the break room and the bossman comes through. John says, “So you got an Audi, hunh?” And the bossman turns, glowing with material superiority, which he thinks makes him enviable, “Yeah, I did.” John says, “I got an innie.” I stifle immense laughter into a chuckle. My bossman is not getting it and responds, “Yeah, it was a great deal. I got it in Maryland.” John answers, “I got mine from my mom.” At that point, I had to leave. You see, I’m trained to not upset my shitty boss, or else our company wouldn’t be as productive and I wouldn’t be as broke. We’re also not supposed to talk about what we make to each other. B.A.D. wins pretty quickly there, and I look at the Taylor Made chick again and get really creeped out about the whole muscle worship sub-culture that exists out there. Right now, some dude is paying money to have some roided out chick choke him with her thighs.

BEER FIVE: A security guard put his hand on Taylor Made so B.A.D. beats him down. Backstage interview now with bloody title holding Iceberg. His manager Jeff G. Bailey talks like a redneck salesman in a print shop, wearing the same five-year-old tie styles you’d see. I bet Jeff G. Bailey knows the best seafood buffets in all of Georgia, and I bet he can pitch some quarters in the locker room. “600 pounds of unharnessed malignance…” That’s quality promo-ing. Stone Mountain says something about “tasting blood and getting the victim’s DNA in his body” and things about hating Iceberg down to the bone marrow in his body. Onyx is cock fuckin’ diesel, and he’s teaming with Tony Mamaluke, who we all know is not afraid to break his own face for our enjoyment. Onyx is busy dancing in front of a cute white girl in the front row. God Bless the South. Mark & Jay Briscoe are the opponents, and they are still young and still great and full of potential, but the few years they’ve been in wrestling has left their eyes much darker and disturbed than they started. Mamaluke and Briscoe do some amateur no-one-can-get-the-advantage shit. The Briscoes are pretty tall, and with the proper “nutrition” could be humongous in the money-laden soulless sports entertainment branch of the pro wrestling. Onyx is wearing black boots that go pretty high on his calf, plus some big black kneepads, which makes it look like he’s wearing stockings. Mark with a dive, then Jay. The Briscoes are like everything the Harris twins could’ve been. Tony Mamaluke follows up with a swanton on the other three. Dave Prazak says “sea of humanity” for the second time on this tape, and I’m of the firm belief that you shouldn’t repeat terms like that on a tape. Once a tape. Just like a good MC wouldn’t use the same odd word twice in a rhyme, or you don’t repeat certain terms in a speech, he shouldn’t have done it. Or change it. Think of Joey Styles and how he inflected “oh my god” differently to change it up. Then again, don’t. That shit was stupid.

BEER SIX: Mark and Jay do a tag hand to foot, and watching this makes me realize a subtle thing I love about Southern wrestling, compared to the northern indys, probably subconsciously going back to the Civil War’s results. Southern indys, or at least Wildside, have a darker environment, with shadows and “chicanery”. Northern indys are always too bright. Maybe it’s just me growing up on Mid Atlantic with the regular show and the Worldwide show, where the crowd was in the dark and the ring was lit up like Pops on a Thursday night (you see, Thursday was payday). Onyx is good and all, but he seems sort of out-of-place with the Briscoes and Mamaluke. Jay Briscoe does not shave his underarm completely, which means he’s not ready to be a major league pro wrestler. Do regular people shave their underarms? I mean, shit, I have a hillbilly beard and dreadlocks, so shaving my underarm I’ve never thought about my whole life. I guess regular people, with their “work” haircuts and shit, and chicks who shave their legs and underarms and trim their cooch because they’re afraid to go against the paternalistic media’s desire to make pre-teen girls the ultimate sex symbol (mostly hairless and smooth), they might shave their underarms even as guys. The bell rings and the time limit has expired. What the fuck, was it a 10 minute time limit? No, says the announcer as I type that, a 15-minute one. That couldn’t’ve been fifteen minutes. John Phoenix comes out with Jeff G. Bailey, meaning he’s all evil. The curtains to Wildside are a glittery red Christmas tree wrapper, which is fine by me. Jason Cross looks like a Tough Enough candidate. He has a cross on his ass, which is not very Christian-like of him. I don’t know either of these guys, so I’m uninterested at the beginning. I’m more concerned with excitement at going to the Chinese buffet tomorrow and filling up on steamed dim sum or some shit. Too many wrestlers wear shirts in the ring. Phoenix wins my affection with a crazy springboard moonsault to the outside. Then he tries and barely hits a 450 splash to the wooden floor from the top rope.

BEER SEVEN: The great/bad thing about that is, as the announcer said, “he came within a centimeter of landing on Jason Cross’ face, with his boots.” It was very high risk and very drink-worthy. These two, who I’ve never heard of, are fuckin’ great. I am sold, and drunk. They do counters galore from an in-the-ring off-the-ropes position all the way up the aisle till Phoenix nails a spinkick. Holy shit, John Phoenix is fuckin’ awesome. Why haven’t I heard of this guy? Oh yeah, wrestling nerds are reactionary faggots, that’s right. Cross hits a corkscrew bodypress, and makes himself more drink-worthy by risking brain damage for 125 people’s enjoyment. Cross hits a running shooting star, which is not nearly as impressive as you’d expect from the name, for a two-count. Bailey uses a roll of coins on Cross, and then Phoenix hits a 450 splash for the win. Bailey uses a roll of pennies, in true heel manager fashion, not even trying to get quarters. We have the finals to the tag thing now, with Tony Stradlin & Todd Sexton, aka TNT, hitting the ring first. Midnight Express music starts up, bringing out those shithead Jersey fucks the Backseat Boyz. Trent Acid seems to believe his own hype, but I guess lots of blowjobs from rats can do that to you. Scottie Wrenn looks like the bassist for every nu-metal rap group out there. Future Shock nails Tank & Wrenn with chairs. They do a knee-mangling angle with Scottie Wrenn.

BEER EIGHT: Tank is gone with the Wrenn injury for now. Stradlin & Sexton are pretty good, but really small. I always remember reading an Apter mag back in the day about Kendall Windham, and the story had Blackjack Mulligan making him eat a second helping of flapjacks as they called them, to bulk Kendall up. At that point, Kendall had already won the Florida title, but he had to be bigger for the wrestling professionally. A promoter’s dick doesn’t get as hard for a skinny kid as it does a muscular kid, just like fratboys like fake tits. What I’m saying is TNT could use some second helpings. Two complete teams have a decent match, while Tank bleeds ringside, which leads me to believe he’ll win this thing. Johnny Kashmere looks like the type of guy who has really shitty taste in rap music. Backseats hit their Tea Gimmick on Sexton, but Stradlin (I think) does a roll-up on Acid for the win. Tank comes in the ring, though, refusing to lose like that Chuck D lyric. Scottie Wrenn comes out with bandages on his shiny pants. Of course, the heelish skinny dudes start to work on said bandage, and Wrenn is selling like an air conditioner at Christmas. CHOKEBREAKER! But only for two. Tank and Wrenn win while I don’t pay attention. So this is a barbed wire main event. “The Soul Assassin” Rainman vs. “The Original Chosen One” Rick Michaels. Very religious. No rules, no DQ, no countout. The ref comes out with safety goggles on, plus cooking mitts, which is a good sign. FUCK THE MICHAELS KIDS! RAINMAN COMES OUT TO “COME CLEAN”. “Gotta freaky freaky freaky freaky flow, control the mic like Fidel Castro.” Me and my boy Boogie Brown had a song called “Mic Control” where we cut up that “control the mic like Fidel Castro” line. Rainman is beating up fans and talking shit and this is a barbed wire match and he is my new favorite wrestler ever. Michaels brings a tiny torch to the ring and is dressed like the anti-Raven of ECW, with a white t-shirt without sleeves instead of standard black. Michaels runs back because he forgot his barbed wire baseball bat. This is one of those deals where they wrap the barbed wire around the ropes, Puerto Rico style, but they’ve only got the wire on two sides of the ring. Ah, they’ve got spiderweb shit on the other two sides on the ground. They have teased barbed wire to the forehead a few times so far, and I await the blood. Don’t promise me shit you don’t deliver, but I know this is just the proper build-up.

BEER NINE: Hey, it’s the first-ever barbed wire match in Wildside. That way, when I die, I can tell my grandkids, “I watched the first barbed wire match in NWA Wildside history.” They won’t care, but it will be fun to say dumb shit like that anyways. Rick Michaels leaves the ring to get his baseball bat. The Rainman is wearing a crimson mask, as Gordon Foley would say. He was great back in Continental. Now, Michaels gets the bloody treatment. “I am literally speechless” is the most hypocritical thing I’ve ever heard. No, not really. I’m drunk, and sorry you have to deal with more of this. I should quit doing these things; it’s painful for me and painful for you. Rick Michaels bloodies up the Rainman right good, then drags him around ringside, just like a white man. The ref is covered in blood, but luckily, he wore safety goggles and a oven mitts. The ref stops the count at two, feigning fatigue. Rainman gets a camel clutch, with the proper face-dogging of the barbed wire baseball bat worked in. Yep, they’re bloody. Barbed wire plywood brought center ring by Rick Michaels, and I’m sure ugliness will ensue. It sucks that I’m desensitized to this shit, and I want somebody to get decapitated or arm sawed the fuck off or some shit. Michaels hits some combo thing that’s his thing obviously, across the barbed wire, and he gets the pinfall victoire. Of course, post-match, in the locker room, Iceberg with Jeff G. Bailey beats down Rick Michaels, who lays there gasping, very Blair Witch-like at the end. Two-thirds of a beer left.

EPILOGUE: FIRST STAR OF THE TAPE: John Phoenix, easily. Before-hand, I never heard of the guy. And seeing him first, I thought, “Who is this white guy dressed like Tajiri in ECW’s Tajiri & Whipwreck days?” But he ruled it, and is the motherfuckin’ man. SECOND STAR OF THE TAPE: The Briscoe brothers. I don’t know how to tell them apart, but they’re both fuckin’ bad ass. Quality wrestlers who are not physical midgets and only like, what, fifteen? I hope they get to wrestle quality shit for a long time and don’t get turned out by this sick sordid perverse industry. THIRD STAR OF THE TAPE: Iceberg. He’s a big, fat fucker, but he’s entertaining. And he’s homicidal.

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