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Stephen Rivera's 4th Fall

Session Ten: Lighthouse

May 27, 2011

While you are reading this introduction, my search for the truth has begun. My new beachfront property is nearing completion. Initially, I asked my contractor to build me a multi-storey, luxury mansion on the highest coastal cliff. Per his recommendation, I have settled for a shimmering tower of light. If you ask me, I think he stole the old SmackDown fist, hollowed it out, and stuck a lamp in it, but I shouldn't complain. Affordable, quality hand work is hard to find.

Search and rescue units have scoured the shore and the sea, turning over every rock and reef. With nary a clue to be found, their pessimism is showing. They insist that they will keep looking, but deep down, I can tell they are ready to put on their quitting shoes. Believe you me; I have tried to give up and move on with my life. Alas, how many ladies must incomprehensibly decline a scrumptious McDonald's feast before I must find a way back to her?

She has missed so much. She doesn't know about the retirement of Shawn Michaels and his eyes, wandering off to focus on other interests. She hasn't witnessed The Corre ignite a feud with the red zigzag line in Microsoft Word. Worst of all, she will be missing my attempt to defy Earth's gravitational pull and elbow-five Randy Savage in Heaven. I contacted Michael PS Hayes and asked him if he has seen a woman out in the waters who fits her description. However, Michael Hayes told me that he is not a merman who recently turned into a human and bought clothes to reflect his aquatic heritage. He is just a normal man who loves the colour aquamarine.

Wherever she is, I will find her. In the process, hundreds of ships may sink because my beacon points towards the bottom of the ocean. That is a problem for the ship captains to solve, not me.

- I came across John "Bradshaw" Layfield's bull horned-limousine as it puttered through the wilderness. Ever since JBL stopped wrestling, his luxury vehicle of choice has struggled to survive on its own. The job market is poor in the wild. The food options are poorer. After a torrential rainstorm wiped the area of most wildlife, all that remained were rabbit-eared Volkswagen Beetles and squirrel-tailed Mini Coopers. The limousine didn't stand a chance.

In order to put it out of its misery, I shot that limousine. In its final moments, the limousine took one last turn to the left, bled MamaJuana Energy, and slid into a ditch. Although I'm not proud of what I did, I couldn't watch it suffer any longer.

As a reminder of the limousine's tireless service to JBL and the wrestling world, I use its pelt as a Snuggie — an uncomfortable, metal Snuggie that hints at my great wealth, power, and importance in society.

- Breaking news: Sources have confirmed that Ric Flair is at the lollipop stage of his professional wrestling career. He is two treats away from his Werther's Original farewell. In the next few months, he could upgrade to a Ring Pop, depending upon whether or not Willy Wonka wants to take their hot-and-heavy romance to the next level.

Acquisition of said Ring Pop will usher in the Giant Swirl Lollipop Era. At this stage, Ric will lick and skip along the boardwalk, sporting Shirley Temple curls and a straw hat with long flowing ribbons. He will say, "Oh, Father. May I have a go at the trolley? It will be ever so fun." Father will deem it to be too dangerous for a boy his age. A furious Ric will then stomp to the Werther's Original stage, hoping to become old and wise enough to get on the trolley.

- You should all continue to be ashamed of yourselves. R-Truth used to be quite pleasant. He once entertained us with his positive rapping and unique form of dancing, as if he was an over-medicated Dutch girl playing hopscotch in a mine field. He only wanted to know what was up. He asked you numerous times, yet your only answer was to ask the same question back at him. You could have said, "This side." You could have shrugged your shoulders and directed him to the nearest information kiosk, but no. You did no such thing. What's up? Well, not me because I've never felt so down about you.

Thanks for turning R-Truth into a no-good chain smoker, wrestling as if he is an over-medicated Dutch girl executing Downward Spirals in a mine field. Thank you muchly.

- Among wrestling circles, I'm known as Jack "The Snack" Roberts, In place of a burlap sack with a snake in it, I carry around a burlap canister of mixed nuts and offer it to people who appear to be in the mood for the salty treat. Are you a fan of nuts, combined with complementary types of nuts? This is your luckiest of days.

- I urge The Bella Twins to get off their tandem bicycle, spit out their mint gum, and protect Brie's WWE Divas Championship at any cost. When the Divas Championship is left unattended, it is susceptible to attacks from silver birds and lizards as well as other Divas. I can not stall such challengers much longer. Soon enough, they are going to find out that gluing caterpillars to leather and waiting does not work.

- I take no pleasure in watching comebacks from wrestlers who wear one or two-strapped singlets. On the surface, they appear to be pulling their straps down to show the crowd that they mean business. I can read between the lines, though. While I am flattered by their forwardness, I will not be seduced. I prefer soft, feminine upper torsos. Even if I close my eyes and envision them as women, that doesn't change the fact that they will always have masculine pectorals.

- Contract signings never go according to plan. I feel bad for the ring crew as they worked hard throughout the night to put that black carpet over the mat, that table there, that tablecloth there, that clipboard with paper there, that chair there, and that other chair over there. Moreover, acquiring two microphones is next to impossible. Who sells two microphones at 3 AM? AMP AMPM? That store does not exist in this region. What are you thinking?

Despite their tireless dedication to the furniture placement craft, what does this crew receive as a thank you? Shenanigans. I swear; the next time that a contract signing is about to take place with inconsiderate, feuding wrestlers, I'm going to bolt down all contract-signing-related objects. Also, everything will be Nerf. Not the real Nerf, mind you, but the imitation Nerf that feels lumpy and moist in your hands if you squeeze it long enough. I will not tolerate roughhousing or impromptu basketball games anymore.

- Recently, my cousin Montague threw an "Attendees Bring The Weapons Party." I voiced my concern that such a party might attract the wrong people. A calm and collected Montague assured me that everything would be fine. He has thrown Attendees Bring The Weapons Parties before and did not think this shindig would be any different. I was ready to agree with him until my friend Florentine "Ghetto Augustus" Habernathy showed up and brought another person.

Annoyed partygoers proceeded to pummel the unwanted guest with chairs and baseball bats that disappeared after they were dropped. In need of medical attention, we Irish-whipped the battered guest towards the hospital, except he returned from the darkness and almost ran into us. Luckily, we puffed our chests out before he could bowl us over. FloHab is zero for two.

- Do not bother telling me about Impact Wrestling's new slogan. I have already heard it, and I am far from a fan of it. What is wrestling Matt Hurst going to accomplish? Has Dixie Carter or Jeff Jarrett ever met Matt Hurst? He is a loyal and hardworking family man who owns a small company that makes red sling mat furs. He is helping young, fit mothers everywhere protect their yoga mats in style. He would be a fool to leave that life to fight a wrestling promotion.

- Cody Rhodes' distribution of paper bags to unattractive audiences is a result of an initial, failed run with plastic bags. Within two minutes of audience members securing the plastic bags over their heads, the attendance number at a weekend house show in Pensacola, Florida went from an impressive 15,305 to a grim 6,498. Your assumptions are correct — approximately 8800 men and women broke their bags by tying the handles too tight, which left arena security no choice but to eject these folks from the building. Seven other audience members bought a surplus of vegetable merchandise at the show and found the bags mighty handy. They left on their own accord and took that commemorative lettuce home like it was nothing.

- Last Wednesday, a suspicious, unmarked garbage truck parked below my terrace as I was about to enjoy my "Fabrobitchen Surprise" breakfast (a robin's egg cooked in a chicken egg, cooked in an ostrich egg, cooked in a Fabergé egg, which is then cooked in a Gobbledy Gooker egg). An unkempt man in a orange jumpsuit exited the truck and started mishandling my trash can. In retaliation, I leapt off the terrace railing and gave him Shane McMahon's Coast to Coast. I only managed to graze him and may have suffered a back injury in the process. I regret nothing. Daddy doesn't get a taste until he gets rid of all of the waste.

- The protective structure which Michael Cole referred to as his "Cole Mine" was first featured in a commercial for Broadview Security:

After hosting a raucous dinner that went into the wee hours of the early evening, an attractive, single, Caucasian female waved goodbye to her guests at the door. As the woman headed to bed, she was startled by a loud noise emanating from her porch. When she approached her front door, she saw a hooded man outside, staring back at her with crazy eyes. He wielded a crowbar, a knife, a gun, a second crowbar, a gun that could shoot knives, a computer with a sketchy Craigslist listing displayed on it, a third crowbar, a gun that could shoot a smaller gun, a cardboard throwing star, and WWE's favourite band Limp Bizkit.

The woman dashed to the nearest phone and got in touch with a helpful Broadview Security operator. Meanwhile, the man tried his darnedest to break and enter. He shot, stabbed, punched, hacked and "Fred Dursted" (Fred Dursting: wearing a backwards hat and forcing yourself on Halle Berry) at the mine, but to no avail. The woman's ceiling-less, plexiglass cube — with a large hole in each wall and a side door with keyless entry — was impenetrable. Before the operator could send help her way, the hooded man panicked and fled the property. He was later arrested, unable to find a way out of the empty neighbourhood street.


Stephen Rivera is the creator of The Swerved (2006-2010), Neon Ropes, and this column. Would you want to create here? He has to. He's Stephen Rivera. He was just another average creator until his first day of junior column-writing high. One minute, he's walking home. The next, there's a crash and he's drenched in some weird chemical. And since then, nothing has been the same. His friend Florentine thinks it's cool, and his doubles partner Francesca thinks he's a tennis project. He can't let anyone else find out — not even his butlers. He knows the chemical plant wants to find him and turn him into some experiment, but you know something? He guesses he's not so average anymore.

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November 2006


by Sean Carless

With Christmas just around the corner, what better way to spend your few remaining dollars (left over after the seemingly infinite line-up of fucking pay-per-views ) then on the following "quality WWE merchandise!" After all, if they don't move this stuff, and fast, stockholders just might get time to figure out what "plummeting domestic buyrates" means!... and well, I don't think they need to tell you what that means! (Seriously. They're not telling you. Everything is fine! Ahem.).