THE DUNGEON By Anvil's Swagbag
But
there is a REASON, as long time readers will know. There
is a damn good reason as to why I save my energy come a
Friday evening. Well, there are two, but I’m pretty sure
that you don’t get the same soft core porn on channel
five over there in the U S of A, so I’ll keep that one
to myself.
The OTHER reason, the more important
one, is that in my spare time, I am a WRESTLING FUCKING
SUPERHERO. Not in the vein of a Super Nova or a
Hurricane. Hell no. I don’t need spandex! And my balls
in tights make me look like I have a severe case of THE
CAMEL. Oh, no. I’m not a superhero wrestler, I am a
wrestling superhero. The difference is, whilst superhero
wrestlers usually get buried in midcard fueds, I am
saving Wrestling from the evils corrupting from
within!
In my first mission, I tried to
attempt to change Wrestling back to The Way It Used To
Be, because my Nan told me that I should. It was only in
the process of doing so that I realised that Hercules
Hernandez sucked a dick and two balls, and that two
minute squashes were not appealing to me. Ahem. Then I
switched on ECW, and saw Snitsky, sucking a dick and two
balls, in a two minute squash. Sometimes, doing nothing
gets the job done.
THEN, I dressed up as an Arab
to infiltrate the world of The Great Khali, in an
attempt to take him down from the inside. Somehow, I
never really got round to that part of the mission and
instead ended up on a bus being driven by Eugene, with
Ric Flair waving his cock at me. Dear God don’t ask.
One might say that, therefore, I have not been a
success so far. One might also go take a long walk off a
short BOUT OF CANCER YOU FUCKER…. Sorry, I get
defensive.
But STILL. Word seems to get
around. Because today, as I was sat in my office
whittling away the time (seriously. I was making a
flute.), a note was slid under the door. It simply read,
‘Be At The Car Park On Main Street In Half An Hour.’
Well, I thought to myself, at last, some business. And I
sent them a note back. I think it was a C, but to be
honest my whittling skills aren’t too great.
Heh.
Oh. Welcome to the first part of a monster
two part edition of The Dungeon. Where we hear your
complaints, store them, and then burn them in a
ritualistic festival involving much dancing, alcohol,
and popping the cherry of thousands of vestal
virgins.
Five and a half hours later, I was
at that car park. Not only was I five hours late, but
the fucking airport had lost my bags. And let me tell
you, I looked fucking ridiculous in Daivari’s three
quarter lengths
.. I could only wonder how the
guy had gotten from England to New York in under an
hour. These questions would all be answered in due
course, but at that moment, I was… puzzled.
So there I was. Stood in a car park miles
from home, merely hoping this had not been a joke, when
suddenly, the orange light of a Mercedes hit me, full
beam in the face, flooding me with an orange glow. And a
man, cloaked in shadow, got out of the car and, for a
second, we stood in silence. And then, in a deep,
booming voice, he declared loudly…
‘Oh shit,
it’s Hulk Hogan.’
It was only after he
returned to his car and turned the BRIGHT FUCKING ORANGE
BEAM down that he realised his mistake and returned to
talk to me.
The man was using a device to alter
his voice, making him sound ridiculously deep, so I
instantly assumed that the guy had a gravely voice
without the device. My first assumption was that I was
talking to Jake the Snake, but two things changed my
mind there. One, he was driving a Mercedes and not a
pick-up truck made in 1983. Two, he was fucking stood up
straight, not slouched over shouting what I would assume
to be obsceneties under the slurring. I would leave the
deduction until later. For NOW, I would hear what he had
to say.
‘WE HAVE A JOB FOR YOU, ANVIL’.
For a second, I thought that maybe it WAS
bloody Jake the Snake Roberts, and that he’d caught a
glimpse of, say, two or three of himself in the wing
mirror, but this was a MERCEDES, NOT A LINE OF COKE. So,
I continued to listen.
‘WE WANT SOME
WRESTLING NAMES… ERASED.’
Erased? I didn’t
quite understand. Was this man asking me to…
to…
‘WE WOULD LIKE YOU TO CARRY OUT AN…
ASSASSINATION.’
Now whoa, whoa, whoa! I’m a
fucking Wrestling Superhero, not John Wilkes Booth! If
you want to take out five ’Wrestling Names’, just ask
Sonny Siaki to dropkick the bastards. What the hell was
going on here!? The man (or Chyna, you can never tell)
registered my silence and said…
‘WE WOULD PAY
YOU WELL’.
Now, this made things a tad more
interesting! There isn’t much call for Wrestling
Superhero’s in this day and age. The only income that I
had… received in the last few weeks involved an
‘incoming’ with a sock and the afore mentioned Friday
evening TV. My fancy was truly tickled, and so I spoke
up for the first time. But rather than ask, ‘how much’,
I surprised myself completely with one
word.
‘Who?’
‘THE FIVE FACES OF
WRESTLING. THOSE WHO ARE CORRUPTING THE TRUE VISION OF
THE BUSINESS… OUR TRUE VISION…WE, THE HIGHER POWERS,
WOULD LIKE YOU TO ERADICATE THE FOLLOWING FIVE
PEOPLE…’
Here we go…
‘A MR BOBBY
LASHLEY.’
Wait, what?? Shit, stop right
there, I’ll do this for free! No bloody
charge!
‘A MR JOHN CENA’.
Ohhhh YES!
I’d be the KING of the IWC! Shit, I’d be a fucking REAL
hero!
‘A MR TRIPLE H’.
Holy.
Fucking. God. This is a dream come true! This is
brilliant! This is shit I’d always wanted to do but
never had the motivation, and now? Now I had a perfect
excuse.
‘A MR TAKER.’
…wait.
What? Now that, my friends, makes life a little more
difficult. Because, as I have seen multiple times on WWE
TV, it is IMPOSSIBLE to kill this guy. But, just as I
was about to say… ‘gee, I dunno’, The Leader said the
magic words…
‘AND FINALLY, THE RINGLEADER OF
THE FIVE FACES. THE MAN BEHIND THE EVIL WE SEE. THE MAIN
REASON I HAVE ASKED YOU HERE TODAY, AND THE SCOURGE OF
WRESTLING. HE IS…’
Hulk Hogan? No, I already
had him pushed out of a window in my first mission.
Plus, HE’D thought I was Hulk Hogan…Vince? Not really an
in-ring competitor…but you try telling him
that…
‘THE MAN IS…’
…
‘…SCOTTY
TOO HOTTY.’
Bingo.
After
watching Leon six times, I was ready. I had made a list,
and damn sure I had checked it twice. The first man on
my list, Bobby Lashley.
I originally thought
that when I signed up to kill people for this complete
stranger that my biggest challenge would be to find the
five men. I was wrong in this deduction, and it was
easier than Torrie Wilson is (subbing for Lita whilst
she embarks on a future failed music career) to track
Bobby down. Using my wrestling knowledge, it was a
process of elimination as to where Bobby Lashley would
be. Here is what I wrote in my notepad as I was
narrowing it down….
NOT IN FRONT OF A WWE
CAMERA? NO.
IN FRONT OF A WWE CAMERA? YES.
BY JOVE HE’S GOT IT! I just needed to get my
ass to the next taped WWE show and find a camera.
Inevitably, Lashley will be there.
I
arrive at the show. It is ECW, so I know from the start
that tonight isn’t my night. I walk through the
backstage area, past most of the Originals in a cage
being hosed down. Past Rob Van Dam who is wearing a T
Shirt that said ‘I’m Going To TNA… Unless You Pay Me
More’. I think he is trying to be subtle. Past a room
from which the sound of snoring is emanating. I peek my
head round the door to see Sabu laying on a table, dead
to the world, and Snitsky looking guilty, stealing one
of his boots… eww. Past Kelly Kelly pissing in a sink.
She offers to dance for me so I punch her in the spine.
The Powers can have that one for free. And finally…
FINALLY… I find a camera.
And who is stood in
front of it? The man himself. Lashley.
I
have planned this execution well. I know what I am
doing. I… erm… jump on his back and try to apply a
sleeper. I think I have watched too much
wrestling.
Lashley begins to run around,
and I know I have him. ‘GET OWF ME YOU BATHTURD!’, he
shouts, and for a second, a split second, I think I have
jumped Lizzie McGuire! …But then I catch my bearings and
hold on. He looks scared, he is reaching for his bag…
and from the bag, I can see a small teddies head peeking
out. DEAR GOD THIS GUY SUCKS. He begins to slow, still
reaching, and I know I have him, so I reach into my
pocket for my gun. Oh, the trusty gun that I have
carried everywhere with me since I was almost killed by
Khali. The gun that I have in a little padded pocket in
my jeans. The gun that… I currently don’t have on me
because I am wearing DAIVARI’S BASTARD TROUSERS.
Shit.
It is then that the MONSTER BOOKING
kicks in, as Lashley begins to run backwards towards a
wall that looks SUSPICIOUSLY LIKE PAPE MACHE! But just,
just as we are about to fly through the wall in an
impressive visual, a moth hurtles at it in breakneck
speed.
Time stands still for a second as we both
scream NOOOOOOO and the moth shoots straight through the
wall, which crumbles like Randy Orton after an
unexpected incident during a match.
The spot is
ruined, and we both know it, but this THING that I’m
riding, The Incredible Sulk (because he’s green and
sounds like a girl, HAHAA!) is a professional! He sees a
table and his eyes light up as if he has just seen a
Polly Pocket. He hoists me onto his shoulders, and
THROWS ME ONTO THE TABLE WITH SUCH FORCE! SUCH
UNBELIEVABLE FORCE! Such force that the gust caused by
my body pressure blows the sheet of paper saying
‘RESERVED’ clean off the table. Ahem. The table remains
standing. THIS IS THE SAME GUY WHO CAN DESTROY A CAGE
AND HE CAN’T BREAK A GIMMICKED FUCKING TAB… never mind.
Lashley looks petrified. The spot is blown! The
indestructible force has met the immovable object, and
the immovable object just happened to be a table made of
thin board. THE HUMANITY! He hoists me up again and
throws me back down, but no. This table must have been
hand created by the Spanish announce team as a FUCK YOU
to the WWE. Bobby is panicking now, and a tear is
beginning to swell in one of his big, girly eyes. He
looks towards his bag again, towards the bear, as if for
comfort. Fucking pussy. It looks like I live on to
continue my mission… but how do you kill Bobby
Lashley!?
It is at this point, at this exact
moment, that New Jack strolls down the corridor, on a
visit to his ECW buddies, in a lame attempt to explain
where I get a gun from. I stand on the table and thank
God that I am able to write such shitty segways and get
away with it. I can see from where I am stood that on
his back, New Jack has two rifles, crossed over like
Vinnie Jones in ‘Lock Stock, And Two Smoking Barrels’,
both there for ‘killin’ niggahs and shit’. I DIVE from
the table onto a chair, and using the chair, thrust my
body through the air, grabbing hold of the barrel of one
of the guns in mid flight, and point it at Bobby
Lashley. New Jack, at this precise moment, disappears.
Or else he would just be in the way of the story. SHUT
UP.
This story too damn ridiculous for you yet?
No? Good.
Lashley is coming towards me fast,
so I shoot him, but he no sells the bullet! Holy crap,
now I’m in trouble! I shoot again. BIG LIQUID METAL
HOLES ARE HEALING AS I WATCH THEM! and now he looks
angry. Well… not really, but his eyes are a little
wider. He says, ‘now its time to die’, and I can’t help
but giggle, because he sounds like Barbie does in the
adverts. Only with less charisma. I KNOW I can’t kill
him. The mission is a dud. But how do I escape?
I
point the gun at the teddy, and shout, ‘STOP OR I’LL
SHOOT!’. The situation dawns on him and his expression
again becomes panic. ‘PWEEZ DON’T WE HAVE A TEA PAWTY
TONIGHT’ he says, and I tell him to go and fetch his
damn teddy, and when he turns, I try to jump out of the
window. And splat into it like Shane McMahon. God DAMN
this mission sucks. I break it with the butt of the gun
and escape.
I get home, and cross
Lashley off the list. How do you kill somebody who is
booked to never lose? Or, alternatively, seens as how
I’m making this whole damn thing up, I could have
written it so that I won. But hey.
Next on the list is John Cena, and I
am already aware that this mission may have the
characteristics of the last one…
I find a
poster declaring that, in a place called ’The Shed’ on 8
Mile in… erm… Greenwich… John Cena will be taking on ALL
COMERS in a rap battle. I decide that this is the
perfect place to conduct my hit. Only THIS time, I’m
going to use a knife. My OWN hand, my OWN
force.
I arrive at the rap battle dressed
like a G. I’m superfly, y’all. I look around me and…
everybody is dressed in… Armani suits. But… but… I say
to myself… I thought Cena was from the stree… it’s too
late for that. Cena is on the stage, and it’s time for
me to bust some sick rhymes yo.
Cena invites me
onto the stage, and that black dude from ER flips a
coin. I win the coin toss and say that Cena gets the
first rap. Cena is happy with that, and here is the
EXACT rap Cena rapped on me.
‘Yo, yo. Yo, my
names John Cena, and who are you?
You look silly and
you smell like poo!…’
At this point, all of the
people in the audience get incredibly rowdy. Well, I say
rowdy. What I mean is that they all mumbled, ‘wot wot,
jolly good show’ under their breath. DEAR GOD. Cena
carries on.
‘You come on this stage but you
can’t see me!
You look stupid and you smell like
wee!…’
Now the crowd are going WILD! They are
even saying BRAVO in slightly hushed tones now! You can
REALLY SEE JOHN CENA’S HIP HOPROOTS HERE! He
continues.
‘I’m not allowed to rap in WWE or
have my say,
I don’t know why that is but I think
you are gay’.
Question asked and answered in
the same sentence. Some of the crowd are now throwing
their mortar boards up in the air like they just don’t
care! I die a little inside. I can envisiage them all
chanting ‘CHOKE, CHOKE, CHOKE’ at me as… as… as I
strangle their homeboy. Seriously, even if I wasn’t
being hired for this, I’d still wanna kill Cena here for
crimes against humour.
‘So here it is, my
very last rapping promo,
You look really foolish and
you act like a homo!’
Right, my turn. There
is no way I will turn this crowd in my favour. They are
already calling Cena ‘old bean’ and declaring that ‘a
jolly good show wot wot’. I’ll have to make this short
and sweet. My time is now.
‘So, John Cena,
you’ve improved in the ring,
You are better at
promos but it wont mean a thing,
Because right here
tonight, on this very stage,
I’m gonna take out on
you two years of rage,
You’ve ruined the STF, PULL
BACK YOUR ARMS!
That shit wouldn’t do Mr Glass any
harm.
My talking is done, and so is your life,
John Cena, say hello to my little
KNIFE!’
And as I unsheaf the blade, I hear
these graduates around me gasp. I raise it up into the
air like a madman, and BRING IT DOWN WITH SO MUCH FORCE
IT SLIDES STRAIGHT INTO HIS KIDNEY AREA! And as I yank
it out and look at his face I notice something…
peculiar…
No blood.
No pain.
Not even
any sign that this will scar!
I put up with his
immature lines about willies and gays for nothing! This
is ridiculous! DOES NOBODY WHO IS HEAVILY PUSHED IN THE
WHOLE OF THE WWE SELL A DAMN THING!?
Before I
know where I am, I am hoisted onto Cena’s shoulders and…
placed gently onto my back on the floor. I gather my
bearings, and roll off the stage into a crowd of
unwelcoming faces who say that I look like a hobo. I
run, run, run, through the door and away into the
night.
Two UP, three to go. This is not
looking good.
Oh, an interesting side note.
After I stabbed John Cena, he disappeared for three
months to film some shit or other. Funny how these
things work.
Might explain why I am so often
mistaken for Jesus too…
Here is my
diary entry from that night, to give you a clue as to
how desperate I had become.
‘All hope is
lost. I have tried to kill two relative ‘upstarts’, and
failed miserably. Neither of them are willing to sell
death. Now, I have to contend with killing two of the
big cheeses, both of whom have escaped certain death
before. Triple H has been dropped from a great height
and crushed inside a car, and is still battling to this
day. Taker has been buried alive and resurrected more
times than I dare count. I am humbly screwed. I don’t
even currently know WHY I am killing them. As for
Scotty, he gets buried fucking weekly, and here he is!
What do I do!? How creative do I have to be to kill
these motherfuckers?’
I don’t know where to
go from here. What action to take. So I go back to the
car-park, and I stand in the very spot where I stood
before, hoping, PRAYING, some inspiration would fly my
way.
That is when the lights of the Mercedes
went back on.
Join me next time, where we
tie up the following loose ends…
How the hell
will I kill these two fuckers?
Who is the higher
power?
What the hell does any of this have to do with
anything, ever?
Do nipples sunburn?
Erm,
actually, two of those probably won’t be tied
up.
I’m Anvil.
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Swagbag
The Anvil's Swagbag has eight girlfriends
(two for Thursday) and lots and lots of fans. He says
this is because it is very hot in his Dungeon. He states
that his most embarrassing moment was when he forgot to
tuck his penis into his sock one time, and kept having
to pick pebbles out of his foreskin. He also loves Mick
Foley. Lots.
TWF FLASHBACK
November 2006
SATIRE: DISCONTINUED WWE XMAS PRODUCTS!
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.).
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