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THE DUNGEON By Anvil's Swagbag

Hello guys and… erm… more guys. Oh, and people from Oklahoma. I’m the Anvils Swagbag, and to be honest, you probably know me as the guy who struggles through Smackdown reports week after week, using only one ass cheek, and reserving the other for the lips of anybody who complains that I don’t put enough effort into my reports.

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.


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.


Erased? I didn’t quite understand. Was this man asking me to… to…


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…


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.



Here we go…


Wait, what?? Shit, stop right there, I’ll do this for free! No bloody charge!


Ohhhh YES! I’d be the KING of the IWC! Shit, I’d be a fucking REAL hero!


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.


…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…


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…




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….



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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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.

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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.).