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THE ROCKTAGON
W/ JAMES SWIFT

HOLEE SHI-AT.

I'll begin this article as I normally do, with a detailing of my increasingly soap-operatic like existence. Long story short; the last few weeks, not fun. In fact, if you can ponder a female-spawned dramatic quagmire, buddy, I just swam through an Olympic sized swimming pool of it. Mothers, daughters, roommates, the girl sitting beside me in economics; if it has the capacity to menstruate, it's tried to kill me over the last three or so weeks.

At this juncture in my existence, I really can't say that I have any problems of an internal nature. I know who I am and what I believe, by gum, it's just that the people in my life.I give up. I just freaking give up. I should've been an Alaskan goat herder as I originally intended after high school. Just.forget it man. Just forget it.

MATT FACT #023: If given the choice between bare knuckle boxing Haku while wearing a shirt that reads "Tonga Sucks" or staring down a pissed off Anglo- Protestant matriarch, I say but one thing: What size tees do you have?

Beyond that, I have to thank a person or two. First and foremost, I would like to thank Sean Carless for giving me my gig back, even though I initially faked a spinal injury to duck out of our original contract ala Stevie Richards. Secondly, Catherine Perez is just about the best thing since sliced bread, as her valuable insight, selfless promotion and artistic know-how have been a major boon to getting The Rocktagon up and going. I would gladly adopt both of you, and I might even feed you from time to time, to boot.

Hey, let's take a gander at the calendar, shall we? It's almost October 31st, which is far and away the best day of the year. Ever since I was a young child, I've adored the sacrosanct date. I mean, who doesn't love Reformation Day? Carving Luther O' Lanterns and going door to door spouting anti-Semitic rhetoric. "The Zionists are using baby blood to grease their infernal vessel of worldwide fiscal dominance or treat!" Ah, good times, good times.

Well, that, and it's also Halloween, which is pretty neat, too, I guess.

Needless to say, I absolutely love Halloween with an almost Jack Skellington like splendor (and that's not just because we're both emaciated, jaded with our lot in life and owned by an evil, heartless conglomeration!) There's something about that one autumn night the breeds a unique aura, as if the rules one abides by the other 364 days a year are no longer canonical. This also explains why I've woken up pants-less on so many November firsts, but I digress.

As a twenty something wanderer, I can't help but pine for the good old days of All Hallows Eve pasts, and without question, one of the biggest elements of the autumnal holiday was the annual WCW tradition of Halloween Havoc. Granted, even though the PPV was labeled with the moniker, the shows never actually ran on Halloween, but that's WCW for you. Just as much a part of the Halloween spirit as late night monster movie marathons and candy corn, the myriad bumpers for Halloween Havoc remain a staple of my childhood reminiscing, with a spooky voiced announcer running over the shows' cards while totally random eerie images were juxtaposed with the in-ring action. I'm not really sure what Lex Luger and a giant pumpkin have to do with one another (well, besides the fact that neither can walk now), but that was part of the charm. The announcers would dress up as goofy caricatures, the set pieces were adorned with all sorts of kitschy nonsense and one was guaranteed at least one outlandish horror-themed bout for the evening. In other words, it was awesome.

For tonight's waltz into The Rocktagon, we go way back to the year of our Lord 1993, back when Jurassic Park mania swept the nation and Crystal Clear Pepsi didn't. I also think Darth Maul was president, but I could be wrong, since during the time frame, all I did was play Sega Genesis anyway, so fuck it.

I present unto thee.WCW Halloween Havoc 1993!

Anyhoo, the show starts off with the typical WCW mini-movie, which was a common practice of the era. A lot of people view these things as being cheesy, but I say they're great. Besides, this one reminds me of the 80s classic "The Monster Squad", so automatic bonus points right there.

So a bunch of kids are trick-or-treating when the puffy ringleader (dressed as Dracula, of course.public domain FTW!) says he wants to see something scary. The other kids opt to head home and view Halloween Havoc instead. (3) Count Dracula admonishes them for their pussiness and suggests they head into a spooky mansion before being treated to some post-Herd booking. The kids ring the doorbell, and who answers the ring? Why, the scariest freaking thing imaginable.

Tony GAH-DAMN Schiavone!

Seriously, I'd rather spend the night in John Wayne Gacy's crawlspace than see Tony's soulless pupils gazing into mine. However, if that wasn't pants- pissingly horrific enough, this is no ordinary Tony Schiavone. Oh, no. This is a Tony Schiavone that TRANSFORMS INTO A GARGOYLE AND EATS CHILDREN.

Oh, well. Could've been worse. They could've ended up at Rob Feinstein's house.

We then transition from one horror to another, as the in-ring action kicks off with Eric Bischoff hyping the night's card, which includes, oh you better believe it, the Spin-the-wheel-make-the-deal, uh, wheel. Oh, and he's dressed like a Union soldier. METAPHOR?

Ulysses S. Taint than throws things to "The Body". What, huh? That isn't Jesse Ventura at all! It's Tony Schiavone masquerading as Jesse Ventura, complete with the bald cap and 0.99 boa. He's then joined by the real Jesse Ventura, adorned in a medical lab coat and a bat monster mask. He claims to be, and I swear to God I'm not making this up, "a gynecologist" before waving a foam lizard hand in front of the camera.

It's official, folks. 1993 was the best effing thing ever. And just when you think things can't get any more bizarre, Jesse shoves a thermometer up Tony's posterior. No, really.

Cue the non-copyright theme music, it's Harlem Heat.and the Equalizer. Well, 33.3% isn't too bad.

Their opponents however, are like the Mount effing Rushmore of 90s shit gimmicks. For god's sake, the team is being LED by The Shockmaster. That's like hiring a guy that drove drunk into a retaining wall as the foreman to rebuild it. His teammates for the occasion are Charlie Norris (no, not that Chuck, a guy with the nine millionth generic Injun gimmick) and Ice Train, a guy whose gimmick is that he's both fat and black. Boy, I'm glad to see that racial caricature has been excised from modern wrestling, aren't you?

A few interesting things of note: number one, by this point, Old Shocky had since forth abandoned the roller disco Star Wars helmet in favor of a more conservative construction helmet. So.he's supposed to be an electrician, right? Shit, I miss occupational gimmicks.

Also, Harlem Heat, fairly young in their WCW tenure, are going by the monikers Kane and Kole as opposed to Booker T and "that one guy that wasn't worth a shit". Hey, somebody's got to be the Garfunkel in a relationship.

We start off with some black on black violence as the future Booker T locks up with Ice Train. Jesse calls Ice Train "a big green monster". Uh, Jesse, HE'S BLACK! Sheesh, these WCW guys. Also, Tony has the damndest time pronouncing "New Orleans", constantly referring to it as New Or LEE ONS.

Booker feeds Ice Train some elbows, although if you ask me, he really wanted SOME RIBS. Get it? Because I'm a racist. Booker then tries to supplex Train, because he's never seen a wrestling match before, and Train counters into a body slam of his own. In comes Stevie for about three seconds, tag for Norris, tag back for Booker. Now it's a guy that once robbed a Houston liquor store battling against a Native American gimmick in a series of arm stretches. In comes Shockmaster, whom, surprisingly, doesn't fall face first onto the canvas. Hell, even Jesse acknowledges his clumsiness. Tag back for Ice Train. Double team backbreaker with Stevie as the legal man. In comes The Equalizer, who does his best Darryl Gates impersonation and stomps a brother. Ice Train retaliates with a face buster. Totally non-racist war cries emanate from the audience as Norris renters the fray. Finally, it's Shockmaster vs. The Equalizer in a battle for who looks the most like a Wal- Mart consumer. As Ice Train gets back into the ring, the fans chant "WHOOMP, THERE IT IS!" and I nearly die from nostalgia. That song was so ubiquitous in 1993 that people could use it as a euphemism for pretty much anything. I remember one time, my cousin was running across the patio, tripped, and bust his forehead on a ceramic frog ornament and instead of getting him the medical attention he so direly needed I just screamed "WHOOMP, THERE IT IS!" as he lie hemorrhaging on the hardwood deck. Good times. Norris misses a kick by about two feet and I giggle profusely. Norris then chops (or is it SCALPS?) the Equalizer. Save by the Heat. Stevie Ray does his best impersonation of Andrew Jackson and deprives Charlie of his proud heritage and oxygen via a blatant choke. Double clothesline by Harlem Heat. Holy shit, Jesse just made a casino joke. I have a new hero. Booker T is in, and he goes up top. Misses the splash. Tag for Shocky. Bearhug slam. One, two, three.

Winner: Jesse Ventura. He purposely said the wrestlers involved sucked, made fun of their inability to work and even offended a couple of ethnic groups in the process. He should run for public office, I tell ya

Post bout, Shocky and the =IZER continue to brawl. A shit, give not I.

Backstage, Ulysses S. Taint is interviewing Terry Taylor. You see, later on, there's going to be a bout between Ric Flair and Rick Rude, and the stipulation is that two referees will be utilized for the match. Terry says he's going to call it right down the middle and calls Eric B. "General Custer". That's rasslin speak for "Shenanigans are afoot, you look like General Custer, Eric. B".

Here comes Paul Orndorff, accompanied to the ring by Assassin #1. His adversary? Ricky Steamboat, in full "dragon" regalia. At this point, I find myself in rare territory: how the hell I'm a going to make fun of something that actually has the capabilities of being, you know, good? Oh yeah, the fact that there's a fat guy in a luchador mask at ringside.

Orndorff comes out ruthless, even blowing off Steamboat's trademark chops. Snapmare and a chop by Mr. Wonderful. Fisticuffs to the outside. Brawling on the ramp way. Thus far, it's all Orndorff on offense. You know, I really miss those old ramps that extended all the way to ringside. Maybe not as much as I miss those weird-ass looking supplexes wrestlers utilized back in the 80s, but still, I have a fondness for it. There are literally fat rolls exuding from the eye and mouth holes of Assassin #1's mask. More like Fatass- assin #FAT, I'm I right? Steamboat is outside selling like a mother hugger. Steamboat uses the rampway as a launching pad and crashes and burns on re- entry to the ring. Jesse and Tony are discussing the kayfabe elements of financial recourse in terms of win-loss records, and I shake my head at the bygone days of when promoters actually gave a shit. Steamboat works the arm. That's called ring psychology, kids. And the posts are metaphors for penises. The fans chant "Paula" at Mr. Wonderful. But his name is "Paul"! New Orleans people are dumb. Cross-body from Steamboat, and then back to the arm. Did I just hear the term "Clean Break"? My God, I'm ancient. Ricky and Assassin start jawing, and it's up to ref Nick Patrick (dressed as a gay porn star, but how can you tell it's a costume?) to break them up. Steamboat makes Orndorff eat post, and not the delicious cereal foodstuff, either. "A head first shot into the ring post is illegal", Tony states. Yes, children of the Cena generation, at one point, wrestling had rules. And Japanese people, but that's a story for a different day. Steamboat throws Orndorff shoulder first into the guardrail. That Steamboat, he's a stickler for the rules. Orndorff signals for a time-out and Ricky responds by snapping his arm on the ring ropes. Just like in pro football. Steamboat continues to work the hell out of Paul's arm. Jesse chastises Steamboat for his flagrant rule breaking. As awesome a heel announcer as Heenan was, I think Jesse may have been even better. Paul breaks the hold. Barrage of clotheslines has Orndorff begging for mercy in the corner. Paul escapes to the outside. Steamboat gives the stairs some head, of which belongs to Orndorff. Paul is doing an almost Steamboat-esque job of selling his own ass kicking. Awesome. Orndorff slams Steamboat's head against the apron like a metaphor for a guy slamming another guy's head on something purported to be fairly rigid. And Mr. O has his second wind. Ricky gets tossed over the guardrail. Back in the ring, Paul goes up top. What a weak ass elbow.thing. I wouldn't even call that a love tap. Ricky sells it anyway, because HE'S A PROFESSIONAL. Messed up double cross body. Ventura covers their asses, saying that they "caught one another in the ribs". Sigh. Memories. Orndorff uses a rope assisted, not at all homoerotic pinning hump to get a two. The ref admonishes Mr. Wonderful for his miscreant behavior. Up next, thirty seconds of pure WTF, as Nick Patrick kicks the shit out of Orndorff's hands, Ricky uncharacteristically screws up two pinning predicaments and Paul gets sent a-flying to the land of the ramp. Awesome top rope karate chop from Steamboat to the exiled Orndorff. Running atomic drop as a transitional aide to get O back in the ring. Another top rope chop from Ricky. Just a 2. Shit, this is a good match. More chops, more twos for Steamboat. O lands a face buster. O signals the piledriver, Steamboat counters, near fall for Ricky, Orndorff counters, Steamboat counters, Paul gets catapulted, and only a 2. Dear God, even I jaded a-hole like me is starting to mark out for this thing. Flying body press, the Assassin distracts the ref, Orndorff kicks out. Shoulder charges from The Dragon. Ricky is frustrated, and the shenanigans ensue. Sort of ref bump, Ricky gets dumped to the outside. The Assassin hits Ricky with a loaded head butt, which instantly kills Steamboat. Ricky can't answer the ten count, therefore our winner is a Paul Orndorff.

Winner: Paul Orndorff, jowls hanging out of luchador masks

Jesse and Tony flirt after the bout and shill an upcoming European tour. More hype for the upcoming Rude / Flair bout.

We have the strings of the U.K. national anthem, "Fat Bottom Girls", which means Davey Boy Smith is making his way to ringside. His opponent tonight is Lord Steven Regal. Oh-Em-Gee, DREAM MATCH el-oh-el. You know, kids really do talk like that nowadays.

Michael Buffer does the intro. The following bout is for the World Television Title. He also wishes to inquire if we are indeed adequately prepared for seismic activity. Ironically, Regal's handler is named Sir William. Ringside, Jesse molests Tony. Regal is offended by Smith's hygiene, refusing to touch his opponent. Pretty neat hammerlock exchange to begin. Regal claims to be an aristocrat, which means he walked into a talent agency with an amazing family act. Another neat chain wrestling sequence. Davey Boy does some tumbling for the crowd. Regal showboats with a cartwheel and gets monkey flipped for his brashness. Really good catch going on here. Messed up flip spot has Regal kneeing himself on Smith's patella. A long surfboard spot follows. The old manager distraction trick. Those Brits, you just can't trust them. Smith with a flying body press. Regal gets a knee in. Wow, the Regal Roll! Haven't seen that one in forever. Submission attempt by Regal. Regal dominates with strikes. Another submission spot from Regal. For some reason, those totally not at all insensitive war cries echo throughout the audience. O, K. Another trap-hold-submission spot from Regal. Man, it's weird using actual wrestling terminology in this day and age. Awesome pinning spots come into play. One minute left to go in regulation time. Davey Boy is on the warpath. Regal no sells the Running Power Slam. Piledriver, 2 count, time expires right at the three. Ah, ain't it a bitch. Excellent, excellent in-ring psychology in this one.

Winner: Lord Steven Regal, and by extent, his "supplier"

Back to Bischoff and his wheel. Out comes Vader and Harley Race. Frankie Stichano's dad gives the outlandish prop a spin and lands on "Texas Death Match". Shit, two inches over and he could've scored his and her watches. What a cruel, cruel game that Spin-the-wheel. Jesse makes a whole bunch of game show references but conveniently leaves out a particular wheel-themed syndicated stalwart.

Up next it's "Stunning Steve" vs. Dustin Rhodes for the U.S. Heavyweight title. A fan at ringside holds up a sign detailing Steve as the "Wrestler of the 90s". If only we had listened to that kid instead of locking him in the dungeon for half a decade. Even for mid 90s WCW, Rhodes had some terrible entrance music. Michael Buffer runs his gums about things. The on-screen text states that Steve is accompanied by Col. Tom Parker, even though he's nowhere to be found. Jesse Ventura officially becomes the greatest person in the history of life when he states that Rhode's attire reminds him of a gay cowboy. And somewhere in the WWF booking department, someone scribbles down a note.

We start off with some scuffling; Austin lands a slap and bails to the outside. It's so surreal to hear that unmistakable "Stone Cold" voice emanating from the vessel of a blonde surfer-type. Slow as molasses start to the in-ring action. Steve works the upper body of the future homosexual anthropomorphic awards statuette. Dropkick from the Son of the Polk-a-dotted one. Dump to the outside for Steve, we've got a knee injury. Rhodes takes note of this, and goes for the bruised patella. Steve takes advantage of an errant cup shoot and the future wife-beater gets to practice on the fruit of Dusty's loins. Dear heavens, can you imagine the process of Dustin's conception? Well, if you think Rhode's booking was bad.

Steve is still selling the knee, even going as far as to take the pad off his healthy knee to use to his advantage. Rhodes makes a comeback. On cue, here comes the "WHOOMP" chant. Steve counters the bulldog by slamming Rhodes baby-hammer first into the turnbuckle. Hey, it's cheaper than a vasectomy. Tree of woe position for Dustin. The ref untangles him and Steve stomps a hole that may or may not contain wet dirt coagulates into Rhodes. Pin exchange, and things are heating up. Austin uses the ropes to score a 2.9. He thinks he picked up the win, Nick Patrick insists the bout must continue. Chaotic three count for Rhodes after a roll-up. The deal is that Steve was trying to find the belt to use as a weapon, and it was at the adjacent corner, so.yeah, somebody probably screwed up. After the bout, Steve goes ballistic on Rhodes with the strap (as opposed to later on, when Terri went off on Rhodes with a strap-on.allegedly.)

Winner: Dustin Rhodes, awareness of one's surroundings

A quick recap of a cluster-hump Saturday Night bout between Marcus Bagwell and 2 Cold Scorpio against the Nasty Boys.

The Nasty Boys make their way to ringside accompanied by a collection of indeterminable sex diseases better known as Missy Hyatt. They're taking on the tandem of 2 Cold Scorpio and Marcus Alexander Bagwell, the current tag champions. In their corner is none other than Teddy Long. Insert hackneyed Ebonics gibberish. Buffer says his shit, then 2 Cold / Bagwell take the Nasty Boys to the outside and Jesse says that Missy is a whore. And then the bout starts. Bagwell snogs Missy and contracts 12 kinds of herpes. "WHOOMP!" chant. Well, if "WHOOMP!" is analogous with "syphilis", I'd say the fans are correct. 2 Cold / Bagwell are sporting gaudy neon Halloween pants. How I secretly long to own them. Anyway, this is your typical Nasty Boys match. That's not necessarily praise of the highest order, I assure you. I'm not really going to bother with a full blow-by-blow recap of this bout, so eat me. Twenty ducked double clotheslines and forty subsequent rolls to the outside by Knobs and Sacks later, The Nasty Boys regain the tag straps after clocking 2 Cold with one of the belts after the tumbleweed. It wasn't too atrocious, but still.eh. During the bout, I noticed just how empty the arena was. Honest to goodness, every seat beyond the fifth row was assless.

Winner: The Nasty Boys, the rap duo Tag-Team

Backstage, Bischoff is the meat in a Tom Parker and Sid Vicious sandwich. Just like in Patterson's dreams. The humanized version of Foghorn Leghorn and Whispery McDon'tTalkLoud fail to cut intimidating promos on Sting.

The ensuing bout is for the title of WCW "Franchise" Wrestler. Doesn't the term "Franchise" mean you're supposed to voluntarily take a pay cut? If so, why the hell would you want to win the bout so bad?

Sting is rocking his neon pants and sequins Michael Jackson coat. One teenaged kid in the front row ensures his lifelong celibacy by screaming, "Sting is the man!" at the top of his lungs on camera.

Sting leads the dance early. Brawling in the crowd, with Sid getting caught on the guard rail, allowing the Man Called Borden to kick the living shit out of West Memphis, Arkansas' most famous non-falsely-accused-of murder son (First person to e-mail me with the correct film reference wins a prize to be determined later.) Wow, Sting is really whipping that ass. I haven't seen someone so enthusiastic in regards to intentionally losing money since (pick a Vince McMahon failed business venture). Sid rattles off a choke slam and informs the audience that he rules the world. Well, I'm pledging allegiance to Uranus, then. The slave owning facsimile chokes Sting with a handkerchief. Yeah, that'll do him in. Parker continues to choke Sting with what suspiciously appears to be a spankerchief (ask your parents, kids!). Sid utilizes the evening's first chair shot. Back in the ring, and Sid is dominated with rest spots.I mean, intolerably painful chin locks. Yes, that's it. Powerslam squelches a minute Stinger comeback. Too much physical exertion, we need a bearhug sequence. Another Moses-damned bearhug sequence! I wish that Xena sound-a-like in the audience was stricken with a sudden onset bout of strep throat. And AIDS. For the nineteenth time tonight, one of those face buster things allots Sting's comeback putsch. Two Stinger Splashes, Col. Parker eats knuckle, Sid kicks out. Pretty funny spot ensues in which Parker "accidentally" holds Sid's leg down, which allots Sting to secure the pinfall. Post bout, Sid walks away dismayed at Parker's actions. Then he shits himself and breaks his leg.

Winner: The Stinger, virginal teenaged wrestling fans

We're in the locker room with Vader and Harley Race. Erstwhile, Cactus Jack is off being moody.

The theme from "2001: A Space Odyssey" trumpets over the arena PA system. Jesse makes some double entendres involving the knee-based skills of Ric Flair's lady friend. Misogyny rules. WCW World Heavyweight champion Rick Rude strolls to the ring to the accompanying tune of the world's most horrid "Little Red Corvette" knock-off. Rick does the spiel about the fans being out of shape and unveils his always awesome airbrushed tights. Buffer, you sumbitch. Hey, Flair actually gets some pyrotechnics (if by pyro, you mean two or three sparklers going off).

Flair takes the early advantage. In just minutes, Flair has the figure four locked in. Indeed, the whoomp, it is in fact there. Rude gets to the ropes. Flair works the leg in the metal post. After some more in ring footwork, Flair takes a spill to the outside. Just to reiterate: The Red Rooster is the ref on the outside. Outside chops for Rude. Flair nails a forearm to the outside. Flair takes another leap and this time Rude punches him right in the abdomen. Back in the ring, Rude is on offense. Rude lands a backbreaker. Rude twists his pumpkin in front of Flair's valet. Chin lock spot. Flair nearly kills a cameraman with his patented turnbuckle spot, and this makes me chortle. About six inches of daylight on a top rope fist from Rude. Flair mounts a comeback. Rude cuts him back down with clotheslines. Both guys look gassed at this point. Rude literally mops the canvas with Flair's face. Flair locks in a chokehold. Neckbreaker and backslide from Flair. No dice. Flair goes up top. I wonder how this'll turn out. Rude gets him in the teeth with the toes. Flair sells, of all things, a nose injury. Huh. Ref bump! I never would've guessed? Taylor goes down, Rude breaks out the knux. Flair counters a brassy punch and lands a back body supplex. Flair acquires the knux from a cameraman, plasters Rude, and gets a three count from Taylor. Nick Patrick, on the other hand, disqualifies Flair for usage of the punching aide. This facilitates the night's first "bullshit" chant. Yeah, as if ordering two referees for a bout "just 'cause" wasn't a precursor to bullshittery. Flair takes the belt, so Rude takes Flair's woman. Well, sounds like a fair trade. Flair, irked, clubbers Rude with the belt and slaps on the F4 on the ramp. That'll teach him to ponder rape! Winner: Rick Rude, fans of shenaniganry

Let's go over the rules for a Texas Death Match real quick, shall we? Shit, that's pretty complicated. Check this out:

Rule #2: Falls don't count. Rule #3: There are 0:30 rest periods between falls.

Uh, guys.

Anyhoo, this is just an excuse for good old-fashioned Pre-ECW violence, so I'm all for it. Vader and Harley Race strolls down the aisle first. Cactus Jack enters to some Alice Cooper sounding shit. Awesome. And these two guys waste no time in the kicking of ass department, as we have rampway scuffling instantaneously. Vader ditches the headgear early. Very good outside brawling to start the bout off. Cactus clocks Vader with a disposable camera. That's what I call a Kodak.ah, hell, not even I'm lame enough to go there. Leon White eats chair, as opposed to his current diet of "everything". What is this in-ring bullshit? I demand my wrestling garbage-y! Who'd thought there would be stiff shots in a Vader match? By the way, this is a non-title bout. Y'know, you have to respect that NWA lineage, and can't have it changing hands on bouts that involve junk spots.but you can give it to Buddha-damned David Arquette. I.I.give up. Cactus punches Vader up the rampway. Cactus beats the hell out of Harley Race, just as everyone that viewed that Wrestling's Secrets Exposed TV special would. Cactus gives Vader another chair shot for good measure. Time for some set piece brawling. The two begin brawling in a giant faux grave that spews forth dry ice, which means, we, as viewers, can see the following:

a.) shit.

Cactus heads back to the ring, awaiting Vader's return. There's a screen grab moment as Vader arises from his own grave. Can't wait to use that one when Leon finally croaks / implodes under his own fatness. Two count after a clothesline from Cactus. No, wait it was a three count. And Vader has 30 seconds to answer the fall. That's a lot of damn time. Now, Vader has ten additional seconds to stand or else the bout's over. Yeah, that isn't convoluted or anything. Meta: Cactus clobbers Vader with a paper mache cactus. Patented Cactus elbow, and Jack scores the second pinfall. Now all we have to do is wait another forty seconds and.

Vader lives. Take that, Jedi cornholes! Now it's time for Vader to dish out some spuds. Jack throws a table into the ring. Vader clobbers Cactus in the corner. There's a diametrically placed table at the adjacent spectrum. Deductive reasoning implies that.

AND THE TABLE DOESN'T BREAK! Vader rebounds from the table like a 300 plus pound basketball. Smelling the unsealing of the Plan B packet, Cactus goes for a quick roll up. Just a two. Cactus just smacks Vader in the jaw with the table instead. Sunset flip, Cactus avoids getting squashed by the Ass Star. Cactus attempts a roll into the audience and misses by about four states. Vader dumps Cactus back into the playing field. Vader then proceeds to STAB Cactus with a chair. Trust me, that's the best way to express the verb Vader perpetrates to Cactus' Modula oblongata. Harley Race has a stun gun! Tony Schiavone is too stupid to figure out that a black rectangle that shoots blue sparks is a weapon of some kind. No wonder WCW got bought out. they could probably pay the roster in Fun Money and nobody would've known the difference. Hell, I thought Heathcliff was one of our Presidents! Sheesh. VADERSAULT! And all these years later, it's still impressive. Cue the 40 second wait.

Cactus responds. Vader responds by grilling more fist burgers on Jack's jaw line. Cactus gets thrown back onto the ramp way. Vader gives Cactus a piggyback ride.to PAIN! Vader slams Cactus onto the rampway in what is undoubtedly one of the sickest looking moments in WCW history. Cactus gets nailed by a guaranteed home run chair shot. DDT on the chair. Out come the paramedics. Vader runs them off. Vader picks up another pin. And 40 seconds later.

Cactus is up, and he gives Vader a Chair-DDT of his own. But then, Race zaps Cactus on the leg, meaning that he doesn't make the annexed ten count.so.by default.

Winner: Vader, electricity enthusiasts

Post bout, a bloodied Vader leaves uncharacteristically quiet as Cactus no sells the injury, takes down Harley, strolls to the ring and.

.the credits roll? Eh, guess you can't have a horror movie facsimile sans a shitty ending.

All in all, a pretty good little show. Sure, it may not have had enough offbeat shenanigans for a Halloween-tinged gala, and a few of the bouts dragged here and there, but you really can't complain about a PPV that begins with Tony Schiavone transforming into a lizard monster and ends with Vader and Mick Foley beating the holy hell out of one another.

Regardless, I wish you and yours a happy Halloween, and if you're still pondering what costume to adorn this season, have you thought about possibly masquerading as The Joker? I'm sure nobody's thought of that yet.

Good luck with any and all future endeavors,

(XxjswxX)

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TWF FLASHBACK

November 2006

SATIRE: DISCONTINUED WWE XMAS PRODUCTS!

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.).