(Opening Credits)

Shawn Michaels: I’m a face. A face, people! Didn’t they show you guys the montage where I shook Hogan’s hand?! Man. I’ve just got to walk your asses right on through all this, don’t I? Ok, see, here’s the thing. I did the heel thing for a while, but that was all an act! A show! I’m really a good Christian man, who loves Jesus and his family and…uh…puppies and what not. We’re not in Canada anymore, it’s ok to cheer me again! Now, last night, I lost to Hulk Hogan, because honestly, I’m still around to get my heat back and he’s not. Plus, they didn’t think the ol’ Hulkster could go two twenty minute matches in one year. Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to shoot on you there, brother. It’s just that with the right feud, the right opponent, somebody who I don’t have to carry to a decent match, nobody’s going to remember that I lost a match to Hulk Hogan. Nobody’s going to care. The WWE assures me that they’ve got an awesome young prospect all lined up for me to go over, and I for one, can’t wait. Come on out, my man!

It’s…it’s…Why, it’s Iron Chef Wrestling Chris Masters! The dream match we’ve all been waiting for has finally arrived!!

HBK: You’re the…hot new prospect?

Iron Chef Wrestling Chris Masters: You…uh…you suck.

HBK: They said it would be a good feud.

Masters: I was told that I should comment on your age. You are…old?

HBK: They told me they’d get the right opponent!

Masters: Also you’re going bald.

HBK: That I wouldn’t have to carry you to a decent match.

Masters: Wanna trade recipes for Chicken Kiev?

HBK: I’ll never get my heat back now!

Masters: I’m a chef. An iron chef.

HBK: I HATE YOU HULK HOGAN!

Frustrated, Shawn lashes out, brawling with Masters. Masters, who’s never actually had a wrestling match and is unsure what to do, just shrugs and asks why Shawn isn’t actually punching him. Shawn shakes his head and leaves, while Masters chases him to ask if Shawn wants to grill out some time.

Chris Jericho is back in the Bischoffice.

Chris Jericho: I cannot wait to get the hell out of this place.

Eric Bischoff: Me too, man. Being the GM of RAW is really a drag.

Jericho: Yeah, but unlike you, I’m actually going to get to leave.

Bischoff: What you say?

Jericho: Yeah. See, you’ve got it set up so that the loser of Jericho/Cena tonight gets fired, right?

Bischoff: Yeah.

Jericho: I’m taking the jobber train right out of this hell hole and off to VH1 mediocrity!

Bischoff: No! That’s not fair! What if I make it a GM gets fired match too! Oh, take me with you Mr. Jericho. Please? Take me with you.

Jericho: Fat chance. I’ve always hated you anyway.

Bischoff: Yeah? Well I killed Ralphus.

Jericho: Damn. That’s a little harsh.

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Shelton was once in “Team Angle,” and there wasn’t no stopping him then, and there ain’t no stopping him…NAH! Actually, that’s pretty much a lie, since both he and Charlie Haas were boring as hell, but at least they were in the tag division so you didn’t notice. Now the true colors are shining through. Angle takes Shelton down, but Shelton counters. Indy Appreciation clap. It’s going to be one of those kind of matches. More rolling around. Resthold. Angle bails. You know what? Let’s take a break from all this hot “action” for a sec.

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Whew. I’m replenished. More rolling commences. Sigh. Hey, wait! They’re brawling. Suplex. Spine buster! All right! Finally some wrestling in this wrestling match. Shelton hits the spinning heel kick. You’d think a guy like Angle would have had that scouted seeing as how Shelton does that in every match. While in the middle of a late match rest hold, Shelton is about to excitedly tell his former mentor about the time he beat Triple H, but Angle rolls him into the anklelock for the win. Kurt doesn’t need anybody telling him about the time they beat Hunter. Angle throws a huge celebration in honor of the win. Dude, Shelton just lost to Chris Masters a few weeks ago. This isn’t really anything to celebrate.

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Gay Gobbledygooker assesses the last match….

Gay Gobbledygooker: Shelton, you and three hundred internet jerk offs must be sitting around asking yourself, “Why isn’t Shelton Benjamin in the main event?” That’s a good question. It’s because your ass is boring. And I don’t just mean that your ass is boring, though take it from this gay chicken, it is. I mean that all of you, what makes Shelton Benjamin Shelton Benjamin, that’s boring. Think about it. When was the last time you cut a promo that didn’t sound like something Dominic Misterio-Guerrero could do in his sleep? And be better at? I mean, there may not be any stopping you…NAH in terms of in-ring spot blowing, but you’ve really gotta take stock of your situation here. Look at me. I used to be Chavo Guerrero. Sure I had wrestling pedigree and a decent job being the anchor of the Cruiserweight division, but where did that get me? Nowhere. Now look at me. I’m a giant turkey with a pastel sweater tied around my neck. I mean, that’s amazing, right? I mean, as gimmicks go it’s pretty lame, but nobody can disrespect me. Giant gay chicken? What are you going to say to that? It’s not like you can come up with a better insult than that. Also, I’m fun, and I’m cooler than 80% of the roster. Who else can claim to have giant wings and a number one dance hit with Mean Gene Oakerlund? Certainly not Kurt Angle. Can John Cena claim to have been hatched from an egg? I think not. And even the mighty Triple H doesn’t have golfballs for eyes. Sure I may not have won a match yet, but I haven’t lost one either, have I? I’m special. I’m different. I’m crazy go nuts! You’re just…boring. Sorry, dude. Cheer up though. You’ll find a personality some day. Until then, remember my catchphrase: Gobble Gobble Gobble!

Maria Tennyson Lund is trying to put on her shoes, but it’s not going very well. Toes first, Maria. Toe…er…yeah. Never mind. I’m sure you’ll get it one of these times. Abe Orton pops into view.

Maria Tennyson Lund: Maria Tennyson Lund here, and I’m with Abe Orton. Abe, what are you doing here?

Abe Orton: You’re not pregnant are you?

Maria: No, silly.

Abe: Damn. I haven’t killed any babies all year! All year, Maria! Killing babies is like my crack. It’s my anti-drug. If I don’t kill any babies soon, I’m afraid I might snap!

Maria: Sorry, I haven’t seen any babies all day. Maybe you should ask to get traded to Smackdown. They could put you in touch with Dawn Marie or maybe Eddie will make some babies for you to kill.

Abe: When did you get so smart? Maybe I’ll just lick your jaw, huh?

Big Show: Jaw licking, huh? That’s hot. Me? I’m into knuckles. I’ve got a hardcore knuckle fetish.

Abe: Aw…that’s sick.

Big Show: Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, jaw sucker.

Abe: So…got any babies?

Matt Hardy is lost. Man, they should just get these guys security to point them in the direction of the ring. Worked for Goldberg.

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Edge and Lita come out and play grab ass on the announce table for a while. King passes out. Nobody will ever play grab ass on the announce table with me, and I’m pretty sure it’s because I don’t have a briefcase. Matt Hardy, through sweat and dripping blood, is determined not to be stopped by this leather clad Heat wrestler. Of course, two minutes later after a hilarious elbow drop, Matt is trying to pick up the shattered remains of his career. Well, I’m sure coming back to the WWE sounded good at the time, eh? Then, to make sure he’s as much the next Shawn Michaels to Matt’s Bret Hart as possible, Edge kicks Matt’s head into the stairs. The Scar Will Be A Symbol…of jobbing to Rob Conway. Somewhere, a Big Pimpin’ Alex weeps. Needs more Kane.

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Carlito is in the ring, and his guest tonight is none other than…Ric Flair? Where’s Hunter? Flair looks like he ate him maybe.

Carlito: Welcome to the Cabana.

Ric Flair: Are you Carlos Colon’s son?

Carlito: Yeah. You used to hang out at our hou….

Flair: I used to take his old lady for a RIDE ON SPACE MOUNTAIN, FAT BOY! WOO!

Carlito: M…mom?

Flair: In fact, let me have a good look at ya, kid. You look a little like a young Nature Boy! Woo! Stylin’ and PROFILIN’! WOO!

Carlito: You can’t possibly be suggesting….

Flair: Carlito, I’m out here tonight to reveal the truth about your father.

Carlito: It can’t be….

Flair: Woo! Carlito By God Carribean Cool! The Nature Boy, Ric Flair is your father.

Carlito: No! I mean, Carlos Colon…das my father!

Flair: You’re like the son I never had. It’s up to you to carry on the Flair legacy, kid.

Carlito: What about Rei….

Flair: Those pansies aren’t my sons. My daughter is more of a son to me than them. But you, boy, you have spunk! That’s why it’s going to be Ric WOO Flair v. Carlos Colon for custody of Carlito in a WOO Ladder Match at Funforgiven!

Carlito: You’re nuts.

Flair: WOO!

Carlito runs backstage while Flair struts and knee drops an apple. Honestly, I can see the family resemblance.

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I guess that Show didn’t have any babies, which pretty much necessitates this match. Abe comes out strong, throwing all the strong kicks and punches you’ve come to expect from an Abe Orton match. After allowing him just the right amount of offense, Show rips his arms off and starts clubbing him around with them. Distraught over the loss of his jaw caressing tools, Abe bails and runs to the back. Oh, come on, man. This is wrestling. You’ll get them back next week. Show wins by countout. To celebrate, he opens his mouth really wide. Oh, Show. I bet you’re happy to be on RAW, huh?

Backstage, Eric Bischoff looks for John Cena. He approaches a cloaked figure.

Eric Bischoff: Cena, you’re going to pay!

Cloaked Figure: What’re ya buyin’?

Eric Bischoff: The Merchant from Resident Evil 4?! Have you seen John Cena?

Cloaked Figure: Welcome.

Bischoff: Never mind.

Cloaked Figure: Come back any time.

Bischoff: You! Cena! You’re going to pay!

Cloaked Figure #2: John Cena? I think you have it wrong, my son.

Bischoff: Friar Ferguson?

Friar Ferguson: I’m here to get a Legend’s Contract and a Friar Ferguson DVD.

Bischoff: Have you seen John Cena?

Friar Ferguson: Alas, I have not. Go in peace, my son.

Eric Bischoff: Cena? I know you’re him! And you’re going to pay!

Little Red Riding Hood: Oh, my! What a big jacket you have!

Eric Bischoff: All right. I’m done caring about this. Later.

Little Red Riding Hood: Asshole’s gone, Cena. You can come out.

John Cena: Thanks for the lookout, Red.

Little Red Riding Hood: Well, Real recognizes Real, John.

Cena: Word. I hear that.

Cloaked Figure: Welcome.

Cena: You got any rocket launchers with spinners on them in that cloak of yours?

Cloaked Figure: Have a look at my selection.

Cena: THE CHAMP IS HERE!

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Two Rednecks are at a bar. This is a segment?

Lance Cade: Shoot, son. I shore am glad there taint no other Lances in the WWE no more!

Trevor Murdoch: You shore are Purdy, Lance.

Cade: Focus!

Murdoch: How am I supposedta focus when yer so gosh darn purdy!

Cade: I miss Jindrak.

Murdoch: YEEEEEHAAAAW!

Cade: Maybe I can go work Ring of Honor after we get fired.

Torrie Wilson and Boobsie McTitsalot are walking down to the ring. Woah. This isn’t a Smackdown Rebound. What the hell are they doing out here?

Torrie Wilson: Hi! We’re here to announce a huge trade.

Boobsie McTitsalot: Yes. I have boobs.

Torrie: What I think Boobsie is trying to say, is that we’ve been traded to RAW in exchange for Stacy Keibler and Christy Hemme, because they’re more likely to put up with Randy Orton than either of us.

Boobsie: Also, I have boobs.

Torrie: Err…right.

Boobsie: I really want to ride Batista’s pony.

Torrie: We’re not on the same show as Dave anymore.

Boobsie: BOOBS! Can you believe it?

Torrie: Speaking of boobs, here’s DIVA SEARCH 2005 WINNER Ashley Massaro!

Ashley bounces out.

Ashley Massaro: This is really great, guys. It’s nice to see some fresh faces on RAW. I can’t wait to wrestle you.

Torrie: Who said anything about wrestling?

Boobsie: Yeah, who said anything about boobs? Oh wait! Me! BOOBS!

Torrie and Boobsie knock Ashley down and then kick her for no good reason. Sigh. I’m going to miss you, Stacy. Really. Don’t know what you’re going to do without Hurricane and Rosey, but…whatever. Poor Christy. Now you’ll never learn how to wrestle.

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Backstage, Todd Grisham is standing by with Chris Jericho.

Todd Grisham: Todd Grisham here, and I’m standing by with Chris Jericho, and Chris, I’ve gotta ask you….

Chris Jericho: I’m losing. Ok, Toddster? And I’m all right with that. You should be too. Now I’ll have more time to spend polishing my one liners about “Kill Reality” for “Best Week Ever.” And I’ll have more time to tease my hair. And write crappy songs. I’m in a better place, Todd.

Grisham: Take me with you!

Jericho: Huh?

Grisham: Take me with you. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll be your roadie, your fluffer, your pooper scooper, whatever you want. Just take me away from this hell hole!

Jericho: I like your spirit. I’ll tell you what. Grab that amp and go put it on the bus. Tomorrow, Todd, we ride.

Grisham: Yes, sir!

Todd runs over and grabs the amp. Unfortunately, in his haste, he forgets to unplug it, and electrocutes himself. Then the amp falls on him. Todd Grisham has fallen. Jericho shrugs and walks off. Elsewhere, Eric Bischoff is lost. Forget what I said about security helping earlier, because he’s even got his team of Indy Enforcers with him.

Eric Bischoff: …aaaaand we’re back at the Taco Stand. I thought you said you knew where you were going!

Indy Enforcer: Well…I mean…how hard can it be to find the entrance ramp?

Bischoff: Even you people are utterly useless. Haven’t you been in this arena a million times?

Indy Enforcer: Hey, if this were a high school or an armory, I’ll get you to the ring no problem.

Bischoff: Wait…did I hear right? Did I seriously just trade Stacy and Christy for Boobsie and Torrie?

Indy Enforcer #2: Yep.

Bischoff: Aw Dammit! And I just got rid of Boobsie too. I friggin’ HATE that girl. I should really lay off the booze. Even drunk I should know better than to drunk dial Teddy Long. God. You know what guys? I don’t even feel like going to the ring anymore. Let’s just stop at the Taco stand and have a good cry.

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I guess Eric had a change of heart. Or maybe they were out of tacos. Jericho immediately runs up the pole to try to get the pink slip, but Cena pulls him down. They brawl for a little while as Jericho longingly looks up the pole. The Indy Enforcers look happy to be there. This is probably the most exposure they’ll ever get. Well, at least until somebody else needs a lawyer chokeslammed. I wonder what Hassan is doing right now. Probably eating some chicken noodle soup. Bischoff punches Cena in the balls. It’s just been one of those kind of nights.

(ads)

I need to friggin’ get some Google ads on my blog. Huh? Oh. The match. Right. Jericho continues to scale the pink slip pole, but Cena pulls him down, knowing that if Jericho were to go away, he’d lose his only opponent. Jericho gets the brass knux from Bischoff though, and decks Cena with them. He climbs the turnbuckles and he’s got the pink slip. As he’s celebrating, Bischoff reminds him that, as per the rules, this means that he’s won and that Cena has been fired. Jericho crawls to Bischoff on his hands and knees begging to be fired so that he can get out of this goddamn company and go do something productive with his life for once. While Bischoff’s misery loves company, he finally relents. Chris Jericho? You’re FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRED!

Cena has just crawled back to his feet, when he is immediately attacked by Kurt Angle. Ah, clever Eric had a plan! He was going to fire Jericho the whole time! Angle beats on Cena while Eric declares that Kurt is not only an Olympic Gold Medalist and Eugene Champion, he’s also the number one contender! Angle grabs the title to celebrate.

Angle: What the hell is this thing? I’m not wrestling for this!

Next Week: Chapter Two in Ric Flair’s bedtime story! Chris Jericho calls in from L.A. where the 1,021 naked models in his bed would like to know how everybody back in the WWE is doing. Plus, Kurt Angle bedazzles his gold medals to prove that he’s down with what’s hip these days. Fo sho!

Excerpt From the Casefiles of Dean Malenko
Chapter Two

The rain was coming down in the city like sheets, threatening to wash the filth off the streets. Standing there in my fedora and trench coat, I felt like Noah, saving the animals of this town two by two, letting the rest rot and die under the crushing heel of McMahon, drugs, whatever else was eating away at these simpletons. I had a job to do, to find the killer of Jeff Hardy, and it wasn’t going to be easy. A lot of people were gunning for the poor kid. He had a target on him the size of Iowa. He was a cult leader, a wrestling promoter, a poet, a wrestler, a daredevil, but more important, he was a miserable failure at everything. He blew more spots than a porn star strung out on heroine and Cheez Wiz, doing tricks on the side so she could make enough pocket change to pay off the people aching to break her knee caps. Of course, this made me think of Lita. My darling Lita. Not a day passes that I don’t pine for her embrace. To shove my face between her mountainous breasts, heaving and falling like two giant, fake waves in a hideous ocean squall, and know that everything would be all right. Everything wasn’t all right though. I needed information. I wasn’t short on informants, but I was short on time. It wouldn’t be too soon and the trail would run cold, and I’d be out on the streets trying to peddle autographs for $25 outside schools to special kids wearing seven year old Goldberg T-Shirts like Glacier. Do you remember Dean Malenko, kids?

I saw my first targets huddled under a cardboard box in an alleyway. They were an oddly matched pair. He was a hulking behemoth. Or at least he would be if he wasn’t 4’2”. She was rail thin. Pretty, but not pretty enough to launch 1,000 holds. She was also crying. I’d have to handle this delicately.

“I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am”

“What loss?” She whimpered.

“Jeff Hardy. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Jeff died! That’s right! I forgot! WAAAAAAAH!”

Talking to her was like trying to talk up a girl passed out on the floor at a party. It was good practice, but it ultimately wasn’t going to net you any results. I turned to the minihulk and fixed him with a stony gaze. To his credit, he didn’t budge.

“Rhino, right?”

“You’re damned friggin’ right it’s friggin’ Rhino! You better tell me what you’re doing here or I’m going to gore your ass right through the street!”

“My name is Dean Malenko, and I’m here investigating the death of your boss, Jeff Hardy.”

“WAAAH!”

“Don’t mind her. She’s always friggin’ like this! Shut up! Shut up before I GORE YOU!”

“WAAAAH!”

“No need for that, Mr. Rhino. Just tell me what happened.”

“I dunno man, I was waiting for Jeff Jarrett to pick me up for TNA practice, and it was like, the friggin’ heavens split open and Jeff was killed by Satan himself! Whoever did it is gonna friggin’ pay, you hear me! I’m going to GORE THEIR ASS TO HELL! Then I’m gonna gore Satan for taking my Jeffy away!”

“So you were close to Jeff?”

“I woulda died for him! Friggin’ died! I was Jeff Hardy’s loyal soldier!”

“But you left OMEGA to go to TNA.”

“You don’t understand! Nobody understands! I wanted to bring the word of Imagi to a wider audience!”

“And you started with TNA?!”

Rhino shot up and gored me like I was a potted plant in a lonely Los Angeles hotel lobby. I felt my ribs shatter and break, and something that I think was my spleen float into my throat. The rain was quick to wash away the blood, by the pain continued to throb in me like a drum at a Stomp concert.

“Two things you don’t do…you don’t friggin’ do in front of Rhino. You don’t diss Jeff Hardy and you don’t diss TNA! You hear me? You don’t friggin’ diss TNA!”

“Oh, you hurt that man! WAAAAAH!” I barely heard over Rhyno’s shouting.

I stood, grimacing as I brushed myself off. Trying not to sell this crushing blow. I’d have to be as unfeeling as Undertaker if I was going to get any respect in this town.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Rhino. Ms….uh…whatever.”

“He doesn’t even know my name! WAAAAAH!”

“You’ve both been of great help to the investigation.”

“You find that friggin’ killer, Dean. And when you do, you bring him here, so I can gore his ass worse than I’ve ever gored an ass before!”

“I may just do that.”

“Then may Imagi watch over you on your friggin’ journey.”

I rounded a corner and spit up a wad of blood and teeth. I stared at the small pool as it slowly washed away, and wished I’d paid more attention when I took all those Omen Reading seminars. I really only went to those for the chicks, but if I remembered anything, the pool of blood and teeth splayed before me was a dark sign of things to come.

Rhino was certainly violent enough to have committed such a senseless act, but he was too stupid to be anything but muscle, and religious fanatics are certainly more liable to snap, but his love for Hardy seemed genuine. The girl was just a waif, it was no act. Her only talent was crying. I respected her for that. In a world dark such as this, even the sky decides to cry once in a while. Bracing myself against the storm like the last parapet of a crumbling castle, I limped up the alley back towards the street, and to my next destination. Broken ribs or no broken ribs, I was not going to rest until Jeff Hardy’s immortal soul, twisted and wrecked like a car in a trash compacter though it was, was laid to rest, and I could hold my dear Lita in my Texas Cloverleaf once again.

To Be Continued….