4/21/02

Death from above

Boys and girls,

Busy, busy. busy. Just home from a weekend in Martinsburg with my dad (all of you in the know are already cringing, I'm sure). It went about like everything else we do together does, so much so that I put it in a separate entry, "Martinsburg is Hell," that I'll append to this.

What's Bill drinking? A whopping huge gin and tonic, work night be damned.

Man, I'm bleeding tired, just what a person who drives 1000 miles a week to and from work needs to do is drive another 800 on the weekend. Didn't get a lot of sleep either.

Got a new Death Falcon mask Friday before last, it is absolutely the coolest fucking wrestling mask of all time, ever, bar none.

In other wrestling news, of which there's been precious little the past few months, Death Falcon Zero, (c'est moi), one of the dreaded Chinese Death Falcons (The Scourge Of Central Asia), wrestled in Hagerstown, MD., last night, beating the absolutely worst named wrestler of all time, PunkAzz (pronounced punkass) in just 2:22 by submission with the Oxygen Destroyer. I hope to have some photos for next issue, or maybe I'll put them in a separate thing, "Heel Vs. Heel in Hagerstown," not exactly Beast Against Beast In The Omni, but we're not talking Abdullah and Maniac Mark Lewin here, either.

Why did Bill go all the way to Hagerstown for 2:22? Well, I was already gonna be in Martinsburg, and as for the short match duration . . . a brief blow by blow. We were supposed to wrestle a six minute (I doubt I'm bursting any bubbles here, but these things aren't only just fixed, but timed) open match. What that means is since neither one of us was known in Hagerstown (PunkAzz had never wrestled for HoP either) the ending wasn't set. He'd get 3 minutes to do his stuff, the timekeeper would signal the ref, the ref would tell us to switch, then I'd get 3 minutes to do my stuff, then, at the end of 6 minutes, whoever had gotten the biggest heat (biz talk for best response- NOT who they liked best- this was to be the ref's call), the ref would tell us, and that person would take the win.

Punkass was his name, and punkass was his game. Some chunky fucking kid, I told him before the match, my neck is really sore, lay off of it. Sure, he says. So first thing, we lock up, he does a go-behind- he's standing behind me now, arms around my waist, I'm waiting for some type of take down- he reaches over my shoulder, grabs my chin, and jerks it back to Linda Blair city. So much for professional courtesy.

I dropped like I'd been shot. Holy jeez, did that hurt. When Orion quit flashing in front of my eyes, I see him standing there, smirking. So much for the fucking script, says I.

He came over to pull me up (again by the neck- what a fucking jerk), and I crotched him, nice and real. I stood up, he's doubled over, and the devil whispered in my angry, angry ear. I shoved his head between my legs and pulled him up into a piledriver. Not just any piledriver- a cradle piledriver. Now, piledrivers are a move I never want any part of, giving or receiving, because they are genuinely very fucking dangerous. Consequently, I've never practiced them, really don't know how to do one, not safely, which I made sure I told the son of a bitch once I had him up. Then, before I could have second thoughts, I spiked his stinking ass.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your outlook) I didn't break his fucking neck, but I did get my point across. I put the Oxygen Destroyer on him right then, and he quit in about 2 seconds. I kept in on him another 30 seconds anyway, and not the fake one, either, the choke your ass blue one. I don't know if he was faking or not, but they had to help his ass out of the ring.

John, the promoter, followed me back to the locker room, scowling, and I figured I was in for some shit (which really didn't thrill me, he's also a wrestler, about 6' 3" and built like a brick), but he couldn't have been cooler.

"I heard what you told him, and I saw what he did, I've got no problem with how you handled it. I'll never use him again, I got no use for that kind of shit. You're welcome back anytime. In fact, are you busy next Saturday?" "Actually, yeah, but thanks for asking."

So that's how I ended up wrestling for only 2:22. I spent more time pre-match telling the crowd to kiss my slanted crack Chinese ass.

I went for a massage this morning, my cousin Joyce belongs to a health club there in Martinsburg, she'd already set it up for me, the masseuse worked on my neck for a long time, it's not really feeling any worse right now than it has the past couple weeks, but it's popping and grinding like nobody's business.

In other news, played the hell out of the Danelectro last week, I mean I was on it every night, spinning out all these wonderful other- worldly sounding lines . . . then I made my fatal mistake. I tuned the damn thing. Now it sounds like all those other 12 strings, dammit. It still has kind of a zing, but tuning it really destroyed all that modal shit I was getting out of it.

Stopped by last week at Loretta's mom's to pick up Rachel, had a real nice visit, left with an armful of fresh produce. Stopped by tonight to pick up Sarah, again, had a real nice visit, Mrs. Hurley insisted I eat dinner, not being a fool, I did, and left with a half a cake. Don't have much use for her, but I really miss her family.

Ron, your last e-mail got through, thanks for the confirmation that's your not a total idiot, there was some question . . .

I'm done. More (oh, so much more) shit I wanted to share, but it's late, I'm quasi-ginned, my neck hurts, I am tired, tired, tired, and Beckley's coming like a jail on wheels.

Chinese Death Falcons Rule, I SAID CHINESE DEATH FALCONS RULE.

bILL