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Submitted by Randomguy#5 on Saturday, November 17, 2007 at 10:36 AM EST
Hello world and welcome to the now award winning column, BRING THA NOIZE!!!. My name isn’t Anthrax, but that’s what everyone calls me, so feel free to do so as well. I’ll be the one taking you on this little journey. So, without further ado, let’s go to work. Tha Noize So Booker T is officially a TNA wrestler now… That means fans won’t have to try so hard to ignore him now… Ric Flair says that Vince knows that he can steal the show at any time. If that were the case, Ric would be wrestling tired main events with Batista by now… Apparently JBL and John Morrison don’t get along… Surprising, I know… Jericho will be on the cover of WWE magazine sometime in the near future. Way to keep a secret, guys… Where has Tommy Dreamer been? I was digging the whole do-rag look he was sporting… Chris Masters has officially been fired. Now, a lot of people saw this coming, and were even happy that it finally did. I however, really enjoyed watching a hair lipped baboon try to get through a match… It seems as though some people are concerned with the fact that Carlito has been jobbing lately… What else is new?... Am I the only one who thinks it’s funny that CNN, the big reputable news source, issued a public apology to a meat head like John Cena?... Dean Malenko Dean Malenko Dean M… Caught in a Mosh Listen: Terry Brunk has just come unstuck in time. No longer confined to the parameters of mere mortals, Terry is able to shift aimlessly throughout the fourth dimension on a whim, like an ocean breeze that carries itself to the main land. One moment, he is a decrepit old fart, lying alone in his bed, gasping for his final breaths. So it goes. The next moment he is a spry young man, his health and disposition in tact. He has seen his own death and birth more times than one could possibly count. His newfound ability allows him to travel to any point in his life without a moments notice. Time yields for Terry Brunk. Perhaps I should say time yields around Terry, for he has no control over his gift. If he dies, he merely wakes up in another time, fully healthy and ready to do it all again. Nothing changes. He exists throughout time, yet doesn’t exist at all. All Terry has is the constant and sickening feeling of stage fright, never knowing what part of his life he will have to perform in next. Mr. Brunk first came to be the first known human to see in all four dimensions in the most auspicious of times. Terry was a performer, and a relatively good one at that. Wrestling has never garnered much respect from the general public, but if ever there was an artist among carnies, it was Terry. Although he was still relatively young and inexperienced, Terry had already risen to semi cult phenomenon. His matches would be spoken of as if they were just myths. Soon, those matches would become a form of folklore. So it would prove to be a case of severe bad timing when Terry became aware of his new gift. During an especially brutal match with Atsushi Onita in Japan in 1993, Terry lay motionless on the canvas. Blood was flowing from the top of his cranium, down his face, and onto his already beaten torso. The Japanese fans, generally known for their coyness and quiet demeanor, had developed a case of instant blood lust. They screamed at Terry to stand to his feet, to get up before his opponent. At least that’s what he hoped the crowd was screaming at him. They could very well have been telling him to go fuck his mother in that polite little language of theirs. “O.k., I’m hurt. I need to get up, and take this match home. I need to get to a hospital” Terry thought to himself as his own body took the liberty of drenching itself with its own plasma. He looked over at his opponent, who was also lying on the mat. Atsushi was struggling, wiping the blood from his own face, trying desperately to stand. “I’ve got time, I’ve got time” Terry’s brain said. “Fuck, I don’t think I can get to my feet.” With that last truly philosophical thought out of the way, Terry put his head back into a rested position, using a blood and sweat soaked stained canvas as a pillow. He only closed his eyes for the briefest of moments. But, as he would soon come to know, it only takes the briefest moment to change one’s life. When Terry opened his eyes, he was still in the same position, horizontal, looking upward. That wasn’t what troubled him. What troubled him was the fact that he was acutely aware that the lighting and structure of the building he was in had changed. Quite drastically, seeing as though he recognized the room he was currently occupying to be dimly lit, while the arena he had just previously visited was bright to the point of melting one’s retinas. The stale aroma of alcohol and cigarette smoke of the arena had gone as well, replaced by the much quainter odor of stale blood and sweat. Dust particles had danced their way directly above Terry, and he focused on their rhythmic swaying as he tried to figure out just what in Gods name was happening. As Terry once again lay motionless, a cold, shrill voice came booming. If he had not known better, Terry might have thought it was God himself calling to him. But why in the world would God be shouting at him to get to his feet and take his practice bump again, only this time harder, faster, and stronger? Terry sprang to his knees and looked around quizzically at his environment, and to also find the owner of the voice that was continuing to berate him. His quizzical nature soon turned to one of panic when he came to the realization that he was indeed no longer in a Japanese arena, with hundreds of fans shouting at him. Instead he was in a home, a home he knew. He knew the owner of the voice as well, it was his uncle. Terry wasn’t in Kansas anymore. This was much worse than Kansas. This was Detroit, in his uncle’s home, a quaint little suburban home among other quaint homes that looked exactly like it. In the basement however, lied a quaint little piece of hell on Earth. This basement was not large by any standard, but that didn’t stop Terry’s uncle from building a complete ring in it. Uncle Sheik also didn’t seem to pay any mind to the fact that the basement had no climate control of any kind. Meaning that working out there would mean enduring a sauna during the summer season, and a meat locker in the winter. Dust had found a new home in this basement, and took liberties in settling in to the fresh abode. Any time someone would take a bump on the mat, a miniature mushroom cloud of decades of terrible home hygiene would emanate from it. Terry had sworn up and down that he had even heard the mat make a poof sound once when his friend and training partner Rob took an especially rough back drop, causing a mushroom cloud that would’ve taken out a lot more than Hiroshima, had it been to scale. Dried blood was spotted throughout the canvas, chipping off every so often to contribute to the dust nukes. “How can this be? What’s going on? This is the past! How did I get here!? What’s happening to me?” “Terry, you lazy mule!” Uncle Sheik bellowed, “I told you to get up! Now either you get up, or you take five hundred chops from Sheik!” Thoroughly terrified, Mr. Brunk stormed out of his uncle’s home and into the small suburban street where his mentor resided. It was there that the man who would become known as one of the most insane wrestlers of all time fell to his knees, and promptly vomited. “What’s happening to me?” “Do I still have those mushrooms Robbie gave to me in my system?” “Did I die in that match with Atsushi, and have gone to Hell?” After taking a minute to seek some much needed composure, Terry sullenly rose to his feet, and began his walk back towards his training ground. He had convinced himself that he had indeed died that night in Japan, and was destined to be tortured by his uncle for the rest of eternity. He was wrong of course, but Terry would soon find that out for himself. As he opened the door and stepped into what he thought would be his uncles humble abode, he became unstuck yet again. He was no longer in Detroit. He was no longer being barked at. He was no longer Terry Brunk. He was a homicidal maniac again, or at least that’s what he was supposed to be. Terry looked on horrified when he realized he was not standing on the threshold of a musky suburban home. Instead, the safe, sturdy, ground had been replace by the top rope of a ring, and the musky home had been replaced with a musky little arena, filled with a thousand musky fans. Of course, this alarmed Terry, as it would anybody who found them-selves to be somehow instantly perched ten feet above a concrete floor, while doing a balancing act on a rope that was made out of tire material. So to say that Terry leapt from his perch would be a tad of an understatement. Fell is the more accurate term; and not gracefully either. The man who Terry had figured to be his opponent had long since moved out of the way, and since in Terry’s mind everything seemed to move in slow motion, he had plenty of time to see that the only thing standing between his face and the soft cushion of a beer soaked concrete floor was a pesky steel guardrail. Soon Terry was in a position he knew all too well. It was the same position he had experienced during his visit with his uncle, as well as his time in Japan. Instead this time Terry wasn’t looking up at the lighting fixtures the building featured. In their place was a group of psychopaths, all screaming and scratching and chanting as if they were all a part of some evil cult. The smell of the building was horrible, like something had died. The humidity was bad too. The sweat of the unruly mob would cascade off of their face and land delicately onto Terry’s face in a kind of sick version of Chinese water torture. Terry’s ears were ringing due to the deafening volume of the mob. It was then, while Terry tried not to slip on the spilled pilsner as he gained ground, that his jaw felt like it had been unhinged. “I shouldn’t have broken that fall with my face.” Terry thought to himself and he struggled to his feet, still clutching his jaw. He had no idea what to do. Should he stop the match? Does he need to get to a hospital immediately? Surely he had broken his jaw, wasn’t there anything he could do? As Terry frantically tried to plan his next course of action, a haunting notion came to him. “I have no idea where I am, or what year it is.” Terry was all alone. He was certain that the already rabid crowd in attendance wouldn’t give two shits that he was hurt, and he didn’t know any of the other performers or managers backstage. He was just going to have to suck it up, and pray that he would become unstuck yet again so that he could be free from this place. As Terry made his way back inside the ring, he was stopped by a precocious little man. “Well, he seems to know me.” Terry’s brain said. The little man handed Terry some athletic tape, which Terry began to wrap around his own jaw. As he was doing this, he came to the realization that this funny looking little man had a big voice indeed. “Come on daddy! You got this! Sandman ain’t nothin’ for you!” The little man shouted. As Terry finished applying his home made sling, the strange little man blew his whistle in triumph. Indeed Terry was going to finish the match, despite the fact that his jaw was hanging onto his head by a mere thread. By the end, Terry had not only lost his jaw, but about a quart of blood as well. To this day, or any day you happen to catch him, Terry can’t recall the end of the match. He has lived that part of his life many times, and every time it becomes more and more of a blurred out spot in the big picture. All he can ever recall is the fall that shattered his face. Over and over again, that moment plays in his minds eye. He is unable to escape it, as if the moment itself were some sort of wraith committed to haunting him. Terry is a man who lives life without fear, but that one moment, which would become just one of many seemingly scary moments throughout his career, gave him the creeps. It was then that he vowed that despite the fact he couldn’t control his powers, he would at least be prepared for any and all moments that could transpire. And he would remain vigilant over his own life. He would not be surprised when he walked through the door of the lavatory, and end up in the very arena where he would break his jaw; this time covered in barbed wire and laying on top of some old fart that had no business being in the ring in the first place. He would not be surprised to when he arrived in the WWE, the global wrestling promotion. He was even less surprised when he would leave a stadium after a show for the multi-million dollar conglomerate, and end up in some dingy hole in the wall, performing in front of a hundred people. Terry had finally found some measure of comfort with his existence. He had lived practically every minute moment of his life countless times. He would live them countless more. Sure, he still had a case of perpetual stage fright, but he no longer had to fear the sense of uncertainty of the unknown like most humans did. Every little intricacy had played out before his eyes numerous times, as if it were the only film the small theatre in town had available. There were no surprises left in his life, only the empty sensation of anticipation. Without fear, Terry was able to try things in his profession most never thought of. There was no risk for him, after all. Throughout time, Terry would come to learn and execute moves never seen before, or after for that matter. Terry’s body became his missile, launching it at his hapless foes in any way necessary. Over time his reckless nature would define Terry. He wore the scars that were strewn throughout his anatomy as if they were medals. He would become known as a hardcore legend. Fans would seemingly flock to various low profile regional shows, just for the chance of catching a mere glimpse of him, and perhaps, if they were so lucky, a death defying moment for which he was famous for. It was expected of him, and Terry never disappointed. No matter what moment he would pop into, Terry was ready to put his body on the line for people’s enjoyment. It seemed to be all he lived for. During one particular moment among many, Terry found himself to be quietly leaving a small show he had just participated in. The California night was pleasantly warm, and Terry was happy to have what he thought would be a few peaceful moments of quiet as he meandered slowly to his car. He almost got to it when a young fan emerged from the night. This kid could not have been older than seventeen, and had a bashful demeanor about him. The fan was I, me, the author of this column. Terry smiled politely as I approached him and shook his hand. I was not looking for an autograph to sell online, nor was I looking for a picture of Terry to hang on my wall. All I desired was the answer to a question that has needled at me from the moment I first saw Terry. “Excuse me, Sabu?” I said gingerly. “I just wanted to say that I really respect your work. But I have to ask, why do you put your body through more pain than anyone else in the business”? Terry smiled at the young mans direct nature. He paused for a moment, searching for a way to answer the question honestly. After careful deliberation, Terry looked at the fan right in the eyes and gave him his answer. “I do, therefore I am.” The young man seemed genuinely perplexed. Perhaps it was the fact that he just received an extremely philosophical and deep answer from a man he had just seen bludgeon himself hours earlier. Whatever the reason, I smiled, nodded politely, and said thank you. With that Terry turned and continued on his way, happy to have his peace back. And as Terry proceeded to enter his vehicle and drive off into the endless night, all that could be heard was a single bird’s song: “Poo-tee-weet?” I must admit now that most of what you have just read is a work of my own fantasy, coupled with an unhealthy appreciation of American literature. The truth is, Sabu is far from being my favorite wrestler, but he remains the one I am most fascinated by, even to this day. Ever since I saw him in ECW over seven years ago, I’ve been riveted. Why would a man mutilate himself, just for a wrestling show? To be honest, I don’t have an answer for that question. I’ve seen Sabu do it all. I know how he does it, I can see what it is he’s doing to himself, but I can’t seem to find any kind of answer as to why he does it. That’s why I conceived this piece of work; to give myself some form of peace of mind. In truth, I have a feeling that trying to figure out why Sabu treats his body so recklessly is like trying to uncover the one of this planet’s many mysteries. Maybe Sabu does what he does for the same reason we all even exist. We may never find an answer to that mystery, and we really shouldn’t try to find the answer to that question, either. You see, sometimes when we as inquisitive human beings search for the answer to an unknown, we find ourselves to be unhappy with said answer. It is then that people, things, or events that were once the source for inspiration and admiration become worthless. I’m not insinuating that ignorance is bliss, or perhaps I am. Maybe a certain degree of ignorance is a necessity for human beings to live in happiness. Maybe a man like Sabu is necessary as well. In the world of professional wrestling, where characters and matches and angles all bleed together, it pays to be extreme. When I use that word, I don’t use it in the same way one would describe a match filled with tables and thumbtacks. I use it to describe one’s character, his in ring personality, his very nature. In that sense, I think that extreme is a decent way of describing Sabu, but nothing more. There’s no way to definitely define Sabu as a wrestler, and perhaps as a person. But that’s the way it should be. In the end, Sabu should remain as mysterious as life itself, allowing us only glimpses of pure brilliance and awe. Among The Living: Evan Karagias Here is a guy that crystallizes everything that was wrong with WCW back in its heyday. Evan had loads of talent, and charisma to boot. Yet after he graduated from the WCW Power Plant in 1997, Evan became stuck with the stigma of a jobber. He holds the dubious record of five wins and fourty five losses on WCW television. If that weren’t embarrassing enough, he would also go on to form 3 Count, a trio of cruiserweights with the gimmick of a boy band. Throughout 1999 and into the new millennium, Karagias could be seen dancing like a fool and singing terrible pop diddies with his boy band cohorts Shane Helms and Shannon Moore. Evan did eventually gain some legitimacy by winning the cruiserweight title from Disco inferno. But by that time it was too late. Nothing Karagias could have done would have driven away the notion the fans had of him. He was just a goof ball. After a short stint with the WWE during the invasion angle, Evan disappeared off the map completely. In the end, Evan Karagias is the perfect example of how a gimmick can be just as detrimental to one’s career as it is helpful. Alright, that’ll do it for volume ten of my little column. I’d like to take this time to let everyone know that if you haven’t already, go check out the columns forum this place has. It is home to easily the best and most talented group of wrestling columnists in the world, and they all deserve the recognition. I would also like to thank all those guys over in the CF. If it wasn’t for all of you, I wouldn’t be here writing a column for the main page of a premier wrestling news site. Thank you for all of your help and support. I would also like to take the time to thank two guys in particular. Without them, the column you just read wouldn’t have come to fruition. So thank you to Hawkeye and aisce. You guys really helped me out here and I can’t accurately express how grateful I am for your help. If you want to leave me some feed back, feel free to send me an e-mail at anthrax714@hotmail.com. Take care you knuckleheads, and I will see you next time. Good Night Canada! ***DIRECT LINK*** Go Directly to a RANDOM HOT BABE & DIVAS GALLERY! Check It Out!
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