Playing by the Rhules
Nov 15, 2022 8:55:29 GMT -5
Marcus Welsh, Thunder Knuckles, and 2 more like this
Post by "Old School" Ollie on Nov 15, 2022 8:55:29 GMT -5
Not everyone has the best childhood. Most who make it in wrestling have some sort of traumatic past, a rich history of oppression that they’ve somehow overcome to beat the odds and come out on top of the world. Or so they’d have you to believe. Truth is, it’s all a front… a calculated marketing ploy to get you, the mark, err… fan, to buy in. And boy do you buy in. Hook, line, and sinker… every time. You can set your watch by it.
How do I know? What makes me such an expert in the world of professional wrestling? It’s in my blood. It’s the only thing I’ve ever known and truly been good at… and believe me when I tell you, I’m really good. My name is Oliver Wendell Rhule and my last name is as synonymous with wrestling in Theodore, Alabama as Lawler is to Memphis.
My grandfather was Wendell Rhule, III… but you know him as “Black Jack” Murphy. He wrestled every name in the business in the 50s and 60s from Lou Thesz to Pat O’Connor to Bruno Sammartino all across the southern United States. He also founded and promoted Southern Pro Wrestling, the hottest professional wrestling organization south of the Mason-Dixon Line. He was a hard man, the type of guy who'd smack you across the face for looking at him funny. It didn’t matter if you were another wrestler, promoter, or even his family… you didn’t mess with “Black Jack” if you knew what was good for you.
All three of his sons followed him into the wrestling business. Wendell IV, Bruce, and my dad… the notorious “Golden” Terry Rhule. My uncles were decent enough in the ring but didn’t have a mind for the business. They wrestled as the tag team “The Murphy Brothers” for years in the territories but they were a couple of charisma vacuums. Imagine Thaddeus Duke but somehow worse. Eventually, they both gave up on the dream but my grandfather “didn’t raise no quitters” as they say. So Bruce became a referee and a habitual sex offender while uncle Wendell… Well, they found him slumped over a hotel bed with a 12 cent hooker by his side and an empty bottle of pills at his feet.
My grandfather would never say it, but he blamed himself for Wendell’s death. In fact, after it happened he rarely spoke to anyone about anything. He turned the territory over to dad in 1974 and died the following year of a massive heart attack. To the locals, he was a hero beloved by thousands. He pioneered the sport in our region and had become as famous as the governor. They mourned his loss for three days. To the family, he was a sad sack that slept around on his wife and beat his kids into submission. My dad never had a good word to say about him.
As for “Golden” Terry… he was a chip off the old block. He was the top draw for 1,000 miles, a fact he made sure of by burying all the other talent along the way. At one point, he held the SPW title for 5 years straight. The story was always the same. Up and coming babyface shows up on the scene and gets a little shine. The fans begin buying in and the kid gets hot. Time for “Golden” Terry to give him the “rub”. Title shots all across the territory, always ending in a schmozz as the plunky baby just can’t seem to beat the grizzled vet. No one was gonna get over on the golden boy, not while he had the book.
You’d think the fans would have gotten tired of the same lame story over and over. But, you’re all too stupid to catch on. You want to believe… you want to buy into the trope that good always triumphs over evil. So you buy shirts, hats, front row commemorative tickets that aren’t worth dick all for the smallest of chances that your fan favorite will win. You think the bad guy is the one staring your boy or girl down from across the ring, but he’s really the guy pulling the strings behind the scenes and laughing all the way to the bank with your money in his pocket. You marks will never learn…
Two young children, a boy and girl, sit alone on a couch in the middle of your TV screen. The boy has blonde hair and is wearing a red and white striped t-shirt. The girl, a brunette, has her hair in pigtails and is wearing a yellow sun dress.
“I’m bored,” the boy says.
“Me too,” she replies. “Let’s play something!”
“Like what?”
The girl pauses as if in deep thought. “We could play with my dollies!”
“Eww… gross! I wanna play MONSTER TRUCKS!”
She crosses her arms and pouts. “Monster trucks are stupid.”
“You’re stupid!”
“Kids! That’s enough!” The woman’s voice coming from behind causes them to immediately sit up straight and quiet down. “Why don’t you play something you both like?”
The boy and girl both look like they are deep in thought for what seems like a few seconds. Then, in an instant, they look at each other as if coming up with an idea simultaneously. Together in unison they declare, “WRESTLING!!!”
The scene immediately cuts to the two of them on the floor with an OCW toy replica wrestling ring between them. The boy is the first to speak, pulling a wrestling action figure out and holding it high in the air.
“I’m Mike Zybala and I’m gonna superkick your face in!” he shouts in a loud, exaggerated voice.
She responds with an action figure of her own. “Well I’m Sahara Duke and I’m better than you.”
“Mom says you’re a whore and a big-titted bimbo,” he replies.
“Boo hoo! I’m telling my Thad!”
The boy puts Zybala away and picks up another figure.
“Who cares,” he says. “I’m Ball Ball and I’m gonna dunk on you!”
She puts Sahara away and picks up another figure of her own.
“No way! I’m Diana Watts and you’re about to get your fish head bashed in!”
The two begin to smash their figures against each other in the ring like kids do to mimic fighting as a voiceover begins.
“Genuine OCW wrestling figures let kids bring the action from the squared circle right into the comfort of their own home. The latest Series X lets kids pretend to be their favorite OCW wrestlers such as Mike Zybala, ‘The White Widow’ Sahara Duke, Ball Ball, and even Diana Watts! What could be better than that?”
“Moonlight Rose!” the girl chimes in, thrusting a masked figure into the air.
“You can’t compare to ‘Old School’ Ollie Rhule!” the boy responds, revealing yet another figure in the set. We hear the voiceover once again as the two continue “fighting”.
“Collect them all to fill out your roster with the latest and greatest OCW superstars.”
The boy takes his “Old School” Ollie figure and pins Moonlight Rose in the ring for a three count.
“‘Old School’ Ollie wins!” he shouts. Suddenly, the real life Ollie Rhule runs into view, bashing himself in the head a few times for literally no reason.
“Ollie, ollie, oxen free! You can’t beat me!” he yells, then takes a full head of steam as he runs straight into the wall, his head lodging in the drywall as the kids just sit there laughing.
“Cut!” A bell rings as the kids get up from the floor. A man walks into the scene wearing sunglasses, clapping. “That was great! I think we got everything we need. It’s a wrap folks!”
The kids scamper off what we now know to be a commercial set to their respective parents and agents while the camera crew begins to dismantle their equipment. The director walks over to Ollie and pats him on the back as he tries to dislodge himself from the wall.
“Great work, pal. Check’s in the mail.”
With that the director walks off, leaving Ollie to fend for himself. After a few seconds of struggling, he finally gets himself free and stumbles backwards, trying to shake the cobwebs loose from his brain. He touches his forehead and sees blood on his fingers. The laceration is small, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. One of the stage hands runs up with a towel. Ollie thanks her and presses it against his forehead to stop the bleeding. His phone vibrates in his pocket, which he awkwardly reaches for while still holding the towel to his forehead. The lock screen simply says the word “Publicist” as he answers.
“Hey Tara,” he begins. He walks over to the couch and sits down, placing the phone on his knee and turning it to speaker mode.
“Oliver! How ya doin’ my man? Hearing great things about that commercial.” He rolls his eyes, his overall expression giving off vibes that he doesn’t believe a word she says.
“It’s pure garbage and you know it. I honestly don’t understand this gimmick at all. I’ve wrestled thousands of matches on the independent circuit as myself. It makes no sense. I could be a cerebral heel, could really stir up some stuff around OCW. I graduated from UAB with honors for crying out loud.” He sighs. The frustration of being saddled with “Old School” Ollie is clearly taking its toll.
“Now, now,” she begins, “It sounds like someone’s got a case of the Mondays.” Another eye roll from Oliver. Really? An Office Space reference?
“It’s Wednesday, Tara.” He wishes he was anywhere but here doing anything else.
“Well, yeah. I know that. But listen, the folks in the office absolutely love the Ollie character. You may have wrestled thousands of matches, but this one entrance at Rumble in the Bronx is gonna be your biggest payday ever, and by A LOT! Pairing you with Steve Black and Jimmy Greene is a great way to get your foot in the door.”
Her peppiness under normal circumstances might have spread by now, but Oliver clearly isn’t having any of it.
“Those guys are idiots. Their combined IQ is probably less than this couch I’m sitting on. You realize they ACTUALLY believe they’re from the 80’s, right? This isn’t a gimmick to them. I tried to have a conversation with them… there’s just nothing there. You gotta get me out of this.”
“Look,” she begins, “you asked me to get you into the big leagues. Well, OCW is the big leagues. You don’t always get to pick and choose who you are in this business, but regardless of the gimmick, it’s up to both of us to get it over. If you ever want a shot at being Oliver Wendell Rhule, you’re gonna have to make ‘Old School’ Ollie shine.”
His silence speaks volumes. He knows she’s right. Regardless of how stupid or ridiculous it is to talk like a southern hick and slam your head into every inanimate object he sees, it’s the gimmick he’s been saddled with. If anyone can get it over, he can.
“Ok. I hear what you’re saying. I don’t like it, but I hear it. So what’s next?”
“You’re gonna love this! I’ve got you a spot on Good Morning America tomorrow morning. It’s the last hour, so not the most ideal spot, but you’re doing a sit down with Michael Strahan on national television.”
Oliver tries to hide his excitement, but quickly realizes Tara can’t see him. He smiles. Finally, his chance to shine in front of the world.
“But one thing,” she continues, “it’s all in character to play up the PPV angle. It ends with Strahan holding a steel chair in the air that you ‘accidentally’ run into and knock yourself out cold. It’s gonna be amazing! Oh, shoot. I’m getting another call. Gotta take it. Talk soon.”
Click. Oliver places his elbows on his knees as he hunches over, holding his head in both hands. Just when he thought he had a chance to show the world who he truly is, the rug was once again pulled out from under him.
The scene cuts to the set of Good Morning America as Michael Strahan and “Old School” Ollie Rhule in full regalia sit on a couch.
“So, Ollie, tell me about this Rumble in the Bronx event happening this month.”
“I’ll tell ya exactly what it is Stray-man”, he begins. “Whatcha got here is a whole buncha men and women all goin’ for the top prize in pro rasslin’... a shot at the OCW World Title. It’s gonna be fast and furious and a whole lotta carnage but in the end there’s only one fella that’s man enough to shoot his shot at the top prize in all of sports.”
Strahan suppresses a smile. “And you…,” he looks down at his card to try to remember his name. “‘Old School’ Ollie Rhule, is it? You’re going to win it all?”
Oliver fights with all of his being to keep from leaping off that couch and proving to Strahan just what a threat he truly is. But he knows any break in character is a first class ticket to the unemployment line. He gathers himself to the best of his ability.
“I’m the man with the plan. I’m the best of the best and none a these yankees have anythin’ on me. I been doin’ this rasslin’ thang longer’n most a ya could even read and whether it’s New York City in some fancy schmancy arena or a bingo hall in Hamilton, Alabama… there’s one thing that will always be true.”
“What’s that?” Strahan asks.
“Ya can’t win if ya don’t play by Ollie’s Rhules.”
Strahan laughs. “Haha, I get it. Rules… Rhules. Nice word play.”
Oliver wants to make some comment about Strahan being hit in the head one too many times on the football field to find anything like that funny. But again, neither the time nor place.
“So, Ollie, what are these rules?”
“Rhule #1, ya gotta know your opponents’ strengths and weaknesses. This one’s hard in a rumble when ya don’t exactly know who those opponents are. But we know Thad Puke’s in it. Alice Knight wants to get on her back for ole Ollie, and there’s a darn good chance half the roster’ll throw their hat in the ring before it’s all said and done. I ain’t too worried about none a them. I seen their stuff and ain’t none of em special. TLS? Maybe 10 years ago. He’s old and beat up and too busy playin’ with his butt buddy the world champ to be concerned with. The Bastards might join, but I ain’t skeered. I ain’t skeered a none a these punks.”
“Interesting.” Strahan looks down at his card for his next question. “Are there any other rules?”
“Just one. Win. Win at all costs and do whatever it takes to make it happen. I’m on my way to being the best rassler this company ever did see, and it starts November 27 at Rumble in the Bronx.”
Strahan stands up and looks into the camera as a stagehand rushes over to hand him a steel chair.
“Well that definitely sounds like a show worth tuning in to, and if something happens and you don’t win, well… we really thank you for being on the show. OCW Rumble in the Bronx airs live on pay per view Sunday, November 27 from right here in New York City, and I’ve got a feeling we’ll see one or two of these bad boys thrown around.”
Strahan holds the chair up in the air for the viewing audience. That’s Ollie’s cue. He sighs, then leaps to his feet.
“Ollie, Ollie, oxen free… you can’t beat me!”
The scene fades as Ollie begins running head first toward the steel chair.
They say “what you see is what you get,” but we all know it’s a load of crap. What you see is what you want to see. At Rumble in the Bronx, every other entrant into the match is going to see a below average IQ idiot with a penchant for smashing his head into any and everything he can. That’s perception, and for most, that’s all they’ll ever know. But reality… the reality is that I am the smartest person in this business. I am ruthless, I’m cunning, and more than anything else in my years in this industry, I know exactly what it takes to get what I want. Friend or foe, I don’t care who you are. I’m Oliver Wendell Rhule… and at Rumble in the Bronx, you’ll all be playing by my rules.
How do I know? What makes me such an expert in the world of professional wrestling? It’s in my blood. It’s the only thing I’ve ever known and truly been good at… and believe me when I tell you, I’m really good. My name is Oliver Wendell Rhule and my last name is as synonymous with wrestling in Theodore, Alabama as Lawler is to Memphis.
My grandfather was Wendell Rhule, III… but you know him as “Black Jack” Murphy. He wrestled every name in the business in the 50s and 60s from Lou Thesz to Pat O’Connor to Bruno Sammartino all across the southern United States. He also founded and promoted Southern Pro Wrestling, the hottest professional wrestling organization south of the Mason-Dixon Line. He was a hard man, the type of guy who'd smack you across the face for looking at him funny. It didn’t matter if you were another wrestler, promoter, or even his family… you didn’t mess with “Black Jack” if you knew what was good for you.
All three of his sons followed him into the wrestling business. Wendell IV, Bruce, and my dad… the notorious “Golden” Terry Rhule. My uncles were decent enough in the ring but didn’t have a mind for the business. They wrestled as the tag team “The Murphy Brothers” for years in the territories but they were a couple of charisma vacuums. Imagine Thaddeus Duke but somehow worse. Eventually, they both gave up on the dream but my grandfather “didn’t raise no quitters” as they say. So Bruce became a referee and a habitual sex offender while uncle Wendell… Well, they found him slumped over a hotel bed with a 12 cent hooker by his side and an empty bottle of pills at his feet.
My grandfather would never say it, but he blamed himself for Wendell’s death. In fact, after it happened he rarely spoke to anyone about anything. He turned the territory over to dad in 1974 and died the following year of a massive heart attack. To the locals, he was a hero beloved by thousands. He pioneered the sport in our region and had become as famous as the governor. They mourned his loss for three days. To the family, he was a sad sack that slept around on his wife and beat his kids into submission. My dad never had a good word to say about him.
As for “Golden” Terry… he was a chip off the old block. He was the top draw for 1,000 miles, a fact he made sure of by burying all the other talent along the way. At one point, he held the SPW title for 5 years straight. The story was always the same. Up and coming babyface shows up on the scene and gets a little shine. The fans begin buying in and the kid gets hot. Time for “Golden” Terry to give him the “rub”. Title shots all across the territory, always ending in a schmozz as the plunky baby just can’t seem to beat the grizzled vet. No one was gonna get over on the golden boy, not while he had the book.
You’d think the fans would have gotten tired of the same lame story over and over. But, you’re all too stupid to catch on. You want to believe… you want to buy into the trope that good always triumphs over evil. So you buy shirts, hats, front row commemorative tickets that aren’t worth dick all for the smallest of chances that your fan favorite will win. You think the bad guy is the one staring your boy or girl down from across the ring, but he’s really the guy pulling the strings behind the scenes and laughing all the way to the bank with your money in his pocket. You marks will never learn…
Two young children, a boy and girl, sit alone on a couch in the middle of your TV screen. The boy has blonde hair and is wearing a red and white striped t-shirt. The girl, a brunette, has her hair in pigtails and is wearing a yellow sun dress.
“I’m bored,” the boy says.
“Me too,” she replies. “Let’s play something!”
“Like what?”
The girl pauses as if in deep thought. “We could play with my dollies!”
“Eww… gross! I wanna play MONSTER TRUCKS!”
She crosses her arms and pouts. “Monster trucks are stupid.”
“You’re stupid!”
“Kids! That’s enough!” The woman’s voice coming from behind causes them to immediately sit up straight and quiet down. “Why don’t you play something you both like?”
The boy and girl both look like they are deep in thought for what seems like a few seconds. Then, in an instant, they look at each other as if coming up with an idea simultaneously. Together in unison they declare, “WRESTLING!!!”
The scene immediately cuts to the two of them on the floor with an OCW toy replica wrestling ring between them. The boy is the first to speak, pulling a wrestling action figure out and holding it high in the air.
“I’m Mike Zybala and I’m gonna superkick your face in!” he shouts in a loud, exaggerated voice.
She responds with an action figure of her own. “Well I’m Sahara Duke and I’m better than you.”
“Mom says you’re a whore and a big-titted bimbo,” he replies.
“Boo hoo! I’m telling my Thad!”
The boy puts Zybala away and picks up another figure.
“Who cares,” he says. “I’m Ball Ball and I’m gonna dunk on you!”
She puts Sahara away and picks up another figure of her own.
“No way! I’m Diana Watts and you’re about to get your fish head bashed in!”
The two begin to smash their figures against each other in the ring like kids do to mimic fighting as a voiceover begins.
“Genuine OCW wrestling figures let kids bring the action from the squared circle right into the comfort of their own home. The latest Series X lets kids pretend to be their favorite OCW wrestlers such as Mike Zybala, ‘The White Widow’ Sahara Duke, Ball Ball, and even Diana Watts! What could be better than that?”
“Moonlight Rose!” the girl chimes in, thrusting a masked figure into the air.
“You can’t compare to ‘Old School’ Ollie Rhule!” the boy responds, revealing yet another figure in the set. We hear the voiceover once again as the two continue “fighting”.
“Collect them all to fill out your roster with the latest and greatest OCW superstars.”
The boy takes his “Old School” Ollie figure and pins Moonlight Rose in the ring for a three count.
“‘Old School’ Ollie wins!” he shouts. Suddenly, the real life Ollie Rhule runs into view, bashing himself in the head a few times for literally no reason.
“Ollie, ollie, oxen free! You can’t beat me!” he yells, then takes a full head of steam as he runs straight into the wall, his head lodging in the drywall as the kids just sit there laughing.
“Cut!” A bell rings as the kids get up from the floor. A man walks into the scene wearing sunglasses, clapping. “That was great! I think we got everything we need. It’s a wrap folks!”
The kids scamper off what we now know to be a commercial set to their respective parents and agents while the camera crew begins to dismantle their equipment. The director walks over to Ollie and pats him on the back as he tries to dislodge himself from the wall.
“Great work, pal. Check’s in the mail.”
With that the director walks off, leaving Ollie to fend for himself. After a few seconds of struggling, he finally gets himself free and stumbles backwards, trying to shake the cobwebs loose from his brain. He touches his forehead and sees blood on his fingers. The laceration is small, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. One of the stage hands runs up with a towel. Ollie thanks her and presses it against his forehead to stop the bleeding. His phone vibrates in his pocket, which he awkwardly reaches for while still holding the towel to his forehead. The lock screen simply says the word “Publicist” as he answers.
“Hey Tara,” he begins. He walks over to the couch and sits down, placing the phone on his knee and turning it to speaker mode.
“Oliver! How ya doin’ my man? Hearing great things about that commercial.” He rolls his eyes, his overall expression giving off vibes that he doesn’t believe a word she says.
“It’s pure garbage and you know it. I honestly don’t understand this gimmick at all. I’ve wrestled thousands of matches on the independent circuit as myself. It makes no sense. I could be a cerebral heel, could really stir up some stuff around OCW. I graduated from UAB with honors for crying out loud.” He sighs. The frustration of being saddled with “Old School” Ollie is clearly taking its toll.
“Now, now,” she begins, “It sounds like someone’s got a case of the Mondays.” Another eye roll from Oliver. Really? An Office Space reference?
“It’s Wednesday, Tara.” He wishes he was anywhere but here doing anything else.
“Well, yeah. I know that. But listen, the folks in the office absolutely love the Ollie character. You may have wrestled thousands of matches, but this one entrance at Rumble in the Bronx is gonna be your biggest payday ever, and by A LOT! Pairing you with Steve Black and Jimmy Greene is a great way to get your foot in the door.”
Her peppiness under normal circumstances might have spread by now, but Oliver clearly isn’t having any of it.
“Those guys are idiots. Their combined IQ is probably less than this couch I’m sitting on. You realize they ACTUALLY believe they’re from the 80’s, right? This isn’t a gimmick to them. I tried to have a conversation with them… there’s just nothing there. You gotta get me out of this.”
“Look,” she begins, “you asked me to get you into the big leagues. Well, OCW is the big leagues. You don’t always get to pick and choose who you are in this business, but regardless of the gimmick, it’s up to both of us to get it over. If you ever want a shot at being Oliver Wendell Rhule, you’re gonna have to make ‘Old School’ Ollie shine.”
His silence speaks volumes. He knows she’s right. Regardless of how stupid or ridiculous it is to talk like a southern hick and slam your head into every inanimate object he sees, it’s the gimmick he’s been saddled with. If anyone can get it over, he can.
“Ok. I hear what you’re saying. I don’t like it, but I hear it. So what’s next?”
“You’re gonna love this! I’ve got you a spot on Good Morning America tomorrow morning. It’s the last hour, so not the most ideal spot, but you’re doing a sit down with Michael Strahan on national television.”
Oliver tries to hide his excitement, but quickly realizes Tara can’t see him. He smiles. Finally, his chance to shine in front of the world.
“But one thing,” she continues, “it’s all in character to play up the PPV angle. It ends with Strahan holding a steel chair in the air that you ‘accidentally’ run into and knock yourself out cold. It’s gonna be amazing! Oh, shoot. I’m getting another call. Gotta take it. Talk soon.”
Click. Oliver places his elbows on his knees as he hunches over, holding his head in both hands. Just when he thought he had a chance to show the world who he truly is, the rug was once again pulled out from under him.
The scene cuts to the set of Good Morning America as Michael Strahan and “Old School” Ollie Rhule in full regalia sit on a couch.
“So, Ollie, tell me about this Rumble in the Bronx event happening this month.”
“I’ll tell ya exactly what it is Stray-man”, he begins. “Whatcha got here is a whole buncha men and women all goin’ for the top prize in pro rasslin’... a shot at the OCW World Title. It’s gonna be fast and furious and a whole lotta carnage but in the end there’s only one fella that’s man enough to shoot his shot at the top prize in all of sports.”
Strahan suppresses a smile. “And you…,” he looks down at his card to try to remember his name. “‘Old School’ Ollie Rhule, is it? You’re going to win it all?”
Oliver fights with all of his being to keep from leaping off that couch and proving to Strahan just what a threat he truly is. But he knows any break in character is a first class ticket to the unemployment line. He gathers himself to the best of his ability.
“I’m the man with the plan. I’m the best of the best and none a these yankees have anythin’ on me. I been doin’ this rasslin’ thang longer’n most a ya could even read and whether it’s New York City in some fancy schmancy arena or a bingo hall in Hamilton, Alabama… there’s one thing that will always be true.”
“What’s that?” Strahan asks.
“Ya can’t win if ya don’t play by Ollie’s Rhules.”
Strahan laughs. “Haha, I get it. Rules… Rhules. Nice word play.”
Oliver wants to make some comment about Strahan being hit in the head one too many times on the football field to find anything like that funny. But again, neither the time nor place.
“So, Ollie, what are these rules?”
“Rhule #1, ya gotta know your opponents’ strengths and weaknesses. This one’s hard in a rumble when ya don’t exactly know who those opponents are. But we know Thad Puke’s in it. Alice Knight wants to get on her back for ole Ollie, and there’s a darn good chance half the roster’ll throw their hat in the ring before it’s all said and done. I ain’t too worried about none a them. I seen their stuff and ain’t none of em special. TLS? Maybe 10 years ago. He’s old and beat up and too busy playin’ with his butt buddy the world champ to be concerned with. The Bastards might join, but I ain’t skeered. I ain’t skeered a none a these punks.”
“Interesting.” Strahan looks down at his card for his next question. “Are there any other rules?”
“Just one. Win. Win at all costs and do whatever it takes to make it happen. I’m on my way to being the best rassler this company ever did see, and it starts November 27 at Rumble in the Bronx.”
Strahan stands up and looks into the camera as a stagehand rushes over to hand him a steel chair.
“Well that definitely sounds like a show worth tuning in to, and if something happens and you don’t win, well… we really thank you for being on the show. OCW Rumble in the Bronx airs live on pay per view Sunday, November 27 from right here in New York City, and I’ve got a feeling we’ll see one or two of these bad boys thrown around.”
Strahan holds the chair up in the air for the viewing audience. That’s Ollie’s cue. He sighs, then leaps to his feet.
“Ollie, Ollie, oxen free… you can’t beat me!”
The scene fades as Ollie begins running head first toward the steel chair.
They say “what you see is what you get,” but we all know it’s a load of crap. What you see is what you want to see. At Rumble in the Bronx, every other entrant into the match is going to see a below average IQ idiot with a penchant for smashing his head into any and everything he can. That’s perception, and for most, that’s all they’ll ever know. But reality… the reality is that I am the smartest person in this business. I am ruthless, I’m cunning, and more than anything else in my years in this industry, I know exactly what it takes to get what I want. Friend or foe, I don’t care who you are. I’m Oliver Wendell Rhule… and at Rumble in the Bronx, you’ll all be playing by my rules.
