Post by "Old School" Ollie on Jan 6, 2023 15:36:22 GMT -5
BOOM! That’s what the previous OCW administration thought of me. A top six finish at Rumble in the Bronx in my debut match and I’ve been relegated to a wrestling show with less viewers than a HOW pay per view.
Not that I should be complaining. It wasn’t all that long ago I was waiting tables to supplement the nonexistent income that comes from the independent circuit. As it turns out, being a third generation wrestler in a territory that your dad dicked over time and again doesn’t get you booked many places.
It’s a shame too. I’m really freaking good. As Oliver Wendell Rhule, I’ve gotten heat in every wrestling company that’s given me a chance. I’ve rarely lost, and when I have, it’s been done in a way that makes the guy across the ring look like a million bucks in the process.
I thought OCW would be different. I thought once I made it to the premier organization in the world that I’d be given a fair shake. After all, a big time business like this only cares about two things: money and who’s making it for them. And I can draw. I just need a shot. Give me the ball, and I’ll not just score; I’ll dunk on every single one of these so-called proud and strong rejects.
Instead, I continue to drown in the spectacle that is ‘Old School’ Ollie. The kids love it apparently, and the parents… well they just think it’s funny. But me… I think it’s one of the worst gimmicks ever created, right up there with the Shockmaster and Ray Ray Nelson. Add to that I’ve been paired with two legitimate rubes in Steve Black and Jimmy Greene whose combined IQ is less than their BMIs, and well… It’s simply a travesty of justice and a waste of my talents. But… a paycheck is a paycheck.
This week I won my first match on BOOM. Apparently that was enough to get noticed, or maybe the new administration wanted to see what I’m capable of on a bigger scale in a non-rumble format. Whatever it is, I’m not going to complain. I’m seeing tag team action, and I don’t have to tag with either of the bodacious buffoons. Instead, I’ll be teaming with the lovely and recently debuted Jacki O’Lantern. Our opponents are also new to the OCW scene, the team of Phoenix Lestrange and Desdemona Luciana, also known as HaVeN.
I guess having the right ‘look’, or perhaps the right anatomical body parts, can get you booked right away around here. I mean, besides looking like they belong on a Japanese porn site, what exactly have either Lestrange or Luciana done to deserve to be on the OCW main roster, let alone have their first match be for the tag titles? Have they ever won anything of significance? Did they earn their way to a contract and title opportunity based on merit?
I know the answer. We all do. These two thirst traps aren’t capable of beating anyone. The only opponent either of them has ever licked was Victoria Strader during their ‘audition match’. Them No Good Bastards took those counterfeit cock gobblers and exposed their lack of talent to the world. Now Jacki and I get to take it a step further. I may not know her, but from what I’ve seen, she’s a born winner. This week on Massacre, the two of us will unleash a fury that HaVeN has never experienced. Raggedy Ann and Andy have no idea what’s about to happen to their bodies as I toss them around the ring. Bones will be broken, bodies will be bruised, and when the dust settles, it’ll be Jacki and myself standing tall with a win for the record books. HaVeN’s not just about to get dunked on, they’re going to get posterized.
I am awakened from the promo of my dreams to the sound of someone beating on the door of my flea-ridden motel room. Rubbing my eyes, I attempt to gain my bearings as the pounding persists.
“Just a minute,” I yell out as I remove the comforter and roll my legs off the bed. Wearing only a pair of Calvin Klein boxer shorts, I walk across the room, unlatch the chain lock, and turn the deadbolt. I open the door to find the always expressive and immaculately painted face of Steve Black.
“Son of a–”
“Biscuit! Haha… I heard someone use that phrase the other day and thought it was bangin’ sweet. You know it too?”
As much as I may despise the man, it never ceases to amaze me how he always seems to be in the same mood at all times. It’s like Tawny Kitaen writhing on the hood of a Jaguar runs on loop in his brain 24/7.
“What do you want, Steve?” A normal person might detect a hint of frustration in my voice. Steve Black is no normal person.
“Well, speaking of biscuits, Corey and I were just about to go across the street to the Waffle House for breakfast. You need to come with us, dude.”
“It’s 5:30 in the morning in Tallahassee. There aren’t going to be any chicks.”
Steve smiles like he knows something that I don’t. “Then where do the eggs come from?”
He laughs, no… he belly laughs as if he just told a bigger joke than his career has been. He raises his hand high. “Up top, bro-ski! Right on!”
I know I shouldn’t encourage him, but I reluctantly smack his hand. “Let me grab some pants.”
...
With the family jewels now secured in a pair of camo shorts and my chest covered with a black tank top, I join Steve Black and Corey Feldman in the Waffle House parking lot across the street. Although rat tails and gaudy attire may be common to northern Florida, apparently the bleach blonde hair and face paint still catch the patrons off guard as we enter. The three of us walk to the open corner booth where I sit down across from Steve and Corey and peruse the menu.
“What’s good here?,” Corey asks. Initially shocked that Corey Feldman has never eaten at a Waffle House, I have to remind myself that at some point in history this man was actually a celebrity.
“It’s breakfast food. Greasy, unhealthy breakfast food. It all pretty much tastes the same.” I didn’t mean for my answer to be short. Chalk it up to getting woken up by the painted up simpleton after driving through the night.
“Why the long face, bro-migo?,” Steve chimes in.
I sigh. It’s neither of their faults I’m in the spot I am. Steve didn’t pick me as a partner, and Corey, well, he DID pick Steve as his client. Why that is I’ll never know. Regardless, he’s here to make a dollar just like me.
“Sorry guys. I guess I’m just tired from the drive. And the constant headaches. It can’t be healthy for me to keep ramming my head into objects.”
I’ve had two diagnosed concussions since I’ve been saddled with this gimmick, but I try to keep that information close to the vest.
“You still feeling the effects of ramming your head into that exposed turnbuckle the other day?,” Corey asks. He seems concerned enough, but I have no interest in becoming friends with a ninja turtle.
“I got a concussion once. Corey Haim and I were filming License to Drive and we pretty much got to do whatever we wanted. Can’t tell you how many times we wrecked that car. But this one time in particular, it was actually the first time I got to see Heather Graham’s tits—”
I chime in. “I’m gonna stop you right there. I’m sure this story is great, and seeing Heather Graham’s tits in 1988 was probably a rare occurrence, but it’s 2023 and those things have had more exposure than a Geraldo Rivera primetime special.”
I absolutely hate that most of my references have become about the 80’s since joining Blast From The Past.
“Cool your jets, man!” This might be the most fired up I’ve seen Steve. “What do you have against fun bags? That Heather Graham is a hottie with a body.”
“I know she’s good looking, man. It’s just… I just have this headache. I want to get some greasy food in my system and get back to bed for an hour or two. We’ve got a long drive to Key West ahead of us later.”
“It’s cool man,” Corey says. “Let’s get some grub. Oh, waitress!”
The middle aged white woman with pock marks on her face saunters over in our direction. The frown lines on her face seem consistent with her current expression.
“What can I get ya?,” she asks matter-of-factly without looking up from her notepad. She notices Steve’s face paint and bleach blond hair and seems startled. “What the hell are you supposed to be?”
“Me? What am I supposed to be? I’ll tell ya daddy. I’m the Ace of Spades, richer than all the banks. My name ain’t Tom but I’m still cooler than Selleck, Cruise, and Hanks. I’ve got 5% body fat, unlike your beef. And a win count that’s grown to more than your number of teeth—”
“Steve, that’s enough!” I can’t help but yell at him. I may not respect and love everyone in this world, but no one deserves to be spoken to this way, especially not in a contrived rhyme. “You’re not cutting a promo on this chick.”
The waitress begins crying and the manager rushes to the scene. It doesn’t take long until the three of us are standing back outside in the parking lot, humiliated and hungry. Corey is the first to speak after a few seconds of silence.
“So, what now?”
I’m frustrated. I’m hungry. And quite frankly, I’ve had it with Steve Black.
“Steve, why can’t we just have a normal meal? Why are you in character all of the time?”
Steve sulks a bit, perhaps the first legitimate emotion I’ve ever seen from him. It’s short lived however, as his frown quickly turns upside down as his body language shifts.
“Yo bro, that lady can eat my shorts! We ain’t got time for some gnarly chick trying to ruin all our fun. You got a match this week!”
“So you’ve got nothing to say for yourself? You don’t think you were out of line at all?”
“Hahahaha. Ollie, you’re one tubular dude. I’m proud to have you on my team. Now… let’s go find Jimmy and hit the tanning booths!”
Steve turns before I can even respond, running across the road back to the motel. I look at Corey for something… literally anything resembling a normal thought or response. He just shrugs his shoulders and follows Steve across the road. All I can do is shake my head. Some day I’ll get out of this stupid gimmick and make a name for myself. Until then… wait. Tanning?
“Steve!,” I shout. “Jimmy’s black!”
Key West, Florida may feel like home to most of the people on the OCW roster, but this Monday night, it’ll be no safe HaVeN for Phoenix and Desdemona.
I’m Oliver Wendell Rhule, and soon… you’ll all be playing by my rules.
Not that I should be complaining. It wasn’t all that long ago I was waiting tables to supplement the nonexistent income that comes from the independent circuit. As it turns out, being a third generation wrestler in a territory that your dad dicked over time and again doesn’t get you booked many places.
It’s a shame too. I’m really freaking good. As Oliver Wendell Rhule, I’ve gotten heat in every wrestling company that’s given me a chance. I’ve rarely lost, and when I have, it’s been done in a way that makes the guy across the ring look like a million bucks in the process.
I thought OCW would be different. I thought once I made it to the premier organization in the world that I’d be given a fair shake. After all, a big time business like this only cares about two things: money and who’s making it for them. And I can draw. I just need a shot. Give me the ball, and I’ll not just score; I’ll dunk on every single one of these so-called proud and strong rejects.
Instead, I continue to drown in the spectacle that is ‘Old School’ Ollie. The kids love it apparently, and the parents… well they just think it’s funny. But me… I think it’s one of the worst gimmicks ever created, right up there with the Shockmaster and Ray Ray Nelson. Add to that I’ve been paired with two legitimate rubes in Steve Black and Jimmy Greene whose combined IQ is less than their BMIs, and well… It’s simply a travesty of justice and a waste of my talents. But… a paycheck is a paycheck.
This week I won my first match on BOOM. Apparently that was enough to get noticed, or maybe the new administration wanted to see what I’m capable of on a bigger scale in a non-rumble format. Whatever it is, I’m not going to complain. I’m seeing tag team action, and I don’t have to tag with either of the bodacious buffoons. Instead, I’ll be teaming with the lovely and recently debuted Jacki O’Lantern. Our opponents are also new to the OCW scene, the team of Phoenix Lestrange and Desdemona Luciana, also known as HaVeN.
I guess having the right ‘look’, or perhaps the right anatomical body parts, can get you booked right away around here. I mean, besides looking like they belong on a Japanese porn site, what exactly have either Lestrange or Luciana done to deserve to be on the OCW main roster, let alone have their first match be for the tag titles? Have they ever won anything of significance? Did they earn their way to a contract and title opportunity based on merit?
I know the answer. We all do. These two thirst traps aren’t capable of beating anyone. The only opponent either of them has ever licked was Victoria Strader during their ‘audition match’. Them No Good Bastards took those counterfeit cock gobblers and exposed their lack of talent to the world. Now Jacki and I get to take it a step further. I may not know her, but from what I’ve seen, she’s a born winner. This week on Massacre, the two of us will unleash a fury that HaVeN has never experienced. Raggedy Ann and Andy have no idea what’s about to happen to their bodies as I toss them around the ring. Bones will be broken, bodies will be bruised, and when the dust settles, it’ll be Jacki and myself standing tall with a win for the record books. HaVeN’s not just about to get dunked on, they’re going to get posterized.
I am awakened from the promo of my dreams to the sound of someone beating on the door of my flea-ridden motel room. Rubbing my eyes, I attempt to gain my bearings as the pounding persists.
“Just a minute,” I yell out as I remove the comforter and roll my legs off the bed. Wearing only a pair of Calvin Klein boxer shorts, I walk across the room, unlatch the chain lock, and turn the deadbolt. I open the door to find the always expressive and immaculately painted face of Steve Black.
“Son of a–”
“Biscuit! Haha… I heard someone use that phrase the other day and thought it was bangin’ sweet. You know it too?”
As much as I may despise the man, it never ceases to amaze me how he always seems to be in the same mood at all times. It’s like Tawny Kitaen writhing on the hood of a Jaguar runs on loop in his brain 24/7.
“What do you want, Steve?” A normal person might detect a hint of frustration in my voice. Steve Black is no normal person.
“Well, speaking of biscuits, Corey and I were just about to go across the street to the Waffle House for breakfast. You need to come with us, dude.”
“It’s 5:30 in the morning in Tallahassee. There aren’t going to be any chicks.”
Steve smiles like he knows something that I don’t. “Then where do the eggs come from?”
He laughs, no… he belly laughs as if he just told a bigger joke than his career has been. He raises his hand high. “Up top, bro-ski! Right on!”
I know I shouldn’t encourage him, but I reluctantly smack his hand. “Let me grab some pants.”
...
With the family jewels now secured in a pair of camo shorts and my chest covered with a black tank top, I join Steve Black and Corey Feldman in the Waffle House parking lot across the street. Although rat tails and gaudy attire may be common to northern Florida, apparently the bleach blonde hair and face paint still catch the patrons off guard as we enter. The three of us walk to the open corner booth where I sit down across from Steve and Corey and peruse the menu.
“What’s good here?,” Corey asks. Initially shocked that Corey Feldman has never eaten at a Waffle House, I have to remind myself that at some point in history this man was actually a celebrity.
“It’s breakfast food. Greasy, unhealthy breakfast food. It all pretty much tastes the same.” I didn’t mean for my answer to be short. Chalk it up to getting woken up by the painted up simpleton after driving through the night.
“Why the long face, bro-migo?,” Steve chimes in.
I sigh. It’s neither of their faults I’m in the spot I am. Steve didn’t pick me as a partner, and Corey, well, he DID pick Steve as his client. Why that is I’ll never know. Regardless, he’s here to make a dollar just like me.
“Sorry guys. I guess I’m just tired from the drive. And the constant headaches. It can’t be healthy for me to keep ramming my head into objects.”
I’ve had two diagnosed concussions since I’ve been saddled with this gimmick, but I try to keep that information close to the vest.
“You still feeling the effects of ramming your head into that exposed turnbuckle the other day?,” Corey asks. He seems concerned enough, but I have no interest in becoming friends with a ninja turtle.
“I got a concussion once. Corey Haim and I were filming License to Drive and we pretty much got to do whatever we wanted. Can’t tell you how many times we wrecked that car. But this one time in particular, it was actually the first time I got to see Heather Graham’s tits—”
I chime in. “I’m gonna stop you right there. I’m sure this story is great, and seeing Heather Graham’s tits in 1988 was probably a rare occurrence, but it’s 2023 and those things have had more exposure than a Geraldo Rivera primetime special.”
I absolutely hate that most of my references have become about the 80’s since joining Blast From The Past.
“Cool your jets, man!” This might be the most fired up I’ve seen Steve. “What do you have against fun bags? That Heather Graham is a hottie with a body.”
“I know she’s good looking, man. It’s just… I just have this headache. I want to get some greasy food in my system and get back to bed for an hour or two. We’ve got a long drive to Key West ahead of us later.”
“It’s cool man,” Corey says. “Let’s get some grub. Oh, waitress!”
The middle aged white woman with pock marks on her face saunters over in our direction. The frown lines on her face seem consistent with her current expression.
“What can I get ya?,” she asks matter-of-factly without looking up from her notepad. She notices Steve’s face paint and bleach blond hair and seems startled. “What the hell are you supposed to be?”
“Me? What am I supposed to be? I’ll tell ya daddy. I’m the Ace of Spades, richer than all the banks. My name ain’t Tom but I’m still cooler than Selleck, Cruise, and Hanks. I’ve got 5% body fat, unlike your beef. And a win count that’s grown to more than your number of teeth—”
“Steve, that’s enough!” I can’t help but yell at him. I may not respect and love everyone in this world, but no one deserves to be spoken to this way, especially not in a contrived rhyme. “You’re not cutting a promo on this chick.”
The waitress begins crying and the manager rushes to the scene. It doesn’t take long until the three of us are standing back outside in the parking lot, humiliated and hungry. Corey is the first to speak after a few seconds of silence.
“So, what now?”
I’m frustrated. I’m hungry. And quite frankly, I’ve had it with Steve Black.
“Steve, why can’t we just have a normal meal? Why are you in character all of the time?”
Steve sulks a bit, perhaps the first legitimate emotion I’ve ever seen from him. It’s short lived however, as his frown quickly turns upside down as his body language shifts.
“Yo bro, that lady can eat my shorts! We ain’t got time for some gnarly chick trying to ruin all our fun. You got a match this week!”
“So you’ve got nothing to say for yourself? You don’t think you were out of line at all?”
“Hahahaha. Ollie, you’re one tubular dude. I’m proud to have you on my team. Now… let’s go find Jimmy and hit the tanning booths!”
Steve turns before I can even respond, running across the road back to the motel. I look at Corey for something… literally anything resembling a normal thought or response. He just shrugs his shoulders and follows Steve across the road. All I can do is shake my head. Some day I’ll get out of this stupid gimmick and make a name for myself. Until then… wait. Tanning?
“Steve!,” I shout. “Jimmy’s black!”
Key West, Florida may feel like home to most of the people on the OCW roster, but this Monday night, it’ll be no safe HaVeN for Phoenix and Desdemona.
I’m Oliver Wendell Rhule, and soon… you’ll all be playing by my rules.
