Matt Hughes: Jesus Didn't Tap! And Greg Abbott Never Ran Away from a Fight!

 

Amy Schneider vs. Charly Arnolt: The Only Advantage Is Greatness

 

Ken Jennings vs. Mike Richards: Careers in Jeopardy

 

Roman Reigns (WWE) vs. Conor McGregor (UFC)

 

Alexa Bliss

 

Molly Carlson vs. Mike Tyson

 

Holly Holm vs. Ronda Rousey

 

Hardcore Holly

 

A Chosen Destiny by Drew McIntyre

BOOK TITLE: A Chosen Destiny

AUTHOR: Drew McIntyre (ghostwritten by Sarah Edworthy)

YEAR: 2021

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Wrestling Memoir

GRADE: B

If you’ve watched WWE from the late 2000’s to the 2020’s, you’ve seen the Scottish Psychopath Drew McIntyre on your screen, whether he was an arrogant heel, a brawling monster, or the WWE Champion during the pandemic era. If you want to hear his turbulent story about how he got to that pinnacle and all the obstacles between him and glory, you’ve cracked open the right book. I need to warn you, though, that this book reads like a lot of pro-wrestlers’ memoirs: a childhood dream turned reality with an overabundance of show-don’t-tell violations. Emotional moments that deserved time to breathe barely get a few sentences to describe how Drew was feeling in that moment, which is a shame considering some of the trauma he went through. “I was angry.” “I was sad.” “I wanted to wreck everything.” Not all of the writing is like this, but most of it is. That’s to be expected from celebrity memoirs. If that kind of milk-toast style bothers you or you’re not already part of the wrestling bubble, you may want to keep this book shelved. Otherwise, enjoy the ride!

If you can excuse the bland writing style, then you might be moved by some of these legitimately heartbreaking stories he tells. Winning the WWE Championship in an empty warehouse with no fans to cheer him on is the ultimate bittersweet moment in his career. It’s not nearly as soul-crushing as losing his physically disabled, yet highly optimistic mother to cancer in the middle of his WWE career. Or how about the time when he kept showing up to work plastered because alcohol was the only thing that brought him peace? What about the time when he was fired from WWE along with nine other wrestlers like he was an expendable foot soldier? These are all moments that would destroy any reader if they were explored in depth and with a more descriptive ghostwriter. They still tug at the heartstrings. They still hit me where it hurts. But like I said in the first paragraph, these legitimately painful moments needed time to breathe and develop. Just like Drew was robbed of his Wrestlemania crowd pop, we were robbed of a face full of tears. How’s that for irony?

I wrestled with myself (no pun intended) when trying to decide between a B or a C grade for this memoir. Ultimately, I settled on a B, because Drew McIntyre has an interesting enough life to justify penning a memoir. The way he talks about his obsession with wrestling as a kid and how he brought that fandom into his everyday life? That’s the stuff dreams are made of. Completely transforming his diet and lifestyle after getting fired by WWE? That and touring relentlessly on the indie circuit was exactly what he needed to get back into the company. Getting cheered on by his family in Scotland and his wife in America? That’s what kept him going every night. And then he eventually won the WWE Championship, but that, according to him, was only the beginning of much bigger plans. His newfound work ethic was an admirable thing to see in his process of maturity. But again, it would have meant more with better writing.

A Chosen Destiny is an interesting read, but only if you already follow wrestling. Maybe that was the whole point behind the marketing techniques. Maybe it doesn’t have to be massively appealing to be successful. Should I be more forgiving of books that have a super-niche audience? I’d like to think that’s a good idea. Maybe that’s why I’m being generous with my B grade instead of dropping it to a C. It is a good book for what it is, but I would only recommend it to other wrestling fans. In that respect, the memoir did its job. Drew McIntyre, on the other hand, will hopefully never have to do a long string of jobs ever again. Wrestling fans know what that means.

Andre the Giant

 MOVIE TITLE: Andre the Giant
PRODUCER: HBO
YEAR: 2018
GENRE: Wrestling Documentary
RATING: TV-14 for violence and language
GRADE: Extra Credit

Seven feet and four inches tall, well over four hundred pounds, undefeated for fifteen years in professional wrestling, first ever WWE Hall of Famer, and above all else, a literal larger than life character. When the name Andre the Giant is mentioned, these are the descriptors that come with it and it was a solidly earned reputation. Wrestling fans wanted to see a godlike attraction, so they dished out large sums of money to see him destroy his opponents like they were nothing. The wrestling business wouldn’t have boomed in popularity if not for Andre’s mystique and extraordinary presence. Watching this HBO documentary on him made me believe in the legend all over again. It made me nostalgic for the “good old days”, at the risk of sounding like an old codger. I gave up watching pro-wrestling in 2018 due to how bad the WWE product had become. Seeing Andre in action being a dominant beast and making fans go absolutely bananas rekindled a tiny spark within me. It made me believe in the “never say never” idiom. Andre died in 1993, but his memory lives forever. This documentary was the perfect way to keep him immortal in the eyes of wrestling fans both old and new. It’s certainly more respectful than a yearly WWE battle royal where the winner achieves minimal success shortly thereafter.

One thing you can’t say about Andre the Giant was that he was a Gary-Stu, or a character so flawless that they become unrelatable. On the contrary, he was incredibly flawed. People think that being a gigantic tough guy is the ultimate ticket to being taken seriously and not being messed with. Fans messed with him a lot. They pointed and laughed at him. They said horrible things about his appearance, like a high school bully would do relentlessly in order to get his target to commit suicide. You would think that macho pro-wrestlers didn’t have sensitive sides, but Andre cried every time he was picked on by snickering fans. On top of all that, being that big comes with physical hardships as well, whether it was his failing organs, crooked spine, bad hips, or arthritic knees. Peers would often joke about Andre’s drinking habits and how he could go through a hundred cans of beer in a single sitting. He drank because he was depressed and couldn’t cope with the physical and emotional toll constant travel took on him. He couldn’t even sit in a normal sized car seat or rest in a normal sized bed. He also couldn’t be there for his daughter Robin when she needed him the most. Seeing this very human side to a deified wrestler reminds us over and over again not to judge a book by its cover and not to wish we could swap lives with other people. Everyone has their own set of hardships and everyone deals with them in their own way. It certainly makes his death that much more difficult to hear about from the perspectives of his colleagues, who also cried, by the way. The gentle giant deserved better than a slow and painful death. It makes me wonder if a Hall of Fame induction and a namesake battle royal are really enough to do him justice.

You know what does do him justice? His main event match at Wrestlemania III against Hulk Hogan for the WWF Championship. This wasn’t just two big guys having a hoss fight. There was a story behind this. This was Andre being taken seriously as a villainous character when he had spent most of his career being a gentle soul. This was Andre posing a credible threat to WWF’s golden goose. This was Andre severing a brotherly bond he had with Hulk Hogan just for a shot at a money-making championship. Hulk Hogan fought through his own tears and gave a resounding “Yes!” in the most emotional delivery possible when the challenge was laid down. The match itself wasn’t a technical masterpiece, but the documentary did a tremendous job in showing the psychology behind it, both backstage and in the ring. Could Hulk Hogan slay the giant and become a megastar that could carry the company through its darkest times? When he finally did with a body slam and leg drop, the audience cheered their heads off. I wanted to cheer my head off too. I wanted to be there in the building to see it happen, but I didn’t live in Detroit at the time. The energy, the emotional investment, the storytelling, they created a perfect storm when Andre’s defeat burst Hulk Hogan into the stratosphere. Again, this was oftentimes a slow and plodding match due to Andre’s mobility issues, but the magic was still there. The magic will always be there thanks to HBO keeping the memory alive.

I don’t give five-star ratings out so lightly, but for this documentary, I’ll gladly fork it over. One way to earn the maximum rating from me is to evoke emotions that I don’t ordinarily feel from movies and TV shows that I just like. HBO’s documentary did just that. It made me fall in love with wrestling again (even if I refuse to watch the current WWE product). It hurt to see Andre in so much agony, be it emotional or physical. It lifted me up whenever his peers would talk about his sense of humor and his kind demeanor outside of the ring. Was he a god on a worldwide level or was he a human being who longed for an normal life from time to time? The correct answer is yes. Rest in peace, Andre the Giant. It’s been many moons since your passing and we still miss you to this day. That’s the mark of a true legend: when you transcend your own death.

Crawl and Brawl

CHORUS

Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches

Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches

Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six

Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!

VERSE 1

A super-kick party’s got nothing on this

Ten thousand uppercuts, death match bliss

Taking razor wire and wrapping those fists

Someone’s getting killed, somebody’s pissed

Steel cage couldn’t contain all the bloodshed

A prison riot? We ain’t fucking done yet

Every last dumb shit is waiting to get beaten

Every last dead body is waiting to get eaten

CHORUS

Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches

Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches

Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six

Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!

VERSE 2

A Florida gator will feast on all the haters

A Burmese tiger will bring the fucking fire

An African rhino will gore you in the gut

Trample your ass into the bubbling mud

You picked the wrong fight for tonight

The holy preacher will speak your last rites

The undertaker will take you to your maker

Crawl and brawl until you all fucking fall

CHORUS

Ten thousand punches, tenderized lunches

Ten thousand crunches, bones break in bunches

Ten thousand kicks from the six-six-six

Crawl and brawl, bitch, crawl and brawl!

VERSE 3

A golden belt means less than a human pelt

A gold medal will not bring the heavy metal

A trophy cup will not make them shut up

Snuggle with severed heads when going to bed

A bloody dream will make your genitals cream

In the real world, they scream like little girls

Only a true warrior can make the world cry

As they watch their heavyweight champions die

FINAL LINES

Crawl and brawl! X4

Kickboxer: Vengeance

MOVIE TITLE: Kickboxer: Vengeance

DIRECTOR: John Stockwell

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Martial Arts

RATING: R for bloody violence, mild swearing, and nudity

GRADE: Mixed

Martial arts prospect Kurt Sloane travels to Thailand to exact revenge for his brother Eric after undefeated Muay Thai champion Tong Po kills Eric in an underground fight. Kurt attempts to murder Po in his sleep with a pistol, but gets taken away by the police instead. Kurt’s only chance at avenging his brother is to train with the legendary Master Durand, who initially prepared Eric for his own fight with Tong Po. While all of this is going on, the Thai police are building a case against a fight promoter with corrupt connections to the law. Between Tong Po and Marcia (the crooked promoter), Kurt Sloane has an uphill battle that will see him spill more blood on the canvas than even his own dead brother.

Because this is a marital arts movie with various UFC fighters and former WWE Champion Dave Bautista in starring roles, the obvious positive point of this movie was the high octane violence. Kurt Sloane is a badass warrior, but even he has to succumb to much more powerful fighters in the early going of the movie. The training under Master Durand is no joke: cracking coconuts, bicycling under water, vertical pushups, and of course, getting the crap kicked out of him from time to time by his own teacher. No battle in this movie is gorier than Kurt’s eventual championship fight with Tong Po (it’s not much of a spoiler since even the dumbest viewer can see it from miles away). In that fight, blood splatters the arena like a modern art masterpiece as they get to use glass-covered gloves and katanas. All in all, this is a well-choreographed movie. Every beating Kurt takes both in training and in real fights will shape him to become the ultimate Muay Thai warrior (or he can die trying, one of the two).

And then we have the low points of the movie, most of which include clichés, bad acting from UFC fighters, cheesy dialogue, and characters I couldn’t give a damn about either way. As far as clichés go, there are so many of them peppered throughout the movie: classic revenge tale, training a nobody to become a champion in a short time span, instant relationships, vanilla sex, and lax authority just to name a few. The characters were so badly acted that I couldn’t get emotionally invested in them. I didn’t shed one tear when Eric was murdered by Tong Po. It felt like Eric and all the other characters were just there for the sake of being there. The only performance I could really praise was Dave Bautista as he took the role of the villainous Tong Po. He had the look, the athleticism, and the menacing aura of a warrior, all of which he probably picked up while working with the WWE. Other than that, there’s really nobody to cheer for in this movie.

I’m probably being a little too generous when I give this movie a mixed grade (three stars out of five), but I’m a huge fan of martial arts ultra violence, so that’s pretty much the only thing that saved the movie from being a train wreck. It would be hypocritical of me to disrespect the violence in this movie considering I watch pro-wrestling and mixed-martial arts on a regular basis. The storylines, dialogue, and acting in WWE isn’t always Oscar-worthy, but at least it keeps bringing me back to my TV every Monday and Tuesday. Maybe a mixed grade is appropriate after all.

Divas

Piper gazed at the butterfly-decorated Divas Championship belt in her paws with a sense of pride and joy. Holding this title was a dream of hers ever since she was a kitten. In her mind, dreams always came true and could never be taken away by oppressive forces. Her naivety was a source of sweetness for her adoring kitty fans as evidenced by the way they meowed and purred at her entrance. She did it all for them and she was determined not to let them down this evening during her title defense. With her black tank top, pink leather pants, and white boots snug against her white furry kitty body, she was ready to go. She kissed her Divas Championship belt for good luck before her music hit.

The arena darkened as the piano intro of “April Rain” by Delain caused the kitties and puppies in the audience to cheer and howl for their favorite wrestler. Once the intense guitars and drums sounded, Piper danced out to the isle to an even louder chorus of cheers. She high fived her tiny fans in the front row and gave a hug to an oversized Bassett Hound near the ring. Piper leaped on the apron and over the top rope with such athletic grace before prancing around the ring and parading her hard-earned championship. She even high-fived the Springer Spaniel ring announcer and hugged Willem the schipperke referee. Piper was certain this feel-good moment would last forever and showed it on her cute kitty face with a squinty-eyed smile.

And then the slow and sensual blue-eyed soul music of “Son of a Preacher Man” by Dusty Springfield echoed throughout the arena. The older dogs in the audience howled with lust while the tiny kittens booed their heads off. Coming out to the stage were three cats dressed in royal pink robes and little diamond-encrusted tiaras. Posing on the left side of the stage was the calico runt of the litter, Calypso. Posing on the right with her claws extended like a Marvel superhero was the fierce black and white Stitches. In the middle was the arrogantly strutting queen of the divas, Tori. Together this group was known as the Supermodel Kitties.

None of the boos in the arena could compare to Piper’s fiery stare down the ramp as the Supermodel Kitties pompously danced their way to the ring. For weeks leading up to this match, they called her “Piper-Diaper” and Photoshopped pictures of her in baby outfits. A tear formed in her eye at these traumatic thoughts and Calypso was sharp enough to catch it. She got up on the apron and flailed her paws next to her ears while sticking her tongue out at Piper.

The proud Divas Champion shouted, “Why, you!” before dashing to the opposite side the ring to deliver a drop kick. Calypso pulled the top rope down at the last minute and Piper crashed and burned on the concrete floor below. Calypso stayed on the apron and continued her nee-ner-nee-ner taunts while Tori and Stitches were scratching and biting the hell out of their victim. Willem barked and growled his warnings at a rapid fire pace, but the Supermodel Kitties refused to listen and resumed their taunting and beating of Piper.

Willem hopped over the top rope and did his best hyper barking while chasing the Supermodel Kitties to the other side of the ring. He gave a few more commanding barks at the now shaking cats before running back over to Piper and licking her wounds with his sloppy dog tongue. Willem spent the longest time tending to the cat’s wounds and she still wouldn’t wake up. It seemed as though the schipperke had no choice but to bark for paramedics on the ramp way.

The proud Supermodel Kitties wrapped their arms around each other’s necks and danced up and down chanting, “Piper-Diaper!” much to the dismay of the booing crowd. Calypso even had an animal diaper in her paws to illustrate such humiliation.

This charade would have lasted the rest of the night if it wasn’t for Piper nipping up to her feat and letting out a dreaded hiss. The Supermodel Kitties watched on with wide-eyed shock as Tori’s opponent leaped back into the ring and made a “come here” gesture with her paws. “You want some of this?!” Piper shouted. “Come and get it, you skanky hoes!”

A resounding “Ooo!” echoed throughout the arena while the stunned Supermodel Kitties’ jaws were on the floor. Cat wrestling was considered to be family entertainment, but Piper didn’t give a damn about her language at that point. She also waved off Willem when he tried licking her wounds again. With Calypso and Stitches slowly taking opposite sides of the ring, Tori was also in no hurry to get inside. But once she was, the ring announcer ran away without doing his job knowing how fierce this battle would be.

Willem barked five times at the ringside timekeeper, who rung the bell to signify the beginning of the match. Piper and Tori ran to the center of the ring and threw the sharpest claws they could at each other. Their violent hisses and howls added enough drama to this match to get the crowd to rise to their feet and cheer. The crowd really got going when Piper leaped in the air, wrapped her legs around Tori’s neck, and flipped the Supermodel Kitty on her back. Tori nipped up and got thrown by her arm across the ring for her troubles. This sequence of getting up and getting tossed continued for Tori until Piper applied a shoulder lock to her and kept the obnoxious brat grounded and howling.

It looked like Tori was going to slam her paws to the mat to signal a tap-out victory. And then Calypso got on the ring apron and mockingly cried at Piper. “Boohoo, I’m a big baby and I like to suck on pacifiers!” While Willem was rattling off his super-quick barks at the runty calico, Stitches reached through the ropes and swatted her knife-like claws into Piper’s butt. The champion howled in pain and jumped high in the air while holding her backside.

Calypso got down from the apron while Tori hopped to her feet and body slammed Piper to the mat. While the champ was down, Tori leaped off the middle rope and back flipped chest first into Piper, driving the air from the dreamer kitty’s already exhausted lungs. Tori then wrapped her arm around the champ’s chin and held her face in front of Calypso and Stitches for further humiliation.

The tiny calico pulled out a smart phone and recorded a video of Piper’s contorted face in what would be known as The Huh Challenge. Calypso mockingly said, “My name is Piper and I cry myself to sleep every night like a big fat baby! HUH?!”

Stitches giggled while taking the phone from Calypso and doing her own Huh Challenge. “My name is Piper and my favorite thing to eat is whatever’s in the litter box! HUH?!” The two outside kitties high-fived each other and giggled some more at Piper’s expense.

Meanwhile, a single tear dropped from Piper’s eye as she gritted her fangs and tightened her claws. This was the BS she had to put up with on live television for weeks now. She growled at the thought of her opponents acting like middle school children instead of legitimate wrestlers. She growled even harder when the audience tried to cheer her back into this match. Piper needed this victory. She needed to show that dreams always come true no matter how high the odds were stacked.

Piper slithered underneath the chin lock, grabbed Tori around her waist, and threw her backwards on her neck. The Supermodel Kitty flopped around like a fish as she was thrown backwards again. And again. And again. Calypso and Stitches weren’t even paying attention to the action going on in the ring as they were too busy taking selfies. Piper glared like a hungry tiger at them as she bounced off the ropes and flew over the top turnbuckle. She landed perfectly on Stitches and ripped her apart with her claws like a Christmas present while Calypso watched on in wide-eyed, shaky-bodied horror.

Piper turned her fiery glare to Calypso and gave her a leonine howl and an ophidian hiss. The champion chased the Supermodel Kitty around the ring multiple times. She didn’t care about the exhaustion in her body from the main event match. She was sucking down air like a whirlwind as she saw nothing but red when she gazed upon Calypso. The calico brat was getting tuckered out herself, so she slid underneath the bottom rope and drew the ire of Willem, who trapped her in the corner and gave off more rapid fire barks.

The champ slid underneath the bottom rope as well, and this time she was sure to dine upon Calypso’s pencil neck. She could already taste the blood like a shark swirling its prey. Even though Piper didn’t have as many teeth as a shark, she would make every vampire bite feel like a bloodlust chainsaw attack anyways.

And that was when she felt something sharp jam into the back of her neck. The intense pain and black vision suggested Tori used a foreign object to get the upper hand behind the schipperke’s back. Once Calypso dived out of the ring and curled in a corner, Tori finished the job with a high-impact kick underneath Piper’s chin, knocking her out just long enough to be pinned for three seconds.

Willem tapped the mat three times and the match was over. Piper’s championship reign, just like her vision, had faded away with quickness. The only dream she would be living was the one in her subconscious theater, which only played horror movies that day. When her eyes slowly opened, her bruised and battered body made her feel like road kill. The unending pain was just as emotional when she awakened to find an animal diaper fastened to her crotch. The Supermodel Kitties danced around on the ramp, celebrating with the title and mocking Piper with more nee-ner-nee-ner taunts.

The never-ending tears in Piper’s eyes caused her vision to fade to black once more. She didn’t remember being helped to the doctor’s office. She didn’t remember the stitches she would require. Her emotions were robotic as she tried to process being humiliated by the Supermodel Kitties. She stared into space not wanting to think about the future or how her diapered sorrow was broadcast not only for the television audience, but also the internet troglodytes.

The more she stared into those white walls, the less of a choice she had in what to think about. She tried to shove it down. She tried to hold back the tears. But the tears kept rolling down like whitewater rapids. Her depressed howling couldn’t be helped. Her childhood dream was shattered like a pot of dead roses. Piper had the innocence of a child for most of her life. Now she made the roughest of transitions into adulthood and realized that nightmares were the norm in this world. The tears poured like an avalanche of cold emotions as she laid there all alone in the doctor’s office. With such a humiliating defeat, she was more than just physically alone in this world.

But if her childhood innocence taught her anything, it was not to cry because it was over. It was to smile because it happened. She loved that butterfly-decorated championship. It gave her some warm memories of being adored by the crowd. All the hugs, high-fives, and cheers helped to dry her ultra-wet, ultra-red eyeballs. They were the only things that got her through the hard training and violent matches. And now that Piper was contractually obligated to a rematch, she couldn’t let those beautiful fans down twice.

As she wiped the last of her tears from her furry face, Piper reached her paw over and picked up a scalpel from the bench. Tori cheated by using a sharp object similar to this one, so why shouldn’t Piper do the same when she wanted to win her Divas Championship back? But what would her fans think of her if she did such a thing? Would they ostracize her if she sunk to the Supermodel Kitties’ level?

In that doctor’s office, Piper had a decision to make. What was more important to her: the belt and all the money that came with it, or the fans that energized her every night and stayed loyal until the end? She had a long night of thinking ahead of her, but one thing was for certain her mind: “Those bitches are going to pay!”

Fight to the Death: Mitch McLeod vs. The Hunter

I, Garrison Kelly, challenge you, Andy Peloquin, to a duel to the death! But it is not we who will fight, but our characters…

In the black corner, weighing in at 180 pounds, standing a cool 6 feet tall, the Hunter of Voramis!

Tale of the Tape:

1. ·         Superhuman reflexes, strength, speed--think Captain America, but stronger
2. ·         Thousands of years of weapons training
3. ·         Body has accelerated healing factor--can survive a sword to the heart (can be killed by drowning, iron weapons, beheading, and suffocation)
4. ·         Cannot be killed by anything but iron
5. ·         Accursed dagger that heals him when he kills
6. ·         No magical abilities whatsoever
7. ·         No hesitation to kill if he perceives opponent as a threat/obstacle to his desires--classic anti-hero

In the red corner, from Los Angeles, California, standing 6’4” and weighing in at 268 lbs., “The Hardcore Hero” Mitch McLeod!

Tale of the Tape:

1. Preferred style of fighting is professional wrestling
2. Described by commentators as a "technical brawler", meaning he is proficient in suplexes, throws, and submission holds
3. Can also slug it out for as long as he wants.
4. Being a professional wrestler requires mental and physical toughness, which he has in spades.
5.  It took an entire roster of monsters and demons just to send him to the ICU and he still delivered his story's final blow.

Two enter the ring, only one can leave alive!

How would Mitch McLeod kill the Hunter? Since professional wrestling requires toughness and endurance, Mitch will absorb two strikes from The Hunter's sword just to deliver one massive superman punch. Once the Hunter is wounded, Mitch can pass through his defenses and perform bone-crunching wrestling moves like the piledriver, the body slam, the belly-to-belly suplex, and even a Texas Cloverleaf submission hold.

To kill Mitch McLeod: The Hunter would try to overwhelm him with his inhuman speed, strength, and skill. All he has to do is pierce him skin with Soulhunger, and the dagger will consume his soul. Not even someone with considerable magical abilities can survive Soulhunger's bite--it was created to kill demons. 

Who would win?

Because he can last longer than any opponent The Hunter has ever faced. Mitch could shake the ropes Ultimate Warrior-style and find his second wind, his third wind, and every wind after that until he finally delivers a spine-jarring power-bomb and paralyzes The Hunter like he did to a seven footer named Jack Finnegan.

But not even the mighty fists of the technical brawler can put the Hunter down for long. No matter how many times McLeod takes him to the ground, the Hunter will get back up. With every taste of McLeod's blood, Soulhunger floods the Hunter with strength and healing and weakens the wrestler. Mitch McLeod may be the greatest warrior to enter the ring, but the Hunter has defeated demons.

Winner: The Hunter. In the end, Soulhunger claims all souls.

Want to find out more about this cold-blooded killer who would dare challenge the former KDW World Heavyweight Champion to the death? Click here https://www.amazon.com/Blade-Destroyer-Last-Bucelarii-Book-ebook/dp/B012EI9M4A  to read about The Hunter.

http://andypeloquin.com/  

Who do YOU think would win? Did we get the match-up right? Leave a comment below and let me know.

"My Fight / Your Fight" by Ronda Rousey

BOOK TITLE: My Fight / Your Fight
AUTHOR: Ronda Rousey (with Maria Burns-Ortiz)
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Nonfiction
SUBGENRE: MMA Memoir
GRADE: Pass

Ronda Rousey is world renowned for being an undefeated MMA fighter in her first twelve matches, a Women’s Bantamweight Champion, and the sole reason why women’s MMA is as respected as it is today. On an episode of TMZ in 2011, an interviewer asked UFC President Dana White when he was going to include a women’s division. His answer? “Never.” But the minute he saw Ronda Rousey generating buzz with her quick victories and trash talk, he never said never again. The rest is history. It’s a history that not just transformed a combat sport or women’s rights, but it changed the whole world. Anybody who says, “It’s impossible!” is a bold-faced liar. Just ask Ronda.

Getting to the top of the UFC’s mountain may seem like an open and shut case for Ronda given her fast victories in the cage. But make no mistake about it: the road to success was paved with blood, sweat, and tears. Lots and lots of tears. The obstacles thrown in front of her included the death of her father, dealing with losses at the Olympic Games, being broke and living in her car to, arguing with her strict judoka mother, and having rotten boyfriends who treated her like crap. This memoir is just one big David vs. Goliath battle where Ronda is David and the harshness of life itself is Goliath. Most people would allow Goliath to crush them underneath his leather sandals. Not Ronda. She fought back and threw Goliath on his big ass before wrenching his arm out of its socket. The toughness and passion of this woman is something that will inspire everybody who reads her memoir.

The other thing I thoroughly enjoyed about this book was the way Ronda described her opponents leading up to either a judo competition or an MMA fight. With the fiery, hateful, and often colorful language she uses to talk about people who stand in her way of success, you’d swear she was a mass murderer. Hell, there is even several occasions where she says in her head, “I’m going to fucking kill you, bitch!” This hellfire and brimstone attitude is actually an excellent motivator for her to win her matches in convincing fashion. Isn’t that right, Miesha Tate? In their second fight, Ronda beat the living shit out of Miesha for three straight rounds, not because Miesha was actually capable of outlasting her, but because Ronda wanted to tear her apart limb from limb and leave her a rotting corpse in the cage. All that fire, all of that venom, and all of that rage has lead Ronda to twelve victories in her MMA career, all but one of them ending in the first round. Yikes!

The final thing I would like to touch on is the amusing nicknames she gives her ex-boyfriends. It’s a creative way to avoid a slander lawsuit by avoiding their real names. Her first lover was named Dick Itty-Bitty and he was a lying, cheating son of a bitch. Another boyfriend she had was Creepy McSnappers, who took naked pictures of her and prompted her to kick the shit out of him. And then there was Norm, who was so average in every department and had a knack for being a control freak. The one flattering name she gave an ex-boyfriend was DPCG (Dog Park Cute Guy), an animal lover whose past with drugs and alcohol caught up to him one too many times. As of March 2016, the month I’m writing this review, she’s dating fellow UFC fighter Travis Browne. If she writes another memoir, what nickname will she give him? Big Ass Hawaiian? Sounds reasonable to me. Hehe!

Even if you’re not a fan of mixed-martial arts, the memoir stands alone as a tale of overcoming difficulties and being strong to keep going afterwards. Not only did Ronda Rousey rise from the ashes of a heartbreaking and nightmarish life, but she looks like goddess and smells like roses. Actually, there was one point where her Honda Accord smelled like dirty laundry and dog BO, but those things are badges of honor in a life where everything is earned through battle and blood. A passing grade for an A+ superstar like Ronda Rousey!

Battleground

Charles McLean was a lucky man, either because of his Irish heritage or the fact that he could very well have a golden horseshoe up his ass. Only someone of his luck could say he was allowed to train at Battleground MMA Gym despite constantly knocking out and injuring his sparring partners. Did he even know the proper rules for sparring? Was he even dimly aware that knockouts and injuries weren’t supposed to happen? Did he already lose sight of the fact that it was all supposed to be practice and not an actual fight?

Ignorance wasn’t much of an excuse these days, because the only way the light heavyweight cage warrior could ever have access to the gym was after it was closed, which meant a screwed up sleep schedule and nobody would be there to return the favor of knocking him out. Believe it or not, this was the head coaches’ idea of being charitable to someone who deserved no charity at all.

It was ten o’clock at night and the red Mohawked Irish-American entered the gym in preparation for a light heavyweight championship match he had coming up. With nobody there to help him train or to coach him, he was all on his own. Charles seemed to be taking isolation a little better than most would. He went around to the various treadmills, stair steppers, and Jacob’s Ladder machines and beefed up his cardio like the super athlete he was. In a five-round championship match, cardio was the key to success.

Charles had spent two hours in the gym just working on his strength and conditioning. By the time he ran his final few steps on the treadmill, he was a sweaty mess. His bare chest was covered in perspiration, his black MMA shorts were damp, and his shoes and socks smelled like a bus station bathroom. Despite all of the hard work he put in, he stood proudly with his hands on his hips as opposed to huffing and puffing on the floor ready to pass out.

But there’s a reason why the sport was called mixed-martial arts and not cardiovascular arts: because beating the shit out of your opponent was the only way to win. Without a sparring partner, Charles thought he was going to have to clock out early. And then he noticed the boxing ring in the center of the gym had a black body bag mounted against one of the turnbuckles.

“Is this supposed to be funny?” yelled Charles to no one in particular. “What, am I supposed to fight with a dead body now? Cute, guys! Really fucking cute!” He stomped his way to the ring and stepped between the ropes to investigate this special package. Charles even gave the bag a sniff to make sure it was really a corpse. The odor was horrendous, but then he realized it was his own swampy armpits. He was definitely getting in the showers after this was over.

With mild trepidation, Charles McLean unzipped the body bag from head to toe and found something that put a whacked out smile on his face. “No way. No fucking way. Are you guys serious?” The object in the body bag was a 6’11” tall robot dressed in black gothic attire from his trench coat to his boots. Even the spiky black hair and black and white makeup was enough to give away the chilling appearance. Charles wasn’t chilled. He was thrilled.

He pulled the robot out of the bag and tossed the bag aside with excitement, for this was like opening presents at Christmastime. He looked the warrior up and down with wide-eyed excitement and heart-beating amazement. The name “Floyd” was written across the robot’s black tank top in the creepiest font imaginable.

“Alright then, Floyd. Let’s see what you’ve got!” said Charles as he looked for the on switch to this robot, which ended up being on its asshole. “That’s right, guys, laugh it up! Because this motherfucker is going to the scrap yard!” The light heavyweight brawler flicked the switch and sparks shot out of its crevices, sending the hulking brute backwards several feet.

Once Floyd the training robot stopped showering sparks, he began to look around the arena like this was all new to him. The mechanical nightmare looked across the ring at a bewildered Charles McLean with disdain and disgust. Once both combatants put their dukes up and got in their fighting stances, it was time to go to war.

Charles was the early aggressor in this sparring session as he rushed up to Floyd and threw haymaker after haymaker, each punch easily bobbed and weaved by the mechanical drone. Floyd threw one quick and stiff jab and caught Charles on the jaw, back him up a little, but doing not too much damage.

“You want to screw around with me, Floyd? Heh. Floyd. What kind of name is that for a badass robot?!” taunted Charles, an action which almost got him knocked out with a barely dodged head kick. Floyd started throwing other kicks to the hamstring, shin, and ribcage. Being made of metal allowed the pissed off robot to inflict sharp amounts of pain to the normally rough and tough Charles McLean, who was stacked from head to toe with muscles and tone.

Charles threw a few kicks and punches of his own, but Floyd kept him at bay with his height advantage, quick jabs, and leg kicks. After a while of being smacked around with metal parts, Charles was beginning to bruise up. He had a mouse under his right eye, a slash on his left thigh, and a lump on his ribcage.

But if Floyd thought for a minute that Charles was learning his lesson about treating his sparring partners better, he was dead wrong. Out of frustration, the MMA contender threw a blatant kick between Floyd’s legs and brought the mighty giant to his knees. Charles followed it up with an illegal knee to the skull that landed Floyd on his back, seemingly unconscious.

“Yeah! Who’s the man now, bitch?! I’m the goddamn man around here! Woo!” cheered Charles McLean as he danced around the ring holding his fists up in victory. His ego was inflated to the size of a hot air balloon.

And then Floyd nipped up in an attempt to deflate that ego forever. Charles turned around and immediately stopped celebrating his ill-gotten “victory” when he saw the mighty robot staring down at him with even more venom than before. Sparks were flying from his crevices like they were before, but in even greater volume and with even more rage.

Charles looked on at this angry display with paralyzing fear. If one of the sparks touched him, he would need to be rushed to a burn ward. With nobody here to call 9-1-1, it was a deathtrap in the making. Just when the final spark was about to touch the frightened combatant’s foot, the showers stopped instantly and were replaced with a good old fashioned blitz.

Floyd bolted up to Charles with superhuman speed and clutched him around the throat with one powerful hand before hoisting him to the sky and putting a spiked blade to his throat. Not even the mighty number one contender could deal with this kind of punishment and started kicking and squealing in pain to prove it.

The gothic robot put his face in Charles’ reddening face and said, “Please exit the MMA business, punk!” With one arm, Floyd tossed the 205 lb. Charles over the ropes and watched him crash land through one of the metal benches. The normally cocky fighter was rolling around on the ground clutching his back and screaming like a girl.

Such a pathetic display got no sympathy from the cold and calculating Floyd, who proceeded to slowly step outside the ring and kneel down to where Charles was writhing and squealing. With one fist held high, Floyd said in his demonic voice, “This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me!” All it took was one stiff punch to the jaw and Charles was out like a light. No more writing, no more growling, only silence and sleep remained.

By the time Charles woke up, which wouldn’t be until the very next morning, his head and body were pulsating with dull pain and he didn’t want to make any effort to move his body. He thought he was in the afterlife after taking a beating like that, but he was right back where he was when he was knocked out: on the floor of Battleground MMA Gym. The only difference was that there were people there who were happy to see him broken and bruised.

One of the head coaches of the gym looked over Charles’ glassy and wet eyes and said, “You have a 13-0 MMA record, which means you don’t know what it’s like to be knocked unconscious or submitted. And then you ran into Floyd and hopefully he did more damage to your ego than he did to your body.”

“Wha…wha…what about my match? What about my championship match?” said Charles with an aching jaw.

“Your match has been cancelled due to your injured state,” explained the coach. “But it’s probably for the best anyways. I hope you learned something from all of this, Charles. Be nice to your sparring partners and they’ll be nice to you. You’re probably too out of it right now to digest all of that, so maybe you’ll learn it eventually when I make you spar with Floyd again.”

The coach patted Charles on his painful shoulder and allowed the EMT’s t take him away. There was only one thing the Irish-American could say to having his ego deflated and his body broken at the same time: “Fuck!”

"Rebellion" by CFO$

For my 29^th birthday, my sister-in-law turned platonic life partner Susan got me a Roku device, which is basically an on-demand service for my TV. One of the things I downloaded with this Roku was the WWE Network and one of the shows I watch on the WWE Network is NXT, where superstars put on kick-ass matches until they’re called to the main WWE roster to perform on Raw or Smackdown. Two of those wrestlers who brutalize their opponents and climb the ladder of success are Konnor and Viktor, better known as The Ascension.

Every WWE superstar and diva needs their own entrance music to psych them up before a big match. Those entrance themes are created by CFO$. So what kind of music do you give two barbarians like Konnor and Viktor, who both have bodies of Greek titans and the rage of jungle beasts? In order to match their primitive aggression, you need music that is equally aggressive and hard-hitting. That’s where the CFO$ song “Rebellion” comes in.

If you’re standing in the opposite corner from The Ascension and you hear “Rebellion” in all of its heavy metal double bass drum glory playing, you’d better be wearing a diaper. Those two barbarians aren’t there to magic tricks or put on a ballet recital. Konnor and Viktor are there for one reason: to rip their opponents to pieces like a pack of rabid wolves on a wounded deer. You talk about meat on the table? That’s cute, because in order to feed The Ascension’s appetite for blood and flesh, you’d need an entire meat truck full of juicy morsels.

Listening to badass heavy metal music and watching The Ascension in action is very inspiring for an author like me who uses anger and aggression in his writing. Along with Diablo II, this NXT tag team has restored my faith in the barbarian’s ways. Eat, sleep, rage, repeat. I too wish to have characters in my story who emulate this violent lifestyle. I’m already trying to do that with Deus and Diva Shadowheart and their Fireball Nightmare story. I’ve already done it with short stories in my Dragon Machinegun e-book. I will do it again with Dragon Machinegun 2: Reload.

The barbaric tribes are hungry and there’s so much tender flesh for them to consume. To quote Ryback before he turned heel in the WWE, feed me more! And who cares about forks and knives when you’ve got an oversized battleaxe in either hand. Or a morning star. Or a sword. Or a spear. Or maybe even the NXT Tag Team Championship belts. Either way, somebody is having lunch today and it’s going to be delicious!

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Everything I say goes right over Michael Cole’s head. It’s like throwing a Frisbee to a guy sitting down.”

-John “Bradshaw” Layfield-