August 03, 2002 - The dream...

Andrew touched the gun under the driver's seat. It was snowing so hard on the bridge that he could hardly see the car ahead of him, just its glowing red taillight rimed with constantly falling snow. He dimly saw flashing lights at the west end of the bridge, not the orange lights of road crews desperately battling the storm, but red white and blues twirling atop several police cars.

Without a further thought, Andrew pulled out and stopped. He took the gun out and stared at it, as if it were going to speak to him. It was such a heavy, powerful object, a killer that he half expected it to resist. But he tucked it under his heavy jacket and pushed the door open; there was a little give, for it was frozen to the car frame.

Slipping and sliding on ice just under the snow, Andrew made his way to the railing. Blood rushed in his ears, and if anyone saw him and shouted, he did not hear. All he heard was the whine of wind, and he felt the bite of snowflakes on top of his ears. He could taste the cold; it tasted of snow and oil and tires and river mud.

When he got to the railing, he leaned against it. A clot of snow fell away as if he'd thrown up; it twirled in the air, disappearing among the ice floes on the Mississippi. Leaning over thus, he heard the wind howling like a choir in the steel rigging under the bridge. The concrete pilings were like organ pipes, and the sound rose and fell.

Andrew was hungry and he couldn't see, as the old station wagon wouldn't go any faster. Not only that, but he was broke. His stomach kept signaling that he was hungry. He felt light-headed, and wasn't sure if it was fumes leaking around the manifold through the rusty floor into the cab, or if it was hunger. How long since he'd eaten? That would be the cellophane-wrapped cupcakes yesterday, cheap off-brand.

Near Albuquerque, late in the afternoon, he pulled over to count his change. With the engine off, he felt almost restful. The sun shone through the dirty windshield and laid its glow like a yellow drug in the back seat over Andrew's neatly folded clothes and boxed belongings. He didn't have many places to look -- the ashtray (he didn't smoke), the cigar box on the rear floor among the paperbacks, the pockets of his other jeans, the breast pocket on his flannel windbreaker. Two bucks. He'd parked the car on a hill in case it wouldn't start. Then he could roll it down and jump-start it in second gear. Provided nobody pulled in front of him. Everything was difficult. Why was life this way? Gravity kept you from flying off into space, he supposed, but it made things fall down. It helped you start your car, but if someone pulled in front of you as you rolled downhill, you had to jam on your brakes and then you were stuck with no place to roll, no way to build new momentum. Two bucks and thirty-two cents. That was every penny.

He sat back and drew a deep breath. Being hungry made you tired. He'd just outrun a terrific storm that had swept down from the Rockies, moving east toward the Mississippi Delta like a mountain range of smoky gray air. Like a burning building, but wet instead. Cold. Dismal. Hard to drive in. No wonder he was tired. You had to sit hunched, squinting, blinded by gusts of rain breaking on your windshield. The wipers, on max, could only provide glimpses. If you were broke, or hard-pressed, or just plain loved the feel of roads passing under your car, you kept moving. It was a great country, an immense country. You kept driving possessed by a burning urgency, with the black rainsqualls at your back and the water hammering in your face. It was like being a mile underwater. It weighed down on your spirit like a mile of ocean water. It sure made you tired. Made your legs tense, your back sore, and your shoulder ache. No wonder he felt this way.

He couldn't remember if he'd ever been in Albuquerque. He had maps in the car and he'd study them tomorrow. Yawning, he walked to the corner and surveyed his world. At least he was warm, for now. It was good to stretch his legs. Cold, though. He shivered. And he smelled snow in the air. The sky looked like gray paste. A couple of little grammar school girls waited at the light on the other side. For a moment, it was like, is this it? Is this the whole world? The universe? Life? At one time I was a child and waited at a corner for the light to change. The red hand winked away, replaced by the little white man. Now I am on the other side of the street, crossing the other way. The girls were in no hurry, chattering, shifting their heavy school bags from one shoulder to the other.

It was night when he climbed in the car -- it did smell faintly of himself in there; could use airing out, but the temp was dropping and now was not the time. He drove to a church parking lot, pulled in next to some other cars by the rectory door, and climbed into the back. He pulled the little torn curtains over the station wagon's rear windows, not that anyone would peek, and then got into his long johns. He put on the rest of his clothes and crawled into his sleeping bag -- good expensive mummy bag he'd bought from a former mountaineer. Former, because the man had fallen from a cliff and was paraplegic. Actually the wife had sold it to Andrew behind her husband's back, hating it and everything connected with, oh well. Andrew rolled to one side and then the other, pulling his spare blankets under the sleeping bag, and around it like a volcano. Anything to conserve heat. He opened the milk and drank half; greedily; he had to stop himself from downing it all. Then he opened the plastic bag and breathed deeply the smell of the bakery. He always did that because it reminded him of his mother's kitchen. That was long ago and never to return. He reached in and tore hunks of the insides of the loaf, so that the brown crust hung in bracelets on his wrist. He mashed the bread in his palm and bit off chewy mouthfuls, groaning with relief as his hunger abated. The bread would swell gently during the night, soaking up his stomach acids, sending long telegraphs of wellness and fullness to his brain. It would build strong bodies twelve ways while he slept.

Sated, he stared at the last lingering fans of violet and orange light in the western sky. As the night settled in, Andrew's eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep. If he had dreams, he could not remember them when he awoke, not even to say whether they were peaceful or tortured. He thought he heard someone screaming: "A.M.! A.M.!" Several times during the night, he opened one eye as the car was buffeted; he thought it was teenagers and wished they would go away because he was so tired.

He awoke with a start. It was still night. The glow on the dash read 4:30. Was that Central or Mountain Time? He couldn't remember if he'd changed the dial. It was cold in the car; of course. He pushed the curtain aside and wiped copious fog off the window. He was amazed to see that the windows on the outside were rimed in frost. Thick snowflakes glued themselves in tiny incremental bits to the growing sediment all around the car. Oh Jesus. He pushed the sleeping bag away, shivering. It was so-o-o cold. Needed to g-g-get the car rolling, the heater on.

Easier said than done. Hopping up and down to keep the chill in the seat springs from numbing his rear end, he kept trying the ignition. Plenty of spark. The car whined and whined. There was a bang and black smoke fanned away from the sides, where the exhaust pipe should have been. At last, she started up. Skidding slightly on an inch of snow blanketing the flat and sacred ground of the parking lot, he backed the car out. The heater would cut in soon, he hoped; he'd replaced the core twice and couldn't afford to do so again. But soon he'd scratch together a little money again. He found a paper cup filled with peanut shells on the seat beside him, under the newspapers and tissue box. He rolled down the window, tossed the shells out, and scooped up fresh snow from the car roof. He found the bread bag, glad to see there were plenty of round crusts to eat. That would keep him going a while longer.

The ride into California was even wilder than his passage across the plains. Visibility was nearly zero. If the sun had appeared, it wasn't making much of itself. Big rigs jackknifed on frozen asphalt, sliding into each other like pins at a bowling alley while snow devils whirled across the road surface. It was hard work, and tiring, to drive like this. He was afraid sometimes to ask himself why he did it, because he was afraid the answer might be to live to ask the same question the next day. Cars went off the road right and left as Andrew drove through the high mountain passes. Here and there, he saw twirling red lights. He spotted the highway patrolmen standing in clusters, probably debating about when and where to start closing the freeways. The radio, too, was saying you could get snowed in for weeks at a time.

But the road started downhill and the snow turned into fierce rain, with wind gusts that shook the big freeway signs as if they were made of paper. Gradually, the black clouds tangling tightly wedged between mountain shoulders gave way to lighter and lighter colors, thinner rain, streaks of sunshine. For a long time, Andrew drove through the light drizzle. The land lay lower, alternating in stretches of forest and desert. The road wound ever downward, and pretty soon Andrew had the car window open. He drove through one small town after another. Here and there, a palm tree reared out of the mist, slanting into a wall of drizzle. A rainbow shimmered in the sky.

Violence swept up the road, hitting Andrew while he was still hypnotized by the rainbow. The huge rig bore down on him in a wake of fine mud. He realized he must have been dozing off. Too late. He swerved. In slow motion, he saw himself losing control. Felt himself turn the wrong way, crosswise in the middle of the road. He managed to grab the steering wheel with both hands, just as the car spun out on sand, skidded off the road onto a sandy lot, and smashed sideways against a tree.

Luckily for him, he woke up! Thank God! It was all a dream! Or was it! Andrew suddenly felt cold and the chills began to run up his spine, or were the chills really chills? Had he really smashed into the tree and now he was feeling his spinal cord ripple like a slinky? Andrew closed his eyes once again and the he reopened them. He was in his bed and he loved the feeling of being in his bed.

Was this a sign of things to come in the future? We all hoped not! What was he suppose to lose if it was a sign? His life? His career? Or maybe his streak? Ever since he joined the PCW he has been the target of everyone. Everyone knows who he is and what he can do! That is why they all want to dethrone the number one wrestler in The Vortex.™

You come out here every fucking promo and scream to the fans “Who is the real me?” Next week we will be hearing “Why am I the real me, When am I going to be the real me again, Where did the real me go, and What is the point of being the real me?” No body fucking cares. All the fans care about is who the next person to take the plunge is. The only reason they bought tickets to the PCW PPV or they bought the PPV on their cable, satellite, etc. is because they know that someone will be hurt this Sunday.

The fans have no idea what is like to be a professional wrestler. Every fucking night we go out there and put our heart, souls, bodies, tears, and sweat on the lines for some fan who paid $35.95 for a fucking ticket! All I got to say about that is let them buy as many tickets as they want, because the more they buy the more I get paid!

Now you seem to have a buddy-buddy thing going with Ryan Grayn, don't you Satist? I see your strategy! Maybe you were right when you said that the whole match is predetermined. Maybe you claim that you want the title but in all reality you are going to help Ryan Grayn win it! Hey I have thought this damn match was a hoax from the beginning. Maybe now you just proved my point!

Speaking of Ryan Grayn….Man you are really in a pissing ass mood aren't you? I mean you really shoot off at the mouth when someone better than you comes into your federation. Yeah I am number one in The Vortex and I have been number one for a while! That doesn't mean it is rigged, however, that does mean that I am better than you Ryan. It seems like just the other day you were jumping up in down screaming and crying like a little Catholic schoolgirl because you made it to number three on The Vortex Top 25. That means you are the number three wrestler within the circle. Way to go. If I had a career like yours and the best that I could do before joining the PCW was 13th on the Top 25, I guess I would jump up and down like the little Catholic schoolgirl!Man you do a lot of sucking up don't you Ryan. All I hear is Satist has my respect and I pick Satist to win this Sunday! Satist this and Satist that! If I didn't know any better I would say that Satist was your daddy! Then you go on say that HaVoK™ is a buddy and blah blah blah yackety smack! Who give a flying fuck? I mean you and Satist keep talking about Insanity, Inc and HaVoK™ is a little on the insane side so wouldn't he fit in the little triangle just perfectly?

Where are you my friend? Haven't heard from you in a while! You finally realize what is happening. You finally realize that your so-called number one spot in the PCW is slowly fading away! You realize that there is someone out there who is better than you and you hate every bit of it. Well if I realized that I was losing something that I truly loved then I would go into hiding. That is exactly what you have done! Haven't heard from you in a while and I am kind of glad! I get tired of sitting through your “I'm gonna control your mind” bullshit! Now listen Tinkerbell, this is what I want you to do. Go to Wal-Mart, buy a five pound bag of sugar, open it up right on the spot, pour as much of the sugar into your hands as you can, throw it up in the air, and run under it. As you do all of that say these words, “I wish that I was like brave like Shavo, that way I wouldn't have to get my ass kicked because I wouldn't show up!”

Where are yall? I know that Shavo is still in the federation aren't ya? If not it would be a wise thing to let some people know! If you are that scared that you cannot even respond to all the shit that has been said about you then buddy you need to be somewhere else! Badger, we all know now that this will be your last match in the PCW for a while! AWW How Sweet, NOT! All I got to say is `don't let the door hit you with the good Lord split you!'

Six men, one night, one goal, to become the first ever PCW World Champion. You have everyone ranging from an infomercial to a up-tight Brit. it doesn't matter where they come from, who they know (well that might help them win the match), or what they have did in the past but we all know one thing! This match will be hotter than the hinges on the gates of hell! Who will be the first PCW Champion? Stay tuned to find out! Till next time America…


	"The Dream..." August 03, 2002 RP by Rayne All rights reserved Andrew touched the gun under the driver's seat. It was snowing so hard on the bridge that he could hardly see the car ahead of him, just its glowing red taillight rimed with constantly falling snow. He dimly saw flashing lights at the west end of the bridge, not the orange lights of road crews desperately battling the storm, but red white and blues twirling atop several police cars. Andrew felt muffled by the whiteness all around; the snow ate sound, even that of tires rumbling through the ruts of cars ahead. If he didn't -- But there was a small turnout ahead, just a single parking spot where the sidewalk dipped to street level, maybe for a maintenance crew to pull up its truck. Without a further thought, Andrew pulled out and stopped. He took the gun out and stared at it, as if it were going to speak to him. It was such a heavy, powerful object, a killer that he half expected it to resist. But he tucked it under his heavy jacket and pushed the door open; there was a little give, for it was frozen to the car frame. Slipping and sliding on ice just under the snow, Andrew made his way to the railing. Blood rushed in his ears, and if anyone saw him and shouted, he did not hear. All he heard was the whine of wind, and he felt the bite of snowflakes on top of his ears. He could taste the cold; it tasted of snow and oil and tires and river mud. When he got to the railing, he leaned against it. A clot of snow fell away as if he'd thrown up; it twirled in the air, disappearing among the ice floes on the Mississippi. Leaning over thus, he heard the wind howling like a choir in the steel rigging under the bridge. The concrete pilings were like organ pipes, and the sound rose and fell. The gun didn't twirl, but it dropped straight down, resentfully turning, slowly, to survey its surroundings with disdain. Two or three seconds later it made a tiny plume among the ice floes. Andrew was hungry and he couldn't see, as the old station wagon wouldn't go any faster. Not only that, but he was broke. His stomach kept signaling that he was hungry. He felt light-headed, and wasn't sure if it was fumes leaking around the manifold through the rusty floor into the cab, or if it was hunger. How long since he'd eaten? That would be the cellophane-wrapped cupcakes yesterday, cheap off-brand. Near Albuquerque, late in the afternoon, he pulled over to count his change. With the engine off, he felt almost restful. The sun shone through the dirty windshield and laid its glow like a yellow drug in the back seat over Andrew's neatly folded clothes and boxed belongings. He didn't have many places to look -- the ashtray (he didn't smoke), the cigar box on the rear floor among the paperbacks, the pockets of his other jeans, the breast pocket on his flannel windbreaker. Two bucks. He'd parked the car on a hill in case it wouldn't start. Then he could roll it down and jump-start it in second gear. Provided nobody pulled in front of him. Everything was difficult. Why was life this way? Gravity kept you from flying off into space, he supposed, but it made things fall down. It helped you start your car, but if someone pulled in front of you as you rolled downhill, you had to jam on your brakes and then you were stuck with no place to roll, no way to build new momentum. Two bucks and thirty-two cents. That was every penny. He sat back and drew a deep breath. Being hungry made you tired. He'd just outrun a terrific storm that had swept down from the Rockies, moving east toward the Mississippi Delta like a mountain range of smoky gray air. Like a burning building, but wet instead. Cold. Dismal. Hard to drive in. No wonder he was tired. You had to sit hunched, squinting, blinded by gusts of rain breaking on your windshield. The wipers, on max, could only provide glimpses. If you were broke, or hard-pressed, or just plain loved the feel of roads passing under your car, you kept moving. It was a great country, an immense country. You kept driving possessed by a burning urgency, with the black rainsqualls at your back and the water hammering in your face. It was like being a mile underwater. It weighed down on your spirit like a mile of ocean water. It sure made you tired. Made your legs tense, your back sore, and your shoulder ache. No wonder he felt this way. He couldn't remember if he'd ever been in Albuquerque. He had maps in the car and he'd study them tomorrow. Yawning, he walked to the corner and surveyed his world. At least he was warm, for now. It was good to stretch his legs. Cold, though. He shivered. And he smelled snow in the air. The sky looked like gray paste. A couple of little grammar school girls waited at the light on the other side. For a moment, it was like, is this it? Is this the whole world? The universe? Life? At one time I was a child and waited at a corner for the light to change. The red hand winked away, replaced by the little white man. Now I am on the other side of the street, crossing the other way. The girls were in no hurry, chattering, shifting their heavy school bags from one shoulder to the other. What did they see in him? A thin, unshaven man, in his 30's, but he probably looked older, in need of a bath. In the corner store he bought a carton of milk and a plastic-wrapped loaf of sandwich bread, day old and on sale. He had a few coins left and, on a whim, bought a packet of licorice gum. For old times' sake. It was night when he climbed in the car -- it did smell faintly of himself in there; could use airing out, but the temp was dropping and now was not the time. He drove to a church parking lot, pulled in next to some other cars by the rectory door, and climbed into the back. He pulled the little torn curtains over the station wagon's rear windows, not that anyone would peek, and then got into his long johns. He put on the rest of his clothes and crawled into his sleeping bag -- good expensive mummy bag he'd bought from a former mountaineer. Former, because the man had fallen from a cliff and was paraplegic. Actually the wife had sold it to Andrew behind her husband's back, hating it and everything connected with, oh well. Andrew rolled to one side and then the other, pulling his spare blankets under the sleeping bag, and around it like a volcano. Anything to conserve heat. He opened the milk and drank half; greedily; he had to stop himself from downing it all. Then he opened the plastic bag and breathed deeply the smell of the bakery. He always did that because it reminded him of his mother's kitchen. That was long ago and never to return. He reached in and tore hunks of the insides of the loaf, so that the brown crust hung in bracelets on his wrist. He mashed the bread in his palm and bit off chewy mouthfuls, groaning with relief as his hunger abated. The bread would swell gently during the night, soaking up his stomach acids, sending long telegraphs of wellness and fullness to his brain. It would build strong bodies twelve ways while he slept. Sated, he stared at the last lingering fans of violet and orange light in the western sky. As the night settled in, Andrew's eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep. If he had dreams, he could not remember them when he awoke, not even to say whether they were peaceful or tortured. He thought he heard someone screaming: "A.M.! A.M.!" Several times during the night, he opened one eye as the car was buffeted; he thought it was teenagers and wished they would go away because he was so tired. He awoke with a start. It was still night. The glow on the dash read 4:30. Was that Central or Mountain Time? He couldn't remember if he'd changed the dial. It was cold in the car; of course. He pushed the curtain aside and wiped copious fog off the window. He was amazed to see that the windows on the outside were rimed in frost. Thick snowflakes glued themselves in tiny incremental bits to the growing sediment all around the car. Oh Jesus. He pushed the sleeping bag away, shivering. It was so-o-o cold. Needed to g-g-get the car rolling, the heater on. Easier said than done. Hopping up and down to keep the chill in the seat springs from numbing his rear end, he kept trying the ignition. Plenty of spark. The car whined and whined. There was a bang and black smoke fanned away from the sides, where the exhaust pipe should have been. At last, she started up. Skidding slightly on an inch of snow blanketing the flat and sacred ground of the parking lot, he backed the car out. The heater would cut in soon, he hoped; he'd replaced the core twice and couldn't afford to do so again. But soon he'd scratch together a little money again. He found a paper cup filled with peanut shells on the seat beside him, under the newspapers and tissue box. He rolled down the window, tossed the shells out, and scooped up fresh snow from the car roof. He found the bread bag, glad to see there were plenty of round crusts to eat. That would keep him going a while longer. The ride into California was even wilder than his passage across the plains. Visibility was nearly zero. If the sun had appeared, it wasn't making much of itself. Big rigs jackknifed on frozen asphalt, sliding into each other like pins at a bowling alley while snow devils whirled across the road surface. It was hard work, and tiring, to drive like this. He was afraid sometimes to ask himself why he did it, because he was afraid the answer might be to live to ask the same question the next day. Cars went off the road right and left as Andrew drove through the high mountain passes. Here and there, he saw twirling red lights. He spotted the highway patrolmen standing in clusters, probably debating about when and where to start closing the freeways. The radio, too, was saying you could get snowed in for weeks at a time. But the road started downhill and the snow turned into fierce rain, with wind gusts that shook the big freeway signs as if they were made of paper. Gradually, the black clouds tangling tightly wedged between mountain shoulders gave way to lighter and lighter colors, thinner rain, streaks of sunshine. For a long time, Andrew drove through the light drizzle. The land lay lower, alternating in stretches of forest and desert. The road wound ever downward, and pretty soon Andrew had the car window open. He drove through one small town after another. Here and there, a palm tree reared out of the mist, slanting into a wall of drizzle. A rainbow shimmered in the sky. Violence swept up the road, hitting Andrew while he was still hypnotized by the rainbow. The huge rig bore down on him in a wake of fine mud. He realized he must have been dozing off. Too late. He swerved. In slow motion, he saw himself losing control. Felt himself turn the wrong way, crosswise in the middle of the road. He managed to grab the steering wheel with both hands, just as the car spun out on sand, skidded off the road onto a sandy lot, and smashed sideways against a tree. Luckily for him, he woke up! Thank God! It was all a dream! Or was it! Andrew suddenly felt cold and the chills began to run up his spine, or were the chills really chills? Had he really smashed into the tree and now he was feeling his spinal cord ripple like a slinky? Andrew closed his eyes once again and the he reopened them. He was in his bed and he loved the feeling of being in his bed. Was this a sign of things to come in the future? We all hoped not! What was he suppose to lose if it was a sign? His life? His career? Or maybe his streak? Ever since he joined the PCW he has been the target of everyone. Everyone knows who he is and what he can do! That is why they all want to dethrone the number one wrestler in The Vortex.™ Rayne begins to talk out loud to himself… Rayne: Satist, Satist, Satist, when are you going to learn? Your little insults about sucking dick does not affect me because like I said before, the one who does the insulting is exactly what he is insulting! You come out here every fucking promo and scream to the fans “Who is the real me?” Next week we will be hearing “Why am I the real me, When am I going to be the real me again, Where did the real me go, and What is the point of being the real me?” No body fucking cares. All the fans care about is who the next person to take the plunge is. The only reason they bought tickets to the PCW PPV or they bought the PPV on their cable, satellite, etc. is because they know that someone will be hurt this Sunday. The fans have no idea what is like to be a professional wrestler. Every fucking night we go out there and put our heart, souls, bodies, tears, and sweat on the lines for some fan who paid $35.95 for a fucking ticket! All I got to say about that is let them buy as many tickets as they want, because the more they buy the more I get paid! Now you seem to have a buddy-buddy thing going with Ryan Grayn, don't you Satist? I see your strategy! Maybe you were right when you said that the whole match is predetermined. Maybe you claim that you want the title but in all reality you are going to help Ryan Grayn win it! Hey I have thought this damn match was a hoax from the beginning. Maybe now you just proved my point! Speaking of Ryan Grayn….Man you are really in a pissing ass mood aren't you? I mean you really shoot off at the mouth when someone better than you comes into your federation. Yeah I am number one in The Vortex and I have been number one for a while! That doesn't mean it is rigged, however, that does mean that I am better than you Ryan. It seems like just the other day you were jumping up in down screaming and crying like a little Catholic schoolgirl because you made it to number three on The Vortex Top 25. That means you are the number three wrestler within the circle. Way to go. If I had a career like yours and the best that I could do before joining the PCW was 13th on the Top 25, I guess I would jump up and down like the little Catholic schoolgirl!Man you do a lot of sucking up don't you Ryan. All I hear is Satist has my respect and I pick Satist to win this Sunday! Satist this and Satist that! If I didn't know any better I would say that Satist was your daddy! Then you go on say that HaVoK™ is a buddy and blah blah blah yackety smack! Who give a flying fuck? I mean you and Satist keep talking about Insanity, Inc and HaVoK™ is a little on the insane side so wouldn't he fit in the little triangle just perfectly? HaVoK™… Where are you my friend? Haven't heard from you in a while! You finally realize what is happening. You finally realize that your so-called number one spot in the PCW is slowly fading away! You realize that there is someone out there who is better than you and you hate every bit of it. Well if I realized that I was losing something that I truly loved then I would go into hiding. That is exactly what you have done! Haven't heard from you in a while and I am kind of glad! I get tired of sitting through your “I'm gonna control your mind” bullshit! Now listen Tinkerbell, this is what I want you to do. Go to Wal-Mart, buy a five pound bag of sugar, open it up right on the spot, pour as much of the sugar into your hands as you can, throw it up in the air, and run under it. As you do all of that say these words, “I wish that I was like brave like Shavo, that way I wouldn't have to get my ass kicked because I wouldn't show up!” Shavo and Badger… Where are yall? I know that Shavo is still in the federation aren't ya? If not it would be a wise thing to let some people know! If you are that scared that you cannot even respond to all the shit that has been said about you then buddy you need to be somewhere else! Badger, we all know now that this will be your last match in the PCW for a while! AWW How Sweet, NOT! All I got to say is `don't let the door hit you with the good Lord split you!' Six men, one night, one goal, to become the first ever PCW World Champion. You have everyone ranging from an infomercial to a up-tight Brit. it doesn't matter where they come from, who they know (well that might help them win the match), or what they have did in the past but we all know one thing! This match will be hotter than the hinges on the gates of hell! Who will be the first PCW Champion? Stay tuned to find out! Till next time America…