by Eric Szulczewski

We were just outside of Tulsa, on the edge of the oil fields, when the drugs began to take hold...

Well, my drugs anyway.  I was prepared for this nonsense that'd happen when we hit Houston and fortified myself with a handful of Prevacid, washed down with about a gallon of Labatt's that my three-hundred pound Canadian webmaster had been able to get past Customs. Why he wasted time bringing non-import Labatt's instead of something more important that they have in Canada but we don't in the US, like free quality health care, was beyond me, but that's why my three-hundred pound Canadian webmaster's a fuckhead.  However, the fuckhead at least brought real beer, which was stored in the trunk of the Big Blue Roadkill Machine right next to the "THE ROCK SUCKS, AND I DARE YOU TO TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME" sign and the MAC-11 with extra clips that I was bringing into the Astrodome to make sure that Maivia never wrestles again, the half-Samoan gimp.

Ah, the Big Blue Roadkill Machine.  Two and a half tons of dark blue Detroit engineering taken Earthly form as a sleek, road-hugging convertible monster that I got off some blond pimp named Race in Kansas City for a song.  That was the plan, anyway.  I'd meet up with my three-hundred pound Canadian webmaster in KC, then we'd drive down to Houston, and I'd get the car for it.  Well, screw rentals.  I just gave Race some hundreds and drove away with this thing.  For some stupid, fucked-up reason, my three-hundred pound Canadian webmaster wanted to see the United States.  I told him that the part of the United States we were driving through looked just like fucking Alberta between Edmonton and Calgary, but he didn't believe me.  Said it would generate some ideas for articles and filler material for his "new book" (now why he's got a book contract and I don't, that's another issue).  I got my revenge for his stupidity by chloroforming him, taking him to that all-gay truckers' motel in Oklahoma City, chaining him to the bed face-down, and posting a sign saying "PUBLISHED AUTHOR, EXPERIENCED IN PEDDLING ASS.  CANADIAN DOLLARS ACCEPTED".

"As your webmaster, I didn't appreciate you doing that to me in Oklahoma City," he whined as I pushed the Machine up to 90, narrowly dodging the dozen flying luchadores wearing Gummi Bear masks that were blowing spots in the road in front of me.  Why do they allow Mexican wrestlers on an Interstate?!  And why didn't I think of combining Prevacid with Canadian beer before this?  I'd have saved a fortune on mescaline, blond hash, peyote buttons, and videotapes of the 2000 Presidential election coverage.

"Balls!  Would you rather have hairy smelly truckers up there, or publishing house editors?" I responded.  "At least the truckers have enough manners to say 'thank you' afterward!"

"As your webmaster, I must inform you that I'm a published author, and some of them might have read my previous book."

"Not even truckers are dumb enough to be the target audience for that after what the gimps in New York did to it."  That shut him up.  So I pushed the Machine to an even hundred.  The miles started to really get eaten up.  Houston was closing in.

Ah, Houston.  Wrestlemania.  It was important that we see this one, and that we see it live.  Vinnie Mac had just accomplished the impossible.  He'd used his money and his brass balls to take over the entire North American wrestling scene, and this was going to be the coronation.  As Internet Wrestling Celebrities, we were guaranteed good places at the front row of a scene of incredible decadence, depravity, and expressions of raw, fuck-you-level, power.  And I had to be there to see something that was at the level of audience contempt as the main event.  Feeding the fans swill under the guise that it's "what they want".  The last time I got a vibe like that was from the Iran-Contra hearings, Oliver North yanking out his Marine dick and pissing all over Congress.  For a scene like this, you just can't watch on Pay-Per-View.  So maybe my three-hundred pound Canadian webmaster was right.  Driving through the shithole of America, or as much of it as you can see from a dark blue convertible doing a hundred down I-35, was putting me in the right mood to cover this bit of atavistic swill.

That swine Becker had made all the arrangements after we got his head out of Misawa's ass for a second to have him realize there's this country called the United States.  Fucking puro freaks, totally clueless.  After making a few calls, he said our credentials would be waiting for us down there, and Botter would have a couple tickets for the event itself in his sweaty hands.  I quickly realized that Botter did the music thing as a sidelight, and I knew he'd already be fucked up when we got there.  I patted my jacket pocket, and my Taser was still there.  One false move, and Botter would get his.

My three-hundred pound Canadian webmaster was getting in the mood too.  He drained a can of Molson in one gulp, then tossed the can out the window.  Letting out a large belch, he proceeded to open another one.  I knew that look in his eye.  He was watching the fires off the tops of the wells, remembering how the Edmonton Mob, a software company's trained commandos, and a secret group of power brokers who spent time justifying Hell In A Cell II as one of the greatest matches ever had firebombed him out of his place.  He was getting off on having a bad drunk.  That's when I knew that the fun was just starting.

"As your webmaster, I have to inform you that we've entered Texas."  He was right.  A big "WELCOME TO TEXAS, GEORGE W. BUSH, GOVERNOR" sign started to appear in front of me.  I took a full can of Molson, gave it aim, and launched it at the sign, whereupon it exploded in a shower of Canadian brew and aluminum shards.

"Fuck you!  It's been two fucking months! Change the goddamn sign already!" I screamed.  I wanted to plow the Machine through the fucker, but I realized that it'd throw us off schedule.

"As your webmaster, I don't understand why you have such indignation toward your president."  The fat fuck finally spoke up.  I thought he was dead for a minute and I'd have to abandon him in a truck stop toilet, where they wouldn't notice or care.

"Will it make you happy if I set a picture of Jean Chretien on fire?" I asked, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it for effect.

"As your webmaster, I have to inform you that cigarettes cause cancer."

"So does life.  Who fucking cares?  The whole goddamn Bush family screws their pants on in the morning, including Bar.  That's why I fucking hate them.  We'll never know what went on with that secret mission to Iran in 1980, Iran-Contra, Silverado Bank, and who blew who in Florida last year.  They're toxic.  That's why I asked you to sponsor me for a residency permit."

"As your webmaster, I have to remind you that we're in Texas."

"You already told me that."

"As your webmaster, I think it might be prudent to slow down a little."

I looked at the speedometer.  We were doing a healthy 105 at this point.

"In metric, I'm still doing the speed limit, so we're fine.  If a cop comes after us, I'll just put your ass behind the wheel, he'll see your Canadian license, and you can tell him that you thought the big numbers on the dial were for kilometers."

"As your webmaster, I must inform you that this seems like a logical, intelligent plan."

"And if that doesn't work, I'll just get out the three-hole inflatable Lana Starr doll we've got in the trunk for Botter and let them have a go with it.  I lived here for two fucking years.  I know how to deal with Texas cops."

"As your webmaster, I will defer to your local knowledge."

"Yeah, just sit there, swill beer, and decide whether you're going to give Benoit/Angle **** 1/2 or **** 3/4."

"As your webmaster, I must inform you that I do not give out match ratings before the match is completed."

"Bullshit!  Involve a Canadian in a match, and you've already pre-judged it!"

"As your webmaster..."

"Shut up and keep drinking your goddamn beer."

I'll give it to him, he did shut up until we had to make a decision on which branch of 35 to take.  I chose to go west, through Fort Worth, rather than east through Dallas.

"As your webmaster, I have to question your decision to go through Fort Worth rather than Dallas."

"I lived in fucking Dallas for a couple years.  I never want to go back to Dallas ever again.  The Sportatorium was torn down years ago!  There's nothing to see there unless you're one of those weirdos who hang around Dealey Plaza trying to conjure up the ghosts of the Tramp and the second gunman!  Unless you want to go and worship in front of Frito-Lay headquarters, thanking them for your junk food fixes."

"As your webmaster, I must inform you that I don't eat junk food very often."

"Yeah, your roommate named after the inert gas sucks it all down before you can get a hold of it."

As we were clearing Fort Worth, we both realized that we needed to fill the tank up and take a couple of wicked pisses from all that beer.  So I pulled into this truck stop and provided for the Machine first.  After paying a ridiculous amount for gas (in fucking Texas?  Who says this country isn't going downhill?!), my three-hundred pound Canadian webmaster and I stopped in the restroom to drain our tanks.  I swear I saw at least two guys wink at my three-hundred pound Canadian webmaster when we were at the urinals, but it might have been just another Prevacid vision.  At least I restrained from hitting him with a lead pipe and abandoning him like I considered doing earlier.  He restocked on junk food, including a bag of Doritos (you fucking liar!), and we headed back to the Machine.

While getting back in, we saw this kid wearing a Crippler T-shirt approach the Machine.  I made sure that one hand was on the Taser as he came up to us.  He said that he knew who we were from our very few publicly available photos, and proceeded to name us.  Okay, so the kid's an Internet smark, I thought.  Said his name was Harris and that he was headed down to Houston, but had blown most of his money on the ticket and was hitching.  Wondered if he could get a ride with us.  "It'd be an honor," he said.  He looked clean and healthy, and I calculated my chances of ending up in a ditch by the side of the road to be minimal.  I said fine, so he hopped in the back seat.  We squealed out of the parking lot when I realized that the gas nozzle was still in the tank and I'd torn it off.  So I flicked my cigarette out of the Machine, and I could feel the heat on the back of my neck as we drove away while the gas station went up in a fireball.  Harris was a little shocked at this.

"This is Texas," I explained.  "This stuff happens all the time down here.  Don't you read the newspapers?  Besides, Wrestlemania is Decadent and Depraved, and so we must be as well."

Harris didn't respond, but he grabbed a Molson and passed two up to us.  I was back to a hundred and five again in no time, and we were getting closer.  To get more in the mood, I set the CD player in the Machine to play a continuous loop of the Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter".  I let Jagger's voice and the magnificently-paired guitars of Keith Richards and Mick Taylor set the mood.  Impending doom.  That's the reason why nothing off Let It Bleed has died after thirty years of oversaturation by so-called "classic radio".  Like they said on another track on that album, sometimes you get what you need.  And what I needed was to feel the anger and misery that I knew was in me the moment they started setting up this goddamn Bataan Death March of a card for what was once the biggest show of the year.

Hell, I could get into a whole different rant about why music and radio sucks wind so badly today.  Except that that freak Bob Morris got there before me, and since he's pimping himself to Jann Wenner to get on the staff of Rolling Stone as resident musical fussbudget, I'll let him do that whole doom trip.  Shit, I'd rather work for Bob Ryder than Jann Wenner any day.

We were right around Waco when Harris revealed that he had a website, and had I ever seen it.  He said that he and his friends were doing some great work over there and that they all admired me.  I told him that the last thing I needed was a bunch of amateurs being slavish, pissant little imitations of the real thing.  He then asked me if I'd consider submitting something to him.  "It'd be an honor," he said again.  I wondered if that's the only thing the guy could say.

"People say that I already write for too many websites as it is.  This would just give them more ammo against me.  I've got the assholes at the Thread Literary Review on my case all the damn time about what I do, and you want them and the other fucksticks to start lobbing bricks at me from another direction.  And we're nice enough to let you have some of our beer.  Fucking Texans."

"As your webmaster, I must remind you that you're on a non-exclusive contract, and can write for anyone you want."  Glad to see he got his face out of the goddamn Doritos for a second.

"Yes, but this assignment is for you.  We're not only having a look at Wrestlemania, we're also trying to see what kind of country could produce a soulless monster like the World Wrestling Federation. That is something that only I can do."

"We could give you better play on this one than the other sites you write for," Harris said.  "We'll make sure that it gets out on time."

"As his webmaster, I have to explain that Botter's doing serious amounts of smack, and that accounts for the slowness of posting.  It's a shame, but he does manage the place quite well when he's not shooting up."  Oh, that's good.  Reveal the fact that Botter needs a trip to Betty Ford to another webmaster.  It'll be all over the Net within a day or so, and that'll completely blow our credibility.  Next thing you know, you'll start telling everyone our other secrets, like that Baidsen's one of the biggest importers of jimson weed into the US, or that Richardson makes his living picking up sailors, or that Becker regularly sacrifices dogs and cats to his Riki Choshu shrine.  Canadians.  We should have ended this off in 1814 and been done with it.

"And why do you think the WWF's a soulless monster?" Harris asked.  "They're putting out a good card this year.  I'm really psyched up to see it."

"Give it a rest," I said.  "They can't think of anything better for Trip to do than fuck with UT?"

"What else?  He can't be in the main event."

I wanted to slap Bobo the Simpleminded straight across the face and throw him into the dirt for that one, but I restrained.  "Yes, he could.  He's a proven draw.  They didn't need the main that they have right now.  And the way they set it up was a piece of unadulterated bullshit.  They can show all the one-on-one interviews with Jim Ross that the world could stand, and it still doesn't change the situation that there's no overriding issue."

"As your webmaster, I could inform you that you could appreciate it for the match itself and not for the sports entertainment aspect of it."

"Look, shithead, if you give this thing more than two snowflakes, I'll have to have you kidnapped and sent to the nearest available mental institution.  One guy's 36 and never recovered from a broken neck.  The other guy's a talentless stiff who couldn't spell 'sell' if he was given the 's' and 'e'.  And yet they're both inexplicably popular.  This, more than anything, is an indictment of the intelligence of Americans."

"As your webmaster, I have to inform you that the main responsibility for that is Vince McMahon's, for promoting them to the public and giving them a forum for possible popularity."

"And you'd kill for him to do that with Benoit and Jericho, wouldn't you?  Well, why aren't they facing each other?  Why is more promotion being given to Vince and his little crown prince than to your precious Benoit?"

"From what I remember, that wasn't what you were saying about him after Pillman last year.  You said you saw God."  Oh, great, fucking Harris in the backseat's memorized all my goddamn columns.  I should have never written that goddamn thing after splitting a cap of acid with that hippie fucker Colton.  The guy had a good connection, though; best acid I've ever had, and best match I've ever seen live, even after sobering up.

"Benoit deserves to get pushed.  But in the WWF, personality counts for ten points on the judge's final ballot and workrate only counts for five.  He'll constantly lose given that basis for scoring, even with Kishi on the panel."

"As your webmaster, I wondered when you'd get the first Iron Chef reference in."

"Speaking of that, can't you get control over that Macarena asshole and tell him to start doing recaps again?  Jesus, the show's gone into fucking reruns already.  It's your goddamn site!  Of course, he's another Canadian, isn't he, so you won't stop Botter from nodding off long enough to get him under control, huh?"

"What do you have against Canadians?" Harris asked me.

"Absolutely nothing, except for the fact that they tend to watch out for themselves first, and everything else later.  They're thirty million little mafiosi.  If you're not part of La Familia, forget it.  They sabotaged Dillard's DSL line, you know, just because neither he nor Hyatte were Canadian.  That's the real reason why you haven't heard The Edge lately.  They can't touch Meltzer or Wrestlethis, though, so our Internet airwaves are safe."

"As your webmaster, I must tell you that you have a distorted view of..."

"If I asked you for your opinion, I'd have e-mailed you and told you what it should be.  You're still not recovered from the Dear John column that Scaia did on you, are you?"

Again, that shut him up long enough for me to get some peaceful mileage behind us.  I was able to get some target practice in with my .357 Magnum on some road signs (a Texas tradition, so Harris/Bobo in the backseat said), but I ran out of ammo.  Fortunately, this was Texas, so I pulled off 35 and found a conveniently-located gun shop.  Five minutes later, I walked out with a load of .357 dum-dum reloads, a few more magazines for the MAC-11, some extra batteries for the Taser, and a LAW with a dozen incendiary rockets.  No ID required, no waiting period.  I love Texas.

"As your webmaster, I have to ask you why you need an anti-tank weapon," he asked as I put the LAW in the front seat, one rocket already loaded.

"Because I am a professional who takes pride in my work.  I must have the proper tools to work with.  If the Gimmick Battle Royal starts being unfunny, I must have the capability to take out the entire ring at once.  Only a LAW with incendiary rockets will do."

I could see the fear show up on Harris' face.  He knew that I was capable of doing it.  He also knew that I was justified in doing it.  If they play that thing seriously, I start with the pyro.  That's when I knew that I'd have to take Harris out.  He was a good kid, though, so I just drained the battery of my Taser into him and let him twitch unconsciously in the backseat after duct-taping his mouth, hands, and ankles.  After reloading the Taser, we were back on track.

"As your webmaster, I must state that you might have committed felony battery on our young hitchhiker."

"He'll understand that it was my tribute to Hall and Goldberg."

The rest of the trip passed relatively quietly.  I was able to test the LAW by taking out a roadside tourist-ripoff boot shop, a staple of Texas architecture if I remember correctly from my time as a resident, and I only had to give Harris a couple more shots with the Taser to keep him quiet.  My three-hundred pound Canadian webmaster just kept downing the Labatt's and decided to take out a few road signs with the Magnum when he finally got into mean-drunk mode, but I neglected to tell him about the kick and he knocked himself unconscious when the gun hit him in the face after he fired at a speed limit sign.  He stayed out until we hit the outskirts of Houston.

We finally made it to the Astrodome and found a place to park the Machine.  My three-hundred pound Canadian webmaster went over to the box office to get our press credentials while I decided to have a look around.  Harris had said that he was going to be meeting someone here, some guy named Haggard who looked like a weasel.  One look at the crowd and I knew that it'd be tough to spot Haggard.  Everyone looked like weasels.  Dregs of humanity, a huge crowd of impressively ugly fat women in tight T-shirts, men who had seen better days with beer bellies bulging out of Brahma Bull and Game Over Ts who were convinced that a goatee with two days' growth everywhere else made them look more like men, children who were obviously suffering from Congenital Syphillis Or Other Birth Defects Too Hideous To Mention...all in all, a cross-section of the worst American society has to offer.  Marks one and all, stepping up to the trough to be fed the atavistic swill of a hideous main event calculated to appeal to the most base instincts of the American Wrestling Fan.  And none of them even knew it.  They've been conditioned for so long to think that Vinnie Knows Best that they couldn't see the weaknesses, the flaws, the lack of both Wrestling and Sports Entertainment.  I got upset for not picking up the twenty kilos of C-4 that the gun salesman had in the backroom.  I could have waited for the Astrodome to fill, then blew the fucker up and improved the American Gene Pool for generations to come.

Turns out that I didn't have to look for this Haggard guy.  He found me.  Ye Gods, another one of them who recognizes me.  I should have shot Johnston full of adrenochrome and programmed him to suicide-bomb Zach Arnold's house before letting him put up that photo of me.  Haggard did look like a weasel, some guy who spent his time pimping farm animals to Texans too out of it to realize that there's more of a difference between women and sheep than the fact that sheep can't cook.  I led him over to the Machine and dumped Harris out of the backseat, telling Haggard that he could remove the duct tape at his leisure.  He was about to either call for the police or begin a chant to some ancient South American war god, so I decided to take matters into my own hands and gave him a double-arm DDT on the concrete.  Forty-six times.  I rolled them for cash or anything else that I could think of, then kicked their bodies under one of the nine billion pick-ups parked around me, all of them with gun racks and Republican-related bumper stickers, and unloaded the trunk.  Two Lightweight Magnesium Kitbags easily held the laptop, the MAC-11, the LAW, and the reloads.  The Taser stayed in my pocket.  After all, I might have wanted to patrol Axxess, get in line to get an autograph from Flex, and give him a taste...

But that thought went out of my mind when my three-hundred pound Canadian webmaster came back with our press credentials.  He said there was no problem after showing the addle-brained idiot at Press Relations a copy of his book and the contract he had with his New York bobos to write one on them.  So we pinned them on and started to wander around, trying to find Botter.  He had our tickets to the event itself, and we needed those to get in, dammit!  Two hours of fruitless looking through crowds smelling worse than the Paris Metro on a hot August day later, we still hadn't found him.  We were only an hour from the start, and my three-hundred pound Canadian webmaster was starting to go batshit.  I just popped a couple peyote buttons, some Ibogaine, and a few mescaline tabs and watched the crowd melt and turn into the swine that they really were.  Step up!  Step up!  Get your fill of garbage and waste, all courtesy of Vincent Kennedy McMahon Junior, Supreme Overlord Of American wrestling!  Feed yourselves on the afterproduct of bad angles, insufficent setups, and plans carefully calculated to make the audience happy while ignoring the fact that there's no substance!  See Austin and Maivia get it on!  See the Dudleys, the Hardys, and the Blonds kill themselves again for your pleasure!  Come one, come all!  I've spent enough time in slaughterhouses watching hogs meet their doom to know when the Judas Goat's leading them to the knives.  Fortunately, I'm intelligent enough to know not to follow.  I am here only to observe.

But the act of observing disturbs the observed, doesn't it?  Some Kraut freak named Heisenberg said that seventy-five years ago in a set of theories that were designed to mind-fuck every Physics student from now until the end of Eternity.  What did this mean, though?  Did it mean that even if I only observed, was I still part of them?  Was I one of the swine, one of the marks waiting to be fed the refuse from Vinnie Mac's table?  I refused to acknowledge that.  I refused to put myself on that level.  I still had a mind of my own.  I could still criticize the decision on what the main event should be.  I was not a follower.  I was not a passive consumer...

I was, though, interrupted by my three-hundred pound Canadian webmaster, who told me that he'd found Botter.  So I hauled the Kitbags with me and walked to a darkened corner, where Botter stood.  Looked exactly like I knew he would.  Long stringy hair and the bad breath that instantly tells One In The Know that you're a hopeless heroin addict.  Dressed up in an imitation of grunge, which was an imitation of punk, which was an imitation of the hippies no matter how much they tried to believe that wasn't true.  This was shit that the Salvation Army had rejected.  How the hell did he run a website respected around the world for its wrestling coverage?!  He gave us our tickets and then started to wander away, wrapped up in his opiate-saturated self-contained world.

"You brought him in to run the site?" I asked.

"As your webmaster, I must inform you that he's very, very good at his job.  However, as your webmaster, I have to inform you of a very disquieting situation."

"What now?"

"As your webmaster, my command of dates is impeccable, and I'm afraid to tell you that these tickets are for last year's Wrestlemania."

"YOU FUCKER!" I shouted to Botter, who was shambling out of our sightlines and melding back into the crowd.  "YOU SMACK-ADDLED HOPELESS ASSWIPE!!  YOU CAN'T GET YOUR YEARS STRAIGHT!  YOU RUN A FUCKING MAJOR WEBSITE AND YOU CAN'T GET YOUR YEARS STRAIGHT!!!"

"As your webmaster, I must inform you of two situations.  First of all, you're causing a commotion in the crowd and there are some people walking over to a security guard at this moment.  Second of all, I have to admit that this is not an unexpected situation.  He does have a tendency to be late."

"A YEAR LATE?!  This is almost as bad as his posting of my Kellner column."

"As your webmaster, I think that you lucked out on that one.  If it had been posted shortly after you submitted it, then it would have lost its immediacy when Kellner cancelled WCW programming a day and a half after it was posted."

"You can justify any damn thing if it suits you, can't you?"

"As your webmaster, I have the power to do so.  But this still leaves us with the vexing problem of having no tickets."

I rummaged through my pockets for a second.  Ah, yes, there they were.  The tickets that I'd taken off of Harris and Haggard before I dumped them under the pickup.  "Problem solved," I told my three-hundred pound Canadian webmaster.  "We can get into the domed abbatoir now.  And our press passes will give us free reign once we get inside. I'll scout out possible firebases while you interview some of the backstage cretins for your alleged book."

"As your webmaster, I have to tell you that you have some use after all."  With that, he took one of the tickets and started walking toward the Press Entrance.

I just stood there with the Magnesium Kitbags in hand, looking at the ticket.  Should I go through with this?  Should I be a party to this whole idiotic charade?  Or should I just stuff this whole experience in a goddamn bottle and send it off with the Japanese current?  If I did that, could I fit those swine Becker and Arnold into the bottle? They'd enjoy it.

No, I realized that I had to be a part of this.  With all of the changes that the industry experienced over the month prior to this, Wrestlemania X-Seven (an abortion of a name, to be certain) was going to be The Seminal Event, The Line of Demarcation, The End Of One Era And The Start Of Another.  I had to be here.  When the end comes for Vinnie Mac, as the end inevitably comes for any empire from Rome to Microsoft, I can write the history from the beginning, from April 1st, 2001.  After all, they can't dig up that deluded old Nazi Albert Speer to do it.  But when the end comes, he might be the only one qualified enough to do so.  God knows that Hitler's trip is going to be an apt comparison when that day comes.

Ye Gods.  That was pretentious, wasn't it?  You know, maybe I'll just write about some goddamn motorcycle race next time...

With apologies to The Doktor, of course, and to all Internet Wrestling Personalities presented in here, who naturally bear no resemblance to the people presented in this column...well, except for Becker.  Watch your pets when he's around, folks.