The stench... Horrible yet strangely satisfying; burned out cigars, the staling smell of Bourbon is carefully blended with the raw musk of men. The view… Horrible yet strangely satisfying; a small garage interior dimly lit by hanging wall lights, a circular table stacked with playing cards, ash trays and bottled empties. There is a makeshift bar and fridge in the background looking like it has been raided in the heights of a zombie apocalypse. The feels… well they weren’t horrible. No. The feels were real. The feeling of celebration and a toast to success. Max Becker’s success.
In what can only appear to be an ageing, low budget man cave, The German is alone. There’s a half supped bottle of Holsten Pilsner in his left hand and a deck of playing cards in his right. Max is attired in a stained Khaki vest, navy cargo shorts and simple, hideously designed sandals.
MB: “Yo brigaders, Guten Tag. I didn’t win… a-ha, I lost five big stacks. It doesn’t matter though, right? Dawgs, yo, nah, it’s a celebration. My celebration. Becker can’t do it in the States, they said. Yeah, alright, verpiss dich. Fuck you.”
Max takes a few swigs rather befitting of a man his size, the belch that followed comparable to a lion’s roar.
MB: “Sainty boy offered me a blank cheque. Jondog offered me a contract... with terms and stuff yo. What do I do brigaders? Email me, tweet me, I ain’t no pen bearin’, suit wearin’ kinda dawg yo, I don’t know this shit. But let me tell you what I do know.”
Max, with a swift flick of the wrist, flips his near empty beer bottle up high with every intention of it landing firmly upright on the table. Remarkably, it lands. Max shuffles the deck of cards like a seasoned magician.
MB: “I know I’m booked for Frozen Over and I know half of Deutschland will be buyin’, yo, and I ain’t gon’ let a single one of yo’ asses down.”
Max flicks the first card and reveals it’s no ordinary playing deck he’s shuffling… it’s a deck of picture cards. The first card is a modern photo of Azrael. It’s rapidly followed by a second card, then a third; picture cards of Azrael’s ‘In Memory Of’ moment at last years WrestleFest.
MB: “What the fuck is this, Az-dawg? You prance around with yo’ fat five-nineteen record, swingin’ that fleecy, greasy hair all over the place brandin’ yo’self as the angel reborn. Nah hund, yo’ fake ass is playin’ games… Welcome to the Black Parade or some shit? Now I ain’t judgemental, but god damn get some dental, you mental crazy ass prick. I’m goin’ to punch you in the teeth and toss yo’ dumb ass out first. Auf wiedersehen, you nutty bastard.”
The next card is a picture of the Samoan Wrestling Machine, Kendo. It’s followed by three snapshots from Evolution 38 during his immense bout with, of course, Max Becker.
MB: “Zwei. Two. Ken-dawg, yes chief, what a fighter yo’ Samoan Japanese American ass is. I thought you had me for a moment. I did yo. Powerbomb, Suplex… kicked out. Relentless onslaught… held out. Mat holds… broke out. But once I put you on mission submission, yo’ bitch ass tapped out. I called it dawg. Let me call this too: yo’ ass is gettin’ chin checked… again.”
The third lot of picture cards are Austin Bishop’s, his pin falls over Mr. Extreme & Franklin Fredrickson.
MB: “Damn yo, what is with you Americans and yo’ dumb ass hair? Listen hund, we don’t all have a sidekick called Dick, yo. Crying like a lil’ baby, wah, wah, wah… Austin deserves a World title shot Mr Stewart. Too much dick. Too much mouth. Nobody was more undeserving of that title shot than yo’ bitch ass was. Marchin’ round tellin’ people you’re goin’ to burn it all down. After Frozen Over, you’ll have learned the only damn thing getting burned is yo’ chance at winning this battle royal. Next.”
One, two, three more cards. Jace LeRose.
MB: “The beautiful… damn… yo’ ugly bitch ass ain’t got chance here homie. You’re goin’ to walk down that aisle come Frozen Over, flaunt yo’ poses and kiss your roses and that’ll be the first and last memory these brigaders will have of Jace Lee Who. Samoan, Irish, American, English, German, Canadian.. it’s good to see a bit of diversity in the battle royal, but one thing’s a certainty, I’m putting you over that top rope as a matter of urgency, yo.”
The next spread of cards were Cade Allen, another CWF debutant.
MB: “Fünf. Five. Cade Allen. Yo’, C-dawg, this is the least intimidated I’ve ever been in my life bro. Cade Allen. I mean come on, the Cade Brigade, ja? Das ist gut, nein? The Cade Crusade? Dragon Allen? Anything but… Cade Allen. Yo, C-dawg, what’s goin’ on with this self-proclaimed expert of submission? Let me tell you somethin’ bro, yo’ dumb ass tries to finish people with neckbreakers, spears an’ bicycle kicks… Maybe you were dropped as a laddie by your single ass daddy, but let me tell you one thing, a two-forty pound Irishman with no submission moves is not a submission expert… he’s a fuckin’ idiot who’s going out quicker than big Max can smash a pint of Irish stout.”
Just like that, there’s a further spread of three. The first is a roster picture of Pandalike. Two other photo cards reflect his match winning pin fall over Autumn Raven at Evolution 27.
MB: “Um Gottes willen, of all the nutjobs in this battle royal, yo, I wanted to like you the most Pandawg. You’ve got to believe me bro, I really did. What’s yo’ story? Martin, the cockney from London, dresses up like pandas and wrestles in a bid to save the pandas. What the fuck is wrong wit’ you men at CWF? Where the homies and hos hidin’ out, yo? Listen Martin, Pandas are clumsy little fuckers and let me tell yo’ weird lil’ ass, you can suck on your bamboo, hit me with your china kung fu, but at Frozen Over, Max Becker’s havin’ some panda stew.”
The three remaining cards are of course the seventh participant, Max Becker himself, the accompanying picture cards showing Christopher Saint James, Jon Stewart & Max Becker’s awkward contract signing and the Kölner Kupplung on Kendo.
MB: “Sieben. Seven. Yours truly. The unemployed, undisputed, undefeated, Backbone of Cologne. The dealer of the cards. Now get yo’ fine ass over here.”
Walking over broken glass and stubbed smokes; a tall, blonde lady dressed in a jaw-dropping black lace bodysuit. If this were some teen flick, it’d be the right moment for a pop punk song to introduce a slow motion flick of wet hair. It wasn’t. This place is an absolute shit hole and no place for a lady. The German directs the well presented girl to perch on his knee as he keeps his focus… just.
MB: “You men keep playin’ zoo animals, reborn angels and samoan wooden swords. I’m goin’ give this one a taste of German sausage, but don’t worry you pricks, once you’ve been played by the brigade come Tuesday night, I’ll leave a lil’ nibble for you. Get out of here yo’.”
With an enormous cheshire grin, Max waves for the camera back and forth once, twice, the third time a huge intentional swoop knocks the camera to the floor. There’s a bit of tickling… a bit of giggling… the feed is dead.
"The concession stands are now selling those cheap hotel room round soap disks that I have personally blessed for $100’s a bar….AND SINNERS….I suggest you buy one, and use it, because if you think your God wants you in his heaven smelling like a 3am New York City uber ride you got another thing coming."