Post by theprodigalson on Jun 18, 2020 23:39:49 GMT
Tonight on Dark Side of the Ring
Murderer or cringe inducing edge lord?
Domestic terrorist or living meme?
Tonight we revisit the lost legend of one of the most polarizing professional wrestlers who never really existed at all.. Vertigo Dirtmurder.
In Fall of 2007 a young man with dirty matted dyed hair and a horrendous body odre descended upon New Championship Wrestling. Accompanied by his equally disheveled early 90s dream girl he appeared to legitimately murder dozens of innocent people in a bloody massacre, finally culminating in the bombing of a Children's Hospital that would've given Christopher Nolan a throbbing edgy boner.
Many questions were asked following this promo. Questions such as "What the fuck?" "How is he not in prison?" and "Why does this guy look like a even more pretentious person of Neil Gaiman's Morpheus?" tonight we hope to answer these questions and many more in the first on-screen interview over 12 years after his sudden disappearance. Through an anonymous tip we've found his current location. The following footage is presented uncut.
**Hard cut to a shaky handheld camera on a young clean-cut reporter wearing an expensive blue suit riding passenger in a van rolling down a dirt road. The driver is dressed in a black t-shirt and black baseball cap with a VICE logo. The driver speaks first**
"I don't know about this shit, Jeff. Doesn't this fucking guy eat babies or some shit?"
"That's an urban legend, dipshit. You think they'd show any of that shit on TV if it was real?" Jeff Cave said in a belittleing tone to his subordinate.
He continued
"This guy is a fucking washed up fossil, chances are it's an old address, or we're gonna find him hanging from the fucking rafters in a shack. I haven't felt more wasted on a shitty story since we had to cover Joe Everyman's chicken sex trafficking ring"
Everyone in the van falls silent, remembering the horror of the Everyman chicken fucker dungeon.
"I'm sorry, that was uncalled for, I'm just stressed.."
The camera man reaches forward and pats Jeff on the shoulder
"DONTYOUFUCKINTOUCHME" Jeff snaps
As Jeff is preparing to unload more verbal abuse, the car abruptly stops and the camera focuses out the windsheild. There's a large iron latched gate with a sign reading "FUCK OFF."
"Well, that's on brand" the dipshit camera man remarks.
"Are you sure this is it?" Jeff says looking out his window into the thick woods.
"Fuck if I know, man. The GPS died on me 20 miles out of Aberdeen. We're either here or this is a scene straight out of deliverance, and you're the pretty one."
The driver and camera man both chuckle.
"Ahhhh you're a real comedian, that's why you're driving my ass around, asshole. Get out and open the gate."
The driver reluctantly complies, getting out of the car and walking up to the gate. He peers over the gate and then unlatches it slowly like he's disarming a bomb. Once the gate creaks open he hops back in the car and continues driving until they reach a surprisingly large ranch-style house, strikingly modern and completely out of place deep in the woods.
"Ok this definitely isn't the fucking place, let's get out of here before we get shot."
"Dipshit if you don't shut your underpaid unionized mouth I will fuck start your FACE. We've driven 200 goddamn miles away from civilization for this bullshit story. We're at LEAST going to knock on the door and see if they know where this fucking loser is. For all we know he's the fucking gardener. That'd explain all the dead grass."
The next minute or so of footage is the crew of 3 shuffling out of the car, stretching, and approaching the front door of the house. Hung on the door is another sign, albiet much better crafted, but with the familiar message.
"FUCK OFF."
"Alright, frame me up. Let's start it here"
Jeff turns his back to the front door with a mic in his hand and puts on his TV face. He thinks the quality of this show has really gone to shit since it's gone to on the scene reporting like some shlocky unsolved mysteries ripoff, but the paycheck is alright. He's about to unclench his jaw out of the forced white bread smile when the door behind him swings open.
Behind him stands a purple straw-haired lanky man in a Dead Kennedys shirt. His beard is wildly long but well maintained. His face is a road map of wrinkles, gig-scars, and dark bags hang under both his eyes. He's clutching a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a freshly polished silver revolver in the other.
"Look, I fucking told that stupid WHORE that she can have those dickhead kids if she leaves me my goddamn Elliott Smith records. I think that's a pretty good goddamn deal since the prenup gave her exacyly FUCK ALL when she fell on that little soy boy's fat brazilian COCK. So how about you and your collector friends go out an... Why the fuck is there a camera pointed at me?"
Jeff stumbles and turns to face the man.
"V.. Vertigo D-"
"Aw fuck no!"
The man slams the door in his face. Through the door you can hear him angrily slur
"I don't know who you're with but I don't give no fuckin interviews and I ain't coming back for some piddly ass death match tournament in some asshole east coast promotion! Go home."
Jeff rubs his forehead and tries to compose himself
"Uhh.. Sir.. V..Vertigo? We're with Vice. We're actually here to offer you money for an interview."
There's a long pause. Then, through the door.
".....How much money?"
"$5,000"
There's a loud sigh, and the door cracks open.
"You guys got any gimmick?"
Vertigo opens the door and as Jeff reaches the threshold he's met with a stiff hand in the center of his chest.
"Money. Up front. And I smell some gimmick, hand it over."
Jeff looks over at the driver and gives him a nod, he reaches into his fanny pack and hands him a plastic bottle from a dispensary. Vertigo sticks the revolver into the waistband of his black and red Zubaz and snatches it.
"Purple haze.... hilarious. You can make that check out to Zack Ramon. R-A-M-O-N. Don't fucking call me by my gimmick name."
Vertigo leads the crew through a well-kept albeit cluttered hallway. Music memorabilia, animation cels, framed autographed pictures of long-dead rock stars. At the end of the hall they reach a black door with two huge locks on the outside, but it's hanging ajar.
"You all got a lotta balls coming all the way here to meet a murderer ya know.."
Vertigo says with a wry smile
As he pushes open the door the driver shoots a glance at Jeff and mouths "What the fuck!?"
The crew continue to follow Vertigo into an office adorned with occult decor and stuff that wouldn't look out of place in Anton LaVey's house. Behind his desk perched on a shelf is a taxidermy weasel holding a rat in it's mouth. The desk is cluttered with various books on the occult, printed pornography, Jojo's Bizarre Adventure Volume 2, and various half-drained liquor bottles.
"Sit wherever, don't touch my shit. Let's get this over with."
The camera pans the room and finally catches the lone piece of wrestling memorabilia, a replica of the nCw Xtreme Championship.
Jeff seats himself in the leather arm chair across from Vertigo's desk. Vertigo chuckles.
"Oh man.. you sat in the.. uhh.. nevermind.. hehehe.. So big shot, ask away."
Vertigo smirks while he returns his revolver to his desk drawer and collapses into a much nicer black leather arm chair still clutching his bottle of Jack.
Jeff clears his throat and motions at the camera man to get in position.
"Well... First off, where have you been these last 12 years? There've been rumors you died, went to prison, changed your name, became a government assassin.. I hope you don't take it the wrong way when I say I have no idea how a career as short as yours got you a house this.."
"Nicer than yours, I take it.."
Vertigo chuckles
"Well, to answer the first part of your question, in that last match at nCw with Joe, I tore both my goddamn quads. That's 9 months if I'm lucky. I was gassed to the goddamn gills and all that shit helped the rehab process some but by the time I was back on my feet so to say, I got that skank knocked up. Which is a medical goddamn miracle because if you're not privy to anabolic abuse that shit shuts your business down like a chemical vasectomy."
"Gross"
"You asked. So, anyway, after so long away from the ring and a kid on the way I just decided I was gonna hang back. I didn't think the retirement would be permanent.. But then.. Merchendising."
"Merchendising"
"Those mother fuckin cardboard cutouts, man."
"Wait.. you mean..?"
"I wasn't under contract by the time those fuckers started selling out. And they didn't pay me any royalties. I sued the fucking SHIT out of nCw for backpay. The best thing about it was that fucking cardboard cutout got way more over than I ever was, so they had to KEEP paying me until the company folded!"
"Holy shit.. how much did you make off them?"
"A lot more than I have now, thanks to that fuckin bitch trying to bleed me dry."
"You mean your wife?"
"EX WIFE. Yeah, but this shit is about me, so let's keep it there."
"Okay, fine, but while we're there.. That wedding segment, what the fuck?"
Vertigo takes a swig of his bottle and laughs
"Fuuuuck brother I was on so much goddamn coke at the time. I was 21 and goddamn invincible. I thought I was the goddamn gothic Randy Savage and that bitch was my coke fiend Miss Elizabeth. Too bad she didn't steal her finish though."
Vertigo laughs again
"Ok, so.. moving on. Those promos where you murdered children? There are people who believe those were real."
Vertigo stops laughing and squints at Jeff
"Are you fuckin shittin' me? Do these people also believe the earth is flat and the Montreal Screwjob was a shoot? I would be UNDER the fuckin prison. I just had a friend who worked in special effects and my Uncle ran a goddamn daycare. Only children I've killed are a few billion all over that chair you're sitting on with a little hired help."
"Ok... Super gross.. So you haven't wrestled since 2009?"
Vertigo shifts in his seat and rolls his eyes
"Alright, well, I might have got the bug again and flew down to Puerto Rico for a death match tournament. That's there I got Hep C... and this."
Vertigo stands up and lifts up his shirt showing a gigantic scar from his hip all the way up to his left nipple.
"JESUS! WAS THAT IN A MATCH?"
"Nooo no.. Puerto Rican hookers don't fuck around if you try to skip out on them for free. Worst I got in a match down there was a few staples in the head and a cracked tooth. And Hep C.. did I say that already?"
Jeff looks visibly uncomfortable in the chair with the information he's gained
"So these last 12 years you've been.."
"Raisin two shitty kids with my wolverine of a ex wife up until she found some new dick and slapped me with a divorce. They all moved out a few months ago. I considered killin' myself but I figure the shit I've done to my body is gonna do me sooner than later so I might as well live it up while I got the money."
"Wow.. that's both anticlimactic and kind of depressing."
"That's life, kid. You think death match workers age well? Fuck, I've been all fucked up since training. Before I got on the Arnolds I was this fuckin size doin bump drills with huge ass men. That shit was BRUTAL on a 19 year old body."
"Speaking of your childhood.."
"Ah don't start that bullshit. It's all a work. I was a middle class kid in Portland, went to Lincoln High, dropped out to start training to wrestle. I wasn't fuckin born at a McDonalds and I don't have a brother. Sorry to kill that wet dream kayfabe backstory for all you nerds."
"Wow, one disappointment after another."
"You sound like my fuckin wife now. You got any more questions or are you ready to fuck outta here?"
"Well, there's been rumblings since nCw shut down of a reunion sho-"
"No."
"Not even a thought?"
"Why the fuck would I go back? I have money, and what would I do? Go fuckin get bumped around by Spike Kane? What is he 50 now?"
"He.. actually died."
"HA!! What a beta! Even better, so what, do I put Trent Helms over while he records himself taking a shit on camera and calls it a promo."
"He also died.."
"Brother you're just makin my fucking DAY. So who's even left, Joe?"
"Missing for almost 10 years."
Vertigo laughs so hard he slumps over his desk
"Ohhhh my god. So pretty much everybody is either dead, missing, or retired? What the fuck would this reunion show be? Me wrestling my own cardboard cutout?"
"Well... Seth Drabble-"
All the joy leaves Vertigo's face.
"Get out of my house."
"I was just trying to sat that Seth"
Vertigo retrives the gun from his desk and pulls back the hammer
"OUT!"
The camera crew quickly retreat from the office and out the front door. Vertigo stumbles after them and stops at the threshold.
"NEVER FUCKIN SAY THAT NAME IN MY HOUSE!"
Jeff musters up all the courage he can to ask one final question.
"Ok! I apologize, can I just ask you one more thing."
"Fuck, fine, hurry up.."
"nCw is disbanded, but currently there's a promotion running that's a spiritual successor to nCw called Imperial Wrestling Federation. Is there any chance you'd make an appearance as a farewell to your fans from 12 years ago?"
"Imperial Wrestling Federation... sounds like a bunch of fuckin MARKS to me. You want a farewell, how's about this for old time sake?"
Vertigo grins and points the gun at Jeff. His eyes turn cold and with no emotion he says
"Maybe that promo WAS a shoot..."
Jeff's color leaves his face and he stands frozen, the camera man and driver watching from the car start screaming for him to run as they start the car
"Ahhhh I'm just fuckin with ya."
Vertigo lowers the gun and turns, slamming the door behind him.
Jeff makes a b-line for the van and jumps in.
"Let's get the fuck out of here. This guy is just a disappointing old dickhead."
As they pull back onto the dirt road Jeff goes on about how he was just about to fuck that old drunk asshole up, before the camera cuts to black.
Well howdy there pardner.