Any Thing Can Happen.

[New York City, center of the universe. Times are shitty and I’m pretty sure they can’t get worse. It’s a comfort to know, when you’re singing the “hit the road blues” that anywhere else you can possibly go after New York would be a pleasure cruise. Eight to ten million humans in one small confined space. Makes you think claustrophobia may be a real fear. New York has always been one of the most violent cities in the world. After all, why else would they make so many reality cop shows based in New York. It’s the kind of city that everyone looks over their shoulder for fear of the mugger in the alleyway or the boogeyman in the dark corner. Whether you’re fearful of the Puerto Ricans in the Boogeydown or Spanish Harlem, or you’re afraid of the blacks in Bed-Stuy or Red Hook, or an everyday run-of-the-mill white guy maniac on the subway system with a knife and a God, New Yorkers have always gotten a bad rap for being “aggressive,” “brash,” and “in your face.” They’re one of the few people on the planet that will hate each other while in the city, but put them anywhere else on the planet and they’ll immediately love each other because of the kinship the city gives to everyone.

Have you ever met a New Yorker somewhere else in the United States and all they wanted to tell you about was the fact that they’re from New York? As if that’s some sort of award or prize they received by birth or choice. You really don’t give a damn about what hundred block they lived on, whose momma they knew, what school they went to or whatever mindless other bullshit they told you about their upbringing. They’re mostly Yankee fans, simply because it’s easy to be a Yankee fan since they win all the time. They’re mostly Giants fans too, although they won’t admit it when the Giants suck. They’re all Knicks fans, but they won’t even mention basketball anymore. If they do, they’ll talk about how great Patrick Ewing was but how horrible that missed finger roll in the 95 playoffs against the Pacers was to them, personally. They can tell you where they were and what they were wearing when 9/11 happened and who they called first to tell that they were okay, despite the fact they may have lived twenty or thirty miles away from the World Trade Center. New Yorkers are a different breed of human. They’ve mutated their DNA, I swear to it. Look at the sewer rats and I think you may think I’m right.

Syco Angel drove from the white-trash town of Lovell, Wyoming and didn’t stop until he saw something that resembled civilization after gassing up in Denver, Colorado. Sadly, that didn’t come until Kansas City, Missouri. Kansas sucks just as much as Nebraska and Oklahoma do. Flat, uneventful and lots of corn fields. When he finally rolled into Kansas City, he had been driving for what felt like forever and was much closer to eighteen hours. Sleep deprivation is not a good thing to have going into a big match this week, so Syco had a layover day in Kansas City. He stayed in one of the Presidential Suites at the Intercontinental Kansas City at the Plaza. The 1200 square foot suite was one of the nicest places he’d ever given to himself and, rightfully so. In a few days, he figured, he’d be a Champion. He soaked in the jet tub and enjoyed the luxurious pillow-top California king sized bed. Two long days he rested and prepared his mind for the rampage he was going to need to unleash at Revolution.

Finally, when his mind was right, he hit the road again. He contemplated making it another nearly twenty hour driving day and get to New York with a week to spare before the show, but better judgment got the better of him and he stopped in a small town outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania known as Bedford. Bedford gave him a bed, a meal and he would be in the city by noon the next day. When booked in New York, however, Syco Angel always enjoys staying across the Hudson River in New Jersey. New Jersey is a much more laid-back feeling than the fast-paced and ridiculous nature of New York City and, despite MTV’s attempts to turn New Jersey people into nothing more than guidos and bimbos who party at the shore, New Jersey people have class that few others can appreciate.

We find Syco Angel semi-conscious with a nearly-empty bottle of whiskey in his left hand. He is shirtless and his scarred body is simply poured into an easy chair. He wears nothing more than a pair of orange and black board shorts and one sock. Yes, his right sock. Class at its finest, ladies and gentlemen. As the camera slowly pans back, we see that the easy chair is located inside a very luxurious hotel room, which isn’t shocking for him. We see numerous beer cans, far too numerous for it to simply be a Death Angel drinking binge, strewn about the place. Believe me, it’s a fuck-ton, so Syco has either gone on a bender to end all benders or he had company that got a little out of control. It’s easily mid-morning at this point so, perhaps he threw himself a “welcome home” party last night and this is the aftermath. Whatever it was before, this is what we’re left with.

This picture-perfect moment of alcoholism has been brought to you by Johnny Walker Blue Label. When you wanna get completely shitfaced for over a hundred dollars a bottle, Johnny Walker Blue Label will help you out. The bottle finally falls from Angel’s hand and hit’s the floor, leaning up against the chair without spilling a drop of the expensive liquor. At this point, though, it has done the job it was intended to do. He’s ass-over-head drunk and unconscious. A job well done by one of the greatest scotch makers in the world.

The world is nearly silent in this immense suite. The camera turns to view the bed, completely disheveled, yet empty. No female clothing to be found, but that doesn’t mean anything. The lone noise in the room, aside from Angel's breathing, is the wall clock ticking the seconds away. Tick… Tick… Tick… and each second he lays unconscious is one second closer to people like Corey Casey, Jason Hawk, Chuck Matthews, Ryan Hawk, Brenton Cyrus, and Nick Ridicule… and the masses that will fill The Empire Arena… to witness the One of the Greatest match.

The silence doesn’t last long. We knew it wouldn’t, but the alarm clock radio on the nightstand erupts with a horrible noise. There is nothing worse than blasting rap music in a hotel room unexpectedly, unless it’s not rap music, but rather, Air Supply. Yes, those two middle aged guys from England and Australia, respectively, who gave us such suck fests as “Two Less Lonely People in the World” and “The One That You Love.” In this case, the alarm radio has gone off and these two guys are filling the entire bedroom with

“Even the nights are better!
Now that we’re here together.
Even the nights are better
Since I found you, oh”

All the while, the cameraman is making a feeble attempt to hold the camera steady while trying to quickly shut off fucking thing off before he awakens and, more to the point, pisses off a sleeping psychopath.]

Syco: Get the fuck out of my way… NOW.

[Too late. Angel has quickly stood and stumbled from where he was resting so… peacefully?… to now find himself standing over an unfamiliar radio screaming sappy shit into his face. Have you ever tried to shut off a radio you’re not familiar with? No longer is there one singular “power” button that is universal on every model. Oh no. Some have a lever, some have a button, some have a switch, some have -- flying radio… slamming into the wall and breaking into a couple dozen pieces.]

Syco: Air Supply sucked then… and they suck worse now. What fucking time is it?

[Angel reaches for his cell phone but is unable to locate it. Ironic that he just destroyed something that would’ve answered that question for him, isn’t it? He walks to the door to the patio and flings open the curtains, flooding the room with blinding sunlight. He is quick to recognize his error and return the curtains to their original position and put one hand over each eye. Releasing a sub-human growl, he releases his eyes and gives that “I’m so fucking hung over” face that everyone has had at one time or another.]

Syco: Hey, camera fucker… what time is it?

Voice: Nine oh two.

[Angel is quick to dismiss the statement with a wave of his left hand.]

Syco: Fuck… I knew I shouldn’t have cracked that open. Johnnie is like Pandora’s Box. Once I open it, I can’t close it and put back in what’s been released. I’m just glad you weren’t hear for last night. I had a few old friends here in honor of the Horror that will be unleashed. Now really isn’t the time for this, though. Ya think?

[Angel picks his head up toward the camera. His eyes are bloodshot, his face looks sunken and he looks like, well… like he was up all night chugging whiskey and partying and is now paying the consequences for it. Angel pushes past him toward the bathroom and closes the door. We hear the shower turn on and the cameraman turns back toward the bed. --black--]


[We resurface what may or may not be the same day but it’s now in the evening. Sounds of the ocean ebbing and flowing with the shore are almost mystical and soothing as the camera gains focus. We see the back of Death Angel’s head a few feet in front of us and a bunch of bright and twinkling lights cover a building to the right. It’s too soon to figure out what’s there. Looking down, we find that Death is walking over a boardwalk, which isn’t shocking since the Jersey shore is famous for its boardwalks. Asbury Park, Seaside Heights, Atlantic City, Wildwood, Cape May… just a few of the famous ones that are hundreds of miles long. Death takes a few steps up to the ramp way they’re taking and gets in front of the camera. He turns, wearing a black hoodie with a red skull emblazoned on the front along with a pair of black jeans and his combat boots. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. he speaks to the camera almost as if he’s giving some sort of tour of the boardwalk.]

Death: To the right, we have Funtown Pier, home to the only looping rollercoaster on Seaside Heights Boardwalk. To the left, Casino Pier, home to the tallest and fastest ride on the boardwalk, the Big Shot. This, people of the world, is what I once called home. It’s what MTV has ruined for the thousands of locals who used to enjoy the sanctity of our little slice of Americana and what has been replaced is an overexposed, overgreased, overtanned, overly retarded substitute of Long Island guidos and Hampton bimbos bent on one thing and one thing only….

[Almost as if it were timed, six people walk from around the building fitting the exact description of what Death Angel has just described. Three guys, three girls. The three guys would be triplets if they were all the same height. They all have the slicked hair spiked up to the point of becoming a weapon and looking like Vegeta from Dragon Ball Z. They’re all wearing muscled shirts that are two to three sizes too small, covered by an unbuttoned collar shirt and, of course, the collar is popped like they’re John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever. They all have white sneakers in mint condition and have spent too many hours naked in a tanning bed. The girls, however, would be pretty if they weren’t orange and looked like they stapled a skate ramp to their head and held it down with Aqua Net. You know the look… where everything is flat but the middle of the top is a launching pad for someone on a skateboard? Yeah. These six idiots look at Angel conducting his ‘tour’ and see the camera. They instantly think it’s MTV and pose for the camera and start “shouting out” to their friends.]

Death: Whoa… whoa… who the fuck do you think you idiots are? This isn’t MTV, this isn’t bubble gum schnapps and fruit smoothies with your friends, you orange freaks.

[The girls begin to walk the other way while flipping Death Angel off, but one of the meatheads decides he’s going avenge the embarassment.]

Douchebag: Hoo da fawk do ya think ya awe? Sum kinda tuff guy?

[Death Angel rolls his eyes, attempting to send off the maggot with a dismissive hand gesture.]

Death: Go ahead there Gotti boy. Go get your vodka and cran at the Sawmill and make sure you fuck something with herpes this week. I’ve got shit to do and I’ve got no time for your bullshit.

[The douche bag doesn’t appear to be backing up but seeing his friends getting farther and farther behind him and no longer feeling as confident about himself, he decides to shove his hands into his skin-tight jean pockets and walk his stocky little ass down the boardwalk and not bother with the creep in the black anymore. Angel again turns his attention to the camera again.]

Death: What a Douche bag, and he's lucky I got that he walked away in one peace.

[Angel begins to walk to his left, which is the right of the camera toward what he previously mentioned as Funtown Pier. We look to our right and we see an arcade known as Lucky Leo’s. Large purple and white awnings with carnival games for prizes line the outside of the casino. One of them tries to get Angel to come over and play it, but he declines.]

Death: On to more Douche Bags.

[Death Angel trails off as our attention is diverted to one of the barkers for the carnival games. This one is one of those water-gun games where you shoot water into a clown’s mouth in attempt to get the little horse to climb to the top. Winner gets a small stuffed animal. The barker has a microphone that is playing through an overhead PA system.]

Barker: Come on and try it out here guys, it’s Water Gun Fun! The most fun you can legally have with firearms on the boardwalk. We’re trying to go for a large prize here and if we can get just three more people to play, I’ll bump it up to a JUMBO prize. That’s right, folks, this little girl wants a jumbo one and are you really going to reject her of that?

[Death Angel stops, looking at the barker as he continues to run his little game. Two girls in their late teens to early twenties begin walking up toward him as he turns around.]

Barker: Ladies… lllllladies… lllllladies, I wanna give you a jumbo here, all you have to do is step over here and play with my guns.

[The girls continue walking.]

Barker: So… is that a no? I mean, you didn’t even say anything to me! Ladies… La… Ladies! I have a microphone… and my voice can carry! Call me…

[He spins on his heels and finds an elderly couple walking toward him as well.]

Barker: C’mon sir, win a tweety for your sweetie. Ma’am win a sponge bob for that heart throb… win a Scooby for her --

[He thinks for a second and inhales… but cuts himself off before he says it. Death Angel stands back, his arms folded watching this guy.]

Death: This guy is so much different than anyone else. Most of them just tell ya the rules and tell ya the prizes and try to bait you with the dreams of winning an X-Box. This guy gives you humor. What the hell is he doing?

[The barker runs past Angel to the middle of the boardwalk, leaving his stand unattended. The six people already lined up to play look to him for guidance. He holds up one finger in an attempt to say “one second.” He waits for the crowd to refresh itself, as it does every couple of seconds as people pass by. This time, a family of eight or nine people walk up, looking at the prizes. The little kids want to play, but the parents are reluctant.]

Barker: This is the voice of God… play Water gun Fun… Do it… DO IT NOW!

[The kids are quick to pick up on the barker’s location and run up to the stand to play. Angel stands back and watches the race, before stepping over to the stand. The barker stands all of five foot five inches tall and is rather heavy in the midsection. He removes his headset and speaks to Angel.]

Barker: Wanna play? Gotta pay.

Death: No, I don’t wanna play.

Barker: Then what do you want?

Death: Your name… and ten minutes of your time when you get a break.

Barker: I don’t swing that way, buddy…

Death: Trust me… I’m sure this isn’t paying the bills well enough for you. You’ll want to hear what I have to say.

Barker: Name’s Anthony. I’ll be getting a smoke break in about a half hour. Be here or you’ll have to wait til my next one.

[Death Angel smiles, nods, and leaves the booth walking back the way he came. He turns to the camera again and speaks.]

Death: Anthony there probably never saw himself working as a glorified con artist… because I certainly hope you realize each of these games has a trick or a “gimmick” to them that makes them favor the house. Sure, you can win the big prizes… if you end up paying about twice or three times what they’re worth. But, the masses and the sheep will continue to pay it because, well, they want to prove they’re the best at these mindless games.

Any thing can Happen.

[Angel shrugs as the camera goes black]

~~~~~~The Match~~~~~~

So yet again I face a man with the Name Angel in it so many have came with the name yet failed to live up to it and your like no other Steel you have started a great run in your career and now are on a down fall.

Steel don't get me wrong I Respect you but from time to time that can change the reason why I attacked you last week in the Match against Robbie Hart was to make a point that you need a Big Friend to watch your back in the ring.

Steel Angel Darkness is coming to take over your Self are you ready to be Crused