My whole life I've been a WWF/E fan, but being such comes with a heavy burden, a secret we are bound to keep yet one I'm risking my life by telling you this anyways: wrestling IS real, and it's in fact the real world that is fake. Because of this, you can understand why my local shop owner, a small Asian woman prone to having fits of psychotic delusions due in part to her traumatic experiences with a dishwasher, was more willing to hand me a few copies of snuff films than she was to give me a tape of my favorite wrestling Pay-Per-Vyew, "In Your House".
Yes, it's real, and yes, there were occasions in which large, oily musclebound men screaming "BROTHERRRRRRR" were known to break the boundaries of time and space, shattering televisions and terrorizing Mid-Western families. I had heard the stories, sure, but I was far too interested in watching the actual show than any possible steroid fueled transcendental incidents. Eventually, I was able to hide the shop owner's body well enough in a dumpster a few blocks down so that I felt safe rummaging through her belongings. Oh, and as an aside, cutting bodies into pieces is much harder than you think when you've only got a Fisher-Price keyboard on hand.
While I was busy cleaning up "All teh blud" that once belonged to the shopkeeper, (oops, did I just give you a trope I promised not to be in here?) I pondered the journey ahead and wondered if I would ever be the same when I came out of the proverbial wrestling womb. I wasn't exactly sure if a wrestling dvd was even in this shop, I guess I had just assumed such to give this train wreck of a story legs to stand on. Oh well, guess I have to drop the "shopkeeper" angle entirely.
While my ultimate prize was indeed "In Your House 13: A Series Of Substandard and Underwhelming Matches That Make You Want To Do Taxes", I was simply defeated when I only managed to find a copy of "In Your House 8: The Analocalypse of 2027." At least my callous disregard for the life of another human being was not in vain. The show was mediocre at best, but can you blame me? I was under serious distress! I could hear someone come in but I was certainly unable to pass as an elderly Asian woman, as I hadn't been to my classes specifically tailored for that very thing in a while.
Heading back to my underground dwelling, complete with unidentifiable green goo covering the walls and a hoarde of rats scurrying about (each of which had their own names and sense of identity. Except for Thomas. Fucking poser. Stay off of my DeviantArt, asswipe.), I pried the VCR from the dead hobo's cold, grimy fingers, only to be let down when I realized that I, in fact, had a DVD in my hand. After a few moments of experiencing sheer, unyielding terror brought on by the crushing weight of reality and the fact that the life will one day leave all of our eyes, I remembered.....I'm in a Trollpasta. As a matter of fact, I'm the fucking AUTHOR of the Trollpasta, so whatever I say goes, goddammit!!
Sliding the VHS tape in, I prepared my body for the most intense experience one could imagine from such a spectacle. My nipples hardened firmly at the sight of all my favorites being showcased, everyone from the Cocktease Cowboy, Spaghetti-Armed Kid, "Black Juice Jamboree", and of course, Dank Danny Dildonson (there, you had your "dankness". Happy that you got your fix?) After a quick rundown of the matches to come, the announcer stepped out of the ring to allow the two hulking monstrosities of men to have plenty of room for their match.
I took note of the dark, smokey arena, filled with people that looked almost like shadows that didn't budge whatsoever, their white eyes peering down on the ring menacingly while the wrasslers made their respective entrances. It felt an awful lot like these things held something....sinister, a deep dark secret that held the key to this eerie tape itself....but I won't remember to tell you what it was by the end, so fuck it.
It felt like an eternity before these hotdogs wearing spandex came out, moving at odd, jerky angles. I don't remember them moving like that in any of the previous invasions organized against your household, but somehow this wasn't strange enough for me to pause and wonder what the fuck just happened. On top of that, their painfully 1990's generic rock music that probably came from a royalty free soundtrack was slow and distorted, making "wub wub" noises and occasionally screeching. It was rather hard to decipher that it was even malfunctioning.
The opening contest was between "Jelly Fingers" Jones and Tits McGee in a blindfolded naked half-dead inferno cage match on top of a scaffolding. Y'know, the standard fare. The match was a little hard to see, considering they were way the fuck up there, and the camera men were left circling the ring while redneck hick fans in the front row constantly and consistently chastised them for not "Showin' us that Rock fella". I simply assumed these must've been time traveling hicks, considering Rock as a character didn't show up for another few years.
The men battled back and forth, distant screaming punctuated with small amounts of blood flying it's way to the arena floor. I was quite irritated that I didn't get to see the whole thing, as I'm sure at one point I heard what sounded like sobbing and DEFINITELY the sound of a chainsaw starting up. I began to wonder if this was really a good idea, but before I knew it, I was shaken from my stupor in perhaps the first bit of real action all night.
Suddenly, the few in attendance (mostly inhabitants of the nosebleed seats) erupted with glee as Jelly Fingers Jones soon became jelly himself on the pavement below, leaving Ol' Titan Tits the victor. This is the part of the story where someone would usually say, "That was a bit strange, as I had never seen that before.", But no, it was more than a bit strange. It was kind of fucking terrifying actually why was this shit ever put on tape or even mentioned again?
I cried, knowing I could've very easily turned it off but I knew that would disappoint potential readers, so I kept going. While poor interns scraped bits of Jelly Jones pancake into little dust bins, the next match commenced as planned, this time between legitimate real life wrestling legend Jushin "Thunder" Liger (who was in WCW at this time but whatever. Fuck your continuity.) and guest wrestler Bob Ross. Jushin was great and all, but I could tell Bob was about to paint this poor bastard into a fucking grave.
Again, the entrances were different, except Jushin's seemed as if it were sped up x2.5 times the normal speed. When Bob Ross came out, he didn't have theme music, but instead stood pretty much at the top of the ramp and waited around for thirty or so minutes while a full episode of "The Joy of Painting" played on the large screen, featuring Bob painting some of his favorite examples of Satanic symbolism. As above, so below indeed, Bob.
The match was even more entertaining than I had hoped for, with Bob doing his usual tricks such as jamming paint brushes into his opponents eyes, writing profanities and drawing penises along their bodies, etc. Jushin Liger on the other hand kinda did his regular moveset, though spiced things up a little partway through the match when he rammed his Mercedes Benz directly through both the ring and cameramen, pinning Bob Ross against the wall.
As the fight was winding down, I jolted upright as obnoxious music blew the speakers out of the arena and none other than Hulk Hogan ran down, a streak of yellow and red shouting all manner of racist slurs while preparing to deliver a beat down. This was a common thing in wrestling, and it typically gets a huge reaction from the crowd, but I noticed this time they were dead quiet. No one made a peep, though the men fighting didn't seem to notice or care.
That's when I saw him.
There, in the front row, clutching the Necronomicon tightly, was Linus. I swear, I didn't know he was showing up, I promised he wouldn't when I started writing this....but there he was. My heart sank, the realization that my Trollpasta and "It's Your First Kiss, Charlie Brown" were in the same canon hit me like a weight. I knew what sort of dire consequences this had, how badly this realization would destroy the timeline.
My attention suddenly snapped back to the action when yet another Hulk Hogan ran out, wearing light blue, though his title card read "Hluk Chogan". Oh Jesus fuck. As he raced out and joined the fray, yet another ran out in red, "Chuck Frogan", and the battle almost became too intense. Soon, like parasitic aliens, deviations of the Hulkster began to crawl out of every crack and crevasse and the fight became so heated that I could slowly feel the fabric of reality itself beginning to loosen.
Tights were being torn left and right, people began dying by the dozens. Not even the announce team was safe, suffering from fatal head explosions like it that movie Scanners. In all honesty, the sad truth was that this show was actually unbelievably boring and a travesty, with most matches actually being held in the near dark (no, seriously. The power blew after only the first two matches.)
But because I had been so foolish as to cram this thing full of tropes that scream, "Hey!!! I'm a Trollpasta, too!!", I had indeed changed the course of history, causing the event dreaded amongst men to finally begin. My actions could not be undone, and it was the product I loved so much that would prove to be my own undoing.
This was it, wasn't it? I realized my second biggest mistake now. Maybe adding as many clichés as possible wasn't enough, but recognizing the other Trollpasta as canon, it was what truly made the title of the Pay-Per-Vyew a self-fulfilling prophecy. The Analocalypse had begun. I saw now on the screen, the sheer amount of booty holes being poked by man-carrots was rising, pandemonium swelled and reached a climactic point that nearly brought the arena itself down, and Bob Ross himself found a moment to look directly into the camera....directly at me. Pointing a paintbrush in my direction, he locked eyes, and I could swear some kind of dramatic music played as he opened his mouth to speak....
That was when my forehead came crashing into the television screen, sending fragments and ludicrous amounts of blood in all directions. Flopping and flailing, I turned in a haze to see two police officers standing before me, both with ridiculously well kept mustaches and very suggestive short-shorts, brandishing nightsticks. I trembled. I knew what they had come for. Gulping, I prepared to reveal to them and the audience the plot twist of the story.
"This....this is about the shop keeper, isn't it..?" I said timidly as one of the officers grabbed my collar roughly. His face contorted into confusion. "About the....what?", he said, a puzzled look on his face. I explaind myself again, and he simply bellowed with laughter and replied, "Well, no....actually we knew you had instigated the Analocalypse of 2027 and came to get firsthand experience, but now that you've revealed you fucking killed someone then I guess we're bringing you in for that instead."
I lowered my head, still gushing an unreasonable amount of blood, as the officer cuffed me and shoved me in the direction of their customized hoverboard. Spending the next four years in prison for violating the rules of writing a coherent story and instigating the event that brought the world to it's knees, I was scheduled to be let out for being a good egg. But on the day of my planned release, I was stabbed in the neck with a sharpened end of a toothbrush, by none other than myself from Earth-3.
Do you end the story here, letting our beloved hero perish in prison, or want the alternate ending?? Turn to page 26 to find out!! (Just scroll down, asshole.)
ALTERNATIVE SEQUENCE OF EVENTS THAT SIGNIFY THE END OF THE STORY:
I lowered my head, and suddenly visions of the ripped tights and buttholes filled my head, including the devious smile of Bob Ross. In a fit of sudden energy, I shot up quickly, nailing the cop in the nose with the top of my head, and while he was distracted I yanked the nightstick from him and gave his buddy one good whack to the neck, causing his spine to shoot out the top of his head. I could feel my true Mary-Sue come out in me, the unstoppable power of a poorly written character surging through my veins.
As the first officer got back up, I bludgeoned him with the salami stick, yelling "WHO'S YOUR DADDY!?" to which he replied, "I dunno probably someone like Draco Malfoy." This response only served to drive my ambition further, but he wasn't down quite yet. He swung back, triggering a quick time event, but I pressed X just in time, and the force of his punch caused his fist to come all the way back around and land on his own face.
My thirst for intense violence and unnecessary brutality was not over, however. Holding the night stick tight, I swiftly left my lair and all my rat buddies behind in search for more people who have EVER heard of In Your House 8...and yes, that means you. As the Analocalypse raged out outside, I clenched my butt tightly and took a deep breath.
As I left, only one image remained on the shattered screen....that of Bob Ross, with a crooked smile and demented laugh...
*cringe*
