Inactive Fiction: Wrestlefest 2006

You are backstage, squeezing into your tights and getting totally pumped up. The baby oil is on, the roar of the crowd has reached a fever pitch, and one of your fellow wrestlers is defecating in a diva's duffel bag while mentally preparing to call her a cunt. You've made it to the big time. You take one last look in the mirror before your premiere, and in the reflection you see...

Please choose your face: ( angry, winking, winking with the other eye )

> winking

Please choose a skin color: ( 1, 2, 3 )

> what color is 1?

1 it is. Please choose your torso: ( yes, no )

> yes

Please choose arms: ( raised, hands on hips, broken )

> hands on hips

Please choose a hat: ( toupee or space helmet )

> no hat

Please choose a hat: ( toupee or space helmet )

> space helmet

Please enter your wrestler's name.

> David Arquette

What is your wrestler's gimmick? This is very important, as it sets him apart from other wrestlers and can ultimately make or break his career.

> I am allergic to shellfish

You are David Arquette, the man with a torso who is allergic to shellfish. As you turn from the mirror, a camera is shoved into your face and the show's interviewer asks how you feel about your upcoming match against Ric Flair.

You are on live television for the first time. Please cut your promo:

> How do I feel? Maybe you should ask Flair how he feels while his spinal cord is still intact. I'm going to tear him apart in that ring, and soon there will be no denying that David Arquette is the greatest wrestler in the business.

Hey Flair, are you watching? Do you see this battered and scuffed space helmet? It was once brand new, full of optimism. But it bled, Flair, it bled for this industry in a thousand arenas across a thousand states. I sacrificed everything just to get where I am, and I'm not about to let a washed-up old man like you stand in the way. My time is now. Your time... hell, your time was over ten years ago. If you're smart you'll just lay down without a fight and let me pin you. I can't guarantee that simply placing my arm on your chest for the duration of the count won't snap your mummified ribs, but it's the best chance you have of walking out of that ring alive.

Syntax error. Please try again.

> Flair, you son of a bitch. Did you think I'd sit idly by after you skipped my spot in line at the DMV? I waited hours to get where I was, only to get passed up by a washed-up old hack like you. Well no more, Ric. No more biting my lip and taking the high road. I'm going to bite your lip and take the road to victory!

Syntax error. Please try again.

> GRRR!

Ric Flair accepts your challenge of "GRRR!". The time for your match comes, and you emerge from backstage onto the entrance ramp while your theme song "Brandy (You're a fine girl)" plays at full volume. To herald your arrival, your pyrotechnics go off.

Please choose your pyrotechnics display ( none, pretty big, huge ):

> huge

A flash of white light envelops your field of vision as burning phosphors fill the stadium, instantly incinerating all they touch. Nearly twenty thousand are dead or unaccounted for, and your promising career is cut short.

Try again?

> yes

Please choose your pyrotechnics display ( none, pretty big, huge ):

> pretty big

A modest-yet-impressive tower of sparks shoots into the air behind you. A stray spark flutters in an impossible arc and lands square on your space helmet, which is not only not fire-resistant, but was specifically designed to be as flammable as possible for reasons you will never have the chance to learn. In mere milliseconds, you become a chia pet of flames and burning agony.

At your funeral, your parents admit that they never really liked you all that much. A stash of kiddie pornography is found on your computer's hard drive, and when this discovery is broadcast on national news everyone you ever met hates you.

Try again?

> yes

Please choose your pyrotechnics display ( none, pretty big, huge ):

> none

You make your way down the ramp with no problem and enter the ring. As you wait for Ric Flair's entrance to begin, a very large man falls from the rafters and lands on your head. The man is a wrestler, and he was supposed to be lowered into the ring after your match but a cable couldn't take his weight and snapped. Compounding the problem, it turns out that not only is your space helmet not impact resistant, but it was specifically designed to fragment upon impact and force the fragments into your skull.

At your funeral, it turns out that no one really remembers you or bothers to show up, including the priest who forgot to write down the appointment for your service. Your death is turned into a storyline where Ric Flair dates your sister only to find out that he is impotent, but the angle proves unpopular and is dumped in favor of a feud between Mick Foley and the answering machine of a wrestler he can never catch at home.

Try again?

> no i hate you

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– Dennis "Corin Tucker's Stalker" Farrell (@DennisFarrell)