New Era Wrestling

N.E.W. THOUGHTS
By the Big Guy

It was dark.
My limo driver, (I had to fire the Rock for always taking sharp left turns. I almost messed up my
hair!! But, I digress.) stopped the car under a street light, which was the only illumination for blocks
around. Normally, you’d never see the Big Guy in a neighborhood like this all by himself, but Brother
Ralph was busy negotiating likeness rights for the new Ralph and the Big Guy playset, (available from
Mattel and just in time for Christmas), so there I was, stuck between my dislike for humanoids, and my
journalistic integrity, because I had come to investigate something that boggled my mind.
It would probably kill an average humanoid, but I digress. (Gonna be tough ride, hold your hat!)
I walked down that dark alley, like Duff Doyle walking to the potty, and I followed the sound of a
crowd cheering ahead of me. Eventually, I made my way through the dark, only tripping on one rat, and
I saw white door, with a tall man dressed in a black leather trench coat and a hat that he probably stole
from me when I was off doing charity work, because… I care. There were three people in line ahead of
me, until the door man saw that I had my Vanity Inc membership card, and I was allowed right inside,
given a rum and coke and slippers.
I nodded to the ham and egger who showed me to my seat and I waited for the show to begin.
There was a single spot light in the middle of what appeared to be a warehouse of sorts. Scattered
around this was a wide-open space, with strategically place weapons all around. It looked like one of
the ancient arenas where gladiators fought for their emperor, either that, or Joey Kincaide’s rumpus
room.
But, I digress. (You should really be used to this by now.)
That night, I witnessed some true brutality, as some of the toughest men in the world, not
named Tony Morales, fought like Tyler Durden on steroids. The fights were exciting, although not a
great deal of skill was on display, like in a typical New Era Show, where the greatest and most talented
athletes on Earth compete each and every month for the humanoids enjoyment. That is, until one man
emerged from the deepest darkest parts of Broomfield.
Jason Noel.
Now, as you ham and eggers may remember, (although probably not, you feeble minded fools),
I have written a column already about the amazing talents of this man. I am on record, (along with my
brilliant brother, Ralph), as saying that Jason Noel is just THAT close to being one of the most dominant
forces in professional wrestling. I have gone on record saying that Jason Noel has all the tools anyone
could ask for, speed, strength, agility, toughness, but that there was something missing, some crucial
element that seemed to be holding him back.
I went through my files before coming to this event, because IT’S CALLED BEING PROFESSIONAL,
DAGNABBIT!
Wow… where did that come from?
Anywho, Jason Noel came out, minus Dastardly Drew Steele and his non-stop references to
areolas and “crazy eyes”, without the humanoids and their pedestrian distractions, and he was focused
as I have never seen him before. He stepped into the spotlight, facing four men of various sizes and

skillsets, all more than willing to use the various baseball bats, steel chairs, tire irons, etc. scattered
around the lighted area.
I expected the worst. In fact, I had already started dialing the phone for Deebo to come down
and help Jason out, when I watched what a FOCUSED Jason Noel was capable of. He tore through all
four of those men in less than thirty seconds, (one may have been Mike Tyson, can’t be sure), and the
best thing about it, was that he eschewed the use of weaponry. He beat those four humanoid losers
within an inch of their lives, using moves that would all be perfectly legal in a wrestling ring, (depending
on what mood Streno is in).
Jason Noel emerged victorious and was crowned the World Street Fighting Champion by some
guys who smoked stogies and wore plaid suits. Yeah, I know, not exactly the belt held by B.F.C., but
come on… it was still very impressive. As I left, I saw Jason Noel and handed him my popcorn, (no, not
for keepsies, that’s MY popcorn!), and reached into my wallet, past the rows of c-notes, and gave him…
my business card.
Yes, you heard me right… THE business card. What’s my business, you ask? Well, it’s none of
yours, that’s what it is!! Stupid humanoid…
But, I digress again. (You think it’s easy digressing this much!? Try it, bub!)
I left that night, riding in my limousine, I went over that street fight in my head over and over,
trying to understand the difference. Now, granted, the four losers he beat up weren’t exactly Johnny
Proof or Chris Wrath, but come on… still pretty amazing. The difference is that Jason Noel relied on
Jason Noel. He didn’t look for fans, (not counting the Mafia… we care!), for inspiration or approval. He
didn’t care if anyone chanted his name, or if they cried out, “Duelie Sucks”… okay, maybe two or three
times, that happened… I mean, he does suck, right? It’s not like it’s a flippin secret or anything. People
aren’t walking around, asking themselves, “Does Duelie really suck?”
Damn, digressing again… sigh.
Now, let me just say… I am no manager. I could never… ever do what the lovely and talented
Alexus Vain does, but I knows what I knows, and Jason Noel, I am offering you the services of both
myself, and my equally brilliant Brother Ralph as advisors. Advisors who can tell you when the proper
time to poke an eye is, or when a blatant choke, or even the much-vaunted thumb to the eye would be
effective and appropriate, because it’s a family show and… we care.
We really do care, Jason. We truly do.
So, December 2, at Mile High Comics, when you next step into a New Era ring… I expect great
things from you, because I’ve seen it. It’s time for Jason Noel to be grabbing some much-deserved gold,
and if the Morales Mafia can be of service… just say the word.
Peace.

                I want to tell you all a story. A story of chasing your dreams and achieving them through hard work and not fearing your potential. No, I’m not talking about myself and my broadcast journalism position which ranks me right up there with Ralph Lopez and Charles Duffy.

                I’m on the verge of digressing, so let me start at the beginning.

                It was summer about a year ago, maybe longer… (Hey, I ain’t no human calendar GET OFF ME!)

                Okay, there… I digressed. Hey, some people drink too much, I digress. Don’t judge me!

                I was waking up early, must have been about noon, so I was making my fried bologna sangwhich, (BZB you don’t know nothing bout that), with some red kool-aid and cool ranch Doritos, when I heard something strange from my back yard. So, I wrapped myself in my satin smoking jacket, a birthday gift from the Great Tony Morales, and I looked out my kitchen window. There I saw a nerf football on my grass… MY GRASS!! My beautifully manicured lawn that I pay professionals to keep up, because… I got that kinda cash was being corrupted and polluted by this sissy sized fake football! I call for my killer attack dog, (Molly) and open the back door, where I saw this kid hopping my fence… my beautifully built privacy fence with the water proofing and a gate. Yeah you heard me there was a gate two feet away, and yet some young miscreant took it upon himself to hop over it!

                But, I digress.

                I noticed right away that this punk kid had amazing agility and leaping ability. I also noticed his Hawaiian shirt and that he needed a haircut. I look down at my ankles, where Molly is looking at me, as if to say… “Now? You want I should bite him now, Big Guy?”

                You had to admire her enthusiasm, and thirst for blood so I winked, and kicked open the door! Molly was off like a shot! She charged right toward the youngster, who saw her and jumped right over her, narrowly taking a nasty bite from her terrier-like… well, she is a terrier, so… well, she almost bit his butt, okay? The kid ran toward the gate, but he saw Deebo just getting home from his “Mean Mugging” class downtown, so he turned charging toward the other side of my yard with a speed that hurt my eyes! Molly stayed with him, matching him step for step until the kid took a giant leap, getting to the top of the fence just ahead of her tiny teeth.

                I shook my fist and shouted, “Stay outta my yard, you whippersnapper!! Get a haircut, ya hippie!”

                I always remembered that encounter. I remembered the raw athleticism and speed of this youngster. I grabbed his nerf football and added it to my collection of stuff thrown into my yard by street punks.

                Fast forward to this past year, when I am sitting front row at a New Era Show, because again… I got that kind of cash, when I see this same kid sliding into the ring to wrestle your hero and mine… the Great Tony Morales. That night, the Great One gave this young kid a wrestling lesson, but the athletic talent and desire was obvious to the trained observer, such as myself.

                This youngster was none other than… Logan Austin.

 Naturally, I was intrigued. A kid… a babe in the woods… a veritable toddler in the world of men like Joey Kinkaide, Jason Noel, B.F.C. A kid who had to have waivers signed, just so that he could pursue his dreams and take beatings from men like Tony Morales. Why, I can remember watching young Logan swinging from Junstu’s moustache, and now… he’s competing at the highest level against the giants of this sport.

                His talent was readily apparent to everyone. He had speed, quickness, agility but, did he have the heart? Tienes Corazon? That’s what I had to discover. That is what the lovely and talented Alexis Vain had to find out as our brilliant General Manager. So, it was suggested that Alexus run Logan Austin through the gamut. To put him through his paces and to beat him up to a point where it would either make him… or break him. The list of opponents he faced, from former N.E.W. Champion Duff Doyle to Hunter Grey was designed to test his intestinal fortitude, to see if he was truly like an improved version of Shawn Michaels… or a less improved version of Marty Jannetty. (Yeah, I never liked the Rockers, and I blame Jannetty! He once bumped into me after a show and if that wasn’t enough, he scuffed my fedora!! Jerk…)

                But, I digress. Can someone suggest someone to help me? It’s a serious problem!

                Finally, it came down to make or break time for the Flyin Hawaiian. Miss Alexus booked him against the man it all started with… Tony Morales. Most of you ham and eggers out there don’t know, because… well, it ain’t none ya business, but Tony Morales was not one hundred percent that night. Being the saint in wrestling garb that he is, Tony Morales was out saving lives in Africa or Detroit, (like there’s much difference any more), and while carrying crates of food, water and medicine, an elephant or a Buick crushed Tony’s right foot! Yes, you heard me correctly, he had five broken bones in that foot, (would have darn near killed War Dog), yet still insisted on competing. If this wasn’t enough, by coming into contact with some very sick people, Tony contracted a rare form of 24 hour Malaria and had a temperature of 107 degrees when the bell sounded for this re-match.

                I remember speaking with Adrian Matthews right before show time. He was very confident that young Austin was going to win the match. I wondered at this, considering that Adrian’s mentorship had already resulted in Logan getting pounded into a fine paste and used on Hunter Grey’s Graham crackers. (Barbarians love graham crackers, don’t they?)

                Digressing… yeah, yeah, yeah….

 Then, as Tony bravely came out to compete, I watched Adrian Matthews STOMP ON TONY’S ALREADY CRUSHED FOOT!! Yeah, you heard me, the All-American hero with the missing pec resorted to underhanded chicanery to give Logan Austin an advantage! I screamed for the match to be called off, but Tony being Tony… insisted on wrestling.

                Then, I watched the amazing spectacle as Logan Austin and Tony Morales wrestled a five-star match! In spite of Adrian Matthews instructions, Logan Austin looked like a seasoned veteran in there. He took as good as he gave, going toe to toe with the Great One. Yes, you heard me, Logan Austin wrestled in a class with the best wrestler in the world. He used all that God given athletic ability and for one night, at least, he fulfilled his potential. Logan Austin truly became a wrestling STAR, as somehow… against all odds, (and this hurts to say), Logan Austin defeated Tony Morales.

                Yes, I thought it was a sign of the Apocalypse too, but no. The crowd went wild, cheering for this youngster with the good attitude and tremendous talent. His very first victory as a professional wrestler against a living legend. They carried him around on their shoulders and… even the Big Guy put his hands together as he remembered that stupid Nerf football, sitting on my mantle and the young hippie who turned into a real live pro wrestler.