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TBS · (08-28-2019)

It isn't often that I say this and admitting this out loud doesn't exactly come easily to me, but I am capable of jealousy. It may not seem like I have a lot to be envious about, but we all have at least one thing that grinds us down. No, I'm not jealous of the fact that Raven is running this place – fuck no, as a matter of fact. I'm not envious of the main event of this little shindig going to SJ and The Brand – they worked really fucking hard ducking me all those years and earned the right to close this show. I don't lose any sleep over people talking about new Universal Champions being as good as I was – I'm Italian but I'm not a moron. I'm a little perturbed about Ryan Reynolds being cast as the voice of Pikachu, but that's not jealousy so much as just annoyed. But, having said all of that, I am jealous of people that can make impulsive decisions. I've never been great at that.

Every decision, every action, every move is a calculated decision that weighs on me and impacts me in ways that the average person can't possibly comprehend. Chris Page switches from Indica to Sativa on a minute's notice. Dante Anglais pivots from average human being to the most obnoxious prick in the world from second to second. Bigg Rigg pops in and out of retirement, Centurion pops in and out of feeling confident, and Barney Green shows the ability to switch between a nincompoop and a ….

Nevermind, I should have stopped at Centurion. Pay attention, by the way, and you'll notice that his popping in and out will likely coincide with the amount of time I stick around. But that's neither here nor there.

The point is, it often takes a long time to get me to make up my mind about something.

When Raven announced that I was coming back for XX, I imagine there were likely some mixed reactions. Some people probably thought it was just Raven bullshitting and I'd miss the show as he dropped the Flatline Crew on his own. Maybe some people theorized I'd just stand in the corner in a t-shirt and do the Shank version of the Greatest Hits – call someone a sword swallower, hit a super kick, probably steal the pin from Raven and go home and wait for the check to clear.

Instead, after what felt like years of difficult deliberation, you guys are actually getting the version of me that takes the time to give a shit. This isn't a comeback, this is a motherfucking celebration.

But the check better fucking clear.

In hindsight, I guess it should have been an easy decision to come back. After all, this IS the ten year anniversary of me kicking Ranma's teeth down his fucking throat and ending the most dominant Universal title reign in XWF history. What better way to celebrate that monumental event than to kick the teeth down the throat of another dominating Universal Champion and end the most dominant Universal title reign in XWF history again? Just kidding, Omega, I don't need to beat you. But, since I'm here I might as well ask the important XWF questions:

Do YOU need to beat me, Omega?
Can there be TWO most dominant Universal Championship reigns in XWF history?
Why are there two G's in BIGG?
Has Superballs always been a euphemism for just normal sized balls or is there a medical reason they're super?
What does Keeper actually keep? (I know, I know, Rigg's balls in his purse. Cheap heat.)
Why is Dr. Emo the doctor of being emo when Raziel is the one who bitches all the time? Is emo even still a thing?
Why in the fucking fuck of all fucks is Peter Gilmour any-fucking-where near me on the XWF top 50 of all time list?
Did Chad ever learn how to use a comma?
Why did The Big Shank really agree to show up for this?
How did James Raven convince Shank to show up for this?

Believe it or not, I'll answer three of those questions right now.

One of the answers is ‘Yes.' You can go ahead and figure out which one that's the answer to.

The last two? Let's just say it was a long story…

The year was 2012…

Our run as the Suicide Kings had just ended, Jonathyn Brown had just sold the XWF (again) and new ownership was coming in. I guess it was a lot to think about – new ownership meant new competition, new challengers to face, new glory to chase. You know, the usual shit that makes competitive people like us get out of bed in the morning. The truth is though, I wasn't feeling very competitive. I answered the phone that day because it rang. And it's 2012, what's he gonna do – text me?

"What about your legacy? What about that? This is a chance to really cement yourself as one of the best ever. We both know that if we stick this out together the ceiling for you is the SBOAT." Most people waste my air and my time by small talking or beating around the bush. Raven always knew when I was up for bullshit and when he was wasting his time. It's one of his like four talents.

"SBOAT?" I asked, ultimately knowing I'd regret it.

"Second Banana of all time. We keep going and we know I'll be the GOAT, but you know, no shame in second."

"Why is it always phallic shaped objects with you? I'm the second banana, you grow cucumbers in your garden, you have a giant black vibrator in your gym bag at all times. People are gonna think you're compensating."

"Says the guy who's name literally translates to Giant Dick."

Point, asshole.

"I'm not gonna say no, I'll just say maybe. Give me a call in a few days when they announce the ownership group. I heard Donald Sterling is looking to expand his portfolio, Donald Trump might play ball. Those guys got too much money and nothing better to do. If it smells right then I'll consider."

"You're right, if I owned the Clippers I'd definitely be looking to expand. Not like anything good ever happens to that LA team. It'd be pretty cool getting paid by an NBA owner."

"Yeah, I mean could you imagine if the Clippers showed up and actually took something good from Toronto? Something like really really REALLY special? Feels impossible, but I enjoy the idea of it pissing you off. Closest to the NBA you'll ever get, and closest to relevancy the Clippers will ever be."

"At least the Clippers will always be the Raptors' bitches."

"Word."

We talked for a few more minutes about how much I was enjoying LeBron fisting the rest of the NBA, how cool it was that Kaepernick was leading the 49ers to glory and was becoming a pretty big fan favorite, and other sports stories that seemed important at the time. Like I said, Raven knew when I was ready to bullshit. We ended the phone call and I swear to you, I was legitimately considering the chance. Maybe I wasn't done yet.

A few days later the phone rang again.

"It's Shane

, and it's going to be fucking awesome."

"I'm out."

I hung up the phone – to this day that remains the shortest conversation we'd ever had.

It was September 29th, 2013.

There was a knock at the door and I answered. Cool story, right?

Standing in the door was the greatest sight I've ever seen in my life, and the entire reason that I remember the date this took place. There they were in all of their Heisen-glory. Decked out with bald caps and glue on goatees and topped off with the most glorious pork pie hats I'd ever seen. There they were, James Raven and Mia Sanchez dressed like Walter White at my house to watch the Breaking Bad finale. Or so they thought.

"We are the ones that knock." Yep, he said that, swear to God. No matter what he says, this totally happened.

"Say my name," was the attempt at a follow-up offered by Mia.

"Oh yeah, I guarantee you've said that before, bitch."

"Nice, a Jesse Pinkman reference!" She said back to me? Whatever that meant.

We walked from the doorway to the home theater (I know, I have a home theater, I'm better than you and I know it, right?) where the tone from the two slowly changed.

"What no snack table? Where am I supposed to put the cotton candy meth? What kind of a party is this shit? Come on man, you're better than this."

"Look, this is my own private domicile and I will not be harassed, bitch."

"Man you're killing the Pinkman tonight! This is our territory tonight! James, hang out with this Aaron Paul wannabe while I get us some snacks. And drinks."

Again, what in the fuck is a Pinkman? I am not a…

"So, Shank, it's that time again. Whaddya say? There's this new federation keeping me busy and I think it'd be a good outlet for you. They've mentioned you. We can…"

"No." I'll skip the full recap, but I told him no about fourteen times. This time it was much easier, it just wasn't in the cards for me to get back into it. It's not like I was bored, we were in the golden age of television.

"Some things are forever, Shank, You and wrestling. Me and Mia. And Breaking Bad as the greatest television show of all time. I'll drop it, but only because the show is about to start. Turn on AMC."

Before I could rebuttal Mia walked back in. Yes, he said the shit about forever WITHOUT HER IN THE ROOM! Again, no matter what he says, this totally happened.

I dimmed the lights and within moments ‘Way Down in the Hole' started playing over the sound system. Within moments we were watching the cold open of season five of ‘The Wire.'

"What in the?" Raven seemed surprised.

"Come on! It's the series finale. You're really not gonna watch Breaking Bad?"

"I'm not going to dignify that bullshit with a response. King stay the king. The Wire is the king."

We didn't even get through the credits before Mia and James were up and on their way to another TV somewhere else in my house. Ungrateful assholes. I don't know what they thought they were going to watch me do tonight, but it wasn't going to be the night they saw me declare a television show better than this one.

They were gone for about forty-five or fifty minutes. I heard some random yelling at the screen when I finally stood up and walked into the room where they were watching.

"James, can I talk to you? It's important."

"Now?"

"Now."

He paused the TV (pausing live TV? We're living in the future man) and I sat on the couch across from them. Part of me respected that Mia loved him enough to pause the live finale long enough so we could talk. Maybe he was right, love like that really might last forever.

"This new federation. Jimmy, I have to know. Did they mention me by name?"

There is a brief hesitation from them both. It's awkward, but it suits my purpose. "They did." Mia answers before James can stop her. It looks like he's uncomfortable with her answer, almost like he thinks I don't need that bullshit on my mind.

I let her response linger for a minute, as I can tell I look upset, I even look down at my phone for a moment to sell it. It's been a few minutes now.

"They used my name? In the street? Talk motherfuckers."

"The street?" Mia looks even more confused than usual, James knows where this is going. Mostly.

"When we bounce from this shit here, you tell them James that word did not get back to me. You tell them Shank will step to any motherfucker. Centurion. Chris Page. My name is my name!"

There is another brief moment of silence.

"Oh, and Bryan Cranston's character dies on the floor after killing all the nazis. Thanks for the talk."

I stand up and walk out of the room leaving Jimmy motherfucking me loudly. Thank God for internet spoiler culture. I do not know if they finished the show or not – but seriously, once you know the ending what's the point?

It's 2014 and we're at a bar.

Well, I'm at a bar. I know you want me to say, ‘that's not new,' and the old me would have, but honestly the last couple years I haven't spent very much time at the bar at all. I'm here tonight because Raven called me – news of his divorce from Mia just got broken by TMZ and the dude needs a drink. Who am I to say no to that?

He walks in with a hood pulled over his head and his head mostly faced down as he quickly strolls towards me at the bar. I never understood this about celebrity culture. Why would one and a half (I've been out of the public eye for a few years now) recognizable people meet at a public bar stool to have a conversation that they could easily have at a significantly more private location? It's almost like a series of flashbacks needs different scenes in order to seem less dull and someone didn't think this all through when putting it together. I digress.

"Jesus, you look like shit." That's pretty much a hello from me to him. He doesn't, by the way – he looks as well put together as he always does – you have no idea what I would give to break that perfect fucking jaw of his, but his ego might actually be vulnerable enough today that I might be able to make him cry. I have to take opportunity I have. "You know, poor personal hygiene is a sign of depression. You should take a shower."

"Now I know you're full of shit, I just showered with the girl who plays the neighbor in ‘Gone Girl' and she was even better at the karma sutra than your mother."

Great, nothing like fucking a D list celebrity to ruin a guy's chance to make his best friend cry. I swear, this divorce is the worst thing to ever happen to me.

"Cool, any other imaginary conquests you wanna get off your chest before we do shots and you tell me how much you miss that bitch?"

"Man, 'that bitch' is the mother of my child."

"You just made a comment about MY mother. Since when is that out of bounds?"

Point, me.

"Seriously, you alright?"

"Alright? I've never been better, honestly. Do you have any idea what hot women do when a guy they've been watching on TV for years is suddenly single and has standards lower than he normally would? Terrible, awful things. That's what they do. That's why I'm here."

"I thought you were here to tell me she left you for Krazy Kidd."

"What? Fuck you. I'm here to tell you that I need you to…"

Here we go again.

"James, Jimmy, Raven, pal, you know I love telling you no. But please don't make me do it while you're mourning your divorce. I don't want to contribute to the lowest point of your life. I can't wrestle any more. I'm done, just like your marriage."

"One, I'm not depressed. Two, I wasn't going to ask you to wrestle anymore. And three, have I mentioned fuck you? I was saying I need you to come back on the road with me. Social media makes this even easier than money used to. Look at this? It's this app called Tinder. I can schedule hookups with women months in advance based on where we're going to be. They even send pictures of themselves wearing my t-shirts and thongs to keep me interested before hand. You can be my ultimate electronic wingman, no wrestling required."

He shows me his phone as he swipes through pictures of women in front of my face like a proud father showing off pictures of their kids. Instead though, he's showing me pictures of women who MIGHT be kids that he MIGHT accidentally make kids with. This is intense.

"And these women send you picture of themselves naked?"

"Yes. All day, every day."

I might not be able to make him cry about his divorce, but there's a better than average chance he's eventually going to get arrested for child porn – and he's too pretty to NOT cry at his arraignment.

"That's really not me anymore, but I wish it were. Believe me, that looks…"

"MATCH MOTHERFUCKER!"

He interrupts my rejection swiping right on his phone apparently lining up with a girl in the bar. He orders three shots and puts two of them down in front of us before I can finish my thought. Nothing like acceptance from a girl with daddy issues to cover up the rejection of another man. That said, he might be on to something with this Social Media thing. Tinder might not be for me, but there's nothing wrong with starting a Twitter account, right?

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It's November 2016, and shit is about to get weird. In America, in Canada, in the XWF, everywhere. Raven is just about to make his comeback that will ultimately end in him winning the Universal Championship. Me? I'm, well, I'm not.

"What in the name of sweet fuck are you doing here?"

Don't fault James for his deplorable language. He's in training and probably eating too much soy. He's lost his way, like America. He needs a change, he needs a friend. He's….

He's hijacking the voice overs for the remainder of this flashback because he isn't having anything to do with this bullshit. That's right, James here. This shit needs documented.

"Shank, I asked you a question. What in the holy hell are we doing in Bumfuck North Carolina?"

"This isn't Bumfuck you elitist prick. This is Wilmington North Carolina and we're here with twenty thousand fellow proud Trump supporters gearing up for the revolution this country needs. That's the problem with you elites, you think every city that isn't controlled by the liberal media is below you"

Shank proudly points to the bright red hat he's wearing standing at the God forsaken Donald Trump rally with NO MORE THAN FIVE THOUSAND PEOPLE. But don't fucking try to tell him the truth. I sat and watched him go through all of this, on repeat throughout the day. Seemingly as the dude I'd been to war for and with hundreds of times became something else. Something worse. That's right, he's worse than retired, he's a goddamned deplorable.

"Build that wall" he wailed. "Lock her up" he chanted! "Grab that puss-y" he clap-clap-clap clap clapped. And yes, he said all of this, I swear to God. No matter what he says.

"Get to the point, Mr. Raven. I know you only show up in person lately when you want me to come back and wrestle the other beta males. You know what makes men tough, James? Guns. Not wrestling. Guns."

"Actually, I was just coming to say…"

"To say what? That you think I'm wrong for voting for Trump?! You fucking Bernie Bros are all the same, always looking down their nose at our movement."

"Shank, man, I…"

"You're not a Bernie bro? You're a pant suit wearing pansy? You're with her? Of course you are, because men can't be men anymore they have to be women. You know there are only two genders, right? And nothing you see on TV is true? And you fucking foreigners are always stepping on our country."

"Did you really just?"

"I mean, how dare you come here and take advantage of our country? We really need that wall before America is totally just gone. We need to make this Country great again. And don't even get me started on global warming. What a scam that shit is."

"I didn't get you started on global warming. I didn't get you started on any of this, I was actually just going to invite you to workout with me for the comeback, but why don't you stick around here until you're feeling a little less right-wing blooded? Wouldn't want you to try and deport my trainer."

"Shared gym time? Of course because now we have to share everything, right? Because, you know, nothing is…"

I'm going to go ahead and do us all a favor and tune him out. Let me just say that the XWF is a non-political place and if you have ever experienced a terrible conversation like this there is a support group for people like you. And if you've ever stood at a podium and said those things, well, you're probably the President.
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It's 2017 and I am man enough to admit when I made a huge fucking mistake…

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It's 2019 and I'm in the last place you'd ever expect to find me.

"So let me get this straight," I said to Raven as I watched him roll around on the mat. "You've been a wrestler your whole life, right?"

"Yes," he answered completing another forward roll.

"And now you're the owner of the XWF, again?"

"Yes," he repeated completing yet another freaking forward roll.

"And now you wear this ridiculous bullshit and train for mixed martial arts by doing judo flips?" I'm pointing out the black judo gi he is wearing and trying to make a joke, but he doesn't seem to give a shit.

"It's kind of what old wrestlers do now, man. Let me ask you something – what do you think hurts more: should I spin around and hit you in the face with my elbow as hard as I can or should I pick you up and drop you on the mat? Which one do you think is gonna be more of a problem?"

"I'm not disagreeing," I respond, "I just don't understand when wrestlers finally decided this was a better approach. Why do you think I've been kicking people in the face for a decade instead of trying to jump off something tall with a bunch of flippy shit before I land on them? I'm a pioneer man, the sport has changed."

He hesitates before he answers and I can see the gears turning in his head – I know what he's gonna say before he can even say it.

"Game's the same, just got more fierce."

I fucking love The Wire.

"Speaking of that superkick, can you even lift your leg over your waist anymore?"

"I'm not a woman going after menopause, Jimmy, my legs still go way over my head."

"Good, because I need you to come back for a match at XX and prove to everyone that you're still one of the best ever."

"HA! Nice try, but I'm good." James tries appealing to my ego, but honestly, that isn't working anymore as easily as it used to.

"Okay, take two, see the Flatline Crew has been talking a lot of shit and I think it's time you shut them up. One tag match, you and me against Rigg and Balls."

"Hard pass." I honestly don't think the FLC has said anything, at this point I know Raven is just trying to piss me off. It's not going to work.

"I have a new best friend and he's been the Universal champion for like a year, don't you want to know if you could beat him?"

"Not really, I honestly don't need that anymore. Competition, being better than people, shit-talking? None of that really sounds like fun."

"So fun is your problem? That's the hesitation here?"

"Sure, why do something that doesn't really sound like I'm going to enjoy it?"

"Shank. Dude. For the past ten years you've done nothing but try and piss people off. You repeatedly deny me any sort of XWF appearance, just to piss me off. You start imaginary fights about fucking TV shows. You made a Twitter account based on my ex-wife, you're mocking modern training AND YOU VOTED FOR DONALD FUCKING TRUMP. At what point are you going to realize that you just need a medium to piss people off and this can be your goddamned medium?! "

Hey, who told him about the Twitter account??

"Truthfully, I didn't even vote."

"Oh for Christ's sake. Do you see what I'm talking about? Nobody wants to see you back except me. Nobody. People are legitimately not going to be happy. You can make that happen. All you have to do is agree to show up and…"

"And what?"

"And get a passport, it isn't 2012 anymore we have standards to get into Canada these days."

"Fuck. Fine. But this is gonna suck."

Let no man ever question the dedication of James Raven. His ex-wife can question it, many women he promised to call and never called back can question it. But no MAN can question how hard he worked to make this happen. But let's be very very clear about my motives here.

This is not designed to be about competition – I don't expect the Flatline Crew to put up much of a fight at all, but we'll get to that later.

This is not about proving I'm better than anyone – I already know exactly where I stand.

This isn't about proving I'm more than just a big-mouthed bigot with homophobic jokes that don't exactly sit right with me post 2016. Then again, that might be at least a small benefit of this whole thing.

This is exclusively about the audible sigh I know is being groaned from many of your parents' basements where you troglodytes go to use the WiFi. This is about everyone who has wondered out loud or inside their heads' if they might be better off in a world without The Big Shank. This is for everyone who has never seen me wrestle and wondered if the myth might be bigger than the man – it's fucking not – and now you're all gonna know it.

This is because guys like Omega and Soldier and Lux have been able to parade around completely oblivious to the fact that they're fucking lucky that I don't work anymore and after Saturday they're going to KNOW that they're lucky I don't fucking work anymore.

This is because guys like Centurion and Peter Gilmour and Famine, and yes, even Chris Page, have inflated their own standing in the history of the XWF thanks to my absence, and they're going to get a reality check on Saturday.

This definitely isn't about Bigg Rigg. Some of you might want to paint this as a bromance story. You'll say that I came up under Rigg and I learned from him. I did, in 2003. You'll say that I've had a chip on my shoulder for years and I need to beat him to prove myself, and I did, in 2010. Now? He's just the name on the other side of the scorecard.

Rigg and I met for the Universal Title in 2010 (Hi Famine, you were there too, remember?) and I put him down then, when it fucking mattered. He definitely doesn't matter now. This match doesn't matter, because when it did matter he couldn't hang. He might have even disappeared after that match and didn't resurface until recently. I can't be sure, because I couldn't see his tears through the confetti and the streamers that were flying after the match, but I know he and I haven't spoken since. And that doesn't bother me. Not even a little. Rigg is the microcosm of why I'm doing this now - my relationship with him worked much better when he thought I couldn't beat him. He was happy to call me his little pal when we were two Italian ships crossing at the night, never to intersect. And honestly, I don't think I'm going out on a limb here by saying that he probably didn't think I COULD beat him. And after I proved him wrong he never looked at me the same way again. Rigg was much happier to live in a world where he could hide behind his delusions, just like everybody else who watches me tear him apart on Saturday and tries to convince themselves I couldn't do the same to them.

Rigg is one of the greatest ever, that's un-fucking-deniable. And he can't beat me. So what exactly does that say for everybody else?

Take it from Rigg, it's one thing to wonder if you can beat someone – it's a whole other thing to know you can't. At least, that's what people say, I've honestly never been in the ring with someone I couldn't beat. I've lost before, sure, I'm not perfect. But there's nobody walking this Earth that's undefeated against me. Nobody. Not Raven, not Ramna, and most definitely not Bigg Rigg.

And this isn't about Superballs or the rest of the Flatline Crew. I know Keeper's had my foot in his mouth a time or two, those were fun times. Silverbullet never talked much, so he and I never had much of a problem. And to be honest, I always like Superballs. The only problem I have with them, or the entire concept of the Flatline Crew, is they all peaked right there in those black and orange cutoff t-shirts. Other than Rigg, nobody ever moved on from that and accomplished anything, and they like to tie my name to that organization like it's a blood-in/blood-out kinda commitment. And it just ain't that.

The Crew was a stepping stone for me, and it was a long time ago. Do you think Kawhi Leonard is going to want to be remembered as a Raptor after he wins titles in Los Angeles? Do you think Peyton Manning wants to be called a Colt and have his Super Bowl in Denver overlooked? Do you think Mia Sanchez wants to be called Mrs. Raven after she gets done gang-banging the entire Arizona Cardinals linebacker core?

No, we are all so much more than where we started people!

So if it's all the same to you, my alumni dues to the Flatline Crew are going to go unpaid this year. I'm glad the team can get it together and show up for some nostalgia; hell, that's kind of the theme for the whole night. But if it's all the same to you gentlemen, I'll be across the ring and I won't be making small talk about all the places we've gone since 2003. You all know my resume, and to be honest, I'm not all that interested in yours.

So no, this isn't about Rigg or the Flatline Crew, or about any one singular thing. This is because everyone has been a little too motherfucking friendly around here lately, and they need a reminder of how this shit would really work if I wanted it to. And even though they might not say it, I KNOW it's going to cost them sleep. It's going to eat at them and they're going to spend at least one more millisecond pissed off than they would have if I never showed my face again – and THAT is worth giving up bread for a month so I can take my shirt off on international TV. THAT is worth everything and that is why I am going to do what I'm about to do.

And I don't care if it pisses you all off or not. Honestly, I'd prefer it that way.

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode Bigg Rigg and Superballs vs Big Shank and James Raven
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