Saturday Night Spooks, huh? Oh I get it, it’s a Halloween theme. See, that’s cute because everybody loves Halloween. Nobody loves anything more than an excuse to dress up like a devil or a fanny pirate and run around shitting on everything that everybody loves. Throwing toilet paper in trees, taking the whole bucket of candy when the sign says ‘Please take one,’ putting a bit of cheese whiz in your cellmate’s ear, taking a literal shit and putting skeleton stickers on a title that has been around for twenty years – you know harmless pranks that thankfully can only happen one night a year on Halloween. Otherwise, people would get real sick of that shit real fast.

You know what else Halloween is great for – rising from the dead. No, I’m not talking about Gilmour’s dick when he thinks about being together with a dude. I’m not talking about Raven’s estrogen level – I’d run through a wall for the guy but I’m starting to miss my friend who would most decidedly not be tolerating the shit that’s going on around here lately. I’m not even talking about Barney Green’s cholesterol level. I’m talking about me, coming back from the dead of retirement to throw my name into the Lethal Lottery OUT OF NOWHERE (this one goes out to all the virgins out there, I made a meme reference, welcome to the conversation).

And why did I do it? Why did I put the legs down on my Lazy Boy recliner, stop eating pizza for two months and decide that it was time to start taking my shirt off in public again? Why would someone who has everything go through all of this? I’ve been Universal Champion, I’ve been the X-Treme Champion, I’ve held the Tag Titles, the defunct World Title and I’m a bonified god-damned motherfucking Legend. So, what’s the point? What do I have to gain?

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I just have brain damage. Maybe when Superballs almost powerbombed me through the mat at XX he knocked a piece of my brain loose and it’s currently working its way through my system and trying to pass itself. Maybe I shouldn’t be medically cleared for this whole thing. Maybe I should have gone through a psych evaluation before I put my name in the Lethal Lottery tumbler. Maybe I really have lost my goddamned mind.

You fucking wish.

Unfortunately for everybody here, I’m just as cerebral as I’ve ever been. There’s a perfectly good reason for every move I make and everything I do. I’m just not in the mood to fill you all in just yet. But I will – eventually. So huddle around kiddos, the Big Shank is back and as Raven once said – the Suicide Kings don’t do anything half-assed. I’m bringing a goddamned flamethrower to this knife fight.

The thing is, the way I look at it, I don’t have anything to lose this time around. I know everybody here is going to call me old and make jokes that I can’t get it up anymore, can’t beat the new kids, gonna say shit like ‘get off my lawn,’ can’t shoot children like we could back ‘in my day.’ You know, all of that shit. And yeah it’s true, I’ve wrestled one match in ten years. But I won it. And there’s no reason I can’t keep winning them either. The XWF is eternal. And while Father Time is undefeated, the people around here keep calling fucking Chasm – so it’s not like a loss is going to destroy my legacy. I think I can still compete at the highest level there is. And I know that nobody around here can run their mouth quite like me. So we’ll see how this goes. If nothing else, I’m going to ruin at least somebody’s day.

So, with that said, let me clear my throat and see if I remember how to do this. And a one, and a two, and a…

It’s important to start with a cool reference to my name, showing that I’m just as egotistical as I’ve ever been: Saturday Night SPOOKS – more like Saturday Night SHANKS. Seriously, I haven’t wrestled on a Saturday Night since Jonathyn Brown tried to make me an IMPACT coach and that didn’t end well for anybody. Yet, here I am, making my triumphant return and the brass around here doesn’t even go the extra mile to show the respect I deserve and name the event after me???

Excellent, we’ve worked in a shot at the XWF management – a true staple of most XWF Legends AND a corny ploy to act as if I’m deserved an inordinate amount of respect because I used to kick people’s asses on demand. I’ve also referenced Jonathyn Brown to prove to everybody I deserve their respect. This is the best Centurion promo ever.

Wait a minute, scratch the record, this isn’t how I do shit. This isn’t me.

So how DO I, The Big Shank, ‘do shit’? I set every fucking inch of this place on fire until I get what I want. I label about six people safe from my wrath and I knock down every other goddamned door that doesn’t have a red ‘TBS’ spray painted on it. (Look, Jewish virgins, I made a Bible reference too! The Angel of Death, err, The Big Shank DOES care about keeping you interested!)

Next Saturday, I can tell you, Luca Arzegotti and Tommy Wish will not have their doors painted.

Next Saturday these two gentlemen are going to prove that not all lottery winners are lucky. Because I can tell you, you two might not like who’s name got pulled out to be your partner, but your biggest fucking problem is that the name that got pulled to be across the ring from you was mine. And let me tell you, while I’ve never actually been in a Buried Alive Match, nobody around here is better at working a shovel than I am.

The nice thing is, this time I get to use the shovel in front of the world so everybody can see it.

I get to start with Luca Ravioli and we get to find out if you’re made of more than just cheese and the occasional bit of spinach. And Tommy, I get to make sure that you never WISH for anything ever again except for the beating I’m giving you to stop. My God, now this is the best Barney Green promo ever.

You know, the more I think about it, I really might be rusty.

I know Luca prides himself on being the prettiest boy at the ball. And I know that I don’t care if he’s wearing a pant suit, a dress, overalls or wrestling gear – I have no problem knocking a tooth or two loose for him. A lesser evolved version of me would imply that it would be easier for him to suck on phallic shaped objects once I do that for him. But I’m way too mature for that joke these days.

I know that Tommy used to wear some gold around here. And ever since he lost them he’s been walking around like a teenager who got dumped by the first girl that let him get to second base. And yes, I say second base condescendingly because what adult gives a flying fuck about second base? That’s how I feel about the belts that Tommy used to wear. Maybe we should let him win the Universal Title so when he loses it he just jumps off a goddamned bridge or something. A man that can’t handle striking out in Triple A has no business playing in Yankee Stadium. Emo went out in the 90’s, Tommy. We all wish you’d figure that shit out yourself.

I know both of these half-breeds think they’re tough. Which works for me, because I’m not going into a Buried Alive match with plans on mat-wrestling. I’m not doing Suicide Dives or Hurricanranas or Meltzer Drivers or any of that bullshit that works in bingo halls – I’m bringing a shovel and a bullseye for each of your faces. I’m one of the best that has ever stepped foot in the ring, that’s undeniable (send me your Venmo, Mr. Jason, I’ll pay the usage fee.) But you don’t earn the resume I have in the XWF by exclusively rolling around in the ring. I am most happy to beat the fuck out of whoever I have to with whatever I have available to me. Hell, I might prefer it.

The truth is, I don’t know much about Luca or Tommy – and people out there might judge me for not doing my homework and not taking them more seriously. My response for you is: does the lion research the lamb (Oh. My. God – virgins I too love the Lannisters – will you please buy my t-shirt?), does the wrecking ball take the building seriously, does the hammer give two goddamned shits about the nail? Because that’s the relationship I intend on having with Luca and Tommy, I am the hammer and they are the nails. All that’s left to figure out is which one do I beat into the ground first?

Speaking of hammers. Hi, Kris. We need to talk.

Remember how I mentioned that I’d be kicking in every door that I didn’t mark safe? Remember how you asked me if you needed to worry about me? I can promise you one thing, I won’t be lying to you. And yes, you need to worry about me.

You needn’t concern yourself with whether or now I can hold up my end of the bargain, because I absolutely can. And I will. The one thing you will learn about me, is there is nobody on this planet that I love as much I love myself, and I won’t do anything to hinder the opportunity to make myself happy. I love me, and I deserve nice things. However, once I bury Luca and Tommy, it’s only a matter of time until your name comes up in the Lottery on the other side of things. And well, I’ve never been one for procrastinating, I always say ‘Why wait until tomorrow when I can ruin someone’s day today!’ So you’re safe, until those two are in the ground, but I can definitively say that you are absolutely, eventually, inevitably, going to feel my boot make contact with that perfect jaw structure of yours (why is everybody so handsome around here?), and that while we’re at it on Saturday we might as well dig three holes (get it, virgins, three holes! Virgins? Virgins? Crickets.)

Then again, maybe this is all about Halloween after all and this is all going to end with just a few pranks and some candy for all involved. Maybe this ends with me just being the old guy and yelling for every Lethal Lottery participant to get off my lawn as I can’t quite keep up anymore. Maybe I’d be better suited turning my porch light off and staying in for the night, you know, letting the kids have their fun.

That’s possible, for sure. Depressing, but possible.

Or maybe, just maybe, I’m the reason your parents have to check your candy before they let you eat it. Trick or Treat? Is that a question? Fuck that, I’ll decide, and it’s NEVER going to be a treat for you cocksuckers.