by The Immolator
Exclusive to OnlineOnslaught.com

"Cane?! What cane?!" — “Classy” Freddie Blassie

Welcome back to The Ring. “The Immolator” Calum Macbeth here, at your service. Chronicling my slow, slow rise from Online Onslaught columnist extraordinaire to almost-mediocre wrestler.

It’s been another one of those weeks where I’ve spent more time on the shelf than in the ring. On Saturday afternoon at the House of Pain, I had a lesson with Vance Nevada as trainer. The only other student to show up this time was Jay Jacoby, who has undergone some training in Calgary at a place other than “The Dungeon.” He’s got a good, lean physique, and some good moves. So, after throwing each other around for a while during the lesson, Vance decided to book us in the opening match that evening at our HoP show.

In between the lesson and the match, I had some time to kill. So I brought out Festus the Tackling Dummy and went to work on a few moves. Legdrops, elbowdrops, fistdrops, Vader Bomb, top-rope splash… uh-oh. I landed just a little too much on my right knee on that last one. No pop, no tear, no protruding bone, but I definitely jammed my knee. It was tight, but it didn’t feel too bad. I thought perhaps I’d be able to walk it off.

Match time comes around. I find it more and more difficult to bend that right leg. No time to worry about that, however. My music is on: “Red” by King Crimson. Time for me to go out and deliver another five-star promo to the dozens (and dozens!) of Calum Macbeth fans. Or detractors. I climb into the ring, right knee on the apron first (think Lance Storm) and, holy crud, that hurts. I stifle my cries of agony.

I grab the mic and begin my usual spiel. “My name is Calum Macbeth, and I like to hurt people!” BOO! Or, at least, a smattering of disapproval. I ramble on for a while about my new Calum Macbeth T-shirt, painstakingly handcrafted by Yours Truly. My expert calligraphy skills and a little fabric paint go a long way. On the front: “Macbeth 2002 A.D.” in a Celtic script. On the back: “Macbeth” in Chinese characters. Makebai, if you wee-ul. Of course, those illiterate fans at the HoP can’t read, so I have to explain it to them. I’m proud of my Sino-Celtic heritage. I’m a master of the “Oriental” arts, both outside and inside the ring. Back to my shirt: the one I’m wearing is a prototype, but will soon be available for the very reasonable price of… $100.

Dead silence. Damn! I was expecting outrage. Anyway, I go on about how the proceeds go to a good cause: the upkeep on my palatial estate in Kitsilano, a trendy area of Vancouver. Hey, those Puerto Rican maids don’t come cheap, you know. By this time, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I assume it’s the ring announcer and tell him, without looking, to go away. I’m talking to my people! Another tap on the shoulder. Miffed, I turn around to see… Jay Jacoby! Drop toe-hold! I land square on my face (sadly, driving the mic into the mat didn’t seem to add that extra auditory effect).

The adrenaline kicks in, and I completely forget about my knee. And I proceed to have the best match of my short career. Still a few things to work on, but a fine overall match. We exchange side headlocks for a while, with Jacoby getting the advantage. He slaps an interesting submission hold on me early, a form of an Octopus, perhaps, or a standing Rings of Saturn. I grab the ropes. He pushes me into the corner. Irish Whip, but I reverse it. I charge into the corner after him! Uh-oh… boot to the face. I turn around… second-rope drop kick! Yikes. I powder to the corner while he poses.

Enough of this. I challenge him to… a test of strength! Of course, as he reaches up to grab my left hand, I poke him in the eye with my right. Rube. Now we go to school. Eye rake across the top rope. Forearms to the back. Snap mare… neck snap! Cover for one. Into the corner for a resonating chop (WOO!), but he turns the tables and throws me into the corner. A flurry of punches to the gut ensues. Hah, another thumb to the eye stops that momentum pretty swiftly. Choke over the second rope… Running Bubba buttdrop onto the poor sod’s back. Bubba Rogers, that is. “Now you’re gonna see… a Celticplex!” Cradle suplex… two only! Drat! Time to dip into one of my 1,007 moves… the Mexican Crucifix. Or, in this case, natch’, the Celtic Crucifix. Jacoby fights out of it and turns it into a backslide for two. When we get up… you guessed it. Thumb to the eye. He gets a Scotch Whip for his troubles, and I go for the big back body drop… d’oh! Ducked my head too early. Boot to the chest. Irish Whip… Leg Lariat! Irish Whip… Flying forearm! I didn’t exactly bump right on those two moves, but no matter. They were still devastating. Jacoby goes for a suplex… I block it. And I block it again. 

WHAM! Michinoku Driver II out of nowhere! My moment of glory is at hand! But, no! The rat bastard kicks out at 2 7/8ths. Oooooo, I’m steamed now. Inverted Atomic Drop. Fireman’s carry, and I place Jacoby on the top rope for the piece de resistance. But first, another resonating chop (WOO!). Oh yeah, I’m the man. Except I get a boot in the gut, and he sunset flips off the second rope for the pin.

Curses! Foiled again! I scream at Referee “Insane” Bill Coltrane about the hair pull, the handful of tights, the fast count, the international object… no dice. “Inconceivable!” I go to the back, and get some props for a match well done. Jacoby was smooth. I was… passable. Actually, I’d give myself a solid B-minus for that match. Everything was in its right place.

After the adrenaline stopped flowing, I could really feel my knee tighten up. I went to the clinic the next day. It’s just some fluid build-up, nothing to be too concerned about. I’m on (non-steroidal) anti-inflammatories for the next week, and I spent a couple of days hobbling around with a cane. No more lessons for me this week. In fact, I don’t think I’ll be working this Saturday, either. But I should be good and proper for the following week.

I’m really anxious to get back in the ring and try to capitalize on the progress I’ve made. Vance has been instrumental in getting me to stop thinking like “The Immolator, wrestling student” when I’m performing and to think more like “Calum Macbeth, smart-ass.” Putting the method behind my madness, as it were. I feel like I’m just about ready to go out in front of a larger NWA-ECCW crowd and not look too stupid. The mark in me wants to learn about a zillion moves first. Surely, if I want to impress, I have to perfect the Shining Yellow Wizard Bomb and the Spinning Zoroastrian Double-backed Monster. But, for now, I seem to get heat just fine using the good ol’ Thumb to the Eye.

I wonder how far a Thumb to the Eye can get me. Hmmmm… I can see it now. WrestleMania 25. Calum Macbeth versus… um… Beyonce Knowles. In a “Hot Fudge Sundae” match. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

Oh, sorry. Got off track, there. Must be the carb depletion. Mmmmm… hot fudge sundae…

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