Something I always hear bandied about this time of year is “fantasy booking”. I don’t really know what it is, but I’ve read some of it, and I can tell you all that you are for sure doing it wrong. For one, it’s usually no better than what is actually ends up on the television. Also, how can you call it fantasy booking if it doesn’t have dragons and barbarians and wizards and shit? You may as well call it “slice of life booking”. If the extent of your fantasy is that Kevin Owens wins three matches in a row, you all really need to read Lord of the Rings or something.
In the spirit of showing everyone what I thought fantasy booking was when I first heard the term, I have decided to take a shot at “Fantasy Booking” this year’s Wrestlemania. I have taken my brilliant creative mind, combined it with my encyclopedic knowledge of fantasy, sci fi and weird fiction, and come up with what I think are some potential enjoyable and plausible scenarios for the most talked about matchups for this week’s event. Frankly, I’ll be surprised if some of these don’t happen. The only thing I promise is no time travel. Time travel is Full Chikara. Never go Full Chikara.
The Intercontinental Title Ladder Match
– Have you ever thought to yourself, “For someone who is booked as a Hollywood actor, the Miz sure looks like a weird humanoid fish-frog creature”? Of course you have, why am I even asking that. Here is a photo for your reference:
Your keen eyes have not deceived you. The Miz is not the handsome hollywood matinée idol he says he is. He’s actually part of an ancient cult called the Esoteric Order of Dagon (Lake Erie Chapter). I can tell you are dubious, but remember only a few years ago, Miz had a shirt that said “The Old Ones are starting to like me” on the back. If that’s not a clue that he’s secretly part of some insane Lovecraftian cult, I don’t know what is.
Based out of Cleveland, OH, the members of the Esoteric Order of Dagon (Lake Erie Chapter) are an ancient amphibious race that look human in their youth, but in exchange for eternal life, look more and more like creepy fish frog men as they get older. Eventually, they go to live forever in the underwater city of Y’ha-nthlei. As the Miz’s time fast approaches, he has realized that his shirt was a lie. The Old Ones were not in fact starting to like him. The Old Ones have finicky taste, and watch a lot of PWG. Cthulu, the most overrated of the Elder Gods, is a big fan of Davey Richards. Go figure. Anyway, before he transforms completely, he must win a valuable championship and bring it to the Gods as a sacrifice. By doing so, they will be sated and their slumber will continue. They will have no desire to reign insanity eternal upon our earth. See, the Miz, in his own weird way, is the babyface in all of this.
Enter that ignorant doofus Dolph Ziggler. He just had to go screwing everything up by sticking his nose in here. I always assumed that when the world came to its fiery end, it would probably be Dolph Ziggler’s fault. He thrives on chaos, and knows not the havoc that he reaps. He is but a tool for forces beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. Fortunately he has no chance of winning this match because he’s garbage. The forces beyond our mortal comprehension have chosen a terrible tool. I guess that’s why we can’t comprehend them? Anyway.
The match is going well, and it looks as though Kevin Owens will retain his title, and the Old Ones have made their way in to the arena, ready to prey on the weak minded gathered in Dallas. They are disappointed to find that instead of a hundred thousand tormented souls screaming for the sudden loss of their sanity, they are met with a hundred thousand instead chanting “We are awesome” and “Randy Savage”. Are they already insane? Are they immune to the power of these ancient evil forces? Are there greater, more terrible things at play? The Old Ones feel fear for their first time in their unnatural lives. They leave the realm of men, never to return. The earth is saved not by the bravery and fortitude of man, but by wrestling fan’s incessant need to put themselves over at all costs. They take Zach Ryder as a sacrifice. No one really notices.
Oh, uh, Sami Zayn wins or something I guess.
Dean Ambrose vs. Brock Lesnar
If you’ve been watching Raw, you’ll have noticed that Dean Ambrose has been presented with a weapon from a different hardcore legend every week. First, it was a bat wrapped in barbed wire. Next, it was a chainsaw. This week, I think noted hardcore legend Todd Chrisley will make an appearance and give Ambrose a bible with a railroad spike hidden in it or something. Normally, these weapons would be enough to defeat an opponent. Not Brock Lesnar.
Ambrose is pacing backstage, trying desperately to not show how worried he is about his match. Suddenly, he hears a knock on the locker room door. Who could it be, his best friend and brother in arms, Roman Reigns? No, Roman has his own problems for the evening. This time, it’s the last person Dean Ambrose expects: King Arthur and his personal advocate, Merlin the Magician. Merlin has seen the world in which Brock Lesnar wins at WrestleMania. Gravely disturbed, he once again spoke the words of power, the language of dragons, and traveled across the astral plane in order to give Dean Ambrose every advantage in this match up.
The crowd falls silent as King Arthur utters his first words. “I may not be a hardcore legend,” he says, “but I have slain beasts. You must do the same. I give you this for your quest.” Suddenly, a brilliant shimmering sword appears in Ambrose’s hand. Excalibur has returned! Is Ambrose the rightful King of the Andals? Who cares! He’s got a fucking magic sword! Merlin steps forward, a grave look on his face. You will need every weapon in your arsenal for this fight, he whispers. Ambrose looks even more confused than normal, but before he can react, Merlin once again speaks the words of power. A thick mist, the breath of the Dragon, surrounds Ambrose. The screen fades to black as Ambrose’s music hits.
The crowd erupts as Ambrose emerges on the ramp a changed man. I don’t just mean changed emotionally and spiritually. Merlin told Ambrose he needed all his weapons and he has given him a way: Dean Ambrose has four motherfucking arms with one sweet ass awesome weapon in each monstrous hand. Tumblr crashes due to an influx in traffic. The referee tries to tell Ambrose he can’t use the weapons and immediately gets decapitated. As Becky Lynch leads the crowd in an “Arm-Brose” chant (followed quickly by a “We are awesome” chant) as Brock Lesnar’s music hits.
Even with his new arms and magic sword, Dean Ambrose can only fight Lesnar to a stand still and takes half a dozen German suplexes. At his lowest point, his starts to doubt himself. He looks up from his back at the horribly red and sweaty beast incarnate. He thinks, if only I had a sword where the handle was brass knuckles and the whole thing looked super phallic. That would surely help me fight back. At the mere thought, Ambrose feels Excalibur mold to his command. Reinvigorated, he bravely takes the fight to Lesnar. Heyman senses the momentum starting to shift and foolishly tries to interfere. Ambrose, ever the anti hero, shows no mercy and notches his second decapitation of the evening.
Lesnar goes to the outside to look at his fallen compatriot. Ambrose stands triumphant in the ring. Lesnar unleashes a bone chilling howl, a mix between anger and sadness, fear and frustration. Ambrose goes to press his advantage and hit his awful tope suicida, but he forgets he has four arms all holding weapons and gets tangled up in the ropes. Lesnar senses this is his moment, but doesn’t move towards Ambrose. Instead, he goes directly for the ring post. The crowd is unsure of his intentions, but a hundred thousand people gasp in unison as Lesnar hoists the entire ring up on his shoulders. Ambrose is trapped, still tangled from his stillborn attempt at a dive. Lesnar does the unthinkable and F-5s the actual wrestling ring, killing most of the ring side fans. Once the literal dust settles, neither competitor can be found. The match is declared a no contest.
As Ambrose recovers, he looks around, unsure of his surroundings. He sees buildings and stores, houses and cars, but something is different. Has he grown giant? He wanders for what seems like an eternity before discovering a family of tiny people, cowering in fear. It finally dawns on him. He hasn’t grown! He has discovered the mythical land of tiny people under the ring where Hornswoggle is from. After assuring the family he is on the side of right, he is informed that Brock Lesnar has already declared himself the cruel massive God of this new world. You know, like Crom, but with Jimmy Johns adverts on his pants. Ambrose knows what he must do. He desperately wants to find the way back to his own world, but he cannot in good conscience abandon these people to a fate worse than death. He devotes himself to war eternal against the evil Brock Lesnar. Luckily for us, a few camera men were caught up in the magical F-5. The first hour of Raw will now document these bloody, heroic battles.
The match may have officially been a no contest, but the real winner is anyone who watches Raw henceforth.
To be continued…