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BattleF'Nmania, BAYBAAY!


League Member
Sep 2, 2012
The clicking of a computer mouse precedes an obnoxiously large flat screen lighting up. The chubby, middle aged man on the screen is convincingly wearing a canary yellow sport coat. The man adjusts in his seat with an inquisitive look on his face. His name appears on the screen, Dylan Daniels.

“Which nephew?”

An almost inaudible voice answers with the name J.B. Ronie. Dylan Daniels tugs on his collar as he shifts in his seat.

“Eesh. Trying to get me in trouble?”

The wrestler turned commentator chuckles.

“I’m kidding. He’s a good egg, I guess. Don’t let him lie to you, though. All of that talk about the marquee reading wrestling, not fighting; nonsense. He loves to fight. He loves to brag about beating up all of Douglas Divine’s bullies when they were younger. James really killed two birds with that one. Didn’t he?”

The inaudible voice interjects allowing Dylan to sip from his coffee.

“He was able to look like the hero and get away with fighting because of it. He’ll accuse me of being jealous every time I bring it up. That’s nothing new, though. James thinks I’m jealous of his whole existence.”

Dylan grins as he continues.

“I’m not, trust me. I’m actually proud of him. The kid took that clown thing to the moon and back. We thought we would discourage him. Ya know, keep him away from rasslin’. Now he’s attempting career suicide by dropping it completely. Kid’s got balls.”

Why do you say that?

“There’s a world of difference between Mr. Rottentreats and J.B. Ronie. Then you have Chortle, now that clown’s a hoot.”

The inaudible voice interjects causing Dylan to realize what he let slip.

“I’ve said too much! Aren’t we here to talk about how horrible I think he’s going to do at BATTLEMANIA? Don’t get me wrong he’s great…”

The surviving uncle of J.B. Ronie sips his coffee once more.

“…at flopping over the top rope. Have you seen his last two matches in WARPED? Nasty stuff. Do I think he has a chance? He does. I’m just not sure how much of a chance he has. There are twenty-nine other wrestlers in the match. All of them just as good, if not better than he is. If he wins this is the one I’ll truly be jealous of. He loves to bring up the Evolution Championship. But, I’ve never in my life won a battle royal. As envious as I would be, I’d be the first one to congratulate him. Even if that does mean having to sacrifice one of my signature sports coats to a Faygo shower.”

After a rough transition J.B. Ronie’s childhood friend and longtime tag team partner Douglas Divine appears. The “Dark Carnival Delight” is behind a bar slinging cocktails to a crew of overly tan and glitter clad ladies. He winks in the direction of the recipient of his latest concoction, then begins.

“What do I think about my main brizzbone, James Ronie? Rock N Ronie himself? Pfft. We go waaaaay back, yo. Back in the days when I wasn’t exactly the perfect specimen you see standing before you.”

Divine quickly tugs on his shirt; sending buttons flying through the air. Without hesitation he runs his fingertips across his chiseled physique.

“I didn’t have any siblings. Young Jameson took me under his putrid, disgusting, festering, rotten wing. On some real ish, dude didn’t know about deodorant back in the dizzaaay! BOOM!”

Divine gives himself quite the explosive fist bump; his demeanor shifts quickly.

“How’s he training? Probably the same way he has all of his life. I can guarantee you that right now he’s somewhere tossing scum over a guardrail. I’m not talking randos that don’t deserve it. I’m talking genuine scum. Ya know, how everyone thinks he is! I can also guarantee ya he’s gonna do the same thing off deep in whatever jungle those Guerrillas are in. Have you seen the list of scum in that extravaganza? He’ll probably go after a few of ‘em. And I hope he succeeds. Battlemania sure is gonna be a doozy.”

Really, Dougie? A Doozy?”

Another rough transition leads us to the Purveyor of Rare Professional Rasslin’ Paraphernalia, Vaughn Ronie Jr. This southern scoundrel is the younger brother and manager of J.B. Ronie. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, then adjusts his pinstripe vest. Without thinking he begins speaking past the unlit cigar in his mouth.

“James is my brother.”

A bright blue flame blasts the tip of the cigar.

“I love him to death and all of that.”

Vaughn Ronie Jr. pulls a slow drag from the cigar. Continuing; smoke billows from his mouth.

“But, this is the greatest schem.. er. Screw it, the asshole needs his ego checked. Battlemania is my way of doing just that!”

Vaughn’s left hand disappears from the frame with the cigar; his right introduces a glass of scotch to his lips. He sips before continuing.

“As great as what he pulled with WARPED was, it was two years ago. Sure, he played all of them like Charlie Daniels saws on the strings of a fiddle. It was two freakin’ years ago.”

The founder of Ronie’s Rasslin’ Services stares down at his glass as he swirls the scotch around.

“Did it set me up to look like a savior in the eyes of all of those mouth breathing WARPED fans? Hell yeah, it did! But, it was still two years ago. It’s time for him to rise above and beyond being the claw that crushed an independent promotion.”

His left hand reappears with the cigar. He chases a puff of the cigar with a sip of scotch.

“It’s time for him to literally crawl from beneath the deep dark crevices of the underground to make his mark on the mainstream. How does he do that? Become the blemish on a few legacies, of course! All while representing WA..”

Smoke billows from his mouth as he shakes his head no.

“No, no, no! James isn’t a part of the hottest ticket in town to represent the struggling Midwest albatross around the neck of professional wrestling. Nor is he representing lions of FRONTIER from either side of the pond. J.B. Ronie, Mr. Rotten-To-The-Core himself is representing family. Ladies and gentlemen, former world champions, legends, icons, immortals, and battlemaniacs alike! Ronie’s Rasslin’ Services is the proud sponsor of every elimination performed at Battlemania by our number two client, J.B. Ronie. Number two, because Johnny Raike is the money sign in my eye at the moment.”

The youngest Ronie brother finishes off the scotch and places the cigar between his teeth.

“Also, because my brother J.B. is quite simply the shit!”


The camera pulls back to reveal J.B. Ronie turning in a high back desk chair. The eye patch covering his left eye socket is embroidered with his former face paint design. The former Mr. Rottentreats reaches under his leopard print sport coat to scratch at his bare midsection. He looks at the camera; barely able to keep his good eye open. The Whole F’N Sideshow inhales a deep breath as if he were about to speak.


His tattooed right hand runs through his flow & comb hair do; he smiles.

“Ain’t that some shit?!”

The former Wicked Clown Of WARPED Wrestling lightly scratches at a rose colored spot on his neck.

“It’s nice to know what those I hold near and dear to me truly think! Aren’t they just swell?”

Ronie allows an awe shucks look to creep across his face.

“From my understanding, I’m going to have to parachute into a no-fly zone and treck through the jungle whilst battling anacondas, chupacabras, and the unknown before I even step foot into a rasslin’ ring. Toss me a shovel, cause I can dig it!”

Ronie rolls his eye.

“This event is all kinds of things for all twenty nine other battlemaniacs, brudda! For me it’s the opportunity to become the first person in three generations of wrestling greatness to win a battle royal. A family tree full of championship caliber professional rasslers, and not one of us has won a battle royal. Especially one of this caliber. I’ve tried. I neither Conquered nor Survived.”

The right eye of Mr. Rotten To The Core winks.

“It’s been eating at me ever since. Vaughn thinks he tricked me into this one. He didn’t. I’m not gonna haul ass to that ring wearing pants made from the skin of an Anaconda I just slaughtered for nothin’! No more clownin’ around for yours truly. Not for the rasslin’ audience..”

Ronie strokes his goatee and scratches the red splotch on his neck again.

“Guess ya could say I’m on some soopa serial ish. I don’t care what venues hang banners with your names on them. I don’t give a dog damn about how many championships you’ve lost. Diss promotions I work for, I could use the extra eyes. Did you hear about the attendance at that last WARPED show? Horrible business. Whatever you do, please Misters and Misses.”

A pouty expression overtakes his face; accompanied with baby talk.

“Don’t bury me pwetty, pwetty, pwetty pweeaase!!”


He smiles devilishly and puts a stop to the baby talk.

“Can you believe these cats? So-called veterans, crying around on twitter because they can’t handle words? Feelings, how do they work?”


In one quick movement he hops backward and up into the computer chair.



“Battlemaniacs! I’ve sacrificed more than my fair share of bodily functions for this sport, business, art form.. Whatever the hell you want to call it! I’m willing to sacrifice a helluva lot more come Battlemania! After all it is a battle royal. One of, if not the most dangerous match of them all. Forget cages, dog collars, tables, ladders, and chairs, OH MY!”

His tattooed right hand disappears under his leopard prints sport coat to scratch.

“Bodies are going to be flying everywhere! I don’t know if any of you realize this or not, but you don’t even have to be thrown over the top to have an ankle snap. I kid you not! I’ve been in battle royals that were so chaotic eventually people were dropping all over the place. Knee caps were spinning around legs, Achilles tendons were tickling toes, and fingers were feeling elbows.”

A huge smile stretches across his face as he fondly remembers the carnage.

“For you egomaniacal cats. Respect. For the ones that earned the right anyway. I know I can’t take your accomplishments, achievements, and accolades from you. What I can do is keep you from adding another one to your laundry lists. As for the rest of ya, stay out of my way unless you wanna see those arena lights on spin cycle.”

Ronie’s right hand reappears with a can of sardines; he raises the can as if to toast.


He quickly peels the top back and begins stuffing sardines into his mouth; he speaks with his mouth full.

“If you ain’t comin’ to battle, don’t come at all!”

A vivacious blonde enters the frame wearing a WARPED hockey jersey. She sits on Ronie’s lap, but quickly hops back up holding her nose in disgust.

“Ew, you’re rotten!”

Ronie smacks the blonde on the ass and winks with his good eye.

“To the core, cupcake!”

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