The Described Wrestling Project 2 - "The Road Warriors Assault Jobbers for About Two Minutes" (Script)

Hey, welcome back. This is a fun one, and I don't really need to give any deeper context that the title doesn't.

The Described Wrestling Project is one author’s description of the type of entertainment you’d see in decades past, should you have turned on a television and found some pro wrestling on, already in progress. It contains coarse language, descriptions of intense violence, and unpleasant reminders of what past times were like, socially. All described video content is copyright its respective owners. All opinions stated are the creator’s own. Rest in Peace to any and all performers described who have since moved on to the next world. Fans will do all we can to make your work stand in history, regardless of who you were.

It’s the year 1986, Saturday morning on the 8th of March. You’ve flipped through the cable channels to the new and still untested W-TBS Atlanta, Ted Turner’s Superstation. Despite the name, the Superstation is remarkable mostly for the wrong reasons, because despite the name, there’s basically nothing on this channel that isn’t sports and pro wrestling. I mean, there technically is television and film content occupying the other timeslots. It’s just also that the biggest ticket programming on this thing is The New Leave It to Beaver, a show that I forgot the existence of, and it being brought up during commercial breaks on this tape was like absorbing a pickaxe to the brain for the sake of digging a memory loose. Movies formed the other highlight of the channel in these days, and not good ones. Highlights include a Jackie Gleason movie that attempts to spin his gambling problem despite being a husband and father as a delightful comedic beat, Charlton Heston solving murders in a carnival, and a western that featured more Redface in the commercial alone than most comedy sketches about Raceface would be comfortable showing these days. So yeah, a little grim, especially considered that many of these films were ‘improved’ by Turner’s much vaunted Colourization Tech, which was lampooned throughout the 80s and 90s for making everything it touched into an oily, technicolour nightmare. I’ve had bad trips that were kinder to me than what Turner Colourization looks like. So if you might have thought there was some potential interest in that Chuck Heston movie about bigtop murders? Yeah, unfortunately everything is ruined by Polychromatic Vomit, to such a degree that as a person who likes clowns, I now understand what people with coulrophobia see. No more potent a jump scare, than a Clown Gone Wrong.

And so after a commercial for air freshener that probably had more CFCs than fragrance in the can, a Nestle Crunch ad, and Lorne Green for Securecare 65, from National Home Alliance, we find ourselves looking at peak 80s Hunk, Magnum TA, cutting an impassioned promo against Nikita Koloff. Theirs would be a big, hairy chested US versus Soviet feud that would last a long while and get real nasty before the end. A high point for me, was when Koloff attacked an injured Magnum TA at ringside, hit him with his crutch and then, given with what the editing of the segment suggested, proceeded to shove the crutch up the ass of the prone Magnum. He Magnum’d TA. Look, I really don’t mean to be crass here, they just freeze-framed the crutch thrust, which was probably aimed at TA’s lumbar, as it was directly over his ass instead. If you spliced in Eric Andre’s ‘We’ll Be Right Back’ titlecard, it would be a perfect visual gag.

But Magnum and Koloff are not what we’re here for. Because you’ve flipped to TBS at the exact right moment to be entertained from the misfortune of others. Because here, on the match title card, we see two completely human names, in the form of Carl Styles and Bill Mulkey. These are the names of two men that are too entirely mortal to survive in the realm of professional wrestling under the most grounded circumstances. Today will not be a grounded circumstance for them; today will be will be an experience in Sound and Fury that signifies the Nothingness of Their Existence to their opponents. Woe betide these poor, entirely mortal men, because as they stand in the ring, Black Sabbath’s Iron Man begins playing, and Death Incarnate advances towards them.

Mother of God, It’s The Road Warriors.

Advancing like primaeval monsters from the curtain, with the stride and casual agility typically seen in apex predators, Road Warrior Hawk, and Road Warrior Animal- that’s their names, don’t wear them out, or they’ll wear you as outwear -were two of the most prolific pro wrestling menaces of the 80s, individuals so infamous for their brutal star power, they were the final bosses of a WWF arcade game, not Hulk Hogan. Nominally, they are clad in the heaviest-duty football shoulderpads available in the day, embellished with spikes, spraypaint, wild facepaint and wilder haircuts- Animal himself stated in interviews that he was inspired both by the Mad Max movies and by Masters of the Universe toys in his design for their gear. These are men who worked at one of the nastiest bars in the Chicagoland area, as doormen- they, as several others, were actually recruited from this place, as story goes. Consider what it would take to be notable in that role, just for a moment.

Consideration time is over, because now we are present in the moment, and a pair of men who are over 6 feet tall, yet also nearly 300 pounds apiece of well-augmented muscle, come into clear focus and begin violently mopping the entire venue with their opponents. Animal has a short mohawk, Hawk has a pair of fins atop his head, both are painted up like maniacs, and both are wearing anarchy colours- they’re so ready to kill, they didn’t even bother wearing their armour to the ring, it’s full, swarming Gladiation Mode from before even Ozzy started singing. Folks, not gonna lie, this one’s gonna be a nature documentary. Especially because these jobbers are so completely non-notable, the commentators do not seem to know which one is which, as they never refer to either by name at any point at the match. Cursory research on Cagematch.Net, an absolutely invaluable tool by the way, tells me that Carl Styles weighed in at 275lbs, and given that Bill Mulkey looks nowhere near that, I’m going to say: heavy guy with dark hair is Carl Styles, meaning that the smaller blonde guy is Bill Mulkey. To those about to die, we salute you, as that’s the only thing you’re getting in this match that isn’t a minor payday and nerve damage.

Last notable point: we are in the presence of probably the worst play by play commentator in the history of professional wrestling. I don’t know much about the personal life of Jim Crockett Jr, he doesn’t seem like a particularly bad guy even slightly, he doesn’t emanate the wrong sort of sleaze or danger like a lot of other commentators both good and bad have, so I will give him his due on that front, the man’s not particularly leery or gross, and clearly believed in trying to deliver wrestling as a legitimate sport, which is admirable. It’s just that he comes off as Ned Flanders in two modes: half a sleep, and 6 cups of coffee, and both are irritating. He cannot find an interesting point with both hands and a flashlight, he’s prone to long sections of dead air with only cursory that slightly describe what’s happening, and when he comes on strong, he can clip any microphone of his era with his sudden bluster and rage. It’s like being beat up by a gentle person who’s gone off meds and didn’t realize it, it’s just awful to feel on the ears, and worse, if you’re not watching the product directly, you’re getting absolutely nothing of what’s going on, as he describes very little in the match as it happens, all of it delivered either unenthusiastically, or overenthusiastically. Probably his worst feature as a commentator, is his dependency on the phrase “look at him,” which is such a redundant non-thought for a play-by-play man to lean on, that if I wasn’t trying to be relaxing, I’d be shouting to the heavens, something to the effect of “what do you think I’m doing, you blockhead? I’m actively looking at my television screen, do you want me to look harder?”

Tony Schiavone is his co-commentator, and having one of the best to ever do it with him is only barely a salve, made worse by the fact that Schiavone only manages to reach the announce table just before the 3 count. Because again, this match will be neither long nor involved. But I swear to you, even with all this frontloading of bad, there is some astonishing, brilliantly entertaining good coming, because by the end of this audio description, you will will have a greater understanding of the popularity of The Road Warriors. You see, to modern fans, people who watch the big events and see these guys perform against other big names, they might seem more like the product of a hype machine than anything else. Because in those matches, people see wrestlers who have limited psychology to their movements, men that would refuse to sell for a Hellfire missile strike, let alone a clothesline. By modern standards of workrate, they seem confused at best, and arrogant at worst, guys that just seem annoyed when they don’t get to beat up everyone and win. They are blustery beastmen, irritated they have to somehow simulate competition with men that, in their mind, they’d clearly just kill for real. To be clear: big matches like those ones? They’re not how The Road Warriors got popular.

No, they got popular through wanton Jobber Murder. Y’know, matches like this one.

Enough preamble, there’s meat to be ground. From step one into the ring, the Road Warriors are on the jobber team like lichen on a parked car. Animal immediately gloms Carl Styles and hurls him out of the ring like he’s a sack of coarse-ground flour, and like ECW in the previous weeks, NWA/WCW does not put mats on the outside of their studio shows, which this is- this is Big Rage in a Small Cage, folks, murder for the immediate benefit of about 40 fans plus staff. The flags hanging in front of the black curtains are about to bear witness to awful spectacle, as Hawk makes initial contact with Bill Mulkey, who he sledges with a single clubbing shot from an arm that’s the shape of an alder tree’s trunk. Hawk then picks Mulkey up, backs him into a neutral corner- there’s no hard camera on these shows, so I’m not going to try and denote ring geography aside from the basics -and then plants him with the sort of running powerslam that could convince an individual that he owes Hawk a not-insignificant amount of money, more or less swan-diving his bulk onto the body of a man that looks like he’s lamenting his lack of muscle mass and reconsidering his life choices. This is not the worst of things. 

The worst comes when Hawk stands him to his full feet, takes him by the head, and reverses him into neckbreaker position. After a moment’s pause, in which Bill Mulkey is held with his neck stretched backwards over a larger, burlier man’s shoulder, gripped with both hands by his chin, Hawk kicks out his legs and vertically sits out onto the mat, using his considerable mass to yank Mulkey backwards and off his feet. On impact, it’s somewhat extraordinary that Mulkey’s head doesn’t simply pop off like the balljoint socket on a toy, as the force he’s whiplashed with is so absolutely legitimate, I am actually surprised that his neck wasn’t actually broken. It is the first neckbreaker I’ve ever seen in my entire history of watching wrestling that I’ve ever felt that about. A nearly 300 pound man nearly reefed the head off of a man that’s maybe 170 at most, as though he was replacing the helmeted variant of a GI Joe with their unhelmeted head. Not quite satisfied that his prey is completely dead via the professional wrestling equivalent of a hunting dog’s worrying, Hawk leaps vertically into the air, cocks his fist, and punches the man in the face as he clatters to the mat. So much human body collides with stationary mass, that Hawk’s studded leather collar forcibly pops off his own neck, to no visible ill effect on him. Despite this, this punch is undoubtedly the gentlest move in this sequence.

As the ref moves to clear Hawk’s wardrobe shrapnel from the ring, Hawk backs Mulkey into the ropes, wordlessly shoots him into the opposing ropes, and Big Boots him medium-style. Which is to say, he doesn’t kick the dogshit out of him, he just ensures the guy takes an honest back bump. Satisfied with this violence, Hawk tags out, sending in The Animal.

Animal’s first move upon entering the ring, is to deadlift Bill Mulkey, and then further military press him over his head. Taking one step forward, Animal drops him, letting him go splat. After a single fair stomp, one that did not take liberties but also didn’t allow any room for error, Hawk then performs the manuever that made me want to describe this match. Hauling Mulkey to his feet, Animal pulls him into The Road Warriors’ corner, again lifts him into military press position and, to evoke the Deadlock Podcast’s description, proceeds to MotherEffin’ Bomb him across the ring. There is no exaggeration here- with Mulkey elevated above his head, Animal takes two steps out of his corner, explodes through his press motion, and hurls a fully grown human man the rest of the distance into the opposite corner, landing deep enough in that he needs only do a half of a situp to reach for his teammate’s tag, limply, before rolling out of the ring. This is perfect comedy, at the expense of another’s pain. Sorry Bill, but some days you’re Acme Corporation raking in the money, and others, you’re the Coyote getting blown up by their products.

With an almost admirable lack of hesitation, Carl Styles steps through the ropes, and is met immediately with his mortal unmaking. Animal hoofs him in the stomach and proceeds to lift Styles into the air like a hollow, papier mache version of himself, his full and considerable weight only becoming apparent when it craters into the ring at high speed. What’s absurd about that bodyslam, was that Animal could have actually been meaner with that; he could have been nicer, but that was the moderated response to this man injecting himself into the match. Spying a vulnerable splash zone, Animal leaps vertically for an elbow drop and gives Carl Styles a taste of blunt-force guillotine. His curly pseudo-afro appears to be in pain. Animal tags out to Hawk, with the sort of hustle as a hockey winger changing lines.

Hawk hefts Styles to his feet, pushes him to the far ropes, then shoots him across the ring. As Carl Styles peels back towards him, Hawk busts out one of his signature moves, and launches himself like Raiden from Mortal Kombat towards Carl Styles, augering with a precision Shoulder Block to Carl Styles, his perfect shoulder-to-shoulder contact with Styles ensuring that’s probably the gentlest move in the entire match, given the actual spectacle of seeing a man as big as Hawk go human torpedo.

A quick and frankly redundant series of tags occurs between the Road Warriors, as Animal steps back into the ring, shoots Styles into the ropes, and picks him up into position for doing a spinebuster. Hefting him into the air, Animal backs into the corner where Hawk has ascended the top rope, who leaps off, and smashes Carl Styles with a flying clothesline.

Folks, it’s the Doomsday Device. We did it, we got there. Possibly the only move that can rival the Dudley Death Drop for team finisher supremacy, the Doomsday Device is one of those moves that just does not get kicked out of, regardless who takes it, and frequently, regardless of who gives it. There’s a good reason for that, too: done nicely, it looks brutal; done unkindly, it’s surprising that it’s not more injury-causing than it has been in its history. A Doomsday Device done in anger is more or less two human beings setting up another to serve as a softball on a tee, to be struck off with force by a person aiming to make blunt trauma a fireworks display. It is a hair raising move, meant to serve as the exclamation to the end of the statement “The Road Warriors Win Again!”

What’s surprising here, is that this is a rather gentle Doomsday Device, one more executed like Bret Hart and Jim Neidhardt’s Hart Attack than it’s typically done. Normally, the Doomsday is done with an opponent held in what’s called Electric Chair position, one person sitting atop the shoulders of another. In that position, it’s up to Animal to fall backwards and allow the man on his shoulders to bump properly from Hawk’s clothesline. Frequently, he didn’t, instead allowing Hawk to perform a flying Tatami Cut through a human body with a meaty arm instead of a katana, letting the stricken opponent flop over like he’d been snapped at the waist, nine times out of ten landing directly on his head and neck.

On this day, Carl Styles is deemed worthy to live. For some reason, the Road Warriors didn’t bare as much active contempt for his life as Bill Mulkey’s, whom they beat like a rental car with the deluxe insurance package. He is instead allowed to take an authoritative flat back bump and pinfall, a fate that marks him different from others that Hawk and Animal have ground to pieces out of sheer whimsey and amusement. What respect did he win? What quality did they see in him that they did not see in others? We may never know, and I’m not one to speculate openly, because I’m neither a theologian or a philosopher, and while cracked, I’m not quite so cracked to be on a Divine Frequency. I can’t speculate on the nature of Gods and their views of us mortals, be us listeners or jobbers. It’s not my domain of expertise, I deal only in what happened. Why did The Road Warriors choose mercy? Can’t even begin to say, it’s above my paygrade. All I do is read lines for the Described Wrestling Project.